Rush The Game

with machines, and used their DNA to grow an army of mindless clones, also kept alive by machines. Clones who weren’t quite right and ended up rotting from the inside out. I’d say that’s reason to be upset.
    “Do they use male original donors? Do they create male shells?” The questions come out in a rush.
    Luka thinks about that. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever seen females. But I’ve only ever seen two places like this, so that isn’t much to go on.”
    The relief I’d like to feel doesn’t come. Just because Luka hasn’t seen a male shell doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I’m quiet for a second.
    “Luka, have you ever heard them speak?”
    He knows I’m asking about the Drau. His brows draw together in a frown. “I don’t think so. I’ve heard them”—he cuts me a glance through his lashes—“I’ve, um, heard them scream. At the end, if you know what I mean. But not speak. I think they have this telepathy thing. . . .”
    Unease crawls through me. “Do we ? I mean, do you have a telepathy thing? Have you ever heard someone in your head?”
    He’s still frowning. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No. Why?”
    I shrug, trying to look casual. “Jackson said something about wanting to question one of the Drau. I was wondering how he would do that.” Through some sort of telepathy? Because he’s one of them? The thought is like liquid nitrogen in my soul. I don’t want Jackson to be one of the bad guys.
    I can see that Luka’s about to ask me something. I don’t give him the chance because I’m not sure I want to offer answers.
    “I appreciate that you’re answering my questions, Luka. The thing is, I’d like to know why.”
    He looks confused. “You asked me to.”
    “But I asked before, too, and you refused. What’s changed?”
    “I told you, I’m sorry I left you alone before. That I didn’t tell you stuff.”
    “I know. And I’m okay with that.” Sort of. I’m not so good at the forgiveness thing. “But why are you telling me stuff now?”
    Now he looks embarrassed. He shrugs. “Jackson told you stuff, and he didn’t die a slow and painful death. Or a quick and painless one. So I figure that it’s okay to talk, so long as we’re careful.”
    “Okay, that makes sense.” I think about my next words and choose them with care. “But I agree that we still need to be careful. I think that there really is a danger if we talk about stuff here in the real world. Maybe there are shells living right next door to us.” My gaze slides along the street, then back to Luka. “After what I saw today, I think the rules really are there for a reason.”
    “I never thought they weren’t.”
    A cool breeze dances across my skin. Except, there’s no breeze; it’s a hot, sunny, sticky day. Again, I look up the street, then down. There’s no one else around. Just to be sure, I recheck, letting my gaze slide along the porches of the houses closest to us.
    “Have you ever seen one—not a shell . . . a real one—here in the real world?”
    Luka looks as horrified by that possibility as I feel. “No.” He shakes his head. “That would be . . .”
    “Yeah, it would be. I feel like I’m in a horror movie,” I blurt out.
    “Or a nightmare,” Luka says.
    Grab hold and steer the nightmare. Maybe that’s exactly what Jackson’s doing. Maybe he’s steering all of us precisely where he wants us, like pieces on a chessboard or players in a game.
    “Do you know what Jackson was doing just before we made the jump back to reality?”
    “When you two were alone in that room? I think I do. And if I’m right, he does it so the rest of us won’t have to.”
    So we won’t have to terminate a body that was once human. I shudder.
    “She was already dead,” I say, wanting Luka to know that Jackson didn’t kill a person. “She wasn’t alive. They took—” I swallow, then huff out a sharp breath. “They took her brain. Because it’s a delicacy for them.”
    Luka’s appalled expression mirrors my feelings precisely.
    “You can do this,” he says softly. “I’ve been doing it for a year, and I’m okay. This time was a bit weird because we got pulled again so fast, but usually there’s at least a couple of weeks between missions.”
    “Who sends us on those missions?” My voice is equally soft. “Who sends the weapons? Who keeps score?”
    Luka just shakes his head, saying nothing, because there’s nothing for him to say. He doesn’t know. I suspected that