Tom thought of all the cereal boxes with Elliot’s face and the way all the girls at Rosewood loved him so much. He wasn’t sure if those girls really supported the fight. They definitely supported Elliot, though.

“For most of the public,” Cromwell said, “this war is a spectator sport. The average American knows they are helping to finance this, but they also know they’re not seeing the winnings. Their only reward is the entertainment they receive from following the battles, and in the last three years of Combatant-driven combat, a sense of national pride when an American wins new territory. It’s important you never take public support for granted. There’s a reason we’re always sending Elliot Ramirez out there for the cameras. He gives the war a face. If exposure weren’t a safety issue, all the Combatants would be public figures just like him. A Combatant is a PR asset, a means of personalizing the war for the general public. People form attachments, even if a Combatant is known only by his or her call sign. One of a Combatant’s most vital roles is to keep the public on our side. But that’s not your most important duty.”

Tom sat up straighter in his seat, sensing that she was about to get into the fighting itself.

“America has only had Intrasolar Combatants in the field for three years. That means those of you in this room destined to advance to Camelot Company may be the tactical pioneers in this new era. Every age has seen a transformation of the ideal soldier. Basil Liddell Hart said, ‘Loss of hope, rather than loss of life, is the factor that decides wars, battles, and even the smallest combats.’ And what destroys an enemy’s hope? In ages long past, the mighty Achilles was the most fearsome warrior in the world. His very presence made armies tremble. In subsequent ages, the famous generals took the glory. And now? What is the name that destroys hope in our time? Who is the greatest Intrasolar Combatant? Who is this moment’s Achilles?”

Tom braced himself for the words “Elliot Ramirez.”

But Cromwell pounded out something on the keyboard fixed to the podium, and turned to face the curved wall. Tom’s eyes riveted to the massive screen curving over them. A view of the black expanse of space flared to life on all sides of him. The image focused upon the planet Venus, then Cromwell zoomed into a Russo-Chinese fighter whose call sign Tom knew from the news.

He’d heard about this fighter. Just a bit, because this Combatant was sponsored by the state of China itself. No sponsoring corporation meant no airtime. But rumors on the internet said this was the best fighter of all of them. This Combatant never lost.

“Today,” Cromwell said, “we call the ultimate warrior Medusa.”

Dead silence penetrated the air as every plebe watched the battle, and the Russo-Chinese ships controlled by Medusa danced around the Indo-American forces and maneuvered them into obliteration.

Chills moved down Tom’s spine. He’d seen clips of battles on the internet, but edited ones, whatever the military wanted the public to witness of the war effort. Any clips favorable to Russo-Chinese forces were censored, and he was sure it worked the same way in reverse in their countries. So Tom had never seen a full engagement, never had a chance to marvel at how incredible this Medusa person was.

Major Cromwell’s voice rang out in the darkness. “In the last six months, this single Combatant has changed the course of the war against us. How do we know it’s Medusa alone doing this? Watch. An acute student of tactics can identify an opponent just by watching them in action. You’ll begin to recognize the mind working behind the maneuver.”

And when Cromwell flipped to a recording of a past engagement on Jupiter’s moon Io, Tom knew which Russo-Chinese fighters were controlled by Medusa. He just knew them. They anticipated the moves of opponents. They fired missiles in space moments before opponents blundered into them. They reacted to hazards the other ships seemed oblivious to.

“One Intrasolar Combatant can do this,” Cromwell told them. “This is the first age in history when a single fighter has the capacity to sway whole battles.”

Next, the screen showed a battle on Mercury, where the Indo-American fighters spiraled away after Medusa’s trickery ripped them out of orbit and knocked them into the sun’s gravity. Then the screen showed an intensive skirmish in the asteroid belt, where ships were torn to pieces by the asteroids that Medusa used like virtual missiles. The last battle they viewed took place on Saturn’s moon Titan. Medusa blasted a hole straight through the ice layers, spouting liquid methane into space, knocking the Indo-American ships into a lethal plunge to the moon’s surface.

This, Tom thought. This was why he was here. His skin prickled with goose bumps as he watched it all, his eyes fixed on Medusa’s machines every time. Medusa. Medusa. Here was a king. Here was a god.

He wanted to face Medusa more than life itself.

If he could be that person, the one who defeated this giant among warriors, then he’d be somebody.

When the lights brightened around them and Medusa faded from the overhead screens, Cromwell sent them away for the afternoon. And Tom strode out of the room feeling dazzled like he’d drifted into some strange dream, his lips pulled into a grin that went from ear to ear.

Medusa.

IN CALISTHENICS THE next day, Medusa filled Tom’s thoughts. He couldn’t tear his mind from the Russo-Chinese Combatant even though the Battle of Stalingrad raged around him.

“I looked up the Medusa myth on the internet,” Tom said breathlessly. He ran beside Vik through the bombed-out streets, both Soviet and Nazi soldiers blasting at them. He’d learned it was a Greek myth about a female monster so hideous to behold, any man who saw her face turned to stone. “Do you think Medusa’s a girl?”

Vik dodged some shrapnel. Dust whipped into their eyes. “Nah!” he shouted over the sound of gunfire. “Medusa’s a call sign. You can’t tell whether you’re dealing with a guy or a girl from a call sign, especially if we’re talking a Russian fighter. Think about it: Sasha is a guy’s name over there, okay? The person probably went with Medusa because if you end up face-to-face with her, then bam—you’re dead. You saw Medusa fight. It’s appropriate, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Tom said, awestruck. He followed Vik into a demolished building, explosions rattling his bones. He’d heard the Russo-Chinese Combatants took on call signs for the same reason the Indo-Americans did: they picked their own when they were promoted to active combat status. It was for the general public. Tom had seen his own share of news snippets about Enigma, Firestorm, Vanquisher, Condor, and the rest of Camelot Company. Of course, now he knew the names behind those call signs: Heather Akron, Lea Styron of Hannibal Division, Karl Marsters, and Alec Tarsus of Alexander Division.

The building rattled, and they dodged falling plaster as they stumbled into an armory, where they found a solid wall of nunchakus. Tom hoisted down a set. “So what happens next? Ronins again?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No ronins in Stalingrad.” Vik led Tom through the doorway into the burning building’s courtyard where some plebes were already in the thick of fighting Nazi ninjas.

Tom made it five minutes into the strength training session before he paused to wipe away some sweat, and a Nazi ninja swept forward and impaled him through the abdomen. Text flashed across his eyes: Session expired. Immobility sequence initiated. All feeling seeped out of his body from the chest on down, and he dropped to the ground, sword still jammed in his abdomen.