Tom’s stomach churned. Right. They had meet and greets again in January. He rose out of the depths of the car, and stood on the sidewalk as Vengerov’s limo slid off down the street, that zipped computer virus waiting there in his processor like a coiled viper.

BEING A “KNOWN terrorist” had kind of cramped Tom’s movement around Washington, DC. So he spent the rest of the winter break in the Spire, playing video games, trying not to think of his father, trying to think of what to do about Medusa and the virus.

He knew what he should do, what was right to do—to dismiss it out of hand and hold firm to his refusal, let the consequences Vengerov had threatened rain down where they would.

But there was this other part of Tom, the same part that had been willing to strike viciously to win Capitol Summit, the part that thirsted for the chance to succeed, to make something of himself, a voice that whispered, This is the only shot I still have of becoming a Combatant.

He tried to disregard the thought.

He wasn’t alone in the Pentagonal Spire. There were a scattering of trainees, mostly from other countries where the holidays weren’t a big deal, or where the flights home would be too burdensome. There was also a skeleton crew of CamCos. Some were the new faces, the newly promoted, anonymous CamCos the public didn’t know about like Leslie Whiell of Napoleon Division, Sandy Feinberg of Hannibal Division, Warren Simmons of Alexander Division, and Griffen Perenchio of Genghis Division. Many of the older Combatants like Heather, Karl, Alec, and Emefa were there, too. It was the luck of the draw, whether they were on duty over vacation or not. Sure, both sides had agreed to a truce around the winter holidays, and another truce around Chinese New Year, but the military always had some CamCos around.

Heather surprised everyone with a program she’d written for the people stuck in the Spire on New Year’s Eve, and from the way she was ringed by other CamCos whenever Tom saw her, she’d obviously won back their allegiance at last. Tom figured Elliot would be pleased to see it. It was one step closer to Heather’s taking his place in the center of CamCo, one step closer to Elliot’s freedom.

Heather invited him to hook into the sim, too, and Tom was thrilled to find out it was a big jousting simulation. He headed up to a training room eagerly and materialized in the sim, donned his armor, grabbed a huge lance, and trotted out on a warhorse into the tiltyards beneath a massive castle, excited for the all-out joust ahead—only to find that most of the trainees who’d hooked in weren’t even jousting, and most had gotten rid of the period garb. Apparently, the sim was a cover for what they were really doing: having a New Year’s Eve party.

This must’ve helped Heather win them back. The sim even had champagne.

Tom couldn’t smell alcohol without thinking of his dad, and he had this bone-deep certainty that even touching a simulated drink would be the worst mistake he could ever make. He parted from the mass of trainees and decided to pick a fight with one of the fake characters. Just for fun.

Heather caught up to him before he made it out of the tiltyard. “Tom, wait!”

He pulled on the reins and slid off the horse so she could catch up to him. She batted his armored chest playfully.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave the sim yet. Stay here.”

That confused him a bit, since she’d been busy hanging out with Sam Schwab and Bruce Tepper of Napoleon Division and hadn’t even spoken to him. “I’m not leaving the sim,” Tom said. “I’m looking for someone to fight.”

“Oh, how bloodthirsty of you,” Heather marveled, but for some reason, his answer seemed to have given her immense pleasure. Her yellow-brown eyes twinkled into his, and she leaned very close. “I’ll give you something for the fight. Something simulation appropriate.”

She was so close, Tom could feel her breath tickling his cheek, feel the heat radiating from her skin, and for a moment, the wild urge to grab her and pull her in close soared through his brain before his rational, highly distrustful-of-Heather brain reasserted itself.

Heather had produced a small strip of cloth of gold, and now she tied it around the hilt of his lance. “This is a token of my favor, good sir. Whoever he is, destroy him good for me.”

There was something so hot about those words, that Tom again had to remind himself that Heather was somewhat poisonous. “I can tell you right now,” he replied, “I’m going to bring you back a head.”

“Or how about not?”

Tom grinned sheepishly. “No heads coming up.” He set out in search of a foe. Soon he ditched the warhorse, ditched the armor, and traded his lance for a sword.

He jumped atop a stone wall and began searching the castle grounds from the high vantage point, seeking a simulated character of sufficient deadliness. That’s how he noticed a hidden nook in the yard, where Karl was accosting one of the serving wenches.

Tom felt a dark thrill, spotting him. Yes. Here it was. Forget simulated enemies. Here was what he’d been looking for.

He sauntered over, then settled on a low wall right above them.

“Hiya, Karl,” he called loudly, startling Karl into jumping to his feet. “Wow, she is not having a good time. I guess even simulated girls don’t like you. That’s kind of pathetic, man.”

Karl shoved the character away and with a flick of his hand, deleted her. Then he turned on Tom, adjusting his garb, his face bright red. “I’ll have you know, Old Yeller,” he said smugly, chest swelling, “I’m a celebrity now, so—”

“Wow, a celebrity and you still have to settle for simulated girls?” Tom interrupted. “That’s just sad.”

Karl leered at him, a nasty glint in his eyes. “I know what this is about. You’re frustrated and hoping to take it out on someone, aren’t ya, Benji? I know what’s up with you. You blew it. You’re never gonna make CamCo now. It’s gotta really be sinking in.”

It was, but Tom would never admit it. “Nah, I’m here because I like spending time with you, Karl.”

“I’ll give you what you want.” Karl drew his sword, his meaty fist gripping its hilt. “I’ll fight you. I’ll smash you into the ground.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re already oh for three. But, hey, I really respect your prowess on the battlefield . . .” Tom couldn’t go on. “Man, I can’t even get that out with a straight face.”

Karl gave a roar of fury and sprang, slashing viciously at his legs. Tom jumped in time as the blade arced beneath him, flashing with the pale light of the sky. He hurled himself around, delivering a slam of his boot across Karl’s face, knocking him to the ground. With an exultant whoop, Tom lunged forward as Karl was rising. Tom crashed the pommel of his sword across Karl’s jaw, knocking him back down. Then he dove forward in a roll, evading Karl’s massive arms as they groped the air where he’d just been. Tom scurried clear, panting for breath. Karl lumbered to his feet like some great, baited bear. Tom kept him in his sight. Karl was a wrestling champ, and huge, besides. If he got his hands on him, it would be over. Tom didn’t intend to let that happen.

Sheer hatred twisted Karl’s features as they faced each other down. “You like being a real tough guy in simulations,” Karl sneered, “but out there, you’re a skinny little punk.”