“Mark, wake up!” a familiar voice shouted. “Time to go to the naval base!”

I groaned, rolled over, and rubbed my eyes. Slowly, I sat up. The room looked the same as it had the night before, but the sky outside the window wasn’t pitch black. Dark blue twilight glimmered as the sun nudged the horizon.

Steve was already by my bedside, fully dressed in the same t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and pocketknife he’d worn the day we’d met. He carried a suitcase in one hand.

“This early?” I yawned. “The sun isn’t even up.”

“My dad said we leave at five a.m., remember?” Steve grinned. “We’ve got to get there early, or we’ll be waiting in line all day!”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and followed him as he exited the room. Down the hallway we went, only this time up the stairs. At the top, the ceiling opened to a flat, wide concrete platform—more a parking lot than a roof. Thirty meters wide and long, surrounded by waist-high railings. Thirty meters down to the front yard below.

The property was enormous: sixty meters long and wide including the front, back, and side yards. All around, I saw the tops of skyscrapers: I realized this house was built on one as well. Each was different, but all of them had houses on top of them—some as large as ours, others smaller, in neat arrays of a dozen or more.

Three aircars rested on the lot, shiny and angular: a yellow coupe, a bright red sedan, and a blue station wagon. No license plates. No seat belts. Small horizontal disks spun in place of wheels. Mr. and Mrs. Parker waited by the sedan.

“Good morning, boys,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Hi, Mom!” Steve called.

“Get in the car,” Mr. Parker said, pressing a button. The doors flipped upward. “It’s a half-hour flight from L.A. to San Diego!”

“Coming, Dad!” Steve sprinted, a huge grin on his face. I took my time.

We settled into the sedan. Mr. Parker slid into the driver’s seat and pressed a button. Doors snapped shut. Between the seats, a curved TV screen glowed, lines of words and symbols scrolling across it. Mr. Parker pressed another button; the engine hummed. Smoothly, the car lifted, accelerating like a twentieth-century jet—but I felt no force pressing me back. We soared kilometers above the clouds, heading southeast.

The flight dragged on. Mr. and Mrs. Parker gossiped about the Petersons’ new sixth car. Steve rattled on about a Boy Scout adventure involving a polar bear on Mars. I stared out the window, at the clouds, the other aircars drifting by, the last stars fading in the sky. I sighed, knowing I’d likely never see Earth like this again—not where I was going, off aboard a starship to certain death.

After thirty minutes, we descended through the clouds. Below, a city stretched, center dominated by skyscrapers two kilometers high. Smaller towers, up to three hundred meters tall, bore houses atop them. Cars flew in orderly lines. Crowds moved below. To the west, the Pacific Ocean glittered. This was San Diego of the twenty-first century.

Our sedan dropped toward a cluster of seafront skyscrapers, about a hundred meters tall each, sprawling over square kilometers. Half perched on the shore, the rest over concrete shelves jutting into the water. Dozens of piers held small space shuttles. The largest building bore the U.S.N. planet-and-anchor logo. United Stellar Naval Base San Diego. My journey as a midshipman was about to begin, whether I wanted it or not.

Mr. Parker pressed some buttons. “United Stellar Naval Base San Diego, requesting permission to land.”

“Permission granted,” a voice answered through the speakers. “Proceed to Lot 32.”

We lowered toward the lot. Cars parked in neat rows. Mr. Parker hovered a few seconds above an empty space, then gently set the sedan down.

Engine off. Doors flipped open. We climbed out. Mr. Parker led the way; the rest of us followed. I looked west at the ocean, east at the rising sun, up at the stars I would soon navigate—or die among.

The building ahead bore a sign: Recruitment Office. The line stretched as long as a football field: hundreds of boys, ages seven to thirteen, the younger ones clinging to their parents. The line was quick, and we reached the desk in ten minutes.

“Welcome to United Stellar Naval Base San Diego,” said the attendant. A robot, humanoid and light gray, eyes glowing blue. IBM logo on its forehead, planet-and-anchor logo on its chest. “How may I help you?”

“We’d like to enlist our son as a midshipman,” Mr. Parker said, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Then he rested a hand on mine.

“Understood, sir. Commission fees ready? Ten million gold credits per boy, or equivalent in silver, Adamantines, or RadCoins.”

Mr. Parker wrote a check and handed it over.

“Thank you, sir.” The robot produced forms and pens. “Please fill these out, young sirs.”

Steve scribbled immediately. I filled mine out carefully: name, March 12, 1971, and what I could recall. Address and phone number left blank. On the other side, tiny-print contract terms I barely understood. Dotted line at the bottom. I hesitated. The Navy might be hiding something. Then I saw Steve signing, saw the line of boys behind us, and sighed. I don’t want to hold anyone up. I signed: Mark A. Starman, 9/4/2081.

“Here you go,” Steve said, handing our contracts to the robot.

The robot opened a chest panel, scanned the forms, eyes flashing in rainbow colors. Two tickets emerged. “Take these and proceed to the midshipmen’s entrance.” It pointed to a double sliding door, flanked by armed guards, labeled midshipmen. Across the room, another guarded door read enlisted recruits.

Steve bounced toward the entrance. His parents hugged him—laughing, crying, begging him not to forget to write. I imagined my own parents’ reaction, if alive: panic, pleas to cancel, demands to take me home. But it was useless. They’d been dead fifty years. No turning back.

“Goodbye, son!” Mr. Parker waved.

“Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad!” Steve called, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, Mark! Let’s go!”

“Got your tickets, boys?” a guard asked. Blue coat and pants, red trim, white belt, gold buttons, white helmet with tinted visor. Black rifle in hand. A Marine, as I’d later learn.

“Here you go,” we said.

The Marine pressed a button, and the doors slid open. “Move along,” he ordered.

Steve tugged me through. The doors slid shut. There was no going back.

I looked around the room. It was huge, almost like a laboratory from one of those old sci-fi movies, with tall, upright glass tubes lining the walls. Each tube looked big enough to hold a grown man. In the center of the room, rows of computer consoles glowed and blinked, each sitting directly across from a tube. Men in lab coats moved quickly, typing on the consoles, guiding dozens of boys into the tubes as if it was the most ordinary thing in the universe.

“What are your names, boys?” one of the lab-coat men asked, striding toward us.

We told him.

“Get into those tubes for your physical exams,” he said, pointing.

Steve and I stepped into the open tubes without thinking much. The man clicked some buttons on a nearby console, and above our heads a light flickered on, shifting in color and brightness. My stomach tightened. Completely irrationally, I started worrying. What if I fail? What if they don’t let me out? What if that light fries my brain?

The lab-coat man stepped away and opened the tubes. “You both passed,” he said. “Bone density, body mass, IQ—all normal. Move on to the next room.”

We did.

The next room was smaller, almost like a cross between a closet and a library. Rows of shelves held neatly folded uniforms and stacked suitcases. Ahead, another double sliding door shimmered. Several light-gray IBM robots hovered nearby. One glided toward us and handed Steve and me each a suitcase.

“Your uniforms,” it said, metallic voice buzzing. “Proceed to the dressing room. Change into service dress blues. Then report to the auditorium.”

We carried the suitcases through the sliding doors. The room beyond was bigger, brighter, like the gym changing room at my old school—but without lockers. Mirrors ran along the walls, reflecting dozens of boys changing into dark blue uniforms. Steve and I found a bench and unpacked.

Inside were dark blue double-breasted jackets with two rows of gold buttons and a gold planet-and-anchor badge on the left breast, crisp white shirts, black ascots, dark blue pants, black belts with silver buckles, polished black shoes, and caps with white crowns, black bands, and gold planet-and-anchor badges. We put everything on except the caps—labels in the suitcases warned that “covers” were not to be worn indoors.

Steve helped me tie my ascot, which took longer than the other boys. When we were fully dressed and had tucked our street clothes tucked into the suitcases, we hoisted our bags and headed toward the next sliding door.

The auditorium was enormous. Hundreds of chairs stretched out in neat rows, all facing a stage with a movie screen behind it. At the back, a projector glowed, and the double doors we had entered from waited silently. Along the sides, single sliding doors led elsewhere. The room buzzed with the chatter of boys already seated in their uniforms.

Spotting two empty chairs in the third row, Steve and I dropped our suitcases and sank into them, trying to look like we belonged.

After a few minutes, the screen lit up with a holographic image: a blue-and-silver planet-and-anchor logo, the words United Stellar Navy gleaming below it in silver letters. The boys in the auditorium instantly went quiet, all mouths snapping shut, eyes locked on the display. When the last whisper faded, the logo vanished, replaced by a glowing three-dimensional title that hovered like it was floating right in front of us:

WELCOME TO THE UNITED STELLAR NAVY – VERSION A: MIDSHIPMEN

A deep, commanding voice began to speak as the holographic film started rolling.

“Welcome, midshipmen-candidates, to the United Stellar Navy: the oldest, largest, and most trusted space defense company in the explored galaxy. Our mission is simple: protect our clients from space pirates and other threats to life and property in the void. Starting today, you will be part of that mission. But first—let’s talk about how this company came to be.”

Clips popped onto the screen in dazzling 3-D, making spacemen salute, starships bristling with guns, and laser battles leap right off the walls. It all felt like the action was happening just beyond our seats, like we could reach out and touch it.

“The story of the United Stellar Navy begins nearly a century ago,” the narrator said, “back in the 1980s, when private companies first dared to challenge the slow-moving, bureaucratic space agencies. While government rockets sputtered toward orbit, these bold companies built spacecraft as long as football fields—nuclear-powered, reusable, and free from red tape. One of these companies reached the Moon and built the first Moon base in 1998. That, my friends, was the beginning of the Second Space Race.”

On the screen, men in crisp suits shook hands as a giant rocket fired into the sky. A NASA Space Shuttle exploded in a fiery plume, while a skyscraper-sized corporate rocket streaked toward the Moon. Machines assembled metal domes on the lunar surface, and years later, a full Moon base stood shining against the black.

“For the next forty years, private companies from New York to Tokyo built thousands of ships and tamed the Solar System. Mars was colonized, the Asteroid Belt mined, and the outer planets explored—all without waiting for government approval. While bureaucrats argued, businessmen built the future.”

Holograms showed massive rocket ships soaring past planets, cargo modules moving asteroids, and cylindrical spacecraft orbiting Saturn. I tried to remember all of it, but the scenes flashed too fast.

“Under free enterprise, the colonies flourished. Trade spread across the planets. But wherever wealth grew, danger followed. Space pirates appeared, preying on travelers. To protect ships and crews, private navies were formed—not taxing like governments, but charging fair and voluntary rates for real protection. As Earth’s governments collapsed under their deficit spending, the naval companies stepped in to fill the gaps. The first and greatest of them was the United Solar Navy, founded in 2034 from six small privateer crews.”

The holograms switched to bustling space cities, robotic cargo loaders, then to pirates in black ships firing red lasers at helpless freighters. Warships—light gray, armed to the teeth, marked with the U.S.N. planet-and-anchor—swooped in to defend the innocent. Uniformed spacemen fought, saluted, and shook hands with grateful civilians.

“By 2040, humans had reached every planet in the Solar System—and set course for the stars. But the Soviet Union, the last of the old governments on the brink of collapse, sabotaged the first starship to Alpha Centauri in 2046. When the news reached Earth in 2050, the naval companies whose clients had been murdered declared war: the Great Space War.”

We saw it all: a cylindrical starship with a bell-shaped engine exploding above a rocky planet in a trinary star system, troops and fleets mobilizing for battle.

“For five long years, the naval companies, led by the United Solar Navy, fought bravely to protect their clients against the Red Menace. Half a billion lives were lost, entire cities bombed out of existence. The naval companies defeated the Communists, but at a heavy cost. Fortunately, private enterprise soon rebuilt civilization to even greater heights than before. It even invented the warp drive, which allowed ships to exceed the speed of light by riding space like a wave. It was once again morning in the Universe.”

The film went on, showing laser-blasting warships, soldiers in gas masks firing from foxholes, tanks rolling across radioactive wastelands, and fighter planes hurling missiles. Terrified crowds fled destruction, and mushroom clouds engulfed New York, London, and Moscow. Finally, corporate diplomats signed a peace treaty with ragged Soviet politicians, construction machines built sleek skyscrapers over bombed-out ruins, and a starship jumped to light-speed in space as hopeful music played.

“With the last parasitic government wiped from the face of the universe and mankind finally free, mankind entered a Golden Age. Industry soared, technology exploded, and humanity spread to the stars. Warp drive starships carried free, proud men and women to other systems by the millions.”

The screen was a riot of motion: gleaming skyscrapers, bustling streets, fleets of sharp-angled starships. Men worked at offices and factories, children laughed, farmers tended crops under triple suns, housewives shopped for robots at Kmart, and families lined up to board Pan Am Flight 714 to Barnard’s Star.

“To protect this new frontier, the naval companies expanded across the galaxy. The United Solar Navy became the United Stellar Navy, defending liberty and trade from Earth to Altair. And now, it’s your turn, midshipman-candidate.”

Pirate ships with angular hulls fired red and blue beams across the holographic void, and light-gray warships struck back. Smiling civilians—men, women, children—appeared, silently asking us to defend this spectacular, far-out, space-age galaxy. I thought the film was done—but it wasn’t quite finished.

“Now that you know the history of the United Stellar Navy, it’s time to talk about you—your part in it,” the narrator continued, and the holographic screen flickered to a new display. “The U.S.N. is organized like the pre-war United States Navy, with enlisted ranks and officer ranks. You’re stepping in at the bottom rung of the officer ladder: midshipman.”

A bright chart popped up on the screen, gold and silver insignias gleaming. Midshipman, O-0, sat at the bottom. Above it, the line ranks climbed: Ensign, Lieutenant Junior Grade, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander, Commander, and Captain. At the top floated the flag ranks: Commodore, Rear Admiral, Vice Admiral, Admiral, and Fleet Admiral. My stomach did a nervous flip just looking at all those levels.

“As a midshipman, you’ll live, work, and train aboard one of the U.S.N.’s starships. Three hours a day in the classroom—math, science, languages, history, military strategy, and navigation. Three hours of physical and combat training. And three hours at a duty station, learning the ropes with the rest of the crew. Every day, you’ll fill out a log entry—notes, ideas, lessons learned. Keep it neat; keep it honest.”

Holograms of midshipmen flashed across the screen: kids as young as seven, as old as seventeen. Some hunched over terminals, fingers flying across keys; others sprinted through obstacle courses with rifles clutched tight; some stood at consoles beside older officers, looking as serious as anyone I’d ever seen. When the narrator mentioned the daily journal, I dug into my uniform suitcase and found a small dark-blue notebook with a gold planet-and-anchor stamped on the cover. I picked up the pen, already imagining my first entry.

“You’ll take part in all operations of your ship,” the voice went on, low and steady, “combat included. Injuries may be permanent. Death is a real possibility.”

I felt the sweat prickling at my hairline. The fine print on that flyer came rushing back: United Stellar Defense Services, Inc. is not responsible for any damage to life or limb incurred by employees on duty. Great. Just great. My mind ran wild: exploding starships, lasers tearing through corridors, me—fighting for my life and failing spectacularly.

“Once you complete the U.S.N.’s curriculum, you’ll be eligible for the commissioned officer test at Headquarters. Pass that, and you’ll be promoted to Ensign. From that point on, depending on your performance in duty and battle, you could continue to advance in the ranks, possibly even commanding your own starship someday. Advancement beyond Captain happens with vacancies in the flag ranks.”

Holograms spun to life again: a young midshipman taking a test at a glowing terminal, then receiving his Ensign’s insignia in a crisp ceremony. That same boy grew into a man, commanding ships, leading crews, fighting battles. For a heartbeat, I let myself imagine that it could be me. Then I laughed nervously. Nope. Not me. I wouldn’t last that long.

“By joining the United Stellar Navy, midshipman-candidate, you shoulder a heavy responsibility. Clients in every inhabited system will one day rely on you to protect them from the pirates who threaten them. Your deeds will reflect on the Navy itself. Study hard. Train hard. Fight hard. Brave officers like you are the only thing standing between our clients’ safety…and oblivion.”

The screen flashed with dramatic holograms to close out the film: saluting midshipmen, grateful civilians, massive fleets of warships cutting through space. Then the film faded, leaving just the planet-and-anchor logo against a dark-blue background. United Stellar Navy: The Galaxy’s #1 Space Defense Service.

“And now,” a voice crackled, “a live transmission from Commodore Nathan Pierce, commander of this base.”

A new hologram sprang to life: gray-haired, sharp-eyed, wearing a blue officer’s jacket crammed with colored patches and gold stripes. He looked serious, the kind of serious that made you straighten your back without thinking.

“Good morning, midshipmen-candidates,” he said. “I will administer your oath of office today. Once you take it, you will officially become midshipmen. This oath will be monitored and recorded by hologram—you will be accountable for any violations. Rise, raise your right hands, and repeat after me.”

Every boy stood instantly, right up to attention. Of course, I did too.

“I, Mark Alexander Starman, having been appointed an officer in the United Stellar Navy, as indicated above in the grade of Midshipman, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the shareholders of United Stellar Defense Services, Inc. against all enemies, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservations or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter; So help me God.”

“As you were, midshipmen,” Commodore Pierce said, and we all lowered our arms. Some boys slumped back into their chairs.

“Proceed to the side doors for your holographs. Then you’ll travel by tram to the piers to receive your ship assignments. Your naval career starts here. Good luck!”

The doors slid open, and suddenly the dark room was flooded with morning light. One by one, the boys pushed to their feet, grabbed their suitcases, and shuffled toward the exits.

“Come on, Mark!” Steve called, hauling both of his suitcases like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Let’s go!”

I grabbed my own suitcase and followed him, my stomach doing a nervous twist. We fell in line with the other boys, waiting for a robot tucked behind a camera, snapping pictures of each of us. When it was my turn, I straightened my back, tried to smile wide, and hoped the camera caught something that looked like excitement instead of sheer terror. Click. The robot waved me through, and I stepped into the next automatic sliding door.

Inside was the tram. A cramped, glass-walled compartment packed full of boys, all chattering and shifting impatiently. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss. I was stuck in the middle, unable to see outside, but it didn’t matter—my pulse was loud enough. A few minutes later, the doors opened again, and everyone poured out like water through a dam.

The pier stretched before me: a wide concrete strip, maybe thirty meters across and half a kilometer long, jutting into the Pacific. Blue morning sky overhead, ocean glinting in the sunlight all around. Along the edges, heavy steel gates held light-gray shuttles, angular and sleek, docked and ready to go. The tram zoomed back toward the auditorium, a silver streak in its track. Between the track and the shuttles, four desks lined the pier. Boys filed up to them while light-gray humanoid robots with shining planet-and-anchor logos handed out ship assignments.

“Paul McCarran, U.S.S. Fletcher, DDS-572.”
“James Baker, U.S.S. Sullivan, DDS-683.”
“Terence Graham, U.S.S. California, CAS-96.”

Steve and I picked the desk with the shortest line. When we reached the front, the robot’s mechanical eyes flickered through a rainbow of colors, and the entire machine vibrated as it processed our names. I crossed my fingers with one hand and bit my nails with the other, hoping and praying. Please. Please let us be on the same ship. Don’t leave me alone again. Don’t separate us. Please—

“Steve Parker and Mark Starman, U.S.S. Indianapolis, CAS-128,” the robot announced.

Relief hit me like a blast of cool air: I wouldn’t be alone after all. But looking back, I wonder if I would still have been relieved if I knew what happened to the original warship named Indianapolis. The World War II cruiser from Jaws that got sunk after delivering the Hiroshima bomb, and whose crew got eaten by sharks. Was that the kind of ship I wanted to serve on? Probably not, and thank goodness I didn’t know then.

Steve grinned from ear to ear and headed for the gate labeled CAS-128. I followed, heart thumping, and saw the door wide open. No line. We just walked on.

I paused for a second to study the Indianapolis shuttle. It was twenty meters long, painted a clean light gray, its sharp, straight-edged plates giving it a hard, angular look. The crew section in front split from the drive section in back. The aft half of the crew section was an octagonal prism, three meters tall and five meters wide, like some alien jewel pointing forward and back. The forward half tapered like a trapezoid into a nose plate three meters wide and one tall, making the section look like an alligator’s head. A tinted windshield sloped upward from the nose plate; two sleek laser guns stuck out and forward from the bottom.

The drive section behind it was a chunky rectangular prism, sloping upward into a triangular prism halfway back. Wings spanning thirteen meters perched atop the prism, tipped with small cylindrical engines. It looked fast, mean, and ready for trouble. The shuttle’s door was on the port side of the crew section, just where we were.

We stepped on board. Five rows of seats, four across, with an aisle running down the middle. Two seats on each side, except for the ones we entered through. Forward, a transparent sliding door revealed the cockpit: pilot, copilot, controls, and the San Diego skyline stretched beyond the windshield. At the aft end, a steel sliding door warned radioactive. That was the reactor.

The cabin was empty except for us, the pilot, and copilot. Steve and I slid into seats together, dropping our suitcases under our feet.

“Now hear this. This shuttle is disengaging dock. Remain in your seats,” the pilot announced over the intercom.

A heavy sliding door slammed shut behind us. I pressed my face to the window and saw the towers of San Diego shrinking. Wait…were we moving? I couldn’t feel it at all. And then, slowly, we lifted off.

“Thirty minutes to the U.S.S. Indianapolis in low Earth orbit,” the pilot said.

“Can you believe it, Mark?” Steve leaned close, his grin so wide it was almost ridiculous. “You’re going to space for the first time!”

“Uh…yeah…that’s—that’s great,” I stammered. Sweat rolled down my temples. My mind raced: I’m going to die. We’ll run out of fuel. We’ll hit a bird. A car. A comet. And even if we survive…battle will kill me anyway.

Outside, clouds whipped past faster than sound, sky deepening from pale blue to dark blue, then pitch-black. Stars blinked into existence, thousands, maybe millions, still and sharp. My breath caught.

“We’re finally going to see our starship!” Steve shouted. “Aren’t you excited, Mark?”

I didn’t answer. I just stared into the black velvet of space, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t be my grave.