“Not quite always.” She turns back to the panel. “You’re a harder sell than I expected, Jax. I thought you’d be so happy to see me, that we’d have this awesome reunion.”
“It isn’t a reunion,” he says, his voice flat. “It’s a first meeting. You’re not my sister.”
“No?” The word sounds strained. Like she’s in pain. “Okay . . . how about this? You had a fuzzy brown bear with a blue ribbon around its neck that you slept with until you were nine. You got it when you were three. You called it Calcaneus because Dad busted his heel falling off a ladder and that was the bone the doc said he broke. Believe me now, Jax?”
His breath hisses through his teeth. Was that Lizzie’s nickname for him? Jax? And that story about the bear . . . is it true? And if it is, there aren’t too many ways she could have known it.
With her hands still on the panel, she twists again to face us, and I get a clearer glimpse of what’s in front of her.
I gasp as I realize her hands aren’t just on the panel, they’re in it. Part of it. I can see her bones through her translucent skin, and crawling all over them are what appear to be tiny spiders.
“Nanoagents,” she says. “They don’t really hurt, just sting a little. They connect me to the machine. Efficient, if a little weird. And they’re much smaller than they appear here. They’re magnified by the panel.” She pins me with her gaze. “Miki, right?” She cocks her head in a beckoning gesture. “Come here.”
I take a step forward without really thinking about it.
Jackson grabs my arm and stops me.
“I don’t think so,” he says.
She makes a dismissive noise, the kind Carly makes when her younger brothers annoy her.
“I can’t leave the panel or you’ll move through to the lobby.”
“Explain,” Jackson says.
“I need to show you something before I explain.”
“Why?” Jackson asks.
“Because it’s the only way you’ll believe a word I say.”
“Show us from there. We’ll stay here.”
Again, she makes that sound.
She closes her eyes for a second and shakes her head rapidly from side to side. “You haven’t changed much in five years. Still arguing with everything I say.”
“And you haven’t changed much in five years,” Jackson clips. “Which is why you can’t be my sister. You look exactly as she did the night she died. Like a teen, not a girl in her midtwenties. Lizzie would have aged. A shell wouldn’t.”
She sighs, glances at the panel again, then back at us. “I need a hand. Mine are occupied at the moment.”
“Use my hand. Miki stays right here,” Jackson says.
Lizzie smiles. “Right. Because she’ll be perfectly safe there as opposed to here.”
She has a point.
Jackson doesn’t move, and his grip on me doesn’t loosen.
“Fine,” she says, gritting her teeth now, thrusting her hands deeper into the panel, her skeletal fingers grasping some unseen thing. “I was just trying to spare your modesty, Jax.”
Her hands move quickly. She hunches forward.
“Now, Jax. Right now,” she barks, her hands jumping right, left, right again. “Hurry!”
I don’t know if it’s her tone or her use of his nickname, but something makes Jackson move. He sprints toward her as she says, “Lift my shirt. Do it!”
The white walls burn my eyes. The sound of her voice is so loud it hurts.
“I’m losing you!” Her words come at me way too slow, but the urgency isn’t lost. She’s panicked. Frantic.
“Shells don’t have navels. No umbilical cord. No belly button. You remember when I taught you that, right? I told you in the lobby, right before your first mission.”
She cries out and thrusts her hands deeper into the mass of skittering, clawing nanoagents. “Crap,” she snarls. “You’re gone. And I didn’t get to tell you a damn thing.”
Jackson grabs her shirt.
“Lift it,” she orders.
After a split-second hesitation, he yanks it up.
The world tips and tilts, but not before I see exactly what I knew I’d see. Her belly button. Lizzie isn’t a clone, a shell, a Drau.
But as I stare at her skeletal fingers enrobed in the moving layer of spidery nanoagents, I don’t think she’s quite human, either.
“The Committee,” she says, her tone tight and pained and urgent. “Don’t trust them, Jax. They aren’t what you think. Neither are the Drau, the battles, the game.” She jerks her hands from the console with a cry.
“Lizzie,” Jackson rasps.
I catch a glimpse of his stricken face and then I’m falling, falling, falling away.
I respawn in the lobby. Grass. Trees. Boulders.
I feel like I’m going to puke, like my head’s going to explode. I haven’t felt this awful since the first time I got pulled.
Swallowing, I push to my feet, just in time to see Jackson push to his.
His face is sheet white, his lips drawn in a taut line.
He opens his arms and I run to him, heart pounding, pulse racing.
He pulls me close. Holds me tight.
And whispers against my ear, “Incoming. Gear up.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I say that up front because a few words of thanks cannot suffice to convey the depth of my gratitude to the many people who have helped me along the way.
First of all, I want to thank Robin Rue, my agent, who listened to my distraught ramblings with patience, didn’t so much as blink when I said I wanted to write about aliens, found the perfect home for my manuscript, and promised me we would have fun. She’s a woman of her word. I’m having fun, Robin. And a huge thank-you to everyone at Writers’ House who works hard on my behalf, with a special shout-out to Beth Miller, who has a heart of gold and steps up when I need her, going so far as to answer my frantic questions on Christmas Eve—I’d say that’s beyond the call of duty.
Thank you to the amazing, dedicated team at Katherine Tegen Books, with an adoring special mention of my editor, Sarah Shumway, who fell in love with this story at first sight, worked enthusiastically to help me make it the best it could be, and cheered for it every step of the way. Sarah, you cheer so loud, I can hear you all the way to Canada.
To the friends who inspire and support me, read my early drafts, bounce ideas, hold my hand, and share the highs and the lows, I thank you: Michelle Rowen (whose sage advice started the ball rolling), Nancy Frost, Ann Christopher, Kristi Cook, Lori Devoti, Laura Drewry, Caroline Linden, Sally MacKenzie.
To Lamia A. for a wonderful critique of the early chapters of this story, and for finding the too-adult language in my teen dialogue.
To Aida Aganagic, who loves me enough to walk my dogs with me every day, thus forcing me to actually step away from the computer and get dressed.
To all those in my family who never stopped believing in me and helped me every way they could.
To Henning, for everything, including loading up the kayaks so I can paddle under the endless blue sky, clear my mind completely, and dream up new scenes. To Sheridan and Dylan, for making me laugh, bringing joy and light to every day, and pointing out the flaws in my fight scenes.
And a special thank-you to my readers for opening the door and inviting my stories in.