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three rings. Might as well call them the Corps of Engineers nowadays, though. Don’t get me wrong, we have combat companies just in case of civil unrest or the emergence of some new, rogue nation, but they’ll never see any real action. A shame, because I was a combat guy myself in the day, and we did more than fight. Helped Interpol track down criminals, overthrew corrupt regimes, even distributed humanitarian aid.”
    “You were a veteran?” Tom had never met a real one before. His stomach gave a great leap as they descended toward the roof of the Old Pentagon. “Did you shoot guns at people?”
    “Not that kind of veteran. I started off as a pilot. Flew troops who did shoot guns at people in and out of the Middle East back when there was some fight in the region. Believe it or not, when I was a young officer, violence wasn’t a small-scale, isolated matter. There were always several wars going on somewhere in the world, with guns and bombs and insurgencies and everything you’ve read about.”
    The plane touched down on the helipad. Tom and General Marsh unbuckled their seat belts and emerged onto the old building’s roof, where a line of military traditionals stood at attention. Marsh exchanged salutes with the ranking officer, stood statue stiff for his retina verification scan, then gestured for Tom to accompany him into an elevator. They dropped into the Pentagon, and emerged into a first-floor corridor joining the old Pentagon to the Pentagonal Spire.
    In the hallway leading to the Spire, a crisply dressed woman with large, clear eyes and dark skin awaited them. She strode forward as they drew closer to her. “Thomas Raines, I assume?”
    Tom glanced at General Marsh, and began a salute like the ones he’d seen moments before.
    General Marsh shook his head. “No saluting, Tom. This is Olivia Ossare. She’s a civilian.”
    The woman beamed at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tom. He’s right. I’m a civilian—as are you. When the military began requisitioning teenagers four years ago for intrasolar combat operations, the Congressional Defense Committee, which oversees operations here, drafted a document known as the Public Accord.”
    Tom followed her into the vast lobby of the Pentagonal Spire, General Marsh behind them. The entrance to the Spire was no less daunting than the glittering chrome outside: high marble ceilings, with a golden eagle glaring down upon those at the threshold. A large American flag stood by the door, ringed by the flags of the current US military allies: India, Canada, Britain, and various European and Oceanian states.
    Olivia’s heels echoed on the floor. “All recruits are subject to child labor laws. Although you are joining the military, you won’t serve in the same capacity as traditional soldiers unless you choose to reenlist at eighteen. You will not hold a formal rank. The military may be your custodian while you’re here, but according to federal law, your legal guardian is still your father. The military does not own you.”
    Tom’s eyes strayed to a group of uniformed regular soldiers marching past in formation. Olivia’s hand on his shoulder urged him forward.
    “Like me, Tom, you’ll be something of a civilian contractor. You’ll be in the employ of the government but on a limited schedule. You’ll receive a traditional education—”
    Tom winced. He’d hoped he was done with school forever.
    “—a stipend, with a regular salary in a trust, and you’ll have Calisthenics as well as a minimum of twenty hours of free time per week. You’ll have twenty vacation days per year, some at standard holiday intervals, some at times determined by General Marsh. On weekends, the time is entirely yours to fill. You have liberty of movement as long as you ensure you’re back at the Spire by ten p.m.”
    “And as long as you remain within a twenty-mile radius of this installation,” Marsh cut in. “This is the designated zone, Mr. Raines, and you don’t