Insignia

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.

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, so 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. The massive collection of enemy 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 knew him by now, and anticipated it. “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. “I’m so 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 Prince 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 something 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.

Tom waved. “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.