“Sounds like some computer geek in search of a life,” Andy hooted.
“And looking in all the wrong places,” Matt agreed.
The mysteries of schoolwork took over for the rest of the day. But Matt’s investigation got an unexpected boost from Dr. Fairlie. When Matt arrived at his History teacher’s last-period classroom, he found a classmate waiting at the door. Sandy Braxton was one of the “Leets,” short for “elite,” Bradford’s top social clique.
Dr. Fairlie beckoned them in after his students came bursting out of the door. “You know that an important part of your American History grade comes from the research project. I’m assigning the pair of you to work as a team. You both have the same topic — the Battle of Gettysburg.”
“I’ve been doing some research about Pickett’s Charge,” Sandy said anxiously. “The Confederate general who broke the Union line was attacking troops led by his former best friend.”
“An interesting start, Mr. Braxton,” Dr. Fairlie said. “Unfortunately, your reports are more known for their flashy computer special effects than for their clear content.”
The teacher glanced at Matt. “Mr. Braxton is not a writer. Amazingly, he has reached his third year here at Bradford without being able to organize his thoughts into a coherent narrative.”
Matt knew why. Sandy Braxton probably felt he didn’t need to organize his thoughts. When he got out of school, he could hire any organizational experts he needed to help run the family business — which, as far as Matt could see, involved owning about half of Virginia.
The teacher went on. “Your reports, Mr. Hunter, are models of clarity. Perhaps you can give Mr. Braxton some useful pointers.”
Frankly, Matt didn’t know what — or if — he could teach Sandy Braxton. But Sandy could get Matt into the Leets, the group he wanted to check out.
He stuck out his hand and said, “Let’s get to work, partner.”
Chapter 3
Matt headed straight for his room when he arrived home. He tossed a two-inch-square datascrip onto his desk. Its memory matrix held gigabytes of information — Sandy Braxton’s info-dump on the two Civil War generals, Hancock and Armistead. The clatter seemed louder than usual in the empty house. Dad had a teacher’s meeting, and Mom wouldn’t get home from her job at the Department of Defense for at least another hour and a half.
There was lots of time for Matt to do what he intended and then get on to his homework.
He sank into the computer-link chair in front of his desk, leaning back against the headrest. For an instant, there was a sort of buzzing in his ears as the receptors in the chair tuned into the circuitry implanted under Matt’s skin. The desk faded from in front of Matt’s eyes as he entered his own personal veeyar, the operating system for his personal computer.
Matt drifted cross-legged in the midst of a starry sky. In front of him floated a marble slab, decorated with small glowing objects — icons representing various programs in the computer.
Stretching out a finger, Matt touched an inch-tall neon-blue telephone and gave Leif Anderson’s telecom number in a subvocalized whisper — barely a mutter, but that was enough in veeyar. A second later, he felt the twinge of a connection. Matt composed a subvocalized message. Leif, it’s Matt. Would you mind a virtual visit?
Letters of flame appeared in the air. Come on up!
Matt moved from the tiny telephone and picked up a little gold thunderbolt, his interconnect icon. Subvocalizing Leif’s number again, he added the Launch command. The universe went slightly out of focus as he transferred to the Net.
Now Matt seemed to be flying through a vast city of light. Soaring skyscrapers in single blazing colors marked major corporate Web-nodes. Other virtual buildings were gray, with each window shining a different color — small-business and individual e-mail sites. Yet other constructs floated in the coal-black sky. Matt flew past them at blurring speed, since his destination was already set.
He flashed on through the virtual landscape until he came to a glowing silver building, then arrowed toward an entire floor of red-hued windows — the family suite of the Andersons.
The moment he reached the virtual window, Matt blinked — and found himself standing in Leif’s room.
Matt blinked again. This was unexpected. He’d assumed he would land in Leif’s personal veeyar, not out in the real world in holoform. Matt shook his head. “I didn’t know you had your room hooked up for full holo projection.”
“Oh, it’s the hot thing to do, if your folks have enough money.” Leif would have been better off if he could have hidden behind a virtual mask. His skin was pale, and his face seemed twisted in pain even though he sat in a large, comfortable chair. He was wearing pajamas and a robe.
“Still recovering from that hit, huh?”
Leif nodded — and winced. “Ever been caught in veeyar when a program suddenly crashed?”
“Who hasn’t? Usually you wind up with a killer headache.”
“Multiply that by about a hundred, and you’ll have an idea of how I feel. Gah! It even hurts to listen to myself talk.”
Leif sighed, carefully letting his head rest back against the chair. “My implant is okay, and the doctors say there’s no nerve damage, just…sensitivity.” His lips crooked in a half smile. “No veeyar until the neurons calm down. And out here in regular reality, well, my folks are delighted. No loud music, no action holos with sirens, car chases, and explosions. In other words, no fun for a while.”
He sent a sharp look Matt’s way. “There hasn’t been much on the HoloNet about what went down in Camden Yards. I can’t believe the cops don’t have a clue. Has Net Force clamped down on it? What was it all about? Terrorists?”
“It was kids,” Matt said. “The cops — and Net Force — have no idea who they are.”
He went on to explain what Captain Winters had told him.
Leif frowned. “What sort of sickos would even consider shooting down a field full of hologram baseball players?” Then he answered his own question. “Spoiled, rich, sick kids, messing people up for fun — no profit.”
“Maybe it was people who hate baseball,” Matt suggested.
“You mean the sorts of geekoids who never got chosen to play on a team?” Leif leaned forward in his chair. “We’re looking at money and brains here. And if it’s kids with money in the D.C. area, I should know them — or know people who know them.”
Leif sank back, eyes shut, sighing. “You know, I’d be just the right person to track down these virtual vandals — if I could get on the Net.”
He darted another look at Matt. “You’re after them, aren’t you?”
Matt nodded. “I’m trying, but I could use some help.”
“Bet you could.” Leif was still frowning, but now he was frowning in thought. “It will mean dealing with a different crowd than you’re used to, even going to Rich Kids’ Prep.”
Matt laughed. “What’s that old saying? ‘The rich are different’?”
But Leif didn’t join his laughter. “They’re only interested in who’s got more money or social clout. That’s why they like diplomats — usually they’ve got money and clout. Pull some stupid prank, and the State Department will hush it up.”
“You think that some of the vandals may be diplomats’ kids?” Matt asked.
“It’s possible,” Leif said. “Nothing like a little diplomatic immunity to make a person completely irresponsible.” He looked at Matt. “But that doesn’t help you get in with them. Rich kids are always ready to use you.”
Matt suddenly thought of Sandy Braxton and the help he’d be getting.