He hurled a look around. He was trapped in a gulley, at an utter disadvantage. The only weapon in reach was an iono-sulfuric dispersal rifle planted in the red dirt. He could see the other dugouts in the distance, the symbols etched in their sides telling him one held a batch of grenades, the other C29 antitank guns. According to the information bubble that popped up in the corner of his vision, those were exactly what he needed to take out that tank, but how could he get to them without being blown up?

The ground shook around him with another blast. His gloves vibrated with the rumble. Tom took advantage of the crimson haze and flung himself toward the iono-sulfuric weapon. He seized it and dropped back into the pit. Pretty straightforward rifle, this one, at least according to the next information bubble. Too weak to take out a tank, but it could generate a couple of little blasts, coat his surroundings with a white film, and create a distraction. He needed to fire this, use the haze as cover, and get to the antitank dugout, and then?

The tank rumbled closer, and Tom saw the error in his logic: whoever this gamer was, he probably knew the C29 dugout would be Tom’s assured path to victory. If he was the guy in the tank, he’d wait for the sulfuric haze. He’d count on it. He’d get the coordinates for the antitank dugout beforehand, wait a few seconds, and then lay down a line of fire right in the path to it.

No, Tom couldn’t play into his hands. He’d have to be trickier than that.

So he made a show of making a fatal error. He fired the iono-sulfuric rifle, coating the atmosphere around the tank in a white haze.

But he didn’t go for the antitank guns.

He leaped up out of the ditch and ran straight toward the tank, used his last glimpse of the tank and its velocity to assess position, and swerved to the side before the tank plowed through the haze to run him down. The blast of sound rumbling past him knocked his character over. Tom saw the stark metal through the white haze and charged after it

He leaped forward, fumbling for handholds, and hoisted himself up the back. A few scrabbling grasps with the wired gloves later, and Tom’s character was on top of the tank, above the latch. This was one thing an iono-sulfuric rifle could handle. He aimed for the lock, blasted it off, and had the hatch open before the guy inside the tank knew his doom was coming through the ceiling.

With an exultant laugh, Tom dropped through the hatch, his feet clanging on the floor. He stalked toward the thrashing body. No space suit. He wasn’t meant for the atmosphere. The gases inside him were trying to burst their way out of his skin into the thinner atmosphere of Mars.

“Nice try, buddy,” Tom said, and slammed the guy in the head with the butt of his rifle over and over until he went still.

Tom dropped the gun and settled down next to the dead body, waiting for the next level, hoping the incursing gamer wasn’t going to tuck tail and run.

But then the body morphed. Tom leaped to his feet and stared, fascinated, as it changed from a man in combat gear to a woman. A girl.

She sat up, tossed her dark brown hair out of her eyes, and gave him a slow, mesmerizing smile. Tom gaped at her, his brain blanking out with disbelief.

“Heather.” He realized suddenly that she was the incursing gamer. She’d been the one to challenge him to a sim. He wondered if the sense of awe and excitement sweeping through him was what it felt like to be in love. “You’re a gamer, too!”

“Not exactly, Tom.” There was a teasing note in her voice. “Congratulations. You passed.”

“Passed what?”

But she vanished and the simulation went black. Tom gazed into the darkness, confused, and then a slow, steady clapping filled his ears.

His real ears.

Tom flipped up the visor and shot to his feet to face the other person in the VR parlor.

The newcomer was an older man with graying hair; a long, pale face; bulbous nose; and full-on military fatigues. He rose from the couch across from him, and Tom realized uneasily that the man must’ve been there for a while just watching him.

“Well,” said the old man, “you’re everything I expected, Mr. Raines. Most don’t even make it into the tank on their first try.” He tapped on his ear and said to someone, “I’ve got visual confirmation that it’s Raines. You can log off now. The network address checks out. Fine work, Heather.”

The whole transition from virtual Tom to real Tom always made him feel weird and stupid even when he wasn’t taken by surprise by some stranger staring at him while he played. “Wait, you know Heather? You two set up that sim?”

“Ms. Akron was scouting you out for me,” the old guy said. “I’ve been looking for you for a month, son. You’re a hard fellow to track down. As soon as she secured your network address for today, I hopped on a plane. I wanted to run you through that scenario once before I made up my mind, but I was certain you wouldn’t disappoint. And you haven’t.”

Tom’s mind flickered to his dad’s constant assertions—The IRS would love to get their hands on me—and he edged back. Then again, this could be something to do with Ms. Falmouth’s threat yesterday about calling Child Protective Services. Either way … “Why have you been looking for me?”

“Let’s just say, I’ve been searching for young people who fit a certain profile, and you top my list. One of my officers discovered you on a gaming network, but you kept moving on to new places before we could make contact. I watched you face off with your opponent here in the lounge last night. Tricky move you pulled in that racing game.”

Tom froze. “Oh, you saw that?”

“I’ve also watched you several other times. Back in Southern California. In New Mexico.”

Tom fixed his eyes on the bulbous tip of the man’s nose, thinking quickly of some excuse. He hadn’t been doing anything illegal.... Well, anything illegal apart from the underage gambling. Actually, that was very illegal all by itself. What could he say? Maybe he could just deny he was doing it.

“I didn’t see you in person,” the man assured him. “I was given a feed of some of your old games. You’re quite the gamer. I’m impressed.”

Tom blinked. “Impressed?” That wasn’t what he’d expected. “Um, who are you?”

“My name is General Terry Marsh. As you may know, the government’s been monitoring the country for some of our most promising young people to be Combatants in the war.”

Tom said nothing. The words did not compute.

Marsh went on, “I’m here because we need someone like you at the Pentagonal Spire.”

The Pentagonal Spire.

The Pentagonal Spire. Where the Combatants for the Intrasolar Forces trained. Where people like Elliot Ramirez lived.

Tom realized what this was. “All right, did someone put you up to this? Because I’m not a total chump. Whatever this is really about, I’m not going for it.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Marsh noted drily. “Most teenagers would jump at the opportunity to join our Combatants.”

Tom spun back to face him, because the old man looked stern, and he was wearing military getup, after all. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you? You have to be.”

Marsh gestured for him to sit down. “Mr. Raines, you’ve heard of the current war situation. You must have.”