"Best minds in the world." He said it emphatically. "But no one gives a rat's a.s.s because the second they opened their mouths, they punched their ticket to crazy town. Think about it, what did you think when your old man tried to tell you his theory?" I winced, reinforcing his argument. "Yeah . . . and that was your old man talking. Besides, I realized long ago I could get more accomplished working behind the scenes. The NSA had offered me the perfect hiding place. No one thought to look for a Returned right under their own noses."

I closed my eyes. "Maybe this is a mistake." I started toward the door, but Agent Truman blocked me in two long paces.

It was Thom who answered, surprising me. "It probably is, but we don't have a choice. He's already here, and we can't exactly let him go. Besides, maybe he can help."

I shook my head. "We always have a choice. This is too big. We can't afford to make mistakes. We'll figure it out without him."

Agent Truman leaned forward. "Ah h.e.l.l, don't make me say it." And when I didn't say anything, his face fell. "Fine, G.o.ddammit, I wanna help."

"Why?" I asked. "What happened to all this 'they're not my friends' c.r.a.p?"

"Because, if what you said is true, and they're really coming for us, we could be in a s.h.i.tload of trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if that message you heard is right, then we've done something wrong. We could be facing a war. And if that happens, no one is safe. We could be extinct within a week."

I glanced at Thom, who looked as sick as I felt. "What do we do?" I asked Agent Truman.

"We need to stop them from coming in the first place."

We only stayed at the motel long enough to scrub the room of signs we'd ever been there in the first place. On our way out, we slid two more fifties across the front desk to Mabel, hoping the extra hundred would work like that flashy-thing in Men in Black, erase her memory. Then we stopped at the nearest Walmart, where Thom and I ran in and grabbed the first things off the hangers that looked like they might fit. We changed in the car.

Thom now wore a Bob Marley T-shirt and a pair of stiff new Dockers (khakis, of course), and I'd grabbed a Kiss Me I'm Irish tee off the clearance rack, a garden-variety navy hoodie, and a pair of black stretch pants. I kept Blondie's boots, not just because I didn't want to waste extra time searching for new shoes, but because they were surprisingly comfortable. I did my best to flashy-thing my own memory so I wouldn't have to think about Blondie, and the last time I'd seen her.

Agent Truman said he knew a guy, which I a.s.sumed meant someone who might be willing to help us. Thom didn't ask, and neither did I. Mostly because I was so totally focused on that other thing he'd said, back at the motel. You know, the one about a war coming to Earth.

Even if I'd had other questions, which I was sure I did-things like where were my dad and Tyler and the rest of the Returned right now?-our impending doom was enough to shut me up. To consume me. To eat me alive.

War.

Coming to Earth.

And if it did, humans would become extinct.

Was it possible he'd been exaggerating that last part?

I sneaked a sideways glance at the agent who sat stiffly behind the wheel, hands at ten and two. Nothing about this guy struck me as the exaggerating type.

So if he wasn't exaggerating, what did that mean for us?

How would they do it? Would they invade in waves, destroying everyone and everything that stood in their way? Would innocent people be sacrificed because they were incapable of fending for themselves? I imagined my mom and my little brother, ravaged by the perils of war. I imagined starvation, untreated diseases, festering injuries, and people turning on each other just to survive.

Or would the aliens just end it all at once? Destroy everything, the entire planet in one fell swoop?

That would be simpler, it seemed. More efficient.

My eyes slid downward to the watch dangling loosely around my wrist. Even fastened at the shortest notch, Chuck's beefy arms had been giant-sized compared to mine, but that didn't stop its rhythm from settling my rattled nerves.

Blinking about a million times, I tried to focus on the city whirring past in the dark-businesses of all shapes and sizes, some packed together in neat little strip malls and some freestanding with drive-throughs or giant parking lots. We'd driven all day and now neon signs flashed, and billboards and streetlights glared, all backed by hillsides dotted with houses and churches and more businesses, some lit and some not.

Whenever a car pulled alongside us, I'd dropped my head, keeping my chin low so whoever was in the other vehicle wouldn't see me. The last thing we needed was for someone to notice my eyes-eyes that glowed in the dark and could probably be seen even from behind the tinted gla.s.s.

It wasn't right to be here, with Agent Truman, when I'd been avoiding this . . . running from him for so long.

We'd stopped once so he could call "his guy" in private. His guy put him in touch with the next guy who knew how to reach a group that was not only unlisted, but was even deeper underground than the Daylight Division.

It didn't surprise me that clandestine was a language Agent Truman was fluent in. But whoever he'd gotten in contact with seemed willing to help.

It was that same willingness that made me uneasy. That and the secrecy. If it weren't for the whole brink of extinction thing, I'd be worried Agent Truman had another agenda . . . maybe planning an auction of his own so he could sell me off and spend the rest of his days on the beaches of Bali sipping mai tais.

But, so far he hadn't taken us into custody, and I couldn't help thinking he was genuinely concerned over the possibility we were facing an alien invasion. I mean, of course he was concerned, right?

Still, every time we asked where we were headed, Agent Truman said our destination was on a need-to-know basis, deeming that neither Thom nor I had that kind of clearance.

He was such a jerk.

I'd tracked our progress anyway . . . as we'd traveled through Oregon into California. I'd noted the names of cities on road signs along the way-places like Portland, Eugene, Medford, then Sacramento. I felt feverish, my limbs trembling, as the number in my head had rolled from eleven to ten somewhere just past Redding.

Now the midmorning sun was high as we veered onto the more isolated roads that led into the California hills.

Ten.

If we were counting down days, did that mean there were only ten left? Just over a week?

I was reluctant to share what I suspected, because what if I was wrong? What if it was something else, this crazy obsession with numbers? What if it had nothing at all to do with a possible impending war?

Being cramped in the car with these two for the past sixteen hours hadn't gone far to getting us better acquainted.

Unlike Simon, Thom had always been the more silent type. He still didn't trust Agent Truman, and I didn't entirely blame him. But there was more to it than that. I figured he was probably still licking his wounds over the whole Natty situation.

As far as Agent Truman, I hadn't tried to have any heart-to-hearts with him or anything, but I'd definitely started to get a feel for subtle shifts in his demeanor. For his part, he'd actually attempted to break the ice with us. Even gone as far as trying to crack a joke or two, which had been nothing short of awkward. The corners of his eyes had gotten squintier than usual, almost as if he wasn't quite sure of the proper procedure for smiling. Like it was a lost skill. But even after hours of traveling together, he hadn't given us a first name so he was still just Agent Truman. Maybe "Agent" for short.

The one time I'd tried to broach the subject of Griffin, he'd frozen over like arctic tundra.

But of course Agent Truman wasn't the buddy-buddy type and we weren't friends. Agent Truman was more the shoot-your-daughter-and-leave-her-for-dead type.

The only reason we were together at all was to stop an alien race from invading the planet.

Message received.

CHAPTER TEN.

Days Remaining: Ten THE STOP SEEMED TO COME OUT OF NOWHERE, maybe because we were nowhere. Not just up in the mountains, but parked in front of an actual mountain, facing a wall of jagged stone that would have been imposing if not for the tiny white flowers that sprang from its rocky surface.

I started to open the pa.s.senger side door because my legs were killing me, and right now, getting out and stretching them was all I could think of.

Agent Truman's hand shot over and stopped me. "You might wanna hold up a sec."

Without warning, the car plummeted as if it had been suspended by only a taut wire, and that wire had just been cut. My stomach lurched up all the way into my throat. I guessed we'd been parked on some sort of platform, a super high velocity elevator.

Whatever it was, the drop felt endless.

"What . . . the . . ." Thom glared at Agent Truman, who wore an almost-legitimate smile as he watched us from behind the wheel.

"A little warning next time," I accused breathlessly, after my stomach had slipped back into place.

"Where's the fun in that?" Agent Truman asked, switching off the ignition.

When we were parked aboveground, it had been broad daylight, but down here, deep underground, it was pitch-black. "What is this place?"

Agent Truman's sly grin was back. "You'll see." And just when he said it, like he'd issued a command, a series of pale lights switched on all around us, illuminating walls that were carved from the cliffs themselves.

Beyond our car, a wide corridor extended as the walls shifted from rock to steel, the floor from stone that was rough and coa.r.s.e to granite so polished it gleamed.

A woman emerged from the end of the tunnel. Her white lab coat was stark against her dark skin, and her hair was pulled away from her face in a ponytail that ended in a thick cl.u.s.ter of soft curls. It was clear from her welcoming smile that she'd been expecting us.

"Now it's safe to get out," Agent Truman said as he opened his door.

"Welcome to the ISA," the woman greeted us as she approached. "The Interstellar s.p.a.ce Agency," she clarified as she came to a stop in front of us. "I'm Dr. Clarke. So glad you could join us."

The Interstellar s.p.a.ce Agency. She made it sound like I should know who, or what, the Interstellar s.p.a.ce Agency was. Like they were up there with the FBI or NASA, or even the PTA when it came to public awareness, rather than a clandestine organization operating from underneath a mountain.

Before I could ask exactly what it was the ISA did, and how they thought they could help us, Dr. Clarke turned to lead us back down the corridor she'd just come from. "Let me give you the grand tour." Since Agent Truman and Thom were already following her, I wasn't given much of a choice. I supposed I should too.

Even though we were so far beneath ground, the place had a sterile feel about it. When we emerged from the tunnel, we stepped out into a s.p.a.ce that didn't look at all like it could possibly be buried beneath a mountain. I remembered the first time I'd seen the Daylighters' Tacoma facility-that blown-away sensation I'd had that I'd just walked onto an elaborate movie set. A science fiction lover's wet dream.

I had that feeling now as I looked around at the enormous operation. Equipment that looked even more state-of-the-art than what I'd seen at the Tacoma facility. Things that looked like they didn't even belong to this world. "What is this place?" I asked again.

"Remember I told you about those brainiacs no one takes seriously?" Agent Truman answered. "Well, these are who I meant."

Dr. Clarke gave Agent Truman a look that reminded me of one my mom used to give my dad, a we'll-come-back-to-that look. A put-a-pin-in-it look.

I sort of hoped I'd be there for that conversation.

Then she launched into her own explanation. "You've heard of SETI?" Dr. Clarke asked.

I shook my head. "I don't think so. Should I have?" I answered vaguely.

Dr. Clarke nodded, like she'd expected as much. "Most people haven't. Stands for the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence," Dr. Clarke went on. "It's the collective name given to several organizations using scientific data to establish interstellar communications. To search for life . . . out there."

She moved us through the rest of our tour like we were in a race, zipping through one vast room after another. I'd call them labs, except the word "labs" wasn't quite right because it didn't do any of these places justice.

I wanted her to slow down. I wanted all of this to just . . . slow down. I had questions. I wanted her to ask questions-about who we were, what we were doing here, what we wanted. But she just kept talking . . . kept shuttling us forward until I'd lost track of where we were.

There were multiple levels with gla.s.s elevators on each side. There were chambers running around the perimeter with a giant open area in the center, and walkways that connected one side to the other across each different floor. People worked on different levels, on different projects with names she ticked off like Andromeda One, the Axis Venture, Project Frontline, XtropX. She tried to explain each one, but they blurred together until nothing made sense anymore.

We reached what looked like a nursery-another "lab" filled with plants, some beneath large lighted hoods and some that grew so large they were taller than we were. But all these plants were unusual-their colors and the textures of the leaves and the stems shooting up from the soil-none of it was quite right. Even the soil they were planted in was off somehow. Not Earth-like.

Curious, I stepped away from Thom and examined one of the spiky, red-tinged leaves. It was covered in a strange spongy substance that looked like it was expanding and contracting. I reached for it.

Just as my fingertips brushed it, the thing moved. Not the substance covering the leaf, but the plant . . . the entire leaf.

First, it shifted, but then in a swift lunging motion it took a swipe at me.

Thom yanked my hand away before I could even flinch.

"Did you see that?" I cradled my hand to my chest.

Dr. Clarke came up and steered us back expertly. "Oh, dear, you don't want to touch those." The offhanded way she said it made me think that the delayed nature of the warning wasn't entirely an oversight.

I rubbed my fingertips and my thumb together until they were practically raw, wondering what might have happened if Thom hadn't saved me. I shot him a what-the-h.e.l.l? look and he just shook his head because he had no idea either.

Dr. Clarke finally began to fill in the blanks about her agency. She barely acknowledged the part where a sentient plant had just tried to-I don't know-attack me. "Not everyone realizes what a delicate balance the universe is. NASA has used their Hubble telescope and measured the age of the oldest planet in our galaxy at thirteen billion years," she explained. "That's more than twice as old as Earth. But there are more than one hundred billion galaxies in the observable universe." She flashed a knowing grin. "And that's just what NASA will admit to. There are species-beings-far more advanced and complex than us, who've survived millennia. Planets a hundred times older than ours. The Milky Way is just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak." She was specifically looking at me and Thom, and I wondered how much she knew . . . about us. How much Agent Truman had told her when he'd placed his private phone call. "It used to be that everyone had their hands in SETI's research-the Russians, NASA, most major universities. But by the mid-'90s, Congress canceled all government funding. Now it's strictly a private enterprise, mostly through UC Berkeley."

"So . . . you're part of the SETI project?" Thom asked.

"Was," she clarified. "Now I'm here, working with the Interstellar s.p.a.ce Agency. We do a lot of the same stuff, only with much better funding."

We were approaching something that looked vaguely familiar. I froze as I glanced uncomfortably at Agent Truman. Dr. Clarke turned to watch us.

The canisters in question were so similar to the ones I'd seen at the Daylight Division, the human-sized ones they'd had at the Tacoma facility, that my skin went cold and clammy.

The only difference between them was that these weren't empty. Or at least one of them wasn't.

Dr. Clarke gave me a significant look, and then glanced back at the canister. "We've made better contacts as well."

I followed her gaze. "You're not saying . . ." I tilted my head, hesitating. "That's not . . . ?"

I never finished my question, I didn't need to-she knew what I meant.

An alien. I'd meant: That's not an alien, is it?

But I was sure it was. As sure as I'd been about anything in my life-Old Kyra's or New Kyra's.

I separated myself from Dr. Clarke and the others to get a better look, and no one told me not to go. My palms hadn't been this sweaty since the first time I'd taken the pitcher's mound and faced my very first batter. I hoped things turned out better this time around.

By the time I reached the canister . . . the one that was occupied, my teeth were chattering like one of those windup toys.

The liquid behind the gla.s.s was an odd translucent blue that bubbled in thick sticky swells. But there was something in there, embedded in all that gelatinous fluid. A creature of some sort.