Even humanity’s lack of concern for its rampant overpopulation problem now made a terrible kind of sense. What difference did it make if our planet was capable of supporting all seven billion of us in the long term when a far greater threat to our numbers was waiting in the wings? And despite the overwhelming odds, humanity had done what was necessary to ensure its own survival. It filled me with a strange new sense of pride in my own species. We weren’t a bunch of primitive monkeys teetering on the brink of self-destruction after all—this appeared to be an altogether different kind of destruction we were teetering on the brink of.
Our shuttle was racing down the tunnel now, blurring the lights embedded in its walls into strobing neon bands as we plunged deep underground.
When we reached the bottom of the shaft a few seconds later, it widened into an enormous subterranean hangar, with a large circular runway that was now spread out below us. Our shuttle landed at its northern edge, joining a long line of identical EDA tactical shuttles parked along the runway’s glowing perimeter.
As soon as the doors slid open, Ray unbuckled his harness, jumped out onto the runway, and motioned for me to follow. My fingers fumbled with the latch of my safety harness for a few seconds; then I finally slipped free of it. After I tested my legs to make sure they were both still working, I climbed outside to join Ray. The pilot and the other two EDA agents remained on board. Like an idiot, I awkwardly waved goodbye to them just before the shuttle doors closed again with a pneumatic hiss.
I checked the time on my phone and saw that the trip here from Beaverton had taken less than twenty minutes. I also noticed that I wasn’t getting a signal down here. Which meant I wouldn’t be able to call my mom and tell her I was all right. Suddenly, I wanted very badly to hear her voice. Had the school called her yet? What had they told her? She had to be going crazy with worry right now.
Earlier that morning, when I’d stumbled downstairs, she’d surprised me with dinner-for-breakfast waiting on the kitchen table. Her “monstrous meatloaf” and mashed potatoes—my absolute favorite. She’d watched me stuff my face, grinning from ear to ear and pausing every few minutes to tell me to slow down and chew my food. I’d given her a quick kiss on the cheek and rushed out the door, worried that she might decide to revisit the dreaded subject of my academic future at any moment. She’d called out “I love you,” and I’d mumbled it back to her as I continued hurrying out to my car. Had she heard me? I felt like kicking myself for not making sure.
“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.”