“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.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN THE COMMITTEE REAPPEARS ON THE FLOATING SHELF, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, drenched in sweat. I don’t know how long they left me here. I lost count of the number of oval laps I ran along the perimeter of the amphitheater. It barely took the edge off my anxiety.
They’re alone. The rest of the amphitheater remains empty. I want to ask them why, but I don’t. I’ll store my questions up and only use the ones that really matter.
For a second, I consider the possibility that they don’t want any witnesses to what’s about to go down. But the Committee shares a consciousness. At least, that’s what they’ve led me to believe. So whether the other members are here or not, they’re aware of what happens.
“You are calmer, Miki Jones?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“We offer a gift.” The figure on the right gestures toward the far end of the amphitheater and I turn.
I gasp. My heart stutters to a stop, then thumps hard in my chest.
A boy’s standing there, his back to me, his T-shirt stretched tight across wide shoulders, then falling loose to his narrow waist. His hair is light brown, shot with honey and gold. I can’t see his face. I don’t need to.
“Jackson!” The word’s not even out before I’m running toward him. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. I call his name again, pile on speed. I’m almost there, almost close enough to touch him when I slam into a wall.
With a cry, I fall back, landing hard on my ass. I look up, shocked and confused.
There’s no wall.
And now there’s no Jackson.
He’s gone.
I bound to my feet and whirl to face the Committee.
“Where is he?”
“We allowed you to see that Jackson Tate is alive and unharmed.”
Rubbing my forehead where I slammed it against the unseen barrier, I stare at them, trying to figure out their angle. “I saw a boy’s back. I don’t know for certain it was Jackson. So that means I have no real proof he’s alive.” My voice cracks. I’m lying. I might not have seen his face. But it was Jackson. I could feel it.
“He just stood there,” I say. “Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t respond when I yelled his name.” I’m shaking, my forehead pounding. “You think this is a joke? A game?” As soon as I say the word, I suppress a shiver. “It isn’t. It’s my life. And his.”
“Precisely. You may choose now. Your life, or his.”
“What?”
“You claim responsibility for Jackson Tate’s choices,” the Committee says, “for his breach of the rules we set forth to protect all. And so, we offer a choice to you, Miki Jones. Your life, or his.”
“That’s crazy. Why would you do that? We’re both valuable to the cause. You can’t—” I swallow and try again. “You can’t ask me to choose. That’s either suicide or murder. And it makes no sense—”
“Choose, or we will choose for you.”
“No.” I back away, looking around, frantic to catch a glimpse of Jackson, desperate to see a way out. I’m trapped in a place I can’t escape by beings that hold my life in their hands. All our lives in their hands. I feel the same horror and helplessness I felt back in the building in Detroit, Jackson dying in my arms, faced with the choice of letting him bleed out or risking my own life. An impossible choice. “Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to be saving the world. You’re supposed to—” Be the good guys.
“If our army cannot follow orders, if they cannot adhere to rules, then we have no hope of defeating the Drau. Choose. Now.”
“This isn’t just about me or him,” I yell. “I have a dad. Friends. Jackson has a mom. A dad. And they’ve already buried one kid. This isn’t just about one life lost. It’s about all the lives touched, ruined, by loss when someone dies.” Hearts broken. Souls shredded.
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.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN THE COMMITTEE REAPPEARS ON THE FLOATING SHELF, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, drenched in sweat. I don’t know how long they left me here. I lost count of the number of oval laps I ran along the perimeter of the amphitheater. It barely took the edge off my anxiety.
They’re alone. The rest of the amphitheater remains empty. I want to ask them why, but I don’t. I’ll store my questions up and only use the ones that really matter.
For a second, I consider the possibility that they don’t want any witnesses to what’s about to go down. But the Committee shares a consciousness. At least, that’s what they’ve led me to believe. So whether the other members are here or not, they’re aware of what happens.
“You are calmer, Miki Jones?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“We offer a gift.” The figure on the right gestures toward the far end of the amphitheater and I turn.
I gasp. My heart stutters to a stop, then thumps hard in my chest.
A boy’s standing there, his back to me, his T-shirt stretched tight across wide shoulders, then falling loose to his narrow waist. His hair is light brown, shot with honey and gold. I can’t see his face. I don’t need to.
“Jackson!” The word’s not even out before I’m running toward him. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t move. I call his name again, pile on speed. I’m almost there, almost close enough to touch him when I slam into a wall.
With a cry, I fall back, landing hard on my ass. I look up, shocked and confused.
There’s no wall.
And now there’s no Jackson.
He’s gone.
I bound to my feet and whirl to face the Committee.
“Where is he?”
“We allowed you to see that Jackson Tate is alive and unharmed.”
Rubbing my forehead where I slammed it against the unseen barrier, I stare at them, trying to figure out their angle. “I saw a boy’s back. I don’t know for certain it was Jackson. So that means I have no real proof he’s alive.” My voice cracks. I’m lying. I might not have seen his face. But it was Jackson. I could feel it.
“He just stood there,” I say. “Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t respond when I yelled his name.” I’m shaking, my forehead pounding. “You think this is a joke? A game?” As soon as I say the word, I suppress a shiver. “It isn’t. It’s my life. And his.”
“Precisely. You may choose now. Your life, or his.”
“What?”
“You claim responsibility for Jackson Tate’s choices,” the Committee says, “for his breach of the rules we set forth to protect all. And so, we offer a choice to you, Miki Jones. Your life, or his.”
“That’s crazy. Why would you do that? We’re both valuable to the cause. You can’t—” I swallow and try again. “You can’t ask me to choose. That’s either suicide or murder. And it makes no sense—”
“Choose, or we will choose for you.”
“No.” I back away, looking around, frantic to catch a glimpse of Jackson, desperate to see a way out. I’m trapped in a place I can’t escape by beings that hold my life in their hands. All our lives in their hands. I feel the same horror and helplessness I felt back in the building in Detroit, Jackson dying in my arms, faced with the choice of letting him bleed out or risking my own life. An impossible choice. “Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to be saving the world. You’re supposed to—” Be the good guys.
“If our army cannot follow orders, if they cannot adhere to rules, then we have no hope of defeating the Drau. Choose. Now.”
“This isn’t just about me or him,” I yell. “I have a dad. Friends. Jackson has a mom. A dad. And they’ve already buried one kid. This isn’t just about one life lost. It’s about all the lives touched, ruined, by loss when someone dies.” Hearts broken. Souls shredded.
