Push

CHAPTER SIX

“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?”

“There’s no if,” Lien says.

“So what now, CL?” Tyrone asks, and he and Luka exchange one of those I’m-a-guy-and-that-makes-me-awesome looks.

I hold on to my patience by a thread. “CL?”

“Clan leader. That’s you. We’re the clan,” Lien explains, her tone terse.

“Nice,” Luka says, “and a little surprising.”

She shoots him a passive look. “What? You’re not the only person who’s ever picked up a controller.”

“I thought clans are teams that play other teams in FPS or MMO,” I say. “You counting the Drau as a team?”

Luka’s brows shoot up. “Been reading up on first-person shooters and massive multiplayer online?”

I shrug. “Checked out a couple of sites in case they might help me understand the layout of the game. Not that I’ve had much time to work on that yet. But I will, when we get back.” I say that last sentence like it’s a done deal.

“Task left unfinished,” Lien says, then elaborates when I glance at her. “You left a task unfinished so you’ll make it back to finish it.” I notice that Kendra’s hovering close beside her, saying nothing, staring at the ground.

“I thought that’s why ghosts come back . . .” Luka says.

Lien shoots him a cool glare. “I modified the superstition. It’s like we’re ghosts here. So we go back to finish the unfinished.”

“Oooookay,” Tyrone says.

“Did you leave a task unfinished?” I ask Lien.

She runs her fingers through her still-damp hair. “Blow-dryer’s still plugged in.”

Kendra slams the side of her thigh with her fist. “How can you be so calm?” she explodes. “Talking about bullshit? Even joking around?” She glares at us, tears shimmering in her eyes, then she rounds on Lien. “How can you chat with them about superstitions and stupid gaming terms as if they matter?” Her words tumble out in a rush. “As if we aren’t going to—”

“Get started on our mission,” I cut her off before she can finish the thought. None of us needs a reminder of our mortality. We know. Each and every one of us knows.

“You’re right, Kendra,” Tyrone says, conciliatory, holding up his hands, palms out. “We should save the chatty-chat.”

I nod. “Break time’s over. Let’s move.” I’m channeling Jackson. I understand so much more about him now, about the way he acted and the things he did. I only hope I get the chance to tell him that, to feel his strong arms close around me once more, to breathe the scent of his skin and rest my ear against his heart just to listen to the steady, solid beat.

“Move how?” Lien asks. “You got an idea to get us out of here? Or any idea of where here is?”

“We’re in an elevator,” I say as I examine the keypad by the door. I don’t have an ID card and I don’t know the code.

“Yeah, I guessed that much.” Lien plants her fists on her hips. “Got any idea as to the code?”

I key in a few sequences: 1-2-3-4. 4-3-2-1. 1-3-2-4. 4-2-3-1. We could be here for a week at this rate. I glance at the LED number overhead, and try: 7-7-7-7.

Nothing happens.

“You mind?” Tyrone asks, stepping up beside me.

“Knock yourself out.”

He enters 3-2-7-2. Luka snorts.

“Three-A-R-C,” Lien says. “Add UNLOCK and it’s a cheat code for Call of Duty.”

When the door stays shut, I say, “Why COD? Why not Halo, or . . . I don’t know . . . Donkey Kong? There are probably hundreds of cheat codes for every game. How do we pick just one?”

“Try Resident Evil,” Lien says.

Tyrone tries some codes. The door stays firmly shut.

Kendra’s pacing circles. I have a feeling that if we don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose her to whatever black hole her inner dialogue is dragging her to. I study the keypad.

“We could try—”

“No more codes,” I say, cutting Luka off as I signal Tyrone to make room for me. I trade places with him and trace my fingertips along the numbers, hoping the Committee will just feed me the knowledge in that freaky, crazy way of theirs. No such luck. I’m on my own.

“If I can’t do this with finesse, I’ll try force.” Reaching back, I grasp the handle of my sword. I slip the tip of the black blade into the card reader, plant the heel of my palm against the end, layer my other hand on top, and ram it in with all my might. A shower of sparks erupts from the casing, followed by a crackling noise. But the massive metal door stays shut.

“That was effective,” Lien says. There’s an edge to her tone, and while it grates, I do understand. She’s been at this longer than me, she’s a transfer from a team that was wiped out, and despite the fact that we made it through the last mission, she has no real reason to have tons of faith in me.

Luka bristles and looks like he’s about to lace into her. I give a tiny shake of my head. He frowns, but keeps quiet. Yay for small miracles.

“Patience, grasshopper,” I say to Lien.

She narrows her eyes. “Condescending, much?”

And here I was thinking the whole hand-holding thing had rallied the old team spirit. Not so much.

“No. My grandfather used to say that to me as a joke. It was from some old TV show. No condescension intended.”

She looks like she’s going to say something more, but in the end she keeps quiet.

I play with the settings on the side of my weapon cylinder, the way Jackson did to break into the cold room in the caves. When I fire, the black surge isn’t greasy and oily; it’s a thin, powerful stream that hits the control pad where it hurts.

A second geyser of sparks erupts, bigger and brighter than the first. The front of the keypad falls free, hanging on by a single, melted screw, and the wires within spark and flare. A horrible chemical smell rises from the mass of heated metal and melting plastic.

Lien smirks. “And that was equally—”

“Effective,” Luka cuts her off as the door cracks open in the middle, letting in a narrow stripe of bright, white light.