“She wouldn’t do that.” It couldn’t be her. It had to be Dalton.

But …

Involuntarily, his brain turned back to Medusa net-sending him a message in the Beringer Club. She’d managed to penetrate his firewall and leave a message in his vision center, the way he’d done to her.

He knew how he’d done it. He’d done that thing where he hooked into the satellites, where he floated right through the firewall of the Sun Tzu Citadel. That was the thing he could do. But come to think of it, he still didn’t know how she’d managed it. How she’d penetrated the firewall and gotten to him.

No. He shook his head. No, Medusa wouldn’t do that. She’d kissed him. It couldn’t be her.

“But she likes me. We’re not … We’re …” He stopped, his cheeks burning.

He’d said enough. Blackburn reared back to his feet with a great sigh. “The honeypot is the oldest trick in the espionage book, Mr. Raines. Pretty faces have taken in presidents and generals, and it’s not outside the realm of possibility that one could take in a teenage boy. You need to get dressed and come with me.”

Tom rose from his bed and numbly pulled on his uniform, his mind racing over every encounter he’d had with Medusa, trying to pick out some hint she’d been manipulating him. He couldn’t see it. The leak couldn’t have been his fault, could it have?

Vik was still snoring softly in the other bed when Tom followed Blackburn from the room. In that moment, he would’ve given anything to be sleeping again, too.

When he stepped out of Alexander Division into the plebe common room, he found armed soldiers waiting. Their guns reared to attention at the sight of him, and Tom’s blood froze in his veins. The utter seriousness of the situation sank in. His heart began pounding wildly. He couldn’t seem to take another step. He couldn’t move.

Ten years in prison.

“Put those down. All of you,” Blackburn ordered sharply. “Raines, pay them no mind. We’re going downstairs to talk.”

Tom’s throat was bone-dry. He felt rooted in place.

“I’m not a spy.”

“I believe you,” Blackburn said. “I’m fully convinced that if the Russians or Chinese wanted to sneak a double agent into the Spire, it would not be you. So ignore the guns and focus on me.” He pointed two fingers at his eyes, and Tom focused on them. “I’m sure this wasn’t intentional on your part. You won’t go to prison for being a dupe. But we have to go downstairs, and I need to see your processor so I can check for malware. They could be accessing the Spire right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, Raines. So we’ll do a system scan and see. And then we’ll use the census device to check your meetings so I can get proof you did nothing intentional here. Understand?”

Tom swallowed, and swallowed again. He felt like there was a mass jammed in his throat.

“Y-yes, sir.” He moved his legs that suddenly seemed to weigh a ton, and followed Blackburn into the elevator.

IN THE INFIRMARY, a tired-eyed Dr. Gonzales strapped a blood-pressure cuff to his arm and began giving him a physical for what Blackburn told him would be a neural culling with the census device.

“A neural culling is much like a regular memory viewing,” Blackburn explained. He was hovering over a nearby computer that was connected to Tom’s brain stem port by a neural wire. The screen flickered with data, Tom’s scan in progress.

Tom just watched that screen from afar, his skin prickling all over with anxiety as he waited for Blackburn to find something.

“The census device will sort through your processor’s indexed memories using an alternative search algorithm,” Blackburn went on, eyes on his screen. “You don’t steer the device this time. It steers itself and looks for memories and mental images you try to hide. There!”

His exclamation made Tom jump. He watched the lieutenant type rapidly at the keyboard. “And there it is.” His voice was triumphant. “This must be the malware. It’s certainly not mine.”

Tom’s heart lurched. He leaped to his feet and rushed over to see it, because he had to witness Medusa’s treachery for himself. Dr. Gonzales cursed, and Tom realized he still had the blood pressure cuff on, and the equipment trailing behind him had upended a box of supplies.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. He grabbed the back of Blackburn’s chair and looked over his shoulder, his eyes picking frantically over the data on the screen. Relief surged through him when he glimpsed the suspicious file name. He shook his head. “That’s not malware, sir.”

“Raines, this is a sophisticated piece of software. I don’t expect you to understand—”

“I’m telling you, it’s not malware. It’s Wyatt’s.” He thought quickly of a reason for it to be there. “I asked Wyatt to write it for me after the war games. You know, because my programs suck.”

“They do,” Blackburn agreed absently, studying the program.

“Is that all you’ve found?” Tom asked hopefully. “There’s nothing else?”

He flipped off the screen. “Yes, that’s it.”

Tom could’ve whooped in triumph. No honeypot. No treachery. Medusa hadn’t been using him to spy on the Spire. It wasn’t his fault. He hopped back up on the examination table, feeling like he could soar up into the stratosphere, he was so relieved. Dr. Gonzales resumed his physical exam.

“So we’ve just gotta do this neural-culling thing, then I can go?” he asked Blackburn as Dr. Gonzales listened to his back with a stethoscope.

“We’ll stick you in the census device, and then you’re off on your merry way.”

Tom found himself grinning. He couldn’t help it. It was the best news he’d ever heard. He was sure of it.

Blackburn’s eyes narrowed. “But if you think I’m not at least putting you on restricted libs for being a colossal idiot, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Tom shrugged it off. Restricted libs was nothing compared to ten years in prison.

Dr. Gonzales stood up straight and ripped off the blood pressure cuff. “He’s healthy, Lieutenant. I’ll sign the authorization forms now.”

“Authorization forms?” Tom echoed.

Blackburn reached back, and retrieved a pile of papers. “A neural culling requires physician consent.”

“Will you need anything else?” Dr. Gonzales asked, flipping through one paper, signing it, and then the next. Then the next. On and on the stack went, and Tom wondered why there were so many papers for this. “Should I send someone down with incontinence supplies?”

Tom looked at Blackburn sharply. “Incontinence supplies?”

Blackburn shook his head. “It shouldn’t be necessary.”

“Incontinence supplies? I thought you said this is just like a standard viewing!”

Blackburn considered him. “It is, Raines. As long as there’s no resistance on your part, it is just like a standard viewing. But sometimes, especially in the beginning of the culling, people tend to fight the census device. A neural culling is intrusive. It brings up things you may not want to share, memories you may only half recall. It also brings up private mental images.”