And here Tom was, the only person who knew for sure that Blackburn was killing those who used their wealth, power, and machines to terrorize the rest of the world into submission. If Tom did nothing, Blackburn would keep turning their mechanized protectors against them. Tom could suddenly imagine a day in the future when the most powerful men in the world flinched at the sight of drone, at the hum of a Praetorian. It would change everything once they learned to see their own security state as their greatest enemy. If they lost confidence that those machines could shield them from the people whose lives they were ruining, they’d stop relying on them—and they’d become vulnerable again to those with less power, less money. Surely if they thought a crowd could turn on them for their misdeeds, they’d think twice before committing them.
If Tom stopped Blackburn, though, those executives would keep tightening the fist of the security state. They would never stop gobbling up the world for themselves, never show mercy, never relent. Blackburn was the only force stopping them at this point. If Tom prevented that, he was basically allowing the Coalition to retain the world in its death grip—a far greater evil than turning a blind eye to Blackburn’s actions.
Maybe there was such a thing as a necessary evil.
He held Blackburn’s eyes, suddenly certain he knew that Tom knew.
“Let’s be clear,” Tom whispered into his palm so he was the only one who could hear, knowing if Blackburn was tuned into his sensory receptors right now, he could hear it, too. “I know about the neural link. I have terms. First of all, you don’t erase my memory ever again. You don’t tune in when I’m with a girl or doing anything embarrassing or private. If I’m breaking a rule but it’s a stupid, harmless one, you don’t get to bust me because you saw something on the neural link. If I’m not in any danger, and I’m not endangering you, then you tune out right away—within one or two seconds at most. Do all of this, and I’ll keep covering for you. Just like you’ve been covering for me. But the second this is all over and behind us, the very second, you have to break this link. Got it?”
For a moment, there was nothing, and Tom wondered if he’d been imagining the scrutiny, and maybe Blackburn hadn’t checked in on the neural link after all.
“Got it?” Tom tried again.
And then slightly, just slightly, Blackburn raised his glass and dipped it in silent agreement. Tom’s terms had been accepted.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MEDUSA VISITED HIM during Applied Battles and he told her all about Blackburn’s theory about Cruithne. She took it in grim silence.
“What are you thinking?” Tom finally said, where they sat next to each other in the cockpit of a simulated starship.
“I think if this is true,” she said quietly, “then we need to make Vengerov pay.”
“There’s no proof. Just probable cause and a big coincidence. Oh, and Blackburn found something called ‘put options’ where Vengerov bet money against some of the companies impacted by the fallout in the week before Cruithne. So there’s that.”
Medusa’s gaze slid to his. “So if Joseph Vengerov did this, he did it solely to distract everyone and take the heat off his companies?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Then let’s remind them why they distrusted Obsidian Corp. in the first place.”
They didn’t kill people together, of course. Vengerov was still riding on his reputation as savior of Earth, but Medusa and Tom dipped into servers, ensuring footage from Vengerov’s drones spread over the internet, interfacing with the computers of people in the media and posting from their computers new questions about the safety of Obsidian Corp.’s hardware and Vengerov’s integrity.
Even though a few reporters backtracked, and several claimed innocence, using the accounts of public personas succeeded in reviving in the media the questions about whether to dismantle Obsidian Corp. Tom saw the military regulars discreetly turning to the TV and internet feeds in the mess hall, checking on the growing scandal, muttering to one another about the tycoon funding both sides.
All Tom needed was some sort of proof Vengerov had been behind Cruithne. Put that before the eyes of the public and Vengerov would be finished. For good.
WHEN CHRISTMAS BREAK neared, Tom faced a dilemma. His father was missing, and staying in the Pentagonal Spire didn’t appeal with Mezilo threatening to dispatch all the vacationers to a boot camp. Since cadets had classified identities, they weren’t allowed to go stay with their friends. Wyatt’s parents, for instance, weren’t allowed to know Tom’s name.
Tom had only one choice. He approached Olivia Ossare about striking out on his own.
She sighed and shook her head. “Tom, you’re not eighteen. I can’t authorize you to spend the time by yourself.”
Tom slumped in his seat. Yeah, there was that.
“But I know you can take care of yourself, and I know you’ve saved up a stipend. If you were officially in the custody of one of your parents, I imagine you could get away with simply staying in the general proximity over break.”
Hope flashed through him. “So if my mom’s in New York City . . .”
“You would need to check in with her to make sure the official transfer in custody from the military to your parent has taken place.”
He leaned forward. “And if she doesn’t care where I go?”
“Then that’s her prerogative. As your parent.”
“So I can’t get in trouble if I’m not with her beyond, say, the first few minutes?”
“She would be the one in trouble,” Olivia pointed out. “She’s the adult responsible for you. You’re underage. What do you think?”
A grin blazed across Tom’s lips. He heard himself say something he never thought would pass his lips. “I think I’m spending Christmas at my mom’s.”
DELILAH LIVED IN an apartment in Manhattan paid for by Dalton Prestwick. She was one of his two girlfriends. Tom hadn’t seen her since he was nine, back when Neil had brawled with some cops and gotten himself clapped in jail. Tom had hitchhiked to see the mother who’d left when he was too young to remember her.
Or so he’d thought until Blackburn used the census device on him, when he’d started to remember things. They were just snippets from when he was a little kid, but the oddest thing was, she acted like she loved him in them. It was such a stark contrast to when he was nine, when she’d opened the door and looked at him like he was nothing, even after he said, “I’m Tom. Your son.”
“Oh,” she’d replied. Then she called Dalton over to put him in his place. They’d hired a maid to stay with him and didn’t come back until Tom was gone.
It used to hurt him, thinking about it.
This time, Tom didn’t warn her in advance that he was coming either. He didn’t plan to stay. He’d drop by her place to give the military enough time to officially record his GPS signal inside her home, then he’d leave. Explore New York. Get a hotel room. If his mom was too negligent to bother verifying his whereabouts for herself, then it wasn’t Tom’s problem or the military’s.
When the door swung open, Tom expected nothing. He got nothing but a blank stare.
“Remember me? I’m Tom.”
She stared at him with the same expression she’d worn the last time, a flicker of total incomprehension like she couldn’t understand what this mangy creature in front of her could possibly be, then total indifference. “Oh. My son.”
“Yeah. I got older.” He brushed past her into her apartment. “So Dad’s . . . um, well, he’s not around. I have to crash here for a couple hours so someone can check a GPS signal and see that I’m here for my vacation, but then I’ll be off.”
She didn’t stop him but rather followed him. Tom wondered if she thought he was here to steal from her or something. He realized he was braced, tense, waiting for some feeling to re
gister, like that awful wrench of rejection, loneliness, like last time. He didn’t feel it this time. He felt nothing.
He wasn’t that nine-year-old kid anymore who’d seen Neil dragged away by the police, who’d waited at the train station three nights for him to come back before realizing he wasn’t going to this time. Who’d been so sure if he just had a mom like other kids, he’d never have to sleep outside or figure out how to get food or wonder what happened to his dad ever again.
It didn’t matter anymore that she would never hug him or tell him it was time to go to bed and or pack him lunch in a paper bag for school or something, because he wasn’t fooling himself anymore. Across the gulf of seven years, Tom could finally look back and feel pity rather than disgust for his younger self for expecting that. He hadn’t been stupid to hope she’d love him. He just hadn’t known any better yet.
His mother hadn’t aged much since his memories of her. He supposed she was pretty young for the mother of a sixteen-year-old. But she’d changed in almost every way. There was no hint of the wild girl spinning him around in the street, flashing him a bright, vibrant smile in his memories.
Just a very subdued woman with no expression on her face. Delilah was a picture of perfect composure, perfect self-possession, her posture ramrod straight, her eyes a cool, empty blue in a face that would’ve been beautiful with more animation to it.
“Are you supposed to be here?” she asked him.
“It’s kind of legally mandated I stay with a parent or legal guardian. I’ve only got one parent on hand right now. That’s you. But I mean it, I’m leaving soon.”
“I understand.” She was silent a moment. Then, “Would you like something to drink?”
Tom blinked. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”
She moved away from him, the long slim lines of her body snapping into motion. Tom saw her blond hair swish with the movement, her arms as precise as a marionette’s. He kept looking about her apartment. Not one thing was out of place. There were the same types of paintings on the wall he saw in hotels. Impersonal things. A lonely stretch of beach. A fog-shrouded bridge disappearing into distant trees. As she clinked ice in a glass, he wandered over to the bathroom to wash his hands. On the way back, he glanced through the open door of Dalton’s study and spotted a small vial on the desk with a note beside it. Tom halted, cast his mother a careful glance, then slipped inside and grabbed it.
Tom lifted the note tucked next to it, personally addressed from Joseph Vengerov to Dalton Prestwick.
“This is merely a prototype, but it behooves both our interests if you know what you’ll be promoting. Safe, simple to administer, and efficient, these are nanomachines in a liquid suspension. They can be administered orally to any test subject the Roache brothers choose.”
Even though Blackburn had told him about the Austere-grade processors being nanomachines, it still sent chills down Tom’s spine, actually seeing one. He lifted up the vial and unscrewed the lid to gaze down at the murky liquid inside.
WELL, IT WAS safe to say the Roache brothers wouldn’t think anything at all of this Austere-grade neural processor; they were dead. He plopped the vial back down on Dalton’s desk, a certain satisfaction surging through him knowing Vengerov’s drive to spread them had failed. He headed back to his mom and threw himself onto the couch.
Delilah set the drink before him. Tom stashed the vial in his pocket and nodded his thanks. He took a big swig. Suddenly, fire burned down his throat, and he coughed, the sharp bite of alcohol making his eyes water. He stared incredulously at the mixed drink, and wondered at how cavalierly she’d offered it up to him.
“You realize I’m sixteen, right?” he asked with an incredulous laugh.
“Do you want something else?”
“You know, don’t bother.”
Across the room, the conferencing phone began flashing. Delilah turned away from him like he wasn’t there and moved to it, touched her palm to it.
Dalton Prestwick’s face filled the screen. For once, there was no skeezy smile plastered under his gelled brown hair. “Delilah?”
There was a note of panic in his voice. His hazel eyes were searching behind her. Tom was tempted to lean forward so Dalton could see him and flip him the bird. Delilah didn’t seem to pick up on his unease. She flashed a bright smile. “Dalton. I love you. I’m so happy you called. You look very sexy today.”
Then Dalton said, “The perimeter alarms were triggered. Who did you let in?”
Confusion flickered through Tom. He sat very still.
“Thomas. He’s my son.”
“Just . . . just wait . . . I’ll be there soon.” The conferencing phone snapped off, and Delilah turned crisply around, facing Tom again.
Tom stared at her. “Perimeter alarm? What is he, your owner?”
Delilah tilted her head to the side, as though processing what he’d said. “He loves me and I love him. He very handsome, wealthy, and charismatic.” The bright smile flashed over her lips again. It didn’t touch her eyes. “He’s staggeringly intelligent. He knows how to treat a woman like she’s special.”
Tom gaped at her, feeling like someone was messing with him. She’d spoken so blandly, so matter-of-factly, and the smile looked like a mannequin’s. No one talked that way.
And something began to work its way up from the back of his mind. He found himself replaying her snappish movements in his vision center. He found himself examining her face.
It was funny how much an emotionally devastated nine-year-old could miss. All he’d seen back then was her indifference to him. All he’d registered was his disappointment, his crushed feelings.
He hadn’t seen anything. Certainly not the total emptiness in her eyes.
Even Dalton’s reaction looked different through the eyes of age. Back when he was little, he’d seen only Dalton’s sneering contempt for him. Now, he heard the anxiety in Dalton’s voice. The anxiety that had been there the last time, too. The worry Tom hadn’t even picked up upon. He’d been just a kid then. A dumb kid. He was older now.
Tom rose to his feet, still staring at her face. “Why is there a perimeter alarm, Mom?”
“For my protection.”
One blink. Fifteen seconds later, another.
Tom’s blood buzzed in his ears as he watched for the next one. And all the time he did it, she looked back at him, no unease about the way he was staring, no discomfort with being gawked at. No humanity.
She blinked again. Exactly fifteen seconds. Each. Time.
The answer to one of the mysteries of his life slid into place. Tom’s mind went blank. He stood there for a long while, too shocked to process it.
Then the door slid open and Dalton Prestwick stepped inside.
Rage like Tom had never known swept through him until his whole body seemed to have been lit on fire. He pounced and slammed into him. Tom didn’t even feel Dalton’s elbow hit his cheek, Dalton’s feeble attempts to fight back. All he saw was that smug, hateful face and he crashed his fists into it over and over again, hearing a nose crunch, feeling a body trying to buck him off, hands trying to claw at his face, shove him away.
And then Tom hauled the gibbering executive to his unsteady feet and drew Dalton’s blood-smeared face right to his. “HOW DID SHE GET A NEURAL PROCESSOR?”
Dalton’s voice wobbled. “Let me go or—”
“OR WHAT?”
He hurled Dalton against the wall and sank his fist into his stomach, then twisted him around and jammed his arm up between his shoulder blades, relishing Dalton’s shriek of pain.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Tom hissed in his ear, “I’m not nine years old this time. I’m not even the fourteen-year-old you reprogrammed. I’m in a position to severely hurt you right now, and I am just hoping you give me an excuse to do it. Now answer me!”
From behind him, Delilah noted, “You should stop this assault. It’s very impolite. It’s also against the law.”
“Delilah, help—” Dalton tried, but Tom snared
him around the neck, choking off his words.
“Do not command her to help you. No one is helping you. No one is saving you from me.” He whipped them both around, Dalton’s neck in his headlock, his arm jammed up behind him, and Tom felt so much rage looking at her it seemed to be ripping him apart from inside. “God. God, this is sick. This is so sick. You’re controlling her, YOU DISGUSTING PERVERT! That’s why she’s here. That’s why she left us! You’ve been keeping her as your slave all these years!”
“That’s not it at all!”
“She has a neural processor! You’ve programmed her to do everything you say—”
“That’s not it!” Dalton wailed. He twisted painfully to look back at Tom, desperation in his eyes. “If you want to blame someone for this, blame your father!”
Tom slammed the flat of his palm against the wall by Dalton’s face, taking pleasure in his flinch. “My father? Don’t you bring him into this! If my dad knew about this, he’d kill you. He’d murder you!”
Dalton laughed wildly. “If he knew? He knows! He’s always known! He gave her to Obsidian Corp.!”
The words didn’t register for a long moment. And even then, Tom shook his head and screamed, “Shut up! You’re lying! I know you’re a liar!”
“He sold her. He was desperate to get rid of her! He was so glad we took her off his hands!”
Dalton thumped to the floor when Tom threw him there, but Tom couldn’t process this. He couldn’t. He shook his head again.
“No, you’re wrong.” His voice barely came out.
“He knew Mr. Vengerov from the high-stakes gambling circuit. He used to coach people who were willing to pay, and people like Mr. Vengerov paid good money back when he was in his prime,” Dalton gabbled, curled up there on the carpet where Tom had dropped him. “Your father knew his company needed subjects for psychiatric experiments. He begged us to take her off his hands.”
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