“I don’t have to join the military, Dad. I want to.” He opened his eyes and approached it from his father’s perspective. “Is it the money thing? My salary will be in a trust, but I get a living allowance. I can send some along. I can help you out.”
Why was Neil looking at him like he’d stabbed him or something? They both knew Tom was the one paying for their rooms lately.
Neil’s jaw clenched. “Fine. Fine, Tom. I’ll sign whatever blasted form you want. You want to throw your life away? Want to pledge yourself to the corporate war machine?”
“Yes, Dad. I want to pledge myself to the corporate war machine.” Tom’s voice grew ferocious. “It’s my choice.”
“It’s your mistake.”
“Maybe. But it’s mine.”
Neil yanked the consent form from Tom’s hands. “This isn’t how teenaged rebellion’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to shock me by doing something scandalous. Not by joining the establishment.”
“This is about as scandalous as I’m going to get, Dad. Sign the form.”
“I’d rather you got a tattoo.”
Neil scrawled his signature on the form and handed custody of Tom over to the US military.
LATER IN THE afternoon, General Marsh returned to collect the contract—and his newest recruit.
“Mr. Raines, you have no need to worry about Tom while he’s with us. We’ll take good care of your boy.” Marsh offered Neil a hand to shake.
Neil stared back at him with stony hatred. He ignored Marsh’s hand and instead reached out to envelop Tom in a rough, parting hug.
“Tom”—Neil ruffled his hand in Tom’s hair—“whatever happens, you take care of yourself. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Tom couldn’t help wondering at the look on his dad’s face when he walked away. Neil stared after him like he was sure this was the last time they’d ever see each other.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THE AIRPLANE hummed around him, Tom imagined himself as a Combatant, saving America from some devastating Russo-Chinese plot. And maybe then Ms. Falmouth would see him on TV and gasp, realizing her least favorite student had just saved her country. Then everyone at Rosewood would find out, too.
Suddenly he wanted to tell her where he was going. He had this weird need to hear what she’d say. But when he asked about visiting Rosewood one last time, Marsh shook his head.
“As far as your Ms. Falmouth is concerned, you’ve been moved to a foster home. We keep as quiet as we can about our young recruits, Tom. The only face we put out there publicly is Elliot Ramirez. The rest of you are only known to the public as call signs.”
The flight from Arizona seemed to take forever. When they flew over Arlington, Virginia, Tom finally spotted the building he’d been watching for since takeoff: the Pentagonal Spire, military headquarters for the Intrasolar Forces. The massive spire rose from a five-sided pentagonal base and twisted up into a gleaming, chrome point.
Marsh rapped a knobby knuckle on the windowpane. “Used to be, when I was a kid, Tom, this building was a giant, flat pentagon. The place where the Spire is? Right where it’s planted, there used to be a courtyard and two inner rings of the Old Pentagon. We called the courtyard ground zero. It got that name way back in the Cold War, when everyone thought that would be the first place the Soviets bombed. A lot of people were upset when the higher-ups decided to build the Spire over that piece of history, but we were just ramping up competition with the Chinese in space, and we needed an edge. The Spire itself is more than a building. It’s the most powerful transmitter in the Western Hemisphere.”
“What do you do in the old building?” Tom said as the plane rudders tilted up, outside his window. They decelerated as the hybrid plane shifted into helicopter mode.
“We’ve got some military traditionals stationed in the remaining three rings. Might as well call them the Corps of Engineers nowadays, though. Don’t get me wrong, we have combat companies just in case of civil unrest or the emergence of some new, rogue nation, but they’ll never see any real action. A shame, because I was a combat guy myself in the day, and we did more than fight. Helped Interpol track down criminals, overthrew corrupt regimes, even distributed humanitarian aid.”
“You were a veteran?” Tom had never met a real one before. His stomach gave a great leap as they descended toward the roof of the Old Pentagon. “Did you shoot guns at people?”
“Not that kind of veteran. I started off as a pilot. Flew troops who did shoot guns at people in and out of the Middle East back when there was some fight in the region. Believe it or not, when I was a young officer, violence wasn’t a small-scale, isolated matter. There were always several wars going on somewhere in the world, with guns and bombs and insurgencies and everything you’ve read about.”
The plane touched down on the helipad. Tom and General Marsh unbuckled their seat belts and emerged onto the old building’s roof, where a line of military traditionals stood at attention. Marsh exchanged salutes with the ranking officer, stood statue stiff for his retina verification scan, then gestured for Tom to accompany him into an elevator. They dropped into the Pentagon, and emerged into a first-floor corridor joining the old Pentagon to the Pentagonal Spire.
In the hallway leading to the Spire, a crisply dressed woman with large, clear eyes and dark skin awaited them. She strode forward as they drew closer to her. “Thomas Raines, I assume?”
Tom glanced at General Marsh, and began a salute like the ones he’d seen moments before.
General Marsh shook his head. “No saluting, Tom. This is Olivia Ossare. She’s a civilian.”
The woman beamed at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tom. He’s right. I’m a civilian—as are you. When the military began requisitioning teenagers four years ago for intrasolar combat operations, the Congressional Defense Committee, which oversees operations here, drafted a document known as the Public Accord.”
Tom followed her into the vast lobby of the Pentagonal Spire, General Marsh behind them. The entrance to the Spire was no less daunting than the glittering chrome outside: high marble ceilings, with a golden eagle glaring down upon those at the threshold. A large American flag stood by the door, ringed by the flags of the current US military allies: India, Canada, Britain, and various European and Oceanian states.
Olivia’s heels echoed on the floor. “All recruits are subject to child labor laws. Although you are joining the military, you won’t serve in the same capacity as traditional soldiers unless you choose to reenlist at eighteen. You will not hold a formal rank. The military may be your custodian while you’re here, but according to federal law, your legal guardian is still your father. The military does not own you.”
Tom’s eyes strayed to a group of uniformed regular soldiers marching past in formation. Olivia’s hand on his shoulder urged him forward.
“Like me, Tom, you’ll be something of a civilian contractor. You’ll be in the employ of the government but on a limited schedule. You’ll receive a traditional education—”
Tom winced. He’d hoped he was done with school forever.
“—a stipend, with a regular salary in a trust, and you’ll have Calisthenics as well as a minimum of twenty hours of free time per week. You’ll have twenty vacation days per year, some at standard holiday intervals, some at times determined by General Marsh. On weekends, the time is entirely yours to fill. You have liberty of movement as long as you ensure you’re back at the Spire by ten p.m.”