Vortex

  Her bullet thunked into his torso as his glanced off her shoulder, and Tom flew back across the sandy, scorched ground, registering a short flash of pain that receded immediately, according to the simulation’s pain settings. But Medusa’s rapid footsteps scuffed across the ground, and with a savage yell, she careened into him as he tried to rise, knocking them both over, sending dirt scorching into Tom’s lungs. He was stronger than her, heavier, and he lashed out with his arm to pin her beneath him. They stared at each other from inches away. But she was tense against him, and while she was there, a captive audience, Tom groped for something to say to make up for Capitol Summit.

  “Hey, you saw how I look. I’m no prize, either,” he admitted.

  Medusa’s face grew shadowed.

  Oh. Oh, no. Wait. Had he hurt her feelings?

  “I didn’t mean that as—” he began, but her gun slammed into his nose, knocking him to the side, and when he raised his head, he found her gun cocked, pressed right to the tender flesh under his chin, a challenging smile on her lips.

  “What, you didn’t see that coming? You’re losing your edge.”

  He laughed, his chest swelling with a sense of rightness. “I should’ve known that was a ploy.” He reached forward to cup her cheek with his rough palm, but stopped short when he realized he’d been about to touch her face right there where it was scarred in real life. He saw the uncertainty flicker over her face, her finger wavering on the trigger.

  “I missed you,” Tom said, honest. “Medusa, I mean it. Your face and stuff—it doesn’t matter to me. Not really. I was surprised. And desperate. I had to win and . . .” Then, inspiration struck. “You know what? This doesn’t matter, Medusa. It doesn’t. We’re on opposite sides of the world. Get it? The way we look is a nonissue for us. We’re never going to see each other in person. We can look however we want!”

  But the words didn’t have the effect he’d anticipated. The barrel of her gun dug into his chin, forcing his head back, until she rose up before him like some phoenix.

  “That’s great. Then if you’re so unlucky you see me in person, I can wear a bag over my head.”

  That wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but Medusa didn’t give him another chance. Her pistol exploded, and he careened back into his body in the training room, and away from her.

  IN THAT MANNER, Tom missed the end of the simulation.

  Vik and Lyla had relentlessly hunted Wyatt and the other survivors in her group, pursuing them down to the Rio Grande. Apparently, Vik and Lyla took down most of Elliot’s group—all but Wyatt. During the slaughter, Vik won Lyla over, and they discovered their feelings for each other. Then they had a terrible fight and broke up again, and shortly after that, Wyatt’s firebomb took out Lyla.

  Having loved and lost, Vik was determined to salvage something from the simulation. After he stumbled into a pit Wyatt had concealed, rigged up with spears jutting from the ground, Vik mustered his strength. Despite being grievously impaled, now girlfriendless, and on the verge of death, he readied his gun. Wyatt peered down to check whether he was dead, and Vik fired off a single bullet—right into her head.

  Avenging his former girlfriend left Vik feeling rather triumphant. Tom had a great time mocking him as they walked back from the pool where they’d ceremonially dunked Wyatt to celebrate her promotion. “You only dated for twelve minutes. That’s not a real girlfriend, Vik.”

  “You can’t talk. You’ve never even met your ex-girlfriend,” Vik pointed out.

  “Yeah, but at least our thing was longer than twelve minutes.”

  Vik shoved him. “It was a full day, simulation time, Gormless One.”

  Tom just kept laughing. “But it was twelve minutes real time. Twelve minutes, Vik. Ten plus two. You take longer showers than your entire relationship.”

  “Die slowly, Tom.”

  Wyatt walked alongside them back to the Spire, shivering and completely soaked. She was utterly silent.

  “Are you well?” Yuri asked her. Wyatt nodded shortly.

  “Hey, you know we threw you in the water to congratulate you, right?” Tom said.

  “Yes, we thought it would be amusing,” Vik said. “And to be fair, it was. For us.”

  Wyatt dragged her gaze over to them. “I was thinking about something. I’ll be in Upper Company, and you guys won’t.”

  “Face rubbing,” Vik said.

  But it wasn’t. “I’m not in Programming with you because I work with Blackburn. And now I won’t be in anything else with you.”

  “For six months,” Vik said. “Unless somehow you make CamCo right away, but even you, Enslow, cannot charm a bunch of sponsors in so short a time.”

  Even you . . . Tom stifled a laugh at the thought of Wyatt schmoozing.

  “But what if you never get promoted to Upper Company?” Wyatt said, troubled. “What if none of you do? Then I’ll never see you guys ever.”

  “Wow, Enslow, your confidence in us is overwhelming,” Vik said, but Tom registered the possibility grimly.

  People only moved to Upper Company if they legitimately had a shot at CamCo. If they had at least mild interest from a few possible sponsors. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

  “Look, Evil Wench,” Vik said, “we didn’t get promoted right away, but there’s no saying it’s permanent for us.”

  “Except when it comes to me,” Tom said with forced lightness.

  “And me,” Yuri added softly, and they all lapsed into a grim silence.

  Wyatt was the first trainee since Heather Akron to get bumped to Upper after a mere six months in Middle Company. From the scattering of mutterings he heard about “Blackburn’s pet” and the brief glimpse Tom caught of Heather’s face during the promotions announcements in Programming—like she’d swallowed a mouthful of acid—he knew a few people weren’t pleased about it at all. Then again, Heather resented Wyatt in general ever since the firewall debacle. Wyatt found a tracking cookie in her processor, spying on all her network activity. It had been cleverly added to the general homework feed and then programmed to self-delete from every processor but Wyatt’s. Heather denied responsibility with a huge smile, but none of them believed her. She obviously was still trying to make Wyatt’s life “seriously suck.” Wyatt’s advancement in rank had to burn her.

  As they all gathered in the Lafayette Room for the promotion ceremony, Vik alternately looked pleased and envious. Tom didn’t have room for much envy. He was too down.

  Tom got to witness something interesting, though. Wyatt walked onto the stage when her name was called, and she didn’t even look at Blackburn as he handed her the neural chip with her upgrades. She blew right past him to Cromwell and to shake hands with General Marsh. Blackburn raised his eyebrows, obviously picking up on the same thing Tom had—Wyatt was not pleased with Blackburn for some reason.

  But Tom didn’t wonder about that for long. He found himself meeting General Marsh’s eyes, and had to drop his gaze, aware that he hadn’t met the general’s expectations. He hadn’t found a way to redeem himself. All that confidence Marsh had in him was misplaced. There was this pervasive sense of bleakness that settled inside him like a swamp. He wondered if Yuri was feeling the same way, seeing the possibilities he probably would never have.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EVERY BREAK FROM the Pentagonal Spire, the military flew Tom back and forth to wherever his dad was. That way, Tom avoided a lot of the restrictions that would’ve accompanied traveling through an airport while on the terror watch list. He also got a ride straight to the Old Indian Chief Casino, where he plopped down in the restaurant to await his father.

  Neil showed up soon, gave him a gruff hug, then launched into a story about some cheating incident at his last poker game: “. . . turns out this chump had some guy with binoculars, and this microphone right in his ear . . .”

  That’s when a woman in a suit headed over to them at a rapid clip. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  The “gentlemen” thing was why Tom and Neil both
assumed she was talking to someone else. When she stopped at their table, they straightened up uneasily, because respectable-looking people charging up to them never ended well.

  The woman gave them both a big smile. “I take it you two are the Raines party?”

  Tom looked at his dad sharply, wondering what he’d done to get in trouble. Neil’s brow furrowed. He seemed to be thinking hard, too, trying to remember what he’d done as well.

  Neil set his half-eaten burger down and wiped his hand with his napkin. “Who’s asking?” He sounded calm, but Tom could pick up the undercurrent of tension in his voice.

  “I take it you’re Neil Raines?” she clarified.

  Neil shifted in his seat and cast a look around. The woman was alone. No cops or burly henchmen were there as backup, ready to haul him off. Finally, his cautious eyes moved back to her. He folded his arms and jerked his head once. “Yeah, lady, you’ve got the right person. Again, who wants to know?”

  She set a small plastic token on the table before them. “Compliments of a friend. He’s staked you ten thousand dollars up in the Green Room.”

  Neil took the chip like he didn’t know what it was.

  “Please enjoy yourself.” And with that, she left them to it.

  Tom gazed at the chip, his burger forgotten. He wiped his hands off on his shirt, then snatched it himself. He studied it, then handed it to Neil, who held it between two fingers like it might explode.

  “Man, you have been on a winning streak,” Tom marveled. Neil only got staked for a game when someone thought he could win for them—and get a cut in the process.

  Neil shook his head, eyes on the chip. “Winning some, losing some. Trust me, the people who’d stake me ten K are still ancient history.”

  A dark possibility flashed through Tom’s brain. People didn’t hand out this sort of money. Something nasty had to lie behind it. He leaned closer to Neil. “Hey, you’re not going to this Green Room place, are you?” Tom assumed it was a nicer gaming parlor on one of the upper floors of the casino. “What if it’s some sort of trap? You still owe some guys money. Alex Cassano, Dad.”

  Neil’s gaze flashed up to his. “You remember that?”

  Tom shrugged. Ever since the census device, yeah, he remembered a lot of things he’d blocked out from his childhood. He definitely remembered Cassano’s guys busting in their hotel room and beating Neil up.

  “You know, I pay my legit debts, Tommy. Al Cassano set an interest rate, and I was paying it back with the agreed-upon interest rate—”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Then he jacked it up! And jacked it up again! I’d have paid my debt five times over if it had been up to that guy, and I still would’ve been in debt. If I wanted that nonsense, I’d have used a credit card, not gone to a loan shark.”

  Tom grew exasperated. “Credit card companies don’t send people to beat you up. Mobsters do.”

  “Yeah, because mobsters don’t have politicians writing laws for them. Mobsters don’t have prisons and a police force and the entire government in their back pockets. Look what happened to old Al Cassano. I heard he got three months in the can for tax evasion, then he got hired out to work in India somewhere. No one’s heard a word since. The state disappeared him. They can do that to any of us. Thank you, National Defense Authorization Act!” Neil saluted the air sarcastically. “I’d deal with a mobster over a corporate kleptocrat any day.”

  Tom’s head throbbed. Some things hadn’t changed. “Okay, fine. What are you gonna do?”

  Neil examined the chip in his hand. There was an excited glint in his eyes. “There’s really only one way to find out who sent this. You coming with?”

  “You need someone to aim for the back of the head if it goes wrong?”

  “I’ve got a smart boy,” Neil said fondly, ruffling his hair.

  It was a terrible plan. It was a Raines plan.

  NEIL NEEDED TO show his chip to the bellman, and they were escorted to a private floor of the casino. Inside, they both got retina scans, and Tom began to relax. There were no signs of an ambush.

  There were people dressed up all around them, and some waitresses wearing so little Tom actually stopped in his tracks without realizing it when one of them leaned over.

  Then Neil lightly cuffed the back of his head. “No ogling until you can afford child support.”

  He’d spoken loudly enough for her to hear. She giggled.

  Tom grew red. “Dad, come on.”

  But Neil was chuckling like he was delighted with himself as he threaded forward through the crowd. And then the mob of people parted to reveal the tall, elegant figure of Joseph Vengerov. Tom’s footsteps ground to a halt, and he gaped at the tall man with pale hair, pale eyes, and an unyielding, angular face—a multitrillion-dollar anomaly who didn’t belong even in the fanciest parlor of the Old Indian Chief Casino. He was simply too rich and powerful for this place.

  Tom stared at Vengerov, and Vengerov gazed back at him, and Tom knew the blood was draining from his face. One of the wealthiest oligarchs in the world was in the same room as his dad. His dad, who had spent every day of Tom’s life railing against those in charge of the world.

  Neil would lose it when he saw him. He’d attack him. Then he’d get shot by Vengerov’s security.

  Tom turned, bracing himself to stop Neil from doing anything rash. Neil spotted Vengerov, too, and stopped in his tracks . . . but he wasn’t gazing at Vengerov with malice, like he’d spotted a long-awaited enemy and he was ready to fight. . . . He looked gray, frightened, his eyes shadowed, his mouth hanging open.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Tom demanded.

  Neil’s gaze jolted to his. He stared at Tom blankly for a long moment, like he couldn’t see him through some nightmare, and Tom had never seen his dad like this. Never.

  “Dad?”

  But then Vengerov turned and glided over toward them, his security guards clearing his way through the crowd. “Ah, Mr. Raines.” Vengerov’s gaze flickered down to the chip in Neil’s limp hand. “I see you received my invite. Excellent.”

  Tom looked back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”

  Vengerov smiled at Neil.

  “No,” Neil said, his eyes locked with Vengerov’s.

  Vengerov’s smile spread even wider. “No,” he echoed.

  “Never met before.” Neil’s chest swelled, like he was bracing himself for something unpleasant.

  “My name is Joseph Vengerov.” As though anyone in the world didn’t know that. “And I know you must be Neil Raines, Thomas’s father.”

  Neil stiffened. “You know him?”

  “Of course I know your son,” Vengerov answered, still wearing that strange smile. He let that sit in the air a moment, then, “You must know I’m affiliated with a certain program that your son also participates in.”

  Neil grew pale. “You’re involved in that?”

  “Only in an advisory capacity, but I anticipate far more involvement in the near future.”

  Yeah, Tom bet Vengerov anticipated that. He knew Vengerov was taking advantage of the malfunctions to angle for Blackburn’s job.

  A dark flush stole over Neil’s face.

  And the buzzing in the Green Room had become a white noise, because Tom’s brain was razor-sharp, trying to slice through what was going on here. Something was happening here. He was missing something.

  “I didn’t stake you for a poker game, of course,” Vengerov said smoothly. “I’m staking you for another venture.”

  With one angry flick of his hand, Neil sent the chip careening back toward Vengerov. “I want nothing of it.”

  Vengerov snatched it from the air easily, reflexes like a striking snake’s. “I think you do. It’s roulette.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. Vengerov was playing some game here. But what was he trying to do?

  And then Vengerov said, “I appreciate the game for one simple reason.” His eyes dropped to Tom’s. “It doesn’t invo
lve luck. It’s all mathematics where the ball will land. A computer with mathematical precision, for example, could calculate what number the ball would land on merely from listening to the spin decelerate.”

  That’s when Tom realized it: he had a neural processor. Vengerov knew it. He knew Tom could calculate the right number.

  “Come,” Vengerov said, imperious, like Neil was one of his lackeys.

  And to Tom’s disbelief, even though Neil wore this expression on his face like he was raging inside, he followed.

  Tom felt like he was in a bizarre, alternate universe as he trailed behind Neil to the roulette table, where gamblers chose their position at the wheel. One spin of the wheel launched the ball into motion, and the players who correctly chose the color of the slot where the ball landed won money, and the ones who chose the right number reaped greater winnings.

  “Let’s not gamble with that ten thousand I staked you,” Vengerov told Neil. “I shall also wager . . . these.” A flick of his fingers, and one of his lackeys placed an intimidating pile of chips before him. “Mr. Raines, add a wager of your own to mine. We all need some skin in this game of ours.”

  “But it’s not his game,” Tom burst out. “It’s your game. You arbitrarily decided he’s going to play. You’re the one who wants to play it.”

  “I am waiting,” Vengerov said, eyes crawling to Neil’s.

  Neil muttered, “I don’t have much.”

  “In that case,” Vengerov said softly, “just wager your wallet.”

  Neil drew a sharp breath, because that was all the money he had.

  “Don’t do it,” Tom urged him.

  But Neil had a grim set to his face. He reached in his back pocket and clapped his wallet on the table.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” Tom demanded. Then he turned on Vengerov. “He doesn’t have money to throw away like you. He at least has a shot at winning poker! This is—”

  “A risk we are both taking,” Vengerov said.

  “It’s not a risk for you,” Tom spat. “This is chump change for you. My father’s the only one risking anything here.”