“We did not.”

“But you just said . . . I don’t understand. . . . But that means you were the ones—” Hurting him, making him scream. The bubbles of hope burst, decaying into horror. I almost run at the Committee, aching to tear them off that floating shelf, to look into their eyes, to demand explanations. But that’s a plan doomed to failure. They aren’t even really here; they’re more of a memory bank than anything else. I have a feeling that if I reach out to touch them, there’ll be nothing there.

I try to keep my tone even, to hide the fury and resentment I feel. I don’t do a particularly good job of it. “Why would you do this?” I snarl.

The time between my question and their answer feels like a century. “It was necessary.”

I take a long, slow breath. Straightforward questions. Straightforward answers. So why is it taking them so long to reply? Why are they weighing every word? Because there are things they don’t want me to know, things they’re unwilling to tell me. But my imagination is just as bad, if not worse than the truth.

“Is he unharmed?”

“He is alive.”

I’m not reassured, but I try to hang on to the most important fact: he isn’t dead.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No, it is not, but it is the answer we offer.”

Which tells me a lot in and of itself.

“Why did you bring Jackson here after Detroit? Why didn’t he respawn with the rest of us?”

“In war, discipline must be maintained. Order preserved. Independent action puts all at risk.”

Or saves lives. But I decide against arguing the point. When I was thirteen, Mom and I suddenly started arguing a lot. Mostly about stupid things. What jacket I should wear. Which jeans I should buy. After a couple of months of that, she just stopped arguing back, no matter how hard I pushed. She’d get this serene sort of smile on her lips and she’d change the subject. When I’d try to keep the fight going, she’d tell me to choose my battles, to make them matter. I’m choosing mine now. “Why didn’t he come back from Detroit?”

“He was detained.”

“By you.” I ball my fists at my sides and push them for answers, because they matter. “Why? Why did you keep him here? Why did you hurt him?”

Again, a pause. Anxiety amps up my heart rate as I wait for them to speak.

“Jackson Tate was aware of the consequences.”

“Consequences for doing what? You’re not answering my questions.”

“We answer with truth. We cannot alter your desire for a different reply.”

I’ve heard the expression seeing red a million times. I never really got it until this second, as a haze of crimson films my vision and the thudding of my blood pounds in my ears. It’s only the patience I learned doing endless, repetitive kendo exercises in Sofu’s dojo that lets me keep the words I want to hurl at them locked away inside.

Deflect. Regroup. I have to come at this from a different angle, use what I already know to make them tell me what I don’t.

“What rule did Jackson break?”

The air shifts against my skin. The silence is absolute. I can almost feel the vibration of every atom, every molecule. And in that silence is confirmation of what I suspected: Luka and I were right. They are holding him prisoner for breaking some rule or law. What could he have done that was so terrible? I want to blurt out arguments and excuses, beg, plead, but I sink my teeth into my cheek and stay quiet.

“He is not Drau.”

Thanks for the revelation. I press my fingertips to my temples. That answer means nothing, but it should. I know it should. He is not Drau. . . . No, that actually isn’t true. He’s not fully Drau, but there’s a part of him that is.

“He did something a Drau would do,” I say slowly, guessing. When they don’t deny it, I keep going, working with what I know, adding layers. “And you said he was aware of the consequences, so . . . it isn’t the first time he’s broken this rule.”

What did he do that enraged the Committee enough to hold him prisoner, to hurt him in order to get answers? He almost died doing their bidding, fighting the Drau in Detroit.

But Jackson traded me into the game as his way out. By the time we hit Detroit, I was already a team leader.

Which means the deal was complete; he shouldn’t have been in Detroit at all. He should have been released from the game.

But he was there.

He took a hit meant for me.

He would have died if I hadn’t—

“That’s it, isn’t it? He took the Drau hit. He was injured. Dying . . .” His con was full red, barely touched by orange. I stare at the Committee. “But it wasn’t his almost dying that broke the rules. It was living that did. It was what he did in order to survive, wasn’t it?”

“The method he employed is forbidden. Jackson Tate was aware of the stipulations and limitations. He chose to disobey.”

I shiver, remembering that moment when I was hunched over Jackson’s battered body, begging him to stay alive. I told him I didn’t forgive him, that he had to live to grovel and earn my forgiveness for the way he trapped me in the game. Those were among my last words to him. Horrible, desperate words.

He looked at me, his eyes Drau gray, something dark and dangerous stirring in their depths.

Something predatory.

And then he took what I offered. He did what a Drau would do and pulled electric current from my body to charge his nerves, his muscles, his cells. Like recharging a battery. It kept him alive till we made the jump.