Pittacus Lore - The Search for Sam

We round the corner by the desk alcove, only to be confronted by three more soldiers. I let loose another seismic wave, sending them hard against the walls behind them, knocking the wind out of them, breaking bones.

I cringe inwardly at what I’ve done, even as I feel a creeping exhilaration at my own power. I didn’t realize I was capable of such tremendous force.

Malcolm dives forward to the overturned desk, scrabbling through its scattered contents, all while struggling to keep his gun-wielding arm raised. I circle Malcolm. He searches for a compound map, or something to give us a clue as to where Sam is being held, while I keep an eye on the fallen soldiers, ready to blast anyone who manages to get to their feet.

“Got it,” he says, leafing through a large binder. “Compound directory.”

“Hurry,” I say, still scanning the fallen soldiers, my fists raised.

A soldier clambers to his feet, hugging the wall, out of breath. We lock eyes as his hand drifts to his gun.

I shake my head. No .

He looks at me, confused, helpless.

He’s seen what I can do. To my own shock and amazement, he puts one hand up and then tosses his weapon aside with the other.

“There’s a cell cluster in Wing E, this way,” says Malcolm, pointing in one direction. “But there’s another cell cluster at the other end of the compound.”

Malcolm tosses back and forth through the pages. He’s torn, unsure of which way to go. I can see him beginning to melt down, to lose his cool. The closer we get to Sam, the higher the stakes, the more likely it is that one false move could mess everything up.

“There are also interrogation rooms in Wing C. He could be there.” Malcolm clutches his forehead. “He could be anywhere.”

Watching Malcolm on the verge of a breakdown, I know what I have to do.

I leap at the soldier, grabbing him by the collar. He whimpers at my touch.

“We’re looking for a captive. Sam Goode. Where is he?”

The soldier bites his lip, closes his eyes. Surrender is one thing, but to give up information to an invading force is a step farther than he is willing to go.

“Tell me,” I say, with menacing calm. He keeps silent.

I will a seismic rumble, right beneath our feet.

He gasps.

“Tell me,” I say. I increase the rumble’s force as the concrete beneath us goes liquid, waving and rocking and cracking beneath our feet. I maintain an even intensity, but it’s a terrifying sensation, for me as well as for him. “Tell me now or I’ll make this floor rise up, chew us up, and drag us straight to hell.”

He whimpers again, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I increase the intensity.

“Wing C!” he screams, giving up. “He’s in Wing C! He was kept away from the others. He’s the only prisoner being held in those cells.”

I release my grip, and the soldier falls to his knees, crying.

I know I’ve done a terrible thing, completely humiliating an adversary who had already surrendered. But there’s no time for guilt.

I turn to Malcolm. “Wing C,” I shout.

Relieved, he tosses the binder aside and races through a door to our right. After doing one last sweep of the fallen soldiers, I join him.

We enter another long hallway.

“Wait!” I yell.

I turn back to the door we’ve come through. The last thing we need is for any of those soldiers to follow and assault us again. So I target the doorway with my Legacy, and knock out the stone structure. The doorway collapses in a noisy heap of rubble.

That should keep them.

We race down the passage for what feels like a mile. The tunnel gets narrower and narrower, darker and darker, the farther we get.

We finally arrive at a locked door. Either the soldier whose keycard we swiped didn’t have clearance for this area, or some kind of security override has kicked in in the wake of our assault.

“Stand back,” I say, an idea quickly forming.

I reach deep into the earth below the compound. I’ve never had to use this much precision with my legacy, and the amount of focus it requires is going to create an excruciating headache. I force the earth upwards, up against the door frame. The stone floor erupts and the steel door is blown from its hinges.

It’s not an ideal entrance—we have to climb up the rubble and then crawl through the half-blocked doorway—but it works.

We get up off our knees on the other side of the door.

We’re in the base’s armory, a warehouse-like space filled with shipping containers and crates. Judging by the warning signs emblazoned on the crates, they contain powerful explosives. I never would’ve used my power in such close proximity to explosives if I had known what was on the other side of that door. We are lucky.

Malcolm grabs my arm, leading me forward through the armory. We come to another set of double doors. Malcolm tries the keycard: this time it works. “Lucky swipe,” he says. “That soldier must’ve had access through another route than the one we took.”

We step through the doors and enter a massive, multistoried prison-like structure, cold and oddly damp.

Now that we know there’s another way in, we’re certain that more soldiers will be coming soon. We have to hurry.

We race along the corridors, past rows and rows of empty cells, and start calling out Sam’s name at the top of our lungs.

I hear something, a rustle from above, off the second-story gangway.

I run ahead of Malcolm, up a stairwell, and along the gangway, running past cells.

I arrive at Sam’s cell. His hands grip the bars of his cage, eyes blinking against the light of the complex. He looks like he’s been through hell.

I’m speechless.

“Who are you?” he says, eyeing me suspiciously, backing into his cell. “What do you want?”

He senses it. He knows I’m a Mogadorian.

“We’re here to help,” I start. But explanations aren’t necessary: Malcolm appears behind me and plunges his hands through the bars towards his son.

Sam stares at him, speechless. “Dad?” he says, incredulous.

“I’m here, Sam. I’m back.”

This reunion isn’t about me: it belongs to Sam and Malcolm.

I slowly back away from the cell. Alone again.

That’s when I hear it. Something Malcolm and Sam are too caught up to hear: the sound of marching soldiers.

Staring out over the gangway, I see soldiers pouring in from multiple shadowed doorways, from every corner of the complex.

Worse still, these are not human soldiers. They’re Mogs.

“Guys,” I say, shaking Malcolm’s shoulder. “We have company.”

I act without thinking, pulling Malcolm away from the bars and shouting to Sam, “Stand in the center of your cell and cover your head!”

Sam is confused, unsure of what I’m about to do, but he’s smart enough to know we don’t have time for explanations: he quickly assumes a huddle in the middle of his cell.

I reach my hands through the bars, sending feelers out to the other side of the cell’s wall. I find the wall, the floor, then I sense the entire structure of the wall.

And then I blast.

The wall behind Sam crumbles, seismic shock ripping straight up its seams. But this whole structure is connected, and the impact sends aftershocks through the concrete floor beneath Sam. The floor of the cell juts out against the gangway, banging it so hard it almost buckles.

Sam tumbles forward and Malcolm and I are knocked hard against the gangway’s railing.

The Mogadorians are getting closer.

I turn back to the cell, where the dust is beginning to settle. There’s now an opening for Sam to get through the wall to the other side.

“Go!” I say. “Run!”

Sam picks himself off the floor, looks at me, then does as I tell him.