Tom was tempted to be frustrated that Yuri was already way better than him at the Zorten II programming language and that was from being able to hear, not see, Blackburn’s lectures for a couple months . . . but he was too intrigued by the possibilities. Yuri could potentially be an awesome cheat.

Tom was careful not to look at him. “Thanks, man,” he said softly. “Can you tell me what to write next?”

Yuri wrote, Thomas, I will not do all your programming for you, or you will not learn.

“What are you talking about, ‘or I will not learn’?” Tom murmured, head turned in the other direction like he was talking to Vik. “I won’t learn anyway. I suck at this stuff. And, hey, this way, you can actually get your work critiqued. You and me, Yuri, we can have a mutually beneficial arrangement. How about it, buddy?”

Yuri seemed pleased with that, and he happily started doing Tom’s programming for him. Tom was extremely satisfied with this for a half hour or so. But then something alarming happened—Blackburn assigned them another algorithm and strolled down the aisle, straight toward them.

“Get up, Raines.” Blackburn gestured for him to move. “I need access to Sysevich’s processor.”

Tom felt a jerk of alarm. Yuri now had his eyes screwed shut. Had they been too obvious?

“Why?”

“What did we talk about yesterday, trainee?” Blackburn put emphasis on the last word.

“Sir, why, sir?” Tom said more respectfully. He didn’t like this. At the lethal look Blackburn sent him, Tom realized he’d been given an order. He didn’t move, aghast at the very idea Blackburn was going to do something to Yuri’s processor and perhaps figure out Yuri wasn’t scrambled. He looked at Vik; and Vik’s lips were a thin line, his eyes dark hollows.

Tom sprang to his feet and nearly tripped over Vik, trying to get past him into the aisle. There, he hovered, sweat prickling his palms, as Blackburn settled next to Yuri and seized the back of his neck, then shoved his hand down so he could hook a neural wire into his access port. He stuck the other end of the wire into a small, portable screen.

Vik had stopped typing. His hands were balled into fists.

Tom remembered vividly how unhappy Vik had been when he’d learned Tom and Wyatt had unscrambled Yuri. It was treason. Vik hadn’t even wanted to know about it.

Relax, Tom net-sent him. Wyatt had to have thought of this, right?

Vik drew a deep breath that lifted his shoulders, and seemed to hold it.

Tom searched Blackburn’s face for any reactions. “What are you looking at? Sir?”