“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. Currently ranked fifth. Right above you.”
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.