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father or some other superior, arranging to have a scout team waiting across the ocean when One’s flight touches down. My team.
    I dread seeing what comes next.

CHAPTER 9
    Hilde and One hide out in an abandoned stilt house on the Rajang River, their closest neighbors the endlessly screeching monkeys that populate the jungle. Hilde is planning a trip into Kuala Lumpur, where she’ll take some money out of their bank account, enough to finance their next move. It’s peaceful, without any of the distractions of America. When the river is clear, One practices her telekinesis on its bank.
    By the time our team arrives—after an endless flight through who knows how many time zones—I’ve completely lost track of what day it is. All I know is that the sun is beginning to rise.
    Hilde hears the first wave coming. Our soldiers don’t make any effort to hide their approach; they have the house surrounded. Hilde shakes Number One awake just as the warriors kick in the door.
    The Cêpan moves fast for an old woman. It’s easy to see her as the great martial artist, trainer of young Garde, that she was on Lorien. She ducks effortlessly under a dagger strike, burying her fist in the throat of an off-balance warrior. Before the first Mogadorian even hits the ground, Hilde has wrapped her arms around the head of a second, snapping his neck. I catch myself cheering her on, then stop myself.
    The next Mogadorian through the door dives for Hilde and places her in a headlock; but Hilde, in a movement so subtle I barely even see it, manages to turn his hold against him, flipping him onto his back even though he’s twice her size.
    That’s when he whips his blaster from his holster, and—orders not to harm her suddenly forgotten in his humiliation—fires it right at her chest.
    When Hilde hits the ground, One screams. The entire house wobbles, its stilts suddenly vibrating. Screaming out in grief and agony, One stomps the floor. A seismic wave erupts from her foot, tearing up the floorboards and sending the Mogadorians flying through the tightly woven sticks of the stilt house’s walls.
    Her first Legacy has developed. Too late.
    The little that’s left of the house is listing on its stilts. With the Mogadorians regrouping outside, One cradles Hilde in her arms. The wound is fatal. Hilde spits a bubble of blood when she tries to speak.
    “It’s not too late for you,” Hilde manages to say. “You have to run.”
    One is crying. She feels responsible; she feels helpless.
    “I failed you,” sobs One.
    “Not yet you haven’t,” replies Hilde. “Go. Now.”
    I’m standing right next her, willing her to move, even though I know what’s waiting for her on the riverbank. The ghost-One, the dead girl who’s been my companion through all of these memories, has abandoned me now. She’s been gone since the airport.
    One hesitates for an instant at Hilde’s order, and then, knowing it’s her only choice, flings herself through one of the windows just as the stilts buckle and the house finally collapses into the river. The Mogadorians meet her on the riverbank.
    The house’s falling ceiling passes harmlessly through me. I watch as One produces another seismic burst, experimenting with her newfound power, and the wet ground of the riverbank opens up to swallow a pair of advancing Mogadorians.
    I remember this. I peer down the riverbank, wondering if she could have seen me where I stood watching with Ivan and my father. No. I was too far away, her attention too focused on the battle around her.
    I should be enjoying this, a chance to replay this great victory up close and personal. There’s nothing someone like Ivan wouldn’t give to be able to witness this again. It’s like a highlight reel of Mogadorian dominance. Yet I want to turn away. I was ashamed to admit it the first time, but not now. This battle—one unarmed teenager against two dozen highly trained Mogadorians—repulses me.
    Of course, One isn’t completely