The tank comes to a halt after two minutes of slowly rolling onward into the structure. I try to steal glances at the screen that shows what’s in front of us, and see a space so vast that—if it wasn’t for the artificial lighting—I’d think must be outdoors. We all wait inside the tank for … what?

“Sir?” one of the young soldiers intones.

“Hmm?” I reply, staring dumbly at her. “Oh, right,” I say, realizing that they’re waiting for me, their senior officer, to exit first. I climb out of the tank, my mind flashing back to the Battle of Midway Park: Kina, Malachai, Pander, Blue, and I had ridden into the middle of the Alt’s rally in a tank identical to this one.

The other soldiers join me on the concrete floor. The tank is parked in an enormous hangar-like space beside at least a hundred others. Around us, troops are disembarking and moving toward a checkpoint at the far end of the hangar. “My” squad is looking at me expectantly again, so I tell them to lead the way, all the while glancing around, looking for a door that might lead to a medical facility or laboratory. As the soldiers walk, we are joined by others. At first a dozen or so, then thirty, and then we are in a great wave of Alts, all dressed in black, all perfect in their features and bodies, all of them with their enhancements: mechanical lungs; robotic hearts; synthetic blood.

I slow my pace down as we approach the checkpoint—beyond it is an enormous hall. I let the soldiers pass me by until I’m near the back of the line.

Drones are scrutinizing the crowd for weapons, and sentries posted at the entrance are using handheld iris scanners to check identification.

I hang back even more, slowing until I’m barely moving at all. The river of soldiers flows by me on each side. I spot a deserted access corridor and decide to slip down it. I glance once more through the enormous open doors of the hall—and see Galen Rye taking to the stage to rapturous applause.

I want to stay and listen, I want to gather information about Phase Three, but I can’t.

I run down the long, dark corridor, the vinyl floor squeaking under my rubber-soled boots, the black and red of the painted walls rushing by, and Galen’s voice echoing after me.

“Soldiers of Earth, survivors of the end of days, warriors of destiny, you are the chosen few!”

Galen’s words and the roar of the crowd chase me down the never-ending passageway. I scan the plaques on the doors—MESS HALL 5 FOR TIER THREE USE; TRAINING CENTER 5 FOR TIER THREE USE; BARRACK 2 FOR TIER THREE, G COMPANY—and half a dozen other barrack notices that are all useless to me. This pattern repeats from MESS HALL 6 and TRAINING CENTER 6, and on and on with no sign of the whereabouts of Malachai and Woods.