The woman taps Cornell and the screen displays our IDs, which she prints from the machine next to her.

“Glacia Haverns?”

Glacia raises her hand and takes the ID.

“Arman Lance?”

I grab the card: the Undil Embassy crest—a small, golden triangle inside the outline of a larger triangle—is stamped on the back. My picture and personal information are printed on the front. A silver strip runs lengthwise across the bottom of the card.

“You’ll just scan these in all Embassy-sanctioned towers,” the woman says after handing Michael his ID. “You have access to your bank accounts through them, too. The data is stored directly on the card, so they’ll work anywhere. Questions?”

We all say ‘no,’ and Victoria leads us back across the Hall of Treatises to an entry chamber, the roof of which is a glass dome. Far above us, a hovercraft drifts past the Crown’s glittering panels.

The gate at the end of the chamber slides open, and waves of heat immediately billow against every exposed inch of my skin. Sweat starts to accumulate on my forehead. I do my best to ignore the discomfort and focus on following Victoria to Threshold Tower, which is ten blocks from the Crown. Hotels, restaurants, and Embassy-sanctioned buildings line both sides of the street. Except for Threshold, the buildings become shorter the farther we walk from the Crown, until they are only five or six stories tall.

People crowd the sidewalks and maglev cars whir in the streets. The wind buffets our faces. Two large shadows shift across the buildings as two more hovercrafts disappear behind the tops of the central towers. The cluster of activity excites me. I’ve never been in the middle of something so alive.

“This is Julian Street,” Victoria tells us once we’re through the thicker crowds. “It connects the Crown to Threshold Tower.” She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Vernal Avenue connects the Crown to Horizon Tower, and Delta Street runs to Shield Tower.”

I look down the next street and see an enormous building at the other end. Rows of glass panels stretch diagonally up the sides, and a colorful holographic sphere several feet in diameter shimmers above the entrance. Even without asking, I know what it is.

“That’s the Hologis arena?” Glacia asks, eyes wide with astonishment.

“Indeed it is, Miss Haverns,” Victoria says. “You’re looking at a regulation-sized stadium with seating for fifty thousand spectators. Lucas competes in the monthly tournaments.”

“He any good?” Glacia asks, her interest peaking.

“I’d say so, but I’m no expert. Do you play?”

“Only all the time,” Glacia replies, scoffing, as if it should be obvious.

“Tell him next time you see him,” Victoria says. “He’d be more than happy to talk to you.”