Medusa resorted to using the only weapon in reach: a cloud of sand that stung Tom’s eyes, blinding him in that critical second. Tom’s sword sank into the ground, and a kick to his stomach reeled him back to the ground, knocking the breath from his body.
And then Medusa was on his feet, blade flashing toward Tom’s head. Tom rolled out of the way, thankful for Penthesilea’s agility. He scrambled back up and blocked Medusa’s next blow with his sword. And then the next. But Medusa pressed relentlessly, with the raw strength of Achilles overwhelming Penthesilea. Tom’s arms buckled beneath the bone-jarring clang, and he twisted out of the way of the blade just in time. When Medusa’s next blow came, Tom let his arms give out entirely beneath the power of it and used the momentum to spin himself around. He drew a bloody gash on Medusa’s back, and then leaped back before Medusa’s blade could swivel around and gut him.
They faced each other, fighting for breath. And then Medusa whirled away from him. Just as Tom moved to pursue, Medusa whipped back around and tossed something into the air. Tom felt a tickling around his legs, and looked down to see the chariot’s reins twined in a loop around his limbs.
He slashed downward with his sword to cut the makeshift lasso, but it was too late—Medusa jerked the reins to tighten them, tumbling Tom to the ground. Then Medusa leaped onto the remaining horse and kicked it into a gallop, the reins dragging Tom across the ground behind it. Sand scorched a raw path down his side. A wild slash of his sword finally severed the rope, and he thumped down to the earth, breathless.
Medusa galloped a distance, and swung back around. Sunlight gleamed off his steel helmet and armor.
Tom raised himself to his shaky legs, kicking away the remains of the reins, his sword aloft, waiting. Waiting. His strength was wearing thin, his breath ragged, his body on fire where his skin had been torn off by scraping across the ground. This couldn’t last much longer.
And then Medusa charged. His horse galloped faster and faster, grunting with the speed. Tom readied himself for the assault as the clattering hooves filled his ears and the dust blotted out his vision, and then at the last moment, Medusa leaped off the horse. The animal careened into Tom in an explosion of thrashing hooves and muscle. A blow to his ribs, to his torso. Acid burned through him when something ruptured.
Tom dragged himself clear. Fire burned inside him, and each gasp at air felt like a dagger stabbing him. One of his lungs had collapsed. His breaths were gurgles as the shadow of Achilles strode over the sand toward him. He saw the shadowy sword rise and then arc down into him.
It didn’t hurt at first. At first. And then Medusa tore out the bloody blade, kicked Tom over onto his back, and loomed above him, a black figure in a halo of sunlight. A nuclear meltdown was happening in his torso. Tom’s scream was a gurgle as molten agony consumed him, radiating to his limbs, tearing at every nerve. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe....
Medusa knelt down next to him. “I’m sure you now wish you’d left with the others.”
Tom’s vision darkened around the edges, his body arcing in pain in a futile fight for oxygen, and the plume of Medusa’s helmet grew larger and darker as he leaned even closer to watch him die. Tom was half aware of Medusa’s hand lifting the back of his leaden head, sliding his helmet off to let his bloody hair spill out—Achilles taking a moment to gaze down at the dying Penthesilea. And as Tom’s consciousness tunneled away, he thought he saw Medusa’s lips curl into a slow smile. Through his agony, he twisted his lips into a bloody grin of his own.
You’re everything I dreamed you’d be.
The last thing he felt was Medusa’s hands cupping his head, cradling it until he slipped away into the darkness.
TOM’S EYES SNAPPED open in the simulation chamber.
Elliot was seated at the end of his cot, arms folded. The rest of the simulation group was gathered around behind him, staring down at Tom like he was some weird science project. When Tom tried to sit up, a bunch of hands helped him.
He groped at his aching head. Elliot hopped down and strode over, dark eyebrows raised. “Your heart rate went a bit crazy there toward the end. We were worried. How’d it go?”
“Took out Kalashnikov, Red Terror, and Rusalka.”
Elliot laughed. “Rusalka, taken out by a plebe. I’m going to rub that in Svetlana’s face next time we’re at the same PR event.”
“Then Medusa got me.”
Elliot shocked him by clapping his shoulder. “Good job, Tom.”
Tom found himself grinning back. Elliot had let him stay, had given him a chance to face Medusa. He was amazed. Somehow he couldn’t imagine thinking of Elliot as Dorkmirez ever again.
The crowd around him cleared as everyone tucked away the wires in the simulation chamber. Tom didn’t move right away. He felt like he was buzzing all over with the thrill of what had happened. When he did move, it was only to make his way across the room where Beamer was sitting on his cot, legs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He looked paler than his character in the sim, his freckles a stark contrast against his white skin.
Tom waved his hand in front of his eyes. Beamer flinched back from him and scrambled off the cot, gasping for breath. “Get back!”
“Tom, leave him alone,” Elliot ordered gently, watching from over Tom’s shoulder.
“We’re friends.”
Elliot drew him back with a firm grip. “Try to think: you just killed him.”
“Come on.” Tom turned to Beamer incredulously. “I didn’t kill kill you. And hey, I died, too. Sword to the gut.” He clutched his abdomen and imitated his own gurgling from a minute before, then collapsed theatrically to the floor. But when he jounced back to his feet, Beamer wasn’t looking at him.
Tom grew exasperated. Beamer died all the time. So this one death hadn’t worked out for him. He was fine now. Tom had died, too, and he’d never felt this alive or pumped up in his life.
“Come on, Beamer! I beheaded you for your own good.”
Beamer sent him a cloudy look, like he didn’t really see him. Elliot stepped between them, drawing that foggy gaze to his. “Stephen, would you like me to call the social worker for you?”
“Yeah, that’ll make him feel better,” Tom said. “Call the guy a wimp.”
Beamer’s eyes flipped back to him over Elliot’s shoulder. He stared at Tom for a long moment, and then bolted from the room.
Elliot sighed and turned to Tom. “I think sometime we’ll need to have a discussion about showing emotional sensitivity.”
Tom returned to his cot, perplexed by the whole thing. He tucked his wire into its slot and rose to his full height again, then noticed Wyatt standing by his cot, waiting for him.
“I think you’re emotionally sensitive, Tom.”
Tom met her earnest eyes. “Thanks, Wyatt.”
She nodded crisply, satisfied her work was done, and left him there.
Tom gazed after her, bemused. Nice of her to say, but then again, she wasn’t exactly the authority on emotional sensitivity, either.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TOM THOUGHT THE response to the incursion was a ridiculous overreaction. Every member of Elliot’s simulation group was escorted to the basement floor into a secured cell next to the Census Chamber, the private room that normally housed the census device. Blackburn plugged them into his census device one by one to retrieve their memories of the incident. Marsh, Cromwell, and Blackburn all watched the incidents play out on the screen.