“Welcome to Crystal Palace,” Ray said. “That’s the EDA’s code name for this place.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Because it’s easier to say than ‘Earth Defense Alliance Strategic Command Post Number Fourteen,’ ” he said. “Sounds cooler, too.”

  As we stepped away from the shuttle, I took in my new surroundings. Hundreds of people were hurrying around the runway in what appeared to be a state of highly organized chaos. Most of them wore Earth Defense Alliance combat fatigues like our shuttle pilot, and I found myself wondering if I was going to be issued a uniform, too.

  I heard a rush of air over our heads and looked up to see a procession of four more shuttles descending through the entry shaft. As each one set down on the runway and discharged its passengers, other civilians like me emerged, escorted by one or more EDA agents wearing dark suits. Most of them appeared to be holding it together pretty well. A few of them looked terrified, like lambs being led to the slaughter, but the vast majority appeared to be having the time of their lives. I took quick stock of my own emotions, and I decided I fell somewhere in the middle.

  There was a loud whoosh behind us as our shuttle lifted off again, and Ray and I turned to watch it slowly rise and then rocket back up through the circular shaft to the surface.

  “Follow me, pal,” Ray said before striding off toward a pair of large armored doors set into the stone wall at the opposite end of the runway. They were already sliding open to reveal a broad, downward-sloping corridor that led even farther underground.

  I stopped and called out to Ray, who turned and walked back to me as the other agents and recruits began to stream past us, continuing through the massive armored doors.

  “What if I decide I don’t want to enlist?” I asked. “What if I sit through this big briefing of yours and then decide I want to go back home?”

  Ray smiled, as if he’d been waiting for me to ask this, too.

  “Then I would remind you, Zackary Ulysses Lightman, that you are an eighteen-year-old citizen of the United States of America and therefore legally subject to military conscription.”

  This possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “Wait, so—I’m being drafted right now?”

  “Not really,” Ray said. “No one’s going to force you to fight. If you still want to go home after the briefing, just say the word. They’ll put you on another shuttle to take you straight back to Beaverton—a first-class seat on the Chickenshit Express.”

  I didn’t respond—I was already too busy nursing my wounded pride.

  “I know you, Zack,” Ray said. “You’ve been waiting your whole life for something like this to happen. Something important. Something meaningful. A dare to be great situation. Right?” He took me by the shoulders. “Well, this is it, ace! The universe has given you a chance to use your gifts to help save the world. Do you really expect me to believe that you’re gonna pass it up to run home, sit on your ass, and watch the end of the world on TV?”

  Ray let go of me and set off again. His footsteps echoed off the high stone walls as he passed through the open doors and down into the corridor beyond, disappearing from view.

  I took one last look up at the tiny circle of sky still visible through the open shaft entrance high overhead. Then I ran after Ray.

  THE ENTRANCE CORRIDOR led down to a security checkpoint where a uniformed EDA corporal named Foyle scanned my handprints and retinas to verify my identity, then stood me in front of a blue screen to snap a digital photo of my face. A few seconds later, the printer behind him spat out a photo ID badge with a holographic EDA crest on it, which he handed to me. Printed beneath my picture were my full name, social security number, and the words Elite Recruit Candidate.

  As I clipped it onto my shirt, the corporal handed another badge to Ray. It had an old photo of Ray on it, along with: Sergeant Raymond Habashaw—Field Operative.

  I wondered why our call signs weren’t printed on our badges, but then it occurred to me that the EDA probably didn’t want any of its recruits walking around with handles like “Moar Dakka” or “PercyJackoff69” printed onto their official identification cards.

  Corporal Foyle reached under the counter and handed me a small handheld device that resembled an extra-thick smartphone—the same sort of device I’d seen Ray and his two companions using during the shuttle ride here. The device was inside a protective case with a thick Velcro wrist strap attached to the back, which the corporal used to fasten the device to my right forearm, like an oversized wristwatch.

  “This is your QComm,” he explained. “It’s a Quantum Communicator—basically a smartphone with unlimited range. It will work anywhere in the world—or in outer space.” He smiled. “They also have insanely fast Internet access and Bluetooth capability. I already imported all of your contacts, photos, and music from your iPhone, so you’re all set up.”

  I pulled my iPhone from the front pocket of my jeans. It still had no signal, and the battery was about to die. “How the hell were you able to do that?”

  “Don’t worry,” the corporal said, ignoring my question. “Your QComm is far more secure—and versatile.” He tapped its display. “It’s like an iPhone, a tricorder, and a small laser pistol, all rolled into one device.”

  “Whoa, seriously?” I unsnapped it from my wrist to examine it more closely.

  “Yeah,” Foyle said, smiling proudly. “I’m sort of like Q in the James Bond films. Except, you know, I only get to hand out this one thing.”

  I turned the QComm over in my palm, trying to accept that I was holding a piece of reverse-engineered alien technology. I tapped the touchscreen and it lit up, displaying a large collection of icons. Email, Internet, GPS, and what looked like a normal phone dialer, along with other applications I didn’t recognize.

  “Can I call home with this?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” the corporal replied. “Your QComm’s outside phone and Internet access will remain disabled until the big news goes public later today. But you’re already connected to the EDA’s quantum network, so you can call any other QComm in existence, if you have its contact code. Your code is printed on the back of the case.”

  I flipped it over in my hands and saw a ten-digit number etched onto the case. Ray pulled out his own QComm and touched the edge of his device to mine. I heard a soft electronic ding, and Ray’s name and number appeared on my QComm’s contact list.

  “Now you can call me anytime, from anywhere,” he said. “Even from the opposite side of the galaxy.” He laughed an unsettling little laugh. “Not that it’s likely to happen.”

  I gazed down at the QComm. It was hinged along one side, like a flip phone, and it opened up into what looked like a portable gaming device, with another display screen on top and a game controller beneath it, with two thumb-pads and six lettered buttons.

  “What, can I play Sonic the Hedgehog on this thing, too?”

  “Actually, yes,” Foyle said. “Your QComm also doubles as a portable drone-control platform. In emergency situations, it can be used to control an Interceptor, an ATHID, or any of our other drones.” He lowered his voice, as if imparting a secret. “They’re a real bitch to use, though. Take a lot of practice.”

  Still leaning forward conspiratorially, the corporal whispered, “Each one also has a built-in weirding module.” He raised his own QComm and crossed his wrists as he held it out in front of him. “By using sound and motion, you will be able to paralyze nerves, shatter bones, set fires, suffocate an enemy, or burst his organs.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “That’s the first weirding-module joke I’ve ever heard,” I said. “Bravo.”

  “There were no weirding modules in the original Dune books, you know,” Ray muttered, shaking his head. “David Lynch made that shit up.”

  “So what, Ray?” I said, feeling like we were back at the store. “They’re cool as hell. I’m not saying it makes up for that super-creepy heart-plug scene—”

  Foyle was seemingly all business again. “You should be all set,” he said. “Your QComm’s laser is currently disabled, but your commanding officer will activate it after you enlist.”

  “If I enlist,” I said. “They still haven’t even told me who or what is invading us.”

  “Right,” he said, shooting Ray a surprised look. “Anyway, the laser will drain your battery after three or four shots, so if you have to use it, try to do so sparingly.”

  “Got it,” I told the corporal. “So I’m all set?”

  “Yes sir,” he replied. “Good to go.”

  We all saluted each other again instead of waving goodbye; then the corporal remained at attention as we walked out of sight. I followed Ray through a pair of automatic doors into another downward-sloping hallway.

  “Why didn’t the EDA introduce all of this new technology into the mainstream?” I asked, studying the QComm on my wrist. “Ultrafast travel, quantum communication—it seems like that would have given a boost to the global economy and the war effort …”

  “Our scientists spent decades reverse-engineering all of this alien technology, but they’ve only managed to perfect it in the last few years,” he said. “I think the EDA would have gradually released it into the mainstream, if there’d been enough time.”

  We passed through two more security checkpoints, then proceeded down a long tubular corridor with lots of smaller corridors branching off of it, each lined with numbered doors spaced just a few feet apart. I was just about to ask Ray what was behind them when one hissed open and a female EDA officer emerged. Before the door closed behind her, I caught a glimpse of a tiny closet-sized room. In its center was a rotating chair bolted to the floor, surrounded by an array of ergonomic control panels and game controllers, along with a wraparound monitor displaying a first-person cockpit view from inside a giant EDA Warmech. “Drone controller stations,” Ray said, following my gaze. “There are thousands of them located throughout the base. Each one can be used to remote-pilot an Interceptor, an ATHID, or any other drone in the EDA’s arsenal—with no lag and no range limitations.”

  “You mean … real drones?”

  “Real ones.” He pointed behind me. “Here come a few right now.” I turned to see a column of ten ATHIDs marching down the corridor toward us. I stood frozen as the robots lumbered by, joints clanking and servos whining. By the time they rounded the corner and vanished, Ray was already moving again and I hurried to catch up, still trying to get my bearings.

  “Lieutenant Lightman?” a male voice called out.

  Ray and I both stopped and turned around to confront the voice’s owner. He was just a kid, even younger than me, with dark brown skin, hair, and eyes. There were captain’s bars on his lapel and an Iranian flag was stitched onto the shoulder of his uniform. The young man held up a QComm and appeared to scan my face with it. Then an enormous smile appeared on his face when he saw my name appear on its display. He abruptly snapped to attention and saluted me.

  “It’s such an honor to finally meet you in person!” he said. “Captain Arjang Dagh, at your service. I’m a huge fan of your work, Lieutenant!”

  “My work?” I repeated, glancing over at Ray uncertainly. “Lieutenant?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Ray said, returning Dagh’s salute. “Mr. Lightman here hasn’t been sworn in yet.”

  “Of course!” he said. “I knew that!” He grinned apologetically. “Sorry for stalking you with my QComm, ‘Mr.’ Lightman, but I’ve always wanted to meet you.” He began to shake my hand and didn’t stop. “The two of us have flown dozens of missions together over the years, so you might recognize my call sign.” He put out his hand. I shook his hand as firmly as I could. “I’m Rostam.”

  My smile faltered and I let go of his hand. I recognized the name, all right.

  “Wow, really?” I said, trying to recover by mustering a fake grin. “It’s great to finally meet you, too. I always assumed I was the youngest pilot in the top ten.”

  “That honor appears to be mine,” he replied, flashing me an infuriatingly humble smile. Then he turned to address Ray. “I’m currently ranked fifth,” he said. “The IronBeagle here is in sixth.” He smiled back at me. “But that’s a recent development. For a long time I was chasing your tail.”

  “You deserve to be in the top five,” I said, trying to hide how much his compliments were irking me. “You’ve trounced me on the player-versus-player servers more than once. You’re an ace, man. Elite.”

  “Very kind of you to say,” he replied. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

  Ray cleared his throat impatiently and pointed to his nonexistent watch. Captain Dagh gave him a perturbed glare, then jerked a thumb at the captain’s bars on his lapel.

  “Chillax, Sergeant,” Dagh said. “The grownups are talking.”

  When Dagh turned back to face me, Ray reached out and mimed snapping his neck. “Yes, sir, Captain, sir.”

  Dagh smiled at me again; then he produced a glossy eight-by-ten photo from a plastic folder stuffed under his arm. It was a photo of me—an enlarged version of the one they’d just taken for my ID badge. He held it out to me sheepishly, along with a black felt-tip pen.

  “Would you mind terribly signing this?” he asked. “I’m trying to collect autographs from all of the other pilots in the top ten, and I figured this might be my only chance to get yours.”

  I ignored the ominous subtext of what he’d just said and then used his pen to sign my first ever autograph. Then I handed the photo back to Dagh, wondering how many other Armada pilot autographs he’d collected so far today, and from whom.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Lightman,” Dagh said. “Like I said, it was an honor.”

  He started to salute me again, then stuck out his hand instead. We shook.

  “The honor was all mine, sir,” I said. “I hope we run into each other again.”

  He reached out and touched his QComm to mine. Both devices beeped.

  “I added my QComm number to your contact list,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to call me if I can help you with anything.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Thanks.”

  He turned and hurried off in another direction. Once he was out of sight, Ray and I continued walking. We passed through another set of automatic armored doors.

  “How old was that kid?”

  “Who, Captain Dagh?” he said. “Seventeen. But he was only fifteen when the EDA first recruited him. He’s a prodigy, though.” He stopped walking and gave me a nervous glance. “Not to imply that you weren’t—or aren’t.”

  I felt like I’d just been picked last for the world’s biggest game of kickball.

  “I was ranked in the top ten, too,” I said. “Why wasn’t I recruited at age fifteen?”

  He frowned and gave me an incredulous look.

  “Your psych profile indicated you weren’t suitable for early recruitment.”

  “Why not? Why wasn’t I suitable?”

  “Don’t play dumb, ‘Zack Attack,’ ” he said. “You know why.”

  Before I could respond, Ray turned his back on me and continued walking.

  But before he could get out of sight, I swallowed my pride and hurried after him.

  EVENTUALLY, WE ARRIVED in a circular lobby containing a large bank of elevators. There were already several other “Elite Recruit Candidates” milling around, waiting for the next car to arrive. I was about to walk over and join them when Ray tapped me on the shoulder.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said. Then he looked me up and down, as if he were sending me off to my first day of school. He reached for my backpack, which was now mostly empty, and I handed it to him. Then before I could protest, he slipped my father’s jacket off of me and began to fold it up.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” I said, hating how much I sounded like an angry child.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. “And it’s a very cool jacket—no argument. But wearing it into this briefing won’t help you make the best first impression.”

  He stuffed the jacket into my backpack and forced the zipper closed, then put the pack back on my shoulders.

  “Those elevators will take you down to the briefing auditorium,” he said, pointing behind me. “Just follow those other recruit candidates.”

  I glanced across the lobby, over at the recruits forming a line at the elevators. Then I turned back to face Ray. “When will I see you again?”

  “I’m not sure, pal,” he said, meeting my gaze. “Things are happening very fast now. I’m departing on another shuttle in just a few minutes.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Where are they sending you?”

  “To help defend the Big Apple,” he said. “I’m one of the Thirty Dozen, remember?” He smiled and straightened his posture, then his lapels. “I’ve been assigned to the EDA’s First Armored Drone Battalion,” he said. “We’ll be defending the Eastern Seaboard. So I’ll be down here fighting them on the ground while you’re up there, fighting them in the sky.”

  We stood there in silence for a moment; then Ray stuck out his hand. I hesitated for a moment, but then I shook it. In spite of everything, I still didn’t want Ray to leave. He was the only familiar face in this place. While I was fumbling for a way to say goodbye to him without expressing any hint of forgiveness, Ray surprised me by throwing his arms around me in a fierce bear hug. Then I surprised myself by hugging him back, just as tightly.

  “You’ve got a gift, Zack,” he said, stepping back. “You really can make a difference in this war. Remember that, okay? No matter how frightening things get these next few hours …”

  I nodded, but didn’t reply. I had absolutely no idea how to respond to that—or to anything that was happening right now. I wasn’t a soldier. I was just a kid from the suburbs who played a shitload of videogames. I wasn’t prepared to fight an interplanetary war! At the moment, I didn’t feel prepared for much of anything—not even to say goodbye to Ray.