“Whoever is standing at the end of level six…whoever still breathes…shall be crowned the winner.
“Should neither of them succeed in killing the other in the time allotted, the level will be forfeited and both competitors shall be eliminated.
“There is a five minute time limit for this level…which starts right now. Enjoy!”
When the announcer stopped talking, I stood there, completely stunned. I looked at the gun in my hand.
They wanted me to kill Rogan.
And they wanted Rogan to kill me.
Kill or be killed.
And if nobody pulled the trigger, both of us were dead in five minutes anyhow.
Then they’d start a new cycle with new contestants, and soon nobody would even remember us.
A line of fury ripped through me, and I fought hard to hold in a scream. The rage burned just beneath the surface. I’m sure that as I raised my gaze to look in the lens of the camera any Subscriber would have been able to see exactly what I was thinking. How much I hated them, those rich, faceless, bloodthirsty bastards who got off on violence and pain to fill their mundane lives, out there somewhere watching every move I made.
I was so lost in my thoughts for a moment, so distracted, that I didn’t hear Rogan approach. At the last second I heard his boots slap against the pavement as he drew near.
“Don’t come any closer.” I automatically raised the gun and pointed it at him, and he stopped running. He held up his hands.
“Easy, Kira, easy.”
“Easy?” I managed. “There’s nothing easy about this. You heard what he said. Just stay back.”
“There are four minutes remaining in this level of Countdown.”
He eyed my gun uneasily. “You’re going to shoot me?”
My hands were steady, but the rest of me trembled. “That’s what they want. They want us to kill each other. Jonathan and your father already made me this offer. I could have killed you in an earlier level and won the game.”
His jaw set. “Jonathan made me the same deal.”
“What? When?”
“Voice in my head during level four.”
A shudder went through me. “But you didn’t do it.”
“No. I didn’t.”
I searched his face. Did I really trust him? Now that it had come to this—him or me—did I honestly think there was a way we could both survive this?
One bullet, one press of my index finger, and I could have everything I ever wanted.
I’d once told a friend that I’d kill to get to the Colony. At the time, I’d meant it. She’d laughed and told me she would, too.
Rogan raised his gun toward me.
“What are you doing?” I asked shakily.
“Don’t really like having a gun aimed at me when I’m not doing the same. Even when it’s you. Makes me feel a little too vulnerable.”
“Wouldn’t want that.”
“No, vulnerable can be bad.” His brows drew together. “Vulnerable can be good, too. Depending on the situation.”
I didn’t think he was talking about guns anymore.
A million different scenarios sped through my brain. There had to be a way out of this. I looked at the digicams that were greedily taking everything in. Everything in this game seemed to revolve around those digicams and the chips in our heads. They were connected.
“Three minutes remain in this level of Countdown.”
I exhaled. “These digicams see everything, don’t they?”
“That’s right. Eyes in the sky. They know where we are, can find us no matter what.”
“So, there’s no escape from them. Is there?”
His gaze was steady with mine. “No escape.”
“That really sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“Because if we could get away from those cameras…”
“Too bad we can’t.”
“Right.”
I glanced at the digicams, now circling us, recording our last conversation to be replayed over and over again for the entertainment of the Subscribers.
“What now, Kira?” he asked.
“Do you think that you can kill me, Rogan?” My throat was tight. I noticed that his attention had left me to look at the cameras.
He didn’t answer for a moment. “I should ask you the same thing.”
“If it meant your life or my life—and, guess what, it does— can you pull that trigger when it counts? Do you have a good enough aim?”
His attention shifted back to me. “I used to do target practice with my brother all the time. Don’t worry about my aim.”
My arm was beginning to burn from holding the heavy gun up. “Will it be worth it to shoot me? To clear your record?”
“What do you think?”
“Personally, I’d shoot somebody to stay out of Saradone. Do you have any idea what they’d do to a cute eighteen-yearold boy like you there?”
“Cute, huh? I was hoping you found me devastatingly handsome.” His lips quirked for a second before his gaze went cold. “But, yeah, I have a few vivid ideas of what they’d do to me in prison. And you? Would you shoot someone for a shiny new life in the Colony?”
“In a heartbeat.” I spoke without hesitation.
His lips thinned. He inspected his gun for a moment. “Got enough ammo in this gun to make sure we don’t miss. They haven’t taken any chances this time.”
“Two minutes remain in this level of Countdown.”
“So, shoot already,” I told him. My heart beat so loudly, I could barely think.
“Not yet. Haven’t given them a good enough show yet. I’m surprised they set it at only five minutes. They could have stretched this out way longer.”
“I’m not going to miss.”
His lip curled to the side. “You shot Kurtis in the shoulder when I know you were trying for a kill shot. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you have lousy aim.”
“Okay, now you’re just being mean. I can hit something if I have enough ammo. Don’t worry about that.”
Silence fell between us. I alternated checking where the digicams were and keeping an eye on Rogan’s trigger finger.
“Not long now,” he said.
“59…58…57…”
A shudder of fear and dread went through me. Less than a minute until I found out just how good a shot I was. And Rogan, too.
It had to be perfect. If I didn’t aim perfectly, then I was going to die.
“The time has come,” the announcer said, and his normally singsong voice was a bit breathless now. “The facade of partnership and amity has faded away, leaving only two raw competitors behind. Who will be victorious in the remaining seconds?
“30…29…28…”
“So sick of that guy,” Rogan growled.
“Yeah. And if I never hear another countdown, it’ll be too damn soon.”
“See, we still agree on a couple of things.”
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
“So, I’ll do you one last favor.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can try to take the first shot.”
My hands were sweating. “I’ll do more than try.”
“7…6…5…”
I swallowed hard. “Ready?”
His eyes narrowed and his grip tightened on his gun. “Do it, Kira. Now!”
I swung my arm around and pulled the trigger. The camera that was in the process of getting a close-up of my face, of any potential emotion that might be found there, went f lying backward.
Then I heard gunfire, shot after shot after shot from Rogan’s gun—each making me jolt. I focused on the one digicam on the ground, sputtering and sparking. I shot it until my gun was empty before I frantically looked back at Rogan. Two silver digicams had crashed to the ground near him.
He looked at me, his chest heaving, a sheer gleam of perspiration on his forehead.
I met his gaze. I half expected the chips in our heads to spontaneously combust as punishment, but nothing happened. “Now what?�
��
He offered me the barest edge of a grin. “Now we run like hell.”
“I THINK I KNOW A PLACE WE CAN GO!” I YELLED as we thundered along another side street, sprinting as fast as we could. I ignored the pain from my sprained ankle and clutched my gun.
“Where?”
I had the brief glimmer of the location in my head—the address that had f lashed through my mind when I’d read his father. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all we had.
“We’re almost there,” I said. “I hope you were right about those digicams being the link between us and the Network.”
“Since we’re still conscious, I’m guessing we were right. Nobody’s triggered us into painful unconsciousness yet. I’d have to bet that blowing the cameras glitched up their system and their ability to track us for a short time—based on our current and continuing consciousness. But it won’t be long before they can find us.”
“Up ahead. Turn left on that street.”
The village was about a mile away from where we’d been for level six. We slowed to a jog as we turned the corner. My ankle sang out with pain.
It was jarringly different from where we’d just been—a deserted part of the city that made me think nobody else in the universe existed except for Rogan, me and the disembodied voice of the announcer. Here in the well-populated village, I was reminded that the city, while definitely dying, was not yet dead.
This large neighborhood f lowed with people moving along the sidewalks. The road was trafficked by small, energyefficient cars and mopeds. This was how the entire city had been once upon a time. Alive. Busy. Full of people with jobs and families.
Hiding our guns, we weeded through the crowd while getting some sideways stares at our costumes. Black, shiny and tight didn’t really go with the muted colors of business casual we were bumping up against. An old woman eyed my black thigh-highs and short skirt, sneered at me with disapproval and muttered an insult.
I thought about running up to her and grabbing her hands, begging her to help us, to hide us, but I stopped myself. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly as I clutched Rogan’s arm tightly and continued to hobble along, favoring my right ankle, which was even worse for wear after our escape. I knew that we couldn’t drag anyone into our problems. No one would offer us sanctuary. No one would even believe us. Everyone was too busy worrying about their own lives, their own problems, their own safety.
“Up ahead,” I said to Rogan. “Number three-fifty-eight.”
He led the way without questioning me again. We’d tucked our guns into our waistbands. The black of the weapon blended against the black of our Countdownsupplied outfits. The cold metal against my skin gave me a meager sense of calm, although it didn’t help my heart to stop racing. It was so loud that I was sure the people passing us would be able to hear it.
My gun was out of ammo since I’d used it all up on the digicams, but I didn’t throw it away. Just having it calmed me. Most people would cower away from the sight of a gun; there was no need to even pull the trigger.
Just before we reached the address, a man stepped in front of us. I felt Rogan tense up as he blocked our way and gave us a huge smile.
“You two look like fun kids.”
“Get out of our way,” Rogan growled.
“I have something you might be interested in.”
“What is it?” I asked, my voice strained.
He produced a tri-fold f lyer printed on light blue paper. “Have you been wanting to get away? Want to figure out how to finagle a seat on the Colony shuttle while you’re on a working class budget? Well, I have just the thing for you right here.”
“Not interested,” Rogan said. “Get yourself and your scam away from us.”
“Scam? Not even slightly. In my course, I will give you the top ten ways to get to the Colony and away from it all. There are always other options, other solutions. Just picture it— perfect temperatures all year, no pollution, silver skyscrapers, more jobs than you can shake a stick at, streets lined in gold! A perfect place for a perfect life, the Colony is. And you can get there with my help.”
“It’s a course?” I asked, disappointed.
“Yes. It’s called Ten Weeks to Paradise. Five hundred dollars and you, too, can realize your dreams.” He thrust the f lyer at me.
“Not interested.” Rogan’s voice went cold at the edges. “Get out of our way. Don’t make me say it again.”
The man cleared his throat and withdrew another f lyer from his inner jacket pocket. “Not interested, I can understand that. Perhaps a vacation a little closer to home? I can provide you with a steady supply of Kerometh to make every day a holiday—”
Rogan shoved him out of our way, and we started walking again.
“Dream dealers.” He said it under his breath, sounding pissed off. “Almost forgot they’re everywhere.”
I looked wistfully back at the man. How many people had he conned into taking his course that offered no promises? He preyed on the dreams of the people stuck here. People like me.
Not that I ever would have had five hundred dollars to spend on a stupid course of any kind. Education was for the rich, not for girls like me, girls living on the streets.
I pushed those thoughts out of my head as we closed the distance between us and our destination. The street number was set in brass above the large door.
I tried the door and was surprised when it swung open at my touch. We slipped inside, and the door closed behind us. The noise from the street vanished. We were now in an unadorned hallway lit only by a small window. I let out a shaky breath as we began to move along the passageway.
“What is this place?” Rogan asked.
“I’ll explain in a minute. Come on.”
Every time I came close to mentioning his father I’d been interrupted. I didn’t think that was a coincidence. The digicams had to be long gone, otherwise we wouldn’t have made it this far, but I wasn’t prepared to risk it. Not yet.
The passage went along straight for about twenty feet and then turned sharply to the right. The front of the house that faced the avenue had just been a facade.
Ahead of us there was a light above a red door. It had a buzzer next to it. On the door was the street number again.
This was the right place.
Rogan studied the door skeptically. “Kira, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“If I knew for sure, I’d tell you everything.”
“So, now what?”
“You know when people who haven’t been screwed over a million times try to think positively?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s pretend to be those people.”
I pressed the button. The sound of a buzzer was deafening.
I half expected the door to swing into darkness and some monster to appear, grabbing us and dragging us inside. But nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
We waited in silence for what had to be five full minutes.
Rogan raked a hand through his dark hair. “So, how long should we wait here? I’m trying to be patient, Kira, really I am. But you have to talk to me. Now.”
He was right. It was time.
I told him everything I knew—which, to be honest, wasn’t all that much. Everything I’d learned from using my Psi ability on his father. That this monster who’d kept the game going, who’d likely framed his own son to get him out of the way, who’d kept a game running that caused pain and destroyed lives…
Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t him. I’d heard the real Gareth Ellis—literally heard him—deep inside the shell of his body. He wasn’t in control.
He was the one who’d given me this address. To help me, to help Rogan.
He wanted us to escape.
Rogan listened to me in silence, his expression like stone. When I was done, I waited for his reaction. It took a moment.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked quietly.
“I tried to, on the roof after Ma
c and Kurtis…and again just a little while ago before the room split. They were listening. They didn’t want me to tell you so they wouldn’t let me.”
His forehead creased into a deep frown. “You make it sound like my father’s possessed.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what it felt like. He’s not in control of his actions right now.”
I watched emotions play on Rogan’s face. Disbelief changed to anger, to the slow, grudging acceptance that this might be a possibility. Then his gaze snapped to mine.
“You said you read his thoughts? Literally read them?”
I nodded, still stunned myself by the possibility. “Same thing happened with Kurtis on the rooftop. It wasn’t just emotions, it was more than that.” Rogan was still giving me an odd look. “Why? Is that bad?”
“Not bad, just…” He didn’t speak for a moment. “Just… not low-level.”
“What?”
“Jonathan told you that you were a low-level, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe Jonathan lied. Maybe you’re not a low-level empath.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Why would he lie about something like that?”
“Why does he lie about anything he does? I don’t know.” Rogan looked at the door again. “We need to get out of here. There are other places we can hide.”
He was right. I’d hoped this might be something—some help offered in an unexpected way, but it could just as easily be a trap. And it would become a trap no matter what if we stayed here while the Network pinpointed the location of our implants.
We turned back to the passageway just as the door leading to the street slammed shut and heavy footsteps approached.
Rogan pulled his gun out of his waistband and gave me a tense look. Without hesitation, I did the same.
Just then I heard a popping sound and something in the back of my head began to tick.
“Unable to detect implant signal.” It wasn’t the announcer this time. It was a computer-generated voice. Inhuman, unemotional. “Please return to proper signal range. Not complying will result in implant self-destruction in fifteen minutes. Countdown begins now.”
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