“Setrákus!”

My grandfather looks up and actually smiles. He’s proud. There are black veins running under his skin, too, and his dark hair has begun to thin out. Surprisingly, he’s excited to see Pittacus and sets aside his twisted work to greet him.

“Old friend,” Setrákus Ra says, approaching with open arms. “How long has it been? If I missed another meeting of the Elder council, tell Loridas I’m sorry but—”

By way of greeting, Pittacus grabs the front of Setrákus Ra’s shirt and slams him into one of the Liberator’s support beams. Although he’s smaller than Setrákus, he manages to take the larger man by surprise.

“What is this, Setrákus? What have you done?”

“What do you mean? Unhand me, Pittacus.”

Pittacus checks his temper. I really wish he wouldn’t. He takes a deep breath, lets go of Setrákus and takes a step back.

“You’re mining Lorien,” Pittacus says, clearly trying to wrap his mind around the dig site. “You’re—what did you do to these people?”

“The volunteers? I helped them.”

Pittacus shakes his head. “This is wrong, Setrákus. This looks . . . it looks like you’ve defiled our world.”

Setrákus laughs. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It only frightens you because you don’t understand it.”

“Explain it to me, then!” Pittacus yells, and small flames erupt from the corners of his eyes.

“Where to begin . . . ,” Setrákus says, running a hand over his scalp. “We were together on Mogadore. You saw the hate the Mogs had for us. The savagery. What good could ever come of that place?”

“It will take time,” Pittacus replies. “One day, the Mogadorians will choose peace. Loridas believes that, and so do I.”

“But what if they don’t? They endanger not just our way of life, but the entire galaxy. Why should we simply contain them and wait for their mind-set to improve when we could hasten their evolution? What if the Mogadorians we chose, the ones we see as peaceful and potential allies—what if we could give them Legacies? Make them Garde? Leaders among their people, capable of excising the warlike and dangerous? We could change the fate of an entire species, Pittacus.”

“We aren’t gods,” Pittacus replies.

“Says who?”

A moment of silence follows. Pittacus takes a step away from his old friend.

“It’s all I’ve thought about since we returned from Mogadore,” Setrákus continues. “Not just the Mogadorians, either. Us. All of us. The Loric. Why are there Garde and Cêpan? We have peace, yes, but at what expense? A caste system where our leaders are decided by who is and isn’t lucky enough to be born with Legacies? We Elders sit around a table that reads ‘unity,’ but how are we equal?”

“It is as Lorien wills it—”

Setrákus barks a bitter laugh. “Nature, fate, destiny. We are beyond these childish concepts, Pittacus. We control Lorien, not the other way around. You, me, everyone—we could choose our own fate, our own Legacies. My wife, she could—”

“Celwe would be disgusted by this and you know it,” Pittacus counters. “She’s worried about you.”

“You . . . you spoke to her?”

“Yes. And I saw the mess you made of your home.”

Setrákus Ra’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth hangs open, almost like he’s been slapped. I half expect him to start shouting Pittacus down in the haughty tone he used so often with me on board the Anubis. I can see the arrogance that I know so well in his expression, but also something more. He isn’t so far gone yet. Competing with my grandfather’s delusions of grandeur is a healthy dose of shame.

“I . . . I lost my temper,” Setrákus Ra says after a moment.

“You’ve lost a lot of things and stand to lose more if you don’t stop this,” Pittacus replies. “Maybe our world isn’t perfect. Maybe we could do more, Setrákus. But this—this isn’t the answer. You aren’t helping anyone. You’re making them sick and torturing our natural world.”

Setrákus shakes his head. “No. It’s not . . . this is progress, Pittacus. Sometimes, progress needs to be painful.”

Pittacus’s expression turns steely. He turns towards the Liberator and watches the steady flow of Loric energy wrestled free from the planet’s core. He makes his decision quickly. Fire courses over his hands and arms.

“Go home to Celwe, Setrákus. Try to forget about this madness. I will . . . clean up what you’ve done here.”

For a moment, Setrákus seems to consider this. I root for him, I really do. I wish he would realize that Pittacus is right, turn his back on his machinery and head home to my grandmother. But I already know how it all turns out.

My grandfather’s expression darkens and the flames growing in intensity from Pittacus are suddenly extinguished. “I can’t let you do that,” he says.

The Elders’ Chamber is empty now except for Pittacus and Loridas. The younger Garde slumps in his high-backed chair, his face bruised and his knuckles raw. The older Garde stands on the other side of the table, bent over a glowing object, working at whatever it is with his gnarled hands.

“I don’t agree with their decision,” Pittacus says.

“Our decision,” Loridas corrects him, gently. “You had a vote. All nine of us did.”