Vortex (20 page)

Tom’s head was pulsing violently by the time they were shut back in their hotel room. He stood by the door, every muscle bunched up with tension. He felt like he was at a great remove from his dad, who was pouring a drink with a shaky hand, then swigging it down.

“Do you know the odds of winning roulette twice in a row? Do you know them, Tom?”

Tom did. “I sure was lucky.” His voice was hollow. He didn’t even sound the slightest bit convincing, he knew, but he couldn’t muster the energy for anything more.

“Lucky?” Neil slammed down the glass so hard, most of the liquid sloshed over the side. “That’s not luck, Tom. Even a kleptocrat as rich as Joseph Vengerov doesn’t risk a half million dollars on odds like that! And you were so sure of yourself. He was so sure of
you
. Explain that to me.”

“No, you explain this to me: he bossed you around and you took it. Does he have something on you?”

Neil’s nostrils flared. He grabbed his drink again, what was left of it.

“Answer me.” The words ripped out of Tom, a great ugly torrent of them. “After years and
years
and
years
of driving us from place to place because you hate people like Vengerov so much, you were within feet of him and you didn’t say anything! You didn’t insult him or punch him in the face. You’ve never held back before! There has to be a reason. You were different today.”

“It wouldn’t have been smart. That’s the reason.”

“It wouldn’t have been smart?” Tom echoed. “When has that ever stopped you? Dad, he has something on you. He has to. Just tell me what it is. Come on, tell me. Because otherwise . . .”

“Otherwise, what?” Neil’s eyes cut to his.

Tom’s fists clenched. “You know, when I was a kid, I had nothing. I had no money, I had nowhere to go, I had no one but you, and you were fine with getting in trouble then. You were fine with getting arrested or getting in fights or yelling your opinion at anyone, no matter what the situation—”

Neil sighed, rubbing his fingers over his saggy eyelids. “Tommy . . .”

“None of
that
was smart, but you did it anyway. So why do consequences matter now? Is whatever Joseph Vengerov might do to you so much worse than that time you got yourself thrown in jail for two months? Huh? You never worried about me, but now something’s worrying you? Come on, tell me the truth, Dad!”

Neil didn’t answer. He seemed small and old and sad. The ugly, awful feeling in Tom’s gut grew worse, until he couldn’t stand to look at him.

“I think I’m going back to the Spire. I don’t know why I even came here. It’s not like we do holidays.” Neil would just spend his whole visit drinking, anyway, Tom decided bitterly.

“That’s your choice.”

Tom jerked toward the closet door to yank out his backpack. He hadn’t taken anything out of it yet, anyway.

“Merry Christmas, happy New Year, all that.”

“All that,” Neil echoed. He didn’t stop Tom from walking out the door.

T
HE PROBLEM ABOUT
a casino in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico, was the lack of taxis in easy driving distance. Tom headed a quarter mile down the road to hitch a ride by the tollbooths demanding an eighty-buck fee, and waited for someone to drive past.

He was rewarded quickly when a pair of headlights bore down on him.

Then his eyes adjusted as the vehicle came to a halt, and he realized it was a limousine, probably bulletproof, maybe missileproof. A string of security vehicles and automated patrollers pulled over behind it. There was really only one person around here who’d need this much security. Tom backed up a step when he realized it.

The last limo ride he’d taken hadn’t ended well for him.

“No way,” Tom said flatly.

He turned around to walk away, but the limo followed. A window rolled down, the wheels rumbling over the gravel next to him, kicking up a thin cloud of dirt that stung his throat.

Fed up, Tom whirled around. “Why,” he said viciously, “would I ever get in the car with someone who helped reprogram me?”

Vengerov regarded him over steepled fingers from within the dim limousine. “Because curiosity can be maddening, Mr. Raines.”

Tom’s sneakers scuffled to a stop. So did the car. Tom stood there in the swirling dust, betrayal a stinging wound in his chest, but, yes, questions were burning through his brain. He was dying to know why Vengerov was here, what he wanted.

He heard the doors unlock. The driver circled around and opened the door.

I am going to get my brain wiped again,
some voice beat in his skull as he moved jerkily over. He slouched in the seat across from Joseph Vengerov like he was actually comfortable, like every fiber of muscle in his body wasn’t ready to spring, to get him out of there.

“The airport, I presume?” Vengerov said.

“The airport.” Tom never took his eyes from him.

And then they were off.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

F
OR A FEW
minutes, they rode in silence, Joseph Vengerov examining him over steepled fingers, a drink at his elbow that he wasn’t touching. Tom had taken a soda from the cooler, but he hadn’t ended up drinking it, either.

“It’s not very prudent to hitchhike,” Vengerov noted.

“Yeah, I could run into some creep in a limo,” Tom said before he could stop himself.

Vengerov’s pale gaze didn’t flicker. He barely seemed to blink. “My, you
are
insolent. If you still had those subroutines I wrote for Dalton Prestwick, you’d be in far better standing with those companies now, rather than blackballed by them.”

Heat flushed Tom’s cheeks. “I don’t care about that.”

“I can’t say I believe you. You have that lean and hungry look about you. I suspect you’re more ambitious than you let on. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you.”

Orange streetlights flickered over him again and again until they reached the end of the toll road, and merged on to a cheaper toll road. The limo jounced a few times before the driver shifted the car to pothole mode. The windows displayed an optional infrared mode in the absence of light. Vengerov dismissed it with a single, careless jab of his finger. Nothing to see outside but buildings fallen to disrepair.

“What do you want?” Tom’s voice was hard. “I know you didn’t come here to use my processor to win a million big ones. What was the point of that thing you did tonight? You were trying to make some point . . . or did you
want
my dad to realize I’ve got this computer in my brain?”

Vengerov arched his eyebrows, and Tom got the impression he was surprised. “Mr. Raines, I was trying to buy your goodwill.”

Tom was caught off guard. He felt confined, despite the spacious cabin of the limo.

“I gifted you with temporary access to a prestigious gambling parlor,” Vengerov explained, “and the opportunity to enrich your family. Your father is wealthier today because of me. I thought you’d be pleased. And more open to hearing my proposal.”

Vengerov had meant it as a
friendly
gesture?

That threw him. A lot. “What do you want from me?”

“I think you and I can come to an arrangement. I’ve taken a personal interest in a certain Combatant on the Russo-Chinese side, Mr. Raines. She’s a very deadly, remarkably skilled fighter with whom you happen to be personally acquainted.”

Tom felt a jolt inside him.
Medusa.

“You must be aware there are many prominent men and women substantially invested in this war.”

“Yeah, I know the Coalition of Multinationals is milking it for all it’s worth. So what does that have to do with Medusa?”

“Quite simply, she’s very effective. Too effective. It’s getting rather inconvenient for those of us with a financial stake in this situation. Some of us are starting to suspect she is threatening the balance of power.”

Tom felt a warm rush of admiration for her. He had to fight to keep himself from grinning. Yeah, Medusa was doing some heavy damage single-handedly. “What, you’re upset she might actually cause one side to
win
?”

“The wrong side. That’s why we need her out of the conflict.”

Tom’s urge to grin died at once.

“It would be simple,” Vengerov said idly, “if someone she trusted lured her to an internet rendezvous . . .”

“No,” Tom said at once, seeing where this was going.

“. . . and then he deployed an executable program to incapacitate her. That person would be doing quite a service for his country, and he’d be amply rewarded for it.”

“Did you hear me? I said no!”

“Surely you don’t want your side to lose, Mr. Raines. Have you no patriotism?”

Tom thought it was rich hearing about love of country from a globalist who despised the very idea of countries, but he said, “If this is so strategically important, then someone in the military would’ve ordered me to do it already. You’re a
private
contractor.”

“There’s a very simple reason I, a private contractor, am the one approaching you.” He weighed the glass in his hand for a thoughtful moment, as though figuring out how to dumb down his explanation. “There are certain codes of conduct the two governments have mutually agreed upon. That’s why the Russo-Chinese don’t hunt you down and kill you one by one.”

“Well, yeah. Then our side would do the same thing.”

“Precisely. These governments do, however, act unofficially. They have agents, contractors, in each other’s countries who would be eager to get their hands on enemy Combatants if possible. Everything like this done outside the official codes must be done
privately
. Take the Geneva Convention: your military is not allowed to torture enemy soldiers. Private contractors—mercenaries—are useful because
we can
. Certain codes can be violated as long as the official state entity isn’t doing it. I can violate the Geneva Convention; I can strike directly at Combatants if I choose; and I can engineer Medusa’s destruction, whereas your General Marsh cannot.”

“But you’d be using me to do it,” Tom pointed out. “I’m officially a ward of the military, so that’s still the military doing it.”

“As far as I understand, you were meeting her outside the military’s jurisdiction. As you would do once again. You were acting independently, without orders. You’ll do so again, and that’s why your strike on her won’t violate any treaties. And besides that, what can she do—tell someone you were behind an attack upon her? That would require her confessing to meeting an enemy agent. Again. You see, we already leaked to her government that she’d been liaising with you. She’s already on notice. She can’t afford to reveal her involvement with you a second time.”

Tom leaned his elbows onto his knees, his eyes narrowed. “Why would I do anything for the person who helped Dalton Prestwick reprogram me? And don’t give me that ‘for my country’ thing. You milk countries for everything you can take, but people like you don’t give anything back to them.”

“Oh, but there’s another reason you’ll do this, Mr. Raines. As things stand, you most assuredly will not be sponsored. If you did as I asked, I could change your situation.”

Tom was startled by the offer. “Obsidian Corp. doesn’t sponsor Combatants.”

“How could I? You all have my processors. A piece of me. It would be like that classic dilemma, where a parent must select which of his children to shoot. How could I play favorites?”

Tom sputtered a laugh.

Vengerov’s voice grew acidic. “Do I amuse you?”

Tom slouched back in his seat. “Yeah. I’ve never heard that classic dilemma of picking a kid to shoot.”

“Gunmen force a parent to choose a child to shoot. I’ve heard that.”

“That’s terrible. That’s not a classic dilemma. A parent choosing a
favorite
kid is a classic, not choosing to
shoot
one of them.”

There was a touch of ice in the long, slow look Vengerov sent him; he seemed to be turning the “shooting children” remark over in his mind, like he’d fit the wrong widget into a socket, and he was trying to figure out the most efficient way to correct this aberration. Then he appeared to brush off the thought, and said, “Regardless of whether we sponsor, I have pull with those who do. A few words from me, and the other companies will think better of you.”

“They hate me.”

“They’re executives, Mr. Raines. They pride themselves on thinking in terms of self-interest and monetary incentive. Emotions, values, and attachments that cloud judgment aren’t prized among their set.”

“Or a conscience, huh?”

“I’ll take dispassionate self-interest over a conscience any day. It’s far more predictable. Just as these executives are. If I inform them they are to sponsor you, then I assure you, they will do so—to please me.” He tapped his fingers one by one, still considering Tom. “You do realize, I’m not asking you to inflict any permanent damage upon her.”

“You’re not?” Tom said, caught off guard.

Vengerov shook his head. “Of course not.” He withdrew a tablet computer from his pocket. “You may feel free to examine the program yourself.”

And with a few taps on his keyboard, he knocked down the firewall Wyatt had written for Tom. Tom jumped, but a zipped file had already appeared in his processor
.

“Hey,” Tom objected, but text blinked before his eyes:
Please set phrase to trigger deployment.
Irritated, Tom thought about how he wouldn’t do this to her. The prompt vanished.

Vengerov had already restored Tom’s firewall, and he spoke as though Tom hadn’t even objected. “Once you deploy that on her, she’ll be incapacitated and experience some difficulty hooking into the vessels in the solar system. She won’t die, and she won’t be permanently damaged. I consider this more a—” he waved a finger in the air, as though trying to conjure the proper word, and a queer smile appeared on his lips when he seemed to find it “—an
exploration
of the effect her absence will have upon the conflict, nothing more. The real question here is, will you fulfill this reasonable request, or will I have to resort to unpleasant means of persuasion?”

Full of mistrust, Tom crossed his arms tightly. “I won’t do anything because you’re threatening me.”

The words merely amused Vengerov. “Let’s be clear, Mr. Raines: I’m attempting to
bribe
you. The threat’s an unpleasant necessity if you refuse to accept my generosity.”

Tom hadn’t realized they were at the airport until Vengerov nodded.

“Your stop.”

“I’m not agreeing to anything,” Tom insisted.

“Naturally, you need time to consider this. I don’t wish to hear an answer from you until you’ve thoroughly considered the wisest course of action. We’ll be meeting again quite soon.”

Tom’s stomach churned. Right. They had meet and greets again in January. He rose out of the depths of the car, and stood on the sidewalk as Vengerov’s limo slid off down the street, that zipped computer virus waiting there in his processor like a coiled viper.

B
EING A “KNOWN
terrorist” had kind of cramped Tom’s movement around Washington, DC. So he spent the rest of the winter break in the Spire, playing video games, trying not to think of his father, trying to think of what to do about Medusa and the virus.

He knew what he
should
do, what was right to do—to dismiss it out of hand and hold firm to his refusal, let the consequences Vengerov had threatened rain down where they would.

But there was this other part of Tom, the same part that had been willing to strike viciously to win Capitol Summit, the part that thirsted for the chance to succeed, to make something of himself, a voice that whispered,
This is the only shot I still have of becoming a Combatant.

He tried to disregard the thought.

He wasn’t alone in the Pentagonal Spire. There were a scattering of trainees, mostly from other countries where the holidays weren’t a big deal, or where the flights home would be too burdensome. There was also a skeleton crew of CamCos. Some were the new faces, the newly promoted, anonymous CamCos the public didn’t know about like Leslie Whiell of Napoleon Division, Sandy Feinberg of Hannibal Division, Warren Simmons of Alexander Division, and Griffen Perenchio of Genghis Division. Many of the older Combatants like Heather, Karl, Alec, and Emefa were there, too. It was the luck of the draw, whether they were on duty over vacation or not. Sure, both sides had agreed to a truce around the winter holidays, and another truce around Chinese New Year, but the military always had some CamCos around.

Heather surprised everyone with a program she’d written for the people stuck in the Spire on New Year’s Eve, and from the way she was ringed by other CamCos whenever Tom saw her, she’d obviously won back their allegiance at last. Tom figured Elliot would be pleased to see it. It was one step closer to Heather’s taking his place in the center of CamCo, one step closer to Elliot’s freedom.

Heather invited him to hook into the sim, too, and Tom was thrilled to find out it was a big jousting simulation. He headed up to a training room eagerly and materialized in the sim, donned his armor, grabbed a huge lance, and trotted out on a warhorse into the tiltyards beneath a massive castle, excited for the all-out joust ahead—only to find that most of the trainees who’d hooked in weren’t even jousting, and most had gotten rid of the period garb. Apparently, the sim was a cover for what they were really doing: having a New Year’s Eve party.

This must’ve helped Heather win them back. The sim even had champagne.

Tom couldn’t smell alcohol without thinking of his dad, and he had this bone-deep certainty that even touching a simulated drink would be the worst mistake he could ever make. He parted from the mass of trainees and decided to pick a fight with one of the fake characters. Just for fun.

Heather caught up to him before he made it out of the tiltyard. “Tom, wait!”

He pulled on the reins and slid off the horse so she could catch up to him. She batted his armored chest playfully.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave the sim yet. Stay here.”

That confused him a bit, since she’d been busy hanging out with Sam Schwab and Bruce Tepper of Napoleon Division and hadn’t even spoken to him. “I’m not leaving the sim,” Tom said. “I’m looking for someone to fight.”

“Oh, how bloodthirsty of you,” Heather marveled, but for some reason, his answer seemed to have given her immense pleasure. Her yellow-brown eyes twinkled into his, and she leaned very close. “I’ll give you something for the fight. Something simulation appropriate.”

She was so close, Tom could feel her breath tickling his cheek, feel the heat radiating from her skin, and for a moment, the wild urge to grab her and pull her in close soared through his brain before his rational, highly distrustful-of-Heather brain reasserted itself.

Heather had produced a small strip of cloth of gold, and now she tied it around the hilt of his lance. “This is a token of my favor, good sir. Whoever he is, destroy him good for me.”