Allies: An Insignia Novella

  “I am drunk,” Vikram declared, stunned. “I am actually drunk.”

  Wyatt shifted his arm irritably over her shoulder. She and another plebe, Stephen Beamer, were hauling the inebriated Indian boy out of the line of fire. He wasn’t going to be any use in battle, and was likely to just get in the way.

  “I think I’m going to get impaled by a bayonet after this,” Stephen told Wyatt thoughtfully.

  She eyed him warily, because the redheaded boy confused her immensely. He somehow managed to die in most every simulation. “Why?”

  “Never done death by bayonet.”

  He was very strange. Wyatt shook it off and helped ease Vikram down. He caught her arm, his eyes unfocused. She was alarmed for a moment as he groped her forearm clumsily, but he just rolled up her sleeve, mesmerized. “Are your hands like this in real life?”

  “Like what?” She snatched her arm out of his grip.

  “They could envelop whole planets,” Vikram slurred.

  Stephen began giggling. “You are so wasted.”

  Wyatt flushed and examined her hands. She’d shot up in height the first week at the Spire when the neural processor caused her hGH to spike. She’d grown to five foot nine, and her hands and feet had grown, too. It had never occurred to her before to be embarrassed.

  “They’re giantess hands,” Vikram marveled.

  “No, they’re not,” Wyatt cried.

  “Man hands,” Vikram amended giddily.

  Wyatt glared at him. “Shut up!”

  But he kept giggling drunkenly, so she shoved him, hard, sending him crashing back to the ground. Vikram kept laughing where he’d fallen, murmuring about, “Can’t get up . . . got battered by Man Hands. . .”

  “Hey, don’t manhandle him,” Stephen told her, then realized what he’d said and began laughing.

  Vikram began laughing harder. “Manhandling!”

  “I hate you both!” Wyatt cried, and left to fight the Yankees. With utter dismay, she realized a terrible new nickname might have been born.

  Maybe Vikram was too drunk to remember?

  HE HADN’T BEEN.

  She wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that Vikram sometimes liked to drop down next to her in the mess hall and tease her in a way he didn’t seem to realize was sincerely bothering her, or the fact that no one else was talking to her at all.

  But there was something worse, though it seemed very innocuous at first.

  Wyatt met Heather Akron.

  Or rather, Heather decided to meet her. Wyatt was sitting alone in Programming, as usual, when she saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye, and then a girl flounced down right next to her.

  “You don’t mind if I sit here,” she said to Wyatt. It wasn’t a question.

  Her profile flashed before Wyatt’s vision:

  NAME: Heather Akron

  RANK: USIF, Grade V Upper, Machiavelli Division

  ORIGIN: Omaha, NE

  ACHIEVEMENTS: N/A

  IP: 2087:db7:lj71::212:ll3:6e8

  SECURITY STATUS: Top Secret LANDLOCK-5

  Heather had a shining mane of dark hair, and slanted, catlike eyes fringed with dark lashes. A broad, gleaming smile lit her lips. She wasn’t just pretty—she was beautiful, and Wyatt couldn’t help it. She began contrasting her mental image of herself with Heather. Her lank brown hair with Heather’s vibrant, dark hair; her straight, solemn eyebrows with Heather’s graceful, arched ones; her long nose with Heather’s small, upturned one.

  It was irrational, even comparing herself with this girl. It was as irrational as comparing her brain to this girl’s, when they were likely to be equally imbalanced. . . . But Wyatt had started to realize people spoke to people differently, depending on how they looked. She’d known that intellectually before, but now that she’d grown increasingly aware of other people, now that something inside her reacted depending upon the behavior of other people toward her, things took on an increasing importance.

  And some things just hurt more.

  “You’re Wyatt . . . obviously. And as you see, I’m Heather.”

  “Yes,” Wyatt mumbled, her shoulders tight. She was ready to hear something cruel. She didn’t want to feel the knife of pain inside that came with knowing someone disapproved of her.

  But Heather just smiled. “I’ve heard you’re brilliant.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. I figured I’d rather share a bench with an incredibly smart person than some of the idiots up there.” She rolled her eyes and gestured up toward the front of the room. “So how do you like it here?”

  “I hate it,” Wyatt blurted out.

  She winced, because it seemed like the kind of personal admission that would lead to ridicule, to disdain. She suspected even telling someone this was opening herself up to some sort of attack.

  But when she dared to look at Heather’s face, the older girl’s expression had softened, her mouth an o of concern, her brows drawn together. “Oh, poor sweetie. Are people being mean to you?”

  Wyatt nodded bleakly.

  “Have you ever gone to school before?” Heather asked her unexpectedly.

  She shook her head. “I had private tutors. I was too smart for other kids.” She wanted to clap her hands over her mouth, because that’s what got her in trouble with Marrion. She’d be eviscerated.

  But then Heather’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Wyatt jumped at the unexpected contact. She held herself rigid, but as Heather’s hand stayed there, it took on a new quality. It became comforting.

  “I’m so sorry. It has to be hard, your first time with other people your age, and here of all places.” She rolled her eyes. “People are bastards here. I’ll be honest: there’s this weird, quasi-machismo culture where everyone has to act invincible and unflappable, but half the people here are just dumb, hormonal adolescents who think they’re geniuses simply because they have computers in their heads. Add in the fact that we’re all essentially competing with each other for a chance at Combatant status, and, well, you’ve got the Pentagonal Spire in a nutshell. It’s not because there’s anything wrong with you; it’s just because you seem like an easy target.”

  Wyatt’s eyes stung, and to her horror, she realized she was tearing up.

  “No, no, don’t cry,” Heather warned her softly, her hand tightening on her shoulder. “Never cry here. That’s rule one. Rule two: never go to the social worker. They say she’s here to help us, but really, going to her is like an admission you’re too much of a wimp to cut it. You don’t want the vultures to start circling.”

  “I should just quit,” Wyatt whispered.

  She thought of getting the neural processor removed, going back to herself. Going back to the comfortable space where she was never lonely, even when she was alone.

  But Heather was still stroking her back, which made her feel slightly less alien, slightly less strange, slightly more a part of something. “Oh, but you’re missing rule three.”

  “What?” Wyatt said hopelessly.

  “Rule three is listen to me, because I’m going to help you, Wyatt. I’m taking you under my wing.” She winked. “I can be like your mentor.”

  Wyatt looked at her, and she knew then she couldn’t go back. Not really. She would know she’d lost this. She’d know she’d left this behind, those rare moments when she felt connected to people. She would always know she’d chosen comfortable isolation rather than overcome pain.

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” Wyatt asked her.

  Heather smiled, still stroking her back. “Oh, sweetie, it’s just because you seem to really need it.”

  REALLY, THOUGH, IT was because Heather had figured out Wyatt was the best computer programmer among the trainees.

  And an easy target.

  Later, Wyatt reflected bitterly upon how easy it had been. All Heather had to do was sit with her in class sometimes, and Wyatt was pathetically grateful. All she had to do was be nice when she talked to her, and Wyatt felt this great rush of a
ffection like she’d found a best friend. She told Heather everything, and Heather always knew the thing to say to make life seem a little better.

  So when the day came that Heather confided one of her own problems, Wyatt was pathetically eager to return the favor.

  “I can’t get into CamCo. I have no future here. I just have to accept it,” Heather lamented.

  “Why not?” Wyatt said, upset on her behalf. “You deserve it.”

  “Because I don’t have rich, connected parents. My dad’s dead, and my mom hates me—but whatever, I hate her, too. She couldn’t control her boyfriends.” They were sitting alone in Wyatt’s bunk, and to Wyatt’s shock, tears sparked bright in Heather’s eyes. “Don’t ever tell anyone this, Wyatt, but there’s this politician from my hometown. Al Heinz. He’s in the senate now, but whatever. My mom worked in his office and he was a skeeze. He liked pretty and young, emphasis on ‘young.’ ‘Pretty’ was negotiable. He certainly didn’t mind when I had big glasses and ugly sweatshirts.”

  Wyatt caught her breath.

  “Needless to say”—Heather’s voice shook—“I had proof and he knew he’d have to buy me off. That’s why I’m here.” Her eyes glinted in the light. “I didn’t accomplish anything beyond that. I have nothing. I was poor; I had no connections. What could I have done? That’s what the N/A in my personnel profile means. Accomplishments: none available.” She gave a bitter, tearful laugh. “I don’t know why I bothered coming here to make a better life. How can I? The companies won’t even consider sponsoring me because I have no accomplishments. There’s no one advocating for me.”

  Wyatt was horrified. It was so unfair. “Couldn’t you . . . do something now?”

  Heather tossed her hair. “Come on, when do we have time? The only hope I have . . .” Then she stopped and laughed. “No, not hope. Stupid, wild fantasy that will never happen.”

  “What?”

  Heather gave a tortured sigh. “If by some freak accident, somehow my profile just got wiped out of the system or maybe doctored somehow . . .” Then she shook her head, and smiled sadly at Wyatt. “Forget it. It’s stupid. I’m just going to go to bed.”

  Wyatt stared after her friend as Heather sadly slunk out of her bunk. She felt almost sick for Heather. It wasn’t fair that someone so great should get penalized for nothing.

  And then the idea struck.

  It took her a solid two weeks, accessing the system, studying the codes. She couldn’t download neural processor–specific computer languages and just learn them automatically, because of federal regulations prohibiting self-programming computers, but she could learn the languages encoding the Pentagonal Spire’s systems.

  It was with a transcendent sense of joy that fifteen days after their conversation, Wyatt whispered to Heather in Programming that she needed to show her something. That night, when Heather appeared in her bunk, Wyatt worked her magic, and then twisted around a computer screen, showing Heather’s personnel profile.

  “Here. This is for you.”

  Heather’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, can I modify this file?”

  “You can change it however you want.”

  Heather flashed her a magnetic smile. “Wyatt, this is so sweet of you!”

  “Or if you want to do it later, you can just think of things to write. I can suggest some stuff . . .” Wyatt’s voice trailed off, because Heather was already typing.

  She already knew what she wanted to add to her personnel file. It was like she’d known in advance she’d get the chance to modify it.

  THE PROFILE CHANGES didn’t stop with Heather, though.

  Heather had an endless array of friends who wanted something more, a bit of an adjustment—but they were always Middles, never Uppers like Heather. Later Wyatt realized Heather didn’t want direct competition; she just wanted a bunch of trainees who were promoted to Upper Company because of her, due to her, who owed her a debt for it.

  “I’m worried I’ll get caught,” Wyatt finally told Heather one day.

  They were sitting together in Programming again. Wyatt had been glad at first, because Heather had been sitting there less and less, and she’d stopped swinging by Wyatt’s bunk altogether. The hours that had been full grew empty, and she began to feel that terrible chasm creeping between her and everyone else again.

  She was desperate not to lose the only friend she had, but Heather didn’t seem to understand that Wyatt was at risk every time she altered a profile.

  “One last person,” Heather pleaded. “My friend Nigel. He’s right on the cusp of making Upper Company, but he needs a few more perks in his profile. He’s been threatening to do it himself, but I know he’ll get caught because he’s not as good as you, and if he gets caught . . . well, let’s just say he won’t go alone. Please, Wyatt? Please? For me? You know promotions are soon, and I’m up for CamCo. I really don’t want to stress about Nigel.”

  “This is the last one,” Wyatt mumbled.

  “Of course.”

  HEATHER DIDN’T COME to see Wyatt hack the personnel database that night. Neither did Nigel. She gave her a list of things Nigel wanted programmed in. Apparently, Nigel wanted to come across like some sort of brilliant linguist.

  She’d just finished erasing her tracks in the system and was about to sign out when text flashed across her vision:

  I know what you’re doing.

  Wyatt gasped, her heart tripping in her chest.

  Who are you?

  She hastily logged herself out as the last part of the message came:

  I’ll find you.

  She pulled the neural wire out of the access port on the back her neck, her heart pounding, breath coming in frantic gasps. The text faded before her vision, but the chill stayed in her heart.

  “WELL?” LIEUTENANT BLACKBURN’S gaze combed the room, and even where she was sitting in the back of hundreds of people, Wyatt was sure guilt and terror radiated like a beacon from her face.

  But she dared not speak, and when she so much as twitched a muscle, Heather’s grip pinched her arm, talonlike.

  “I’ll find out who you are sooner or later,” Blackburn warned them, pacing the stage. “Better for you if it’s sooner. Someone hacked the personnel files. I am sure of it.”

  Wyatt’s mind raced frantically. He couldn’t compare before and afters of the profile, because she’d deleted the cache of the old. He couldn’t figure out where she’d logged in from, because she’d anonymized herself, disguised her port.

  She was pretty sure.

  At the end of class, she mechanically moved to turn in her program, but Heather said, “Don’t you see? You can’t do that.”

  “Do what? Turn in my work?”

  “Turn in that work,” Heather said.

  “I have to,” Wyatt protested. They’d been working on these programs since she’d come to the Spire. It was her first chance to really show what she could do.

  Heather shook her head. “He knows someone had the skill to hack through his security; that means he’ll look at the best programmers—and if you turn this in, he’ll know you’re a suspect.”

  “Then I’m going to confess. I have to.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “He’ll find out it’s me.”

  “No.” Heather’s teeth were gritted. “He won’t.”

  She jabbed a button on Wyatt’s forearm keyboard and reversed all the changes Wyatt had made to her program in the last three days, then sent it in. Wyatt cried out in protest, but Heather rounded on her, her voice very low.

  “If you confess, he will want to know who you did it for. That will lead to me. I’m your friend, aren’t I? You don’t want to get me in trouble.”

  Wyatt stared at her. “You only sit with me now when you want something.” She stung with the realization. “You don’t want to be my friend; you just want me to do stuff for you.”

  Heather rolled her eyes, her lips curling. “Oh my God, that’s so pathetic. Are you this out of touch with the way people work?”


  Wyatt flinched.

  “Welcome to reality. People make friends because those friends enhance their lives in some way. I enhance yours by talking to you, which no one else here bothers to do, and you enhance me by doing me favors now and then. This is how people work. If someone tells you they’re doing something out of anything other than pure self-interest, they’re lying to you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is. I’m only stating the obvious here, which seems to elude you for some reason. I’m sorry to disillusion you.”

  Wyatt felt a surge of outrage. “Maybe I don’t even want to talk to you, then. We don’t need to be friends.”

  Heather cocked her head. “Fine, then here’s the alternative: you can be my enemy. You see, I have a lot more influence here than you do, and I’m really the only lifeline you have. If I wanted to, I could find a way to make your life completely miserable—if you’re stupid enough to breathe a word to Lieutenant Blackburn.”

  Wyatt looked at Heather, and suddenly she saw how ugly she truly was. For the first time since she’d started noticing faces, she understood that smiles could be empty and eyes could be calculating; that a polished, glittering mask of friendship could hide the absence of anything underneath.

  “How about this: let’s not be enemies.” Heather smiled with that poisonous, fake sweetness, and reached up to tuck a tendril of Wyatt’s hair behind her ear. “You know, you’d look so much prettier if you had a haircut that framed your face. This weekend, I’ll take you to my stylist—”

  Wyatt jerked her head back. “Don’t touch me.”

  Heather’s fake sweetness vaporized. “Have it your way, then. Just remember, if you think about doing something stupid: I warned you of the consequences. Don’t be stupid, Enslow.” She gave her a mocking smile and strolled off. Wyatt knew they wouldn’t sit together ever again.

  I can’t stand this anymore, she thought.

  Worse than that terrible, stabbing pain of rejection was the emptiness where once acceptance had been, and as Wyatt wandered numbly upstairs that night, she wondered that she’d ever been foolish enough to think she wanted this.