But even though the Mikes were skilled at both Terra Firma and Armada, their rankings apparently weren’t high enough in either game to merit an invitation to these strange proceedings.
“Lex?”
“Zack?”
“Do you play Terra Firma and Armada?”
“T.F.”
“How good are you at it?” I asked. “Are you one of the Thirty Dozen?”
She nodded. “I’m currently ranked seventeenth place,” she said, far too nonchalantly. “But I’ve been as high as fifteenth. Those standings fluctuate a lot.”
I whistled low, impressed. “Damn, woman,” I said. “What’s your call sign?”
“Lexecutioner,” she said. “It’s a portmanteau. What’s yours?”
“IronBeagle,” I told her, wincing at how dorky it sounded in my ears. “It’s a—”
“It’s fantastic!” she said. “I love that flick, as cheesy as it is. And my grandma used to play that Snoopy vs the Red Baron album every Christmas.”
I did a double-take at her. No one had ever gotten the Iron Eagle/Peanuts mash-up in my call sign without me first having to explain it to them—including Cruz and Diehl. I felt a strong urge to reach out and touch her shoulder, to confirm that she was real.
“You’re not in the Thirty Dozen, otherwise I’d recognize your call sign,” she said. “You must play Armada?”
I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment. “Not your game?”
She shook her head. “Flight simulators give me vertigo. I prefer to throw down with my feet on the ground.” She pointed a thumb at herself. “You put me at the controls of a giant battle mech, I will crush my enemies and see them driven before me.”
I grinned. “What about the lamentations of their women?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, chuckling. “Their women lamentate all over the place. That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
We both laughed loudly, drawing annoyed stares from those seated within earshot. We appeared to be the only two people in that auditorium who were in a laughing mood—which made us laugh even louder.
When we regained our composure, Lex upended her flask and let the last few drops inside fall onto her outstretched tongue. Then she screwed the cap back on and stowed the flask in her jeans.
“ ‘I’ve lost R2,’ ” she quoted, before mimicking the little blue droid’s famous whistling sigh. This time, I was the one who snorted out an unexpected laugh.
“So spill it, Star Lord,” she said. “What’s your player ranking?”
“My Terra Firma ranking is too abysmal to say out loud,” I said, laying on the false modesty with a trowel. “But in the Armada rankings I’m currently sixth.”
Her eyes widened, and she swiveled her head around to stare at me.
“Sixth place?” she repeated. “In the world? No bullshit?”
I crossed my heart, but did not hope to die.
“That’s some serious bill-paying skillage,” she said. “Color me impressed, Zack-Zack Lightman.”
“Color me flattered, Miss Larkin,” I replied. “But you’d be a lot less impressed if you’d ever seen me play Terra Firma. I’m okay in an ATHID, but I can’t drive a Sentinel to save my ass. I always end up stomping on a tenement full of civilians; then I get demoted back to the infantry.”
“Doh! Collateral and property damage! You like to double down, eh?”
Before I could answer, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and a hush fell over the audience. I felt Lex grab my forearm and squeeze it tightly enough to cut off my circulation. I stared straight ahead, clutching the armrests of my seat, trembling with a lifetime’s worth of accumulated anticipation as the screen in front of us was illuminated.
Then they showed us the most disturbing government training film in history.
An animated Earth Defense Alliance logo appeared on the screen, with the capital E and D in EDA morphing into a transparent shield that encircled a spinning blue Earth. The negative space between the legs of the stylized capital A formed the domed head of a Sentinel mech, while the space at the A’s center contained a lidded cyclopean eye, which I knew was meant to represent Moon Base Alpha, the secret Earth Defense Alliance installation on the far side of the moon. I wondered why the real EDA had chosen to include Moon Base Alpha in the crest, since the base itself obviously couldn’t be real. Then I reminded myself—just a few hours ago, I’d thought the same exact thing about the EDA itself.
The EDA crest faded, and ominous music swelled on the soundtrack. It was the opening track of the orchestral score for Armada, composed by none other than John Williams. When the London Symphony Orchestra’s string section kicked in, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I reminded myself that this was real life.