My roommates have long since gone to bed when I sneak out of the barracks, my hair several inches shorter from Jessica’s ministrations. At night the florescent lights that line the subterranean hallways are turned off to save energy, so I make my way through the compound based on touch and memory.

When I get to the storage cellar, most of the group is already there, waiting for the meeting to begin.

Someone whistles. “Is that makeup, Serenity? And here we thought you were a dude this entire time.”

I flip off David, the guy responsible for the comments. All he does is laugh.

Will nods to me and pats an empty crate next to him. I make my way through the cramped room to sit down. We wait five more minutes, and when no one else shows up, Will clears his throat. “This is the North American WUN command center. Let’s commence the hundred and forty-third meeting of the Resistance.” His voice is being recorded and streamed to other meetings occurring throughout the globe.

As the general’s son, Will became the de facto correspondent with the Resistance. The group of us sitting here—all former soldiers and children of the various representatives—gather and relay information back to our leaders.

We make these meetings as clandestine as possible. While the WUN needs the information the Resistance feeds us, we don’t want to be openly associated with them. While we share a common enemy, they’re a terrorist organization.

“What are the casualty numbers this week?” Will asks first.

A crackly voice comes on over the Internet. “Ten thousand, three hundred and eleven globally—that’s the official number. As usual, we have reason to believe there are several thousand more unreported casualties that have died from radiation sickness and biological warfare.”

Next to Will, David jots these numbers down.

I rub my forehead. As much as I’m dreading the visit to Geneva, the WUN is at its breaking point. Our hemisphere’s population is only a fraction of what it was before the war. It’s not just fighting that’s felling our numbers. People are sick.

Will’s mouth is a thin line. “Any news on the enemy?”

“They’re still holding the Panama Canal, and reports in the area say that they’ve taken over the hospitals and research clinics in the neighboring cities—just as they have in all other conquered territories.”

“Have our spies figured out what the king’s men are doing in these locations?”

“Same as all the others—a little of this and that. Stem cell research, the regeneration of cells, you know, the usual work up.”

And we still had no idea what real medical developments the king was actually researching. He’s managed to keep that under wraps for as long as we’ve been fighting this war.