But judging by his reaction, there was clearly a lot to see—and I was determined to see it. I didn’t move. Our standoff continued for a dozen or so seconds before the general finally stepped aside and palmed open the door, his face already flashing red in embarrassment as I squeezed past him to peer inside the tiny modular room.
The entire back wall of my father’s quarters was covered with photos of me and my mom, including all of my yearbook photos going back to grade school. A photo of my mother in her nurse’s uniform, which he must have found on her hospital’s website, was hanging over his bed. The rest of his walls were completely bare.
Before I could examine his living space further, he prodded me back out of it into the hall, then locked the door.
“Hurry,” he said, trying to hide the unsteadiness in his voice. “Every second counts.”
ANOTHER TURBO ELEVATOR hurtled us downward at an unsettling speed, then slowed to a stop just a few seconds later. A screen embedded in the wall displayed a 3-D map of the base, and it indicated that we’d just arrived at its lowest level, at the very bottom of the egg-shaped structure nestled into the Daedalus crater. When the doors hissed open, we stepped out into a short, blue-carpeted corridor that terminated in a pair of sliding armored doors with DRONE OPERATIONS CENTER neatly stenciled across them. Above these doors, spray-painted on the wall in stylized graffiti, was the name THUNDERDOME.
The doors slid open as we approached, and I followed my father through them into a large circular room with a domed concrete ceiling that was painted a bright iridescent blue, like the screens that were used on movie sets as placeholders for digital effects that would be added later.
“Welcome,” my father said, stretching out his arms, “to the Moon Base Alpha Drone Operations Center. We call it the Thunderdome.”
“Why?”
“Well, because it has a dome,” he said, pointing up. “And we fight inside it, just like Mad Max.” He shrugged. “And because ‘Thunderdome’ sounds cooler than ‘Drone Operations Center.’ ”
In the center of the room, on a raised platform, was a rotating command chair with curved ergonomic touchscreens built into its armrests. It was encircled by ten oval-shaped pits sunken into the stone floor, each containing an individual drone controller pod. Unlike the multifunction stations we’d used back at Crystal Palace, these pods appeared to have been designed to control Interceptors exclusively. Each pit contained a simulated ADI-88 Interceptor cockpit—a pilot seat, flight stick, and all of its familiar control panels and system indicators arrayed beneath a wraparound display canopy that slid into place over you when you climbed into the pilot seat.
My father tapped a button on his QComm, and the bright blue dome over our heads switched on, like the screen of a high-definition television, providing a 360-degree view of the cratered landscape surrounding the moon base that made it seem as if we were standing in the observation deck on the base’s top level instead of in a reinforced bunker far beneath the lunar surface.
As he led me across the enormous domed bunker, I glanced inside each of the drone controller pods at my feet. I could see through their semitransparent canopies, and four of the pods were already in use: Debbie, Milo, Whoadie, and Chén were inside, giving their new rigs a test spin in some sort of training simulation.
The Japanese EDA officer I’d spotted earlier was standing at the command console with another EDA officer—a tall, dark-skinned man I’d never seen before. Both men looked about the same age as my father, and both had the same weary, battle-hardened demeanor I’d seen in him. As they walked over to greet us, I glanced down at the collars of their uniforms and saw they both held the rank of major.
“Zack, I’d like you to meet two of my oldest friends,” my father said. “Major Shin Hashimoto, and Major Graham Fogg.”
“Konichiwa, Lightman-san,” Major Shin said. I saluted him, but he threw me off by returning it with a bow. “It’s good to finally meet you. Your father has told me way too much about you over the years.” He grinned. “I’ve gotten pretty sick of it, actually.”
“Sorry,” I said, just to have something to say.
Shin studied my face until it started to feel creepy; then he glanced over at my father, then back at me, comparing our faces.
“Holy Toledo,” he said, whistling. “You really are the spitting image of your old man.” He elbowed me in the ribs, grinning broadly. “My sympathies, kid!”
He laughed heartily at his own joke, and my father gave me an apologetic look—the same look I used to give to my mom, when one of my friends came over and broke something. But I laughed politely in return, then turned to shake hands with Major Fogg, who appeared to be the tallest person on the moon.
“It is my distinct pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Lightman,” he said brightly. He surprised me by speaking with a thick British accent. “Welcome to Moon Base Alpha!”
I glanced at the shoulder of his uniform and saw the Union Jack there, instead of a US flag. I also noticed that the word Defence on his EDA insignia was spelled with a c instead of an s.
“It’s just the three of you?” I asked. “No one else is up here?”
“Just us,” Shin said. “A resupply shuttle comes up twice a month, but the rest of the time we’re all alone. Not counting all of the drones, of course.”
Graham nodded. “The Alliance used to have dozens of people stationed up here, to help keep all of the different systems running smoothly,” he said. “But once the QComm network came online, almost everything could be done remotely with drones, so they cut back to just a skeleton crew, made up of essential military personnel.”
“There used to be a few more pilots stationed up here,” my father added, “including Admiral Vance, but now it’s just us.”
“The Three Musketeers,” Graham said, smiling. “Lucky buggers that we are.”
A long folding wooden table and three folding metal chairs were arranged against the far wall. The table’s surface was covered with a variety of Dungeons & Dragons rulebooks, gaming screens, and dozens of oddly shaped dice.
“We play D and D four or five nights a week,” Graham explained when he saw me eying the setup. “Helps to pass the time. Shin is usually our dungeon master.” He smiled at me. “My character is twenty-seventh-level Elven archer.”
“Why don’t you show him your character sheet, Graham?” Shin said. “That will really impress the kid.”
Graham ignored him and continued to shadow me with an enthusiastic smile as I wandered around the control center, like a kid showing off his room. A short distance away, I spotted a large drum kit, two electric guitars, and three mic stands, flanked on either side by a stack of amplifiers. I wandered over to examine the gear.
“What, do you guys have a band or something?” I asked.
“Indeed, we do,” Graham said proudly. “We call ourselves ‘The Bishop of Battle.’ It’s the name of—”
“The short film starring Emilio Estevez?” I finished for him. “From the Nightmares horror anthology?”
My father and both his friends blinked at me in surprise as goofy grins spread across each of their faces.
I grinned back, then nodded at my father. “I saw it when I was working my way through all of your old VHS tapes. It—”
I cut myself off when I realized how revealing my last statement had been. But none of them noticed. They were all still beaming at me for getting their band name.
“I like this kid, Xavier,” Shin said.
My father nodded. “Yeah, so do I.”
“We can play some pretty decent Van Halen covers,” Graham continued. “Maybe we’ll jam for you guys later?”
“Sure,” I said uncertainly. “That would be cool.”
I glanced back over at my father, but he was staring at his feet and shaking his head in embarrassment. “We’re not going to play for them, Graham, I told you,” he muttered. “Aliens are invading in a few hours, remember?”
“What better reason to rock out one last time?” Graham replied, throwing up two sets of devil horns.
I stepped over to the edge of the nearest drone controller station pit and peeked in. There was an OUT OF ORDER sign Scotch-taped to its tactical display.
“What happened to this one?” I asked.
“Graham spilled Coke Zero on it, that’s what,” Shin said. “Cost the war effort millions.”
“Stop trying to pin that on me,” Graham grumbled back. “You left your sandals lying around and I tripped over them. Those millions are on you, Shin-bone.”
Graham laughed, but when I laughed, too, he scowled at me.
“What’s so bloody funny, kid?” he said. “I fried one drone pod—that’s nothing compared to the zillions of dollars in drones we lost this morning, thanks to your little stunt!”
Shin nodded, and they both continued to scowl at me for a few more seconds before they both burst into laughter.
“I’m joking, lad,” Graham said, still laughing. “I must’ve watched the video clip of you chasing that Glaive into the base fifty times so far today! Priceless, that was!”