“One of us has to move to Neptune, then.”
She leaned very close, then whispered, “Not me.”
Tom drew her into a kiss, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the world, just Medusa . . . Yaolan. And he never wanted to let her go.
But Tom didn’t like to fool himself, and he couldn’t passively accept doom. He pulled back from her, dread saturating his every pore, knowing there was a way he could fix this. He could save her. There was one way. Only one. He’d been willing to walk out into the snow in Antarctica for her. He was willing to do this now, even if she never forgave him for it.
“I’m sorry, Yaolan,” he whispered.
A shadow passed over her face. “Sorry?”
Tom stared right into her eyes and thought out the trigger phrase, I’ll never do this to her.
For one instant, he saw the confusion clouding her eyes as Vengerov’s computer virus swarmed into her processor, and Tom had a last, fleeting glimpse of her in that moment of stark and terrible betrayal. Then her avatar dissolved from the simulation along with her, leaving him alone in the emptiness.
TOM SAT RESTLESSLY in the restaurant flipping a quarter from cybernetic finger to finger as Vengerov sipped a glass of wine and replayed the clip of Tom using the virus. Tom had downloaded it with the census device, cutting out everything but those final moments. Then he contacted Vengerov and arranged to hand the evidence over, feeling like a schmuck giving an offering to some pagan deity. Vengerov certainly accepted in that spirit, summoning Tom to one of his many properties, no surprise on his face, like it was his due tribute from some lowly plebian.
When he’d replayed the clip to his satisfaction, he balanced the neural chip between two fingers, assessing Tom over it. “I’m very pleased with you, Mr. Raines. Just when I began to suspect I’d have to send someone else to do the job, you came through for me after all. I’ve received reports from the Citadel confirming your story. I’m glad to see with my own eyes that it’s true. Well done.”
There was nothing vindictive in his tone. He wasn’t holding a grudge against Tom for making him wait. Nothing like that. Just satisfaction that he’d finally coerced Tom into doing as he ordered.
Tom remembered his brief dip into Vengerov’s mind, the way Vengerov felt no fear at the intrusion, no anxiety. That would be the natural, human reaction and Vengerov didn’t have it. He’d felt anticipation, a sense of challenge, a desire to have, to control, to possess, and Tom found himself wondering whether it was Vengerov’s personal neural processor that rendered him so inhuman, or if he’d been born that way.
“Tell me,” Vengerov said silkily, “after all this time, what is it that changed your mind?”
“I guess you could say, I learned my lesson,” Tom said simply.
Vengerov smiled, satisfaction in his angular face. He obviously believed Tom was referring to the day he’d almost killed him: when he’d tried to show Tom that he was powerless, that he could be destroyed with a whim.
But Tom was really thinking of Elliot and Capitol Summit. Only Elliot could have spoken those words to hundreds of millions of people. Only Elliot could have gotten away with such open defiance, because no one had ever seen it coming from him. Only the guy who’d cooperated and compromised for so long could have pulled off that attack on the Coalition in front of the entire world. Elliot had taught Tom something, too.
“Out of curiosity,” Vengerov spoke, “what do you intend to call yourself when you’re a Combatant?”
When. Not “if.” Tom knew what this was: Vengerov assuring him he’d receive his payoff for a job well done . . . just in case Vengerov wanted to make use of him again in the future. It made Tom’s stomach boil, but he kept his face carefully neutral and answered, “I don’t know yet. I change my mind all the time.”
“Ah. Then what is it today?”
Tom gazed at the oligarch at the center of the security state, perhaps the most powerful man in the world, sitting at the table with that secret processor in his skull, wineglass in hand.
Then Tom smiled.
“Cyanide.”
TOM, VIK, AND Wyatt agreed not to tell Yuri about their escapade in Obsidian Corp. If Yuri saw Joseph Vengerov, it would be easier for him not having to lie about anything. Vik insisted that ignorance could be bliss.
The day Yuri was able to walk unaided, Tom, Vik, and Wyatt made sure to steer him to the Lafayette Room. When promotions were announced, they all watched his face as the final plebe name was called out: “Yuri Sysevich. Congratulations to all the new Middles.”
Yuri sat there without moving a single muscle, his blue eyes wide, one hand frozen midair where he’d idly reached over to caress Wyatt’s hair. Tom and Vik sniggered at the sheer astonishment on his face, and Wyatt snagged Yuri’s hand and kissed it. “Congratulations, Middle.”
Yuri still seemed to be trying to rouse from his dream as Vik’s name was announced—no surprise—and then came the real shock for the others at the end of the list of new Uppers.
“. . . and Thomas Raines.”
Tom had thirsted for this chance for a year. He had. But when his friends’ heads all swung around to stare at him, he felt a dark sort of uneasiness, knowing he’d been promoted at Vengerov’s behest, rewarded for betraying Medusa. Again.
Yuri clapped his shoulder, Wyatt ruffled his hair, and Vik gave him a playful shove. But Tom couldn’t even fake a smile.
THERE WAS ONE person decidedly unhappy about Tom’s promotion. Tom deliberately showed up late to his last Monday in Middle-Level Calisthenics so he wouldn’t get swept into the workout routine with the others. Karl ambushed him right outside the Calisthenics Arena and shoved him against the wall.
“How’d you do it, Benji?” he snapped, sour breath flaring in Tom’s nostrils.
Tom shoved him away. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Do you have something on General Marsh?” Karl’s voice blasted at him, his big, jowled face twisted with anger and hatred. “I know for a fact you were blacklisted!”
In the past, Tom might’ve found it funny, the redness flushing Karl’s face, the big hands clenched into shaking fists. Now he felt oddly detached. This was a waste of his time.
“Guess I’m not blacklisted anymore,” Tom said.
“Well.” Karl jabbed a big finger at Tom’s chest. Hard. “I’m not gonna let you waltz into CamCo, if that’s what you think. I’ll fight you every step of the way.”
Tom considered this situation carefully, because he was very certain Elliot had pointed out exactly which wires to snip to defuse this bomb.
“Okay,” Tom said. “You do that.”
“What, that’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
Tom swiped his hand through his hair. “Hey, you wanna stomp me. I get it. You never stop trying. I’ve gotta give you points for determination.” He turned away and moved toward the Calisthenics Arena, but Karl’s big hand landed on his shoulder, yanking him back around.
“What sort of game are you playing here, Fido? Whatever it is, it’s not going to work!”
Tom was morbidly fascinated. He’d swear, Karl looked more upset right now than if Tom was insulting him. “No game,” he said, deliberately mild. “I’m being completely honest here, Karl. I respect your tenacity. I give you props for that.”