Push (10 page)

“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.

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.

“Precisely. And how many will die if we fail to fight off the Drau? All, Miki Jones. All lives on the face of this planet. Think on that.”

Sweat trickles along my spine. I need to think. I need to—“This is about saving the world? Then let’s use that as our start point. We
need
Jackson. How does killing him benefit the cause? He can fight like no one else. He knows the Drau like no one else. Don’t tell me that isn’t true. I don’t care how many teams there are, how good they are; we can’t afford to lose Jackson Tate.”

I’m breathing short and shallow, my thoughts tumbling, terror pushing me closer and closer to the edge. The Committee’s had thousands of years to learn how to twist circumstances and arguments to their advantage. I’ve had sixteen. The scales aren’t exactly even.

“So you choose to die?”

“No!” I stumble back, holding up both hands in front of me. “I didn’t say that. This is all about enforcing rules? All about the greater good, the good of team human? Then let’s talk about that. I wouldn’t have been brought into the game if I wasn’t important. I managed to lead my team through two rough missions with little training or knowledge.” Not really. I didn’t so much lead as survive by accident. “I’ll only get better from here. You need me. The war needs me. How does killing me benefit anything or anyone?”

“Then you choose Jackson—”