Insignia (21 page)

And then Vik said something that knocked that feeling away. “Your parents coming this weekend?”

Tom’s heart jerked. He’d heard there was a Parents’ Weekend here. He hadn’t realized it was coming so soon. “My parents? Uh, no.”

At least, he hoped not. He really, really hoped not. Neil and the Pentagonal Spire? It was like mixing two volatile chemicals. Odds were, nothing good would come of it.

“Mine are,” Beamer said. “My sister, too. You, Vik?”

“Mom’s flying in from India.” Vik scrubbed his palm over his hair, now growing out in lumpy, uneven clumps. “Last video chat, she threatened to come all this way just to give me a new haircut. She said I’m starting to look like an animal died on my head.”

Beamer cackled away at that, and began speculating about what type of animal Vik’s hair resembled. Tom laughed along with them, even though he wasn’t really listening now. He was still worrying over what his dad might do if he came here. He knew one thing: Neil wouldn’t march into the stronghold of what he called “the war cartel” just to give him a haircut.

L
ATER IN THE
evening, the CamCos all trickled back into the mess hall to wolf down some dinner, shoulders slumped, exhaustion on their faces. News of their latest defeat spread quickly. The Russo-Chinese Combatants had demolished the shipyards and all the ships the CamCos sent after them, mostly due to Medusa, who had somehow uncovered the hidden Indo-American satellites in the area and blinded most them midway through the battle. The CamCos had to rely upon the limited sensors of the vessels themselves. Without satellite support, they were practically fighting blind—and easy pickings.

“Man, this would all be a different game without Medusa,” Vik remarked as they strolled toward the Lafayette Room.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed, “completely different.” It wouldn’t be nearly so exciting. He couldn’t wait to download a recording of the battle and see more of Medusa in action.

They’d all been summoned to hear a speech by General Marsh. He wasn’t actively present in day-to-day life at the Spire, but he always came by after CamCo battles for the postmission briefing. He’d clearly decided to kill two birds with one stone and address the upcoming Parents’ Weekend, too. The trainees all settled on the benches. Even though they’d already downloaded the rules, General Marsh mounted the stage and lectured them about what information they could reveal to their parents, what they couldn’t. What areas of the Spire were permitted for parental access, what areas were not.

Tom flicked away Marsh’s profile when it popped up in his vision.

“They need to wear a badge at all times,” Marsh said, “and you must remain with them. You are not to reveal the names of your classmates. I don’t care how many times they ask about your friends. You do not answer them. If they somehow sneak in a camera, you are to take it away. You are also accountable for any acts of espionage or sabotage your parents commit while they’re here.” Marsh didn’t look pleased at the sniggers that greeted this. “Countries have been betrayed by attitudes like that! You’re lucky you have a Parents’ Weekend at all. Were it up to me, and not the Congressional Defense Committee, we’d have you on lockdown. And we’d have much better security for it.”

Tom couldn’t seem to muster a snigger at Marsh’s worry about parental sabotage of the Spire. He wouldn’t put it past Neil to do something like that. He couldn’t predict anything when it came to his dad.

After the briefing, Olivia halted him in the hallway. “Tom, I’ve been compiling a list of visiting parents. I haven’t been able to get in touch with your father to issue an invitation.”

Tom’s shoulders relaxed. Profound relief surged through him, edged with a strange sense of disappointment. “You won’t. He moves around a lot. No number, doesn’t even use VR. There’s no chance you’ll find him.”

“Do you have any idea—?”

“You’re wasting your time looking for him. He wouldn’t want to come, anyway.”

W
HEN THE DAY
finally came, he settled on his bed for a long afternoon of watching Medusa fight and maybe video gaming a bit. So it shocked him when he was just getting ready to replay Medusa’s battle on Titan, and he received a ping:
Report to the lobby to serve as parental escort
.

Tom lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling, utterly stunned. No way. No way, no way. Could Neil have found out somehow? Had he come? How was it possible?

Report to the lobby to serve as parental escort
, came a follow-up ping.

Tom leaped up from his bed, shoved his hair into something resembling a decent state, and then headed for the elevators. Neil was really here? He smoothed down his hair again, his every nerve jumping inside him.

It occurred to Tom after the elevator was sweeping downward that it might not be his father.

It might be his mother.

No. Impossible. It wasn’t something she did. He’d visited her that time Neil was sentenced to sixty days in jail. She’d stared at him, amazed, as though she couldn’t believe such an ugly creature came from her. She hadn’t hugged him—and he hadn’t hugged her. They’d probably said three words to each other.

And then her boyfriend, Dalton, showed up with a rent-a-cop toting a retina scanner, and demanded, “Are you all right, Delilah?” As though Tom would travel all the way across the country just to hurt his own mother.

Even after the scanner verified Tom’s identity, Dalton planted himself in the apartment, watching Tom’s every move suspiciously, like he was certain Tom’d only visited so he could burn the building down. His mother sent her maid out to rent a VR set for him, and then left somewhere with Dalton, and didn’t return again. Tom didn’t bother waiting for her when Neil got an early release. He left her a note and headed back to his only real family—his dad.

He felt like he was in a strange dream when he emerged, threading through the masses of parents. He spotted Vik and his sari-wearing mother, and trailed to a halt, fighting the absurd impulse to enlist backup.

And then he really saw Vik, and noticed the way Vik’s mother was smoothing down the shoulders of his uniform and saying in Hindi, “… still don’t know why you wanted to come all the way overseas when you could have trained in Bombay.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” Vik replied, “I have a much better chance of being a Combatant if I train in America. There’s a lot more funding over here.”

“Are they feeding you enough, Vikram? You look skinny!” She switched to heavily accented English: “I should have brought you a home-cooked meal. Are you still having tummy troubles?”

“Mom!” Vik cried.

She switched back to Hindi. “I just want to—Is that boy laughing at us?”

Tom fought to smother his laughter. Vik’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not. He doesn’t speak Hindi, so he doesn’t understand us.”

Tom was getting a real kick out of Vik’s torment. When Vik’s mother wasn’t looking, Vik made a strangling motion and mouthed, “Kill you.” Tom patted his stomach and mouthed, “Tummy troubles,” back at him. Then he darted farther into the crowd before Vik’s mom could notice him again.

He passed Beamer with his parents and his loudmouthed little redheaded sister.

“Show us guns, Stephen!”

“It’s not allowed, Crissy, I told you …”

He also spotted Yuri at the edge of the crowd with a tall, light-haired man with such pale eyebrows, they blended into his forehead. Tom guessed that was his father. They weren’t moving at all, just standing at a careful distance from each other, speaking too quietly for any words to reach Tom’s ears.

In a back corner beneath the dip of the eagle’s wings, Tom passed Wyatt, sitting ramrod stiff, her arms folded across her torso. Her mother, a toothpick-thin woman with tumbling dark curls, was hanging back at several feet’s distance looking her over like a piece of artwork she didn’t want to buy. “… just can’t get over how tall you are now. I thought for sure you were done growing. Look at her! She’s taller than you, George.”

Her husband, a squat man lounging indolently in a nearby chair, glanced over and gave a hearty laugh. “First glance, I wondered if I should call you ‘my son,’ Wyatt. What’s with all these muscles, anyway?” He grabbed her bicep and shook her arm jokingly. “Guess you came here to be some girl Rambo?”

Wyatt reclaimed her arm and hugged it to her chest. “Physical fitness is part of being here. I can’t help it if I’m getting muscles.”

And just beyond Wyatt’s parents, Tom picked out a lone man gazing up toward the eagle. Then it all made sense. This was his visitor.

Of course.
Of course
. What had he really expected?

Tom smirked, feeling like an idiot. He closed the distance, eager to get this over with.

“This is for family only. What are you doing here, Dalton?”

Like the last time Tom saw him, Dalton Prestwick had gelled hair, a smarmy smirk, and a crisp suit. He spotted Tom and tilted his chin a bit so Tom had to look higher to meet his eyes. He wished he’d hit six feet so this guy could never look down on him again.

“I was in the area, and your mother signed a waiver for me to be your guest instead of her,” Dalton informed him. “Quite a place you’ve got here. How you holding up, sport?”

Tom’s hands curled into fists. He was honestly tempted to laugh, because he felt so stupid for even thinking one of his parents might visit him. “Just tell me what you want.”

Dalton’s eyes narrowed, the pretense of civility dropping off his face. “That’s no way to talk to me, little punk.”

There it was. That was the real Dalton.

Dalton sighed and looked away from him. “I’m here with some colleagues of mine. Joseph Vengerov, over there”—he nodded toward the man with Yuri.
Not
Yuri’s father, then. “I used to work for him. The other’s off in the crowd somewhere. Mike Marsters. A retired coworker. His son’s here. The boy’s named Karl.”

Tom laughed. He couldn’t help it. It figured that a business partner of Dalton’s would father a great guy like Karl.

“They were coming here, so I thought I’d swing by and check on you. It about knocked my socks off when I heard you were here. Never thought you’d make something of yourself.”

“I know what this is about. You’re playing nice with me so you can get a good look at the Spire. And if you think I’m going to be your ticket inside, forget it.” Tom turned to leave.

“Uh-uh.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Tom threw it off and whirled around. “What?”

Dalton’s voice dropped to an intent whisper. “Listen up, kid. I don’t think you understand the politics of this place. Who do you think has a chance of making it here? Of joining Camelot Company?”

Tom regarded him intently, wondering if Dalton knew something he did not.

“You need sponsors. Corporate sponsors to back your bid.”

“I know that.”

“Well, who do you think put the nail in the coffin of that Nigel Harrison kid’s bid for Camelot Company? I did, on behalf of Dominion Agra.”

“
You
nixed Nigel?”

But it made sense. It must have been Dalton. Trainee identities were classified. The process of advancing to CamCo was classified. There was no other way Dalton could know about how Nigel got nominated for Camelot Company, then shot down in a matter of days when it became clear he was never going to find any sponsors from the Coalition to back up his bid. Rumor had it, various company reps wrote to the Defense Committee and deemed him “flat, charmless, and uninspiring.” None of the companies wanted him affiliated with them.

Dalton straightened up, brushing some invisible lint off his designer suit. “Of course I did. I’m with Dominion Agra, and Dominion is one of the main funders of the war effort. I could point out a half-dozen members of Camelot Company we talk to. We even sponsor Karl, specify him as our Combatant of choice for certain conflicts, and supply him with combat machines. That’s how sponsorship works. It’s not just about giving certain Combatants more airtime than others. It’s about helping out the military financially on behalf of that Combatant. That’s how you get influence around here.”

This time when Dalton leaned closer, Tom didn’t back away.

“But we’re looking for more, Tom. More Combatants to represent Dominion. The right ones. You were useless to me before, but you could be something here. We could be of use to each other in the long run, you and me. If Dominion sponsors you, it’s your ticket straight into CamCo.”

“So what do you get out of it?”

“In the short term? Two years from now, you’ll be a Combatant, and we’ll have another call sign affiliated with Dominion. In the long run? You kids don’t seem to realize, Elliot Ramirez isn’t the only walking brand among you. People want to know all about the other Combatants. Enigma, Matador, Firestorm, Stinger. They have fan followings, blogs devoted to them. Mystique. A market. One day, if we have our way on this, the Combatants will all become public, and you’ll all be as valuable as Ramirez. And the sponsors attached to you? They’ll profit from it, too. You could represent Dominion one day, Tom. It’s always good to have a nice, wholesome kid attached to our image.”