Rush The Game

star, and at the center is another, smaller star. “And you?” I ask. “Did you lose points?” He must have because I remember him killing Drau, but his score doesn’t really reflect that.
    “I seem to lose points every mission.” There’s a thread of dark humor behind the words.
    “He leaves the hits for us,” Luka says.
    I don’t know what he means. And then I do. I remember how Jackson kicked the weapon out of the Drau’s hand rather than shooting it. He only used his weapon when he had to, when it was absolutely clear that I wasn’t going to figure things out without a little help. And I remember the way he leaped in front of me and used his body to shield me from the Drau’s weapon, twisting to take the shot in his back.
    It’s almost like he doesn’t want to gain points. Or like he wants the rest of us to gain points instead of him.
    I flick a glance at his oddly low score. “Don’t you want to be free?”
    “The thousand points is a rumor,” Jackson repeats.
    “You don’t believe it?”
    “I don’t know anyone who made it to a thousand.”
    I inhale, ready to fire my next question. Instead, I pause. Jackson’s careful with his words. He doesn’t waste them. You don’t know for certain, he said to Luka, not we don’t know. That implies that Luka doesn’t know, but does Jackson? And saying that he doesn’t know anyone who made it to a thousand points isn’t the same as confirming or denying the truth of the rumor.
    I glance at the scores and frown. “Why didn’t I see these last time?”
    “They came and went before you woke up,” Luka says. “You didn’t need to see them. You didn’t have a score yet.”
    “Who’s been in the game the longest?” My gaze slides from Jackson to Luka to Tyrone.
    “Jackson was already here when I got recruited,” Tyrone says.
    I nod and look at Luka, who says, “They were both here by the time I came on board.”
    So Jackson’s been here the longest, but his cumulative score is the lowest. Then mine. Then Tyrone’s. But he’s been here longer than Luka. . . .
    “Why is your score so low?” I ask, rounding on Tyrone.
    “It’s higher than yours,” he points out.
    “I just got here. I haven’t had time to build a score. You have.”
    Tyrone swallows, and then says, “I didn’t try as hard as I could have. In the beginning, I thought it was fun. Exciting. I thought I was researching my game. Then . . . once Richelle showed up . . . I didn’t try as hard as I might have. It was a chance to . . . to see her. To be with her.”
    We’re all quiet for a moment. I turn to Jackson. “You’ve been here the longest. Why is your score so low?”
    He gives that lazy shrug I’m coming to recognize. “Guess I’m not very good,” he says, lying through his teeth. He’s good. Better than good. He’s making a choice to keep his score low, and I want to know why. Suddenly, it feels like the most important question of all.
    “Do you get points when you use your knife?”
    “We jump in thirty,” he says.
    “That’s not an answer.”
    “It’s the only one you’re getting.”
    I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ll figure it out.”
    “Will you, now?” He offers a close-lipped smile. “Game on, Miki Jones.”



CHAPTER TWELVE
    WE’RE PULLED INTO COOL, DAMP DARKNESS SO COMPLETE that I can’t make out even the hint of a shadow. Fear flicks its forked tongue. Palms damp, breath coming too fast, I stand perfectly still, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but as the seconds tick past, I realize they aren’t going to. We are entombed in utter darkness, and the only thing that tells me I’m not alone is the rasp of someone else’s breathing.
    There’s a snapping sound, like a twig being broken in two, and then a greenish light illuminates a ring about five feet in diameter. I’m inside the ring, along with Jackson, who’s holding a phosphorescent wand that looks like a pregnant version of the glow sticks you get at concerts. I can just make out the shapes of Luka and Tyrone a few feet away, at the far edges of the ring. It’s Luka who’s breathing rough and hard, and after a second I realize that I’m there right along with him. I need to slow it down before anxiety turns to full-on panic. Deliberately, I do my thing: breathe in, hold, breathe out.
    On the next inhale, I notice that wherever we are, it smells like sulfur and damp rock and something slightly unpleasant and halfway familiar: Kelley’s hamster cage.
    A quick