Praetorians at rest resembled nothing more than metallic coat racks, but Tom had seen movies, played VR games. He knew what these slim machines were capable of: The lighter models could shrink themselves to the size of a coffee mug to reduce an enemy’s ability to target them, and conduct electrical charges to act like long-range Tasers. They could shoot electromagnetic beams that dispersed crowds by giving people the sensation they were burning alive, and splice lasers through hundreds of soldiers with one flick of a button from a distant operator. Add a sturdy, centrifugal base on them, and they’d climb vertical walls and deliver payloads of explosives or poisonous gas.

Obsidian Corp. designed them to be released like cockroaches on an enemy stronghold, killing everything in their path. Wyndham Harks used them as watchmen.

And coat racks, apparently.

The Praetorians not covered by coats followed their progress down the corridor with single, pinpoint camera eyes.

They waited with the other Middles in a large briefing room. Apparently, the CEOs usually saw the trainees themselves—preferring to personally inspect the assets they might invest in. Tom saw trainees smoothing their suits, adjusting ties. Walton Covner ended up side by side with him, and Tom realized that they’d both selected the first option for every piece of clothing and consequently dressed exactly the same.

“We can say we’re twin brothers,” Walton suggested, flipping up the cuff of his trousers so they could see if the socks were the same, too. “Twins who dress alike.”

Tom flipped his trousers back down. The socks were. “But there’s over a year’s age difference, you’re six inches taller than me, we’re different ethnicities, and we’ve got two different last names. I don’t think anyone’s gonna buy that we’re twins, man.”

“My plan does have flaws,” Walton acknowledged. “We should try it.”

Tom shook his head. “No, Walton. No.”

“No?”

“No!”

Walton sent him a mildly reproving look, like he was certain Tom was making a dreadful mistake, but too polite to tell him so, then he glided away, leaving Tom bewildered—as usual.

Then Reuben Lloyd himself strolled in. The CEO of Wyndham Harks was a weedy little man who gave a smile that flashed large teeth; and between those, his beady eyes, and his gigantic ears under his bald dome, Tom was struck by how much the guy resembled a rodent.

“How good to see you here.” His nasal, weasely voice did nothing to diminish his unfortunate rodent resemblance. “I don’t have time to go around, shaking all your little hands. We sponsor Heather, Snowden, and Yosef, so if you want to brownnose, do it with them. I’ll give you a quick intro to our company, then I have to be on my way.”