Vortex by S. J. Kincaid
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.”
Tom felt a flicker of surprise for a moment, but then it was gone. Actually, no, he wasn’t so surprised.
“Needless to say, I wasn’t happy. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, and I resented the order to pretend to be someone I’m not. If the Coalition was going to dictate my feelings to me, then I decided I would quit.” Tension lined his voice. “And then I was told that wasn’t my decision either.”
“What? They told you no? They can’t do that.”
“The way they phrased it, it was more of a warning.” Elliot leaned toward him, elbows on his knees. “You see, Tom, they don’t own us, but the fact is, there is no one outside Obsidian Corp. and the military who can work these computers.” He pointed to his own head. “It became very clear to me that if I dared to leave, not only would I find no help for any future malfunctions, but my likelihood of a serious malfunction in the near future would greatly increase.”
Outrage exploded in Tom. “So it’s basically a death threat! Elliot, you should blow them off. Do what you want. Leave. Do it publicly enough, then the Coalition won’t mess with you. Everyone would know it was them. If they didn’t, I swear, man, I’ll go on the internet and tell everyone.”
“The world’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“I actually do have—well, I had a plan. My actions had to be regulated because I was the most prominent CamCo. So as soon as the others were public, I planned to help someone else assume the center seat, so to speak. I’d become less valuable, and as long as I never enlisted, I’d get to go on my way. There was someone I had in mind, but as it turned out, she was a bit too aggressive about claiming the spotlight.”
“Heather?” Tom guessed.
Elliot’s mouth quirked. “I knew she could take my place easily. She’s lovely, and people are fascinated by her, and she always knows exactly what she should say. She’s a born politician, Tom. I suppose the problem is that she ultimately is a born politician. You can’t trust her, and at the end of the day, she’ll advance herself at any cost. Even if it comes back to haunt her.”
AS THE ELEVATOR rose, taking Tom and Elliot up to the receiving chamber for Prince Abhalleman, the CEO of Nobridis, Elliot gave Tom some quick advice. “He’s very traditional. Remember, he’s royalty back in his own country.”
Tom was confused. “He doesn’t have a country. It got neutron bombed. All the people got killed.”
“The landmass is still there, so technically, yes, it’s his country. The entire royal family’s still intact.”
“Nice of them to leave their subjects to die.”
“They weren’t their subjects at the time of the neutron bombing. They’d been overthrown.”
“So they’re not really a royal family anymore.”
“After the neutron bombings, they became royalty again. Dominion Agra and Harbinger Incorporated agreed to reinstate them.”
How convenient for them, Tom thought. They’d gotten overthrown, then their former subjects all died, so they got their throne back.
Prince Hanreid Abhalleman had them escorted into his presence chamber. Tom was planning to go last, but Elliot volunteered him to go earlier—he said it was a “ripping off the Band-Aid” approach. Tom was marched in before the prince in his traditional robes. The prince waited expectantly.
“He wants you to bow,” Elliot whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Tom stayed rigid. Elliot hadn’t warned him about this part.
“Bow,” Elliot urged softly, and all the eyes in the room were on them now.
But Tom couldn’t. He didn’t bow to people, and he shouldn’t have to—this guy wasn’t his overlord. Bowing would make this guy feel he was better than him, he was superior, and Tom wasn’t going to do that. All Prince Abhalleman had was more money and power and a sense he was owed something. That was it.
Two menacing guards flanked the prince, holding scimitars, so Tom couldn’t march up and offer the prince a handshake like he preferred. Since bowing was out of the question, Tom settled with giving the prince a thumbs-up. “Nice to meet you, man.”
“I HAD NO idea that was like a middle finger in his country,” Tom confessed to his friends later as they crowded into the elevator from the Interstice into Epicenter Manufacturing’s facility. He was still a bit shaken from the way the prince’s guards had all descended on him, waving scimitars and screaming for his blood for offending their monarch. It seemed kind of like an overreaction to him. If Elliot hadn’t stepped in, he wasn’t sure what would’ve happened. Elliot was still back at Nobridis, smoothing things over.
Tom was intent on staying out of trouble when they reached India and ascended into the vast complex owned by Epicenter Manufacturing.
Two more companies. Tom swallowed hard. He only had two more chances here. He dared not screw up again.
WYATT GAVE TOM some solemn advice on the ride up. “I’ve found there’s one surefire way to avoid offending people. Just don’t talk. At all. Don’t say a word. Make sure people don’t even notice you’re there. Then you’ll never offend anyone.” She gave a crisp nod. “I haven’t said a single word anywhere we’ve been. Have you noticed that? It’s worked out great.”
They found themselves on the top floor of an octagonal tower, with windowed walls that gazed on to the roofs of massive factories and toward the distant mountains of Kashmir. The nighttime landscape was lit by the glow of a single skyboard, stark against the dark sky: EPICENTER: The heart of the world economy! Glasses were stacked in a massive champagne pyramid by the widow, and violinists played discr
The CEO of Epicenter, Pandita Rumpfa, moved through the trainees alongside Epicenter’s sponsored Combatants. She examined their faces, sometimes having an assistant snap a photo of them.
When it was their turn, Pandita consulted a pocket-sized computer. “Ah. You’d be Ms. Enslow. Lift your chin a bit so I can see your face.”
Wide-eyed, Wyatt raised her chin.
Pandita consulted her computer. “So Ms. Enslow, tell me why Epicenter should take an interest in you. What strengths do you bring to the table?”
Wyatt didn’t say anything. Her eyes grew very wide, and she was doing that strange fishlike face again. A pained noise like a whine began to emit from her sealed lips. Tom felt mounting alarm on her behalf. Her no-talking strategy was going to backfire this time.
Pandita’s assistant murmured in her ear, and Pandita shook her head. “No photo of this one.”
Tom had to say something. “Wyatt’s great with machines. And math. She’s too modest to say it.”
Pandita’s eyes found Tom. “And you.” She beamed at him. “I know you. I enjoyed that tour of the Pentagonal Spire you gave my colleagues and me several months back. I recall you being a very charming and well-spoken young man.”
Tom remembered that tour. It was back when Dalton Prestwick reprogrammed him and he’d morphed into a pathetic little suck-up for a whole month. He’d been so very eager then to make connections that he’d even volunteered to lead a tour of business leaders through the Pentagonal Spire.
“Uh, thanks. That wasn’t really . . . Yeah.” Tom wasn’t sure what else to say.
Pandita frowned a bit, obviously perplexed by how much less charming and well-spoken Tom was now, but she beckoned with a finger for her assistant to snap a photo of his face. As she moved on to other trainees, Wyatt turned on Tom. “You talked! You’re not supposed to talk.”
“Wyatt, if neither of us had talked, she would’ve thought that there was something very wrong with us.”
“Yes!” She gave an eager nod. “But you know what she wouldn’t have been? Offended.”
Confused, Tom began to hover by a distant window, trying to be inconspicuous, imitating the way Wyatt hovered by an opposite window, also trying to be inconspicuous.
Then Vik appeared at his shoulder. “Why are you skulking here? You look like you’re plotting something.”
“I’m not plotting or skulking. I’m taking Wyatt’s advice and lying low.”
Vik’s eyes shot wide with horror. He grabbed Tom’s shoulders. “By God, Doctor, what are you doing?”
Tom’s brow furrowed. “I told you—”
“You are taking advice about how to deal with people from Wyatt Enslow.”
“But I just—”
“Let me rephrase: you are taking advice about how to deal with people from Wyatt Enslow.” Then Vik waited, letting that sink in this time.
It hit Tom. “Oh no, what am I doing? It’s like I want to sabotage myself.”
Vik nodded. “Never fear, Gormless Cretin. Now I am here.”
“That doesn’t sound promising, man.”
Vik cuffed the back of his head. “You need to learn the fine art of schmoozing. Just repeat after me: ‘I agree.’”
Tom pressed his lips together. Vik cleared his throat.
“I agree,” Tom grumbled.
“Right you are,” Vik said, then waited for Tom to say it.
“Right you are.”
“You stagger me with your knowledge.”
“Come on,” Tom said. When Vik raised his eyebrows, he said, “Fine, you stagger me with your knowledge.”
“Okay, now let’s give some context for these statements. Hmm. I say, ‘Vikram Ashwan is ten times the gamer Tom Raines is.’ You say . . .” Vik raised his eyebrows.
“Vikram Ashwan is ten times the gamer Tom Raines is . . . in his own sad, delusional mind.”
“Young Thomas, that is not what you are supposed to say. Listen to your Doctor: Vikram Ashwan is a hundred times the gamer Tom Raines is.”
“A hundred now?” Tom exclaimed. Then Vik lightly whapped the back of his head, so he gave a sarcastic smile. “Right you are, Doctor.”
Vik made him practice a few more times. Tom agreed that Vik was smarter than him, which was easy enough because Vik was. He agreed that Vik was far better looking, which Tom suspected was true, but he’d never have said it. Then he agreed that Vik could beat him in a sword duel, which Tom believed to be a blatant falsehood, but he agreed anyway, and even added that Vik staggered him with his knowledge of swordsmanship. In that way, he passed Vik’s test, and Vik deemed him ready to apply his newfound sucking-up skill in real life.
Vik led him toward a pretty female executive sipping champagne by the window. Tom’s neural processor said her name was Alana Lawrence. Vik was sure Tom would find it easier sucking up to a gorgeous woman, and Tom thought that was a fantastic idea.
“Now,” Vik warned him, “you know how if spies get caught in foreign countries, governments always disavow knowledge of them so they don’t face any diplomatic consequences for their actions?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, guessing it. “So if I mess up . . .”
“We only met today and I disavow all prior knowledge of your actions. I didn’t even notice you were here. In fact, I don’t know who you are. Who are you? I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know.”
“Gotcha.” He had this.
Vik gave him a thumbs-up, then he sidled up to the executive. He cleared his throat to draw her attention, then boomed, “Fine factories you have there, madam.”
Tom did a double take. Vik was speaking in a slightly strange, jocular tone, like someone pretending to be an old English baron.
She turned languidly and surveyed Vik over her champagne glass. “Why, thank you. I take it you know my name already. And yours is?”
“Vikram Ashwan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He shook her hand, still speaking in that strange, lofty way. All he needed was a monocle.
Alana turned her expectant gaze on Tom.
“Thomas Raines.” He offered a hand.
“Oh.” Her limp hand shook his. “I’ve heard some very interesting things about you.”
Vik caught his eye and gave a subtle nod, reminding him of the phrases he’d learned.
Tom turned to her and said, “You stagger me with your knowledge.”
Alana’s forehead wrinkled. Vik rapped on the window to draw her attention away from Tom, and they got to talking about the massive factories stretching to the horizon below them and the way Epicenter was one of the few companies that still used human labor in factories. Tom chimed in occasionally with “I agree” and “Right you are.”
And then Alana said something to Vik that grabbed his attention, with a sudden, electric-sharp focus.
“. . . so cost-effective because we rely entirely on convict labor.”
“Convicts, eh?” Vik said. “Ah, putting ruffians to fine use.”
“Yes, we actually get paid by various governments to keep them. You see, you hire labor, and they have expectations, they agitate. You use convicts, and you can pretty much dictate the terms of their work to them, not to mention the local workers revise their salary expectations quite a bit. If we need a work order completed in thirty-six hours, convicts will complete it in thirty-six hours with no whining. They know better than to complain.” And sudddenly, her smile no longer looked so pretty to Tom.
He began thinking of Neil, Neil getting dragged off, clapped in prison. “But,” he said, “what happens when their sentences are up?”
Alana tittered, enjoying her rapt audience. “Let’s just say, once we’ve trained them for their jobs, we try to get a good return on that investment. There are always reasons to extend a prison sentence. It’s most cost-effective to maintain at least a ninety-percent occupancy rate, so we have to be creative.” She sipped her champagne.
Tom felt the blood buzzing up in his head, and he wasn’t even aware of Vik tryin
She lowered her glass. “Slaves? They’re criminals. Society doesn’t need people like them. We’re doing the world a favor, keeping them here.”
Tom gazed at the executive, champagne in her hand, a massive slave labor camp below her, and his thoughts were back on his dad, rage scorching him. Neil had brawled with those cops in the train station and gotten himself a month in jail. Epicenter could’ve rented him. He could’ve been flown over here and gotten his sentence extended and extended, and Tom never would’ve seen him again.
“You know what I think would be doing the world a favor?” Tom said to her, anger beating under his skin. “If you threw a big party in here, invited over everyone else who thinks there’s something okay with what you’re doing, and just blew yourselves up together. That is my idea of doing the world a favor.”
“IT WASN’T ACTUALLY a bomb threat,” Tom was still arguing to his friends later as the Interstice swept them toward Sacramento, California. He rubbed at his wrists, sore from the handcuffs he’d been stuck wearing for the interrogation by Epicenter security. He was so sick of wearing handcuffs. “I said that it would be nice if someone who wasn’t me blew them up, but that’s all. No one would’ve thought twice about it if I weren’t technically a known terrorist.”
His friends gaped at him. They’d done it most of the ride.
“I should’ve agreed to be Walton’s twin brother,” Tom lamented, slouching back in his seat.
Vik sighed. “Tom, this is painful, physically and psychologically painful for me to say, but I think Wyatt was right.”
“Really?” Wyatt said, surprised.
“Just say nothing at Matchett-Reddy,” Vik urged him. “Not a word. And Evil Wench, no gloating. In fact, not a word from you.”
Wyatt smiled wickedly. “I was right, Vik was wrong. Ha-ha!”
Yuri kissed the top of her head.
Vik groaned. “That qualifies as gloating and saying a word.”
“Actually, it was gloating and saying six words,” Wyatt corrected him.