Big surprise, Blaise shakes his head. I bet he’s smiling wide behind his fire-toothed grin.

“You came back,” Blaise says from the other side of the glass door.

“Great observation,” I snap, unable to keep my thoughts to myself.

“Sarcasm is an odd choice for someone in your predicament,” Blaise bites back. “Your desperation is embarrassing. Go away.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

I try again and nod to the thin scar on his right wrist. “I cut out mine too.” I push up the tight sleeve of my uniform and show him my own wound, still oozing blood.

“You didn’t cut out your chip because you wanted to. You did it because you had to.”

Not a completely wrong observation. I got my hands on a sharp piece of steel and tossed my microchip into Lake Michigan the first chance I could. Now that I’m wanted, the Guard will be tracking me. Maybe they’ll think I’m already swimming with the fish.

“I’m not going to grovel. Either let me in or don’t.”

Blaise shoves a finger under his bandana, itching a spot on his pasty cheek that probably hasn’t seen the sun since . . . ever. The guy takes his privacy very seriously. Does he eat with it on too? Just blends up a burger and sucks it down with a straw? I’m about to ask him this vital question when Rayla appears behind him.

“Let him in,” she orders. “And stop bickering.”

Ha! My grin outshines his inferno smile. The door opens just enough for me to shove myself through, nearly slamming shut on my fingers. Wasting no more time on the likes of Blaise, I elbow past him to find the real boss around here. Rayla. She’s disappeared somewhere into the back room.

“You better not get us caught,” Blaise growls in my ear.

I spin to face him. “I’m the one who brought you in, remember? I’m not the noob here, and I’m not your enemy. I’m on your side.”

He grunts and follows me into the main room. In the corner, the crusty moth-eaten rug I spent days using as a bed while Rayla healed from her gunshot is no longer there. Instead, there’s a small circular door that no doubt leads to a secret basement or bunker. I help myself down the rickety ladder and descend into the dark underground of a hacker’s lair.

The dim glow of computer screens provides the only light. Rayla is in the middle, bent over a long table, fiddling with equipment I can’t make out from where I stand. I almost ram my head into the low ceiling but catch myself just in time, no thanks to Blaise. I have to duck in order to get to Rayla. I play it off as a bow.

“Rayla, first off, thank you for trusting me—”

She puts up a hand to stop me. “Save your speech for another time,” Rayla says without looking at me. “We’re in the middle of something.”

I wait for her to divulge more, but of course she doesn’t.

“What are we in the middle of?” I ask, including myself in the we.

“I’m going to the White House,” Rayla says matter-of-factly. She might as well have said, I’m going to the moon.

“Like, the White House?” I question, not cushioning my skepticism. “In New Washington?”

This is a terrible plan. What did I walk back into? Then I spot the pair of VR headsets in Blaise’s hands. They mean to hack their way in virtually.

“Blaise was able to acquire the Secretary of State’s schedule,” Rayla summarizes the situation quickly, “and she has an audience with the president that started exactly twelve minutes ago. I need to be in on that virtual meeting.”

Finally, something I’m good at. I lean down closer to the dual monitors to check out the situation for myself.

Hundreds of unique lines of multicolored code are written across both screens, but two red error lines jump out at me in bold: <ACCESS DENIED>.

Blaise can’t get in.

The best black-hat hacker in all the land has been shut out. He stands at Rayla’s other elbow, his fiery bandana burning just a little less bright.

“Our two attempts to enter the meeting room have been rejected,” Rayla says, getting testier by the moment. “And we now have only one attempt left before we’re locked out of the system.”

She turns in my direction, her breath catching in pain from the sudden movement. “Can you get me into the room, Owen?”

It’s the first time Rayla’s ever said my name. Hell, I didn’t even think she remembered it. I’m oddly touched.

“I need to be in on that meeting,” she repeats, doing a pretty good job masking she’s leaning on the table for support. “Whichever one of you can get me into the room can join me.”

The seedy basement’s loaded with high-end sensors and cameras, 3D capture technology that’s used to beam 360-degree holograms of people in real time anywhere. I know better than to ask how Blaise got hold of such pricey equipment. He did what hackers do best: he stole it.

But I’ve been a Code Cog half my life—I can compete. Even better, I can beat him into the room.

Blaise and I stare each other down for longer than is appropriate given our looming time clock; then we each lunge to a computer, and my lightning-fast fingers get to work.

I always knew I was meant for more than the corporate dungeon of Kismet Automotive Factory. But writing my way into a virtual meeting room with the president of the United States?

This is the opportunity of a Cog’s lifetime.

It takes me a beat to orient myself, hopping from the cramped dark basement to the bright and sunny VR world in a matter of an eye blink. When I do, I laugh out loud.

A swarm of monarch butterflies floats through a fluffy-clouded blue sky, circling the Washington Monument. Birdsong chirps all cheerful in the background. Behind the famed pillar, I spot the US Capitol Building, and to my left stands the White House itself. Damn.

Rayla is a woman who gets what she wants; she demanded the White House, and there it is. A White House from a lost era, but still. I could learn from this woman.

Most of these monuments don’t exist anymore—they couldn’t be saved from the flooding that wiped out the original capital. I know all of this is made up of projections, but just to make absolutely sure, I reach down to pluck one of the many little American flags stuck in the ground. My hand goes straight through it. What a beautifully written piece of code; I have to give credit where credit is due.

“There they are” is all Rayla has to say about this dreamscape before she takes off behind me. I spin around and follow my new leader as she heads toward the Lincoln Memorial on the opposite end of the National Mall. The rendezvous point must’ve moved outside.

“Keep five steps back at all times, Owen,” Rayla says. “And don’t speak.” She’s really got to work on the whole “thank-you” thing.

Baby steps. At least she uses your name now.

When we stroll by the infamous Reflecting Pool on the comically perfect green lawn, I almost have to roll my eyes. Of course this virtual space is the favorite meeting place of the current prez. It’s a memory of the good old days, back when his office had dignity and power. Everything the man lacks.

The only patriotic thing missing from his custom-built dream world is a bald eagle flying somewhere overhead. No sooner does that thought occur than a series of high-pitched whistling sounds causes me to mentally bite my tongue. You’ve got to be kidding.