The autocab ride to the Stomp isn’t long—Aaliyah’s home for the demens is in the dead zone that rings the city, which is where Jackertown lives as well—but it gives me time to get things straight with Juliette. I’ve already switched to broadcast mode in prep for the club. Who knows what kinds of jackers will be there, and Juliette still thinks I’m a reader.

If your dad asks, I broadcast, what’s our cover story?

I snuck out to visit you at Aaliyah’s, Juliette dutifully repeats back. We watched some sims and made out.

Heavy on the making out. Everything else is a blur, I confirm. If he checks the autolimo records, that will back us up. I waggle my phone at her. I’ve disabled the locator on my phone, so your dad shouldn’t be able to track us—

She snatches it from my hand and gives me a look like I’m an idiot. He can totally track this. She hauls out her super-sparkle-pink phone and does something with both, one in each hand, then hands it back. That’s my own personal ghost-mode override. It masks everything, in and out. He won’t be able to track you now.

I pocket my phone, impressed. I thought Sammi was the hacker.

She dismisses me with a flick of her fingers. I am the granddaughter of the guy who invented mindware.

She has a point. And now I’m wondering what’s in her “lab” that her dad grounded her from. So it was actually you who hacked the vid system at New Trier?

Her eyes go dreamy. Oh no, that was Sammi. The way she slashes is even hotter than the way she kisses.

I almost laugh. More than I need to know.

Juliette grins.

But I am worried about trackers. I frown. If not on your phone, any chance your dad slipped one on you physically? Clothes? Food, maybe? I look over her hot clubbing outfit, and there’s not a lot of room for trackers. Her short, rainbow skirt reveals most of her legs, and a billowy bright blue blouse looks like it might fluff up and fly away. She’s cute but almost too innocent—I have a brief flash of regret bringing her to a place like the Stomp, thick with jackers and no small amount of danger. And if Tiller tracks us here, it’s game over. I’m worried he’s injected something into her body like Wright has with me. We’re almost there, but it’s not too late to turn back.

She waves away my concern. I hacked into my lab tonight and did a scan. I’m clear.

My eyebrows lift, and I can’t help being impressed again. Okay, then. Although my stomach tightens as that sinks in. It’s one thing to have Wright inject a tracker in me—how much would it suck to have your own family doing it? But it would appear we’re set. Which is good because our autocab is pulling up to a whole line of them in front of the club, dropping off and picking up.

The Stomp is a glittering rainbow of neon pulsing in the middle of nowhere land Chicago New Metro. There’s literally nothing else nearby, just darkened, empty warehouses next to this giant, square building that looks like it’s having a party all to itself. Spotlights on the roof light up the sky, and there’s a thump of music that vibrates the autocab door as I step out. It’s rhythmic and deep, the kind that’s just low enough to make your skin buzz. Wordless voices swell, and the thumping percussion reaches the climax of the story-of-the-music. It booms even louder, then crashes, then a soaring cheer rises along with a groan of disappointment.

The games must be in full swing.

Two burly bouncers stand at the door, and a quick sweep shows they’re jackers. I suppose that’s how they keep the jacker part of the gamer population in line. The Stomp’s motto is scrawled on the wall above the door in angry purple tubing. Blow Your Mind. To the side, on a plain metal plate, are the rules. No Helmets. No Jacking. I knew that, which is why Juliette and I left our prototype cages behind, and why I’m opting for full broadcast mode to keep the illusion of being a reader. We can’t hear anything over the music anyway, even though it’s reverted to some lousy synchrony song.

Juliette steps out of the autocab and teeters on her six-inch heels.

That your gaming outfit? I ask.

She’s eagerly eyeing the door, checking out the gamers in their whole-body suits as they trickle past the muscle—both physical and mental—guarding it. Sammi’s the gamer. I’m just here to cheer. She turns with a smirk. And make out.

I roll my eyes but sweep my arm out for her to go first, then I swipe my unos card to pay our way in. Tiller gave me an expense card, but I don’t want this showing up, so I borrowed funds from Aaliyah. I half expect some kind of push-back or inspection, but the bouncers just wave us through.

Inside, the music is even louder, and the light-frenzy is dizzying. The Stomp is two stories tall, and it’s all one giant room. The center is dominated by the game board for the namesake game, while the periphery is filled with a maze of gameboxes—some single, others for two or more players. They all have holo mindware controls, but some appear to be immersive boxes where the gaming is all virtual while others are just gloves-and-goggles interfaces. All of it’s brand-spanking new. The Stomp has only been open for a few months, since the inhibitors went into the water and jackers started popping up everywhere. Jackers are still only one in a hundred people, but that’s enough to build a business from, I suppose.

I know there’s no jacking in the place, but I can’t help sweeping to see who’s who. I avoid the jacker bouncers, who are positioned around the room like lifeguards at a public pool—slightly bored but more alert than the rest to the fact that the pool is filled with sharks. The place is crawling with jackers, making up about half the players. A large group of readers gathers by the thirty-foot-square game board in the middle.

Do you see her? Juliette asks. She’s standing on her tiptoes, trying to peer around the clusters of gamers.

Not yet. My reach extends the full span of the Stomp’s premises, so if Sammi’s here, I’ll find her. I steer Juliette past the huddle getting ready for the next round—I don’t like staying in the middle, at the center of attention. Too exposed. Let’s find somewhere a little quieter. By which I mean less crowded with jackers who could take down Juliette in a millisecond. I’m still her bodyguard—letting her get jacked while ostensibly on a date would not go over well with her father. I point to a back corner that’s somewhat deserted near an emergency exit door. Let’s park it over there. I’ll scrit Sammi and tell her where we are.

I send the scrit and follow Juliette as she weaves expertly through the crowd. When we reach the spot, it’s cleared out because the two-person game next to the exit is out of commission. It’s the kind where you stand side-by-side with gloves to manipulate the holo interface—mindware’s only good for simple games. The more complicated ones need more controls. The power’s off, and there’s a small curtain that’s drawn across the front.

Players are queueing up for another game of stomp, which is drawing people to the center.

Are you a gamer, Zeph? Juliette asks. My broadcast mode has been droning on thoughts about the games around us.

Some. Just the simple ones. Truth is I haven’t played since I left home. Livvy was always the gamer in our house. Are you going to play?

Maybe. She turns away from her scan of the crowds, looking for her girlfriend. I’m no good at the shooting games, though. Sammi kicks my butt on those.

You should play stomp then. It’s all strategy and synchrony with your team. Synchronized thoughts and actions are the kinds of things I can’t stand about readers, but I don’t broadcast that.

Really? Her eyes light up.

You should go for the reader team.

Her bright expression dims. They split up the readers and jackers? Like, Sammi and I couldn’t be on the same team?

I guess. I grimace. Does she even know how jacking works? Sammi would have to be in her head, just linking, but still. That freaks out most readers because it’s the same level of intimacy as touching, only one-way… and not in the reader’s favor.

That doesn’t seem fair, she complains, like the worst thing about all of this—readers and jackers co-mingling, danger everywhere—is that jackers might have an unfair edge in the game.

Hey, no jacking, remember? I broadcast. The jacker team has no advantage. If anything, readers do. That’s part of the draw, I think.

She looks back to the center. How does it work? The players are taking turns stomping their spots on the game board. Their squares light up in blue, and a pulse of music chimes with it.

I gesture to the Red Team player that’s just taken the board. Twenty players to a team. They start with an empty board then take turns stomping, or claiming, a spot. The goal is to capture the queen.

That’s the one with the neon ring around their neck.

Right. Once all twenty players take the board, then they can move to—or stomp—another square. They can only move one square, any direction, each turn. They try to surround players from the other side to remove them from the board and make it easier to get to the queen.

That doesn’t seem that hard. She’s scrutinizing the game carefully now.

I’m not sure what I’ll do if she plays. I guess the game board is as safe as anywhere in the club. What makes it hard is that it’s timed. And that you have to synchronize your movements. Meaning, you have to groupthink the next move fast. Same for the other side. For readers, it’s easy—they’re used to synchrony, right? For jackers, it’s harder. They have to link, and that’s not something jackers like to do.

She gives me a curious look. Oh? You an expert on jackers now?

I try not to flinch. I do my homework is all.

She smiles and glances at the phone in my hand. Have you heard from Sammi yet?

I catch sight of a bobbing mass of red hair in the crowd. Sammi’s striding toward us, past the onlookers at the game board. That’s her, right? I ask with a nod.

Juliette whips her head around and lets out a little screech I can hear even over the thumping of the music. I’m afraid she will dart after Sammi, but she holds back. Sammi saunters up in her one-piece gamer suit, all slick, shiny fabric that shows off her body in a way that’s got Juliette’s eyes getting more round the closer she gets. Sammi tosses her long red hair back and gives me a smirk as she gets closer. Her wide blue eyes and porcelain skin and drop-dead good looks are just as I saw in Juliette’s mind. If anything, Sammi’s prettier in real life.

But she’s a jacker, so I brace myself—she’ll probably try to link into my mind. I’m broadcasting, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Unless she tries to jack me.

You made it, I broadcast, but only Juliette hears me.

Sammi doesn’t even try to link in. Instead, she speaks out loud. “So, you’re the real deal,” she says to me, voice raised to be heard over the music. Then she turns to Juliette. “Hello, Sunshine.”

Juliette squeaks again then throws her arms around Sammi. A real smile, not that smirk Sammi had before, breaks across her face. It fades when Juliette stops her fervent hug and pulls back. Then Sammi takes Juliette’s face in both hands and kisses her.

And not a peck, either—full, lip-locking, I’ve-missed-you-like-crazy, making out.

The embarrassment is reflexive. “Hey, you two,” I try, but the music swoops up as the players start their timed session and frenetically jump all around the board, one rapid move after another. Meanwhile, some praver three games down has noticed the girls and is open-mouthed staring. I brush his mind—he’s a reader, which means he’s getting the full dose of whatever Juliette’s thinking. But if I jack him to stop staring like a creep, I could get us all tossed out. I suppose I should watch the make-out show as well—Juliette will have to pretend this whole thing went down with me—but I’m just not into invading people’s privacy. Plus, I’m hoping Hinckley will show up.

I edge closer to the two girls. “Hey!” I shout, close-range so they can’t help but hear me.

It breaks the kiss. Juliette’s grinning like mad, but also blushing, which is kind of cute. Sammi drapes her arm around Juliette’s shoulder, definitely claiming her before anyone has thoughts otherwise.

I frown, hoping it’s clear I’m not competition. “Look,” I shout again to be heard over the swelling music. “Why don’t you two give this one a try?” I point to the game that’s powered down and obviously broken.

This time, it’s Sammi’s eyes that light up. She tightens her hold on Juliette’s shoulder and hustles a very willing Juliette to the curtained-off control center of the game. They’re not really hidden—you can see them from the knees down—and it’s very obvious that they’re going at it again as soon as the curtains fall back in place.

I turn my back and fold my arms. It’ll be a lot easier to keep them safe back here. The praver from before has lost interest, but I do a mental sweep of the area again, just in case someone else wants a mental peep show.

I’m surprised when I feel Sammi link into my secondary mind, her name flashing up as soon as she makes contact. I owe you, Zeph the Bodyguard.

I let out a short laugh that doesn’t carry over the crescendo of music from the game. The players are hopping fast to beat the ticking clock. Just as the final climax crashes and time runs out, they eliminate the other queen by surrounding her. A cheer goes up—as far as I can tell, readers took the game. A rhythmic chanting replaces the music.

I’m flat stupefied by this. Jackers and readers playing a game? And when the readers win, there’s no bloodshed? No retaliatory jacking? The calmly bored expression on the referee’s face says there wasn’t even a quick jack to gain a momentary advantage. The jacker team is huddled off to the side, probably trying to figure out how they got beat by a bunch of groupthinkers who couldn’t even jack a changeling. I’m so mesmerized by it, I don’t see Hinckley until he’s nearly on top of me.

I jerk and step back, unfolding my arms.

He links fast and hard into my secondary mind—not a jack but nearly so. Zephyr MacCay, right?

I shove him right back out and return the favor—pushing fast and hard through his relatively tough mindbarrier and linking a quick thought. Hinckley the Jackhole, right?

He grins and backs off, mentally at least. Which is good because I’m sure this jack-sparring will get us kicked out. But Hinckley’s still hovering next to me with his short hair and lean but muscular frame. He’s at least six inches taller than me, and I’m no slouch in the height department.

The music has dropped off, returning to the background synchrony noise from before, so I can hear my phone ringing in my pocket.

I frown and pull it out. Shadow. Wright is calling me now? How short is this leash she’s got me on?

“Need to take that?” Hinckley asks, bemused.

“No.” I send it to message and stuff my phone back in my pocket. I gesture for him to follow me away from the defunct game cabinet—the girls are preoccupied with each other, but I’m still trying to keep my cover as a reader with Juliette. “My friends think I’m a reader. I want to keep it that way.”

Hinckley raises his eyebrows and waits.

I jump right to it. “Look, I’m the bodyguard for Jeffrey Tiller’s daughter. She’s in that game console with a jacker.”

Hinckley gives it a skeptical look.

“I’ve got access to his estate. He thinks I’m a reader, so I could jack in for anything you need, technology-wise.”

Hinckley’s eyebrows lift, but he still says nothing.

“Do you understand what I’m saying? I can get you an inside scoop on the anti-jacker technology he’s working on—for the private sector and the government. And he’s definitely working with the government. I would think that’s something Julian Navarro would be interested in.”

Hinckley’s surprise sweeps away. He narrows his eyes. “And you would do this… because?”

This is the hard part to sell. “Because I’m a jacker and… and I don’t really have a good track record with jackers. I’m better with readers because…” I stall out.

“Because you’re always in control there?” He doesn’t look impressed.

I want to defend myself, but somehow, his words are smacking me in the face. Is that why I do this? Because when I’m the one who’s lying, I’m the one who’s in control?

This is making me queasy and getting me off-track. “Sure,” I say. “I like control because it’s better to do the jacking than to get jacked.” That sounds even worse out loud. “Whatever. I’ve got information Navarro can use. And I want to check out Jackertown, see what it’s about. I’m staying at the Turner Home now, but that can’t last forever. And I’ve got this gig with Tiller, but that’s temporary, too. I haven’t had a home—a real home, a place I belong—in a couple years now, and I just want to see… I just want to figure out if Jackertown is going to be it. Or not.”

I stop there because I feel like I’m rambling, and it’s getting way too close to feelings I don’t want to think about, much less take out for an airing with someone like Hinckley. And the truth is I’d do anything, say anything, promise anything, if only it will get my sister out of the clutches of Wright. I’ve seen that woman’s kind before. She’ll lie to you, manipulate you, threaten you… all to get you to do terrible things. People like Wright have no qualms about turning a kid into a monster. And my whip-smart, super awesome, freakishly savvy little sister deserves better. She shouldn’t have to live the rest of her life haunted by that.

The way I do.

Hinckley is studying me, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin. “All right,” he says finally. “I’ll get you in, but—” A flash of light and a boom cut him off.

Hinckley grabs for me, but a split-second later, we’re both flung backward, a giant fist of air punching us to the ground. A wave of heat scorches my face. Time suspends, snuffed out and silent, yet expansively loud at the same time. Then the time dilation stops, and Hinckley’s shouting at me, but I can’t hear him over the screams and the ringing in my ears. Black dots swarm the air, crowding my vision. I hit my head, is all I can think. I hit my head, and I’m going to pass out. I try to shake it off then twist to look behind me. The gamer cabinet has been shoved over and dented on one side. Sammi’s moving, but she’s on hands and knees, helping Juliette crawl from the crushed gamer station. They’re covered in dust, and the cabinet curtains are smoking. I squeeze my eyes shut then open them again, trying to clear away the swimming dots.

I manage to lift my head to peer at the rest of the club.

The game board is gone. Bodies lie all around it, some in pieces, some whole. The ones that are moving are the source of the screams.

Holy mother of God… someone blew up the Stomp.