Tom stayed where he was. “I don’t live in a cave.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. You see, we used to give programmers control of the Indo-American machines fighting across the solar system. They created programs that determined the actions of those machines. Logical actions. The Russo-Chinese alliance adopted the same strategy, so combat became very predictable. The outcome was predetermined, and oftentimes, an outright stalemate. So we became clever. We inserted a human factor into the behavior of machines.”

“Combatants.”

“No, first hackers. They tampered with Russo-Chinese software. Russia and China deployed their own hackers, and we stalemated again. But the Russo-Chinese military went a step further, and gave human beings active control over their combat machines. Strategists. Unconventional thinkers. Risk takers. Mavericks. Young ones, because teenagers have certain attributes critical to this type of warfare. So now we, too, have young people on the front lines, young people playing a critical role in the war effort.”

“Young people like Elliot Ramirez,” Tom pointed out.

In other words, young people who were promising, talented, go-getters. Young people who were nothing like him.

“That’s right,” the general said, undaunted. “Elliot has a particular set of strengths he brought to our forces. Charisma, charm, and he’s an excellent figure skater.”

Tom snorted. He couldn’t help it, picturing the heroic warrior, Elliot Ramirez, in a sparkly unitard.

Marsh’s eyes narrowed. “Make fun all you like, young man, but that kid has golden DNA. He’d have been something spectacular wherever he went. If he hadn’t ended up with us, Ramirez would be competing in the Olympics. For us, it’s the potential that counts. We look for people who are promising, those who can deploy effective strategies against the Russo-Chinese Combatants. We can train our recruits, we can make them better than they ever imagined, but potential? It’s the single quality we can’t create. Ramirez brought something unique to the table. And we’re hoping you can as well.”

That sense of disbelief crept over Tom. This couldn’t be happening.

“Do you need to see proof, Tom?”

“Yes,” Tom answered at once.

“How about I show you a Challenge Coin?” Marsh slipped out a coin from his pocket. “Members of the Air Force—”

“Show this to each other to prove they’re military. I know. I’ve played about a million military sims.” Tom snatched the coin and turned it over in his hands, seeing the Air Force insignia, on the back.

Marsh took it back from him and pressed his fingertip over the logo. “Brigadier General Terry Marsh, United States Air Force,” the old man said. The coin’s surface flashed green, verifying his voiceprint, his identity, his fingerprint, and DNA all at once.

Tom looked at Marsh’s stubby fingertips, coin clenched between them, trying to figure out ways someone could fake Air Force technology. The very idea this general guy might be here for him was so incredible, he couldn’t get his head around it.

“Does that pass your inspection?” Marsh asked him, waving the coin in two fingers.

Tom stared at it, then dragged his gaze up to Marsh’s. “You’re really here for me? You think I could be a Combatant?”

“It’s a great opportunity, son. We give trainees an education in strategic theory, and if they’re good, we give them a chance to be the Combatants who direct our mechanized intrasolar arsenal. In cases like yours, the cognitive skills and reflexes fostered by these gaming simulations prime you perfectly for operating combat machines.”

“That’s why you picked me? Because I’m good at games?”

“Because you show a killer instinct in them.”

Tom thought suddenly of Ms. Falmouth. Her words rang in his brain: What are you good for?

For this, apparently. For saving the country just like Elliot Ramirez.

“Your quick victory in that test scenario?” Marsh went on. “That’s my icing on the cake, so to speak. It confirmed everything I suspected. You’d be perfect for us.”

Tom closed his eyes and opened them, expecting this to be some glorious dream. But Marsh was there, the VR parlor was real.

Marsh gave a crisp nod at something he saw on his face. “That’s right, son. Your country needs you at the Pentagonal Spire. The question is, are you man enough to win a war for us?”

“NOT A CHANCE,” Neil said.

Tom sat on the edge of his bed in their hotel room. Neil nursed a drink, since, as he always liked to say, a good screwdriver was the only reliable hangover cure he knew. The very mention of Tom’s encounter with General Marsh made every line stand out on his face.

“Dad, I can’t pass this up.” Tom flipped through the parental consent form Marsh had given him. “They’ll train me and I’ll be a Combatant. And it’s for our country—”

“You won’t be fighting a war for this country, Tom.” A wave of Neil’s hand sent orange juice sloshing over the rim of his glass. “Our military fights to secure first extraplanetary mineral rights for Nobridis, Inc. The Russo-Chinese alliance fights back to secure them for Stronghold Energy. War isn’t about countries! Multinationals use taxpayer-funded militaries to fight their private skirmishes, and then they sell the public on paying for it by donning the mantle of patriotism. This is all just a big fight between members of the Coalition to see who will become the richest CEO in the solar system!”

Tom had heard this whole antiestablishment thing many times before. Neil pulled it out every time someone asked him why he hadn’t ever held down a job—Why haven’t I jammed my neck in the yoke of corporate servitude, you mean?—or paid taxes—I’ve got better causes to support with my money than stuffing the coffers of Amerika, Inc.!

So Tom studied the consent form and tuned him out.

“You know how the military treats its people, Tom? They chew them up and spit them out, that’s how. You’re just another piece of equipment to them. And for what? Not for your country. For the wallet of some business executive you’ll never meet in some luxury suite you’ll never see!”

Tom looked over his father, with his sloppy morning drink, his rumpled clothes, and unshaven face. “Dad, this is a career. It’s a real life. Marsh said I’ll even get a salary.”

“You have a real life. Don’t let that rat general tell you—”

“I don’t need him to convince me of anything,” Tom burst out. “I’m sick of this. It’s the same thing over and over again. You lose all our money, and I miss school and have to deal with Ms. Falmouth. I bet this is why—” He stopped talking.

He’d almost said it. That dark thought, the one he never voiced.

I bet this is why Mom left us.

It took Neil a moment to speak, as though he’d heard the phantom words. “This is not the only way we have to live. If you’re tired of this, we’ll settle somewhere. You don’t have to join them. Next win and I’m done.”

Tom closed his eyes, blood beating in his head. There would never be a “next win.” And even if there was, it wouldn’t be enough, and the next win would be gambled away just as quickly as the other ones. He’d heard this all before. His dad would never give up this life. The promise was worthless. And Tom would be worthless, too, if he didn’t get away while he had the chance.