I’m startled when Jackson reaches for my hand and weaves his fingers with mine, the familiar calluses on his palm rough against my skin. He’s holding on to me almost tight enough to hurt, tight enough that I know he has no intention of letting go. I have the strange thought that he isn’t holding on to me now to offer support, but because he doesn’t want to lose me, like I’m going to float away from him in this strange, dim place, like a balloon, up and up until I disappear in the darkness.

I lift my eyes to the raised figures. “Who are you?”

“You may call us Committee,” the voice says.

“But that doesn’t answer my question.” I don’t know where my bravado comes from, but I figure I have nothing to lose. Whatever reason they have for bringing me here, they’re the ones in control, the ones calling the shots. Since they said I could ask questions, I might as well go ahead and do exactly that. “I asked who you are, not what I can call you.”

If their laughter could be described, then it’s warmth and light rushing through my veins, dancing in my limbs. The experience is like nothing I’ve ever known before.

“You are brave, Miki Jones. And brash. We are everything and nothing. We are the collective consciousness of those who came before. We are the arbiters, the judges, the negotiators, the keepers. We know what was and we guide what will be. We are those who guide you. We have waited for you, though we would not have taken you under ordinary circumstances.”

I remember Jackson mentioning something about the Committee waxing philosophical. He wasn’t kidding. I take my time figuring out what their words mean. When I can formulate a clarification, I say, “So you’re the collective consciousness of those who came before. You mean the aliens who fled their home planet to escape the Drau? The original ones who came to Earth?” My ancestors.

“Yes.”

Now I know where Jackson gets his monosyllabic nature. “And by collective consciousness, you mean the thoughts and memories. But you’re not really here. You’re . . . some sort of memory bank?”

“You are intuitive, Miki Jones. That will stand you in good stead. And you are correct. We ceased to exist in a physical reality centuries ago. We are the memory and the intelligence of those who came before, stored by artificial means, here to protect our adopted planet from the Drau. You, and those like you, are our progeny.”

I glance at Jackson. His jaw is tense, his posture stiff. He’s too still, like the air before a winter storm. Something’s wrong. He doesn’t want to be here, but so far, I don’t see the threat.

Abruptly, he seems to come to some sort of decision. Reaching up with his free hand to tip his glasses high on his forehead like he did back at the bleachers, he angles a glance at the three figures floating on the shelf. Then he rests both hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him.

“A moment,” he says, and though he’s looking at me, he’s speaking to the Committee.

He stares down at me as if we are alone in this massive, echoing place, eyes crystal gray, swirling and bright, but cold like an endless winter lake. He’s locking himself behind his wall. I’m losing him before I ever really had him, and I don’t understand.

“Jackson,” I whisper, confused and afraid. “What—” My words die. I don’t know what to ask. I don’t know what’s wrong.

But I know with horrible certainty that everything is about to change.

He doesn’t take his hands from my shoulders as he leans close so his lips are against my ear.

“Miki,” he breathes, my name so soft I barely hear it. He draws me closer, until I’m pressed against him, the warmth and strength of his body flush against mine. “I need you to know something. Listen to me, Miki, and believe what I say.” His tone is low and intense, his words coming fast and hard, vibrating with tension. “When I saw you that first time . . . your eyes. I knew. You’re not like Luka or Tyrone. You’re like me. Seeing you, seeing that, it gave me the first hope I’d had in a long time.”

Part of me wants to interrupt with a flood of questions. Part of me wants to stay quiet and just listen.

“That hope . . . I had to find you,” he says. “And when I did, I made decisions based on what I knew at the time, not what I know now. Not what I feel now. I need you to know that. And I need you to know I’m sorry, even though you won’t forgive me.”

The Committee is silent, giving him the moment he asked for.

I stare at him as he draws back.

“Promise me you’ll remember that,” he says, his eyes holding mine.

“You’re scaring me.”

“I know,” he says, leaving me zero doubt that whatever this is about, it isn’t going to end with sunshine and unicorns. He doesn’t tell me not to be afraid. He only says, “Promise.”

All I can do is nod.

“Now ask them your questions.” He lets me go. He steps away. I look back at the three figures on the shelf who wait, patient and silent, for Jackson and me to finish our exchange.

I’ve had endless hours of lying awake at night, questions running the wheel of my thoughts, so although I have had no notice, no time to prepare for this meeting, I have so many things to ask.

“I can ask you anything? And you’ll answer?” I cut a sidelong glance at Jackson. He’s rigid as stone.

“To the best of our ability.”

I don’t bother with any specific order. I just start asking, figuring I’ll shoot the questions out as they come to me. “I want to see what you look like. Can you show me your faces?”