Dalton straightened up, tugging the cuffs of his shirt. “The neural processor makes them valuable, so they get jobs pretty easily. But the catch is, most of those positions require a certain, shall we say, reliability. Anything with a Coalition company requires an unsullied reputation. You don’t have that. As for a government position, well . . . you’ll need to obtain a security clearance. Known terrorists”—he said the word almost playfully—“don’t tend to qualify.”

Tom understood it. “So that’s why I’m on the terror watch list. Someone thinks they’re gonna sabotage me down the road, huh? Well, joke’s on them, because if I don’t make Combatant, I’ll strike out on my own, no problem. I can get by.”

Dalton made a show of wincing on his behalf. “Actually, champ, that’s not an option for you. Once you have the processor”—he tapped his temple beneath his gelled hair—“you have to stay in the fold. If the Coalition doesn’t want you, and the government can’t clear you, you still do have two options. There are many agencies that would love to research you, so you could always be a glorified lab rat. . . .”

Tom’s mouth went dry.

“And then there’s that other agency, the one that always presses for trainees. The National Security Agency. Who do you think scooped up that Nigel Harrison boy?”

Tom felt a jerk in his gut. “He’s with the NSA? But he’s not even American.”

Dalton gave an oily chuckle. “No one who matters in this world cares about countries or nationalities.”

“Nigel tried to blow up the Spire!”

“Oh, never fear, Tom: he’s probably nowhere near the same person you remember. That’s why I think the National Security Agency would even have you. The agency’s renowned for their ability to manipulate and control computers.”

Anger scorched Tom’s chest. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe there’s an entire agency of people who’d reprogram a human being like you and Joseph Vengerov would.”

“There may come a day when you start to believe that, and you realize I really was acting in your best interests, and you feel terrible about your rank ingratitude toward me.” Dalton rocked back on his heels, taking visible pleasure in his words. “When that day comes, I want you to know, you can call my assistant and ask for an appointment. If you visit, and you show proper respect and call me Mr. Prestwick, and maybe . . . hmm, I don’t know, get on your knees and beg me very nicely to give you another chance, I might consider it.” He winked. “Might. No guarantees anymore, champ.”