Insignia

Tom, as the one who’d remained in the simulation, was stuck waiting after everyone else was examined. He sat beneath the census device, the streams of light blaring against his temples, his memory on the screens overhead.

“Real bright move staying behind, Raines,” Blackburn remarked. “Did you honestly think you’d win that battle alone?”

Tom bristled. “I figured I’d try. Better than running away like a coward.”

“We have rules of engagement, Mr. Raines.” General Marsh spoke up. “They’re in your neural processor. You knew you were supposed to quit the simulation.”

Despite the old man’s words, Tom couldn’t help but suspect Marsh approved of what he’d done.

So did Major Cromwell. She regarded Tom with a gleam of speculation. “We compared the suspected IPs of Russo-Chinese Combatants with the IPs that connected with our servers. You ID’d the real Combatants among the virtual characters.”

“I just had to watch a bit.”

“Did you figure out their call signs as well?” Cromwell said, gesturing to the screen. “Any guesses?”

“Is this really the time—” Blackburn began.

“Give it a shot, Raines,” Cromwell said, silencing Blackburn by simply ignoring him. She flipped through the Combatants he faced.

Tom named them. “Rusalka, Red Terror, Kalashnikov …”

Cromwell’s lips quirked, and he knew she’d guessed the same ones. “And Medusa,” she finished for him, pausing it on a frame of Achilles.

And Medusa. That was the best part of all.

After Cromwell left, Tom answered a few more questions. Then he sank back into his recollection of the fight, replaying it in his head as Marsh and Blackburn began arguing over the security breach.

“… clearly forgotten the last time. I’ll get something ready to send back to them—”

“No, you won’t,” Marsh interrupted sharply. “The focus right now is on your firewall, Lieutenant, not retaliation. Obsidian Corp. has been arguing for months to the Defense Committee that one man can’t handle this entire installation, and after this—”

“Funny you should speak of Obsidian Corp. I was just thinking of them. Have any of their consultants been around the Spire recently, sir?” Blackburn must’ve seen the answer on Marsh’s face, because he gave a harsh laugh. “They have, haven’t they?”

“Senator Bixby requested a tour and brought some guests from the company. I could hardly refuse—”

“Then with all respect, General, I’m merely surprised this didn’t happen sooner. They only needed to slip away from their escort for ten, twenty seconds. That would be enough time to upload a little something into the system.”

“That’s a serious accusation, Lieutenant,” Marsh warned. “I suggest you keep it to yourself. I’m going to have difficulty explaining this to the Defense Committee as is. They’re going to pressure me to get you a support team—”

“We’ve played this game, General, and you know we always lose. They’ll get a nice, long look at my software, and then Joseph Vengerov will hire them away.”

“Then use a trainee. You said that Harrison boy is competent.”

“But not trustworthy. I need … There’s a …” Blackburn trailed off, and spun around to see Tom still there. “What are you waiting for, Raines? Get out of here.”

“Dismissed,” Marsh corrected, eyes on Blackburn.

Tom was glad to leave them to it. He slid out of the chair and strode from the room, still mentally replaying the memory of that slow smile dawning on Medusa’s face as he died. He remembered those hands, cradling his head, and found himself wondering again if Medusa was a girl. He couldn’t imagine a guy doing that, not even if his avatar was a woman. He’d face Medusa again and figure it out. And next time, Tom would win. He’d come so close. It was that horse that got him. But next time it would be different.

There had to be a next time.

Tom was still mulling it over later in the Lafayette Room at 1800 when all trainees were called together to discuss the incursion. Most of the plebes had arrived with their Applied Sims groups, so Tom settled next to Wyatt.

They still had a few minutes before Marsh was due to assume the stage, so Tom took a chance. He nudged her, and asked, “Is there a way to contact someone’s computer with yours?”

“Yes. It’s called email,” Wyatt replied.

“No. I mean, if all you know is someone’s IP,” Tom said, thinking about what Cromwell said about the Spire logging the Russo-Chinese IPs, “can you leave a message for them on their computer even if they don’t grant you access to it beforehand?”

“Is it someone in the Spire? If so, you can use net-send.” She was silent a moment, tapping her fingers on her keyboard. Then:

See?

Tom jumped. The word had just popped up in his vision.

He spent a few minutes working out how she’d managed it, with Wyatt pointing out his mistakes, then he typed on his own keyboard. Like this? he sent back.

That’s it. You’re not stupid at all!

Tom laughed. “Thanks. I guess that’s a huge shock.” He typed out the next words, sent them to her processor. So why doesn’t everyone do this?

Because people are lazy. They don’t bother figuring out stuff that takes time to learn, like all the functions of the neural processor. She gave a quick nod after sending that, utter confidence in her eyes.

Tom shrugged. He supposed he should be offended on behalf of lazy people but he wasn’t. How secure is it? he typed.

She typed again: I’ve encrypted this conversation. I’ll teach you the code, if you think you can learn it.

I do learn some things occasionally. So I have a quick, unrelated question: what if I want to send something like this to the IP of a computer that’s not in the Spire?

She peered at him, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

Tom avoided her eyes. He really just wanted to get in touch with Medusa, maybe see if the guy—or girl—would fight him online sometime. But someone who didn’t know better might think he was doing something wrong. Medusa was the enemy after all.

“The reason I’m asking is because Beamer could try it,” Tom said. “See how he’s not even here?”

Wyatt glanced around the room. “I think he went back to his bunk.”

“Yeah.” Tom began picking at a large splinter on the back of the bench in front of theirs. “He looked really wrecked. Maybe he’ll cheer up if there’s a way for him to contact his girlfriend. Without having to sneak wherever he’s been sneaking at night.”

“He’s been taking a big risk.”

Tom’s hand stilled on the bench. “You know where he does it?”

The eleventh floor, she messaged. He sneaks into the officers’ lounge, or even Blackburn’s office.

“Seriously?” Tom said, so impressed by Beamer’s daring that he couldn’t manage anything else.

It’s reckless. I don’t know how he’s avoided getting caught this long. He asks me to hide his GPS signal. I set up a router. His GPS sends the signal to the router, and then the router sends it on to the internal tracking system so it records the router’s location as his location. It looks like he’s just sitting on the toilet for three hours.