—Not approved for public release; distribution is limited.—

As I finish shaving the next morning, I see myself in the mirror and I can’t help but marvel at how normal I look. Last night, I saw what implants can do to a person. Saw what people can become when they let the technology inside.

And for the first time, I understand why Priders are scared: we’ve gone and become our tools.

In the distance, I hear the puttering of Jim’s pickup truck. Like most people around here, he’s got an old manual drive. Can’t afford the safety of an autonomous car. It makes a hell of a racket as he pulls up outside.

I can’t help thinking that the men in those freak fights are a type of person that has never existed before. Clawing each other to pieces in a ring lit up like an operating theater, they looked like newborn creatures exposed under the spotlights, blind and mewling, skin glistening. New breeds of men that have Joseph Vaughn and his Priders scared crazy, foaming at the mouth.

The unblinking generals—Valentine, Daley, and Stilman—went home to their own cities last night. Of all the new breeds, I think the Priders should fear them first. Zeniths, like me.

And yet a normal-looking former teacher is staring back at me in the mirror.

Knock, knock, knock.

The flimsy bathroom wall shudders.

“What happened to the front door?” asks Jim, voice muffled.

I step into the dim hallway with a towel around my waist, squeezing the ratty carpet between my toes. Jim waits for me, a serious expression hiding in the wrinkles of his face. It looks like he hasn’t slept since he left.

“I met Lyle Crosby,” I say. “I’m in. If I want to be.”

“He know about your Zenith?” asks Jim.

“He knows. It’s why he’s interested,” I say. “He’s building an army.”

Jim rubs his eyes with the balls of his thumbs. “Yeah.”

“Claims he’s the only thing protecting amps,” I say.

Jim stands in the hallway, breathing steadily and slowly. “Hell, he may be right, but it’s already gone too far. He’s going to give the reggies a reason to start a war. Make all Vaughn’s crazy predictions come true.”

Someone bangs on the front door. We both ignore it. I push past Jim into my bedroom. Throw on some clothes. Jim stands in the doorway, face shadowed.

“Watch him, Owen. Learn what you can. But for God’s sake, be careful,” he says. “The rest of the world is waiting to come down on us like a tidal wave. Not just Eden. All the amps. Half a million innocent people.”

The banging isn’t stopping. Light, repetitive taps that shake the screen door. Again and again.

“Lyle wants me to turn it on, Jim,” I say.

“Then you need to know everything,” says Jim, sighing. “After activation, you’ll enter a consent mode. Yes or no. You might hear a voice or see it in your mind’s eye.”

Bang, bang, bang.

“What does it do?” I ask.

“Autonomic delegation,” says Jim. “Your body acts and reacts faster than you can think. Action without thought. Your true self making the calls. The deeper you go, the harder it is to turn it off. And once you go down a level, you’ll always go that deep. No coming back. It can take you to dark places.”

The banging stops.

“It’ll turn me into a weapon,” I say, my voice suddenly loud.

“All you got to do is curl your hands into fists and you turn into a weapon,” says Jim. “Your body is just another tool. This technology changes nothing; it only amplifies. You decide how to use your tools. Whether to do good or evil.”

There’s a scratch on my bedroom window as someone hoists his face to the crack. “Owen,” says a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s Nick. Lyle sent me. C’mon, you gotta come see this!”

Nick leads the way, stubby arms swinging. He’s so little to be in the middle of this. Just a baby on the railroad tracks. Once we’re out of earshot of the trailer, I put a hand on his shoulder. Slow him down so we can talk.

“Nick,” I ask, “has Lucy said anything …”

“About you yelling at her?” he asks.

I blink, surprised. I didn’t know it was that loud.

“Nope,” he says. “But you should apologize.”

“I am sorry for that. And I will. But I meant … about Lyle,” I say. “Is something going to happen around here? Something big?”

Nick shrugs. “Who knows? He’s always telling her to buy a gun. But the guy is weird. You can ask him yourself here in a second.”

As we approach Lyle’s trailers, I see a crowd of about a dozen of his followers loitering around. They’re peeking in the dusty windows of a rotten, spray-painted trailer. I recognize some, but they give me a lot of space. I’ve got Lyle’s aura on me now—it demands respect, and fear.

“This is messed up, man,” says Nick, breathless.

“Go home,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it later. Go on.”

Noncommittal, Nick backs away into the crowd of legs. The others step away from me, forming a ragged patch of space. I knock on the waterlogged front door. Instantly, the hinges squeal and the door parts. In a stripe of light, an eye appears.

“Get your ass in here, brainy smurf,” whispers Lyle. Turning sideways, I squeeze in through the door. Lyle shoves it closed behind me.

My stomach sinks when I see what’s going on.

In the dim, damp interior of the trailer, I see two teenage boys. Strapped to plastic lawn chairs with lots of duct tape. Not struggling. And they don’t look like they have implants. They look like those kids from the field, probably sixteen or seventeen.

God only knows what Lyle is doing here.

“Thanks for coming, doctor,” says Lyle. “These boys are just about ready for their implants.”

My mouth pops open audibly.

Lyle puts an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about your tools, doc. Your nurse is bringing them. Should be here any second.”

The two strapped-in teenagers are watching me, a strange mix of fear and anticipation on their faces. I know I should hate these little bastards for what they did to me, but they look so young and stupid sitting there. A couple of dumb kids who just fell into a shark tank and don’t even know it.

“What?” is all I can get out.

“Besides,” continues Lyle, “before you get started operating, we’ve got to make sure and get permission from these young men. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“Y-yes, sir,” they both say.

“Now, where do y’all live?”

The bigger one speaks up. “Just across the field there, sir.”

“And why exactly are you here?”

“To see about getting an implant, sir.”

“We wanna get amped,” says the other one.

Lyle looks over at me, smiling. Keeps on questioning the kids, watching my reaction to their words. “And why is that? Why do y’all wanna get amped?”

“Cause we heard you could do stuff. Fighting type of stuff.”

“Like it makes you faster and smarter and stuff,” chimes in the sidekick.

“And stuff,” repeats Lyle. “Your parents know you’re here?”

The kids glance at each other. Try to have a conversation with their eyes. Fail at it. The big blond one rolls his eyes as the smaller one admits, “No, sir.”

“That’s fine. We don’t care about that. Y’all two are young men. You can make your own decisions. If you want to get an implant put in your noggin so that you can get smarter and stronger and stuff … why, that’s your call.”

The kids smile hesitantly at each other as Lyle continues. “Men fight. Think about the Zulu War. Africa. 1879. A few hundred British troops used Gatling guns to mow down a horde of over two thousand enemy soldiers. Not a single British casualty. There were gods on the battlefield that day. When we’re done with you, you’ll be the same as them.”

“The British?” asks the small kid.