against the rules?”
“There are no rules at spy school.”
“So . . . if we get caught . . . ?”
“Ben, I’m your friend, right?”
“Right.”
“And friends look out for each other. I’m not gonna let you get caught.” Chip clamped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, sending a shock of pain through my body. “Now, let’s stop gabbing like girls and go do this.”
He turned to the door, expecting me to follow. I immediately tried to assess what other options I had, but I couldn’t come up with any, other than fleeing through the tiny window in my room, which would have merely left me on a steeply slanted, icy roof four stories above the ground.
Going along with Chip didn’t seem much safer, however. I already knew not to trust him. If I screwed up hacking the computer—which I was bound to do, as I didn’t even know what a rotating sixteen-character daisy-chain password was , let alone how to decrypt one—Chip would certainly let me take the fall for it. Which meant I could be bounced from spy school within only hours of arriving.
While I dithered about this, Chip started out the door. As he grabbed the knob, there was a sudden sizzling sound, like that of a steak being dropped on a hot grill. Chip’s body went rigid and his hair stood on end while tiny blue bolts of electricity arced between his teeth. He finally managed a grunt of surprise, then collapsed, quivering, on my floor.
The door opened, and a boy about my age with a mop of dark hair draped over one eye peeked in. He prodded Chip with a foot to make sure he was unconscious, then held up a small device that he’d wired to the outside doorknob. “Palm-size Van de Graaff electrostatic generator. Very effective, but only for five minutes. If you want to stay in one piece, I suggest you get far away from here in that time.”
INFORMATION
Mess Hall
January 16
1820 hours
“Here’s the first thing you need to know about spy school: It sucks.”
Murray Hill, the kid who’d rescued me from Chip, crammed another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. We were in the mess hall, which everyone simply called “the mess,” eating dinner. Most of the rest of the student body—three hundred students ranging in age from twelve to eighteen—were gathered in clumps around us. Though no one else had bothered to introduce themselves, everyone was obviously aware of my presence. Every time I glancedtoward one of the clumps, I’d catch someone quickly averting their eyes from me.
The mess wasn’t terribly far from my room; it was right next to the dormitory. I’d been concerned that it was the first place Chip would come looking for me, but Murray claimed there was safety in numbers. And besides, he was starving.
“Everything you hated about regular school?” Murray went on. “We still have all of that here: rigid social cliques, lousy teachers, incompetent administrators, terrible food, bullies. And on top of that, occasionally, someone tries to kill you.”
Murray was thirteen and should have been a second-year student, but he’d been held back after flunking his self-preservation exam the spring before. During the final combat simulation, he’d accidentally shot off the principal’s toupee. (They were only using dummy bullets at the time, so the principal was unharmed, but his beloved hairpiece was damaged beyond repair.) Having to repeat his first year didn’t seem to bother Murray much, but then, nothing really seemed to bother Murray. Unlike everyone else in the mess, he didn’t appear to care how he looked—or what anyone else thought of him. Our fellow students sat ramrod straight and were impeccably dressed, as though concerned that someone might be grading them on their posture and grooming. For the most part, they wore pressed jeans and nice sweaters,clothes that looked professional but would also allow them to move freely in case of a sudden ambush. On the other hand, Murray seemed to be making a deliberate attempt at
“There are no rules at spy school.”
“So . . . if we get caught . . . ?”
“Ben, I’m your friend, right?”
“Right.”
“And friends look out for each other. I’m not gonna let you get caught.” Chip clamped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, sending a shock of pain through my body. “Now, let’s stop gabbing like girls and go do this.”
He turned to the door, expecting me to follow. I immediately tried to assess what other options I had, but I couldn’t come up with any, other than fleeing through the tiny window in my room, which would have merely left me on a steeply slanted, icy roof four stories above the ground.
Going along with Chip didn’t seem much safer, however. I already knew not to trust him. If I screwed up hacking the computer—which I was bound to do, as I didn’t even know what a rotating sixteen-character daisy-chain password was , let alone how to decrypt one—Chip would certainly let me take the fall for it. Which meant I could be bounced from spy school within only hours of arriving.
While I dithered about this, Chip started out the door. As he grabbed the knob, there was a sudden sizzling sound, like that of a steak being dropped on a hot grill. Chip’s body went rigid and his hair stood on end while tiny blue bolts of electricity arced between his teeth. He finally managed a grunt of surprise, then collapsed, quivering, on my floor.
The door opened, and a boy about my age with a mop of dark hair draped over one eye peeked in. He prodded Chip with a foot to make sure he was unconscious, then held up a small device that he’d wired to the outside doorknob. “Palm-size Van de Graaff electrostatic generator. Very effective, but only for five minutes. If you want to stay in one piece, I suggest you get far away from here in that time.”
INFORMATION
Mess Hall
January 16
1820 hours
“Here’s the first thing you need to know about spy school: It sucks.”
Murray Hill, the kid who’d rescued me from Chip, crammed another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. We were in the mess hall, which everyone simply called “the mess,” eating dinner. Most of the rest of the student body—three hundred students ranging in age from twelve to eighteen—were gathered in clumps around us. Though no one else had bothered to introduce themselves, everyone was obviously aware of my presence. Every time I glancedtoward one of the clumps, I’d catch someone quickly averting their eyes from me.
The mess wasn’t terribly far from my room; it was right next to the dormitory. I’d been concerned that it was the first place Chip would come looking for me, but Murray claimed there was safety in numbers. And besides, he was starving.
“Everything you hated about regular school?” Murray went on. “We still have all of that here: rigid social cliques, lousy teachers, incompetent administrators, terrible food, bullies. And on top of that, occasionally, someone tries to kill you.”
Murray was thirteen and should have been a second-year student, but he’d been held back after flunking his self-preservation exam the spring before. During the final combat simulation, he’d accidentally shot off the principal’s toupee. (They were only using dummy bullets at the time, so the principal was unharmed, but his beloved hairpiece was damaged beyond repair.) Having to repeat his first year didn’t seem to bother Murray much, but then, nothing really seemed to bother Murray. Unlike everyone else in the mess, he didn’t appear to care how he looked—or what anyone else thought of him. Our fellow students sat ramrod straight and were impeccably dressed, as though concerned that someone might be grading them on their posture and grooming. For the most part, they wore pressed jeans and nice sweaters,clothes that looked professional but would also allow them to move freely in case of a sudden ambush. On the other hand, Murray seemed to be making a deliberate attempt at
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