Tom lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, utterly stunned. No way. No way, no way. Could Neil have found out somehow? Had he come? How was it possible?

Report to the lobby to serve as parental escort, came a follow-up ping.

Tom leaped up from his bed, shoved his hair into something resembling a decent state, and then headed for the elevators. Neil was really here? He smoothed down his hair again, his every nerve jumping inside him.

It occurred to Tom after the elevator was sweeping downward that it might not be his father.

It might be his mother.

No. Impossible. It wasn’t something she did. He’d visited her that time Neil was sentenced to sixty days in jail. She’d stared at him, amazed, as though she couldn’t believe such an ugly creature came from her. She hadn’t hugged him—and he hadn’t hugged her. They’d probably said three words to each other.

And then her boyfriend, Dalton, showed up with a rent-a-cop toting a retina scanner, and demanded, “Are you all right, Delilah?” As though Tom would travel all the way across the country just to hurt his own mother.

Even after the scanner verified Tom’s identity, Dalton planted himself in the apartment, watching Tom’s every move suspiciously, like he was certain Tom’d only visited so he could burn the building down. His mother sent her maid out to rent a VR set for him, and then left somewhere with Dalton, and didn’t return again. Tom didn’t bother waiting for her when Neil got an early release. He left her a note and headed back to his only real family—his dad.

He felt like he was in a strange dream when he emerged, threading through the masses of parents. He spotted Vik and his sari-wearing mother, and trailed to a halt, fighting the absurd impulse to enlist backup.

And then he really saw Vik, and noticed the way Vik’s mother was smoothing down the shoulders of his uniform and saying in Hindi, “… still don’t know why you wanted to come all the way overseas when you could have trained in Bombay.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” Vik replied, “I have a much better chance of being a Combatant if I train in America. There’s a lot more funding over here.”

“Are they feeding you enough, Vikram? You look skinny!” She switched to heavily accented English: “I should have brought you a home-cooked meal. Are you still having tummy troubles?”

“Mom!” Vik cried.

She switched back to Hindi. “I just want to—Is that boy laughing at us?”

Tom fought to smother his laughter. Vik’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. He doesn’t speak Hindi, so he doesn’t understand us.”

Tom was getting a real kick out of Vik’s torment. When Vik’s mother wasn’t looking, Vik made a strangling motion and mouthed, “Kill you.” Tom patted his stomach and mouthed, “Tummy troubles,” back at him. Then he darted farther into the crowd before Vik’s mom could notice him again.

He passed Beamer with his parents and his loudmouthed little redheaded sister.

“Show us guns, Stephen!”

“It’s not allowed, Crissy, I told you …”

He also spotted Yuri at the edge of the crowd with a tall, light-haired man with such pale eyebrows, they blended into his forehead. Tom guessed that was his father. They weren’t moving at all, just standing at a careful distance from each other, speaking too quietly for any words to reach Tom’s ears.

In a back corner beneath the dip of the eagle’s wings, Tom passed Wyatt, sitting ramrod stiff, her arms folded across her torso. Her mother, a toothpick-thin woman with tumbling dark curls, was hanging back at several feet’s distance looking her over like a piece of artwork she didn’t want to buy. “… just can’t get over how tall you are now. I thought for sure you were done growing. Look at her! She’s taller than you, George.”

Her husband, a squat man lounging indolently in a nearby chair, glanced over and gave a hearty laugh. “First glance, I wondered if I should call you ‘my son,’ Wyatt. What’s with all these muscles, anyway?” He grabbed her bicep and shook her arm jokingly. “Guess you came here to be some girl Rambo?”

Wyatt reclaimed her arm and hugged it to her chest. “Physical fitness is part of being here. I can’t help it if I’m getting muscles.”

And just beyond Wyatt’s parents, Tom picked out a lone man gazing up toward the eagle. Then it all made sense. This was his visitor.

Of course. Of course. What had he really expected?

Tom smirked, feeling like an idiot. He closed the distance, eager to get this over with.

“This is for family only. What are you doing here, Dalton?”

Like the last time Tom saw him, Dalton Prestwick had gelled hair, a smarmy smirk, and a crisp suit. He spotted Tom and tilted his chin a bit so Tom had to look higher to meet his eyes. He wished he’d hit six feet so this guy could never look down on him again.

“I was in the area, and your mother signed a waiver for me to be your guest instead of her,” Dalton informed him. “Quite a place you’ve got here. How you holding up, sport?”

Tom’s hands curled into fists. He was honestly tempted to laugh, because he felt so stupid for even thinking one of his parents might visit him. “Just tell me what you want.”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed, the pretense of civility dropping off his face. “That’s no way to talk to me, little punk.”

There it was. That was the real Dalton.

Dalton sighed and looked away from him. “I’m here with some colleagues of mine. Joseph Vengerov, over there”—he nodded toward the man with Yuri. Not Yuri’s father, then. “I used to work for him. The other’s off in the crowd somewhere. Mike Marsters. A retired coworker. His son’s here. The boy’s named Karl.”

Tom laughed. He couldn’t help it. It figured that a business partner of Dalton’s would father a great guy like Karl.

“They were coming here, so I thought I’d swing by and check on you. It about knocked my socks off when I heard you were here. Never thought you’d make something of yourself.”

“I know what this is about. You’re playing nice with me so you can get a good look at the Spire. And if you think I’m going to be your ticket inside, forget it.” Tom turned to leave.

“Uh-uh.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Tom threw it off and whirled around. “What?”

Dalton’s voice dropped to an intent whisper. “Listen up, kid. I don’t think you understand the politics of this place. Who do you think has a chance of making it here? Of joining Camelot Company?”

Tom regarded him intently, wondering if Dalton knew something he did not.

“You need sponsors. Corporate sponsors to back your bid.”

“I know that.”

“Well, who do you think put the nail in the coffin of that Nigel Harrison kid’s bid for Camelot Company? I did, on behalf of Dominion Agra.”

“You nixed Nigel?”

But it made sense. It must have been Dalton. Trainee identities were classified. The process of advancing to CamCo was classified. There was no other way Dalton could know about how Nigel got nominated for Camelot Company, then shot down in a matter of days when it became clear he was never going to find any sponsors from the Coalition to back up his bid. Rumor had it, various company reps wrote to the Defense Committee and deemed him “flat, charmless, and uninspiring.” None of the companies wanted him affiliated with them.