I’m supposed to sit here and study my grandfather’s masterwork. Read three sections and spend at least twenty minutes in deep contemplation of each.
No thanks.
I’m not sure if it’s the same copy I used to hit that Mogadorian lady on my first day here. There are a lot of these books lying around the Anubis. It’s like the only thing the Mogs read. Anyway, they’ve chained this one to the desk to make sure I don’t turn it into a weapon.
Instead of studying, I lean against the wall farthest from the desk and wait for the Mogs to run out of patience. I try to ignore the itching sensation coming from the Mogadorian charm freshly burned into my ankle. If they’re watching me – and I’m almost certain that they’re always watching me – I don’t want them to see me looking uncomfortable.
I definitely don’t want them to know how disgusted I am at the idea of being connected to Setrákus Ra. The Mogs hate the Loric, but they fall over themselves to please their ‘Beloved Leader,’ even though he used to be one of us. Based on what he told me at dinner, Setrákus Ra turned himself into some freakish hybrid species made from the powerful Legacies of an Elder and the technological advancements of the Mogs. Or so he says. It’s hard to figure out what’s fact and fiction with him. Whatever he is now – Loric, Mog or something in between – Setrákus Ra has spent centuries making the Mogs view him as a savior. As a god. Where he came from doesn’t matter to them anymore. And even though I get a few sideways looks from some of the soldiers aboard the Anubis, to most of the crew, I’m on Setrákus Ra’s level.
I’m the granddaughter of a self-proclaimed god. So far, that’s keeping me safe.
As if being blood relatives wasn’t enough, now we’re bonded by his version of a Loric charm. I remember feeling left out when I discovered all the other Garde were connected in the same way, all of them once protected by the same force. I wanted to be part of that. Now I’ve got two thick and jagged bands of scar tissue around my ankle.
Be careful what you wish for, Ella.
I’m zoning out, trying to think up a way to test what the charm does without hurting myself, when a noise starts playing in the room. It sounds almost exactly like a smoke alarm. At first it’s like a ringing in my ears, but seconds later it’s amplified enough that it drowns out my thoughts. I cover my ears, but the sound only gets louder. It’s coming through the walls from every direction at once.
‘Turn it off!’ I yell to the Mogs I’m sure are watching me. In response, the volume increases. My head feels like it might split open.
I stumble away from the wall and the volume immediately lowers from a deafening shriek to a piercing whistle. When I take another step towards the Great Book, the volume drops another fraction. I get the hint. When I finally open up the book, the noise drops to an annoying buzz.
So that’s how Setrákus Ra intends to ‘educate’ me – by making it so the only peace I can find is literally in the pages of his Mogadorian encyclopedia.
Maybe I should try to make the most of this. There might be some information I can use against him in Setrákus Ra’s painfully boring book. It can’t hurt to skim a little. There’s no way I’ll ever believe any of the lies on these pages.
The ringing cuts off entirely when I start to read the first page. Even though I resent it, I can’t help but let out a little sigh of relief.
There is no greater achievement for a species than the shouldering of one’s own genetic destiny. It is for that reason that the Mogadorian race must be considered the most elevated of all life throughout the universe.
Ugh. I can’t believe this thing goes on for like five hundred pages, or that it’s become required reading for an entire species. I’m not going to find anything useful in here.
As soon as my eyes drift away from the page, the heinous buzzing resumes, more intense than before. I grit my teeth and look back at the book, skimming over a couple more sentences until something occurs to me.
I grab the top of the first thirty pages or so and tear them out of the bindings. The piercing noise in my ears reaches siren level, my eyes watering, but I force myself to go on. I hold up the pages so that whichever Mogadorian is watching can see, and then I tear them down the middle. Then I tear them into fourths, smaller and smaller, until I’ve got two handfuls of Great Book confetti to toss into the air.
‘How am I supposed to read it now?’ I shout.
The wailing goes on for another couple of minutes. It gets to the point where my neck and back start to ache from the way my shoulders are bunched up, like they’re trying to cover my ears. I continue tearing more pages out of the book. I can’t even hear the paper ripping.
And then, all of a sudden, the noise stops. The bones in my face, my teeth – everything hurts. But I’ve beaten them, and the silence in that tiny, uncomfortable room is the best I’ve ever experienced.
My reward is a couple of hours of alone time. Not that I can even really tell how much time is passing. I sit on the edge of the uncomfortable chair, rest my head on the desk and try to nap. My thoughts sound louder in my head than they should, and the ringing in my ears won’t let me sleep. That, and the feeling that I’m being watched. When I open my eyes, it feels like the room has actually gotten smaller. I know it’s just my imagination, but I’m starting to freak out a little.
My ankle is itching like crazy. I pull up the hem of my dark Mogadorian gown – a fresh one, not the one Setrákus Ra burned – and stare at the raw flesh on my leg. I’m failing at my goal of giving nothing away, but I can’t help myself. I reach down and massage my ankle, letting out a deep sigh as I do. I press my palm against the brand and wish that the scar will be gone when I lift my hand. Of course it’s still there, but at least the clammy sweat on my palm actually feels sort of good against the seared flesh.