Catalyst

by Kincaid,S. J.

  TOM FOUND OUT soon enough.

  After Calisthenics, Lance Corporal Jay Blum of the marines chased them all into the showers and then supervised them as they washed , yelling at anyone who dared to talk or failed to scrub down quickly enough.

  Dinner began with a formation of cadets at the door, just like morning meal formation always had, only this time a soldier sat with the cadets at each table . The officer at their table, Second Lieutenant Lew Haas of the air force, fired questions at them:

  “How many lights are in the Pentagonal Spire?

  “What is the memory capacity of the Pentagonal Spire’s server?

  “How many times are cadets permitted to chew their food?”

  It turned out to be six chews per bite, and they all had to do it at the same time. Tom got more penalty hours for swallowing too soon, then for chewing only four times. By the end of the meal, Tom had accumulated sixty penalty hours and the day had taken on a surreal quality like he’d stepped into someone else’s life.

  He still wasn’t sure what penalty hours were, and apparently cadets weren’t allowed to talk directly or even type messages to each other while in the line of sight of officers. The usual punishment for misdeeds in the Pentagonal Spire was restricted libs—confinement to the Spire during weekends, restriction of communication and internet privileges. The other, more severe punishment was scut work duty, cleaning around the Spire.

  Tom found out quickly why both those punishments had been eliminated.

  After dinner, his brand-new evening duties commenced, and Tom’s neural processor flashed with an order for him to report to the laundry room in the basement. As it turned out, everyone had scut work duty now on a nightly basis.

  When Tom walked into the laundry room, he found Giuseppe Nichols and Wyatt Enslow already hard at work. He ignored Giuseppe and picked his way over the stray bags of uniforms to Wyatt, realizing this was the first moment he’d been free from supervision since returning to the Spire.

  “Tom!” Wyatt called, sounding as happy to see him as he was to see her. He drew her into a hug that she returned stiffly, hitting his back in a way that was meant to be friendly, not slightly painful the way it was.

  Tom pulled back, seeing the frantic, harried look on her face. “How are you doing?”

  “Bad. I have five penalty hours,” Wyatt said sadly. “I can’t believe I’ve already gotten five.”

  “I’ve wanted to ask someone what those are,” Tom said. “I’ve got sixty.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “You just got back from vacation. How have you already gotten sixty?”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “Are you actually surprised by this?”

  She considered that. “Now that I think about it, not really.”

  “Yeah, thought not. Why’d you get yours?” He was puzzled, since she almost never got in trouble.

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “First, Yuri and I got an hour for holding hands when we got back from break.”

  “Are you serious? You got penalized for holding hands?”

  “General Mezilo has new policy against fraternization.”

  “Wait,” Tom sputtered. “Wait, we can’t fraternize now?”

  She shook her head. “Nope, not when we’re inside the Spire. Only the problem is, Mezilo’s banned us from leaving the Spire indefinitely, or even making external calls without supervision. He wants us on lockdown until we’ve demonstrated proper discipline.”

  “What about the internet?”

  “Nope.”

  Tom was aghast. No internet? He wasn’t sure how people could exist without even the internet.

  “Yuri and I got the first hour for holding hands even though we didn’t know the new regulations yet,” she went on, “then I got one hour because a few strands of my hair were touching the collar of my uniform at the weekly haircut inspection—”

  “Weekly haircut inspection?”

  “Haircut and boot inspection,” she clarified, as though that made it any less ridiculous. “Then I got an hour for putting all the information about the Pentagonal Spire in the civilian classes homework feed. General Mezilo wants everyone to have to memorize how many lights are in the Spire, how many windows, how much square footage, that type of stuff—the old-fashioned way. Never mind that we have photographic memories anyway and only need to read the blueprints once. He even asked techs if they could disrupt our photographic memories so we have to rely on our brains. He doesn’t seem to get that the neural processor atrophies parts of the brain. If you disable the memory function in some of the people who have been here for years, they don’t have a hippocampus to compensate anymore.”

  “Wait, wait . . . What techs?”

  Blackburn was a complete control freak with the software writing around the Pentagonal Spire, Tom knew. He’d never retained techs for very long. He preferred to sleep two hours a night rather than trust other people with his encryptions.

  Well, people other than Wyatt, that was.

  “Some new Obsidian Corp. contractors. General Mezilo’s hired them to write trainee software. He wants Lieutenant Blackburn to limit himself to maintaining the Spire’s firewall. He won’t even let him teach Programming anymore. We have more Calisthenics instead.”

  Tom thought of Blackburn’s dark expression in the vactrain, and realized he might not be the only cause of the man’s ire. “Blackburn’s gotta hate that.”

  “Weird thing is, he doesn’t show it. He’s acting like all the other soldiers. He gave me a penalty hour for going down to the basement to ask if there was anything I could do around here. He’s assigned to a duty station there and we’re not supposed to walk freely in the installation anymore.”

  Tom wasn’t surprised. Even if Wyatt had been Blackburn’s go-to trainee, he wasn’t in the same position with a new general running the place. General Marsh couldn’t afford to get rid of Blackburn because he’d staked his career on bringing Blackburn back into the Spire. This General Mezilo had no reason to keep him. Blackburn had to tread lightly if he wanted to stay.

  “The new techs have no idea what they’re doing,” Wyatt whispered, “but they won’t let me help, and they’ve shut out Lieutenant Blackburn. There have been so many errors with the download streams, and General Mezilo’s stopped simulations altogether until they’ve figured out the system well enough to run them. Oh, that’s how I got another penalty hour. I offered to help the new warrant officers when they were trying to figure out the system. I spoke without having been asked a direct question.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Vik says they’re trying to integrate us with the rest of the military,” Wyatt told Tom, hoisting herself up to sit on one of the industrial-sized washing machines. There were shadows under her eyes in the fluorescent light of the room. “At first, he thought it was great, but even he’s changed his mind. Everyone bosses everyone lower ranking than them around now. Some people are just on a power trip. Grover Stapleton yelled at me for five minutes today.”

  Tom thought of Grover Stapleton. He was an Upper in Alexander Division from Andover, Massachusetts. Since he’d lived in Texas for three months when he was a kid, he spoke in a fake drawl and told everyone to call him Clint. Tom had killed him several times the year before in Applied Scrimmages, which was always good fun for him, not so much for Clint. Like many people, Clint heartily disliked Tom.

  “You got promoted to Upper company at the same time as Clint,” Tom told her. “He doesn’t get to yell at you. He doesn’t outrank you.”

  She sighed. “He’s squad leader.”

  “Huh? Squad leader? What is that?”

  “Each level in each division has one for girls, one for guys. He’s yours—he’s in charge of Upper boys in Alexander Division. So he technically outranks us. The squadron leaders are supposed to make sure we’re all doing our scut work duty.”

  “Wonderful,” Tom said, then remembered what she’d just said. “Wait. He really yelled at you? Why?”

  “My shoe was un
tied,” she said mournfully, looking down at her combat boots.

  “She almost cried,” Giuseppe called helpfully. “I saw it.”

  “I did not almost cry,” Wyatt retorted. “I got something in my eye.”

  Anger flashed through Tom. “Did you punch him when he got in your face like that? I hope you punched him.”

  She crossed her slim arms over her chest. “That wouldn’t help anything.”

  “Did Yuri punch him?” Tom couldn’t imagine Yuri would let Clint yell at Wyatt and get away with it.

  “No, because it just happened, and Yuri doesn’t know. And he won’t know. You can’t tell him. Everything we do gets us in trouble now. I don’t want Yuri getting more penalty hours.”

  “I’m gonna punch Clint, then,” Tom declared.

  “Tom, don’t. I don’t want you in more trouble either. Leave it alone.”

  “Fine. Fine,” Tom said, then they began picking through the vast piles of laundry with Giuseppe.

  But within minutes, the door slid open, and boots thumped in. “What are y’all up to?” A voice drawled. “Working slow? You’re not at your grandma’s house! Get moving!”

  Clint.

  Tom saw anxiety flitter over Wyatt’s face, and craned his head back to see the smirking kid with scrub-brush brown hair and crooked eyebrows. So he was their scut work supervisor?

  Tom flashed a dangerous smile, reached down and untied his shoes. “Oh no,” he exclaimed, to draw Clint’s attention to him.

  “What are you doing, Raines?” Clint demanded.

  “Oh gosh, my boots are untied,” Tom said, flicking the end of the shoelace carelessly to the side so Clint would know he’d done it on purpose.

  “Tie them,” Clint ordered.

  “No can do, Clint. I can’t remember how to tie them.”

  Clint grew scarlet. “That’s a direct order!”

  “A direct order?” Tom deliberately stretched his legs out so Clint could see how very untied they remained, and scratched his head. “That’s funny, because authority sort of requires the ability to enforce your power, and I honestly don’t see what you’re gonna do to make me listen to you, Grover.” He deliberately called Clint by his real name, not his chosen nickname. It made Clint flush.

  “Call me Clint!” he snapped. “I can report you to General Mezilo, you know.”

  “Wow, Grover, you’re honestly gonna tell on me? Are you really? That’s pathetic.”

  Clint’s face screwed up. “I don’t need to tell on you. I’ll make you do it, you—” He grabbed Tom’s collar and tried to jerk him upright. That’s when Tom’s fist caught him square in the face, knocking him back to the ground, upending several bags of laundry.

  “Sorry,” Tom told the boy on the ground carelessly. “That was a total accident. Oh, my mistake . . . That was a total accident, ‘sir.’” He rose to his feet and leaned over to stare down into Clint’s face, his voice growing low and threatening. “And I promise, it’s an accident that’s gonna happen again and again, maybe several times in rapid succession, followed by a boot to your face, if you ever shout at Wyatt again. We clear here, Grover?”

  Like most bullies, Clint was a coward at heart, and he nodded so Tom would back off—then scrambled out of the room, muttering threats of revenge. Tom turned to Wyatt, and saw her shaking her head.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.” But there was a faint flush to her cheeks, and she seemed to be fighting a smile. “It was counterproductive to the situation.”

  Tom grinned at the sight, knowing she approved even if she’d never admit it. “Maybe,” he said, “but if Clint doesn’t get the message, I guarantee you I’m gonna go all counterproductive on him again.”

  Wyatt flung her arms around him. Surprised, Tom laughed softly and hugged her back. Despite all the changes at the Pentagonal Spire, he felt like he’d come home.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “THOMAS RAINES.”

  General Antony J. Mezilo pronounced his name with some distaste as Tom stood at attention before him in the office that used to belong to General Marsh. Clint’s incident report lay on the desk before him.

  “I’ve been warned about you. Seems you’re infamous for being a disrespectful, impudent young rascal. If it weren’t for that computer in your head, and the good words in your file from Joseph Vengerov, I would boot you straight out of here. Any soldier with your attitude, I’d run straight out of the service.”

  “I’m not a soldier, sir,” Tom thought to remind him. “None of us are.”

  “Quiet!” Mezilo bellowed. “You weren’t given permission to speak.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  This time, Tom stayed silent.

  “That was a direct question, Raines. From now on, you answer direct questions from your superiors.”

  Tom eyed him warily, because that wasn’t a direct question.

  Mezilo leaned back in his chair, surveying Tom with small, angry eyes. Mezilo had a wide nose with quivering nostrils, and thinning brown hair combed over his balding dome of a head. Tom wondered idly who’d warned Mezilo about him. There were far too many possibilities. “My predecessor,” Mezilo said, “believed in treating you all with kid gloves. You have computers in your heads. He argued that you weren’t soldiers serving a tour of duty and then leaving—you’re civilians bound to us for life, so we should make it as tolerable as we can for you. He believed you lot shouldn’t feel you’re making a sacrifice, being here. I disagree with him. I don’t think you should be civilians, and if I can’t officially change that, then I can at least make you act like soldiers. This is a dangerous world, and there’s a new terrorist out there, this ghost in the machine . . .”

  Do not react, Tom thought. Do not react, do not react. . . .

  “We can’t afford the chaos that reigned over this place. Defections, a disappearance . . . I won’t have it on my watch. They say space combat is about individual fighters, acting on their own initiative. That sounds like poppycock to me.”

  Tom had never heard someone use the word “poppycock.” Keep a straight face. Do not laugh.

  “I intend to create a fighting militia out of these Combatants. Individualism . . . ha. Every military academy in the world emphasizes the greater whole over the individual, and this place should be no exception.” With a last furious look at Tom, Mezilo turned his attention to the incident report on the desk. “I’ve looked over your record here. Seems you have a tendency to wander off on your own in battle simulations. My predecessor liked that, but I don’t.”

  Hot pride and indignation reared inside Tom. “I had the highest kill ratio of any of the Middles, sir.”

  “Did I ask you a question, Raines?”

  Tom shut his mouth.

  “You don’t learn lessons. That’s another thing I know about you. Oh, it’s not explicitly written in your file, but it’s obvious enough. You made contact with an enemy and got yourself a stint in the census device. You wandered off in Antarctica and lost your fingers. You seem to have an infinite capacity to take your licks, and that tells me whipping you into shape will be a waste of my time. So what am I gonna do with you, cadet?”

  Tom watched him uncertainly. “Sir, is that a direct question or a rhetorical one?”

  “Check that attitude! I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do with you. I’m giving you plebes.”

  Plebes?

  “See, I’m gonna do the nastiest thing I can do to a kid who thinks he’s a rebel. I’m putting you in a position of authority.” Mezilo’s craggy eyebrows drew into a fierce line. “You are going to take a group of plebes and you’re going to make sure they adjust to the new scheme of things. You’ll be responsible for their discipline, and you’ll whip them into shape.”

  Tom gaped at him. He had to discipline plebes?
He didn’t even know the rules around here yet, much less know how to enforce them.

  “They get railroaded out of this place under your watch, Raines,” Mezilo added, taking a sort of satisfaction from Tom’s dismay, “then it’ll be your burden. Your responsibility. Everything that happens to them will be squarely on you. And you’ve gotta live with ruining those kids’ prospects for the rest of your life. How does that sound?”

  Tom stared at General Mezilo, still uncertain he’d heard him right.

  “I asked you a direct question.”

  “It sounds like it’s going to be difficult, sir.”

  “Damn right it will be. You’ll get more details this weekend.” Mezilo turned away from him as though he didn’t merit another glance. “Dismissed.”

  AFTER THAT, TOM’S neural processor directed him to the Calisthenics Arena, where he finally found out what penalty hours were: he had to join something called Accountability Formation, where a bunch of other cadets who’d also accumulated penalty hours lined up and marched back and forth, at a minimum of one hundred twenty paces per minute.

  The old gang’s back together, Vik net-sent Tom cheerfully, flicking his eyes to each side, where Yuri and Wyatt were standing at attention next to him.

  Tom fought a smile and took his position next to them. On cue at 1900, everyone began walking back and forth. And back and forth. On and on it went. They tried net-sending to pass the time. All the practice as Middles had helped Tom hone his precision with net-send—he no longer leaked every embarrassing thought—but he still leaked some. Like when Iman Attar marched past, and he thought idly, I like boobs.

  Vik smirked at him fleetingly. Real profound thoughts as always, Doctor.

  There was an embarrassing void of thought for a short while, then Wyatt made it worse. Did Medusa have very sizable breasts?

  Tom and Vik both stumbled, and Cadence Grey, the bored-looking CamCo who was now called a regimental commander, gave them both another hour for breaking formation.