Insignia

  “Good. So this is what happens from here: Wyatt, you program a virus. Yuri, you try not to do anything stupid like tell the truth. Vik—you keep thinking about a manly equivalent of ‘evil wench.’”

  “I’ve got ideas,” Vik grumbled.

  “And I just have to answer to it. Oh, and show Marsh and the Defense Committee that I’m the guy who can take down the greatest warrior in the world.”

  Put that way, it almost sounded easy.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  NIGEL HARRISON WASN’T stupid. On the day of the Capitol Summit, he figured out the moment Tom and Elliot joined him in the private car that he wasn’t the one who’d be fighting Medusa.

  “Oh. Great.” His delicate face twisted with disgust. “I guess this means I’m the token proxy here.”

  “Tom is here if you can’t take Medusa, Nigel,” Elliot said. “He’s very good for a plebe.”

  “He’s still a plebe,” Nigel railed. “He’s in first-year tactics. He is going to hook into an actual ship in space and face off against another actual ship in space—and he’s going to do it for the first time at Capitol Summit? How does this make sense to you, Elliot?”

  When Nigel put it that way, it suddenly didn’t make much sense to Tom, either. He felt a strange, dropping sensation. Marsh and Elliot had told him that, yes, he’d be flying actual ships in space. But they’d said it wasn’t a real battle—it was more like a game. Tom had been sure he could win a game.

  It only hit him now that this game was real. A real ship. A real game.

  “Tom’s downloaded everything he needs to know about navigation,” Elliot told Nigel, “and General Marsh let him hook into one of the ships in orbit to practice. He picked it up right away. Tom’s a natural.”

  “Is Marsh going senile, Raines? How’d you talk him into it?” Nigel shouted.

  “I didn’t,” Tom snapped. “This was his idea, not mine.”

  “We’re supposed to support each other, Nigel,” Elliot reminded him.

  “I’m supposed to be okay with getting thrown out for a plebe?” Nigel cried. “I’d understand an upper—we’ve got some training with the ships. I’d get it if Marsh picked a middle even—since they’ve done ride alongs with CamCo and have seen battles up close. But he’s a plebe. A plebe! It boggles my mind!”

  “I don’t like that attitude, Nigel.”

  “And I don’t like people who talk like they’re day camp counselors,” Nigel sneered.

  “Now you’re just being petty . . .”

  Tom let the two argue it out, his nerves sparking like live wires. Although Elliot was disappointed he had to have a proxy, he seemed pleased to hear it was one of his own plebes who’d be doing the bulk of the fighting. He’d even watched Tom try out navigating one of the ships—it really was a lot like Applied Sims—and told him he’d done a great job afterward. But Elliot was like that. He probably would’ve encouraged him even if he’d accidentally crashed the ship into the moon. But now Tom was thinking about Nigel’s words. He’d been so eager for this chance to vindicate himself, he hadn’t really considered whether he was ready. He’d flown that test ship around the moon for maybe twenty minutes with Elliot and General Marsh watching. Not in a battle. Not in any sort of high-stress situation. His stomach began to ache.

  “What kind of game will this be?” Tom asked, trying to calm his nerves.

  “A pathetic farce,” Nigel answered bitterly.

  Elliot ignored him. “It changes year to year, Tom. The Capitol Summit exhibition isn’t a real battle. It’s more of an excuse to entertain the members of the Coalition and give the public a show. Odds are, you and Medusa will be competing with one small goal in mind. Winner is the one who completes it first, and the winning country gets the prestige.”

  Tom stared at him. “So if I lose, I damage our country’s world prestige.”

  “Right,” Nigel said nastily. “No pressure, though.”

  “No.” Elliot leaned toward him, clasped his shoulder with an encouraging hand. “Don’t think of it that way, Tom. No one expects our side to win this year.”

  “Oh. That’s real reassuring,” Tom said.

  “Well, I meant it to be. If you, or if you”—Elliot nodded to Nigel, too, remembering to include him; Nigel rolled his eyes, seeing it for the perfunctory gesture it was—“end up taking down Medusa, it’ll be a great surprise for everyone. We all know Medusa’s something better than the rest of us. The Coalition knows it, too. So don’t let the pressure get to you. It’s not the end of the world if you lose.”

  Elliot didn’t know the details, then. For Tom, it was the end of the world.

  If he lost this, he lost everything. His place at the Spire, his neural processor, his friends, his future. Everything.

  Near the Capitol Building, Elliot slid out of their private car and switched to a limousine, prepared for his public entrance and his photo op with politicians, Nobridis execs, and the fawning media.

  Tom and Nigel sat in silence as their car rolled toward their destination. Tom was too consumed by a mounting anxiety to really care that Nigel was glaring at him. They were heading to the same place as Elliot—the Capitol Building—just in a more secretive manner. Their identities and IPs hadn’t been leaked. Since their names were both state secrets, either of them could proxy Elliot. There was no risk of the Russo-Chinese embarrassing America by telling the whole world who the real pilot of Elliot’s ship was.

  Their private car stopped by the Hart Senate Office Building. Tom sat frozen in his seat. The ride had gone by too quickly.

  “You’re sweating, aren’t you?” Nigel said, relishing it.

  “Shut up.” Tom shoved his way out of the car.

  General Marsh waited inside the lobby for their arrival. “Good. Good. Come on, you two.” He hastened them through the metal detectors which buzzed as they passed through, then across the marble hall to the elevators.

  They piled into the members only elevator normally reserved for US senators and descended into the basement. Then they shuffled into a small, underground subway car. It charged down the tracks, whisking them toward the discreet, basement entrance into the Capitol Building.

  The general surveyed Tom as the tracks thundered beneath them. “You two feeling ready?”

  Nigel’s face twitched. It was his only answer, because he knew he wasn’t the one being asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready.” Tom was glad his voice didn’t shake.

  Marsh led them through private passages in the lower floors of the Capitol to a hidden room beneath the Rotunda. It was long, narrow, and soundproof, with two chairs and a wall that doubled as a viewing screen of the massive dome in the middle of the Capitol Building.

  Tom stared at the screen’s image of the place. The Rotunda was a cavernous room with an intricate painting ringing the top; statues, and oil paintings depicted scenes from eighteenth century American history. A crowd of onlookers milled throughout the room, their seats positioned around the central ring where Svetlana and Elliot would face off, a circular screen overhead ready to display the space battle.

  “This is a private room where the two of you will stay. Here is the neural access port.” Marsh tapped briskly on a discreet nook in the wall. “I’m giving you the schematics for a satellite. It’s an antique. It’s been in orbit since the early days of the space program, and now we want it in a museum. This year, you’re competing with the Russo-Chinese Combatant to retrieve that satellite first. No missiles, no weapons. You have to be tricky to win this. The victor will be the one to grab it and deposit it on the lawn of the Smithsonian. Once the action begins, Ramirez will hook himself in. He hits the upper atmosphere, and then Mr. Harrison hooks in. You have two minutes to impress me, Harrison. Then Raines takes over.”

  Nigel’s lips twisted. “Great. Two minutes to beat
someone who has never been beaten before. What a fantastic opportunity that’s not rigged against me at all.”

  Marsh looked at him. “Excuse me, young man?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Marsh turned around to face the screen and listed the identities of the Summit’s attendees as they strode in, men and women in suits worth more money than what most people made in a year or two.

  “Take a look. These are the world’s power players.” He gestured at them with his thick forefinger. “You know President Milgram, Vice President Richter, and the Secretary of Defense, Jim Sienker. And talking to them, that’s—”

  “Joseph Vengerov,” Tom said sourly.

  “That’s right. Founder and CEO of Obsidian Corp. You two actually have Vengerov to thank for the neural processor technology.”

  Tom had Vengerov to thank for his time as Dalton’s stooge. Not to mention Blackburn’s decision to fry his brain in the census device. His eyes scanned the crowd, and then he saw him—Lieutenant Blackburn in full dress uniform, at the very edge of the gathering. Watching Vengerov.

  Tom shuddered. He had to win this.

  “On Svetlana Moriakova’s side,” Marsh was saying, “you can see the South American, African, Chinese, and Russian contingents. On Mr. Ramirez’s side, you’ll see our allies—the Indians, Europeans, Australians, Canadians. Ah, and those are representatives of the Coalition—the Russo-Chinese contingent: Lexicon Mobile, Harbinger, LM Lymer Fleet, Kronus Portable, Stronghold Energy, and Preeminent Communications. Over there, those are Indo-American allies on the Coalition, our power players: Obsidian, Nobridis, Wyndham Harks, Matchett-Reddy, Epicenter Manufacturing, and—”

  “Dominion Agra,” Tom finished for him, bursting with hatred at the very sight of the tall, disdainful man striding into the crowd.

  Amazing how the most powerful people in the world were gathered in the Rotunda, yet Dalton still looked at those around him like he owned them all.

  “Good, son,” Marsh said. “You know your friends on the Coalition.”

  No, he knew his enemies. And Tom knew Dalton was more his enemy than anyone from Russia or China. Determination filled him to the brim. He was going to win today. He had to. Just so he could stay in the Spire and rub it in Dalton’s face.

  “I trust you two are old enough to handle yourselves in here,” Marsh told them. “If there’s a problem, send a message to Lieutenant Blackburn. He’s on standby in the crowd.”

  “I didn’t bring a keyboard,” Tom said, wondering how Marsh could expect him to message Blackburn for help, of all people. If he broke all his bones and then caught on fire, he still wouldn’t ask for Blackburn to come and help him.

  “Good thing I did,” Nigel replied, tugging back his sleeve to show Marsh.

  Marsh nodded. “I’ll see you two after it’s over.”

  After General Marsh left to join the summit, ordering them to pay attention and hook in as soon as the challenge began, Tom stood there in the isolated, hidden room with Nigel, watching the guests. Nigel didn’t bother. He just clicked and unclicked the neural wire into the access port in the wall, his slim legs jouncing restlessly.

  Tom regarded him—his resentful face, his hooded expression. “You know, you may not believe it, but I need this a lot more than you do right now.”

  “Really?” Nigel’s pale eyes flipped up to Tom’s. “So you had your last chance at Camelot Company taken away for the second time?”

  Tom wasn’t sure what to say. He hoped Nigel wasn’t going to resist when he took control of the ship in space. Nigel was a small guy, and Tom didn’t feel right about the idea of punching him just to get the wire from him.

  He’d do it, he just didn’t want to.

  Activity in the Rotunda stirred on the screen. Nigel straightened. Tom turned to look. On the screen, the attendees of Capitol Summit fell silent. The only sound in the chamber with Nigel and Tom was the buzzing of the speakers, filtering voices in from the Rotunda. Elliot and the tall, blond Russian girl, Svetlana Moriakova, stepped toward each other and shook hands. Then they strode to their stations—outfitted with controllers, even steering wheels, to allow them to launch the ships themselves and complete the show that they were the ones piloting the ships in space. The public didn’t know about neural processors. They probably wouldn’t find the comalike stillness of a real Combatant all that exciting, after all.

  Tom’s heartbeat picked up. Just a few minutes from now.

  He turned to Nigel, and saw that the other boy hadn’t hooked in. Instead, he held a slim wire in his hand, his eyes on Tom’s face.

  “I don’t want to bother if I’m going to get kicked off in two minutes. Take it from the start.”

  Tom blinked, feeling dull and rather stupid. It was only two minutes, but it felt like being catapulted right into the action before he was ready. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” Nigel’s voice sounded hollow. “You know why Marsh wants me out there first? It’s so if you lose, it’ll still make him look good, like he took it by the book and gave me a chance, and I couldn’t cut it.” His lips twisted. “He’s a coward. He should just have you do it if that’s what he wants.”

  And Tom could agree with that suddenly: Marsh was a coward. He’d gone out of his way to get Tom into the program, but now he didn’t have his back, not really. Tom’s only chance lay in pulling off a miracle and beating Medusa.

  He remembered his father’s words, suddenly, from the day they parted: “Tom, whatever happens, you take care of yourself.”

  So he’d do it. He’d beat Medusa, and if he didn’t, well, then Marsh wasn’t going to wash his hands clean like he’d played no role in getting Tom in the Spire, in getting Tom to fly at Capitol Summit. He took the wire from Nigel, reached up to plug it in—and out of the corner of his eye noticed Nigel’s toxic smile, and the keyboard he unveiled from beneath his sleeve.

  “What are you—” Tom began.

  It was his only warning Tom had before the text flashed over his vision center: Session expired. Immobility sequence initiated. Feeling seeped away from Tom’s chest on down. He crashed to the ground, just like in Calisthenics.

  Nigel stepped calmly over him and retrieved the wire. “Really, Raines, did you think I was going to sit back and let you be the big hero today? Did you really?”

  Tom looked up at him, shocked. “Well, yeah.” He clawed uselessly at the carpet below him. As always, the Calisthenics immobility program allowed use of his arms, but no weight-bearing. He couldn’t even drag himself up.

  “It’s not going to happen!” Nigel whirled back toward the Rotunda. “I thought when I leaked the CamCo names, that would be enough. Marsh would have to use me. He’d have no choice once the IPs were public!”

  The gears of Tom’s brain ground to a halt. “That was you.”

  Nigel grinned sickeningly. “Back when Dominion Agra was working with you, Dalton Prestwick offered to sponsor me, too, if I just helped him make CamCo public. They probably figured the same thing I did: that as soon as everyone knew the current Combatants, the military would need more who were still anonymous. And wouldn’t it be so easy for Dominion to move you up the ranks if that happened? They had names they could leak, but they didn’t know what IPs went with them. They asked me to do the rest. But once you destroyed the club, Dalton told me the deal was off. It didn’t make a difference, though. I’d already decided to leak the information myself. I sent one untraceable email with just enough neural processor-specific lingo to convince the Chinese ambassador I was legit, then a second with the list. It was that easy. I told you, I’m going to be CamCo whether I get a sponsor or not.”

  Tom threw a desperate glance toward the image of the Rotunda, where Svetlana—with Medusa as her proxy—looked in control as she pretended to steer a ship, and Elliot was coated with sweat, fighting for real for the first time ever at the Summit. He was jerking violently at the controls, his vessel in the upper atmosphere barreling toward the satellite in a direct course, all dete
rmination and no imagination.

  Medusa was too clever for that. She used her engine exhaust to propel debris his way, knocking him off course. Sometimes she simply toyed with Elliot, ignoring the satellite altogether. She’d veer in, about to ram him, then sweep to the side after he panicked and jerked his ship wildly off course. Then, with a taunting wiggle of her vessel, she’d hang back to wait for his next attempt as though the whole process amused her. She was psyching him out. It was like a cat dangling a mouse from its claw. It was obvious that both Combatants knew who was going to triumph.

  “Nigel, you can’t trust Dalton. Dominion Agra won’t sponsor you—they’ll just make you a fall guy! That’s probably what they had planned all along!”

  Nigel whirled on him ferociously. “You don’t get it, Raines! I don’t trust Dominion Agra. Of course I don’t. I’m not stupid. I was supposed to be CamCo. Sure, Dominion Agra gave me the idea, but I knew it benefited me, too. I knew leaking the names and making CamCo public would move me up. Even when they revoked their offer, I knew I was going to do it anyway. But even that blew up in my face, thanks to Marsh’s apparent need to advance you, so this is my chance. Right now. After today, the military will have no choice but to let me fight.”

  “What are you planning?” Tom asked him warily, gazing at the wire in Nigel’s hand.

  Nigel turned toward the screen, regarding the crowd with an exultant glow in his eyes. “I’ve got a starship at my control, Raines. And you have to say one thing about the Spire: it’s a pretty easy target.”

  Tom stared at his back. He couldn’t be serious. He wasn’t seriously going to use Elliot’s ship to attack the Pentagonal Spire.

  “The Pentagon won’t even see the attack coming. They’ll think I’m”—Nigel leered back at Tom—“well, they’ll think you are doing some bizarre maneuver. I guess that’s what happens when you put a plebe in charge. And a plebe deranged enough to bite the head off a scorpion, too.” He shook his head. “I can hear it now. ‘What was that Marsh thinking?’ He’ll get a court martial for this. For sure.”