Phillip’s eyes locked on Aloysius’s—or Uncle Al, as he knew him. A decorated Harlem Hellfighter from the Great War. Three years ago he’d stormed off to the hills of Spain, rifle at the ready. And just three days ago, Emperor Hirohito had bombed Hawai’i. It was no coincidence that the army had sent him today.

“I understand you boys are very skilled in the ways of digital computing. Radio waves. Electronic communications.” Like most men in Oklahoma, he drew out the first e in electronic—a slingshot ready to snap. “I’m looking for a volunteer to help his country. To make some history.”

Darius was already rolling his eyes, but Phillip sat up straighter, something hardening in his spine. All his life he wanted to do more, be more than the relative wealth he’d been born into. His parents had made their mark on Greenwood with money, jobs, connections, but Phillip knew those weren’t his skills. He’d tried to use his talent for science and design. But so far, the only history he’d made was nothing he wanted to claim, thanks to Connolly.

Maybe, though, the fault hadn’t been in Phillip’s skills at all—maybe he could use them for something good, something he wouldn’t be ashamed of.

“What’s the matter, sir?” another student, Patrick, called from the front of the lab. “All the white boys upstairs already turn you down?”

“Didn’t ask them,” Jones answered, surveying the lab. “I know your class has better grades anyhow.”

Everyone mumbled their assent; no lie there. Darius raised his hand until Jones nodded to him. “What’s in it for us?”

“Full tuition and GI benefits,” Jones replied. “Pay commensurate with your level of expertise. And the warm satisfaction of knowing you’re beating back the forces of tyranny and hate.”

That earned him a few snorts. Tyranny was this classroom, the basement graciously segregated so they wouldn’t “distract” the rest of the university. Hate was the smoke that had smothered Greenwood not two decades before when the white men stormed it, the blood, the firebombs and broken glass. Whether it was Hawai’i or Poland or Paris or London, those wars weren’t theirs. Their hands were full with the hard work of building and rebuilding at home. Phillip’s father had said as much over breakfast that morning, turning the pages of the Tulsa World with a sigh as the cook brought them freshly scrambled eggs.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Lieutenant Jones continued. “This isn’t our fight.”

The classroom went quiet.