“Practically everything inside this thing is silver and about the size of a thumbnail!” Sam replies, pocketing the pieces of the electronic device that look important. Then she slips out into the street.

I follow, trying to walk confidently, as if I belong out here in this uniform, but my inebriated legs seem to be leaden and reckless.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper, feeling sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, despite the cool evening air.

“Shut up,” Sam says, and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from talking.

We move through the dark city, our shadows stretching out long behind us and then in front as we pass below streetlights.

I try to focus on my movements, try to figure out how to walk normally, but the alcohol is messing with the signals from my brain to my limbs, and suddenly this strikes me as funny and I start to laugh.

“Oh shit,” Sam mutters.

I look up and see what she’s seeing: two Alt soldiers approaching us from up ahead. My laughter dies away immediately.

“Any sign of them?” one of the Alt soldiers asks, stopping a few feet in front of us.

Neither Sam nor I replies. The silence hangs in the air for too long, growing like a balloon between us.

“No,” I say, spitting the word out. “Nope, no sign, no sign at all.”

I sway on my feet, and—in the new silence—offer an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the soldiers.

“Who are you?” the shorter, female Alt asks, leaning close to get a look at my Regular face.

I try to duck my head, try to hide my big ears and the scars that adorn my face and neck. These are Alts—they are born perfect through pre-birth cosmetic enhancements, and they’ll see through my uniquely normal face in a second.

“She asked you a question,” the second Alt soldier says, stepping close and prodding a finger into my chest.

“Who am I?” I say, trying to make my brain work. “I’m … I’m …”

“He’s your commanding officer, son, show some goddamned respect!” Sam says, stepping forward and swiping the tall Alt soldier’s hand away from my chest.

“But he’s … and you’re preg—”

“You see those markings on his uniform?” Sam says, interrupting the stammering soldier and pointing to the stripes on the shoulder of my body armor. “That makes him a Tier Two captain, and if I’m not mistaken, you are a Tier Three lance corporal.”

The soldier stammers, trying to get words out. “But … but … he’s a Regular.”