“Go on, now.” A dismissal, but not an unkind one. Mrs. Tate smiles at me. “Luka’s waiting.”
I take a step toward her instead of away and before I know it, I’m hugging her. Really hugging her. And she’s hugging me back.
After a second I duck my head, pull away, and bolt.
Luka has his backpack slung over one shoulder, mine over the other. I don’t say a word. I just start walking and he falls in beside me.
“I thought of something while you were inside,” he says after we’ve walked a couple of blocks. “That thing I couldn’t remember earlier.” He rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Tyrone told me about a guy on the team who didn’t come back.”
“Nothing unusual about someone not coming back—not in our world.”
Luka waits a beat and then adds, “Yeah, but then he did.”
I stop walking. “What?”
“Tyrone said he thought the guy broke some rule and he got put on trial or something, and they decided to send him back in the end.”
Broke a rule and got put on trial—that’s why Jackson’s law text triggered the memory.
“Put on trial by the Committee?”
“The Committee,” he echoes. “Weird hearing you say that. So . . . every time Jackson made some snide comment about decision by committee, he wasn’t just being an asshole.”
“That about sums it up.”
“So there actually is a committee—”
“With a capital C.”
“And you’ve already met them.”
I nod. “You haven’t.”
He shakes his head. A kid’s high-pitched shriek of laughter cuts the quiet. Luka’s lips thin as he glances around. “Let’s go.”
My turn to look around. There are other people on the street. Some kids playing basketball in a driveway. Some other little kids riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk while two moms stand on a lawn, talking and watching. Luka doesn’t want to be overheard. Can’t say I blame him.
“This guy,” I say once we’re out of earshot, “is he the one who . . . I mean, did I take his place?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No, he was before my time.”
Which means he either died in the end or got transferred to another team. Or earned his thousand points and made it out.
“Who put him on trial? And why? What else did Tyrone say?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know. And, not much.”
“Could you be less helpful?”
Luka shrugs.
We walk for a few minutes in silence as I mentally run through scenarios. “So you think Jackson broke one of the endless stupid rules and now he has to pay the price? That there’s going to be some sort of trial?”
“Makes sense, right?”
It does.
“But what rule . . . ?”
Luka shrugs again.
“Wait . . .” I skid to a stop, worry uncoiling like a cobra. “If the Committee tries Jackson and finds him guilty, they won’t be able to keep him imprisoned indefinitely in some sort of alternate dimension prison. His parents will notice him missing. They’ll freak out, look for him. Call in the cops. Our teachers, our friends, they’ll all notice he’s gone. I don’t think the Committee wants that sort of attention.”
Luka makes a chopping motion with one hand. “He’ll be another statistic. Another kid who ran away.” He shakes his head. “But it won’t come to that. If they decide he’s guilty, decide not to send him back, they’ll just make certain that everyone forgets.”
Forgets all memories of him from the time he was conscripted to the game. Like everyone forgot Richelle. Because she was dead.
And that terrifies me. But it terrifies me less than the possibility that the Drau have him.
And then it terrifies me more.
“You think they’ll kill him?” I ask. I know what the Committee’s capable of. They take kids—kids—to fight in a war against aliens. Their explanation is that adult brains have fully formed neural connections, which means getting pulled—making the jump into the game—is too difficult for them. But still-developing teen brains handle the shift much better. Makes sense, sort of. Doesn’t change the fact that the Committee’s ruthless. Any decisions they make are colored by their single-minded determination to defeat the Drau.
“If they think the rule he broke is worth killing him for, then, yeah, I think they will,” Luka says.
I picture Jackson lying cold and lifeless, his gold-tinged skin gone gray, the tiny muscles that make his face so expressive gone slack. Dead. People don’t look the same once the spark that powers their cells is gone. They’re not really that person anymore, just the wrapping left behind.
I trip over the edge of an uneven paver and grab Luka’s arm. “We have to find him. We have to—” Words fail me. I tip my head back and stare at the sky, fighting tears, feeling helpless and impotent and angry.
“Yeah.” Luka sounds broken. He sounds like I feel. “And how the hell do we do that?”
I meet his gaze. “I need to see the Committee.”
Luka starts walking again.
Stop, start, stop, start. I feel like we’re on a malfunctioning conveyor belt—which pretty much reflects my life right now.
“How do we get to see them?”
“I think I have a better chance than we. But I don’t know how I get to them. I don’t have a clue. I have to—” I exhale in a rush. “I’ll figure it out. I just need to think.”
I take a step toward her instead of away and before I know it, I’m hugging her. Really hugging her. And she’s hugging me back.
After a second I duck my head, pull away, and bolt.
Luka has his backpack slung over one shoulder, mine over the other. I don’t say a word. I just start walking and he falls in beside me.
“I thought of something while you were inside,” he says after we’ve walked a couple of blocks. “That thing I couldn’t remember earlier.” He rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Tyrone told me about a guy on the team who didn’t come back.”
“Nothing unusual about someone not coming back—not in our world.”
Luka waits a beat and then adds, “Yeah, but then he did.”
I stop walking. “What?”
“Tyrone said he thought the guy broke some rule and he got put on trial or something, and they decided to send him back in the end.”
Broke a rule and got put on trial—that’s why Jackson’s law text triggered the memory.
“Put on trial by the Committee?”
“The Committee,” he echoes. “Weird hearing you say that. So . . . every time Jackson made some snide comment about decision by committee, he wasn’t just being an asshole.”
“That about sums it up.”
“So there actually is a committee—”
“With a capital C.”
“And you’ve already met them.”
I nod. “You haven’t.”
He shakes his head. A kid’s high-pitched shriek of laughter cuts the quiet. Luka’s lips thin as he glances around. “Let’s go.”
My turn to look around. There are other people on the street. Some kids playing basketball in a driveway. Some other little kids riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk while two moms stand on a lawn, talking and watching. Luka doesn’t want to be overheard. Can’t say I blame him.
“This guy,” I say once we’re out of earshot, “is he the one who . . . I mean, did I take his place?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No, he was before my time.”
Which means he either died in the end or got transferred to another team. Or earned his thousand points and made it out.
“Who put him on trial? And why? What else did Tyrone say?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know. And, not much.”
“Could you be less helpful?”
Luka shrugs.
We walk for a few minutes in silence as I mentally run through scenarios. “So you think Jackson broke one of the endless stupid rules and now he has to pay the price? That there’s going to be some sort of trial?”
“Makes sense, right?”
It does.
“But what rule . . . ?”
Luka shrugs again.
“Wait . . .” I skid to a stop, worry uncoiling like a cobra. “If the Committee tries Jackson and finds him guilty, they won’t be able to keep him imprisoned indefinitely in some sort of alternate dimension prison. His parents will notice him missing. They’ll freak out, look for him. Call in the cops. Our teachers, our friends, they’ll all notice he’s gone. I don’t think the Committee wants that sort of attention.”
Luka makes a chopping motion with one hand. “He’ll be another statistic. Another kid who ran away.” He shakes his head. “But it won’t come to that. If they decide he’s guilty, decide not to send him back, they’ll just make certain that everyone forgets.”
Forgets all memories of him from the time he was conscripted to the game. Like everyone forgot Richelle. Because she was dead.
And that terrifies me. But it terrifies me less than the possibility that the Drau have him.
And then it terrifies me more.
“You think they’ll kill him?” I ask. I know what the Committee’s capable of. They take kids—kids—to fight in a war against aliens. Their explanation is that adult brains have fully formed neural connections, which means getting pulled—making the jump into the game—is too difficult for them. But still-developing teen brains handle the shift much better. Makes sense, sort of. Doesn’t change the fact that the Committee’s ruthless. Any decisions they make are colored by their single-minded determination to defeat the Drau.
“If they think the rule he broke is worth killing him for, then, yeah, I think they will,” Luka says.
I picture Jackson lying cold and lifeless, his gold-tinged skin gone gray, the tiny muscles that make his face so expressive gone slack. Dead. People don’t look the same once the spark that powers their cells is gone. They’re not really that person anymore, just the wrapping left behind.
I trip over the edge of an uneven paver and grab Luka’s arm. “We have to find him. We have to—” Words fail me. I tip my head back and stare at the sky, fighting tears, feeling helpless and impotent and angry.
“Yeah.” Luka sounds broken. He sounds like I feel. “And how the hell do we do that?”
I meet his gaze. “I need to see the Committee.”
Luka starts walking again.
Stop, start, stop, start. I feel like we’re on a malfunctioning conveyor belt—which pretty much reflects my life right now.
“How do we get to see them?”
“I think I have a better chance than we. But I don’t know how I get to them. I don’t have a clue. I have to—” I exhale in a rush. “I’ll figure it out. I just need to think.”
