Tom saw Nigel’s ship spinning around in the upper atmosphere, whirling away from Medusa altogether. An ignorant observer might’ve thought it was some clever tactical ploy or even showmanship, the way he aimed it right into the Earth’s atmosphere, the fire blaring around the heat shields. Tom heard a few appreciative murmurs from the spectators as Nigel streaked down toward the land mass below.

Then Tom realized with sudden, dizzying shock that Nigel was through the upper atmosphere, that his ship was hurtling toward the ground at breakneck speed, setting coordinates for Virginia. The lights of Washington, DC, veered into sight as he dipped lower, and then beyond that to Arlington. The Spire rose over the land.

Nigel was really going to do it. No one knew that ship was an enemy. No one knew they had to stop it. Nigel was going to take out the Spire and destroy everything Tom had.

Tom did the only thing he could, unleashed the single weapon he had.

He gazed straight at Nigel, gritted his teeth, and thought out the phrase Tiny spicy Vikram … TINY SPICY VIKRAM!

And then it happened. The adware virus file unloaded from his processor like a hydrogen bomb rolling its way out of a bomb bay. A sense of lightness snapped through Tom’s brain, the virus deleting itself from his processor as the stream of code danced across his vision, deserting him, slamming Nigel, triggering.

He sprang out of his seat like he’d been slapped by some giant, invisible hand.

“‘Your computer is infected,’” Nigel read, seeing something in his vision center. “‘Click here to download protection for your PC.’ … I’m not a PC! I don’t need a …” His voice changed again, something else scrolling before his wide blue eyes. “‘Free money. Click here for details.’” He fumblingly tore out his neural wire, but it didn’t stop the barrage of ads. “‘Learn the ultimate belly fat-busting secret.’ … What is this, Raines?”

“Sounds like it’s the ultimate belly fat-busting secret.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Nigel’s face grew cloudy again as he seemed to see something else, his voice growing deeper and thicker. “‘Become a mystery shopper.’ … ‘Get paid for your opinions.’ … ‘Find out who’s searching for you.’ … ‘Congratulations, you’ve won a free’ … ‘Swat the fly and win a hundred’ … ‘Make money from home.’ …”

His voice grew slower and slower, like the wheels of a train chugging to a stop, and his slim fingers threaded through his black hair and tugged on it, as though he hoped gripping his head would stop the ads Wyatt’s virus was unpacking in his brain. The screen overhead showed Nigel’s ship whirling out of control, hurtling toward the Spire.

“Whaaat isss thiiiiis …” Nigel stepped toward Tom as if wading through some thick swamp. Slowly, sluggishly, he keeled toward him, reached out to grab him. “Raaaines …”

He staggered right into arm’s reach. Tom punched him.

Nigel reeled back, his head crashing against the corner of his chair. He crumpled to the ground and stayed there.

Tom couldn’t drag himself over to Nigel with the immobility program stopping his arms from bearing his own weight. So he grabbed Nigel’s skinny leg, dragged him over, tore the neural wire out of his slack grip, and then shoved it into his own brain stem.

The program enveloped him. Tom’s brain was sucked straight into the navigation system of Nigel’s ship, a jarring shift of consciousness. His senses zinged with the machine’s sensors, the logical parameters of the vessel’s computer warring with Tom’s human brain. He forced himself farther, the machine humming around him, plunging deeper into the command system. He became enveloped by every connection, every stream of code, even as the view on the Rotunda’s screen jolted toward the target. He flashed between the ship and his organic body, where his heart was pounding with terror. For the briefest instant through his eyes, he saw the screen, with the uneasy stirring in the Rotunda and Elliot’s shocked expression as everyone gazed at the screen where Tom’s ship was on a collision course with the Pentagonal Spire.

And then Tom veered, pulling out of the death plunge, soaring back up through the silken clouds into the upper atmosphere again. The blue sky drained into stark darkness around him. Tingles of excitement climbed up his spine as the Earth curved beneath him and the stars resolved in vibrant life about his vessel.

Medusa’s ship had clamped upon the satellite they were competing to seize. Tom gazed at her vessel—a sharp, scythelike thing—through the thermal sensors of his own, and he was glad the virus, the easy cheat, was gone. This was how he wanted to face her. His kind-of girlfriend, his idol, his archenemy. Warrior to warrior.

This was going to be their first real battle.

CHAPTER THIRTY

TOM FOUND INTERFACING with a machine in space strangely similar to interfacing with the body of an animal in Applied Sims. The commands and controls registered themselves in his thoughts as soon as he hooked in. He knew how to crank his engine to full the same way he knew how to lift his leg and step forward. It came so readily. Another flexure of his thoughts, and he sent his vessel charging straight at the satellite, determined to deploy his own clamps and grab it. He’d either tear it from Medusa’s grip—unlikely—or destroy it. If she took off with the prize, it was over. If he destroyed it, at least they both lost.

She veered aside just in time to avoid a collision. When she made for Earth, though, he veered in to block her way and made another grab at the satellite.

She used net-send, targeting his ship with her message, since she couldn’t know what IP address she was dealing with. Are you turning this into a zero-sum game now?

Tom messaged back, What’s a zero-sum game?

Are you an idiot?

Sure I am. Deranged, too.

A pause. Then, You. I should’ve known.

Should you have?

No one else would’ve risked destroying that satellite. Medusa dipped a wing at him. Tom felt sure she was amused, even as she dodged his next attempt to barrel in and destroy the satellite. No one but you. Oh, and me.

And then with one sharp twist of her ship, she flung the satellite at him. He dodged just in time to avoid the sure defeat of losing both his ship and the prize. But Medusa was heading toward him, obviously having decided upon a new strategy: destroy his ship and then take off with the satellite. Tom frantically reoriented himself as Medusa’s vessel veered in behind him and then hung back against the black tapestry of stars like a calculating predator.

So who were the idiots flying before you? she messaged.

Tom changed his strategy, too. If she’d let go of it, maybe he could try just bolting in quickly, grabbing it, and hoping to beat her down to Earth. He used the American satellite grid, trying to find the target satellite’s new position. It’s a long story.

Brace yourself for a tragic ending.

Just as Tom found his position, space junk appeared on his thermal sensors. Medusa had twisted around and used the wake of her engine to hurl a mass of steel toward him. Tom’s heart jerked, but he didn’t dodge in time. The steel rocked the vessel he was steering, knocking him off course, then forcing Tom to bank downward to avoid her next improvised weapon of space debris. Medusa passed Tom’s ship, then slowed abruptly, trying to catch him in the fiery plume of her engine. Tom banked downward, letting her shoot far past him.