Push

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.

“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—”

“I’m not done,” I cut them off as I stalk forward, going on the offensive. “A sacrifice needs to be made to satisfy your twisted reasoning? Fine, then it’ll be made.”

The Committee just sits there, three silent judges, waiting for me to get it wrong, waiting for an excuse to either kill me or cut out my heart by killing Jackson.

“The one responsible for the whole debacle gets cut from the team. One of you gets terminated,” I say. “You’re the all-knowing, all-seeing ones. You should have stepped in in Detroit. Should have pulled us before Jackson and I needed to make the choice we did. This is all about responsibility? All about laying blame? Then it’s on you.”

I talk faster, my arguments shaping themselves to a honed point. “You’re the collective consciousness, right? That means everything you know is known by the others. So one of you is way more expendable than Jackson or me.” I take a quick breath and shoot for the kill. “And if you could fight this war without us, you’d be doing exactly that. You’d have won it the first time, back on your own home world.”

I’m being cruel. I don’t care. They don’t get to do this. I had no control, no say when I got pushed into this game, pushed into living this crazy double life. I had no choice when Sofu died. If he makes it through the night, his chances improve. He didn’t. He died. I never got to say good-bye. I had no say when Mom died. We’ll know more after the biopsy. Yeah, we knew more. We knew she had no chance.

But Jackson and I have a chance, and this time, I intend to have a say.

I stand before them, chest heaving like I’ve had the roughest workout of my life. I expect their rage. I’m ready for it.

What I get is their laughter, the sound of warmth and light rushing through my veins, dancing in my limbs.

“Well done, Miki Jones. Your arguments have merit.”

I stare at them, incredulous. “This was some kind of test?” I don’t even bother to try to keep the derision from my tone.

“Of a sort. We needed to assess essential leadership skills, your ability to think quickly, make rapid decisions in the face of imminent danger.”

Like the decisions I’ve made in the game weren’t rapid and tinged by danger.

“We needed to complete the puzzle.”

The burn of resentment is powerful and fierce. I really thought they would kill me. Kill Jackson.

“The puzzle,” I echo. An image of Sofu’s collection of Japanese puzzle boxes flashes through my thoughts—boxes that could only be opened by an obscure series of manipulations. Sometimes the solution was as simple as a touch here and another there. Sometimes it was a complicated series of movements of tiny parts. With the right influence, the box would reveal its secrets. Kind of like the Committee, the game, the rules. The only way to get information is to touch the right spot, ask the right question in just the right way. But they aren’t talking about themselves or the game or the rules; they’re saying I’m the puzzle. So what secret was the Committee trying to get me to reveal?

“This was all an elaborate scenario to see how fast I think under pressure? To assess my leadership skills?” I pause, trying to follow the tangled threads of their logic. A horrible idea pops into my head. “Was this your way of confirming my suitability as Jackson’s replacement before you release him from the game?”

“No.”

I process that for a second. “You never meant to let him go, did you?” I don’t even try to hide my bitterness. I’m starting to see the Committee in a glaring new light, and it’s anything but flattering. “You used him to bring me in, then reneged on your promise.”

“He could have chosen to leave. He had only to pay the price.”

“He did. He brought me into the game. That was the price, the trade.” Wasn’t it? I remember Jackson’s words echoing in my thoughts: You’ve taken enough. You don’t get to take this from me. “What were you trying to take from him?”

“Memories.”

“Of the game.” That made sense. If he wasn’t part of it anymore, they wouldn’t want him to remember. “Why would Jackson fight so hard against you taking those memories? He hates the game. Why would he want to remember it?”

“Because in forfeiting his memories of the game, he would also forfeit his memories of you.”

I gasp.

“He refused his freedom because of me?” I don’t want that responsibility. But I also don’t want to imagine him forgetting me, forgetting us, forgetting sharing lunch at the top of the bleachers, matching wits . . . kissing. I don’t want him to forget loving me, even though remembering cost him his freedom. What kind of person does that make me?

“So what now? What happens to him? What happens to me?”

“We resume.”

Resume the game. Resume our lives.

“This was all a setup.” I shake my head, barely able to grasp that. “You kept Jackson here, made me think his life was in danger, made me think I had to choose between his life or mine, for a test?” I’m about to say that what they did wasn’t fair, but even thinking the word makes me want to roll my eyes at myself. Life is unfair. Cliché of the first degree and oh-so-true. “That’s twisted. It’s sick.”

“It is effective. And it was more than a test. Jackson Tate defied the rule. He must not do so again. It will mean his termination. We are confident he understands that now.”

I shiver, the agony of his cries fresh in my thoughts. “So he’s still part of the game?”

“Yes. In keeping his memories, he made that choice.”

Which means my freedom was sacrificed for nothing. He didn’t get what he wanted in the end. He didn’t make it out.

“And what about me? If he’s staying, do I get to leave?”

“The war continues. The Drau threat remains unchanged. But under the terms of our agreement with Jackson Tate, you are free to go because he chooses to stay.”

I didn’t expect that answer. I thought they’d say no. It takes me a second to readjust my thinking. I was Jackson’s ticket out, and now he’s mine.

I didn’t think I’d be able to consign anyone to the game in order to win my freedom, and now I’m faced with exactly that choice. But not just anyone. Jackson.

Except I’m not consigning him to anything. He’s already made his decision.

I’m the one who has to make mine.

I press my lips together. I feel like I’m a hamster on a wheel, running, running, getting nowhere. Running because I’m too foolish to stop, to make a choice other than the obvious one. “What happens if I take the free pass? Do I go back to the moment when the truck hit me? Do I die?”

“You return to your original life.”

Because Jackson’s still in the game, so I don’t have to be. I get to leave.

Or do I? Can I trust the Committee? A day ago, I would have said yes. Now, I’m not so sure.

I run through everything that’s been said since I first got here, and my own words flicker neon bright in my thoughts: I wouldn’t have been brought into the game if I wasn’t important. . . . The war needs me.

This is about more than just me.

Everyone on this planet could die at the hands of the Drau.

From everything I’ve seen on the missions, from what the Committee’s told me and what I’ve figured out on my own, every soldier matters. Every team leader matters. There are few of us and so many of them.

Where’s my honor if I walk away from that? I can almost feel Sofu standing beside me right now. He used to talk about Bushido: the way of the warrior. Loyalty. Honor unto death. I know he would have stayed in the game and fought to the bitter end. He would have defended our world until the last Drau was either dead or chased off with its tail between its legs.

I stare at the Committee, torn. No matter how pissed I am at them, no matter how shaken my trust, I have to decide with a clear head.

A clear heart.

And the worst thing is, I sort of get them. Maybe I don’t like all their methods, but in relative terms, they’re still the good guys, the ones trying to save the world. I take a breath.

“I’m in,” I say. In it until I see it through.

The form in the middle inclines its head in a spare nod and then without another word, they fade away like they’d never been here at all.

“Wait,” I cry. “Did they all make it back okay from the latest mission? The kids on the other team? The girl that helped me?”

I stand there for so long that I think they’ve forgotten me. And then I feel their answer in my skull, in my bones. We sent no other team. There was no girl. You saved yourself, Miki Jones.

But I didn’t.