Five's Betrayal by Pittacus Lore Page A

this. Now what am I going to do about it?
    I figure the Mogs must have moved me to one of their bases. Except this room isn’t like the horrific and tiny cells that Nine and Six described from when they were captured. No, this must be the Mogadorians’ twisted idea of hospitality. They’re trying to take care of me.
    Setrákus Ra wants me treated more like a guest than a prisoner. Because, one day, he wants me ruling next to him. Why, I still don’t understand, but right now it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
    Oh no. If I’m here, what happened to the others in Chicago?
    My hands start to shake and tears sting my eyes. I have to get out of here. And I have to do it alone.
    I push down the fear. I push down the lingering visions of a decimated Washington. I push down the worries about my friends. I push it all down. I need to be a blank slate, like I was when we first fought Setrákus Ra in the New Mexico, like I was during my training sessions with the others. It’s easiest for me to be brave when I just don’t think about it. If I act on instinct, I can do this.
    Run, I imagine Crayton saying. Run until they’re too tired to chase you.
    I need something to fight them with. I look around the room for anything I can use as a weapon. Next to the bed is a metallic nightstand, the only other furniture in the room. The Mogs left a glass of water there for me, which I’m not dumb enough to drink even though I’m insanely thirsty. Next to the glass, there’s a dictionarysized book with an oily, snaky-skin cover. The ink on the cover looks singed, the words indented and rough around the edges, as if it were printed with acid for ink.
    The title reads The Great Book of Mogadorian Progress, surprisingly in English. Under it is a series of angular boxes and hash marks that I assume is Mogadorian.
    I pick up the book and open it. Each page is divided in half, English on one side and Mogadorian on the other. I wonder if I’m supposed to read this thing.
    I slam the book closed. The important thing is that it’s heavy and I can swing it. I won’t be turning any Mogadorian guards into ash clouds, but it’s better than nothing.
    I climb down from the bed and walk over to what I think is the door. It’s a rectangular panel cut into the plated wall, but there aren’t any knobs or buttons.
    As I tiptoe closer, wondering how I’m going to open this thing, there’s a mechanical whirring noise from inside the wall. It must be on a motion sensor like the lights, because the door hisses upward as soon as I’m close, disappearing into the ceiling.
    I don’t stop to wonder why I’m not locked down. Clutching the Mogadorian book, I step into a hallway that’s just as cold and metallic as my room.
    “Ah,” says a woman’s voice. “You’re awake.”
    Instead of guards, a Mogadorian woman perches on a stool outside my room, obviously waiting for me. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a female Mog before, and definitely not one like her. Middle-aged, with wrinkles forming in the pale skin around her eyes, the Mog looks surprisingly unthreatening in a high-necked floor-length dress, like something one of the sisters would wear back at Santa Teresa. Her head is shaved except for two long, black braids at the back of her skull, the rest of her scalp covered by an elaborate tattoo. Instead of being nasty and vicious, like the Mogs I’ve fought before, this one is almost elegant.
    I stop short in front of her, not sure what to do.
    The Mog glances at the book in my hands and smiles.
    “And ready to begin your studies, I see,” she says, standing up. She’s tall, slender and vaguely spiderlike. Standing before me, she dips into an elaborate bow. “Mistress Ella, I shall be your instructor while—”
    As soon as her head comes low enough, I smack her across the face with the book as hard as I can.
    She doesn’t see it coming, which I guess is strange because all the Mogs I’ve encountered have been ready to fight. This one