Catalyst

by S. J. Kincaid

  Confusion flooded him as he recognized the images of the officer’s floor. Why were soldiers sitting around in the break room, eating and talking? He recognized their faces. How did they get there so quickly? Hadn’t they just taken cadets hostage?

  More images flooded his brain as he looked at more cameras, saw more staffers and soldiers idly going about their days. In disbelief, Tom saw more faces of hostage-taking soldiers among them. One camera showed Olivia Ossare in her office, sorting through files on her computer. Then next camera focused on the mess hall. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  And Tom didn’t see a great mass of cadets anywhere. They weren’t being herded down the stairs or even corralled in the mess hall. They couldn’t just disappear.

  A sudden suspicion burst over him. He almost laughed, because no way, no way had they done that . . .

  But as soon as he accessed the cameras trained inside the simulation chambers, he located all the cadets. They were lying on their cots, hooked into the simulation, EKGs registering the electric lines of their heartbeats.

  Tom flashed to his own body—his real, not simulated, body—lying sprawled on the cot, cold and distant, then back to his avatar in the simulation, where he pulled out the neural wire from the wall. He didn’t need to hook into a port in the sim to interface with the system. He was already hooked into a port in the real world. That’s how he must have interfaced—through that wire connecting his real body to the cot in the real-world simulation room.

  They’d tricked all the cadets with that fake message: Error: connection to the server was reset. Simulation terminated.

  Tom stood there, fighting the urge to laugh, looking around the simulated simulation chamber. Well played. Mezilo’s new techs were good for something after all.

  They’d all been tricked into thinking this simulation was real. Obviously, there was some objective here, something being tested where their reactions were of utmost importance. Tom wasn’t sure if he should go downstairs and get taken hostage with the other trainees, or whether he should do his own thing.

  He’d find out. There was probably a stream of the sim being assessed right at this moment, and maybe he’d find out something if he knew who was watching them. He closed his avatar’s eyes, and interfaced with the system again, soaring out of himself until he found the stream of data flowing from the simulation. He jolted into a computer in General Mezilo’s office. Tom pulled back out, then located Mezilo’s office in the video surveillance system so he could see with his own eyes what was happening in there.

  As the image resolved in his vision center, shock sprang through him.

  Mezilo was there . . with Irene Frayne.

  What is she doing here? Tom wondered.

  The NSA agent was seated across from General Mezilo in his office, cool and blond and precise, monitoring a screen that kept switching between the feeds of various trainees in alphabetical order. Tom saw that it was on Walton Covner, and knew he had to snap back into himself before it reached the R’s.

  But he couldn’t resist listening to Frayne tell Mezilo, “. . . appreciate your cooperation in this. I know you’ve had some technical issues around here with the personnel changes.”

  “I’m glad for this opportunity, Ms. Frayne. I don’t want a Ramirez or Akron scenario under my watch,” Mezilo said gruffly. “Before I trot any of those CamCos back in the spotlight, I want to be sure of their loyalties.”

  “And you’ll be sure of them,” Frayne assured him. “We devised this current scenario with considerable care. Our best people worked on it. It’s designed specifically to discover seditious tendencies among the trainees and the Combatants. We’ll get more data as the scenario evolves.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, eyes on the screen. “I must admit, I was very pleased you responded to our overtures. Your predecessor—”

  “Marsh,” Mezilo said roughly.

  “Yes, General Marsh was never particularly cooperative with us when we proposed this idea to him. He called our efforts to ensure the integrity and loyalty of those in sensitive positions a witch hunt.”

  “I never liked Marsh running things here,” Mezilo said gruffly. “He treated them all like children. National security assets, and he wanted this place run like a school.” He was staring at the screen, now on the feed of Olli Dougan from Napoleon Division. “Here’s my question for you. Let’s say some of these kids fail. I know on my end, I won’t be promoting them. What happens on yours?”

  “It will depend upon the degree and nature of the failure. At the very least, we’ll know exactly which ones require closer examination. These are all very young trainees. If they have questionable sentiments, I’m certain we can trace it back to their families.”

  “So you’ll be looking at them, too.”

  “Naturally.”

  Tom jolted back to his avatar in the scenario. This was some sort of loyalty test. That meant he’d have to pass. Somehow.

  A few of his answers came soon. The voice of one of the Spire’s new soldiers, Master Sergeant Marvin Wurt, flared over the intercom. Tom straightened up, cheered to have some more information.

  “Attention to all who serve in the Pentagonal Spire: as you may have noticed, we have seized control of the installation. We’ve secured every exit, and we’re holding the Intrasolar cadets in the mess hall. The building is on lockdown.”

  Tom waved in the air impatiently, hoping for something substantial that would tell him how to be “ethical” in this simulation.

  “We want to assure you,” Wurt went on, “we are not your enemy. The force we’re employing is a mere necessity to ensure no violence on your part. We do not wish to injure you. We are active duty military who swore an oath to support and defend the US Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. We did not swear an oath to the Coalition of Multinationals. For too long, unelected corporate entities have used our skills to infringe upon the natural rights of the American people. Our fellow citizens have been disarmed and detained without due process under the provisions of the National Defense Authorization Act . . .”

  Tom felt a flutter of unease, remembering Frayne quoting that act to him to justify imprisoning Neil. His teeth ground together so hard, his jaw throbbed. He was suddenly getting an idea of what Frayne wanted from them.

  “The people of this country have been subjected to warrantless searches and seizures so often, they’ve come to accept it as the status quo. Private property has been confiscated using eminent domain for the benefit of the influential and politically connected on the false pretext of serving the public good. Freedom of speech has been curtailed, and the right to peaceably assemble and seek redress from the government has been eradicated, all in the name of national security. We do not accept our government treating this country like an occupied enemy territory, and we are putting a stop to this war against the American people. The Pentagonal Spire will be our platform to get our voices heard.”

  As Tom listened, rage simmered inside him. Everything they said made sense to him. Everything. If he hadn’t known this was a simulation, he wouldn’t have outright joined them, but he might have said something unwise that would have condemned him.

  Other trainees might do that, too. And they wouldn’t just feel the consequences themselves, if Frayne was to be believed. Their families would.

  His fists contracted, picturing Frayne’s face, realizing how cleverly she’d woven this trap to identify seditious tendencies. By using avatars of soldiers they were already familiar with as the rebels, she’d added yet another element to draw them into disaster.

  “You are not hostages,” Wurt said. “We intend to hold the Pentagonal Spire until the government acknowledges it has violated its compact with the states and submits itself to the will of the people. We don’t ask for your surrender, and we are not threatening you. We ask only that you don’t interfere.”

  Of course that’s all they asked. Frayne wanted all the trainees to have more reason to think these guys weren’t enemies
—and betray themselves by expressing the wrong sentiment, or even betray themselves through inaction. Then came the final words, the last pitch to draw out the traitors among the trainees:

  “If you agree with us, though, if you believe in freedom and a representative government by and for the people, then we invite you to join us. Rise with us. Defend our republic. Defend our Constitution. God bless you and God bless the United States of America.”

  The voice cut off.

  “Unbelievable,” Tom muttered to the air.

  A flare of molten hot resolve filled his veins. He thought of the unwitting trainees being held at gunpoint, some of whom might crack and cooperate because they were afraid, not because they were seditious. He thought of his friends, the victims of this sadistic loyalty test. As time wore on in the sim, the trainees would have more opportunities to take the wrong action and to get themselves on Frayne’s radar.

  It was entrapment. The image of Frayne’s cool smile scorched his brain, and Tom made up his mind: he’d spoil Frayne’s simulation if it was the last thing he did.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TOM’S FIRST TASK in his quest to end the simulation was to get downstairs to the armory.

  He had the neural wires, but he wanted to go back to that janitor’s closet to see if there was anything of use in there. He peered out at Ensign Rapert again, now at the end of the hallway, and dashed across the corridor.

  As soon as he eased the closet door closed, he heard movement stir in the darkness with him, and a small, muffled cry. Tom lashed forward, seized the other person, where he was trying to stay hidden. Tom clamped his hand over the kid’s mouth before he could cry out in fear.

  “It’s me, Tom Raines!” he whispered, then eased his hand up. “Who are you?”

  “T-T-Tom?”

  “Zane?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been in here?” Tom demanded, wondering frantically if Zane had already cooperated with the soldiers—and condemned himself as a traitor. “Were you with the others? Did they let you go or . . .”

  But the smallest and youngest of his plebes wagged his head. “I hid behind one of the cots. The soldier was double-checking all the rooms, so I ran here. Are we the only ones left?”

  “I think so,” Tom said.

  “W-what should we do?” Zane’s voice shook. He was terrified.

  Tom felt another surge of anger at Mezilo and Frayne, because it was one thing taking trainees who’d been here awhile, who’d become largely desensitized to violence after endless sims, and sticking them in this situation where guns were leveled at their heads. It was another thing doing this to the plebes, especially the newbies who’d never even been in a real sim before.

  Tom couldn’t even tell him there was no real danger. “First of all, I need you to calm down. Can you do that?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Take a minute. Breathe. Do it.”

  Zane sat on the floor and did that. It seemed to make him stop shaking when Tom took charge.

  “We’re going to need to get to the—” Tom stopped, realizing plebes didn’t have the armory unlocked in their processors. They didn’t know about it. “To the Calisthenics Arena.”

  “W-why?”

  “Zane, I outrank you, I’m in charge. I have a reason. That’s enough for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Those soldiers aren’t going to hurt us, so put that out of your mind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But we don’t want them to catch us. We’re going to have to knock out that guy in the hall, and we can’t risk the elevator. We’ll take the stairs.” He looked Zane over, debating whether to use him or not. There was this protective instinct in him, since this was his plebe, and the kid was really so little . . . but Tom knew this wasn’t real. It wasn’t like he could get him killed.

  “Listen,” Tom whispered to him, “you’re pretty small.”

  “I can still help you!”

  “I’m not saying you’re small so you should sit this out. I’m saying you’re small so we can use that to our advantage. I was a shrimp before the Spire and there are tons of advantages, okay? People look at you, and they see an easy target. They don’t feel threatened, you understand me? So no one’s gonna be on guard if you come up to them. Starting to comprehend where I’m going here?”

  LIEUTENANT RAPERT IMMEDIATELY raised his gun at the sight of Zane. Zane threw up his hands and said in a quavering voice, “Don’t shoot! Please, don’t shoot. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m so scared! Where did everyone go?”

  Rapert looked him over, and Tom, from where he was hidden around the turn of the corridor, could practically sense the moment he decided this little kid didn’t constitute a threat.

  “Are there others?” he demanded.

  “Down the hallway,” Zane mumbled.

  Rapert looked startled. “All right, lead the way.”

  Tom pressed himself back against the wall as Zane led the soldier by him, then Tom charged forward and snared his neural wire around the guy’s neck. Rapert gave a startled yell and raised his gun, but Tom slammed the side of Rapert’s head against the wall, and Zane wrested the gun out of his hand.

  Rapert put up a fight, but Tom drove his heel into the back of the man’s knee, buckling his leg. Tom plowed his whole weight into him, driving him down onto his stomach. He aimed a blow at the back of the man’s neck, and to his satisfaction, it stunned Rapert as effectively as it had Tom the day Blackburn used that move on him. He planted his knees into the guy’s back, digging in, all the while tightening the wire, pulling with all the strength until his bicep burned, trying to get as much of the man’s weight hanging on the wire as possible.

  Soon the fight died away, Rapert going limp.

  Tom staggered upright, then set about stripping away the man’s uniform. Even if it didn’t fool the simulated conspirators, it would buy him a few seconds before they started shooting, and he could use that. He eyed the gun Zane had grabbed. This was usually the point in a sim where he’d shoot the guy in the head, just to make sure he was out for good and dead, and not going to come back to plague them even more . . .

  But Zane didn’t realize this was a sim and Tom couldn’t tell him in case Mezilo’s feed happened to be streaming from one of them. Shooting the unconscious soldier would only convince Zane he was alone with a bloodthirsty maniac.

  “Come on,” Tom said with a sigh. “Let’s tie him up.”

  They bound him to a cot in the training room with their neural wires, then sealed the door shut behind them and charged toward the stairs.

  Zane was like a human minesweeper. Tom kept him a flight and a half ahead of him at all times. He knew when someone was coming when he heard them yell at Zane to put up his hands. Zane followed instructions, and his voice piped, “Don’t shoot! I don’t understand what’s going on. Please, I’m scared.”

  Then came the voice of Petty Officer Dinesh Perkins. “Anyone with you?”

  Zane led Perkins out into the corridor on Tom’s level—and Tom was waiting for him. He slammed the butt of his gun over the soldier’s head, then followed him to the floor and clubbed him again and again. Tom stole his gun and stashed it in his waistband.

  The third soldier, Private Brady Kuik, didn’t fall for the ploy, and ordered Zane to walk in front of him down the stairs, his gun still leveled at him. Tom had to get creative.

  He followed them as lightly as he could, stepping only when they stepped, eyes on the railing of the stairwell, knowing he’d have to time this perfectly. He set his guns down on the stairs, because he still was ruling out shooting anyone in front of Zane, and he didn’t want the soldier to get his hands on them, either.

  “. . . found a kid in the stairwell. I’m taking him down to the others,” Kuik said into his comm. “He says
there’s another on the third floor.”

  Tom’s ears picked out the scuffing of boots on the stairs, the lighter set, the heavier set. Then when the heavier pair was on the stairs directly below his, Tom dove over the rail, twisting midair, hands latching onto the rungs and swinging him toward the startled soldier, a brutal thrust of his boots driving the gun out of Private Kuik’s hands.

  Tom released his grip on the railing and landed at an awkward angle on the stairs. A split second of terrible realization informed him he was about to fall down the stairs, so he seized the soldier, and made sure he came tumbling down with him. They hurtled down, step to step, as Tom sped up the time perception of his neural processor to give him space to run calculations. Twist left forty degrees to make sure Kuik took the brunt of the next hit . . . right thirty degrees to crack his head against the next concrete step . . .

  They landed on the bottom of the stairwell, and Tom reset his perception of time to its default. He reared up faster than Kuik could, and slammed his palm into the man’s face, driving the cartilage of his nose up into his brain with a brutal crunch. Blood seeped out from his nostrils.

  Tom heard Zane’s rapid footsteps, scuttling down the stairs after them, and hastily twisted the guy’s head to face the wall so the kid wouldn’t realize he was dead. “That went well.” He was panting for breath as he pointed up the stairs. “Go. Get guns.”

  Zane fetched Tom’s guns. Tom emptied the third gun of bullets, pocketed them, then tossed the gun aside. He stashed one back in his waistband and kept the other in hand.

  It was lucky he did, because a voice startled him from below.

  “Both of you, freeze!” a woman shouted.

  Tom caught the glint of a gun out of the corner of his eye and acted on reflex—raising his gun faster and pulling the trigger. The shot echoed down the stairwell, splattering Second Lieutenant Mary Jo Hildebrand’s head across the wall. Zane began to scream. Tom seized him and shook him.