“Done . . . you mean finished? Finished with the . . . game?”
Jackson makes a sound of denial, but not because I’m way off base. It’s because, for some reason, this is something he wasn’t ready for me to know. I whirl toward him. “If she hit a thousand, she could have . . . what? Left? Retired? Escaped?”
“All of the above,” Luka says.
“It’s a rumor. You don’t know for certain,” Jackson says.
“So just to be clear, the rumor is that a thousand points buys your freedom?” I wait for Jackson’s nod. “And we get points for killing”—I glance at Luka—“Sorry. I mean terminating aliens?” Again, Jackson nods.
“How many?” I ask, and when no one answers, I ask louder, “How many points?”
“Five for a sentinel. Ten for a specialist,” Luka says. “A leader’s fifteen. A commander is twenty.”
So few points. It would take a very long time to get to a thousand. Maybe that’s the plan. Maybe whoever is running this bloody game wants to dangle the dream of freedom without ever delivering.
I turn to Tyrone. “You told me this. In Vegas.” I struggle to recall what he said. “You talked about multi-hit points and bonus points for . . . stealth hits. And . . . penalty points.” I pause. “When I first woke up here, I heard you say something about the boy who was here before me. . . .”
Tyrone’s expression darkens. “He was all about getting out. He didn’t care about the rest of us.”
“He was a griefer,” Luka says.
“Another gaming term?”
He nods. “We use it for someone who causes grief. He stole hits. He’d let me or Tyrone or Richelle wear down the target, then dive in and steal the hit. Steal the points. He couldn’t care less if we got killed. He just wanted the points for himself. He wanted out.”
“Doesn’t everyone want out?”
“Yeah, but we won’t sacrifice our teammates to get there.”
I cut a glance at Jackson. Every man for himself. The more I find out, the more I think he’s full of crap when he says that. From what I saw on the last mission, he’s no griefer. None of us are.
I turn back to the scores. Richelle’s from the last mission is only twenty-five. But I remember the way she fought, and I’m certain it should have been higher than that.
“Her score is so low last time because she died. She lost points.” I stare at Tyrone. “You said we have to pay for weapons. How else do we lose points?”
“Twenty-five per injury.”
I stare at Richelle’s score, wondering how many injuries—and how much pain—she suffered on that last mission to bring it so low. I feel sick.
“If your con goes beyond yellow-orange, you lose even more,” Jackson says.
“So I lost points last mission?”
“Yes.”
I look back at his weirdly low score. It’s doubly confusing because even though his score is the lowest, he’s the only one of us who has some sort of rank insignia or prestige badge next to his name. It’s bronze colored, in the shape of a star, and at the center is another, smaller star. “And you?” I ask. “Did you lose points?” He must have because I remember him killing Drau, but his score doesn’t really reflect that.
“I seem to lose points every mission.” There’s a thread of dark humor behind the words.
“He leaves the hits for us,” Luka says.
I don’t know what he means. And then I do. I remember how Jackson kicked the weapon out of the Drau’s hand rather than shooting it. He only used his weapon when he had to, when it was absolutely clear that I wasn’t going to figure things out without a little help. And I remember the way he leaped in front of me and used his body to shield me from the Drau’s weapon, twisting to take the shot in his back.
It’s almost like he doesn’t want to gain points. Or like he wants the rest of us to gain points instead of him.
I flick a glance at his oddly low score. “Don’t you want to be free?”
“The thousand points is a rumor,” Jackson repeats.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know anyone who made it to a thousand.”
I inhale, ready to fire my next question. Instead, I pause. Jackson’s careful with his words. He doesn’t waste them. You don’t know for certain, he said to Luka, not we don’t know. That implies that Luka doesn’t know, but does Jackson? And saying that he doesn’t know anyone who made it to a thousand points isn’t the same as confirming or denying the truth of the rumor.
I glance at the scores and frown. “Why didn’t I see these last time?”
“They came and went before you woke up,” Luka says. “You didn’t need to see them. You didn’t have a score yet.”
“Who’s been in the game the longest?” My gaze slides from Jackson to Luka to Tyrone.
“Jackson was already here when I got recruited,” Tyrone says.
I nod and look at Luka, who says, “They were both here by the time I came on board.”
So Jackson’s been here the longest, but his cumulative score is the lowest. Then mine. Then Tyrone’s. But he’s been here longer than Luka. . . .
“Why is your score so low?” I ask, rounding on Tyrone.
“It’s higher than yours,” he points out.
“I just got here. I haven’t had time to build a score. You have.”
Jackson makes a sound of denial, but not because I’m way off base. It’s because, for some reason, this is something he wasn’t ready for me to know. I whirl toward him. “If she hit a thousand, she could have . . . what? Left? Retired? Escaped?”
“All of the above,” Luka says.
“It’s a rumor. You don’t know for certain,” Jackson says.
“So just to be clear, the rumor is that a thousand points buys your freedom?” I wait for Jackson’s nod. “And we get points for killing”—I glance at Luka—“Sorry. I mean terminating aliens?” Again, Jackson nods.
“How many?” I ask, and when no one answers, I ask louder, “How many points?”
“Five for a sentinel. Ten for a specialist,” Luka says. “A leader’s fifteen. A commander is twenty.”
So few points. It would take a very long time to get to a thousand. Maybe that’s the plan. Maybe whoever is running this bloody game wants to dangle the dream of freedom without ever delivering.
I turn to Tyrone. “You told me this. In Vegas.” I struggle to recall what he said. “You talked about multi-hit points and bonus points for . . . stealth hits. And . . . penalty points.” I pause. “When I first woke up here, I heard you say something about the boy who was here before me. . . .”
Tyrone’s expression darkens. “He was all about getting out. He didn’t care about the rest of us.”
“He was a griefer,” Luka says.
“Another gaming term?”
He nods. “We use it for someone who causes grief. He stole hits. He’d let me or Tyrone or Richelle wear down the target, then dive in and steal the hit. Steal the points. He couldn’t care less if we got killed. He just wanted the points for himself. He wanted out.”
“Doesn’t everyone want out?”
“Yeah, but we won’t sacrifice our teammates to get there.”
I cut a glance at Jackson. Every man for himself. The more I find out, the more I think he’s full of crap when he says that. From what I saw on the last mission, he’s no griefer. None of us are.
I turn back to the scores. Richelle’s from the last mission is only twenty-five. But I remember the way she fought, and I’m certain it should have been higher than that.
“Her score is so low last time because she died. She lost points.” I stare at Tyrone. “You said we have to pay for weapons. How else do we lose points?”
“Twenty-five per injury.”
I stare at Richelle’s score, wondering how many injuries—and how much pain—she suffered on that last mission to bring it so low. I feel sick.
“If your con goes beyond yellow-orange, you lose even more,” Jackson says.
“So I lost points last mission?”
“Yes.”
I look back at his weirdly low score. It’s doubly confusing because even though his score is the lowest, he’s the only one of us who has some sort of rank insignia or prestige badge next to his name. It’s bronze colored, in the shape of a star, and at the center is another, smaller star. “And you?” I ask. “Did you lose points?” He must have because I remember him killing Drau, but his score doesn’t really reflect that.
“I seem to lose points every mission.” There’s a thread of dark humor behind the words.
“He leaves the hits for us,” Luka says.
I don’t know what he means. And then I do. I remember how Jackson kicked the weapon out of the Drau’s hand rather than shooting it. He only used his weapon when he had to, when it was absolutely clear that I wasn’t going to figure things out without a little help. And I remember the way he leaped in front of me and used his body to shield me from the Drau’s weapon, twisting to take the shot in his back.
It’s almost like he doesn’t want to gain points. Or like he wants the rest of us to gain points instead of him.
I flick a glance at his oddly low score. “Don’t you want to be free?”
“The thousand points is a rumor,” Jackson repeats.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know anyone who made it to a thousand.”
I inhale, ready to fire my next question. Instead, I pause. Jackson’s careful with his words. He doesn’t waste them. You don’t know for certain, he said to Luka, not we don’t know. That implies that Luka doesn’t know, but does Jackson? And saying that he doesn’t know anyone who made it to a thousand points isn’t the same as confirming or denying the truth of the rumor.
I glance at the scores and frown. “Why didn’t I see these last time?”
“They came and went before you woke up,” Luka says. “You didn’t need to see them. You didn’t have a score yet.”
“Who’s been in the game the longest?” My gaze slides from Jackson to Luka to Tyrone.
“Jackson was already here when I got recruited,” Tyrone says.
I nod and look at Luka, who says, “They were both here by the time I came on board.”
So Jackson’s been here the longest, but his cumulative score is the lowest. Then mine. Then Tyrone’s. But he’s been here longer than Luka. . . .
“Why is your score so low?” I ask, rounding on Tyrone.
“It’s higher than yours,” he points out.
“I just got here. I haven’t had time to build a score. You have.”
