He was trying very hard to ignore the way Vik was gaping at him, like he’d just walked naked into morning meal formation. “You realize you’ve been preening in front of the mirror for half an hour.”

Tom frowned, then stopped, knowing frowns made people wrinkle, and it was important he protect his youthful good looks. “You’ve told me a dozen times you’re hoping to make Camelot Company one day. Well, I hate to break it to you, but appearances matter if you want to get somewhere in life, Vik.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry, Tom. Did you displace your Y chromosome somewhere? I hope it’s not on the floor where someone might step on it.” Vik made a show of looking around.

“I’m sorry you don’t understand the value of presenting yourself in the right manner.” Tom felt bad for him.

A few weeks ago, he’d have told the world Vik was his best friend. But Vik was getting weirder by the day. He kept treating Tom like he was a freak of some sort. He sniggered when Tom started exercising in the mornings before classes or when he was the first to raise his hand with the civilian instructors or when he volunteered to escort a committee of senators and business leaders on a tour of the Spire.

Tom didn’t get what Vik’s problem was. This was how a guy got ahead in life. He connected with the right people, conducted himself well enough to give a good impression, kept up his appearance, and leaped upon opportunities as they neared. That’s what Mr. Prestwick said, and everything Mr. Prestwick said was true.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND him anymore, Mr. Prestwick,” Tom told him Wednesday night, when Mr. Prestwick took him to get fitted for an eleven-thousand-dollar Italian suit. Dominion Agra executives were holding a soiree on the following Saturday night at the Beringer Club, and after a month of downloads, Tom had been deemed ready to be introduced to everyone.

The tailor stepped out of the dressing room, and Mr. Prestwick occupied himself by flipping through a rack of designer ties. “Perhaps it’s time you had new friends, Tom. They don’t sound like the type of people we want around you.”

“I like my friends.”

“We’ll see if you feel that way in a download or two.”

“I don’t want to lose them.”

Mr. Prestwick strolled over to him. “Now, Tom, everything we’re doing is for your own good.”

“I know.” Tom didn’t know why he knew that, but he was sure of it. A strange giddiness washed through him with that certainty.

“Then you know better than to question me. Try this on.”

Tom took the tie. He looked it over. He could call up references to sixty different types of knots, but there was nothing in his neural processor about tying a tie.

“Ah, of course. Never bought a suit with your old man, I wager. Here we go.” Mr. Prestwick looped it around his neck, then tied it into place, standing in a way so Tom could follow his movements in the mirror. He stepped back and surveyed it. “There. I think that’s a good choice for you. Makes you look like you’re worth something. Put it on your credit card.”

They don’t sound like the type of people we want around you....

The words echoed in his head later, when Mr. Prestwick sent him a leather case with his next software update. He sat with the closed case in the mess hall, baffled by the strange urge not to hook it into his brain. He’d been updating himself for a couple weeks now. The new updates were small: manners, etiquette, suggestions for self-improvement. He knew it was a privilege that Mr. Prestwick allowed him to participate in his reeducation. He’d be abusing Mr. Prestwick’s trust if he didn’t download this.

Still.

He watched Vik and Yuri, in animated conversation with Wyatt near the entrance to the mess hall. He trusted Mr. Prestwick. Mr. Prestwick was always right. But his stomach churned at the very possibility he’d plug this in and eradicate everything that mattered so much to him a month ago. His first real friends. He felt sick at the very thought of losing them, but Mr. Prestwick had as good as told him that was about to happen.

A heavy footstep behind him. A hand clasped the back of his neck, and someone leaned down and whispered in his ear: “Go upstairs and use that, Old Yeller.”

Tom sighed. “Yes, sir.”

Karl strode off. Tom closed the case with infinite care, then rose to obey the command. Two pairs of hands on his shoulders shoved him back into his seat. Yuri and Vik slid dropped down onto the bench on either side of him, and Wyatt took the seat across from him.

“What was that?” Vik cried.

Tom frowned. “What was what?”

“You called Karl sir!”

“So?”

“Thomas Raines,” Wyatt said, folding her hands on the table, very formal. “We feel it is imperative we discuss your recent conduct with you.”

“Come on, Evil Wench,” Vik snapped, “this is an intervention, not an excuse to start talking like a robot.”

“Well, it’s not an excuse for you to have such delicate, tiny hands, either,” Wyatt retorted, glaring at Vik.

“What?” Vik said, confused. “What about my—” Then he shook it off. “Look, Tom, we’ve discussed this at length and concluded that in recent weeks, you’ve become an embarrassment to manhood.”

“Not just to manhood,” Wyatt said. “I’m embarrassed for you, too, Tom.”

“All right, I’m not—” Tom said, shrugging off Vik’s grip. He tried to rise, but Yuri shoved him back down.

“Sorry, Tim,” Yuri said, regret in his voice. “Normally I would not push you around, but I must because you have become such a pansy.”

“A pansy?” Tom cried.

“The Tom Raines I know,” Vik said, “is not supposed to spend a half hour primping his hair. You’re not supposed to call Karl Marsters ‘sir.’ And you haven’t even been giving Elliot Ramirez crap in Applied Sims. He actually came up to me today and asked me whether you’re depressed and need the social worker. Come on, Tom. Elliot of all people has remarked on the conspicuous absence of your spine!”

“Elliot’s misreading the situation, and so are you—HEY!” He saw Yuri examining the leather case that held the neural chip, and snatched it from his grasp. “That’s mine. You should respect other people’s property! And as for Karl”—he turned on Vik—“it may have escaped your notice, Vik, but he’s a member of CamCo. He outranks us. He deserves our respect. That’s why I call him ‘sir.’ If I remember correctly, you talked to me about this exact same thing the last day of the war games.”

“I was talking about Lieutenant Blackburn, not Karl!”

“Do you even hear yourself, Tom?” Wyatt said. “You’re being weird and very creepy.”

“I am not being weird or creepy. And you are no one to lecture me about being weird and creepy!”

Yuri gripped the back of Tom’s neck so suddenly, Tom gasped.

“You do not talk to her like that,” Yuri warned him, and Tom was suddenly aware of how much larger the Russian guy was than him.

“Yuri, it’s okay,” Wyatt said.

Yuri released Tom.

Tom rubbed the back of his neck, trying to gauge his chances of escape.