Push

CHAPTER NINE

MY BACK ARCHES AS I COME TO, MUSCLES CLENCHING, HEART racing.

“Jackson!” His name comes out as a howl. I try to jump to my feet, fight my way to him, but my body’s sluggish, refusing to obey my mental commands.

And there’s no one to fight.

I’m alone, lying on a cold, hard floor, hands and feet prickly and numb, my stomach churning.

The Drau. The blood. The girl from the other team . . .

With a wince, I gingerly poke at the side of my abdomen. No pain. No wound. And the T-shirt that’s wadded in my hand isn’t drenched in blood. I’ve respawned fully healed. I made it through another mission.

For a second, I just lie there, breathing and feeling grateful. Then I try to figure out where I am. Not home. Not the lobby.

I’m at the bottom of a massive oval amphitheater, tiers of seats rising all around me. They climb beyond the reach of the light and disappear into darkness. Every seat is occupied by a shadowy figure, forms and faces obscured.

I’ve been called to face the Committee. Good. If anyone can help me find Jackson, it’s them.

I push to my feet, dragging my T-shirt over my head, not really into facing the Committee in my sports tank.

My thoughts scurry around like cockroaches at the flick of a light, zipping from the Drau to the Committee to the sensations that washed over me right before the jump. The pain, the rage—Jackson’s emotions reaching across time and space to crawl inside my brain, making me a powerless witness to his torment.

I remember Jackson screaming. Get out of my head.

“They have Jackson,” I say, not even sure the Committee’s listening. “The Drau. They’re hurting him.” Killing him. What if they’ve already succeeded?

Fear for him slices me open and leaves me raw. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together.

When no one answers me I turn a full circle, searching for help, but the audience is dark and wraithlike. I feel like they’re not seeing me at all. As I complete my turn, a raised platform appears directly in front of me, hovering in midair. It’s empty.

“Show yourselves,” I say, then add, “Please.” It won’t hurt my cause to be polite. That whole catch-more-flies-with-honey thing.

The light dims, then brightens, revealing three figures sitting on the floating shelf, as shadowy and undefined as those who fill the amphitheater.

Last time I was here, they appeared to me as a trio of B-movie caricatures: a Cleopatra look-alike, a brawny guy modeled on a combo of Odin and Thor, a cowled grim reaper. Truth is, they look nothing like that. They manifested in the form I expected to see. I don’t know what they really look like. When I asked, they said they look human. Which doesn’t really tell me a whole lot of anything.

I have a name for the Drau and an idea of their home world from what Jackson told me in the cave. But I have no concept where my alien ancestors originated. I don’t have a name for them or the planet they came from. The only knowledge of them I have is a combo of speculation and what they chose to show me last time I was here, when they implanted scenes in my mind like a video.

Devastation and ruin.

A world destroyed.

The heat of the flames seared me as they showed me their memories of my ancestors herded into pens. Cries rang in my ears as they were killed and cut into manageable-sized portions. Food for the Drau.

I’m a secondhand witness to the horrific destruction of an entire species, but clueless as to who—and what—they truly were before the Drau came. The Committee aren’t exactly forthcoming, and I don’t know if that’s by intent or accident.

But I do know they’re the ones holding the controllers and manipulating the consoles in this game.

And they’re the ones who can help me find Jackson.

“They have him,” I say. “I don’t know where they’re holding him, but I know he’s in trouble. I need your help. I need weapons, a team. I need you to drop me wherever he is. I need—” I break off, certain my presentation’s hurting my case rather than helping it.

“What is it you need, Miki Jones?” Their words tunnel deep, twitching my muscles, scraping my bones. They speak in one voice, if I can call it that. It’s more an experience of sound that arouses every sense, amplifies touch and sight and taste until my entire body’s a conduit for the thoughts they choose to share. It’s similar to the way they communicate with team leaders in the game, but stronger, bigger.

The first time I was here, the experience was too intense. They’ve remembered to tone it down this time and I’m grateful.

“I’m babbling. Okay. I’ll try again.” I take a breath, slow things down. I hesitate, searching for the right words.

They misunderstand my hesitancy and say, “You may speak.” The sound is metallic and a little bitter on my tongue, prickling my fingertips, dancing like fireflies across my field of vision. So weird.

“Jackson . . . is he still alive?”

Silence. How many seconds? Three? Four? An agonizing eternity.

Terror slicks my palms. My chest feels like a truck’s pressing down on it. They’re trying to find a gentle way of telling me he’s gone, dead, killed by the Drau—

“He is alive.”

I sag in relief. I can’t speak, can barely breathe. I take a few seconds just to get myself together before asking in a rush, “So where is he? How do we find him? How do we get to him? Give me a team, or I’ll go alone if you think that’s best.”

I wait, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling like my skin’s too tight.

“He is here.”

I freeze. “What?” I look around, my head whipping side to side. “Where?”

“Here.”

But he isn’t. Not that I can see.

“Wait . . . he’s here?” Hope bubbles like a shaken bottle of pop. “You already saved him from the Drau?”

“We did not.”

“But you just said . . . I don’t understand. . . . But that means you were the ones—” Hurting him, making him scream. The bubbles of hope burst, decaying into horror. I almost run at the Committee, aching to tear them off that floating shelf, to look into their eyes, to demand explanations. But that’s a plan doomed to failure. They aren’t even really here; they’re more of a memory bank than anything else. I have a feeling that if I reach out to touch them, there’ll be nothing there.

I try to keep my tone even, to hide the fury and resentment I feel. I don’t do a particularly good job of it. “Why would you do this?” I snarl.

The time between my question and their answer feels like a century. “It was necessary.”

I take a long, slow breath. Straightforward questions. Straightforward answers. So why is it taking them so long to reply? Why are they weighing every word? Because there are things they don’t want me to know, things they’re unwilling to tell me. But my imagination is just as bad, if not worse than the truth.

“Is he unharmed?”

“He is alive.”

I’m not reassured, but I try to hang on to the most important fact: he isn’t dead.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No, it is not, but it is the answer we offer.”

Which tells me a lot in and of itself.

“Why did you bring Jackson here after Detroit? Why didn’t he respawn with the rest of us?”

“In war, discipline must be maintained. Order preserved. Independent action puts all at risk.”

Or saves lives. But I decide against arguing the point. When I was thirteen, Mom and I suddenly started arguing a lot. Mostly about stupid things. What jacket I should wear. Which jeans I should buy. After a couple of months of that, she just stopped arguing back, no matter how hard I pushed. She’d get this serene sort of smile on her lips and she’d change the subject. When I’d try to keep the fight going, she’d tell me to choose my battles, to make them matter. I’m choosing mine now. “Why didn’t he come back from Detroit?”

“He was detained.”

“By you.” I ball my fists at my sides and push them for answers, because they matter. “Why? Why did you keep him here? Why did you hurt him?”

Again, a pause. Anxiety amps up my heart rate as I wait for them to speak.

“Jackson Tate was aware of the consequences.”

“Consequences for doing what? You’re not answering my questions.”

“We answer with truth. We cannot alter your desire for a different reply.”

I’ve heard the expression seeing red a million times. I never really got it until this second, as a haze of crimson films my vision and the thudding of my blood pounds in my ears. It’s only the patience I learned doing endless, repetitive kendo exercises in Sofu’s dojo that lets me keep the words I want to hurl at them locked away inside.

Deflect. Regroup. I have to come at this from a different angle, use what I already know to make them tell me what I don’t.

“What rule did Jackson break?”

The air shifts against my skin. The silence is absolute. I can almost feel the vibration of every atom, every molecule. And in that silence is confirmation of what I suspected: Luka and I were right. They are holding him prisoner for breaking some rule or law. What could he have done that was so terrible? I want to blurt out arguments and excuses, beg, plead, but I sink my teeth into my cheek and stay quiet.

“He is not Drau.”

Thanks for the revelation. I press my fingertips to my temples. That answer means nothing, but it should. I know it should. He is not Drau. . . . No, that actually isn’t true. He’s not fully Drau, but there’s a part of him that is.

“He did something a Drau would do,” I say slowly, guessing. When they don’t deny it, I keep going, working with what I know, adding layers. “And you said he was aware of the consequences, so . . . it isn’t the first time he’s broken this rule.”

What did he do that enraged the Committee enough to hold him prisoner, to hurt him in order to get answers? He almost died doing their bidding, fighting the Drau in Detroit.

But Jackson traded me into the game as his way out. By the time we hit Detroit, I was already a team leader.

Which means the deal was complete; he shouldn’t have been in Detroit at all. He should have been released from the game.

But he was there.

He took a hit meant for me.

He would have died if I hadn’t—

“That’s it, isn’t it? He took the Drau hit. He was injured. Dying . . .” His con was full red, barely touched by orange. I stare at the Committee. “But it wasn’t his almost dying that broke the rules. It was living that did. It was what he did in order to survive, wasn’t it?”

“The method he employed is forbidden. Jackson Tate was aware of the stipulations and limitations. He chose to disobey.”

I shiver, remembering that moment when I was hunched over Jackson’s battered body, begging him to stay alive. I told him I didn’t forgive him, that he had to live to grovel and earn my forgiveness for the way he trapped me in the game. Those were among my last words to him. Horrible, desperate words.

He looked at me, his eyes Drau gray, something dark and dangerous stirring in their depths.

Something predatory.

And then he took what I offered. He did what a Drau would do and pulled electric current from my body to charge his nerves, his muscles, his cells. Like recharging a battery. It kept him alive till we made the jump.

“He didn’t want to,” I whisper, then louder, “He didn’t want to. It ate him alive, what he did to Lizzie.” He used his Drau abilities once before, and it cost him. He didn’t mean to kill her—maybe he didn’t even realize he could—but his sister died so he could live. He’s been living with that for five years. Hating himself for it. “He never wanted to do that again.”

“He was warned.”

“It’s my fault. I forced him.” My breath’s coming too fast. The urge to run, to scream pushes against the walls I’ve built. Anxiety in its purest form.

Focus. Breathe. Visualize.

Those techniques are useless against what I’m facing right now. “Listen to me. Please. I made him disobey. I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t. And you should be glad I didn’t. We need him. You need him. He has unique skills and attributes.”

“He knew the penalty.”

“But I didn’t. And it’s my fault.”

“Ignorance of the law is not a defense.”

I try to think, my mind skidding all over the place like bald tires on black ice. Jackson broke the law when his sister died, so he could live. He got a single reprieve. It wasn’t until his second infraction that the Committee did . . . whatever they’ve done to him. That probably means I get a free pass, too. “Fine. If blame needs to be laid, if someone needs to pay, then let it be me.”

The silence stretches and as the seconds ooze past, I have the sinking feeling that it isn’t because they’re processing their answer. It’s because they don’t plan to answer at all.

Indignation, rage, fear, and resentment combine, hot and sharp in my veins. “You weren’t having any kind of civilized trial. You were torturing him. I felt it. I felt his pain, heard his screams.” I stalk forward, my mouth dry, my pulse pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. I want to hit something, break it, tear it to shreds. I can’t. The only weapons that will help me in this battle are my words. “Is that what you do to soldiers who disobey? Never heard of the Geneva Conventions and international humanitarian law?”

“Those are human rules.”

Right. And they’re aliens.

“You’re on a human world. Your progeny are human. Including me. And Jackson. So the rules apply. How come you get to break them, but we’re expected to adhere to a bunch of regulations you don’t even spell out for us? What you’re doing makes no sense.”

My lungs feel tight and I can’t get enough air, like I just ran a full marathon at top speed. I need to get myself under control.

“The Geneva Conventions articles define treatment for prisoners.”

I pounce on that and say, “Exactly. Jackson’s a prisoner. And you can’t just go around torturing people—” A sob chokes me as I remember the sound of his agony echoing in my mind.

“We do not torture. Any discomfort was incidental.”

“Incidental? You hurt him. On purpose. When all he did was keep two of your soldiers alive. Himself and me. And probably a whole lot more than that during the course of the battle.” A battle he shouldn’t even have been part of because he should have been released from the game.

“We questioned him. That was our purpose. Pain was not the intent. It was a byproduct of Jackson Tate’s refusal to cooperate. He had only to allow us access and the pain would have disappeared.”

“Blame the victim?” I feel like I’m listening to the villain in some really bad TV show, telling the hero that he’s having his nails torn out because he isn’t cooperating. But this is the Committee, the all-knowing consciousness that guides us through the game. The ones trying to save the world. “You aren’t supposed to be the ones doing bad shit, especially not to your own soldiers. You’re supposed to be the ones who have our backs.” I seethe with impotent rage laced with a heavy dose of disillusionment. “You’re supposed to be the good guys.” God, could I sound any more pathetic?

“We allow Jackson Tate much latitude due to his unique makeup.”

“You call making him scream in agony latitude?”

“You truly believe we tortured him?” There’s actually emotion behind that question. Surprise, yeah, but mostly amusement, if I’m judging right.

I don’t get the joke. But the sensation of their amusement dancing along my nerves is enough to give me pause.

“I heard him scream,” I say. “If there’s any other way for me to interpret that, I’m open to hearing it.”

“He is stubborn. As are you. Jackson Tate needed only to open his thoughts. You are familiar with our method of communication.”

“The way you convey what you want to say directly into all my senses?”

“Correct.”

I reason that out. Try to see what it is they want me to know. They can convey their thoughts directly into my head, but—“You don’t hear my thoughts in your heads. I have to actually speak words out loud. You can talk directly to my brain, but can’t hear what I think.”

“That would be inappropriate. We enter only with your permission.”

“Choose to enter only with permission, or can’t enter without permission?”

“You are astute to pinpoint the distinction. It depends on the individual. Some are stronger than others.”

I wrap my arms around myself and take a reflexive step back. The thought of them climbing inside my head at will sickens me. “What about me? Am I strong?”

“Yes.”

They didn’t hesitate over that answer. Not even for a millisecond. I bite my lip, unconvinced. Is that the truth, or a version of the truth they want me to believe? I don’t know anymore if I can trust them.

Then I think of all the minds they wipe when someone dies in the game, the knowledge they steal, the memories they take, and I realize this isn’t some unexpected revelation. I knew all along that they could get inside human minds. I guess I just didn’t want to acknowledge exactly what that meant. Kind of like every cheesy horror flick where the girl alone in the cabin in the woods doesn’t want to acknowledge what it means when she hears the floorboards creak.

I’m usually the one yelling at that stupid, stupid girl.

“You can’t get into Jackson’s head unless he lets you.”

“We requested access. He declined. We insisted.”

“You forced your way in.” I’m so angry I feel sick. “Against his will.”

“For the greater good.”

“That’s—” I barely catch myself from screaming bullshit. I’ve never been a great believer in the “greater good” justification. “I want to see him. Talk to him. I want proof he’s okay.”

Seconds stretch into minutes and they don’t say a thing. My shoulders tense. I want to lash out at them any way I can. I want to make them take me to Jackson.

And then they’re gone. No shadowy figures lining the amphitheater. No forms sitting on the floating shelf.

Just me and my anger and my fear, alone in the vast, empty space, a little richer in knowledge about what the Committee can and can’t do, more than a little disillusioned, and no closer to saving Jackson than I was when I first arrived.