But there was a human being behind this. There had to be a man behind the curtain controlling the actions of these machines. Tom turned to the nearest surveillance camera, hoping his watcher knew he was talking directly to him when he said, “I am not afraid of you.”

In response, a Praetorian whirled toward him. Tom kicked at it, trying to knock it back, but it swung around pendulously, its base still advancing toward him, and a shock jolted up his leg and locked his muscles as he clumsily stumbled back again. He backed away from the others, trying to avoid more shocks, and in that manner, they herded him down a hallway until his back thumped against an icy wall.

Tom pressed against it, nowhere else to go, Praetorians advancing on him. Joseph Vengerov couldn’t kill him. He couldn’t. Even if he did know somehow that Tom was refusing his demand to use a virus on Medusa, he couldn’t simply murder him. He was trying to scare him. Tom was sure of it. Vengerov’s last words to him rang in his ears: The real question here is, will you fulfill this reasonable request, or will I have to resort to unpleasant means of persuasion?

Two metal devices shifted, curving their single, pinpoint camera eyes toward him, aligning them so for a disconcerting moment, Tom felt like he was gazing at some sort of machine man, assessing him through empty metallic eyes.

“Okay,” Tom said, “obviously you’re not pleased about something.”

The camera eyes bobbed up and down, a cold, fatal nod of a head.

And then the wall Tom was leaning back against abruptly swung open, and he realized it wasn’t a wall but a door, and it led straight to the outside. He realized this the same instant he crashed onto his back into a bank of icy snow. The door swung closed with a resounding clang, stranding Tom outside, without a coat, on the frozen Antarctica tundra.

Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FOR A FLEETING moment, Tom lay there, absolute cold soaking into the back of his flimsy suit, and then a gust of tormenting wind battered him and his brain cleared enough to register that he was outside. In a thin suit. And it wasn’t freezing cold—it was painfully, agonizingly cold.

Tom bolted to his feet and charged toward the door. His hands slipped over an icy, stinging metal surface with no handles. He had never in his life imagined it was possible to feel this cold. His ears were searing hot pokers stabbing his head, his eardrums throbbed, and the wind felt like thousands of tiny prongs jabbing viciously at him. His skull began spiking with terrible pain. Tom pounded his fist on the door.

“HEY! HEY! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! OPEN UP! OPEN THE DOOR!”