Rush The Game

while we were all waiting to make the jump. Now he’s done it again.
    Luka hedges. “Not always.”
    “Why keep any of them alive if the batch was tainted?” Tyrone asks, frowning at the nearest gurney. “Why not just destroy them all and start over?”
    “Maybe they were hoping some would turn out okay,” I reply absently, still staring at the door Jackson disappeared through. “Like when you burn a tray of cookies but you let them cool and hope that maybe one or two are still”—I hesitate as I realize how inappropriate the analogy is—“edible.”
    “That’s disgusting,” Luka says.
    “Yeah.” I glance back at the closed door. Maybe I should do what Jackson said and wait here, but the way I see it, I’m in this nightmare through no choice of my own. I can curl up and let it happen to me, or I can do as Jackson suggested when we were alone in the tunnels: I can grab hold and steer it. If information is power, I need to find out everything I can, which includes what’s behind that door.
    I take a step forward but find my way blocked by Luka’s arm. “Miki,” he warns. There’s a boatload of worry in the way he says my name, and that only makes me all the more certain that I need to see what Jackson’s hiding in there.
    “Do you know what he’s doing?”
    Luka and Tyrone exchange a look, which could mean either that they know or that they don’t want to know.
    But I do. I duck under Luka’s arm and sprint to the door, pull it open, and freeze. The room’s the size of a large closet. It’s a lot colder than the bigger room behind me. My breath puffs little white clouds. There’s a single gurney in here, and a lone girl. She doesn’t look like the ones outside. She’s dark where they were fair, and she looks smaller, shorter, though I can’t be certain since she’s flat on her back. Hard to tell with her skin so pale and her eyes closed, but she looks older than the girls in the other room.
    Jackson lifts his head. His fingers are clamped around the wires leading to her neck. His expression gives nothing away, but I don’t think he’s surprised to see me.
    “You ever listen?”
    I shake my head. “I’m more of a see-for-myself, think-for-myself kind of girl.”
    My thoughts spin, tumbling one over the next. Why did he need to shut the door? Why is this girl isolated from the others? What doesn’t he want me to see?
    And then the questions don’t matter because I see it. Her belly button. “She’s not a shell. She’s a person,” I whisper.
    “She’s an original donor,” Jackson says, his tone flat.
    “What does that mean? That they’ll use her to make an army like that?” I gesture toward the door behind me and the rows of shells beyond.
    “Yes.”
    “But the clones out there are from a different donor. . . .”
    “They harvest genetic material and distribute it to growth labs all over the world.” He looks down at the body in front of him. “They’re still harvesting this one. They’ll keep her body alive until they’ve taken what they need, then ship out samples and terminate her.”
    “So you’re just going to do the job for them and kill her? You can’t. Jackson, she’s not like the others. She wasn’t—” I make a futile gesture, at a loss for words. “She wasn’t grown like them. She’s human .”
    “I’m not killing her. She’s already dead,” Jackson says.
    I stare at the machines, the tubes and wires. “How do you know? She could still have a chance! She could—”
    He pulls out his deadly black knife.
    “No!” I lurch forward and clamp both hands around his wrist.
    Tendons tighten beneath my fingers. He pulls away. His knife slashes down . . . around . . .
    The top of her skull falls away. There are bloodstains inside her skull, but no brain. There’s no brain. They took her brain. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself.
    “Why would they do that? Why would they take her brain?”
    I think he isn’t going to answer me, and when he does, I wish he hadn’t.
    “It’s a delicacy.” His tone is flat.
    I stare at him openmouthed.
    “They need her body, but they don’t need her brain for their purposes. So they took it.”
    I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying to hold back a howl of fear and revulsion and horror.
    “She’s already dead,” Jackson says again, softer this time. He lifts his head. I desperately want to see his eyes, to know what emotions are mirrored there, to connect with him in our common