Elliot was silent a moment to let the lofty words sink in. Then he launched into a tedious description of something called Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. He related those needs to anecdotes from his own life, and other moving tales of triumph over adversity he’d read in letters from his many adoring fans. Then he veered into a discussion about the triumph of the human spirit.
Tom grew so restless with the talk about self-empowerment that he almost shifted his weight right off the cot. He knew—just knew—that Heather and even that Genghis Division guy, Karl Marsters, had been running their own groups through fantastic simulations for over a half hour while Elliot perched in that preschooler circle with them, delighting himself with the sound of his own voice.
After what seemed like an eternity, Elliot gave a start. “Wow. Has it been thirty minutes? Time sure zipped by, didn’t it?”
Tom laughed. He muffled it behind his hand and pretended it was a cough. Elliot flicked him a glance but bought it. Wyatt shot him a ferocious scowl, and Beamer gave a not-so-subtle conspiratorial grin.
“Let’s get started with the simulation, everyone,” Elliot called. “Hook yourselves in.”
A shuffling sound filled the chamber as the plebes around him leaned down to grab neural wires from beneath the cots, then they connected them to their brain stem ports and stretched out on their cots. Tom heard clicks throughout the room, and he reached down to grab his own wire. He was so excited suddenly that his hands shook as he unwound it.
“Hold on there, Hot-to-Trot.”
It took Elliot’s grip on his shoulder to make Tom realize he was the one being addressed.
Elliot raised a finger. He seated himself at the foot of Tom’s cot, waiting out the others. Within moments, they were as good as alone. The rest of the plebes had lapsed into silence and utter stillness. The EKG monitors registered the steady electric lines of their heartbeats.
“Is something wrong?” Tom blurted.
“Tom, I realize we’re not military regulars, but I’m your superior, and you need to address me as sir.”
“Right.”
Elliot waited.
“Right, sir.”
Elliot removed the coil of wire from Tom’s grasp and began unwinding it with a graceful, fluid twirl of his hands. “Now, Tom, do you know much about Applied Simulations?”
“I know enough,” Tom said. “We enter a group simulation, we work as a team, we carry out some objective. It’s all in the brain, like Calisthenics without the workout.”
“Not quite. You see, in Calisthenics, you’re presented with false images, but you’re still aware of your own body. In Applied Sims, you are literally receiving sensory info directly from your neural processor according to the simulation’s parameters. Applied Sims is designed to mimic the way we use neural processors to interface with machines in combat. Hooking in feels like being inside a new body. You may not remember yourself; you may only know what your character knows, depending on the parameters of the program. Some people find it frightening the first few times because it’s a total immersion experience. The emphasis is on teamwork.”
“Sounds great.”
“You say that, but I bet you’re nervous.”
“I’m really not.”
“Oh, sure you’re not.” Elliot gave him a knowing look Tom did not appreciate at all. “Now, Tom, the first time hooking in can be scary. I like to take my plebes through it personally.”
“I’ll be okay. Sir.”
But Elliot strode around to the other side of the cot. “Lean forward.”
Tom braced his hands on the edge of the mattress and dipped his head. A hand clasped his shoulder to anchor him in place. Tom clenched his jaw. Elliot was so close that he could feel hot breath on his neck.
“You can let me know if you get frightened or uncomfortable. It’s pretty common—”
“I’ll be fine,” Tom cut in. Then, “Sir.”
The wire clicked into his brain stem and the world tunneled into blackness. All sensation seeped from his limbs with a horrifying abruptness.
“That happened faster than I …” Tom’s voice blurred away mid-sentence.
The last glimpse he had through his own eyes was of the world flying downward as he keeled over.
AND THEN TOM was not Tom.
Blinding whiteness on all sides of him. An icy tundra crushed beneath a thick gray sky. Chill wind stung at his eyes, his skin, yet it felt perfect to him, bracing.
A strange feeling pulsed through him, his muscles, his tendons. Blood, vitality, life. He bounded forward, his paws treading over the cold, hard snow, and the scents tearing at his nostrils overwhelmed him. His vision became a dim afterthought and all he could do was stand there, experiencing the tastes on the wind.
The earthy scent of friends.
A hot, rich taste of prey.
That distracted him. He thrust his muzzle up into the wind and inhaled it, the teasing, taunting scent calling to him. But there was something else.
Danger.
He thrust his muzzle against the icy ground and checked on it. An image in his head: the stale white fur of a predator, blood-crusted paws, a low roar.
Danger gone for some time now. A massive predator. Stalking across the snow. Gone now.
He followed more scents, entranced. Ice … metal … dirt … man …
Howling.
The call of his friends split the air. He hurled himself toward them without deciding to, tearing across the snowy plain, driven by an insatiable need to add to that sound. The scent of family grew stronger and richer in his nostrils and then he was among the other wolves of his pack and throwing back his head, the sound rising from deep in his throat. The wail seemed to pierce the sky above them and spread over the valley, a sense of union like he’d never known before welling inside him.
The largest and the strongest wolf charged into their midst. The tails of the other wolves flopped down submissively. Ferocious barking from the alpha, and then the alpha whipped around and charged toward that scent on the wind, toward the sweetness of prey with its fresh, pulsing blood and tender flesh. The pack became a gray surge tearing over the plains, tails straight and tense, following their leader.
The warm, rich scent of prey mounted on the air, its gathering power the single measure of time. They stayed with the winds, icy blasts of it carrying the scent toward them while concealing their approach from the target.
Then they were upon their prey. The moose raised its massive head. It knew they were closing in on it. It bounded forward and tried to run, but the alpha snarled and cut off its retreat. The prey knew it could not outrun them. As the alpha tore toward the beast, it turned and ducked its massive horns, ready to impale him. The alpha leaped clear by instinct.
The rest of the pack enveloped the creature, leaping forward, nipping, gnashing at it with teeth. Barks and growls filled the air along with the bellows of the massive creature. Hooves swiped down and the bloody scent of the first wolf killed—Beamer—roused something human in Tom.
Two more went down, victims to those massive horns, yet the alpha wolf kept circling, leaving tiny, gashing injuries on the magnificent creature too powerful to be toppled by such a pitiful attack.
So Tom hung back.
Tom ignored the call of instinct, demanding he join the fruitless attack, the subroutines trying to force him in line with the alpha’s plan. He instead watched, like Tom the boy in the VR parlors used to, and he saw his opening. He didn’t hesitate. He sprang into the fray, flying right over the heads of the others, and faster than any human could ever move, lashed forward to clamp his teeth around the moose’s throat. In one smooth movement, he tore at cartilage and flesh while propelling himself away. Hot blood spurted over him, and he was out of reach before the lethal hooves could dash his brains out.