“Does it matter if I’m not?”

“No, that was a courtesy. So is this: name the part of your brain you want me to tamper with first.”

Tom felt himself tense. “How about none?”

“No preference? Fine. First target: the hypothalamus.” Blackburn began typing, and then text scrolled across Tom’s vision: Datastream received: program Insatiable Appetite initiated.

Tom cringed, expecting something horrible. But nothing happened.

Nothing except …

Except …

His stomach growled. Tom realized suddenly he was starving—absolutely starving. The painful ache in his gut consumed him. His entire brain riveted to the idea of food, delicious food. He’d kill for fries. He could eat a horse. He could eat a hundred nutrient bars. Wait, he had a nutrient bar!

He dug into his pocket frantically, so desperate for food that he didn’t care about all the eyes on him. He’d quite forgotten what he was supposed to be doing up here, anyway. He tore open the packaging of the nutrient bar with his teeth. He devoured half the bar in one bite, not even bothering to form a mental image of some food he liked.

“The neurons in your brain communicate through a series of electrical signals,” Blackburn told the class. “The neural processor mimics and interprets these signals. I can stimulate almost any part of the brain with the right program. The mind is everything. Manipulate a mind, and you manipulate the entire world as far as that person’s concerned. This is how your Applied Sims programs convince you you’re an animal, or trick you into thinking you’re in an artificial landscape. “

Text flashed across Tom’s vision as the program ended. He noticed for the first time the lumpy, grayish-green appearance of the nutrient bar, and dropped it, revolted. Without a mental image of a food he liked, it just looked the way it really did: like something someone had digested and then puked up again.

Blackburn, meanwhile, was calling Karl Marsters to the stage. The large, jowled Genghis mounted the stairs, and Blackburn said something in a low voice to him, then typed on his forearm keyboard. Another line of text flashed across Tom’s vision: Datastream received: program Fight-or-Flight initiated.

Suddenly, Tom was at his wit’s end. He wasn’t going to stick around to see what Blackburn hit him with next. He tried to bolt out of the room, but Karl Marsters was waiting for this, and he caught him. Fury exploded through Tom. He had to kill this guy! He punched Karl across the jaw, hard. Karl bellowed out, and raised his massive fist to punch him back. Blackburn stepped in and caught his arm.

“Knock that off.” He shoved Karl back. Then, with a few strokes on his keyboard, he ended the program.

Karl glowered at Tom menacingly and rubbed his jaw.

More programs followed. A manipulation of his limbic cortex, and Tom fell in madly love with Blackburn’s podium. Just as he threw his arms around it and pledged his eternal devotion, Blackburn targeted his hippocampus, and Tom lurched back away from the podium, utterly perplexed. He’d forgotten everything from the last year. He started demanding explanations as to why he was in this strange room with these strange people, and where was his father? A program targeting the amygdala made him react to the podium again, but this time, he was deathly terrified of it. Karl grabbed him and tried forcing him to get closer to it, so Tom drove his elbow back into Karl’s stomach, doubling him over. Karl roared out and started after him again, but Blackburn stepped in his path.

He must’ve terminated the virus, too, because Tom’s head cleared. He found himself staring at the decidedly unmenacing podium, his heart pounding, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He spun around and saw Blackburn warning Karl, “Get a hold of that temper, Marsters.”

Karl’s face was bright red, his massive fists clenched at his sides. “But, sir, he—”

“Is half your size and under the influence of malware, and he still got the slip on you. Twice. That’s your problem, not his. Sit down.”

Karl threw Tom a look of death and stalked from the stage.

Blackburn turned and surveyed Tom, where he was trying to regain his bearings. “Holding up there, Raines?”

Tom glanced at the audience, where some trainees were trying to smother their laughter. His cheeks burned. He deliberately stepped closer to the stupid podium, just to show that he really wasn’t afraid of it—but not too close, because he wasn’t in love with it, either. “I’m great, sir.” He wasn’t going to plead for this to stop, if that’s what Blackburn was hoping for.

“Thatta boy.” Blackburn turned back to the class and typed again. “One last virus, then. This targets the cerebral cortex: higher cognition and sense of self.” The program hit. Datastream received: program Agitated Canine initiated.

Tom spent the last five minutes of class convinced he was a dog. He barked and crawled across the stage. In front of everyone. With 137 trainees laughing at him. The firm belief he was a dog stayed with him even after class ended, when a couple of the older trainees were determining what to do with him.

“Blackburn said it’d only be a few minutes more. I’ve got time to wait it out. Try scratching behind his ears. My dog Buckley always liked that,” Elliot Ramirez was saying.

Tom realized himself suddenly: he was sitting on the ground between Elliot and Heather, and Elliot was patting his head. He leaped to his feet, his cheeks burning.

“Two legs again?” Elliot observed. “Feeling better, or is this your way of asking for a treat?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Tom flushed. He was aware of Heather giggling, and felt distinctly unmanly. To his mortification, she rose to her feet, reached out, and rubbed his shoulder. “Aw, that’s a good boy.”

“Thanks,” Tom said drily. “Thanks a lot, Heather.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Tom,” Heather said sweetly, while Elliot just kept chuckling good-naturedly behind her. “You really did make an adorable puppy.” She leaned a little closer. “And you should probably stay clear of Karl for a few days if you can help it.”

Tom’s cheeks still burned as he stalked down the aisle, and just as he reached the door, he met Blackburn coming back into the room.

The lieutenant slowed, his gaze sweeping over him. “Still holding up?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Sir?” Tom said shortly.

“A fine show of bravado.” Blackburn considered him thoughtfully. “You know, Raines, if a rogue hacker gets away with minor security breaches on my watch, it calls into question whether they can get away with major security breaches, too. Likewise, if a plebe gets away with hiding that hacker’s identity from me, it encourages him to continue defying my authority in the future.”

“You’ve made your point.”

“I hope so. Well, Raines, misguided as it was, I still respect your commitment to protecting a fellow trainee. That took stones. Now shoo, get out of my sight.”

TOM WAS ALMOST mollified by Blackburn’s parting words. At least, he was until he stepped into the mess hall and laughter greeted him. That’s when he began cursing Blackburn with all his heart. Then Karl offered him a slice of bacon. “Here, Lassie,” with a menacing gleam in his eyes like he was just hungry for an excuse to pummel him.

Now that Tom really had a chance to look at him, Karl’s profile flashed before his eyes: