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have anything to do with the Mogadorians?
    I put it aside for now. It’s an interesting—and unsettling—tidbit, but it’s not going
     to help me save One. Before I even have a chance to enter a new search, my five minutes
     is up.
    I turn back to my work. Predictably, that short diversion cost me, and my hourly rank
     plummets. Regretfully, I accept that I can’t afford any more “independent research”
     today.
    We finish at seven p.m., replaced by the night shift, who we’ll relieve at seven tomorrow
     morning. My body aches from remaining hunched and sedentary, and my eyes feel like
     they’ve been blasted with sand. I’ve finished the day back in the middle, at position
     eleven.
    “Not bad,” admits Serkova, getting up from his chair. “But hardly what you promised
     the General.”
    He’s right. Landing right in the middle of a group of twenty can hardly qualify me
     as a master tracker. I can only hope my ranking is enough to let me live another day.
    I walk the tunnel alone, heading back to the hub.
    I’m too tired to even consider sneaking off and snooping around the other tunnels:
     I’d definitely blow my cover.
    “Arsis, you flaming moron!”
    Arsis! The idiot assistant technician in the labs . Advancing my secret agenda was the last thing on my mind until I heard that name.
    “Sorry, Doctor.”
    I round the corner to see an open doorway leading into one of the laboratories. Inside
     the gleaming white lab, an incredibly tall and spindly doctor has a young guard backed
     up against a wall, prodding him with an angry index finger.
    “These samples were supposed to be refrigerated at subzero temperatures. You put them in the regular freezer.”
    “Sorry, sir.” The boy is docile, subservient, nothing like the sullen brat I’d imagined
     from his IM transcripts.
    The doctor commands him sternly. “Revial the samples from our remaining cultures,
     and get it right this time. You asked to be trusted with more important work; now
     show that you can do it properly.”
    “Yes, Doctor.” Arsis scrambles off to redo his work.
    I stand gaping at Dr. Zakos, at his massive laboratory. This is the man who might
     be able to save my only friend.
    He catches me looking.
    Shit .
    He glares at me. I either have to turn around and walk away, or think of something
     fast.
    “Doctor Zakos?” I say, deciding to wing it.
    “Yes?” He looks puzzled.
    I step forward into the lab.
    “I’m Adamus Sutekh. Son of General Sutekh.”
    He looks at me, evidently suspicious.
    “I wanted to meet you,” I go on, “because my father has spoken so highly of your work.”
    My ruse pays off: I watch Dr. Zakos flush with pride. Even Mogadorians have their
     vanity. An exploitable weakness.
    “I’m glad the General is satisfied,” says the doctor, giving a little involuntary
     bow.
    “I was actually a subject in your predecessor’s experiments,” I continue. “The work
     he did with the first fallen member of the Garde … the memory transfer …”
    “Ah, of course.” He shakes his head. “Dr. Anu’s work was a deplorable failure. I’m
     certain the mind-transfer technology I have been developing since is much improved,
     if I could ever get clearance to actually use it.”
    I’m confused. Zakos keeps talking, looking at me with much more interest now. I struggle
     to maintain a neutral expression. “You’re saying the procedure could be done more
     successfully now?”
    He nods. “That’s my theory.”
    “How is that possible? I thought the procedure needed to be done soon after a subject’s
     death.”
    He cocks his head curiously and ignores my question. “Where have you been since the
     experiment?”
    “In Africa,” I tell him. I don’t want to get into too much detail about my activities
     since I was last with the Mogadorians. But the doctor seems to accept my answer without
     question.
    “And did you suffer any … side effects due to the procedure you underwent?”
    I’m tempted to be