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the only part of it that can be seen is the extra-wide elevator at its base. The rest of the tower’s massive height is only visible from outside, where it shoots up from the rear of the main structure toward the sky. In front of the tower, on the roof of the main structure, is the iron sculpture of the Board’s symbol: the profiles of two Alts facing each other, their eyes given startling depth with a spiral of black iron numbers. It occurs to me that I must be standing directly beneath the symbol, here inside the lobby.
    The central tower is where the Board’s Level 1, 2, and 3 Operators and their immediate families live. Each floor contains multibedroom apartments. I bet they are larger and more spacious than most houses in the poorer, crowded wards.
    The wide elevator at the tower’s base anchors one end of the lobby, and the glass front doors anchor the other; the space between branches out into six separate wings—three to a side, each three levels high. Three levels of circular walkways—constructed from the same black iron as the city’s huge barrier and then reinforced with glass and steel—curve along the inner walls of the lobby, connecting one wing to another on all levels.
    Looking up at those walkways, with their direct lines of sight to me down on ground level, I feel like an easy target. Impossible to miss.
    This place is so … open. Too open.
    I can’t begin to guess which floor is reserved for what, but common sense says divisions have to be organized in some way. Maybe it really is just the simplest, one floor for each Level and their associated duties.
    One thing’s for sure—somewhere in this building are the computers that randomly select and then activate assignments, setting two Alts on a course in which only one can survive.
    Seeing all this, I suddenly feel alien, a fluke who shouldn’t be alive. How can any Alt from outside the Board possibly compete with them?
    “This way, please.” The Operator’s voice breaks through the low, controlled hum of the lobby.
    I turn to face him. He’s taking back his cell from the guard behind the entry kiosk at the door after having it scanned and verified for entry. Tucking it into his breast pocket, he motions for me to follow as he heads toward the southwest wing, clearly expecting no argument from me. We’re on his turf now, not mine.
    We cross the vast sheet of gray floor. There’s a round brass disc in the very center, engraved with a spiral of words that I don’t get quite near enough to read. But I already know what it says—the one phrase we all know by heart.
    Be the one, be worthy.
    Entering the wing, I feel the world shrinking, closing in. The hall is long, with both sides marked by wide closed doors made of thick etched glass lit from within—the day’s lingering sunlight streaming in from the exterior windows. Even the ceiling seems lower than it should be, rushing me along. The sound of my footsteps is flat and thin. Here, I can’t help but feel diminished. Not worthy, or even a complete, but the latest cog in whatever plan the Board is working on, a piece being readied to fall into place.
    What could they want from me?
    We stop in front of one of the doors, and the Operator slides it open. “You are asked to wait in here.”
    I step past him, already on my way to forgetting him, concentrating on who’s going to be coming along soon enough, the one who really wants me here.
    “Please take a seat,” the Operator says. There are black couches against two walls of the room. I walk over to the far couch, the one that faces the door with clear sight of anyone coming in, and sit down.
    “Do feel free to eat, as we’ve disrupted your schedule without warning,” he says. I watch him as he steps back into the hall and slides the door shut behind him.
    Finally alone, I pull out my cell and turn it off. I don’t want Chord calling me while I’m here. Shoving it back into my pocket, I set my cold dinner on the couch next to me,