Blackburn tapped on his forearm keyboard. “It’s safe.”
Tom jounced to his feet. “General Mezilo told me something yesterday. There are a bunch of new plebes here who—”
“Before you say another word, I know.”
“You don’t know!” Then, Tom reconsidered. “Do you know?”
“Believe me, there is nothing you can tell me right now that I don’t already know.” There was something almost sinister in his face. “Obsidian Corp. has been trying to get Austere-grade processors into the Pentagonal Spire for years. It looks like they’ve finally succeeded. Thanks in large part, to you.”
“Because I got Marsh fired,” Tom said grimly.
“No, because the destruction of the skyboards frightened some very important people.”
The dark implications of the words sat on the air between them. Tom looked at the frozen image on the screen of Lieutenant Ricci Mankiw, whose head was in the middle of being blasted open by Tom’s bullet. One big, public gesture of defiance directed at the Coalition, at the security state, and now suddenly their rulers were trotting out a neural technology that could leash everyone’s free will.
An ominous prickle moved down Tom’s spine. He understood suddenly why Frayne and Mezilo had administered the loyalty test. They were priming the Intrasolar cadets, their current programmable human weapons, to put down resistance if anyone in the military rebelled against the idea of spreading Austere-grade processors.
“People out there in the world won’t just accept machines in their heads,” Tom said, half to himself. “Some will, but most won’t. Most will refuse. Some will fight back.”
Blackburn propped his elbows on the computer console before him, the half-light of the chamber sliding over his scarred cheek, his hawklike features. “Tom, the general public won’t even know they’re being given neural processors until it’s too late. There are a hundred vials of nanomachines locked up in the infirmary, ready to be given to new plebes.”
“What do you mean, vials of nanomachines?”
“Austere-grade processors aren’t surgically inserted through the skull like ours,” Blackburn said, gesturing to his own head. “The only reason the new plebes here still get brain surgery is to install the basic components that give them access to the Spire’s system. The public won’t need that. All they’ll need is a few billion nanomachines swarming in their system, colonizing their cerebral cortexes, and they’ll be under Coalition control. Giving them those nanomachines is easy. Last I heard, Obsidian Corp. was designing them to be absorbed through the digestive tract directly into the bloodstream. As soon as they penetrate the blood-brain barrier, it’s all over.”
Tom grew cold. He thought back to Dalton reprogramming him. It was so easy to manipulate a neural processor. Once everyone had them, Obsidian Corp. would be in control of the entire world. Some central operator could move whole societies to his liking, overriding their free will, forcing their obedience.
“I can’t let this happen!” Tom erupted.
“How do you plan to stop it, then?” Blackburn said, sounding exasperated. “Do you plan to do something dramatic and public again and bring more NSA agents into the Spire?”
“This wasn’t only my fault.”
Tom knew Heather’s death had helped interest Frayne in the Spire. Heather was supposed to join the NSA and instead she’d disappeared. But he couldn’t tell Blackburn he knew he’d killed her.
“It was . . . It was . . . Forget it. Look, I can do something else, something different.”
Blackburn shook his head. “Putting messages on skyboards and doing some property damage doesn’t accomplish anything. Not really. Words and actions have no power if they’re not backed with at least the threat of violence. Do you plan to go out and kill some Coalition executives? Then you might have an impact. If not, then forget it.”
“There are other ways,” Tom insisted. “Like . . . like if everyone knew the Coalition was planning this. Then they’d go to prison.”
Blackburn laughed. “This nebulous ‘everyone’ doesn’t own the legal system, Raines. The Coalition does. They’ll never go to prison. They write the laws. Their underlings decide who the law applies to and who it doesn’t.”
“A leak, then,” Tom said, thinking of all the history lessons he’d downloaded since coming to the Spire. “Spread all the information online. Get people protesting in the streets. Nonviolently. That will work.”
“Ah, effective nonviolent action.” Blackburn’s voice grew mocking. “Along with the divine right of kings, it’s my favorite myth. Take Gandhi: he wanted the British Empire out of India, but you know what? So did many violent people, who took violent action while Gandhi was busy turning the other cheek. Bhagat Singh did as much if not more than Gandhi to drive the British out of India, but he doesn’t fit the public narrative, so I’m fairly certain you’ve never even heard of him.”
Tom hadn’t, but he wasn’t ready to concede the point. “Fine, so there were violent people, too, but that doesn’t change what Gandhi did.”
“It changes everything,” Blackburn exclaimed. “The British had just fought World War Two. They were exhausted with war. They didn’t want to battle more violent people over control of India, so they left the country. Of course they chose to deal with Gandhi, the peaceful guy, rather than those frightening people who kept trying to kill them, so Gandhi got the public credit. Let’s face it, Gandhi serves as the perfect figurehead for this mythical idea you should passively accept violence from your leaders so your sacrifice will inspire others to change their ways. It’s incredibly convenient for rulers everywhere when people buy into that. It ensures that people will never punch back when they’re hit. For every effective nonviolent figure like Martin Luther King, there’s also a Malcolm X giving him the power he needs to get his point across.”
“So you’re right, and everyone’s wrong,” Tom said. “We should all just kill each other all the time. Maybe presidential elections can be some duel to the death, too. Forget voting.”
“Raines, nonviolence as a stand-alone force has a place in certain circumstances, I’m not saying it doesn’t. When the United States was a true republic, when average people had the power to change the policies of the government through voting, yes, nonviolence was important for winning public sympathy.”
“We’re still a republic.”
“No, we live in a corporate oligarchy where we vote between candidates preselected by the Coalition, on voting machines programmed by Obsidian Corp. Saying voters have a choice now is like me offering to shoot you or gut you: either way, you die, and I’m not giving a choice about it. I can say you’re making a decision when you choose to be shot, but it’s not a true decision. You don’t get a decision about whether you die. Voters don’t get a choice about who rules them anymore. Either way, it’s a candidate funded and controlled by the Coalition.”
With a start, Tom realized Blackburn was framing the same argument Neil had once when Tom was a kid . . . just in a slightly less crude, drunken manner.
“That’s why winning the public’s sympathy with nonviolence is absolutely meaningless. The public has no power.”
Tom’s heart picked up a beat. He knew Blackburn had knocked out the surveillance for this room, but he couldn’t help feeling nervous as he whispered the most dangerous thing of all. “So it has to be a violent revolution. That’s what you’re saying. You think that’s the only way to stop the Austere-grade processors.”
Blackburn snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Of course not.”
“But you said—”
“Even if a widespread revolution could happen in a modern-day surveillance and security state—and I’m not convinced it could—revolutions kill innocent civilians, policemen, soldiers, and people like Frayne. Those are people doing their jobs, feeding their families.”
Tom threw up his hands. “So what’s the point of all this? You don’t think anything would work!”
Blackburn leaned back, hi
s eyes distant. “On the contrary, there are only a tiny number of people with real power in this world, Raines. Forget Irene Frayne—she’s an employee following orders, nowhere near the top of the chain. No, the real decision makers number a few thousand at most, and if you follow the money from any great injustice, you’ll find out exactly who they are. If there was a revolution like you’re suggesting, the individual power players—the people who are the real problem—would simply fly abroad until the violence died down. That’s why the only way to act effectively against them is subtly and silently, involving as few people as possible or even acting alone.”
“Fine, then that’s what I’ll do . . . somehow. I’m ready to try something,” Tom declared.
Irritation flashed over Blackburn’s face. He looked annoyed at himself for even discussing this for so long. “For God’s sakes, Raines, I said ‘subtly and silently.’ You just killed sixty-three soldiers in a loyalty test. You’ve been making enemies around this dump since you were fourteen. You’re about as subtle and silent as a thermonuclear explosion. Any action you take will probably make this all worse.”
“How could I possibly make this situation worse?” Tom exclaimed. “We’re already descending into worldwide slavery.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years, it’s how quickly even a seemingly benign situation can explode once you get added to the mix.” Blackburn grabbed the back of Tom’s neck and steered him to the door. “Stop meddling in this, stop asking questions, and get out of my sight. There is only one thing for you to do: go be sixteen.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALL MIDDLES WERE invited to the meet and greets with Coalition executives, but Uppers attended invitation-only functions. They were brought to the private gatherings the executives held to renew their business ties with one another.
Last year, no one would have expected Tom to score an invite to the Milton Manor gathering. After all, he was the plebe who’d flooded the Beringer Club and then the Middle who’d alienated all five Combatant-sponsoring companies on the same day at the meet and greets.
But using the virus on Medusa for Joseph Vengerov had put him in that particular oligarch’s good graces, and apparently word had spread of Tom’s performance on the ethics test. There weren’t many cadets who could be counted upon to wantonly slaughter antigovernment extremists. In an era shifting toward the one-man-army-against-massive-numbers-of-civilians model, Tom’s seeming sociopathy was a big point in his favor.
They’d all been dressed up, and given remote access nodes in case they needed remote repair. Their conduct was of utmost importance; the worst thing that could happen would be some software or hardware issues while visiting the executives.
“This is so amazing,” Wyatt exclaimed, lying flat on her stomach, nose pressed against the glass floor overlooking the torrent of gushing white water spilling over the cliff not ten feet below her.
It was midmorning in Yosemite Valley. There’d been rainfall seeded in the clouds the week before to ensure a decent river flow below the mansion for the party, but Tom was having trouble focusing on Vernal Falls. He found himself gazing down at Wyatt’s legs. Her skirt was riding up, exposing their long expanse as she kicked idly at the air, her high heels dangling off her toes, nose pressed against the glass floor.
This is Wyatt, Tom reminded himself. This is Wyatt, this is Wyatt. . . .
“The view is striking,” Yuri said pleasantly, settling down next to her. He hadn’t been invited—he’d come as her plus one. Tom was lucky Yuri was marveling at the waterfall and hadn’t noticed Tom ogling his girlfriend.
Both times Tom had been in Yosemite before, he’d been infuriated by the magnificent span of rocky mountain and towering trees, because it was so magnificent—and it had been stolen from the public. All this had once been a park. Now it was Sigurdur Vitol’s backyard.
“You know what would’ve made this view better?” Tom said. “If this house wasn’t here and we could just see the waterfall the way it was before Sigurdur got his hands on it.”
Wyatt frowned at him. “You’re going to get banned again if you talk like that.”
“I’ll shut up.” Tom shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit, and cast an idle glance back toward the main body of the party. He met the searing, hateful gaze of the bald investment banker Hank Bloombury, standing beneath a framed photo of Sigurdur Vitol shaking hands with President Milgram. Hank was a Matchett-Reddy executive, and last year Tom had chased him with a drone, then gotten him chucked in jail. He’d deserved it, too. Tom flashed him a grin and took cold enjoyment in the anger that contracted Hank’s face.
Sure, Tom had learned to be more careful. But sometimes it wasn’t worth the effort.
Tom saw the various executives nodding like imperial magistrates while the eager, wannabe CamCos sucked up to them, trying to get them to remember their faces, their names. Vik was among them. So was Tom’s date, Iman Attar.
On the way over, they’d sat together on the Interstice. Iman was excited about the party, and she kept asking him questions like, “What was your old high school like?”
“I dunno. I didn’t go very much.”
“Oh.”
“No loss. It was just this online reform school thing.”
“Do you have a favorite band?” she tried.
“No.”
They lapsed into silence.
“Did you play any sports?”
“VR sports?”
“No, real sports.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I played lacrosse and ice hockey, and I liked kayaking, but I didn’t get to do it very much.”
Tom stared at her, realizing for the first time how abnormal he and his friends were compared to most other teenagers. “I only do VR sports, really.”
“So video games are really your only hobby.”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s all you do.”
“Well, it was. Then I lost my fingers and stopped doing them, too.”
Their silence did not end this time.
He let her peel away from him and schmooze. She looked like she was having fun, laughing and talking with Alana Lawrence of Epicenter Manufacturing. Hopefully they wouldn’t get on the subject of who she’d come with and the way Tom had suggested someone should blow up the prison-profiteering Epicenter executives the year before.
Tom gave a start when one of the butlers emerged from the crowd and tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Raines, you’re wanted in the lower reception area. Please go down the stairs.”
Tom followed his directions. He passed a line of Praetorians on the way. The machines that had menaced him in Obsidian Corp. still made something inside him twist with anxiety, but they were less fearsome somehow now than they had been in Antarctica when they’d nearly killed him, mostly because today they were serving their secondary function—as glorified coat racks.
At the bottom of the staircase, Tom emerged into a sprawling game room and discovered which CEO had summoned him. Standing over a pool table, thoughtfully surveying the spread, was Joseph Vengerov.
“Ah, Mr. Raines. How good to see you.”
Tom hadn’t seen the Russian oligarch since before his promotion, when he’d shown him proof of the virus he used on Medusa at one of the restaurants Vengerov owned. The man turned toward him, his features smooth and polished as stone, his hair a pale blond, eyes an empty, heavy-lidded blue. Everything about him hinted of perfect self-composure. No one but Tom, Blackburn, and Medusa knew there was a neural processor in his skull.
“Aren’t we both pleased to see Mr. Raines?” Vengerov called.
Another man emerged from near the room’s bar, and Tom felt a wave of loathing as Dalton Prestwick gave a skeezy smile and sauntered over with a drink, his brown hair gelled and his suit crisp.
“Great
to see you, sport,” Dalton said. “I was thinking of taking your mother to Aruba for New Year’s Eve. I’ll let her know you’re doing well.”
Tom’s teeth ground together. “Wonderful.” There was nothing as infuriating as a person he hated always having the ultimate trump card of sleeping with Tom’s mother.
“You must be wondering why I called you down from the party,” Vengerov said.
“It’s not just to say hello?” Tom said. He watched Vengerov lean over and propel three striped balls into the pockets, which would’ve been far more impressive if he didn’t know for a fact the man had a computer doing this for him.
After casting a long, slow look toward Dalton, Vengerov carelessly took the next shot—and missed on purpose. He straightened as Dalton moved to the table, giving him a chance to address Tom again.
“Obsidian Corp. is planning to enter the public arena. We’re finally going to begin mass producing a consumer product.”
“What product?” Tom said, playing it innocent.
“A new brand of neural processor. One for the common man. You yourself have already encountered this new processor. You’ve been shepherding my beta test group in the Pentagonal Spire.”
He tried to feign surprise. “My plebes have new processors?”
“Yes. They do.” Vengerov turned his head toward Tom like some alert predator. “How odd that you are pretending to be astonished to hear this when I know full well from General Mezilo that you’re already aware of the processors.”
Tom was silent a moment, caught off guard. He’d gotten so used to lying, he’d done it automatically. “I was just covering for the general,” he said quickly. “I figured . . . I figured . . . I didn’t think he was supposed to tell me about that and I’d hate to get the guy in trouble.”
Vengerov seemed to accept that. “How very considerate of you. But do not ever lie to me again.”
“I swear I won’t,” Tom lied.
“I do appreciate your loyalty. In fact”—he looked at Dalton, now standing with a sour expression, pool cue in hand—“I’d like to have it for myself.”