The Fallen Legacies (Lorien Legacies: The Lost Files #3)(22)

Ivan and I are the perfect choices to be posing as aid-workers. We’re the right age for it: idealistic teenagers come to volunteer their time between high school and college. It’s the kind of activity that would look great on a kid’s college application. Of course, for Mogadorians, assisting the less fortunate would be viewed as a waste of time.

“Humanitarian aid,” spits One, appearing at my side. “Your people have a sick sense of humor.”

I shake my head. She’s right, but I doubt the General realizes the grotesque irony of our cover. To my people, these aid-workers and the villagers are mere tactical assets, pawns to help us smoke out the Garde that might be hiding in the jungle.

Today the aid-workers have circulated word that they have a new shipment of vaccine for the village youths, something to fight against malaria. One by one the local children line up to grit their teeth and receive a shot.

When the children stop by our tent, Ivan and I study them. Most of them arrive barefoot or in sandals, but the ones wearing sneakers or socks are ordered by Ivan to take off their shoes and socks. None of them finds this strange. Humans are too trusting. There are many kids the age of the one we’re looking for, but none of them bears the Loric scar. Every smooth ankle is a relief to me.

One of the kids receiving his injection stares at Ivan, then says something in Swahili. The other children in line laugh.

“What did he say?” I ask.

The aid-worker with the needle pauses, giving me a nervous look. Then, in shaky English, replies, “He says your friend looks like pale hippo.”

Ivan takes a step towards the boy, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

“The boy’s right,” I tell the aid-worker, “he does look like a hippo.” I flash the boy a thumbs-up, and the children laugh again.

“This is a waste of time,” seethes Ivan, and he stomps into the hut’s backroom, where we’ve stored our equipment. I assume he’s going to report to my father: no Loric found yet; Kenyan children hurt my feelings.

I step outside the hut, watching as the villagers go about a normal day. I can’t help but indulge in a fantasy like I used to when observing Washington DC, about what kind of improvements could be made to this place. This time it’s not a fantasy of conquest; it’s one of assistance. With the technological advancements the Mogadorians are capable of, we could vastly improve these people’s lives.

“Their lives would be most improved,” says One, “if you just left their planet the hell alone.”

“You’re right,” I whisper back, feeling stupid.

On the basketball court, teams are beginning to form up. A boy about fourteen years old sees me watching and waves. When I wave back, he jogs over and says something in what I think is Italian.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t understand.”

“Ah,” says the boy, and I see the wheels turning as he tries to place my language. “English? American?”

I nod. The boy is fit, tall for his age. He is dark skinned, yet a few shades lighter than many of the other villagers, a smattering of sun-born freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looks somehow exotic. He is wearing a tank top and mesh shorts, a pair of worn basketball high-tops and striped high socks. High socks. My stomach drops as I realize who he is.

The Garde.

“Sorry,” he says in slow but perfect English. “The other aid-workers speak Italian. My English is a little rusty.”

“No,” I say, swallowing hard. “It’s very good.”

He steps forward to shake my hand. “I’m Hannu.”

“Adam.”

“Like the first man. That’s good, but right now we need a tenth man for even teams.” He gestures over his shoulder at the other kids waiting on the basketball court. “You want to play?”

What I want is to scream at Hannu to run. I glance over my shoulder, wondering where Ivan is. I can’t make this too obvious, can’t make a scene. If Ivan detects anything unusual, he’ll radio in to my father right away. Hannu’s only advantage right now is that my people don’t know who he is. There’s still a chance for him and whoever his Cêpan is to slip away undetected.

I need to get him away from the aid-worker’s hut.

“Sure,” I say, although I’ve never so much as touched a basketball. “I’ll play.”

We haven’t gone three steps before Ivan is jogging to catch up to us. The only way to describe his grin is shit eating.

“Adam,” he says, talking to me while sizing up Hannu. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Hannu,” replies the Garde, shaking Ivan’s hand. I can tell by the way Hannu grimaces that Ivan’s grip is vice-like. “Another American. Cool.”

Everything about Hannu is easygoing, even the leisurely way he walks us over to the basketball court. He looks at home here, comfortable. Too comfortable. I wonder how long he’s lived here—how often he’s come to this court to shoot hoops. I think about the paranoid behavior of the other Cêpans, the nomadic life that One was forced to endure, the shut-in existence of Two. It seems like Hannu has had such a peaceful time on Earth that he’s forgotten there’s a war on.

Some of the younger children beam at Hannu as he passes by. He pats them on their heads, smiling back, joking with them in Swahili. I wonder how many languages he knows.