Crash (2 page)

I check my con. No map. Which means I'm not team leader this time out, and I have no complaint about that. Jackson's the one with five years of experience, and right now he's the one the Committee's feeding information to.

“Wide open,” Luka whispers.

Jackson jerks his head toward Kendra and Lien, and then gestures forward. The signal for go. I move up beside him. Tyrone takes my left flank, and the three of us cover the three of them as they run, the shadows of silent, looming machines falling over them as they pass. They duck around two massive wheeled garbage bins and a stack of gray metal boxes flagged with hazard stickers. Then, they
take their turn covering us as we run to join them.

At least, Luka and Lien cover us. Kendra just leans her head back against the wall, eyes closed, her whole body shaking. Which I actually take as a good sign because fear's better than the near-catatonic state she's been in on the last couple of missions.

But there are no Drau to shoot at right now, so whether Kendra covers us or not is a moot point.

My muscles feel sluggish as I run, like in one of those cartoons where the character's legs spin but go nowhere. I push harder, trying to move faster. By the time I get to the stack of boxes, I swear I've slogged through a mile of quicksand.

“Something's off,” Tyrone whispers as we all hunker down in a tight group. “It's like the game's lagging.”

“Yeah. That's it exactly.” Luka frowns. “You ever felt something like this before?”

“Nah.” Tyrone frowns. “Nothing like this.”

Everyone looks at Jackson.

“No,” Jackson says, and then he lifts his chin in Lien's direction. “You?”

For a second I'm surprised he's asking her, then I realize it's because while Luka and Tyrone have been with Jackson from the start, Lien and Kendra came from a different team. Which means they might have experiences and information unique to that team.

Lien shakes her head. “No, and it's giving me the creeps.”

“Amen,” Tyrone says.

Jackson scans our surroundings, ever alert. I follow his lead, but see nothing. Whatever the Drau are planning, they don't seem to be ready to implement it yet. Which only amps my anxiety.

“So now what?” Luka asks.

“We have a little talk,” Jackson says. “Set our plan.”

Tyrone snorts. Luka's brows shoot up. “Strategy meeting? Not really your style.”

“Not a strategy meeting,” Jackson says. “More of a strategy dictatorship.”

“True to form,” Tyrone says at the same time Luka says, “So what you meant to say is that you talk and we listen.”

It's eerie the way Jackson stares them down even though his eyes are hidden behind his mirrored shades.

Tyrone glances at me. “You aren't saying much.”

The urge is there to blurt it all out, to tell him about Dad and Carly and the accident. He'd get it. He'd understand. Tyrone knows all about heartbreak and loss. But it isn't just that. I want to tell him about Lizzie. About the white room and the nanoagents and the way she snatched us up before we could get to the lobby. I want to tell all of them.

But as the scenario plays out in my mind, the questions they'll ask, the amount of time it will take to lay out the whole story, I know this isn't the time or place. I doubt the Drau will be patient while I bring the rest of the team up
to speed—plus, I don't want to be here for a second longer than I have to be. I need to get back to the hospital.

Maybe I'll save the story of Lizzie for the next time we're in the lobby waiting for scores, the moment of quiet between getting pulled and getting dumped into the battle zone. Not like we have a ton of other opportunities for earnest heart-to-hearts. I shrug and say, “Jackson talks and expects us to listen. New day, same old, same old.”

Lien gives a short laugh.

Tyrone frowns but doesn't push me.

Luka's watching me, his expression weird—strained and puzzled and kind of vacant. In that second I realize he hasn't said a word to me about Dad or Carly. Not when he arrived in the lobby or while we grabbed our weapons or when the scores showed up. Not a word. He hasn't asked how they're doing. Hasn't mentioned the accident at all. But unlike the rest of the team who have no way to know what's happened, Luka does. He was with Jackson when they drove past Dad's totaled car. Jackson told me that at the hospital. He said it was Luka who recognized the Explorer.

His gaze slides away. It isn't the first time someone's been weird around me when it comes to stuff like this. When Mom was sick, half the kids at school pretended they didn't know because they had no idea what to say. Maybe Luka's feeling like that right now. But I sort of expected more from him.

“Kendra,” Jackson says, and when she doesn't even look at him, he taps her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
Lien grabs his wrist. He turns his head toward her, away from me, and something she reads in his expression makes her let go.

“Kendra,” he says again. “Listen to me. I know you're griefing—”

“Hey, we've already been over this,” Lien interjects.

“Just listen,” Jackson says, his tone hard enough that Lien snaps her mouth shut. “Here's the thing, Kendra. I want you to keep it up.” He has her attention now. He has all our attention. “You and Lien keep going exactly as you have been. Steal as many points as you can without putting the rest of the team in danger—”

“What?” Luka interrupts, his voice a harsh whisper. “You
want
her to steal our points? Seriously?”

“In fact, you won't be stealing,” Jackson continues, ignoring Luka for the moment. “We're giving them to you. I want you to up your score, stockpile as many points as you can. Get to a thousand.” He turns to Luka then. “Yeah, that's exactly what I want her to do. And I want all of you to let her, even help her do it if it doesn't put you in danger. That's key, though. No one puts themselves at risk.”

Lien's eyes narrow. “Why would you do this for us?” she asks at the same time Luka says, “I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Not a democracy,” Jackson says to Luka, then to Lien, “I'm not doing it for you. You know anyone who's earned the thousand points? Anyone's who's hit the magic number? Made it out?”

“I—” She pauses. “No.”

“Funny, neither do I,” he says. “Luka? Tyrone?”

Luka doesn't answer, just stares at Jackson, expressionless.

“Almost,” Tyrone whispers, and I know he's thinking of Richelle, of what an amazing fighter she was, of how her high score almost hit the mark right before she died.

I touch his shoulder, silent comfort, the same comfort Richelle offered me my first time in the game. He rests his hand on mine and squeezes and I see him consciously pull himself together.

“You got something in mind,” he says.

“I do.” Jackson offers a feral smile.

“You're thinking we let Kendra be the first.” Tyrone catches on at exactly the same second I do. “We help her get the thousand points to test the truth in the rumor. To see if earning the magic number is the golden ticket out of the game. If it is, we help each other get out, one by one.”

“Bingo,” Jackson says, bumping my knee with his. Getting out one by one might be the plan for the rest of them, but not for us. Regardless of whether or not the thousand-points-and-you're-out rumor proves true, Jackson and I don't get to leave. We're in it for the long haul; we signed the devil's contract in a convoluted attempt to save each other.

Funny how we both pulled a life sentence. Like the Committee planned it that way. Which, of course, they did. They pretty much own our souls. But maybe we can save the others.

“I still don't like it, the whole stealing-points thing,” Luka says.

“Why?” I ask.

“It's dangerous,” he says, his tone flat. “Someone could get hurt.”

I stare at him. “Being here is dangerous. Any one of us could get hurt.” Living is dangerous. How can he not know that?

“And that's why Kendra only takes the points if it doesn't put anyone else at risk,” Jackson says. “The usual rules apply. As soon as anyone's con goes orange, fall back. Defensive position only. And Kendra takes the kill only if it's workable. Got it?”

“Let's say this works, that we earn the thousand and get the hell out . . . there'll be new recruits.” Tyrone bows his head and clenches his fists. “We'll all just be replaced by another team. Someone makes it out, someone new gets dragged in. They fight. They die.”

A horrible truth. The game doesn't end until the Drau are defeated. When players die, they get replaced. I replaced a boy who died.

“But at least it won't be us anymore,” Lien says.

Luka rolls his eyes. “Nice. Way to care about your fellow man.”

“I care.” Lien shrugs. “But in a case of them or me, I'd rather it not be me.”

I wonder if she's always been this pragmatic, this hard, or if the game made her that way.

“I'd rather it not be anyone,” Jackson says, the statement so out of character that everyone falls silent and just gapes at him.

After a few seconds, Luka says, “I thought you were all about every man for himself.”

“Stop.” Everyone looks at me. I guess I put more power behind that single word than they're used to hearing from me. “Stop bickering. We need unity to survive. One. Team.” I turn my gaze to Jackson. “And stop pretending you don't care. Stop pretending you haven't put yourself in harm's way at some point for each and every one of us.”

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

“We all know Jackson's been here the longest, survived the longest, kept the rest of us alive. Someone here think they can do a better job?” I look at each of them in turn. No one volunteers. “Then we do what he says.”

I grab Jackson's wrist and turn it so I can see his con. There's a map and off to one side, six triangles in a clump. Us. “We're like sitting ducks. The Drau are getting closer. I feel it”—I press my closed fist against my abdomen—“here.” I feel
something
, anyway. Snakes writhing. Bile burning the back of my throat.

I rise and straighten, flexing my fingers around my weapon cylinder, the shape conforming to my hand. Then I reach back and grab the hilt of my kendo sword, pulling it free of the sheath that rests between my shoulder blades, the black blade gleaming and deadly sharp. “Let's get this done. I have places I need to be.”

Back at the hospital with Dad and Carly . . .

Thinking about them brings on a wave of anxiety.

I stare at the red stop sign that's painted on the concrete floor, counting the sides. Counting. Counting. The snakes in my gut twist tighter. The red octagon on the floor bursts apart into pixels then coalesces back to a single unit. I close my eyes tight, open them again. The stop sign just looks like a stop sign.

Tyrone's right. The game's doing something really weird.

“Miki,” Lien says. I turn. “What you said about anyone thinking they can do a better job . . . I don't know if you can do a better job than Jackson, but when it was you at the helm, you kept us alive. We all made it back thanks to you.”

“I almost got myself killed.” Would have gotten myself killed if Lizzie hadn't intervened.

Lien grins at me. “But the rest of us were fine.”

A return smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You're . . .” Words fail me.

She gives my hand a quick squeeze. I'm startled to realize that somewhere along the line, Lien and I have started to become friends. It's too late to stop myself from caring about her, to protect myself against the pain if I lose her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“LUKA, TYRONE, TAKE POINT,” JACKSON SAYS. “MIKI, WATCH our backs.”

“Where will you be?” Lien asks.

Jackson snorts a dark laugh. “Helping you with protection duty.” He dips his chin in Kendra's direction. “Let's go.”

With that, we move, Luka and Tyrone leading us through unsecured territory, taking the most exposed position. Jackson and Lien flank Kendra. I'm behind, watching for an attack from the rear.

I feel them, the Drau, the awareness writhing inside me. They are the enemy. They're lying in wait somewhere in this massive factory, with its million places to hide. My skin crawls. They could be watching us right now.

Tipping my head back, I study the silent conveyor
belt overhead, suspended from the high ceiling by thick metal beams that have been painted a vibrant yellow. More yellow metal, this time a set of stairs marked by black-and-yellow-striped columns on either side. They lead to one of many overhead catwalks. Metal ladders climb the walls between tall stacks of wood crates.

I have no idea what they make in this factory, or even where in the world it is. I'm not sure I care. I turn, walking backward, studying the shadows in our wake.