Vortex

  Huh. Heather Akron.

  That gave Tom a dull sense of surprise, because he’d seen a lot of the gorgeous brunette from Machiavelli Division the first few days of vacation. Now that he thought about it, though, she’d virtually disappeared from the public radar the last few days. It struck him as strange. Photogenic and charming as she was, Tom expected her to be one of the foremost CamCos trotted out and shown off to the public.

  “Look at those kids.” Neil glared at the TV over his drink. “They look like a bunch of plastic puppets. Ever notice how they don’t blink so much? Eh, Tom, ever notice that?”

  Tom managed, “No, never noticed it.” He’d asked his friend Wyatt Enslow to write up a program for his neural processor to randomize his blink rate. He was pretty sure that was one reason Neil hadn’t noticed anything too off about his face—Tom had made an efffort to act as normal as possible. Between that and the hair he kept swept down over his neural access port, he’d been careful so far.

  Now the focus of the press segment shifted to the CEOs of corporations sponsoring the CamCos. The show flipped to an interview with Reuben Lloyd, CEO of Wyndham Harks. The weedy little man with an unfortunate resemblance to a rat smiled toothily and spoke into a microphone.

  “Just look at Reuben Lloyd here, playing up the PR so Wyndham Harks can angle for its next taxpayer bailout.” He sighed, his voice growing strangely flat. “You know, Tommy, you’re the only reason I’ve got any stake in this dump. Otherwise, I’d be glad to watch this whole world burn. I’d rather burn it than let them take it all from us.”

  Tom sensed danger in the air: Neil working himself up into a rage after the indignity of being robbed. He tried to think of something to say to distract him, but the screen filled with a glowing image of Joseph Vengerov, CEO of Obsidian Corp.

  Tom’s muscles froze.

  The news report was fawning, because Vengerov had been named CEO of the Year by the Institutional Investor for the fifth time. All Tom could think of was the census device. Those three syllables that had nearly doomed him rolled through his mind, Ven-grr-ahv. . . . As soon as Lieutenant Blackburn realized Tom knew him, terrible things ensued. Tom almost lost his mind, his place at the Spire, everything. . . .

  He was still shaken by the reminder several minutes later, after a hasty shower. He swiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, water still dripping from his thin face, matting his blond hair to his skull. The strange little flashes of numbers across his vision center were mostly gone now, so Tom figured there was no real need to do anything about it, even though technically, very technically, he was supposed to contact Lieutenant Blackburn if he had any problems with his neural processor over vacation.

  Blackburn had even given all the trainees a remote-access node to hook into the port on the back of their necks. It was there to connect their processors with the Spire’s server so Blackburn could examine their hardware from across the country.

  Tom fished the remote-access node out of his backpack and weighed it in his hand, considering it, then disregarding the thought. He was about to flick it away again when he noticed the marks on his torso, the bruises over his ribs where he’d gotten tased. Something dark boiled up inside him, his mind flashing over the face of the banker’s pet cop. He’d probably handed the money back to the bald banker, who was probably counting it up somewhere.

  Tom’s fist contracted around the remote-access node.

  Maybe he had a use for it, after all.

  ALL THE MAJOR government servers were linked, so as soon as Tom jolted out of himself into the stream of data leading to the Pentagonal Spire’s server in Arlington, Virginia, it didn’t take long to find his way into the server of the Department of Homeland Security.

  For a disconcerting moment, he felt strange, detached, a free-floating signal in a void. He was never entirely sure what he was doing when he interfaced like this. It seemed to come so much more naturally to the only other person he knew who could enter machines like this, the Russo-Chinese Combatant and his sort-of ex-girlfriend, Medusa. But today, Tom focused on his anger at the cop, and it sharpened his wits. He delved into the vast chain of zeros and ones, searching for the pipelines between the DHS and the domestic police drones flying over the United States.

  When he located those, his neural processor sorted through an array of rapid-fire coordinates, and he latched on to the armed drone nearest to him.

  A quick scroll through the database of registered gun owners in the area brought a familiar image to mind: Sergeant Erik Sherwin, the cop who’d robbed them. All registered gun owners had tracking chips in their skin, so he zeroed right in on Sergeant Sherwin’s frequency.

  Thousands of feet above Sherwin, in the darkened skies between Las Vegas and the overhead skyboards, the drone’s mechanized gaze captured images of the cop just outside the casino, tailing the banker like an obedient puppy. Tom’s vision center registered the images like he was seeing through mechanized eyes of his own.

  His plans changed.

  Tom felt an evil little thrill, because he’d intended to wreak some havoc on the cop, but now that he thought about it, he really should ignore the hired thug and focus on the mastermind: the bald banker the DHS’s biometric database identified as Hank Bloombury, who worked for a subsidiary of the Matchett-Reddy Corporation.

  Tom homed in on Hank and stalked him from the casino to his private car, the drone far overhead cutting a lethal path through the sky. Hank’s car began to pull out of the strip, but Tom was in control of a police drone—which could link remotely into vehicle auto navigation systems and tamper with them at will. Tom enjoyed messing with Hank’s autonav, steering the car back around and directing it toward the hotel he and Neil were staying in.

  Hank must’ve finally realized what was happening, because he engaged the emergency shutoff. The car jerked to a halt; and the bald man popped out from inside it, rubbing at the back of his neck, obviously trying to figure out where he was.

  Then Tom pulled off his next trick: he plunged the drone through the night sky, and settled it mere meters before the stunned Hank Bloombury. Tom leveled its Tasers straight at the guy’s bald head, and enjoyed the sight of the banker standing frozen in place, his mouth hanging open.

  Thanks for sending that cop, Tom thought, and sent a talon of the drone’s Taser lashing out, shocking Hank just enough to knock him to the ground. Hank scrambled back to his feet, but when he tried to dive back into the car, Tom sent another flare of electricity that way to block him. Hank tried to run in the other direction, but Tom steered the police drone after him, a relentless pursuer, and zinged him again. Then again.

  Hank threw up his hands in surrender and stood there, defeated, as Tom circled the drone around him like a vulture. Certain Hank was good and scared, Tom accessed the drone’s text screen and gave the banker an order, knowing it would be relayed via communication screen and a mechanized voice.

  “TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES.”

  Hank shook his head, his face flushed like he was outraged. He leaped for his car again, so Tom sent more electricity lashing out. That stopped Hank.

  “TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES,” Tom had the drone order again. “RIGHT NOW.”

  Hank seemed to get the message this time, and he stripped down. Tom decided it would be worth his eyes bleeding for the payoff.

  “NOW RUN. RUN FAST.”

  Hank hesitated, so Tom launched the drone toward him, zapping the ground at his feet. The banker began running away, and Tom dogged his steps awhile, zapping behind him every so often, making sure the words “KEEP RUNNING, KEEP RUNNING” were displayed on the drone’s communication screen. Tom kept it up until his drone corralled Hank onto the street near their hotel, then he released the drone from his control, launching it back into the sky.

  He jolted back into himself, yanked off the transmitter, and popped out of the bathroom.

  “Dad, you have to come outside.” His voice throbbed with excitement. “Right now!”

  Neil gave a grunt of
acknowledgment but nothing more. His melancholy stare was fixed on the TV like he was in some sort of trance.

  “Dad, come on, get up.” Tom seized the remote and flipped off the TV, and then tore Neil’s drink from his hand. That got his attention. “Believe me, you want to see this.”

  “Give me my drink back,” Neil slurred.

  Tom reluctantly handed it back. “You’re going to miss it. Then you’re gonna be sorry.”

  “Fine. Fine, I’m up.” Neil was visibly irritated, but he followed Tom outside. That’s how he walked out of the hotel in time to see the naked man arrive on their street, gazing up into the sky, searching for the rogue drone.

  “Hey.” Neil straightened a bit. “Hey, isn’t that . . .”

  Tom’s lips blazed with a grin. “What a coincidence. It’s your favorite leecher.” He shoved past Neil to access one of the strip’s emergency phones. Tom informed the dispatcher, “There’s some crazy naked man running down the street. He’s flashing kids and selling drugs and . . . and shouting about a holy war.” He figured all three threats would get a hasty police response.

  “What are you doing, Tom?”

  Tom shrugged. “I figure he’s so fond of cops, let’s bring him a whole bunch.”

  The banker was busy haranguing people for clothes when the armada of cops arrived to deal with the drug-dealing, pedophiliac terrorist. Hank Bloombury had never learned to respect the men and women he regarded as his private goons, and he’d never been on the other end of their wrath. As soon as the cops piled out of their cars, he started bawling them out over their rogue drone, but the police didn’t see any fancy suit, and they had no way to realize this guy was important. All they knew was, he was naked and aggressive, so they swarmed him, nightsticks flashing, Tasers flickering.

  As the police brutality began in earnest, Tom raised his eyebrows at his dad. “Well? What do you think?”

  Neil scratched at his unshaven cheek, blinking like he was trying to be sure he was actually seeing this. “I think I have no idea how you pulled this off.”

  “Let’s just say that the military’s taught me a lot of tech skills. That’s all I can tell you. Classified.”

  Neil leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Is there any way someone can trace this back to you?”

  “Nope,” Tom assured him breezily, even though he wasn’t sure. “They’ll probably figure out I put in the call to the cops, but the rest is a mystery.”

  Even to Tom. He wasn’t sure why he was different from other trainees with neural processors or why Medusa was different, too. He had no idea why they could interface with machines other trainees could not. . . .

  He just knew he had a particular skill at something, and his mind danced with possibilities about how he could use it.

  “Tech skills, huh?” Neil marveled. “Those military guys are really doing right by you, after all. It blows me away when I think about that.” He chuckled quietly. “My kid, actually having a shot in life . . . I never knew it was possible.”

  There was something different in his dad’s face, in his voice now, and Tom swore, Neil seemed almost happy. The cops cleared the scene, and Tom felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Obviously his terrible vengeance on the leecher had done its job.

  THE FINAL NIGHT Tom spent with his dad, he couldn’t sleep. He ventured out onto the balcony into the neon embrace of Las Vegas. Lights bombarded him from every direction: the streets below, the buildings around, and even from skyboards overhead. Over Las Vegas, there were dozens of the mile-wide screens, all competing for attention from the tiny people so far below them.

  Tom gazed upward, ignoring the ad from the DHS about hearing a whisper, giving them a whisper, and the ad from Nobridis about how its efforts to get rich off the war were actually beneficial to Americans. All he could think about were the possibilities ahead of him. He planned to be an Intrasolar Combatant who controlled the drones fighting the war in outer space, but now he was thinking he could also be a vigilante or maybe even a superhero.

  Why not? He had the power to strike back at people like Hank Bloombury. He wasn’t traceable, and everything was digitized now.

  Medusa and I could even team up. Tom leaned his elbows onto the rail, thinking of his greatest foe, his sort-of ex-girlfriend, and the deadliest warrior on the Russo-Chinese side . . . the single person he knew who could’ve pulled off the same revenge on Hank Bloombury that he himself had.

  Oh, and Tom grinned at the thought of what he could do to his mom’s awful boyfriend, Dalton Prestwick, if he wanted to. Yeah, he’d find the guy in his Manhattan home and have some fun with that. Or maybe he’d do something to that Georgetown mansion of Dalton’s. There were so many possibilities, they made Tom’s head whirl in giddy circles.

  He’d even get Karl Marsters.

  No. No, wait. Maybe this was abusing his power. It probably was. So how about he only went after Karl once? After all, if he did the world-justice-vigilante stuff, he probably earned himself the right to follow up on a personal grudge just once.

  At that moment, a loud roaring mounted in his ears, and with shocking swiftness, a black shape descended from the sky, blotting out the skyboards. Tom’s entire body grew rigid, and he stood there frozen in place, as one of the Centurion-grade drones used in outer space began to hover, right in front of his balcony.

  It wasn’t a measly little police drone like the one he’d controlled. This wasn’t for surveilling individual suspects and subduing them; it wasn’t for breaking up crowds. This was built to blow things up in space. And it was close enough to touch.

  Tom gaped at it, amazed. He’d never seen one of these suckers up close, not through his human eyes. The sharp, scythelike missile turrets curved toward him in open menace, their blackness stark against the skyboard light streaming about them. After a moment of looming there, the drone’s optical camouflaging activated, shimmering its mass into invisibility, leaving only one visible aspect: the pinpoint camera eye, glaring right at him. Optically camouflaged ships were only detectable when they moved—and only if a person knew to look for the telltale wavering of the air. The camera seemed to float in space.

  Then the instant communication program in his neural processor activated, and words were net-sent right into his vision center: I know about your drone, Mordred.

  Tom was overjoyed, realizing who it was. If there was one person he’d want to share his triumph, it’d be Medusa. “You saw that?” he spoke, knowing she’d hear him. “Awesome. I’ve gotta admit it, though: yours is bigger. Where did you get this guy? I want one.”

  Are you an idiot?

  Tom blinked. That wasn’t the reply he’d expected. Or hoped for.

  Unless you are actively trying to give us away, you need to stop messing around like this!

  Tom ignored his sudden, sinking disappointment at her reaction and made a show of shrugging his shoulders. “I know you want to keep what we can do a secret. So do I, okay? But I had to do that thing yesterday. It was a matter of honor. I had to right a wrong. And honestly, Medusa, it’s kind of rich calling me a moron for using that drone when you flew in a Centurion right over Las Vegas, of all places.”

  This Centurion was optically camouflaged when I flew it down. It disappeared off the grid years ago. No one will miss it. You tampered with the navigation of an active-duty police drone. Someone will notice. That is not acceptable.

  “What, so I should do nothing, then?” Tom leaned forward, irritated. “I should wait until I’m a Combatant and use what we can do as a cheat like you do?”

  The drone drew menacingly closer at the implication. Tom knew he’d made her mad, but he stood his ground.

  “Don’t you get it?” he said. “This ability we’ve got—we could do anything. We could make the world better. We could be like . . .” He faltered a moment, knowing this would make him sound like a dumb eight-year-old, but it was the only word he could think of. “ . . . superheroes.”

  This is not a comic book, Mordred. We are not unt
raceable, and we are not invincible. We only operate in safety now because no one knows to look for us. The next time you pull something this stupid, I will come back and make sure you can’t do it again.

  “Like how? You’ll kill me?”

  He’d thrown that out there carelessly. He hadn’t been serious.

  Suddenly, the drone swept toward him, the optical camouflaging peeling up enough to reveal the guns Medusa was leveling at his head, and something triggered instinctively in Tom as the red laser–targeting scanners crept over him, the massive machine searing the air around him. He scrambled back until he hit the door to the balcony, and found himself plastered there, staring right down a gun barrel, his heart pounding furiously, cold sweat prickling all over his body. For a timeless moment, they were suspended like that, her missile turret leveled right at his head.

  Satisfied she’d made her point, her drone gave a taunting wave of its body, and Medusa planted a gibe in his vision center: That’s the idea.

  Tom found himself vividly remembering the moment at Capitol Summit when he’d used her disfigurement just to win. They’d liked each other before that.

  He’d changed everything.

  “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” Tom asked her. He wasn’t referring to what he’d done today.

  No. Apologies are a waste of air, Mordred. Don’t do this again.

  And then her drone roared up and shrank away. Soon he couldn’t even see the drone’s telltale shimmer in the night sky, just a blinding ceiling of skyboards.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TWO DAYS LATER, the morning sky gathered a purple light as his plane tilted up its rudders, shifted into helicopter mode, and lowered itself onto the Pentagon. Tom stepped onto the roof below the chrome tower of the Pentagonal Spire.

  Two armed marines approached, and he flipped his Challenge Coin out of his pocket, raising it up so they’d see the eagle insignia. “Thomas Raines, trainee, US Intrasolar Forces.” The coin flashed green as it simultaneously verified his voiceprint, his fingerprints, and his DNA. One final step, the sweep of a retina scanner, and Tom had officially confirmed his identity for access to the Pentagonal Spire. An elevator swept him into the Pentagon.