I’m a loner.

Even during eight years of kendo, I was a part of the team, but always apart. Because I was Sofu’s granddaughter. Because I was the only girl. But now I’m not just on a team, I’m the one they’re looking at to keep them alive.

I glance at Luka. “I’m not Jackson. I don’t have all the answers. But I’m going to try.”

I press my lips together, searching for the right words. I understand Jackson so much better now, his whole every-man-for-himself thing. He got everyone out alive by telling them to watch their own ass. Then he put himself at risk every time watching it for them. But no matter how good he was—is—Jackson couldn’t save everyone every time. Our battle is with aliens who are faster, stronger, and probably smarter.

“We made it through Detroit,” Tyrone says.

“That was more stroke of luck than stroke of leadership genius.” When I think of it like that, I don’t think we stand a chance.

Which is why I can’t let myself think of it like that. Can’t let myself think of the choices I may be forced to make, just like Jackson had to choose between saving me or saving Richelle.

And I know there were others he couldn’t save before her.

I don’t know how he lives with those losses. And I don’t plan to find out.

“We are going in because we have to,” I say, meeting each of their gazes in turn, taking my time. “The Drau are going down. And we’re all coming back out again. We. Are. All. Coming. Back.” I need to believe that. Just like I believed I’d win in kendo against boys who were stronger and faster than me. Just like I believed I’d survive Mom’s death and the gray fog of depression that followed.

I have to stop the negative flow of thoughts, the conviction that I’m not capable.

I will survive.

My team will survive.

The whole fricking world will survive.

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.