“Weapons,” Jackson says, so low I almost miss it. From the corner of my eye, I see Luka pull out his cylinder from the holster at his hip. I do the same, mostly because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what’s coming, but I know that I’m terrified. More scared than I was when I jumped in front of that truck. More scared than I was when I woke up thinking I was dead.

My fingers don’t quite reach all the way around the cylinder, which is cool and hard in my hand. Pointing and firing this thing is going to be awkward. I’m used to holding the hilt of my kendo sword, but that’s a whole different motion.

No sooner do I process that thought than the cylinder changes. It shifts and melds, taking on finger ridges, forming to my hand, as if it’s an extension of my body. I can feel it there, like it’s just part of me. I gasp and my gaze jerks up, searching for the others. But of course, this isn’t the time to chat about the wonder of my new discovery.

Luka gives a last scan of the alley, then moves closer. Richelle inches forward and stretches her fingers toward the door while the others raise their weapons and cover her.

The feeling of horror in my gut curdles into an icy mass. I can’t let her go in there. I can’t let any of us go in there. If she goes through that door, we all die. I don’t know how I know that, I just do.

I slam my palm against her shoulder blade, shoving her out of the way. She stumbles a couple of steps to the side. I dance back, away from the door and the horrific fear it drags from my soul.

Luka rests his hand on my arm and leans in. “We all feel it.” His voice is low and reassuring. “You get used to it.”

“I’ll take care of this.” Jackson’s tone is terse. I read surprise in Luka’s expression, then a hint of mutiny. He wants to argue. I can see it. A silent undercurrent I can’t decipher passes between them. Finally, Luka nods and steps away.

Jackson’s so close that the length of his arm presses against mine. We’re lined up like a T, with my body at ninety degrees to his. “You’re doing great, Miki,” he says, very soft. “Better than great. You’re focusing on the task and saving your confusion and questions for later, and that’s exactly what you need to do. When you get in there, you’ll fight. You’ll win. And the world will survive.”

“I’m afraid,” I whisper, the words too small for what I feel. Not afraid. Terrified. Petrified. Bone-numbingly scared.

And Jackson gets it.

“That feeling inside you, it’s inside all of us,” he says, his voice calm, soothing, luring me to trust what he’s saying. “It’s in your cells. It’s in your DNA. You were born knowing them”—he juts his chin toward the door, and I know he’s talking about whatever’s inside there—“knowing what they’re capable of, knowing that they are the enemy.”

Yes.

“They hunted our ancestors. They were the predators. We were the prey. They chased our ancestors from their home world. They turned it into a barren, frozen mass. Now, they’re here, looking to conquer another planet. Earth. This planet. Our planet. That feeling of fear inside you is justified. It’s been bred into your genes. Into all our genes.” He gestures toward the others, who stand ready and alert. “But you have to master it. Beat it down. We’re not the prey anymore.”

His explanation is so far beyond believable that I want to discount it out of hand. But I don’t. For the first time, his cryptic assertions actually make perfect sense to me. But you have to master it. Beat it down. It’s a conundrum I know well: the need to stay when every instinct is screaming for you to go. I faced it every time I went to the hospital with Mom. I wanted to run as fast and as far as I could. From the tubes. From the machines. From the smiling nurses who hooked up bags of poison that drip, drip, dripped into my mother’s veins in an effort to kill the thing growing out of control inside her. But for her, for Mom, I stayed.

“My instinct is to run, but you’re telling me I can’t. And you’re telling me that somewhere inside of me, I know what’s waiting in there. Genetic memory.” At his raised brows, I clarify, “We talked about it in bio.”

“Genetic memory.” His lips shape that barely-there smile. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“But why me? How am I supposed to do this? I’m not trained. Shouldn’t there have been boot camp or something?”

“Or something. This is it. You have your genetic memory, your instincts. Trust them. Besides, you are trained, more than most who get pulled. Kendo, right?”

I swallow and nod. He’s just added about a million questions to the billion already buzzing around in my brain. “You owe me answers when we’re done,” I say, reminding him of his earlier promise.

“When we’re done.” Jackson brushes the backs of his fingers against the backs of mine, the touch so fleeting I almost think I’ve imagined it. I feel his approval, his admiration, even though his expression doesn’t change.

“Here’s what you need to know right now. The things that are in there—”

“The Drau.” That’s what both he and Tyrone called them.

He nods. “They’re day walkers. The planet they come from is in an S-type binary star system. Their planet has two suns. That means that they live in daylight almost all the time. And that means that at night, they’re groggy and slower.”

“Like bears hibernating in winter,” Luka supplies.