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Tyrone and Lien nod, but the others look confused.

“Alleles are like different forms of the same gene,” I clarify. “So we all have alien genes, but it’s like mine are pumped up on steroids.”

“Why?” Tyrone asks.

“Luck of the draw?” I spread my hands in an I-don’t-know gesture.

“My great-grandfather’s stories were usually about boys who died,” Kendra says, as if we hadn’t moved on from that topic. Her tone sounds odd, sort of singsong, like she’s not quite in the same moment as the rest of us. Uneasiness uncoils in my gut as I study her expression. It’s blank, smooth. Too smooth. I’d like to see a little emotion there, even if it’s fear.

“He told us about how they died. In the trenches. On the beach. On long, cold hikes through enemy territory. They died.” She looks at Lien and continues, her tone devoid of inflection, “I can’t do this again. I’m afraid. I don’t want to die.”

The words don’t wig me out. Afraid is normal. We all feel it. It’s her flat expression and tone that get me. I’m worried she isn’t quite present and that could put us all at risk.

“Kendra,” I say. “You can do this. You can.”
You have to. Or you’ll die,
I don’t say. I don’t need to. She knows.

Her eyes narrow. Her chin juts forward.

“
You’re
all still here,” she says, her tone venomous now, “but
we
lost our whole team. Everyone is dead. You don’t know what that’s like!”

I close the space between us in three steps. Kendra shrinks back like she thinks I mean to hit her. Lien shifts so she’s half in front of Kendra. I sidestep her and move closer still.

“The only things I plan to hit her with are words,” I snap at Lien, then focus on Kendra, my voice low and even. “Do not tell me what I do and don’t know. And just to be clear, we are
not
all still here. We’ve lost teammates, too. I replaced a boy who died. You and Lien replaced more teammates we’ve lost. Richelle’s dead. Jackson’s gone. And I knew a little something about loss and grief before I ever got to this game.”

Kendra takes another step back. I didn’t mean to make her defensive, but I can see why she is. Damn. My team’s losing it. I need to do something to stop the fracture, but I don’t know what.

I wish Jackson were here for so many reasons, not the least of which is so that I don’t have to do this. I’d have thought that after what we faced together in Detroit, this team would be a tight unit, but, if anything, that experience seems to have driven us apart.

Kendra flinches when I reach for her. I ignore that and take her hand—the one that isn’t clasped in Lien’s—and push my fingers between hers until they’re woven together. I hold my other hand out to Luka. He steps up and we both look over at Tyrone.

“I ain’t holding your hand, bro,” Tyrone says to Luka, brows lifting, head jerking back.

“Afraid of a little skin on skin?” Luka asks with a laugh. He lunges for Tyrone, managing to catch his pinky finger.

Tyrone grunts and turns to throw an arm across Luka’s shoulder as he steps and turns, colliding with him chest-to-chest in a typical man hug. They thump each other on the back. I almost expect them to pull out their clubs and learn to make fire.

“You won’t hold hands but you’ll go all huggy- and kissy-face?” Lien asks.

Luka puckers up and makes kissing noises until Tyrone slams him with a fist to the shoulder.

“Boys.” Lien snorts.

Kendra lets out a watery giggle, then reaches for Tyrone so she’s holding his hand and Lien’s.

The humor’s welcome. They’re all letting off a little steam. But we don’t have much time. Any second now, the scores will show up and then we’ll be pulled into whatever nightmare the Drau have lined up for us.

Luka grabs Lien’s free hand. She glares at him but doesn’t pull away. I reach for Tyrone, closing the circle.

“It’s not about
our
team,
your
team.” I hold up my linked hands. “One unit. Get it? All of us are
one
team.” I give it a second so they can think about that and so I can get my words straight in my head. I need to say this right and I’m terrified I’ll say it wrong. I’m not a leader. I’m not.

I’m a loner.

Even during eight years of kendo, I was a part of the team, but always
apart
. Because I was Sofu’s granddaughter. Because I was the only girl. But now I’m not just on a team, I’m the one they’re looking at to keep them alive.

I glance at Luka. “I’m not Jackson. I don’t have all the answers. But I’m going to try.”

I press my lips together, searching for the right words. I understand Jackson so much better now, his whole every-man-for-himself thing. He got everyone out alive by telling them to watch their own ass. Then he put himself at risk every time watching it for them. But no matter how good he was—is—Jackson couldn’t save everyone every time. Our battle is with aliens who are faster, stronger, and probably smarter.

“We made it through Detroit,” Tyrone says.

“That was more stroke of luck than stroke of leadership genius.” When I think of it like that, I don’t think we stand a chance.

Which is why I can’t let myself think of it like that. Can’t let myself think of the choices I may be forced to make, just like Jackson had to choose between saving me or saving Richelle.

And I know there were others he couldn’t save before her.

I don’t know how he lives with those losses. And I don’t plan to find out.

“We are going in because we have to,” I say, meeting each of their gazes in turn, taking my time. “The Drau are going down. And we’re all coming back out again. We. Are. All. Coming. Back.” I need to believe that. Just like I believed I’d win in kendo against boys who were stronger and faster than me. Just like I believed I’d survive Mom’s death and the gray fog of depression that followed.

I have to stop the negative flow of thoughts, the conviction that I’m not capable.

I
will
survive.

My team
will
survive.

The whole fricking world
will
survive.

“SCORES,” I SAY, KNOWING THEY’RE COMING BEFORE THEY appear.

I turn toward the center of the clearing, along with everyone else. The air shimmers like it’s hitting hot pavement, then a glossy black rectangle materializes and hovers in midair, the front face of it like a giant thin-screen TV. It isn’t really there. If I touch it, the shape will bend and contort, then resume its appearance when I take my fingers away—I tried that the first time I saw it, after Richelle died.

A picture of me, bounded by a black border, appears on the screen—not a photo, more of a 3-D rendering of me the way I’d look if I really were part of a video game. 3-D me is wearing the clothes I wore on our last mission—I glance down—the same clothes I’m still wearing now. But in the picture, they’re torn and bloodied. The image spins upside down, then right side up, before zooming to the top left corner of the screen. It won’t stay there.

We earn points for taking out the Drau: five for a sentinel, ten for a specialist, fifteen for a leader, twenty for a commander. Extra points for head-shots and multi-hits and stealth hits. We get charged points for weapons and we lose points for injuries. If a player gets a thousand points, they’re out. Free. At least, that’s the rumor.

We’re ranked according to cumulative score, highest at the top. My score won’t be the highest, and it doesn’t matter.

Because a thousand points or a hundred thousand, I don’t get to leave. Leaders don’t get that option.

The only way I can get out is by finding another leader to trade in to take my place. I have no idea where to even start looking for someone like me, someone whose human DNA is mixed with that of alien ancestors through both their mom and their dad, like mine. Someone with the exact right set of genes, who can hear the Committee in her head and see the other teams in mirror-image clearings. And even if I did, could I do that to someone? Could I condemn her, or him, to this life?

No. Not now. Not yet.

But I get why Jackson did it. He’s been running this hamster wheel for five endless years. I might be that desperate if I make it that long.

The next picture’s 3-D Luka, then Tyrone, then Kendra and Lien. Each time, the image turns end over end and shoots to the corner, knocking my picture down a notch.

Two columns of white numbers appear beside our names. The first is our score from the last mission; the second is a cumulative score for the entire time we’ve been in the game. Our pictures are lined up with the highest cumulative score—Luka’s—at the top, and the lowest—mine—at the bottom. I study the numbers, feeling like something’s off.

It isn’t because my score’s the lowest. Jackson’s scores were always at the bottom, too. But despite his crappy score, he was the one who had the prestige badge next to his name—a bronze star with a smaller star at the center—because he was team leader. There’s a badge next to my name now. It’s a simple bronze circle. Guess I haven’t graduated to stars.

After Luka is Tyrone, then Kendra, then Lien. Even though Tyrone’s been in the game longer than Luka, he purposely kept his score low because for the longest time, he didn’t want out because the game was his chance to see Richelle. And his chance to do research. He was planning on creating a video game based on his experiences and getting rich off it.

After Richelle died, I think his plans changed.

I hate this. The pictures. The scores. They trivialize us, what we do, the risks we take. Our lives are at stake on every mission. The Committee claims they set everything up as a game because they needed something accessible, something teens could relate to. I sort of bought their explanation at the time, but it just doesn’t sit right with me anymore.

This isn’t a game. They shouldn’t treat it as one.

That’s what Jackson’s been saying all along.

I study the numbers, trying to figure out what’s bugging me. Something’s off, but I can’t figure out what it is.

Jump in thirty.
That’s the Committee, mainlining thoughts directly to my brain whether I want them there or not.

We respawn in a room—big, dim, smooth gray walls. Metal? I touch the closest one, then tap my fingernail against the surface. Yeah, metal.

In front of us is a huge corrugated door, the black rectangle centered above it lit with glowing red bars. No, not bars . . . an LED number: seven. Beside the door is a keypad with a slot for an ID card.

“Where are we?” Lien whispers.

I hold a finger to my lips. I want complete silence until we know if it’s safe to speak. I point over her shoulder so she’ll see what I see. There are two black sedans parked against the far wall. The license plates have three kanji—Japanese letters—followed by a number and, below that, larger numbers. So either we’re in Japan, or these cars were imported with license plates intact. I’m not sure it matters, but I store the info away in case I need it later.

Catching Luka’s eye, I nod toward the corrugated door as I pull my weapon cylinder. It’s smooth and cool and instantly contorts its shape, conforming to the contours of my grasp. He gets the message and pulls his weapon cylinder. The others take the hint and do the same, backs to one another, alert for any threat. I walk over and rest my hand on the hood of the first car. Cold. Same with the second. So they haven’t been driven in at least forty-five minutes or an hour. Again, I don’t know if that info is relevant, but I gather what I can.

I check my con. There’s a rim of green around the outside to measure my health, but most of the screen is taken up with a live feed of our surroundings. In the left corner is a small rectangle—a map of the room—and within it, a clump of five green triangles. Us. I hold up my wrist and gesture for everyone else to show me theirs—all green, no maps or live feeds. That means I’m the only one getting instructions. The Committee wants us to stick together. For now.

I move to the keypad by the door and stare at the numbers.

“Safe to talk?” Luka says against my ear, so soft I feel the words more than hear them.

I listen for any sound, anything at all. Nothing. If we can’t hear the Drau, I’m going to work with the idea that they can’t hear us, either. Actually, it isn’t just an idea; it’s a certainty. Perks of being the leader. The Committee dumps knowledge in my head: no threat. Not yet. But they’re out there, and they’re close.

“Safe to talk,” I say.

Lien looks around, frowning. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Yeah.” Tyrone nods, and his agreement’s enough to snag my attention.

“Why?” I ask.

“There’s something familiar about it. Something weird,” Lien says.

“Familiar like . . . you’ve been here before? On a mission?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “But I feel like I’ve
seen
this place before. Does that make sense?”

“Does to me,” Luka says. “I feel the same way.”

“Resident Evil,”
Tyrone says. “Or maybe
Half Life
.”

Luka frowns. “Yeah. Not quite, but close.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Big elevator. Two cars. Massive metal doors. Underground facility.” Tyrone pauses, then says to Luka, “I’m the guy who’s here to save the world.”

Luka snorts. “I thought I was the good guy.”

“No, no,” Tyrone says. “You’re on the team with the supersecret underground base. I’m the guy breaking into the base. That makes me the good guy.”

“What are you talking about?” Lien snaps.

“Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory,”
Luka says.

“A game?” Lien asks, incredulous. “You’re quoting lines from a game?”

“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand, palm forward. I turn my attention back to Tyrone. “You’re saying you’ve seen this in a game? This place?”

“Not exactly this place but something like it. The elaborate underground base.” He shrugs. “It’s a common trope.”

I try to figure out why it matters. It shouldn’t. We’re in a big elevator leading into the ground. Games have big elevators leading into the ground. So do movies and books and manga. It
is
a common trope. But the whole thing has a creepy vibe.

“Heads up, eyes open,” I say. “If something’s off about this place, at least we have a warning, right?”