Kill Decision Read Online Free PDF Page B

what’s wrong with you, man? You look like Kolkata just lost the cricket finals or something.”
    Prakash eyed him. “Speaking as one of the ‘brilliant’ team members, I don’t appreciate you monopolizing the conversation with DARPA. We make decisions as a team, Josh. The only reason you have the title of ‘team lead’ is because you’re good at dealing with suits, and it keeps you out of my way.”
    “I was just setting a date for the next meeting. We’ll confirm it by e-mail later.”
    “We need to be involved in every decision that occurs—no matter how small.”
    “We’re not a hive mind, Vijay. Occasionally tasks need to be delegated, and I don’t see the point of bothering you with—”
    Prakash got in his face, finger jabbing. “This is not the first time I’ve had to remind you. I do not work for you, Josh, and I expect you to represent the interests of the team, not just yourself.”
    “Whoa, whoa! Hold on a second. We all agreed from the get-go that since I’m the extrovert that it would be best if I did the talking, especially with the defense folks. That’s what I’ve been doing.” He gestured back to the chair he’d been standing on. “Did I not just lay literally all of the credit onto everyone else’s shoulders?”
    “And rightly so. The next time we communicate with the U.S. government, I expect to be copied, Josh.”
    He studied Prakash’s face. Did he know? There had indeed been a few other communications, but it had only been an oversight. “Look, I don’t know what you think I’m up to, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re sort of critical to this project. I can’t screw you without screwing myself. You’re on the patent applications.”
    Strickland wondered if Prakash’s highly competitive upbringing was behind this. He knew that the guy’s father was a real type-A businessman—a real ballbuster who practically rode his sons with a riding crop. Old school. Very class conscious too.
    Was that it? Strickland sometimes wondered if Prakash thought less of him simply because Strickland was straight middle class—the son of schoolteachers. He’d seen photos of the Prakash summerhouse in the south of France, and photos of Prakash literally in a polo outfit, holding the reins of a pony—like he was friends with the British royals or something. It was easy to forget that this guy might just look at him like he was one of the help.
    The more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. He raised his cup again to Prakash and gave him an obnoxious wink, aiming a finger pistol at him in oily salesman fashion. “Who loves ya, guy? Eh? Who loves ya!”
    Someone came up from behind and ruffled Prakash’s hair, laughing. Strickland took the opportunity to step away, heading outside for some air. He worked the room on the way out, and by the time he made it to one of the hallway doors, he could see the light on in one of the tiny, windowless offices that surrounded the lab cluster. There sat the childlike form of Nikolay Kasheyev, their visual processing expert, sitting at his desk.
    Kasheyev had some sort of pituitary condition that gave him the appearance of a twelve-year-old, even though he was in his mid-twenties. He was often told he was a child prodigy, and every time people made that mistake, Strickland winced on his behalf. But the Russian seemed used to it.
    He could see Kasheyev examining multiplexed video streams, tiled into squares on his screen. Strickland rapped his knuckles on the office doorframe. “Hey, Nik, why aren’t you joining the party, man?”
    Kasheyev spoke without turning around. “The ravens are back.”
    “What ravens?”
    Kasheyev finally bothered to turn around. “You never listen to me, do you?”
    Strickland was too busy wondering how much Kasheyev’s eyeglasses cost. It seemed that among the team members, only Strickland had come from humble circumstances. Everyone else seemed to have parents with money. No one else had had to work