I’m not sure exactly what Nine means until Six and Sam come hustling through the door. Six is all business, her hair pulled back, looking like she’s cleaned up and gotten some good rest since her ordeal in the swamp. Sam, on the other hand, is flushed, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt is buttoned all wrong. Sam catches me studying him and turns a darker shade of red, giving me a sheepish smile. I shake my head in disbelief, fighting back a grin in spite of the dour mood. Nine whistles between his teeth and a smile even flits briefly across Marina’s face. All this only causes Sam to blush more, and for Six to increase the defiant look she’s skewering us with.

Malcolm, of course, is oblivious to all this. He’s focused instead on the computer, queuing up one of the Mogadorian videos.

“Good. We’re all here,” Malcolm says, glancing up from the keyboard. He looks around the room, almost nervously. “I feel like a failure, having to show you this.”

Sam’s post-hookup blush turns into a look of concern. “What do you mean, Dad?”

“I—” Malcolm shakes his head. “They tore this information out of me and even now, having seen what I’m about to show you, I don’t actually remember it. I let you all down.”

“Malcolm, come on,” I say.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Marina says, and I notice her gaze drift towards Nine. “Done things we regret.”

Malcolm nods. “Regardless. Late in the game as it is, I still hope this video will show another way forward.”

Six tilts her head. “Another way instead of what?”

“Instead of total war,” Malcolm answers. “Watch.”

Malcolm presses a button on the keyboard and the video screen on the wall comes to life. The face of a gaunt, older Mogadorian appears. His narrow head fills most of the screen, but in the background a room similar to this one is visible. The Mogadorian begins speaking in his harsh language, his tone sounding formal and academic, even though I can’t understand him.

“Am I supposed to be able to understand this creep?” Nine asks.

“He’s Dr. Lockram Anu,” Adam says, translating. “He created the memory machine that . . . well, you know. You chucked a piece of it at a helicopter last night, actually.”

“Oh, that,” Nine says, grinning. “That was fun.”

Adam continues. “This is old, taped during the machine’s first trials. He’s introducing a test subject, one he says was mentally tougher than the others he’s worked on. He’ll be demonstrating how his machine can be utilized for interrogation . . .”

Adam trails off as Dr. Anu steps aside, revealing a younger Malcolm Goode strapped into an insanely complicated metal chair. Malcolm is thin and pale, the muscles in his neck standing out, largely thanks to the awkward angle his head is forced to recline at. His wrists are buckled to the titanium arms of the chair; an IV cord runs into the back of his hand, nutrients arriving via a nearby bag. An assortment of electrodes are stuck to his face and chest, their cords attached to the circuit boards of Dr. Anu’s machine. His eyes stare directly into the camera, but they’re unfocused and unblinking.