Crash (31 page)

Her weapon cylinder's half out of the sheath now, her hand shaking, sweat beading on her upper lip, her eyes wide with fear. “What do I do?” Tara chokes out, the words forced from between her lips. They're pushing her and she's pushing back.

“Fight them,” Jackson says. “Pick an emotion. One emotion. Focus on it. Let it fill you. Think of that girl, the one who died. Think how it made you feel. Focus on that. Only that. The sight of her con. The sight of her blood. The way her eyes closed on her final breath. Think of her. Only her.”

Tara cries out, covering her face with her hands as she sinks to her knees. Jackson grabs her elbow and guides her down.

Her head snaps up. She jerks away, her hand closing on her weapon cylinder, drawing it halfway from its holster.

I slide my sword up, almost free of the sheath.

Jackson holds out his hand to me, palm forward, telling me to wait . . . wait . . .

Tara's whole body shakes, shoulders hunched, as she drags her hand from the hilt of her weapon. Her breathing's ragged. Her fingers curl like talons, as if one part of her is trying to make a fist while another part is trying to straighten her fingers.

I wait, poised to disarm her, when she slumps forward all the way, then tips over to one side, her eyes rolling up in her head.

“Tara!” I drop to my knees beside her, one hand on her back, the other pulling her cylinder. I toss it to Jackson, out of harm's way. Just because she defied the Committee for a moment doesn't mean she'll be able to do it long term.

After a few seconds, she lifts her head and then lifts
her brows as she sees Jackson holding her cylinder, muzzle toward the ground.

“Thanks for the concern.” There's no missing the sarcasm.

“I'm concerned,” I say. “I'm also careful.”

She gives a shaky laugh. “I did what you said. I thought about the girl who died. I felt . . . so sad.” She shakes her head. “But I didn't think it would work. They're so . . .” She closes her eyes tight, her lips compressed. “I almost shot you both. It was just that close. They were so strong. I didn't think I had a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Jackson says, sounding like he means it.

“This is a nightmare,” Tara says.

“Steer the nightmare,” I say, my eyes on Jackson. “Grab hold and steer it where you want it to go. You can't escape it, but you can push it in a different direction.”

She coils up to a sitting position, pressing the back of her wrist to her temple. “Good advice.”

“Isn't it?” I ask with another glance at Jackson. “Someone smart told me that.”

Jackson lifts a brow and offers me his hand, hauling me to my feet. Then he helps Tara up.

From the corner of my eye, I can see other teams moving around in neighboring clearings.

“Incoming,” Tara says.

“We need to go,” Jackson says.

“I know.”

“So what am I supposed to do with all this information?” she asks, her words short and clipped. “Is knowing what they really are”—she waves a hand at the trees—“what all this really is going to stop us from getting pulled? Is it going to change whether or not we go on missions? Is it going to stop the Drau from killing us?”

“We have an alliance with a group who can tell the Drau teams the same things we're telling you,” I say.

“Share the information. There's power in unity, all of us working together. We all lay down our weapons at the same time, resist the Committee together, and we have the power of our numbers to combat their strength,” Jackson says. Funny how far he's come from being an every-man-for-himself kind of guy. “And be ready. I don't know exactly when the walls will come down, but when they do, it's going to be hard and fast. And unpredictable.”

Tara snorts. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

“That's Jackson. A real people person and font of comfort.”

She laughs, the sound shaky and forced. Then she asks, “What are the walls you're talking about? What happens when they come down?”

Those are questions I can't answer, but I figure telling her that won't help our cause, so I say, “The Committee protects themselves behind a wall of anonymity and technology. Our—” I pause, not sure what to call Lizzie and her Drau team.

“Our allies,” Jackson says, picking up where I left off, “have the technology to combat the Committee. The walls are artificial constructs that define the game. We need to destroy them. Force the Committee out of hiding.”

“Look. Tara, if we all band together, if we make sure everyone knows the truth, once enough people know, we can organize, unite, fight the Committee. We just have to get the information out there,” I say. “We have to start somewhere.”

She looks green, like she's going to throw up. “Really? And once the information's out there, what changes? What really changes?”

“We figure out ways to start saying no to them,” I say.

“But in the meantime, we still get pulled, we still go in to fight and kill. Be killed. How long until it all ends?” Her shoulders sag. “It was hard enough to do this when I thought I was saving the world. How am I supposed to do it now that it means nothing?”

“What you're doing does mean something,” I say. “You're still fighting for a reason. A good reason. It's just the enemy that's changed.”

“All those kids who've died . . .”

“Can't be brought back. But we can save the ones who've yet to be pulled. And we can put a stop to the Committee. It's just a matter of time,” Jackson says, calm and sure, like there's no question about the outcome.

Jackson is the soldier the game's trained him to be, his thoughts working with military precision. He's committed
to the new mission, to Lizzie's plan. He believes it will succeed. He allows himself no doubts.

I want to be that sure. But according to Lizzie, the Committee has been doing this for millennia, pitting species against species across galaxies and universes, all for their entertainment.

The best I can manage is guardedly hopeful.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

WITH LIZZIE AND HER DRAU TEAM WORKING FROM THEIR END to hold the Committee off, Jackson and I run through the barriers between lobbies dozens of times, speak with dozens of teams. In real-world time, we must have been at this for days. Every time my mind wanders to Dad and Carly, or Luka, I wrench my thoughts back to the moment, this moment. Because this is the moment I'm living in, the only one that matters. All my worrying won't change a thing. And every time I let myself start thinking about them, let my focus shift, I can feel my control slipping away.

Some lobbies have whole teams standing in front of score screens. Others have just a few players. Some have only a lone team leader, like Tara. They all turn and stare at us as we suddenly materialize on their turf, breaking
through a boundary they've either never tested, or never succeeded in passing.

It isn't easy to convince them all. Some groups take more effort than others, and some listen but don't buy what we're selling. We ask that they keep an open mind, consider the possibilities, and then we move on. Once we've exhausted our arguments, there's no point in wasting our breath.

One guy's such a total asshole that no matter what we say, he won't listen. He challenges Jackson, getting in his space, in his face. He puts both hands on Jackson's chest and shoves.

Jackson holds his arms wide, refusing to fight, and keeps talking, talking, calm and steady, trying to get the guy to just listen.

I'm about to step in when the guy disappears, just vanishes mid-sentence. Jackson gets this amused look on his face, teeth flashing in a dark grin.

“What?” I ask.

“Guess Lizzie figured that he might believe her team over us. I suspect it'll be the Drau that greet him.” His brows rise above the frames of his glasses. “Wish I could be there to see it.”

The leap to the next lobby is worse than any of the others have been. The hornet-sting sensation on my skin makes me feel like I'm on one of those beds made of nails, the kind you're supposed to lie on and the nails don't break
skin. But I feel like they're doing more than breaking my skin, they're digging deep, gouging clear through to my bones. We fall into a clearing that flickers and sparks with static electricity. I stare at the treetops and breathe, just breathe, trying to master the pain. And as I stare, my vision wavers and distorts and I realize it isn't me, it's what I'm looking at. The trees, the grass . . . they swell, then shrink, undulating like flames. Then the lobby disappears, just flickers out, a match snuffed.

I stand in darkness so complete that it has texture and substance. No light. No sound except the harsh rasp of my own breathing. Tiny knives carve strips from me, and I scream, running my palms over my arms, my legs.

Snap.
The lobby's back, the team turning to face us, my palms damp as I rub them against my jeans.

“Okay?” Jackson asks softly.

“Not so much. That was bad.”

“Worst yet,” he agrees.

But we don't get to dissect what it means because the team leader's striding toward us. Jackson starts talking, telling the kids who stand watching us with wary interest who we are, why we're here. We've perfected the routine now, and when he falls silent I jump in. Tag team.

This group's easy. It's a fairly new team and they lost three members on the last mission alone. They're scared, their confidence worn, and they're definitely open to what we have to say.

We keep moving, keep meeting new teams, keep talking. Running through the barrier is easy sometimes; others it's a repeat of the less-than-pleasant experience that left my heart racing and my palms wet. And sometimes it's something in between, the edges of the lobby we land in flickering and fraying, like the very texture of this world is coming apart at the seams.

“Is it Lizzie?” I ask when we stumble into an empty lobby. Nothing here but grass, trees and sky that pixelate and pop. “Is it starting?”

“That'd be my guess,” Jackson says.

I stare up at the sky. Big sky, blue and cloudless. “Why hasn't the Committee stopped us? Why are they letting us get away with this?”

“They aren't. I figure they're trying to intervene and that's what's causing some of the jumps to be so brutal. Lizzie keeping them busy or somehow blocking them from getting to us might be all that's protecting us.”

“Or they find our pathetic attempt at rebellion amusing and they'll step in when we bore them—”

Jackson hooks a finger in my belt loop and pulls me close. “What happened to the optimist panties?” He turns me to face him and slides his fingers into my back pockets. “Should I check if they're intact?”

“Seriously?” I ask, throwing up my hands. “Seriously? The Committee could obliterate us at any second and you want to canoodle?”

“Canoodle?” He laughs. “I'm in.”

I can't help but smile. “You are such a guy.”

“That I am.” He shrugs. “Red-blooded male. Gorgeous, brilliant, brave girl. It's a combustible combination. Besides, no one's going to hand us precious moments just for us. We have to seize them.”

“Like spoils?”

A flash of white teeth. “Just like.”

He dips his head and kisses me, his lips smooth and firm. I come up on my toes, molding my body to his. I love the way he feels against me, solid and strong. I love the way he holds me, like he isn't afraid I'll break. I love the way he smiles a little when we kiss, the way we bump noses, the way his fingers push deeper into my back pockets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“Why?” I whisper back.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Because you're the girl who asks me why instead of just saying
I love you
back.” He tips his glasses up, his voice lowering, growing soft as he continues, “Because you win and lose every day while you battle the pain and panic inside you, and you never say die. You come back stronger every time.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Because you told Carly the truth about her belly-up fish instead of taking the easy way out and buying her a new one.” He kisses my right cheek. “Because you climbed the tree in my backyard when I didn't answer the door.” He kisses my left cheek. “Because you force me to be my best
version of me. You won't accept anything less.” He leans in until our lips are a breath apart. “You make me want to be the person I want to be.”

My heart does a trippy little dance. “Does that last sentence make sense?”

“It does to me.”

And then he lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me again, lips and tongue and teeth, his hands splayed across my lower back, my fingers twining in his hair, my pulse racing in the best possible way.