Behind them, Professor Milo cleared his throat, and Silas focused on the biofeedback data rather than the screens. Per tradition, the anchor/drafter finals were not on Opti’s training floor but in a real-life situation involving people oblivious to the fact. The electronic dance club was loud, noisy, and rife with distractions: the perfect microcosm of reality.
By rights, he shouldn’t be here, seeing as he was close to two of the participants; Allen and he had been friends for years, and he and Summer had been living together for nearly as long. But it was still an exercise, meaning they had light pistols and slick-suits under their clubbing attire. Since he had designed both the suits and the basics behind the light pistols, he was the logical choice to be in the cramped back room monitoring them. A room far too small for someone to have eaten garlic bread at dinner, he thought, wincing.
Allen’s and Summer’s goal was a four-piece ribbon-tied box of chocolates sitting at a distant table, already in the possession of the first team on site, but Silas was tempted to text Allen to bring back a handful of mints from behind the bar instead. Possessing the chocolates was one thing; getting out with them was another.
The dish of rusted paperclips on the desk before him rattled in time with the music, and Silas moved it to a stained coaster. Satisfied with the data coming in from the four students’ slick-suits, Silas shifted his weight on the rolling office chair to reach for his gum. The plastic crackled as he punched a square out, then he handed it around in a show of friendly impartiality. Professor Milo brusquely waved him off, but his assistant took one with a sheepish, knowing smile.
“Thanks,” the assistant whispered as he scooted closer, his eyes on the club’s grainy monitors. “You don’t know who the blonde is, do you? Damn, she looks good.”
Silas smirked, his fingers adroitly flashing over his tablet to log in the incoming data. Summer looked more than good in the flowing slitted skirt and blouse, the slick-suit a glistening hint under it from her neck to wrists to ankles, her hair cut to a short, safe length. She was an Amazon goddess in the spinning lights, sipping her orange juice and flirting as she waited for Allen to get into position before making a play for the box of chocolates. “That’s my girlfriend.”
The technician jerked in surprise. “Oh,” he said, eyes flicking over Silas’s iron-pumping physique. “Lucky you.”
“You got that right.” Contentment pulled him straighter as he checked his tablet. Allen’s pulse was up, but Summer was an even metro-nome. Karen and Heidi across the dance floor were elevated as well, but that was not unexpected, seeing as they had the chocolate and were on the defensive.
He settled back, not liking the way the walls were rattling. He’d be getting no data for his thesis tonight. No one was going to draft—not with two teams on site. The chance someone might draft within a draft was too great. Double-drafting wasn’t fatal, but it hurt. No, tonight would be decided by wits and the light pistols they all had, each shooting a harmless stream of particles that immobilized the section of slick-suit it impacted. It mimicked a gunshot, and Silas didn’t like that Opti had taken his synaptic isolation technology and turned it into a gun.
A slow chime of warning from his tablet drew him forward. One of the resistors on Allen’s suit wasn’t reading right. After adjusting it, Silas leaned back again, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he tried to hide his concern that Professor Milo lurked behind him. It made him feel as if he were on trial as well.
No one liked his theory that drafting time wasn’t moving back as much as it was sideways. He’d had to invent most of the instruments to gather his data, and the idea that Professor Milo might cut his funding before he had the chance to prove his theory was a real possibility. He’d been at it for six years and had nothing to show but a handful of gadgets. If not for the versatility of the slick-suits and light pistols, his funding would have been cut years ago.
The sensor on his tablet began pulsating again. Frowning, Silas toggled it back into normal range.
At the bar, Allen squinted through his thick black plastic safety glasses at one of the club’s cameras, his long face tight with irritation as he hit a button on his phone. Silas’s tablet dinged, and he thumbed the connection open. “What’s the deal?” Allen said, the music half a second off from what was thumping through the walls.
Silas fitted an earpiece and took his tablet off speaker. “I’m reading excessive feedback. You’re not feeling it?” he said softly.