Eve Silver - Push

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?”