Free Allies by S. J. Kincaid Page A

way.
    Dalton, her boyfriend, paid for her fancy apartment in New York City. Tom had visited her once, just once, and he’d met him. Dalton Prestwick was this rich, yacht-owning executive at some big multinational company, Dominion Agra. His job was to talk to politicians or something.
    Dalton had looked him over like he was something nasty smeared on the bottom of his leather shoes and said, “My attorneys have documented everything of value in this house, punk. The second something goes missing, I’ll have you in juvenile hall.”
    Oh, and Dalton already had a wife. And another girlfriend. Yeah, and Tom’s mom.
    “I don’t have anywhere else to go, Ms. Falmouth. I know that you think you’re doing me a favor, but you’re not. I promise you.”
    “You’re fourteen, Tom. What do you expect to do with yourself in a few years when you need to make a living? Do you plan to be a roving gambler like your father?”
    “No,” Tom answered at once.
    “A roving gamer?”
    He wasn’t quite sure how much Ms. Falmouth knew about his gaming, but he didn’t say anything. If she’d asked him what he planned to be, he might’ve said he’d make his living one day the same way he was doing it now.
    Hearing it said by her made him think of living like this forever, of going nowhere in life . . . of turning into his father . . .
    Suddenly Tom felt kind of fuzzy and clenched up inside like he was getting sick.
    Ms. Falmouth leaned back in her seat. “You’re competing in a global economy. One out of three Americans is unemployed. You need an education to be an engineer, a programmer, or anything of use to the defense industry. You need an education to be an accountant or a lawyer, and you need connections to go into government or corporate work. Who do you think will hire a young man like you when there are so many high-achieving candidates out there who are desperate for work?”
    “It’s years away.”
    “Pretend it’s tomorrow. What are you going to do with yourself? What are you good for?”
    “I’m good at . . .” He stopped.
    “At what?”
    He couldn’t come up with anything else, so he just said it. “Games.”
    The word sat on the air between them, and to Tom it suddenly sounded utterly sad.
    “So is your father, Tom. And where is he now?”

Chapter Two
    B ACK WHEN T OM was little, Neil seemed like a god to him. His dad didn’t have a boring job like other people. He was a gambler. He sipped at his martini like James Bond and bluffed his way into winning other people’s money. Tom grew up hearing stories about the way his dad used to get flown for free to tournaments for professional poker players, the way he used to get the largest hotel suites on the highest floors and then tip the maids a few thousand dollars. Women always found a reason to talk to him, but Neil waved them away like they were invisible, because he was in love with the most beautiful woman of all.
    When Tom was a little kid, he’d believed in the dream. He was sure his dad’s glory days would return. Any minute, Neil was going to turn back into that winner he used to be, then they’d stay in one place and his mom would return, and she’d be so sorry she’d left them.
    But now, at fourteen, Tom knew his dad didn’t even get invited to the same tournaments that used to fly him in for free, and his mother was still gone. They never stayed in the same place for more than a week or two, and they never would. He didn’t expect that to change. He was too old to believe in fairy tales.
    Tom tucked the wired gloves back in the VR parlor’s storage container, his own words resounding in his mind: I’m good at games. He drove his hands into his pockets and ignored the fears until they became nothing more than an ache in his gut.
    He tried to turn his thoughts toward the other thing that happened today: Heather. His brain buzzed with the memory of her words, the way she’d smiled when she thought he was asking her out. He was still