Vortex (34 page)
“I’ll have to risk it,” she said softly. “I can’t leave. I’d lose everything.”
Tom realized it: nothing he could say would change her mind. Even if she took the threat as seriously as he did, she couldn’t bring herself to trust her fate to him, and Tom could understand that. He couldn’t imagine leaving the Spire willingly, casting himself into her world. And she’d never even betrayed him, not the way he’d once struck at her.
He let out a slow breath, and felt her arms sliding around him. He pulled her gently against him, caressing her silken hair, the strands fluttering as he breathed her in.
“Yaolan, huh?” His processor translated it. “Oily orchid?”
“
Shining
orchid.” She pulled back and tilted her chin up to meet his eyes. “How strange. We finally know each other’s names.”
His lips curved. “This relationship is moving so fast.”
Her eyes sparkled playfully. “I know. Hyperspeed. We need more space. China and the United States aren’t far enough apart.”
“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.
T
OM 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.”
T
OM
, V
IK, 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.
T
HERE 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.”
Karl’s big brow furrowed. His grip slipped away.
Tom straightened his collar and strode off into the Calisthenics Arena. He spotted the new Middles all returning their gear to the armory, and it was easy enough in the confusion for Tom to step in and don an exosuit, some optical camouflage, and a pair of centrifugal clamps.
Then he climbed to the very top of the Pentagonal Spire.
He stood up there on the roof. He was high enough now to glimpse the edges of a distant batch of skyboards glowing over Richmond, Virginia.
Tom delved in his pocket for the remote-access transmitter he’d already received for the upcoming vacation. He popped it onto his neck. He knew Medusa was incapacitated right now, incapable of hooking into the internet. More important, Vengerov knew it. Therefore the man who stood at the nexus of the security state, the man behind the surveillance and the drones and the secrecy who held together the world as it was, would realize Yaolan couldn’t possibly be the one who did what Tom was about to do.
If the Coalition executives thought Elliot Ramirez’s blasting all the skyboards in the middle of nowhere, Texas, was incendiary during Capitol Summit, if they saw them as a spark that could ignite something bigger, then Tom was about to give them an inferno.
He dove out of himself into the central subsystem controlling all the skyboards across the Western Hemisphere, and planted the code he’d written, moving from one hub to another. He jolted back into himself as the skyboards in the distance lit with the image he programmed for them, casting bright, white light across the landscape beneath them. Then he accessed the DHS server, the surveillance feeds, watching the images of people in cities all over the Western Hemisphere stopping in the streets, staring up at the skyboards. In every city, the walls of skyboards had gone blank of advertisements. Now they displayed stark black text trumpeting Tom’s challenge:
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE
IS WATCHING
THE WATCHERS
Tom let that sit there, gazing into the distance where the skyboards beamed down the message tailored for Joseph Vengerov and the entire security state with its web of surveillance and control. Here was something they did not control. Here was something they had not seen coming.
He gave Joseph Vengerov enough time to call up his techs, to shout into the phone that he wanted the transmission traced. Just enough time to understand the girl he’d incapacitated in China wasn’t the internet entity he’d been hunting.
There you go, Vengerov. Here’s your ghost in the Machine,
Tom thought vindictively.
Now come and get me. Give it a shot.
And then the next phase of Tom’s virus triggered. The screens grew brighter and brighter, power spiking until they overloaded and erupted in haloes of debris, scattering fragments of skyboard like a curtain across the sky.
A soaring feeling swept through Tom. He knew he’d done something significant. He knew it could change everything, but he’d never before felt so right, like this was exactly what he was meant to do, exactly why he was here.
The plume of destruction spread over the land before thinning away. Soon there was no sign the Coalition of Multinationals had ever blocked the sky. When night came, all that was visible was the endless universe of stars.
M
Y GRATITUDE TO:
Mom, for being my strength, and Dad, for being on my team. Rob, for all the help with the real world stuff that sometimes eludes me.
Betsey, Stella, Maddie, Gracie, Matt.
Jamie and Jessica, my two best friends.
Judy and the Persoffs, the Hattens, Barb and the Anticevich family, all the friends who have bought the book just because I wrote it—you guys are the best!
To the booksellers and librarians who have introduced readers to my books and advocated for them. I owe you all a debt.
Juli, Helen, Caroline, Stephanie, Jillian, and all the bloggers who have supported the Insignia series from the start.
Molly O’Neill and the KT Books team. I’m very lucky in having such a fantastic and patient editor.
David Dunton and the Harvey Klinger Literary Agency as well as its subagents. Thank you for all the support and advice!
Kassie, Drew, Zander, and the folks at 20th Century Fox who optioned
Insignia
.
To Hot Key Books, Egmont, Goldman, and my foreign publishers, translators, and editors.
To Veronica Roth, Dan Wells, Aprilynne Pike, and Rae Carson, for all the wisdom you guys have shared.
To Derek Webber at SpaceX for answering a random writer’s questions about suborbital planes.
To Brother Guy Consolmagno, for helping me figure out how to minimize my violation of causality.
To NASA, for looking forward.
And last, but certainly not least, to the readers who have made this all worth it. Thank you so much!
S. J. KINCAID
was born in Alabama, grew up in California, and attended high school in New Hampshire. She also interned for a politician in Washington, DC, and received degrees from universities in Illinois and Ohio, but it was while living beside a haunted graveyard in Edinburgh, Scotland, that she realized she wanted to be a writer. Several years, several manuscripts, and several jobs later, Ms. Kincaid now lives in Chicago, and
Vortex
is her second novel in the Insignia trilogy. You can visit her online at www.sjkincaid.com.
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