“Well, I took you guys out of the auditorium because I was annoyed at how big football seemed to be, and that isn’t fair to you. It’s okay to like football and rallies and organizations and all that other festive college stuff. College is your chance to give new things a shot. Just don’t lose yourselves. Sometimes you just have to stick to what you know, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dad, we’ll only try coke. No meth or molly. Please stop.”

“Zed, leave him alone. I feel you, Mr. Pang. No worries about us. We’ve got big plans, and nothing can stop them, not even the wonderful vices of college.”

Apollo hopped out of the car, pleased with his answer and hoping Mr. Pang didn’t think they really did coke. Apollo had always been warmly received by Zed’s family, but he was never sure if they were just polite or if they truly liked him. Apollo seemed to detect a hint of pride on Mr. Pang’s face as the car reversed out the driveway, but a glare on the windshield obscured his view.

Apollo’s house was empty, but his email inbox was full. Absentmindedly, he scrolled through it, jumping with delight when he read a message from his contact at Google Atlanta. Contacting a janitor actually was a pretty smart move, he realized. Solara was brighter than he’d allowed her to be, he considered, almost thrilled when he could think of no objection to this new thought.

He stood in place, amazed that it was really happening. Not only had Zed found more satellites with lax security, but right here, in his city, there was a supercomputer that could process the complex aerodynamics that were needed to actually reposition the satellites rather than just access their motherboards. They’d have to determine the satellites’ orbits, but that would be easy. Right now, all Apollo could think about was his purpose. He restated the facts, too thrilled to think further. In addition to there being multiple weaponized satellites, some were less guarded than others, and he would hack them. Small world.

His world history professor, Ms. Zarri, had always insisted that war was a competition of logistics—supply management. Weapons and tactics and information mattered, she taught, but only to the extent that they were expertly managed.

Fuck that, Apollo thought. In the US’s war against whoever the war was against, there seemed to be a lot more supplies than management. And he was going to show why that was a problem.

He suddenly wished he could rewrite his final term paper for his world history class, which had received an underwhelming B+. Zarri would shit a brick.