He nods, and I wonder why he doesn’t look happy about it.

“But Luka and Tyrone? They don’t have those same instincts?”

I’m asking Jackson, not the Committee. For some reason, I feel like it’s essential to hear the answers from him.

“No,” he says softly. His answer is enormously important. I’ve figured out that much, but I haven’t figured out why.

“Jackson . . .” I want to tell him that whatever it is, I’ll forgive him. But I can’t make myself say that. The last person I promised to forgive was Mom, and I lied. If there’s anything that I’ve figured out since the first time I got pulled, it’s that I’m still angry at her for dying, for leaving me. I haven’t forgiven her, and that makes the last thing I ever said to her a lie. I’m not going to lie to Jackson, too.

His lips draw tight at the corners. His eyes swirl, mercury gray. “Ask your questions,” he orders. “You might never get this chance again. The Committee isn’t always this amenable.”

I whirl back to face the three figures on the shelf, silent and patient because they aren’t really here. They’re the remnants of long-dead ancestors stored in some sort of database. Even though there’s only one voice, it isn’t only one of them talking in my head. It’s a combination of all their thoughts and ideas poured into that one voice.

“Why a game? A deadly game?” I ask, buried emotions bubbling to the surface. I feel cold, then hot, the burn of anger singeing me. “We die out there. We don’t all come back. What’s with the scores and the points? A game trivializes the loss of life.” It trivializes Richelle and any others who gave up their lives fighting to keep humanity safe.

“We meant no disrespect. We needed something accessible, something those your age could understand. We frame the battle in terms of a game to help those who are pulled acclimate and quickly come to terms with expectations.”

“But there’s no training. No buildup. You just throw us out there to die!”

“Not to die. To fight. The more you play, the more adept you become. And you were born knowing how to battle the Drau, part of our legacy to you. It is only a question of you accessing the information.”

I think of Richelle, a bubbly cheerleader who was badass, taking top place in all the scores. I think of myself, figuring everything out when I had to, even though guidance was limited. But I’m not convinced.

“You could still train us, do something to offer explanation, have some sort of proper chain of command.”

“Because humans do it that way? Does that make it the only way? The best way?”

I don’t know what to say to that. It just seems the commonsense way to me. Train new recruits. Offer information. . . .

Then I remember that Jackson and the others did exactly that when I was first pulled. They told me things. I didn’t believe them. Not until I saw it for myself.

As if aware of the turn of my thoughts, the Committee says, “There is no time to convince every human who is pulled, to argue and cajole. Better to show. The Drau have sent reconnaissance teams, the teams you face in the game. We have a few short years at most before they come en masse to strip the planet bare. To annihilate the entire population.”

“The entire human population?”

“All humans on the planet will be eradicated or harvested as a food source. Along with all other living species.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. “They see us as cattle.”

“You are flesh. Muscle and bone. To them you are no different than any other animal on this planet. You are meat. As we were.”

I shake my head, thinking it might be time to go vegetarian.

“You said we have a few short years at most. But you think we have even less time than that?”

“Yes. That is why you are training in the field. We send those with special skills to aid those who are new. You have been aided. Now your skills are needed.”

I press my fingertips to my temples. “Special skills . . . you mean leaders? Like Jackson?”

“Among others.”

The others being those in the other parts of the lobby, the ones Luka and Tyrone can’t see.

Could this be any more complicated?

Or any simpler . . .

The game, like any war game, has a hierarchy. There are leaders, who clearly have access to the most information. There are soldiers, who obey orders and are told things on a need-to-know basis. Then there is the Committee, the highest commanders with the most information, shut behind closed doors. How is that any different than any human army?

I glance at Jackson. He’s watching me, his expression smooth as stone. That only makes me more afraid. They’re giving me information that they don’t offer to every soldier. I’ve wanted answers so badly, and now that I’m getting them, I have the feeling that the price is one I’m going to find too high to pay.

I almost ask what that price is. But then, just in case I’m wrong, I decide not to. Instead, I ask, “But why a video game? I mean, what did you do thirty years ago? Send the troops in to play Pong?”

They’re silent. I think I’ve offended them, stepped over the line. Then the voice says, “A moment, Miki Jones. We are trying to access the answer.” A pause. “Ah. Pong. Your question is clear now. There were no Drau here thirty years ago. The first reconnaissance drones came eight years past. They will come in droves within five years at most. And Earth will be no more within a decade of that.”