Held

By Carmi Cason

Despite pressure from the gaming community, professional gamer Hazel Hops has refused to get the computer implant that everyone promises would take her game to the next level. When her friend, Sophie, falls into an unexplained coma a few weeks before the biggest tournament of the year, Hazel has to decide if she will do what it takes to beat the competition or step out of her comfort zone and dig in to save Sophie. She hopes that if she plays her cards right, she might manage both. Her plans are hijacked, though, by two compelling forces – one man who will do anything to stop her, and one who will do anything to save her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmi Cason
• Release date: Feb 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005915131

Carmi Cason

Carmi Cason is a mother and grandmother with an undergraduate degree in music and a graduate degree in English. She dabbles in science and multiple foreign languages. From her earliest memories, she has loved stories.She sat in rapt attention at the feet of her maternal grandmother and grandfather, both of whom regaled her with tales of their families and the real-life histories that brought character to her home. Her father passed on his Hardy Boys collection, introducing her to the world of fiction. With a lot of direction from her mother, a gifted storyteller, Carmi has developed a deep passion for writing and conveying meaning through the stories she writes. She also believes that life has a purpose, that though we live in a broken world we are valuable and valued, and that no matter how dark life seems there is hope. She prays you will find that hope in her work.Her mascot is her cat, Oscar, a black tabby who fights against pestal incursions and loves to have his ears scratched.​{If you enjoy my work, please consider offering monthly support at Patreon or a one-time donation at either Patreon or PayPal. I am also available for biographical/autobiographical work or personalized children's books.)​

Book preview

Prologue

From beside the crumbled brick wall, Hazel Hops peered past a seemingly nonstop barrage of bullets that pummeled the air above her, forming a ceiling of grey atop her head. The shallow pools that swirled around her boots splashed lightly, but the raindrops gathering on the hollowed-out shells of the Leopard tanks masked the sound, adding a sporadic splattering to the tender pips of light rain falling from the looming clouds. Hazel shivered to dispel the gloom that pressed onto the horizon by the never-ending grey.

A few feet away, a faint blue flame licked along the oil-slicked surface of the water, and she quickly adjusted her course lest the oil saturate her fatigues and send her to the nether before she could get off a shot. She stayed low, knowing better than to move abruptly. So far, she had managed fifteen kills without a single hit against her, but before long, the Alliance would make a move – they wouldn’t let her camp without marking her for elimination.

Though she swore she hadn’t given any indication of her thoughts, a laser burst burned into her left shoulder the second she lurched across the gap from the tank to a kiosk less than a body length away. They’re on me! she called to her companion. You have to make your move now!

Even with the wound, she had enough power to bear crawl through the rusting remains of the tank cemetery, and as she approached the other side, she caught sight of the primary target. You’re dead, Hazel murmured as she raised her weapon and focused the sights on her goal. Get the healer, WarpLight! she commanded, tensing her finger to take the shot.

Ow! she shrieked, reaching her hand to rub a painful spot on her forehead. Using the distraction, her target executed a perfect three-point leap to the top of the tank that had hidden her, blasting her partner into oblivion before aiming the weapon directly at her skull through the displaced deflector shield that once had covered the tank treads. Before she could react, the target had turned the tables and Hazel was dead.

What the heck was that, Peter? Hazel complained, staring down at the headset that rested by her feet.

It was an accident, Peter shrugged, kicking hard at the leg of the chair he had vacated. I just meant to bash it against something – not against you. The gunner shot me right when you started barking orders at me.

Well, it was my head you hit. Just before the target hit my head in the game.

It’s not like this is your game, he grumbled. I don’t know what you’re pissed about. You deal in magic wands and parlor tricks. You called the medic a ‘healer.’ A shot in the head with a bullet doesn’t matter to you.

Puffing out an irritated breath, Hazel forced herself not to correct Pete about Tripartite, her game of choice. Maybe not in the game, but a knock to my actual head is pretty important to me, and something I intend to avoid.

When Pete shrugged, Hazel glared at him and stood to her feet. Just be glad you didn’t screw me up on Trip. I just reached the top tier for the first time this year, and I will be in elite by next week. He wasn’t even that serious about his game – just naturally gifted. He couldn’t possibly care too much about losing.

You just started a week and a half ago, Peter accused.

I don’t know why that bothers you. How long have you known me? I reached elite in under a month last year. The only reason it’s taken so long this year was the surgery. Despite her deep desire not to postpone her season, Hazel had acquiesced to eye surgery which had put her out of commission for weeks. When the choices were surgery now or an implant later, Hazel did not feel torn. No one was wiring circuits to her mind, for a variety of reasons.

As long as you don’t pass me in my game, he groused. You have no idea how annoying it is to have a non-master kick your ass several times a month.

Guess that won’t be a problem if you keep bruising me with your equipment, Hazel mumbled. Aloud she just said, We’ve run out of food up here, and I have an appointment in twenty minutes anyway.

Peter stood to his feet and joined her at the door. Tomorrow? he queried, his substantial mass leaning casually against the frame.

I have to work on my game status with Sophie, Hazel shrugged, squeezing past him. Before she could escape, he moved to block her. He should have lost his muscle once he stopped competing, but apparently, running the world still left time for him to exercise. He stood a good three inches taller than she, and when he wasn’t at work, he let his dark blond fringe of hair fall loose across his eyes. Even having known him for six years – having slept in his apartment on occasion – Peter could still stop her in her tracks with a look. A fact that irritated her immensely and sent her into massive bouts of internal rebellion. He was her friend – they had worked that out early on, and she was comfortable with that fact. Still, he sometimes played at flirtation as if he had forgotten their agreement.

It sure was nice to have you around more during your recovery.

Not nice for me.

Yeah, but when you had nothing to distract you, you were pretty much at my beck and call.

Irritated, Hazel tried to push past him. If he had been joking, she might have laughed, and she knew he would claim it as a joke. In reality? Pete preferred his friends available, and with his money, they usually were whenever he wanted them – day or night.

I could Jolt you and make you stay, he teased, moving to block her. Why had he continued to attract her even after he made money? She had run into a couple of Pete’s wealthy friends early in his ascent in the computer industry, and a couple had even shown interest in her. One thing she knew about herself – she would always run scurrying away from a wealthy man, leery of their tendency to leverage money for personal reasons. And yet, even as Pete climbed up the ranks and started to acquire influence and fancy toys, Hazel put up with his flirtation. Probably because I knew him when he was a pathetic puppy of a human, she sighed.

One corner of Peter’s mouth lifted, as if he could read her thoughts, and Hazel forced a calm breath, refusing to let him see his effect on her.

First of all, that wouldn’t work on me because I don’t have a Wire –

It would work because it would knock you out…

And secondly… She wouldn’t acknowledge his veiled threat. …that might be a figure of speech for everyone else in the world, but you shouldn’t make it because you actually have the ability to do it.

Being me has its perks.

Having the son of an arms dealer as your best friend has its perks, you mean. The perks of being you is that thousand-credit cloak you bought for Trip – a game you don’t play.

Your  dad was an arms dealer? I had no idea, he queried disingenuously.

Very funny, making a joke about my dead dad. She wasn’t really bothered – she made jokes about her dead dad with great frequency, since it was the best way to numb the pain. Of course Peter would pick up on her habit. Say hello to Ziyad for me, or don’t. He’s kind of an ass anyway. And our next game will have to be this weekend. Sorry…

She shrugged and pressed past him, gliding down the stairway to hop on her bike at the bottom. Though she prayed her rebellion would amuse him, it might as easily have irritated him, so she would find a reason to stay away from him a little longer than usual. It looked like the rain would wait until she made it to her destination.

The sun had sunk most of the way behind the buildings, and the grey-blue sky had faded to a dull aqua green. As always, the neon billboards assailed her eyes, violating her vision and threatening a headache. Who thought making signs that cause physical pain was a good idea? she complained. Once she was able to see again, the news story that scrolled across the sign registered in her mind, and her stomach performed a flip.

Freddy Nako, the 23-year-old son of the ambassador from Greater Lagos, collapsed at his home in New Greenwich yesterday afternoon. No apparent cause for the collapse has been released at this time, but Wire readings indicate no traumatic event. Nako is currently in stable condition under observation, and his father has handed duties to the Executive Secretary of the consulate.

Though the news hit her with a shockwave, it was just a small shockwave. Hazel hadn’t seen Freddy since high school, but Freddy was the reason she played. Her crush on him had sent her to the high school Game Society, where she had realized her real love – Guild, the predecessor to Trip. Within two years, Hazel had moved to Trip and started to earn money. She had spoken maybe twenty words to the guy before he left for college, so they weren’t exactly close, but seeing him blasted on a billboard – knowing he was hurt – Hazel stopped for a second under the portico to say a quick petition for him.

Once she made it out past the overhang and onto the street, the wind ripped past her with a frigid peel of irony. She had worried about precipitation, and mother nature had mocked her with a cold front.

Her team would have ganged up on her and barraged her with their claim that it was yet another reason why she should get the implant. For Hazel, though, unexpected weather was part of the thrill, something none of her teammates could remember feeling. True, she had to work twice as hard as any of her friends to excel at Trip, but even playing without the implant brought exhilaration that her teammates couldn’t grasp.

Besides, Hazel smirked as she pulled her bike to the front of the industrial-style building, it keeps them from knowing what I’m doing right now.

Stepping into the classroom, Hazel switched off her handheld, embarking on one of her daily disconnections, and pulled on her sneakers, waiting for the music to start.

++++++++++++++

Someone get Aggey online! shrieked Dr. Steven Frances as he wheeled the crashcart through the hospital room door. He couldn’t understand how Aggey hadn’t already begun offering instructions, lobbing protocols into his path so he would know how to save the young man lying on the hospital table.

Instead, Steven fumbled in the dark, as if his eyes were disconnected from his mind and he had to grope blindly into the deep recesses of his memory to access long forgotten procedures and methods.

Get Dr. Rojandi in here, stat! Steven commanded, staring around at the attending nurses. And somebody give me some direction! Steven had finally started to calm, centering on the young man in front of him. From what he had figured, the only reason the kid still lived was the implant that kept his vital functions running. Much like the one in Steven’s own brain. The one that was currently failing to access protocols. Only Dr. Pawar Rojandi still practiced wire-free, and so only Dr. Rojandi could manage the save if the system had failed.

Regardless, the young man on the table in front of Dr. Frances would likely not wake anytime soon, if at all. Though Dr. Frances felt a sense of responsibility, the patient had actually arrived much in the state he now lay, and enhanced or unenhanced intervention wouldn’t have made much difference.

+++++++++++++

Staring down at the Blueprint, Peter assessed the filtering Rendering, the apparently random series of glowing dots that correlated with the satellite signals responsible for the architecture of the Bridge. He had a lot of work to do, work he couldn’t ask anyone else to manage. Even if he could have trusted someone, no one else knew how to manage the complexities of everything he had to oversee.

Besides Hazel, he had given up most friendships. Hazel had known Lex, though. Hazel had lost Lex. Honestly, sometimes Hazel felt like the only link Peter still held to his baby brother. The Framework had seen to that. And he couldn’t lose Hazel, not like he had lost Lex.

Hazel wasn’t wired.

No matter what happened, though she could die from some natural or unrelated cause, the Bridge could not touch Hazel. The Wire could not touch Hazel. A lightning strike could kill her, but a Jolt could not. Before the world erupted into chaos, he needed to make sure she would come to him when hell broke loose.

Chapter 1

Gross! You’re all sweaty! Sophie complained when Hazel seated herself in the vehicle, having hitched her bike to the back of the Queue car. Earth to Hazel. Where are you?

Shaking herself, Hazel forced her thoughts back to the car. I was just distracted. Did you see that news feedback there about Bandwidth?

No, Hazel. I’m Wired, so I don’t have to check out 20th century billboards for my news. I got that message this morning.

What happened?

Sophie shook her head. No one knows. He just collapsed at the top of a vert ramp, and by the time he hit the bottom, his spine had snapped.

You know he plays Trip.

With a sympathetic glance, Sophie gave Hazel’s hand a quick squeeze.

You know that you are not personally responsible for the well-being of every Trip player in the world.

I know, it’s just that most top-tier players stay anonymous, and he’s kind of famous in his own right without the game. It’s almost like losing a friend, I guess. After a short moment of silence, Hazel pressed the morose thoughts out of her mind. But since I can’t do anything about that, when are you coming to dance class with me?

Sophie guffawed. Dancing to music from a hundred years ago? No thanks. I’ll stick with recliners and leather. I don’t know anyone who still does that stuff. Not anyone under thirty.

Do you really think that a class of twenty-five people – dancing, mind you – are all over thirty? The over-thirties are just as bad as people our age about never leaving the Stream, and they have more of an excuse to camp because their bodies tend to hurt more than ours do.

Sophie chuckled. But they also remember ‘the good old days’ and try to bring them back. Oh, wait. That’s what you do, too!

Hazel rolled her eyes. I am not refusing to be Wired because I’m stuck in the ‘good old days.’ I have a bevy of reasons that I don’t want foreign objects inserted into my mind.

One of which is that someone might get in there and stop you from saying words like ‘bevy.’

Does it not terrify you that something like that is a possibility?

No, Sophie laughed. The Bridge doesn’t really do stuff like that, despite all the conspiracy theories, and no one else is going to be able to tap into a Wire to mess with people’s brains.

People do it all the time.

On a tiny scale. There are ten billion people on the planet, and the last breach grabbed fewer than a hundred people, and it just leaked photos. Nothing life altering. Sophie would not be convinced.

Yeah, and it was kids who cracked the Bridge. You think there aren’t big corporations that are chipping away at it?

Seriously, Hazel? Sophie huffed in irritation. The corporations make so much money and have so much power thanks to the Bridge. Why would they ever want to threaten it?

You’re not convincing me. Even if there is only a one in a billion chance that someone could hack my brain, I’m not taking that risk.

It’s not just one in a billion. You’re talking maybe a hundred million people who have the skills necessary to do it. Ninety-nine million plus of those work very happily in some business – paid very well, mind you – which puts you at a million out of one hundred million who are even mildly dissatisfied with their lives. Of those, probably nine hundred thousand are whiney victims who will just grumble to their boyfriends or girlfriends or moms about how unfair life is, get body alterations, post complaining messages on the Stream and do nothing. So now we are down to about one hundred thousand who might actually try something – most of whom aren’t actually capable - while ninety-nine million are working incessantly to make sure that none of the hundred thousand are able to knock the system offline, not to mention the new technology -

Look, Hazel interrupted. I understand the statistical probability, but you’re not changing my mind on this. The ninety-nine million people who run the Bridge have to cover ten billion connections and the hundred thousand only have to successfully evade detection once to be successful. I won’t be that once.

Three and half billion children, and over a billion adults aren’t wired, Sophie grumbled, so it’s not really ten billion. And if you got the Wire upgrade – you know my dad would pay for it - there would be basically zero chance that anyone could touch you - you’d be cloaked. So far, none of the breaches have happened with the upgrade.

No, they can just eavesdrop on every conversation and lurk at every meeting you attend with the upgrade – so much better. It’s statistically irrelevant, anyway. Doesn’t negate my argument. Once is enough.

You’re hopeless, Sophie complained. Reaching to the back seat to retrieve her bag, she lapsed into silence as she dug through its contents. A minute later, she fixed her eyes out the windshield of the car, and the occasional spasm of her face declared that she was playing Trip.

Since Hazel couldn’t do the same, she just turned and stared out the side window. She didn’t want to fight with her best friend, but dealing with the constant badgering of the gamer community had gotten old. For the last several years, Hazel had stood primed and ready with whatever statistics she needed to pull out to counteract the mob’s arguments about her stubbornness. She had lost her dad in the Crash, and she would not put herself into the hands of the same kind of technology that had killed him.

Thank you for using the Queue, came the annoying AI mantra. Remember, the Queue is for your convenience and safety. Hazel mouthed the words. If Sophie weren’t irritated enough to stop speaking for ten minutes, they could have mocked the AI together, but Hazel would alleviate some of her own stress by doing it alone. At all times, please continue to pay attention to your surroundings so that you can adjust your course if necessary.

The words had grown meaningless, so often had Hazel heard them. Until the car lurched sideways, the thrumming drone of messages that rang through every car during every car ride had turned into a near-silent stream of sound, moved to the background of Hazel’s mind – of everyone’s mind, she knew.

When she felt the right side of the car where she was sitting lifted off the ground, Hazel took a second to process that the words finally meant something. Sophie hadn’t adjusted. Why hadn’t Sophie adjusted? Glancing at her friend, Hazel noticed how the girl’s body had shifted to lie against the driver’s side window, gravity nestling her into the curved frame of the car. The contents of her bag had spilled in a halo around her, and Hazel remembered that Sophie had taken her hands off the wheel to dig in the bag.

She didn’t adjust because she wasn’t touching the wheel…In slow motion, the car continued its rotation and the seatbelt that held Hazel in place strained to retain her. Sophie swayed like a ragdoll along the surface of the driver’s side door, mostly held in place by her belt, but her arms, shoulders, and head seemed detached from the rest of her. They weren’t, Hazel knew. But the moments until the car came to rest on its driver’s side terrified Hazel lest her own harness fail or Sophie twist too far and wrench some important spinal or muscular section of her body.

Once it stilled, Hazel braced herself against the center console with her dancer’s legs and unleashed her belt. She reached to tug on her ponytail, nonexistent since she had cut it the day after her father’s death. Even through her shock, she could process the wail of the emergency vehicle heading their way, and the AI was uttering non-stop directions and assurances. It was enough to explode Hazel’s head, but she had to check on Sophie, so she shoved down her rising panic.

Sophie, for the most part, seemed okay. Her implant probably had kicked in and now was monitoring her vital signs. By the time the emergency workers arrived, they would have a read on the heart rate, oxygen levels, and whatever else they monitored. All Hazel could discern was a gash on her friend’s forehead, apparently from the steering wheel when the first impact had occurred.

But if that hit had knocked her out, and her hands weren’t on the wheel, what had caused the crash? Sophie hated the Queue. She had spent a lot of time in the rurant section during her childhood, and she constantly told stories about riding in free-wheel cars on the dirt roads near her dad’s farm. Even in the city, she imagined herself some kind of off-road driver and kept her hands on the wheel ready for the slightest – if thoroughly unlikely – disruption in the Queue.

Either Sophie had caused the crash by trying to steer, which didn’t match up with Hazel’s memory of the moments leading up to the crash, or Sophie had not had her hands on the wheels, in which case, how did the vehicle crash? It sometimes happened in the more broken-down areas of town, but not in the neighborhoods close to the DeSoto home.

Hazel didn’t have time to consider, because the emergency vehicle arrived and her own door was pried open.

I’m fine! she assured them as they pulled her out from her door. Once she was out of the way, they moved to the top of the vehicle and released the lever that held the top hatch in place. It gave them a much better position to brace Sophie before they unbuckled her and immobilized her.

Her vitals? demanded Hazel.

Are you family? the technician inquired, I don’t have a reading on you.

Yes, Hazel lied. I’m family. I’m Wire-free. Yet another reason I’m glad, she assured herself. She was also glad that she hadn’t turned on her handheld after class, because the medics certainly would have scanned it before she remembered to turn it off.

The tech stared at her suspiciously, no doubt noting the several shades difference in their skin tones and lack of familial resemblance, but he seemed to decide it was okay. Her vitals are fine. Strong, in fact. Other than that gash on her head, I would say she has little damage. I imagine she’ll regain consciousness soon.

Drawing in a slow breath, Hazel calmed her stuttering heart. Sophie was okay. Just knocked unconscious. If something had happened to her in the middle of a fight! But it didn’t, Hazel reassured herself. It didn’t. It would be okay.

+++++++++++++

After fifteen hours of surveillance, Rel Martins shifted his car into drive, grateful that the lead had turned into nothing. He was an analyst, not a field agent. He had no idea why the powers-that-be had decided to push him backwards.

As far as Rel was concerned, it mattered not one iota that he had spent his first three years at the Bureau in the field. Someone had decided that he should use his mind instead of his body, and that was fine with him. He was a freaking tower, conspicuous regardless of what he did. Plus, when he had regularly chased down bad guys, he had also spent ridiculous numbers of hours every week making himself musclebound – just in case. To kick with legs that were as tall as many small adults required a lot more power than if he had stood at an average height.

Part of him missed the thrill of action. His acceptance into the NCB had fueled his already significant love of adrenaline, but to his surprise, tracking down patterns from an influx of data brought him even more excitement than flashing his smile around town to track down a criminal. He did miss the human interaction – analysts were not known for their outgoing personalities. Still, he wouldn’t trade it now that he had the option.

Or, he had thought he had the option.  He files a report, and suddenly he is back in the field.

First thing next week, I’m in Omar’s office before he has his first coffee. So, maybe the field assignment was pure coincidence, but Rel had tried to file the same report four times, had been thoroughly ignored – not even acknowledged! And then finally, without explanation, sent away from the desk. Maybe if he had worked at a department store, he would have assumed a lazy boss or something. In the National Central Bureau, there were no coincidences, and lazy people were run out of the job pretty quickly.

The feed popped up in his Wire, and Rel stopped the car on a dime, glancing around him for some indication of why his Neurex had spiked his adrenaline. Besides a couple of moving Queue cars, all Rel could see was a small woman, probably around forty years of age. Since the surveillance had taken him to the Sino-Russe enclave, he wasn’t surprised to recognize the facial features and dusty red hair typical of the region. Sliding the car to the curb, Rel followed the prompts in his Neurex to a dark, cramped corner, apparently set up as a home, outside an underground business. An overhang acted as a roof, but one side of the little rectangle stood exposed to the cold. Certainly, the Bridge didn’t broadcast information about corners of existence like the one in front of him.

Though he could make out the tiny silhouette of the woman outlined by a television on the back wall, he could not quite figure out the function of the spattering of pallets strewn around the odd outdoor space. One must be a bed, maybe another somewhere to sit. There was a miniature refrigerator in one corner lit by fluorescent lights from what had once been a retail display. A row of stacked plastic boxes created a makeshift wall to finish out the fourth side. On the television, a stream ran with an apparently live scene. Rel’s Neurex told him it was from China, near what used to be one of the many Stans but now lay in a disputed region between Sino-Russe, Greater Persia, and the Caucas Coalition.

Not a particularly pleasant place to be in the hospital, Rel grimaced, glancing at the image on the screen. Across the world, a man stood in a medical facility, and what looked like a teenage boy lay in a bed, not moving. Rel waited for his feed to update him on the significance of the scene, but nothing popped up, and he decided he would just see if the woman spoke English.

He waited until the screen went black and then cleared his throat.

With a start, the diminutive woman spun to face Rel, suspicion strong in her eyes.

Excuse me, he began. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m with NCB? Do you know us? He held out his ID for her to scan, and she blinked at his outstretched hand for a second before nodding.

I know of you, the woman allowed. May I help you.

Rel wasn’t sure what he needed to ask – the Neurex had gone silent. Um, what happened to your son? He gestured to the blank screen.

My nephew. He is in a coma. No one knows why, but he has not moved in three days.

In Sino-Russe?

We are Sinorussian, but he’s in disputed GP right now. His dad was on a cleanup mission for the old nuclear plant there. The doctors think my nephew may have stumbled on some radioactive material that shorted out his Wire. They plan to go in later this week and see about replacing some of the wiring in case it has gone brittle, remove anything that has dislodged. They’re hoping nothing broke loose in the tissue. After the very matter-of-fact explanation, she finally let some sadness leak into her tone on the last sentence.

He stared at the screen. It looks like a Jolt. GP is not as stable as Sino-Russe. Authorities cause as many problems as they fix.

We don’t think so. Even in Sino-Russe, it is very hard to find a stave. The government would never allow the regular populace to possess something with so much potential for danger. It’s always possible, with the destabilization in GP and the Stans, but it would be a very small chance.

Without direction from the feed, Rel just accessed his notations and jotted down the info to his Neurex, planning to tap into the mainframe at the Bureau building to investigate further. He had no idea why he had ended up with this woman, though his probes found that she had the highest level of Wire. It just looked like a typical Jolt – maybe he had misread the impulse, or it had been sent in error.

You have an upgraded Wire? he wondered as he processed the woman’s stats. Mostly, only the wealthy or connected could afford them – that included government employees who worked in intelligence. Certainly, the woman didn’t fit any of those categories.

My brother is in intelligence in Sino-russe, and they fitted all family members with Wires when the government began their experimentation. It is the way in Sino-Russe – the government must be able to keep tabs on all family members for security reasons.

Makes sense, Rel recognized, considering the lack of individual rights in the region. Um, hope everything works out for your nephew. Sorry to disturb you.

Only after he left did he realize that he hadn’t given her an explanation for his presence. Cause I don’t have one, thanks so much, Neurex. Strolling back to his car, he headed to his apartment. He had done nothing productive all day, separated from the hardwire, but it was too late in the day to care. Figuring out why the Neurex had sent him to that random woman could wait; eating dinner couldn’t.

Chapter 2

Hazel tried not to think about her game as she sat next to Sophie in the DeSoto home. The doctor and nurses milled about and exchanged notes, passing links, trying to figure out how to fix things.

It just seems so strange, Hazel sighed, not taking her eyes off of Sophie while she talked to Sophie’s father, Tomás DeSoto. You know Sophie. She lives to drive. She spent years on your farm playing with cars. She keeps her hands on the wheel of the Queue cars – no one does that.

Maybe that was the problem, Mr. DeSoto huffed. They created the Queue to minimize human error.

Leaning her elbow on Sophie’s bed, Hazel shook her head. Not unless she bumped it with her bag – she had taken them off. You know how she is: she was irritated with me, so she pulled her bag from the back seat -

You did not cause this, Hazel, Mr. DeSoto comforted. I know how your mind works. He patted her shoulder.

If you know how my mind works, she countered silently, do you know how terrified I am that you’ll pull your sponsorship? Hazel was struggling, often unsuccessfully, not to consider whether Mr. DeSoto would stop wanting to contribute to Hazel if his own daughter didn’t get to play as well. Obviously, her highest priority lay with Sophie, but Hazel’s entire living depended on Trip, and if she didn’t have sponsors, she wouldn’t get paid. She could code like Peter, but she had no in to the industry – except Peter, who might or might not decide to help her depending on his mood.

I just don’t understand why she’s still out, Hazel continued. The medic said she should regain consciousness before she got to the hospital. Like the bash to the steering wheel had knocked her temporarily unconscious. I don’t know, though. She was so completely out while we flipped around. Like she was made of rubber. I’ve never seen anyone so – unsubstantial. It was unnatural. And now she’s still out.

Without answering, Mr. DeSoto placed his hand comfortingly on Hazel’s head for a moment before turning to confer with the doctor. A moment later, Hazel’s handheld vibrated in her pocket, and when she picked it up, she had a message.

Sophie definitely still wants you to play, it read. Just come visit her every day.

A contribution popped up on her display attached to Mr. DeSoto’s name. Though she wanted to cry, Hazel waited until she had hugged Sophie and shuffled out the front door. Hopping on her bike – somehow miraculously spared from damage - she tried not to crash into anything as the tears, made icy from the late autumn wind, spilled down her cheeks and turned her skin blue with cold.

Within fifteen minutes, Hazel had seated herself on the couch in Peter’s loft.

Talk to me, Hazel, he prompted. What happened? He sat down next to her, laying his arm across the back of the couch behind her.

Sophie, she…

Peter stared at her and plastered on the face he wore when he wanted to seem like he cared.

Sophie and I were in a wreck, and I’m not sure why…she hit her head on the steering wheel, I guess. But she’s unconscious, and even the doctor doesn’t know why.

Shit… Peter complained, and Hazel lost sight of her misery for a second trying to figure out his problem. Knowing Peter, his frustration grew from something completely unrelated to her situation, because he didn’t exactly engage in other people’s problems. You were in the car?

Yes…why wouldn’t I be in a car with Sophie?

Did you have your handheld?

Squinting her eyes, Hazel gazed at him with unexpected suspicion. What was his deal? Yes. I always have my handheld.

Peter blinked up at Hazel, as if suddenly realizing what he was asking, and he rushed out an explanation. You should have contacted me. I have access to the best private doctors. Maybe she wouldn’t be unconscious.

Irritated, Hazel gritted her teeth. I’ll try to remember that the next time one of my best friends is almost killed.

Well, that just leaves me, and I’m so wired that the world will know what happened within an instant, and the best will be on the way.

It’s not like Sophie’s dad doesn’t have access to almost as good of connections as you, and it didn’t really matter. You should have seen him. Melancholy finally supplanted her frustration with Peter. He was so desperate and heartbroken. But somehow in the middle of all that, he thought about me and gave me a donation so I could play, but I don’t even want to play anymore, and…

Lowering his arm to her shoulders, Peter tugged Hazel close, leaning back with her into the corner of the couch and wrapping her in a comforting hug. You’re going to be okay, Hazel. Sophie was never content to let the Queue car drive. At least she’s the one who got hurt.

Hazel glared up at Peter.

I’m not saying she deserved it, he shrugged. I’m just saying that I’m glad it was her and not you.

I’m fine, Hazel grumbled. Sophie’s the one who’s being poked and prodded by doctors. Hazel didn’t pull away, though.

So, some kind of brain trauma, I guess? Peter suggested, and Hazel just shook her head, sucking in a breath.

I guess. It’s just a weird place for a hit to cause unconsciousness. Isn’t that usually a back of the head thing? Or maybe the top if the impact hits enough of the skull. But the front? That usually causes blindness or seizures or something. Not extended unconsciousness.

So, now you’re a doctor?

Irritated, Hazel sat up.

I went through this with my dad. I mean, so many people were affected by the Crash, but it wasn’t like their brains fried and they ceased breathing, or whatever. The first wires-

The pins. Completely different from a Wire.

Fine, the ‘pins’ were so much more rudimentary, and much more intrusive. They knocked everyone unconscious, and that was the problem. People died from accidents caused when they lost consciousness.

I know all this, Hazel. I fixed it.

Obviously, she leveled sourly. And you also know that my dad died because he hit his head when he fell from a construction platform. Massive head trauma. I studied a lot about it after that.

So, you’re saying Sophie’s head injury doesn’t make sense? I’m sure her dad has the best doctors, and I doubt that you know more than them.

All I’m saying, leveled Hazel, standing and crossing to her console is that you have told me many times that the Bridge is made to reset within itself, not reboot a person’s brain. It doesn’t make sense that Sophie’s still unconscious – not with that minor head wound.

Brain injuries are often inexplicable, Hazel.

But that’s the thing: I don’t think she has an injury. I think she just passed out and didn’t wake up. And I have another friend in a coma, too, which is just so strange. Two people that young? Freddy is my age.

Freddy?

"Freddy