“In fact, I really only dropped by to give you some friendly advice, sport.”

“Save your breath. There is nothing you could say to me that I care about.”

“Oh, I think you should hear this.” Dalton circled around behind him, so Tom would’ve had to twist and look like an idiot to keep him in sight. Instead, he glared straight ahead at the one-way mirror as Dalton planted his hands on his shoulders.

“You see, you are Delilah’s son, and I know that old man of yours isn’t going to point your compass in the right direction—”

“Oh please. You’re not pointing any compass for me. And we agreed that you never talk about my dad again.”

“I feel a sense of obligation. After all, you didn’t just cross Dominion Agra executives, you crossed a group of very powerful people with the ears of very powerful friends. People talk, people spread information about various trainees, people give each other a heads-up about whether or not some kid is an insolent little punk who needs to learn some manners.”

A sour smile curled Tom’s lips. “Yeah, an insolent little punk who was the only person, ever, to beat the greatest fighter on the Russo-Chinese side at Capitol Summit. I really appreciate your concern for my reputation, Dalton, but I think I’ll get by somehow.”

Dalton’s eyes met his in the mirror. “Have you heard what happens to trainees who don’t qualify for Combatant status?”

Tom blinked, thrown by the reminder. The Intrasolar forces were young, but he knew there were trainees who couldn’t get sponsors. Some stuck around and kept trying; others gave up and went elsewhere—other government agencies, other types of positions at Coalition companies. Nigel Harrison tried to blow up the Pentagonal Spire and kill everyone, but he was the exception.

“What about them?” Tom said reluctantly.

Dalton straightened up, tugging the cuffs of his shirt. “The neural processor makes them valuable, so they get jobs pretty easily. But the catch is, most of those positions require a certain, shall we say, reliability. Anything with a Coalition company requires an unsullied reputation. You don’t have that. As for a government position, well . . . you’ll need to obtain a security clearance. Known terrorists”—he said the word almost playfully—“don’t tend to qualify.”

Tom understood it. “So that’s why I’m on the terror watch list. Someone thinks they’re gonna sabotage me down the road, huh? Well, joke’s on them, because if I don’t make Combatant, I’ll strike out on my own, no problem. I can get by.”

Dalton made a show of wincing on his behalf. “Actually, champ, that’s not an option for you. Once you have the processor”—he tapped his temple beneath his gelled hair—“you have to stay in the fold. If the Coalition doesn’t want you, and the government can’t clear you, you still do have two options. There are many agencies that would love to research you, so you could always be a glorified lab rat. . . .”

Tom’s mouth went dry.

“And then there’s that other agency, the one that always presses for trainees. The National Security Agency. Who do you think scooped up that Nigel Harrison boy?”

Tom felt a jerk in his gut. “He’s with the NSA? But he’s not even American.”

Dalton gave an oily chuckle. “No one who matters in this world cares about countries or nationalities.”

“Nigel tried to blow up the Spire!”

“Oh, never fear, Tom: he’s probably nowhere near the same person you remember. That’s why I think the National Security Agency would even have you. The agency’s renowned for their ability to manipulate and control computers.”

Anger scorched Tom’s chest. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe there’s an entire agency of people who’d reprogram a human being like you and Joseph Vengerov would.”

“There may come a day when you start to believe that, and you realize I really was acting in your best interests, and you feel terrible about your rank ingratitude toward me.” Dalton rocked back on his heels, taking visible pleasure in his words. “When that day comes, I want you to know, you can call my assistant and ask for an appointment. If you visit, and you show proper respect and call me Mr. Prestwick, and maybe . . . hmm, I don’t know, get on your knees and beg me very nicely to give you another chance, I might consider it.” He winked. “Might. No guarantees anymore, champ.”

“Yeah,” Tom agreed sarcastically, “maybe I’ll do that, but before that day comes, there’ll be a day when I tear my own eyes out and eat them. See, I’d do that before I would ever get on my knees and beg you for anything. Or get on my knees for anyone—you know, the way you did me, Dalton. At the Beringer Club.”

Dalton turned so red at the reminder that Tom cheered up. Dalton’s distress almost made this whole visit worth it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TIME CRAWLED BY as Tom sat there, and finally he decided he wasn’t going to let himself be tied to a chair while Dalton went somewhere and drank a martini. They wanted him tied up, then let them find him and drag him back; no more sitting and waiting. A sense of daring swept over Tom, and his heart picked up a beat as he contemplated the glorious feat ahead.

It could work. It could totally work.

He rocked forward to balance on his toes, chair lifted up behind him, and threw himself forward in a flip. The lights of the interrogation room whipped before his eyes, and a terrific jolt carried straight up his tailbone to his shoulder, a violent clattering throbbing his ears as the chair splintered beneath him.

Naturally, that was the moment the door to the hallway popped open, and Elliot Ramirez strolled in. He stopped in his tracks, gaping at the sight of Tom on the ground, the remains of the chair around him. “Tom, what are you doing?”

Tom tugged at the handcuffs, still tangled with the broken chair digging into his back. Unfortunately, the back of the chair was still intact—and he was still handcuffed to it. “Trying to do something really, really awesome.” He smiled sheepishly. “It works better in video games.”

ELLIOT WAS ONE of the few people who knew what Tom had done at the Beringer Club. Maybe that’s why he’d thought to swing by Dominion Agra to check on how Tom was doing there. Elliot made the decision to take Tom over to the Nobridis meeting site early rather than leave him in the holding cell.

They sat there in the lobby of what was apparently the tallest building in the world, in the middle of Dubai, drinking incredibly strong coffee. Tom asked Elliot about what Dalton had told him. “Does the Coalition get to dictate what we do from now on? If none of the companies want me and I don’t have the security clearance for government work, I can’t walk away?”

Elliot rubbed his head. “In theory, no, the military doesn’t own us unless we enlist, and the Coalition has no say either. In practice? We have computers of theirs, computers only they can repair. Right now. That gives them a certain power over us. You simply have to accept it.” He was silent a moment. Then, “I take it you haven’t heard about what happened with me.”

“Something happened with you?”

Elliot shrugged. “Two years ago, I was already pretty well known. Going on TV, doing internet ads, acting in commercials, that sort of thing. I also met someone. Private Hendricks was a year older than me, and needless to say, we were very fond of each other.” An edge crept into his voice. “That’s when I suppose you could say I encountered the downside of my role here. I was informed definitively that, even if I was technically a civilian, I wasn’t allowed to risk my ‘carefully crafted public persona’ by carrying on with my relationship, and I was to terminate it immediately. As for Private Hendricks, he was reassigned.”