Vortex

  BEING A “KNOWN terrorist” had kind of cramped Tom’s movement around Washington, DC. So he spent the rest of the winter break in the Spire, playing video games, trying not to think of his father, trying to think of what to do about Medusa and the virus.

  He knew what he should do, what was right to do—to dismiss it out of hand and hold firm to his refusal, let the consequences Vengerov had threatened rain down where they would.

  But there was this other part of Tom, the same part that had been willing to strike viciously to win Capitol Summit, the part that thirsted for the chance to succeed, to make something of himself, a voice that whispered, This is the only shot I still have of becoming a Combatant.

  He tried to disregard the thought.

  He wasn’t alone in the Pentagonal Spire. There were a scattering of trainees, mostly from other countries where the holidays weren’t a big deal, or where the flights home would be too burdensome. There was also a skeleton crew of CamCos. Some were the new faces, the newly promoted, anonymous CamCos the public didn’t know about like Leslie Whiell of Napoleon Division, Sandy Feinberg of Hannibal Division, Warren Simmons of Alexander Division, and Griffen Perenchio of Genghis Division. Many of the older Combatants like Heather, Karl, Alec, and Emefa were there, too. It was the luck of the draw, whether they were on duty over vacation or not. Sure, both sides had agreed to a truce around the winter holidays, and another truce around Chinese New Year, but the military always had some CamCos around.

  Heather surprised everyone with a program she’d written for the people stuck in the Spire on New Year’s Eve, and from the way she was ringed by other CamCos whenever Tom saw her, she’d obviously won back their allegiance at last. Tom figured Elliot would be pleased to see it. It was one step closer to Heather’s taking his place in the center of CamCo, one step closer to Elliot’s freedom.

  Heather invited him to hook into the sim, too, and Tom was thrilled to find out it was a big jousting simulation. He headed up to a training room eagerly and materialized in the sim, donned his armor, grabbed a huge lance, and trotted out on a warhorse into the tiltyards beneath a massive castle, excited for the all-out joust ahead—only to find that most of the trainees who’d hooked in weren’t even jousting, and most had gotten rid of the period garb. Apparently, the sim was a cover for what they were really doing: having a New Year’s Eve party.

  This must’ve helped Heather win them back. The sim even had champagne.

  Tom couldn’t smell alcohol without thinking of his dad, and he had this bone-deep certainty that even touching a simulated drink would be the worst mistake he could ever make. He parted from the mass of trainees and decided to pick a fight with one of the fake characters. Just for fun.

  Heather caught up to him before he made it out of the tiltyard. “Tom, wait!”

  He pulled on the reins and slid off the horse so she could catch up to him. She batted his armored chest playfully.

  “Where are you going? You can’t leave the sim yet. Stay here.”

  That confused him a bit, since she’d been busy hanging out with Sam Schwab and Bruce Tepper of Napoleon Division and hadn’t even spoken to him. “I’m not leaving the sim,” Tom said. “I’m looking for someone to fight.”

  “Oh, how bloodthirsty of you,” Heather marveled, but for some reason, his answer seemed to have given her immense pleasure. Her yellow-brown eyes twinkled into his, and she leaned very close. “I’ll give you something for the fight. Something simulation appropriate.”

  She was so close, Tom could feel her breath tickling his cheek, feel the heat radiating from her skin, and for a moment, the wild urge to grab her and pull her in close soared through his brain before his rational, highly distrustful-of-Heather brain reasserted itself.

  Heather had produced a small strip of cloth of gold, and now she tied it around the hilt of his lance. “This is a token of my favor, good sir. Whoever he is, destroy him good for me.”

  There was something so hot about those words, that Tom again had to remind himself that Heather was somewhat poisonous. “I can tell you right now,” he replied, “I’m going to bring you back a head.”

  “Or how about not?”

  Tom grinned sheepishly. “No heads coming up.” He set out in search of a foe. Soon he ditched the warhorse, ditched the armor, and traded his lance for a sword.

  He jumped atop a stone wall and began searching the castle grounds from the high vantage point, seeking a simulated character of sufficient deadliness. That’s how he noticed a hidden nook in the yard, where Karl was accosting one of the serving wenches.

  Tom felt a dark thrill, spotting him. Yes. Here it was. Forget simulated enemies. Here was what he’d been looking for.

  He sauntered over, then settled on a low wall right above them.

  “Hiya, Karl,” he called loudly, startling Karl into jumping to his feet. “Wow, she is not having a good time. I guess even simulated girls don’t like you. That’s kind of pathetic, man.”

  Karl shoved the character away and with a flick of his hand, deleted her. Then he turned on Tom, adjusting his garb, his face bright red. “I’ll have you know, Old Yeller,” he said smugly, chest swelling, “I’m a celebrity now, so—”

  “Wow, a celebrity and you still have to settle for simulated girls?” Tom interrupted. “That’s just sad.”

  Karl leered at him, a nasty glint in his eyes. “I know what this is about. You’re frustrated and hoping to take it out on someone, aren’t ya, Benji? I know what’s up with you. You blew it. You’re never gonna make CamCo now. It’s gotta really be sinking in.”

  It was, but Tom would never admit it. “Nah, I’m here because I like spending time with you, Karl.”

  “I’ll give you what you want.” Karl drew his sword, his meaty fist gripping its hilt. “I’ll fight you. I’ll smash you into the ground.”

  “Yeah, it’s not like you’re already oh for three. But, hey, I really respect your prowess on the battlefield . . .” Tom couldn’t go on. “Man, I can’t even get that out with a straight face.”

  Karl gave a roar of fury and sprang, slashing viciously at his legs. Tom jumped in time as the blade arced beneath him, flashing with the pale light of the sky. He hurled himself around, delivering a slam of his boot across Karl’s face, knocking him to the ground. With an exultant whoop, Tom lunged forward as Karl was rising. Tom crashed the pommel of his sword across Karl’s jaw, knocking him back down. Then he dove forward in a roll, evading Karl’s massive arms as they groped the air where he’d just been. Tom scurried clear, panting for breath. Karl lumbered to his feet like some great, baited bear. Tom kept him in his sight. Karl was a wrestling champ, and huge, besides. If he got his hands on him, it would be over. Tom didn’t intend to let that happen.

  Sheer hatred twisted Karl’s features as they faced each other down. “You like being a real tough guy in simulations,” Karl sneered, “but out there, you’re a skinny little punk.”

  Tom didn’t point out that they had the same physical builds in this sim that they did in real life, so it wasn’t like he had an advantage here. “No, I like sims because I can actually kill you here.”

  Karl gave an ugly grin. And then he vanished.

  Tom frowned. Wait. He couldn’t possibly be wimping out. . . .

  And then his eyes snapped open in the training room as Karl’s fist slammed into his real, nonsimulated stomach, doubling him over on the cot and driving the breath from him, shooting acid up through his torso.

  “Let’s see how real life compares,” Karl snarled, his fist slamming Tom’s ribs over and over as Tom struggled to draw breath. Karl seized his collar and hurled him off the cot, tumbling him to the floor, his head slamming the base of a nearby cot, stars dancing before his eyes—along with some text.

  Error: Connection lost. Download paused. 98% complete.

  Huh? Air burst into his lungs in a great gush, and Tom’s brain was torn between the urgent focus on Karl and the other part of him that registered that text, which
was not supposed to be there. What was . . . what the . . .

  Karl ducked to get him, and in a split second, Tom’s neural processor presented the best move: drive his palm up into Karl’s nose, knocking the cartilage back into his brain.

  No, he couldn’t do that. He’d kill him.

  Instead, he slammed his foot into Karl’s face, then lanced up and snared his arms around Karl’s neck, pivoting all his weight to unbalance him, knock him down. Tom drove a knee into his neck, pinning him there, and raised a fist to slam into Karl’s face, but he’d been stupid to count on his weight keeping Karl down—Karl hooked his hands under Tom’s legs, and lifted him straight into the air, then threw him with a frightening strength. Tom landed in a heap at the foot of Emefa’s cot, then yanked himself upright as Karl advanced again. He backed up, trying to think of some advantage here, then dodged Karl’s next swing and shoved him while he was unbalanced, looping his leg around Karl’s, sending Karl stumbling against his empty cot. Unthinkingly, Tom seized his stray neural wire and whipped it around Karl’s throat. He tightened it, pressing his back against Karl’s so his full weight would hang from it as Karl tried to buck him off.

  And then he realized he was doing it again: about to kill the guy—here, in real life, where he’d go to prison for it—and why couldn’t he think of anything nonlethal? His suddenly slack grip gave Karl the chance to snatch off the wire and seize him. Tom knew it was about to be over, so desperately he slammed his head forward into Karl’s as hard as he could and—

  Ow. Owwwwww. Tom stumbled back, feeling like a mallet had whacked him between the eyes, his vision reeling. Across from him, Karl was stumbling, too, clutching his large, meaty fists over his nose, blood gushing between his fingers.

  “You idiot! Why did you do that?” Karl cried.

  “It works in video games,” Tom shot back. “Everything else I thought of was gonna kill you.”

  Karl waved his arm. “That’s normal. You gotta relearn how to fight in real life after you get all the downloads about killing people. Beat up some kids, and it comes right back.”

  Tom started laughing, half hysterical. “Yeah, great idea, except I don’t think it’ll work for me because I’m not a total psychopath who runs around beating up people! Well, other than you!”

  For a moment, Tom and Karl glared at each other, cradling head and nose, respectively, and the drive to battle someone receded from Tom. It must’ve disappeared for Karl, too, because he cursed, shoved his sleeve against his nose, and left, muttering about the infirmary. Tom settled back down on his cot to clutch his aching head, and he remembered something. He took a moment to rewind his memory until he saw that message again, the message he’d only seen because Karl had ripped out his neural wire and woken him up early.

  Error: Connection lost. Download paused. 98% complete.

  What had been downloaded from his processor? He scanned through his logs, but whoever had done it had concealed whatever it was they were plundering from him. If he’d stayed in the simulation a bit longer, he wouldn’t have even realized it had happened.

  AT MIDNIGHT, A number of the officers migrated to the fourteenth floor along with the trainees, to gaze through the large, windowed walls at the fireworks that began to splutter through the night to usher in the New Year. Lieutenant Blackburn was among them. Tom rubbed his hand over his sore head, certain he knew who’d been taking stuff from his processor.

  Of course it was Blackburn. There was no one else who’d be intensely interested in his neural processor.

  Had he done this more than once—plundered Tom’s brain during Applied Scrimmages before without his realizing it? He glared at Blackburn’s large back, but the lieutenant gazed out the window, talking to no one, not even the other soldiers.

  Tom became aware of Heather’s fixed gaze. A bit perplexed by the intensity of her eyes, he tipped his can of soda to her.

  Heather tipped her glass back to him from where she stood amid the crowd of CamCos, triumph radiating from every plane of her face, flickering with the bright lights.

  Tom didn’t even think to wonder about it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THERE WERE SEVERAL reasons most trainees weren’t enthused about the meet and greet at Obsidian Corp. during their first week back after the holiday. First and foremost, it was a waste of time, since Obsidian didn’t sponsor Combatants. Second, people hated visiting because Blackburn was absolutely paranoid about Joseph Vengerov taking advantage of the visit to mess with their processors. Whenever they returned from Obsidian Corp., they had to be isolated from the Pentagonal Spire’s systems and subjected to a five-hour deep scan to check for malware.

  It was a great deal of trouble for everyone, and all for very little payoff, but they had to go. Vengerov’s tech waged the wars in space. His surveillance systems and automated weapons protected the other Coalition executives. The codes on his voting machines determined which politicians oversaw the war effort. Obsidian Corp. was too much of a giant in the world to be ignored, so if Joseph Vengerov wanted a visit, the trainees had to go.

  The first week back at the Spire after everyone returned from break, Wyatt and the other new Uppers were hard to find.

  Vik thoughtfully took advantage of Wyatt’s absence to invade her new bunk and modify her new bunk template. He copied the old one and expanded upon it, adding more photos. One was an outline of Connecticut with some very sad, black-and-white images of people superimposed over it—depressed adults and crying children who had just realized they lived in Connecticut.

  “It’s not officially a Connecticut joke, since it’s a Connecticut poster,” he told Tom uncertainly, when Tom reminded him of Wyatt’s relentless android.

  He also added a couple more pictures of himself: another shirtless picture and one black-and-white, artistic photo of himself posing philosophically by a window, cupping his chin, looking broodingly at the sky in a very un-Vik-like manner that amused Tom immensely.

  The day of the winter meet and greets, Tom hung out for a bit in the weight room behind the Calisthenics Arena, spotting Yuri while he bench-pressed almost three times his own weight. All the other Middles were visiting companies that Tom had been banned from. His only appointment was late in the afternoon, a direct shot on the Interstice to Vengerov’s facilities in Antarctica. Yuri had not been permitted to attend this round of meetings.

  “So, what are you up to?” Tom asked, even though it was obvious.

  “Exercising,” Yuri said, gazing up at him from under the weight bar.

  “Okay, that was a stupid question. Can I ask your advice about something?”

  “Of course.”

  Tom considered how to phrase his question about Medusa, before blurting out the first thing that came to mind. “Girls like you. A lot.”

  If Yuri was surprised, he didn’t show it. He gave a humble shrug. “I believe it is my muscular physique.” He sat up and flexed his biceps thoughtfully. “But that is only the surface. The only girl whose regard I care for—”

  “Is Wyatt, I know, I know. Okay. I have a question: let’s say a girl kind of feels bad about the way she looks and I accidentally insulted her about that. How can I fix it?”

  Yuri tugged at his thin white T-shirt, plastered to his skin with sweat. “What did you say to this girl?”

  “I kind of pointed out that we only meet online and we’re never gonna meet in person, so we can use avatars and I won’t even see how she looks. That’s why it’ll never matter to me if she’s ugly.”

  Yuri twisted around to frown at him. “I hope you did not say such a thing, Thomas. This is no good.”

  “Not in those exact words, but, uh . . . Come on, you’ve gotta have some advice. I thought you might know what to say to make her feel better, or how I can apologize. You know, since Wyatt’s horseface thing is—”

  Yuri half rose from the bench. “Horseface?”

  Tom noticed, not for the first time, how much larger Yuri was than him. He raised his hands. “The
thing where she thinks she has a horseface. I’m not insulting your girlfriend, man.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Yuri settled back down. He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Wyatt has indeed expressed to me that she feels troubled over her appearance. It is always an awkward conversation, because if I say, ‘You do not have a horseface,’ she is believing I am lying. But if I ever were to say, ‘Very well, I concede. You have a horseface,’ then I am certain she would also find it upsetting.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said, imagining it. “Just a bit.”

  “So this is what I do,” Yuri went on, leaning closer. “I take her hand and stare into her eyes. Then I say this: ‘If you were indeed resembling a horse, then I would see the horse and be thinking it is a very beautiful horse, and I would be feeling alarmed and think there is something very wrong with me that I am finding a horse so very lovely and attractive.’” He concluded with a satisfied nod.

  “And that works?” Tom blurted.

  “She always is responding the same way: ‘That’s really weird, Yuri.’” Yuri gave another satisfied nod.

  “So it doesn’t work.”

  “Ah, but it does.” Yuri raised a finger. “In fact, Thomas, she grows very concerned with how weird it is, and she is no longer thinking of whether she has a horseface.” He spread his hands, like he’d performed a magic trick. “Do you see? The problem is solved.”

  Tom was in awe of him. “You’re like some genius diplomat.”

  Yuri smiled. “This I am.”

  Suddenly, something occurred to Tom. He rested his elbows on the bar and dropped his voice. “Listen, man, you can’t tell anyone I asked you about this girl. Not anyone. Especially not Joseph Vengerov.”

  For a moment, Yuri’s eyes flashed up to his, like he hadn’t really been listening and something Tom said had caught his attention.

  “Who is this online girl?” Yuri asked. His voice grew very soft, his eyes intent on Tom’s. “Is this the online girl you were meeting with before, Tom? Is it Medusa?”