Seated in front of the dissected console is an olive-skinned guy who I’d put in his early thirties. His dark hair is cut short, and his cheeks are losing ground to a few days’ worth of stubble. I think I’ve seen him before, although I can’t quite place where and when.

“Adam, you’re back,” the man says, nodding tiredly. “Been pretty quiet.”

I turn to Adam and raise an eyebrow.

“This is Agent Noto,” Adam tells me. “Formerly of MogPro.”

That’s where I know him from. He was part of the group that Walker brought to Ashwood Estates after they turned on the Mogs.

“I was worried you wouldn’t be coming back when the soldiers hauled you off earlier,” Noto says. “Got pretty Orwellian for a minute there.”

Adam smiles at me. “See? I told you my detainment wasn’t all bad. I made a friend. I’ve been helping Noto with his Mogadorian language skills.”

“You speak their language?” I ask, taking a fresh look at the man.

“I was liaison to the Mogs during my MogPro days,” Noto explains. “Picked up a few phrases here and there. I can understand so long as they talk slow and at a kindergartner’s level.”

I step farther into the room, peering at the open notebooks fanned out on the desk. They’re filled with symbols I recognize as Mogadorian letters, each of those represented by a phonetic translation.

“We’re monitoring the communication between the Mogadorian warships,” Adam says. “I’ve encrypted this module so they won’t have any idea we’re listening in.”

“With the security you downloaded onto here, we could broadcast back to them, and they still wouldn’t be able to find us,” Noto says admiringly.

Now I realize why Adam looks so utterly exhausted. It wasn’t just the interrogation keeping him up all night. He’s been sitting here listening to these Mog transmissions, knowing he’s the only one who can translate them.

“How long does it take to teach basic Mogadorian?” I ask him with a glance at Noto.

Noto rattles off a series of harsh noises. “It’s not so tough.”

Adam laughs. “Your accent is getting better, but you just said you’d like a stomach filled with leeches.”

Noto makes a face. “I thought I was asking for some coffee.”

“I helped Noto make a list of key words to listen for,” Adam tells me. “‘Beloved Leader,’ warship call signs, ‘Garde’—any time he hears those words, he makes sure to flag the transmission.”

“I’m recording everything in case I need to listen again,” Noto says. “Which I usually do.”

“This is good. It’ll be really helpful to know what the Mogs are saying to each other,” I tell them, putting a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Don’t burn yourself out, though. We’re going to need you.”

Adam nods. “I know. I won’t.”

I say good-bye to Agent Noto, then lead Adam into the hallway where we can talk privately.

“So, from what you’ve listened in on so far, what are the Mogs saying?” I ask him.

“They’re freaking out about Setrákus Ra,” he replies. “Well, freaking out as much as Mog trueborns can freak out. There’s a lot of concern about why he hasn’t ordered the attack or made any announcements to the fleet, but they won’t outright question him because to do so is pretty much treason. Mostly, they’re like . . . ‘This is warship Delta, awaiting orders, requesting guidance from Beloved Leader.’”

“That alone tells you they’re freaking out?”

“Mogs don’t go around asking for orders, John. They do what they’re told. They speak when spoken to. They don’t passive-aggressively prod their Leader.”

“And there’s been no response from the Anubis or the West Virginia base?”

“Nothing,” Adam confirms. “Radio silence.”

“Hmm.”

The plan I’ve been formulating is a little crazy, a lot dangerous, and, you know, that doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it probably should. I mull over everything that Adam has told me about Mogadorian culture, in particular the likelihood of them descending into civil war once Setrákus Ra is dead. If they took out each other, that’d make it a whole lot easier on the rest of us. What if there was something we could do to speed that process up? To get the Mogs at each other’s throats before Setrákus Ra is even turned to ash? A little bit of psychological warfare.