“Why are you doing this?” Tom strained to see Hayden where he was typing something in. Something that was going to end up in his brain. The thought made him ill. What were they going to stick in him?
Dalton chuckled. The smell of his cigar seeped through the air. “Come on, son. Did you think I was giving you a choice here? Did you really? Are you so naive?”
Fury boiled through Tom. He’d murder Dalton. He would. As soon as he could move. “Let me go or I’ll jam that cigar down your throat!”
“You’ll be let go. You’ll be released very soon. And you’ll be a much better boy when you are. You’ve got a lot that needs changing if you’re going to work with us.”
“I am not working with you!”
“Quiet, Tom. And I assure you, you are. It’s very lucky you’ve become a valuable asset. And I know there’s someone in the Spire advancing your interests, because General Marsh has already put your name before the Defense Committee as a promising trainee to keep an eye on.”
Tom was too stunned for a moment to remember he was terrified.
“Now, we’d never ask you to represent Dominion Agra with those qualms you have about our company.” Dalton tapped on Tom’s forehead. “So Hayden’s going to install some data to correct a few of the misguided views you inherited from your old man. After that, you and I, Tom? We’re going to be good pals when this is done.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Oh, we are. And hey”—a light, teasing punch to his arm—“if we’re behind you, you’re guaranteed to be Camelot Company, and we’ll make sure it happens fast. You’ll get to be a real hero. Think of the girls. You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you? They’ll be crawling all over you.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.”
“The first batch is ready, Mr. Prestwick,” Hayden said.
No, Tom thought, real fear mounting in him. No, no, no.
Dalton chuckled. “Give our boy his lesson.”
And then the information poured into Tom’s brain. Dalton lounged in his chair, smoking that cigar, watching Tom’s face as the programming interfaced with the neural processor, then began implanting the data into Tom’s brain. Tom fought it. Gritted his teeth and fought it, rejected it. At first. At first.
And then he couldn’t tell what was supposed to be there and what wasn’t. And he didn’t know what was his and what wasn’t. The terror receded over the horizon and his fight died away. His gaze drifted up to the ceiling, the gentle wash of commands and code sweeping over him again and again, and he couldn’t remember why he’d been so afraid a minute ago. He lay there feeling his brain being reworked.
Dalton watched him the whole time, gazing at his face as Tom shifted into another person.
After an hour of it, Hayden spoke. “The first layer’s installed.”
Dalton rose to his feet. “Is it? Good work. And that’s a good boy, Tom. We’re going to be real friends soon, you and me. Aren’t we?”
Tom answered him, “Yes.” He was confused about what was going on but pretty certain that Dalton was right.
“It’s Mr. Prestwick.”
“Mr. Prestwick.”
“That’s my boy.” Mr. Prestwick patted Tom’s cheek. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”
TOM WASN’T SURE why Hayden had shown him the neural access port. He stood there by himself, in the middle of the empty room in the Beringer Club, staring at the access port. There was something he was missing. Something he couldn’t put his finger upon.
“Mr. Raines, sir?” Hayden peeked his big head inside. “Your car is waiting outside whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh. Okay.” Tom felt dumb. He didn’t even know where Mr. Prestwick had gone. He must’ve left after telling Hayden to show him this place. And the internal clock in his head said it was 1700. Had that much time passed?
Something inside him shut down the line of thought.
Restricted Access.
The thought resounded in his brain, forbidding.
Restricted Access. Restricted Access.
A hollow formed in his chest as his thoughts slammed into that phrase, as he realized he couldn’t access a segment of his own brain. But even as he struggled to fight his way around it, his short-term memory faded and he couldn’t quite recall what put the cold feeling in his chest.
He emerged up the staircase into the wash of sunlight, and found himself thinking of Mr. Prestwick again as he headed to the private car. Maybe he hadn’t been fair to him all this time. He’d mindlessly hated him, and Tom couldn’t think of why.
He remembered the smell of Mr. Prestwick’s cigar....
Restricted Access.
What? The words were like an electric jolt, something foreign inside his own brain. He stared inward, aghast.
Tom’s fears faded along with the recollection, and his brain was again wrapped around a harmless thought. Neil always talked like Dominion Agra set out to destroy every natural-growing crop with their genetically engineered, self-terminating strains. But they hadn’t. It was an accident. It happened because Dominion Agra’s crops were better. It was an accident that they ended up owning the entire human food supply. Simple cross-pollination. Sure, they may have played a role in the neutron bombings, but didn’t they save billions on a daily basis by feeding them? And maybe they forced everyone to pay a yearly usage fee to grow crops, but wasn’t that good business?
Tom was giddy with the beautiful sense he could suddenly make of so much he’d once hated about the world. He settled in the private car with the blacked-out windows. The Beringer Club was really something. The driver already knew he’d be returning the following week, as though the guy had psychic powers or something, and Tom found himself agreeing to get picked up at the Spire the following Saturday at 1100.
Tom settled back into the comfortable leather seat and spent the whole ride back to the Spire marveling at the idea that maybe, maybe Dalton Prestwick was a great guy after all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN TOM RETURNED to Alexander Division, he found that Vik had already been to their bunk and left a note on Tom’s bed: I suppose you fled to avoid the shame of defeat, but you’re going to pay up, sucker! Victory parade will be downstairs.
Tom braced himself for the face rubbing soon to follow and swung by Beamer’s room to see if he could get him out of bed for dinner.
“Beamer, want to—” Tom stopped.
Beamer’s bed had been stripped of covers. Right now, Olivia Ossare was packing up Beamer’s belongings in a suitcase: a couple journals, a picture of his girlfriend, some civilian clothes.
“Where’s Beamer?” Tom blurted.
“Hello, Tom.”
“Where is he?”
Olivia folded her hands and settled on the edge of Beamer’s bed. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No.” Tom stayed where he was. This was change. He’d just gotten used to the idea that things could stay the same for weeks on end, and now it was all going to get messed up again. He realized suddenly that he didn’t like change.
“Stephen’s having a very difficult time right now. He’s going to be evaluated for a few days to see whether he needs help.”