Feeling more than a little out of place, Smith skirted the crowd’s edge, examining the hundred or so chairs lined up in front of a stage framed by a twenty-meter-high video monitor. Finally, he reached his objective: an enormous table straining under the weight of an impressive ice sculpture and an even more impressive spread of exotic food items.

His first sample turned out to be a deeply unfortunate combination of dates and caviar, so he headed toward the bar to get something to wash the taste from his mouth.

“Beer,” he said to one of the men handling a line of taps that must have been ten meters long.

“My pleasure. We have Fat Tire, Snake River Lager, Sam Adams, Corona—”

Smith held a hand up, certain the man could recite them all but concerned that the flavor of those dates was starting to gain a permanent foothold. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

The voice of a woman behind him rose above the drone of the crowd. “You look like a Budweiser man to me.”

He turned and she planted herself in front of him, red lips crossing pale skin in a broad grin. Mid-twenties, thin but shapely, with a pixie haircut and bangs that she pushed from her eyes to get a better look at him. Her name tag read “Janine Redford/Wired Magazine.” His, as she had undoubtedly noticed, just read “Jon Smith.”

“I’ve been watching you.”

“Me?” he said, accepting the beer and then pushing back through the people mobbing the bar with her in his wake. “Why? I’m not anybody.”

She pointed at his name tag. “And you’re not afraid to put it in writing.”

“Family name. Could have been worse. My father had a falling-out with my uncle Gomer right before I was born.”

She seemed unconvinced. “I either know or recognize everyone here. You don’t seem to fit.”

“No?”

“No. You’ve got your geeks, your scary business powerhouses, and your skinny, middle-aged Internet gazillionaires…” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “Then there’s you.”

There was no denying it. His shoulders were a bit too broad, his black hair a little too utilitarian, and his dark skin starting to show damage from sun, wind, ice, and the occasional unavoidable explosion.

“Maybe they sent my invitation by accident?” he said honestly. At this point, it was actually his most credible theory. But why look a gift horse in the mouth? A good quarter of the world would have cut off their pinkie toe to be here. And he was firmly in that twenty-five percent.

She gave him a suspicious little smile and took a sip from her martini glass. “Christian Dresner doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Okay. Then you tell me why I’m here.”

“You’re military.”

“I’m a doctor,” he said evasively. “Microbiology. But these days I work with the physically impaired.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that. But you’re a military doctor and the impaired people you work with are injured soldiers. No point in denying it. I’m a prodigy at this.”