“He didn’t want to,” I whisper, then louder, “He didn’t want to. It ate him alive, what he did to Lizzie.” He used his Drau abilities once before, and it cost him. He didn’t mean to kill her—maybe he didn’t even realize he could—but his sister died so he could live. He’s been living with that for five years. Hating himself for it. “He never wanted to do that again.”

“He was warned.”

“It’s my fault. I forced him.” My breath’s coming too fast. The urge to run, to scream pushes against the walls I’ve built. Anxiety in its purest form.

Focus. Breathe. Visualize.

Those techniques are useless against what I’m facing right now. “Listen to me. Please. I made him disobey. I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t. And you should be glad I didn’t. We need him. You need him. He has unique skills and attributes.”

“He knew the penalty.”

“But I didn’t. And it’s my fault.”

“Ignorance of the law is not a defense.”

I try to think, my mind skidding all over the place like bald tires on black ice. Jackson broke the law when his sister died, so he could live. He got a single reprieve. It wasn’t until his second infraction that the Committee did . . . whatever they’ve done to him. That probably means I get a free pass, too. “Fine. If blame needs to be laid, if someone needs to pay, then let it be me.”

The silence stretches and as the seconds ooze past, I have the sinking feeling that it isn’t because they’re processing their answer. It’s because they don’t plan to answer at all.

Indignation, rage, fear, and resentment combine, hot and sharp in my veins. “You weren’t having any kind of civilized trial. You were torturing him. I felt it. I felt his pain, heard his screams.” I stalk forward, my mouth dry, my pulse pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. I want to hit something, break it, tear it to shreds. I can’t. The only weapons that will help me in this battle are my words. “Is that what you do to soldiers who disobey? Never heard of the Geneva Conventions and international humanitarian law?”

“Those are human rules.”

Right. And they’re aliens.

“You’re on a human world. Your progeny are human. Including me. And Jackson. So the rules apply. How come you get to break them, but we’re expected to adhere to a bunch of regulations you don’t even spell out for us? What you’re doing makes no sense.”

My lungs feel tight and I can’t get enough air, like I just ran a full marathon at top speed. I need to get myself under control.

“The Geneva Conventions articles define treatment for prisoners.”

I pounce on that and say, “Exactly. Jackson’s a prisoner. And you can’t just go around torturing people—” A sob chokes me as I remember the sound of his agony echoing in my mind.

“We do not torture. Any discomfort was incidental.”

“Incidental? You hurt him. On purpose. When all he did was keep two of your soldiers alive. Himself and me. And probably a whole lot more than that during the course of the battle.” A battle he shouldn’t even have been part of because he should have been released from the game.

“We questioned him. That was our purpose. Pain was not the intent. It was a byproduct of Jackson Tate’s refusal to cooperate. He had only to allow us access and the pain would have disappeared.”

“Blame the victim?” I feel like I’m listening to the villain in some really bad TV show, telling the hero that he’s having his nails torn out because he isn’t cooperating. But this is the Committee, the all-knowing consciousness that guides us through the game. The ones trying to save the world. “You aren’t supposed to be the ones doing bad shit, especially not to your own soldiers. You’re supposed to be the ones who have our backs.” I seethe with impotent rage laced with a heavy dose of disillusionment. “You’re supposed to be the good guys.” God, could I sound any more pathetic?

“We allow Jackson Tate much latitude due to his unique makeup.”

“You call making him scream in agony latitude?”

“You truly believe we tortured him?” There’s actually emotion behind that question. Surprise, yeah, but mostly amusement, if I’m judging right.

I don’t get the joke. But the sensation of their amusement dancing along my nerves is enough to give me pause.

“I heard him scream,” I say. “If there’s any other way for me to interpret that, I’m open to hearing it.”

“He is stubborn. As are you. Jackson Tate needed only to open his thoughts. You are familiar with our method of communication.”

“The way you convey what you want to say directly into all my senses?”

“Correct.”

I reason that out. Try to see what it is they want me to know. They can convey their thoughts directly into my head, but—“You don’t hear my thoughts in your heads. I have to actually speak words out loud. You can talk directly to my brain, but can’t hear what I think.”

“That would be inappropriate. We enter only with your permission.”

“Choose to enter only with permission, or can’t enter without permission?”

“You are astute to pinpoint the distinction. It depends on the individual. Some are stronger than others.”

I wrap my arms around myself and take a reflexive step back. The thought of them climbing inside my head at will sickens me. “What about me? Am I strong?”