Tom and Nigel sat in silence as their car rolled toward their destination. Tom was too consumed by a mounting anxiety to really care that Nigel was glaring at him. They were heading to the same place as Elliot—the Capitol Building—just in a more secretive manner. Their identities and IPs hadn’t been leaked. Since their names were both state secrets, either of them could proxy Elliot. There was no risk of the Russo-Chinese embarrassing America by telling the whole world who the real pilot of Elliot’s ship was.

Their private car stopped by the Hart Senate Office Building. Tom sat frozen in his seat. The ride had gone by too quickly.

“You’re sweating, aren’t you?” Nigel said, relishing it.

“Shut up.” Tom shoved his way out of the car.

General Marsh waited inside the lobby for their arrival. “Good. Good. Come on, you two.” He hastened them through the metal detectors, which buzzed as they passed through, then across the marble hall to the elevators.

They piled into the members only elevator normally reserved for US senators and descended into the basement. Then they shuffled into a small, underground subway car. It charged down the tracks, whisking them toward the discreet, interior entrance into the Capitol Building.

The general surveyed Tom as the tracks thundered beneath them. “You two feeling ready?”

Nigel’s face twitched. It was his only answer, because he knew he wasn’t the one being asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m ready.” Tom was glad his voice didn’t shake.

Marsh led them through private passages in the lower floors of the Capitol to a hidden room beneath the Rotunda. It was long, narrow, and soundproof, with two chairs and a wall that doubled as a viewing screen of the massive dome in the middle of the Capitol Building.

Tom stared at the screen’s image of the place. The Rotunda was a cavernous room with an intricate painting ringing the top; statues, and oil paintings depicted scenes from eighteenth century American history. A crowd of onlookers milled throughout the room, their seats positioned around the central ring where Svetlana and Elliot would face off, a circular screen overhead ready to display the space battle.

“This is a private room where the two of you will stay. Here is the neural access port.” Marsh tapped briskly on a discreet nook in the wall. “I’m giving you the schematics for a satellite. It’s an antique. It’s been in orbit since the early days of the space program, and now we want it in a museum. This year, you’re competing with the Russo-Chinese Combatant to retrieve that satellite first. No missiles, no weapons. You have to be tricky to win this. The victor will be the one to grab it and deposit it on the lawn of the Smithsonian. Once the action begins, Ramirez will hook himself in. He hits the upper atmosphere, and then Mr. Harrison hooks in. You have two minutes to impress me, Harrison. Then Raines takes over.”

Nigel’s lips twisted. “Great. Two minutes to beat someone who has never been beaten before. What a fantastic opportunity that’s not rigged against me at all.”

Marsh looked at him. “Excuse me, young man?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Marsh turned around to face the screen and listed the identities of the Summit’s attendees as they strode in, men and women in suits worth more money than what most people made in a year or two.

“Take a look. These are the world’s power players.” He gestured at them with his thick forefinger. “You know President Milgram, Vice President Richter, and the Secretary of Defense, Jim Sienker. And talking to them, that’s—”

“Joseph Vengerov,” Tom said sourly.

“That’s right. Founder and CEO of Obsidian Corp. You two actually have Vengerov to thank for the neural processor technology.”

Tom had Vengerov to thank for his time as Dalton’s stooge. Not to mention Blackburn’s decision to fry his brain in the census device. His eyes scanned the crowd, and then he saw him—Lieutenant Blackburn in full dress uniform, at the very edge of the gathering. Watching Vengerov.

Tom shuddered. He had to win this.

“On Svetlana Moriakova’s side,” Marsh was saying, “you can see the South American, African, Chinese, Nordic, and Russian contingents. On Mr. Ramirez’s side, you’ll see some of our allies—the Indians, Europeans, Australians, Canadians. Ah, and those are representatives of the Coalition: the Russo-Chinese contingent: Lexicon Mobile, Harbinger, LM Lymer Fleet, Kronus Portable, Stronghold Energy, and Preeminent Communications. Over there, those are Indo-American allies on the Coalition, our power players: Obsidian, Nobridis, Wyndham Harks, Matchett-Reddy, Epicenter Manufacturing, and—”

“Dominion Agra,” Tom finished for him, bursting with hatred at the very sight of the tall, disdainful man striding into the crowd.

Amazing how the most powerful people in the world were gathered in the Rotunda, yet Dalton still looked at those around him like he owned them all.

“Good, son,” Marsh said. “You know your friends on the Coalition.”

No, he knew his enemies. And Tom knew Dalton was more his enemy than anyone from Russia or China. Determination filled him to the brim. He was going to win today. He had to. Just so he could stay in the Spire and rub it in Dalton’s face.

“I trust you two are old enough to handle yourselves in here,” Marsh told them. “If there’s a problem, send a message to Lieutenant Blackburn. He’s on standby in the crowd.”

“I didn’t bring a keyboard,” Tom said, wondering how Marsh could expect him to message Blackburn for help, of all people. If he broke all his bones and then caught on fire, he still wouldn’t ask for Blackburn to come and help him.

“Good thing I did,” Nigel replied, tugging back his sleeve to show Marsh.

Marsh nodded. “I’ll see you two after it’s over.”

After General Marsh left to join the summit, ordering them to pay attention and hook in as soon as the challenge began, Tom stood there in the isolated, hidden room with Nigel, watching the guests. Nigel didn’t bother. He just clicked and unclicked the neural wire into the access port in the wall, his slim legs jouncing restlessly.

Tom regarded his resentful face, his hooded expression. “You know, you may not believe it, but I need this a lot more than you do right now.”

“Really?” Nigel’s pale eyes flipped up to Tom’s. “So you had your last chance at Camelot Company taken away for the second time?”

Tom wasn’t sure what to say. He hoped Nigel wasn’t going to resist when he took control of the ship in space. Nigel was a small guy, and Tom didn’t feel right about the idea of punching him just to get the wire from him.

He’d do it, he just didn’t want to.

Activity in the Rotunda stirred on the screen. Nigel straightened. Tom turned to look. On the screen, the attendees of Capitol Summit fell silent. The only sound in the chamber with Nigel and Tom was the buzzing of the speakers, filtering voices in from the Rotunda. Elliot and the tall, blond Russian girl, Svetlana Moriakova, stepped toward each other and shook hands. Then they strode to stations outfitted with controllers, even steering wheels, to allow them to launch the ships themselves and complete the show that they were the ones piloting the ships in space. The public didn’t know about neural processors. They probably wouldn’t find the comalike stillness of a real Combatant all that exciting, after all.