I WAKE TO THE SENSATION OF ROCKING BACK AND forth. Everything hurts. My whole body feels fried by the sun: my throat, my skin, my feet and my head. My lips are so dry and burned, I can't even put them together. My eyelids are the worst of all, and they refuse to open, no matter how desperately I want to see where I am. The rocking and swaying continues and it dawns on me I must be in a moving vehicle. I try to lift my hands to my head, but that's when I discover they're tied down. So are my legs. Now I'm wide awake, and I force my eyes open and look madly around, but all I see is darkness. I close my eyes again. The desert sun must have left me blind.
I try to call out for help, but all I can do is wheeze and cough. My ears pick up an echo, and I concentrate on the air around me. I cough again, just to hear the echo once more. It's enough sound to understand I'm in a tight space, and that the space around me is made of metal. It feels like I'm in a coffin, and I almost wretch.
That's when I start to panic. What if I'm not blind? What if I'm really dead? I can't be. I am in way too much pain to be dead. But I feel buried alive.
My breath starts to come fast and furious when a man's voice stops my panic attack cold. It's loud and electronic, coming through a speaker. "Are you awake?"
I try to answer him, but my throat is too dry. I tap my fingers on the bench and realize it's metal, too. A few seconds later there is a noise to my right, and I can sense something has been placed near me.
"There's a glass of water and a straw beside you. Take a sip," the man says.
I turn my head and find the straw with my mouth. The skin on my lips cracks as I try to close them around the straw. When I take a sip of water, I can taste the metallic tinge of blood and I hear a low humming in my ears. It's the same hum I heard at the gate. The box I'm in must be flowing with electricity.
"What were you doing at that gate?" the man asks. Every time he speaks, I am struck by how neutral his voice is. It isn't friendly, but neither is it threatening.
"Lost," I whisper. "I was lost."
"How did you get lost?"
I take another sip before saying, "I don't know."
"You don't know. I see. Your number is six, is it not?"
I cough and choke at the question, mentally chewing myself out for doing so. I'm usually cooler than this, but my mind is completely cooked by the sun. If he wasn't sure of the answer before, he is now. I resolve to get a grip, to stop making stupid mistakes.
The voice is back. "Well, Number Six. You're pretty famous around here. The footage from the high school in Paradise and the way you took down those helicopters in Tennessee was impressive. And then there's the incredible show you put on in D.C. last week, breaking John Smith and Sam Goode out of a federal facility. You are quite the little warrior princess, aren't you?"
I'm still stuck on how he could know who I am; now he's talking like he had front-row seats to my life. My body sways hard to the left. The vehicle must have taken a turn, taking me who knows where. I push against the strap over my forehead—nothing happens. I try using my telekinesis, but as soon as I even start to focus my thoughts pain rolls through my stomach so bad I almost throw up.
"What you need to do is relax. Trying to fight isn't going to get you anywhere. You're dehydrated and most likely have heat stroke. You're going to feel pretty sick for a while."
"Who are you?" I manage to ask, painfully.
"Agent David Purdy, FBI," he says. I feel slightly better knowing I'm in the hands of the U.S. government, not captured by the Mogs. I couldn't go through that again, knowing what was coming, especially now that the charm that protected me the first time has been broken. With the FBI, my chances of survival have just skyrocketed. No matter how aggressive they are, they aren't monsters. All I need right now is a little patience; the opportunity to escape will come. Purdy doesn't know that, probably assumes it can't be true. Right now, I'll just follow his advice. Relax. Rehydrate. Wait. I might as well see what else he's willing to tell me about what he knows about me, what he knows about all of this.
"Where am I?" I ask.
The speaker squeals before Agent Purdy answers. "You're in a transport. It's a short trip."
Again I try to use my telekinesis to undo my leg straps, but I'm still too weak and the attempt makes me nauseous again. I take another couple of sips of water to give myself time to think. "Where are you taking me?"
"We've got a reunion planned for you with a friend, or maybe I should say a friend of John Smith's. Do you call him John? Or do you call him Number Four?"
I pause before answering. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say. "I don't know anyone named John Four."
All of a sudden, I remember what happened back in the desert, just before I blacked out at the gate. I felt half out of my mind, so much so I wasn't even sure if the helicopters landing close by were real. I remember hearing Ella's voice. No. I didn't just hear her voice; we spoke to each other. She asked, I answered. Given the fact that it's the FBI who has me, it's a pretty good bet there really were helicopters. If those were real, maybe I did communicate with Ella. Has a new Legacy kicked in? Just when I needed it most.
Ella? Can you hear me? I try again, just in case. The FBI is holding me, an agent named Purdy has me locked up and we're in some kind of vehicle. Purdy says it isn't far, wherever it is we're going.
"How did you get to the desert, Number Six?" Purdy's voice interrupts. "Weren't you just in India, with your friends? Remember that? Just like all the other kids, reading schoolbooks and being kidnapped at the airport."
How does he know that?
"How did you know where the base was?" His voice is losing a bit of its neutrality. I think I hear just a hint of impatience.
"What base?" I ask. I'm having a hard time thinking straight.
"The one we found you dying outside of in the desert. How did you know where to find it?"
I try to turn invisible, but again, the moment I try testing my Legacy, my stomach erupts with a ferocious and immediate pain. I want so badly to curl up in a ball, but the straps hold me flat and the pain takes my breath away.
"Drink your water," the agent advises again. His voice is back to its detached neutrality.
Just as I did the first time, I obey, take a sip and wait. The pain finally starts to dull, but then a powerful wave of dizziness washes over me. My mind feels like it's a car careening out of control, swerving this way and that. The thoughts, too many of them to be coherent, come fast and furious. The events from the last few days flash by me. I see myself taking hold of Marina's arm right before we teleported. I see Crayton lying motionless. I watch myself saying good-bye to John and Sam. I almost forget where I am. That is, until the voice forces me back to my present circumstances.
"Where is Number Four?" He is nothing if not consistent, this guy.
"Who?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on what he's saying. If I don't, I'm going to make another mistake like I did before.
All of a sudden, the calm voice is completely gone. He screams through the speaker, "Where is Number Four?" I wince at the noise.
"Go to hell," I spit. I'm not telling him anything.
Ella? Marina? Anyone? If anyone can hear me, you need to say something. I need help. I'm in some desert. All I know is I'm near a U.S. government base, and the FBI has me. We're going somewhere, but I don't know where. And there's something wrong with me. I can't use my Legacies.
"Who was with you in India, Number Six? Who were the man and the two girls?"
I stay silent. I picture Ella's face. The youngest Lorien left. I know how that must weigh on her. And now, she's without Crayton. It was just a day ago I was jealous of what they had, and now he's gone.
"What numbers were they? Who were the girls?" Agent Purdy sounds impatient, though his voice is calmer now.
"That's my band. I play the drums. They sing. I love Josie and the Pussycats, don't you? I like to watch retro cartoons. All the kids are doing it." My lips crack and bleed again when I smile. I don't mind. I taste my blood on my tongue and smile wider.
"Six?" the man asks in a gentler voice. I guess he's going to try the Good Cop tactic. "Was that Number Five and Seven you were with at the airport in India? Who is the older man? Who are the girls?"
Suddenly it's as if I can't control what comes out of my mouth. My voice doesn't even sound like mine when I say, "Marina and Ella. They're sweet, sweet girls. I just wish they were a little stronger." What am I saying? Why am I saying anything?
"Are Marina and Ella members of your race? Why do they need to be stronger? And what number is Marina?"
I catch myself this time before answering, shocked that I even opened my mouth to answer again. I concentrate all my energies to find my voice, to respond as I know I should. It's like I'm battling a war within me. "I don't know what you're talking about. Why do you keep talking about numbers?"
Agent Purdy's voice blasts into the box. "I know who you are! You're from another planet! I know you kids go by numbers! We have your ship, for Christ's sake!"
At the mention of our ship, my mind starts to spin. I flash back to the journey from Lorien. I see myself as just a kid, staring out the ship's windows at the emptiness of space as we travel towards Earth. I eat at a long white table and look at the other eight kids, each with their Cêpans. There's a boy with long black hair laughing and throwing food. A blond girl sits next to him quietly eating a piece of fruit. The Cêpans at the end of the table watch the kids closely. I see a young Marina crying, her legs tucked up to her chest, sitting on the floor under a control panel. Her Cêpan is on her knees next to her, trying to coax her to stand up with her. I remember I got in trouble with a boy with short black hair.
The next face I see is a young Number Four. His blond hair is long and wavy. He's kicking the wall with his bare foot, angry about something. He turns around and grabs a pillow, slamming it to the floor. Four looks up, sees me watching, and his face turns bright red. I hand him a toy, something I've stolen from him. The guilt I felt back then rushes over me again, just as strong as it was when it first happened. The other faces in the room grow fuzzy.
Then I see myself in Katarina's arms when we landed on Earth. I remember the door of the ship opening.
Where have these memories come from? As hard as I tried before, I could never remember very much about our journey to Earth aside from a few small details. I've never had this vivid a flashback before.
"Are you listening to me?" Purdy yells. "We have talked to the Mogadorians," he says. That statement yanks me back to the present with a thud. "Did you know that?"
"Oh, yeah? What'd they have to say?" I ask, trying to sound like I'm just making conversation, but I regret it instantly. Why would I admit knowing who the Mogs are? Before I can dwell on my mistake too much, my mind drifts back to the ship, to its doors opening, to the human with brown hair and large thick glasses standing, waiting to greet us. In his hands are a briefcase and a white tablet, and behind him sits a big box of clothes. Somehow I know that's Sam's dad. Sam. Oh, how I want to see Sam again.
"I want to see Sam," I slur. Even though I don't want to say anything more, reveal anything else to the agent, I can't help myself. I hear my voice, feel my brain thick and sluggish, and instantly I realize there must have been drugs in the water. That's why I can't hold a thought in my head, why I keep drifting into my past, and why I feel such pain when I try to use my Legacies.
I kissed Sam. I should have kissed him for real but I was too worried what John would think.
John. I kissed John too. I would really like to kiss John again. My stomach gets kind of squirmy when I play back the moment when John grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me towards him. He lowered his face to mine, but just before our lips touched, the house exploded. I can feel my chin tilt upwards as I replay the moment again and again. Except this time, when the house explodes, we kiss. The kiss is perfect.
"Sam?" Agent Purdy asks, interrupting my thoughts. I was really enjoying remembering that kiss. "I'm guessing you mean Sam Goode, right?"
Sam's face is now all I can see and my head is spinning out of control. "Yeah. Sure. I want to see Sam Goode." I can hear my voice drifting off.
"Is he one of you? What number is Sam Goode?"
My eyelids grow heavy and I find myself falling asleep. The drugs are finally doing me some small favor.
"Six!" He shouts. "Hey, Six! Wake up! We're not finished here!"
His shouts jar me so badly, I jerk up, only to be stopped by my restraints.
"Six? Six! Where is Sam Goode? Where is John Smith?"
"I'm going to kill you," I whisper. My anger and frustration with being tied up and powerless is getting the best of me. "When I find you, I am going to kill you."
"I have no doubt you'll try." The agent laughs.
I try to clear my head, to concentrate on where I am. Too quickly, everything begins to spin until I pass out.
The room is tiny and made of cement. There's a toilet and cement block with a mattress tied down on it and a blanket that's too short to cover me. I've been awake for two hours, maybe more. I'm having a difficult time putting thoughts together. I'm trying to establish some kind of time line from when I found myself alone in the desert, to discovering the gate, to waking up, to my interrogation ride of horror. I need to figure out where I've been, how much time has passed and what information I let slip.
Unscrambling my brain isn't easy. Since the moment I regained consciousness in this cell, the overhead lights have strobed relentlessly. I feel a sharp, pounding pain in my head. My mouth is dry and I hold my churning stomach as I try to focus on the most important part of my recall, my conversation with the agent.
I manage to turn invisible, just to see if I can, but as soon as I do I'm attacked with that extreme nausea I felt on the ride, so I materialize immediately. Either the drugs are still in my system or this nausea is being caused by something else.
I close my eyes for a few minutes to escape the flashing lights. They're so bright, it's impossible to block them out entirely. I remember Agent Purdy said he was in contact with the Mogadorians. Why would the U.S. government be talking to the Mogadorians? And why would he admit that to me? Don't they know the Mogs are the enemy? What I can't figure out is, how much does the government know about me, about my kind? As soon as the Mogadorians wipe out the Garde, the next thing they'll do is kill every last human on Earth. Doesn't the government know that? I'm guessing the Mogs have presented a very different picture of themselves.
I hear a man's voice come from somewhere above me. It's not Purdy, the agent who spoke to me in the container. I open my eyes to look for a vent or speaker, but I can't see anything with the strobe light flashing.
"Prepare yourself for transport, Number Six." A small panel in the middle of the metal door opens with a clang. I stumble over and find a plastic cup of purple liquid sitting on a shelf. My insides gurgle at the sight of it. Why is it purple? Is it drugged, like the water I was drinking earlier?
"You must drink the water to be transported. If you do not drink the water, we will be forced to inject you with it by any means necessary."
"Go to hell!" I yell at the ceiling.
"Drink," the voice repeats. It does not invite discussion.
I pick up the cup and walk to the toilet. I hold the cup high and tilt it, making a big show of pouring it out. The last drop has barely fallen when the cell door whips open. Several men with batons and shields rush in at me. Acid bubbles in my stomach as I try and steel myself for a fight because I know I'm going to have to use my Legacies. I decide that this time, I can do it. And maybe I can use the flashing lights to my advantage.
I greet the first officer with an open punch to the throat. As a baton swings down at me on my left, I catch the attacker's wrist and give it a good twist. I hear it snap. He screams and releases the baton. Now I have a weapon.
The officers form a circle around me but in the flashing light, our movements look like they're happening in slow motion and are hard to follow. I pick a man at random and attack, cracking my baton across both his knees. He falls and I pounce on his neighbor. The physical exertion causes sickness to crawl up my throat, but I swallow it back down. Now that I've managed to push through once, hopefully it will become easier. I slam the butt of the baton on the man's temple. One of the remaining men hits me on the back of my head with something, and another one grabs a chunk of my hair and yanks. Using my telekinesis, I smash them against each other. The body slam makes both of them fall, and I kick them hard.
The once incapacitating sickness ebbs and flows, but my strength doesn't—it is back. Now armed with two batons, I fight off three more men. When they start firing Tasers, I freeze the sharp probes in the air before swinging them back towards the shooters. Finally, the doorway is clear and looks like it is staying that way. When I step outside the cell, I brace myself and turn myself invisible. The pain and nausea is the worst yet, but I know I can push past it. I just need to hold on for a little while longer, until I can get out and find the others.