“We’re not going to die.” Wyatt gave a big smile. “I really do think this could work. Obsidian Corp.’s completely oriented toward protecting against mechanized intruders. They have to worry about surveillance vehicles or small drones, but no one’s going to go in person to break into a building in the middle of Antarctica. It’s not a hospitable environment for humans to hang around and stroll on in, especially right now when it’s winter. Between that and the whole wing of motion-sensitive, electrified floors, they won’t expect anyone to come in person.”

Vik sat up abruptly, finger raised. “Quick question: How is this inhospitable-for-humans thing not a problem for us? Last I checked, we’re about ninety-nine point nine percent human. Except for Tom, who’s ninety-nine point eight percent . . . We can joke about that now, right?”

Tom flashed him a mechanized thumbs-up. “Joke away.”

As he spoke, he inspected the mental map again, pinpointing every location on the walls where he saw neural access ports. Since Obsidian Corp. had designed the neural processors, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised they were there. He wondered who used them.

“So how are we getting in?” Vik pressed. “We can’t exactly walk in from the outside. Tom almost froze to death in the summer.”

Confidence surged through Tom. “Simple. We go in the same way Obsidian Corp. staffers do: right through the front door.”

THEY CHOSE SUNDAY, early in the morning, for the operation. Tom tried to sleep in the scant hours before their departure, doing it the normal, human way by lying on the bed instead of hooking a neural wire into the access port on the back of his neck.

In the darkness of his bunk, he was reminded of one aspect of normal sleeping: sometimes it didn’t happen, no matter how much he wanted it.

Tom sat up hazily and became aware of a tapping noise. He rubbed at his eyes, and peered around, searching for it. Then he made out the surveillance camera in the corner, moving back and forth, waving at him.

“Hey, Mai Shiranui,” he called.

Here’s a hint: my name is not the name of a video-game character. Much less a Japanese one, Mordred.

He grinned, reached down into the drawer beneath his bed, and pulled out a T-shirt. “I hoped you’d come.”

And then Medusa’s words appeared in his net-send: I didn’t want to wake you up.

“I wasn’t asleep. Lemme hook into a VR game and meet you. Pick a sim and I’ll see you in a minute.”