Insignia

by S. J. Kincaid

  “I tried, but I can’t get Wyndham Harks onboard. So we have to look somewhere else and figure out how to get someone from another division to help.”

  Tom thought of the other two Camelot Company members sponsored by Wyndham Harks: Yosef Saide of Genghis Division, and Snowden Gainey of Napoleon. They were both clean-cut, symmetrical-featured guys with ready grins. Between them and Heather, Tom figured there was one specific criteria Wyndham Harks cared about in their Combatants: looks.

  “Who are you putting forward?” Tom asked her.

  Heather’s nodded to someone in the hallway behind him. “Nigel.”

  Tom turned, saw a weedy guy lingering in the hallway beyond. He was skinny and delicate, with full lips, a tiny nose, and a face that looked almost girlish.

  NAME: Nigel Harrison

  RANK: USIF, Grade V Upper, Machiavelli Division

  ORIGIN: Cambridge, England

  ACHIEVEMENTS: Winner of the International Linguistics Olympiad, member of the British Association for Computational Linguistics

  IP: 2053:db7:lj71::262:ll3:6e8

  SECURITY STATUS: Top Secret LANDLOCK-5

  “I guess you’ve been listening. Did you hear about Tom’s situation?” Heather asked him.

  “Yes. Those are Genghises trying to break in here, are they?” Nigel’s voice had a crisp British accent. Everything about the kid was smooth, from his gelled hair to the way he walked so lightly Tom couldn’t hear his footsteps. He had a strange tic going on with his face—this low, continuous spasm around his right eye, like he wasn’t quite in control of it.

  “Yeah.” Tom tried not to stare at his twitching face. “Sorry about the door pounding.”

  “It’s fine. It makes me wonder about something. You?” Nigel looked at Heather.

  Heather cupped her chin in her palm. “Maybe.”

  “Yes,” Nigel said, in a voice so low Tom almost didn’t hear it.

  “Fine,” Heather agreed.

  If Tom didn’t know better, he’d wonder if they were having half this conversation telepathically.

  “Tom,” Heather said abruptly, “can you wait in one of the bunks while Nigel and I finish here? I’ll be there soon, and we’ll figure out how to get you out of here. Of course”—she winked—“if you’re okay with waiting it out, I suppose I could come keep you company.”

  Good. God. That smile of hers could seriously crash planes.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go wait.” He headed into the nearest empty bunk, bumping into the doorframe in his haste.

  Tom laughed once he was inside the empty bunk. That girl even made his neural processor malfunction.

  He winced at the pain in his knees as he settled onto the edge of an empty bed, his hand tapping an impatient beat on his thigh. As time stretched on, he closed his eyes and began sorting through a schematic of the Spire, trying to figure out how to get past the Genghises waiting for him. That CA number blinking in his vision center kept getting lower, and now that he thought about it, his lips and fingertips were tingling again. . . .

  The door slid open. Heavy footsteps thumped toward him.

  Too heavy for Nigel or Heather.

  Tom’s eyes snapped open, and he experienced an electric jolt of terror.

  Karl Marsters loomed above him, bruised and bloody. His fist descended into Tom’s face.

  HE ROUSED AS Karl hauled him into the Machiavelli hallway, Nigel and Heather watching from a few feet away. Tom choked on the blood in his nose and struggled against the massive arm locked around his neck but couldn’t budge it.

  “Thanks. Thanks, guys,” Karl was telling them.

  “Did you punch him?” Heather demanded. “That’s not part of our deal, Karl.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I know the affidavit—no punching him in Machiavelli. Whoops.”

  Tom struggled against the headlock. Now he understood it: Heather hadn’t been flirting, sending him off into the bunk. She’d been getting him out of the way so she could sell him out. The realization settled like something sour in his gut as Karl jerked him forward one reluctant step after another.

  Nigel drew near, his eyes bright. “Remember the affidavit. You signed it. You’re committed.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep it.” Karl hauled Tom another few jerky steps. “You gave me the little punk, so once Marsh nominates you to the Defense Committee, I’ll take you to meet my Dominion Agra reps to see whether they’ll sponsor your bid.”

  Heather smiled at Tom as though she could charm him even while a large Genghis was practically suffocating him thanks to her treachery. It just made him feel like more of an idiot, knowing he was stuck here in a headlock with a bloody nose, totally suckered by her. “Sorry, Tom, you have to understand: we need more Machiavellis in CamCo. It’s a matter of division pride.”

  Tom kicked back, trying to wrench out of Karl’s grip again, but he wasn’t some heavyweight wrestling champ for nothing. A large hand clasped Tom’s wrists behind his back and twisted them up hard enough to make him keel over just to keep his arms in their sockets.

  Karl clamped his hand over Tom’s head, pressing it down, walking him forward in that undignified way. “That’s it. Keep going, Lassie.”

  Tom couldn’t resist the steady march into the common room where a crowd of Genghises were gathered. His face throbbed. He was in serious trouble here.

  Karl’s voice boomed across the common room: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, sometimes we get a plebe who needs to be taught humility.”

  Tom tried to jerk up again, but Karl yanked his arms higher and the pain grew so much worse, like his arms were matches about to be snapped. He dropped down again, unable to help it, and was stuck watching his own blood drip onto the carpet.

  “Do you want to apologize to us, Old Yeller?” Karl’s hand jerked Tom’s head in a nod. “I bet you do. Make it loud and clear so everyone can hear you.”

  Tom gritted his teeth. “No.”

  Karl wrenched Tom’s arms toward his shoulders, and he gasped in pain.

  “This doesn’t feel very nice, does it?” Karl’s big hand tugged Tom’s head back and forth to shake it. “You don’t like this, do you? Want it to stop? Then bark for us, Fido. Bark.”

  Tom couldn’t help the pained sound that escaped his lips when Karl shoved his arms higher. But he’d never bark. He didn’t care how much it hurt. He’d rather tear out his own intestines than do anything Karl wanted.

  “Do it now or I’ll rip your arms out of the sockets, Benji.”

  “Do it! Do it, then, ’cause I’m not going to bark!”

  “Fine—you think I’m bluffing? I’ll show you a bluff!”

  Tom yelped out when his arms were shoved beyond their limits, and then a strange sound filled the room. Like a bunch of people making clucking noises. He heard Karl exclaim, “What the—”

  And then Karl released him, staggered back, and knelt on the floor.

  “Bock,” Karl said.

  Tom stumbled away from him, swiping his sleeve at his stinging nose. “What?”

  “Bock, bock,” Karl replied, and began pressing at the carpet with his nose. “Bock, bock, bock.”

  Tom clutched his sleeve to his face, utterly bewildered. He looked at the other Genghises, saw them all kneeling, pressing their noses rhythmically into the carpet, all bocking.

  “Well, I’d say that worked.”

  Wyatt Enslow’s voice startled him. He whirled around to see her emerging from the open doors of the elevator, her forearm keyboard bared.

  “What’s going on?” Tom asked her, baffled. “What are they doing?”

  “They’re chickens,” Wyatt answered.

  And sure enough, when Tom watched them, he realized they were all pecking at the carpet just like chickens.

  “I based it on Blackburn’s dog program,” Wyatt remarked. “I saw you were in trouble, so I figured now was a good time to try it.”

  Tom turned to her, regarding her with new eyes. “Wyatt, you seriously helped me out there. Th
anks, I owe you big-time.”

  “I just wanted to try the program. It’s not like I went out of my way to save you.”

  Tom laughed and pressed his sleeve against his face a bit harder. “This is where you say, You’re welcome. It’s okay to take credit.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Oh. Right.”

  “And you pump your fists in the air and say something about how awesome you are. That’s how it works.”

  “Isn’t that gloating?”

  “Of course it’s gloating. When you do something awesome, you get to gloat—” Tom fell silent, because the door to Machiavelli slid open, and Heather strode out.

  She halted, looked over the situation, then giggled. “Oh, good. I guess I don’t need to call your friends to come rescue you.”

  Tom stared at her, completely aware of the blood drying on his face. She didn’t look the least bit guilty—or even aware that she’d done something wrong just now.

  “You’re telling me you were planning to call them?” he said cynically. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of selling me out?”

  She flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “It’s not like that, Tom. Did you really think I was going to let Karl beat you up? Karl and I had a deal: I’d let him take you out of Machiavelli, and in return, he agreed to sign a binding agreement—an affidavit—to help us get Nigel into Camelot Company.” Her eyes glinted with a wicked light. “I only agreed to let him haul you out of Machiavelli. I never said a word about not calling someone here to help you. And I was just checking to see what was happening, to see if you really needed it.”

  Tom wanted to believe her. He took another step back, considering it. “You could’ve let me in on it beforehand.”

  She bit her lip. “Aw, but you had to look all hurt and betrayed for Karl to trust me. I didn’t know how good of an actor you are.”

  When she was gazing at him like that—her eyes wide and imploring, like she wanted nothing more than for him to believe her—it was so hard for him to remember there was any reason to be angry. She hadn’t meant for him to get punched. Was there any reason to be angry, really?

  And then Wyatt cut in, “That’s so easy to say now that it’s all over. But if you were going to call one of Tom’s friends to tell them he needed help, why didn’t you do it at the same time you called Karl so they’d be ready to come help him? For all you knew, they weren’t even in the Spire today.”

  Heather blinked at Wyatt like she’d just noticed she was there. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really know you. . . . Wyatt, isn’t it?”

  “That’s weird. You knew my name a few months ago when I helped with your profile,” Wyatt said flatly.

  Tom’s gaze shot to Heather’s. That was her?

  Heather opened and closed her mouth, caught off guard. She recovered quickly. “Well, Wyatt, it’s still a little presumptuous for you to say what I should’ve done when you don’t understand the whole situation.”

  Wyatt crossed her arms. “I thought I was just pointing out the obvious.”

  “Tom is fine, so this argument is pointless.” Heather wasn’t so gorgeous with that gray color in her cheeks, and there was something very narrow and calculating in her expression, like she was sizing Wyatt up as an enemy.

  “I thought I brought up a good point, and you haven’t even addressed it—”

  “Wyatt, it’s okay,” Tom broke in, stepping between them.

  Wyatt scowled at him now, and then muttered, “Fine. It doesn’t make a difference to me.” She took a few jerky steps toward the door to Hannibal Division, then spun around, and awkwardly raised her arms up in the air.

  Tom gazed at her, perplexed, wondering why she was making claws like she was pretending to be a monster.

  “I am awesome,” she said.

  And he laughed, realizing she was gloating just like he’d told her to. Wyatt nodded, then abruptly whirled around and scrambled from the room.

  Heather was gaping after her, like she’d just encountered an alien. “It’s true what everyone says. She has, like, no social skills.”

  “She’s blunt,” Tom agreed.

  If Heather caught that he was telling her Wyatt was painfully honest, she didn’t show it.

  “You remember, don’t you, that I made Karl promise not to hit you in Machiavelli?”

  Tom hit the button to the elevator several times. “Sure, I remember you saying that. Look, I’ve gotta go to the infirmary.”

  He began remembering the way Heather and Nigel looked at each other in Machiavelli Division when he told them he was being chased by Karl, and the way Heather sent him off so they could talk alone—but really so she could call Karl to offer him up.

  Heather’s hand slid up the back of his arm and rested there near his shoulder. Goose bumps prickled up his skin. She whispered in his ear, “I’ll come see you later, just to be sure you’re okay.”

  She usually made his brain feel like it was dissolving, but he felt now like they were surrounded by a fog of sorts, muting whatever it was she did to him. Maybe his face was just throbbing too much from being punched for her to have the usual effect.

  He shifted so her hand dropped from him, and stepped into the elevator. “You don’t need to,” he said. “I’m doing great.” And then before she could say another word, the doors slid shut between them.

  TOM FINALLY MADE it to the infirmary a full half hour after leaving Alexander Division. After Nurse Chang packed his bleeding nose with gauze, Tom told him about the CA thing, which sent a flicker of alarm across the man’s face.

  “What?” Tom said, aghast. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Nurse Chang said hastily, paging Dr. Gonzales. “Let’s look at those shoulders.”

  Tom’s joints had been hurting even before Karl kindly twisted his arms nearly out of their sockets. By the time Chang tested Tom’s range of motion, he couldn’t even raise his arms past his shoulders. Chang gave him some Percocet, which took care of the pain. Tom was almost able to forget why he’d come a few minutes later as he lay in a conical machine that was testing his bone density. He’d just yanked the bloody gauze out of his nose when Olivia Ossare’s voice startled him.

  “Tom, how are you?”

  He peered over at her, surprised. He hadn’t realized she worked weekends. His neural processor flashed:

  Name: Olivia Ossare

  Affiliation: United States Social Services

  Security Status: Confidential LANDLOCK-3

  He hadn’t spoken to Olivia since his first day at the Spire, but he’d heard about her from the other trainees. She’d told him she was there for the kids, there to be their moral support and stuff, but Tom had learned enough to realize no one actually went to her. Or if anyone did, they definitely didn’t talk about it.

  It was more of a joke to the trainees, a way to ridicule people who seemed like wimps. “Oh, if you don’t like it here, why don’t you go cry to the social worker, Plebe?”

  It embarrassed him, seeing Olivia there, concern on her face. He balled up the gauze in his hand and glanced toward the door, hoping no one passed by and thought she was there because he needed to talk to her.

  “Fine. I’m having some bone density issues or something, but it’s no big deal.”

  Her black eyebrows drew together. “The nurse told me you tore some ligaments. And your face is . . . Well, what happened?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I tripped. This is nothing, really.”

  “That neural processor’s supposed to help your balance.”

  “It didn’t this time.”

  He hoped the words would end the questions, but she pressed on. “Has everything been okay so far?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Tom said.

  “No, it’s not,” a voice broke in. Dr. Gonzales walked over, studying his lab reports.

  NAME: Alberto Gonzales

  RANK: Lieutenant, MD

  Grade: USAF 0-3, Active Duty

  SECURITY STATUS: Top Secret LANDLOCK-8

  To
m blinked away the text as the doctor informed him, “You’re showing signs of strain upon your joints and low density in your bones. There’s a low serum calcium level, too—you must feel some tingling in your extremities. This growth spurt’s overtaxing your body.”

  Tom went cold. “I told you, I fell. That’s why I got hurt.”

  Dr. Gonzales shook his head. “Your injury’s secondary to the overall strain on your body. It’s a result, not a cause. Your system doesn’t have the resources to support this bone expansion. I’m going to have to access your neural processor and shut off the hGH spike.”

  “But you can turn it back on later, right? When I have more, uh, resources?”

  “There’d be no point.”

  “What do you mean, no point?”

  But Dr. Gonzales strode from the room without answering him. Tom sat up, gritting his teeth at the grinding sensation in his joints. “What does he mean, there’d be no point?” he asked Nurse Chang, who was typing something into a computer.

  Chang came over and joined Olivia at his bedside. “Tom, the neural processor takes over some of the natural functions of the human brain. The brain’s a use-it-or-lose-it organ. The areas of the brain that become unnecessary begin to atrophy. Some areas that regulate growth are among them. That’s why we have the processors spike your hGH when you first get here—to make sure you don’t miss out on those growth spurts you’d normally have over the next five years.”

  “So if I don’t get taller now, it’ll be too late,” Tom concluded. “Fine, I get that you have to turn it off—but can’t you wait just a few days? Until I’m six feet, or maybe six two?”

  Dr. Gonzales reentered the room and moved to the computer, not even looking at him. “No. I can’t wait an hour. You should’ve come to me the moment the pain flared up. Your body has a finite number of resources to support bone growth. We try to aid the process with nutritional supplementation, but nothing can make up for fourteen years of poor eating habits. For instance, I can tell from the plaque buildup in your arteries that you were raised on a steady diet of junk food and have never seen a vegetable in your life.”

  “That’s not true.” He ate French fries all the time.