“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.
“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?