“Precisely. And how many will die if we fail to fight off the Drau? All, Miki Jones. All lives on the face of this planet. Think on that.”

Sweat trickles along my spine. I need to think. I need to—“This is about saving the world? Then let’s use that as our start point. We need Jackson. How does killing him benefit the cause? He can fight like no one else. He knows the Drau like no one else. Don’t tell me that isn’t true. I don’t care how many teams there are, how good they are; we can’t afford to lose Jackson Tate.”

I’m breathing short and shallow, my thoughts tumbling, terror pushing me closer and closer to the edge. The Committee’s had thousands of years to learn how to twist circumstances and arguments to their advantage. I’ve had sixteen. The scales aren’t exactly even.

“So you choose to die?”

“No!” I stumble back, holding up both hands in front of me. “I didn’t say that. This is all about enforcing rules? All about the greater good, the good of team human? Then let’s talk about that. I wouldn’t have been brought into the game if I wasn’t important. I managed to lead my team through two rough missions with little training or knowledge.” Not really. I didn’t so much lead as survive by accident. “I’ll only get better from here. You need me. The war needs me. How does killing me benefit anything or anyone?”

“Then you choose Jackson—”

“I’m not done,” I cut them off as I stalk forward, going on the offensive. “A sacrifice needs to be made to satisfy your twisted reasoning? Fine, then it’ll be made.”

The Committee just sits there, three silent judges, waiting for me to get it wrong, waiting for an excuse to either kill me or cut out my heart by killing Jackson.

“The one responsible for the whole debacle gets cut from the team. One of you gets terminated,” I say. “You’re the all-knowing, all-seeing ones. You should have stepped in in Detroit. Should have pulled us before Jackson and I needed to make the choice we did. This is all about responsibility? All about laying blame? Then it’s on you.”

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.”