Olivia cleared her throat.
“Somewhat,” Marsh amended. “But little changes. Undetectable to you. You’re still you in every important sense of the word. Your frontal lobe, your limbic system, and your hippocampus are all intact.” At Tom’s blank look, he elaborated, “We don’t alter your thought process, emotions, or memories. We don’t change the essence of who you are. That would be a human rights violation. But once we install some hardware in your head, you’ll think faster. You’ll be one of the smartest human beings alive.”
“And, Tom, if you have doubts, you can decline,” Olivia added.
Marsh gave a crisp nod. “That’s right, son. Give me the word, and we’ll have you back at the Dusty Squanto with your old man. You signed a confidentiality agreement on the plane, and we’ll hold you to keeping what you’ve seen here to yourself, but I don’t think that will be hard for you. What’s important is, you come into this with your eyes wide-open.”
Tom couldn’t speak for a long while. His dad’s words returned to him, unbidden: You know how the military treats its people, Tom? They chew them up and spit them out, that’s how. You’re just another piece of equipment to them.
Equipment. A computer was a piece of equipment. He would be equipment.
“That’s the only way I can do this?” Tom blurted.
“The only way. Without the neural processor, you’re useless to us.”
And Marsh had waited until now, after Tom had turned on his father, pressured him into signing the consent form, flown across the country, and gotten his hopes up so high he’d been soaring in the stratosphere, to drop this bomb. It was manipulative. Tom didn’t need some computer in his head to see that. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling like a chump.
“Maybe this isn’t for me.” Tom watched Marsh’s face as he spoke, relishing the shock that washed over the old features. The general thought he’d hooked him. Thought he would feel he had no choice anymore. He felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction at proving him wrong.
“Well, son. That’s unexpected. That’s, well …” Marsh seemed to be fumbling for something to say.
“He’s made his decision,” Olivia said, triumph in her voice. “Take him home, Terry.”
The words sent panic skittering through Tom, because he wanted this life at the Pentagonal Spire. He wanted it ferociously. But he couldn’t just be some chump tricked into it. He’d never forgive himself. He’d rather gouge out his own eyes than let Marsh get away with manipulating him.
Marsh studied him for a long, tense moment. Then he said, “I’ll tell you what, Tom, how about I give you some time to think it over?”
Tom could have laughed. He’d bluffed and won. He’d forced Marsh to give in a bit. The tension eased in his muscles. He hadn’t let the general totally snow him. “Fine. I’ll think.”
Marsh seemed to relax, too. He held out a shiny black keycard, his watery eyes searching Tom’s face, trying to gauge how serious he was about resisting the idea of joining up. “Ms. Ossare, why don’t you escort Tom down to the mess hall? There are some meal points on this card. Have a bite to eat. On me. When you feel ready to make your decision, click on the pager.”
Tom glanced at the keycard and turned it in his hand for effect. “And if I say no, I get to leave?”
“Yes, Raines.” Marsh’s voice grew gruff.
“He’s legally obligated to allow it,” Olivia added.
Tom raised his eyes to hers and returned her smile with a quick one of his own. “Fine. I hope there are a lot of credits on this. I’m starved.”
Marsh’s look of irritation made it all the better.
TOM SETTLED AT a table in the mess hall directly beneath a row of screens in sleep mode and a large oil painting of a man with a plaque that proclaimed him General George S. Patton. He stared up at the gruff face of the general, an empty meal tray sitting on the tabletop before him. He didn’t actually feel like taking it over to the serving line and grabbing food. His head began to ache. He found himself wishing his dad was around.
Then again, if Neil had been there when General Marsh pulled that Oh-I-forgot-to-mention-the-computer-in-your-head-earlier thing, he would’ve exploded. Maybe punched him. And that wouldn’t have helped anything.
Tom scrubbed a hand through his hair. What was the matter with him? He couldn’t turn this down. And he shouldn’t take it personally. Marsh probably had some standard military recruitment playbook: get the kids away from their parents, get them to the Spire, get their hopes up, and then spring the big surprise-brain-surgery thing.
He held up the keycard and idly turned it back and forth, watching it glint in the light. Knowing he was being manipulated didn’t make him feel any better about it.
“If you’re not going to use those meal credits, can I?”
The voice startled him. Tom’s gaze jolted. It took him a long moment to remember the English language and the fact that he was capable of using it.
“So that wasn’t an avatar.”
“Nope.” Heather Akron was impossibly prettier in person, with her dark brown hair escaping its loose ponytail, her yellow-brown eyes like no color he’d seen naturally before. This time, she wore a uniform: camouflage trousers and dark tunic. The bald eagle insignia of the Intrasolar Forces was on her collar, and beneath it were four triangular points stacked on top of one another, like the tips of arrows shooting upward. “Yours isn’t an avatar, either,” she teased.
“No.” It wasn’t so funny this time, knowing she was seeing him up close.
“May I?” She gestured to the keycard.
“It’s the general’s. Go nuts.”
Heather’s eyes twinkled as she took it. “Thanks. I used up my snack allotment for this week on lattes. It’s so bad, but I can’t say no to myself sometimes.”
“You don’t have to. Say no to yourself, I mean. Not about lattes.” He stumbled over the words as she leaned in closer—close enough for her breath to brush his skin.
“How about General Marsh buys us both a drink, Tom?”
“That’s a great idea.” As long as Heather said his name like that while smiling at him like that, he’d agree that jumping in a nuclear reactor was a great idea, too.
Heather winked. “Perfect!” And she swept off to the coffee stand across the mess hall.
He watched her hips sway away and tried to think of witty things to say when she finally returned, even though he knew after that, she’d be gone. Beautiful girls didn’t hang around to talk to short, ugly guys with bad acne.
So he was all the more astonished a few moments later when she lowered herself across the table from him and slid a drink his way, her fingers poking out of the holes of what looked like biker gloves or something. He could see the Intrasolar Forces insignia on her palm, too. He knew what that bald eagle insignia looked like with his eyes closed. He’d seen it on the internet, on the news. He’d never even dared to hope he might get a chance to wear it himself. He knew he was crazy, even hesitating like this.
“I know I should cut back,” Heather lamented, sipping at her drink, “but I’m such a caffeine addict. I just love how wired it leaves me.”