Tom felt a twinge, thinking of the constraint everyone had simply accepted, but then the image faded, a list of names appearing over it, some new Middles, some veteran Middles.

“To begin the fly-along experience, you’ll work with the Combatants on some exercises in mental discipline,” Cromwell said. “The names up here will be today’s cohort to report to the Butler Room. The second group will stay for the lecture, and report downstairs on Thursday.”

Tom sat up straighter, seeing his name on there. Wyatt’s was, as well. Vik slumped a bit in his seat, realizing he was stuck hearing the lecture.

“Right now, those of you on this list will report to the Smedley D. Butler Conference Room on the twelfth floor. You’ll come back for the lecture on Thursday. Dismissed.”

TOM AND THE rest of his group met the CamCos in the large briefing room. There was a large oil painting of General Butler, who’d foiled a fascist coup against President Franklin D. Roosevelt in the 1930s, and a long table covered with decagonal devices. The Middles sat down, and Elliot Ramirez strolled in. He grinned broadly, and then Heather Akron trailed in behind him and cleared her throat.

The other CamCos striding inside sent her chilly looks, but Elliot dipped his head and gestured for her to take the lead.

The beautiful brunette perched at the head of the table. “Some of you are new to Middle Company, so I’ll explain the basics of what we’re doing here.” Heather’s amber eyes glittered. There was a certain brittle gaiety to her smile. “These decagons are group internet relay chat nodes. They let you hook in and communicate with each other using a thought interface. That’s what we’re going to practice today.”

Thought interface? Tom grew alarmed.

“Why is Heather in charge?” Wyatt murmured. “I’m surprised they’re letting her, after . . .” She trailed off.

Tom didn’t press her on the subject. Heather had caught his eye and winked, so Tom nodded back, knowing she’d probably wear that same dazzling, so-happy-to-see-you look on her face while she slipped him poison if she had to. . . . Still, there was something about her that got to him sometimes. He followed the sway of her body as she strolled around the table and picked up a decagon.

“You may or may not know this, but there’s a function in your neural processors called net-send that allows you to send messages to each other, either by typing or using a thought interface. The net-send thought-interface function isn’t suitable for battle, though, because net-send directly captures the stray thoughts in your head. . . .”

Tom slouched in his seat a bit, remembering thinking to Vik over net-send, How do steak boobs function? He wasn’t very good with thought interfaces. He had stuck to net-sending with his forearm keyboard ever since.

“Plus, net-send has a lag time—microseconds, but that might as well be hours during space combat. These decagons, however, facilitate instantaneous group communication, and the messages sent are the dominant concerns in your head at any one time. There is no lag time. Before you do your fly-alongs with us, you need to gain some basic mental discipline so you can communicate the way we do during combat, and do so in an effective manner. Today, we’re going to have two to three CamCos at each decagon. You guys pair up, and let’s try this out together.”

Tom and Wyatt paired up. The first decagon they reached was the one in front of Heather and Elliot. Tom’s stomach contracted as he watched Karl come over to join them.

“Ready?” Elliot said, pulling out a neural wire. Then Heather raised her eyebrows, and he smiled. “Oh. Of course. Sorry, H. I know you need to take the lead.”

“Why, thank you, Elliot.” Heather turned to Tom and Wyatt. “Stick your neural wires into the ports on the decagon, sit down, then hook in like you would to any other machine.”

Tom dropped into one of the cushy chairs, aware of Karl still standing, glowering at him. He stuck his neural wire into a port on the decagon, then plugged the other end into the back of his neck, and the world grew utterly dark around him.

I’m blind! He tried to say it, but his voice didn’t come out. Tom flailed out his arms to alert someone, terrible suspicions flying through his brain that this was some plot of Karl’s or even . . .

Footsteps drew toward him, and Tom jumped when hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Relax, Tom.” Heather’s breath tickled his ear. He felt her hands brush the back of his neck, sending goose bumps down his skin. He was disappointed when her fingers slid away. “We’ve programmed it to disable your eyesight and vocal cords while you’re hooked in. It’s to help focus your concentration these first few times. . . . Enslow, you look upset.” Her voice grew vaguely threatening, “Do you want to join Tom or would you rather sit this one out?”

“I’ll do it,” Wyatt snapped, and Tom could see her name listed against the darkness in his vision.

After another moment or two, Heather’s name appeared.

Is this on? Tom and Wyatt both thought, and the words appeared right there before his eyes.

Then Heather thought, I wonder which one of them will think something embarrassing first? The words scrolled across Tom’s vision.

Don’t think about Heather’s boobs, Tom thought to himself, and to his mortification, the words appeared there.

Yay, it wasn’t me! Wyatt thought. Then after the words appeared, she thought, Sorry, Tom.

Tom. Wyatt. Try to focus, Heather thought. You can control your thoughts.

Boobs, Wyatt thought. Aah! Where did that come from?

It’s called word contagion, and it’s normal, Heather thought. You can break it by occupying your thoughts with something else. Try times tables.

2 x 2 = 4, 4 x 4 = 16, 11 x 11 = 121 . . . Wyatt thought. This works. Send. I’m surprised she had good advice.

Excuse me? Heather thought.

Elliot’s name appeared in the IRC. Hello, everyone! Don’t worry, I’m here now! Just some technical difficulties. What did I miss?

Riding in to save the day, Heather thought.

Tom thought, Hi, Elliot. Send. Elliot’s an okay guy.

At least Elliot won’t think about . . . Wait, I’m thinking this, Heather thought.

Can someone tell us what we’re supposed to think about? Send, Wyatt thought.

Looks like there’s a leadership deficit, Elliot thought. I came just in time.

Ugh, Heather thought.

So what now? Send, Tom thought.

Yes, why won’t someone tell me what to think about? Send, Wyatt thought.

You guys don’t need to think send, Heather thought. I want you all to stop thinking send.

Send, Tom thought. He couldn’t help it.

Just then, Karl’s name appeared in the IRC. Stupid Fido.

I hate Karl. Die horribly, Karl, Tom thought. Then, feeling a malicious glee, Send.

I want to jam a gun barrel down Raines’s throat and see him choke on it, Karl thought.

God, Karl, Heather thought. Issues?

Ha-ha-ha-ha, appeared as Tom’s text, since the laughter wasn’t coming from his lips.

Hate him, hate him, gonna kill him . . . Karl thought.

Hates me so much and yet he can’t pull off a single threat, Tom thought gleefully. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .

A string of swearwords was Karl’s response, and for a moment they drowned out all the other text in the IRC. Tom laughed harder and harder as they went on and on, and soon Karl’s swearing kept getting punctured by random “ha’s.”