Sofu taught me to mask any fear and uncertainty because seeing it would give my opponent the edge. Aim to intimidate, Miki, even when you don’t feel it. I remember his words as I huddle here facing an impossible foe, and I snarl, “You’re going down,” mostly because I can’t dredge up anything better. Maybe if I say it, I’ll actually believe it.
The Drau moves closer. Its face—almost human—looms larger and larger, filling my vision and my thoughts. I try to avoid its eyes, but in the end, I fail. Pain sears me, stronger than before. Unbearable.
I stumble and scream, my cry of agony reverberating through the room, echoing inside my head.
The pain, my fear—they piss me off. This is not the way I plan to make my exit from this life, kneeling on the floor, shaking and gasping. If I’m checking out, it’ll be on my terms—just like my mom. Near the end, every doctor agreed that there was no hope and every test confirmed it, so she signed herself out of the hospital, declined heroic measures. For the longest time, I’ve been angry with her about that, too. But maybe, in this second, I understand her motivation just a little. She couldn’t change the destination. All she could do was pick the route. When she closed her eyes for the last time, she was in hospice with my dad and me by her side and AC/DC rocking on. Her terms. Yeah, so maybe I get it now. What a time to have a revelation.
A fresh wave of pain assaults me. This time when I scream, it’s the way my grandfather taught me, loud and true, a kiai shout that focuses my energy and my will into the attack and the weapon cylinder in my hand. The metal chills until it’s like ice against my palm. A high-pitched hum starts, and vibrations run up my arm. Darkness arrows from the cylinder’s open end, instantaneous and forceful, packed with power, like water shooting from the end of a fire hose. My arm jerks back with the recoil.
It worked. The weapon worked—
The Drau zips aside. My shot wavers and then disappears.
—I missed.
It’s as if I hear my grandfather’s voice in my head: Mamoru. Defend. Protect.
I won’t just defend, because I have a feeling that won’t be enough to keep me alive. I’ll attack. I need to hit this thing where it has no defense.
I move on instinct, diving forward, belly to the floor, because I know my legs are too rubbery to hold my weight if I try to stand. I go sliding through the alien’s spread legs, roll onto my back, and shoot directly up.
For a frozen millisecond, nothing happens.
The Drau reaches down, glowing fingers curled and clawlike, smooth and reflective as glass. My heart slams against my ribs.
Then the black hole spurting from the muzzle of my weapon sucks in the alien’s hips . . . legs folding up alongside its torso . . . shoulders . . . arms. Gone. Its light is gone. Extinguished.
I did that. I killed it.
Bile burns the back of my throat.
I have no chance to puke. Or to celebrate. Another bright form comes at me. But I’ve learned from my mistakes. I don’t look at its eyes, and I don’t hesitate. I push to my knees and shoot. The hum starts; I realize now that it’s the sound of the cylinder powering up. My weapon’s darkness sucks out the Drau’s light. I have a handful of seconds to lurch to my feet before another zooms at me. They don’t just want me dead. They want to make me suffer. They want to enjoy it. Somehow, I know that, and it horrifies me.
Adrenaline surges. I spin. Shoot. Spin again. Shoot. I don’t know how many there are or how long we fight, but then I’m spinning and aiming and there are no more targets.
I’m panting, gasping, feeling like the whole world is out of control. It takes me a second to orient myself. When I do, I see Luka by the far wall.
“I thought you guys said they’re slower at night.” The words that come out are not the ones I mean to say.
“That was slow,” Luka answers, his voice tight. “You don’t want to see them during the day.”
He’s right. I don’t. I don’t want to ever see anything like them again.
Luka sags back against the wall. He’s holding his arm across his abdomen, supported by his opposite hand. There’s blood dripping from a ragged gash in his forearm. “I’m going to lose points for this,” he says wanly.
I stagger toward him, barely able to stay upright, but the look of sheer horror that creeps across his features stops me cold.
“How many times were you hit?” he asks, trying to push off the wall and failing.
“I don’t know.” I glance down. I see nothing to justify his expression. And then I do. First, I see my thigh. My jeans are sliced clean through, and the cloth is wet, saturated with my blood. I don’t remember getting cut.
Then I see my wrist. The screen on my black band’s no longer green. It’s an orangey red.
Don’t let it turn red. That’s what Jackson said to me back in the lobby.
“It’s not red,” I say to Luka, though I don’t know if I’m reassuring him or myself. “It’s orange, not red.” I’ve barely finished saying that when my legs drop out from under me and I slump to the floor. Fatigue hits me like a truck. I’m tired, so tired, and colder than I’ve ever been. And every inch of my body screams in pain.