The Fallen Legacies by Pittacus Lore

sternly across his chest, looking more like a young version of the General than ever. When my father turns to face us, Ivan shoots me a sidelong glance.
    “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, sir,” begins Ivan, “but I’m not sure your son is up to this.”
    My father’s fist coils into a ball. His first instinct is to strike Ivan for his impudence. But then he looks at me, one eyebrow arched.
    “Is that true?” he asks.
    I know what Ivan’s doing. He’s spent the last three years worming his way into the General’s good graces, calling him “Father,” assuming my rightful place as his son. Figuring I was gone, Ivan’s only concern has been his own advancement. Before, I never would have given him an opportunity to make me look bad. Before, I’m not sure he would have tried. The thing is, I don’t know how much I care about fighting back. During all that time spent in One’s memories, and even now that I’ve woken up, I haven’t once fantasized about my promised inheritance of Washington DC. How could I, now that I know the price that would be paid?
    Ivan can have it.
    “Perhaps he’s right,” I say, meeting my father’s steely glare. “In my weakened state, I could be a liability to Mogadorian victory.”
    Liability. Mogadorian victory. I know all the buzzwords to use on my father. Those haven’t changed. He takes one last look at me, a hint of disgust in his face, before turning to Ivan.
    “Come, Ivanick,” he says, sweeping from the room.
    I’m left alone with the two techs. They ignore me, glued to their bank of monitors, watching as the bus containing Conrad Hoyle trundles through the city. I realize this is the first moment of peace I’ve had since waking up from my coma. I close my eyes and lower my head into my hands, trying to keep my mind blank, pushing away the conflicting feelings I’ve been having about my people. I’m relieved that I don’t have to go on this operation. I don’t know what I’d do if faced with the task of actually killing a Garde. But then, who am I? I was raised as a ruthless hunter.
    “So that’s your plan?” asks a familiar voice. “To just sit here and do nothing?”
    I look up to find One sitting next to me. I jerk back in my chair, nearly toppling over, eyes wide.
    “Booga booga,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me. “Seriously, dude. Get off your ass and do something.”
    “Do what?” I snap. “You think they’d hesitate to kill me too?”
    One of the techs glances over his shoulder, frowning at me.
    “Did you say something?” he asks.
    I give him a blank look, then slowly shake my head. He turns back to his monitors. When I look over to where One was sitting, the chair is empty.
    Great. Now I’m crazy.
    “Look,” says one of the techs, “something is happening.”
    I turn my attention to the screen, where Hoyle’s bus has jerked to a sudden stop. The doors fly open, and panicked passengers begin streaming off.
    One of the rear windows explodes outward, a man flying through it. Before he can hit the ground, his body disintegrates into ash.
    “He’s onto us,” observes the other tech, both of them leaning forward to watch the action.
    Bright flashes of gunfire pop across the screen, and then the back of the bus goes up in flames. As it does, I watch Conrad Hoyle emerge from the front doors. He’s much larger than his picture indicated.
    Hoyle holds a submachine gun in each hand.
    “By Ra,” says the tech, sounding almost giddy, “he’s going to be a tough one.”
    “We should be out there!” grumbles the other.
    Most of the pedestrians are fleeing the scene of the flaming bus, like any sane person would. Except there are others that move towards the wreck: men in dark trench coats, shoving their way through the frightened crowd. The Mogadorian strike team has arrived. They’re greeted by a hail of gunfire from Hoyle, and they quickly take cover before shooting back.
    If my father and Ivan aren’t out there yet, enduring