‘We should wipe them out,’ Marina says matter-of-factly.

Nine blinks at her. ‘Are you serious? I count at least a hundred Mogs and the biggest goddamn ship I’ve ever seen.’

‘So what?’ Marina counters. ‘Don’t you love to fight?’

‘Fights I can win, yeah,’ Nine replies.

‘And if you can’t win, you just run your mouth, right?’

‘Enough,’ I hiss before Nine can say anything more. I don’t know how long Marina’s going to hold this grudge against Nine or what it’ll take to ease the tension, but now is definitely not the time to deal with it. ‘Bickering isn’t getting us anywhere.’

We’re on our stomachs in the mud, shielded from the busy Mogadorians by overgrown tallgrass, right at the edge of where the swamp begins to encroach on the manmade clearing. There are two buildings in front of us; one is a glass-and-steel one-storey that looks almost like a greenhouse, and the other is an aircraft hangar with a narrow landing strip, perfect for small propeller planes or the saucer-shaped Mogadorian crafts, nowhere near large enough for the warship floating above us. Just like Dale told us before he fled, the whole place looks like it was abandoned until recently. The swamp is beginning to creep back in and crack the asphalt, the metal struts of the greenhouse are rusted over, and the NASA logo has almost completely faded from the side of the hangar. Of course, these conditions don’t appear to have deterred the Mogs from setting up a small base here.

But now, it looks like they’re packing up.

‘Marina, do you sense anything?’ I ask. At this point, we’ve got nothing else to go on except this intuition of hers. It’s gotten us this far – right into a swarming nest of Mogadorians. Might as well let it take us a little further.

‘He’s here,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how I know, but he’s here.’

‘Then we’re going in,’ I say. ‘But we’re doing it the smart way.’

I reach out and grab both of their hands, turning the three of us invisible. If a Mogadorian was to look over here now, we’d be nothing more than three strange indentations in the mud. As a group, we stand up, confident that the horde of Mogs won’t be able to see us.

‘Marina, you lead the way,’ I whisper.

As we step out of the swamp, Nine trips over a root and nearly topples over, our chain almost breaking. That would’ve been the shortest covert mission in history. I squeeze his hand hard.

‘Sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s just weird not being able to see my legs.’

‘That can’t happen again,’ I warn him.

‘I’m reconsidering that whole rushing-in-and-killing-them-all thing,’ Nine replies. ‘Being sneaky isn’t exactly my strong suit.’

Marina makes an annoyed noise, so I squeeze her hand hard, too.

‘We need to move as a unit,’ I say through gritted teeth, hoping we can regain some of that instinctual teamwork we managed during the earlier fight with Mog scouts. ‘Take it slow, be quiet and don’t bump into anything.’

With that, we start slowly forward. I’m not too worried about the noise our footfalls make on the uneven pavement; the Mogadorians are busy loading heavy gear from the greenhouse to the warship, the wheels on their dollies squeaking and grinding. I’m used to moving around while invisible, trusting my instincts, but I know that it can be hard for the others. We approach slowly, grasping on to each other, keeping as quiet as possible.

Marina takes us towards the greenhouse first. The Mogs are concentrated around that area, wheeling out carts loaded up with bizarre, mad scientist – looking devices. I watch as one Mog pushes a wheeled shelving unit cluttered with potted plants – flowers, patches of grass, saplings – all of them things found on Earth, and yet all of them veined with a strange gray fluid. They look droopy, on the verge of dying, and I wonder what kind of experiments the Mogs were running on them.

There’s a tall Mogadorian at the base of the ramp leading to the warship. His uniform is different from the usual warrior garb – those Mogs are at least sort of trying to fit in on Earth, even if they’re dressed like gothic weirdos. This guy is definitely some kind of military officer, his attire formal and severe, all black, covered in shining medals and studded epaulets. The tattoos across his scalp are much more elaborate than any I’ve seen. He holds a computer tablet in his hands, checking items off with a swipe of his finger as the Mogs load them on to the ship. He barks the occasional order at the others in harsh Mogadorian.

Marina tries to move us closer to the greenhouse, but I tighten my grip and plant my feet. Nine bumps into my back, letting out an annoyed grunt that we’re stopped. The path in front of us is like a Mogadorian obstacle course – they’re everywhere. Any closer and we run the risk of a stray Mog walking right into us. If Eight is in that greenhouse with their experiments and cargo, our only chance to get him would be a full-on assault. I’m not ready to go down that road yet. Sensing my reluctance, Marina’s hand grows a little colder in mine.

‘Not yet,’ I hiss at her, my words barely louder than a soft breath. ‘We check the hangar first.’

We make it about ten more steps before an animal groan stops us in our tracks. From the greenhouse, a team of Mogs wheel out a large cage. Inside is a creature that might have been a cow at one point but has since been transformed into something seriously nasty. The animal’s eyes are wet and jaundiced, painful-looking horns jut out of its skull, and its udder is immensely swollen and covered in the same grayish veins I noticed on the plants. The creature looks lethargic and depressed, barely alive. Whatever experiments the Mogs were running down here are truly disgusting and, like Nine, I’m starting to reconsider Marina’s idea of just wiping out all these bastards, massive warship or no massive warship.