A teenager caught between virtual battles and model rocket launches learns that some games have real-world consequences.

Adaptation of "Model rocket launch 2 (Starwiz)" by Justin Lebar is licensed under CC BY 2.5.

This is a story that I started over 12 years ago, but could never quite finish. I even published the opening scene back in 2013, hoping to shame myself into writing more of it.

Well, alas, my capacity for shame cannot defeat my capacity for procrastination. That said, though I can't account for what all has changed since then, I have somehow managed to carve out more consistent butt-in-seat time that helped me finish this.

I think it turned out pretty good. But, I hope it's one of the worst I manage to write, because I want to keep this up and improve! Anyway, on with the story...

Rays of a distant sun cast silver through rocks tumbling in space. Glinting motes danced through the gaps, alighting here and there with actinic flares before returning to an ovoid craft holding station a few kilometers from the bulk of the rubble.

Leandros dozed inside, oblivious to the neon phosphenes splashed across his eyelids. The arcs and whorls described the progress of his mining run: He had another four hours before the holds were full. Only then would he need to intervene to reel everything in and head for home.

A series of pings yanked him awake. Pushing the mining interface aside, he ran a sensor sweep: Four new contacts had translated into local space, accelerating toward him in an unpleasant formation. One minute to common weapons range.

He sent a hail over local comms. In response, one of the ships flooded the area with a scrambler field that blocked both long range comms and hyperdrive. Standard procedure for pirates.

For anyone else, that would have been checkmate for an unescorted mining platform. But Leandros had something in mind. He fired up the sub-light engines and plotted a course into the thick of the debris field. As the ship lurched into motion, he issued a burst of instructions: motes abandoned their tasks and rebooted into new firmware that he'd been brewing for the past few weeks.

The mining motes were nimble, but they each had weak sensors and processors. With Leandros's software, though, they established a network distributed across the debris field using scrambler-resistant lasers. In conjunction with his ship's processing power, the system as a whole promised to let him punch above his weight.

His first advantage came in the form of a live survey of the shifting debris field, something the incoming bandits wouldn't have. Using the map as input to his nav system, he switched to a procedurally generated course through the rocks that would make his lumbering ship a harder target.

The augmented sensor net showed the bandits entering the debris field near his last position. He had sixteen motes in the field and the bandits had already passed six. Those motes pushed off from asteroids with quick jet pulses, boosted into intercept vectors. Then, they went to sleep. As small as they were, he hoped he could keep them from registering as threats.

Another ping startled him—a missile launch from the lead bandit. Odd: pirates usually gave ransom demands before they started shooting. These seemed more interested in killing than robbing him.

The sensor blip detached from the main group, streaking toward his position. A second later, it flared out of existence. Two motes dropped out of the network, having sacrificed themselves to deflect the threat. So far, so good: he hadn't quite expected those routines to work.

Leandros cleared his throat and opened the local comm channel. Jamming would keep him from broadcasting far, but the bandits would hear him.

"Attention, unidentified aggressors. Break off your approach. Respond to my hail and I'll regard that missile as a mistake. This is your only warning."

A few tense seconds passed. He figured the bandits must be wondering what had happened to their missile. His bluff would sound good in the black box recording, at least.

News arrived from his first wave of interceptor motes: He'd lost most of them to the bandits' point defense networks, identified as navigational hazards. But he'd landed two on the lead ship. Just in case he could repeat the trick, he ordered a few more motes on their way for another attempt.

A second missile launch. Two motes boosted away from their respective asteroids into the path of the missile. They missed, an over-correction sending them splashing into neighboring rocks. Another pair boosted after the missile, but he wasn't happy about their chances.

"I'll take that as your response," he growled, trying to put a little more bravado in than he felt. He issued a command—the motes clinging to the lead bandit began mining. Given direct contact with a hull, the little machines had no trouble harvesting material.

The lead bandit broke up. The structure shredded in a confusion of flares, punctuated by a sharp detonation from a failing drive core. It was only a partial victory, though: Leandros registered the two motes' contributions dropping out of the network—a worrying sliver of the debris field gone dark on sensors. Overall system performance had declined precipitously.

Meanwhile, the second missile tracked him. This was a torpedo with some smarts of its own, it followed all his twists and turns through the rocks. His motes in pursuit just weren't going to catch up. Still, his map of the field gave him an idea: He tweaked his vector to swing through a gap between two rocks. The missile followed, two seconds behind.

A mote clung to each of those rocks; Leandros detonated them with engine overloads. The force was just enough to send the masses tumbling together. The gap closed before the missile could get clear. The resulting detonation blasted the rocks apart and threw a hail of shrapnel against his own ship. He lost some maneuvering jets. A slow leak registered in one of his atmosphere tanks.

The real damage took a few heartbeats to sink in: He'd lost a pair of comm lasers, enough to disrupt his link to the mote network. And worse, he'd lost track of the remaining bandits and the state of the debris field.

Cursing, he called up the last good scan of the field to estimate where they'd show up next. He crept through the field, trying to keep rocks between him and the hypotheticals. Using the remaining comm lasers, he swept to reconnect with any visible motes.

As he drifted into a clearing, shrill alerts battered his ears. The bandits had changed course. No missile this time: A stream of heavy projectile fire intersected with his hull and holed the cargo bay.

They'd missed the cockpit, though, leaving him shaken but breathing. Better yet, one of his comm lasers registered line-of-sight on a mote, re-establishing his connection. The line-of-sight coincided with the bandits themselves. His remaining motes had made contact with each of their hulls. He clenched his teeth and issued the mining commands. In quick succession, the bandits bloomed into the most beautiful fireworks he'd ever seen.

And with that, his long-range comms came back online. His hyperdrive didn't seem worth trying—it would implode or his hull would collapse from the strain. Adding insult to injury, his inbox pinged almost immediately with voided insurance contract notifications, thanks to the flagrant warranty violations with the motes. The black box had recorded everything and reported as soon as it got back into sync with civilization. He'd have to eat that cost.

He sighed, but got to work searching for an inner-system salvage group with whom to negotiate a rescue contract. As he connected to the market systems, comms chimed with a request from a caller with a blocked ID. Curious, he accepted.

"Very impressive, Leandros." The voice was masked, words intoned in an unsettling duet of baritone and soprano. "My associates thought you might struggle with that particular scenario, but I see my faith in your abilities was well placed."

"Thank you, I think," replied Leandros, distractedly, working through a real-time bidding process with a few dozen salvagers. "Would you mind telling me who you are and what you want? You know, before my air runs out?"

"Oh," said the voice, with a warbling that might have been laughter. "I see it was a close contest, after all. No worries. Help is on the way. In the meantime, we have some business to discuss."

"I'm not going anywhere. What's on your mind?" His bid process narrowed to three vendors, each competing on speed and armament for the rescue effort.

"We've been watching your work in automation with particular interest. We believe your talents are wasted on mining. The techniques you've demonstrated reveal your true promise—as a member of our corporation, and perhaps more."

"You've got some nasty recruiters, but you've piqued my interest," Leandros offered.

He had a winner: The final bid promised to defend against any new hostiles and ferry him back to a friendly station. They'd also lay claim to his wreck and cargo as salvage. More money burned, but at least he'd survive. He approved the contract; the only thing to do now was to wait for them to show up.

"Of course," said the voice on comms. "Just one thing to take care of—" A notification appeared in Leandros's vision: The salvage group had been purchased and was under new management. The rescue was cancelled. Again, the melodic chuckle.

"I told you," the voice continued, "help is already on the way. Now, where were we?"

Leandros sighed. "I was hoping maybe you'd introduce yourself."

"Ah, where are my manners? You're speaking to Bl4ckst4r, CEO of Searles Weightless Industries. We'll have you onboarded in no time, assuming you accept the contract that's about to appear in your inbox."

With vision blurring, Leandros clicked the accept button on the message. By the time the corporate rescue ship arrived, Leandros was seeing stars—literally. His makeshift repairs to the life support system were failing, and his vision had started to tunnel. The last thing he heard was the docking clamps engaging.

Jared's head felt like it was full of cotton when he yanked the goggles off. The game's emergency logout had triggered when his character passed out from oxygen deprivation, but the disorientation always lingered for a few minutes afterward. He blinked hard, trying to get his bearings.

He was on the front porch swing, and his sister Danica was practically nose-to-nose with him, studying his face with scientific curiosity.

"Whoa!" he said, jerking backward. The sudden movement sent Danica tumbling off the swing.

"Mommy! Jared pushed me over!" she wailed, fleeing into the house.

His mother appeared at the screen door, taking in the scene as Danica caught up behind her, crying into a dishtowel.

"What happened?"

"He pushed me," interjected Danica.

"You had your turn," said Mom. "Jared, what happened?"

"I was in the game and my character ran out of oxygen. When I came out of it, Danica was right there in my face. She startled me."

"Is this true, Danica?"

"I was just looking at him."

"Mmm hmm. I know how you look at things. Now, go back in the house and wash your face."

"But Mommy—" A raised eyebrow from Mom quieted the little girl, who turned and stormed away.

His Mom held out her hand for his goggles. "You've spent half the summer already with these things on."

"Aww Mom—"

"And did you forget about rocket club this afternoon? If you get on your bike now, you might just make it."

"Oh crap!"

She laughed as he dashed past her into the house.

"You'd better have your flight card already filled out," a girl with binoculars around her neck hollered, spotting Jared coasting onto the field behind the middle school.

It was Anika, the Range Safety Officer for the day. She was only 13, but she'd been in the club for longer than Jared and she took the job seriously. He tried not to bristle.

He hopped off the bike and laid it down next to a handful of others. He dug through his duffel and came up with an index card. Anika took it and glared at it.

"Let's see the model," she said.

From the duffel, he pulled out what he'd been working on for the last month. It was just barely bigger than his hand: a broad wedge composed from basic polygonal planes, matte black like a stealth plane. He'd extracted the design from game files and printed it out in cardstock. He'd glued it together and elaborated on it with a few kitbash details of his own.

Anika raised an eyebrow. "You're sure this thing will fly and not just tumble off into the woods?"

"Yeah," he said, "it'll fly."

"Alright," she said, "go see Frank."

Frank was the Launch Control Officer. He was a rotund man in his sixties with a buzz cut and a salt and pepper beard. He lounged in a folding chair at a card table, shaded from the sun under a popup canopy. Around him were a few boxes of supplies and papers for the club. In front of him was a panel with a big red button and a bunch of switches labelled with embossed plastic tape.

"Good day to fly," said Frank. "Clear sky, no wind. A bit hot, though. Grass is very dry." He patted a fire extinguisher next to him and took a big pull from a water bottle, ice rattling as he tipped it back. "Got something for me?"

Jared nodded and handed over his launch card. Frank accepted it and peered over his glasses. He made a beckoning gesture and Jared held out the model.

"Neato," said Frank. "Looks like a single stage, low power motor. Go ahead and take pad A5, it's the last one. And, also? Try to get here early next time. Stick around after to help clean up."

"Sure thing," said Jared.

He trotted over to the last unoccupied rail and slid his model onto it. He glanced over at the high-power rails, saw just one model there: an incredibly detailed Saturn V rocket, the tip of the launch escape system almost as high as his navel. That'd be three stages and probably reserved by Frank as the finale of the day.

Anika appeared next to him. "Pretty keen, huh?"

"Yeah," he said. "That yours?"

"No, I wish," she said, laughing. "That's Lisa's, she's been working on it since last summer."

Jared glanced behind him. Under another canopy were a couple of wooden picnic tables pushed together, where a mix of a dozen kids and adults sat, chatting over sodas and paper plates with remnants of pizza.

Seated on the end of one of the benches was Lisa: Khaki cargo shorts and a black t-shirt featuring a cartoon pony exploding in a rainbow of stars. She had long black hair in a braid. Her green eyes caught his with one brow raised. She'd seen him checking out her rocket. She gave him a thumbs up. He blushed and looked away.

"Go take a seat, champ," said Anika.

The last seat was next to Lisa. He walked over and perched with just half his butt on the bench. That gave him a little space to avoid sitting shoulder to shoulder with her. She smelled like sunscreen. He kind of didn't want to know what he smelled like. She elbowed him and he startled.

"Sorry we didn't save you any pizza," she said.

"That's okay," said Jared. "I'm just glad I got a pad." He made brief eye contact with her and she smiled.

Frank cleared his throat and the chatter died down. "Alright, folks, that's our last flyer wired up for ignition. Who's ready for launch?"

Cheers and whoops came from everyone at the picnic tables.

"We've got Rodrigo's Green Egg on pad A1. It's his first flight ever, so let's all wish him well."

On pad A1, there was a little yellow, green, and white rocket. Just below the nose cone was a transparent segment, with an egg nestled inside. Frank turned a key on the control panel in front of him and a high-pitched tone rang out.

"Hey," said Lisa, elbowing him again, "did you ever fly one of those?"

"No," said Jared, "I just figured I'd end up with an omelette."

She laughed and he smiled.

"A1 is armed. Going in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ignition." Frank pushed a red button on the panel.

Smoke shot from the rocket's base and it streaked into the cloudless blue sky with a hiss. It got a couple hundred feet up, before the engine burned out. The nose cone and cargo segment popped off. A little parachute unfurled, connected by twine to all the pieces of the rocket. Everything drifted lazily down to land just a dozen feet away from the rails.

"And we have a great first flight for our new member, Rodrigo," Frank said. "You want to go get it, son? We'll wait."

A seven-year-old boy across from Jared nodded solemnly. A man next to Rodrigo—probably his dad—patted him on the shoulder. The kid dashed out past the launch rails to fetch his rocket. When he got there, he screamed and did a little dance. He came back to the tables to show off the egg, still intact. Everyone cheered.

"Aww, so cute," said Lisa. She nudged into him with her shoulder.

"Yeah," said Jared, "I don't know when I was last that excited about anything."

She looked over and made brief eye contact. He blushed again and looked down at the table.

"Next up," said Frank, "we have a drag race. Folks are impatient today! Pads A2, A3, and A4 are all going together. Is that right?" Shouts of approval from the tables came in response.

"On pad A2, we've got Mikael's Alpha III. On pad A3, we've got Adelina's Avion." Frank paused and scratched his head.

"He should have switched A2 and A3," said Lisa. "You know, because of the Alpha III and the two A's." Jared groaned and she elbowed him again.

"Huh, yeah," said Frank. "That's what I was just thinking. Should have switched those two. Missed opportunity."

"Dang," said Lisa, "did you get new batteries in those hearing aids?"

Frank grinned. "Respect your elders, please and thank you. Last but not least, moving on to pad A4, we've got Cyrus' Skylark. Let's wish everyone a good launch!" Frank flipped switches on the launch console. He turned the key. The high pitched tone came on again.

"Pads A2, A3, and A4 are armed," he said. "Continuity is good. Heads up. Going in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ignition." Frank pushed the red button.

Three rockets hissed away from their pads, a trio of corkscrew smoke trails ascending out of sight. Anika tracked the rockets with her binoculars. A bunch of folks moved out from under the canopy to follow with phone cameras.

"Looks like Mikael and Adelina are neck-and-neck. Cyrus is behind," she said. "Oh, wait, Adelina just popped her chute. And now Mikael. The Skylark is still going!"

"Slow and steady wins the race," said Frank.

"You should know," said Lisa. Jared grimaced.

"I heard that, you stinker," said Frank. He flicked some condensation from his water bottle toward her. She ducked into Jared, who caught most of the spray in his face. He laughed.

"Okay," said Anika, eyes still glued to the binoculars, "Cyrus popped his chute. A little bit of angle on them, looks like they're all going to land about mid-field. Still not much wind to blow them around."

Frank looked around to the rockets' owners. "You all okay to wait for retrieval?" Nods came from everyone. "Good, Anika will keep an eye out. Now, we can get on to pad A5 for Jared's arrowhead thingy."

"It's a Vrana," said Jared. "It's from a video game."

"Oh, sorry," said Frank, "I couldn't read the card."

"No worries."

Frank shaded his eyes with his hand and regarded the pad. "You sure this thing isn't going to tumble off into the woods?"

"That's what I said," said Anika. "And he said..."

"It'll fly," said Jared.

"Okay," said Frank. "Jared's Piranha on pad A5."

Jared opened his mouth and closed it. Lisa grinned. Frank turned the key and the high pitched tone sounded.

"Pad A5 is armed. Going in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ignition." He hit the button.

The Vrana leapt hissing from the pad, trailing smoke for a few hundred feet. Then, it exploded, the angled polygonal panels all splitting away. But the pieces were linked with twine and the whole assemblage spun into a cloud of debris that gently floated down.

"Oof," said Anika, "sorry about your luck."

"It was supposed to do that," said Jared.

"Yeah," said Lisa, "that blew up like a real Vrana."

Jared looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Hey, I didn't know you played—"

"Shh," she said, "it's my turn. Scan this. It's going to be really neato."

She held out a scrap of paper with a QR code on it. He fetched his phone from his pocket and waved the camera over the code. On his screen appeared a video looking down from the nose of Lisa's rocket.

"That's a live stream," she said. "There's IP cameras in every stage." Jared whistled with appreciation.

"Okay, that was interesting," said Frank. "Definitely didn't go into the woods. Blew up real good. While that lands, we're going to move onto pad B1 for the finale. Everyone ready?" Whoops came from all around the tables.

"On pad B1, we've got Lisa's historically accurate Saturn V rocket model. It's a big one. Three stages, heavy motors in each, and I hear she's stuffed it with gadgets from my parts bins." Lisa stuck her tongue out at him.

Frank stuck his tongue out back at her. He flipped switches on the launch console and turned the key.

"Pad B1 is hot. Going in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Ignition." Lisa leaned forward. Frank hit the button.

The Saturn V started hissing, smoke billowing from beneath. It moved, almost reluctantly. But it picked up speed and cleared the launch rail. Jared watched the field fall away on his phone, caught a glimpse of himself under the canopy.

The rocket rose to about the height of Rodrigo's Green Egg. Then, with a ringed puff of smoke, the lower third of the model fell away. A parachute unfurled and it started drifting down. The view on Jared's phone split, with one pane looking up from the lower stage and the other still looking toward the ground.

An engine in the base of the second stage ignited. It rose further, to about the height reached by Cyrus' Skylark. With another puff, the second stage fell away and deployed a parachute. The view split again, the new pane looking up at the final stage. One last engine ignited.

No one on the ground could see it now. Even Anika had lost the final stage on binoculars. But Lisa had flashed the QR code around, so most folks were huddled around phones. A few were peering over Jared's shoulder at his screen—including Lisa. He felt very warm.

The final stage soared even higher, tumbling slightly and revealing the curved horizon. Then, with a jolt, the engine blew out. The nose cone popped off and a streamer unfurled.

"The final stage is lighter," said Lisa right by his ear, pointing at Jared's screen. "It doesn't really need a full parachute."

All three live stream views looked down now, showing different perspectives of the club's launch site as they descended.

"Well," said Frank, peering at his own phone screen, "it's possible you exceeded the altitude rules. But, otherwise I'd say that looks like a successful flight!"

Everyone in the club applauded. Anika came over and high-fived Lisa. Jared put his hand up for a high-five, but Lisa had already turned away to talk to some other folks at the table. With a smirk, Anika slapped his hand.

"Go get your Piranha pieces," she said, "and then help us clean up."

It took him about twenty minutes to find the jumble of cardstock that had been his model. He kind of wandered the field in circles, trying to see it in the ankle-high dormant brown grass. He'd found himself distracted by Lisa's live stream and missed the last moments when his model had landed.

But he finally found it, and scooped the tangle of parts back into his duffel. He'd built it to be reassembled after launch and flown again, but he hadn't quite accounted for how twisted the strings would get. It might take him longer to untangle than it had taken to build the thing to begin with.

Well, he thought, at least somebody got what it was supposed to be.

He made his way back to the launch site. The launch rails had already been broken down and the saw horses had found their way into the back of Frank's pickup truck. The picnic tables had been pushed back into their original homes behind the school. All that was left were the canopies. Frank was wrestling with the bigger of the two by himself.

Jared got there just in time to watch a corner of it collapse, then the whole thing fell on Frank. It was just canvas and a few fiberglass rods, so it was more slapstick than anything.

"Hey," said Jared, laughing, "let me help." He hauled the thing off Frank and started pulling out the rods that held the canvas in shape.

Frank chuckled and brushed himself off. "These things can be tricky if you rush 'em. Thanks, son."

"No problem," Jared said, rolling up the canvas with the poles. "Where'd everyone else go?"

"Oh, you took a bit longer out there than expected," Frank said, sliding the canopy bundle into his truck bed. "Lisa and a few of the others headed back to town for ice cream. Figured you might catch up with them later."

Jared felt a familiar pang of disappointment. He always seemed to be a step behind, missing out on things while he was off in his own head.

Frank noticed his expression. "Don't worry about it, son. There's always next month. And speaking of which—be early next time, remember?"

"Yeah, I will."

Frank climbed into his truck and rolled down the window. "Want a lift back?"

Jared waved and said, "No thanks, it's an easy ride home."

Frank chuckled and said, "Suit yourself. See you next month!"

He drove off, leaving Jared alone in the empty field behind the middle school. He took a deep breath, let it out. He could still smell sunscreen. He hopped on his bike and headed for home.

Back home, dinner was ready: hamburgers, potato wedges, baked beans, and coleslaw. Dad had emerged from his home office and fired up the grill while Jared was riding home. At some point earlier in the summer, he'd convinced himself that hamburgers were disgusting. But hunger made him reconsider: He fixed himself two with cheese and onions.

Little Danica, however, made a huffing fuss about how greasy they were. They weren't, really, and Jared took small pleasure in his relative maturity.

They all settled in on the back patio to eat. Late afternoon sun was held at bay by a big umbrella and the air was starting to cool. His Dad relaxed, sighing in his sunglasses and tipping back a beer. His Mom quizzed Jared about the club meeting.

"How did your rocket do?"

"It exploded perfectly," said Jared. "Just like it was supposed to."

"That's... good?" said Dad, raising an eyebrow.

"It's from a video game. The ship gets blown up a lot."

"Ah," said Dad. "Well, as long as it was a scheduled rapid disassembly."

"See anyone you knew?" asked Mom.

"You know, the usual. Frank and Lisa, of course."

Danica perked up and crooned, "Ooh, Lisa!"

Mom raised an eyebrow, glancing first in warning at Danica, and then in interest at Jared.

"Now, be nice, sweet-pea," said Mom. "You give your brother a hard time about girls now, and he'll never let it down when you get interests of your own."

"Ew, gross," said Danica, who resumed mashing her dinner together on her plate.

"So, you saw Lisa," resumed Mom. Danica stifled a giggle. Dad just smiled and took another pull from his beer.

"Her rocket was incredible," said Jared, around a mouthful of burger. "Three stages, live video feeds, the works. Made mine look like a paper airplane."

"The usual, huh?" his Mom prodded.

Jared blushed and bit off more burger.

His Dad chuckled and said, "Sweetie, you're as bad as Danica. Let the kid off the hook."

Danica snorted. Jared chewed and flashed a grateful glance at his Dad, who broke out laughing.

"I'm sure if he has anything to say, he'll say it. Won't you?" Dad elbowed him.

Jared rolled his eyes with a sigh and took a swig of iced tea.

"You know what?" said Dad, leaning back in his chair, "I'm proud of you for sticking with this club. When I was your age, I would have been too embarrassed to hang around with a bunch of kids launching toy rockets."

"They're not toys," said Jared. "Some of them go over a thousand feet."

"Even better," said Dad. "Building things, learning how they work, that's good stuff. Better than..." He gestured vaguely at the house.

"Better than what?" asked Mom.

"Oh, you know. Sitting inside all day with those game goggles on."

Jared felt a familiar wave of defensiveness, but it didn't have quite the usual bite. He had been sitting inside all day with goggles on, and it hadn't gotten him much besides motion sickness and voided insurance contracts.

The rest of dinner passed without further incident, though an occasional significant glance brought a flush to Jared's face. Danica chattered at length about squirrels. Mom kept her going with interested questions. Dad mostly smiled and stayed quiet, obviously tired from a long day of work.

After dinner, Jared helped his Mom clean up the table while Dad stretched out on a patio bench for a nap. Danica settled down in the living room to watch a nature documentary on her tablet.

"So," said Mom, handing him another plate to load into the dishwasher, "this Lisa girl seems to have made quite an impression."

"She built this amazing rocket," Jared said, carefully not making eye contact. "Five cameras, three stages, the whole thing."

"Mmm hmm, so you said," said Mom, in the tone that meant she wasn't buying it. "And?"

"And what?"

"And how do you feel about her?"

Jared groaned and focused intently on arranging plates in the dishwasher. "She's... she's pretty cool, I guess."

Mom squeezed some soap into the door and he closed the machine. She kissed him on the forehead. "Well, maybe you'll get another chance to talk to her. Rocket club's not the only place teenagers hang out."

After Mom disappeared into her own home office for evening meetings with her overseas team, Jared settled back onto the front porch with his goggles.

Over the following weeks, Jared threw himself into his new corporation. Searles Weightless Industries turned out almost too good to be true: well-funded, technically sophisticated, and eager to put his mote programming ideas to work in larger conflicts.

Instead of a mining barge, Leandros was issued a Wasphive-class mote carrier. The ungainly ship was essentially a flying factory, designed to deploy and coordinate swarms of autonomous combat motes. It suited his talents perfectly, as he proved in engagement after engagement.

His swarm tactics became more sophisticated under the pressure of corporate warfare. Soon he was leading entire wings of carriers, coordinating with bomber squadrons, even helping plan major operations against their primary enemy: Equine Expeditions.

The conflict with Equine Expeditions escalated steadily. What started as skirmishes over mining rights became pitched battles over entire star systems. Leandros found himself caught up in the drama of it all: the memes of fleet operations, the satisfaction of tactical victories, the sting of defeats.

He kept running into a fleet commander named Xenofon, who seemed to command Equine Expeditions' main battle fleet. Xenofon was good—really good. The pilot had an uncanny ability to anticipate SWI's moves and deploy countermeasures that always seemed to arrive at exactly the wrong moment. Worse, Xenofon seemed to have an instinctive understanding of how to counter Leandros's mote swarms, often deploying electronic warfare techniques that turned his own drones against him.

"That pilot's been a thorn in our side for months," Bl4ckst4r explained during one of their strategic meetings. "Flies a Behemoth now. Took it from one of our allies last month."

Leandros knew what a Behemoth was: a craft so large it was essentially a mobile station. It could service dozens of smaller ships and carry enough firepower to level entire installations. In the hands of a skilled pilot, it was nearly unstoppable.

"We need to do something about Xenofon," Bl4ckst4r continued. "Before they cost us any more assets."

That opportunity came sooner than expected. Intelligence reports suggested Equine Expeditions was planning a major assault on SWI's primary staging area—a massive industrial station that represented months of corporate investment. If they lost it, SWI would be all but finished as a major power.

"All hands on deck for this one," Bl4ckst4r announced to the corporation. "We're talking about our survival here."

The battle was epic. Hundreds of ships from both sides clashed in the space around the station. Leandros led a wing of mote carriers against wave after wave of enemy fighters. His swarms carved through enemy formations, adapting and evolving their tactics in real-time.

For hours, the outcome hung in the balance. Then Xenofon's Behemoth arrived.

The massive ship translated into the heart of the battle and immediately began launching gunner and bomber squadrons. But worse than the conventional weapons were the electronic warfare systems. Powerful jammers disrupted Leandros's control links, turning his carefully coordinated mote swarms into clouds of confused, directionless units. Some turned on their own motherships. Others simply shut down and drifted helplessly in space.

"The motes aren't responding," someone reported over fleet comms.

"Xenofon's jamming everything," another pilot confirmed. "My whole swarm just went dark."

Leandros watched helplessly as hours of development work were rendered useless in minutes. Without their mote swarms, the SWI carriers were sitting ducks. The Behemoth methodically dismantled their fleet, then turned its attention to the station itself.

"Station is lost," Bl4ckst4r announced. "All ships, retreat to rally point Bravo. We'll regroup and figure out our next move."

As Leandros's battered carrier limped away from the wreckage, he felt something he'd never experienced in the game before: genuine anger. This wasn't just about losing pixels on a screen anymore. The weeks of effort, the friendships he'd built with his corpmates, the pride he'd taken in his programming work—it all felt real, and it had been taken away by one pilot's superiority.

"I want that Behemoth," he told Bl4ckst4r during their post-battle debrief.

"So do I," Bl4ckst4r replied. "And I think I know how we can get it. I've been preparing for this possibility for some time now. Turns out our friend Xenofon might be more accessible than most of our enemies."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes, the best way to win a virtual war is with real-world tactics. I'll do some digging and have a plan soon."

The next week brought an unexpected invitation: Driver's Education, Day 1. His mother had signed him up without consulting him, and despite his protests, she refused to let him skip it.

"You're seventeen," she said. "It's time you learned to drive. The gaming can wait a few hours."

So Jared found himself in the dim auditorium of his old middle school, listening to Coach Edwards drone about bicycle safety. Most of the other students were younger than him—freshmen and sophomores who seemed excited about the prospect of getting behind the wheel.

He was slouching in the fifth row, trying to look as bored as possible, when someone slid into the seat next to him.

"Thanks for saving me a seat," said a familiar voice.

He turned to see Lisa grinning at him. She looked different in the fluorescent light of the auditorium—older somehow, more confident than she'd seemed at the rocket club.

"Oh," he said, suddenly aware that he was blushing again. "Hi. I didn't expect to see you here."

"I was running late. Good thing you were here to hold down the fort."

"My mom finally made me sign up. You?"

"Same. My dads have been nagging me about it all summer."

Coach Edwards was explaining the importance of proper mirror adjustment when Lisa leaned over and whispered, "So what's your pilot name in Farstar?"

"Leandros. You?"

"Xenofon," she said with a slight smile. "Maybe we'll run into each other out there?"

Jared's stomach dropped. Xenofon. The pilot who'd just destroyed everything he'd worked for. The enemy he'd sworn to defeat. Sitting right next to him, smiling and making small talk.

Then, from her tone, he realized: With all the battles he'd fought, all the time he'd spent fretting over his mote tactics—he'd apparently made so little impression that his main enemy didn't even recognize his name.

"Oh," he managed. "Yeah, maybe."

He spent the rest of the class in a daze, barely registering Coach Edwards' lecture on vehicle control systems. When the session ended, he mumbled something about having to get home and fled before Lisa could say anything else.

"This is perfect," Bl4ckst4r said when Jared told him about the coincidence. "Better than perfect. It's like fate handed us exactly what we need."

They were meeting in Bl4ckst4r's private office, a luxurious space aboard SWI's new headquarters station. The CEO's avatar lounged behind an ornate desk, fingers steepled as he considered the implications.

"I've been working on a plan to deal with Xenofon," Bl4ckst4r continued. "But it requires someone with technical skills and physical access to the player's location. Someone local. Someone just like you."

"What kind of plan?"

"Well," Bl4ckst4r said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "what if I told you that we could steal that Behemoth right out from under its pilot?"

He explained the concept: a real-world man-in-the-middle attack that would intercept Xenofon's commands to the ship and replace them with orders of SWI's choosing. All it would take was a small device connected to Xenofon's actual home network, and some modifications to Leandros's mote firmware to create a honeypot of apparent backdoors in SWI's own systems.

"The beauty of it," Bl4ckst4r explained, "is that if we embed the right temptations in your mote firmware, we can use them as a trojan horse. When Xenofon engages—and they will, because we'll leak the intel—we'll be ready to counter-hack and turn her own tactics against her."

"Isn't this kind of convoluted and... well... illegal?"

"It's a game, Jared. We're not stealing her car or robbing her bank account. We're just leveling the playing field in a virtual world where she's had an unfair advantage for too long."

Bl4ckst4r sweetened the deal with promises of promotion, exclusive access to the captured Behemoth, and enough in-game currency to buy whatever equipment Leandros wanted. More importantly, it was a chance for revenge against the pilot who'd humiliated him.

"Think about it," Bl4ckst4r said. "Xenofon has been destroying everything we've built. This is our chance to turn the tables."

What he was being asked to do gnawed at Jared over the following days. This wasn't just about the game anymore. But every time he logged in and saw the wreckage of his carefully built tactical systems, the anger flared again. Xenofon had cost him weeks of work, had made him fail in front of his corpmates.

Besides, Bl4ckst4r insisted it was completely untraceable and harmless. Just a prank, really.

The package arrived the next day: a small black box with network ports on either end, along with tools and detailed instructions. The accompanying note explained that Jared would need to connect the device to Xenofon's fiber internet line, preferably at the point where it entered the house.

Looking at the innocuous black box, Jared felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was spy stuff, real cloak-and-dagger work. But it was also clearly wrong on some level, even if Bl4ckst4r insisted it was harmless.

He thought about the weeks he'd spent building up his position in SWI, the friendships he'd made, the pride he'd taken in his tactical innovations. All of that had been swept away by one pilot's superior skills. Didn't he deserve a chance to even the score?

That evening, careful not to alert his parents or Danica, he set out on his bike with the device in his backpack.

The ride to Lisa's house took him through familiar territory—past the middle school, along the back roads where he often went to clear his head. But tonight felt different. Tonight he was on a mission.

Using the night vision mode on his gaming goggles, he found the address Bl4ckst4r had provided. It was a modest house set back from the road, with a pickup truck in the driveway. He approached carefully, staying in the shadows.

The device's installation point was clearly marked in his augmented reality display: a utility box on the side of the house where the fiber optic cable entered. He crept up to it, heart pounding, and began working with the small screwdriver from his kit.

He'd just gotten the cover off when a voice behind him said, "Hey, Jared. Need a light?"

He spun around to see Lisa standing there, holding a baseball bat. Motion sensors triggered flood lights, illuminating the entire driveway. Suddenly blinded, he tore the goggles off his face.

"You mind telling me what you're doing skulking around outside my house at night and screwing around with our fiber line?"

He tried playing dumb. He felt dumb, at least. "This is your house?"

"You mean you didn't recognize Frank's truck when you tiptoed in?"

The reality of the situation hit Jared like cold water: In the light, he remembered helping load that same truck bed with rocket club equipment. And there he was, screwdriver and hack in hand, at home of someone he knew, someone who'd shown him nothing but kindness. And, until just then, he'd been eager to do it.

He didn't know what else to say, so he just said it: "Bl4ckst4r sent me."

"Bl4ckst4r." She shifted the baseball bat between her hands, and her expression hardened. "CEO of Searles Weightless Industries. You jerks have been trying to get me and my Behemoth since last fall."

"I... so, you're really Xenofon? I mean, I know you said that, but I thought..." He gestured helplessly.

"I use a voice changer on comms," Lisa said, her voice flat. "Most people assume I'm male. Helps avoid certain kinds of harassment. You know, like this."

The conversation that followed was one of the most uncomfortable of Jared's life. Lisa explained how this wasn't the first time Bl4ckst4r had tried real-world tactics against his enemies. She told him about swatting attempts, doxxing campaigns, and other forms of harassment that had driven several players to quit the game entirely.

"This isn't just about winning battles," she said. "This is about a grown man manipulating kids into doing illegal things because he can't handle losing at a video game."

"Look," said Jared, his hands up in a placating gesture, "I'll just put this thing back where I found it and go home. I'm sorry."

"Oh no," said Lisa, tapping the bat against her palm. "You're not going anywhere until I decide what to do with you. And this." She nudged the black device with her foot.

She was right, and Jared knew it. Standing there in her driveway with hacking tools in his hands, he felt the full weight of what he'd been about to do. Not to some anonymous enemy, but to Lisa—the girl who built amazing rockets, who'd recognized his Vrana model, who'd been welcoming to him from the start.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I thought... I was angry about losing in the game, too. He made it sound like this cool spy mission."

"It is just a game," Lisa said. "But some people take it way too seriously."

She crouched down and picked up the black device from where Jared had dropped it. She turned it over in her hands, examining the unmarked casing.

"You know what this is? It's a man-in-the-middle attack box. Designed to intercept and modify network traffic." She popped off the back cover with her thumbnail, revealing a small circuit board. "Probably took him five minutes to flash the firmware, but I doubt he wrote it himself."

Jared stared at her. "How do you know all that?"

"One of my dads is a network security consultant. And I've been building electronics since I was ten." She grinned, something dawning on her. It wasn't entirely friendly. "Leandros. Yeah, I know you now. You're that pain in the ass mote commander. Do you have any idea how much I spent on ECM upgrades trying to counter your swarms? I had to buy three new jamming modules last month alone!"

"Wait, you actually remember fighting my motes?"

"Remember? You cost me actual money! I kept having to upgrade my electronic warfare systems because your swarm tactics were so effective. You were good—really good. Which makes this whole thing even more disappointing."

Despite everything, Jared felt a small surge of pride. He'd been good enough to force Xenofon—Lisa—to spend real money countering his tactics.

"Anyway. Here's what's going to happen," Lisa continued. "You're going to help me turn this back on your buddy, or I'm calling the cops and showing them the nice video our security cameras just recorded of you attempting to commit a felony."

"You... you want my help?"

"You got yourself into this mess. You can help get yourself out of it."

Back in Lisa's room, Jared watched as she connected the device to her laptop. Her bedroom looked like mission control—three monitors displaying network diagrams, game statistics, spreadsheets, and what appeared to be code repositories.

"First things first," she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. "I need to reflash this thing to make it report back that it's working normally, while actually giving me a backdoor into whatever network connects to it."

"You can do that?"

"The device firmware is just basic Linux, and the remote client software for these things is notoriously awful. The real trick is making it look operational to him while actually being under my control." She pulled up several terminal windows. "But that's only half the plan. I need you to modify your mote firmware to create vulnerabilities in-game that I can exploit."

"Funny story," said Jared, "that's basically what Bl4ckst4r already ordered me to do. Except they'd be fake vulnerabilities that hack you back."

"Cool," she said. "All you have to do is make them real and, you know, not do that."

They spent the rest of the night working together. Lisa handled the real-world network intrusion side while Jared coded backdoors into his in-game mote control systems.

"Where it all comes together," Lisa explained, "is that while your motes are causing havoc in-game, I'll be on his real-world network. I can get access to everything—his real identity, his other schemes, evidence of all the harassment campaigns."

A voice called from downstairs: "Lisa? You okay up there? I heard voices."

"Just a friend from rocket club, Dad!" she called back. "We're working on a project!"

There was a pause, then Frank's voice: "Is that Jared? The kid with the Piranha rocket?"

"Yeah, Grampa Frank!"

"Oh, he's a good kid. Helped us clean up last week. Just keep the door open!"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "My dad Matt was about to give you the 'no boys after nine' lecture, but Grampa Frank vouched for you."

"Wait," said Jared, "Matt and Steve are your dads? And Frank is...?"

"Frank's my step-grandfather. Matt's dad. They all live here since Grampa Frank retired." She looked up from her laptop. "It's a full house, but it works. Matt's the paranoid security consultant, Dad Steve's the chill teacher, and Grampa Frank builds rockets and fixes trucks."

"That's pretty cool. Full house, but cool."

"Yeah, well, my family doesn't send people to hack other families' internet connections, so maybe we're doing something right."

Jared winced. "Fair point."

"You know," Lisa said as she compiled the modified firmware, "Martin's been using information from our old corporation's member database to recruit people like you. He specifically targets players who live near his enemies."

"Wait, who's Martin?"

"Martin Blackwood. That's Bl4ckst4r's real name. He used to be in Equine Expeditions before he split off to start SWI. When he left, he took a bunch of our member information with him—including real names and addresses from sticker merch fundraisers. Those pirates that attacked your mining barge? That was a setup to give him an excuse to recruit you for this."

"So he grabbed me specifically to hack you?"

"Looks like it. Your piloting skills were just a bonus. Your home address was the real hiring criteria."

Two hours later, they had their plan ready. Lisa would appear to play along with Bl4ckst4r's scheme, even staging some fake network outages to make the hack seem successful. When he finally tried to seize control of her Behemoth, she'd trigger the counter-attack using Jared's compromised mote systems as a backdoor into SWI's entire network.

The next day, Leandros logged back into the game with sweaty palms. Bl4ckst4r was waiting in their usual meeting room.

"Did you complete the mission?"

"Yeah," Leandros said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Took me three tries, but I got the device connected to the fiber line. Xenofon never noticed. And I've uploaded the modified mote firmware to all our carriers."

"Excellent!" Bl4ckst4r's avatar practically bounced. "I've been monitoring the connection. Shows as operational. Those mote modifications will be perfect for when we need to exploit their defensive systems. Now we wait for the moment to strike."

That moment came two days later, during a massive fleet engagement. Equine Expeditions had launched an assault on SWI's new headquarters, and the battle was fierce. Xenofon's Behemoth was deep in the combat zone, seemingly vulnerable as it coordinated the enemy fleet.

"Initiating Behemoth takeover," Bl4ckst4r announced on fleet comms. "Xenofon is about to lose that precious ship."

Leandros watched his tactical display, heart pounding. Instead of the Behemoth changing sides, something else happened entirely: The massive defensive platforms surrounding SWI's headquarters suddenly turned their weapons on their own fleet. Enormous beam cannons that had been providing cover fire began systematically destroying SWI ships.

"Someone's hacked our command systems!" another pilot reported.

The attack spread through SWI's network. Jared's compromised motes, trusted by every system in the fleet, became the entry point for Lisa's assault. Automated defense turrets turned on their own ships. Navigation systems fed false coordinates. Even the life support warnings started blaring false alarms.

"Leandros," screamed Bl4ckst4r over comms, "what did you do?"

On fleet comms, someone started broadcasting forum links. "Check the main boards," the voice said urgently. "Someone's posted a massive data dump about SWI leadership. It's not good. What did you do, Bl4ckst4r?"

A beat later, the SWI station's self-destruct sequence initiated. Emergency klaxons wailed as the massive structure began tearing itself apart, taking most of the remaining SWI fleet with it in a chain reaction of explosions.

A private message popped up from Xenofon: "Used Bl4ckst4r's own credentials to copy everything from their servers before I torched them. Check the forums. Also, you might want to log out before the admins start banning people."

He logged out just as the banhammer started falling.

Jared checked the forums on his phone. His jaw dropped as he scrolled through page after page of evidence: chat logs of Bl4ckst4r recruiting minors for "real world missions," records of swatting attempts, personal information harvested from member databases, and detailed plans for escalating harassment campaigns.

The leaked data revealed the full scope of Martin's operation. Financial records showing his real-world income from selling in-game currency. Correspondence with other gaming communities where he'd pulled similar schemes. Even recordings of voice calls where he bragged about manipulating "stupid kids" into doing his dirty work.

A week later, Martin's accounts were permanently banned. It turned out that Bl4ckst4r was just one of dozens of alternate characters controlled by Martin, some even still members of Equine Expeditions acting as spies. The game company issued a statement about their zero-tolerance policy for real-world harassment. Several other players mentioned in the leaked documents were also banned, and the whole affair made gaming news sites.

"Holy crap," said Jared, as he and Lisa worked on her new rocket design at the next club meeting. "I had no idea you were that good."

"You thought I was just some girl who liked rockets?" Lisa raised an eyebrow while carefully aligning a fin. "You're lucky I still deign to associate with you."

"You know," said Jared, "I've been thinking about quitting Farstar entirely. After all this, it just doesn't seem fun anymore."

"Me too," said Lisa. "I've been playing since I was twelve, but maybe it's time to try something else. There's this new game that's like Minecraft but in space. Just building and exploring, no corporate drama."

"That sounds perfect," said Jared.

Frank appeared next to them, carrying a cardboard box. "Hey folks, I remembered I had all these leftover motors and parts. Anyone interested in building something really big?"

"How big?" asked Lisa.

"Big enough that we'd need to drive out to the county field instead of launching here."

Jared looked around the table at the excited faces of the other club members. He focused particularly on Lisa and more asked than said, "Count me in?"

Lisa narrowed her eyes at him, but then smiled and nodded.