Insignia (18 page)

Vik studied him. “I don’t think that’s normal.”

“Really?”

“Go ask about it at the infirmary.”

Tom groaned inwardly. That was all the way on the ground floor.

But now that he thought about it, he was starting to wonder if something was very wrong with him, after all. He’d actually brought it up with Wyatt the day before, and she’d listed about twenty different fatal diseases he might have. That really didn’t reassure him. Vik’s words finally motivated him to grit his teeth and stagger down the hallway.

He made it as far as the plebe common room.

There, he found a group of Genghises playing pool. A familiar voice bellowed out, “Hey look, it’s Fido!”

Tom sighed inwardly. It was Karl Marsters. The massive, jowl-faced Genghis straightened up from the shot he’d just made, the cords standing out on his thick neck, a grin on his face.

“What do you want?” Tom asked him.

Karl’s stepped forward to block his path when he made for the elevator. “He’s not very polite, is he? Not a good doggie.”

Tom tried to shove past him, but one meaty blow to the chest sent him reeling back. He caught himself against the wall, then yanked himself upright, his heart thudding.

“I hear you’re giving my boy Elliot a hard time,” Karl said.

“
Your boy
Elliot? Why do
you
care?”

Karl looked at his buddies, three large guys and a muscular blond girl. “You’re a spelling bee champ, aren’t you, White Fang? How do you spell ‘If I don’t learn to speak to my betters with more respect, I’m going to get my face smashed in’?”

Tom laughed, unable to resist: “That one’s easy. It’s K-A-R-L.”

In a flash, Karl’s fist flew toward his face. Tom ducked just in time. An ugly crack split the air as Karl’s knuckles met the wall. Karl screamed out, and Tom didn’t need any warning message to flash across his vision center this time. He knew this was trouble. He hurled himself past the large Genghis and made for the elevator. But it would never arrive in time, so he swerved around it, hoping he could duck into one of the other divisions.

Luck was on his side. The first door he reached slid open. He stumbled through and locked it behind him. Thumps against the door, bodies crashing against it, people who’d pursued him coming to their sudden halt.

Tom laughed, breathless, elated, the weird pain in his joints all but forgotten in the surge of adrenaline. He heard soft footfalls on the floor behind him, and then a familiar voice, “Take a wrong turn?”

Tom jumped. He whirled around to catch gazes with a familiar pair of yellow-brown eyes. “Heather.”

She leaned against the wall of the corridor, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. “You realize this is Machiavelli Division, don’t you?”

Fists drummed against the door behind him. Tom jabbed his thumb toward it. “Any way to seek asylum? I’m being chased.”

“Who’s chasing you?”

“Genghises. Large, angry Genghises.”

Heather propped a hand on her hip and made a tsking sound. There was a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Did you do something bad, Tom?”

“No, I swear, I barely even know Karl Marsters. He got all in my face about me messing with Elliot.”

“Oh, of course.” Heather swayed forward, then looped her arm through his and led him down the hallway to a living room area with a circular arrangement of chairs. “It’s because Elliot’s a Napoleon. Napoleons and Genghises are allies. They always look out for each other. You should’ve gone to Hannibal Division. They’re aligned with the Alexanders. They’d protect you.”

She was pressed close up against him, her warmth seeping into his arm. “Huh,” Tom said, trying not to get too distracted by it. “It’s funny. I didn’t even think divisions mattered that much.”

“Right now, for you, they’re just dorms. It’s really later on when it comes to potential corporate sponsors that divisions matter at all. Alexanders and Hannibals will introduce you to their company reps—those are the people in each Coalition company who determine which Combatants they want to sponsor. They pay for a Combatant’s airtime, supply ships for them to use in combat, and basically make it financially viable for the military to use them in space battles.”

“So people aren’t CamCo because they’re good.”

“Being good helps. But this isn’t a pure meritocracy, no. It’s also about knowing people.”

“I thought this place was all about war. I didn’t expect it to be political.”

She bumped him with her hip. “Tom, haven’t you heard that phrase—‘Politics is just war by other means’?”

“What about Machiavellis?” Tom said, his eyes dropping to the quill on her shoulder. “Who are you guys aligned with?”

“We Machiavellis shun permanent alliances. We’re free agents.”

“Freedom’s good. I’m all for freedom.” He was all for Heather’s hands all over him like this, too.

She tugged him around by the arm, then pressed on his chest. Tom moved back at her urging until his legs met the soft cushion of a chair. He dropped back into it.

“Well,” Heather said, dropping back into her own chair and crossing her legs, “freedom has disadvantages. I’m the only Machiavelli in CamCo because the alliances stick with their own when they’re introducing potential Combatants to their sponsors. Alexanders and Hannibals introduce each other, and Napoleons and Genghises introduce each other. It’s all about influence. When you have more people from your division in CamCo, you’re able to get more people from your division in CamCo. That’s why it was so hard for me to get in.”

“Hard for
you
?” Tom said, disbelieving. Someone who could fly like her, and looked like her, and she didn’t have companies falling over each other to sponsor her?

“I got in the program in the first place because I actually earned it. I didn’t have a rich uncle to connect me with Matchett-Reddy like Lea Styron, or a dad who used to work for Dominion Agra like Karl Marsters.” She tapped her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “Actually, it’s why I’m visiting the plebe floor. It has the biggest common area, and we’ve been plotting how to get another Machiavelli into CamCo. General Marsh agreed to approach the Defense Committee and nominate an Upper from our division, so now I have to figure out how to get a company behind him.”

“Why don’t you just use your sponsor?”

“I tried, but I can’t get Wyndham Harks onboard. So we have to look somewhere else and figure out how to get someone from another division to help.”

Tom thought of the other two Camelot Company members sponsored by Wyndham Harks: Yosef Saide of Genghis Division, and Snowden Gainey of Napoleon. They were both clean-cut, symmetrical-featured guys with ready grins. Between them and Heather, Tom figured there was one specific criteria Wyndham Harks cared about in their Combatants: looks.

“Who are you putting forward?” Tom asked her.

Heather’s nodded to someone in the hallway behind him. “Nigel.”

Tom turned, saw a weedy guy lingering in the hallway beyond. He was skinny and delicate, with full lips, a tiny nose, and a face that looked almost girlish.

“I guess you’ve been listening. Did you hear about Tom’s situation?” Heather asked him.

“Yes. Those are Genghises trying to break in here, are they?” Nigel’s voice had a crisp British accent. Everything about the kid was smooth, from his gelled hair to the way he walked so lightly Tom couldn’t hear his footsteps. He had a strange tic going on with his face. It was this low, continuous spasm around his right eye, like he wasn’t quite in control of it.

“Yeah.” Tom tried not to stare at his twitching face. “Sorry about the door pounding.”

“It’s fine. It makes me wonder about something. You?” Nigel looked at Heather.

Heather cupped her chin in her palm. “Maybe.”

“Yes,” Nigel said, in a voice so low Tom almost didn’t hear it.

“Fine,” Heather said.

If Tom didn’t know better, he’d wonder if they were having half this conversation telepathically.

“Tom,” Heather said abruptly, “can you wait in one of the bunks while Nigel and I finish here? I’ll be there soon, and we’ll figure out how to get you out of here. Of course”—she winked—“if you’re okay with waiting it out, I suppose I could come keep you company.”

Good. God
. That smile of hers could seriously crash planes.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go wait.” He headed into the nearest empty bunk, bumping into the doorframe in his haste.

Tom laughed once he was inside the empty bunk. That girl even made his neural processor malfunction.

He winced at the pain in his knees as he settled onto the edge of an empty bed, his hand tapping an impatient beat on his thigh. As time stretched on, he closed his eyes and began sorting through a schematic of the Spire, trying to figure out how to get past the Genghises waiting for him. That CA number blinking in his vision center kept getting lower, and now that he thought about it, his lips and fingertips were tingling again....

The door slid open. Heavy footsteps thumped toward him.

Too heavy for Nigel or Heather.

Tom’s eyes snapped open, and he experienced an electric jolt of terror.

Karl Marsters loomed above him, bruised and bloody. His fist descended into Tom’s face.

H
E ROUSED AS
Karl hauled him into the Machiavelli hallway, Nigel and Heather watching from a few feet away. Tom choked on the blood in his nose and struggled against the massive arm locked around his neck but couldn’t budge it.

“Thanks. Thanks, guys,” Karl was telling them.

“Did you punch him?” Heather demanded. “That’s not part of our deal, Karl.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I know the agreement. I wasn’t supposed to punch him in Machiavelli. Whoops.”

Tom struggled against the headlock. Now he understood it: Heather hadn’t been flirting, sending him off into the bunk. She’d been getting him out of the way so she could sell him out. The realization settled like something sour in his gut as Karl jerked him forward one reluctant step after another.

Nigel drew near, his eyes bright. “Remember the important part. You’re committed.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember.” Karl hauled Tom another few jerky steps. “You gave me the little punk, so once Marsh nominates you to the Defense Committee, I’ll take you to meet my Dominion Agra reps to see whether they’ll sponsor your bid.”

Heather smiled at Tom as though she could charm him even while a large Genghis was practically suffocating him thanks to her treachery. It just made him feel like more of an idiot, knowing he was stuck here in a headlock with a bloody nose, totally suckered by her. “Sorry, Tom, you have to understand: we need more Machiavellis in CamCo, and I promised Nigel I’d try my best.”

Tom kicked back, trying to wrench out of Karl’s grip again, but he wasn’t some heavyweight wrestling champ for nothing. A large hand clasped Tom’s wrists behind his back and twisted them up hard enough to make him keel over just to keep his arms in their sockets.

Karl clamped his hand over Tom’s head, pressing it down, walking him forward in that undignified way. “That’s it. Keep going, Lassie.”

Tom couldn’t resist the steady march into the common room where a crowd of Genghises were gathered. His face throbbed. He was in serious trouble here.

Karl’s voice boomed across the common room: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, sometimes we get a plebe who needs to be taught humility.”

Tom tried to jerk up again, but Karl yanked his arms higher and the pain grew so much worse, like his arms were matches about to be snapped. He dropped down again, unable to help it, and was stuck watching his own blood drip onto the carpet.

“Do you want to apologize to us, Old Yeller?” Karl’s hand jerked Tom’s head in a nod. “I bet you do. Make it loud and clear so everyone can hear you.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “No.”

Karl wrenched Tom’s arms toward his shoulders, and he gasped in pain.

“This doesn’t feel very nice, does it?” Karl’s big hand tugged Tom’s head back and forth to shake it. “You don’t like this, do you? Want it to stop? Then bark for us, Fido. Bark.”

Tom couldn’t help the pained sound that escaped his lips when Karl shoved his arms higher. But he’d never bark. He didn’t care how much it hurt. He’d rather tear out his own intestines than do anything Karl wanted.

“Do it now or I’ll rip your arms out of the sockets, Benji.”

“Do it! Do it, then, ’cause I’m not going to bark!”

“Fine, you think I’m bluffing? I’ll show you a bluff!”

Tom yelped out when his arms were shoved beyond their limits, and then a strange sound filled the room. Like a bunch of people making clucking noises. He heard Karl exclaim, “What the—”