“There is nothing in the world you can do to change my mind.”

“Of course. Of course. Just take a look at something. That’s all I’m asking.”

The limo slid to a stop. Dalton waited for the driver to come back, as though opening a car door was too lowly a task for him. Tom jerked open the door himself and clambered out. Dalton rose behind him, then left the door open for the driver to close. They were standing on a shaded street, the humid air clinging to the lush trees around them. Tom could see the dome of the Capitol Building looming in the distance.

There was an unmarked door to a derelict building. It had a sign hanging on it: SECURITY ON PREMISES.

“Come on, Tom.” Dalton tapped the sign. “This means it’s open today. When Beware of Dog is up, it’s closed. Very suburban middle-class, eh? Our private joke.”

Ugh. That was it. He wanted to be gone.

Dalton dipped into the stairwell and his footsteps echoed down. Tom looked around the street, but he didn’t see a Metro stop or even a taxi. He let out a breath and slogged down the stairs after him. He’d take one look at whatever Dalton wanted to show him, then he’d get a ride straight back to his friends.

The farther downward they walked into the guts of the building, the more doors they passed through and the nicer the stairs became. They went from creaky old wood to marble, the doors from scuffed plaster to carved oak. At the bottom of the staircase, Dalton leaned in for a retina scan. The wall panel lit up, and a steel portcullis creaked up to let them into the room beyond.

They emerged into a vast chamber with a polished glass bar, a vast screen on the ceiling and walls projecting an image of a sprawling green landscape, and scattered tables with privacy alcoves encircling them, the shadowy forms of people conferring within them.

Dalton encompassed it all with a wave of his hand. “This is the Beringer Club, Tom. This is where the elite come to relax in Washington, DC. The political class, members of the Coalition when they’re in town, foreign ambassadors, and those world power players you may not have even heard of. Essentially, the top one percent of the top one percent. And you’re welcome to come here now. As a recruit for the Spire, you have a Challenge Coin, don’t you?”

Tom delved into his pocket and pulled out the coin stamped with US Intrasolar Forces.

Dalton tapped it with an elegant finger. “This is your access pass here. Whenever you want to come here, you can feel free. Anything you want here, you can ask them to secure and I’ll foot the bill. It’s on me. Consider this the first of many chances to mingle with the right people.”

“I’m more of a wrong-people type of guy,” Tom remarked, glancing around. Signs directed people toward luxuries offered by the place: a sauna, tennis courts, a spa, and other stuff Tom was not the least bit interested in.

He turned to tell Dalton this, but then caught sight of the VR panel on a distant wall.

Dalton chuckled. “Ah, and that, of course. Those are for children of US congressmen. We get a few from the Spire here sometimes. That’s why there are private rooms with VR access. Even neural processor ports.”

“What? I can hook in here?”

“Some of Camelot Company come here all the time. They like the privacy. Every transmission in the Spire is monitored. Rather cramps your style if you’re, say, meeting a girlfriend or exploring certain sims.” He leaned closer, leering. “I remember being a teenage boy, after all.”

Tom got the implication and didn’t appreciate the seedy smile on Dalton’s face. This is the guy dating my mother, he thought, disgusted.

“And you’re setting me up with this out of the goodness of your heart?”

“That’s right,” Dalton answered. “I like to think an act of generosity begets another.”

In other words, he wanted Tom to come here, rack up a debt, and feel obligated to pay it back, probably with interest. Tom glanced back toward the access port room. He supposed it might be useful having some nonmonitored means of hooking himself into the internet, but he didn’t know. Something about this place gave him the creeps. Between the lack of windows, the shadowed forms speaking in muted voices within the privacy alcoves, and the steel bars of the portcullis, it struck him as something much more malevolent than a club for rich guys.

“All right, thanks for showing me. I’m gonna head back up now.”

But Dalton waved down one of the large employees of the joint, a guy with a crew cut and huge neck. “Hayden, can you show Mr. Raines the private neural access port? Then he’ll want a ride back to the Pentagon.”

The man, Hayden, nodded.

Tom, irritated, followed the large man. “I don’t need a ride. I can find the Metro.”

The big man stepped aside so Tom could go into the private neural access parlor. Tom gave it a cursory glance. Yeah, it was nice. Nicer than the Spire with its makeshift cots—here they were reclining loungers that he’d bet cost a regular guy’s yearly salary.

“It’s great. Now I’d better—”

But Hayden was moving forward, his sheer bulk making Tom stumble into the room. He was like a walking wall or something. And when Tom tried to shove away from him, he found himself being manhandled toward the recliner.

“Wait, wait,” Tom bellowed at the man, fighting his grip. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Dalton appeared in the doorway over his shoulder. “Do you need another pair of arms, Hayden? I can call someone over.”

“I’ve got him.” Hayden squashed Tom into the recliner so hard he couldn’t breathe. And then a meaty grip bruised his chin before Tom could jerk his head away. Tom kicked out at Hayden and it felt like kicking a wall for all the effect it had. Something familiar poked at the back of his neck. Then the wire clicked into his brain stem.

Tom’s vision tunneled, sensation drained out of his limbs. It was like hooking in during applied sims, but Tom didn’t sink into some other world. There was no sim running to slip into. The familiar paralyzing of his muscles, the dimming of his senses. Hayden flipped him onto his back. Terror clawed inside Tom’s chest. What were they doing to him?

Hayden released him. Tom forced his eyelids open. “What’s—what’s …”

“Should I begin, sir?” Hayden’s voice was low and rumbling.

“Get it ready,” Dalton said. “The boy’s being uncooperative, so work on that first. Some behavior modification to start.” He leaned forward to see what Hayden was typing. “Yes, the primer. That one. That’ll be about four hours?”

“Approximately. And that’s all I’d recommend installing for now. You don’t want him to disappear for too long.”

“Fine. We can upload more when he’s back in the Spire. I have someone I can use there. And be sure to plant a compulsion to return next week for another package of software.”

Tom felt a spike of panic and tried to move, tried to lash out. He couldn’t. “Dalton, what are you doing to me?”

Dalton pulled a cigar out of his pocket. “You always call me ‘Dalton.’ It betrays a lack of respect. From now on, it’ll be ‘Mr. Prestwick.’”

“Let me go, Dalton, or I’ll kill you!”

Dalton lit the cigar, the point of light cutting through the dimness. Wheels squeaked over to Tom’s side, someone rolling in a chair for Dalton. He settled down by Tom’s side and crossed his legs. “No need to panic. This won’t hurt.” A negligent shrug. “Or so I’m told.”