Prologue

THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2040

SEC DEF TO CONGRESS: QUOTAS NOT MET, BIG CHANGES LOOM!

CHINA THREATENS SANCTIONS; PRESIDENT GERRY LAUGHS

STOCKS UP ON SEC DEF THREAT

SUMMER ’40-CAST: IT’S A DRY HEAT!

YANKS’ ROBO-ARM TOSSES 4TH STRAIGHT PERFECT GAME!

LILY MEDINA WEDS HER FOURTH—THIS YEAR!

HEADLINES, NATIONAL TIMES,

7 P.M., THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2040

WHIT

Whit Murray thought: Something is happening.

He had no information, no warning. There was no visual cue. Yet he felt a cold tickle at the base of his neck.

It was eight in the evening, the sky still light even though the sun had set. Whit had just left the North Nellis metro stop and was hurrying toward the dorm. He was tired, he was hungry (he’d worked past closing time at the Installation cafeteria), and he was eager to score one of the top bunks.

Then he realized he was alone on the sidewalk.

On the tall side—at least compared to most of his contemporaries—Whit tended to slump when worn down. He was large, but not fit, certainly not coordinated in any sense of the word. His gait, especially tonight, was more of a shamble.

He also had one of those faces that teenaged humans constantly misread. It had to do with his eyes, which were frequently open wider than strictly necessary, giving him an expression of superiority or disdain, none of it what he felt, but enough to encourage the odd elbow from a fellow traveler on a bus and even a couple of actual beatdowns inside the Installation itself.

Posture, visage, aloneness, it all added up to robbery victim, or target for the Aggregates.

For some reason—possibly gestures and nonverbal cues from his co-workers all day—Whit realized that he wasn’t going to be robbed.

He was going to be ambushed by an Aggregate, and likely taken somewhere he didn’t want to go.

It had happened to others. It had happened to his father and mother.

As he continued on his way, though more slowly, glancing left and right, seeing no one—no human beings—Whit wondered why the Aggregates never sent warnings, or even benign messages.

Maybe they found some value in shock and surprise. Of course, Whit wasn’t going to be surprised. The Aggregates had been dealing with humans since before Whit was born, yet they continued to underestimate the informal, off-the-grid ways in which information flowed from one person to the next.

No matter. Whit was on alert, and ready for the encounter.

All he could do was wonder: Where were they sending him? And why? He was a junior containment specialist spending more time on education than hardware development. What good would he be anywhere else?

Well, there was manual labor. Maybe his size had caused the Aggregates to reclassify him.

Off to his left he could see the glittering towers of downtown Las Vegas. Whit did not gamble; he knew no one who patronized the casinos, though clearly there must be hundreds of thousands who did. The money eventually went to the Aggregates. All money went to the Aggregates. He remembered his father complaining that it was bad enough aliens had taken over the United States and now controlled the government . . . but they also let the roads turn to potholes and allowed buildings to collapse. “No matter how powerful they are,” Andy Murray used to say, “when people see everything going to shit, they’re going to rise up.”

Of course, expressing sentiments like that had led to Andy’s disappearance . . . and so far, he’d been wrong. There was no sign that citizens of what was now called “Free Nation U.S.” or any humans under the Aggregates were going to throw off alien oppression. There were too many, they were too powerful, too all-knowing, too ruthless.

And they had too many humans on their side.

The first sign of an Aggregate “ambush” was always the team from Transformational Human Evolution (or THE): three (never fewer) of the handsomest humans anyone ever saw, at least one of them female. They stepped out of the shadows as if they had somehow materialized.

The woman in Whit’s trio was a redhead in a dark blue business suit with a nice skirt. She had eyes so green Whit could tell, even in the darkness.

“Whitson Murray?” she said. She had some kind of accent, too, vaguely Eastern European, what always sounded like Russian to Whit. (THE liked to have its action teams working in countries other than the ones they were born in.)

“Confirmed,” he said. Who else would he be? Obviously they could read his data. (And probably just as obviously, they only wanted to note the delta between his data and his response.)

“I’m Counselor Kate; this is Counselor Margot”—another woman, middle-aged, pleasant, and sort of motherly, with a hint of Italian in her voice—“and Counselor Hans.” A man not much older than Whit, but taller, clearly stronger. “We represent Nevada Aggregate Twelve-Ten, and we bring you the joy of a new mission.”

All three members of the team turned, like dealers in a hardware showroom, revealing half a dozen units of Nevada Aggregate Twelve-Ten.

Whit hadn’t seen them arrive—more fuel for the teleportation argument.

He always wondered—did the Aggregates ever go anywhere in groups smaller than a dozen?

The individual units of this Aggregate formation looked and probably were identical, as if assembled in the same factory. But they were capable of independent action, and the one on the far left stepped forward and spoke to Whit.

“Junior Specialist Whitson Murray,” it said. When the Aggregates first revealed themselves, fifteen years ago, everyone expected them to sound like machines—about as articulate as Siri III on the iPhones everyone carried then. But they turned out to have sweet, almost childlike voices. Whit knew that if he closed his eyes, he might think he was being addressed by an eight-year-old.

A dangerous and articulate eight-year-old. The rule was, lower your head a bit and don’t look threatening. So he did as the sweet-voiced member of the formation continued: “Your development records demonstrate great mathematical and engineering skill.”

The proper response was “Thank you,” and you can bet he offered it, even as he thought, Duh, why else would I be working at the Installation?

“Your work in Department Ninety-One is terminated effective tonight.”

Which was not great news: When you were out of work, you were out of the dorm. When you were out of the dorm, well . . . Counselor Margot had mentioned a “new assignment.” Whit held the humble posture.

“You are being transferred to Department Two Hundred Ninety-Two effective eight A.M. tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I look forward to new and challenging work.” Whatever it was.

“Your future is bright, Mr. Murray.”

And with that, the speaking unit stepped back in line, and the whole crew marched forward into the Nevada evening, in the general direction of the metro stop . . . Hell, he thought, maybe they were headed to the Atlantis for a round of roulette and a few drinks.

Whit would never know. He was left with his friends from THE.

He shifted his backpack. “Do I have to relocate?”

“Not far,” Counselor Margot said. “Department Two Hundred Ninety-Two is located in northern Arizona. You will also hear it called ‘Site A.’”

That was a relief. Because if THE had told him, Your new job is in Cairo, he’d have to get to Cairo tomorrow. Which would leave no time for packing: He would simply have to turn, get to McCarran, and get the first plane to Egypt, leaving behind whatever clothes and possessions he had in his locker.