The Lost Files: The Guard Part 4

CHAPTER NINE.

I HEAD FOR DULCE. FOR MY SHIP.

I pa.s.s half a dozen black SUVs all speeding through the desert about five miles away from the perimeter of Dulce Base. I consider this fortuitous timing-if these are the FBI agents Mark mentioned, then they have indeed abandoned the place.

Still, I have my reservations about this operation. It's a bright morning, for one thing, meaning I can't rely on the cover of night, and the memory of what happened the last time I tried to infiltrate this base is fresh in my mind. But I won't get another opportunity like this. Who knows how long it will be before the Mogs or the rest of the FBI realize that no one at this base is responding?

Besides, this time I've come prepared.

I pause at a section of the fence surrounding the base that's been destroyed and take out some of the gear from my backpack-thermal-imagine binoculars that can sense heat signatures through six inches of steel. Nothing pops up on them. At least nothing that reads as a human or Mog. There are a few fires and lights I can make out, but nothing that suggests anyone is patrolling the base.

Regardless, I proceed with caution and park my bike near a pit that's been created by the roof of the first underground floor of the base collapsing in on itself. I take a look around and note some burned-out Humvees and a knocked-down watchtower. Mark thinks the Garde broke Sarah out, and if that's the truth, they certainly have grown strong.

I hop down into the base and pull out a small electronic tablet of my own design, part computer and part tracker-a device that can hone in on the frequencies of a Loric ship when within a certain range. I wasn't sure it would work until now, but it pings, telling me that yes, Ja.n.u.s's ship is still down here somewhere. Waiting for me.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

The agents must have left the place in a hurry, because every office I pa.s.s is disheveled, files strewn about. Several big computer terminals looks damaged, as if in leaving, the FBI didn't want anyone else getting its information. That's a concern I can understand. I'll have to come back up and see what data I can harvest once I've found what I've actually come for.

I make my way down several floors. Eventually I get to a hallway that's dark, lights all knocked out. It's the only place I've been in the base where every door is shut. I make my way through the corridor slowly, on the tips of my toes, trying hard not to make a sound. I pa.s.s a door with a slit of a window in it, which I peer through carefully.

A man stares back at me.

He shouts, slamming his fists against the door. He's got on a white b.u.t.ton-down shirt spotted with blood. Suddenly, there's banging from all the doors in the hallway, and I realize that I must have wandered into some sort of brig or detention area. The sound is deafening, echoing off the hard surfaces of the corridor and destroying all hopes of a stealthy exploration through the remainder of the base.

And so I start to run.

I pa.s.s a few laboratories and office s.p.a.ces before finally flinging open a door that leads to it in all its silvery, beaten-up glory. The ship.

The vessel is big, the size of a house, but with the ability to glide and turn effortlessly through the air. The gleaming metal of its hull shines, even after all these years, made of a material native to Lorien. Its curves are all perfectly rounded, sleek and aerodynamic.

It takes my breath away.

There are all kinds of wires connected to the portion of the hull housing the crystals that supply power to the ship. I find a computer terminal on the opposite side of the room and tap on it, bringing the station to life-now that I'm here, it's easy to break through their pa.s.swords. I try to find some sort of journal or report system, downloading everything I can to my own tablet along the way. From what I can tell, the researchers here have been trying to figure out how to duplicate the crystals' energy to incorporate it into their own war machines. Their records show that they've managed to charge the spent crystals at least a little bit, but that's all, and the charge only lasts for a short period of time. I doubt I could get out of Earth's atmosphere on it.

That's fine for now. At the moment I just want to get out of here.

With a little more searching, I find controls that appear to operate some sort of dock. I flip them on, and sixty feet above me the ceiling begins to part. Sand, dirt and debris fall in. I narrowly avoid a pile of bricks and what looks like a Humvee tire that come crashing down.

For a second I pause, shaking my head, thinking of how terrible it would be for me to die just as I've finally found this ship that I've been after for so long.

The hangar doors above me open fully. I take a few steps toward my prize and pause. I can still hear the whirring noise I'd thought was the door mechanism, getting louder.

It's then that I see the edge of the Mogadorian ship just over the lip of the hangar. In seconds half a dozen pale, sneering faces are looking down at me, all pointing weapons in my direction.

I duck behind the computer station just as blaster fire starts to fill the air. Sparks rain down around me, burning my skin as the terminal is destroyed. I curse under my breath-hopefully these controls shorting out don't overload the wires attached to the ship.

I'm too much of a target where I am. The quickest way to stay alive would be to try and cross the room and head back inside the base. At least there I'd have plenty of options for cover. But I have to a.s.sume that the Mogs are already starting to filter down through the hallways and stairwells of the facility, and without any idea of how many alien b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have just landed on the ground level, the base could quickly turn into a death trap. Somewhere I could get boxed in too easily.

Besides, now that I've found this ship, I don't intend to let it out of my sight.

So I reach into my backpack and pull out one of the many toys I've acquired and learned to use since the last time I came face-to-face with a Mogadorian: a powerful, compact submachine gun. Earth weapons might be crude and inefficient, but practicing out in the barns and woods around my many safe houses, I've witnessed exactly how devastating they can be.

If I can make it inside the ship and power it up, I may be able to get out of here alive. If not . . . Well, that's not really an option. I think of Ja.n.u.s and Zophie, and how when I first arrived on this planet I thought for sure that the three of us would one day be riding in this ship together. Now the best I can do is reclaim it for them. For Lorien.

I brace myself as much as I can against the floor, peek over the top of the sparking computer terminal and fire away. A few of the Mogadorians who are descending a zigzag metal staircase from the surface are ripped apart, turning into wafts of dust that filter down into the hangar. The others take quick cover, and I use this moment of surprise to make a break for it, tossing my bag ahead of me and basically throwing myself under the ship in the center of the room, using it for cover. Blaster fire blackens the cement floor, barely missing me. But I make it, somehow.

I'm able to access a manual override switch to the boarding hatch. A metal ramp rolls out from the back of the craft. One of the Mogs from above jumps down, sliding over the ship and onto the ground. There's a snap when he lands, and when he stands, one of his arms hangs limply at his side. That doesn't stop him from staggering forward, firing at me. Several of his fellow troops follow his lead, and I barely manage to climb onto the ramp, firing blindly behind me the entire time. I run, trying to avoid their blasters, but a few shots. .h.i.t my backpack. I've reinforced the thing with Kevlar, mostly to protect my laptop and gadgets inside, but it stops the shots from burning through my body. Still, the force sends me sprawling onto the ramp. I roll over and return fire, scooting as fast as I can towards a touch-screen panel on the wall just inside the ship. I dust one of the Mogs following me as I manage to tap on the screen and get the ramp to start closing in just a couple of seconds-the few years of training I had at the Lorien Defense Academy all coming back to me in a rush.

The other Mog on the ramp stumbles forward as it folds up. He gets thrown past me, deeper into the ship. The interior of the vessel can be programmed with all sorts of holographic part.i.tions and "walls," but right now it's just one big, empty room. There's no place for him to hide, and he's a pile of ash before he ever manages to pick himself up off the ground.

I run to the front cabin. My hands fly over b.u.t.tons and screens. In front of me, a Mog has climbed onto the nose of the ship and is hammering away at the tinted c.o.c.kpit window with the b.u.t.t of his blaster. He'll have a h.e.l.l of a time trying to break through the reinforced gla.s.s-I try not to pay any attention to him.

"Come on, come on, come on," I chant to myself as the instruments start to flicker, going online. And then they come to life, as if goaded on by my will. The crystals still have some life in them.

I can feel the engines powering up, the rea.s.suring hum and slight vibration that permeate the entire ship. I engage auto-launch protocols, which should at least get me up into the sky, where I can chart a course or take over the controls myself. The Mog on the windshield struggles to find his balance as the ship starts to shake and lift off the ground. He howls as he falls backwards, tumbling to the cement below.

It's working, I think. I'm getting out of here.

My eyes widen as I get to the ground level. Sitting in front of me is the small Mogadorian ship I'd spotted from below, but also a large one that must be used to move troops around the planet-lots of troops. Mogs mill about around it, all their eyes on my silver craft. They freeze for only an instant before they start to fire. What looks like a cannon on the bigger ship turns towards me. Who knows what kind of firepower a vessel like that might have?

I flit through the on-screen menus in front of me until I find what appears to be a log of the ship's weaponry. Most vessels on Lorien were unarmed, but I guess the Elders equipped this one with every possible armament it could carry. Weapons I've never even heard of before. I wonder, again, how far their planning went and how long they knew that the Mogs were coming for us. I don't have long to reflect, though, because I've still got guns trained on me. And so I touch an icon that appears to be some sort of grenade projectile and target the enemy ship.

A small sphere of energy shoots from just below the c.o.c.kpit. It sticks to the side of the rising Mogadorian vessel. Nothing happens.

s.h.i.t.

I can see the Mog cannon powering up, energy gathering around it. I tap on the weapons screen again.

"Don't tell me you're a dud, you son of a-"

The sphere explodes in a wave of energy that knocks back my own ship. The autopilot levels me off, and then I take over the controls and hit the accelerator, flying high into the sky, far, far above New Mexico, shouting at the top of my lungs as I dart through the air. I check my radar, but there's no one following me. I swing the vessel around, surveying the damage from hundreds of feet above in the clear sky. The Mog ships don't exist anymore. There's nothing left to follow me-only blazing hunks of twisted metal.

Energy courses through me, filling my head with fuzzy warmth.

"We did it," I say before I realize the words are even coming out of my mouth. "We have the ship."

I'm not sure who I'm talking to, who the "we" is-if I'm addressing Zophie, or the other Garde spread across the planet, or even Mark, my unwitting partner in this Dulce operation.

On the way back I stop over at Yellowhammer Ranch, setting the ship down in the backyard by the dilapidated barn. The place looks untouched since the last time I saw it-if not a bit overgrown. I find one of the keys hidden in a sliding panel on the side of the house and go inside, pulling off some of the drop cloths that are still on the furniture. I reprogram the door to the secret office to open to Mark's fingerprint, which I have on file thanks to the fingerprint ID system in the laptop I sent him charging into Dulce with.

Inside the office I take stock of the weapons organized on shelves against one wall, and then boot up the security system, checking to make sure all my cameras are still in operation. A few electronic trip wires and traps are still live around the ranch, but I disable them so that Mark isn't met with an automated weapon upon his arrival. I can always teach him to reset them later, when he's settled in.

I keep the bomb beneath the office primed, ready to be set off in the event that the safe house falls into enemy hands. Just in case.

This will make a nice home for Mark. At least for the time being. Until I can figure out what to do with him, or until he finally manages to get in contact with Sarah and the rest of the Garde.

I wonder if I should just wait here for him, to reveal myself to him in person. I have the ship, after all. Things are going well.

But I recognize this feeling. The thought that things are finally going my way and that everything's falling into place. Every time I've allowed myself to be comforted by such hope, things have gone terribly wrong. People have died. My world shattered, needing to be rebuilt.

I just need a little more time. To patch up the ship and figure out my next move. And he needs to recoup too. I'm not ready to lead my protege into battle. Not yet.

In the morning I'll take the motorbike stored in the old barn into town and bring back a few fresh supplies for Mark: food, water, extra ammunition. A small gesture of thanks for being my first set of eyes on Dulce Base. For now, though, I scrawl a note in thick black marker on the back of a folder and set it beside a shotgun for him to find later.

I hope you're ready for war.

-G.

CHAPTER TEN.

THE SHIP BARELY MAKES IT BACK TO MY ORCHARD base in Georgia. I fly beneath radar and try to stay in cloud cover as much as possible along the way. By this point, the acceleration is hardly faster than that of a car or motorcycle-the battery is almost dead. The crystals are fading.

I manage to get the ship parked in the big old pecan-processing plant in the back. I guess it's technically now a hangar.

Most of my energy and resources are immediately focused on figuring out how to get-and keep-the ship up and running for good. I start installing various adapters and fuel lines I've created over the years, hoping that all my work hasn't been for nothing. I go over the research I've swiped from the Dulce computers to see what the scientists have been doing to try and repower the drives. I manage to connect the crystal housings to an electrical output just like they'd done in Dulce. If nothing else, that should buy me a few days' worth of power.

The only reason the ship doesn't have my full attention is because one of my sensors picks up some strange activity on Mark James's old burner cell phone. I've been monitoring his communications since I got involved with him on the website, just to keep tabs on him. It's something I've done with everyone I've worked with from the blog-though Mark is definitely the person I've gotten closest to. It looks as though someone has sent him messages from "GUARD" telling him to meet up with them. Communications that definitely didn't come from me.

Somewhere, Mark slipped up. The enemy has found him.

I try to warn Mark, but I'm too late. Fortunately, he manages to escape from a team of FBI agents still loyal to the Mogs, but at the cost of his gear, his truck and, from what I can tell, a bit of his mental stability. And he was shot in his arm as he fled the ambush, though he swears it's just a flesh wound. He's stressed out, lost and feeling hopeless. When I talk to him on the chat client I built for "They Walk Among Us," he sounds depressed. I'm suddenly worried that he might give up, even after all he's been through. And I can't have that. Not now that I've gotten so used to him always being in touch. I realize that he's the only person I talk to on a regular basis. He's the closest thing I've had to a friend since Zophie died. So I do my best to try and remedy these things with a new vehicle and directions to Yellowhammer Ranch. That all seems to perk him up a bit.

At Yellowhammer, Mark connects Purdy's stolen laptop to some computer equipment I left behind, allowing me to copy the entire contents of its hard drive to cloud storage. I isolate Purdy's files and begin a full-fledged attack on their firewalls and security-cut off from the rest of the Mogadorian and FBI networks, I have no fear of being caught as I break into every hidden corner of his hard drive. What I discover is a wealth of information about MogPro and the specifics of the Mogadorian involvement with the US government. As I work, Mark finally manages to get in contact with Sarah. As Mark thought, she'd been traveling with the Garde. She's an invaluable source of information, and the link to my people here on Earth that I've been searching for.

Things seems to be going smoothly.

Which is why I shouldn't be surprised when everything falls apart.

I'm installing a new power line in the ship that will use the primitive fuel sources on this planet when I get a message from Mark saying that he's screwed up and thinks the Mogs might have a lead on Yellowhammer. He asks if he should abandon it completely or go back for his notes and files. I tell him it's his call.

He heads back to the ranch with Sarah to pack up. I'm left to wait for word from him. I pull up the cameras at Yellowhammer just in time to see him and Sarah rush inside and start packing.

Then everything goes black. I can't reestablish a connection. All I've got are monitors full of static.

My heart falls into my stomach.

Every second that pa.s.ses makes me more impatient, more worried that I should have told him to leave everything and run from Alabama. As I wait, I pull up a program on one of my monitors: the controls to the bomb planted underneath Yellowhammer Ranch. At what point should I a.s.sume the worst and detonate the fail-safe, keeping the Mogadorians from getting any of Mark's notes? What if I set off the bomb too early and end up killing Mark and Sarah in the process? In that moment, alone in my safe house, all I want in the universe is to see Mark's name appear on my cell phone. He's been my eyes and ears for the past few months. We've been in constant contact.

I can't lose him.

Nor can I believe that JOLLYROGER182, the "Aliens Anonymous" user who referred to Mogs as "janky-looking a.s.sholes from another planet" in his first message to GUARD, has become a valuable a.s.set not only to the Loric cause, but to me personally.

The clock ticks. I stare at the b.u.t.ton that will destroy Yellowhammer. I wonder if I have it in me to press it after all this time. Would I risk sacrificing Mark and Sarah to keep information from falling into Mog hands?

Relief bursts through my skull when my phone dings. It's a text from Mark, saying they were attacked but are all right.

I call him back on one of my burners that has a voice modulator built in. My voice comes out electronic, distorted on his end of the line.

"How far are you and Sarah from the house?" I ask when he answers.

"I don't know. Maybe a mile? I can still see it in-"

I click the b.u.t.ton. There's static on the line as Mark's microphone picks up the sound of Yellowhammer Ranch exploding.

"That should take care of any Mogs remaining on the property and thoroughly wipe our tracks," I say.

Mark doesn't sound too thrilled about the fact that he'd been sitting on top of a bomb all this time, but I'm too focused on typing to pay much attention to his concern. Instead, I tap into his truck's built-in GPS and input the coordinates to the Georgia safe house.

It's time to move forward in the fight against the Mogs. To join my fellow Loric.

The first step is to finally reveal myself to Mark and Sarah.

When Mark and Sarah show up, they look stunned-likely due to a combination of seeing me, the ship and the automated weapons that target them when they trip my security system. The incredulous silence doesn't last, though, as they begin to ask a million questions. I a.s.sess the situation and prioritize; Mark is feverish, and the bullet wound in his arm is completely infected. The first thing I do is give him a shot of the antibiotics I've got stashed away with other medical supplies. He's fine with that. The next part, less so.

"Motherffffff-" He holds out the "f" as I splash the injury with rubbing alcohol.

"Is he okay?" Sarah asks. She stands a few feet away from me, and I can see the concern in her eyes, not just for Mark's condition, but for the fact that someone she doesn't know is treating it.

"He'll be fine," I say. "The antibiotics will do most of the work. He should be back to normal in a few days."

"But I've got a big game tomorrow, Coach," Mark says flatly.

"I'm confused," Sarah says. She turns to Mark. "You didn't know she was a woman? Or Loric?"

"I just thought that since GUARD was so good with computers . . . ," Mark starts.

She narrows her eyes a little.

"What?" Mark asks. "Okay, yes, I just a.s.sumed she was a dude. My bad. I guess 'GUARD' is technically gender neutral."

"You're from Lorien." Sarah says this more than asks.