Insignia

by S. J. Kincaid

  Tom flicked away Marsh’s profile when it popped up in his vision.

  NAME: Terry Marsh

  RANK: Brigadier General

  Grade: USAF 0-7, Active Duty

  SECURITY STATUS: Top Secret LANDLOCK-16

  “They need to wear a badge at all times,” Marsh said, “and you must remain with them. You are not to reveal the names of your classmates. I don’t care how many times they ask about your friends. You do not answer them. If they somehow sneak in a camera, you are to take it away. You are also accountable for any acts of espionage or sabotage your parents commit while they’re here.” Marsh didn’t look pleased at the sniggers that greeted this. “Countries have been betrayed by attitudes like that! You’re lucky you have a Parents’ Weekend at all. Were it up to me, and not the Congressional Defense Committee, we’d have you on lockdown. And we’d have much better security for it.”

  Tom couldn’t seem to muster a snigger at Marsh’s worry about parental sabotage of the Spire. He wouldn’t put it past Neil to do something like that. He couldn’t predict anything when it came to his dad.

  After the briefing, Olivia halted him in the hallway. “Tom, I’ve been compiling a list of visiting parents. I haven’t been able to get in touch with your father to issue an invitation.”

  Tom’s shoulders relaxed. Profound relief surged through him, edged with a strange sense of disappointment. “You won’t. He moves around a lot. No number, doesn’t even use VR. There’s no chance you’ll find him.”

  “Do you have any idea—?”

  “You’re wasting your time looking for him. He wouldn’t want to come, anyway.”

  When the day finally came, he settled on his bed for a long afternoon of watching Medusa fight and maybe video gaming a bit. So it shocked him when he was just getting ready to replay Medusa’s battle on Titan, and he received a ping: Report to the lobby to serve as parental escort.

  Tom lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, utterly stunned. No way. No way, no way. Could Neil have found out somehow? Had he come? How was it possible?

  Report to the lobby to serve as parental escort, came a follow-up ping.

  Tom leaped up from his bed, shoved his hair into something resembling a decent state, and then headed for the elevators. Neil was really here? He smoothed down his hair again, his every nerve jumping inside him.

  It occurred to Tom after the elevator was sweeping downward that it might not be his father.

  It might be his mother.

  No. Impossible. It wasn’t something she did. He’d visited her that time Neil was sentenced to sixty days in jail. She’d stared at him, amazed, as though she couldn’t believe such an ugly creature came from her. She hadn’t hugged him—and he hadn’t hugged her. They’d probably said three words to each other.

  And then her boyfriend, Dalton, showed up with a rent-a-cop toting a retina scanner, and demanded, “Are you all right, Delilah?” As though Tom would travel all the way across the country just to hurt his own mother.

  Even after the scanner verified Tom’s identity, Dalton planted himself in the apartment, watching Tom’s every move suspiciously, like he was certain Tom’d only visited so he could burn the building down. His mother sent her maid out to rent a VR set for him, and then left somewhere with Dalton, and didn’t return again. Tom didn’t bother waiting for her when Neil got an early release. He left her a note and headed back to his only real family—his dad.

  He felt like he was in a strange dream when he emerged, threading through the masses of parents. He spotted Vik and his sari-wearing mother, and trailed to a halt, fighting the absurd impulse to enlist backup.

  And then he really saw Vik, and noticed the way Vik’s mother was smoothing down the shoulders of his uniform and saying in Hindi, “. . . still don’t know why you wanted to come all the way overseas when you could have trained in Bombay.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times,” Vik replied, “I have a much better chance of being a Combatant if I train in America. There’s a lot more funding over here.”

  “Are they feeding you enough, Vikram? You look skinny!” She switched to heavily accented English: “I should have brought you a home-cooked meal. Are you still having tummy troubles?”

  “Mom!” Vik cried.

  “I just want to— Is that boy laughing at us?”

  Tom fought to smother his laughter. Vik’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. He doesn’t speak Hindi, so he doesn’t understand us.”

  Tom was getting a real kick out of Vik’s torment. When Vik’s mother wasn’t looking, Vik made a strangling motion and mouthed, “kill you.” Tom patted his stomach and mouthed, “tummy troubles” back at him. Then he darted farther into the crowd before Vik’s mom could notice him again.

  He passed Beamer with his parents and his loudmouthed little redheaded sister.

  “Show us guns, Stephen!”

  “It’s not allowed, Crissy, I told you . . .”

  He also spotted Yuri at the edge of the crowd with a tall, light-haired man with such pale eyebrows, they blended into his forehead. Tom guessed that was his father. They weren’t moving at all, just standing at a careful distance from each other, speaking too quietly for any words to reach Tom’s ears.

  In a back corner beneath the dip of the eagle’s wings, Tom passed Wyatt, sitting ramrod stiff, her arms folded across her torso. Her mother, a toothpick-thin woman with tumbling dark curls, was hanging back at several feet’s distance looking her over like a piece of artwork she didn’t want to buy. “. . . just can’t get over how tall you are now. I thought for sure you were done growing. Look at her! She’s taller than you, George.”

  Her husband, a squat man lounging indolently in a nearby chair, glanced over and gave a hearty laugh. “First glance, I wondered if I should call you ‘my son,’ Wyatt. What’s with all these muscles, anyway?” He grabbed her bicep and shook her arm jokingly. “Guess you came here to be some girl Rambo?”

  Wyatt reclaimed her arm and hugged it to her chest. “Physical fitness is part of being here. I can’t help it if I’m getting muscles.”

  And just beyond Wyatt’s parents, Tom picked out a lone man gazing up toward the eagle. Then it all made sense. This was his visitor.

  Of course. Of course. What had he really expected?

  Tom smirked, feeling like an idiot. He closed the distance, eager to get this over with.

  “This is for family only. What are you doing here, Dalton?”

  Like the last time Tom saw him, Dalton Prestwick had gelled hair, a smarmy smirk, and a crisp suit. He spotted Tom and tilted his chin a bit so Tom had to look higher to meet his eyes. He wished he’d hit six feet so this guy could never look down on him again.

  “I was in the area, and your mother signed a waiver for me to be your guest instead of her,” Dalton informed him. “Quite a place you’ve got here. How you holding up, sport?”

  Tom’s hands curled into fists. He was honestly tempted to laugh, because he felt so stupid for even thinking one of his parents might visit him. “Just tell me what you want.”

  Dalton’s eyes narrowed, the pretense of civility dropping off his face. “That’s no way to talk to me, little punk.”

  There it was. That was the real Dalton.

  Dalton sighed and looked away from him. “I’m here with some colleagues of mine. Joseph Vengerov, over there”—he nodded toward the man with Yuri. Not Yuri’s father, then. “I used to work for him. The other’s off in the crowd somewhere. Mike Marsters. A retired coworker. His son’s here. The boy’s named Karl.”

  Tom laughed. He couldn’t help it. It figured that a business partner of Dalton’s would father a great guy like Karl.

  “They were coming here, so I thought I’d swing by and check on you. It about knocked my socks off when I heard you were here. Never thought you’d make something of yourself.”

  “I know what this is about. You’re playing nice with me so you can get a good look at the Spire. And if you think I’m going to be y
our ticket inside, forget it.” Tom turned to leave.

  “Uh-uh.”

  A hand grabbed his shoulder. Tom threw it off and whirled around. “What?”

  Dalton’s voice dropped to an intent whisper. “Listen up, kid. I don’t think you understand the politics of this place. Who do you think has a chance of making it here? Of joining Camelot Company?”

  Tom regarded him intently, wondering if Dalton knew something he did not.

  “You need sponsors. Corporate sponsors to back your bid.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well, who do you think put the nail in the coffin of that Nigel Harrison kid’s bid for Camelot Company? I did, on behalf of Dominion Agra.”

  “You nixed Nigel?”

  But it made sense. It must have been Dalton. Trainee identities were classified. The process of advancing to CamCo was classified. There was no other way Dalton could know about how Nigel got nominated for Camelot Company, then shot down in a matter of days when it became clear he was never going to find any sponsors from the Coalition to back up his bid. Rumor had it, various company reps wrote to the Defense Committee and deemed him “flat, charmless, and uninspiring.” None of the companies wanted him affiliated with them.Dalton straightened up, brushing some invisible lint off his designer suit. “Of course I did. I’m with Dominion Agra, and Dominion is one of the main funders of the war effort. I could point out a half-dozen members of Camelot Company we talk to. We even sponsor Karl, specify him as our Combatant of choice for certain conflicts, and supply him with combat machines. That’s how sponsorship works. It’s not just about giving certain Combatants more airtime than others. It’s about helping out the military financially on behalf of that Combatant—that’s how you get influence around here.”

  This time when Dalton leaned closer, Tom didn’t back away.

  “But we’re looking for more, Tom. More Combatants to represent Dominion. The right ones. You were useless to me before, but you could be something here. We could be of use to each other in the long run, you and me. If Dominion sponsors you, it’s your ticket straight into CamCo.”

  “So what do you get out of it?”

  “In the short term? Two years from now, you’ll be a Combatant, and we’ll have another call sign affiliated with Dominion. In the long run? You kids don’t seem to realize, Elliot Ramirez isn’t the only walking brand among you. People want to know all about the other Combatants. Enigma, Matador, Firestorm, Stinger—they have fan followings, blogs devoted to them. Mystique. A market. One day, if we have our way on this, the Combatants will all become public, and you’ll all be as valuable as Ramirez. And the sponsors attached to you? They’ll profit from it, too. You could represent Dominion one day, Tom. It’s always good to have a nice, wholesome kid attached to our image.”

  “Wholesome?” Tom echoed.

  “And it helps that you’re not so runty now. I see they got that stuff off your face, too. You’re not a bad looking kid. Certainly not a mouthy little eyesore like that Nigel Mctwitchy kid.”

  Tom thought of Nigel, with his perpetual tic, and tasted something sour in his mouth. If he ever helped out Dalton Prestwick with anything, he knew, he’d be betraying his father. And himself. He wanted nothing more than to laugh in Dalton’s face and see that look of smug superiority disappear. But he couldn’t treat Dalton like he counted for nothing. Not if he wanted to go anywhere here.

  Not if he wanted to be in Camelot Company one day.

  “Yeah, well, even if I make it to CamCo, it’s still a long way away,” Tom told him. “I’m not even thinking that far ahead.”

  “Well, start.” Dalton tapped his temple beneath his gelled hair. “Prove to the world that you’re smarter than your old man.”

  Tom drove his balled-up fists into his pockets. It was that or drive them into Dalton’s face.

  Nearby in the crowd, Tom saw that the man Vengerov had parted ways with Yuri and was walking toward them. Vengerov snapped his fingers at Dalton as he strode past him. Dalton jumped and began straightening his tie. “I have to go, Tom, but think it over. You’ll hear from me again soon.”

  Tom stood there, rooted in place, taking several deep breaths as Dalton’s footsteps echoed their way across the marble floor. His fists throbbed from the effort of keeping them jammed in his pockets.

  He didn’t relax until he was sure Dalton Prestwick was gone. If he’d said one more thing about Neil, just one . . .

  Well, Tom wouldn’t have a chance of making CamCo after punching a Dominion Agra exec right in the face.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  Chapter Eleven

  ONE FRIDAY IN Applied Simulations, Elliot ran them through a meditation exercise where they visualized a white light interacting with what he called their chakras. Then he sat them in a circle.

  “Now, we’ve focused in past simulations on playing offense. Hungry wolves attacking a moose. The Greek gods attacking the Norse gods. Terminators hunting Predators. But today we’re going to have a change of pace. The trickiest space battles don’t happen when we’re on the offensive. Our most important focus is on retaining the parts of the solar system we’ve already secured. There are mining platforms to defend, satellite hubs to protect, and shipyards to patrol. . . . We’re going to practice teamwork as a defensive measure. So I want you to prepare yourselves for being the attacked, the targets of aggression.”

  The simulation cranked to life around them, and Tom found himself standing with a shield and a sword, guarding a massive walled city. The information stream in his neural processor outlined the scenario: this was the ancient city of Troy; they were in the middle of the Trojan War, defending themselves from the Greek army—a massive collection of soldiers sprawled across the sandy ground beyond the city’s walls and crawling over the distant beaches like ants.

  Tom’s first impulse was to climb down and engage outside the walls, but Elliot anticipated it—knowing him by now. “Tom. Defense. Remember?”

  Tom’s eyes flipped over the sea of gleaming helmets, flashing swords, clanking armor, positioned at a careful distance. “But they’re not attacking. How do we play defense if there’s no offense?”

  “This was a nine-year-long war,” Elliot countered. “The Trojans didn’t engage the Greeks every single day.”

  “So we’re just going to stand here for three hours?”

  “Consider it a lesson in patience.”

  Elliot had cast himself as Hector, the greatest Trojan warrior, a prince who could move throughout the city at will. He’d made Tom a sentry and in that way confined him to the walls. Beamer was a sentry, too.

  This was his revenge, Tom figured, for their Wednesday simulation. They’d been a school of piranhas. Beamer had decided to attract a nearby crocodile. He’d waggled his tail in hopes of getting eaten. (“Never died by croc before,” he told Tom afterward.) Tom saw Beamer eaten and decided to take a bite out of the croc’s vulnerable eye, and in the process of maneuvering, led it straight to Elliot. The older boy got gobbled in one bite.

  On the bright side, Tom had managed to tear out one of the croc’s eyes and devour it before he got eaten, too.

  Beamer shuffled his way over to Tom, his character soaked in sweat. “God, I’m bored.” He dropped his heavy bronze shield with a mighty clang. “Want to commit suicide with me? We could stab each other on the count of three.”

  “Nah. Mutual suicide’s too Romeo and Juliet for me. I’m going to wait until Elliot’s not looking and jump down to fight the Greeks.” Tom glanced over his shoulder, but Elliot—as Hector—was watching them like a hawk from his chair in the shade.

  Below, the Greek army had shifted. Tom leaned forward, intrigued, and watched a small detachment of men break away. They scurried to the wall and dodged spears and arrows as they piled some sacks at the base of the wall. He elbowed Beamer. “Look, they’re doing someth
ing down there. I think they’re going to attack.”

  Beamer looked down with disinterest, then drew his sword. “Nah, looks more like they’re having a picnic in the shade. I’m going to off myself.”

  “Don’t do it. Don’t. You have so much to live for,” Tom cried dramatically.

  “I have to! Tell my girlfriend . . . I love her!” Beamer cried, playing along. He raised his sword, blade flashing in the sunlight.

  “Later, man.”

  Beamer drove his sword into his own gut. His face changed. He grew deathly pale, his eyes boggled out, and he gave a shrill scream.

  Tom watched his dramatics with a smirk. Sims weren’t like Calisthenics—it hurt dying in Applied Sims. But only a little, about as much as a dull headache, just enough to give them a reason to try not to die. Not enough to stop Beamer from dying every chance he got. And certainly not this much.

  “Oh, oh, OH GOD!” Beamer screamed, thrashing back to the ground. “OH GOD! This hurts!”

  “Yeah,” Tom said lazily. “I’m not falling for it, Beamer.”

  “Oh God, oh God, this hurts! It hurts, Tom!”

  “Overdoing it, aren’t you, buddy?”

  But Beamer was convulsing, blood blossoming out around his punctured gut. “Tom, Tom, help me!” He was sobbing. “Help me. Make it stop! This hurts!”

  The smile died off Tom’s lips as Beamer wept. Cold tingles of uneasiness moved down Tom’s spine, because it dawned on him that Beamer wasn’t faking this. A fatal wound kicked you out of a simulation. Instantly. He wasn’t supposed to thrash. He was supposed to heal or vanish.