Vortex (10 page)

“Yeah, I got that.” Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t get why they weren’t forced to sell them all off. You know, if my dad bought a car he couldn’t pay for, he’d have to give it back. He wouldn’t get to keep the car
and
get someone else to pay his debt for him.”

“Your dad is not Reuben Lloyd,” Yuri said.

The next corridor resolved the paradox. Reuben Lloyd led them before a vast collection of portraits spread across the wall. “Here are Wyndham Harks’s most valuable assets.”

Tom read the placards beneath the photos of the executives, then gave a start as his neural processor began identifying them as powerful government officials. There was Sheldon Laffner, the head of the Department of Homeland Security; Kristyl Chertowitz, the chief of staff to the president; and Aubrey Bremmer, the chief justice of the Supreme Court. There was Barclay J. P. Goldman, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve; Vice President Julian Richter; and President Donald Milgram himself. All of them were former Wyndham Harks executives or current shareholders.

Tom stared at the photos, and it clicked into place.

This was the key resource Wyndham Harks controlled:
the government.
Of course the politicians always said Wyndham Harks was essential to the world economy. They were Wyndham Harks men and they were the ones saying it. It was like some big, global scam, and Tom shook his head, amazed at how these guys had played everyone else in the world for suckers for so long.

Reuben Lloyd wasn’t in on his own joke, though, because he ended the tour by turning on them, chest puffed with pride, and announcing, “I hope you understand now how fortunate you’d be to align with our company. We at Wyndham Harks do God’s work.”

Silence dropped over the room.

Except Tom. He started laughing.

Reuben Lloyd’s shocked gaze swung to him.

Tom snapped his mouth shut since, after all, he had to make a good impression here. He knew that laughing wasn’t the response Reuben Lloyd wanted. He wanted awed respect, silence.

But then Tom heard Wyatt make that strange noise in the back of her throat again, and when his gaze shot to her face, he saw that she was doing the bizarre fish-expression thing again, her eyes huge and her lips pursed.

He couldn’t help it. He exploded in laughter again. It was such an awful time to laugh that Tom laughed more, and his dawning horror at his uncontrollable laughter made him laugh harder still. He recognized this. This had happened to him before, more than once. It was the same impulse that made him bust up laughing when Blackburn came into his bunk to accuse him of treason, the same thing that had made hundreds of tense situations in his life much, much worse. But he couldn’t help it. Everyone was staring at him, and now he couldn’t stop.

He dropped to his knees, giggling helplessly, smothering his mouth in his arms. Even then, he might’ve regained control of himself if he’d had a few moments more, but then Wyatt tried to be helpful. She gave Tom a discreet thumbs-up and unveiled her hidden forearm keyboard. Tom tried to shake his head at her, and he saw Vik and Yuri also shaking their heads, trying to catch her attention. It was too late. She unleashed a computer virus that hit the surrounding trainees, triggering hysterical laughter in them, too—trying to mitigate Reuben Lloyd’s wrath toward Tom by diluting it among everyone.

Soon the entire room was filled with hysterical laughter, all directed at Reuben Lloyd, the powerful CEO in charge of Wyndham Harks. Everyone else laughing made Tom laugh harder, so he collapsed onto his back on one of Reuben Lloyd’s prized carpets, his ribs hurting.

All in all, this wasn’t the impression he had come here to make.

On the disgraced elevator ride down, Vik thrust his fingers into his hair, exasperated. “Why did you do that, Wyatt? You made it a hundred times worse. Not only did Tom laugh at him, but Tom’s now the one who got a whole bunch of other people laughing at him, too.”

The buildings outside grew taller and taller as their elevator plunged down. “Hey, it’s fine, guys.” Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets, seeing the shadow of his smirk in the glass before him. “Wyndham Harks didn’t go so well, but so what? We’ve got a bunch of companies still to go. We’ll be A-OK.”

T
OM WASN’T PLEASED
to learn their next destination was the City of London, the financial district containing Dominion Agra’s headquarters. As soon as they left the Interstice, the other trainees were led to the meeting place with Dominion’s new CEO, Diamond MacThane, and Dominion’s chief shareholders, the Roache brothers. Tom did not go with them.

He had expected trouble, maybe to be banned, maybe to be expelled from the facility. He hadn’t expected to be set upon by a bunch of the private contractors who formed the larger part of the British police force. They slapped on handcuffs and hauled him into a secluded interrogation room. Then they cuffed him to a chair and interrogated him about his plans while in their country.

Apparently, Tom was on some watch list and classified as a low-level terrorist. All thanks to the Dominion executives he’d swamped with sewage.

One hour dragged by as constables wandered in and out of the police station, each with a barrage of new questions. Just as Tom was about to lose his mind with boredom and frustrated anger, Dalton Prestwick himself showed up to enjoy the sight of Tom in handcuffs.

“Well, well. Quite a predicament you’re in there, sport.”

Tom felt a surge of dislike at the sight of his mom’s smarmy boyfriend with his gelled brown hair and expensive suit. “What are you doing here, Dalton? Did you run out of people to suck up to on the other side of the Atlantic?”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in Dominion Agra territory now.
My
territory. I’d show some respect.”

“Why should I?” Tom leaned toward him as far as the chair allowed, eyes on his. “After all, the last time I saw you, we both agreed that I could destroy you whenever I chose. That kind of gives me an upper hand here.”

Dalton paled a bit at the reminder that Nigel Harrison had told Tom of Dalton’s role in leaking the CamCo names—in committing treason. Tom had some potent blackmail he could use against him and they both knew it.

“I haven’t forgotten our previous conversation, Tom. It’s the only reason you’re sitting there in that chair, unharmed.”

Tom slouched back, unimpressed by the implied threat. “I can’t believe you got me declared a terrorist over the Beringer Club.”

Dalton gave a snakelike smile. “What makes you think it was me? You terrorized quite a few very powerful people that day.”

“So ‘terrorism’ doesn’t mean ‘killing innocent civilians to cause fear and advance a political cause.’ It now means ‘disrespecting the rich and powerful.’ Is that it?”

“My,” Dalton said, “you just figured that out, did you?”

Tom fell silent. The sentiment was so cynical, Neil could’ve spouted it—but it was different coming from Dalton. He said it with a gloating air like he was exulting in it.

“In fact, I really only dropped by to give you some friendly advice, sport.”

“Save your breath. There is nothing you could say to me that I care about.”

“Oh, I think you should hear this.” Dalton circled around behind him, so Tom would’ve had to twist and look like an idiot to keep him in sight. Instead, he glared straight ahead at the one-way mirror as Dalton planted his hands on his shoulders.

“You see, you
are
Delilah’s son, and I know that old man of yours isn’t going to point your compass in the right direction—”

“Oh please. You’re not pointing any compass for me. And we agreed that you never talk about my dad again.”

“I feel a sense of obligation. After all, you didn’t just cross Dominion Agra executives, you crossed a group of very powerful people with the ears of very powerful friends. People talk, people spread information about various trainees, people give each other a heads-up about whether or not some kid is an insolent little punk who needs to learn some manners.”

A sour smile curled Tom’s lips. “Yeah, an insolent little punk who was the only person, ever, to beat the greatest fighter on the Russo-Chinese side at Capitol Summit. I really appreciate your concern for my reputation, Dalton, but I think I’ll get by somehow.”

Dalton’s eyes met his in the mirror. “Have you heard what happens to trainees who don’t qualify for Combatant status?”

Tom blinked, thrown by the reminder. The Intrasolar forces were young, but he knew there were trainees who couldn’t get sponsors. Some stuck around and kept trying; others gave up and went elsewhere—other government agencies, other types of positions at Coalition companies. Nigel Harrison tried to blow up the Pentagonal Spire and kill everyone, but he was the exception.

“What about them?” Tom said reluctantly.

Dalton straightened up, tugging the cuffs of his shirt. “The neural processor makes them valuable, so they get jobs pretty easily. But the catch is, most of those positions require a certain, shall we say,
reliability
. Anything with a Coalition company requires an unsullied reputation. You don’t have that. As for a government position, well . . . you’ll need to obtain a security clearance. Known terrorists”—he said the word almost playfully—“don’t tend to qualify.”

Tom understood it. “So
that’s
why I’m on the terror watch list. Someone thinks they’re gonna sabotage me down the road, huh? Well, joke’s on them, because if I don’t make Combatant, I’ll strike out on my own, no problem. I can get by.”

Dalton made a show of wincing on his behalf. “Actually, champ, that’s not an option for you. Once you have the processor”—he tapped his temple beneath his gelled hair—“you have to stay in the fold. If the Coalition doesn’t want you, and the government can’t clear you, you still do have two options. There are many agencies that would love to research you, so you could always be a glorified lab rat. . . .”

Tom’s mouth went dry.

“And then there’s that other agency, the one that always presses for trainees. The National Security Agency. Who do you think scooped up that Nigel Harrison boy?”

Tom felt a jerk in his gut. “He’s with the NSA? But he’s not even American.”

Dalton gave an oily chuckle. “No one who matters in this world cares about countries or nationalities.”

“Nigel tried to blow up the Spire!”

“Oh, never fear, Tom: he’s probably nowhere near the same person you remember. That’s why I think the National Security Agency would even have you. The agency’s renowned for their ability to manipulate and control computers.”

Anger scorched Tom’s chest. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe there’s an entire agency of people who’d reprogram a human being like you and Joseph Vengerov would.”

“There may come a day when you start to believe that, and you realize I really was acting in your best interests, and you feel terrible about your rank ingratitude toward me.” Dalton rocked back on his heels, taking visible pleasure in his words. “When that day comes, I want you to know, you can call my assistant and ask for an appointment. If you visit, and you show proper respect and call me Mr. Prestwick, and maybe . . . hmm, I don’t know, get on your knees and
beg me
very nicely to give you another chance, I might consider it.” He winked. “
Might.
No guarantees anymore, champ.”

“Yeah,” Tom agreed sarcastically, “maybe I’ll do that, but before that day comes, there’ll be a day when I tear my own eyes out and eat them. See, I’d do that before I would ever get on my knees and beg you for anything. Or get on my knees for anyone—you know, the way you did me, Dalton. At the Beringer Club.”

Dalton turned so red at the reminder that Tom cheered up. Dalton’s distress almost made this whole visit worth it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
IME CRAWLED BY
as Tom sat there, and finally he decided he wasn’t going to let himself be tied to a chair while Dalton went somewhere and drank a martini. They wanted him tied up, then let them find him and drag him back; no more sitting and waiting. A sense of daring swept over Tom, and his heart picked up a beat as he contemplated the glorious feat ahead.

It could work. It could totally work.

He rocked forward to balance on his toes, chair lifted up behind him, and threw himself forward in a flip. The lights of the interrogation room whipped before his eyes, and a terrific jolt carried straight up his tailbone to his shoulder, a violent clattering throbbing his ears as the chair splintered beneath him.

Naturally, that was the moment the door to the hallway popped open, and Elliot Ramirez strolled in. He stopped in his tracks, gaping at the sight of Tom on the ground, the remains of the chair around him. “Tom, what are you doing?”

Tom tugged at the handcuffs, still tangled with the broken chair digging into his back. Unfortunately, the back of the chair was still intact—and he was still handcuffed to it. “Trying to do something really, really awesome.” He smiled sheepishly. “It works better in video games.”

E
LLIOT WAS ONE
of the few people who knew what Tom had done at the Beringer Club. Maybe that’s why he’d thought to swing by Dominion Agra to check on how Tom was doing there. Elliot made the decision to take Tom over to the Nobridis meeting site early rather than leave him in the holding cell.

They sat there in the lobby of what was apparently the tallest building in the world, in the middle of Dubai, drinking incredibly strong coffee. Tom asked Elliot about what Dalton had told him. “Does the Coalition get to dictate what we do from now on? If none of the companies want me and I don’t have the security clearance for government work, I can’t walk away?”

Elliot rubbed his head. “In theory, no, the military doesn’t own us unless we enlist, and the Coalition has no say either. In practice? We have computers of theirs, computers only they can repair. Right now. That gives them a certain power over us. You simply have to accept it.” He was silent a moment. Then, “I take it you haven’t heard about what happened with me.”

“Something happened
with you
?”

Elliot shrugged. “Two years ago, I was already pretty well known. Going on TV, doing internet ads, acting in commercials, that sort of thing. I also met someone. Private Hendricks was a year older than me, and needless to say, we were very fond of each other.” An edge crept into his voice. “That’s when I suppose you could say I encountered the downside of my role here. I was informed definitively that, even if I was technically a civilian, I wasn’t allowed to risk my ‘carefully crafted public persona’ by carrying on with my relationship, and I was to terminate it immediately. As for Private Hendricks, he was reassigned.”

Tom felt a flicker of surprise for a moment, but then it was gone. Actually, no, he wasn’t so surprised.

“Needless to say, I wasn’t happy. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, and I resented the order to pretend to be someone I’m not. If the Coalition was going to dictate my feelings to me, then I decided I would quit.” Tension lined his voice. “And then I was told that wasn’t my decision either.”

“What? They told you no? They can’t do that.”

“The way they phrased it, it was more of a warning.” Elliot leaned toward him, elbows on his knees. “You see, Tom, they don’t own us, but the fact is, there is no one outside Obsidian Corp. and the military who can work these computers.” He pointed to his own head. “It became very clear to me that if I dared to leave, not only would I find no help for any future malfunctions, but my likelihood of a serious malfunction in the near future would greatly increase.”

Outrage exploded in Tom. “So it’s basically a death threat! Elliot, you should blow them off. Do what you want. Leave. Do it publicly enough, then the Coalition won’t mess with you. Everyone would know it was them. If they didn’t, I swear, man, I’ll go on the internet and tell everyone.”

“The world’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“I actually do have—well, I
had
a plan. My actions had to be regulated because I was the most prominent CamCo. So as soon as the others were public, I planned to help someone else assume the center seat, so to speak. I’d become less valuable, and as long as I never enlisted, I’d get to go on my way. There was someone I had in mind, but as it turned out, she was a bit too aggressive about claiming the spotlight.”

“Heather?” Tom guessed.

Elliot’s mouth quirked. “I knew she could take my place easily. She’s lovely, and people are fascinated by her, and she always knows exactly what she should say. She’s a born politician, Tom. I suppose the problem is that she ultimately
is
a born politician. You can’t trust her, and at the end of the day, she’ll advance herself at any cost. Even if it comes back to haunt her.”

A
S THE ELEVATOR
rose, taking Tom and Elliot up to the receiving chamber for Prince Abhalleman, the CEO of Nobridis, Elliot gave Tom some quick advice. “He’s very traditional. Remember, he’s royalty back in his own country.”

Tom was confused. “He doesn’t have a country. It got neutron bombed. All the people got killed.”

“The landmass is still there, so technically, yes, it’s his country. The entire royal family’s still intact.”

“Nice of them to leave their subjects to die.”

“They weren’t their subjects at the time of the neutron bombing. They’d been overthrown.”

“So they’re not really a royal family anymore.”

“After the neutron bombings, they became royalty again. Dominion Agra and Harbinger Incorporated agreed to reinstate them.”

How convenient for them
, Tom thought.
They’d gotten overthrown, then their former subjects all died, so they got their throne back.

Prince Hanreid Abhalleman had them escorted into his presence chamber. Tom was planning to go last, but Elliot volunteered him to go earlier—he said it was a “ripping off the Band-Aid” approach. Tom was marched in before the prince in his traditional robes. The prince waited expectantly.

“He wants you to bow,” Elliot whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Tom stayed rigid. Elliot hadn’t warned him about this part.

“Bow,” Elliot urged softly, and all the eyes in the room were on them now.

But Tom couldn’t. He didn’t bow to people, and he
shouldn’t
have to—this guy wasn’t his overlord. Bowing would make this guy feel he was better than him, he was superior, and Tom wasn’t going to do that. All Prince Abhalleman had was more money and power and a sense he was owed something. That was it.

Two menacing guards flanked the prince, holding scimitars, so Tom couldn’t march up and offer the prince a handshake like he preferred. Since bowing was out of the question, Tom settled with giving the prince a thumbs-up. “Nice to meet you, man.”

“I
HAD NO
idea that was like a middle finger in his country,” Tom confessed to his friends later as they crowded into the elevator from the Interstice into Epicenter Manufacturing’s facility. He was still a bit shaken from the way the prince’s guards had all descended on him, waving scimitars and screaming for his blood for offending their monarch. It seemed kind of like an overreaction to him. If Elliot hadn’t stepped in, he wasn’t sure what would’ve happened. Elliot was still back at Nobridis, smoothing things over.

Tom was intent on staying out of trouble when they reached India and ascended into the vast complex owned by Epicenter Manufacturing.

Two more companies.
Tom swallowed hard. He only had two more chances here. He dared not screw up again.

W
YATT GAVE
T
OM
some solemn advice on the ride up. “I’ve found there’s one surefire way to avoid offending people. Just don’t talk. At all. Don’t say a word. Make sure people don’t even notice you’re there. Then you’ll never offend anyone.” She gave a crisp nod. “I haven’t said a single word anywhere we’ve been. Have you noticed that? It’s worked out great.”

They found themselves on the top floor of an octagonal tower, with windowed walls that gazed on to the roofs of massive factories and toward the distant mountains of Kashmir. The nighttime landscape was lit by the glow of a single skyboard, stark against the dark sky:
EPICENTER: The heart of the world economy!
Glasses were stacked in a massive champagne pyramid by the widow, and violinists played discreetly in the corner.

The CEO of Epicenter, Pandita Rumpfa, moved through the trainees alongside Epicenter’s sponsored Combatants. She examined their faces, sometimes having an assistant snap a photo of them.

When it was their turn, Pandita consulted a pocket-sized computer. “Ah. You’d be Ms. Enslow. Lift your chin a bit so I can see your face.”

Wide-eyed, Wyatt raised her chin.

Pandita consulted her computer. “So Ms. Enslow, tell me why Epicenter should take an interest in you. What strengths do you bring to the table?”

Wyatt didn’t say anything. Her eyes grew very wide, and she was doing that strange fishlike face again. A pained noise like a whine began to emit from her sealed lips. Tom felt mounting alarm on her behalf. Her no-talking strategy was going to backfire this time.

Pandita’s assistant murmured in her ear, and Pandita shook her head. “No photo of this one.”

Tom had to say something. “Wyatt’s great with machines. And math. She’s too modest to say it.”

Pandita’s eyes found Tom. “And you.” She beamed at him. “I know you. I enjoyed that tour of the Pentagonal Spire you gave my colleagues and me several months back. I recall you being a very charming and well-spoken young man.”

Tom remembered that tour. It was back when Dalton Prestwick reprogrammed him and he’d morphed into a pathetic little suck-up for a whole month. He’d been so very eager then to make connections that he’d even volunteered to lead a tour of business leaders through the Pentagonal Spire.

“Uh, thanks. That wasn’t really . . . Yeah.” Tom wasn’t sure what else to say.

Pandita frowned a bit, obviously perplexed by how much less charming and well-spoken Tom was now, but she beckoned with a finger for her assistant to snap a photo of his face. As she moved on to other trainees, Wyatt turned on Tom. “You talked! You’re not supposed to talk.”

“Wyatt, if neither of us had talked, she would’ve thought that there was something very wrong with us.”

“Yes!” She gave an eager nod. “But you know what she wouldn’t have been? Offended.”

Confused, Tom began to hover by a distant window, trying to be inconspicuous, imitating the way Wyatt hovered by an opposite window, also trying to be inconspicuous.

Then Vik appeared at his shoulder. “Why are you skulking here? You look like you’re plotting something.”

“I’m not plotting or skulking. I’m taking Wyatt’s advice and lying low.”

Vik’s eyes shot wide with horror. He grabbed Tom’s shoulders. “By God, Doctor, what are you doing?”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “I told you—”

“You are taking advice about how to deal with people from Wyatt Enslow.”

“But I just—”

“Let me rephrase: you are taking advice about how to deal with people from
Wyatt Enslow
.” Then Vik waited, letting that sink in this time.

It hit Tom. “Oh no, what am I doing? It’s like I want to sabotage myself.”

Vik nodded. “Never fear, Gormless Cretin. Now I am here.”

“That doesn’t sound promising, man.”

Vik cuffed the back of his head. “You need to learn the fine art of schmoozing. Just repeat after me: ‘I agree.’”

Tom pressed his lips together. Vik cleared his throat.

“I agree,” Tom grumbled.

“Right you are,” Vik said, then waited for Tom to say it.

“Right you are.”

“You stagger me with your knowledge.”

“Come on,” Tom said. When Vik raised his eyebrows, he said, “Fine, you stagger me with your knowledge.”

“Okay, now let’s give some context for these statements. Hmm. I say, ‘Vikram Ashwan is ten times the gamer Tom Raines is.’ You say . . .” Vik raised his eyebrows.

“Vikram Ashwan is ten times the gamer Tom Raines is . . . in his own sad, delusional mind.”

“Young Thomas, that is not what you are supposed to say. Listen to your Doctor: Vikram Ashwan is a hundred times the gamer Tom Raines is.”

“A hundred now?” Tom exclaimed. Then Vik lightly whapped the back of his head, so he gave a sarcastic smile. “Right you are, Doctor.”

Vik made him practice a few more times. Tom agreed that Vik was smarter than him, which was easy enough because Vik was. He agreed that Vik was far better looking, which Tom suspected was true, but he’d never have said it. Then he agreed that Vik could beat him in a sword duel, which Tom believed to be a blatant falsehood, but he agreed anyway, and even added that Vik staggered him with his knowledge of swordsmanship. In that way, he passed Vik’s test, and Vik deemed him ready to apply his newfound sucking-up skill in real life.

Vik led him toward a pretty female executive sipping champagne by the window. Tom’s neural processor said her name was Alana Lawrence. Vik was sure Tom would find it easier sucking up to a gorgeous woman, and Tom thought that was a fantastic idea.

“Now,” Vik warned him, “you know how if spies get caught in foreign countries, governments always disavow knowledge of them so they don’t face any diplomatic consequences for their actions?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, guessing it. “So if I mess up . . .”

“We only met today and I disavow all prior knowledge of your actions. I didn’t even notice you were here. In fact, I don’t know who you are. Who are you? I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know.”

“Gotcha.” He had this.

Vik gave him a thumbs-up, then he sidled up to the executive. He cleared his throat to draw her attention, then boomed, “Fine factories you have there, madam.”