David looked around at the others, who shrugged.

"I'm afraid he wasn't really...tight...with anyone," the plump boy said.

"He liked to work off on his own," Carrot Top said.

Matt didn't dare look at David. Hearing that line from a group that looked like charter members of Dangerous Loners in Training, he was afraid he'd start to laugh.

The rest of the day wasn't funny, though. Once again, Matt had no chance of getting next to Cat Corrigan. In fact, he saw her only once in the halls, and that was at a distance.

As Matt headed for the lunchroom, he saw Sandy Braxton hurrying up and waving.

What is it with this guy? Matt wondered irritably. Matt wondered irritably. Is he that afraid of failing history? Is he that afraid of failing history?

"Hey, Matt! See you right after lunch, right?"

Matt looked at him in bafflement.

"The Pickett's Charge reenactment, remember?" the other boy said. "I cleared it with Dr. Fairlie yesterday. My dad's friend says it actually shows Armistead getting hit and what happens afterwards. Great, huh?"

"Yeah. Great," Matt echoed. Just at that moment, Cat Corrigan pa.s.sed by, surrounded by what looked like an impenetrable wall of girlfriends.

Matt was going to ask Sandy to sit with them, hoping to slip a note to Cat, but the rich kid was already moving off. "I already dropped the datascrip off at the library," he said. "See you there."

With a defeated shrug, Matt went in to find something to eat.

Walking down the hallway after lunch, Matt had no idea what he'd just eaten. He'd thought it was soybean mock-meat, but it seemed to leave a fish-oil aftertaste in his mouth.

I really should try and remember what it is, he told himself, just so I can never order it again just so I can never order it again.

He arrived in the library, where Sandy Braxton sat eagerly awaiting him. Mr. Petracca, the librarian took attendance. Then Sandy went up and spoke quietly.

The librarian turned to his console, cued the holo-screen, and gave a couple of commands. "I have the authorization from Dr. Fairlie for Alexander Braxton and Matthew Hunter, and the datascrip you left for me." Mr. Petracca cued the system and handed a printout to Sandy. "You can use Lab Six. Here's your authorization code."

Sandy marched out into the hall with a surprised Matt following. He'd expected to watch the reenactment in holo, probably with a pair of earphones. Somehow, Sandy had w.a.n.gled a visit to one of the veeyar labs!

"These reenactment people must have plenty of bucks to create such a high-grade sim," Matt said.

"Nothing but the best for the Virginia Volunteers," Sandy a.s.sured him with a grin. "This will be great! We'll be right in the center of the action!"

The veeyar labs were actually part of the library, overseen by Mr. Petracca's console. They represented a serious investment, even for a ritzy school like Bradford. Automated doors hissed after the boys keyed in the code the librarian had given them. Lab Six was one of the smaller setups, with only four computer-link chairs. Matt realized with a slight shock that he'd recently been on the other side of the computer-link in this computer system. He and Caitlin had pa.s.sed through the virtual chem lab on their way to Sean McArdle's press conference.

A small but extremely expensive computer console faced the four chairs. Sandy slipped in the school's datascrip, booting the computer for independent use. Then he reached into his pocket and came out with another datascrip. This one was decorated with the old Confederate flag, the stars and bars.

"What do you expect from an outfit called the Virginia Volunteers?" Sandy said with a grin. "Of course they play a Rebel unit!"

"You're not going to play the whole fight, are you, Sandy?" Matt asked as the other boy went to insert the datascrip with the simulation. "The artillery barrage alone went on for two hours."

Sandy shook his head. "Nah. We don't have time for that. I've got it cued from where the Confederates fire their rifles and make the final charge." He gestured to the computer-link chairs. "Plant it-we're almost ready."

Matt took a seat, and so did Sandy. "Computer, load Gettysburg simulation, from cue two-two-seven."

Leaning back in the chair, Matt let the receptors tune into his implants. There was a slight feeling of disorientation, but it wasn't as noticeable as the brain-buzz that took place with his unit at home.

That's the mark of a really expensive system, he thought. He'd heard the best systems have no sensory threshold at all. You're just there in the sim.

He closed his eyes and found himself on a gra.s.sy hillside, a perfect place for a picnic-if the artillery barrage hadn't pa.s.sed through. Some trees had branches torn away; others had their trunks shattered by incoming shot and sh.e.l.l. A line of old-fashioned cannon stood in front of a stone wall. Several guns had been hit, too. The heavy metal tubes of the cannon barrels had been torn from their wooden carriages.

Matt gulped slightly when he saw the still, b.l.o.o.d.y forms of the cannoneers lying beside their wrecked guns.

Man, he thought, they go all out on these reenactments they go all out on these reenactments.

There was only one thing wrong with the picture. It was still a picture picture, incredibly realistic, but nothing was moving. The infantry crouching behind the stone wall were motionless. The blue-clad soldiers didn't even seem to breathe. The gra.s.s was absolutely still, not waving in the breeze.

"Whenever you're ready," Sandy Braxton's voice called.

Matt turned, and his stomach did a flip-flop.

A long, ragged line of men in gray and brownish uniforms was coming up the hill, frozen in mid-step. Information that he'd read came swimming up from his memory. The battle line had been a mile long, composed of fifteen thousand men. There were a lot less of them now, after marching almost half a mile through a storm of death. They looked grim, slightly hunched over, as if they were walking into a stiff wind. Most of the men were bringing up their rifles to aim.

"Now I know how the little duck in the shooting gallery feels," Matt joked. "I really think we'd be better off watching this from behind the Confederate lines." He gestured toward the thousands of rifles. "Looks like it's going to get a little noisy around here."

"Suit yourself," Sandy said, stepping through a gap in the line. "Armistead ought to be over here, leading the left wing."

When they reached what looked like a good vantage point, Sandy clapped his hands over his ears. "Execute!" he yelled.

Matt quickly followed his example as the Confederate line suddenly leapt into life, aiming their weapons and firing.

The sound of the rifle fire wasn't what Matt had expected. Instead of the sharp, metallic rap he was familiar with from the holos, these weapons gave off a ba.s.s fwoomp! fwoomp! accompanied by clouds of grayish powder smoke. accompanied by clouds of grayish powder smoke.

The objectives ahead disappeared in the powder-smoke haze, but the troops marched on.

"Watch carefully now," Sandy advised. "This next part is going to hurt."

Even as he spoke, one of soldiers in the line ahead suddenly whirled around and swung his musket. The rifle b.u.t.t caught Sandy in the side of the head. He went down like a poleaxed steer.

Injured in veeyar!

Matt rushed to his cla.s.smate. But even as he moved, he saw that three soldiers were moving out of line to come toward him. Each of them had a bayonet on the end of his rifle barrel.

Taking a step back from Sandy, Matt watched the gleaming, foot-long lengths of steel swing to follow him.

He didn't know how, but the Genius-Rob Falk-had been using the school's systems to check up on Matt. When he saw Sandy and Matt's names logged for the virtual lab, he'd set up this trap. Very slick. Very deadly.

This sim had just changed from the Battle of Gettysburg to the fight of Matt's life!

15.

Matt backed away from the unconscious Sandy Braxton, his eyes on the three Confederate soldiers who'd left their places in the battle line. All around him, Pickett's Charge moved on to its b.l.o.o.d.y climax. But Matt had eyes only for the three socket bayonets aimed at him.

Maybe he should have been watching where he was going. His heel caught in something, and suddenly he was tumbling. He'd tripped over a soldier, killed or wounded earlier in the charge! Long-drilled training from the Net Force Explorers' dojo took over. Matt twisted even as he went down, lashing out with his hands to break his fall. He rolled as he hit the ground, quickly getting to his feet.

As he moved, his hand touched wood and metal. The wounded man's rifle!

Matt grabbed up the weapon as his three deadly enemies came running up. The one in the lead had a bushy brown beard and sergeant's stripes. The man behind him had a ferocious-looking black beard. The third was scarcely older than Matt, with just a couple of patches of hair on his chin.

The sergeant didn't wait for the other two, but launched an awkward attack on his own. Matt began to feel some hope. He wasn't facing trained soldiers, just interlopers who'd invaded this simulation. They didn't know how to handle their rifles.

Not that Matt was an expert. But he had worked out with pugil sticks-padded quarterstaffs-under the Net Force's Quantico-trained drill instructors. Those guys had been tough as Marines, and they'd at least thumped the basics of stick-fighting into the Net Force Explorers.

Matt parried the sergeant's wild thrust on the barrel of his borrowed rifle. He forced the bayonet down and aside. It stabbed uselessly past his left hip. Then Matt shifted his grip on the weapon, ramming the stock into his attacker's gut. The sergeant doubled over, and Matt smacked him in the head. The man was down before the other two had reached him.

"Computer!" Matt shouted. "End simulation! Execute!"

Nothing happened. He was still trapped in the Gettysburg reenactment, with a pair of guys who clearly meant him no good advancing on him with their bayonets at ready. His new attackers came on more cautiously after seeing what had happened to their pal.

Blackbeard went to the right while the Kid moved left, forcing Matt to divide his attention between them. He began backing up again, trying to keep some distance between them. "Computer! Pause!" he yelled.

But the action kept unrolling around him. Whatever Rob Falk had done, he'd taken control of the simulation right out of Matt's hands.

The black-bearded soldier began a series of short jabs. Matt blocked them, then spun back and to his right, foiling an attempt by the other guy to get around behind him.

Matt brought up his rifle as if he were going to fire, sending both attackers scrambling back away from him. But as he tried to engage the weapon, the hammer fell with a dry click click. Either the gun had already been fired, or it needed something that Matt didn't know about.

Blackbeard suddenly broke into a run, swinging his rifle in a wide, looping movement to slash with his bayonet. Matt braced himself to receive the attack. But suddenly, the black-bearded man was falling!

The look on his attacker's face would have been comical in any other situation. A brilliant red stain appeared on his gray uniform jacket, and down he went.

Matt couldn't help glancing at the Union battle line, where jets of flame lanced from the muzzles of ma.s.sed rifles. Did they have to worry about stray bullets on the battlefield?

No, that was impossible. This was a reenactment, not the actual battle. They couldn't have been using live ammunition.

Then Matt realized. When Rob had sent his pals into the sim, he'd simply picked the three closest soldiers to Sandy and Matt. Now it turned out that one of those soldiers had been slated to become a casualty. His number had come up, and down he'd gone!

That meant Matt had only a lone opponent to face-for the moment. The youthful face opposite him looked a little worried as the Kid feinted and jabbed with his weapon.

Matt parried almost mechanically, his mind busy on something else. The "death" of Blackbeard meant that Falk didn't have complete control over the simulation. The computer was still doing what it was programmed to do.

The Kid glanced over Matt's shoulder. That was the only warning Matt received. He thumped his opponent in the chest, knocking him back, and spun round as a Confederate officer lashed out with his sword. The blade made a chilling noise, worse than fingernails on a blackboard, as it sc.r.a.ped along Matt's rifle barrel. If he'd been a little slower, people would have had to call him Lefty!

Even if Falk didn't absolutely control the computer, he could keep sending his people back into the simulation. Just two of them now, it seemed-maybe Matt had managed to hurt the third.

That didn't matter. Sooner or later, one of these clowns would score with a lucky shot.

And then Matt would suffer the fate of Gerald Savage.

Unless....

Matt retreated again as his attackers came in from opposite sides.

What was the first command Sandy had given the computer? The one that had set up this particular run of the simulation?

Hoping he'd gotten the numbers right, Matt shouted, "Computer, reload Gettysburg simulation, cue two-two-seven!"

It was like time travel. Matt and Sandy were between the two battle lines. Nothing was moving-and that included Sandy. He lay on the weirdly stiff gra.s.s.

But Matt couldn't worry about that right now. His end run had succeeded! He'd managed to yank control of the computer back from Rob Falk!

"Computer!" he shouted quickly. "Cancel. And exit!"

The slopes of Cemetery Hill winked out, and Matt was back in Veeyar Lab Six. He leapt from his computer-link chair. Sandy Braxton lolled in his seat, unconscious.

"Mr. Braxton?" A voice suddenly filled the room. Matt recognized it as Mr. Petracca, the school librarian. "What's going on in there? My monitors are giving some very odd readings for that simulation you're running."

"Something's gone wrong," Matt called. "Sandy Braxton is unconscious. I think the sim has been tampered with. Get the school doctor!"

He made sure Sandy was okay, then pulled out his wallet. After this attack, all bets were off. He was calling Captain Winters.

Even as he hit the option for phone configuration, sparks flew out from under the foilpack keypad. Matt dropped the wallet to the floor as the polymer smoldered. Coughing from the acrid smoke, Matt stamped on the wallet. It didn't burst into flames, but it was obvious the circuitry was a complete loss. So much for phoning.

Mr. Petracca, the doctor, and a nurse had come bursting into Veeyar Lab Six. "The boy is in shock," the medical man said after a quick examination.

"I've already called for an Emergency Services ambulance-and the police," Mr. Petracca said.

Fine, Matt thought. I can report all this to them-in person I can report all this to them-in person.

A few minutes later, Matt sat in the school office, waiting for the cops to arrive. If only this hadn't happened! He didn't like blowing the lid off Rob Falk and the virtual vandals before he spoke to Cat Corrigan.

At that moment, Caitlin walked into the office.

The two of them stared at one another. Then, at almost the same time, they both asked, "What are you you doing here?" doing here?"

Cat responded first. "I was pulled out of cla.s.s. There was a message from my father's office. He's sick-he collapsed. I'm just checking in before I go home."

She looked at him, expecting his answer.