Setrákus Ra leans towards the camera, and I instinctually lean away from the screen.
“No more,” he says, his tone suddenly icy. “This transmission is being broadcast simultaneously to the captains of my fleet. My loyal followers, humanity has refused to embrace Mogadorian Progress. They must be shown the way. We will lead them towards enlightenment with fire and blood.”
Marina covers her mouth with her hand. Ella stares daggers at the screen. Lexa focuses on flying, pushing the ship’s engine beyond its breaking point. Nine’s fists clench, his knuckles cracking. I stare at the spot on Setrákus Ra’s chest where I struck, where I almost killed him. Not good enough. None of it was good enough.
Setrákus Ra takes a deep breath and bellows.
“All warships! Open fire!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FIVE FLIES FORWARD AT TOP SPEED. HE HOLDS his blaster by the barrel, not bothering to shoot it. Instead, he wields the weapon like a club. He hits the line of Mog warriors like a whirlwind, caving in their skulls with his weapon’s handle. As he dusts one Mog, he grabs a second blaster from the Mog’s disintegrating hand. When one of the warriors tries to leap on his back, Five throws a vicious elbow, his metal carapace causing a resounding crunch. He shoves one Mog back with telekinesis, lets him bounce off the wall, then headbutts him to the ground.
I’ve never been so happy to see Five.
“Traitor! Beloved Leader gave you everything!” Phiri Dun-Ra shrieks at Five. She unleashes a fireball in his direction. Five ducks to the side—his bathrobe catches on fire—but the heat doesn’t harm his metal skin.
“He gave me nothing!” Five yells back, and flings one of his blasters end over end at Phiri. It hits her right between the eyes and knocks her off her feet. Dark blood coats her face, her nose broken.
If I was Phiri Dun-Ra, I would’ve caught that blaster with my telekinesis, no problem. I realize that just because Phiri is capable of stealing my Legacies, that doesn’t mean she knows how to use them. She’s lashing out with one Legacy at a time, trying to do the most damage while not playing any defense.
It gives me an opening.
With Phiri stunned, I wrap my hands around the Voron noose and yank it out of her grasp. I pull it over my head before any of her cronies can stop me. Most of them are too distracted with Five anyway.
Now I just need to get her piercing tentacles out of my back.
Phiri’s pushed herself up on her elbows, shaking off Five’s blow. I lunge forward from my knees and drive my forearm right into her throat, trying to cave in her windpipe.
She gurgles once and then reacts. I feel a tearing sensation in my back as Phiri’s tentacles lift me off of her. They turn me over and send me straight up, face-first into the ceiling and then back down to the floor.
I’m dazed, the wind knocked out of me, a tooth loose in my mouth. I’m still hooked to Phiri Dun-Ra. I can hear her coughing, as well as the dull, bludgeoning sounds of Five working his way through the vatborn squadron.
When my eyes finally focus, I notice the Thin Mog has edged closer to the fray. He cups his hands in front of his mouth and exhales another cloud of those spores he used to mind control Mark and the soldiers. In the darkened hallway, the only light Five’s smoldering robe, the spores look like a cloud of spiders.
“Five!” I manage to yell, tasting blood as I do. “Watch out! Don’t breathe those in!”
Five slams one of the last vatborn to the ground just as I finish my warning. He turns his head, confused, and sees the spores coming at him. His chest puffs out as he tries to hold his breath, but they’re already all over his mouth and nose. They move with a mind of their own, forcing their way up his nostrils and through his lips.
No. If they mind control Five, all will be lost. No one will survive this place.
I try to shove myself towards the Thin Mog, but Phiri’s tentacles are still digging into my back. I’m too weak.
The telltale black veins are already spreading across Five’s face. His grip loosens on his blaster, and his skin goes back to normal. His back arches as the burning robe comes in contact with his normal flesh.
“Yes . . . ,” the Thin Mog commands. “Don’t fight it.”
Five glares murderously at the Thin Mog. He’s frozen in place, though, his muscles twitching, out of his control.
“Hey.”
The Thin Mog manages to half turn at the voice. That’s the last thing he does. Sam, having crept out from one of the nearby cells, pulls the trigger on a blaster at point-blank range. The shot takes the back of the Thin Mog’s head clean off. The hallway is suddenly filled with those spores, like a piñata burst. It’s like the Thin Mog’s entire head was packed with the moldy growths, the things now floating harmlessly to the floor, where they wilt and turn to ash.