“Yes,” Nigel said, in a voice so low Tom almost didn’t hear it.
“Fine,” Heather said.
If Tom didn’t know better, he’d wonder if they were having half this conversation telepathically.
“Tom,” Heather said abruptly, “can you wait in one of the bunks while Nigel and I finish here? I’ll be there soon, and we’ll figure out how to get you out of here. Of course”—she winked—“if you’re okay with waiting it out, I suppose I could come keep you company.”
Good. God. That smile of hers could seriously crash planes.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go wait.” He headed into the nearest empty bunk, bumping into the doorframe in his haste.
Tom laughed once he was inside the empty bunk. That girl even made his neural processor malfunction.
He winced at the pain in his knees as he settled onto the edge of an empty bed, his hand tapping an impatient beat on his thigh. As time stretched on, he closed his eyes and began sorting through a schematic of the Spire, trying to figure out how to get past the Genghises waiting for him. That CA number blinking in his vision center kept getting lower, and now that he thought about it, his lips and fingertips were tingling again....
The door slid open. Heavy footsteps thumped toward him.
Too heavy for Nigel or Heather.
Tom’s eyes snapped open, and he experienced an electric jolt of terror.
Karl Marsters loomed above him, bruised and bloody. His fist descended into Tom’s face.
HE ROUSED AS Karl hauled him into the Machiavelli hallway, Nigel and Heather watching from a few feet away. Tom choked on the blood in his nose and struggled against the massive arm locked around his neck but couldn’t budge it.
“Thanks. Thanks, guys,” Karl was telling them.
“Did you punch him?” Heather demanded. “That’s not part of our deal, Karl.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. I know the agreement. I wasn’t supposed to punch him in Machiavelli. Whoops.”
Tom struggled against the headlock. Now he understood it: Heather hadn’t been flirting, sending him off into the bunk. She’d been getting him out of the way so she could sell him out. The realization settled like something sour in his gut as Karl jerked him forward one reluctant step after another.
Nigel drew near, his eyes bright. “Remember the important part. You’re committed.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll remember.” Karl hauled Tom another few jerky steps. “You gave me the little punk, so once Marsh nominates you to the Defense Committee, I’ll take you to meet my Dominion Agra reps to see whether they’ll sponsor your bid.”
Heather smiled at Tom as though she could charm him even while a large Genghis was practically suffocating him thanks to her treachery. It just made him feel like more of an idiot, knowing he was stuck here in a headlock with a bloody nose, totally suckered by her. “Sorry, Tom, you have to understand: we need more Machiavellis in CamCo, and I promised Nigel I’d try my best.”
Tom kicked back, trying to wrench out of Karl’s grip again, but he wasn’t some heavyweight wrestling champ for nothing. A large hand clasped Tom’s wrists behind his back and twisted them up hard enough to make him keel over just to keep his arms in their sockets.
Karl clamped his hand over Tom’s head, pressing it down, walking him forward in that undignified way. “That’s it. Keep going, Lassie.”
Tom couldn’t resist the steady march into the common room where a crowd of Genghises were gathered. His face throbbed. He was in serious trouble here.
Karl’s voice boomed across the common room: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, sometimes we get a plebe who needs to be taught humility.”
Tom tried to jerk up again, but Karl yanked his arms higher and the pain grew so much worse, like his arms were matches about to be snapped. He dropped down again, unable to help it, and was stuck watching his own blood drip onto the carpet.
“Do you want to apologize to us, Old Yeller?” Karl’s hand jerked Tom’s head in a nod. “I bet you do. Make it loud and clear so everyone can hear you.”
Tom gritted his teeth. “No.”
Karl wrenched Tom’s arms toward his shoulders, and he gasped in pain.
“This doesn’t feel very nice, does it?” Karl’s big hand tugged Tom’s head back and forth to shake it. “You don’t like this, do you? Want it to stop? Then bark for us, Fido. Bark.”
Tom couldn’t help the pained sound that escaped his lips when Karl shoved his arms higher. But he’d never bark. He didn’t care how much it hurt. He’d rather tear out his own intestines than do anything Karl wanted.
“Do it now or I’ll rip your arms out of the sockets, Benji.”
“Do it! Do it, then, ’cause I’m not going to bark!”
“Fine, you think I’m bluffing? I’ll show you a bluff!”
Tom yelped out when his arms were shoved beyond their limits, and then a strange sound filled the room. Like a bunch of people making clucking noises. He heard Karl exclaim, “What the—”
And then Karl released him, staggered back, and knelt on the floor.
“Bock,” Karl said.
Tom stumbled away from him, swiping his sleeve at his stinging nose. “What?”
“Bock, bock,” Karl replied, and began pressing at the carpet with his nose. “Bock, bock, bock.”
Tom clutched his sleeve to his face, utterly bewildered. He looked at the other Genghises, saw them all kneeling, pressing their noses rhythmically into the carpet, all bocking.
“Well, I’d say that worked.”
Wyatt Enslow’s voice startled him. He whirled around to see her emerging from the open doors of the elevator, her forearm keyboard bared.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked her, baffled. “What are they doing?”
“They’re chickens,” Wyatt answered.
And sure enough, when Tom watched them, he realized they were all pecking at the carpet just like chickens.
“I based it on Blackburn’s dog program,” Wyatt remarked. “I saw you were in trouble, so I figured now was a good time to try it.”
Tom turned to her, regarding her with new eyes. “Wyatt, you seriously helped me out there. Thanks, I owe you big-time.”
“I just wanted to try the program. It’s not like I went out of my way to save you.”
Tom laughed and pressed his sleeve against his face a bit harder. “This is where you say, ‘You’re welcome.’ It’s okay to take credit.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh. Right.”
“And you pump your fists in the air and say something about how awesome you are. That’s how it works.”
“Isn’t that gloating?”
“Of course it’s gloating. When you do something awesome, you get to gloat—” Tom fell silent, because the door to Machiavelli slid open, and Heather strode out.
She halted, looked over the situation, then giggled. “Oh, good. I guess I don’t need to call your friends to come rescue you.”
Tom stared at her, completely aware of the blood drying on his face. She didn’t look the least bit guilty, or even aware that she’d done something wrong just now.
“You’re telling me you were planning to call them?” he said cynically. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of selling me out?”