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Title: After The Revolution Date: July 2021 Source: Retrieved on 23<sup>rd</sup> August 2021 from [[https://atrbook.com][atrbook.com]]/ Authors: Robert Evans Topics: After the revolution, Fiction, United states of america, Science fiction Published: 2021-08-23 09:39:30Z
Richardson, Republic of Texas, 2070.
Manny smiled at the way the British journalistâs face blanched as the old Toyota hit the pot hole. Reggie wasnât used to bad roads, cars driven by actual humans, or the way the heavy metal of the gun mount in the truck bed made the aluminum frame groan. That was all familiar to Manny. Heâd grown up in ciudad muerta, back before the Lakewood Blast. Back when people had still called it Dallas.
The truckâs driver veered around the bloated corpse of a large dog lying in the middle of the road. Reggie gripped the truck bed with white knuckles and eyed the swaying ammo-belt of the 20 millimeter cannon like it was a coiled snake. The gunner, Mannyâs cousin Alejandro, grinned down at the journalist, âThe suspensionâs a little fucked, yeah?â
The Brit nodded, and turned greener when the technical hit another pothole. Manny supposed he should offer a comforting word to the man. That would be good business. But a louder part of him looked at Reggieâs brand-new boots and thought, âhe can stand a little less comfort.â The journalist would brag about this ride for months once he got home.
Escorting reporters from the safety of Austin to the sundry hot spots of the old Metroplex was not Mannyâs ideal career. Two years ago heâd been working on a bachelorâs in business administration from the University of Austin. The plan had been to get a job with Aegis Biosystems, then charm his way into a working visa and a gig in the California Republic. But the fighting had started up again and ruined all that. The culprit this time was the âHeavenly Kingdomâ, a loose assortment of Christian extremist militias. Theyâd boiled out from the suburbs of the old Metroplex and all but broken the Republic of Texas.
The autonomous City of Austin had stabilized the situation with the help of an alliance of leftist Texan militias, the Secular Defense Forces. Beating them back had cost a lot in blood and time, and forced Manny to change every plan heâd ever made for his life.
So heâd embraced the situation and started his own business, hiring on some friends as employees. Together theyâd built the best network of stringers in North Texas. His boys fed him video, contacts and news updates and he sold what he could to the big foreign media conglomerates. In a couple more months heâd have enough saved up that he could fuck off, fly to Europe and apply for a refugee visa.
My odds are pretty good, as long as the war doesnât end too soon.
The technical rolled to a creaky stop in front of a checkpoint that had clearly been erected within the last few days. It was just a collapsible electronic gate and two sandbag emplacements on either side of the battered highway. A street sign nearby announced that they were on the edge of Richardson, formerly a suburb of Dallas and currently a forward position of the Peopleâs Protection Army, a local anarchist militia. Manny could see the PPAâs red/black triangle emblem stitched onto the jackets of the soldiers guarding the checkpoint.
One of the PPA men walked up to the driverâs-side window and started chatting with Phillip, the driver. Phil and Mannyâs cousin Alejandro were both with the Citizenâs Front, a more or-less apolitical militia from the suburbs of Austin. Both militias co-existed under the broad umbrella of the Secular Defense Forces. The SDF had been organized by the Canadian government, to lump all of North Texasâs palatable militant groups into a single package that could be conveniently armed.
While the first guard talked with Phillip his partner did a circuit around the back of the truck. The man was big, bulging with muscles so sculpted and prominent they had to be vat grown, and he moved with the twitchy un-grace of a man whoâd replaced his nervous system with circuitry. His weapon was a very old, very battered AR-15 with an M243 grenade launcher below the barrel. The latter was old U.S. military gear. The former had been someoneâs toy before the Revolution gave Americaâs half-billion civilian guns a new raison dâetre.
The man moved back to the barricades when heâd finished his lap. Reggie looked up at Manny and asked, âWas he, erm...was he âchromedâ?â
Manny smiled. That was always one of the first questions, as soon as any foreign journo saw a trooper with a large enough build, skin with an off-shade, or who just moved a little too fast to seem completely ârightâ. Anything beyond basic aesthetic and medical modifications were banned in civilized countries, like the U.K.
The real chrome, the implants that would let a man lift a tank or take a rocket to the belly, that shit was locked up tight. Few national militaries even used the stuff these days. Not after the Revolution.
âHeâs got some vat-grown muscles,â Manny said, in an off-handed way that suggested such things were common, âaftermarket nerves too, probably. His stuff is low-grade. Thatâs why itâs so visible.â
Reggie nodded. His eyes stayed locked on the big man. He was quiet for a while before he spoke again. âYou just...you live right alongside them, donât you?â
Manny shrugged. âEverybodyâs got something out here. And the wetwareâs what lets us hold back the Martyrs. Theyâd own the whole city if it werenât for half-vats like him.â
The journalist nodded, and his gaze stayed fixed upon the militiaman until a troubled look crossed his face. He glanced back to Manny.
âAre you, ah, âchromedâ?â Reggie asked.
Manny smiled. âI donât expect either of us is stock sapien, eh? But I doubt Iâve got anything you donât.â
Reggie seemed somewhat comforted by this. âMost of what Iâve read about the really heavy mods says they cause a lot of, well, unstable behavior. Thatâs why...â
âThatâs why this cityâs such a shit hole?â Manny asked.
The journalist had the grace to blush. Manny looked away for a moment. His eyes landed on the bones of three large public housing buildings. A barrel bomb had detonated in the center of the courtyard all three shared. It had peeled away the walls, some of the floors, and the resulting firestorm had burned up everything that wasnât concrete, steel or rebar. For just a moment, Manny felt bad about hoping the war hung on another six months.
âThe old government blamed a lot on roided-up veterans with military grade mods,â he told Reggie. âMost was just propaganda, fear-mongering. People were pissed after twenty years of plague, disaster and poverty.â Manny shrugged. âItâs true though, a lot of chromed-up vets turned on the government. You canât make men into gods and expect them to keep fighting for men.â
Reggie pointed back to the bulging militiaman. âI take it muscles there is pretty far from a god.â
âNah,â Manny laughed. âHeâs just a guy with too much meat-money. Gods donât man checkpoints.â
The Brit was excited now. These were the questions heâd wanted to ask since theyâd met yesterday. âDo you know where some of those people are?â Reggie couldnât keep the excitement out of his voice. âCould we talk to them?â
Manny didnât have any of those contacts, nor did he know any other fixers who did. He tried to let the Brit down easy. âMost of those folks live, uh, on the road. In between the civilized parts of Texas and the Republic of California.
âOh,â Reggie looked disappointed. The truck rolled past the wreckage of an old Catholic school. It bore the signs of being fortified, destroyed, re-fortified and re-destroyed several times.
The Brit was inches from asking another question when the gate-man waved them on and the battered Toyota farted its way into drive, belching and complaining past a network of potholes until it hit a relatively straight chunk of asphalt.
âOnly a few minutes now, jefe,â Manny said. âThe PPAâs forward position is about five minutes out. Youâll be in âthe shitâ then. Or at least shit-adjacent.â
The journalistâs face washed over in an even mix of anxiety and pride. One of the first lessons Manny had learned at this job was that phrases like âthe shitâ made rich gringo writers unreasonably excited. And excited journalists always called Manny the next time they were in country. Giving white kids in keffiyehs a lifetime of bragging rights for surviving a couple days in his home killed his soul, just a little bit. But Manny pushed down the anger and told himself a chip on the shoulder was a lot less useful than money in the bank.
The technical rolled off the old highway. Manny could see â23â and âSpring Valley Roadâ emblazoned on a weather-beaten, bullet-scarred sign. The technical pulled to the right. The gun swayed in its mount. Manny couldnât help smiling as the Brit instinctively pulled away from it.
They rolled up to what had once been a strip mall and was now a forward operating base for the Peopleâs Protection Army. An old laundromat, a bookstore, and a half-dozen restaurants now had their roofs ringed with barbed wire and machine gun emplacements. Manny could see a line of bullet holes stitched across three of the shops. None of the windows were intact, but otherwise the buildings had weathered the war rather well.
Three M198 Howitzers were parked next to a taco shop that had once served the local college kids beer and cheap grub. There was a flag pole out in front of the shop, and from it hung the blue-and-white starburst flag of the SDF. Three men in uniforms stood, waiting, as the old Toyota rolled to a stop and Manny and Reggie disembarked.
Two of the men were officers in the PPA, Colonel Jakob Milgram and Major DeShawn Clark. Milgram was a boring, tight-lipped, nerdy type, but DeShawn was one of Mannyâs favorite sources. He was an old infantry guy, a consummate brawler with a face full of scars and three published books of poetry to his name. He actually had a base of international fans, mostly in Spain. The third man was Hamid Mohammed, an advisor from Syrian Kurdistan. The Kurds had been giving aid to the sundry militias of the Secular Defense Forces for years now. Manny considered Hamid almost a local.
He shook hands with Jakob. Since Manny knew DeShawn better he met the man with a full embrace, and used it as an opportunity to palm the Major a packet of his favorite cigarettes. DeShawn gave him a wink and a smile. Manny shook Hamidâs hand next, and then kissed him on the cheek. Hamid returned the kiss, clapped him on the shoulder and said, âEmmanuel, my friend, you really should get out of this business. One of these days youâll come up here and it wonât be safe.â
Manny frowned a little at the use of his birth name, but didnât make an issue out of the matter. âThereâs still a war on, right?â He smiled at Hamid. âYâall get that shit under control, and maybe Iâll work a straight job again.â Not tooFtF soon though , he thought, the least this war can do is last long enough to get me out of Texas.
Hamid smiled back, and Manny introduced Reggie to the officers. The journalist was clearly awkward in that special way Manny had come to expect from new war correspondents. It was the norm for young writers to be intimidated by grizzled military men. Some of them got over that; Manny had worked with a middle-aged Der Spiegel reporter last week whoâd probably taken as much incoming fire as Major Clark.
Colonel Milgram led them into the militarized taco shop. A brief blast of nostalgia squeezed Mannyâs lungs. The place had obviously been closed since the Revolution. The drink specials and meal prices printed on the wall were given in U.S. dollars, a currency as dead as the last American president. Manny recognized ads for bands and movies he remembered from his childhood. The glass facade had shattered years ago. The kitchen had been gutted and replaced by wall-length screens displaying maps of the city. At least a dozen uniformed men and women milled around the space in small groups.
He and Reggie sat down at a long picnic table with Hamid and the two officers. Reggie set his camera up on the table. It was just a small silver sphere, but Manny knew it could record everything happening around it at a higher resolution than the human eye.
An orderly brought in three beers, Shiner Bocks from Austin, and one dark brown tea in a glass cup for Hamid. The Brit raised his glass in a friendly salute, âThank you for meeting with me.â And then he started to ask questions. Manny leaned back in his chair and enjoyed a long gulp of cold beer. If he wasnât needed to translate, he generally checked out during interviews.
He used the free time to activate his deck and check in on the two stringers he had working right now. David Allenby was up in Addison today, taking a Californian documentary crew on a tour of an SDF training facility. Heâd messaged Manny to let him know theyâd gotten through the checkpoints without any issue. Oscar Martinez didnât have any journalists with him. He was embedded with a Republic of Texas police unit, getting footage from inside a neighborhood that had recently been âliberatedâ from the Heavenly Kingdom.
There were no new messages from Oscar. His last checkin had been the night before. It was probably nothing, but it concerned Manny nonetheless. What if Oscar got a better offer for his footage? Heâd always been loyal before, but if that fuck from the Guardian had gotten to himâŠ
âIâm interested in the Abrams Road bombing,â Reggie told the Colonel, and Mannyâs attention swung back to his reporter. Thatâs an odd thing to ask about. The bombing had occurred two weeks back. Itâd been big news for a couple of hours. Manny had paid one of his contacts in Raza Front for a video of a walkthrough of the wreckage. It had brought in about three grand, profit.
âThe Abrams Road bombing was not a Martyrdom Operation,â Colonel Milgram sounded almost angry.
âTerribly sorry,â Reggie said, âyouâre right of course. There was no driver, so no Martyr. Right?â
âRight.â DeShawn Clark said. He pulled a folded piece of white paper out of his pocket, opened it up and smoothed it out on the table. It was a map of the D/FW area, color coded to show the positions of the various militias in the region. âWe operate eight checkpoints on that part of the Richardson Line,â DeShawn said as he pointed to each one. âFive of them border Republic-controlled territory. The traffic from there is mostly autonomous, and those vehicles slave themselves to our traffic management system before they can enter our territory. The other three checkpoints border territory controlled by the Martyrs. They donât see much traffic, and theyâre all heavily manned.â
Reggie was quiet for a few seconds. Manny could almost hear the gears turning in the journalistâs head as he struggled to find the words for his next question.
âWould it be fair to say the autonomous checkpoints are less secure, then?â
DeShawn smiled a thin, quiet smile. Hamid grimaced. Colonel Milgram responded in a terse voice, âThe autonomous checkpoints have fewer defenders. But they border Republic territory. The Martyrs havenât pulled off an attack on one in quite some time.â
âWas Abrams Road not one such attack?â Reggie looked eager now, like a hound following a scent.
âWe donât know who bombed Abrams Road,â Colonel Milgram said. âNo oneâs taken credit, but we doubt it was the Martyrs.â
âWhy?â the journalist asked. Manny leaned in a little, interested in spite of himself at where this was all going to lead.
âPerhaps,â Hamid said, âyou should read a bit more about this âHeavenly Kingdomâ. They reject all autonomous technology. They even use remote human pilots for their drones, like its two-thousand-and-fucking-three. Thatâs why our skies are always clear. We jam them.â
Reggie asked, âIs it possible they found some way to hack your defense system?â
Hamid laughed. âWe bought this system from the Israelis. If youâre telling me one of the Martyrsâ Brigades has a hacker who can crack that, then Iâm the King of Albuquerque.â
âBut something still went wrong,â Reggie insisted.
Hamidâs smile turned cold. âThis is war, Mr. Reggie. Itâs mostly things going wrong.â
Thatâs where the line of questions petered out. Reggie asked them for access to the security footage from the destroyed checkpoint, and Colonel Milgram agreed to send it over.
âWeâd like to speak to the survivors as well, if possible,â Manny interjected, not waiting to see if the journalist would ask. He knew those men were all stationed behind the line now, which would make for a safer, easier rest of the day than heading up to the wire.
âOf course,â Colonel Milgram said, with a smile to Manny. They said their goodbyes, and then Major Clark walked them out to their waiting Toyota. The Texas heat hit like an oven as they exited, and Manny was glad theyâd be spending most of the rest of their day indoors.
Deshawn clapped a hand on Mannyâs shoulder as he lit one of his new cigarettes. âItâs good to see you again Emmanuel,â he said. And then he smiled at Reggie. âAnd itâs nice to meet you, my British friend. Iâm sorry youâve come to the front at a boring time.â
âWhy?â Reggie asked.
âBecause this,â DeShawn gestured at the gun emplacements and loitering militiamen of the command post, âthis is not war, not really. Your job is to help your people, children of peace and plenty, understand what is going on here. You must teach them the language of war. And to paraphrase a dead poet, the language of war is a language made of blood. To be spoken, it must be earned.â
There was an awkward pause. A little bit of the blood drained from the journalistâs face. You old nutty fuck, Manny thought, with more amusement than fear. âClassic DeShawn,â he said, and laughed to ease the tension. The Major bid them both a good day, hugged Manny, and sauntered off back to the command post. Smoke from his cigarette curled up into the air behind him as he walked. Mannyâs eyes lingered on it for a second before he turned back to Reggie.
âReady to go?â he asked, chipper as he could manage.
----
Three hours, a handful of interviews and one short drive later, Manny and Reggie arrived at their home for the night: the Richardson Autonomous Project. Once a Wal-Mart, now a twenty-two-year-old experiment in sustainable urban living, the Project was the furthest island of âcivilizationâ on the SDFâs side of the front. Its militia steadfastly refused to involve themselves in the regionâs greater conflicts. Theyâd been targeted a few times by the Heavenly Kingdom. The SDF, by contrast, left them alone. So when a fixer like Manny found himself on the wrong side of the LBJ Freeway after dark he could usually trust the Project to provide food, booze, and shelter. For a price, of course.
Sleeping arrangements in the Project were broadly communal. The bulk of the old Wal Mart had been converted into an indoor meadow with grow-lights hanging from the rafters and a wide, lush field of native grass sprawling across most of the inhabited space. Fruit trees, bushes full of berries, cannabis plants and copses of bamboo lined the edges of the space. The center of the field was dominated by a large, circular kitchen surrounded by a handsome oaken bar table. Tables, gazebos, and sundry personal structures dotted the field, along with a pair of dance floors.
Reggieâs face lit up when he saw the bar. By the time Manny had dropped off their bags and paid Charlie and the driver for the night, the journalist was already three beers in. The Brit wasnât precisely drunk or sober, but at that productive twilight in between. Heâd unrolled a portable screen and had a holographic display up, looping four separate sections of the security footage Colonel Milgram had sent over. The journalist alternated between typing furiously, scrawling notes in his journal, and taking huge gulps of something brown and foamy. He stopped working when he saw Manny approach and waved him into the adjacent seat.
âHey brother, check this out.â
Manny pulled up a seat and the journalist directed his attention to a six-second loop of footage, from immediately after the bombing. It showed two man-sized silhouettes standing on top of an old garage; Manny remembered the building. It stood maybe two hundred meters from the Abrams Road checkpoint. One of the silhouettes had a rifle. The other held a short, squat tube that Manny recognized as a camera lens.
âNotice anything?â
âSpotters,â Manny said. âProbably trying to get a kill count.â
âNah, man. Look at where heâs pointed. That cuntâs not looking at any post. Heâs looking straight back, deeper into the old town. And Iâll bet you heâs high up enough to be staring right at Colonel Milgramâs command post.â
Manny looked again. He thought about the angle. âOK, so what,â he asked, âyou think this was a probing attack for some big action?â
The journalist shrugged. âMaybe. Itâs something new, is what interests me. Two years of martyrdom operations that all look more-or-less the same and now this weird one. An autonomous vehicle bomb from a group of fanatics who think autonomous vehicles are the devil.â
âYeah,â Manny agreed, âthat does seem weird.â
The bartender walked up and offered Manny his pick of the finest liquor in this particular warzone. Manny ordered a Shiner. It was the one beer a drinker could find across both the Republic of Texas and the Austin autonomous region. He looked back at the looping footage. They both watched it twice more. Then Reggie spoke up again.
âWhat have you heard about Pastor Mike?â he asked.
Manny stiffened a little bit at the name. Heâd heard it, of course. Vague stories of rioting in Kansas, a fundamentalist uprising inside the southernmost territories of the United Christian States. He hadnât thought much about it at first. But two years ago Pastor Mike had moved to Texas, shortly before the Heavenly Kingdom had declared itself. It was hard to say exactly what role the preacher played within the organization. But he was certainly its most visible âfaceâ.
âI know who he is.â Manny said. âI know the Republic let him in because they thought his followers might provide a buffer against Austinâs influence. I know that blew the fuck up in their faces.â Manny took a long drink and continued. âThatâs an old story around here, the Republic using those god-fondling nutfucks to push back against the leftists.â
The journalist raised an eyebrow and Manny instantly regretted his crude response. He didnât really care about religion one way or the other. But whenever he came out to the front it was hard to not get a little angry. Especially after a drink.
âSorry,â he said, âitâs been a long day.â
Reggie looked down, coughed and took a sip. He looked back at Manny, took another sip and said, âYou know thatâs another subject Iâd rather like to cover.â
âWhat?â Manny asked.
âAnti-Christian sentiment in North America.â
Manny grunted and looked down at his drink. The Brit barreled on.
âYouâre not the first North American Iâve heard express anger towards Christians,â he said. âIn California, Cascadia, the North American Federation, Iâve just seen a lot of hate...â
âLook,â Manny interrupted, âMe, Iâm a man of peace. I love everybody. But this continentâs been torn apart and bleeding out for the last twenty years. Lotta people hate Christians. The ones that donât hate Christians hate leftists. And everyone outside the American Federation hates capitalists. Hate, hate, hate.â
Manny took a gulp of his beer and set it down, a little harder than heâd intended. He looked Reggie in the eye and finished, âThereâs exactly one thing all the broken bits of this continent have in common. Hate.â
The journalist arched an eyebrow at Manny and returned the gaze. He had the look of a man peering into the enclosure of a particularly exotic zoo animal. Manny wanted to resent it, but heâd been doing this job long enough to know this was just how journalists looked at people.
Reggie downed his drink. He reached a hand up to signal the bartender and then looked back at Manny. âCan I buy you another round?â
Manny shook his head. âNo thanks. Iâm tired, and I donât want to drag ass at the front tomorrow.â
He downed the last of his beer, bid Reggie a good night, and headed over to the spot of turf where heâd set up his sleeping bag and gear. He popped off his shoes, his pants and his shirt and rubbed himself down with a handful of wet naps. Then he grabbed a nightshirt and sweatpants from his bag and slipped them on. Manny considered clean pajamas a necessity.
He fired up his deck again once he was swaddled in his sleeping bag. There was a j uddering start, and then the corners of his vision were populated by a series of small, partly translucent screens. Each one bulged with updates; friends asking about his weekend plans, spam from his college, notifications about new video uploads and headlines from the local news. David had messaged him twice more, to let him know he and his journalists were headed back to Austin and, then, that theyâd arrived.
Oscar still hadnât responded. Mannyâs initial concern was over his loyalty: I got that fucker started as a stringer. If he sold that video and cut me out of the deal Iâm going...going to... But the longer he thought about Oscar, the more Manny worried that something might have happened. Heâd been working in Plano today, near a very stable chunk of the front. But this far out, almost anything could happen...
Manny closed his eyes, sighed and tried to purge the anxiety from his mind. There was nothing to do now, other than get to sleep so he could wake up tomorrow and make more money. That thought prompted Manny to pull open his banking app and check on the status of his savingâs account. The numbers glowed, fat and happy, in the space right in front of his head. Another five months in the field, maybe six. Then I buy that plane ticket.
He started to think about the pictures heâd seen of Dublin and Berlin and Barcelona, all the places he thought he might live if this war would just hang on a little longer. He soon fell asleep, and slept pretty well until the first mortar landed.
He woke up, suddenly aware of two pressing problems:
The acidâs worn off.
And,
Eight people are here to kill me.
Both of these facts concerned him equally. He couldnât remember his name or where, exactly, he was, which made the impending kill-team all the more worrisome. He opened his eyes. His vision was blurry and unfocused. His head felt filled with sand.
Roland- ( Oh shit, thatâs my name! Roland!) wondered how long heâd been asleep. He reflexively triggered his deck before the dim firing of a synapse reminded him that heâd permanently disabled his data connection...well, a long time ago.
Five million two hundred twenty six thousand minu
His âhindbrainâ, what Roland called the acres of microscopic processors and databanks spun into his blood, spat the knowledge out unbidden into his conscious mind. Roland tried to curse but wound up spitting out a wad of brackish phleghm instead. His eyes settled on a quarter-full bottle of fungus whiskey. He grabbed it, drained it, and rooted around on the table where heâd found it until his digging turned up a sheet of acid. He ripped the sheet in half, ate one half and pasted the other on his sweat-damp chest.
Rolandâs brain didnât wait for the acid to do its job; nanomachines couriered the lysergic diethylacid direct to his synapses. The drugs took hold in a manner of seconds. Acid softened the world around him. His hindbrainâs running commentary faded into a sort of generalized hyper-awareness of the world around him. He sighed, relaxed, and remembered.
A woman hovered over him, her hands on his shoulders, her knees on either side of his body. Sweat dripped down from her short black hair onto his face and chest. Her pupils were the size of dinner plates. She smelled like Acid and desire. She smiled, revealing a row of damascus-steel teeth Roland pulled himself out of the memory. He felt the strike team advance. His hindbrain generated a map of the approaching assassins . They were still a solid minute from his hovel.
There were six men and two women on the team. If heâd wanted, a microsecondâs focus couldâve told him which members of the group were vegetarians, where two of the team were on their menstrual cycles, and how recently each of their firearms had been cleaned and oiled. But Roland didnât care about that information. He was trying to remember where heâd left his gun.
The one-room hut Roland occupied was best described as âsqualidâ. He knew heâd lived there for quite a long time, although he wasnât sure if the home was âhisâ in any legal sense of the word. Its one room held a filthy mattress, a hot plate, several dozen empty bottles of liquor, and a tinkling carpet of spent whippets. A large knife was embedded in the door. Roland couldnât remember why. He knew heâd had a gun at one point, even though he couldnât currently find it. He stood up, still wobbly from the massive dose of GHB heâd taken with his nightly tequila, and started kicking at the piles of bottles and drug paraphernalia in the hope that one of them might contain his gun. He found some bullets after a few secondâs search, at the bottom of a Folgers Coffee tin that was half-filled with marijuana.
Next to the tin was a large metal bowl of stagnant water. Roland glanced in and caught sight of his own reflection. His black skin looked ashen and clammy. Unusually pale , he thought, but he didnât recall enough about himself to know if that was really true. His face was long and drawn, with wide jutting cheekbones and a patchy uneven beard. His head was covered in stubble. The center of his face was dominated by a crooked, heavily scarred nose. Roland had no recollection of why it was scarred, but he knew the injury mustâve happened back before the Army filled him with chrome.
He turned away from his reflection and continued his search through the house, scattering food-encrusted plates, empty coke bags, and old-fashioned print pornography into even less-organized piles. No dice. Did I pawn it? he wondered, as his machine-assisted eidetic memory warred with his profound intoxication. Roland was now conscious enough to remember that not remembering much was normal for him, and that he should really worry more about the assassins coming to kill him.
Oh shit, right!
The strike team was just fifty meters out now. He felt a gust of wind and, in the same way, felt as two of the men began to assemble a large sound cannon behind a rocky hill that faced his hovel. He guessed it was a Callahan Mk. 38. Roland didnât know how he knew the weaponâs name, but he knew it could burn out even his armored synapses with a few seconds of continuous fire.
<br>One man was on overwatch for the Callahan team. He carried a two-bore Ruger Falchion anti-vehicular rifle. The mingling odors of fear-sweat and baby formula wafting off him triggered sense-memories of someone holding a newborn infant. Roland guessed the man must have a kid back home. A kid heâs scared of leaving fatherless if some chromed out acid-head filets him. That was useful data. He filed it away in the chunk of his brain least likely to lose that information over the next four seconds. Rolandâs memory was real good in four second chunks.
Over the next picosecond he caught equally informative whiffs of the others. It was enough to suggest that two of the women in the main assault team were lovers, and theyâd both had milspec subdermal armor implanted recently. The acrid scent of fresh sutures hung heavy in the air around them. Roland could also tell that one of the men in the assault party took heavy testosterone supplements, either because of a genetic abnormality or because heâd been assigned female at birth. The fourth man was moderately addicted to ephedrix and riding into battle on a high stimulant wave.
The last member of the assault team was the only one to give Roland any pause. He could guess the manâs height and weight ( six foot five, two-hundred-forty pounds ) from the sound of his footfalls. Roland could a smell the Sig Sauer .500 submachinegun in his hands, but otherwise the man was a sensory blank. No sweat, no hydraulics, and black to thermographic sensors. The man was chromed. Not so heavily as Roland, of course, but the competent and well-armed squad he led might be enough to narrow the gap.
Where in the shitting shitshitshit did I leave that gun?
The static balance in the air changed as the overwatch team warmed up their sound cannon. The assault team was close now, barely a hundred feet out, waiting in the cover provided by several large boulders at the base of the rise that held Rolandâs ramshackle home. He knew how this fight would go. Theyâd unleash the Callahan for a good five seconds while the kill-team moved into position and kicked in the door. Next the big bruiser and the two women would enter while the remainder of the assault team fanned out to cover the sides.
Textbook post-human kill-team tactics, he thought. He didnât actually remember any of the fights this conclusion was based on. But heâd clearly lived through similar encounters. And if he trusted his body and hindbrain he would again.
Roland finished searching the apocalyptic ruin that was his kitchen sink. The pile of plates had been large enough to hide a short-barrel AR-10, but his gun wasnât there either.
âFucknuts,â he cursed. The profanity brought a tiny serotonin spike, and Roland felt himself calm down even as the noose tightened around him. His combat wetware did most of its work in the moments before meat met metal. So Roland closed his eyes, slumped his shoulders and relaxed while it cross-indexed his memories of past firefights with his current sensory data. A moment later, Roland was presented with three potential counter-assault strategies.
He selected the one that sounded like the most fun.
The Callahan fired, blanketing his home and much of the area beyond it in a web of noise designed to assault and eventually fry the synapses of anyone dumb enough to stand too long in its wake. Pain lashed from Rolandâs inner ear and sparked out to every nerve in his body. It wouldâve been enough to leave a strong man curled on the ground, shitting his guts out. But Roland just felt a distant ache. His experience of the damage was more akin to seeing the check-engine light on a car than true agony. He was aware that if he waited too long the sonic weapon would blow out the pain dampers on his spinal nerve gates. Luckily for him the assault team didnât wait that long.
Roland felt the big man arc his leg up to kick in the door. It crumpled in and Roland lunged left. This helped him avoid the first spray of covering fire as the chromed man and both women barreled inside. Roland flung himself into the hovelâs main structural support beam, which ran up the buildingâs left wall. He hit it with the rough speed and force of a light truck going twenty miles an hour. His momentum carried him and half the left wall into the rocky ground outside.
Rolandâs filthy little home tottered and swayed. It collapsed first on the left side and then on the right as the whole structure failed. Roland was already up with a jagged piece of two-by four in his hands. He rushed the ephedrix addict holding down the left flank. The man got two shots off and, to his credit, both hit right where Rolandâs original heart had been. And then Roland was on him. He shoved the wood into the meat of the manâs face. It gouged off enough flesh to fill a pint glass and shattered the poor fellowâs jaw. He went down, hard.
Roland smelled the familiar scent of anti-hemorrhagic nanomachines as they rushed to save the manâs life. He caught a slight sour whiff of the cheap clotting agents in the manâs blood. Roland guessed it was TrauMax brand , which was convenient. TrauMax had based their whole line off of a piece of Brazilian military wetware that itself was based on a crude synthesis of horseshoe crab blood. The organs worked well enough, unless you happened to be an amphetamine addict whoâd suffered massive tissue damage. Then your TrauMax unit would flood your synapses with adenosine to knock you out, rather than risk pushing more amphetamines on your stressed heart.
Something in the smell of the manâs blood set off a powerful sense memory buried deep in Rolandâs hippocampusâvines slashing his face, boiling jungle heat and his fist connecting with the face of a heavily armed young woman. Her orbital bone broke under the blow, he smelled her blood meet the air and she dropped, dropped, droppedâthe memory flashed by, free of context, in the time it took the other man to hit the ground.
It was frustrating to only remember the âwhatâ of an action, and not the âwhyâ or the âafterâ . It was like knowing how to ride a bike without remembering whoâd taught you and when, only for everything. Roland found it somewhat unsettl
A 12-gauge slug hit him in the thigh. It dug deep, hit reinforced bone, and stopped. The little machines in Rolandâs blood were already cutting it apart by the time he stopped musing and bounded over to the other flank-man. Roland chucked the two-by-four hard as he ran. The wood impacted above the assassinâs temple with an audible crack, shattering the manâs sphenoid bone.
The battle drugs started to trickle into Rolandâs synapses now, a cocktail of endorphins, oxytocin, serotonin and epinephrine concocted to make violence as addictive as a fat rock of crystal meth. Roland instantly wanted more, and he knew he could trigger a greater dose by stomping on the downed manâs skull and ending his life. He fought down the urge and, instead, grabbed the manâs AA-32 combat shotgun and rolled for cover behind a red-rock boulder.
He was almost fast enough. But either the overwatch man had some aftermarket parts Roland hadnât smelled or all the hardcore drug abuse had done long-term damage to his reflexes. Maybe no more crack binges, Roland thought as a massive two-bore slug blew most of his left shoulder out into the desert behind him.
Roland belted out several fuckwords as pain flooded the banks of his dampeners. And j ust that second, with truly exquisite timing, the Callahan crew swiveled their weapon âround and poured sonic fire at him from above.
For a fraction of a second everything went dark. Rolandâs world was riotous red pain and little else. If his body had required the input of his conscious mind he would have been in a real pickle. During the milliseconds it took for his dampeners to cut through the pain haze, Rolandâs body dove ten feet to the left, enough to take him out of the Callahanâs spray and behind an outcropping of rocks. Two rounds cracked into the rock above his head. Roland came back to himself as the shards cut into his skin.
He glanced down at at the ruin of his shoulder. His little blood robots were already hard at work, rebuilding the muscles, bones and sinews blown out by the giant slug. A couple seconds more and the limb would be useable again. But Roland had a better idea.
He used his intact arm as a flesh-catapult and flung himself up over the boulder, towards the Callahan and its three guardians. The man with the two-bore fired again. Roland had known he would and his hindbrain had already calculated the ideal motions to avoid the dozen most likely shot patterns. He sailed over the half-pound bullets with ease and used the hand of his intact arm to rip his wounded arm free at the shoulder.
Roland landed hard in front of the Callahan. He swung his own severed limb like a club and knocked the barrel to the left. Then he laid into the gunâs crew with a mix of pounding swings from the arm and stomps to the other menâs knees and ankles. Bones shattered. Assassins screamed. The man with the two-bore and the newborn child at home wavered and broke. Roland had expected this. Many normal humans, even hardened veterans, found it nauseating and unsettling to see a man move as fast as he could move. Add, âbeating their friends half to death with a severed limbâ and, well, heâd predicted the guy would break.
Itâs not your fault buddy, Roland thought as he watched the man run. Donât feel bad. Heâd wanted to say that out loud but he was having trouble working his vocal cords.
In roughly seven seconds Roland had eliminated five out of eight threats in the kill-team. His hindbrain predictions had given him six more seconds, at least, before the entry team cleared themselves from the debris of his collapsed hovel. But the other post-human, the man whoâd shone blank on most of Rolandâs senses, had freed himself faster. Roland realized this when a trio of fifty-calibre slugs burst into his chest cavity. He dropped, avoiding the last three rounds of the burst, and rolled behind another pair of boulders with his severed arm in hand.
The two female assassins were close to freeing themselves now. Roland could hear them struggle out through the vibrations of their bodies in the red sand. He couldnât see the other post-human, but heâd triangulated his most likely location. Unfortunately the other fucker had him dead to rights. If Roland broke cover, heâd be shot to pieces, maybe more pieces than his trauma organs could put back together.
Alright, old boy. Do we eat a bunch of lead and charge the bastards? Deploy the meat rockets and run for a gun while theyâre blind? He suddenly remembered the spring-loaded assault razor embedded in his left forearm, and then the 22mm grenade pistol buried in between his small intestine and his sigmoid colon (Did I remember to load it before shoving it in there?). But before he could take any action the firefight was interrupted by an oddly familiar voice.
âHey Roland, howâs it swinginâ?â
Roland hadnât smelled or heard this new man coming. The voice was very familiar. Roland felt a name on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldnât come.
âWeapons down, lads and lassies. Iâve seen enough to guess the end.â
Roland smelled frustration waft off the two women, now free and angry. The other post human smelled like nothing, but Roland felt him lower his weapon. Some grey, dead strand of memory pulsed in the back of Rolandâs brain and he guessed that it was safe for him to stand up now. So he did, and put eyes on the mystery man.
The fellow had a lopsided, square-ish jaw with a very deliberate five-o-clock shadow. His nose was thick and bulby. His red hair was tangled into dreadlocks that were more the result of inattention than stylistic choice. He was tall, muscular but lean with a bare chest that was covered in tattoos of black snakes. They writhed in time to the beating of his heart. He wore nothing but a pair of red leather chaps and a broad, calm smile. His bare penis swung pendulous in the breeze. Both of his palms were extended, out front and visible. It was the kind of gesture one used to calm an animal.
Rolandâs synapses fired and misfired and a string of fragmented memories ran through his mind. He recalled a really good hot dog on a sunny day, push-ups in the mud, searing pain in his genitals and the taste of shitty ditch weed. These memory fragments were all somehow tied to the man in front of him.
It took Roland a moment, but as soon as he got a full look at those coal-gray eyes, the manâs name clicked into place.
âOh shit,â he croaked, âJim?â
Roland hadnât said spoken to a person in...months, at least. Maybe longer. He sounded more like a suffering cat than an English-speaking human. But Jim understood him.
âAyup,â he said.
Roland sighed, looked at his severed arm, and crudely shoved it into place. It had clotted a bit, and his stub burned as the tiny robots in his blood got to work re-attaching his once-and future limb.
âJim,â he said again, sounding a bit less like a frog after a six day coke binge. âYou fucked up my house man. Thatâs not cool.â
Roland didnât know how long heâd known Jim. He couldnât even pin down the manâs last name. But he was pretty sure theyâd fought together, back before the Revolution. And he was certain t heyâd had a threesome with a devilishly handsome Spetznaz man. He couldnât remember that guyâs name, or why theyâd all been in Panama, but he didnât expect that was the sort of experience Past-Himâd have shared with someone who wasnât a friend.
âYou remember me?â Jim asked.
âBasically,â Roland answered.
âGood. âCause I got a favor to ask.â
The drone gun rotated on its axis and brought a new, slightly different chunk of cityscape into view. The world was a dull green-grey color through the lens of the weaponâs camera. Once again, there were no humans in sight. That was the norm, but Sasha still logged in for her scheduled gun-time every day. Her parents would have been mortified if they knew how she was spending her few hours of free time. But she had a good VPN, or at least it was good enough to hide her activity from her non-tech savvy elders.
She doubted theyâd ever suspect her of something like this. Sasha was a good student. Her grades guaranteed her admission to the American University in D.C. At one point sheâd had a shot at being her high schoolâs valedictorian, and maybe of gaining admission to Stanford. But then sheâd discovered the true Gospel and given herself to Christ. Her grades were still good, but probably not good enough to earn her an educational visa to the California Republic. The extra time the old-her had dedicated to school was now spent glued to a guncam, browsing live feeds from various Christian militias, and reading everything she could from the few pastors brave enough to preach the Word.
The new-her didnât want to go to school near San Francisco, capital of what Pastor Mike had called âthe worldâs most sinful nationâ. Sasha didnât even really want to go to college in D.C. What was the point?
âSash,â her dad called from the kitchen, âdinnerâs on. Cheese enchiladas!â
There was still nothing in her line-of-sight. For the eleventh month in a row she was spending sixty-five AmFed dollars for the privilege of staring through a camera at nothing for a half hour a day. Sasha had been warned about this when sheâd signed up to support the Woodlands Martyrâs Brigade. Their drone guns didnât see much action; the front had been stable for the last year. Rumor said the number of backers whoâd even gotten to fire during their turn was under a dozen. Sasha had hoped sheâd be a special case.
Something moved!
Just as she thought about killing the app and going downstairs, something moved across her droneâs field of vision. It happened again and Sasha realized that the somethings were armored soldiers, sprinting past her weapon. She locked the drone on one and, for the first time ever, selected the âFire Approvalâ button. A second went by, then another, and then a red box replaced her firing reticule.
Target Declined: Friendly Fire!
âSasha!â her mother called up, in that grating voice that meant she was almost frustrated enough to start yelling, âGet down here!â
She stared at the box for a long moment. Friendly fire . That made sense, as she belatedly realized the men had been rushing out of territory occupied by the Martyrs. Good thing they check up on us before we pull the trigger . Her heart pounded a little at the thought of killing the wrong soldier. But at the same time she noticed something odd; the men were still coming. They rushed past the drone camera in waves, ten feet apart, ducking low and and hefting heavy weapons. She must have watched at least a hundred of them pass before she realized what this meant.
A new offensive. Oh God-
ïżœïżœDial Alexander,â she told her deck. A comm window popped up about six inches in front of her hand, to the left of the large drone control screen that hovered above her. Anyone without a deck wouldâve just seen a seventeen-year-old girl, lying on her bed and poking at the air. But Sasha saw the space in front of her as a giant screen curved around her body. She opened another window and flung it up on her right side. It was populated with links to the camera feeds of all the personalities she followed. Most of them were located somewhere in the Republic of Texas, and more than half of the feeds were dark. It was hard to tell just what was happening on the others. Sasha decided sheâd get a faster update on the situation through her news aggregator. She reduced the other windows and shifted them to her periphery, then she opened a new window and waited a half-second for her curated newsfeed to populate. Her deck kept ringing Alexander while she scanned the headlines.
Reports of Explosions Across The Dallas Front
Texas: Extremists Advance into SDF, Republic Territory
Reports from Dallas Suggest New Offensive By âHeavenly Kingdomâ
A half-dozen rings later, Alexander picked up.
âSasha?â he asked. His voice sounded distant. There was noise on the line. After a second or so Sasha heard a boom and then a strange cracking sound that had to be gunfire. It didnât sound like it did on the movies, or even in the few VR shooters sheâd played. Sashaâs heart had started to pound by the time she responded.
âYes, Alexander! I was just on my drone, and it looks like somethingâs happening. The mediaâs saying itâs another offensive.â
âTheyâre right, for onceâ said Alexander. âAnd theyâre still wrong at the same time. This is something new, Sasha. Iâm sorry I couldnât tell you before. But itâll all be clear soon.â
âIs this just the Martyrâs Brigade?â
He smiled, and Sashaâs face went red.
âNo. Sasha, something wonderful is-â
âAre you near the front? Are you part of the fighting?â Sasha interrupted. Sheâd never have done that normally. But she could hear what sounded like gunfire over his line, and Sasha was scared.
âIâm with the second wave,â he said. âThe âtracks are moving us into position now. Iâll probably have t- â
Whatever else heâd been about to say was cut short as all of Sashaâs deck apps closed at once. Her digital world was replaced with a red box that read, â PARENTAL LOCKDOWN: Come to Dinner, Sasha! â
âMoooooooooooooom!â she screamed down the stairs as her eyes welled up with tears at the unfairness of it all. Alexander, the man she was pretty sure she loved, was going into battle for the first time. He was fighting right now to re-establish the Rule of God on earth. I should have read him a poem or said something beautiful and stirring. Something about how my love for him was as everlasting as Godâs own love. It should have been a powerful moment, but her heretic whore of a mother had ruined it for enchiladas.
Sasha stormed downstairs, ripe with fury but unable to vent it. Her parents couldnât know sheâd been giving money to a militant group. They wouldnât have to drop in on her talking to Alexander to know what she had planned. Six kids from her high school had already left for the Republic of Texas to fight in one militia or another. It was a problem across the American Federation but here, in Virginia, parents were particularly wary. The border of the United Christian States was just an hourâs drive from her front door. Ratlines in the UCS brought thousands of young volunteers yearly from the heart of corporate America to the various militia groups that battled across Texas.
âSasha Marion, what did we interrupt that was so important you had to yell?â âI was praying, mother.â
It wasnât really a lie. Pastor Mike had said that every deed done in support of the Heavenly Kingdom was an act of prayer.
Gwendolyn Marion frowned back at her daughter. She was a stern woman, with a broad Germanic face and dirty blond hair pulled back into a severe bun. Faint crowâs feet trickled out from her eyes, but those were from choice rather than timeâs formerly inevitable march. Gwendolyn was the chief of surgery at Annapolis General Hospital. Sheâd been taking JuvEn treatments since she was twenty. Sheâd only decided to let the crowâs feet through once Sasha had turned seventeen.
âYou can pray as much as you want, honey. But right now itâs dinner time and this is something we do as a family.â
Sasha thought JuvEn was unnatural. Heretical. God had created each human to age a certain way. Using science to disrupt that natural process was an act of blasphemy. She yearned to say something cutting, hurtful in response, but she fought it down.
â You donât have to obey your father and mother, if they try to keep you out of the Kingdom of Heaven â, words from one of Paster Mikeâs weekly âcasts rang in her ears, â but the Lord God still calls on us to respect our parents .â Heâd added that well-behaved kids were the ones who caused the least suspicion, and had the best chance of successful escape.
âYes maâam,â was all she said as the family settled into their chairs.
H er brother Ian was just five and unusually quiet for his age. He smiled at her as their father doled him out an enchilada.
âSashâ, whoâs Alexander?â he asked, and Sasha felt the blood run out of her face.
Their father, Tony, smiled wryly at the remark as he spooned a proportionally larger serving onto his own plate.
âAlexander, huh? Maybe this means another boyfriend. Itâs been, what, four years?â
Tony had opted for fewer cosmetic JuvEn treatments than his wife. Sasha loved her fatherâs receding hairline, his slight jowls , his greying hair. He was still a heretic, but at least he wasnât a vain one.
âHeâs not my boyfriend, dad. Just a boy I talk with sometimes. We pray together. â Gwendolyn rolled her eyes a little.
âSuch an exciting adolescence youâre having,â she said. Sarcasm swelled every word. Sasha didnât rise to the bait. Her self control was iron now. She wouldnât give them any cause to worry or call the authorities. It was better, even, for them to think Alexander was some boy from school. If they thought her principles were thawing theyâd be less likely to suspect what she had planned.
The Marion family ate companionably for several minutes. Tony talked about some âcockeyed nutâ whoâd come into in his office at Deutsche Bank looking for a loan.
âHe wanted three million, at 19%, to-get this-build a blimp to take tourists from AmFed to Louisiana without crossing U.C.S. territory. And Iâm like, first of all, I can name a hundred boat charters that do the same thing, and second...â
Sasha tuned most of it out and tried to focus on eating. But knowing Alexander was out there, facing death for his faith, killed any appetite she otherwise mightâve had. She ate mechanically, without really tasting it, until her plate was almost clean. Sasha was already planning her exit when her mother spoke up.
âBy the way, the school called today and said you still havenât been by to get sized for your graduation robes. They need at least forty-eight hours to print them out. Youâre running out of time.â
âSorry mom,â she said, âI know thatâs important. Iâve just had a lot on my mind lately. The FSTâs were last week.â
Sasha had gotten very good at telling her parents what they needed to hear without actually lying. The Federation Standardized Test had been last week, and sheâd certainly had a lot on her mind lately, but the FST hadnât been keeping her up at night. It was little more than a rubber-stamp for a student like Sasha.
âThatâs OK, sweetie,â Gwendolyn said. âI know how important your school work is to you. I just want you to have a fun graduation experience. Thatâs important.â
Thereâs a war going on a few hundred miles from your door. Men are dying for Godâs Kingdom, and you think school matters to me?
But Sasha just smiled, told her mom she loved her, and went back upstairs to her room as soon as it was politic to do so. She reactivated her VPN and popped her deck into âstealthâ mode, which displayed a curated selection of websites and chat apps for her mom and dad, in case they came by. She drew a new private window about two feet in front of her face and split it in half, between a face-comm with Alexander and a newsfeed full of her favorite militia press offices.
Her jaw dropped.
Voice of the Prophets main headline was, âRepublic of Texas Forces Clash With Martyrs!â
âJudgement day is here!â she read in a social media post from one of her favorite sources in the area, a twenty-something mechanic who lived on the fringe of the Republic and supported the Heavenly Kingdom. Heâd posted a picture of the Governorâs Mansion in Plano. It was burnt around several of the windows and riddled with holes. Gone was the Republicâs flag, replaced by a white banner with a burning black cross in the center. Sasha sent out another call request to Alexander and switched over to Al-Jazeeraâs feed to learn more.
It galled her to use a news source run by Muslims, but sheâd learned from experience that Al-Jazeera had the best reporters on the ground in the Republic. Theyâd negotiated coverage deals with several of the militia groups, including Alexanderâs. The first thing she noticed was that their last article had gone up well over an hour ago. But the titles of the four most recent articles painted a vivid picture.
Republic Capitol in Galveston Burning: Military Coup?
Republic Media Feeds Go Dark: SDF Under Attack in Dallas
Pastor âMikeâ Donaghan Announces New Offensive For âHeavenly Kingdomâ
How could there could possibly be a new offensive against the secular forces in Dallas? The Richardson line had been locked in a stalemate for the last year. Alexander had told her often how outnumbered and outgunned the Martyrs of the Heavenly Kingdom were. âWeâre holding our own, but only by the grace of Godâ, was his usual refrain. The idea of them advancing again on the SDF seemed impossible.
â Nothing is impossible with God,â she could almost hear Alexanderâs voice echo in her mindâs ear. She glanced over at his chat screen, but it still just showed the standard âDialingâ symbol.
Frustrated, Sasha brought up her militia newsfeed. This was one of her most cherished possessions: it had taken months for her to sort out the most influential Christian militias in the area, find their official spokesfeeds, and cross-index them based on which groups agreed with the strict neo-Calvinist doctrine she, Alexander, and Pastor Mike all knew to be the One True Word of God.
And for the first time since sheâd started the feed, each and every militia she followed had posted the exact same message.
The First Battle of Armageddon Has Begun.
Sasha was confused for a minute. Sheâd done her homework, she knew the final battle of the End Times was supposed to occur at Mount Megiddo, in Israel. But she thought back to Pastor Mikeâs sermons. He had talked about the âbattles of Armageddonâ many times. The coming end times and the central place of the Heavenly Kingdom in the worldâs last battles were constant refrains in his sermons. Sasha had always believed the Battles of Armageddon would come. Sheâd just thought she had more time .
Sasha was frustrated and a little hurt. Alexander must have known this was in the offing and kept it from her. She understood, of course. But she was furious at herself for being so far away from the action that heâd been forced to hide this from her. The first battle of Armageddon was beginning, just a few hours south of her bedroom. She could either stay here and rot in the American Federation or prove God with her devotion and move there . It didnât even seem like a choice, really. If good men were fighting and dying to restore the Kingdom of God on Earth, it fell to her to travel there and support those men.
She thought of Alexander. His liquid green eyes, his scraggly beard, the way his still boyish voice broke in excitement when he lost himself in the Spirit of the Lord. Her beloved was out there right now, fighting and maybe bleeding to bring the Truth back to the world. The least she could do was join him.
Weeks ago Alexander had given her the contact information for a man named Brother Andrew. Heâd called the other man a âdelivererâ. Sasha knew her parents and the AmFed authorities wouldâve described Brother Andrew as a people smuggler. She hadnât reached out to Brother Andrew yet. In her fantasies sheâd always waited to graduate before escaping to the Heavenly Kingdom. She was still a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday, and had hoped to at least spend that with her parents before setting off.
But now, as she scrolled through articles about the Martyrâs breakthrough and immersed herself in snapvids of cheering soldiers raising cross banners over newly-captured neighborhoods, Sasha felt a powerful anxiety overtake her. She needed to be there. There was no other option.
Sasha flicked open a window on the left side of her viewspace, typed in the address sheâd memorized for Brother Andrew and sent him a message,
âIâm ready to go.â
Manny woke up needing to piss, and also to the sound of explosions. He couldnât quite tell which was more to blame for his sudden, unwelcome consciousness. His lizard brain woke up and shouted, âGet the fuck out of there, you asshole! â a second later. Manny got to his feet, grabbed his gear bag and looked around for the journalist.
Reggie still seemed asleep. But he stirred just as Manny started towards him and another thundering âboomâ shook the world.
â...Christ! What was that?â Reggie asked in a slurred voice, heavy with sleep. âMortarsâ, Manny explained, âI think I heard rockets, too.â
âShit,â the Brit exhaled sharply. âIs this bad?â
Manny shrugged. âThose sound like small mortars. Very short range. But weâre miles behind the line, so-â
A deafening explosion shook the world. It was loud enough that Manny didnât even properly hear it. He felt it, hard and hot against his skin. The sheer impossible noise of it pulled the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his head.
The next instant he was flat on the ground. His eyes darted left and right for cover. He spotted something; an artificial cave, built into a corner of the main room, perhaps a hundred feet away. It looked like some sort of shrine or temple. Manny could see the walls were thick with melted candles, colorful drawings and a variety of brass symbols.
He grabbed Reggie by the shoulder and shook, hard. The other man jerked, locked eyes with Manny and mouthed, âWhat?â
The fixer pointed towards the shrine, pulled himself up and sprinted towards it. The j ournalist followed, and soon both men were huddled in the little substructure, staring out at the devastation that had overtaken the RAP. They could see two holes in the roof. The huge circular kitchen/bar looked like it had taken a direct hit. Beer spurted from shattered taps, and Manny could see what looked like blood staining the white oak of the bar counter. Flames licked somewhere off in the distance, on the other side of the vast structure. The air smelled of smoke and burning grass.
More blasts sounded in the distance, including a few that were just too loud to be mortarfire. Now that he focused, Manny could also hear the chatter of machine guns. It was distant, but not nearly as distant as it shouldâve been.
Manny dug into his pocket, found where the deck was clipped inside and thumbed the power button. Static flashed at the edge of his vision as his implants started up. He nearly always ran in minimalist mode, which gave him access to his maps and his communications suite and nothing else. He selected his address book and subvocalized his cousinâs name; âAlejandroâ. It dialed.
And dialed.
And dialed.
âHey man?â Reggie said, his voice oddly calm. âI think we might need to get the fuck out of here.â
Manny looked over at the Brit and then towards the flames. They were bigger now, and closer. He could see a dozen or so men and women fighting the fire with hoses and extinguishers. They didnât seem to be winning. Elsewhere he saw small groups breaking cover to run for the exits. The sound of alarm bells echoed across the big structure. Alejandro hadnât responded, which meant he was fighting or dead. Either way, Manny and Reggie would need to find their own ride out of this mess.
It had been a while since the last mortar had landed on the complex, and the small arms fire still sounded distant. This seemed as good a time to make a break for it as they were likely to get. So they ran until they hit the nearest exit doors, shoved them open, and staggered outside into the balmy Texan night.
The asphalt parking lot outside was filled with newly minted refugees, perhaps two hundred of them. Most carried at least a go-bag. A few had managed to drag out more. They were ringed by a widening cordon of armed men and women, fifty at the most. The militia clutched antique weapons, mostly small arms, and stuck like glue to the Hesco barriers that ringed the old parking lot. Here and there Manny caught sight of a man with an RPG, or a light machinegun. It was a force meant for scaring off bandits. The rockets still thudding in the distance told Manny these men and women faced considerably more than their match.
A green blink of light caught his attention. Reggie had engaged his lapel camera. The Brit fixed him with a look that said, âDude, what did you expect me to do?â
Most of the survivors were probably recording to their decks too. But Reggieâs little camera could do considerably more: it scanned the world around him in a 360 degree arc. It also recorded the journalistâs own physical data: his heart rate, his respiration, his adrenaline levels. Everything he saw and felt was being recorded for later consumption. The Brit was carving out a little slice of the war for safer parts of the world to binge watch.
Vehicles started to arrive. The Projectâs motor pool included three tracks built to carry large groups of people in semi-armored semi-safety. The communeâs rapid reaction force set to work, loading children and wounded up first. There was no panic, no hysteria, just an exhausted efficiency that spoke of long practice. Manny saw glassy eyes and clenched jaws, but very little open rage. Theyâre so very used to it, he realized. Scattered throughout the crowd, Manny saw people whose bodies rattled with the sort of palsied shock that artillery leaves in its wake.
Reggie just stared out at them, mouth slack. His left knee twitched, the foot below it pumped against the ground. Manny guessed he was caught between the urge to step out and talk to some of them and the voice of sanity in the back of his head that knew how tone deaf that would be. Manny put a hand on the journalistâs shoulder.
âWe need to get the fuck out of here, and our ride is off comms,â he said. âIâm gonna suggest we hitch with the RAP. Weâre their guests, theyâll make room for us. But if youâd rather drag ass I know a safe neighborhood about six miles into the city. We could probably hire a ride there.â
âIt looks like theyâre a little short of room as-is,â said the Brit. âThose tracks canât hold more than twenty or thirty people each.â
<br>Manny smiled a little, âTwenty-four. But thatâs just if youâre attached to things like âseatsâ.â
Ten minutes later, Reggie and Manny clung to the hood of the track as it barreled down the broken streets of Ciudad de Muerta, bound for a staging area in Deep Ellum. The fighting sounded much closer by the time they left. Manny guessed the small arms fire couldnât be more than a couple of blocks away. He and the journalist held on with white knuckles and tried not to linger long on what would happen if they lost their grip.
âThe Martyrs are past the command post!â the Brit shouted in sudden realization. His voice strained to be audible over the roar of engines. âHoly shit, they have to be, right?â
Manny thought about the geography for a moment. It was possible the Martyrs had only broken through in a few chunks of the line. But that would mean DeShawn and the others were alive and surrounded or fleeing. Those were the best case scenarios.
âI think we might be fucked,â Manny said, stunned by the realization. For the last year Major Clark had been his most reliable source in the SDF. That post had seemed immoveable, impregnable for its significance in his little chunk of the world.
The track slowed to a stop. Parked facing them were two smaller, armored SDF tracks with swiveling cannons on their roofs. Soldiers scurried around them. They pulled sections of thin, frosted grey Stihlglass barricades off the vehicles and started setting them up to form a new defensive line. Manny watched two militiawomen wrestle with a large olive-green case covered in boxy Cyrillic script. They pried it open and Manny saw a huge metal tube and what looked like a lot of antique optical equipment. It was probably an old wire-guided missile launcher, something that had been an antique before the revolution. Heâd never seen the SDF use anything that old. They had drones half this size that carried even more firepower.
Had them yesterday, at least, he thought.
The track slowed to a cautious stop and honked. Manny glanced back at the driver. She had her hands in the air in a universal âPlease donât shoot usâ gesture. Two of the soldiers peeled off from their efforts and approached, weapons in hand but not aimed. The driver opened her door and shouted something down at them. One of the men responded and gestured vaguely downtown.
Manny couldnât make out exactly what was being said, but the driverâs face contorted in a fury that was impossible to miss.
âSomethingâs fucked,â Manny said to the journalist. âI think weâre all about to lose our ride. Look!â
He pointed to the makeshift barricade, and the dozen or so soldiers who filtered past it and towards the track. The driver yelled and one of the other passengers near the front started to shout. The soldierâs face remained impassive but he put a hand on his sidearm and repeated a command Manny didnât even need to hear. A few seconds later a soldier with a megaphone arrived and addressed Manny, Reggie, and the new refugees.
âCitizens, your vehicle has been requisitioned for medical use by the SDF. Please dismount in an orderly fashion. Injured and pregnant individuals may stay aboard.â
The man repeated the order, this time in Spanish.
Reggieâs jaw clenched. Manny could see fear in his eyes, but the other man just nodded and started to climb down off the track. Manny did the same. Not all of the trackâs passengers were as compliant. There was a lot of shouting and even a few shoving matches between the militiamen and the passengers. But in the end, the SDF got their way. Manny gathered fairly quickly that they planned to send the civilians a mile or so back, to a holding area behind the new line. That was the last fucking place in the world he wanted to be, so he approached the officer whoâd been arguing with their driver.
The man had no rank insignia on his uniform, but that wasnât unusual for militia. His fatigues were old U.S. Army issue. His armband identified him as part of the Citizenâs Front. Manny found that odd: most of the militia at this barricade were with Raza Front or the PPA. This much intermixing wasnât normal. It pointed to a lot of casualties among the SDF.
âDisculpe, señor-â Manny started,
âChico, no ahora mismo. I donât have time to debate-â
âNo, señor. My cousin Alejandro is with the Citizenâs Front, 9th Battalion . He was our ride. We were taking this journalist,â Manny jerked his head towards Reggie, who stood a few feet back, â...and we got caught up in the attack.â
The officer nodded, then grunted. Manny studied his face for a moment. The man was middle-aged, with a weak chin and enough extra meat on his bones to suggest this was his first frontline duty in a while. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands clenched. His attitude softened a bit at Alejandroâs name.
âAlejandro Hernandez?ââYeah,â
âHeâs a good man. Or was,â the officer said darkly. âAll our frontline units were wiped out, or near enough. The whole SDFâs been pushed all the way back to ciudad de muerta. If heâs alive, heâs a prisoner.â The man shook his head. âSorry, chico. Thereâs not much I can do for you or your friend.â
âWe need to get to Waco. I know thereâs a hospital there; that must be where youâre sending the serious injuries, right? Dallas doesnât have anything left with a full ER.â
The officer nodded. âThese tracks are headed to the field hospital, in Oak Lawn. But weâve got a couple deuce-and-a-halfâs loading up at Firebase Jiminez. If you can get there on your own Iâll radio ahead and ask Major Peron if heâs got space.
âI know Peron!â Manny almost shouted. âI went to school with his nephew, Hector.â He couldnât stop himself from wincing as he said, âIf youâd give him my name, that might help.â
The other manâs eye cocked up in a really, motherfucker? look. But then the soldier asked, âAnd your name is?â
âManny Sanchez.â
He nodded. âGood luck then, Manny. Iâll radio ahead. You and your friend get to the firebase-rapido, comprende?â
Manny nodded and turned to Reggie.
âWeâve got a ride. But itâs going to be a bit of a hike.â
----
It was less of a hike and more of a panicked jog. The streets around them were filled with dozens of people carrying their possessions in bags and rusted old shopping carts. Manny had never seen Dallas this crowded. Less than a million people still lived in the old metroplex but most of them seemed to be out in the streets to watch the world end. Sirens sounded, courtesy of the cityâs old civil defense system, mixed every few seconds with the distorted voice of a woman reminding them that all motor vehicle use was prohibited.
âAny civilian vehicles on the road will be assumed hostile and targeted.â
The road traffic was all military. There was less of it than Manny wouldâve hoped to see. In the space of a few seconds he watched three pairs of Cougar assault vehicles race up towards the front, carrying squads of armored troopers in their open beds. He also saw one convoy of five anti-drone tanks. Each was the size of a four-door sedan, with two linked chainguns on a turret that scanned the sky in fast, jerky arcs. There was a troubling amount of dead space on the road between the two units.
By the sound of it, the fighting had only grown more intense throughout the morning. The crack of small-arms fire had been almost drowned out by the all-consuming roar of closeâsupport drones in the sky above them. The only noises to rise above that din were the stippling bangs of mortar fire and the pop-pop-popping of cluster bombs.
Firebase Jiminez was about two miles back from the new front. It was mainly a staging area for the SDFâs Autonomous Artillery Division. The AAD was made up of men and, mostly, drones, from all the secular militia groups active in the Dallas area. The firebase itself wasnât well-fortified. The only physical defense was a fence topped with razorwire to keep civilians out. That wouldnât be much of a barrier for a determined assault. Until a couple of hours ago Jiminez had been far enough from the front that an assault wasnât considered possible.
After an hour of mixed jogging and running Manny and Reggie took a left onto Park Lane and the Firebase came into view. It had been built in the bones of an old apartment complex. Several buildings had been converted into offices and the rest left as barrack space. The apartments were situated across the road from a tall, very thin, parentheses-shaped building that looked out over a large field dotted with landing pads. The name âTop Golf Driving Rangeâ was still visible on one side of the building.
Several hundred militiamen were hard at work throwing up defenses. Stihlglass sheets had been set up to screen a dozen machinegun nests. Further back, soldiers piled sandbags in front of two howitzers. Manny and Reggie werenât the only civilians trying to gain entrance. Fifty or so people clustered by a checkpoint in the middle of the road, a hundred yards ahead of the construction efforts.
The checkpoint was new, just a sandbag machinegun emplacement manned by six fighters in powered body armor. They were overwatched by a pair of ancient Abrams tanks, positioned on either side of the road. The soldiers in the middle checked documents and let the occasional civilian through. They turned most people back. There were a lot of shouts and violent gestures on the part of the civilians. While Manny watched, one of the guards raised their rifle up and fired it just to the left of a screaming manâs face. He recoiled in fear and pain, clutched his ears and staggered away from the checkpoint.
The wait was only about ten minutes but, with the thudding artillery at their back, each of those minutes felt like an hour. But soon they stood face-to-mask with one of the armored militiafolks. Reggie went stiff at once, his pupils the size of dinner plates. He had never seen powered armor up close before. Manny couldnât blame the man for being unnerved. The reflective, bug-eyed ballistic glass of the helmets and inhumanly broad shoulder armor made the wearers look like Kronenbergian Gorilla/Mantis hybrids.
The shortest armored soldier was well over seven feet tall and almost as broad as two men. Their gender was impossible to discern. But a feminine voice leapt from the speakers.
âState your business,â she said. âIf youâre looking for shelter, youâll have to head to North Park Center, we donât have room for you.â
âIâm Emmanuel Sanchez. Major Peron should have my friend and I on your list.â
The woman was silent for a little while as she called up the list. She clucked her tongue between her teeth, and the high-fidelity mic in her suit made it sound like sheâd done it next to his ear.
âWell hell, there you are.â
Her helmeted head bobbed at them.
âAlright, youâre in. Come through quick. You stop being my fuckinâ problem as soon as youâre inside.â
They made their way towards the actual front gate of the Firebase, passing squads of militia struggling with Hescos and setting up firing positions behind the Stihlglass palisade. Manny and Reggie walked past it all and to the Firebaseâs front gate. They were let in without any fuss, which surprised Manny a bit, but he wasnât about to question it.
On the other side of the gate they found themselves adrift, unescorted and surrounded by pure chaos. There were other civilians inside the walls, huddled in small groups around piles of backpacks. They sat, wide-eyed and shaking, and waited for whatever deliverance the SDF could provide. Soldiers rushed through the clots of humanity in groups of two or three. Often their arms were filled with machinery, or paper, or even crates of munitions. Everyoneâs eyes were wide and full of fear.
For a while Reggie and Manny milled around with no real aim, unable to enter any of the buildings. Manny found them an unclaimed place to sit that looked like it would be easy for Mr. Peron to find. And then they just sat there. At one point Reggie offered him a protein bar. Manny tried to eat it, but three bites in he accepted that his appetite just wasnât there.
What do I do if Dallas falls? He ran through his finances over and over again, mulling over which European visas he could afford, and how long heâd be able to survive in each country. I could make it a year, maybe eighteen months in Croatia. Heâd been studying German for the last year though. I can learn Croatian in a year , he tried to convince himself.
He also tried to ignore what heâd be leaving behind if he hopped the next flight from Austin to the EU. He didnât want to think about Oscarâs wife and child, how theyâd get by without their dadâs income. He didnât want to think about his own father, or the rest of his family, and how theyâd fare if Austin fell. You can only afford to take care of YOU here, Manny.
It was two hours before Major Peron found them.
The older manâs skin was a deep, sun-charred brown that seemed at odds with his narrow face and thin wire glasses. He had the look of a high school history teacher whoâd been transplanted into a warzone. There was something drawn and strained in his expression that spoke of deep exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was swollen slightly red. Manny could remember seeing that same face, a bit younger and wearing a t-shirt rather than digicam, at a hundred different slumber parties. Mr. Peron was Hectorâs dad. Mr. Peron made them kettle corn and let them watch violent movies on the family projector.
Major Peron, Manny had to remind himself, heâs Major Peron. The Major favored Manny with a sad smile. âMadre de dios, Emmanuel. Itâs fucking good to see you. Have you seen your cousin, Alejandro?â
âHe was with us last night,â Manny said. âBefore the attack.â
A pained look crossed the Majorâs face.
âOK,â he nodded and forced a smile back across his lips. âI hear you boys need a ride?â
âYes,â Manny said, âif you could get us back to Waco I have enough connections in the area to get him,â Manny nodded back to the journalist, âinto Austin.â
âAnd what is your name, sir?â Major Peron asked the journalist as he extended his hand. âReggie,â the Brit responded. âThank you so much for helping us.â
âIâm afraid thereâs not much I can do right now. The situation is still very fluid. Weâve set a new defensive line running from the Lakewood Crater to Love Field. With any luck, the Martyrs have spent the bulk of their strength and weâll hold them there.â
âAnd if not?â Reggie asked.
Mr. Peron laughed and scratched his head. âWell, if the line breaks than Iâd guess our collective pooch is screwed. Weâll begin the evacuation if it gets much worse. But right now weâre still waiting for convoys of wounded to get back through the lines.â He gestured out at the considerable amount of fenced-off open space in the firebase. âThis whole place is about to be a big open-air hospital.â He gave Reggie a severe look. âI wonât tell you not to record them, because quite frankly everyone here is too busy to police that. But I will ask that you show tact and respect in your documentation.â
âOf course,â said Reggie, with enough sincerity that Manny believed him.
âAlright,â he clapped Manny on the shoulder and, after a secondâs pause, embraced him. âHold on out here for a while. Iâll try to send some food in a little bit.â
Manny and Reggie both thanked Major Peron, and he trundled off into the old Top Golf building to do his part in coordinating the defense.
âSo what now?â Reggie asked.
âWe wait,â said Manny.
----
Three hours passed. More and more wounded men streamed into the base, carried on stretchers and in ambulances and, in several cases, stacked like firewood on flatbed trucks. The wounded were set up on cots and piles of blankets in the grass and, wherever possible, in paved sections of the driving rangeâs old parking lot. Medics, far too few medics, hustled from soldier to soldier at a frantic, manic, unsustainable pace.
For a while there was nothing to do but follow Reggie around while he interviewed the wounded men and women who were stable enough to talk. They all reported shock at the speed and ferocity of the attack. Their testimonies drove home the fact that this was something new. Tendrils of fear crept up Mannyâs spine. It was all he could do to keep moving with his journalist.
âHey man,â Reggie said, âlook at that fellow.â He pointed to a soldier with the top half of his head wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Something about the manâs broad and square chin looked familiar.
âIsnât that one of the men we met yesterday?â Reggie asked. âThe Major?â
Holy shit. Reggie was right. That had to be DeShawn Clark. Manny ran over to him. As he drew closer it became clear that DeShawn was in even worse shape than heâd looked at a distance. His shirt had been ripped open, exposing a muscular chest drenched in blood. Three white plugs of hardened celox wound spray were visible across his abdomen. Heâd been shot repeatedly and had what looked like a shrapnel wound on the side of his head. At least heâs breathing, Manny thought.
âMajor Clark?â he said. And, to Mannyâs surprise, the warrior poet stirred.
â...Manny? Sweet Jesus, is that you?â DeShawn asked in a slurred voice. âYes sir,â Manny said.
âYou know, I was damn sure youâd been killed. Havenât had that much time to think about you in the last few hours, of course. What with everyone dying and all.â
âIâm glad youâre alive.â Manny said. And he was: Major Clark had always been good to him. âDo you know what happened to Hamid? And Colonel Milgram?â Manny asked before the thought had fully crystalized in his mind.
Major Clark tried to lift his head and almost cried out from the sheer agony of the movement. He didnât speak for a few seconds, he just took deep, slow breaths. But then he started to whisper.
âThe last sunbeam lightly falls from the finishâd Sabbath, on the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking, down a new-made double grave.â
âWhat?â Manny asked, confused.
âWalt, actually.â Major Clark laughed, winced, and then explained. âWalt Whitman, that is. Sorry, imminent death makes me go for the deep cuts.â
âSo theyâre dead, then?â Manny asked.
Major Clark coughed and, again, his lips curled up in an agonized cringe. â...I think so,â he managed to say. âI think everyone from the command post is dead. I was out grabbing a smoke when they hit us. Came out of nowhere. Drone artillery. Heavy stuff. The whole place lit up like Christmas.â
Two loud booms sounded in the distance. Major Clark tensed up. Reggie cringed. To Manny, the whole situation seemed almost too unreal to justify a reaction.
âLike that,â Major Clark said. âAfter, I grabbed who I could and tried to save as many men as possible. Fighting retreat, you know? We linked up with as many fighters as we could but every time weâd set a line theyâd break through. They had so many damn drones. Iâve never seen Martyrs use drones like that.â
âWhat do you mean?â Reggie asked.
âWell theyâve always had drones. But usually just as defensive aids, for when weâd make a push. Weâve got enough jammers that their hardware was no use in our territory, since none of their shit goes autonomous.â
âSo what,â the journalist asked as he drew in a bit closer, âdo you think theyâve changed their minds on autonomous drones? Or is this something else?â
Major Clark rolled his head, just a little. It seemed to be the only gesture he could make without hurting himself.
âI donât know, kid,â he said. âWhateverâs happening, itâs totally new. And itâs totally fucked us.â
Major Clark was taken by another coughing fit. This one lasted a long time. Blood bubbled up and out from the corners of his mouth. Manny wanted to call for a medic, but he couldnât see any of them who werenât dealing with patients who were even worse off. Eventually the coughing subsided, and Major Clark drifted off into unconsciousness .
They sat with him until the night fell and Mr. Peron finally came to get them. He looked exhausted and somehow broken. His skin was sallow and so pale it was almost yellow. His uniform was soaked with old sweat stains and he had two lit cigarettes in his mouth when he found Manny and Reggie. Manny wasnât sure heâd ever seen the older man smoke. Mr. Peron noticed his surprise.
âIâve taken up smoking again,â he said with a hollow laugh, âsince I donât expect to survive to the end of the week.â
âThat bad?â Manny asked.
âWorse,â he shook his head and then seemed to notice the Major. âIs that Deshawn Clark?â
âYes sir,â Manny said.
âIs he...?â
âHeâs alive. And he seems to be stable, for now.â
Major Peron looked relieved.
âThatâs one spot of mercy, then. Hopefully weâll get him out in time. On that note; Iâve confirmed that weâve got a convoy of wounded heading out tomorrow A.M., as soon as our scouts clear the route. Youâll both have a seat in that convoy.â
âThank you so much sir,â Reggie started. Mr. Peron cut him off.
âItâs no problem, son. Do your job and tell people whatâs happened here.â
âWhat are you going to do, sir?â Manny asked.
Mr. Peron looked into his eyes. Heâd always had an intense stare. His edge had been evident even when heâd been driving the boys to soccer practice or taking them out for pizza. Now his eyes bored into Mannyâs heart so deeply that the fixer finally understood what that phrase meant.
âIâm going to die here, Emmanuel.â He said. âIâm going to die here, like your cousin Alejandro died here, because itâs the only thing I can do that might protect our home.â
Manny felt an intense urge to look away, to cast his eyes down. But he didnât. He held Mr. Peronâs gaze and braced himself for what came next.
âWhat about you?â Mr. Peron asked. âWhat will you do if they reach Austin?â
âWait, is that on the bloody table?â Reggie interrupted.
Mr. Peron paused for a moment and considered his words. âI donât know,â he said. âNo one does. But the Martyrs just broke through at Lakewood. We wonât hold Dallas for another day.â
He pulled Manny in for a hug and kissed him on the cheek. When he pulled back he kept his hands on Mannyâs shoulders.
âIâve always been proud of you, Emmanuel. I think that what you do here,â he nodded to Reggie, âhas value. But there are times when our homelands require more of us. What are you prepared to give for Austin?â
Manny clenched his jaw. I plan to be on a plane out of there in the next twelve hours, if possible. But, âI donât know, sirâ is all he said. It was hard to meet Mr. Peronâs eyes. When he did, he was sure the older man saw the guilt in them.
Mr. Peron didnât say anything though. He just led Manny and Reggie over to where the convoy was assembling and slipped them a pair of MREs and some bottled water. âThe best I could do,â he said apologetically. He left them at the disembarkation point. Mannyâs last clear sight of the man who had helped raise him was of his slumped, sweat-stained shoulders trudging back to the firebaseâs command center.
They sat there for hours. Neither of them talked much. One by one the wounded men were loaded carefully onto the assortment of old half-tracks, buses and trailers that made up the convoy. Once they were seated, there was another two hours of wait time before the convoy got moving. Both Reggie and Manny found time to nap. But neither of them were really rested when the dawn broke and the convoy set forward.
By the time the ramshackle assortment of trucks and broken soldiers started on its way to Waco the sound of mortarfire was so constant it had almost become white noise. The small arms fire wasnât as loud, but it was also clearly much closer than it had been when theyâd arrived at Firebase Jiminez. As the convoy rolled out onto the old access road that led, eventually, to Waco, a flight of drones roared past them and towards the new front line.
âThose arenât SDF drones, are they?â Reggie asked, without actually looking at Manny. His gaze was focused on the two medics in the back of the truck as they moved from soldier to soldier.
âNo,â Manny confirmed, âThose are Austin Civil Defense forces.â
The Brit whistled through his teeth.
âSo, you think this means the SDF ran through their drones?â
âCould be,â is all Manny said. The track, and its escort, lumbered through cracked remnants of the old highway system. They accumulated hangers-on, civilian vehicles piled high with refugees, as they rolled along. The civilians stayed back, leery of the convoyâs guns but trusting in its presence for protection. By the time the convoy finally left the Dallas sprawl their tail stretched back to the horizon line.
Manny had seen similar sights before, when his parents had fled the DFW area for Austinâs relative safety. Here and there, on and in the cars behind them, he saw small figures that had to be children. Kids like heâd been, fleeing the same city heâd had to flee for the same basic reason. Mannyâs stand-out memory from that time wasnât the terror of seeing a mortar land for the first time, or anything about their flight out of the city at all.
It was from the next day, at their first refugee camp, when he saw his father in line for their daily ration of food. A journalist had passed by, taking the sort of pictures Reggieâs lapel camera now snapped mindlessly. Mannyâs dad had been crying, ashamed that heâd needed âcharityâ and even more ashamed to have fled the family home.
More than anything about that time, Manny remembered how his father had hidden his face from the photographer. The gesture had told Manny more about their new status in the world than anything an adult had actually said. Behind him now were cars full of mothers and fathers, and children, who were about to have their own searing experiences. Manny hated how familiar this felt to him. He hated that, for Reggie, it counted as the adventure of a lifetime.
<br>Manny looked at the journalist, at the awe and innocent excitement in his eyes, and tried to imagine Reggieâs life back home. None of the individual pieces of that life would be new to Manny. His world also had bars and parties and apartment leases and term papers. The thing he couldnât imagine was the sense of security. Living life without the constant threat of war.
Heâd been so close to securing that life for himself. If theyâd only waited six months. But they hadnât. And now Manny had a choice to make: stand and fight, or run with what he had and hope for the best. Manny leaned back, as much as his precarious seat allowed, and stared out at the burning city that had once been Dallas.
âGoddamn,â he muttered to himself, âI gotta get the fuck out of Texas.â
Twenty years ago Camelback Mountain had towered over a wealthy suburb of Phoenix, Arizona. Then had come the civil war. Power, food and water shortages made the cityâs 130 degree summers insufferable for all but the hardiest or most chromed. Millions fled for less vicious climates, or simply died from exposure and starvation. Now Phoenix was a looted, crumbling ghost. But Camelback Mountain still hosted a version of human civilization.
CamelToe was a city-state of roughly five thousand. The name had started because the settlementâs founders, homeless teens, thought it was funny. A few hundred orphaned or abandoned kids had settled in the McMansions clustered around the mountainâs western side and foothills. Theyâd scrounged grow lamps and engines and weaponry and, today, the denizens of âthe Toeâ had the strongest city-state between California and the Kingdom of Albuquerque.
Roland was their guardian.
Mind you, theyâd never asked him to guard them. The polis had been doing quite well, thank you very much, when heâd shown up and built his shack in the middle of their only park. A delegation of armed Toe-ans had shown up to politely evict Roland and heâd been forced to carve off their foreskins as a show of dominance. Theyâd sent a single negotiator next and worked out a thoroughly beneficial arrangement: Roland would aid in the cityâs defence in exchange for his now-departed shack and, twice a year, all the narcotics he could carry home from their harvest.
It was an arrangement Roland had enjoyed. He was frustrated that Jimâs men had forced him to destroy his beloved hovel. But it was hard for him to be angry, all the same. The sun was out now, and it was early enough that the dayâs heat had yet to set in. The great red desert and the carcass of Phoenix stretched out around them and, to Rolandâs eyes, it was all beautiful.
Once Jim had called the fight a pair of boxy, armored heli-transports had flown in another squad of his men. Theyâd assembled a brunch spread, complete with a table and two wicker chairs. Roland hoped his old friend was doing this to show off and not planning an actual meal. The acid twisted Rolandâs guts into knots and effectively killed his appetite. He was still high enough that familiar boulders around his home seem to flex and wobble like great mounds of red jelly.
Jimâs face, however, was rock solid. Roland focused on it while the rest of the world blurred. A towel came into his hands, and he realized a moment later that Jim had handed it to him. Roland wiped the crusted gore from around his shoulder, where the tiny robots in his blood had finished re-attaching his arm. It was a messy process that involved a lot of shuffling bad blood out of the skin in sludgy red globs. The globs looked a bit like the boulders, now that he thought about it.
Jimâs mercs were over by one of the aircraft, getting worked over by a medical team that mustâve been waiting in the wings this whole time. The acrylic stink of fear wafted off them from thirty feet away.
Once the table was up and the spread was set, Roland and Jim sat down to watch the last rays of sunrise turn into boring old daylight. A lacky handed them both steaming mugs of coffee. Roland took his black and Turkish, so thick it was almost pudding. Most humans made it too weak for his taste, but this cup was perfect. He sipped deeply, and the warbly acid-lines straightened and grew just a little bit thicker.
âIt took forever to teach them how to make it right,â Jim said. âHaving human orderlies is a bit of a trial. I think thereâs something about us that breaks their brains, just a bit.â Jim sipped his coffee and added, âI got a theory about that, by the way.â
Roland let out a harsh, phlegmy exhalation that meant âI donât careâ. Jim continued all the same, sipping his coffee and then launching into a spiel.
âMy theory,â he said, âis that Homo sapiens just arenât built to acknowledge a higher form of life. Not one thatâs flesh and blood and staring them in the face demanding service. I think deep in the human brain thereâs the race memory of running up against Neanderthals. They were bigger and stronger and faster than humans. But we-they- still wiped the Neanderthals out. I think humans look at us the same way their ancestors looked at Neanderthals.â
Roland grunted, because that was easier than talking, and because he really wasnât listening. His eyes were focused on the shimmering surface of the coffee. Sober, his brain kept his thermal vision on a different mental track from his color and infrared vision. But while he was tripping they all sorta bled together into one multi-tone mass of information. So he stared, enthralled, as red heat bled off into the white air around them. The math of it all was rendered as a beautiful swatch of colors, some of which werenât even visible to human eyes. Roland lost himself for a moment.
âIf you were any other man Iâd prick you with a sober stick right now,â Jim said, clearly irked.
âItâs been a long time since someoneâs ignored me.â
âNot ignoring,â Roland managed to say. The words came out wet and mushy. Heâd taken a round to the lung apparently, and the repair efforts played hell on his throat. His eyes were still locked on the psychedelic sprawl of color lifting off from his coffee. He had to force himself to take another sip. The mild stimulant surge helped him break off his perseveration and he met Jimâs still weirdly solid gaze.
âSorry, but this coffeeâs more interesting than your bullshit,â Roland explained. âBlame the acid.â
Jim laughed. The snake tattoos on his torso curled and corkscrewed in simulated excitement. âYâknow,â he said, âthereâs a new movement in the post-human, ah, community. Started up in Idaho, in one of the intentional communes. They take a pretty strong anti-narcotic policy. Apparently it distracts us from the important work we should be doing.â
âFuck that,â Roland said, and spat on the ground for emphasis.
âI donât disagree,â Jim nodded, and produced an enormous and very phallic blunt. He lit it, pulled deep and passed it over. Roland took a long drag and eased into a slump as the THC did its slow work.
âSo Jim,â Roland said after a few more passes, once the acid and weed had time to push his brain into a hazy new equilibrium, âwhy are you here?â
Jim gave an eloquent shrug, popped the blunt out of his mouth and stared at the curling smoke. Roland stared too. In his eyes, it was wreathed in a chartreuse-black halo of heat that seemed to almost vibrate near the cherried tip.
âTo catch up,â Jim said, âand to offer you a job.â
âJob?â Roland snorted. âI need not your filthy lucre. Look at this wealth that surrounds me,â he made a broad gesture that encompassed the broken remains of his hovel. âWhat could you possibly offer?â
âWell,â Jim said, âfor starters I can replace your hot plate. I think Bigsby broke it with his body.â
âSo Iâll steal another one,â Roland said. âWhat do you really have?â âIâm gonna guess a few million wonât pique your interest?â
Roland blew a fat, wet raspberry. âI donât even care what currency youâre talking about. What goodâll money do me?â
âNot even Cascadian scrip, eh?â Jim asked with a grin.
âCascadia?â Roland had heard the name, of course. Last he remembered, the Pacific Northwestâs premier independence movement had been agitating to secede from the Coastal Pact. âIs that a thing now?â
âAs of six years ago,â Jim said. He took a deep pull on the blunt, handed it back to Roland and exhaled a thick white cloud as he spoke. âAnd they just finished their own civil war, so the valueâs skyrocketing. You really donât get out much these days, do you?â
Rolandâs response was another deep gulp of his coffee.
âAnyway,â Jim continued, âI know you donât care for cash. But there is something I think you might want, and I can buy it back for you if youâll help me out.â
âWait-buy it back? Buy what back?â
Roland recognized the snake-man smile on Jimâs face. He had the vague sense that heâd seen it before, enough that the sight of it set his hackles arise and sparked an itch in his left trigger finger. He took a deep hit from the blunt and handed it over to Jim.
The other man took the blunt with his left hand and made a gun shape with the fingers of his right hand. He pantomimed a shot to the head. His lips made a barely audible âpowâ.
âMemories,â Jim said, âI know youâre only playing with half a deck, maybe less. Surprised you remember my mug to be honest.â
Jim took a final drag from the blunt, which was barely the length of a thumbnail now, and passed it off to Roland.
âBut science, eh, sheâs kept right on lurching forward the last ten years. Thereâs a neuro team up at MIT, they reckon theyâve made a breakthrough. Alzheimerâs research, initially. But they think theyâve figured out how to straight-up recover memories from damaged brain tissue. Their tech has reversed a lot of injuries the old science said was permanent.â
Roland felt a painful tugging sensation in his chest. He thought back to the woman from his dreams, with the damascene teeth. He saw her every few weeks, trapped in some foggy memory or another. Her name felt like it was always on the tip of his tongue. He didnât know what sheâd meant to him, but the thought of her twisted his heart into knots. It was maddening, not even knowing what sheâd been to him, or he to her. Roland frowned, turned his head and locked eyes with Jim.
âYou think a bunch of fed-funded school scientists are going to help me?â Roland asked. âI got a strong feeling none of the governments on this continent are fans of me.â
Jim waved a careless hand. âLess the issue,â he said. âThose AmFed motherfuckers are pragmatists. Iâve been in and out of the Northeast a half dozen times, just this year. You do work they value, and they ignore a little terrorism.â
âMemoryâs hazy,â Roland said, âbut I know âlittleâ isnât accurate. I think we killed a skyscraper.â
âHa! You donât remember that? The Dimon building, in â41. A hundred and twenty floors of rich pigs wallowing in shit. We slipped a bomb in during an austerity summit led by the CEOs of the Big Four. Bugged their conference room so we could hear âem scream when that first blast cut the support beams. It was better than sex.â
There was a peculiar joy in Jimâs eyes. His chest-snakes writhed in orgiastic glee. Roland felt queasy.
âRoland,â Jim added, âthe sons of bitches had it coming.â
âMaybe,â Roland said, âbut I know we didnât just kill CEOs. I remember other times, kids...â
âNot kids,â Jim insisted, âHeirs. Young enough to take full advantage of JuvEn. The future undying Lords of Capital. They had to go.â
Roland shivered. âEven if they did, Iâm sorta glad I donât remember it.â
Jim shrugged, swirled his coffee cup and stared into it for a minute. If heâd been anyone else, Roland wouldâve been able to read his emotions by the scents coming off of him and the microexpressions on his face. Most post-humans were just as easy to read as regular humans. It took a mix of very specific surgeries and a hell of a lot of time spent in practice to hide anything from Roland. It said a lot that Jim had considered the expense worthwhile.
âViolence is the coin that buys the future,â Jim said. âThere was a time when you explained that to me.â
âI donât remember that conversation.â Roland said. âBut itâs been years since Iâve taken a life. A couple of foreskins, one guyâs hand, sure. Sometimes a point needs making. I havenât killed anyone in a long time though. Thatâs why all the folks you sent to my door are still alive. And I mean to stay on the wagon.
âKillingâs not wanted on this mission,â Jim assured him, âjust property destruction. I need two or three days of your unrivaled shit-upfucking expertise.â
Roland flicked a suspicious eyebrow at his old friend.
âProperty?â he asked.
Jim nodded, âA couple guys might need crippling along the way. But no killing.â âSo whatâs this gig?â Roland was interested now, in spite of himself.
âSabotage.â Jimâs lips curled up in a feral grin. âOver the last few months weâve noticed a substantial build-up among the radical Christian militias in North and Central Texas.â
âWe?â Roland asked.
âMy own organization, and the AmFedâs Central Intelligence Agency.â
Roland couldnât help but laugh, âI remember enough of the old days to appreciate the irony of you working with the CIA.â
Jimâs head cocked just a little to the left. He grimaced. Roland wasnât sure, but he thought his friend might be little embarrassed and defensive.
<br>âAnyone who lives long enough becomes a hypocrite,â Jim said with a shrug. âIâd hoped to hold out longer, but their satellite coverage is fucking phenomenal. Iâll send you the intel-â
He made a flicking gesture towards Roland with his right index finger, and then frowned in annoyance. âYou might be the last darkbrain on this continent, you know that?â
Roland wasnât sure why heâd disconnected himself from the Internet. It seemed to annoy other people, but he rather enjoyed it. His hindbrain had absorbed petabytes of data before he severed the link, so heâd never found himself needing to consult a Wiki to remember the equations behind the Coriolis effect, or a bulletâs trajectory. He could have walked from Canada to Venezuela without encountering a plant or animal his distributed mechanical brain couldnât name. The only downside to his situation was that he couldnât keep up with politics or bleeding-edge military technology. He only gleaned that sort of information by experience or conversation. And, being a creepy godlike being who sometimes circumcised trespassers, Roland didnât have many conversations.
One of Jimâs aides ran up and handed Roland a paper-thin tablet. Jim directed him through a dozen satellite images of what looked like vehicle and ammunition depots. Rolandâs hindbrain recognized the Dallas road systems immediately. A surge of sense memory hit him-
-FIRE so much fire, the smell of it only drowned out by the intense stink of thirty thousand people panicking at the same time. Roland felt bullets dig into his flesh. He saw hate in the eyes of the advancing cops and felt a corresponding surge of glee as his brain started to pump out battle drugs. He squeezed his trigger Roland shook his head and pulled his mind back into the present moment. Jim frowned but didnât say anything. He just pointed back at the tablet. Roland focused again. It appeared to be a satellite image of a defensive line in Dallas. He noted a large number of military vehicles piled into several parking garages.
âWhatâs going on here?â he asked.
âSuit carriers,â Jim said. âA couple dozen of them.â
Roland shook his head. âImpossible. Thatâd be enough to support, what, six-hundred power-armored fighters? Those are nation-state numbers. I know the Republic of Texas is a shitshow, but thereâs no way theyâd let some insurgent militia build an army like that in their borders.â
âMaybe not,â Jim said, âmaybe so. Truth told, I donât care whatâs parked in those garages. You blow âem up, I get paid and you get your fancy surgery.â
Roland felt uneasy. The job itself seemed too simple. The kill-team Jim had sent to wake Roland up probably couldâve done this job with a few reinforcements. It seemed weird that some nutbar extremists could get their hands on that many suits. Roland just didnât trust the whole situation.
âJim?â he asked. âCan you promise me this memory thing will work?â
âFuck no,â Jim scoffed. âI canât even promise youâll survive. This is a bleeding-edge mad science operation. The AmFed is willing to break international law to work on a wanted terrorist. Iâm half sure they just want to see what happens when they start poking around your skull. You might be making the worst mistake of your life here. But at least youâll die after blowing up a bunch of gear owned by Christofascist assholes.â
Roland considered for a long moment, and then nodded his assent. âAlright then, youâve convinced me. Iâm in as long as this stays a sabotage mission. No killing.â
âNo killing,â Jim agreed.
They both stared out at the vacant desert for some time. Roland found himself humming along to a song he couldnât name, or even remember hearing. Jim hummed along with him. He put a hand on Rolandâs shoulder. That felt good. There was something about human contact that none of the machines in his head could replicate. They sat for a while longer. Then Jim squeezed Rolandâs shoulder and stood.
âTime for another peaceful war, then,â he said.
âHistory is a messy thing, class. Even a question as simple as âWhen did the Second American Civil War begin?â doesnât have a clear answer. Some scholars say the first shots were fired during the failed Montana secession movement in 2040. Others will name the Dallas water riots of 2041, or the bombing of the Dimon building 6 months later by leftist militants. You can make a good, evidence-based case for any of these.â
Mr. Dane was a good lecturer, with a rich baritone voice and a habit of animating his lectures with vibrant hand gestures. He was Sashaâs favorite teacher and one of her favorite people. Mr. Dane was a heathen, of course, but he was still a sweet man. She appreciated his even-handed perspective and his commitment to the unbiased study of history. It broke her heart that no one else in her Advanced Placement Continental History class seemed to appreciate him.
The other twenty-four students stared ahead with slackened jaws and unfocused eyes. They were all deep in their decks, messaging friends, browsing snapvids or playing whatever game was popular right now. Decks were far too entrenched in modern life for the schools to force them off during class time. Instead, the school filtered the WiFi and forced students to download apps that restricted access during school hours. This had led to a thriving underground trade in apps that countered the school spyware and covertly lifted the blocks.
The district IT team was locked in a perpetual, losing battle to spot and crack these programs. But on a practical level the teachers, like Mr. Dane, just had to accept the intrusion. The students didnât ignore him entirely. But very few of them gave him their full attention. They didnât give anything their full attention, really. Most of her peers went through their days half reading two or three conversations, playing games and scrolling through several social media feeds even when they were out in the world, surrounded by people.
Pastor Mike called it âthe death of joyâ. That was the name of the essay in Revelator that had first turned Sasha onto the Heavenly Kingdom. Heâd railed against âdistraction cultureâ, which he said not only robbed mankind of a relationship with God, âBut it also robs us of the little moments. The quiet joys of living are drowned by a flood of data. Itâs a mosquito bite on the human soul, and the masses have convinced themselves that the abatement of discomfort from scratching this itch is the same as happiness.â
All around her classmates scratched their itches while Mr. Dane lectured. He looked so lonely up there. They all looked lonely.
âSo,â Mr. Dane cleared his throat in an attempt to pull at least a few of his students out of their stupor, âas we close this unit Iâd like to ask you all a simple question: what should we call the war that split the United States? Your textbook calls it âThe Second American Civil Warâ. In the Northwest and the Christian States they call it âThe Revolutionâ. By next Monday, Iâd like each of you to upload an essay arguing which name is more appropriate. One thousand words, please.â
The bell rang. The other students got up slowly, in twos and threes, and made for the door. Sasha was one of the first up. But Mr. Dane called to her before she reached the exit.
âMs. Marion, would you mind holding back a moment?â
Sasha stiffened. She glanced, involuntarily, up to one of the governmentâs propaganda posters on the wall. It showed a young man with a brightly-colored backpack surrounded by burnt-out buildings and rubble. A green rocket hung above him like the Sword of Damocles, an instant away from impact. Next to the young man were the words, âThink Again. Step Back.â
âYes sir?â she asked as she approached his desk.
Mr. Dane fixed her with a kind smile. He looked around forty, although that was no guarantee of anything. His eyes and lips were creased with smile lines though. She liked that about him.
âYou seemed a little bit distracted today, Sasha. Thatâs not uncommon for most of my students,â he gave a slightly forced laugh, âbut youâre normally so engaged. I just wanted to make sure everythingâs OK.â
Over the last year Sasha had started building up a stockpile of what she called âDefensive Smilesâ. She had one for when her parents were worried. Another for her (few) friends, and another for the school administrators. The smiles were calculated to reassure everyone that she was still normal Sasha, and she certainly wasnât planning to escape to the Heavenly Kingdom.
But sheâd never worked up a smile for Mr. Dane. She genuinely enjoyed his class, so it hadnât seemed necessary. She decided to go with her âfriend smileâ and hope that worked.
âIâm OK. Iâm just, yâknow,â inspiration hit her, â...the news today is so scary, whatâs happening down in Texas. Iâm worried.â
Mr. Dane visibly relaxed. âAh, yes. I can see why youâd be troubled by that. I think itâs taken everyone a bit by surprise.â He paused and struggled with his words. âI...expect it must be somewhat more difficult for you than the rest of the class, being a Christian.â
Her smile faltered a bit. She knew she was supposed to act like one of the tame preachers the government trotted out, the men and women whoâd claim Christianity was all about peace and love. Theyâd say that the Lordâs truth could co-exist with the âequal truthsâ of other faiths, and with the secular world of the AmFed. That all felt wrong to her. But a little imitation was worth avoiding suspicion.
âMy faith is stronger than a handful of terrorists,â she said to Mr. Dane. âThere are a lot of Christians in the Secular forces, you know. Theyâll win in the end, wonât they?â
Mr. Daneâs smile remained unchanged, but his eyes bored into hers. Sasha was more comfortable with eye contact than most teens but she found this deeply uncomfortable. Invasive, even. After several long seconds he spoke.
âI fear itâs going to be a long, bloody fight before that happens. Weâre very lucky to be insulated from all that madness. You know,â he sighed. âAn eleventh-grader over at Jefferson High was killed fighting in Dallas yesterday. The news just broke.â
Sasha hadnât been aware. But thank God for him, and his sacrifice, she thought.
âThatâs awful,â she said. âI canât imagine what his parents must be going through.â
âNo, you canât.â He agreed. And then Mr. Dane broke eye contact. He looked down at the ground, and his voice dropped an octave as he asked, âDid you know I had a son?â
Genuine surprise passed over Sashaâs face. âNo sir, I didnât.â
He shrugged and gave up on his smile. It wasnât much more than a ghost now, anyway.
âI married young. I was a dad at nineteen. And by the time he was nineteen, the whole country was coming apart.â
He reached down to his desk and picked up a small, rather battered-looking red button. It had the letters ârjâ printed in lowercase letters across the front. Mr. Dane stared at it. Something twitched, under his left eyelid. He bit his upper lip. He was silent for a long beat. Then he swallowed and looked up at Sasha.
âDo you know what this is?â
âNo,â she said, reluctant and pretty certain she ought to have known.
âIn the years leading up to the revolution there were a lot of different activist movements founded and spread by anonymous radicals. Theyâd organize flash demonstrations and coordinated direct action campaigns. The pins were one sort of âID badgeâ, so when you showed up for a flash demo you could quickly identify your comrades.â
He shook his head ruefully.
âIt sounds silly now. All I can say is, at the time, it made sense and it felt meaningful. The anonymous voice I listened to was a guy named Red John. He had these videos about history, politics, he explained the whole world and what was wrong with it in a way that just felt right. I started playing his stuff for my boy, Mikey, when he was thirteen or fourteen. I just wanted him to know what was going on. I thought I was doing the right thing.â
Mr. Daneâs eyes looked watery, and heavy with the ghost of old tears. He seemed to have trouble keeping his voice steady.
âMikey grew up believing hard. And when the fighting broke out he was young and strong, and so very ready to fight for the world he believed we all deserved.â
Mr. Dane set the pin back on the desk with its cover facing down. His eyes were red. âHe died in Denver,â Mr. Dane said, and his voice broke a little, âshot through the head when the National Guard pushed into Westminster.â
Sasha put a hand on Mr. Daneâs shoulder. It was an instinctive move, blessedly honest. She silently thanked God for this moment of connection to the educator she so admired. He smiled back at her. âThank you. I donât mean for this to be a lecture. I donât think those tend to work. Just...â He glanced back at the table, âjust be careful about putting your faith in charismatic men and their ideas.â
âI will,â she said.
A minute later, as she left the classroom, a notification pip lit up at the top right corner of her vision. She wink-clicked it and saw a message from Brother Andrew.
âBus stop 23A. 4:30 PM.â
-------
The rest of the day passed normally enough. In the afternoon they had an assembly about the suicide of a classmate. It was the third this year. Principal Hargrave delivered the same platitudes theyâd all heard a hundred times. There was a lot of talk about suicide hotlines and chatrooms, of all the counseling services the school had available. Sasha knew none of it would help. Almost twenty percent of teens in the AmFed would attempt suicide. Every year that number ticked up a few tenths of a percent, and the government had no idea how to stop it.
Pastor Mike blamed the rash of suicides on the emptiness of secular life, the spiritual hole at the center of capitalism and the self-worship it fed. Sasha thought heâd hit that right on the money. Even the United Christian States still engaged in global capitalism, and in doing so âfed a dark god in permanent opposition to the Lord Almightyâ (Pastor Mike, again). She knew Principal Hargraveâs lectures were pointless, but she sat through the assembly and gave the right smiles to the right people the rest of the day. She focused on her studies as best as she could despite the growing anxiety in her gut.
Two weeks ago sheâd read a Pastor Mike article in Revelator, âDonât Talk Yourself Out of Heavenâ. It had clearly been written for the conflicted faithful, just like her.
âIâve received messages from hundreds of you who say, âIâd love to open myself up to martyrdom, but Iâm a doctor, or a police officer, or an engineer, and I think I can do more to glorify God where I am right nowâ. Brothers and sisters, these are the doubts of the Serpent . Donât be fooled. No one stays in comfort because they want to bring glory to the almighty.
Our Lord does not speak to us from comfortable places; he spoke to Moses in a desolate desert, from a burning bush. He delivered His greatest sermon atop a mountain.
Jehovah wants our souls to be so on fire with devotion that our own lives mean nothing before His flame. The Heavenly Kingdom is that cleansing flame. What a gift that it is here, now, in your lifetime! What a tragedy it would be to miss this chance at salvation.â
She recited that passage again and again, throughout what she now knew would be her last day at school. The words steadied her as she waved goodbye to Mr. Dane at the end of the day (â these are the doubts of the serpent! â). They calmed her when she looked into her backpack, which held the small âgo-packâ sheâd put together that morning. It was just a change of clothes and handful of hygiene items. That seemed woefully inadequate, but anything more wouldâve looked suspicious.
Leaving. Iâm leaving.
It was only now, on the cusp of leaving, that Sasha realized how much she was going to miss movie night with her friends, central heating in the winter, reliable Internet access...
Our Lord does not speak to us from comfortable places.
It took her an embarrassing amount of time to find the bus stop. She was scared to use her deck-sheâd shut it off as soon as she left school-and she didnât know the city bus system very well. Sheâd taken buses to school for years but her parentâs car had always driven her around the city. She was ashamed of how anxious she felt about riding a city bus. Here she was, on her way to a warzone and possible martyrdom, scared of public transit.
âBe strong and courageous, and do the work,â she recited Davidâs advice to Solomon, âDo not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you.â
That helped a little. Thinking of Alexanderâs smile, his green eyes and the strong lines of his jaw, helped more. Sasha didnât like admitting that to herself. It felt too carnal, almost sacrilegious . But she knew that what mattered to God were her actions. Even if her flight to Zion wasnât done with a completely pure heart, God would forgive her. Her sacrifice to build the new Jerusalem would outweigh the sinful part of her mind that couldnât stop imagining how Alexanderâs strong arms would feel when they finally wrapped around her.
She waited at stop 23A. 4:30 came and went. By 4:45 PM, her chest burned with barely restrained panic. She was sure the people passing by all knew her secret plans. A pair of police officers passed her at one point. One of them, a woman not much older than Sasha, flashed her a smile. For a long time she was convinced this had been a sign, that her comminiques had been intercepted and the police or the FBI were onto her plan. But the police didnât come to stop her. And, after a quarter hour that felt like days, a brown sedan rolled up to the bus stop. Its window peeled down and Sasha locked eyes with a care-worn young man in the back.
âSasha Marion?â he asked.â...yes?â she said. âAre you Brother Andrew?â
âAs I was with Moses, so will I be with thee.â
That was the passphrase Alexander had told her to expect. It was all Sasha could do to stop from bawling right then and there. She got into the car.
The man inside was exactly what sheâd have expected of a man in Brother Andrewâs profession. He had long, straw-colored hair and a ragged beard. There were deep pockets of exhaustion under his brown eyes, and well-creased smile lines around his lips. He wore a simple black suit with no tie. Everything about the way he looked and the way he dressed spoke of quiet devotion and humble service. Here, finally, was a man of God: not a pressed, preening dandy like the pastor at her fatherâs church. Not a âhipâ young pretender like the Baptist Minister whoâd given a speech on âinclusionâ at her school last year. Here was a real, road-weary man of the Lord.
âI know how you must feel right now, Sasha,â he said. âYouâre relieved. You never thought youâd make it this far. You didnât know if youâd have the courage to take the final leap of faith. But you have now, child, and your soul is secure.â
Sasha melted. The knot of anxiety that been twisting in her guts suddenly untied itself. Her eyesight blurred, and she realized that sheâd started to cry. It was all she could do to look over to Brother Andrew and whisper, âThank you.â
Together, they drove to a little white-walled suburban house, maybe five miles away from the only home sheâd ever known. The car stopped, but Brother Andrew gestured for her to stay in the vehicle while he stepped out and knocked on the door. Another man, shorter and balding, stepped out. They both hustled back to the car, their eyes darting left and right. As soon as they made it inside the car sped off fast enough that the acceleration pushed Sasha back in her seat.
The new man sat across from her in the autonomous carâs second row of bench-seats. He was older, in his fifties if he hadnât taken any JuvEn treatments. He had tired eyes with deep bags beneath them. While Brother Andrew radiated calm self-satisfaction, this man seemed nervous and a little frantic. He clutched a small briefcase with white-knuckled hands. Sasha smiled in an unconscious attempt to calm him. He smiled back. Brother Andrew spoke.
âMs. Marion, this is Brother Brian. Heâs going to disable your deck. Itâs the only way we can get you across the border to our people in the Christian States.â
Brother Andrew smiled and put a hand on Brother Brianâs shoulder. The other man took this cue to open up his suitcase. He started to assemble something small, silver and intricate. Brother Andrew kept speaking.
âAll itâd take is one phone call from your parents or your school and the police could spot your precise position from the GPS unit in your deck. This car is a deadzone, so youâre safe inside it. But as soon you exit youâll be back on the map. So we need to remove your deck before that happens.â
âWill it hurt?â Sasha remembered how itâd felt when theyâd first implanted her deck, like having a new tooth forcibly inserted into her jaw. Sheâd been four or five at the time. Her head had hurt for days.
Brother Brian didnât look up from his briefcase as he answered her. âYes. Iâve got a topical anaesthetic, but nothing stronger. Itâll hurt.â
Sasha nodded gravely. She had anticipated this. A little pain was a small price to pay to become one of Godâs elect few. She thought of Paul and Silas, stripped and beaten with clubs on the orders of a heathen magistrate.
God shows his love through salvation. We show ours through sacrifice.
The memory of Pastor Mikeâs words helped to ease her fears. Sheâd miss her deck. But Alexander had said thereâd be replacements in the Heavenly Kingdom. In another minute Brother Brian had finished assembling the tool. It looked like a cross between a syringe and a handheld shopvac. At Brother Andrewâs urging she moved over to sit on the bench seat next to him.
âNow lay across my lap, and angle your temple towards Brother Brian.â
A pang of fear flittered across her heart. These were men of God...but they were also men she didnât know, who were both much older and larger than her. She had to fight down the urge to panic and flee. Youâre trusting these men to smuggle you across a border, dummy.
She hesitated for a few sweaty seconds, but eventually Sasha nodded and laid down in Brother Andrewâs lap. Her heart beat so loudly she could hear it crashing in her skull like ocean waves. Brother Andrew put his strong hands on her. He tightened his grip. Heâs holding me down , she realized. And although he tried to restrain her in a comforting way, the liquid mass of panic in her chest almost boiled over.
There was a sudden, sharp pain as Brother Brian plunged the needle in through her temple and then a dull, throbbing feeling like a migraine. Sasha felt dizzy, disoriented, and then nauseous in turns. She blacked out for a few seconds. When she came back to herself she realized sheâd been vomiting. The floor of the car was coated in the remains of her lunch. Some of it had gotten on Brother Andrewâs pants leg.
Brother Brian looked disgusted. But Brother Andrew was all smiles and comfort. âJesus hears your suffering, sister. He knows what you are giving up in his name. You will reap the dividends of this investment in your soul.â
He helped her up and guided her to the opposite bench, where she laid down and continued to clutch her throbbing head. She drifted off, or passed out, and when she came to the interior of the car had been scrubbed clean, leaving behind only a brown stain and the lingering smell of sick and antiseptic. Sasha guessed an hour or more had passed, although, without her deck, it could have been more. They were in the woods now, driving along a country road.
Brother Andrew explained that they were just a few minutes away from the border, and almost as far as an automobile could take them. Soon theyâd stop in the town of Franklin, right on the border of the UCS, and sheâd meet the men who would help her on the next stage of her j ourney,
âThe main border stations are blanketed with cameras,â Brother Andrew said. âBut weâre right in the thick of the Blue Ridge Mountains here. They canât watch every inch of âem. We have some coyotes here who know where the âholesâ are. One of them will spirit you across.â
âCoyotes?â Sasha asked.
âItâs an old term,â he said. âA coyote is someone who helps smuggle people across national borders. Usually the phrase has somewhat...mercenary connotations. But the men we work with are true believers, soldiers in the Army of God. You neednât fear, Miss Marion.â
A few minutes later they rolled into Franklin. Sheâd never heard of the place before, but a quick look around told her most of what she needed to know. Most of the buildings were empty. The storefronts were boarded up. The City Hall was in disrepair, and the skeleton of a once mighty Wal-Mart supercenter dominated the south side of town. There was clear fire damage around its roof and entrances. Twenty or so years ago, when the Civil War had been at its height, Franklin had swollen with refugees. When the war had ended the refugees had gone elsewhere, and the city had been left gutted and exhausted in their absence.
The car stopped outside of a public park. Sasha noticed that the grass was overgrown, and the sidewalks around it were cracked and broken. She shared a quick prayer with Brothers Andrew and Brian, and then they bid her farewell. The car pulled away and Sasha was alone. Sheâd been told to find a park bench and wait âjust a few minutesâ. So thatâs what she did.
âA few minutesâ turned into ten, then fifteen, then twenty. Sasha began to worry again. That was when she really started to miss her deck. Normally sheâd have been able to catch up on the latest news from Zion, read one of her favorite issues of Revelator and maybe even touch base with Alexander. Without it, she only had the throbbing pain in her head to keep her occupied. Sashaâs mind wandered to the rolling mountains on the horizon. Sheâd never spent so much as a night out camping before. The wildest animal sheâd ever seen was a squirrel.
And there are bears out there.
That scared her more than the prospect of being arrested, or even the fear of what might happen to her nearer to the fighting. Dying in a drone strike or from a sniperâs bullet would be quick and expected, given where she was going. Sheâd spent a lot of time thinking about dying from sudden violence. It had acquired a patina of romance in her mindâs eye. But dying on some mountain, to a slavering monster from another age?
Sasha shuddered, seized by a chill entirely at odds with the extreme heat of this August day. It was 109, at least. Sasha rooted through her bag and pulled out a small leather-bound bible sheâd received as a Christmas gift from her dad two years ago. She opened it at random and found herself in the book of Jonah â
âIn my distress I called to the Lord, and he answered me. From deep in the realm of the dead I called for help, and you listened to my cry.â
She read on through the rest of Jonahâs cries, to the whale vomiting him up onto the shores near Nineveh. The word of God calmed her. She grew so engrossed in her scripture that she was taken completely by surprise when the coyote found her on the park bench.
âMiss Marion?â A manâs voice, weathered and gravelly, said from behind her. âYouâd serve us both well by putting that book away. This is not a safe place.â
She looked up at the coyote. He was older than sheâd expected, in his mid-forties at least. He had a mop of greasy blond hair, a round face, kind blue eyes, and a slight paunch that spoke more to his age than inactivity. He had thick biceps and forearms that bulged with corded muscle. His thighs were large, too. He had the look of a man who spent a lot of time on his feet.
âMister...?â she asked.
âJonah,â he said. âYou can call me Jonah.â
And again, the knots in her stomach melted away. She rejoiced inside. Over and over her faith had flagged, and over and over the Lord had sent her signs of his love and approval. Thatâs what trusting in reason gets you , she admonished herself, fear and pain. God is watching out for me. Her childish fear of bears faded away. Suddenly the world, and her future, felt bright and exciting again. After years of delay she was finally on the doorstep of Zion.
âJonah, Iâm ready to go. You lead the way and I will follow.â
....
It took about an hour for Sasha to decide that she liked camping, and then two more hours to decide that she never wanted to camp ever again. By the time they stopped for the night sheâd gouged herself open on half a dozen different tree branches, smashed her left toe into a rock and somehow managed to draw every allergen on the east coast into her nose. The headaches from her improvised surgery and her throbbing sinuses warred for dominance. She couldnât sleep, food had no taste, and her hands were too grubby and, generally, snotty, to allow her to read her Bible.
Jonah was not as talkative as Brother Andrew. Heâd given her a brief run-down of things to avoid out in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He told her how to recognize Timber Rattlers, Diamondbacks and Copperheads, although for some reason she had much more trouble retaining that information than sheâd had memorizing the Pythagorean Theorem, or the date and importance of the Battle of Hastings. She was supposed to watch for pointy heads, she knew that. But every time a snake slithered past her, it moved way way too fast for her to tell the shape of its head.
Other than that quick lecture and a few admonishments for her to âStep lightlyâ, Jonah hadnât said much. Heâd given her food, protein bars and nuts mostly. Heâd been kind enough to let her snuggle with the heated blanket heâd brought along. She knew sheâd gotten snot on it but he never complained.
When they settled into camp on the second night Sasha was surprised to see her coyote start to gather wood and build a fire. He laughed when he saw the dumbfounded look on Sashaâs face. He pulled out a small yellow bottle of lighter fluid, squirted it onto the wood, and then lit the edge of it with his lighter. The fire leapt to life, burning away at the pine needles until they caught the smaller sticks and limbs stacked âround in a small box. Next, he pulled two silver pouches out of his backpack and handed both to her. The labels informed her that one contained Chicken and Dumplings and the other Macaroni and Cheese. Her mouth was watering before the first âandâ.
âTonight, Miss Marion, you get a fire and a hot meal. Weâre over the line.â
And that was how Sasha learned sheâd crossed the border into the United Christian States. She had successfully fled her country, and the secular rule of law entirely. The UCS wasnât a true Godly state, not by her standards. Its multidenominational acceptance was a denial of the harsh truth of Godâs love. Not everyone who called themselves a Christian truly lived in such a way as to earn Godâs gift of salvation. But just being in a country that acknowledged the primacy of God Almighty in their law and public policy was enough. For now.
Thereâs no abortion here, she thought with awe. No atheists on television mocking the Lord. No callow acceptance of premarital sex. She felt a thrill at being in a place that was so much closer to her conception of ârightâ. It didnât even matter that she was still stuck in the woods.
âJonah?â she asked, âDo you live here?â
âMost of the time, yes.â He had a quiet, soulful voice that made him seem even older than he looked.
âWhat made you decide to start smuggling people out of the AmFed?â
He stared into the treeline as his hands stuffed thin sticks into the base of the growing fire. Sasha watched his jaw clench and unclench, as if he was mentally rehearsing his response before he said it out loud.
âI was a United States Army Ranger once. Iâve been a Christian my whole life, though. Southern Baptist. I grew up in a country just as lost to sin and vice as yours is. And when the fighting started I saw an opportunity to bring my nation back to its Godly roots.â
Hands emptied, Jonah rooted around in his bag and pulled out a kettle. He filled it up with water from a heavy fabric bag and placed it on a flat rock on the edge of the fire. Then he stood up, gestured for her to follow, and walked over to a nearby copse of trees.
âI joined a local militia in Marietta, near Atlanta,â he said. âMost of us were vets, like me, and either Baptist or Pentecostal.â He crouched down next to a tree that had been cracked in half by lightning. It was dead, and very dry. The ground around it was littered with tree limbs and thick slabs of bark. He started gathering up some of the larger pieces, âCâmon, get down here and help. Some of these are a little damp, but weâll stick âem around the edges to dry out. Most important thing right now is to get some middlinâ sized logs in there, so we can build up a little bed of coals.â
Sasha wiped a runnel of snot from her face and knelt down to help. Jonah continued his story while they filled their arms.
âAnyway, things heated up. The Army started calling in their deep reserves, guys like me whoâd been out for daggum near a decade. This was after the feds nuked Dallas, so goinâ active duty again didnât sound good to anyone.â
He lifted away a fallen limb, and revealed a massive log, roughly the size of Sashaâs torso. Jonah shifted everything heâd gathered over to his right arm and then hefted the log with one hand. He nodded at Sashaâs much smaller pile. âWe prolly got enough,â he said.
They headed back to the campsite. She could see Jonah was doing that twitchy jaw thing again, thinking carefully about every word.
âI grew up real patriotic, yâunderstand? I loved my country, fought for it down south. But I also grew up with a Confederate flag on the back of my dadâs truck. I wasnât on board with those Marxists who started the civil war. So when Governor Galen had his referendum on secession, well, that felt right. I was on board with the UCS back before it was even born.â
They sat around the fire again. Jonah started to add in larger branches, He slowly built the fire in a u-shape around the flat stone.
âNow I was never a fanatic. Went to church most Sundays, but I had Jew neighbors. There were a couple Muslims in my unit, good guys. I wasnât real political, yâknow? But Pastor Elgins gave a speech, the only time I saw him in person, he said diversity wasnât making us strong anymore, âA melting potâs all well and good, but the quality of the soup depends on the recipe.â That made sense to me.â
He sat back, popped the kettle onto the rock, looked over to Sasha.
âThe idea was, a Christian ârecipeâ would make for a stronger nation. But the UCS wound up being a daggum prosperity gospel pileâaânonsense. Better than the AmFed, sure. Maybe we got less queer politicians, less rich jews running things, but itâs still corrupt here.â
Sasha really wasnât sure how to handle this...disclosure. Sheâd run into similar attitudes among believers online; uncomfortable references to Jewish, gay, or gay Jewish conspiracies. That sort of nonsense had always gotten on her nerves, but sheâd written its purveyors off as edgelords and trolls. Part of her thought they might be CIA plants, hell bent on making the Kingdom look bad. But she knew they didnât speak for the actual heart of the movement.
Sasha wanted to speak up, but she held her tongue. The fact that Jonah had been nothing but kind and respectful to her didnât change the fact that he was twice her size. Who knew what he might do if he got agitated? Sasha fought for calm and recalled a specific passage from Revelator , in one of their guides for young women emigrating to the Kingdom.
âKnow, daughters, that our Lord made your brothers and husbands both strong of body and quick to anger. It is your job to soothe, not incite. And if his wrath falls upon you in a sudden burst, remember the forgiveness and patience of our Lord. Let His example guide your reactions.â
So she smiled at Jonah and said, âTonight, Iâm happy enough to be in a Godly land.â
He smiled back. Sasha hoped God was proud of her for being meek as Mary. When she thought about it that way, the rest of the night was surprisingly tolerable. The food wasnât âgoodâ by her normal standards, but it was hot and savory and after days of protein bars it was exactly what her suffering stomach needed.
Sasha wasnât aware of when she drifted off to sleep.
Jonah woke her up the next morning, not long after the crack of dawn. He handed her a box of wet napkins and walked off into the woods for a few minutes while she cleaned herself off as much as possible. When she was done, he lead her down the mountain and into a small town on the border. It was Sashaâs first real look at life in the UCS, and it did not disappoint.
In the twenty minutes or so they were outside she saw nine churches. There were crosses on every house, in a dizzying variety. She saw Bible quotes printed on windows of shops and cafes, and the strangers who passed them in the street all flashed warm smiles. A few offered her blessings. Sasha had never seen such public display of religion. She floated through those first few minutes on a cloud of giddiness unlike anything sheâd ever known. The architecture and the environment were similar to what sheâd grown up with. But everything else seemed alien in the most exciting way possible. Sasha felt so light she could almost feel the Holy Spirit lift her up. Her gleeful reverie only ended when Jonah lead her up to the door of an unassuming brown stone house.
They were taken in by another man, whom Jonah introduced as Saul. Saul looked a little younger and a lot less weathered than Jonah. He had the thin arms and stooped posture of a lifelong scholar, and his conservative button-up white shirt made him look more like a youth pastor than a people smuggler.
âWelcome, sister.â He smiled, but his voice sounded more haggard than warm. âYouâll want to get inside, please. Thereâs no sense tempting the law.â
Saulâs house was packed to the rafters with toilet paper, jugs of water, bins of freeze dried food and bags upon bags of clothing. The house had almost no furniture, and no decorations aside from a large wooden cross above the hearth. There were a couple of stools arranged around a crate on the ground, which seemed to serve as an improvised coffee table. Saul sat them down, left for a moment, and came back with a hot french press filled with coffee.
âIâd suggest drinking your fill. Itâs hard to come by in the Kingdom right now. Most things are, Iâm afraid.â
âIâm not scared of hardship!â she said, a little too loud. You sounded like a little kid. Keep your stupid mouth shut or theyâll think you canât handle it. Saul was conspicuously silent, but Jonah spoke up,
âShe handled herself well out in the woods,â he said. âNot bad, for a city girl. Didnât have a lot of woodcraft but did have an open heart. Yâtook to it well, maâam.â
Saul chuckled as he began to pour and hand out cups of coffee. First to her, and then to Jonah. Sasha wasnât entirely sure why, but she waited until both men had taken their first sips to take hers. She didnât know much about coffee, but she was pretty sure this wasnât the beverage at its best.
âWould you like to pray with us, Ms. Marion?â Saul asked.
âUh-of course.â
He extended his hands out on either side. So did Jonah. Sasha took Saulâs left and Jonahâs right.
âHeavenly father,â Saul began, âbless this young woman who comes to you with a full heart from a land of sin and shirk. Sheâs given up all pretense of control and yielded herself fully to your grace, Lord. Please guide her in this next journey. We pray that she makes it safely to your Kingdom and into the arms of her husband-to-be,â Sasha almost peed. Where the did he hear that?
<br>She and Alexander hadnât even met yet. Thereâd been no proposal. Was he just speaking in the general hope that sheâd get married, or had Alexander told him something?
â-May she obey him as she does you, Heavenly Father, and may you quicken her womb like Rachel, so that she delivers a new Joseph to our cause.â
That didnât sit well, either. Sasha wanted children very badly. She knew they were in her future. But not now. Certainly not soon enough thatâd sheâd be praying for them already. She was grateful that they had their heads bowed in prayer; if any of this had come up in conversation first she was sure sheâd have reacted in obvious shock. But Sasha calmed herself, thought of her duty to God, and centered her mind just as the prayer ended.
âAnd may I say, mâlady, itâs a brave thing youâre doing,â Saul said as he reached for his cup and took another sip. âEven here, in âGodâs countryâ, not many are willing to answer the call. Oh, sure, theyâll all tell you itâs the drone strikes that scare them- âI can do more good by working my job and sending money!â as if the Lord asked Abraham to sacrifice a bag of gold in His name.â
Saul kept talking, but Sashaâs attention drifted. The spot on her head where the deck had been itched, all of a sudden. She scratched it, and for the second time she found herself truly missing the gadget. If she had her deck she could call Alexander and find out what was going on. But instead she just squirmed a little in her chair and hoped the men didnât notice how uncomfortable sheâd become.
âMiss Marion, you alright?â Jonah had noticed. Of course he had. Sasha cursed herself and then cursed herself again for cursing.
âYes, sorry. Iâm kind of tired, even with the coffee. And Iâm, um, worried about my friend in the Kingdom,â She definitely stressed the word âfriendâ too much, â-do you think Iâll be able to find a deck once Iâm there? Iâve heard a lot of different th-â
âMaâam,â that was Saul, and his voice had no more feigned mirth, âYouâre about to be smuggled illegally across a heavily fortified border. There are all sorts of worldly goods in the Heavenly Kingdom. Weâre not paupers or savages. But as to whether youâll get a deck, well that rather depends on what our Lord wants for you.â
Sasha lowered her head a little in submission. This wasnât the time to press further. Maybe that time would never come. You knew thereâd be sacrifices, she reminded herself.
âHow are you going to smuggle me across the border?â She asked.
Saul finished his coffee and set his mug down on the makeshift table. âIâll show you,â he said.
He led her past the living room and into a spacious and very chilly garage. There a trio of workers with facemasks were busy sealing up large crates of unfinished wood. She couldnât quite make out the words stamped on the sides, but the blocky font looked military.
âThere was a time when it was easy enough to sneak the faithful across on foot,â Saul explained. âBut international concerns have forced the government to take a rather hard line. Iâm afraid this is the best way to get anyone across the border.â
âWait,â Sashaâs gut went sour. She felt the acid in her stomach churn in a greasy boil, âare you trying to tell me Iâm going to be nailed inside a crate?â
Saulâs face turned. There was no pretense anymore; he was disgusted with her. Sasha didnât really know why. All sheâd done was ask questions. But then Jonah was there, with a hand on Saulâs shoulder and a calm voice in her ear, âThink of this as a blessing,â said Jonah, âMost people never test the âblindâ part of blind faith.â
He was right, darn it. And there was something freeing in the idea of just giving herself up to Providence. Sheâd done everything God had asked of her. Now he would either deliver her to Zion, or the arms of the law. Either way, sheâd done everything she could to obey the call of her faith. All the little sins of her life, the cursing and the anger and those dark, gnawing desires she still struggled to tamp down, those would all be forgiven. She was truly giving herself to Christ now, so nothing else mattered.
âYouâre right,â she said, âIâm sorry I questioned it. Iâll do whatever it takes to reach the Heavenly Kingdom.â
She took another hard look at the cramped wooden box and the piles of aid supplies surrounding it. How was she going to fit in there?
âWhatever it takes.â
Manny was used to war. He wasnât quite as used to being on the losing side of one. As chaotic as things got in ciudad de muerta, his guys had always held the upper hand. Manny had come to expect safe supply lines and reliable transport to and from the battlefield. During past offensives the Martyrs hadnât controlled the skies.
His first hint that this had changed came when the 50 caliber machine gun atop their transport fired into the sky. It was soon joined by the echoing boom of the lead vehicleâs twenty millimeter cannon, and a sparking whoosh as anti-drone rockets arced up into the sky.
âNuts!â, Reggie yelped as the gunfire jolted him awake. Heâd drifted off a half hour or so into the ride. Manny grabbed onto him and looped his own legs around the bench seat for stability. An instant later the transport veered off of the road and into the high grass surrounding the highway. There was a flash somewhere to the left, followed by the roar and heat of an explosion. When Manny looked back he saw the smouldering wreckage of one of their escort vehicles.
âDrones!â He shouted into the journalistâs ear over the blistering gunfire.
Manny scanned the skies as their transport plowed through the tall grass. Wounded soldiers screamed as vehicle banked and bounced and sent them slamming into each other. He caught sight of a small drone, maybe the size of his torso. It was matte black and an almost perfect oval. The only break in its seamless form was the bulge of a missile pod on its belly. A red light blinked above the weapon. The drone slowed to a stop maybe a hundred feet above them.
There wasnât time to think. The fixer shoved his journalist, hard, off the back of the transport, and then leapt off himself. He hit the ground with a painful thump that knocked the air out of his lungs and the sense from his mind. For a second the whole world was stars and shock. Manny rolled to a rough stop against what felt like a large rock. Something cracked inside his chest.
And then there was another explosion, this one louder and closer than the last one. The heat hit him like an ocean wave. Manny was vaguely aware of the scent of burning hair. His hair.
He cried out but he couldnât hear his own screams. Mannyâs ears rang like the inside of a church bell. It was several moments before the pain and shock subsided enough for him to open his eyes. He looked down at himself first; his pajamas were scorched and his arms were scraped and bloody from the fall. His backpack was gone. But there were no signs of serious injury. None of his bones seemed broken.
What remained of the transport smouldered half-a-football-field away. He saw a few writhing, burning shapes inside. Mannyâs stomach turned .
Reggie.
The pain of the fall had, momentarily, wiped the journalist from his mind. Manny scanned the field and found the other man curled into a fetal ball a dozen or so feet to his left. He ran over, gave the journalist a quick scan and determined Reggie wasnât seriously injured either. A small sliver of shrapnel had pierced the other manâs bicep. He was just as scraped and bloody as Manny, but also basically intact. Except his eyes didnât quite focus when Manny looked into them. Maybe a minor head injury?
The journalist said something, a lot of somethings in fact, but Mannyâs hearing was all tinnitus. There was no time to talk anyway. He hoisted Reggie up by the armpits, ignored the other manâs pained expression and pulled him along as he beat feet away from the flaming wreckage and the ongoing firefight. Another blastwave rolled over him, this one more distant, and then another, coming from somewhere above them in the sky.
The extent of their injuries meant their ârunâ was more like a hobble. Reggie had dislocated his unshrapneled arm. Manny had fucked his knee up in the fall and done something awful to his ribs. The two stumble-staggered as fast as they could manage, towards an abandoned gas station by the side of the old highway. They reached their temporary salvation and took cover inside the dusty, cobwebbed building.
âCuntcuntcuntcuntcunt!â Reggie screamed as he slumped down against the wall. It took Manny a second to process the fact that he could hear again.
âYouâre alright!â he shouted, âYouâre fine. Weâre going to be OK.â Manny had no idea if that was true, but he knew managing fear would be critical to their survival.
The gas station had been abandoned for a decade or more. Most of the glass was gone but the basic structure of the inside counter was still intact. He and Reggie took cover behind it, careful to avoid the piles of shattered glass and shrapnel. There were old bullet holes in the wall all around them. At one time thereâd been a plexiglass window on the inside wall behind the counter, with a little bucket in it so the cashier could do business at night without letting customers inside.
Most of the plexiglass had been removed, leaving a gaping wound in the buildingâs concrete hide. Manny stuck his head out of the hole and looked out at the site of the massacre. Both transports had been hit. Much of the field was aflame. The sick-sweet smell of burning human flesh wafted over them like a dense fog. Manny saw two of the escort trucks still firing into the sky. There was another flash above as one of them hit a drone. It corkscrewed out of the air, burst on the ground and ignited the dry grass.
âWhat the fuck do we do?â Reggie shout-asked. There was panic in his voice, and quite a lot of pain, but the journalist didnât seem to have lost his wits.
âWe need to get out of here,â Manny said, âwhile those drones are still occupied.â
The highway was a couple hundred feet away. The civilian vehicles following them had scattered when the attack began. Some of them had clearly been hit by machinegun fire from one of the drones. Others had crashed, rolled into ditches, and been abandoned by their occupants. Manny spotted one, an ancient white jeep, that looked like it had taken a round through the window. He could see blood inside the vehicle, but the engine and wheels seemed intact. The treeline of a sparse forest was just on the other side of the highway, a half-mile away. If they could reach it...
âReggie,â he put a hand on the journalistâs shoulder. The two men locked eyes, and Manny tried to force all the fear out of his voice, âWhen I say so, run. Very fast. Straight towards that white jeep. Understood?â
The Brit brought a hand to his dislocated shoulder and winced in intense pain. But then looked back to Manny and let out a sharp sigh.
âFuckinâ, alright. Shit. Yeah.â
Manny took that as a yes. He glanced back at the firefight in the field. The âfireâ part was literal now. At least a full acre was aflame. The smoke seemed to have interfered with the drone sensors. That was probably the only reason their last two escorts had stayed unfucked for so long. Manny watched in horror as large beetle-black drone buzzed down low and opened up with a machinegun. He saw bursts of red as the rounds tore into the escortâs gunner and flung him off the truckâs bed.
âTime to go!â Manny slapped Reggieâs uninjured shoulder and sprinted as fast as his janky ankle could carry him. It was increasingly obvious that his leg was supremely fucked. The middle of Mannyâs back itched the whole run, in anticipation of a bullet. That peculiar sense was even louder than the pain.
They reached the jeep. Manny went for the driverâs side door, pulled it open, and jerked back as the soupy remains of a pulped human being oozed out onto the asphalt. He heard Reggie start to retch behind him.
It was fucked in there, for sure. The man-he was sorta sure it had been a man-had taken a couple rounds from a very large weapon. Manny guessed theyâd been .50 caliber mass reactive bolts because the impact had torn the man apart. He wasnât sure if additional rounds, or bone shrapnel, had hit the two kids in the back seat. But they were all exceptionally dead.
Manny pulled his shirt off and did his best to wipe the corpse from as much of the seat as possible. He hopped in and glanced over to the journalist. Reggie retched outside.
âHey, get the fuck in! We donât got all-â
A concussive blast echoed from the field. That was one more escort down. The fight was as good as over. Manny felt a tinge of panic rise up in the base of his spine. Reggie still hesitated.
âDude, either deal with some gore on your clothes or stay here and die. Your choice.â
The Brit snapped out of it, went for the passenger door and hopped inside. Manny wasnât a great driver, or even a very good one. But this was a simple vehicle and he was blessed with the motivation of not wanting to die. He turned the car back on and the engine woke up with a rich electronic hum. The fixer flipped the vehicle into drive and gunned for the treeline.
The jeep bounced and swayed over the lumpy grassland terrain. Reggie puked out the window. Manny felt nauseous too. He honestly wasnât sure if it was more from the pieces of people scattered inside the vehicle or sheer motion sickness. Fifteen seconds went by. Thirty. A minute. Manny allowed himself to think they might make it out of this alive.
And then he heard the buzz. That sickening, familiar machine hum that every warzone kid knew as well as the sound of their own motherâs voice. A drone. Closing in.
Manny jerked his head out the window and scanned the sky. The jeep hit a pothole and his head slammed up into the top of the windowframe. He saw stars and almost lost control of the vehicle entirely. It veered to the right and lifted up onto only two wheels. He righted the jeep, spun it back to the left and gunned it again as he turned the other way. He stuck his head out again and scanned behind them.
There it was. The black beetley fucker, buzzing towards them. It was close enough that he could see the glint of its camera optics and the barrel of the heavy machinegun slung underneath it. Manny knew it was picking up speed to compensate for the recoil of its weapon. It would be low on ammunition now. Itâd probably wait to fire until it was too close to miss.
The treeline was so near he could almost grab it. Another fifteen seconds and theyâd be there. But the drone was close. They didnât have that long.
He looked over to the journalist.
âGet ready to bail.â
âGet ready to wh-?â
Manny saw the muzzle flash, and in the same instant he spun the wheel hard to the right. The droneâs first round chunked through the back of the jeep, cracked the axle and blew apart the left tire. But the jeep was in the air an instant later. It flipped over like a drunken dolphin and the rest of the droneâs shots blasted chunks out of the ground where the jeep would have been. By the end of the burst, the recoil had robbed the drone of its momentum and brought it to a spinning halt in the sky.
The jeep rolled twice and bounced Manny and Reggie around like rocks in a tumbler. It hurt. It hurt shitloads. But Manny was high enough on adrenaline and fear that he could almost ignore the pain. Blood streamed from his forehead. Something ached terribly in between his shoulders. When the jeep came to a stop he was deeply surprised to be alive.
âLetâs go!â he shouted to Reggie, not even 100% sure if the journalist had survived the crash. Manny pulled himself up out of the open window and then reached his hands back, blind, into the jeep, while he scanned the sky around them. He felt Reggieâs small hands grip his own. They were wet with sweat, maybe blood, probably both. Manny squeezed, pulled him up. The two hopped down, quick as they could with their sundry wounds.
The drone had probably veered around and started another loop so it could build up the speed for one more accurate burst of fire. Manny couldnât quite hear the buzz yet but he couldnât hear much of anything over the sound of his pounding heart. Reggie pulled ahead of him in a lopsided run. Manny tried to pick up speed but his knee just wouldnât let him.
Hrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Ah. There it was. He had three, maybe four seconds before that big gun opened up again. The treeline was only about a hundred feet away. So close, and yet too far for him to possibly make it in time. I really didnât want to die here. I was so close to getting out. He thought of a picture heâd seen of the Bavarian alps, white snow-filled valleys and rich pine forests. Iâm never going to see that. Or anything else.
Reggie looked back as he reached the treeline. Manny appreciated the hesitation. It was dumb as fuck, though.
âIDIOTA, RUN!â The fixer bellowed at the top of his lungs. The journalist didnât hesitate this time. He bolted past the treeline and disappeared into the wooded thicket.
Manny felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. He was about to be torn apart by some nutfuck Martyr with an itchy trigger finger and a joystick. But heâd done his job. Heâd gotten his journalist to safety. Well, not quite âsafetyâ, he thought, but whatever. Best I could do under the circumstances.
The hum grew louder. Manny tried to coax a little more speed out of his wounded leg, even though he knew he was too far away now to make the treeline even at a dead sprint. It wouldâve been nice to see Berlin. Or Paris. Ah well.
KRUMP KRUMP KRUMP!
He heard the thumping sound of heavy gunfire and braced himself for the instant of agony that would precede his end. But instead, he heard the sound of impact and crunching metal behind him, followed by a high-pitched mechanical whine. Something heavy and black crashed into the ground ahead of him.
He made it to the treeline, pushed through the underbrush, got perhaps twenty feet into the woods and collapsed against a tree.
For a few seconds he just let the pain wash over him. His knee. His shoulders. He could feel something stuck deep in his back, too. Maybe a shard of glass? Or some shrapnel from the start of the firefight? He had quite a few deep cuts. The trauma nanites in his circulatory system had clotted most of them, but the deeper ones still oozed blood. It was hard to tell just how injured he really was, since his body was also covered in blood and viscera from the jeepâs previous occupants.
Espere, he thought, how am I alive?
His brain gradually spun up to meet his body. Someone had shot that murderbeetle out of the air. But who? Reggie? Where would he have gotten a gun? And the man was British. He couldnât shoot.
âReggie?!â He shouted.
âOver here!â the Brit called back. He sounded weirdly cheerful, âI, erm, think weâve made some friends.â
---
For the first time in his life, Manny found himself face-to-face with two post-humans.
The first appeared to be a lady. She was hunkered up in the branches of a tree and she cradled a very large gun in her arms. Most of her body sort of faded into the forest. She was only easy to see now because of her smile. The shine of her teeth was quite unlike anything else heâd ever seen. They appeared to be made of some sort of strange, swirling-colored metal. Where a normal person wouldâve had incisors she had long, curved fangs.
The other chromed was a black man. He was of average height, with a muscular body and a wide build. His head was shaved and he had a plump, friendly face and round cheeks that accentuated his broad smile. He wore a red kilt and silver breastplate over his muscular chest. It gleamed in the afternoon sun. His only weapon appeared to be an enormous sledgehammer larger than Reggieâs entire body. He smiled and nodded at Manny. His whole body twitched as he stood there, as if a constant stream of electricity buzzed through him.
Reggie stood in front of the man. It looked like the journalist had run into the post humans during his flight from the drone. He looked terrified, in the friendly sort of way only the British could manage.
âHey...yâall.â Manny said. He wasnât really sure how nomadic half-god warrior people preferred to be addressed. âYâallâ seemed a safe bet.
âHey guy,â said the woman up in the tree.
âSup,â said the kilted man.
âUm. Can we help you?â Manny asked.
The man chuckled. He had a deep, throaty laugh that bounced off the trees and seemed to get louder as it reverberated.
âNaw, buddy. You guys look pretty near death. Iâma guess you donât have anything I want. Nice pajamas, though.â He pointed down to Mannyâs blood-soaked and burned pajama bottoms. The fixerâs face turned red with embarrassment .
âThey might have whiskey,â said the woman. âAsk if they have whiskey.â
The big man smiled, lowered his maul and spoke.
âThe nameâs Skullfucker Mike,â he said. âThe lady who shot down your drone is Topaz MacMillan. Do you guys have whiskey?â
Manny didnât. But Reggie did (âHoly fuck,â he shouted, âI actually do!â). Somehow, the journalist hadnât lost his backpack in the chaos. He unzipped the main compartment, dug around for a few seconds and produced a small metal flask. Reggie passed it off to Skullfucker Mike, who took a belt of it and let out a dogâs bark. He didnât bark like a dog. It was the exact sound of a large hound barking.
Skullfucker Mike passed the flask up to Topaz. She took a pull and cooed appreciatively. âAlright Skully, I like these guys. They get a ride.â
âA ride?â asked Reggie. âA ride to where?â
âTo Rolling Fuck,â she said. âTo the city of wheels.â
âSo you were there, right?â Sardar asked, âYou saw the White House burn?â
Sardar was Jimâs mechanic. He was a short, slightly pudgy kid with a wide, handsome face and skin a couple shades darker than Rolandâs own. This was maybe his twentieth question since Jimâs aircraft had dropped their transport off two hours ago. The other members of Jimâs team hadnât said so much as a word to Roland. Theyâd all listened though. He could see the tension in their shoulders and feel the vibrations in the air as their ears twitched and their eyes darted over to watch his replies. The fact that they were all cramped together inside the armored confines of a Mattis APC made it easy to read the room.
Roland wasnât 100% sure if the young merc had been put up to the task of questioning him, or if Sardar was just an inquisitive soul. Roland smelled a light drizzle of nervousness waft off the boy. Heâd caught several glances between Sardar and Bigsby. But neither of those facts were proof of anything. Nervousness was a perfectly natural reaction to hanging out in a cramped metal box with a guy youâd just been trying to murder.
âI remember pieces of it,â Roland replied, âfucking someone in the Lincoln Bedroom. Stealing liquor from the kitchens. Shitting in the ball-return of the White House bowling alley.â
Sardar shook his head.
âThatâs fucking loco. Youâre like a history book. I bet I read about shit you did back in high school.â
âProbably,â Roland said with a shrug. He had about nine clear memories of his life before the shack on Camelback Mountain, and none of them felt very historic.
âCan I get your autograph, man?â Sardar asked.
Bigsby, the post-human Roland had been about to arm-club into submission a day ago, shook his head and groaned in embarrassment . One of the women heâd buried in his collapsed hovel grunted out a laugh. Her name was Nadine, or something with an N, anyway. She and her partner, Azime, were both close assault specialists. Like the rest of the crew, except Sardar, theyâd been cold to Roland ever since heâd beat the living hell out of them. Something occurred to him.
âHey, Iâve got a question for you,â he said to Sardar.
âYeah?â
âYour crewâs been real pissy to me this whole ride.â Roland nodded at Bigsby. âHow exactly did you guys expect that fight to go down?â
Sardar pursed his lips. He seemed at a loss for a second. Then he said, âJim framed it as a standard kill-team action. Weâve done that sort of thing a couple times. Last year there was this chromed out Nazi in Ida-â
âSo he tricked you, then?â Roland interrupted. âConvinced you this was just another assassination, when all he really wanted to do was get my attention?â
Roland looked around, and realized the rest of the transport was glaring at him. Bigsby spat on the ground in front of Rolandâs foot.
âWeâd have iced you if heâd given us another minute.â
Roland just laughed, and turned his eyes back to Sardar.
âItâs clear you and the other guy,â he gestured at the young man next to Sardar, âare the only smart bastards in the unit, since you didnât get back up when I beat you down.â
Sardar squirmed a little, clearly uncomfortable.
âMeân Pedro-â He gestured to the other man, â-weâre just engineers. We donât go toe to toe with, uh, whatever you are.â
All this conversation, the most heâd had in years, made Roland feel uncomfortably lucid. He rooted around in the tattered old backpack heâd brought with him. It contained one rusty Mateba Autorevolver that heâd found under the floorboards of his collapsed shack and five point-oh-eight-seven kilograms of assorted narcotics. Mostly opiates. Roland remembered how fun it was to watch things explode while high on oxy.
He pulled a pill bottle out of the sack-dilaudid- and poured half of it into his mouth. Roland swallowed, then guzzled the second half.
âJesus,â said Will, the man heâd stabbed in the throat with a piece of wood yesterday. âThis is the guy who kicked the shit out of us?â
âI am sorry about that,â Roland said. âIf Iâd known we were going to wind up sharing an APC, I probably wouldâve just choked you out.â
Krump. Krump. Krump.
Mortar fire. Incoming. Rolandâs hindbrain ran the calculations, estimated it at around eight miles out. He sat up straight, senses focused towards the sound of the fire. Bigsby and Azime reacted the same way. Theyâd clearly splurged on the good ears. The rest of the team didnât seem to have heard.
âThereâs shooting ahead,â Azime said. â60 millimeter mortars.â
âKit up, folks.â Bigsby added as he pulled his own S-30 Barrett assault rifle from its resting spot on the wall behind him.
Krump. Krump. FWOOM! FWOOM! FWOOM!
âThe fuck was that?â Azime cocked an eyebrow. Her left ear twitched. Her tan, lean face flushed red with excitement, âI donât recognize that one.â
âMe either,â Bigsby grunted. The other post-human looked to Roland with clear frustration. âYou recognize that?â
Roland did.
âItâs an M142,â he said. âMobile rocket artillery. Antique, U.S. military issue.â
Will looked over to Bigsby, confused, âIâve never heard of anything like that in the SDFâs armory.â
âItâs not the SDF,â Roland explained, slurring his words more than a little. The opiates had just started to hit. Holy shit I love dilaudid , he thought. âThatâs incoming. Canât you tell?â he said.
âNot, uh. Not from this distance.â Azime answered. She glanced awkwardly over to her partner. Nadine put a hand on her thigh and squeezed.
âCould you not be monstrously fucked up when weâre about to go into battle?â Bigsby asked. He seemed angry. Roland debated offering one of his handfulls of pills. He decided heâd much rather save them for later.
âFirst off, I didnât sign up for battle,â he explained as he popped and chewed a pair of morphine tablets. âSecond, we still got about, almost eight miles before we hit the front. Plenty of time to sober up.â
âEight miles?â asked Sardar. âThe Richardson Line is fifteen miles out.â
More mortars krumped in the distance. Roland heard blossoms of heavy machinegun fire too, and the hum of dozens of assault drones.
âHey Bigs?â The voice of the APCâs driver crackled over the vehicle intercom. âThereâs a lot of craziness coming in from the main SDF channels. It sounds like a major assault. The Martyrs have pushed all the way to Deep Ellum. Some of the field commanders are talking about a full retreat.â
âJesus-â
â-Shitting-â
â-Christ,â
Will, Bigsby and Nadine all cursed at the same time. Roland thought it was cute. It tugged at his heart strings a little. He missed being part of a close-knit team. Some of his stronger memory fragments involved really good times heâd had during and after the war. He remembered blowing up an armored schoolbus with a guy named Mike, and throwing rotten oranges at a government sniper with Jim. His brain also brought up snatches of late-night drinking sessions and watching cartoons on an old projector in the desert. When he closed his eyes he could smell the burning manzanita smoke of their campfire. Pain tugged at his heart, but he was jerked out of his reverie by the sound of an explosion.
It was big, and close enough that everyone in the APC heard it, even though Rolandâs hindbrain put the distance at over seven miles away.
âVBIED,â Bigsby and Azime said at the same time.
âReal big one,â Azime added.
Roland could tell that the explosives-rigged vehicle had been an ESeries Mercedes truck, but he didnât bring that up. No one liked a know-it-all.
Bigsbyâs mouth opened and closed, the tell-tale sign of someone having a subvocal conversation through their deck. Roland couldâve read his lips, but that wouldâve been rude. Instead he looked over to Sardar.
âIf the gig gets called on account of war, you wanna go get shitfaced in Austin with me?â
The kid blinked, and then replied. âI mean, of course. But Iâm pretty sure bossmanâs gonna want us to do the job even if itâs hot out there.â
Roland growled a little, without thinking, and Sardar cringed.
âI did not sign up to defend against an active invasion. Iâm here to fuck up property, not people.â
âJim says thatâs still the plan. You fuck up the property...â Bigsby grunted. â...my fam and I are here to fuck up the people.â
A red hot cherry of anger bloomed in Rolandâs heart. âThat wasnât the deal,â he said, âand Jim knows it. One of you call him and loop me in on your screen. Iâll set this right.â
âCall him yourself,â spat Bigsby.
âHe canât,â Sardar pointed out, âHeâs got a dead deck. No signal at all. True null .ââWhy the hell would you go null-â Azime started to ask. Bigsby interrupted her.
âIt doesnât matter why this asscopterâs null. Iâm on with Jim, and he says youâre under contract still. Weâll make sure you donât have to kakk anybody.â
For a moment, Roland focused his attention outside the little APC. His hindbrain collated the bursts and vibrations that echoed out around the battlefield. It compared them with his petabytes of stored combat data and the last map of Dallas heâd downloaded before severing his deck. In a couple seconds he had what his hindbrain assured him was an 80% accurate projection of the current fighting. It didnât look good for the defenders.
âAnd what if itâs too much for you guys out there?â Roland asked. âYou gonna expect my ass to murder a bunch of strangers to get youânâyour âfam â home safe?â
Bigsby rolled his eyes. âItâs a bunch of fucking Martyrs. Maybe they caught the SDF with their pants down, but theyâll lose steam soon enough. Those savages are all baseline sapien. We got chrome on our side.â
Roland shrugged. âIf youâre wrong, Iâma take one of your nipples home with me. Just a heads up.â
The other post-humanâs face turned purple. It grew purpler still when Sardar laughed at the remark.
âSorry, Bigs. Itâs fucking funny, man.â
âIt wasnât a joke,â Roland assured them both.
--
They hit Dallas proper ten minutes later. Their arrival was heralded by the sounds of car horns, squealing brakes and frustrated shouts. The songs of a city at war. Flashes of memory, from this same city, in a different war, shot through Rolandâs mind. They kept him occupied while Bigsby and his squad prepped their combat gear. There was something almost comforting about the sound of men and women arming for battle. He remembered the way Mike ran through the lyrics of âEye of the Tigerâ before every op, and the careful way Jim had loaded his pre-battle meth pipe.
The krump of mortar fire and the boom of heavier artillery grew louder and louder. The sour scents of gamma-aminobutyric acid, cortisol and epinephrine filled the cabin. Bigsbyâs team had good game faces, but they were nervous.
âBigs,â the driverâs voice crackled over the intercom, âIâm seeinâ a shitload of hostile drone activity. Skyâs fucking angry right now. Might be best to dismount h-â
Roland smelled the fuel burning off in the wake of the Hellfire missile roughly a second before it hit. He knew the archaic munition didnât have the ability to penetrate a Mattis APC, but he still warned his fellows.
âMissileâs aâcominâ.â
âWhat?â Sardar asked.
And then it hit. The impact rocked the vehicle on its axles and bounced its hapless passengers into the hard metal edges of the cabin. Roland bounced with them although, for him, the pain of impact was more curiosity than actual discomfort. The driver braked hard. Roland heard and felt as the APC collided with what sounded like the outer wall of a large concrete building.
He smelled blood on Sardar and Nadine. From the sound of the blast and the resulting crash he guessed the APCâs front axle had splintered. Ryan, the driver, was unconscious. Heâd hit his head hard enough that the trauma nanites in his bloodstream had knocked him out while they worked to stop the swelling in his brain.
âOut! Out! Move it, motherfuckers!â Bigsby shouted.
There was a hiss as the rear and side exit hatches of the APC fired open. Light streamed into the vehicle. Bigsby was out first, his very large rifle at the ready. Nadine and Azime followed behind him. The former had a Juggernaut auto-shotgun, the latter had an M14 sniper rifle.
There were no infantry nearby, not yet. But Roland closed his eyes, concentrated, and after a second his hindbrain guessed that the nearest ground troops were a quarter of a mile away. Six men in Ares-pattern powered armor followed by fifty unmodified human soldiers, a half-dozen technicals and two drone-carriers.
The men in the Ares suits were the only thing that concerned him. Powered armor couldnât make an unmodified human into a true match for a godfucking monster engine like himself. But it could give a squad the firepower they needed to do some real damage. If they could hurt Roland, they could kill Bigsby and his team. His hindbrain told him the power armored soldiers would be in weaponâs range within two minutes.
Just enough time to roll a blunt!
He grabbed a blunt wrap and a bag of ground weed out of his backpack and started to roll as he walked out of the abandoned APC. Sardar and Pedro had taken cover behind the vehicle and started to administer basic first aid to their wounded driver. Will was a few meters ahead, on overwatch, covering them all with his heavy M-94 belt-fed grenade launcher. The others were nowhere to be seen. Roland heard them though; about fifteen meters west of the stricken transport. He felt them take up firing positions.
Should I warn Bigsby about the armored guys? Roland wondered. He shook his head and said âNahâ out loud. Sardar stared at him.
The weed was dry and slightly yellowed with age. Roland had certainly smoked better. But heâd smoked worse often enough not to complain. He drizzled the crumbled herb into the blunt wrap and rolled it between his fingers. He licked the seam and sealed it as he watched Sardar shoot a stim capsule into Ryanâs neck. The driver started to regain consciousness. Roland lit his blunt, took a hit, and offered it to the man.
âWelcome back to the land of the waking,â he said with a cheerful grin.âPot?â Sardar gave him a stern look. âIs this really the time?â
The screech of a rocket-propelled grenade filled the air. Outgoing fire. It mustâve been from a nearby SDF position engaged with the advancing Martyrs.
âOf course thereâs time,â said Roland. âWeâve got a solid ninety seconds until theyâre here. Might as well get high.â
The kid rebuffed his offer. Roland wouldâve been a little hurt if he hadnât secretly hoped theyâd turn him down. It took a lot of pot to get him high. One whole blunt was about the right amount for where he wanted to be.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
Bigsby opened up with his heavy machinegun. A vague worry started to grow inside Roland. The armored Martyrs had moved faster than anticipated. Am I going to have time to finish smoking? He was thankful that heâd at least loaded up on painkillers before reaching the front.
The machinegun was joined by the sharp crack of Nadineâs sniper rifle, and the rich bellow of Azimeâs auto-shotgun. It sounded like she was firing tungsten-core penetrators rather than the explosive Dragonâs Breath rounds sheâd loaded during the assault on Rolandâs shack. That was probably smart.
âAre you going to do something?â Sardar asked. Roland could smell as fear wafted off him like a fine mist. He heard the heavy hum of a suit-mounted rotary chaingun, and then another. Incoming fire. A few rounds arced and ricocheted off the body of the APC. Sardar and Pedro dove for cover and pulled Ryan with them. Roland didnât move; his hindbrain had plotted the trajectories of the errant rounds as soon as theyâd left their barrels. Thereâd been no danger. Well, no danger to them. By the sound of it, the power armored Martyrs had pinned Bigsby down. Roland could smell Nadineâs blood in the air. She was alive, but injured.
Will started to fire, and pumped a steady stream of explosives out in a high arc in front of the Martyrs. Roland felt as the men scattered. He also felt the footfalls of dozens of normal infantry, two hundred meters behind the power-armored vanguard. He heard the rich âthunkâ of recoilless rifles being bolted into the ground.
Roland puffed on his blunt as he considered the tactical situation. Bigsby and his team seemed to have knocked out one of the armored Martyrs. But they were alone and unsupported. The SDF was in full retreat, and the small squad didnât have the firepower, or the chrome, to hold off what was coming.
Roland did.
But he very much disliked the idea of murdering several dozen brainwashed idiots. These kids werenât responsible for anything beyond buying into artful propaganda and lofty promises. He didnât see them as worse than any other gaggle of armed 18â22 year-olds in the history of war.
âHey Sardar, you got a wrench?â Roland asked.âWha-...yes?â Sardar replied.
âCan I borrow it?â
âUm,â the young mercenary raised an eyebrow in confusion.
âItâs not a sex thing,â Roland assured him.
âI, ah, never assumed it was,â Sardar said.
âThen can I have it?â
Sardar stared at him for a long beat and then said, â...OK.â
He handed over his wrench. It was nice. More than two feet long, and made from 15.4 pounds of stamped steel.
âThis is perfect,â Roland told Sardar.
âPerfect for what?â Sardar asked.
âWounding,â Roland replied.
And with that, he was off. Roland could break thirty miles an hour at a dead sprint, but with all the painkillers and weed heâd just taken that didnât sound super fun. So he strolled along at a brisk eighteen miles per hour, darted by Will and zig-zagged his way past a few hundred errant rounds the armored Martyrs fired to suppress Bigsbyâs squad.
THOOM. THOOM.
Two of the big recoilless rifles fired their giant, explosive tipped munitions. Roland reached Nadine and Azimeâs position. The former was down, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. Her lover fired from cover. Roland felt as one of the explosive rounds arced towards their position. The other was headed towards Bigsby. Rolandâs hindbrain guessed that Bigsby would survive the hit. Nadine and Azime wouldnât.
He jumped forward and grabbed them both while still airborne. In the instant before missile met masonry he threw them back out of the blast radius. He knew the landing would hurt, but both women were chromed enough to survive.
After he tossed them Roland slid to a stop on top of the pile of ruined bricks theyâd hidden behind. The rocket-propelled munition hit about three feet below him. The 75mm round contained half a kilogram of hexogen, enough explosive power to tear a hole in the side of a small tank. It detonated and turned the pile of bricks into a shrapnel volcano.
Roland hopped again. His hindbrain made it clear that he wouldnât avoid all, or even most of the shrapnel. Metal and brick tore through his biceps, his gut, his legs and his pectorals. Most of the shrapnel stopped at the subdermal carapace that protected his vital organs. A few pieces went further. They tore one kidney in half and pierced one of his hearts. But Roland had multiple redundant back-ups for every important organ. His medical nanites had already started to purge the foreign matter and repair the damage when he hit the ground.
The battle high rolled in and Rolandâs synapses flooded with endorphins, serotonin and enough morphine to kill a middle-weight elephant. The chemical elation of imminent combat filled his senses. Roland wasnât just high on war, he was tripping balls.
Sweet shitting fucks, Iâve missed this.
Roland flipped a jaunty salute to Bigsby as he sprinted forward, past the man. This time he let his legs pump as fast as they could and rushed towards the five advancing armored Martyrs. In the quarter-second before contact, Roland had his first solid look at The Enemy.
Their suits were definitely some iteration of the basic Ares design. They had the familiar insectoid helmet with its bulbous eyes and heavy nasal sensor blister. The shoulders, chests, groin, thighs and shin were heavily reinforced. These were breaching suits, meant to lead an advance and absorb an enormous amount of incoming fire.
The armor was painted the dull yellow of a Texas grassland. Roland could see red and blue on the edges of the pauldrons; Republic of Texas colors. But the suits had clearly been painted over, repurposed by their new owners. Two of the men had large, white crosses daubed across their chests. One man had a cross painted over his faceplate. The paint jobs seemed new. These suits had been captured â or handed over-recently.
Their wearers moved like competent fighters who werenât used to the capabilities of full powered armor. Two of the Martyrs had shoulder mounted missile pods with angry looking rockets inside them. Three of them mounted rotary chain-cannons. Between their targeting systems and reflex augmentation hardware they could have hurt him if theyâd had their shit together.
But they didnât, and he hit the point man like a bag of concrete thrown by a gorilla. Roland didnât even bother to swing the wrench yet, he just let his substantial body weight turn him into a post-human battering ram. The first soldier hit the ground, Roland atop him, with a whine of pistons and internal motors. He tried to bring his assault cannon to bear on Roland but the barrel was too long. Roland slammed Sardarâs wrench into the manâs crotch eleven times in the space of a second. The suitâs groin armor was rated to stop a .50 caliber rifle round. It caved in on the third hit.
Stop , he shouted inside his own mind, stop! Youâre going to kill him!
Roland pulled back with considerable effort. His brain wanted more, and every impact fed a few more endorphins into the hopper. But he managed to stop himself before he did irreparable harm. This hesitation made him a target, though. One of the armored Martyrs shot him four times and ripped deep gouges in his torso.
Roland rushed the man and slapped his weapon aside. The drugs flooded into him again as he swung his wrench up, underhanded, into the poor fellowâs chin. Bone shattered on the first swing.
Bigsby fired. Roland felt one of the other armored Martyrs go down, knee-caps and throat shot out. The two remaining Martyrs opted to retreat. But it was a fighting retreat. They bounded backwards and launched a flurry of rockets towards Roland as cover fire. These he had to avoid. Roland could eat small arms fire all day. Rockets were not small.
He shoved the wrench into his waistband and threw himself into an elegant backflip (he maybe wanted to impress Bigsby a little). He landed fourteen feet back from his prior position. In the same continuous motion he picked two fist-sized chunks of concrete off the ground, flipped back again, and launched both improvised missiles at the retreating martyrs.
The rockets impacted, one after the other, in spaces Roland had been a millisecond before. Shrapnel from the detonations tore at his skin and penetrated his less critical organs. Rolandâs hindbrain registered at least thirty new injuries. None of them were serious enough that he felt actual pain. He back-flipped again, definitely show-boating, and landed eight feet ahead of the last rocket and right in front of Bigsbyâs fighting position.
Right as he landed the chunks of concrete heâd thrown impacted the face plates of both Martyrs at around eleven-hundred feet-per-second. That impact wouldnât be enough to kill men in Ares armor, probably, but it was enough to break most of their suit sensors and shatter a lot of the bones in their faces. Roland fixed Bigsby with an evil grin as the last two power-armored men staggered back, wavered on their feet, and collapsed.
âSon-of-a-,â Bigsby started to curse in a low, awed voice.
âGuess Iâll be taking that nipple now,â Roland interrupted him.
They unloaded her in Plano. The porters who cracked open her crate, two men in dirty jumpsuits, seemed disappointed she wasnât food. One of the men was tall and balding, the other shorter and still fairly young. They had white skin, burnt reddish by the sun, and neither of them looked liked theyâd bathed in quite some time. Their faces were gaunt. Sasha didnât see any extra fat on either of them.
âAw dang,â said the tall man.
âWelcome,â said the short one, âI hope yer ready fer what this is.â
They were not exactly the welcome crew sheâd expected. Saul had told her a man named âDavidâ would be waiting. But neither of the porters knew who David was. They seemed much more frustrated than joyous at her presence. The building wasnât what sheâd expected either. It looked like an old FedEx facility, with all the branding covered by red spraypaint.
There was trash everywhere, mostly food waste from crates of aid supplies that had been opened too late. The spoiled food had been shoved into large piles and left to rot in one corner of the large room. Sasha guessed this had once been a loading dock, where delivery trucks wouldâve dropped off and received packages . The room was filled with a mix of aid crates and miscellaneous boxes, stacked into piles by a ragged army of tired-looking men. Like the two men whoâd greeted her, they all looked malnourished and skinny.
The only people not dressed in blue blue jumpsuits were a pair of armed guards. They stood in the back of the room, near a door that seemed to lead deeper into the facility. Both men had white paint crosses daubed across the body armor on their chests. Both carried very large black rifles. One of them ran over once he saw her emerge from the shipping crate.
âWelcome to the Heavenly Kingdom, maâam,â the boy drawled. He looked young enough to have come from her own high school. There was a dusting of acne on his unlined face and his round cheeks still held a bit of baby fat.
âThank you, sir,â she said, and pointed to the cross on his chest. âItâs good to see that!â
The young Martyr smiled.
âYes maâam. We wear the cross here.â He glanced the porters and narrowed his eyes. âMost of us, anyway.â
He extended his hand. Sash took it and he helped her take her first few steps into this strange new world. Her legs felt wobbly and unstable after so much time crammed into a crate. She was grateful for the help.
âIâm looking for David,â she said. âDo you know where I might find him?â
âNo David here, maâam,â the Martyr replied. âBut Darrylâs the team leader for this receiving yard. Heâll set you to rights.â
They walked through the rear door and into the building proper. Sashaâs escort guided her past old offices and break rooms and to what looked like it had been a waiting area for customers. It had been transformed into an office. The only occupant was a single man surrounded by four folding tables, each piled high with a mix of paper shipping manifests and folding e-paper displays. He sat in the middle of it all and scrolled feverishly on an heavy government-issue tablet computer.
This man, Darryl, was tall and broad-shouldered but stooped forward. It looked as if his spine had been bent at the mid-shoulders. Sasha relished the deep lines in his face, the bags under his eyes, his receding hairline and even the way his joints âpoppedâ audibly as he stood when she entered. No man sheâd met in the American Federation had aged so honestly, not even her father. Sasha realized with a start that this was the first older man sheâd ever really seen. He must be fifty, at least.
âHello sir,â she started-
âNuts,â he spat. âNot another oneâa you.â
The man had a thick drawl, he sounded âcountryâ in a way Sasha had only heard in movies. Her voice caught in her throat as she tried to respond, âSir, Iâm...Iâm looking for David.â
âAyep,â he grunted, âyouân every other teenager whatâs come through my depot. Iâll tell ya the same thing I told them others: ainât no David here.â
Sashaâs eyes widened. She squeaked and immediately hated herself for it. âNo...no David?â Darryl must have seen the fear in her face and taken pity, because his tone softened.
âListen, I uh...â he glanced at a small screen wrapped around his wrist, tapped it a couple of times and looked back to her. âI got about fifteen minutes left here before I got a meeting downtown. I can drop you off. Folks there can help you get set up, ifân you decide to stay.â
âI would appreciate that very much,â Sasha said. Her face reddened again when she asked, âIs there a restroom I can use around here? Iâd like to clean up a bit.â
âAyep,â the man grunted and nodded towards a red door in the back of his office. âThat oneâs private. No shower, but the water runs.â
Sasha couldnât really smell herself anymore which, she knew, meant she probably smelled terrible. The thing she wanted most was a long, hot shower with shampoo. Holy God, she realized, shampoo is amazing. She was so preoccupied with the thought of clean hair that she didnât even chastize herself for the blasphemy. Sasha knew she wouldnât find shampoo in this restroom, but any kind of clean was better than her current level of filth. She thanked Darryl and stepped into his bathroom.
Sasha told herself it wasnât the worst bathroom sheâd ever seen, even though that was a clear lie. The floor, once white tile, was so crusted with black and yellow she could only tell thereâd ever been tile by the slight suggestion of square-ish shapes underneath the filth. The toilet had been shattered almost completely; all that remained was a little circle of busted ceramic around a hole in the ground. It seemed to function as a squat toilet, now. The sink was intact, but it also looked like it hadnât been cleaned at all in the last year. The metal of the faucet was green where it should have been silver.
Sasha held her nose, turned the hot water on and hoped for the best. It took her a round minute to stop hoping for hot water. Of course this place didnât have a functioning water heater. This is a warzone, you stupid girl, Sasha cursed herself. She felt tears at the edge of her vision but fought them down. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled off her top, undid her bra, and hung both from the doorknob. As she did she thought of the Book of Romans.
â...we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because Godâs love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.â
The word of God gave her some comfort. But Sashaâs stomach still churned. As she scrubbed the grime from her body she confronted the fact that this was all Real now. Sheâd fled her home and her family, traveled to a warzone and now she was here. It was done, her great sacrifice was now real, not theoretical. The excitement she felt at that realization was marred by an anxious kind of horror at the things sheâd never do now.
She hadnât really thought about that before sheâd left. But now Sasha realized that she was never going to graduate high school. Sheâd never go to college. Sheâd never see her fatherâs face again
She started to cry. It surprised her a little. For days now her emotions had felt stunted, buried under the very immediate concerns of escape and survival. But as soon as she had a minute to breathe everything she hadnât been able to let herself feel flowed out of her, eyes first. She tried to fight it. But then she remembered something Pastor Mike had written in one of his columns for Revelator ,
âEmbrace your pain, for you will hurt again. Embrace your grief, for it is a gift. Lean into the wounds the world gives you. Have faith that the Lord God does not send us burdens we are too weak to bear.â
Sheâd left behind a world where people denied their age with science, salved their pain with narcotics and fought the natural order of the world the Lord had built. Sasha had wanted authenticity. Sheâd wanted to live the truth of Christianity without compromise. That meant leaning into this pain and letting it lift her up into the arms of God.
So Sasha leaned in. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, shook and shuddered with a pain more profound than any sheâd known before. And then she stopped. She dried herself off, pulled her one fresh pair of clothes out of her backpack and got dressed to go and meet the Heavenly Kingdom sheâd sacrificed so much to join.
Darryl banged twice on the door, right as she slid on her socks.
âMaâam, I gotta get movinâ. Maybe do the make-up later?â
Sasha shoved her dirty clothes into her backpack, zipped it up and opened the door. ----
The Heavenly Kingdom included rather more shit and bullet casings than Sasha had expected. Sheâd known, of course, that it was a warzone. The whole Kingdom was less than two years old. Plano had been taken just days ago. It had all been won by blood and violence. Sheâd just⊠sorta figured the Army of God wouldâve cleaned up after itself.
Darrylâs truck was the oldest vehicle, and the first non-autonomous one, sheâd ever ridden inside. It was frightening to think that one personâs movements were the only thing that stood between her and a grisly death. But her fear at that soon faded into anxiety at the state of the world around them.
The signs identified this as Plano. She knew the center of that city had been a stronghold for the Republic of Texas and its corporate masters. Theyâd been content to leave many of the surrounding cities in the hands of the Heavenly Kingdom, since that had meant more work for the SDF and Austin. Despite its proximity to the front Planoâs status as a stronghold for some of the Republicâs wealthiest citizens and corporations had made it seem unassailable. The notoriously stingy Republic had spent heavily on the cityâs garrison.
Sasha still didnât know what had happened, how a Republican stronghold had fallen so fast. But she saw evidence of how the fall had gone down all around her. The city was devastated. They drove by a police station that was filled with bullet holes and burnt black around its windows. They passed an elementary school that looked as if it had been barricaded, turned into a fortress, and then blasted apart with rockets. The streets they rolled over had been cracked and broken by shellfire. Sasha stared out with wide, excited eyes as they passed mansions that had completely collapsed under the weight of heavy bombardment.
And all around them the streets were filled with soldiers. There seemed to be a checkpoint every two or three minutes. The Martyrs who manned those checkpoints looked impossibly young. That made Sasha feel a little less lonely. This is what it looks like when a generation comes back to God, she thought. At each stop Darryl pulled a laminated paper ID out of his pocket. The soldiers would take it, look it over, and then ask him about her. None of them met her eyes.
âJust arrived today,â Darryl always said. âSheâs here to help build the Kingdom.â
âThanks be to God,â was the usual reply. Some of the men at the checkpoints were enthusiastic, and shouted it with all the joy sheâd expected to hear. But a few of them just looked at her with eyes that were half sullen, half hungry.
âDarryl?â she asked, twenty minutes and three checkpoints into their drive.
âWhat...exactly happened here? I left home the day after Plano fell. It felt like, just, such a miracle. It seems impossible for things to change so much, so fast.â
Darryl fixed her with a look that Sasha couldnât quite read. It made her nervous. The next words jumbled up as they left her mouth.
âItâs just, erm. Um, I mean-I know all things are possible through God but...how? How did we win here? From what I read on the news-â
The older man laughed. âWell thereâs yer problem, trustinâ the news. Yâainât gonna read much true âbout Texas there. All those foreign papers love the SDF,â he stressed each letter, pronouncing it âEss-Deee-Effâ and then spat out the window for emphasis. âAnd they treat the Republic like a real government, not like a collection of robber barons and their hired guns. Truth is, their position was always rocky. People âround here would rather live under Godâs law than the rule of the rich, or those prancing Austin faggots.â
He spat again, and somehow made the gesture look like an apology. âSorry fer the curse, Miss Sasha. Itâs been a minute since I spent much time âround a woman.â
She smiled in response because she wasnât sure what else to do. And then they turned a corner, past a mostly-intact line of shops and a sign that welcomed them to downtown Plano. The wide streets had been cordoned off by sandbags and what looked like enormous fabric cubes filled with rocks. Several dozen armed men milled about and, in the center of the broad thoroughfare, Sasha saw what could only be a gallows built right in the middle of the two-lane street.
It was her first gallows. Capital punishment was illegal in the American Federation. She stared, horrified at the way the six corpses strung up there swung to and fro with the breeze. Sasha squeaked, just a bit, in shock. She was glad the bodies werenât very close.
Darryl seemed to notice her discomfort. He looked down at her with a mix of pity and understanding,
âAinât always pretty, what weâre doinâ. But itâs the Lordâs work.â
The truck rolled to a stop outside of a large red brick building that reeked of government. Sasha couldnât tell what it had once been; the sign was too thoroughly burned. A new sign, made of white vinyl, identified this building as the âHouse of Miriamâ.
âThisâd be your stop, maâam,â Darryl said.
âTh-thank you.â She forced a smile and then asked, âShould I just go in?â
âIâll walk ya in. Howâs âbout that?â
Sasha nodded her gratitude. She wasnât 100% sure what was supposed to happen at this point. Revelator had claimed that every man and women who journeyed to the Heavenly Kingdom would be given âmeaningful work, food and as much shelter as the Martyrs can provideâ. She knew she could expect to be housed with other young, unmarried women, at least until she and Alexander were finally together.
But this trip, and the Heavenly Kingdom, was already so very different from everything sheâd expected. That was reinforced when she stepped out of the truck and directly onto a pile of spent bullet casings. There were burnt cars in the street; burnt buildings all around her, and a vague but persistent smell of sour milk in the air. The feeling of dread that had built inside her since sheâd left the crate hit a new crescendo.
And then Darryl took her inside the House of Miriam and everything changed again. Sasha saw a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk in a big white room while younger women sat and lined the walls around her. The older lady had loose, friendly jowls and a mop of grey hair tossed into a lazy bun. She looked exhausted until the moment she fixed her eyes on Sasha. At that moment, her eyes lifted along with her lips into a smile that was the truest thing Sasha had ever seen.
âPraise be to God!â she cried, âYouâve made it!â
And then a sea of girls rose up around her. Most of them appeared to have been sewing up military uniforms. But at the womanâs call, every one of them set their work down and rose up to meet her. Sasha was swarmed by a sea of smiling faces as girls pressed their hands to hers, or embraced her, or prayed over her and chanted in tongues. A dozen people told her their names at once. Sasha went stiff at first, shocked and a little mortified by the mass display of physical affection by so many strangers.
But then the older woman made her way through the crowd and put her hands on Sashaâs shoulders. She brushed a stray hair out of Sashaâs face and fixed her with a smile that was more motherly than Sashaâs actual mother had ever been.
âItâs alright now,â she said in a voice that was pure comfort. âIâm sure youâre probably feeling frightened, and overwhelmed. But youâve reached the Heavenly Kingdom. Loose yourself from the chains around your neck, O captive daughter of Zion. Youâre home now.â
Something about the womanâs voice and the way her hands felt broke through the anxious wall around Sashaâs heart. She found herself in the older womanâs arms. She sobbed. And then she felt the press of bodies close against her. The mingled scents of lavender, citrus and human beings filled her nose. It comforted Sasha in a way sheâd never quite known. The anxiety and fear were gone now, but so was any sense of motive inspiration. She let her sisters guide her to a pillow on the ground.
The room got very busy. Girls scattered, they heated up water and prepared food and generally bothered themselves with every aspect of Sashaâs comfort. Soon she had coffee and buttered muffins and a heavy jug of gatorade. A fan was moved into position where it could blow more cool air on her face. The older woman sat down next to Sasha and started to speak.
âMy name is Helen.â She said. âI watch over the newcomers here and I help them adjust to life in the Heavenly Kingdom. The most important thing for you to know is that you are loved and wanted here. Youâll have food and shelter and a purpose. Do you understand that, darling?â
Sasha tried to smile, but realized her face was still stuck in the same absent grin sheâd worn since the greeting. After a long pause she managed to nod and speak,
âYes. Erm. Sorry. Sasha. My name is Sasha Marion. Iâm from Virginia, in the American Federation.â
âSasha,â Helen said, âJust Sasha. We have no last names here, and no nationalities beyond our allegiance to God and his Heavenly Kingdom. Do you understand?â
Sasha nodded. âYes, I mean. Of course. I read every issue of Revelator before coming here. I know that nations and states are a worldly concept that only serves to separate us from God Almighty. I memorized Pastor-â
âItâs one thing to read the truth. Itâs another to live it. Donât worry, child. Itâll take some time to unlearn your old habits.â Helen had cut her off. But sheâd done it so gently that Sasha didnât even take it as a rebuke. She just nodded again. And then she remembered something.
âI need to find a young man. His name is Alexander. Heâs in a mechanized infantry unit. I think heâs a corporal, and I have a picture of him printed out in my bag if itâll help.â
âDear,â Helenâs voice dropped an octave. âI know this is hard to hear, but the Martyrs have important work to do. They fight that we might build the Heavenly Kingdom. If the Lord sees to deliver him safe from the fray...â
Sasha really didnât like the way she said âIfâ.
â...then we will find him, and reunite you two.â
âRe-?â Sasha gave a nervous laugh. âOh, no. Weâve never met. Except for online. He convinced me to come. I mean, I didnât come for him, but I was really on the fence until I met him.â
Helenâs expression shifted. She looked...was it anguished? Or angry? But Sasha didnât detect any anger in her voice when she replied. âI know itâs hard, love. But youâre going to need to wait to hear from Alexander. For right now it should be enough that youâre here. Youâre safe. Youâve done it. Do you know what this means?â
âIt means I didnât get caught.â
Helen laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Sasha wanted to curl up and fall asleep inside it.
âNo. I mean, well, yes of course,â she said. âBut more than anything, it means that for all time, for ever and ever, youâre a person who made the choice to be brave. You took a leap into the dark and trusted that Godâs light would rise to meet you.â
There were tears in her eyes. Genuine tears, wrapped up in genuine wrinkles and laugh lines that had never felt the touch of a surgical laser.
âThatâs the most beautiful thing in the world,â Helen said. âI want you to know that.â
Sasha started to cry too. Helen embraced her, held her close, and Sasha was certain sheâd never been happier.
It couldnât have been much past ten in the morning when they arrived at the City of Wheels. Topaz and Skullfucker Mike had helped him and Reggie into an open-topped red buggy theyâd apparently driven out to the ambush. The old vehicle beat the hell out of walking but it had not been built with comfort in mind. Every bump and jostle on the forest road sent pain shooting up from Mannyâs fucked knee to what felt like a small forest of tears in his shoulder muscles. Topaz, the driver, kept the vehicle at a conspicuously slow pace, but he hurt all the same. The ten minute drive was agony.
But then Rolling Fuck came into view and all thought of pain faded from Mannyâs mind. The main structure of the city had once been a colossal Bagger 288 strip-mining machine. It looked like a sideways, skyscraper-sized spider made of scaffolding and cranes. At the center of the vehicle was a four-story building on a massive set of treads. Four spindly towers rose up out of that main structure in a giant half-circle in the air around it. A gantryway the length of a football field connected the spindles to a mighty steel arm at the end of the structure. It had once housed an emormous wheel-bucket mining apparatus, but that had been replaced by a queer spherical structure. It sat high in the air, and gleamed in a shade of black that made Mannyâs stomach hurt.
The overwhelming motif of Rolling Fuck was âaftermarketâ. The spindle-towers had originally looked like scaffolding, and mainly existed to offset the weight of that titanic arm. But theyâd been built on and added to with a series of treehouse-looking contraptions. He saw people, hundreds of them, climbing from door to door via a series of ladders, ropes and what looked like vines. Below the main body of the city a series of vehicles surrounded the vast, rolling building that made up the cityâs foundation. Manny saw long-haul trucks, deuce-and-a-half army transports and at least one old Abrams tank. Hundreds of sets of solar panels glistened under the Texan sun.
âGood god,â Reggie whispered, awe temporarily overwhelming his pain. âI didnât realize any of the road tribes were this large.â
There were easily two or three thousand people visible in the sprawling camp. Mike glanced back at Reggie, a somewhat stern look on his face.
âThis is not a tribe. Itâs a city.â
âOh,â said Reggie, âthatâs just how a lot of people back home refer to-â
âI get it,â Mike interrupted. âBut there are actual indigenous tribes out on these roads. Comanche bands in the Panhandle, roving up from New Mexico to Colorado. Weâve got defensive and trade agreements with a few different groups of Apache out west. The Navajo have the only stable territory south of Mormonland and north of Albuquerque.â
Mike glanced back at the road long enough to steer around a pot hole and turn them in the direction of what looked like a greeter station. Then he continued.
âAnyway, there are tribes out west. But weâre a city. The fact that we donât hold any land or control any territory is important to most of the folks here. Think of it as a kind of rebellion from people born to a settler culture.â
âAh,â Reggie nodded, âthatâs absolutely fascinating. I have so much I want to ask-â
âIn good time, buddy,â Mike said. âLetâs get yâall settled in first.â
Manny knew that every foreign correspondent heâd ever met would kill to have the opportunity Reggie had just lucked into. The road people were a popular topic in world media. He supposed that wasnât surprising. They all led visually spectacular lives. Rolling Fuck was just the grandest variation on a theme.
It was famous across the West for having the highest proportion of post-human citizens. Something like a third of them were chromed enough to no longer fit in the âhomo sapiensâ category. Manny had never heard of them traveling this close to Dallas before. They were banned in all of the Republicâs cities. People with military-grade mods were uncontrollable. That, and cultural-PTSD from the war, made them pariahs pretty much everywhere.
The main structure of the city was encircled by a ring of thirty-ish large and heavily customized RVs. A few dozen smaller vehicles, many of them bearing sundry armaments, were scattered throughout the campground. The only thing that resembled a checkpoint was a tidy little one-room trailer with a bright âWELCOMEâ sign above it. Mike steered them in to park in front of it.
The guard who approached them was a shirtless, dreadlocked person with dusky brown skin and an automatic shotgun. Topaz kissed them. Then the guard greeted Manny and Reggie.
âWelcome to Rolling Fuck. Rules are: donât start no shit, wonât be no shit. Cool?â
Manny nodded. So did the Brit.
âAlright,â they said, âenjoy!â
----
Manny was a little shocked by how loud it was. Several of the camps appeared to have been built mainly out of speakers. There were a handful of open-air bars outside the main structure of the city, heterogeneous mixtures of tiki-torches, brightly colored silk shade structures and scrap-metal bar tables. Despite the early hour quite a few people were drinking and dancing. Manny noted more people were doing the former than the latter. Most people were either naked, or wearing a few pieces of light, ornamental clothing. Nearly everyone carried a firearm.
He looked over to the journalist and noticed that Reggie was blinking rapidly and working his jaw. His arm was still dislocated and it seemed to pain him as much as Manny was pained by his leg. Mannyâs sense of professional pride lit up again, and he leaned forward to speak to their hosts.
âI donât mean to seem ungrateful,â he said, âbut is there some way we could see a medic? Weâre pretty shredded back here.â
âAyeah, ayeah,â Skullfucker Mike grunted, âTopes and I got some medishit in our trailer. Weâll getcha. Just suck it up a bit longer and-Oh!â He popped open the glove compartment. Inside it Manny could see a handgun, a battered can of Miller High Life, and a large bottle of pills. Skullfucker Mike passed the bottle back.
âOxy. Printed âem out myself like, two weeks back. Probably shouldnât take more than two or three unless youâve got a robust fuckinâ narcosuite in your brainmeat.â
Manny took two. Reggie took four. Topaz guided the little buggy through the organized chaos of the encampment and towards a big silver airstream parked about a dozen feet away from what Manny guessed was the backside of Rolling Fuck. He guessed that because someone had bolted a twenty-foot tall license plate to that end of the city. It said, âHONK PLZâ, in glowing white letters.
The buggy slowed to a stop and Skullfucker Mike hopped out. He put out a hand as Manny and Reggie started to stand.
âHold up, guys. Yâallâre just, covered in pieces of dead people.â
He went up into the airstream and came out moments later with one arm full of towels and a large jug of hot, soapy water. Manny and Reggie washed their hands and faces, pulled off their shirts and scrubbed the blood from their chests. The Brit looked over at Topaz when it came time to take off his pants.
âErm.â He said when she made no motion to hide her face.
âHmm?â she asked.
âWould you mind turning around?â
âOh!â She seemed surprised. Her face went a bit red, but not with embarrassment at their impending nudity. âIâm so sorry, I didnât even think about it. You people come from the world.â
She turned. Reggie and Manny scrubbed most of the blood off their aching, wounded bodies. Skullfucker Mike brought them a pair of fluffy white robes, bundled them up and ushered them inside the airstream.
It was tame by comparison to the grand, weird, wheeled city above them. The gleaming silver vehicle had been modified with a rooftop greenhouse that was filled with pot plants and some squat bush with red berries Manny had never seen before. The back had been extended and the stainless steel replaced by an enormous bay window. As he entered Manny was hit by a wave of cold air and the strong smell of marijuana.
Roughly half of the trailerâs interior was taken up by a huge papasan bed covered in velvet blankets and dozens of furs. A circular table started right where the bed ended, and the rest of the trailer was a large, glass-walled combination bathroom/bar. There did not appear to be a kitchen.
Mannyâs leg had started throbbing as soon as he stood up to exit the buggy, so he dropped into the first seat he could find, a little padded bench by the table opposite the bed. Reggie sat down on the other side of the table. Manny noticed then that he looked nervous. Sweaty. The journalistâs hands shook just a little. His skin seemed pale.
Topaz came in after them, followed by Skullfucker Mike. She hopped over the table with the grace of a deer jumping a fence and, in one smooth movement, spun âround and settled into a cross-legged sit on the plush mattress. Skullfucker Mike walked up to the bar and pulled down a large white bottle with the word âROOFIESâ written across it in black marker. He took two pint glasses, filled them three-quarters up with the white liquid, and then added a splash of cranberry juice to each glass.
âSkully.â Topaz sounded reproachful. Mike stiffened, then dropped his shoulders in contrition. He turned towards them.
âSorry guys, my mannersâre burnt out. Would either of you like a G-tini?â
Neither of them answered for a long second. It was Reggie who finally responded.
âG....tini?â
Mike laughed. âYeah, thatâs what Topes and I call GHB and cranberry juice. It really hits the spot after shooting something. I can make you guys some, uh, human-sized portions.â
âNo thanks,â Manny and Reggie said at the exact same time.
The big man handed one glass to Topaz and belted down the other himself. The woman took two gulps to finish hers. She handed her cup to Mike, and he walked back to the bar to fill both glasses again. Reggie looked shocked.
âIâm fairly sure you both just ingested enough GHB to kill two normal humans.â
âEh,â Topaz shrugged. âIâd say what weâve had so far is only about 70% of a fatal dose for someone of your size, metabolism and modifications. Skullyâs better at drugging people though.â
Skullfucker Mike finished pouring two more G-tinis and nodded. âSheâs about right. The Brit drinks more, though. Iâd say he could take a heavier dose than-whatâs your name again?â
âManny,â Manny gasped out. âAnd, um, would it be too much to ask for like, some medical care? We are both in tremendous pain.â
Topaz and Skullfucker Mike looked ashamed.
âAh jeez,â Topaz sighed.
âFuckinâ hell guys, weâre so sorry,â added Mike. Then he grabbed a long knife from his belt and gouged it deep into his wrist. Reggie damn near jumped out of his chair. Manny kept still. The pills had started to help but he was in too much pain to react to anything with gusto.
âItâs alright,â Topaz assured them in the kind of voice Manny remembered his mom using on their cat when it was sick. âI know it looks weird, but heâs helping.â
âHelping-?!â Reggie gasped as Skullfucker Mike positioned his open wound over a shot glass, jammed the knife slightly to the left, and let a thick strand of his syrupy red blood fill the glass. He filled a second one in the same manner. Then he pulled the knife free, set it on the bar counter and handed the shots to Manny and Reggie. By the time he reached them Manny noticed that the big manâs wounded arm had already scabbed over.
âDonât worry,â Skullfucker Mike smiled. âMy bloodâs pretty sterile. And itâs full of good robots. Theyâll take care of ya.â
Manny took the shot right away. He knew it was working when he felt pain from the wounds in his back again. That meant Mikeâs blood had fixed whatever godawful thing happened to his knee well enough that it barely throbbed.
âMierda santa,â the curse slipped out. Manny felt better. Great, in fact. But kinda queasy at the same time? He felt somehow...in motion, almost as if his whole body were shifting and burbling like the contents of his gut. The fixer glanced at his journalist and nodded to the empty shot.
âItâs, ah. Itâs good.â
Reggie looked terrified. His knuckles were white. The journalist gripped the edges of the table like he was holding on for dear life.
âI. Am. Fine.â He gritted out.
âAw dammit Skully,â Topaz said. âYouâve scared the poor kid with your damned wizardâblood.â
âShit,â said Skullfucker Mike. âSorry. We were tryinâ real hard not to trip your head.â
Topaz nodded. The gesture looked a little telegraphed, as if she were out of practice with making it.
âStock sapiens, like yourselves, donât always do well around folks like meân Mike. We move too fast, or weâve got too many weird extra parts, I dunno. Itâs probably different for every one of us. But your brains definitely read âmonsterâ when you see us.â
âOh,â Reggie croaked. âYouâre not monsters. Youâve both been very, erm, polite. Perfect hosts.â
âAh,â said Mike. âItâs got nothing to do with how nice we are or arenât. Itâs how your brain reacts to the way we look and move...â
âItâs because weâre fuckinâ monsters Skully.â She fixed her eyes on the journalist, âI donât mean that in a bad sense. But like, weâve taken a big damn step out of anything near to nature. Nothing is supposed to be the way we are. Itâs normal for humans to feel weird when theyâre around us for the first time.â
âOh, well,â said Reggie. âMaybe donât slice your wrists open in front of company in the future. Or at least do it behind a screen?â
Mike nodded as if that had been a profound suggestion. Then he handed Topaz her second G-tini and belted down his own. They were both visibly intoxicated now. Topazâs eyes looked unfocused and she sprawled out backwards on the bed and cuddled absentmindedly with one of the fur blankets on her bed. Mike drifted off too, tapping his foot to a beat Manny couldnât hear and drumming his fingers on the bartop to what looked like a completely different beat.
The journalist stared at his blood shot. It looked like it had begun to clot. A thin rind had formed across the top. Reggie was in obvious pain, but he was just as obviously too squeamish to drink a strangerâs blood. Manny felt a lot better though. It was weird how fast Mikeâs blood had worked. He found himself worrying at the scab for a gash heâd received on his forearm, only for the scab to fall away and reveal clean new skin underneath. An hour ago it had been a bleeding wound.
âIt really works man,â he told Reggie. âJust trust me. Choke it down.â
Reggie didnât look convinced.
âThink about what a story thisâll make for everyone back home,â Manny said. âYou escaped a killer drone and drank the blood of an immortal. Youâll dine out on that for years.â
Reggie still looked pale and rather disgusted. But he put his fingers around the shot, closed his eyes and then gulped it down. Manny heard him retch once, and then twice. Tears beaded at the corners of the journalistâs eyes. But then he swallowed and slumped back in his chair.
Skullfucker Mike was hard at work mixing up another batch of cocktails. These ones seemed to just be normal gin and tonics, four of them. âThereâs not anything fucking crazy about those drinks, is there?â Manny asked.
Mike shrugged. âTwo shots of gin. Splash of tonic. Nothing you normies canât handle.â
âNeither of us asked for a drink,â Manny said.
âYeah,â Topaz yawned from her place stretched out on the bed. âBut you almost died today. You should always have a drink after almost dying.â
âListen to Topaz,â said Mike as he passed out the drinks. âSheâs almost died more than almost anyone I know.â
Reggie came alive as his hands touched the drink. He gulped it down faster than either of the post-humans. Manny took a couple slight sips of his own (it was heinously strong) before he sat the glass down and asked, polite as he could manage, âSo, uh, why are we here? And why were you there? That kinda luck doesnât just happen. And now weâre just, what, all gonna hang out in your trailer getting lit?â
âWould that really be so bad?â asked Mike.
âSkully,â Topaz said in a warning tone. âHeâs right. And itâd be rude for us to pretend weâve got altruistic motives here.â She looked Manny in his eyes. It was a little unnerving, because her left eye was a notably different shade of brown than her right one. And then there were her metal fangs.
âLook kid,â she said, âWe got a duty to help strangers in immediate need. Itâs Rule #1 for all the monsters here. But we were out there because we were looking for someone like you.â
âA fixer?â He felt dumb as soon as he asked. To her credit, Topaz just smiled.
âA citizen. Of the Republic of Texas.â
âOne whoâs not afraid of dangerous work,â Mike added. âAnd judging by the day youâve had, Iâma guess youâve a certain familiarity with danger.â
âWhat about me?â Reggie asked.
Mike put a hand on the journalistâs shoulder. Manny guessed it was meant as a calming gesture, but the Brit still flinched at the contact.
âDonât worry guy,â said Mike. âWeâll get you back to Austin, or whereverâs got an airport thatâll fly you home. Your friendâs the only one whoâs help we need.â
âWhat help do you need?â Manny asked.
âThe best person to take that question is up in the city,â Topaz said. âYou guys up for a little bit of a trek?â
Manny stood halfway to test the strength of his knee. It felt good. As good as new, in fact. His back and shoulders, which had been peppered with shrapnel, just itched now. He didnât even feel particularly tired. On the other side of the table, Reggie looked to be doing well too. He worked his formerly-dislocated shoulder in its socket and gave Manny the thumbs up.
âApparently so,â he said.
------
Rolling Fuck had not been built by the minds, or for the comfort, of mortal men. That much was obvious the second the elevator doors closed. The narrow metal box launched up with the force of a rocket. It climbed six stories in the space of about a second. By the time it stopped and the doors slid open with a pleasant âdingâ, Manny and Reggie were both on the edge of vomiting.
âAh shit, Topes,â Mike said. âYou forgot to drop the speed back down to normal.â
Topaz looked genuinely distraught. âFuck me with a splintery dick,â she cursed. âIâm sorry, guys. This is the nearest elevator to our trailer. It doesnât normally take humans.â
âThe cityâs got an elevator under each spindle.â Mike explained. âThereâs also a big lift under the main roller-thatâs what we call the big building on treads in the middle-and another behind the rear roller. Humans tend to stick to the rollers. It gets weird up in the spindles.â
âWeird?â Reggie asked.
âWeeeeeeeird , â Skullfucker Mike leaned down and hissed out the word into the journalistâs ear. He winked at the Brit in a way that somehow suggested both coitus and violence. Topaz punched Mikeâs shoulder in annoyance. She gestured for Manny and Reggie to follow her down the narrow metal walkway.
âWe live life on a different scale than the rest of you,â she said. âWe see more colors, hear more sounds, most of us have at least a thousand times as many nerve endings and no fear of mortality to draw the line between pleasure and pain. The kind of environments we enjoy can be...intense, to unmodified humans.â
Right as she said âhumansâ, the group emerged from the hallway into a wide, open gantryway. There was no ceiling above them now, and a huge rectangular metal frame loomed over them, connected to the other spindles of the vehicle-city via thick metal tension wire. The surface of the spindles had been covered in colorful bits of metal and wood, welded and nailed into dozens of crude structures that stippled up the iron frames like technicolor mushrooms. Everything was covered in lights and screens and buzzed with the hum of a thousand speakers.
Reggieâs pace slowed. The journalistâs jaw was slack. He mouthed what must have been a curse and then asked their guides, âIs it OK if I record?â
Skullfucker Mike grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. âOf course itâs OK. If yâask nice, I might even let you film me in one of the Fondleboats.â
âWhat the hell is a-â Reggie started to ask. But then the first Fondleboat came into view.
At least, Manny assumed thatâs what it was.
A very large lifeboat hung off the gantry, as if it was the deck of a cruise ship. The interior of the boat was all soft cushions, pillows, blankets and about two dozen writhing naked people. Some of them were surely having sex, but it was hard to tell exactly what was going on Manny saw several tails curled around limbs or jerking spasmodically in the air. His eyes were drawn to one mechanical limb that looked like a large metal chickenâs foot. He watched it kick, repeatedly, into the chest of a young woman. She cried with joy at every impact. The whole mass of coiled post-humanity gleamed wet in the morning light, coated with a mix of blood and what looked like motor oil.
â...Christ,â Reggie whispered. Manny was at a loss for words. He felt a bit nauseous. Heâd never considered himself a prude, but something about what was going on in the Fondleboat just seemed wrong. In the physics sense, not the moral sense.
âProbably best not to watch,â said Topaz. âIt can make humans sick.â
âEr. Yeah,â Reggie coughed. âIs that a common sight?â
Mike shrugged, âItâs not uncommon. We try to stuff like that on the outside spindles, away from the rollers. As a courtesy.â
They walked on, past the boat and through another covered section of the gantryway surrounded by a half dozen little buildings that looked like shops. Manny saw fruits and vegetables hanging in one, an assortment of labeled decks and other electronic gewgaws on tables in another. It had the look of a Middle-Eastern bazaar, but with no shopkeepers present.
âYâall want food?â Topaz stopped and gestured at the shop filled with produce.
Manny held up his left hand, which had his cash-chip implanted in it. âIâve got Republic of Texas currency and some Californian crypto, if you guys take either.â
Mike and Topaz both laughed, and then Mike grabbed an apple and tossed it Mannyâs way. Manny caught the fruit, although it was a near thing.
âWe donât use money, not within the city,â Skullfucker Mike explained. âWe do sell a lot of what we grow for foreign monies, but thatâs mostly used to book bands or buy stuff we canât make. Nothing costs anything here. Not to us, and not to our guests.â
âYâallâre guests.â Topaz clarified.
Manny hadnât really had time to think about his stomach in the hours since their explosiony wake-up call. Theyâd been on the run and in danger the whole time. But now that he had a moment to think he felt a mild gnawing sensation in his gut. The journalist mustâve been in the same way, because he immediately set to piling fruit, bags of nuts, and a paper sack of vat-grown jerky into his arms. Manny went for a bag of shelled pistachios himself, and the two munched as Skullfucker Mike and Topaz led them across the spindleâs gantry and down towards the main roller.
The main roller had once held the control center and engine room for the gargantuan strip-mining vehicle. In its conversion to Rolling Fuck, two new levels, built from a half-dozen sorely abused airstream trailers, had been added to the top. Four of the spindles met on the rollerâs roof, which also hosted a lively cafe. There were around a dozen patrons drinking at the circular center bar, and perhaps another dozen lounging on cushions around low-slung morrocan style tables. Most of the customers looked human to Mannyâs eye. They wore an assortment of colorful loose-fitting garments: sarongs, skirts, long shirts and keffiyehs. Most of it looked hand-made although Manny was hardly an expert on such things.
As they walked past the bar, Mike scooped up four pint glasses of dark brown lager. He kept them in one hand as he opened a metal hatch on the rooftop. Manny could see a ladder that led down into semi-darkness. Mike nodded towards the ladder.
âDown you go. Beer at the bottom.â
Manny and Reggie descended into a luxurious conference room. It was candle-lit, dim enough to seem intimate but bright enough for human navigation. A single redwood table dominated the space. It was twelve feet in diameter and low to the ground, like all the tables heâd seen in the cafe. Cushions and other colorful, lumpy soft things surrounded it. One man and one woman were already seated cross-legged around the table. Manny was shocked to see they were both quite old.
The man was heavyset, with a lot of curly black hair piled atop his head and around his craggy, lined face. Startlingly bright blue eyes stood out over the flickering candle light. He wore an old-fashioned suit with a necktie and everything. It was the kind of suit a banker might have worn fifty years ago, if the old movies Mannyâd watched were close to accurate.
He looked to be in his sixties, while the woman next to him seemed considerably older. Her face was so lined, and her skin so thin, she almost looked fake, like some kind of animatronic creation. No one looked that old anymore. The Austin autonomous region wasnât wealthy but basic JuvEn treatments were cheap and heavily subsidized. Even the poor could afford to combat the worst side-effects of aging. Things were different in the Republic of Texas proper, but none of the poor there lived long enough to look like this woman.
She wore high-waisted, purple yoga pants and a very tight t-shirt with a faded print of a five-fingered Bart Simpson flipping the bird. Her hair was completely white and bound behind her in a tight ponytail. She smiled at Manny when he looked at her. The old womanâs teeth were as white as her hair.
âHello there, young men,â she said in a voice that evoked the Platonic ideal of a grandma. âHello Topaz. Mike.â
âSkullfucker Mike, maâam,â Skullfucker Mike corrected her as he came down the ladder. He handed Manny and Topaz each a beer and then found a cushion large and plush enough for his bulk and dropped down. Manny took his cue and found a seat. Reggie grabbed the cushion next to him. Topaz leaned against the back wall but stood as she introduced them.
âThis is Manny Sanchez, heâs a fixer from the Austin region. And this is Reggie Sullivan, he works for the BBC. Manny, Reggie, this is Nana Yazziee. Sheâs our Eldest. And the less-old fart is Donny Faris. Heâs a guest. And a Brit, too.â
âWait, the Donald Faris?â Reggie asked. âThe guy who made-â
âVisions of Blood? Yes,â said the old man, âDid you actually watch it? Or have you just seen a handful of ten-second clips in your media feed over the years?â
âBoth, actually.â Reggie replied.
âMmmph,â Donald grunted.
Manny had heard of Visions of Blood back in school. It was a documentary, released a year before the Second American Civil War caught fire. It followed two Navajo special-forces veterans as they organized a massive direct action campaign that started in Sante Fe but spread throughout the Southwest. His textbook had called it one of the major seeds of the old U.S.âs collapse.
Reggie was clearly star-struck by Donald. Manny was more curious about the old woman. No matter where he turned his head, he couldnât quite seem to escape her eyes. She had this strange way of staring at him, without really staring. It made Manny feel somehow naked and, vaguely, comforted all at the same time. âNanaâ meant âgrandmaâ, which made sense. But he wasnât sure what the rest of her title meant, exactly.
âAre you in charge, then?â He asked her. In response, everyone but Reggie chuckled.
âNo one is âin chargeâ here,â said Nana Yazziee. âThat will become increasingly clear the longer you stay. Iâm the Eldest, which means exactly what it sounds like. Iâm old as dirt, and older than any of the other dirt around here, too.â She eyed Donald Faris, and continued.
âWhen I give advice or have an opinion some people listen. This is not a state, and I am not a head of state, but sometimes I play one for the folks outside. Foreign policy, diplomatic relations, that sort of stuff. Mainly because no one else can be arsed.â
âBy the way,â she added, âWelcome to the City of Wheels. Or,â she frowned a little, âRolling Fuck. I argued rather strenuously against that name, but I was outvoted.â
âI like the name,â said Skullfucker Mike. âItâs fun. Cities shouldnât take themselves too seriously. Thatâs when the problems start.â
âSo why are we here?â Manny asked, âI mean, Iâm grateful and all. Weâre grateful,â he nodded to Reggie. âBut I know yâall arenât just being nice. Mike said you had dangerous work.â
âSkullfucker Mike,â Skullfucker Mike insisted again. Nana Yazziee ignored him and replied to Manny.
âWe do have a job for you, mijo. You are not required to take it though. If you say no weâll still return you and your journalist friend to Austin. And if you do help us youâll be compensated.â
âSo what is it you need?â
The old woman snapped her fingers. A projection screen hummed to life on the wall of the room that faced Manny and Reggie. It displayed three faces: two women and one man. They all looked young, though that meant very little. One woman was white and kept her hair in a bright purple mohawk. The other was as bald as Skullfucker Mike, with round cheeks, green, scowling eyes and skin a little darker than Mannyâs. The young man was very pale. He appeared to be of Chinese descent, and his exposed skin was covered in scarified symbols from a language Manny didnât recognize.
âFrom left to right; Marigold Fulton, Tule Black Elk and Rick Hartford. Theyâre all citizens, and they act as our negotiators when the city is in the Southwest. Two days ago they arrived in Plano to negotiate a trade deal with the Republic of Texas. We have quite a lot of processed coffee and we were hoping to trade it for...â she trailed off a bit and her cheeks reddened. Manny thought she looked embarrassed. â...for snacks.â
âSnacks?â Reggie asked.
âYes,â she nodded. âThe Frito-Lay Corporation is-or at least was-still headquartered in Plano. The junk food they produce is harder to find out west.â
âWe mostly wanted cheetos,â Topaz licked her lips. âFor whatever reason, the imitations we print out here just donât cut it.â
âWe barter everywhere we go,â Nana Yazziee continued, âand since post-humans arenât welcome in most populated areas, our negotiators are all pretty close to baseline. They traveled unarmed into Plano. The city fell six hours after they arrived.â
Reggie grunted. âTwo days ago people were telling me the Kingdom was on its last legs.â
âYes,â Nana Yazziee said, âit would appear they are not quite the paper tiger everyone expected. Weâre still scrambling for good data, but itâs safe to say theyâve pilfered the majority of the Republicâs heavy equipment and converted as much as half their standing army. At the same time Plano fell dozens of Christian militias across the state launched fresh offensives. Galveston is still holding, but that could change at any moment. Houston blew their levees and flooded half the city to save the other half. But that also means the Kingdom can move on to Austin without worrying about their flank. Theyâve pushed the SDF entirely out of ciudad de muerta, so thereâs nothing left between them and your home.â
Donald Faris spoke up, grave and gravely. âWe know that the offensive started with dozens of autonomous car-bombings at checkpoints and fortifications. We donât know how they managed it.â
âWhatâs important now,â Nana Yazziee continued, âis that three of our people have been captured.â
Manny fought down a spike of anger. âWith all due respect Nana,â he in a deliberately neutral tone, âthey just conquered the city I was born in. Iâve probably lost a dozen friends and these godfascists are only, what, two hours away from Austin?â
âNinety minutes,â Donald said. âThey seem to be holding position now. Digesting their meal. But theyâll be on the march soon. I expect the vaunted Austin defense forces will be able to hold them off for, oh, a good four or five days. Maybe a week. Unless.â He glanced over to Nana Yazziee. She nodded in agreement.
âUnless?â asked Manny.
âUnless.â Nana agreed. âUnless our militia comes to their aid. Weâre not in the habit of fighting other peopleâs battles. But weâre not in the habit of letting regressives win, either. I asked for a vote once we learned our people had been captured. Our fighters, most of them, agreed to stop the Heavenly Kingdomâs advance and give your people enough time to coordinate a proper defense. But thereâs a catch.â
âAh,â Manny was starting to get it, âIf you step in, theyâll kill your people.â
Nana Yazziee nodded. âYes. And none of our fighters are willing to risk that.â
âWell Iâm not sure what you want from me,â Manny said. âIâm a talker, not a fighter.â
âA talker is exactly what we need, Emmanuel.â Nana Yazzie assured him.
Manny winced in irritation at the use of his full name.
âManny,â he insisted, in the same tone Skullfucker Mike had used a little earlier.
âAs you say, mijo.â
âWhat kind of talking do you want me to do?â He asked. âIâm sure youâve got better negotiators than me.â
âPerhaps, but youâve got something none of our people possess. Youâre a citizen of the Republic. And the Heavenly Kingdom has just issued a general amnesty for all citizens willing to repent and declare allegiance. You know how the people in this region talk. You wonât arouse suspicion if you enter.â
âSo you want me to find your people. And then what, break them out? I can barely shoot straight. I donât think Iâm the man to execute a prison break.â
âTheyâve got plenty of fighters, son,â Donald Farris growled. âBut if Topaz and Skullfucker Mike havenât keyed you in on this, the chromed arenât exactly good at âblendingâ.â
âHeâs right.â Nana smiled sadly. âWeâll pair you with someone who can do the violence. But weâll need you to get them close enough to find our people and effect an escape. Youâll need to help our person maintain their cover.â
Manny felt a powerful anger boil up inside his belly.
âSo, basically, you and your âmilitiaâ are holding my homeland hostage? And if I donât risk my culo to save your negotiators, Austin dies?â
âMijo. Itâs nothing as sinister as that. Our people want to fight, but...â
âBut,â Donald picked up, âweâre all family here. And family comes before corrupt, fractious foreign militias and equally corrupt, fractious foreign cities. All told Iâd say itâs a good deal for you.â
âWhat was your plan before this meeting?â Nana Yazziee asked.
Manny opened his mouth to respond, but realized he didnât have a clear answer. He hadnât exactly had much time to puzzle that out. And any time heâd tried, he thought about Oscar, his missing stringer, and that made him want to panic. Heâs dead, or worse. And thereâs nothing you can do about that. What you can do is buy a fucking plane ticket and beg the Germans to take you in as a refugee.
That seemed like a good plan. Or at least the best of a bunch of shitty options. But then a scornful voice rose up from the dark recesses of his semi-withered conscience. What about his wife? Are you just going to leave her broke and widowed? You have to at least give her something...
âIâm flying to Germany,â he said, âor maybe France. Wherever I can get the cheapest ticket, either in Austin or El Paso.â
âHow much money do you have saved up, son?â Donald Farris asked. âThey wonât issue a long-term visa unless youâve got at least sixty grand, Californian.â
Manny had a little more than half that. Less, once he paid off Oscarâs wife. Widow. Fuck, man, you sent him out there. The uncertainty and despair must have been obvious on his face. Both Donald Farris and Nana Yazzie gave him the kind of looks normally reserved for wounded kittens.
âI may be able to help,â the old Brit said, âI do have some connections in Germany. People who might sponsor your Visa. If you help.â
The thought of a Visa, the mental image of seeing one stamped in his otherwise-worthless passport, was intoxicating. Mannyâd never traveled outside of Texas but he had kept, at all times, an active passport. It had been the physical anchor for his wildest dreams. And now Donald Farris was telling him he could make something as magical as a Visa real. Manny almost swooned.
âDo I have to decide now?â He asked, careful to keep his tone as calm as he could manage.
âOf course not,â Nana Yazziee said, âthat would be terribly unfair. You should get some sleep and then a proper breakfast. Thereâs certainly enough time for that. And you look exhausted.â
He was. Now that the excitement of the morning had faded he felt gripped by a bone-deep weariness that was not at all helped by the dim lighting and comfortable cushions around him. Reggie should have been even more tired, what with jet lag. But the journalist looked alert, jittery despite the bags under his eyes.
âIf itâs possible,â Reggie said, âand you have one, I could really use a high speed data connection. My deckâs been spotty since the shooting started. Iâve got a lot to upload to the company servers, and I should probably check in with my editors, let them know Iâm not dead, etcetera...â
âThat wonât be a problem.â She stood, and her knees popped audibly with the movement. âOoh,â she grunted and then continued, âTopaz and Mike-â
âSkullfucker Mike.â
â-will show you to a nice, relatively soundproof room. Theyâll help you get onto our data tower too, Reggie.â
âThank you.â
She looked at Manny again, and fixed him with her sad grandmotherâs smile.
âWeâll give you as much time to decide as we can. We expect the Kingdom to hold for a few days. But we didnât expect them to launch an attack like this. So take that with a grain of salt.â
âIâm Texan, Nana,â Manny said. âI take everything with salt.â
Roland loved fighting men in powered armor. The increased firepower and durability gave them a fighting chance, which made it fun. And the sheer expense of modern suits made it feel a little like wailing on rich kids with fancy toys.
But Roland did not like fighting normal humans. Heâd hoped the infantry coming up behind the armored troopers would run like hell once he popped their vanguard. But instead, theyâd insisted on a fight and started shooting at him with very large guns. One explosive munition had hit nine yards ahead of his position and the other had impacted close enough to pepper Rolandâs torso and face with shrapnel.
So, regretfully, he charged the enemy. The Martyrs shot back, they hit him a few times, but Roland paid their bullets as much mind as he would a mild rain.
He drew close enough for visual contact. These Martyrs were a motley sight. Several of them fought shirtless with white crosses daubed across their chests. Most of them wore body armor, very little of it modern. Roland saw a lot of old pre-war plate carriers and surplus police vests. That crap wouldnât stop military-grade rifle rounds. Although, since the only weapon in Rolandâs hand was a big-ass wrench, how these men were armored hardly mattered.
They were mostly armed with old M-4s and a smattering of newer assault rifles probably pilfered from the Republic of Texas. Fifty men. Six technicals. Two drone carriers. Roland hit their skirmishing line before the teams on the recoilless rifles, his first target, could reload.
Rolandâs wrench broke jaws and orbital bones, it cracked pelvises and shattered thighs. He dispensed with the rifle teams and then danced through the onrushing mob of militia like some sort of compound fracture-dispensing ballerina. And as he fought, Roland felt the familiar sunlight warmth of serotonin flood his synapses. He remembered a little of how the Army had explained the battle drugs now flowing through his brain: âa guarantee of sustained aggressionâ. The longer he fought, the harder it would be for him to stop fighting, and to avoid killing.
Roland felt his self control begin to fade as he knocked out his dozenth Martyr. He started swinging harder. His blows increasingly connected with clavicles instead of coccyxes, and jaws instead of elbows. His hindbrain warned him as the kill likelihood estimates jumped from four to six percent, up to twenty, thirty, forty percent. He felt his conscience fade beneath the euphoric red haze of narcotic splendor.
Before he knew it, the whole platoon of martyrs was either on the ground or fleeing for the relative safety of their technicals. Roland laughed a madmanâs laugh, tickled that they thought a bunch of old Toyota trucks with machineguns in the beds might slow him down. He put a fist through the engine block of one and ate a burst of .50 caliber fire from the other as he pivoted and launched his wrench through the driverâs-side window. The improvised missile connected with the face of the driver, who spun his wheel hard to the left. The truck flipped forward onto its cabin. Something about the wet crunch it made sounded so familiar-
-âOh God, oh dear sweet Jesus please sir-â
The National Guardsman was nineteen years old. Randall Wallace was his name. Roland knew that because his hindbrain had sucked in every piece of publically available data on the boy once it had scanned his face. It had done that with all the occupants of the humvee in the four seconds before Roland had blown it on its side. Wallace was just the only member of the crew unlucky enough to survive.
âPlease sir-â
Roland stepped towards the broken, bloodied boy.
-He came back to himself, a bit disoriented but none the worse for wear. His hindbrain and a lifetime of combat memories had kept his body fighting in his mindâs absence. Now wrenchless, Roland used his bare hands to tear open doors and break faces. The gunners on the remaining technicals tried to fire back, but their maneuverability was limited by the rubble-choked streets and their own fleeing infantry. One minute after first contact, the Martyr contingent had been reduced to a dozen shell-shocked soldiers piled hastily onto the tops of their retreating drone carriers.
Roland hopped onto the last of the technicals. He disabled it by pulling the driver out through the front windshield and using the manâs body to beat the gunner into unconsciousness. Roland tore the vehicleâs twenty-millimeter cannon free from its swivel-mount and sighted in on the fleeing troops. His synapses promised him more chemical rewards, if only heâd pull the trigger.
But something in Rolandâs forebrain stopped him. Under the joyous miasma of the battle drugs his conscience re-asserted itself. He lowered his weapon and watched as his enemies beat hell for leather in the opposite direction. His hands shook, and he felt the first symptoms of withdrawal as his heartrate dropped and the adrenaline drip slowed its flow. Roland closed his eyes. He breathed in and out and centered himself.
The crash came.
Now that the fighting was done Roland had time to process the sense data heâd pulled from his enemies. He knew what the driver heâd ripped out of the windshield had eaten for breakfast. He knew which of the militia heâd crippled were fathers. He knew which had wives, or at least girlfriends. He could smell traces of football leather on some of their hands. One man heâd wrenched had smelled of rosin; a violinist.
Roland couldnât fight a man without learning much more about him than any killer should know about their victims. That knowledge crashed down on him in a hailstorm of guilt. Roland dropped the cannon into the truckâs bed. He hopped down, pulled Sardarâs wrench free from the wreck of the second technical and headed back towards Bigsby and his squad with a heavy heart.
Nadine and Azime both looked pretty seriously wounded. Bigsby was helping to carry them both back to the APC while Will handled overwatch with his grenade launcher. Roland caught up with them and fell into step. Bigsby looked over at him and grunted. âYou gonna try to take my nipple now?â
Roland shrugged. He wasnât in the mood. His brain was in the dark ugly place it always went after a bloody fight, when the raw data about all the men heâd killed or battered lingered in his brain like a fart in the back of a humvee.
They reached the APC. Sardar gasped when he saw them. Pedro vomited. Roland was confused until he realized Bigsby and Will had also started to stare. Roland looked down at himself and saw that he looked like a literal dead man walking. Heâd been shot forty-seven times, by his hindbrainâs best count, and peppered with shrapnel on top of that. He had ribs showing through, holes blasted in his biceps and his belly, and the bone on his left thigh was completely exposed.
âIt looks worse than it is,â Roland said.
âIt looks like you should be dead about five times over,â Sardar replied.
Roland looked Sardar up and down. His hindbrain did the math.
âEleven times, if I were you.â
âJesus-â
He handed Sardar the wrench, now dented and bloodstained. A large clump of hair and scalp was still stuck to the heel jaw. The mechanic took his tool with one hesitant hand. He stared at the gore on it until Bigsby started to yell again.
âOi, fuckos. In case youâve forgotten thereâs an army breathing up our asses. Sarâ, you good to drive man?â
Sardar nodded his head.
âThen letâs get the wounded in the cab and power the fuck out of here. Will, stay on watch.â
Will grunted and jerked his head at Roland. âThis fucker oughta cover us. He just took out half a company on his lonesome.â
âYou trust him to watch your six?â Bigsby asked.
Roland only half-heard them. He stared off into the distance, worked his jaw and clenched his left fist so hard his fingernails drew blood. He was lost in his head, scanning scent-memories and analyzing the men heâd just beaten. He was drawn, again and again, to the memory of one man in particular. Heâd worn a tattered U.S. Army issue vest and an M-16 that posed as mgtfruch of a threat to Roland as a drunken hornet. Heâd had the scent of a woman on him. He wasnât alone in that, but the rich wave of oxytocin that had poured off him was intense and real. In his memory, the manâs face kept twisting and morphing into the face of Randall Wallace.
Roland started to cry.
Bigsby and Sardar loaded Ryan, Nadine and Azime into the transport. Will just stared at him. His gaze locked on Rolandâs tears as if each one were the Loch Ness Monster. Roland didnât care. His hindbrain kept up its glitchy feed of data, a mix of information on the men heâd just killed and men heâd killed years ago.
Once the wounded were loaded up everyone filed into the Mattis APC. Will popped the top hatch and sat gunner with his grenade launcher. Inside the APC, Bigsby and Pedro did their best version of first aid on their wounded companions. There wasnât much for them to do, though. Everyone in the squad had fairly advanced healing suites.
Roland trudged into the APC and took his seat. No one made eye contact with him. Sardar kicked it into gear, and off they went.
----
Waco had always been one of the worst cities in Texas. In the late 1800s it had been a refuge for former Confederate loyalists. In the 1900s it had developed a reputation as a haven for kooks and religious extremists. Caught between the economic powerhouse of Dallas and the relative cultural mecca of Austin, Waco was a second-rate college town at best and, at worst, a meth-filled rest stop between Texasâs good cities.
The Revolution had changed that. After the Lakewood Blast, Dallas had bled 60% of its population. Most of those people had fled to Austin, since constant flooding had rendered much of Houston uninhabitable. But half a million of them, ish, had swelled Waco into something resembling a worthwhile place to exist. The city had thrived in the post-revolutionary years. It was nominally controlled by the Austin Regional Government, and so it had been spared the worst of the Republic of Texasâs corruption.
But now it looked like Waco would be the next city eaten by the expanding Heavenly Kingdom. Roland could smell the stink of fear in the air when they were still a half-dozen miles out from the city limits. Once they hit the city proper their convoy halted at a military checkpoint. Power-armored Austin Republican Guardsmen opened the side hatch of the Mattis APC and inspected the squad. Bigsby spoke for them, beamed over some credentials from the SDF, and they were waved in.
They stopped at a fueling depot with the rest of the SDF column and Roland hopped out of the APC to stretch his legs and roll another blunt. He picked a cherry-apple wrap heâd dipped in a vat of extra-strength hydrocodone syrup earlier that morning. As he rolled it tight and sealed the seam with his saliva, he watched the SDF unload hundreds of wounded warriors from half-tracks and APCs and the beds of flatbed trucks. Many of the walking men and women looked wounded too. Most of the vehicles were damaged.
Roland lit the blunt and stared off towards Dallas. It was still early morning, and the sky was streaked with red and orange. On the horizon black smoke rose to meet the sunrise. Roland was struck with a powerful sense of dĂ©jĂ vu. This wasnât the first time heâd watched a great city burn in the light of the rising sun. According to his hindbrain, it was around the thirtieth time. He recalled a few of those cities-Denver, Baltimore, D.C., Richmond-but the particulars of each calamity were lost to his memory.
He wondered, not for the first time, if his broken brain might be a blessing.
âOi.â
It was Sardar. He approached from the rear and stepped up to Rolandâs right side. Roland offered the mechanic his blunt, now half-smoked, and Sardar accepted it. He drew in a deep lungful of medicated smoke, held it in his lungs for three long seconds, and then exhaled with only a small fit of coughing.
âThis tastes like fucking cough syrup, man.â
âAyep,â Roland agreed. âThereâs enough opiates on that to kill a small cat.â
âThatâs a weird thing to say.â
âAyep,â Roland agreed.
Sardar took a second hit and then passed the blunt back to Roland. They stood in companionable silence for a minute and watched the distant smoke mingle with the morning light. Sardar spoke first.
âJimâs on his way out here. Heâs flying in with three more squads. Austinâs approved emergency funding to stabilize the front. Apparently a chunk of thatâs coming our way.â
âGrats,â said Roland. And then he asked, âWhatâs the money mean to you?â
Sardar shrugged. âCascadia, probably. Been saving for a couple years now. Fifty grand to buy residency, another hundred grand or so to set me up for the first year while I find work.â
Roland finished another deep pull on the blunt and offered it to Sardar. The other man declined with a polite wave of his hand.
âNo thanks.â
Roland puffed again and asked, âSo whatâs the Pacific Northwest got that you want?â
âA future,â Sardar said. âI mean, thatâs what it always meant in my head. I grew up in El Paso. Got trained up by that army, blooded in their first little civil war.â
âThe Albuquerque Secession?â
Sardar nodded. âDidnât see much action then. But I got Jimâs attention. He made me an offer when my term of service expired. The idea was Iâd be with him for five years and retire with enough money to make a new start out West. I always dreamed of a life in Portland. It seems nice there.â
âIt is,â Roland agreed. âOr at least, Iâve got nice memories. I met a girl out there when I was...younger. I remember watching the fog roll in with her.â
He ran a hand over the stubble on his head. It was weird to him that heâd been given so much control over his bodily functions and yet still found himself making nervous gestures. For some reason talking about her made him want to cover his face. The impulse was wired into him, deeper than the carbon fiber that laced his bones.
âThat sounds tough.â Sardar said. He managed to look concerned without showing pity. âI canât imagine having all these memories floating around with no throughline to connect them together. It must hurt.â
Roland shrugged. âWhat hurts most is knowing that it should hurt more. I donât remember enough to give the pain its proper due.â
They were quiet for a bit. Roland finished the blunt and put it out on his right index finger. Sardar pulled a bronze flask out from his jacket pocket, took a belt and then offered it to Roland. It was Laphroaig whiskey. Even if he hadnât been chromed to the gills Roland wouldâve recognized that smell from three feet away. He took a gulp from the flask and passed it back. Sardar broke the silence again.
âLook, maybe Iâm reading things wrong but...weâve got some tents set up near the APC. You up for a fuck?â
Roland looked the man up and down again. Sardar was a good looking guy. Short, broad and muscular, with a neat-trimmed beard and curly black hair.
âYeah, alright.â
----
It was pretty good sex. Nothing to blow Rolandâs mind but the release provided a quantum of chill to calm the pangs of memory. Afterwards, Sardar fell asleep nuzzled into his shoulder. Roland didnât particularly feel like cuddling but he sensed the other man needed the human contact. So he laid there with him for a couple of hours, rolled and smoked two more blunts and tried not to think about the lives heâd ended that morning.
A little after noon Bigsby came by and knocked on the tent flap.
âSarâ, Roland, el jefeâs here. Clean up your fuckstink and meet us by the APC.â
They did. Five minutes later, the whole squad had assembled around the Mattis. Ryan looked more or less recovered from his injuries. Azime also seemed good as new. Nadine was still pretty bandaged, and her eyes were lidded and unfocused from blood loss and opiates. Will had brewed up a large french press of coffee. He busied himself pouring measures of it out into hemp-foam cups. Roland took one and drained it in a single mighty gulp. It was proper post-human strength coffee. The caffeine rush mingled with the opiates and THC already flooding his synapses and brought him to a lovely half-lucid state of quasiwareness.
âDid you guys fuck?â Pedro finally asked, after about a minute of staring at Roland and Sardar and asking the same question with his eyes.
âYes.â Bigsby and Nadine both replied.
Sardar laughed at that. So did Roland. For one beautiful moment, he felt nice. A kind of nice he was pretty sure he hadnât felt in a long time. And then came a familiar pattern of bootsteps, tickling Rolandâs ears.
Jim.
Roland turned just as Jim walked into view. His legs were covered by a pair of armored red leather chaps. His groin was wrapped up in a thick kevlar thong but his pelvis and ass were otherwise unguarded. He wore a double-shoulder holster with a pair of bone-handled wheelguns under his arms. The snake tattoos on Jimâs chest and shoulders danced to a melody Roland eventually recognized as âla cucharachaâ.
âYour ink looks real good today, boss,â said Bigsby.
âAss-licker,â said Sardar.
âTakes one to know one.â
âI donât lick ass,â Sardar replied haughtily. âI eat it like a starving hyena.â
More laughter, and another fleeting moment of community that was broken when Jim addressed the squad.
âAlright. So several bunks have been humped here. This Heavenly Kingdomâs got at least ten thousand effectives in-theater, with armor, artillery, drones-the works. Our new employer, Austin, has about three-thousand fighters here in Waco. Plus now the fifteen of you lot. I flew in with Ajax and Florin. Theyâre prepping their squads now.â
Bigsby spat. âAjax fights about as well as a drunk dog in a burlap sack.â
Will replied: âYouâre just sayinâ that because he choked you out in the Blood Dome last year.â Bigsby responded with a double middle-finger.
âAhem,â Jim ahemâd. âPlenty of time for dick-measuring later. Time enough for the rest of you, at least. This city doesnât have a ruler long enough for my dick.â
He paused for a laugh. No one obliged. Jim rolled his eyes.
âAssholes. So, look, weâre in a bad position, with fuck-all for reinforcements coming in. Austin might be able to scrape up a couple of battalions if they suddenly clear out the Houston front, but that donât look likely. Enemy has another ten thousand men there.â
âFuck.â Sardar was the only one to actually say it, but everyone else in the group mouthed the word or some equivalent curse.
âHow is that even possible?â Azimeâs voice was still a little slurred from the painkillers, but her eyes were focused now.
Jim shrugged. âHard to say, exactly. Mass defections from the Republic of Texas. Intel suspects the UCS probably sent in some spec-ops guys, I dunno. Some sorta skullduggerous bullshit went down. The âhowâ of it ainât really our problem today. For now weâve gotta deal with the reality.â
The snakes on Jimâs torso stopped writhing. He locked eyes with Roland, and Roland felt compelled to meet his old friendâs gaze.
âCan we count on your help?â Jim asked.
âFuck no,â Roland said. âIâve killed enough naive young men today. I donât aim to kill any more.â
To his surprise, Jim nodded in acceptance.
âUnderstandable. This kind of fighting was a violation of our contract. I regret that, Roland. If Iâd known this was going to be a meat grinder I wouldnât have interrupted your retirement.â
Roland wasnât sure he believed that. But he kept his mouth shut as Jim continued.
âIâd like to propose a renegotiation of our contract. In light of the changing situation on the ground.â
âIâm not blowing up anything else for you.â
âThatâs fine,â Jim put his hands out in the sort of placating gesture one would use on an angry dog, âI donât need your killyness. I need your sneakiness. You can still take faces, right?â
Rolandâs memories of his time in the army were as patchy as his memories of everything else. He didnât remember much about how theyâd used him. But he knew that some of the wetware theyâd installed in him allowed him to modify his skin and bone structure to fool facial recognition scanners, thumbprint readers and, of course, human beings.
âYes,â he said, âbut...â
Jim cut him off, âYou donât need to kill anyone. The face youâll need is already dead.â
âAnd what do you want me to do with this manâs face that isnât more murder?â
Jimâs lips curled up into a grin. The expression sent shivers arcing down Rolandâs spine.
He felt like heâd seen that grin before, never preceding good things.
âRolling Fuck is nearby, and in the City of a Wheels are six-hundred or so real scary bastards. I have it on good authority that theyâd be happy to throw down on our side. But it turns out some of their negotiators were captured, back at the start of all this shit. No one in the city will risk fighting until theyâre pulled out safely.â
Roland raised an eyebrow, âSo, a rescue mission then?â
âThatâs right.â Jim grinned in a way Roland didnât quite trust. âYouâll be saving lives.â
Rolandâs gut twisted into knots. The shades of a thousand memories spoke up and warned him not to trust Jim at his word. But those shades also drove him to take Jim up on the offer. He wanted his memories back. Jim smiled that hackle-raising smile again.
âYou donât have to agree yet. Come to Rolling Fuck with me. Weâll talk things over with their elders. You can do some of their fancy space drugs. And then you can make your decision.â
âAlright,â Roland sighed. âBut only âcuz you said âfancy space drugsâ.â
----
They flew to Rolling Fuck in Jimâs heli-craft. It had been military issue originally, but the interior had been redone to Jimâs tastes. That mostly meant a lot of velour and a full wet bar. There were four beers on tap, just to the right of a double-barreled 35mm grenade launcher mounted beside the door. Roland drank for the duration of the ten minute flight.
âYou know,â Jim said, âTopaz lives there now. Been with the city a while.â
âTopaz?â Roland asked.
Something shuddered in his gut. He felt his hippocampus flicker with the dim light of recognition. He saw that face again, the woman from so many of his dreams and a few of his shattered memories. So that was her name. It felt right, now that he knew it again.
âDo you remember her at all, Roland?â Jim asked, his voice uncharacteristically tender.
Roland nodded and swirled the beer in his hands to buy some time.
âI remember snatches of her,â he said. âI remember loving her. I remember enough that it hurts sometimes. Mostly it hurts that I donât remember enough to be as sad as I oughta be.â
There was a spark of real sorrow in Jimâs eyes. The other manâs hand twitched in a way that made Roland think he mightâve been about to reach out to him. But Jim kept his hand to himself.
âIâm not sure how much I should say,â he said. âIâm sorry.â
There was something in Jimâs face when he said that. It resembled regret, or guilt. But it passed quickly. And nothing else was said during the flight. They landed on one of the top spires of Rolling Fuck, on a landing pad that doubled as a nude bar. He and Jim grabbed another round of drinks before they proceeded down, through the infinite party that was the City of a Wheels and onto the top of the main roller. They grabbed another round of drinks there and sat at the bar table while Jim waited for the word to go down.
It was late afternoon by this point, and evening had started to close in. The normal boiling Texas heat was cut by a cool breeze. White clouds rolled in above them. Rolandâs hindbrain told him there was, at best, a twelve percent chance of rain. But the clouds were still welcome. He and Jim drank in silence for a few minutes until the other man tapped his shoulder and said,
âTheyâre ready for us.â
They stood, a bit unsteadily, and headed towards the ladder down into the main roller. They reached the ladder just as two other people came up it, a man and a woman. The manâs face triggered a flurry of memory fragments: fighting back to back in the choking streets of Baltimore, drinking heavily on the edge of a canyon in the Arizona desert, charging a riot line with pipes and hammers in their hands. A name bubbled up from inside the memories.
âMike!â he shouted before he really thought about it, âHey brother!â
Skullfucker Mike froze. Roland wasalready halfway to a hug when he realized Mike wasnât feeling it. And then he caught his first good look at the woman coming up the ladder behind him. She had short-cropped teal hair, damascene fangs and eyes so loud he could almost hear her thoughts. Topaz.
âR-â she started to say his name and then her voice caught. He heard the ghost of tears beneath it, and then she finished, â...Roland.â
âYes,â he said, not sure of what else to say.
âDo you remember me?â
âNo,â he admitted. Part of him wanted to lie. But he couldnât. The broken scraps that remained of his love for her made it impossible. So he gave the honest answer, and he watched her die a little inside.
Topaz nodded. She closed her eyes for a second, bit down on her bottom lip, and then she put quick hand on Mikeâs shoulder before she walked away, up one of the gantrys and into the chaos night of Rolling Fuck.
Roland looked to Mike.
âIâm sorry.â
Skullfucker Mike smiled sadly back.
âI know, buddy.â
And then he left too. Roland felt confusion and a distant hurt. He had a feeling that he should have been crying. But, for some reason, he couldnât. And so he didnât. Instead he took a fistfull of Oxycontin and stumbled down the ladder, following Jim.
----
Rolling Fuckâs conference room was sumptuous, elegant and surprisingly professional. Two old people sat at the far end of the conference table. Roland had a vague memory tingle of having met the man before, long ago, but neither of their faces brought a name to his mind. Jim introduced them but their names fled his head a few seconds later. In fact, the first minute or two of conversation flowed around him in an indistinct haze.
That may have had something to do with the softball-sized mass of Oxycontin heâd eaten as heâd climbed down the ladder with Jim. Roland had assumed the drugs would help him focus through the boredom. Apparently heâd miscalculated.
âSo,â the old lady said with a hint of finality, âthatâs the situation weâre in. Are you willing to help us?â
In response, Roland blacked out. Just for a few seconds. He was reawoken by the thud of his head hitting the conference room table. Fuck thatâs good Oxy. He wished he could remember where heâd gotten it.
âOh dear,â said the lady.
âHeâs fine,â Jim sighed, âbut weâre probably going to need to start over.â
The lady brought him some coffee and re-introduced herself as âNana Yazzieeâ. Thanks to the coffee and Rolandâs clearing head, her name stuck this time. It was hard not to marvel at her age, and harder still to stop his hindbrain from calculating how much longer till her human heart gave out.
Roland smelled cancer on the old man. Not serious cancer, nothing basic medicine couldnât handle, but all the same the odor that wafted off him brought Roland a sort of primal discomfort. Or maybe it was the old manâs eyes that made his guts warble. It was hard to say. There was something disconcerting in the way he looked at Roland.
âRoland!â Jim shouted. Roland shook himself out of the haze and refocused on Nana Yazziee.
âSorry,â he grunted.
âItâs fine,â she said, and set into her spiel again. She showed him pictures of her captured friends, explained the dire situation in North Texas and the Doom that marched towards Waco and Austin. It was a sad story, but not one that compelled Roland to action. Other than Topaz and Skullfucker Mike, the citizens of Rolling Fuck were total strangers to him. Austin was just another little ailing Republic in a continent full of them.
âIâm sorry for your people,â he told her, âand Iâm sorry for Austin. But I really donât see how any of this is my damn business.â
Jim took those words as his cue.
âTule and Topaz are close,â said Jim. His voice was low, his tone smooth as silk. âLike sisters, from what I hear. Marigold vouched for Topaz and Skullfucker Mike when they joined the city. Sheâs all fucked up over this.â
âFrom what I hear,â he added.
âSo let her do something about it then,â Roland muttered. âSheâs got enough chrome to choke a river. Shit, this cityâs got enough monster-people to burn the Eastern Seaboard. Why do you need me?â
âBecause the Martyrs arenât stupid,â Jim said. âTheyâre scanning for chrome, for biomods, for everything but the shit youâve got. Because no one left alive is packing the shit youâve got.â
Roland grunted again, his nostrils flared. There was something strange about the words Jim had chosen. No one left alive. Had there been others? He knew his mods had come courtesy of the old U.S. Defense Department, but he didnât remember which unit heâd been a part of or what heâd done. There was a bit of memory, hazy and fragmented, that popped into his dreams from time to time-
He was stuck inside a long, cool metal pod. The cold black of space unfolded around him. Roland felt warm bodies to his left and right, smelled the comforting scents of Men He Trusted. Red lights blinked above his field of vision. Something tugged at his belly, there was a powerful feeling of inertia-
Roland closed his eyes, leaned forward, pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned just a little bit. When he came back up Nana Yazziee stared at him in confusion. Jim looked, perhaps, worried? It was hard to tell with that guy.
âWhatâs going to happen if I donât do it?â He asked Nana Yazziee.
âTo you? Nothing.â
Roland shook his head. âNot to me. What are you guys going to do if I donât help?â
âOh,â she frowned. âI suppose weâll have to mount an assault. Send in a small team, four to six commandos, and try to pull them out.â
âItâll be bloody,â Jim said.
The old man frowned at that. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but the lady put her hand on his and gave him a significant look.
âThatâs true,â she said, âit will be bloody.â
Roland felt a twinge of anger, but he couldnât blame Nana Yazziee for trying to manipulate him. The lives of her friends were on the line. Roland knew himself, though, and he knew that missions like this always went wrong. If he took this job Roland knew heâd take more lives.
âYouâll save lives by being there,â Jim insisted, smiling. That fucking smile. Roland was sure that smile had tricked him into dumb, violent things in the past. âYouâre the only one who can handle this with a minimum of death.â
Roland didnât believe that and, at the same time, he had to admit it was technically true. He just didnât trust himself, or reality, or Jim. And yet-
âIâll do it,â he said. âIâm sure Iâll regret agreeing to do it, but whatever. Iâll do it.â
Jim looked satisfied with himself. Nana Yazziee looked relieved. The old man looked, somehow, angry?
Most of Rolandâs reason for agreeing to help came down to Topaz. He hated to admit that, even to himself, but it was true. The thought of her in pain twisted something in the center of his heart. He wasnât used to pain there and his tolerance was pretty low. This is so dumb , he told himself, you couldnât even remember her name this morning .
He and Jim and the old woman shook hands on the deal. Then they let him loose in their city, to imbibe and fornicate and test the limits of his wetware.
âWe have things to plan,â she said.
The Lord did not mean for Sasha to be a cleaner. That was her first big lesson as a citizen of the Heavenly Kingdom. She was good enough at it, and she had too much self-respect to complain, but the work felt so unrewarding that she knew it must not be what God wanted for her.
Sheâd spent her first night in the Kingdom being pampered and provided for by her fellow Sisters in the Faith. Theyâd fed her, cleaned her, found her fresh clothes and given her all the emotional reward she could have ever wanted. And then the next day Helen had woken her up at seven in the morning to help clean out an old Republic barracks that was being transitioned over to housing for soldiers of the Heavenly Kingdom.
She knew it was honorable work, she knew it was necessary work, and she knew from the issues of Revelator sheâd read that establishing the Kingdom of Heaven was a job that would not be accomplished easily or without pain. Sheâd accepted this when sheâd made the choice to venture down here. But by the time sheâd scrubbed her twelfth toilet of the day Sasha had decided that her mind and her loyalty were better used elsewhere.
Oddly enough, something her father had told her about the corporate world stopped her from whining.
âNever complain, never speak ill of your colleagues, and always ask if thereâs more work you can do.â
It had been his advice to survive and thrive in business. But she took it to heart here, and by the end of her first full day in the Kingdom sheâd scrubbed more toilets than any other girl. She hated the work but she also took a perverse sort of pride in it. That brought a little guilt, because she wasnât here to serve her pride. But also, wouldnât the Lord God be happy to see her commitment?
Iâll ask Helen about that, Sasha told herself. Sheâll tell me how much of my pride is justified, and how much isnât.
She didnât see Helen again until the end of that day, when a truck came to gather all the girls up and take them back to the House of Miriam. They all washed up and then sat together around a large oaken table while Helen led them in prayer. She read a chunk of the book of Isaiah and then gave a quick lecture on the value of physical labor (âEach callous on your hands is a kiss from Godâ) before inviting them to tuck in.
The dinner wasnât luxurious by Sashaâs standards: just biscuits, a thin brown gravy and a palm-sized slice of beef for each of them. But they had oranges for dessert, which was a treat, and Sasha felt more comfortable than sheâd ever have believed among her new sisters.
Caroline had fled from Florida, North Americaâs Banana-est Republic. Sheâd been shot in the arm making her way to the Heavenly Kingdom. She said almost nothing â Sasha wasnât sure she even spoke English â but Caroline worked hard. There was an intensity in her eyes that was a little scary and humbling at the same time.
Then there was Susannah, from the Blackstone Nation. Sasha couldnât help but notice she was the only black girl there. Susannah had spent most of their work day singing to herself. She had a beautiful singing voice.
And then there were the three other AmFed girls: Emmeline, Rosie and Anne. Theyâd all left a few weeks before Sasha had made her own journey. Anne had actually gone to the same middle school as Sasha.
She wasnât great with names, so most of the other girls in her group were still more of a collection of smiling faces than real people at this point. But theyâd all been so warm to her. There was a real effort, from all of them, to make regular physical contact. They put hands on each otherâs shoulders and cheeks. They hugged constantly. Sasha experienced more touching in her first twenty-four hours here than sheâd experienced in her last five years in the American Federation. There was something intoxicating about being touched and feeling so cared for.
The only girl she didnât like was Mae. Like Sasha, Mae was within spitting distance of age eighteen. Sheâd fled from the UCS and she had a gift for letting everyone around her know when they fell short of Godâs standards. During their work day sheâd spent more time policing the other girlâs posture than sheâd spent scrubbing toilets. When Anne had hitched up her shirt sleeves, it was Mae whoâd scolded her for immodesty. When Susannah took off her shoes and socks during their lunch break Mae had yelled that she was âan unfair temptationâ to the young soldiers walking by on the street.
Sasha knew it was unfair and definitely unchristian to feel this way, but Mae LOOKED like someone who lived to tell other people what to do. She had the pinched features, squinting eyes and high-pitched voice of a born snitch. Mae kept her hair tied up in a bun so tight and short it looked military. She never smiled and never seemed to relax. And there was something about the frenzied way sheâd pray, alone, quietly in the corner throughout the day that made Sasha leery.
She hated that sheâd noticed those things. She knew God didnât want her focusing on what other people were doing wrong. And besides, she told herself, what are you really angry about? That sheâs TOO serious about her faith? Isnât that why you left home?
âGluttony is a sin too, you know.â Mae said.
Sasha realized with a start that Mae had addressed her. She had been eating her orange and, absentminded and tired after a long day of labor, she hadnât realized how messy sheâd been about peeling it. Her hands and sleeves were covered with the sticky juice. She looked around at the table and noticed that the other girls had been much more careful with their desert.
âSorry,â Sasha started, âI wasnât thinking...â
Mae rolled her eyes and started to say something else, but Helen cut her off.
âItâs quite alright dear. None of us is perfect,â she cast a reproachful eye at Mae, â...and we all lose ourselves in thought sometimes. Especially in the wake of great change. The Lord understands.â
She looked out to the rest of the table with a gaze that seemed to take in each of the girls collectively, and individually. Then she spoke.
âWe are all here because we recognize the primacy of Godâs word on earth. But we are no more perfect, and no more beloved by our Lord, than the enemies we face. Never forget that girls. Our foes are as dear to him as we are. They must be purged when they seek to interfere with Godâs will, but we should feel sorrow for such losses. And we should never, ever,â her eyes went to Mae again, âlet our fortune in hearing Godâs word bleed us of compassion or lead us to arrogance.â
Sashaâs heart swelled at this. Sheâd never admired a woman more. Helen had a way of imparting wisdom without judgement, of shining a light on the truth without seeming like it was her truth alone. Helen wasnât a preacher but Sasha had never heard anyone speak the word of God with more conviction.
After dinner they had an hour of free time to read their Bibles, share a few stories of their old lives and drink a single cup of sweet lemon tea. By nine oâclock it was bed time. Sasha was rankled a bit by the fact that she and her fellow young women were being ordered into bed at a set hour. But she was so exhausted by her day of labor that she couldnât work up much frustration over the mild injustice. Perhaps when sheâd had more time to adjust, sheâd bring this up to Helen.
She collapsed in her bunk bed certain sheâd fall asleep in an instant. Instead she lay awake for the better part of an hour thinking of Alexander. Sheâd still heard nothing more from him, or about him. Sheâd asked Helen a couple times today and the older woman had almost seemed angry. Somehow Sasha knew the anger wasnât towards her, and that was doubly confusing.
âSasha?â
Anneâs voice broke her reverie. The other girl was situated just below her on the bunk bed. Sasha was surprised to hear her, still awake.
âYes. Is something the matter?â
âNo,â Anne said, âI just couldnât sleep. I thought maybe you were awake, too.â
âI guess weâre both in the same boat then.â Sasha kept her voice low, more to avoid waking any of the others than out of fear of breaking the rules.
âIn more ways than one,â Anne said. âIâm waiting for a man I love too.â
Sashaâs heart beat a little faster. It was like that with everything that made her think of Alexander. Her mind didnât need a great deal of prodding to turn towards him.
âYour love is at the front too?â Sasha asked.
âI think so,â Anne said. âI was lucky enough to get to see him, twice. I arrived in Coppell first, back before the Kingdom took Plano. We met once then, and once more after the city fell and they moved us into the House of Miriam.â
Jealousy seized Sashaâs heart. She tried to replace it with gratitude in the Lord. Heâd sent her someone who could understand her pain and frustration. Wasnât that a blessing?
âThat must be hard for you,â she said, âgetting to see him and then being separated.â The words came out a bit stilted and cold. She hoped Anne hadnât noticed.
âIt is,â Anne said, âbut it isnât half so rough a place as youâre in. I canât imagine how anxious you must be, arriving here and not seeing him.â
âHeâs not the only reason I came,â Sasha said, a bit defensively, âbut yes. Itâs hard. Iâm...scared. I donât know why I feel so silly admitting that.â
âItâs certainly not silly,â Anne assured her. âBut I get it. Everyone here is so focused on gratitude and Godâs wisdom, it almost makes you feel like a traitor for feeling afraid. Or unhappy.â Anneâs voice dropped a few decibels, as if she was ashamed of her next words: âI almost feel like a liar when I smile.â
âI donât think the Lord wants us to be liars,â Sasha said. âBut I think being happy, or trying to seem happy, is a sacrifice we make for the Kingdom. It helps keep everyone else around us strong.â
âHmm,â Anne said, and then yawned. Her voice sounded heavy with sleep. There must have been something contagious in the sound, because Sasha felt her own eyelids start to droop. âThatâs a nice way to look at it,â Anne said, âI like the way you think, Sasha.â
----
Helen woke all of them up the next morning. She was gentle with it-a hand on each girlâs shoulder and a word in each of their ears, but there was no mistaking that she meant Now.
So Sasha got up. Her feet hit the floor just as Anne took her first steps forward, towards the dining room. They all filed in, silent and groggy.
The girls took their breakfasts in the form of a thick, tasteless protein shake and then they were loaded onto a heavy military-looking bus and driven off to a large red-brick office building. According to the bullet-pocked signs it had once been an administrative building for the corporation that had run most of the Republicâs schools.
Sasha swept up bullet casings and shattered glass. She scrubbed toilets and wiped the blood off the walls and tried not to think too hard about how it had gotten there. Conversation wasnât forbidden, but there was a lot of ground to cover and Mae was quick to scold anyone who dawdled. Sasha and Anne both kept moving, but they passed each other in the halls often. Each time, the other girl would favor Sasha with a supportive smile and Sasha would return it.
They broke for lunch a little after noon (stale cheese sandwiches and orange juice), but instead of getting back to work after their meal they were met again by the bus that had taken them there. They were told to file inside. Sasha wound up in between Anne and Susannah in the middle row of the bus. It was hot, the air circulation was bad and the smell of sweat was thick on the bus. But the windows were down and, once the bus got going, the air that blew in felt like heaven.
âLord God, Iâve been waiting for this all day,â said Susannah. âIâd stay on this thing all night if theyâd let me.â
âYeah,â Anne said, âthis is actually a lot more comfortable than the bunkroom, even when the powerâs working and the fans are on.â
âDoes the power go out a lot?â Sasha asked. She felt dumb for even giving voice to the question. But her seatmates didnât treat it like a stupid question.
âNot a lot,â Anne said, âbut weâll lose an hour or two most days. And it can be out for quite a while when Austin gets a drone through.â
âThat doesnât happen often,â Susannah assured her. âIâve been in the Kingdom ten days, and weâve only had to take shelter once.â
âTwice for me,â Anne said, âbut Iâve been here almost three weeks.â
âIâm not scared,â Sasha assured them, âIâm just curious.â
âYou should be scared,â Susannah said. âIt sucks.â
It wasnât a long ride, and Sasha was embarrassed at how long it took her to realize the destination: this was the same route theyâd taken from the House of Miriam, just in reverse. She and the other girls were being taken downtown. Once she got a good look at the gallows she understood why. There were six people lined up in front of the little stairway that led to the platform. They looked like prisoners.
Susannah looked just as confused as Sasha. But Anne seemed to understand what was going on. She scrunched her face in disgust.
âOh no,â she said, âI hate it when they make us watch this.â
The two Martyrs whoâd guarded them all day opened the doors and told them to form up outside of the bus. Sasha did as she was told while grabbing as many long looks at the gallows as she could manage. None of the people who stood out in front of the platform looked like soldiers or robber barons or much of anything at all. They just seemed young and scared.
âFags,â the Martyr standing next to the driver at the bus door grunted as Sasha stepped past him. He waited until the other girls had all filed off the bus before he stepped around to stand in front of them. Sasha hasnât paid the man too much attention during the day because, in truth, he scared her. He looked old, over forty at least, and his face was heavy with scars and tattoos. There were faded blue crosses inked on each of his forearms. There wasnât much skin visible under his armor and helmet, but the skin she could see was tanned red like leather. His eyes were cold and seemed fixed into a permanent squint. When he addressed the group, it was with a voice that sounded like it came to them through a filter of gravel and glass.
âThese people,â he said, and spat after the word âpeopleâ, âare gender traitors.â There were a few gasps from among the crowd. He continued, âIt took us a while to crack into the Republicâs old files. But we finally got a list of all the fags who refused to accept their god-given gender. They thought surgery could hide âem, but thereâs no hiding the truth from the eyes of God or his true servants. And thereâs only one fair punishment for someone who turns their back on natural law.â
Sashaâs heart started to pound. Sheâd known, of course, that Pastor Mike didnât approve of transgenderism, of gender change surgery, of homosexuality or of anything else that didnât fit into the neat Biblical lines of what a man and a woman ought to be. But heâd always phrased his objections with such compassion. Queer and trans people werenât monsters, deserving of death. They were victims of the fallen secular world, same as anyone else. Sasha agreed they needed re-education, but this...
The crowd, perhaps three hundred strong, cheered as the prisoners were led up to the gallows. Sashaâs heart beat like a bass drum. She couldnât hear anything else. The voices of the crowd, of her sisters, faded behind the beating sound of the blood that coursed through her head. But her eyes continued to work, and she watched in horror as they fit nooses around each victimâs neck.
The young people cried and screamed and begged, but the Martyrs paid them no mind. Some of them chanted in tongues while they prepared the killing machine. Sasha saw the joy in their eyes. She found it revolting. Before long theyâd finished their preparations and six people were strung up on the gallows before the brays and cries of the crowd.
Sasha didnât think it was possible for her heart to beat any faster. But it kept speeding up. She felt light headed and nauseous and a little like she needed to go to the bathroom. Her knees grew weak and she found herself leaning on Anne. The other woman looked almost as scared as Sasha did, but she weathered it better. She put an arm around Sasha, supporting her, and the two of them looked on as the executioner called out and pulled the lever that sent six human beings dropping down to dangle until they were dead.
The snap of their necks was the only thing Sasha heard above the sound of her own pounding heart. She watched them twitch and jerk for a second, two, and then her body grew too light and her legs collapsed beneath her. The world went black.
....
She awoke back in the House of Miriam. Her sisters knelt or stood around her. Sasha was gratified to see she wasnât the only one whoâd passed out. Anne lay next to her, clearly disoriented, along with two other young women whose names Sasha hadnât quite memorized. Helen sat in between them, wet washcloth in her hand, and stroked their faces.
âThere, there, dears. Youâve had a terrible shock. And thereâs no shame in your reactions.â
âNo shame?â Mae spat the words. There was a glow to her face and a manic glint in her eyes. âMaâam, with all due respect I donât know how these girls can call themselves committed to the Heavenly Kingdom if the sight of divine justice hurts them so much.â
Sasha saw anger in Helenâs eyes, but the older woman didnât let it carry over into her voice. Instead she fixed Mae with a cool gaze and said in an even tone, âMiss Mae, one can believe in our Lordâs justice and still regret the pain that comes with it. That does not signal a lack of devotion. It signals compassion, a trait Jesus Christ had in abundance.â
Mae frowned and pursed her lips, but she kept them shut for now. Helen turned back to Sasha and the other girls who had fallen.
âDeath is never easy to witness, girls. It should be a horrible thing to witness,â she glanced back to Mae, â...and we should all be worried if a day ever comes when we can see such violence without pain in our hearts. But these are dire times. The world has fallen too much for pacifism to bring back the rule of God. And so we must use violence. Do you understand?â
Sasha nodded. She heard the other girls give stuttering, hollow replies. Even the girls whoâd managed to stay standing looked shaken. Mae was the only one who wore a smile. They gave her a wide berth the rest of the day.
Whoever was in charge of their schedule paid some deference to the fact that theyâd been forced to watch an execution. There was no more physical labor that day. They spent the rest of the daylight hours seated around the common area in the House of Miriam, sewing uniforms. Sasha had never sewn before, but Anne sat next to her and taught her the basics.
She was surprised at how easy it was to to run a stitch. There was something curiously satisfying about the simple, but meticulous task. Sasha enjoyed it in the same way sheâd always enjoyed mathematics. Once she got a good grip on the basics of what was required of her she was able to lose herself in quiet productive flow. She was almost disappointed when Helen called them to dinner.
They ate the same food as the day before. They prayed. And then they had an hour of relatively free time. They couldnât leave the House of Miriam since it was after eight. But they could talk. Sasha gravitated naturally to Susannah and Anne. The topic of conversation turned at once to the execution.
âIs that what itâs always like?â Susannah asked.
Anne nodded. Her voice shook a little when she said, âI passed out last time too. I thought itâd be easier the second time around. But it really wasnât...â
âIt feels wrong,â Sasha whispered. She glanced over to Mae, who was holding court with a few of the other girls at the other end of the common area. âIâm not saying itâs OK, what those people were doing. But surely they deserved a chance to repent.â
Susannah nodded. âI donât think Jesus would want us to murder people just for being wrong. Itâs one thing to kill an atheist or an apostate whoâs attacking you. Itâs another thing to just,â her voice caught a bit, âhang people.â
Anne shook her head in an absent sort of way. âKyle told me it was necessary.â
âKyle?â Susannah asked.
âMy intended,â Anne said. âI watched the first execution with him. When I passed out, he was so sweet. I came to and he was holding me, petting my head.â Anneâs eyes shone with love, and Sasha had to fight hard to keep the jealousy from her own face.
âHe explained that the Heavenly Kingdom couldnât afford to re-educate the fallen. They are too many, and we are too surrounded. If someone is capable of changing, God will know. And He will ensure they get their just reward in Heaven.â
Sasha was not entirely convinced, but she also wasnât willing to argue with Anne. It felt a little dicey just admitting her continued discomfort with the executions. So she stayed quiet and the talk turned to more comfortable matters; what they expected from the next dayâs work, and what sort of lives theyâd lead when the fighting was over and they were settled down with the gallant warriors they knew theyâd marry. Soon the girls all filed off to their small, snug beds.
After a long day of work and stress the bed felt so good that it made Sasha feel guilty. Alexander was fighting right now. Heâd surely seen more death than she had and he didnât have the option of fainting or crying about it. As she drifted off to sleep again Sasha promised herself that she would never faint or cry out in the face of death again. If this was the way God had ordained his Kingdom must come, she owed it to herself and to her Lord to stand and see it.
The next day they went back to the same battered administrative building as the day before. Sasha scrubbed and swept, ate her lunch, and got right back to work. She forced herself into enthusiasm for the menial labor with the same discipline sheâd used when it had been time to study for an exam in a class she hated. The same tactic worked in both high school and the Heavenly Kingdom.
About two hours before the end of their workday Sashaâs rhythm was interrupted by the sound of a crash and a scream from one of the girls in the bathroom next door to the room she was in. Sasha dropped her scrub brush and darted over. She was the first one into the room.
It took her a moment to piece together what must have happened. Susannah had been scrubbing a sink that had been badly damaged by shellfire. The sink had collapsed while she scrubbed it and a jagged edge of porcelain had torn open the girlâs hand. There was already an enormous amount of blood by the time Sasha arrived. Susannah looked pale. Sheâd backed up against the wall and was just screaming, wordlessly.
Sasha had taken three semesters of pre-med classes in the last two years. She had a good basic instruction in first aid. She pulled her shirt off over her head and wrapped it around the gash on the other girlâs hand. It was the spare shirt sheâd brought from home, and it had an antimicrobial weave that should make it relatively safe as a wound dressing. She pulled it tight, wadded the extra fabric up over the wound and applied as much pressure as she could. Susannah kept screaming but the flow of blood from her wound slowed.
âBreath with me,â Sasha told Susannah as she stared into the other girlâs eyes. âIn,â she inhaled, âAnd out,â she exhaled. She repeated this several times, until Susannah stopped screaming and started breathing in time with her. Several of the girls had crowded around the entrance to the bathroom at this point. When Sasha glanced up she could see Maeâs face in the back of the crowd. She looked disgusted, probably at the fact that Sasha had torn off her shirt.
âPlease call for the Martyrs,â Sasha asked no one in particular. âTell them Susannah needs medical attention. I donât think she has any clotting agents in her blood.â
No one moved. So Sasha locked eyes with Anne and told her, âPlease go now. We shouldnât take any chances with a wound like this.â
Anne nodded, broke away from the gawking group and stumbled off to find help. Sasha looked back to Susannah. She coaxed the other girl to sit down against the wall and sat down next to her, applying pressure to her hand the entire time. Sashaâs shirt was now soaked through with hot, sticky blood. Her hands were wet too. But she didnât feel squeamish about this. Sheâd expected to after her reaction to the hangings, but somehow the sight of all this blood actually calmed her. She knew what to do here. It felt good to take effective action.
The Martyrs arrived a minute or so later, with a medic close behind. By that point Susannahâs bleeding had stopped entirely. The medic was impressed, and he said so.
âDo you have some kind of training, maâam? You handled this very well.â
âThree semesters of pre-med,â sheâd answered. âIt was only high school pre-med but they made us do a lot of first aid drills.â
The medic gave her a significant look and then asked, âWhatâs your name, miss?â
âSasha Mar-â, she started before correcting herself, âSasha.â
Susannah was taken off to whatever served as a hospital for the Heavenly Kingdom while Sasha and the rest of the girls finished their work day. It was uneventful after that, but the other girlâs attitudes towards her seemed to have shifted. Anne had given her a big hug, of course. But everyone was more respectful. Several of them came to her to ask minor things, advice on how best to clean a room or clear a pile of rubble. At one point Sasha had divided four girls up into two teams to remove a huge amount of shattered glass. While sheâd directed the effort Mae had walked by the room and butted her head in.
âJust because she knows a little first aid doesnât make her a foreman,â she sneered.
The other girls didnât pay Mae any mind. They left for the day at the usual time and arrived back at the House of Miriam in the early evening. Helen was waiting for them at the door. Behind her stood an older man in a white lab coat. He had a cross pinned to his lapel and a larger red cross on his armband. As the girls all filed into the building Sasha saw Helen point to her and whisper something to the man. He nodded.
âMiss Sasha?â he called out as she headed to her seat at the dinner table. Sasha peeled off and approached him. Helen stood nearby, distant enough to make it clear this conversation was between her and the man, but close enough that her presence provided a warm kernel of certainty and support.
âYes?â Sasha asked.
The man had a sharp, narrow jaw and a long nose. There were deep bags under his eyes and his hair was at the greyest end of pepper-grey. He wasnât very large but he used his physicality well. He moved like he was used to controlling the room.
âSasha, Iâm Dr. Brandt. One of our medics was very impressed with your work earlier today on the injured girl.â
âSir, all I did was try to stanch the bleeding. Anyone could have handled that. It didnât require any special knowledge...â
âNo,â he interrupted her, âit did not. The knowledge of how to stem bleeding is not rare or special. But the willingness to jump in during an emergency, and to get blood on oneâs own hands, is rather rare. I understand you have some form of medical training?â
âVery little sir. I took three semesters of pre-medical courses in high school. I was thinking about a medical career before I-â
âYes, well, three semesters of any kind of training almost makes you a doctor here. Weâre not exactly flooded with qualified medical experts.â
Dr. Brandt lacked Helenâs gift for interrupting without seeming rude. But he was clearly a busy man. And the fact that heâd offered praise made it hard for Sasha to take offense.
âMiss Helen,â he snapped back at the older woman, âIâm putting this one on special duty. Would that be alright?
âOf course, Dr. Brandt,â Helen said. She smiled at Sasha, and there was honest pride in that smile. More pride than sheâd ever seen in her motherâs eyes. Sasha resisted the urge to tear up in response.
Dr. Brandt turned to Sasha next and asked, âWhat do you know about the People of the Road?â
She frowned. Post-humans were a popular topic of discussion in her high school. Sasha had seen Wasteland Warriors a couple years back and been as enthralled as everyone else. But her school curriculum didnât talk much about them, and definitely downplayed their influence in the rest of the continent. Her father had called them, âA bunch of idiots dancing around the desert, doing drugs and robbing people.â She decided to use a variant of that for her answer.
âTheyâre drug-addled pagans, fornicating and spurning the Will of God.â
Dr. Brandt smiled. He had such a serious face and such stern features that Sasha was shocked by the honest kindness of that smile.
âIâd say thatâs basically accurate,â he chuckled, âperhaps even a bit charitable. It turns out one of these groups sent some emissaries into Plano just before the city fell. They were on some trade mission. They wound up getting stuck in a pen with a few other prisoners. We didnât even realize who we had until their people contacted us and demanded their release.â
Sashaâs eyes widened. All she could think of were the grainy video fragments from one section of Wasteland Warriors . It was supposedly a recording of an attack on an Aegis Biosystems convoy headed from Milwaukee to Denver. The convoy had been well-armed, but it had been taken apart in a matter of seconds. The assailants moved so fast that the documentarians had needed to slow the video to make them visible as anything but flashes on the screen. How could something that fast and that deadly be captured? Dr. Brandt answered her question before she could ask it.
âIâm going to guess youâre wondering how we managed to capture three of those Frankenstein abominations.â
âYes sir,â Sasha said.
âWell,â Dr. Brandt popped the glasses off his face and buffed the lenses on his shirt while he spoke, âmost members of any given group arenât quite like that. Oh, theyâre all pagans or atheists or some other kind of heathen. They have a lot of aesthetic modifications, LED tattoos and body lighting and some sensory upgrades. But few of them have military-style implants.â
âI see.â
âAs you know, cities and civilized nations tend to ban those implants within their borders.â Dr. Brandt slid his glasses back into place on his nose. âSo the People of the Road have to send their less-modified citizens out to negotiate, etcetera. Which means weâve got a bit of a tiger by the tail situation here.â
âWhat do you mean, sir?â Sasha asked.
âWell, the stories about these types are absolutely true. Some of them have hundreds of warriors packed to the gills with nightmare technology. There are individuals who are capable of taking on entire companies of human warfighters. The âtribeâ these particular captives hail from, well...their name is quite obscene. âThe City of Wheelsâ would be the most polite variant. Theyâre as lost as it gets when it comes to the word of God. But theyâve got about six-hundred post-human citizens.â
Sasha thought back to what a dozen of those things had done to that convoy. She tried to imagine the carnage six-hundred of them could unleash upon the Heavenly Kingdom. A shiver ran down her spine.
âExactly,â Dr. Brandt nodded at her. âLike I said, weâve got a tiger by the tail. They might not intervene while we have their people. So weâve got to make sure our captives are well taken care of. Thatâs where you come in.â
âMe?â
âTwo of the captives are women, Sasha. Theyâll need to be inspected by someone besides me. We do have some qualified female nurses. But an SDF drone hit one of our troop transports about two hours ago, and Iâm afraid theyâre both in the thick of that mess. So youâre coming with me to handle this job.â
âIâm proud to do it sir.â She wasnât sure what else to say. And besides, it was true.
....
The first captive sat on a small concrete bench in the back of an eight-by-ten cell. Her hair had been shaved into a mohawk, but the purple hair was deflated and greasy now. There was stubble on the sides of her head. Her face was round, but lean. There were slight laugh lines at the corners of her cheeks and the edges of her eyes. She wore a sleeveless purple-and-black dress that was, by now, filthy. Her arms were covered in a strange series of tattoos: dozens of branching lines that each terminated in a box. They looked almost like circuit diagrams. Sasha quickly realized that each âboxâ held a little LED screen. Most of the screens were set to a dull red color, but once she stepped into the womanâs cell they flashed bright orange. The woman looked up and snarled at Dr. Brandt.
âThe fuck do you want, shitbird?â She looked over to Sasha and then added, âSorry, shitbirds.â
âSasha,â Dr. Brandt sighed, kneading the bridge of his nose, âmeet Marigold Fulton.â
âJesus fucking Christ. What are you, six-fuckinâ-teen?â Marigold said to Sasha. Then she looked to Dr. Brandt, âThatâs fucked up, man.â
Dr. Brandt winced at both curses. Sasha glanced down and saw that his right hand was balled up into a fist and clenched tight.
âMarigold, this is Sasha,â he said through gritted lips. âSheâll be performing your intake exam. We need to make sure youâre uninjured, uninfectious, and not hiding any weaponry. I would recommend compliance.â
âYour kind always do,â the woman spat back.
âSasha. Youâve got this.â Dr. Brandt gave her a curt nod, turned on his heels and headed back out of the cell.
There was an armed guard just outside the cell. As Dr. Brandt had instructed, Sasha pulled a long privacy screen out from the far end of the wall and clasped it to a set of hooks on the other end. The captives were being held in the old Plano jail, which made this one of the rare buildings in the Heavenly Kingdom being used for its intended purpose. Sasha was grateful for the privacy screen. She was also unbearably nervous about what came next.
âIâm going to have to ask you-â
In one smooth motion, Marigold pulled the dress up over her shoulders and off of her body. She wore nothing underneath it. Her pert breasts, her little belly, her pubic mound and its shock of purple hair were suddenly just there.
âYou gonna do your job, or are you just gonna stand there and jill off?â Marigold asked.
âI-what? Jill...?â
Marigold gave a harsh laugh.
âItâs synonym for masturbation. Lady masturbation. You donât do that, do you sugar? Iâm gonna guess the Heavenly Kingdom frowns on girls having fun without the help of boys.â
Sasha grimaced. âThe Heavenly Kingdom doesnât frown on women having fun. But it does encourage self-control. Mastur-what youâre talking about, itâs a distraction. Itâs worldly.â
Marigold whistled in mock-surprise and said, âSpoken like a lady who truly needs an orgasm.â
âWhat I need to do is draw some of your blood, and some of your saliva. And, erm...perform a cavity search.â
Marigoldâs lips curled up into a catlike smile. She opened her legs. Sasha had seen other womenâs vaginas before, but only in textbooks and movies. This was the first time sheâd found herself staring directly down the barrel of one, so to speak. She gulped.
âAh, darlinâ, am I your first? Donât be scared. I got some chrome in me, but I never wound up putting defensive teeth in there. Now, my friend Topaz...â
âStop. I know what youâre trying to do. Just stop.â
Sasha hadnât thought the womanâs smile could get any wider, but it did.
âAnd what am I trying to do, child?â
âYouâre trying to-to fluster me. To distract me.â
âOooooor,â Marigold rolled her eyes as she replied, âIâm bored. You fucks have kept me in one holding area or cell or another for almost a week. I spent three days shitting in the corner of a gym. But at least Rick and Tule were there too.â
The womanâs smile softened. For just a moment she looked troubled, vulnerable.
âYou donât have any idea where my people are, do you?â
Sasha shook her head. She felt guilty for some reason. That was stupid-she hadnât done anything wrong. But she felt the need to assuage the other womanâs fears.
âI donât. Iâm sure theyâre alright, though. We wouldnât execute them just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.â
Marigold snorted. âMaybe you wouldnât, luv. Your friends, though? Iâve seen your gallows. It doesnât seem like the kind of thing someone builds just for show.â
âWe...have a right to enforce our laws. Godâs laws.â What am I doing, defending the Kingdom to someone whoâs clearly blind to the Word? Sasha shook her head. She opened the blood testing kit Dr. Brandt had given her and stepped towards Marigold.
âLook, Iâve got to do this. Just hold still and itâll be quick.â
It was. The other woman offered no resistance. When Sasha told her to stand, she stood. When Sasha reached a gloved hand up inside her to search for foreign objects, Marigold said nothing. She didnât even flinch. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on Sashaâs. The other woman barely blinked. In about two minutes, Sasha had finished her examination and collected her samples. She started to step back, but Marigoldâs hand shot out whip-fast and grasped her around the wrist.
âListen.â
Sasha stopped and listened. She wasnât sure why. It was something about the other womanâs tone. Sheâd heard the term âcommand voiceâ before. Sasha hadnât understood what the term meant until now. When Marigold spoke again it was in a hushed tone, barely more than a whisper.
âI donât know what brought you here, but youâre obviously smart. You donât have those dead zealot eyes,â she jerked her head in the direction of the guard outside. âWhen I mentioned the gallows you looked fucking ill. Iâm going to guess you havenât been here long. Youâre probably having second thoughts. Help me get my people out of here. If we can get back to my city, youâll be safe. Weâll take you wherever you need to go.â
âI...â Sasha wasnât sure what to say. She shouldâve slapped the other woman, or spit in her eye. But she didnât.
âDonât say anything. Youâll be back here. I promise. Think about what Iâve said. Think about where you are. Just fucking THINK.â
She let go. Sasha stepped back. The two women locked eyes for a long moment. And then Marigold grabbed her slip dress off the floor and slid it back down her thin frame. Sasha unclipped the privacy curtain and headed back out into the hallway.
----
The other woman captive, Tule, was tall and muscular. She had a wide face with cheekbones so sharp they were almost jagged. Her skin was a dusky brown. Her eyes were alert, and moved rapidly between Sasha, Dr. Brandt, and the guard who led them into the room.
âHer name is Tule,â Dr. Brandt said, âand sheâs probably going to threaten you. Pay her no mind.â He turned away and left, while the guard stayed behind and kept a close eye on the tall woman.
Sasha was scared to approach Tule at first. The womanâs forearms were corded with muscles, and she had biceps that looked as broad as Sashaâs thighs. But the woman didnât move an inch, or say a word, the entire time Sasha worked on her. Tule didnât even blink. She complied to every one of Sashaâs requests without eye contact or any other form of acknowledgement. The woman seemed dead to the world.
Somehow, Tuleâs quietness and seeming stupefaction were more uncomfortable than Marigoldâs aggressive words. Sasha finished her work in short order. Once the last vial was sealed and her gloves removed, she took a final look at the captive.
âI hope you get to go back to your home soon.â Sasha immediately regretted the words.
This woman is The Enemy. Why would you try to comfort her? She wonât even look at you.
Tule let out a dull laugh. She had been so silent earlier that it shocked Sasha. The other woman turned her head and stared at Sasha.
âI will return home soon. And fire and blood will come to this place, because youâve held me here. Youâre a dead woman walking. Enjoy the last beats of your heart.â
Sasha didnât know what to say. What could you say to that? So she took her samples, and left.
....
Doctor Brandt dropped her off outside the House of Miriam and told her heâd send a jeep out tomorrow morning to take her to the hospital. Sasha thanked him and headed inside.
The other girls were already almost finished with dinner when Sasha sat down and joined the group. She gave a quiet smile to Susannah and nodded at the other girlâs bandaged hand. When desert (a banana this time) was over, Miss Helen took Sasha aside while the other girls broke off to read their Bibles and drink their nightly tea.
âI have some news for you,â.
âYes maâam?â Sasha asked.
âAlexander has been rotated back from the front. And...â, that strange look of mingled frustration and anger crossed Helenâs face again, â...youâll be able to see him tomorrow. After lunch.â
Sashaâs heart pounded, an excitement that made her feel guilty and elated at the same time.
âIâm afraid it wonât be a long visit,â Helen continued. âBut youâll have a bit of time with him.â
And then Helen sighed again, just a little. Sasha was sure she wasnât supposed to have noticed it. Miss Helenâs eyes looked a bit watery. Sasha was so happy, so excited, that her brain glossed over this fact. Instead she gave Miss Helen a hug. It wasnât nearly the first one theyâd shared, but this was the first time the older woman had seemed hesitant in returning it. But she did, after a moment, and Sashaâs joy-drunk brain wrote over any sense of doubt she ought to have felt.
Sasha buzzed with uncontained energy the rest of the night. Sleep was near impossible. She tossed until the small hours of the morning, turning over her memories of chat conversations sheâd had with Alexander. His face felt so clear and real in her memory that she could almost touch it. And tomorrow sheâd be able to do just that.
Sasha finally passed out about two hours before Helen came âround to wake them up. She should have been exhausted. Instead, she found herself out of bed, feet planted firmly on the ground, before her mind was even fully awake. Her subconscious was that eager to start the day.
She rinsed herself with extra care that morning. Mae seemed to notice the added effort she put into primping and called her out for it.
âYouâre not working at the hospital to snag a doctor,â she sneered, âYou know that, right?â
Sasha tried to ignore the comment. Susannah, whose hand was still bandaged from her injury the other day, spoke up in her defense.
âThereâs nothing wrong with being extra clean, Mae. Itâs probably important for the work sheâs doing over there. Sashaâs dealing with wounds and stuff, sheâs not scrubbing toilets like you.â
Sasha was gratified by how that made Maeâs face flush. She flashed Susannah a grateful smile and shuffled out of the washroom as quick as she could manage. She headed outside and took in her first deep gulp of the cool morning air. âCoolâ might have been too strong a word to use. But the fresh air felt good on her skin.
It only took her a few seconds to spot the battered and dirt-specked jeep Dr. Brandt had sent to pick her up. A young man, maybe as young as her, with a weak chin and an acne-pocked face sat behind the wheel. Sasha waved to him, ran up and hopped in.
It wasnât a quick ride to the hospital. Large sections of the road were destroyed, blocked by rubble or jammed with traffic from refugees entering the Heavenly Kingdom. Seeing that had gratified Sasha. More souls coming to God, she thought. For the most part she lost herself in thoughts of Alexander until, forty minutes later, the jeep rolled to a creaky stop in front of the Medical City of Plano.
The enormous hospital complex looked badly damaged, and largely abandoned. Many of the windows had been shot out or shattered by by large blasts. Several buildings had chunks of wall and roof that had fallen in. But there were lights on in many of the windows, and the hum of generators filled the air of the front courtyard. Dozens of people milled about, filled with purpose, running wires and wheeling patients.
Sasha was excited at the thought that she might get to do some actual work in a functioning emergency room. When she found Dr. Brandt, he quickly disabused her of those notions.
âWeâre doing alright today. What I need you to do is come in here and help me catalog which medicines have spoiled.â
The power had gone out during the fighting for the city, Dr. Brandt explained, and the medical storage room had been without refrigeration for almost two days. He showed her how to check medical vials for signs of spoilage, handed her a clipboard to mark her findings and told her to get to work.
It was a menial, painstaking task and Sasha found herself missing the hell out of cleaning. She hated it, but she devoted herself to the work and, minute by minute, the time passed. Eventually it was time for her meeting with Alexander. Sasha pulled herself away from the rows of vials and jars and blister packs and headed outside, to where she knew the jeep would be waiting.
Her driver that afternoon was a different Martyr, slightly older but still quite young. She was so preoccupied with thoughts of Alexander that she almost forgot to greet the man. He didnât seem to be in a talkative mood either, though, and they rode in silence back to the center of town. Sasha was so focused on the butterflies in her stomach and trying to catch glimpses of her hair and face in the rearview mirror that she didnât notice the crowds thronging downtown until the jeep rolled to a stop and it was time for her to disembark.
A familiar sense of queasy dread gripped Sashaâs guts as she exited the vehicle and looked out over the crowd. They were converged around the gallows once again. Sasha craned her neck, and she was able to see four men in filthy, tattered rags standing before the killing instrument. It took her a second to recognize two of the men as the porters whoâd first unloaded her from her crate. An older, bearded Martyr in jet black body armor stood before them. He held a Bible in one hand and a formidable looking handgun in the other. Sasha started to push her way through the crowd for a better look. She hadnât made it far when the bearded Martyr addressed the crowd.
âThese four men were all once employees of the secular abomination that called itself the Republic of Texas,â he said in his booming, stentorian voice. âThe Heavenly Kingdom offered them mercy, in the form of indentured servitude. All we asked,â he scanned his eyes across the crowd. The left corner of his lip curled up into a slight growl, âAll we asked for was their honest, obedient labor. And they repaid this mercy by stealing food and supplies meant for the Heavenly Kingdomâs brave soldiers.â
He lifted his big pistol up into the sky and fired off four shots in quick succession.
âThese men stole from God. There is only one proper punishment for such a sin.â
He turned back towards the gallows and nodded at a hooded Martyr who stood behind him with a hand on the thick wooden lever that operated the whole grim apparatus. The other man pulled downwards and the four bodies on the scaffold dropped with a sickening chorus of snaps. Sasha felt her stomach turn sour. This time, though, she watched. She didnât take her eyes off the gallows until the last man had ceased his twitching.
âItâs not a pleasant sight, is it?â
That voice. Sasha recognized it immediately. It was the voice sheâd heard a hundred different times over her deck, hidden up in her room back in the AmFed. It was the voice of the first man sheâd ever really loved. It was Alexander.
Sasha turned around and her heart nearly burst at the sight of him. He was tall, broad and muscular in a way that somehow seemed comforting and not scary. His mop of curly brown hair, lopsided smile and round, prominent jaw line were all exactly as she remembered from their dozens of chat sessions. He wore olive green fatigues that looked stained and burned in a few places. His hair was greasy, and there were great big bags under his eyes. But he was here. He was real.
She collapsed into him. Before she realized it sheâd started to sob.
âI love you I love you I love you I thought you were dead I love you!â
He hesitated for several long beats before he returned her embrace. But he returned it with gusto. His hands crept down, from her sides to her buttocks. He squeezed her. It was a gesture sheâd fantasized about several times in her weaker, more carnal moments. It was not something sheâd expected a Godly man like Alexander to do out in public, surrounded by people, in the immediate aftermath of an execution.
Sasha pulled back and coughed in surprise. She didnât say anything though. She didnât want to mark their first meeting with that. And she also remembered something Pastor Mike had written in Revelator , that the âbeastly nature of a man must be salved by the goodness of womenâ. Alexander had just spent several days up at the front. He must have seen terrible things. It was understandable that his self control would not be at its peak right now.
Still. She didnât like the way he looked her up and down. There was something of the wolf in his eyes. It was not the look sheâd dreamed of seeing. But then he spoke.
âSasha. Iâm so proud of you. I didnât know if Iâd ever see you here. I wasnât sure if youâd be willing to truly commit yourself to our Lord. But I prayed that you would and now, by the Grace of God, youâre here. And youâre even more beautiful than you looked online.â
Sasha blushed. How could she not?
âLook,â he waved a hand towards the gallows, and the bodies, âthings are still sort of a mess around here. But I know one cafe nearby is up and running again. Iâve got enough ration tokens to get us both a cup of coffee. What would you say to that?â
âIâd say yes.â She smiled at him. Her earlier reservations dissolved as she took his hand and followed him down the street, past the gallows and the dispersing crowd and towards the cafe. In a minute they were there. It was a small place, one rectangular room with a coffee maker, a half-dozen tables and an outer patio area with another half dozen tables. There was a generator, power and air-conditioning inside, so they sat there. Alexander ordered them two large cups of black coffee. He sat down while he waited for their order and stared into her eyes. She stared back. For a while, that was all they did.
âItâs so good to see you,â Sasha said, âIâve been working at the hospital and Iâve seen so many wounded men. I couldnât stop thinking I was going to see you there in one of those beds, broken and bleeding...â
He smiled at her. Then he reached his left hand out and sat it on top of hers. Sasha shivered, she couldnât help it. Things stirred inside her. She felt a sudden, powerful urge to possess his body, to hold him and squeeze him and be explored in turn. She clamped her mouth tight and focused on trying not to give all her thoughts away through the blush in her cheeks.
âSasha,â he said, âit brings me such joy to see you here. And donât worry. I know the situation at the ladyâs barracks is rather primitive. But Iâm talking to my commanding officers. As soon as we get married, youâll be a part of my household. Weâll be able to live together. Weâll build a life and that life will help build the Heavenly Kingdom.â
She was stunned for a moment. Sasha began to tear up and all she could do was nod at him. This was like a dream. It was, of course, rather different from her actual dreams, which had involved Alexander and a house but not so many bleeding and dying men, nor a gallows.
Their coffee arrived. Alexander took a sip and she followed suit. He continued.
âI know youâre working at the hospital now. Iâm sorry about that. Iâm sorry you had to spend so much time scrubbing toilets. As soon as I can get you off those duties, I will-â
âOh no!â she interjected, âI love working with Dr. Brandt. Itâs important, and I want to do my part to help the Kingdom thrive.â
Something passed across Alexanderâs face. It looked like irritation, perhaps at her interruption. But it was gone quickly, and his smile returned.
âThatâs admirable, Sasha. Youâre a remarkable young woman. If thatâs what you want, Iâm sure you can continue to help out there until youâre with child.â
âWith...child?â Sasha felt guilty for the horror in her voice. Of course she wanted children.
She just didnât want them now. Or particularly soon.
Alexander nodded. âWe must be fruitful and multiply so the Heavenly Kingdom can remain and expand.â His smile was so warm, so kind. âI know youâve read more of Pastor Mikeâs writing than I have, Sasha. Youâre a very smart girl. But God made you to bring forth more children. You wouldnât want to delay your purpose, would you?â
Maybe a little, she thought.
âNo...â she lied.
âGood,â he smiled again. âAnd donât worry. You wonât have to do it alone. Malia already has a child, and Adelaideâs two months pregnant. Theyâll help you, too.â
The world stopped. At least it did for Sasha. She could tell people were still moving around her, but Sashaâs reality had shrunk to the pounding sound of her heart and a twisting in her gut.
âA-adelaide? And Malia?â
Alexander gritted his teeth. There was something almost practiced in the way he said what came next.
âAdelaide and Malia are my wives. As you will be.â
âWh-? Alexander, you didnât say anything about other wives. You never mentioned them at all. Why are...how can you be telling me all this now?â
His smile turned sad. Or at least it gave the illusion of sadness. Sasha was still too shocked for anger. She felt like a hole had just been knocked in her heart. She knew she should be angry. But she also felt like there must be something missing. Something she didnât understand yet. Alexander was a sweet boy, he wouldnât do this to her.
âLook,â he said, âIâm sorry. This is never easy. You understand how important the Heavenly Kingdom is, Sasha. Nothing in the world could matter more. And the Kingdom will not survive without people like you. One of my jobs here is to push young women like you to take the terrible risk of coming here.â
âAnd so you lied?â she croaked, barely able to believe what was happening. âYou bore false witness, Alexander. I...â
âI did not lie.â His voice hardened and so did his eyes. âI did not tell you about every aspect of my life here. But I did not lie.â He sighed, took a sip from his coffee, and continued.
âIâm part of a special unit within the Kingdom, formed on the order of the Pastor himself. He calls us Jacobians. It is our job to seed the next generation of Martyrs. We take personal responsibility for the Kingdomâs expansion. Finding you and bringing you here was one part of my work in this great cause. If Iâd told you every detail about life here, every single thing, you wouldnât have come. And your soul would have stayed in jeopardy.â
He took another deep, arrogant sip of his coffee.
âIâm sorry if this hurts you. But it was for the greater good. We must sometimes do distasteful things to serve Godâs design.â
Sashaâs vision went red. She stood and, without thinking, grabbed her now-lukewarm mug of coffee and splashed the whole thing in Alexanderâs face. He yelled at her and sputtered like a goldfish. But she was already up and heading for the door. She flung it open, walked out into the crowded street and lost herself in the press of the crowd and the boiling waves of her own anger.
Manny woke up feeling like his mouth was filled with cotton and his head was filled with spiders. It took him a few long seconds to remember where he was and what had happened to bring him here. He activated his deck and was shocked to see that more than a day had passed since heâd dropped into bed. His first guess was that he was suffering some side-effect from Skullfucker Mikeâs blood. He couldnât think of any other times heâd slept that long, although he also couldnât think of any other times heâd survived a drone attack and an intentional car crash in the same minute.
âMierda!â he cursed, and then called out, âReggie?â He looked over to the cot the journalist had been sleeping on. It was dark in the little room Nana Yazziee had provided. He could see the outline of Reggieâs empty cot and not much else. The room was just one ten by ten section of an old shipping crate. Manny knew the only things in the room, besides their cots, were a table with a built-in coffee maker and a pair of folding chairs.
Manny sat up, groaned as every poppable thing in his body popped, and then rose to his feet. As he stumbled to the door his deck started to populate with messages from friends and family back in Austin. By the time his hand touched the knob there were more than fifty translucent messages hovering at the edges of his field of vision.
He blink-selected a mass-response template, filled it with the names of everyone whoâd sent him something, and typed out an update;
âNot dead. Details later.â
He almost sent it, but then he noticed one of the names: Aisha Martinez. Oscarâs wife. He could only see the first few lines of the message without opening it, but what he saw made it clear she was terrified for her husband. Manny de-selected her from the list, and sent the mass-message off to everyone else, and then scrolled through his messages until he found Oscarâs message stack. The other fixer still hadnât said anything, not since the assault had begun.
Manny opened up Aishaâs message. He tried to read it, he really did, but his brain wouldnât let his eyes focus on the words. His heart started to pound. His gut curdled. And, instead of reading it, he typed her a quick response.
âIâm alive. Iâm so sorry, but I donât know where Oscar is or if heâs made it out.â And then he typed a sentence he knew instantly heâd regret.
âI will do everything I can to find your husband.â
Then he sent the message and stepped out of the room, into the dying light of the late North Texas afternoon. Rolling Fuck unspooled around him. It was crowded, or at least more crowded than it had been yesterday. Dozens of people and non-human people were packed onto the gantryways and into the sundry buildings added around the rollers and up on the spires. One building that jutted off the rear roller looked like a carousel ride, with little rocket ships instead of horses. It appeared to function as a spinning bar. Drunk people rode the little ships while bartenders in the middle kept them liquored up. Someone shoved by him, a heavily-chromed person with three tails, each topped by the fully-articulated and seemingly sentient head of a cat. One of the cat heads belched a small puff of fire at Manny as their wearer passed.
He shook his head and squeezed his way over to the main roller. It helped a little to pretend he was just pushing his way onto the Austin Metro. While he walked he noticed a message from Reggie. He blink clicked it open and heard Reggieâs voice in his ear.
âAt the rooftop bar, drinking my way through some research. Find me when you wake up. Iâm onto something.â
Of course Manny had already been on his way there before heâd seen Reggieâs message. That was the simple reality of British journalists: if it was possible for one to be drinking, thatâs what theyâd be doing.
The walk took about ten minutes. He crossed a combination of gantryways, staircases and even one webbed net. The bar was packed when he arrived but it was easy enough to pick out Reggie. Both his holographic screens were up and active on the bartop in front of them. He was seated next to Skullfucker Mike, and they were deep in conversation when Manny walked up.
âHey, brother,â Reggie said, âyouâve been out for a long time.â
âYes,â Manny said. âNothing like thatâs ever happened to me before. How long were you out?â
The journalist thought for a moment and then answered. âIâd guess like a day,â he said. âMike told me thatâs not weird.â
âYeah,â the chromed man chuckled, âall medicineâs got side-effects. My weird-ass bloodâs no different. Yâall cute lilâ humans ainât made for it.â
Skullfucker Mike and Reggie were both clearly drunk, and just as clearly not as drunk as they planned to be by the end of the night. Mike flashed a grin at Manny and offered a hug that the fixer accepted awkwardly.
âGuy, itâs good to see ya,â Mike said. âI gotta tell you Iâm kinda jealous of your nap. I miss sleep like that. With all this chrome in me,â he waved a hand vaguely over his head, âI canât get exhausted like that anymore. You miss it when itâs gone. I gotta drink like, thirty of these fucking things,â Mike gestured to the half-full drink in front of him. It looked like a pina colada. A strange incense-y odor wafted up from it, âjust to pass out like a normal person.â
Reggie was drinking the same thing. He offered his half-full glass to Manny.
âThese things are the best man. Vodka and opium coladas.
âThey got a liiiiiiiiiiilâ bitta THC in âem too.â Mike added in a high, sing-song voice.
Manny waved them off.
âIâm good, thanks. I just woke up a minute ago. I probably shouldnât immediately take three different drugs.â
Reggie and Skullfucker Mike both looked at him like he was an alien.
âWeird,â they said at exactly the same time. Mike laughed, and Reggie looked back at his screen as a push-notification popped up with a cheery âdingâ.
âShitting tits,â he cursed.
Manny and Skullfucker Mike leaned into the screen. The notification was a newswire update from a journalist who mustâve been embedded with either the SDF or Austinâs forces. The title said it all:
As the Heavenly Kingdom prepares for another assault, SDF and Austin abandon Waco.
âIâm not surprised theyâre pulling out,â Mike said. âYour people are good enough fighters on a normal day. But the SDFâs built to dominate a buncha squabbling militias. They were never gonna hold off a sustained assault from a real army.â
The sleep was fully banished now. Manny was awake, and the gravity of what had happened over the last few days sank in again. Hamid and Deshawn were probably dead. So was Mr. Peron. And Oscar. Oh holy shit, holy shit, what am I going to tell Aisha? And then the darker, more selfish thoughts: am I going to have time to fly out of Austin?
âHow the hell did the Martyrs turn into a real fucking army overnight?â he asked, with more fear in his voice than he meant to display.
âWell,â Reggie said, as he gestured to a series of curated social media posts from people in and around ciudad de muerta. âBest as we can figure, they sorta stole most of the Republicâs army. There are a lot of reports of entire units of Republic soldiers, thousands of fighters, turning at once.â
He gestured to a live-updating political map of Texas. It was a map Manny consulted regularly. The Heavenly Kingdomâs territory was outlined in red. There was a lot more red on the map today. It seemed impossible that...
âSon chorrados,â Manny breathed, âGalveston?â
âYeah,â Reggie gave a grim nod. âFell about ten hours ago. Heavenly Kingdomâs pushing into the Lake Houston suburbs right now. Theyâre holding position in Dallas though. Digesting their gains still.â
âAinât gonna be long before they hit Austin.â Mike said. âMaybe a week. Maybe two.â
Manny stood there for a moment. He thought about his father, his friends. He thought about the house where heâd grown up and the view of Austinâs sprawl from his roof. He imagined golden cross banners flapping in the breeze above burnt-out buildings. He pictured gallows filled with people strung out along sixth street. A knot of nausea started to build in his belly.
What will you do, Emmanuel? He heard Mr. Peronâs voice echo in his conscience.
Manny shook the dead manâs words away.
âI need to get back home,â he insisted. âIs there some way you can get me a ride?â
Skullfucker Mike took a long pull from his drink. He squinted at Manny and the chromed manâs eyes focused. One iris looked a lot larger than the other. Mike swayed a bit in his seat but he seemed lucid. Mostly.
âAnd whatâre you gonna do in Austin?â He asked. âPick up a gun and die fighting? Unless youâre hiding some serious mods under that skin, I donât think your help will make a ratâs shit wortha difference.â
âI know. Iâm not going there to fight. I need to-â
âWhat, fly away? Go to fuckinâ California? Try your luck in Europe?â Mike shook his head. âYouâve got a chance to actually do something. Help us get our people out of Dallas and we can fuck the Kingdomâs advance. Maybe even throw them back.â
Manny thought about it, sighed, and said, âI think I do need a drink.â
Skullfucker Mike nodded. He pointed over to a table lined with a dozen different beer taps.
âThe normal stuffâs self-service. I recommend the Wheat Haze. Pretty mild, but itâs good for stock humans like yâself.â
Manny got up, grabbed a glass from a dispenser at the edge of the bar and walked over to the beer table. Each keg had a thick strip of white tape across the front. The only details given about each beer were vague, almost illegibly scrawled names. Manny found two labels that both looked like they might say âWhite Hazeâ. He picked one at random, then headed back to the bar and sat next to Reggie.
Mike looked impressed for some reason. âGood choice,â he said with a nod. Manny took a sip. It was really good, a mild pale ale with just a hint of sour. He leaned in and looked at the maps and scrolling updates on Reggieâs screen. The journalist finished writing down a couple of notes and shook his head.
âIâm really sorry man. Truly,â he gestured towards the live map. âThis is so fucked.â
âYou gonna stay here to cover the fall?â Mike asked. Reggie shook his head. He looked frustrated.
âGot a message from my editor a bit ago. Theyâre trying to work out an extract for me. Gonna send a team out here to drive me west, to El Paso. I guess itâs not safe to fly out of Austin right now, so...â
He trailed off. The three of them drank in silence for a minute. Skullfucker Mike gulped down the last of his glass and ordered another, along with three shots of bourbon. Manny started to turn down the shot, but it was soon apparent that Mike wanted all three shots for himself. He downed them all in the space of around a second, belched loudly, and then returned to staring at Reggieâs screen.
âFuck.â He sighed out again, âFuck, fuckedy fuck.â
Manny was halfway through his beer when Donald Farris approached. The old documentarian wore a burgundy velvet waistcoast underneath a slightly battered but well-tailored tweed jacket. He had a glass of probable whiskey in his hand and the soberest eyes Manny had seen that day.
âHello there gentlemen. Skullfucker Mike. Getting caught up on the latest catastrophes, are we?â
âYep,â said Mike. âHow ya been?â
The older man shrugged and took his seat at the table. He gulped his whiskey and looked down the table at Manny. It was strange to see an actual old person this close up. The creases in his forehead and around his lips were so deep they could have been carved with a knife. There were spots on him, a clear sign heâd taken no JuvEn treatments at all. His voice had a deep craggy richness that leant every word he said a certain vague majesty. Donald Farris spoke and Manny felt compelled to listen.
âYou can help this you know. Weâre stuck negotiating with the Kingdom now, and they are most recalcitrant. But the fuckians-â
âWait a second,â Reggie interrupted, âFuckians? Really?â
Donald and Mike exchanged a look, and then a laugh. Donald replied, âThis cityâs not exactly famed for consistency. Almost any collective noun you can think of would be appropriate.â
He took another slip from his glass and set it down on the bartop with a âclackâ. Donald Farris leaned in at that and eyed the glass as he rotated it around on the table. He tapped it again, smiled, and looked back up to the group.
âNow, young man, let me explain why you should go risk your life on a daring and dangerous rescue mission.â
Manny grunted and shook his head, reflexively defensive.
âIâd rather not talk about it right now, if thatâs cool?â he said. âI just woke up, this place is ridiculous, and Iâm not going to decide to go into terrible danger because some old man guilt trips me at a bar.â
âSuit yourself,â Donald smiled. âI canât imagine how stressful this all must be for you. Iâm a little surprised youâd choose to trip balls at a time like this.â
âWhat do you mean?â Manny asked, with growing anxiety.
âThatâs a White Haze, right?â
âI think Mike said it was a Wheat Haze, but I couldnât really read the labels-â
âAh shit,â Mike cursed, while Donald Farris fought back a laugh.
âWhat?â Manny asked.
âMike shouldâve warned you. The Wheat Haze is normal alcohol. The White Haze packs about two hits of lysergic diethylacid per pint.â
The anxious knot in Mannyâs gut began to pound and pulse. He looked to Skullfucker Mike, furious, âWhat the fuck man?â
Mike winced. He looked genuinely rueful.
âIâm really sorry,â he said, âIâm not used to it making a difference. Most people here take two or three hits of acid with their breakfast cigarettes.â
âOh shit,â Manny slumped forward and put his head in his hands. He started to hyperventilate. The edges of his vision blurred and Manny couldnât tell if that was from the drugs kicking in or just a consequence of his own panic. He could feel Oscarâs face hanging out, just at the back of his mind, afloat on a river of guilt. He didnât want to know what a headful of acid would do with those feelings.
âI gotta get back to the room,â he said, âI canât handle thi-â
Donald put a hand on his shoulder. He was stronger than Manny would have guessed.
âYouâve got a headful of Surprise Acid, boy. The last thing you need is to sit in a dark room and stew with your demons.â He exchanged another look with Skullfucker Mike and said, âBrainbreakers ought to be kicking off right now. Thatâs the place for a man in your condition.â
âBut-â started Manny.
âWhat the hell is that?â Reggie asked.
âWait-â Manny continued. Donald ignored him and replied to Reggie.
âItâs the best damned party on the continent. Or at least the best one humans can attend and survive.â
âI donât really want to-â Manny started.
Skullfucker Mike added his hand to Mannyâs shoulder.
âYou really do. Trust us on this.â
----
In the end, Skullfucker Mike and Donald convinced him to go. Reggie, surprisingly, opted to stay at the bar and continue his work. He said he was, âClose to something,â. Manny really wished heâd chosen to come along. He didnât know the journalist well, but Mike and Donald were complete strangers. Manny was not looking forward to the drugs kicking in. He also wasnât sure a giant rave room was the best place for him to be when they did.
As they approached it Manny realized heâd seen the structure when theyâd first arrived at the City of Wheels. Brainbreakers was a three story cube at the top of Rolling Fuckâs highest gantry. The cube appeared to have been knitted together from long strands of black metal. Multicolored light pulsed inside it and bled out through gaps in the knitted metal of the sides.
Skullfucker Mike lead them down the gantry towards the cube. There didnât appear to be any kind of entrance: the wall on this side was the same knitted steel as every other side. But once they reached it, Mike simply stepped into the wall. The woven metal writhed like something alive and curled back to admit the big post-human. The metal tendrils caressed Mikeâs body as he walked through. Manny flashed a questioning look at Donald.
âIt feels nice,â he explained.
Manny sighed, exasperated and furious. âIs this whole damned city is built around drugs and fondling?â
âYesâ, Donald grinned a spidery old-man grin. âNow, inside with you!â
Manny sighed, swallowed and walked up to the wall. The metal-which felt surprisingly soft and warm-slithered around him and, mother of god, it felt GOOD. That mightâve had something to do with the acid percolating in the back of his brain. The sensation was a cross between being tickled and being caressed. He was reminded, uncomfortably, of his mother stroking his forehead when he had a fever as a kid.
And then he was through. It took him a moment to realize he was breathing heavily and covered in cold sweat.
It was then that Manny got his first view of the interior of Brainbreakers. It looked a little like a space station designed by M.C. Escher, with a drunken H.R. Geiger as the contractor. There were a half dozen different stages protruding at various levels from the walls. Three of the stages were currently occupied. One performer was an enormous, seemingly sentient xylophone that pranced about on stage, playing itself with eight knob-ended arms. Another stage held four human-looking individuals. They were naked. And they were all fighting.
Manny watched in slack-jawed awe as they punched and bit and kicked and choked each other. Every impact sent a chorus of warbling sounds pouring out from speakers at the base of the stage. The longer he listened, the more hypnotic the âmusicâ seemed.
The third inhabited stage held a what looked like a normal DJ booth with a presumptive person behind it. Manny guessed that was the source of the bass-heavy rhythmic pounding that filled the square. The remaining stages were empty, for now. But the place was so full of sound Manny couldnât imagine two more acts making things any louder. It was chaotic and confusing and a little uncomfortable. But after a few seconds Manny started to pick up on an overarching rhythm. All three âactsâ were making very different music at very different paces but, somehow, it all tied together.
The inner walls of the place were covered in projection art. Giant, human-sized silhouettes stalked the walls, floor and roof. At times they moved so fast they looked almost like whisps of smoke. But here and there, one would stop long enough for Manny get a solid look. He saw several different figures; a tall, muscular but androgynous person. A small, lithe young woman. A broad, squat man with a bald head. They danced around each other, flittering up and down the walls. Their pace and the nature of their motions varied depending on the tempo and pitch of the music nearest to them.
It was mesmerizing. Manny stared for what felt like minutes. The sensation of his body faded away from him and his vision tunneled in on the dancing figures. Their dance had looked joyous and sensual at first. But the longer he watched the more frenetic it seemed, the more danger he spotted in their jerking limbs, the arc of their necks, the uncontrolled way they spun âround and into one another. Anxiety started to build in the pit of his stomach.
And then there was a hand on his shoulder. Mike.
âHeeeeey, budddy.â He grinned. The other manâs pupils were the size of dinner plates. He clenched and ground his teeth back and forth, âIt OK if I put a hand on your shoulder?
âUh...sure?â Manny said, surprising himself.
âCool,â Mike smiled, and did so. His hand felt supportive, comforting.
âHow you likinâ the party?â
Manny really wasnât sure. It was beautiful here. Now that Skullfucker Mike had pulled his attention from the dancing silhouettes, heâd started to focus more on the crowds of people dancing and drinking and fucking across the assorted dance-floors, cuddle-spaces and bartops of Brainbreakers.
Most of the celebrants were visibly chromed. He saw a woman with six arms, a couple things he could only describe as âdick centaursâ, a man with the head of a dolphin and countless people in bizarre costumes built of light and fur and liquid metal. It was hard to tell how much of this was real and how much was the drugs. The acid was hitting his head pretty darn hard.
Skullfucker Mike squeezed his shoulders and brought Manny back again. The fixer blinked and then finally responded.
âItâs, uh...good.â
âGood? Fuckinâ great. Letâs get you some whippits and head over to the fireworks table. Theyâre about to open it up.â
âFireworks? Inside?â
Mike laughed. âItâs hardly a party without explosives, brother. Just go with it.â
And so Manny did. He and Mike did some whippits, which meshed gloriously with the acid. Then they stood up on stumbling feet and headed over to the fireworks table. Things seemed to be just getting started over there. Manny inspected a few different brightly-colored explosive toys, before something burst next to his ear and he looked up to see Skullfucker Mike firing a massive Roman candle towards the musical punching people on the stage.
The sound of itholy hell the sound! It might have been the most compelling thing his ears had ever heard. The acid is definitely hitting hard now, Manny thought, holy fuck. Holy fuck what IS this?
The rest of his night faded into a blur of lights and music and strange, indefinable sense memories. It was disorienting and exhilarating in equal measure.
Hours went by. The acid faded. And eventually Manny found himself on a bunch of cushions, sitting around a table with Skullfucker Mike and other fuckians. He couldnât remember any of their names but, after a few minutes of relative lucidity, Manny was able to piece together that they were all friends of the people whoâd been captured. One of the men, a bearded guy with multi-jointed fingers the length and width of rulers, reached over Manny to grab a beer. He pulled it back, took a sip, and settled back into his seat.
âMy favorite memory of Marigold,â he said, âis from back when we were still building this city, right after we stole the Bagger. She got a hair up her ass that there oughta be a big purple clubhouse at the top, for folks to do cocaine in and watch sunsets. I remember she strapped an armload of wood to her back, grabbed a can of spraypaint, took a big rail of meth and just started climbing up the center spindle like she was gonna do the whole damn job herself. She got fuckinâ stuck two thirds of the way up, just hanging out there with her panties in the breeze, screaming like a scared cat.â
Mike laughed, âI remember that. Meân Topaz had to climb up and free her. And then she climbed the rest of the way up and started laying down boards.â
Finger Man nodded.
âYeah, I remember. When I climbed up there an hour or so later she was all frantic and fiddling with nails and bolts and turnt to fuck but like, making progress too. And I asked her,
âMarigold, why are you doing this alone? This ainât a one person job.â And she said, âI know. But unless I start building it, itâll never be real.ââ
There was quiet for a while. Manny could feel the pain in the pause, and see it on everyoneâs face. He didnât want to say anything. He was pretty sure there was nothing worthwhile he could say. But then he spoke anyway.
âCan you tell me about the others? The other two who were captured?â
Another of Mikeâs friends, a tall black woman in a bright blue shark onesie, nodded and replied.
âRickâs a little dude, great painter and pretty good pyrotechnician. Heâs no kinda fighter but heâs got a real sweet way about him. He puts people at ease. So he goes out on a lot of these delegations to be a good face for the city. Marigoldâs always the main negotiator, but we sent Tule out too. Sheâs newish to the city. Used to be an activist in Albuquerque, before the King took over and started boiling people. Sheâs a good talker, we had her studying under Mari so she could pick up some of the load in the future.â
âTheyâre all good people,â Finger Man added. âMarigold saved my life a few times, back during the Revolution. She helped found this place. It started out as just a big caravan of RVs and mobile hydroponics units. Sheâd find isolated communities, bring âem food and such. No government was much use back then, so for a lot of folks Mariâs caravan was the line between life and death.â
âAyep,â said Skullfucker Mike. âSheâs the one who found Topaz and me. After the Boss went missing, we were pretty lost. Doing a lot of freelance violence but not making anything. Not building a damn thing. Marigold told us her vision for this big stupid city, got us hooked on the idea.â
Manny noticed tears at the corner of Skullfucker Mikeâs eyes. That felt somehow wrong to him. Someone so powerful and inhuman shouldnât be able to cry and make it look so normal. But there he was, crying.
And then, for the first time in the trip the thing Manny had most feared happened: he thought about Oscar. He remembered a picnic heâd taken with the stringer, his wife Aisha, and their two kids. It had been a lovely spring day, one of the dozen-ish days a year in Austin where the air felt good on your skin. Theyâd drank cheap beer and eaten hot dogs and watched the kayakers roll along the Colorado River.
I sent him out there. I sent him there and now heâs probably dead.
âYâknow, thereâs something we share,â Mike said, his voice low and somber. âWeâve both spent way too much of our lives feeling helpless.â
Manny cocked a disbelieving eyebrow up at Skullfucker Mike.
âYeah,â the chromed man chuckled, âI know what youâre thinking. But youâd be surprised how often the fancy hardware doesnât matter.
Mikeâs face twitched, and more tears poured down his face. He took a deep breath, fixed Manny with bloodshot, puffy eyes and spoke again.
âWe all spend a lot of life helpless. So when you actually have a chance to do something, to make a difference for someone...personally, I recommend you fuckinâ take it.â
----
Manny woke up the next day feeling out of place and vaguely unstuck from time. He could hear Reggie snoring on the other bed. The room was very dark and it was impossible to tell what time it might be. Manny thought about activating his deck, but decided against it. There was something almost nauseating about the thought of being flooded with the outside world right now.
He stood up and went outside to wander the spindles and gantrys of Rolling Fuck for a while. At one point a man walked by with a plate full of breakfast burritos, and so Manny had breakfast. A little later he found a self-serve coffehouse stationed next to one of the fondleboats, and so he had coffee. He was just starting to think about turning on his deck and welcoming in the world when Donald Farris found him.
âManny, my boy! I hope your acid hangoverâs not too bad.â
Manny shrugged, âI actually feel alright. It was a...it was good. It helped me sort some things out.â
The older man smiled, âIâm genuinely happy to hear that. Thereâs nothing like a head full of acid to help you see whatâs important. Now listen, I hate to interrupt your morning, but thereâve been some developments. Nana Yazziee and I need to talk to you.â
Manny went with him, back down into the main roller and that weird conference room where theyâd met on his first day in the city. There were more people there now. Nana Yazziee sat in the same spot at the end of the table. Reggie was there, fiddling with one of his screens. Skullfucker Mike sat next to him. And then, at the other end of the table, was a large black dude Manny had never seen before.
He was muscular, but in the lean wiry way of a construction worker or a particularly swole hobo. He had a long, gaunt face with prominent cheekbones and an oft-broken nose. His hands were big. There was something menacing about them. But his face was the least threatening thing in the world. His eyes were lidded, half-focused and dreamy. His jaw was just a little slack. He had short hair, stubble really, and a patchy six-day beard. He looked stoned.
âWelcome Manny,â said Nana Yazziee. She gestured towards the big man, âThis is Roland. If you choose to help us rescue our people, heâll be your escort into the Heavenly Kingdom. And your escape plan.â
Donald shut the door behind them, walked around to the other side of the table and sat down next to Nana Yazziee.
âWeâve tried to give you time and space on this,â he said. âBut Iâm afraid both of those things are running out. All our intelligence suggests the Heavenly Kingdom is very close to another all out assault. Theyâll move on Waco in four or five days. They could be outside Austin in a weekâs time.â
âYou are free to make whatever call you want. Our offer to fly you to Austin still stands, mijo,â said Nana Yazziee. âBut I am afraid we need you to make a decision now.â
âIâll do it,â Manny said.
Almost everyone looked surprised. Donald coughed. Nana Yazzieeâs eyes went wide. Reggie did a double-take. Skullfucker Mike just smiled and nodded at Manny. Roland didnât look as if heâd been affected in any way. In fact, Manny was pretty sure he was drumming along to some music only he could hear. It mightâve been Ronnie James Dioâs Holy Diver.
Once heâd been dismissed, Roland had made it his immediate business to get as high as post-humanly possible before he was needed. This was not a difficult task. Rolling Fuck had been built to keep buzzes going.
The main rollerâs bar stocked an assortment of beers mixed with LSD, laudanum, dimethyltryptamine, and a half dozen Shulgin chemicals. Roland started off by sampling them all. He drank until the fireworks show in his head was indistinguishable from the actual fireworks outside. Are those real, or am I just fuckinâ LIT? Roland decided that answering that question wouldnât make him happier.
He lost himself for a while and drifted from one of the Fondleboats to a dance party in a field underneath the main gantry. After hours of that Roland had his fill of rhythm, so he found his way to a coke binge in a weird purple house atop one of the spindles. The rest of the night he spent testing the limits of his toxin filters and his tolerance for human contact.
The latter came first. He abandoned the coke party and stumbled through Rolling Fuck until he reached small booth with baggies of Umm Nylokh, a DMT-based hallucinogen made from synthetically grown giraffe liver.
Things got fuzzy after that. There was a fireworks fight on a spindle that caught a shack on fire. He downed a shitload of mescaline as the sun breached. And then, quite suddenly, it was afternoon and he was lying on his back across the baking hot metal of one of the spindles. Skullfucker Mike stood above him, naked as the day he was born and holding some sort of frosty, purple beverage in a large tiki cup.
âHey man,â Mike said as he took a sip. âNana Yazziee told me to find you. You straight enough to talk to people?â
Roland nodded. He wasnât, really, but he could sober up fast. Maybe âsoberâ wasnât the right word. His brain could flood itself with focusing drugs to offset the hallucinogens. And he had a vial of liquid methamphetamine somewhere in his pack. That might do the trick. Roland sat up, grunted and waved a hand at Mike. Then he dug around in his pack for the vial. He found it and drained half.
âAlright, letâs go,â he said, âletâs go to the place and do the things.â
Mike helped him down the spindle. Rolandâs unsteady legs were proof that heâd managed to find himself a worthy drug binge. The satisfaction he felt from that mixed well with the initial meth euphoria; by the time they reached the conference room he was wired as fuck and kinda wishing heâd picked a different drug to spin his mood.
Roland sat down and eased into his chair. A short young anglo fellow entered next and sat down on the opposite side of the conference table. He looked and smelled nervous. Roland paid him little mind. He was too jittery from the meth to want to talk. He decided a nice dose of some downers would help his situation and rooted around for his heroin kit.
At that moment another young man entered the room. He was short, Hispanic, and about twenty-one years old. Nana Yazziee embraced the kid. Skullfucker Mike clapped him on the shoulder. They started talking, the kid said something that seemed to surprise most of the people in the room. Roland half paid attention to all that while he loaded up his syringe and tied off his arm. He stopped when he realized everyone else in the room was staring.
â...uh, hey. Something wrong?â He asked.
âRoland,â Nana Yazziee said in a warm voice as she gestured to the Hispanic kid, âthis is Manny. Heâs going to be your partner for the mission. He grew up in the Republic and heâs a skilled negotiator. Heâll help you blend in while you do your work.â
âCool,â Roland grunted, and returned to his heroin.
âRoland, if you wouldnât mind, Reggie was about to speak,â Nana Yazzieeâs smile was as indulgent as ever. âHeâs uncovered something important about the Heavenly Kingdom. It might be useful to you.â
Roland shrugged. âUnless heâs got a list of which bartenders in Plano make a passable Whiskey Sour, I canât imagine caring. But if you let me finish this-â He jiggled the syringe in the air, â-I might be able to at least pay attention. Right now Iâm too methâd out to focus.â
The old man leaned forward and sighed. The kid looked horrified. He started working his mouth, in what Roland was sure must be the prelude to some sort of expression of shock or offense. Skullfucker Mike pre-empted him.
âLet Roland shoot up. Trust me, drugs arenât going to make him more or less effective here.â
Roland grinned. Skullfucker Mike clearly knew him, even if he could only sorta remember Skullfucker Mike. He went back to tying off his arm and shooting up while the younger Brit stumbled into the start of his speech.
â...yes, well. Iâve uh, been going over the last few days of successful vehicle-based bombings on checkpoints, from Galveston and Lake Houston and all across the Dallas-Fort Worth area. In total Iâve identified three-hundred-twenty-one bombings that appear to have been carried out as part of this overall offensive. Two-hundred-forty of those bombings involved autonomous vehicles hitting dedicated autonomous vehicle checkpoints.â
Right on queue, a projection map flickered to life on the wall behind him. Hundreds of red dots populated a map of the conflict-riddled regions of North / Central Texas. It looked like the pattern of attacks youâd want in order to funnel the SDFâs limited resources towards the least defensible chunks of their line. What was weird was that so many bomb-rigged autonomous vehicles had gotten through the scanners.
âSo,â Roland asked, âhowâd the fuckers do it? A bunch of zero-days?â
Reggie shook his head.
âThatâs what I thought at first,â he said. âBut these attacks actually started more than a month before this offensive. If they were relying on exploits, the SDFâs IT folks wouldâve caught something by now. The most likely explanation is that the Martyrs found some way to make vehicles that arenât autonomous seem that way.â
âYeah,â Manny said. âThe Martyrs have tried to hide drivers in âautonomousâ vehicles before. The SDF watches for it.â
âWhich means the Martyrs have figured out something new,â said the journalist, âsome way to hide a human driver that doesnât register on conventional sensors.â
âAnd that way is?â Nana Yazziee asked. Reggieâs face reddened. He grunted, swallowed and then spoke.
âIâve got no idea. But I think I know where theyâre putting these new vehicles together.â
He snapped his fingers, and the projected image changed to a map of a city called McKinney, in the Dallas suburbs. It zoomed into an aerial shot of one enormous factory building near the outskirts of the city.
âThe BBC pays for access to a few independent satellites that overlook this part of North America. We also pay the SDF for limited access to some of their drone surveillance footage. From all that I was able to trace out paths for seventy-eight of the vehicles used in these attacks. Every one of them started their journey here.â
The projection changed again, to what looked like a stock photograph of the front of a large white factory building. The Tesla logo was displayed prominently by the front door.
âItâs an old Tesla plant. They finished it about a year before the civil war. Itâs been in and out of operation since then. As best as I can tell the last normal vehicle rolled off the line three years ago, before the Heavenly Kingdom started cocking things up. McKinney was one of the first parts of the old Metroplex to fall, so theyâve had plenty of time to fiddle with shit.â
Roland raised his arm and realized belatedly the needle was still dangling out of it. The old man sighed again but Roland bravely ignored him.
âSo what does this have to do with your captives?â he asked. âI didnât sign on to help you guys spy, or to blow up a factory. Send this data to the SDF or Austin if you think it matters.â
Skullfucker Mike put a hand forward in a placating gesture. âWeâre not asking you to do anything about this,â he said. âBut you and Manny will be our only eyes and ears inside the
Kingdom. If you get a hint of how theyâve accomplished all this, itâll be valuable to us and the SDF. Weâll find a way to make it worth your while.â
âI mean, the drinks are free here right?â Roland asked. âI donât know what else youâve got that I might want.â
Mike smiled and gestured to Rolandâs backpack of narcotics, which sat next to him on the big redwood table.
âBy my count youâve gone through about half your stash since coming out here. If youâre able to get us any worthwhile info, Iâll make sure the bagâs full before you leave.â
Roland narrowed his eyes. It would be a giant pain in the ass to find good Percocet between here and CamelToe . He sighed, âAlright, fucking fine. If we hear something, weâll look into it. But donât hold your breath.â
---
After the meeting, Skullfucker Mike took Roland down to cityâs makeshift morgue so he could steal a dead manâs face. Rolling Fuckâs militia had found the fresh corpse of some guy Rolandâs rough height and build. Heâd fled Dallas and made it almost as far as Waco before getting hit by a drone attack. The poor fuckerâd been gutted by shrapnel but his face was intact enough for his Chameleon implant. Roland hadnât used the thing in so long he worried it might not work.
He stared down at the manâs face and took in his features. The fellow was white, but his skin was burnt a deep reddish brown. Heâd clearly spent a lot of time under the Texan sun. He appeared to be in his early forties and clearly hadnât taken many JuvEn treatments. His hairline was fine, but the manâs eyes and the edges of his lips were creased with wrinkles. His dead, staring eyes were blue. There were deep, dark bags beneath them. Plenty of time to sleep now buddy, Roland thought.
He closed his eyes, focused on the dead manâs face, and felt his facial bones start to tear themselves apart and then reform. He felt the pigments in his skin shift too, which was always strange. The sensation of his pigments opening up and taking in more light felt a little like stripping off a thin layer of clothing.
While Roland did this Skullfucker Mike ran a scanner over the corpse and located the ID card in its right forearm. Mike used a tool that looked like a long metal straw to suck the ID free and then shoot the tag into Rolandâs own arm. It took a second for Rolandâs body to pull the data.
His name was Aaron Weathers. He was single. He worked as a mechanic in Arlington for most of his life. He had a clean criminal record, save for a drunk driving arrest in his early thirties.
Roland, now Aaron, left the morgue with Skullfucker Mike and headed for the ride that would take him into the Heavenly Kingdom. He used the walk as an opportunity to smoke a couple grams of fine Afghan opium. He was still smoking when they reached the battered old pick-up truck on the outskirts of Rolling Fuckâs campground. The kid, Manny, was in the driverâs seat.
âHey,â Manny said, and stared wide-eyed at him. âYou look different,â he added with a forced smile.
âYeah,â Roland replied and pulled himself into the passengerâs seat. Mike tapped him on the shoulder.
âWhat?â Roland asked.
âIâm gonna need your bag, man.â He pointed to the still-smoking opium pipe in Rolandâs hand. âAnd that. The Heavenly Kingdomâs got a pretty strict policy on intoxicants. Youâre not gonna get a backpack full of narcotics through their checkpoints.â
Roland growled at Mike. He couldnât fault the other post-humanâs logic, but heâd be damned if he was going to spend several days surrounded by a bunch of religious nuts AND do it sober. Roland locked eyes with Skullfucker Mike, opened his bag and grabbed a heavy handful of drugs. He swallowed them all, one by one; pill bottles and baggies of hallucinogens and vials of amphetamines. He ordered his gut to reduce its acidity, so he could store the drugs for later regurgitation and consumption. Then he took one last deep hit from his opium pipe and handed it, and the bag, to Mike.
Manny popped the car into drive and they rolled off into the night.
They drove in silence for a while. Rolandâs hindbrain wouldâve marked the time if he hadnât done such a successful job of pickling it with opium before they left. The quiet got awkward and boring pretty quick, though. He considered putting on music but, of course, his headware was severed from all outside networks. He couldnât connect to the car anymore than than he could blink-send an email. He decided to ask Manny to put something on.
âHey guy? Music? Can you music?â Roland realized he was slurring. And his words were not coming out the way heâd intended. The kid-Manny- looked irritated.
âHow fucked up are you right now?â
Roland gave a shrug that meant âveryâ.
âYou know, my ass is on the line here too. Iâm not made of whatever fucked up science youâve got in your veins. Iâd appreciate if you took this seriously.â
On an objective level the kidâs request was fair. This must be a big moment for him, going off on a dangerous mission to enemy territory, etc. But to Roland this was Tuesday. Or whatever day it actually was. Heâd disabled his clock and calendar years ago, because fuck that noise.
âFuck that noise,â he said without meaning to. Good God, Iâm so high.
âWhat?â Manny sounded confused and perturbed.
âOh shit, sorry man,â Roland rubbed his eyes, a little dazed from the opium. âI wasnât talking to you.â
âI am the only other person in this car,â Manny said.
âYeah but, yâknow. Iâm high as shit. Words come out sometimes, and they arenât meant for anyone. They just happen.â
The car slowed and Manny pulled over to the shoulder of the cracked old highway. When the car came to a stop he put his head in his hands and breathed in and then out very slowly. It took Roland a moment to realize the kid was going through a panic attack. Heâs never done anything like this before, of course heâs terrified. Roland wondered if he should do something to comfort the kid.
âYou know,â he said, âIâve killed about twelve-thousand armed people.â
Manny turned to stare at him. He looked shocked but, Roland noted with satisfaction, the statement had disrupted his panic. âWh-what? What the...â
âI mean, give or take a handful,â Roland continued, âI burnt my brainâs kill counter out with Krokodil and cheap vodka a while back.â
âWhy would you tell me this? Why would you think this would help?â
âBecause,â Roland said, âweâre about to go into a very dangerous place together. Youâre scared youâre going to die. And I want you to know, however many armed nutjobs are in that city, I can murder them. All of them.â
Manny stared at him. He still looked terrified, and vaguely pissed, but his heartrate was steadier. His breathing had slowed. Roland declared his gambit a success.
âOk,â the kid finally said. âThatâs actually comforting. Thank you.â
There was silence for a beat, and then Roland spoke again.
âThat all said, Iâd prefer not to kill anyone. Iâd really prefer that. I was on a pretty good no-murder streak until a couple days back. Iâm trying to stay on the wagon. So, uh, talk well. Be a good face-man. Thisâll all be easier if I donât have to commit murder.â
Manny looked a bit nervous again, but he popped the car into drive and rolled back onto the highway.
âIâll do my best,â he said.
....
They were an hour outside of Dallas when they hit the first checkpoint, and the Kingdomâs guards ordered them out of the truck. Roland stepped out with his hands up. Mannyâd done the same. The guards scanned them, verified their status as Republic citizens and then the questioning started.
âWhat brings you back to the Heavenly Kingdom?â their leader, a fat man with a Kalashnikov, asked Manny.
âWe heard about the amnesty,â Manny replied, âand we thought it sounded good. We want to live under the rule of God.â
âHmm,â the fat man grunted. âSo youâre both good, God-fearing men then?â
âYes, sir,â Manny nodded. âOf course. And Praise be to God for the victories youâve wonhere.â
The fat man sniffed at the air and looked over to his partner.
âIâm not wild about another spic in here. Hansen, you think we need any more Mexicans?â
Hansen shrugged, âOrders say the faithful are all welcome.â
âYeah,â the fat guy continued, âif theyâre faithful.â He turned back to Manny. âWhyâd it take a couple of devout men like yourselves so long to make a break for the Heavenly Kingdom? Weâve been at this fight for a while, yâknow.â
âI, uh, I mean we were scared, and we werenât sure what to believe-â
âWhat youâre supposed to believe is the word of God,â the man snarled. âAnd thatâs clear as day to everyone who lives inside the Kingdom.â Heâd looked back at his men and smiled an evil wolfy grin. âHansen, Molloy, I think we might need to question these two more intensively. Radio command and-â
That was the last thing the fat man said, probably ever.
Roland shoved a hand into the Martyrâs mouth, pulled downward, and shattered his jaw in four places. Then he lept into the others. It went quickly. He gouged eyes, broke jaws, severed tongues and then started in on their limbs. By the end of it all four men were still alive, but none of them were in any shape to report on what theyâd seen.
Manny vomited several times.
âWhat happened to doing your best, Manny?â Roland asked, more irritated than angry once heâd finished. The kid recoiled. Roland realized Manny had started to shake a little. He also realized there was still part of a manâs ear in his mouth. Aw hell, you scared him.
âSorry kid,â he said, and squatted down next to Manny. âLook, the odds were always good that this first try was gonna be a scratch. The good news is, theyâve got other checkpoints. Weâll hop on the access road and find the next one. Itâll be fine.â
âWhat did you do to-â Manny started.
âI stopped them from talking,â He said, very quickly. âNo oneâs dead. Theyâll be, uh,â he glanced down at the burbling, bleeding mess of shattered humans, â...theyâll be aight. But we need to move now, before someone else comes along and Iâve got to break them too.â
Roland popped open the cab so he could change into a clean set of spare clothes. He was grateful that Skullfucker Mike had packed them bags to lend their story extra verisimilitude. Manny changed too, and once his hands stopped shaking they rolled off to the next checkpoint. Roland tried not to think too much about the men heâd just broken. It helped that one of them had been an asshole. It helped that none of them had died. But still...
They hit the next checkpoint eight minutes later, and things went much better this time.
For one thing, it was busier. There were already a dozen other cars in line when they pulled in.
The guy who questioned them was less of an asshole and he seemed to buy Mannyâs claim.
âWe werenât brave enough to make the journey until now. But we prayed all night about this. I know itâs the right thing to do.â
Roland had to fight to avoid rolling his eyes. The line worked, though. The man at the checkpoint waved them in and issued them a temporary transit pass.
âThis is good for six hours,â the checkpoint officer said. âThatâs plenty of time to find the immigration center and report in. If youâre caught driving around the Kingdom after that, it wonât end well for you.â
They drove on, but it was slow going after the checkpoint. The roads into Dallas were choked with ruined vehicles and actual traffic. It looked as if hundreds of people had taken the Heavenly Kingdom up on its amnesty offer. Roland couldnât fault them for that. The Kingdom seemed to be winning.
As they rolled towards Plano they were stopped regularly by patrolling Martyrs and asked to present their papers. But bit by bit, they made their way onto and through the packed and crumbling highways of old Dallas. At one point they found themselves in stalled traffic on Highway 75, overlooking the cratered ruins of the Lakewood blast.
He felt cold October air. He smelled barrel fires and heard the sharp crack of riflery. He saw flashes of a face-it mightâve been Jimâs-and he remembered the feel of a cold metal handle, attached to something heavy and dense. He remembered yelling too, a small, sweaty hand held tight in his own. He remembered guilt.
âWhatâs up?â Manny asked. He looked over at Roland and his eyes widened. âDude, youâre shaking. Donât tell me youâre flipping out now. Weâre too deep into this thing.â
Roland shook his head. âItâs nothing.â he said. âJust a piece of an old memory hitting me in the face. I think I was in town when that fucker went off.
The young manâs pupils grew as big as saucers.
âNi verga,â he spat, âYouâre full of shit.â
Roland shrugged. âI dunno, maybe. Itâs just a piece of a memory. I might be confusing it with something else. Sure got triggered by seeing the blast site, though.â
Manny was not satisfied by that answer. âI refuse to believe that someone could watch an atom bomb eviscerate a city and not have a clear memory of it. I had to take anti-rad pills my whole childhood because of that bomb.â
âI donât have any clear memories, kid. None from further back than about, I guess, five or eight years ago. I donât have a lot of clear memories since then either, but thatâs from the drugs.â
âWhat the hell happened to you?â Manny asked. âI thought you post-humans all had hard drives running through your blood. Were you too cheap to pay for a photographic memory?â
Roland scratched his neck. He wasnât itchy. It was a nervous gesture. He was a little fascinated at the fact that this line of questioning made him feel nervous. He really couldnât remember the last time a conversation had made him feel that way. Weird.
âI got hurt,â was all he could honestly say. âI donât remember much of anything from before the Revolution. Hell, I donât really remember the Revolution.â
The line of cars started moving again. Manny popped the car back into drive, and they rolled further into the Heavenly Kingdom. Both men were quiet for a minute, until Roland spoke again.
âThatâs why Iâm doing this, you know.â He wasnât sure why he was saying all this, but Roland found he couldnât stop himself. âJim, the guy who brought me on, knows some fuckinâ East Coast surgeon who specializes in post-human brains. They think they can give me back my memory. This rescue mission is how I pay for that.â
âAre you sure you want those memories back?â Manny asked.
âThe fuck do you mean? I donât even know who I am, or was, right now. Wouldnât you want that shit back if you lost it?â
Manny glanced over at him. They locked eyes.
âI donât know,â the kid said. âYou say youâve killed at least twelve thousand people. Iâve been working as a fixer for the last two years, and Iâve seen a lot of fucked up eyes . Dead eyes on men whoâve done too much killing. But none of them hold a candle to whatâs going on there.â He pointed to Rolandâs face. âI dunno. I got a feeling your past is one big, fucked-up nightmare. Maybe youâre better off without it.â
Roland was quiet for a while, and Manny didnât say anything else. They crept along in stops and starts and inched closer to Plano as the sun cracked open the horizon. The kid had a point , Roland decided. Heâd worried about the same thing himself since Jim made the offer. Every hour or so he still found himself thinking about the driver of that technical. The man had reeked of love.
And yeah, the guyâd been fighting to establish a Christofascist nightmare state. But somehow that didnât mitigate his death in Rolandâs head. Most causes were shit. Most men who fought for anything fought for nightmares. That guy, and all his friends, had just been doing what felt right based on the shit lives theyâd lived. The same thing had to be true for most of the soldiers and insurgents Roland had killed. How many civilians did you kill, Roland? How many lives did you end just to keep the battle drugs flowing?
When he thought about it that way, he really didnât want his memories back.
But then, of course, there was Topaz. He loved her so much. Or, rather, the pieces of him that remembered her loved her so much. Roland knew he wanted those memories back. He needed them back. Every time he thought about her face something twisted inside him, as if his guts were being tugged in whatever direction he thought she might be. It was a weird way to feel about a woman he only remembered in fragments.
Roland shook his head in a nervous attempt to shake the thoughts from his mind. Then he stared ahead at the line of cars.
----
The immigration center was chaotic, crowded and heavy with the smell of scared humans. It was also a happier place than Roland would have expected. Martyrs in fresh olive drab uniforms with bright golden crosses emblazoned on the arms handed out food, water and even cups of instant coffee to the adults. They posed for pictures with children. The whole place almost had the air of a party about it. There was someone filming too. Roland guessed he must be a propagandist for the Kingdom, putting together some sort of documentary.
They stood in line for two full hours before it was their turn in front of the intake officer. He was an older man, with a big bushy mustache, red jowls and a droopy rooster-wattle of a throat. He had a whiny voice that barraged them with questions as soon as they sat down at his desk.
âHow many Apostles did Christ have?â
âWhat was the name of the hill where our Lord was crucified?â
âWhat is the fifth commandment?â
Manny answered every question while Roland sat there and smiled vacantly like an invalid. Theyâd decided in the car that âplaying dumbâ was his best option. Heâd probably wind up starting a fight if he talked to the man and, besides, Roland didnât know shit about the Bible. He didnât even have any memory fragments of church services.
âAnd why is it that youâre answering all the questions, young man?â The officer finally asked. âWhat about your friend here-Aaron, is it?â
âUh, yeah.â Roland replied, âI just, um. I donât test so good. Mom said I ainât a thinker.â
âBut you are a Christian, yes?â
âOh yeah, sir,â he nodded enthusiastically. âI love God. Iâm all about God!â
The intake officer narrowed his eyes at Roland. Manny flashed him a look of fury and then quickly turned it into a smile directed at the officer.
âHeâs, uh. Heâs slow, sir. His momma took care of him but she died in a drone strike two months back. From the SDF. Iâm just trying to make sure heâs OK.â
âMmmh,â the man grunted, then looked to Roland. âI imagine that must make you angry, losing your mother.â
Roland nodded and put on his best facsimile of an angry face. âTheyâre bad men. I want to hurt them back.â
The intake officer chuckled. âWell, Iâve got good news for you then. The Heavenly Kingdom needs soldiers. Iâm sending you both to a training platoon. In a few days youâll be Martyrs, and youâll have a chance to get your revenge.â
âWait,â Manny asked, âweâre...weâre being drafted?â
The officer narrowed his piggy eyes. âThe Heavenly Kingdom is fighting for its life, boys. Every person we let in has a job. There are no shirkers here, no layabouts. If you arenât willing to help build the Kingdom of God on earth, we have no use for you. And Iâve decided you boys will best serve God in our infantry.â
And just like that, Roland found himself inducted into a military for what was (at least) the second time in his life. The intake officer gave them more papers, signed a mustering order, and sent them off with directions to find the barracks that was, apparently, their new home. Manny handled the rest of the interaction well. He even managed to act enthusiastic, after his first startled outburst. But once they were out of earshot, back in the truck, he started to hyperventilate again. It looked like another panic attack.
âMierda!â he cursed, âThis was such a fucking bad idea!â
âHey,â Roland patted the kid on the shoulder, âits gonna be alright, buddy.â Some aspect of his comforting tactic must have gone wrong, because the kid just looked pissed.
âDo you not realize how fucked this is?â Manny shoved Roland back. âWeâre supposed to be effecting a rescue here!â He yelled. âTheyâre going to have us drilling and training day and night. Weâll be surrounded by soldiers. I thought weâd just be squatting in an apartment, saying some âPeace be with youâsâ when we went outside. I thought we were gonna track down those hostages in like a day. Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?â
Roland thought about that for a moment. He thought about the Martyrs heâd faced on the battlefield three days ago, in their motley armor and battered, rusted weaponry.
âLook,â he said, âif this were a real army, weâd be fucked. But youâve seen how these guys fight. Theyâve got numbers, and some professionals. But the bulk of their forces are just poor dumb fucks with a weekâs worth of training and whatever gun was lying around. Weâre not gonna be drilling from dawn âtill dusk.â
He gestured at the truckâs dashboard.
âTheyâre letting us drive our own fucking truck up there. This ainât gonna be like a real army. I guarantee you weâll have time to do our shit. Stay calm. Stick close to me. Do what I do. Iâm real fucking good at soldiering. If you follow my lead theyâll love us and our jobâll be that much easier.â
âAnd what if something goes wrong?â Manny asked. âWhat if they catch us?â
Roland shrugged.
âIf they catch us then weâll already be in the middle of their army. Thatâll save me so much time.â
The man on the gurney was the most comprehensively broken human Sasha had ever seen. His jaw had been ripped completely out of its socket and shattered in four places. His eyes had been gouged into horrible smashed-grape looking things. His hands and fingers were all broken, as were his feet and shins. His ears appeared to have been bitten off. His tongue had been severed and the wound cauterized with something that had charred the flesh black.
Sasha hadnât known a person could take such punishment and survive.
The chart at the end of the bed identified him as Sergeant Lufkin, a two-year veteran Martyr whoâd been guarding a checkpoint outside of Dallas. He was conscious; every now and then heâd thrash about and let out a burbling moan. But the man didnât appear capable of any sort of intelligible communication.
âWell these arenât combat injuries,â Dr. Brandt said. âThese men look almost like theyâve been in a car wreck, only the damage is too precise and too deliberately targeted. Iâve never seen anything like it.â
It was Sashaâs duty to administer the menâs painkillers, just a tiny drop of morphine each. It wasnât enough by any proper hospitalâs standards. The soldiers were all in clear agony. But the Heavenly Kingdom was short on painkillers and this was the most they could afford to spare for âinvalidsâ, as Dr. Brandt had called them.
This frustrated Sasha. Her motherâs hospital couldâve restored all four men to full health and vigor with, perhaps, a month of treatment and physical therapy. But the Heavenly Kingdom forbade vat-grown organs and limbs. Cloning contravened the Lordâs will. Sasha agreed with that, in theory. Sheâd fled to the Heavenly Kingdom partly because she believed JuvEn treatments had robbed the the AmFed of its humanity.
But still. It seemed so wrong that these men would go the rest of their lives as twitching, insensate lumps of flesh.
The number of things that felt wrong about this place grew every day. The executions had been the first big shock to her system. But sheâd accepted Helenâs justification. The Bible was filled with decent men doing awful things in times of war. The gallows werenât pretty, but they were hardly without Biblical precedent.
Sheâd been unable to justify Alexanderâs actions in the same way. Oh yes, she knew polygamy was condoned by the word of God. Sheâd read about Lamech and Abraham and Solomon and David and, of course, Jacob, the patriarch of the Twelve Tribes of Israel and apparent namesake for Alexanderâs âorderâ. She still hated what heâd done to her. Sasha couldnât bring herself to believe that a man as truly good as Pastor Mike would condone their actions.
âPolygamy is a biblically sound strategy for a people on the edge of destruction,â heâd written in one of his Revelator columns. âBut it is not the human ideal. In our Lordâs eyes, the most perfect union is one man, one woman, and as many children as they can bear.â Had he decided since that the Heavenly Kingdom was a people âon the edge of destructionâ?
After the disastrous meeting with Alexander, Sasha had made her way back to the House of Miriam. Helen was seated at her desk when Sasha barged in. The older woman looked tired, resigned and almost depressed. It seemed as if sheâd been waiting for Sasha.
âHello dear,â she said with a sad smile, âI assume you just met with Alexander?â
âYes!â Sasha couldnât help but shout. âWhat theyâre doing is vile, Helen. He wanted me as his third wife. He lied to convince me to come down here. He says thereâs a whole group of Martyrs-they call themselves Jacobians-and theyâre just catfishing girls down here. We have to tell someone. This isnât OK. This is so wrong. I just, I canât-â
Sasha started to sob. Sheâd been too angry to cry in front of Alexander. But the House of Miriam was a safe place. Helen was a safe person. Sashaâs grief caught up with her anger and she found herself doubled over on the floor, wracked by sobs. She lost herself in sorrow for a few long heartbeats, and then Helen was there beside her. She felt the older womanâs strong arms around her, felt a hand running through her hair.
âThere, there, child. Itâs alright. Itâs going to be O.K.â
âWe have to do something,â Sasha choked out, âPastor Mike needs to know whatâs being done in his name.â
She looked up into Helenâs eyes. She saw pain and anger there.
âSasha,â Helen said, âthis will be hard for you to understand. But the Pastor is well aware of what those men are doing. Iâve spoken to him about it myself.â
Sasha stiffened. She pulled away from Helen, and Helen let her go. They sat next to each other, on the floor, in silence, until Sasha spoke again.
âAuthenticity is the strongest arrow in our quiver,â she quoted, âWhen did that stop being true? When did it become OK to lie in the name of the Lord?â
Helen sighed and shook her head.
âIt is not OK. But so much about this world we live in is not OK. They still murder forty-thousand babies per year in the American Federation. A hundred thousand in the California Republic. Sodomy and cloning are rampant all across the world. We, the faithful are surrounded on all sides.â
Sasha recognized that last line. It was the opening sentence of Pastor Mikeâs infamous âSinful Continent in the Hands of an Angry Godâ column. Sasha couldnât deny the truth of those words. Everything Helen said was accurate. But-
âBut how are we any better than them if we stoop to dishonesty to fill the Heavenly Kingdom?â
Hellen stiffened and straightened her back. âWe are better than them, dear, because our goals are Godly.â There was a hint of pride in her voice. âWe are fighting for the one singular Truth. You must never forget that the men and women fighting for that truth are flawed. We are all fallible. We will fall short of Godâs standards. But we are also the only ones trying to meet Godâs standards.â
âAnd that makes what Alexander did OK?â
Helen shook her head. Sasha saw tears in the corners of the older womanâs eyes.
âNo, child. Nothing makes it OK. You were wronged. That boy played with your heart. He lied to you about his love. And thatâs an unforgivable thing. But youâre here now, arenât you? And thatâs what matters most.â
....
Helen held her and talked with her for the next few hours. By the time the other girls came back she felt better. Not good, exactly, but better. Stable enough to not burst into tears during dinner. She kept quiet at mealtime and was glad that the others seemed too exhausted from their day of labor to say much either.
After dinner they had another hour of personal time. Anne and Susannah zeroed in on her with military precision. Sashaâs vaunted poker face hadnât been enough to hide her sorrow. Her new friends had guided her to a corner of the room where theyâd have relative privacy.
âWhatâs wrong?â Anne asked in a low voice. She and Susannah both laid their hands on Sashaâs shoulders. Sasha reached up to grasp both of their hands. It happened automatically, as if by reflex, but it brought her great comfort. She closed her eyes and stood quiet for a moment as her mind and heart calmed down.
âI met Alexander today,â she said.
Anne looked confused. Susannah frowned, then laughed and asked, âWhat, did he have bad breath? Were his eyes all-â she blew out her cheeks and crossed her eyes. Anne laughed, but Sasha stayed quiet. Susannahâs smile faded.
âSashâ,â she said in a quiet voice, âwhat happened?â
Sasha looked from Susannah to Anne. She felt a surge of gratitude in her new friends for being there at all. She took a deep breath in and then told them what had happened. She went quickly, in the hope that her clipped recitation of events would make it all seem less devastating.
âOh Sasha,â Anne said, âIâm so sorry. This has to be some sort of mistake.â
âHelen didnât seem to think so,â Sasha said. âI donât think Alexander lied about the Sons of Jacob being powerful here.â
âItâs chaos right now Sashâ,â Susannah assured her, âmaybe a few guys can get away with acting like this now, during the war. But once itâs over Pastor Mike wonât let them treat us like this.â
Anne nodded.
âKyle gets rotated back from the front tomorrow,â she said. âIâll ask him about the Sons of Jacob. Maybe heâll know something we can do.â
Sasha knew from the look sheâd seen in Helenâs eyes that further protest against the Jacobians would be useless. And besides , she thought, the most painful thing was Alexanderâs dishonesty. Heâs already hurt me as much as he can. She tried to convince herself of that, just as she tried to enjoy the company of her friends without dwelling on the face of the boy whoâd betrayed her. She was less than successful.
Bedtime came. The girls washed up, said their goodnights and snuggled up in their beds. As usual Sashaâs mind stayed awake and active. She wasnât having second thoughts exactlyâof course not, never! But so much about today felt wrong. Alexander and the Sons of Jacob, of course, but also that the brave men sheâd worked on that afternoon would never walk or see or talk again. This is war , she reminded herself, a great deal of it is going to seem wrong.
----
The next morning and afternoon went by in a haze of industrious activity; breakfast and bandages and preparing medications for doctors and nurses. Sasha lost herself in the work and, for a few hours, wasnât happy or sad.
Her shift at the hospital ended at five. She took her nightly jeep ride back to the House of Miriam, but rather than going right inside she decided to take a walk around the downtown strip. She had a few ration scrips in her pocket, enough that she couldâve bought coffee or even a meal in the one functioning restaurant still in town. But she wasnât hungry: she just wanted to walk.
This part of the Heavenly Kingdom looked less like a war zone and more like a functional polis with every passing day. Most of the piles of rubble and spent shell casings were gone now. There was still quite a lot of damage to all the buildings, and very few intact windows to be found, but that strange spoiled milk smell was gone. Some shops were open again, along with a small farmerâs market about ten minutes down from the House of Miriam. There were people out too. Not many families, yet, but she saw a lot of sweaty, tired-looking soldiers. They wandered in small groups and clustered around the stripâs only functional cafe.
There were refugees too, and new immigrants to the Kingdom. Greeters in blue and white uniforms, the foot soldiers of the Kingdomâs immigration department, led columns of them down the main drag and into old government buildings that had been repurposed into housing collectives. Sasha felt herself fill with a strange pride, at odds with all the doubt that still roiled in her gut. From right here the Heavenly Kingdom looked exactly like what had been promised to her. It was still rough, raw and unfinished, but it overflowed with the good intentions of Godly men and women.
Helen had been right. Sasha could see that now. As ugly as Alexanderâs lies were, as detestable as she found the whole idea of the Jacobians, the Heavenly Kingdom was still a thing of beauty. It was still worth fighting for. She just had to accept that it would never be perfect, and-
âHello, Sasha.â
She stopped. The hair prickled up on the back of her neck. Sasha turned around to face Alexander.
Sasha had been lost in thought, so it was hard to say for how long theyâd been following her. Three other young men were with him. They all wore clean, pressed new uniforms and sidearms at their waists. She didnât recognize the rank insignias on their shoulders. But she did notice that each of them wore a large gold badge in the shape of a lionâs head on their lapel. Sheâd seen a lot of uniformed Martyrs during her short time with the Heavenly Kingdom. Sheâd never seen a badge like that before.
âHello Alexander,â she tried to keep her voice cool, but respectful. âHello brothers. Peace be with you.â
âAnd also with you,â the other young men mumbled by habit.
âAre you walking alone right now, my dear?â Alexander asked. His lips curled up into an unctuous smile. âThat worries me. These streets still arenât as safe as they should be. Let us walk with you a while.â
Sasha stiffened. There was something dark in Alexanderâs eyes. She wondered if it had always been there and sheâd just ignored it before. Her heart began to race. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. There were a lot of people around still but she was away from the most crowded part of the main drag. It wouldnât be hard for three strong young men to move her somewhere less visible.
âIâd prefer to walk alone.â She tried to keep her tone even. Sasha felt like they must still have heard the trembling in her voice.
âThatâs nonsense, Sasha,â Alexander said. âNo woman wants to be alone when they can enjoy the company of their protectors.â
He stepped towards her, reached a hand out and brushed the hair away from her eyes. Alexander stroked her cheek. His hand drifted down to her shoulder, where he applied firm pressure. Sasha wanted to pull away. But Alexander was much larger than she was. He had a gun, and two friends with guns, and apparently the personal support of Pastor Mike. So she stood still and tried to stop her heart from beating quite so fast.
âSasha,â he said in the gentle, sweet voice that had helped to carry her here, âyou deserve to be cared for. I know the full truth was a shock to you, and Iâm not angry at your reaction. Really. But youâre still holding onto fragments of the secular world. You need to drop that veil from your eyes and accept that God wants this. He wants men like us,â Alexander gestured to his friends, â...men with superior talents, to breed and fill the world with more holy warriors.â
Sasha closed her eyes. She took a deep breath in, and out, and then another. Just go with it , a part of her said, he wonât hurt you if you just tell him what he wants to hear . She knew that wasnât right, though. She hadnât risked her life to cross into the Heavenly Kingdom just to compromise her morals now.
âI am doing good and valuable work here,â She replied in the calmest voice she could muster. âI donât want to be your third wife. I know God has another purpose for me, and I intend to seek it ou-â
His hand clenched tight on her shoulder. Sashaâs eyes widened in fear. There was something dull, black and hungry in his eyes. The two men behind him straightened their backs and started glancing around, scoping out the area.
âSasha,â Alexander said, âI brought you here. You are my responsibility. I donât believe youâre thinking clearly. We should take a walk and find somewhere private to talk about all this. Iâve commandeered a home nearby. Come on. Walk with me.â
He pushed at her the whole time he spoke and grew angrier with each passing word, so that by the time he said âWalk with meâ his voice had grown tight and cold. Sasha steadied her heart, met his eyes with as steady a gaze as she could manage and said:
âI. Donât. Want. To. Walk. With. You.â
Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure Alexander and his friends could hear it. But Sasha didnât move. She was sure any minute now heâd grab her full on and force her forward. But before he had the chance a familiar voice called for her.
âSasha! Is that you?â
It was Doctor Brandt. In all her focus on Alexander and his posse she hadnât even noticed the electric hum of the doctorâs jeep as it pulled up behind them on the main street.
âYes sir!â she cried, her voice a bit higher and more frantic than sheâd meant it to sound. âWhat do you need?â
âGet in the back, girl. You can flirt with soldiers later. The Heavenly Kingdom needs your skills. Weâve got a little bit of an issue.â
Alexanderâs face went purple. The two men behind him seemed confused. One put a hand on his gun but Alexander waved him back. He shot Sasha a vicious look and then turned to Dr. Brandt, suddenly composed.
âAny idea how long youâll need her?â
âWhat are you-a lieutenant?â Dr. Brandt scoffed. âSheâll be gone as long as the Kingdom needs her. I donât see a ring on either of your fingers, so Iâm fairly certain its not your place to care how long this takes. Sasha,â he beckoned to her with his index finger, âcome on now, girl.â
âGladly!â she said with a genuine smile. Sasha darted past Alexander and his men and hopped up into the backseat of the jeep. She tried to keep her head and eyes down while the doctorâs driver gunned the engine and sped off down main street.
Once they were under way Dr. Brandt turned back to her.
âSasha,â he asked, âwas anything going on with those young men? Anything...untoward? I ask because you seem positively elated Iâve picked you up to deal with a problem.â
Do I tell him the truth? Sasha wondered. Do I admit I was lured to the Kingdom by a catfisher? Heâll never take me seriously then. This job was her favorite part of serving the Kingdom. Sasha didnât want to say or do anything that might disrupt it. And besides, Dr. Brandt was a busy man. Lives were in his hands every day. I canât distract him with this.
âNo, no! Everythingâs fine. Iâm fine.â
Dr. Brandt gave her a stern look. Sasha smiled a tense smile in response. He shrugged and turned his head back to the road.
âAlright,â he said. And then: âThere was a problem with one of your patientâs blood tests.â
âOh,â Sasha frowned, âIâm so sorry. What did I do wrong?â
âNothing at all,â Dr. Brandt assured her. âBut that vile woman, Marigold. Sheâs pregnant.â
âPregnant?â Sasha was shocked. Most adult women in the American Federation had Aphrodite Rings installed. Sasha had refused hers, but the government offered them for free. They provided complete control over reproduction and allowed women to select whether or not they wanted to be fertile. Sheâd assumed anyone with as many biomodifications as Marigold would have a Ring as well.
Maybe she just wants a baby. For some reason, Sasha hadnât initially considered that a possibility. It was hard to imagine someone as fallen as Marigold choosing to raise children.
âYes Sasha,â Dr. Brandt said. âOr, at least, that first test indicated so. False positives do still happen. Thatâs why weâre headed back. We need you to administer another test so we can be certain.â
....
âWell shit,â Marigold grunted, âI didnât expect to see you back this soon. You need a friend, darlinâ?â
The heathen woman looked the same as she had on their last interaction. Her hair was less greasy, so they mustâve let her wash. But she wore the same slip dress and sat in the same corner of the same cell.
âSorry, no.â Sasha said. âIâm here to administer a pregnancy test.â
Marigoldâs eyes widened. For a few seconds the woman was speechless. Her mouth opened and closed, she nodded and clutched her left knee with her left hand.
âOK,â the captive said. âRight. Where do you want me to do it?â
âDo-?â Sasha looked down at the stick in her hand and realized how these things worked. Iâm sure Dr. Brandt doesnât expect me to watch her pee.
âYou can go over to your...normal...space. Iâll just, Iâll turn around.â
She handed Marigold the test and spun around on her heels, so the other woman wouldnât see how much sheâd started to blush.
âDamn, girl. Are you that squicked out by the human body?â
âWhat?â Sasha asked without turning around.
âYour face is as red as a damn beet.â
âIâm sorry!â
âWhy?â
âI donât know!â
Marigold laughed.
âYou can turn around now. Iâm decent, and done.â
Sasha turned around. Marigold smirked at her.
âYou know,â she said, âthat instinct to apologize actually might come in handy around here. Iâm sure the sort of men who jump in on this bullshit will appreciate it.â
Sasha recovered her senses, and felt a bit of anger at Marigoldâs words. âI donât appreciate you saying those things,â she said. âThe men here are good and brave and, a-â Sashaâs voice caught. It broke, just a little. Marigold saw and heard her doubt. The other woman didnât laugh, like Sasha expected. In fact, her smile fell away. Marigold looked at her with something like pity.
âI know you donât believe that,â she said.
Sasha closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. Then she replied. âNo men are perfect, just as no women are perfect. But everyone here in the Kingdom tries, every day, to abide by the Lordâs will. Thatâs what elevates us above-â
Marigold interrupted. âDoes your Lord say women donât get last names?â
âWe donât use last names in the Kingdom because they distract us. We canât afford connec-â
âThe men keep their surnames. Donât they?â
That was true. Sasha hadnât thought about it much, what with everything else that was going on. But Dr. Brandt went by his last name, didnât he? And Alexander had a surname too. Sheâs trying to weaken your faith in the Kingdom. Donât give in to the doubts of the serpent.
âIt doesnât matter,â Sasha said, and immediately regretted it. Any response would surely just egg Marigold on. And sure enough-
âOh, it doesnât? Then why is that the rule?â
âWell itâs obviously because we need some way to tell families apart from one another.â
âYes,â Marigold smirked now, âand the only lineage that matters is the manâs, isnât it? Women are just appendages in your belief system.â
âI AM NOT AN APPENDAGE.â Sasha shouted, surprised at her own anger. She heard shuffling feet, and a second later the guard had one hand on the door and another on his rifle.
âIs everything alright, Miss?â He asked.
âY-yes,â Sasha called back to him over her shoulder, âIâm fine. Sorry. Sheâs just...â Sasha fixed Marigold with a withering glare. âSheâs very frustrating.â
Marigold smirked at that. Then she held out the test. Sasha hesitated for just a second before taking the strip from the other woman. Marigold smirked at that, too.
âYouâre pregnant,â Sasha said.
âAyep.â Marigold nodded.
âCongratulations,â Sasha tried to sound genuine. Marigoldâs eyeroll didnât help that cause.
âOh yeah,â the other woman said. âThis is a real joyous moment for me. I hope your people let me live long enough to know whether or not my kidâll deserve a last name.â
âYou know,â Sasha said in growing anger, âthis place isnât perfect, but if you got to know the people here youâd understand. They are the best people Iâve ever met. I wish you could have seen the welcome I received. Iâve never felt so-â
âLoved?â Marigold asked. âLike all you needed to do was show up to earn their acceptance?â
â...Yes,â Sasha admitted, suspicious.
âDid they sort of, swarm you? But in a nice way? Everyone hugging you and holding you and offering you safe, physical affection?â
âYes...â
Marigold nodded, as if sheâd just gotten the answer to a longstanding question.
âThey love-bombed you.â
âWhat?â
âItâs a tactic cults use,â Marigold explained. âYou sorta overwhelm someone with love and acceptance and camaraderie and all that. It nurtures loyalty. And dependence.â She shrugged. âItâs a smart way to manipulate young people in your position. Youâve just fled your home and family for a strange and dangerous land. Youâre scared and alone and isolated. And then, like magic, youâve got a family and a support network.â
âYou are so cynical...â Sasha had to fight back the urge to say âdamnedâ cynical. This woman was making her forget herself. She opened her mouth, as if to deliver a tongue-lashing, but the words wouldnât come. Instead she just narrowed her eyes at Marigold and stared for a few seconds.
âIâm leaving now,â she said. âIâm going to go enjoy the companionship of my new family. You enjoy this cell.â
Then Sasha turned on her heels and walked out.
----
She returned late to the House of Miriam. The other girls had already finished dinner. Helen had left out Sashaâs plate (a ham sandwich, carrot sticks, an apple and a small block of cheese) and she took it into the common room where the other girls were talking and winding down from their day.
âLook who finally showed up,â Mae sneered when she walked in. âI guess youâre too important to eat with the rest of us now?â
âI-,â Sasha started to reply. Then she saw Anne and Susannah huddled in the same corner where theyâd all sat last night. There were tears on Anneâs face, and her eyes looked swollen and red. She made no noise, but her back and shoulders shook as she sat there, half-shielded from view in Susannahâs embrace.
Sasha gave Mae a withering glare but turned and moved past her, towards her friends. She heard the other girl scoff and say something to her coterie of friends. Sasha couldnât hear what, though, and she didnât much care. She squatted down next to Anne and put a hand on the back of her neck.
âHey,â she said, not sure of what else to say. Susannah met Sashaâs eyes and offered up a sad smile. Anne continued to sob. For a few minutes, they just held her. Sasha burned with morbid curiosity over what, exactly had happened. She knew it must have something to do with Kyle. Anne had been set to meet with him today. Had he revealed himself as a Son of Jacob too-
âHeâs dead,â Anne whispered in a cracked, broken voice. âI went to meet him at the Cafe Clement and there were two Martyrs there, waiting for me. They both,â she stifled a sob, â...they both smiled when they told me heâd been killed. They said I should thank God for the blessing of a death in battle.â
âIâm so sorry Anne,â Sasha said. âSusannah and I are here, though. Weâll take care of you.â
She hoped that might comfort Anne a little. But the other girl lost herself in another fit of tears. Sashaâs heart broke for her. The pain over her own, comparatively minor tragedy flowed into the empathy she felt for Anne, and soon Sasha was crying too. She was sure some of the other girls were whispering about them, egged on by Mae. She didnât care. After a few more minutes of tears Anne managed to clear her throat and speak again.
âThe men, the Martyrs I met told me the same thing,â she said. âThey told me Iâd be taken care of, that theyâd find Godâs choice for me among the Martyrs. I tried to tell them, I donât want anyone else, not now. I need to mourn but they said, they said-â Anneâs voice caught in her throat, and she fought to throttle another sob before she continued, âthey said the Heavenly Kingdom might not be able to wait for my grief to pass.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â Susannah asked. Sasha didnât say anything, because the only answer that occurred to her was surely unhelpful. She had a strong suspicion that the Sons of Jacob had turned their eyes on Anne.
----
Sasha stared into Marigoldâs vagina. Sheâd seen it before, of course, the first time theyâd met. But it hadnât been her focus then, and sheâd tried very hard not to look at it too much. Now though, the point was to look. Dr. Brandt had picked her up halfway through her shift at the hospital to conduct a pap smear on the captured woman. Sheâd only had about an hour to practice.
âItâs a procedure Iâve done myself a hundred times,â Dr. Brandt had told her, âBut that was back in the AmFed. Itâs a sinful thing, for a man to touch a woman other than his wife. Thatâs why the Israelites used midwives. Thatâs why we use midwives. And I think this kind of work might be why God drew you here.â
His words made her proud. She liked Doctor Brandt, for all his prickliness. She also liked learning and feeling she had a useful skill that made her special. So sheâd paid close attention as Dr. Brandt had walked her through the procedure. It had been fun, and the act of learning had distracted her from her worries about Anne and her own grief over Alexander.
Marigold shuddered as Sasha slid the speculum in past her labia.
âYou could stand to be a little gentler. And would it kill you to, I dunno, warm it up first or something?â
âDr. Brandt didnât say to do that.â Sasha kept her voice firm. âThis is for the babyâs good. Iâm sorry if itâs uncomfortable. This is my first time.â
The woman snorted.
âOh, well, in that case youâre doing a great j-OW! Maybe a little less hard. And mine slopes down. Youâre going against the grain.â
âThe grain?â
Marigold rolled her eyes in disdain, but didnât dignify Sasha with a response.
âYouâre pushing the wrong way.â
Sasha readjusted, and Marigold gave a sigh of relief.
âThat sucks less, at least. Thanks.â
Sasha busied herself with the swabbing and rubbing that came next. She worked slow, methodical, with as much care and gentleness as the instructions sheâd received from Dr. Brandt would allow. She did her best to focus, but the other woman kept talking.
âYou donât look old enough to have graduated High School. Iâm going to guess they donât train teenagers to do pap smears in the AmFed.â Marigold added, âDo they?â with surprising earnestness.
âNo,â Sasha grunted.
âIâm gonna guess Dr. Whatshisname taught you then? Because why, heâs too scared of my demon snatch to come in here and do the job himself?â
Sashaâs face reddened. She did not like the word âsnatchâ, or Marigoldâs casual mention of demons. But she kept her eyes straight and stared into the other womanâs vagina. I have one too. Itâs not that big a deal , she told herself.
âItâs impressive you were able to learn that. Iâm serious. Real props, lady. Youâre the only woman Iâve seen do a damn thing around here. Howâd you trick them into treating you sorta like a person?â
Sashaâs ire rose and rose and rose. Lord calm my heart , she prayed. I know sheâs just trying to set me off. Itâs just desperation , she told herself.
âHow long do you think theyâll let you keep playing like youâve got a real life? Iâm gonna guess it wonât be too long before somebody puts a baby in you . You know thatâll be the end of all this, right? Like, your life, using your brain, all that. Youâre going to be a brood mare before too-â
âSTOP.â Sasha didnât yell, but she used her firmest tone and she was quite loud about it. Despite herself, she looked up from her work and at Marigoldâs face. The other woman didnât look surprised or chagrined. One edge of her lips curled up into a wry grin. Her eyes twinkled. Sasha had never actually seen someoneâs eyes twinkle before.
âThere we go. I wondered where the edge was.â
âThe edge of what?â Sasha asked without thinking. Idiot. This is exactly what she wants you to do.
âThe edge of your patience. The point where meekness ends. I was worried theyâd beaten it out of you.â
âNo one beat me,â Sasha insisted. âAnd thereâs nothing wrong with being meek. The Lord asks us to put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Maybe you wouldnât be in a cell if youâd accepted that for yourself.â
âIâm in a cell because I came here to trade. We werenât waging any kind of war. We werenât harming anyone. We wanted freakinâ cheetos in exchange for our latest coffee crop. Your people killed the old government and captured us.â
Sasha closed her eyes, breathed in and out and tried to calm herself. For some reason Marigoldâs words made her feel anxious and angry. She wanted to say the anger was towards the other woman. But that wasnât quite right. Marigold had been sarcastic and catty, but sheâd also been complimentary, thoughtful and far from cruel.
âIâm sure youâll be sent back to your people soon. The Heavenly Kingdom doesnât want any kind of fight with-with your city.â
âYet.â
Sasha finished her work. She withdrew the speculum and started gathering up her kit.
âI do hope youâre not laboring under the impression that this war will ever end,â Marigold said. âBecause it wonât. Not while your Kingdom exists.â
âYouâre wrong. Weâll take Austin soon. And then thereâll be peace.â
âAnd what about El Paso?â
Sasha shrugged. âA heathen nation. But they havenât launched any strikes against us. If theyâll let us be weâll let them be.â
ââRemain and expandââ, Marigold quoted one of the slogans Pastor Mike had coined during the early days of the Kingdom. The other woman had a surprisingly deep understanding of their movement. Marigold continued.
ââThe Kingdom of God will remain and expand until it reunites this broken land, from sea to shining sea.â Thatâs your prophet, right? Your mighty pastor? Sure sounds like a recipe for eternal war. Mexico, the Navajo, the California Republic and the King of goddamn Albuquerque donât seem likely to sign up for a theocracy. And those are just the big powers in the Southwest.â
Pastor Mike would have had an answer to that, of course. Heâd said that as the Heavenly Kingdom grew it would draw in millions from around the world and become âa shining beacon to the fallen people of the worldâ. Fighting would be replaced by peaceful annexation.
Sheâd believed that once, before she left the American Federation. It had seemed sensible. With Alexanderâs romantic words in her ear and the fiery prose from Revelator in her mind, how could she not believe? But now sheâd spent time in the reality of the Heavenly Kingdom. Sheâd met beautiful people and seen wondrous things but sheâd also helped treat a seemingly endless train of broken men whose bodies had been shattered by war. Sheâd watched a dozen people be executed by hanging.
Sasha was anxious. And Marigold must have picked up on it. The other womanâs eyes changed. There was something almost predatory in them. She leaned forward.
âI know Iâm hitting nerves, Sasha. Thatâs because youâre too smart for this shit. You got suckered in to a fucking nightmare. Itâs time to wake up.â
----
Sasha kept Marigoldâs words in her mind as she headed back to the hospital. A fresh wave of wounded men had been sent over from the Lake Houston front, and she wound up working three hours later than normal just to help handle the load. It was a whirlwind of bloody bandages, screaming Martyrs and irate, exhausted doctors trying to do too much with far too little. By the time she got off shift it was dark outside and downtown was almost deserted.
Her driver dropped her off in a weird spot at the other end of main street. It was a good two blocks away from the normal location, but she chalked that up to the fact that this wasnât her normal driver. She didnât really mind the extra walk. In fact, after an long day under the hospitalâs florescent lights, a dark walk and some fresh air seemed relaxing.
So she strolled and she tried to forget the faces of the men sheâd seen that day. For a few blissful minutes Marigoldâs words fled from her head and she lost herself in the peace that came at the end of a good dayâs labor. The streets of the Heavenly Kingdom felt safe. Sheâd done meaningful work. The Lord must be-
âHey-HEY! No, please, I really donât want to-â
Sasha heard a familiar female voice cry out in distress. A man yelled something, but she couldnât tell what. The woman let out a brief scream that was muffled by something. Her voice sounded familiar. Very familiar. Was that...Anne?
Then Sasha rounded a corner and saw them. It was Anne, alright. The girl had a bag over her head but Sasha clearly recognized her friend. Two men in black uniforms held her by either arm and forced her to walk forward with them. Two other men walked beside them. They all wore red berets. The man who seemed to be their leader locked eyes with her.
It was Alexander.
âSasha,â he said in a clipped tone. âYouâre out quite late.â
She stopped. Stared. Anne continued to thrash between the men. Her cries were muffled by the bag but far from inaudible. She seemed terrified.
âY-you, you all n-need to let her go,â Sasha insisted. âShe belongs at the House of Miriam.â
Alexander laughed. âWhere do you think we got her from, silly girl?â
Two of the other men laughed at that. They seemed nervous, though. She could see both hunger and a strange sort of anxiety in their eyes. Alexander was all hunger.
âAlexander, please-â
âPlease what,â he asked with a wry smirk, âdeny this girl the bliss of serving God? Why would you want that for her? Do you even believe anymore, Sasha?â
His lips, the lips sheâd dreamed about for months, the lips sheâd watched say such lovely things to her, curled up in disgust.
âLook at you. Youâre wearing surgical scrubs. You look like a man. Youâve lost your proper place in the world. It disgusts me that they let you do that work. Have you forgotten what God Himself calls on you to be? Titus 2:5, Sasha. Our Lord wants you to be âdiscreet, chaste, homemakers, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be blasphemed.â Remember that, Sasha?â
âNone of you are her husband.â
Alexander laughed. âThatâs not true at all!â He put a hand on the shoulder of one of the men restraining Anne. âTomas here married her today. Weâre just helping the happy couple to their marital bed.â
âThen why is there a bag on her head? Why is she fighting?â
âBecause it was a rather abrupt marriage,â Alexander frowned. âAnd her mind is still polluted with ungodly ideas about how a marriage should look. Tomas chose her. The Spirit of the Lord spoke to him when he saw her from afar. It is right and good that they should be wed. And he moves up to the front tomorrow. Tonight will be his first and maybe last chance to help the Kingdom remain and expand.â
He held out a seal, a golden badge in the shape of shield with a heavy cross emblazoned across the front.
âThis comes from the Pastor. I have the authority to grant marriages to any worthy men who wish them.â
He smiled again. Sashaâs heart fluttered. She felt nausea rise up inside her.
âSo back away. Let us pass. And Iâd suggest you dedicate some more time to thinking about why God brought you here. When your time comes, I think youâd prefer doing this without the bag. But Iâm fine either way, really.â
----
It was past dinner and past bedtime when she entered the House of Miriam. Helen was seated at her desk. She looked up as Sasha entered and, in an instant, Sasha knew there was no use in reporting what had happened to Anne. Helenâs eyes were bloodshot and puffy with tears. She knew.
âSasha,â the older woman said, âI have some bad news-â
âI saw them,â Sasha said. âIs that whatâs going to happen to all of us? Is this place just a holding area until we get married off?â
âThis place is your home,â Helen said in a voice that was almost pleading, âItâs here, and Iâm here, to shepherd you to the next phase in your life. Donât you believe I want the best for you?â
âI do,â Sasha said. Her voice softened. âBut Anne didnât want this. She told me so. Didnât she deserve time to grieve?â
âShe did,â Helen said, âbut the Lord demands sacrifices from all of us. Sometimes more sacrifices than seem fair. Anne is in a dark place now but the Lord will send his light to guide her.â
Helen seemed to straighten up as she spoke. Sasha saw resolve settle into the older womanâs flint-gray eyes.
âSo may it be,â she said. âMay the peace of the Lord be with you.â
Sasha started to walk off. She didnât trust herself to stay and talk. She was sure more of her anger would bleed out into the conversation. And she wasnât sure what Helen would do if she got the impression that Sashaâs loyalty had started to waver.
âSasha dear,â she said, and Sasha looked back. âYou forgot your dinner. Itâs in a bag on the table.â
Sasha took it and ate in silence, as fast as decorum would allow. Then she cleaned up for bed and headed back into the dormitories. As soon as she saw the light glinting off of Susannahâs open eyes, she knew the other girl was awake. Sasha knelt down at her bed and the two shared a long look. Susannah held out her hand and Sasha took it.
âWhat happened?â she asked.
âThey let us out early and dropped us off downtown,â Susannahâs eyes were wet with tears. âAnne and I had a coffee and we visited the market. It was...nice, normal almost. We headed for the House of Miriam once it started to get dark and,â she gulped, âthey were just there. Waiting with Miss Helen.â
Susannah swallowed loudly and her eyes grew watery, but she didnât cry. Sasha was proud of her friend.
âThat was them, wasnât it?â Susannah asked. âThose men were the Sons of Jacob.â
Sasha just nodded.
âHow long until they take me too?â
The barracks had been a high school, once, built to serve several thousand of the Plano areaâs wealthiest students. The dozen huge, grey buildings were centered around an enormous courtyard that included a practice football field, several tennis courts and a running track. The compound was boxed in by a high concrete wall, topped in razorwire. What had been built to defend the scions of wealth and privilege from their jealous peers also made the former school an ideal training ground for the Kingdomâs soldiers.
Manny could see hundreds of young men just within the courtyard. They ran laps or charged through a makeshift obstacle course that had been assembled over the old football field. Mannyâs head throbbed just watching them. I hope we donât have to do too much of that shit, he thought as he scratched the bandage over his severed deck, at least not today.
Dozens of men sat in small groups around the courtyard, reading together from books or cooling down from work-outs in sweat drenched underclothes. Manny could hear the sharp crack of rifle fire from a shooting range nearby. The whole place buzzed with a sort of busy, nervous energy that mightâve been contagious if not for the ugly stares Manny attracted.
âYou picked the wrong skin to wear,â Roland muttered at him as a troop of pale young infantrymen clomped past them. Manny couldnât help but notice that he seemed to be the only person on the training field who wasnât lily white.
âThis might be a problem,â he said.
Roland nodded in response. He spat at the ground and muttered, âWe shouldâa asked Skullfucker Mike to sew you into some new skin before we left.â
Manny frowned. âIâm almost certain thatâs not how-â
âMartyrs!â A rough voice cried out from behind them. âTurn âround, boys. Let me see your eyes.â
Manny stopped on instinct. He stiffened his back and turned around. Roland did the same thing, but with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes. The shout had come from a tall, square-jawed man with hair that had gone a majestic shade of silver-gray. He wore a black uniform shirt with brass cross pins in the epaulettes, black cargo pants and a big black handgun slung low on his left hip. His nametag identified him as âDitmarâ. Manny didnât know enough about the Martyrâs Brigades to tell the manâs rank.
Roland turned as Ditmar closed the distance between them. He stopped about a foot in front of them, looked Roland up and down and then turned to Manny. The fixer forced himself to meet the grizzled Martyrâs gaze.
Manny wasnât sure how to look like a fanatical Christian soldier. There was no way to fake the manic glint of true commitment. So he chose a different tack. He thought about Major
Clark, the defiant set of his jaw and the promise of violence frozen into the ice of his blue eyes. Deshawn Clark was not a fanatic, but he was a warrior. Manny knew he might be able to fake that. So he screwed up his face into his best imitation and hoped it would pass muster.
âWell,â the silver-haired old soldier growled and narrowed his eyes. But then his face broke out into a grin. His tone lifted up an octave. âBy God,â he said, âitâs good to have you boys here.â He clapped a hand on both Manny and Rolandâs shoulders and pulled them into an embrace.
âYour souls are safe now, my boys. Thank God for your warrior hearts. Now,â he pulled back and straightened up. âIâm Martyr Ditmar. Where are you bound for?â
âIntake,â Manny said with more confidence than he felt, âwe just arrived today.â He glanced down at his papers for a moment and then said, âThis says weâre infantry. Reserve division.â
Martyr Ditmar seemed surprised. âReally?â he asked. âIâd have expected them to put you, at least,â he nodded to Manny, âin the Storming Battalion.â
âThe Storming Battalion?â
âYes,â the elder Martyr nodded. âYouâve got the right...complexion for it.â
Thaaaaatâs got to be a bad sign , Manny thought. Donât press the question too much now. You may not want the answer. Instead he put a hand on Rolandâs shoulder.
âWherever we go, I gotta stay with Aaron. Heâs strong, but he took a few hits to the head too many. I help him get around.â
The Martyr gave a smile that seemed genuine.
âWell then,â he said, âyouâll want to get your butts down to cadet processing. Itâs a hundred meters down that-a-way.â He clapped them both on the shoulders. âItâs good to see you here. Smile, boys! Youâre heroes now. Warriors in Christ. Go forth!â
âGod bless you, Martyr.â Manny said. Roland followed up with his best attempt at honest enthusiasm.
âYay God!â he said with a too-wide smile.
âWe should go,â Manny said quickly. âI donât want to tarry on the Lordâs time.â
âThatâs the spirit,â Martyr Ditmar replied. âIâll see you both on the training field.â
They stomped off towards the cadet processing building which, until recently, had been the high schoolâs administrative building. There were posters for school dances and after-school clubs on the walls. It looked like a student body election had been underway when the Heavenly Kingdom captured this place. Manny and Roland queued up behind a half-dozen other confused-looking young men and waited for their turn at the processing desk.
The intake process lasted around an hour. They took his name, his date of birth and his measurements, and then Manny âhelpedâ Aaron answer those same questions.
It wouldâve been triflingly easy for anyone with a deck and a good connection to find evidence of Mannyâs career as a warzone fixer. But the Martyr handling their information wrote things down on actual paper. Manny got the distinct impression that many of the Martyrs had disabled their decks. He also knew from experience that data speeds tended to be pretty shit this close to the fighting.
Someone will check eventually, he warned himself, youâd better be fast about this whole business.
Roland stayed on his best behavior through the whole process, although he grew twitchier and twitchier as the minutes wore on. Manny wasnât sure if the chromed man was allergic to bureaucracy or just frustrated at having sobered up. Once they were done with the first stage of the intake process they were ushered over to another room, filled with folded stacks of clothing and dense with the scent of mothballs. They were issued uniforms and then bundled off to a locker room to change.
Manny was somewhat nervous about stripping down and changing in front of Roland, a dude he barely knew. If the post-human felt the same nervousness, he didnât show it. Roland pulled off his clothes in a couple of seconds, revealing a body that was tight with wiry muscle and covered in thick surgical scars. Roland started to pull on his BDU pants and noticed Manny hadnât yet started to strip.
âWhatâs up?â Roland asked. âYou smell nervous.â
Manny shrugged. âI guess Iâm a little prude still. Must be the Catholic in me.â
âDonât let them hear that,â Roland laughed, âthese fuckerâsâll hang you with your rosary beads.â
He pulled the pants up and buttoned them. Then he paused again and looked back to Manny.
âAre you still Catholic?â he asked.
Manny shook his head. âNo, I donât believe. But my family does.â
âAh,â Roland nodded. âYou fake belief well. Thatâs a talent.â
âItâs not a talent,â Manny said, âitâs a survival skill. Grow up in Texas, and you either learn to fake what you need to fake, or you learn to fight.â
Someone knocked on the door.
âAre you ready yet?â A voice called out to them.
âAlmost!â Manny responded, and he started to strip his clothing off.
A few minutes and a change of clothes later they arrived on the field where their training unit, twenty-four sweat-drenched young men, were doing push-ups. Manny was surprised to see that these Martyrs, at least, werenât all white: there was one black man right in the middle of the group. It took Manny a second to recognize the instructor drilling them was Ditmar, the man theyâd met on their way into the base. He broke into a broad smile when he saw them.
âGodâs will is truly magnificent, is it not?â And then he nodded down to the ground. âFall in and join us, lads. Letâs see what youâve got.â
Manny and Roland dropped down and joined the unit in another set of push-ups. If Roland had any trouble at all with the work-out regimen he didnât show it. The chromed man barely sweated. And Manny had a feeling that his sweat was more for show than the result of an actual biological process. Even with the show it was obvious to everyone that Roland wasnât having any trouble with the exercises.
âGodâs blessed us with a new Sampson,â Ditmar said, a hundred or so push-ups in. The rest of the men, Manny included, had collapsed from the exertion. But Roland just kept going. For a while they all sat there, huffing and exhausted and watching him go. Ditmar smiled and shook his head, a little awed at the sight. Finally he waved for Roland to stop.
âYouâve made your point, son. And weâre all blessed to have you here with us. Now, get up-all of you, and sit around me.â
Manny stood, shook the soreness from his arms and moved to take a seat in the semicircle of young Martyrs. Once they were all properly positioned, Ditmar squatted down and cast his eyes around the group, settling on each of them in turn.
âI donât know how you all got here,â he said in a quiet, somber voice, âbut I know what brought each of you here: the spirit of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.â He cleared his throat. âNow,â he said, âvery soon, youâll all be going into battle. Sooner than Iâd prefer. We donât have time for the kind of training you boys deserve. Youâll be fighting against men with more experience, better weaponry. Itâs a scary thought. But Iâll tell you all right now, if you go into that battle with the same blind faith that brought you here, youâll do just fine. God wonât let any other end come to pass.â
----
It was dark by the time Ditmar led them all into the dining facility. The sight of the high school cafeteria set off a surprising pang of nostalgia in Mannyâs heart. He hadnât enjoyed school. But something about the grey fabric-covered walls, the colorful posters and the dozens of identical faux-wood tables made him long for a simpler time. For a second he was almost able to forget where he was, what he was doing, and pretend this was just another day in school.
That illusion was broken when he looked at his âfellowâ Martyrs. Hundreds of them had filed into the cafeteria, dressed in a motley assortment of battle-dress uniforms from the old U.S. Army, the Republic of Texas and even the Mexican Army. Most of them were young, not even into their twenties. Around a quarter of them, though, were old for soldiers, in their forties or fifties. There was no military discipline to their appearance. Many of the men had beards or long, unruly hair.
âThese fucks arenât soldiers,â Roland whispered to him as they took their seats at one of the fake wood tables on the left side of the room. âThis is what cannon-fodder looks like, kid. The Heavenly Kingdom just expects these people to die.â
Manny felt a surge of anxiety. He was sure someone else must have heard Roland. But when he glanced around, he saw their tablemates were all deep in conversation with each other. Most of them, at least. Jonathan, the only other non-white person in their training unit, seemed to have been excluded. The other soldiers leaned away from him. The focus of the table seemed to be a tall, square-jawed young man with a Georgian twang to his accent.
âMartyrs!â A loud voice cried from a podium at the center of the cafeteria. The sound of hundreds of bodies on hundreds of chairs turning to face the noise filled the room. The speaker was a tall, painfully thin man clad in a long black robe. An enormous wooden cross hung from his neck. His hair was greasy, unruly and shock white. He had a patchy beard and the overall look of an unkempt madman. But then he spoke.
âMy brothers, it is a blessed thing to have you all here today,â he began in a voice that was little more than a whisper. There was a raw rasp to his voice, he sounded almost hoarse. Something about that quality drew Mannyâs attention.
âIn the coming days your instructors will prepare you for the great battles that lie ahead. You will be given the best arms and armor our Kingdom can provide. But just by being here, each of you has shown you already have a weapon more powerful than any tool in our armory: faith in God Almighty.â
His voice raised in pitch now. It was still raspy and hoarse, but it picked up a sharp, booming quality. He spoke faster. His cheeks grew red.
âPut on the armor of God,â he cried, âand you will stand firm against the schemes of the devil. Be strong and courageous! Do not panic before the enemy. For in every battle, the Lord your God will go ahead of you. He will never fail you nor abandon you.â
At this, several men around the room pounded their fists on the tables. One man in the back let out a âwhoopâ. These outbursts inspired other men to cry out âPraise God!â Manny glanced around, trying to gauge if more or less than half of the room was joining in. He didnât want to stay quiet if that was going to look weird. But then the pastor went quiet. A sense of anticipation filled the room.
There were about four-hundred cadets all dining together in this shift. And, of course, the officer in charge, a tall, gangly red-head with no chin but a strangely beautiful baritone voice, led them in prayer before the meal. Manny repeated the words after him, but he didnât hear them.
He did have to elbow Roland once, when he saw the big post-human wasnât chanting along with the other soldiers.
Just then, a pair of big doors to the left of the stage slung open. Ditmar walked out, with a hefty brown canvas bag over his shoulder. He was followed by an armed guard, and then two men in shackles.
The captives wore striped white prison pajamas, and they both looked the worse for wear. One of them, middle-aged black man, looked familiar. Manny thought he must be a captured SDF fighter. His lip looked as if it had been recently split, and there was a nasty gash on his forehead. He kept his head down and his shoulders slumped. His posture was one of complete resignation. The other man was-Mannyâs heart skipped a beat-
Oscar.
Heâd been beaten too, although not as badly as the soldier. He looked not so much frightened as bewildered, starving and probably reeling from one or more head injuries.
âDude,â Roland nudged Mannyâs rib cage and whispered to him, âthe fuck?â
Manny realized his mask had slipped. Heâd let himself stare in horror rather than the excitement evident in everyone elseâs face. No one else seemed to have noticed yet, they were all focused on the prisoners. But Manny forced a grim smile onto his face and tried to look, at least, like he was deeply satisfied.
An armed Martyr prodded Oscar and the SDF man in their backs with his rifle and ushered them up onto the stage. Dead silence reigned over the cafeteria. No one spoke. It took Manny a few seconds to realize that he was actually holding his breath. Once the captives were up on stage the armed Martyrs pushed them down onto their knees. Ditmar set his bag down, unzipped it, and pulled out a wooden rod, about two feet in length and as thick around as Mannyâs forearm.
âWarriors of God,â the priest intoned in a low whisper. Manny felt himself lean into the manâs words, even as dread pickled the pit of his stomach. âThese men appointed themselves enemies of our Heavenly Kingdom; foes of God.â He raised a hand up to Ditmar. His hand shook, but not out of fear. He positively vibrated with excitement.
âWho among you will take up the rod and punish these men?â
The chair-scraping-floor sound of someone standing up very quickly rose up behind him. Manny glanced back and saw that one of the men from his cadet group had been the first to stand. He was tall, with broad, thick shoulders and chest muscles that spoke of a youth spent laboring in the field. He had thin, dirty blond hair, a thick jaw and blue eyes that shone with excitement.
âWhatâs your name, Martyr?â the priest asked.
âEric Friedman, sir!â the young man cried back.
âMartyr Friedman,â Ditmar called out as he held the rod up, âcome forward and do the Lordâs work.â
The young man walked forward, stepped up onto the stage and took the rod from Ditmarâs hand. He glanced down at the captives. His eyes passed over Oscar and lingered on the battered black soldier.
âStrike a blow for the Lord,â the priest whispered. And Martyr Friedman obliged. His first swing was weak, unsure and poorly aimed. It struck the soldier on his shoulder. He didnât cry out. Martyr Friedmanâs second strike was harder, surer. He hit the soldier right in the gash on his forehead and the man dropped with a muffled cry. Eric hit him again. And again. And again. Ditmar grabbed another rod from the bag and held it out.
âStep up, men of God,â the Priestâs voice rose again, to a pitch so high it was almost a shriek, âstep up and be the hands of justice!â
Just for a moment, Oscar saw him. Surprise, then confusion, and then anger passed over the stringerâs face in the space of about a second. Manny didnât want to think about what Oscar saw in his face.
And then men rushed the stage, and Oscar disappeared in the swarm of Martyrs-to-be rushing in to share in the beatings. Roland took the opportunity provided by the chaos to lean back and whisper a question to Manny.
âWhatâs going on, guy?â
âI know that guy, the one on the leftâ Manny whispered back, âheâs one of my stringers-he works for me. I...heâs my friend!â
Roland nodded, and then stood up and rushed up to the stage. By the time he reached it, a dozen other Martyrs had joined Erik in beating the two captives. There was blood on the floor, blood on the sticks and blood spattering the Martyrâs new uniforms. Oscar cried out from each blow. It sounded like his mouth was full of blood.
And then Roland took a rod from Ditmarâs hand and, in the space of a second, brought it down both menâs skulls with dull, meaty thuds. The soldiers went still. The screaming stopped, and every eye in the room turned to Roland. The chromed man looked out at the crowd. There was an agonizing moment of silence. And then Manny knew what he had to do.
âPraise God!â he screamed out. The room joined in, and soon a chorus of cheers filled the cafeteria.
After that, Roland was everyoneâs favorite Martyr. Once the menâs bodies were dragged off the stage and dinner began, the Martyrs could barely contain their admiration for his strength.
âThat was incredible,â Eric said, âI canât wait to go into battle with you!â
âWhat did you do before?â a young man with a thick Oklahoma twang asked. âFrom the way you cracked those skulls Iâd have guessed youâve been doing that for years.â
Roland gave short, noncommittal responses. His taciturn attitude didnât stop the other Martyrs from talking ABOUT him with supreme glee. Their words sickened Manny, but their focus on Roland gave him a chance to breath and mourn and avoid looking over at the stage while Ditmarâs men dragged Oscarâs body away. By the time the excitement had subsided, and dinner had ended, Manny felt like he could just barely make it to his bunk without breaking down. He lagged behind Roland and the others as they all filed into the barracks.
Manny was grateful for Rolandâs ability to draw attention until, during the walk, that young black Martyr sidled up to Manny and introduced himself.
âIâm Jonathan,â he said, âand Iâm honored to meet you.â
âWhy?â Manny asked.
âI think you and I were the only ones who werenât cheering during...that.â
âAh,â Manny said with a nod. He took a careful look at Jonathanâs face. The other manâs chubby cheeks and soft smile seemed almost calculated to make him look guilless. Whatever he says, heâs one of them. Be careful.
âI understand why it was necessary,â Manny said, âbut I donât have to like it.â
âNeither do I,â Jonathan said. âWe have to fight them. Weâre fighting for God here, after all. But we donât have to become monsters.â
Manny nodded. He didnât say anything. Jonathan took that as an invitation to say more.
âI think weâre going to have a harder time here than the others,â he said, and gestured to a very caucasian crowd ahead of them. âWeâve got a lot to overcome here. But I think that just means God will shower more glory on us for the effort.â
Manny was proud that, in his sorrowful and half-panicked state, he managed to avoid shouting âWHAT THE FUCK?â at Jonathan. Instead he matched the Martyrâs smile and just said, âPraise God.â
----
Their next morning started with an hour of calisthenics. The work-out was strenuous, but Manny actually enjoyed it. The speed with which they were dragged outside and forced into motion kept him from picturing Oscarâs face for a while. After the work-out they dove into the real meat of the day: a trip to the gun range.
It had been set up on what had once been a marching bandâs practice field. Dozens of vaguely human-shaped targets had been cut out of sheet metal and set up at varying intervals behind a crude sandbag line. Their group of about two-dozen new recruits were each issued weapons of varying quality. Manny received a janky old Kalashnikov that rattled like a maraca. Roland was given an almost-new G36 assault rifle.
The range instructor was a one-legged old Martyr with a prodigious belly and an equally overgrown white beard. He walked them through the basics of how to operate a variety of different assault rifles (âYou canât know what weapon youâll end up needing to use.â) and then set them up on the sandbag line and told them to start firing. Manny took aim at a target around a hundred feet in front of him. It was hard to tell if he hit it or not; several other men had aimed at the same target. Again, Manny got the feeling that the purpose of this training was not to make them marksmen. Basic familiarity was all the Heavenly Kingdom had time to provide.
Roland, of course, proved a fabulous shot. He stitched a smiley-face in bullet holes across four of the metal targets and earned genuine praise from the instructor.
âBy God, son. Youâve got a gift.â
This only increased Rolandâs social cachet with the Martyrs. They crowded around him during the walk to the next activity of the day: lunch, and a lecture on assault tactics. This was held in a little concrete amphitheater, something that had presumably once served the schoolâs drama department. Manny tried to sit down next to Roland, but Eric and a gaggle of his friends settled around the post-human first. They babbled excitedly to him. Manny wasnât sure what they were saying, but every time he glanced back Roland looked absolutely miserable.
Manny wound up in the back, seated next to Jonathan. The young Martyr patted his leg. âDonât worry brother,â he said. âItâs gonna be rough for us to earn their respect, but once weâre all out in the field together theyâll stop caring about your skin.â
âYou sure about that?â Manny asked, happy he was never going to wind up in âthe fieldâ with any of these people.
ââCourse I am,â Jonathan said. âI grew up in Atlanta, yâknow. I knew it was gonna be rough coming out here. But thatâs the sacrifice we make for God. I know Heâs gonna bring this nation back together. Tell you the truth, Iâm honored to be a part of that.â
Jonathanâs eyes shone when he spoke. Heâs a true believer, Manny realized, thereâs not a doubt in his mind that heâs doing the right thing. That was scary. And things got scarrier still when their next instructor stepped into the amphitheater. This man was old and grizzled too. He had both of his legs, but his right arm was missing below the elbow, and a jagged scar ran up the left side of his face. The skin on most of his forehead was bald and mottled, as if heâd been badly burned.
âAfternoon, boys, and God bless you. Iâm Martyr Carruthers. Today youâre going to learn how to assault a fortified position.â
Most of the strategies he walked them through began and ended with the application of shoulder-fired rockets and incendiary grenades. Manny couldnât help but notice that no time was spent talking about how to avoid civilian casualties. He wasnât even sure Specialist Carruthers knew how to pronounce the word âcivilianâ.
âRemember what it says in the book of Samuel, boys,â the older man drawled. ââNow go and strike, and devote to destruction all that you have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.ââ He laughed, which made a few of the young Martyrs comfortable enough to laugh too.
âI donât expect youâll run into any camels or donkeys out in Austin. But thereâll be men, women, children and infants. If they stand in your way, they all equally deserve to be purged.â
Manny didnât like the eagerness he saw on the faces of his fellow âstudentsâ. The pit in his stomach grew throughout the day, while Martyr Carruthers explained how to use the various heavy munitions they might be called upon to deploy. There werenât enough rockets or mortars for them to actually train on any of those things. Manny wasnât sure how good a gist anyone really got. He wondered how much that would matter when these men took to the field.
He ate ravenously at dinner. Thankfully, there were no executions that day. But Martyr Ditmar did take the stage again and announced that the buses were ready to take any interested recruits down to the main drag for a couple of hours of what passed for R&R. One of the older Martyrs handed everyone ration cards and explained they were good for either a cup of coffee or tea, or a small amount of food from one of the few stores that had opened back up.
âFuckinâ tea,â Roland grumbled into Mannyâs ear as they headed out for the buses, âThatâs what these jumped-up puritans consider a recreational beverage. This garbage country...â
Manny had noticed the post-human growing increasingly jittery and irritable throughout the day. Heâd seen Roland cautiously cough up another small bag of pills right before lunch. That had sated him for a while, but considering his post-human metabolism Manny thought he had to be pretty close to sober.
âI am so fucking lucid I canât stand it,â Roland muttered.
âWhat is it with you people and being high all the time?â Manny whispered back. âCanât you stand being sober for a few days?â
âNot if I can help it,â Roland said. He pointed to his head. âThereâs just too much going on in here, too much input. Itâs like my whole body itches, but I canât scratch.â
âAh.â Manny said, since he wasnât sure what else to say.
The bus hit downtown Plano after twenty minutes or so. It wasnât an impressive sight. There were maybe a dozen little shops and one cafe open, plus a pretty sad looking farmerâs market. He could see no signs of any bars, any clubs, anything that even vaguely resembled night life. The main drag was crowded with people, throngs of soldiers and young women in long dresses, and new immigrants to the Heavenly Kingdom.
âWhere should we go first?â Manny asked, as soon as theyâd filed off the bus.
âWell,â Roland grunted, âunless youâre in the mood for shitty coffee or some root vegetables, I say we check out that gallows.â
Manny had avoided looking too long at the gallows. It was empty now. But just staring at it made him feel sick. There was something sinister and unsettling about the ground beneath it. It was as if he could feel the death radiating outwards.
âWhat could we possibly learn there?â Manny asked.
The big man shrugged. âNot much. But if they wind up hanging anyone tonight I might be able to sniff out where theyâre keeping their prisoners. Thatâd be useful data.â
âWell Iâm gonna be useless for that,â Manny said. âWhat should I do?â
âI dunno man. Grab some coffee?â
âWhat?â
Roland locked eyes with him. He didnât do that often. His gaze was normally as shifty and jittery as the rest of him.
âLook, kid, youâve done a great job. Above and beyond the call of, I dunno, duty or whatever. Youâre good company too. But Iâve got a half-dozen satelliteâs worth of sensory equipment in my brain and hundreds of wee-bitty microscopic robots floating around the air feeding me news. Thereâs really not much for you to do here. Chill out. Find whatever passes for relaxation here and do it. Iâll get you when itâs time to go.â
Manny started to protest. But then he thought, what the hell? Heâs right. Iâm useless. Iâve earned a cup of flavorless gringo coffee. So he thanked Roland and headed off in the direction of the stripâs functioning coffee house, the Cafe Clement. It looked like it was less crowded than the others. As he reached for the door someone slammed into him.
She was a young blonde. Younger than Manny, at any rate. She wore baggy surgical scrubs. Her jaw was tight and clenched. Her brown eyes were wide with fear and there were deep bags under them.
âOh-oh my,â she said, âIâm so sorry sir. Please let me-â
âItâs OK,â Manny said. âNo damage done. Are you alright? You look terrified.â
âIâm just. Just. Trying to avoid someone. Itâs nothing serious.â
Manny wasnât sure why, but he pulled the ration cards heâd been given out of his pocket and offered one to the stranger.
âHere. If you want, we can grab a table together and Iâll sit with my back to the door. Youâre not big. I can block you.â
She looked surprised, and a little hesitant. But after a few blinks she nodded and said, âIâd actually appreciate that a lot. Thank God for you, sir.â
âUh, yeah,â Manny agreed. âPraise him.â
They sat and ordered coffee. The young woman kept craning her neck around Manny to peek at the door behind them.
âLook, Iâm not gonna ask whatâs up with you. But can I get your name, at least? That might make this less awkward. Iâm Mann-uh, Emmanuel. Manny for short.â
âSasha,â she said, âI, uh, I just got here a few days ago. You?â
âThis is my second day.â
She looked surprised.
âI wouldnât have guessed, what with the uniform.â
He laughed. âIt turns out they just hand these to anyone whoâll hold a gun. I didnât even really have a choice.â
âWell if thatâs where you wound up Iâm sure itâs where the Lord wants you. Praise God for that.â
She didnât seem like she was joking. But there was something about her tone and the way her jaw never unclenched that made Manny suspect she was a little less than convinced about her own words. For the next few minutes they talked in between sips of mediocre coffee. He learned she was from the American Federation, and enough of a true believer that sheâd smuggled herself into the Heavenly Kingdom. She didnât seem like a zealot, though. More than anything she seemed scared.
âHow do you like it here?â He finally asked. âIs it what youâd expected?â
She didnât respond for quite a while. Instead, she stared into his eyes. Manny stared back. It was a strange feeling. She must have been trying to search out whether he was trustworthy or trying to trick her into revealing her disloyalty. He maintained eye contact and tried not to seem like a member of whatever the Heavenly Kingdom called their secret police. Apparently it worked.
âOf course Iâm happy here in Godâs Kingdom,â she smiled an empty smile. âIâve been blessed to meet so many dedicated people. But, um. Iâve also met some people who, um. I...um, well.â She coughed. âNot everyone here seems to have the Lord in their heart.â
Manny almost laughed at the irony in her admitting that to him. But he kept his mouth shut and just nodded. Sasha took a long sip of her coffee. He felt a little bad for staring. She was very pretty. But she was also pretty young. And of course sheâd volunteered to join a theocratic murder-state. That was probably another reason he shouldnât get too attached.
âSo anyway,â Sasha explained, âIâve run into some men I donât like very much. And they keep finding me when I get off from my shift at the hospital. Iâm sure theyâre waiting outside the House of-where Iâm staying, right now. I donât want to deal with that yet.â
âWell,â Manny smiled his most charming smile, âIâm happy to help you wait them out. Iâve got another hour, at least before the buses take us back to the barracks.â
And so, for a while, they just talked. She told him about her work in the hospital and he tried to say as little as possible about his two shitty days as a Martyr. Sasha didnât seem to mind that he didnât have much to say about himself. Manny got the feeling she was just happy to have someone to talk with. Most of her words passed over him until she mentioned something about a prisoner.
â-sheâs from one of road people, from some moving city with an obscene name. And sheâs pregnant. So Iâll be seeing her again tomorrow, probably, to do a more thorough examination. I feel weird about it. She was so strange, so different from anyone Iâve met. But I really donât like-â
âWait, a prisoner? Is this at the hospital?â
Sasha seemed confused by that question, and Manny worried he might have overplayed his hand.
âWhy do you-?â
The rest of her question was cut off by the sound of a bullhorn outside. Manny couldnât make out most of what was being said, until he heard, âprisonersâ and âSDFâ in an electronically distorted southern drawl.
âOh no...â Sasha moaned.
âWhat? What are they talking about?â
âItâs another execution.â
Manny stood up and stepped towards the door. He had to see who it was. Even before he got there, a terrible feeling had started to boil up in the pit of his gut. He pushed the door open, jogged towards the gallows and pushed his way through the crowd. He could see Roland, standing twenty feet off to the left from the wooden platform. But Mannyâs eyes were focused on the four men and two women in shackles at the foot of the gallows. Five of them were strangers.
The sixth was Mr. Peron.
Roland smelled the execution before it started.
Thereâd been a lot of strong smells in downtown Plano when he arrived. Gunpowder and sour fear sweat, the acrid stink of anxiety and the warm, wet odors of grief and confusion. Heâd smelled the stale reek of military rations, the sharp pang of anemia and the boiling hot testosterone that wafted from the Martyrs like a jetstream.
But, a half hour into his time downtown, something else had drifted over the packed masses of refugees and pilgrims and militiamen. It was hard to define; a bit of tension, and a bit of anticipation. The odor was faint enough to suggest something unconscious, a collective emotion. The aggregate scent of crowd of people who werenât consciously aware of how they felt. There was no neurotransmitter, no pheromone, he could identify in particular. This scent was more elusive. He was only able to lock it down through the memory fragments it triggered.
Coal grey sky. A biting chill in the air. Hundreds of men and women bundled up, clustered around barrel fires. Everyone talking. Excitement in their voices. Anxiety on the air, mingled with gun-oil and anticipation. Something was about to Happen.
A few seconds later the scent of anxious anticipation started to rise. Roland heard the deep bouncing thrum of heavy rubber wheels on pavement. His hindbrain tied the sound to a particular species of obsolete armored personnel carrier, originally manufactured in Bulgaria. After following its route for several seconds his hindbrain guessed the APC was bound for the main square.
Roland spent the next few minutes jockeying for a good position close to the gallows. He wasnât certain thatâs where the convoy was headed. It seemed like a good guess though. And he was quickly proven right when the APC pulled up to a stop just a hundred feet away. The crowd stopped and gawked as the heavy doors slid open. Soldiers in full body armor stepped out, dragging six men and women in honest-to-God manacles and chains out into the dying light.
The captives were all SDF. Roland didnât even have to make an educated guess on that one. The Heavenly Kingdom had made sure to dress them in their tattered and bloodstained uniforms. They were, all of them, emaciated and broken-looking. The evidence of torture was so clear that Rolandâs enhanced eyes werenât even necessary. The captives had broken, bleeding fingernails, black eyes, painful limps and feet that looked like they could barely stand to touch the ground.
One of the Martyrs, a tall man wearing a red beret instead of a combat helmet, strode ahead of the group. He had a voice-amp in one hand. He raised the other up in the air in a prayerful gesture that was matched by most of the crowd.
âBrothers and sisters,â the Martyrâs voice boomed, âtoday the Lord and his loyal soldiers have delivered unto you a blessing.â
The crowd tightened around Roland. He could see, hear, feel as people rushed out from cafes and shops to watch. The fear and excitement was so thick in the air Roland was sure even unmodified humans could have sensed it.
âHere we have six prisoners from the SDF,â the Martyr began. âThese men and women were all captured in the last week. Rather than accept their defeat they chose to fight as insurgents against the Heavenly Kingdom. God and his Martyrs are merciful. But these sinners have spat on that mercy. Now it is our privilege to execute upon them the judgement written: this honor have all his saints. Praise ye the LORD!â
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd. Many of the assembled sounded less than enthusiastic, at least to Rolandâs ears. But there were still dozens and dozens of voices full of reckless hate. The prisoners marched forward with their escort, ever nearer to the gallows. Rolandâs ear tingled, and he sensed Mannyâs presence out in the street now. The kid smelled afraid, with a faint fading tinge of pheromonal arousal. Huh.
Roland backed away and escaped the main press of the crowd. In a few seconds he was behind Manny and he put a hand on the fixerâs back. The young man jumped and then shot Roland a furious look.
âWhat the hell-â Manny caught himself and instead pointed up to the line of doomed men and women. âRoland I know that-â
âHey!â A girl ran up to them. She smelled scared too. But the scent was much deeper on her, sunken into her skin. Sheâd been scared for quite some time. She seemed to know Manny, and he definitely knew her.
âSasha,â Manny said, âIâm sorry. I just needed to...â he paused, shook his head, and then put a hand on Rolandâs shoulder. âThis is my comrade, Martyr Aaron. We fled here together, once the SDF retreated from Farmerâs Branch. Aaron, this is Sasha.â
âItâs good to meet you, Martyr Aaron,â she said, and flashed him an anxious smile. âIâm so glad Godâs grace has brought us all together.â
âOh yeah,â Roland said in his most convincing voice, âGodâs so good. Iâm really, just-â he gestured towards the gallows, âIâm psyched to see this.â
A Look crossed over her face. Disgust, mixed with building anxiety. She was dressed to play the part of the Good Christian Woman; her hair done up in a tasteful bun, her face unadorned by make-up, her sleeves long and her clothing baggy. But her scent didnât lie. It suggested she was pretty far from all-in on this whole âHeavenly Kingdomâ thing.
âYouâre not excited to see Godâs justice?â Roland asked.
The young woman frowned and shook her head.
âI understand the necessity of such bru-of such extreme measures. But I donât have to like it. Manny, do you-?â
She started to ask Manny something, but the young man broke off from their little group and darted forward towards the gallows.
â-Oh!â Sasha finished, in surprise.
âIâll...go check on him,â Roland said. âItâs probably best if you wait here, eh?â
She looked confused, but she nodded. Roland followed behind Manny and caught up to him about four people deep into the growing crowd around the scaffold. The fixerâs eyes were locked on one of the SDF prisoners, a middle-aged man with a prominent black mustache and a look of courageous resignation in his brown eyes. He stood in the middle of the gallows, calm as a stone in the ocean while one of the Martyrâs fitted a noose around his neck.
âManny,â Roland said.
âThatâs Mr. Peron,â Manny said.
âSomeone you know, then?â
Manny swallowed and nodded his head. Tears threatened at the corners of his watery eyes. Roland felt like it would probably be a good idea to get the kid away from the gallows before he did something stupid. Rolandâs hindbrain helpfully informed him that there were only around sixty armed men in the whole square. But he also knew there were one-hundred-eighty-three armed men within a mile of their current position. If shit started now it wouldnât end for a while. Roland put a hand on Mannyâs shoulder.
âWe have to do something,â Manny said.
âWhat do you want me to do,â Roland asked, ârush up there, beat that red-beretâd fucknugget with his own sidearm and then cock-punch the rest of them into submission?â
âYou can beat them,â Manny said.
âYeah,â Roland nodded, âbut if I do thatâs the end of the mission. And probably the end of those hostages. I can save your buddy, and you, and probably even that girl if she wants to come. But the Kingdomâs going to assume some monster-man from Rolling Fuck just terrorismâd them. Theyâll bury those captives too deep for us to find. And then Austinâs as fucked as a blind pussy in a dick forest.â
A man in the crowd turned and stared at Roland. Volume man, volume. Roland guessed heâd heard just the tail-end of his last sentence. The word âpussyâ had probably piqued his ears. Before the man could say anything, Roland pointed towards the gallows and let out a loud âWHOOP!â followed by a, âPRAISE GOD! PRAISE GOD!â The inadvertent eavesdropper started cheering along with him and turned back to the impending execution.
Roland turned back to Manny. The boy was quiet, his face controlled, but fat tears ran down his cheeks and his shoulders shook with silent sobs. Roland directed him back, away from the worst of the crowd.
â...Mr. Peron baked the cake for my twelfth birthday,â Manny whispered. âHe showed us Monty Python. He dropped us off at soccer practice.â
Manny had started to babble. He smelled on the edge of an outright panic attack.
Rolandâs hindbrain started to identify potential improvised weaponry options among the crowd.
He settled on a small, thick-set man. Heâs got a real dense cranium. Good weight distribution.
Heâll make a great club.
Roland shook himself out of it. Then he tried to shake Manny out of it by, literally, shaking him by the shoulders.
âHey. Listen. Your friend up there is going to die. Or a lot of other people are going to die. Those are the two options. I know it sucks. I know itâs shit. But we cannot fix this. If you stay calm though, we can fix something worse. Do you understand me?â
Mannyâs eyes came unglazed. The flow of tears slowed, then stopped. It was an impressive feat of willpower. Most people didnât have that kind of control over their emotions. Roland had to guess Mannyâs work as a fixer had, at least, prepared him to function in the middle of a waking nightmare.
âOK,â the kid said. âBut I have to watch.â
Roland wanted to argue. But one look at Mannyâs eyes made it clear that arguing wouldnât do any good. So instead he stood there, next to Manny, and kept his hand on the boyâs shoulder until the terrible thing was done. It was as ghastly as these things always were. Most of the crowd cheered every snapped neck, every jerk of a dying soldierâs legs.
Shockwaves of memory wracked Rolandâs mind at the sight. He felt warm spring air blow across his cold chest. He saw a small sea of familiar strangers, men and women heâd known once upon a bloodier day. He felt a big gun kick in his hands, he felt a warm splash of blood across his chest and face, he heard the heavy final thump of a tiny body hitting the ground. He saw Topaz. She looked ill. He saw Skullfucker Mike with a hand on her shoulder. He heard Jimâs voice.
âMake sure the cameras catch this next one,â Jim cried. âWeâve got an honest-to-God Cheney with us today!â
Back in the present, Roland watched as Mannyâs friendâs turn came âround. Manny swallowed. His face went pale. Tears streamed down the boyâs face and Roland felt a sudden, peculiar urge to bury him in a hug. He did not do that, though. Roland just stood still with a firm hand on Mannyâs shoulder while they tightened the noose around Major Peronâs neck and dropped him down to hang until he was dead, dead, dead.
Roland was proud of how straight Manny stood, how the boy held back from sobbing and how, once the sad spectacle was over, Manny turned back around and headed towards the Christian girl, Sasha. She still stood where theyâd left her. Roland could tell sheâd been crying too, although sheâd taken some pains to disguise it. She was hard to get a read on, that one. She struck him as one of the faithful, but she didnât strike him as a nut. Maybe sheâd just gotten suckered into this awful place. Roland could certainly understand that. He was pretty sure heâd been suckered into dumber things.
âPraise God,â she said, with hesitation.
âPraise God,â Manny responded. Roland didnât say much. She gave him A Look, but not an angry one.
âThat was...â she locked eyes with Manny. Roland was pretty sure sheâd blocked the rest of the world out. She mustâve seen the signs of his tears too. She coughed a little and continued, â...that was awful. I know itâs necessary but, Iâll never stop hating that.â
âItâs a good thing to hate,â Manny said. And then, âLook, we have to get back to base. Curfewâs coming up soon. But if youâre looking to hide from those, uh, undesirables tomorrow, Iâll be waiting outside the cafe.â
They kept talking, but what they said was beyond Rolandâs interest. He was busy listening as the prison convoy drove off. Now that he knew the sound of the prisoner transport APC, aurally tracing it back to its origin point was childâs play.
âAaron,â Mannyâs voice jerked his attention back to the conversation happening in front of him.
âWe should probably go,â Manny said. âThe buses will leave soon.â
âOh, shi-uh, sh....surely. Right. Surely right. We should go.â
Roland smiled at Sasha, âIt was lovely to meet you. Good evening.â
He put a hand on Mannyâs shoulder and, together, they headed off to the buses. Manny only stopped twice to cry.
----
Manny didnât say much the rest of the night. Roland was proud of him for holding back his tears during the bus ride and the walk to the barracks. The kid broke down as soon as he got into bed, of course, but he kept his sobs silent and Roland was pretty sure none of the other recruits noticed. It helped that they were all exhausted at the end of the day.
Roland puked up, then popped, a handful of ambien and percocets and washed them down with a tall glass of the beer heâd brewed in his own guts. He offered Manny some but the boy declined. So Roland had a second glass. And then a third. It wasnât enough to get him wasted, but the cocktail of drugs did a tolerable job of leading him to unconsciousness. He drifted off to sleep an hour or so after the rest of the men in the barracks.
The next day was more Army-style bullshit. Push-ups and windsprints and a big dumb obstacle course. Roland had to be real careful to act challenged as the day went on. He instructed his body to elevate his blood pressure and temperature, to flush his face red with blood and to send enough sweat from his pores to make a passable imitation of exertion. It was tedious and he hated it. But the first half of the day went by pretty fast.
Then it was time for a close quarters firefight drill. The men were given actual rifles, sans ammunition, and divided up into assault teams. They spent the next five hours taking turns defending or attacking different rooms in an old apartment complex that had been commandeered by the Heavenly Kingdom. There was a lot of shouting from instructors who sure as shit wanted the recruits to think they knew more about urban warfare than they did.
At the end of one particularly long set of door-breaching drills one of the instructors dropped to his knees and started chanting in tongues. He seemed to be celebrating that one of his âslowestâ squads had finally nailed a textbook entry. Roland wasnât sure what to hell to make of it. The man almost smelled like he was having a schizophrenic break. The heady wash of neurotransmitters wafting off him made it clear this wasnât just some gesture for show. He seemed legitimately overcome with joy.
Other soldiers, and even a couple of the instructors, started kneeling down around him. They were all chanting in some strange language. The first instructor kept repeating what sounded like, âOm nashakallaska, om nashakallaskaâ. Rolandâs hindbrain knew a lot of languages, but this sounded like nonsense to him. He noticed that the speech patterns of each chanting man were pretty consistent with American English. The actual words were gibberish, though, and-
Manny grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed, gently, down. Roland took the hint and then took a knee. The kid started to chant in a low voice.
âHila taskilla jeosapha tinshalla...â It was more gibberish. But Roland followed suit. He started to spit out nonsense of his own in a tone low enough that it didnât rise above the din of chanting maniacs. Mannyâs strategy, he realized, was to make big exaggerated mouth-motions without actually speaking at a high volume. It made him look right without drawing any attention.
The whole weird scene went on for a little over two minutes. Eventually the instructor stopped chanting and lay on his back, sweaty and spent. The other soldiers seemed to have ended their fits in the same way. Roland could tell from their heart rates and body temperature that about half of the men had been faking it, just like he and Manny. The humid stink of guilt was heavy in the air. Rolandâs heart went out for them. It must be agony to believe so hard in something so dumb that youâd castigate yourself for not buying into it enough.
After that they filed into the mess hall. They said their prayers, ate their dinners and then queued up for the buses downtown. The ride was uneventful. And the instant their feet hit the square Manny went off to find Sasha. Roland shook his head in appreciation for the all-consuming power of human desire and then bounded off to check out the presumed location of the jail.
It was about a three mile jog. At full speed Roland couldâve cleared the distance in a few minutes. But a low profile was the name of the game. He stuck to a fast walk and kept to the shadows and alleys as best as he could. Plano hadnât been a very dense city before the Martyrs had taken over, so there were a lot of times where he was basically out in the open. He had to trust that his uniform and the general state of chaos in the newly-founded Kingdom would obscure him.
This was the first look heâd gotten of the Kingdom on foot. Roland decided he didnât care much for it. There was a great deal of foot and vehicle traffic but most of the people seemed to be either soldiers or refugees without anywhere else to go. He passed two checkpoints where twitchy-looking Martyrs performed datascans on decks and personal hard drives. He even saw one soldier sorting through paperback books in the trunk of some poor fuckâs car.
Roland noticed several white vans with black crosses painted on the side. They cruised the streets, clearly on patrol for something. He watched one stop in front of a family of refugees, heavy with backpacks and carrying intake papers in their hands. Men in white jump suits with gold cross badges piled out and surrounded the family. Roland concealed himself behind a dumpster and watched as the patriarch of the family handed them his papers and spoke in a frantic, animated tone. One of the men pointed at his daughter, who wore a stained t-shirt and a ragged pair of denim shorts. They were baggy and hardly stylish. But the men in the jumpsuits seemed furious. They pointed and shouted. The man put his hands in the air and tried to say something, but one of the jumpsuited men smashed his head with a cane.
Cold rage bubbled up inside Roland. Fuck this place , he simmered to himself, fuck these janky-ass throwback fundamentalists and their fascist bullshit. He wanted to charge out from behind the dumpster and tear into these low rent hisbah motherfuckers. He wanted to shove those thick wooden rods so far up their asses theyâd be shitting splinters for weeks. The mission , he reminded himself, the fucking mission.
And so he watched as the men in white beat the old guy. He watched as they pulled the poor bastardâs daughter into a van and forced a hideous grey woolen dress over her head. It didnât fit and it looked like liable to give her heat stroke in the late Texas summer. She didnât fight them, though.
Roland moved on, reluctantly, and found what his hindbrain suspected was the old jail. The APCâs heâd seen last night were parked out front. The compound was crowded and busy. Roland counted fourteen guards just outside. Mind you, they were human guards. No powered armor, no heavy artillery, nothing at hand that could do much more than tickle him. They wouldnât present a danger. But they would cause a hell of a lot of noise if he attempted a daylight prison break.
He scrambled up onto a half-collapsed condo building that had been abandoned after a heavy mortar shell gutted the inside. It provided a good view of the jail. For the next hour Roland just watched. His hindbrain mapped the pattern of the guard rotations and noted the security protocols they followed when each new vehicle arrived. He took a lot of deep breaths and, gradually, pulled enough scents from inside the jail to have a decent idea of how many people were in there. Heâd never smelled Marigold or the other Rolling Fuck negotiators before. But his nose picked up on three people with a handful of aftermarket modifications. Most of the Martyrs heâd met had been limited to civilian-grade healing suites and sensory upgrades. It was a safe bet that these were their targets, then.
When youâve got the message, put down the phone. Roland wasnât sure where, or when heâd heard that aphorism. But it came into his head and, a moment later, he realized the sun was pretty low in the sky. Itâd be bus time soon. He headed back through the high shadows and across the cracked and bullet-scarred boulevards until he was able to merge back into the evening crowd at the square. Manny and the Christian girl had moved on from the cafe by that point. He actually ran into them in front of some building with a sign that identified it as the âHouse of Miriamâ. They were saying weird, chaste, religious-y goodbyes.
âOh, hello Aaron!â Sasha smiled when she saw him. Manny turned around and flashed him a weary smile too. Roland could still see pain in the kidâs eyes, but it was at least cut with a bit of arousal. He decided that was a good thing. Ever since Oscarâs death Manny had been riding the line between function and complete emotional collapse. He decided to encourage the fixerâs weird little friendship with the Christian girl.
âHey!â Roland said. âHow was the, ah, coffee? Smelled like it was mostly chicory and food dye when I walked by earlier. But maybe they sold yâall the good stuff.â
âThey did not,â Manny said.
âYou must be blessed with an exceptional nose,â Sasha said, and gave him an odd look. Then she asked, âWhat did you get up to?â
âI checked out the farmerâs market,â Roland lied. âIâll tell you what some, uh, some good freakinâ cucumbers up in there. Thatâs where I was. Cucumbers.â
Sashaâs odd look deepened. Manny brought a hand up to the bridge of his nose and kneaded his brow in frustration.
âWe should head back to the buses. Iâll see you tomorrow Sasha, yes?â
âYes, of course!â Sasha replied with a genuine smile.
If this was a sane world , the two of them might... Roland shook his head. This was the Heavenly Kingdom, they were surrounded by extremist militants and Sasha probably wasnât even allowed to look at condoms. Also, sheâs one of those militants, Roland reminded himself.
He let the kids say their goodbyes and then walked back to the bus with Manny. The kid seemed unsettled.
âI feel like Iâm making a real dumb decision,â he said.
âWhat?â Roland asked.
âTalking with that girl,â Manny shrugged. âSheâs told me all she knows about those prisoners already. But weâre supposed to meet at the one shitty cafe in this town tomorrow. I know itâs stupid. But I kinda wanna make that meeting.â
âWhyâs it stupid?â Roland asked. They had to drop their voices a little as they drew closer to the line for the buses.
âBecause,â Manny said, âweâre not going to be here long. Sasha confirmed our people are in the jail. And you scouted it out today, right?â
âYep.â
âSo weâre confirmed twice over. Itâs time to do this thing and get out. I donât have time to eat shitty food with a pretty girl.â
Roland turned and fixed his eyes on Mannyâs. He leaned in, until their noses were almost touching. And then he poked the boyâs chest with his index finger, for emphasis, while he spoke.
âEmmanuel Sanchez, listen to me: there is always time to eat shitty food with a pretty girl. Fuck the war, fuck whatâs a âgood ideaâ. Go eat some garbage and stare into her eyes. Do something human in this inhuman place. Late night will be a better time for the rescue anyway.â
Manny was silent for several long seconds. Then he said, âOK.â
----
The next day started with more PT, as usual. Then it rolled right into an extra-long trip to the firing range and three more hours of close assault drills. Roland found himself disgusted by the Kingdomâs tactics. Their go-to was to dump heavy artillery on any embedded resistance. No heed was paid to the civilian cost. They were fine having untrained kids lob mortars into crowded neighborhoods.
âThe Lord will recognize his own,â Martyr Carruthers said, over and over again.
That evening, before the dinner prayer, the raspy-voiced priest came by to speak to all the recruits in the chow hall. Roland missed Martyr Ditmarâs introduction of the priest (he was too busy puking up and surreptitiously eating his last bag of drugs) but his ears perked up when the wild-haired old nutfuck launched into his speech.
âThe burdens placed on the Warriors of God are great. You men have sworn yourselves to a ponderous duty. But that duty does not end on the battlefield. If the Heavenly Kingdom is to remain and expand, we will need you to fight in the field and with your other God-given attributes.â
This elicited a dim chorus of chuckles from the audience. It took Roland an embarrassing amount of time to realise what the preacher was talking about. Ah jeez, this speech is about fuckinâ.
âThe Lord commands us to be fruitful and multiply,â the priest wheezed, âbut he also calls us to respect the sacred bonds of Holy Matrimony. In times of war, the times we all live in now, this might seem to create some difficulty. But thatâs only because most of us are trained to think of marriage in the secular context. The average married couple in the American Federation âdatesâ for eight years before being wed. In California, itâs closer to ten. Of course, in both those places âdatingâ is more or less a form of cashless prostitution.â
Roland had to strain to avoid rolling his eyes. Next to him, Manny listened dutifully. His face was almost unreadable.
âPerhaps people who donât trust their creator need years of time to decide if another person is a suitable partner. Happily, we have the Will of God to guide us. You young men are strong and virile and faithful. Your Lord want s you to find love. He wants you to bring more children into this world. This is why, as the hour of action draws closer, we still encourage each of you to spend time every day going out into the city and mingling with the other sheep of our great flock.â
Aha! Suddenly Roland understood. It had seemed odd to him that the Heavenly Kingdom, a state still so unformed and tumultuous, would devote time and resources to busing their military recruits downtown. It made sense now. They wanted all these young men to find women and fill them up with babies before they went off to die. It was grim as hell. But it was also quite logical.
âThe truth of it is,â the pastor rasped, âmarriage is a simple process. When you find the right person the proper arrangements can be made in an hour or two. That is why Iâm here, along with Pastors Sandor, Elsworth and Biggins. You can find us at any hour of the day-or night-to bless your unions once God shows you to your wives. And there are more pastors at the House of Jacob near the square. I urge you to go out into the Kingdom in search of love and make use of us . Our chief job, and our chief joy, is to help our noble Martyrs find the love and bliss God promises every faithful man. Wives are his blessing to us. Children are our duty to him. Now,â the man said with a rakish grin, âgo forth, and multiply the flock.â
The line for the buses was extra long that day. By the time Roland and Manny actually made it to the square they were nearly an hour later than usual. Manny rushed right off to find Sasha. Roland made his way to an alley and then darted across town and towards the jail once again.
Theyâd already confirmed the location of their targets. So Rolandâs last job was to mark out a good exit route from the city. He didnât expect itâd be a quiet prison break. That would draw attention, and fighters. The good news was that nothing within the Heavenly Kingdom looked particularly well organized. A ton of fighters patrolled the streets, but most of Plano was still pretty war-torn. Their camera grid was far from comprehensive. If they had a sizable drone force it was kept nearer to the front than here.
The quickest route seemed to be to head straight north from the jail, up K Avenue and past an old housing development filled with crumbling mansions. That route would take them past two fortified bases. Thereâd be a couple hundred infantry to deal with, along with their attendant APCs and a handful of drones. Roland felt confident he couldâve punched a hole through all that on his own. But he expected to have four or five civilians in tow. The odds of one of them taking a stray round were just too high.
Another possible route took him up and to the left, towards an old tollway that seemed to mark the end of the Heavenly Kingdomâs static defenses. They controlled a lot of the territory beyond, but the patrols there looked random. There were no fortifications or checkpoints. It was a much longer route than the other but, potentially, one that required a lot less fighting. The last option was to veer right and take Park Avenue to Richardson. The Heavenly Kingdom had controlled that territory for even less time than theyâd held Plano, and the fighting there had been heavier. Theyâd pass a lot of checkpoints, but not much in the way of troop concentration as long as they kept south and away from Dallas proper.
The scouting work itself was exhilarating. Roland had a lot of ground to cover so he spent most of his time sprinting and scaling buildings, leaping from roof to roof and in between shattered windows. His senses were in full use. There were always passing convoys of civilians or patrols of Martyrs or those odd white police vans somewhere nearby. He was close to getting caught a dozen times and he loved every minute of the work.
By the time he got back to the main square it was quite late, and almost time for the buses to leave. He did a quick loop of the square to see if he could find Manny and Sasha. He caught traces of their scents but neither of them seemed to be out and about. He eventually tracked Sashaâs pheromone trail back to the House of Miriam, but Manny seemed to be gone. That was strange. Roland headed back to the buses in the hope of finding him there. But Manny wasnât in line, or on any of the buses.
So Roland headed back to the base and tried to ignore the unease as it blossomed in his belly. Maybe he headed back early. Maybe the âdateâ went bad. That made sense. Sasha seemed nice, for a religious extremist, but you couldnât predict zealots. It was so damn easy to set them off. Manny mightâve just said the wrong thing and decided itâd be safest to head back to the base and chill in the barracks.
The bus pulled into the school-cum-training-facilityâs little vehicle depot. Roland noticed at once that Martyr Ditmar and a small bodyguard of armed men were waiting. That was unusual. Rolandâs hindbrain warned him that this was probably related to Mannyâs disappearance. He felt a thin drip of adrenaline start tapping on the back of his amygdala. It was the feeling he associated with Shit About To Happen. Roland tried to enjoy it, without letting it push him into action before he knew what was really going on.
âMartyr Aaron,â Ditmar said, as he approached Roland. The instructorâs bodyguards stayed close behind. âWould you come with me? Weâve got some news for you.â
âWhereâs Emmanuel?â Roland asked.
âWeâll explain everything,â the older Martyr said, âjust come with me.â
Roland followed him into the maze of buildings and towards a small office occupied by a white-haired man in what looked like the Heavenly Kingdomâs equivalent of a dress uniform. It was blue, bedecked with medals and had a shining silver cross on each epaulet. The fancy man looked very tired. Roland could smell cheap caffeine wafting from his pores.
âThis is Commandant Dawkins,â Martyr Ditmar explained, âHeâs in charge of this facility. Weâve been telling him about you.â
âMartyr Ditmar is hard to impress,â the Commandant said. âBut to his eyes, youâre some sort of latter-day Sampson.â
âThe strongest man Iâve ever seen,â said Martyr Ditmar. âHeâs a darn fine shot, too. Something of a marvel.â
âWhereâs my friend?â Roland asked. âWhereâs Emmanuel?â
The Commandant gave an indulgent smile. It didnât meet his tired eyes.
âListen, Martyr. I know you can appreciate how important unit cohesion is during a situation as stressful as combat. Weâve had to make some changes in order to ensure unity. Emmanuel is one of a number of soldiers weâve transferred to special duty.â
Roland could read between the lines. He was sure if he checked in the barracks that Manny, Jonathan and the other handful of non-white recruits would all be absent.
âWhat kind of special duty?â
Ditmar growled behind him. âNow listen, son. Just because the Commandant called you a Sampson doesnât mean youâre in charge around here. Weâre prosecuting a war. You wonât be privy to every decision made above you and youâre just going to have to get used to that.â
The Commandant was a bit calmer. He put his hands forward in a placating gesture and tried again.
âYour friend is fine. Heâs better than fine. Heâs going to get a chance to serve his Lord and the Heavenly Kingdom in glorious Martyrdom. You should be happy for him.â
Ditmar stepped forward and squatted down next to him. He put a hand on Rolandâs thigh. A third of a second later, Roland had calculated the best way to rip that arm free of its socket and beat the other men in the room to death with it. But he held still, for now. Manny would have been proud.
âListen boy,â Ditmar said. âI know you got used to having that brown kid help you talk with people, and Iâm sure he did a fine job. I get that youâre not much for social graces. But weâre going to take care of you now, alright? Youâve got a whole army of brothers here. Just do what you do best and weâll handle the rest.â
âOK,â Roland said. He put a hand on Martyr Ditmarâs wrist and clenched it hard enough that everyone in the room heard the bones snap. The look of dawning terror on the other manâs face was the best high Roland had gotten in days. He savored it for a quarter-second before finishing his sentence.
âIâll do what I do best, then.â
Sasha didnât feel safe out on the street after Anneâs abduction. The next day sheâd volunteered for four extra hours of duty in the emergency ward. She changed bandages and administered antibiotic salves and delivered food to wounded soldiers until her eyes started to glaze over and Dr. Brandt ordered her home. Sheâd barely had the energy to eat that night but by the time her driver dropped her off at the House of Miriam it was dark, and thereâd been no one waiting for her.
That strategy hadnât worked the day after that. Dr. Brandt had even tried to send her home early. Sasha had talked him out of it, but not out of sending her back downtown at the normal time. She was sure her driver mustâve noticed how anxious she was. By the time they reached the main drag she was drenched in sweat. Her hands were shaking. She asked him to drop her off a half-block down from the normal spot, so she could enter the square from the left side and get a good look at who was hanging out near the House of Miriam.
Alexander had been there, of course, sitting out in front of a building two doors down from the House along with one of his friends. Avoiding them had brought her to the Cafe Clement, and then something she could only assume was Godâs Providence had bumped her into Emmanuel.
He was sweet, and fun to talk to, and it was actually refreshing to have a conversation with someone who didnât constantly quote scripture or Pastor Mike. She was surprised at herself for feeling that way. A few weekâs ago sheâd have given anything to have an open conversation about her beliefs. But now that she was deep within the Kingdom it was nice to talk about normal things, with a normal boy.
The next day had brought her back to the hospital, which was filled with wounded soldiers from an airstrike on a troop transport. Sasha had spent nine hours without a break, helping Dr. Brandt cut clothing off of horribly burned young men. Sheâd applied slick gummy burn dressings and changed IV drips of painkillers.
The day was long, bloody and brutal. Four men died in front of her eyes and there was no time to really think about it. She knew she should have been more horrified at what she was seeing. But the exposed organs and burnt, shriveled limbs didnât feel like parts of people. Even the screams felt more like road hazards, or bad weather, than damaged pieces of human beings. They were obstacles to be dealt with. She and Dr. Brandt dealt with them well.
A still, small voice in the back of her mind recoiled in horror at the sheer volume of human misery she saw that day. But that voice was quieter than it had been on other days. And it grew quieter as the day went on and the death toll mounted. Sasha had read about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder back in school. She understood the mechanics of it, that people tended to cope with terrifying situations by suppressing their fear. But this didnât feel like that. It felt like she was just doing her job. And she enjoyed her job.
Before she knew it ten hours had gone by and Dr. Brandt demanded she find a ride back to the House of Miriam and get some rest. That was the first time in the entire day when Sasha felt truly scared. It started in her chest. Her heart fluttered faster and faster until the flutter turned to a pounding so loud it felt like someone was smashing a hammer on the inner walls of her cranium. She pressed her back hard into the seat of the jeep and hoped her growing panic wasnât obvious to the driver.
He dropped her off on the other side of the square again. She didnât see Alexander or his comrades near the House of Miriam this time, but she knew that didnât mean they werenât watching the place. She had plans to meet Emmanuel again, anyway. Sasha half-expected him to have moved on since sheâd been so late. But he was there, standing out in front of the Cafe Clement when she arrived.
âIâm so sorry Iâm late,â she said. He shrugged in response.
âI just got here myself. They dismissed us late. We had a special lecture before dinner, about-ah...â His face grew red and he trailed off.
âAbout what?â she poked.
âMaybe letâs just sit down first, eh?â
So they found a seat and ordered their coffee. Manny tried to change the subject by asking Sasha about her day. But she was curious about his reaction and would not be dissuaded.
âIâll tell you all about my day, if youâll tell me about that lecture and why just thinking about it made your face go red.â
He grew redder and stared down into his coffee.
âA pastor came over to lecture us about our duty in helping the Heavenly Kingdom grow. Yâknow, our duty.â
Emmanuel gave her a significant look. She gathered his meaning. And then she blushed too.
âThatâs why they bus us out here every day,â he continued, âItâs so we can, ah, get to know the local women. And then get to know them in the biblical sense.â
She laughed in spite of herself. I think that was the first off-color joke Iâve heard in weeks. It felt good, and risque. It was actually the same sort of thrill sheâd gotten back home when sheâd sneakily read issues of Revelator and browsed the media feeds of various Martyrâs brigades.
âYou know Emmanuel,â she said, âyouâre not quite like anyone else Iâve met here. Itâs nice to meet someone who isnât afraid to joke. I didnât think Iâd miss that.â
He was quiet for a little while. Manny stirred his coffee awkwardly, cast his eyes down.
He went a little paler.
âYou seem different too. I dunno, this place...maybe itâs not exactly what we thought it would be?â
She should have gotten angry at that. It was the kind of comment that couldâve gotten Emmanuel in a lot of trouble. Why would he say that to me? She wondered, And why am I OK with all this? Maybe it was Marigold rubbing off on her. Maybe it was just gradual disillusionment, the climax of a process that had started with Alexanderâs betrayal. But the Heavenly Kingdom no longer felt magical, or even all that holy.
âItâs complicated here,â she finally said. âI mean, before I came here I knew it couldnât be perfect. No place is. But yes, itâs not what Iâd hoped to find, exactly.â
Sasha felt a spike of panic as soon as the words left her mouth. You barely know this man, Sasha. His whole job might be ferreting out potential disloyalty. She coughed, and tried to walk her admission back a little.
âItâs still better than the SDF, or any of the other heathen states. I have to keep telling myself that. Whatâs important is what weâre fighting for, not the imperfections we have to live with in this moment.â
âMmmh,â he gave a noncommittal grunt. That surprised her. She hadnât expected anything specific, exactly. But that surprised her. He started to say something else. Then his eyes went wide.
âWho-â he started to say. Sasha heard bootfalls. She felt the presence of several tall men behind her. The heavy, familiar scent of Alexanderâs cologne filled her nostrils.
âMartyr Emmanuel Sanchez. Miss Sasha. May the blessings of the Lord be with you.â
âAnd also with you,â Sasha replied by rote. Emmanuel chimed in a second or two later.
He sounded a bit awkward, like he wasnât exactly sure which words to use.
Alexander pulled up a chair and set it against the right side of the table. He sat down, placing himself between them. He rested one arm on the table, but his left arm hung down directly over his sidearm. He looked at Emmanuel, smiled, and then looked at Sasha. She felt a wave of nausea grab her by the guts and tug. His lips curled up, revealing his straight white teeth.
âExcuse me,â Manny said, âBut who are you?â
Alexander looked back to Manny, his expression unchanged.
âMartyr Alexander Dubois. Iâm a friend of Sashaâs,â he glanced back at her with a wink that curdled her stomach, â...and Iâm also in charge of recruitment for the Storming Battalion.â
âNever heard of it,â Emmanuel said in a gruff, clipped tone. Sasha realized she was shaking a little. Alexanderâs lips curled up into an even more ghoulish variant of his already unsettling smile. He replied.
âThereâs a reason for that, Martyr Sanchez. The Storming Battalion plays a key role in our success on the battlefield. Theyâve been central in every one of our victories. We donât publicize their work, for various reasons. But I assure you itâs a distinct honor to be recruited by me. Thatâs actually why Iâm here, Emmanuel. Weâve chosen you.â
By now it felt like the pit of Sashaâs stomach was boiling. Something terrible was clearly happening. Even Emmanuel seemed to realize that. His face had gone pale. His pupils were the size of dinner plates.
âI, uh, thank you for the honor. But Iâm happy with my unit. I, ah, feel thatâs where the Lord needs me. My friend Aaron-â
Alexander put a hand up, flat palm facing Emmanuel.
âYour comrade will be taken care of. And weâll be the judges of where the Lord needs you. Trust me, weâve got a lot more experience interpreting His will than you do. Thereâs a reason the Cross flies over this entire city.â
Emmanuel half stood in his chair. It was a sudden gesture, and a faintly aggressive one. Sasha noticed his hands were balled up into fists. His eyes darted left and right. He seemed to be looking over the heads of Alexander and his men. Alexander tensed. Both the men put hands over their sidearms. But Emmanuel didnât take any further action. After a few turns of his head he stopped looking, relaxed his hands and sat back down.
âOK,â he said, âI get the feeling you want me to go with you now?â
Alexander smiled. It was a vicious, oily thing and it confirmed in Sashaâs heart that he had something terrible planned.
âYes, thatâs exactly what I want.â He cocked his head up and pursed his lips in an exaggerated gesture of consideration, âWell, actually, I want you to go with these men. I need to stay here and have a word with Sasha.â
Emmanuel looked into her eyes. He was scared, clearly. But he kept his voice steady when he spoke.
âSasha, Iâve got to go do my duty. Find R-Aaron for me, will you? Tell him I, um, wish him the best. And I hope to see him soon .â
He put definite emphasis on that last word. And then he gave Sasha a very deliberate nod before he stood and stepped towards Alexanderâs men.
âTake him to the factory for his intake processing. Iâll be along shortly.â Alexander said. He put a hand on Emmanuelâs forearm as the young man passed by and said, âYou should give a prayer of thanks, brother. God has blessed you with a great honor.â
Emmanuelâs smile was as false as Alexanderâs.
âGod bless you, Martyr Dubois. Iâll pray that you and all your men grow closer to our Lord.â
Was that a threat? She wondered before deciding, Of course it was. In a more normal situation Sasha would have mulled that over. It certainly was not the sort of comment sheâd have expected from a true Martyr. But just then she was far too consumed with terror, both for Emmanuel and for herself.
Alexanderâs guards led Manny away and Alexander took his place at the table. He took a long sip from Emmanuelâs cooling coffee and smiled his snake smile again.
âI must say, Sasha, I thought you had better taste than that.â
For the first time in her life, Sasha found herself trying to stare daggers at someone. Oh, if only I could shoot knives out of my eyes , she thought as she imagined one striking Alexander in the forehead with enough force to burst out the back of his skull. Is that something âchromedâ people can do? She wondered, and decided sheâd ask Marigold if she ever got another chance to talk to the woman.
âHey!â He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes and she hated him a little more. She was sorta surprised to learn that was possible.
âLook, I know coming here can be disorienting. I know this is a lot to get used to. But him? A fucking spic? Itâs people like him who filled this continent with their mongrel spawn and tore American civilization to splinters.â
âWe are all brothers and sisters in Christ,â she said, âwe are all the frui-â
â...-t of the same tree. Yeah, I know. Iâve met Pastor Mike. I know God made us all. And I also know he made some of us better than others. Thereâs a reason civilization reached its peak under white men. And thereâs a reason it crumbled once we let them take the reins for a while.â
Itâs not worth arguing with him , she told herself. So Sasha decided to ask a blunt question.
âWhatâs going to happen to Emmanuel?â
Alexander smiled.
âExactly what I said was going to happen to him: heâs going to the factory for, ah,
âtrainingâ, and then heâll participate in the invasion of Waco. As part of the Storming Battalion.â
âAnd what is that?â
âIn a way, itâs the luckiest unit in the Heavenly Kingdomâs whole military. They are the first ones in. Guaranteed glory...â
He took another long, slow sip from Mannyâs coffee. His eyes bored into her all the while.
â...and guaranteed martyrdom.â
Sasha felt a little pride for not crying. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes.
âPraise be to God,â she choked out. Followed by, âI still have duties tonight at the House. May I go?â
Alexander sneered at that. And then he waved his hand in a gesture that was surely meant to be casual and dismissive. It looked calculated, though. Like it was important to him that she feel like this didnât matter to him. For some reason, that observation made Sasha feel a little stronger.
âGo on then,â he said, âWeâll talk tomorrow. Maybe weâll do more than talk. Maybe not.â
She stood up, still fighting back tears, and left the cafe without a response.
----
Sasha wanted to go to someone, anyone, in the wake of all this. Thereâs nothing to do, the smarter, colder part of her brain-the part that always sounded like her mother-warned her. Anything you say will only make it worse. She knew that was true. Even Helen couldnât do anything for Emmanuel now. Sheâd made it very clear that military matters took precedence over everything else in the Heavenly Kingdom. It made sense. And yet... shouldnât right and wrong be what matter most, here?
She wasnât even sure what either of those words meant anymore. Was this really what God wanted? Was this how a society based on His laws operated? Sasha told herself, over and over again, that sheâd made the right decision. That the Kingdom wasnât perfect, but it was the best of all the other options. That voice grew quieter and less convincing as she walked through the doors of the House of Miriam and noticed another missing person.
âWhereâs Suzanne?â She asked Helen, after scanning the dining room for her friend.
The older woman smiled, but it wasnât the warm look Sasha had come to expect. Helen looked strained, tired, perhaps even a little ill.
âSuzanne met her husband today.â
Sasha narrowed her eyes and fought down an immediate burst of rage. âShe âmetâ him? Or did he see her and claim her, like Anneâs suitor?â
Helen did not like that. She almost growled her next words. âBe very careful with what you insinuate, Miss Sasha. I know this isnât what any of you dreamed of, but you did come here to help further the Kingdom. This is how that looks.â
Sasha knew in that moment that there was nothing else she could say to Helen. What would be the point? So she nodded, meekly, and she apologized. And then she ate her dinner like a robot and cleaned up for bed. Throughout all that, Marigoldâs words rang louder in her memory.
âYou got suckered in to a fucking nightmare. Itâs time to wake up.â
Sasha went to bed around nine. Sheâd had a long and exhausting day. Tomorrow was sure to be more of the same. But she couldnât sleep. Now that she was safely in bed, hidden from the world, the tears refused to stay hidden behind her eyes. It was all Sasha could do to avoid audible sobs. She lay awake for an hour, maybe more, until she heard a thwack , followed by a thump.
She opened her eyes and rolled over to face the door. In the time it took to complete that motion she heard the door whoosh open and then a series of thumps so rapid they sounded like one long drumroll. Sasha felt a rush of air, and sensed the presence of a new person the instant before she completed her roll. She looked up to see a man at the side of her bed. He was big, broad and clad in a torn and bloodied Martyrâs uniform.
He had a heavy metal pipe in his hand. Sasha rose her hands up in an instinctive gesture of self defense the moment before she saw the hulking manâs face and realized who he was.
âAaron?â
The man blinked. He looked confused for a moment, and then he laughed.
âOh, right. Yeah, thatâs not my name hon. You can call me Roland.â
âWhat do you-whatâs happening? Are we under attack?â
âYes, sort of. By me. I knocked out the old lady.â He gestured his head back towards the other girls, sleeping in their beds, âI knocked them out too. Just minor concussions. But theyâre out cold.â
âI am very confused,â Sasha said in a flat voice. âAnd very frightened.â
âYouâre not frightened.
She was surprised to realize that he was right. Sasha knew she should have been scared. But her heart rate didnât elevate. She didnât start to sweat. She did feel confused. But she also felt...calm? Maybe Iâve just been so scared the last few days, my body canât handle any more of it. Maybe Iâve reached the limit of my capacity for fear.
âI guess youâre right,â she said, âI should be afraid. This is all so...â she trailed off, grasping for words.
âYeah, itâs fucked,â Roland said. And then he pulled up a canteen that had been hanging from his shoulder and took a deep pull. The scent of alcohol wafted over to her.
âYou want some?â He asked, âI made it in my guts, filled a canteen as I finished up at the base.â
âWait,â Sasha said, âwhat happened at the base?â
Roland gave another shrug and took another pull.
âThe boss guys told me Manny had been reassigned to some sorta, I dunno, suicide battalion. This pissed me off, so I broke exactly half of their bones.â
Sasha could hear sirens now, off in the distance. It sounded like there were rather a lot of them. She imagined this was connected to whatever Roland had done.
âIâm going to guess you and Emmanuel arenât really Martyrs, are you?â
He chuckled, âI mean, maybe someday sister. Just now, I donât see any causes worth dying for. But I get your meaning. And no, I donât give a shit about your Heavenly Kingdom. Manny actively hates it. Weâre spies. Or we were spies. Now heâs a captive, and Iâm a terrorist. Again.â
âOh,â she said. And then, âI think I would like a drink.â
He handed her the canteen and she took a generous gulp. Sasha had only tried alcohol once before. Sheâd been thirteen, not yet a Christian, and at a party sheâd been far too young to attend. She remembered the sensation of gentle warmth spreading down her throat, and the sense of elation and well-being that had followed. Sheâd taken a few more sips, which had made the world far too spin-y for her comfort. Sheâd vomited not long after. But , she figured, if there was ever a time to try alcohol again, itâs now.
This drink tasted like beer, but it burned like a shot of hard liquor. Sasha passed the canteen back. She felt like taking more would be a bad idea.
âAlright then,â Roland said. âIâm going to make a few guesses. Guess one is that youâre a little less than enthusiastic about the Heavenly Kingdom now that youâve seen it up close. Guess two is that youâre looking for a way out. And guess three is you know something about where my little buddy went.â
âHuh?â
âEmmanuel. Manny. You know where he is.â
âI donât...â she started.
âIâll bet you do, even if you donât know you do. I know you were there when he was taken. I could smell it in the street.â
âSmell it?â
He sighed and kneaded the bridge of his nose. âThis is the time where you explain things. The time where I explain things comes later. Or maybe never.â He lifted up the pipe in his hand so she could see how bloody and dented it was, âI have the pipe. Whoeverâs got the pipe doesnât have to explain shit.â
Sasha couldnât argue with his logic. And she did want to see Emannuel free and safe.
âLook,â she said, âthis...this boy I know, Alexander, he found us at the cafe. We were just sitting down to coffee. He had two men with him and he said Emmanuel had been selected for the
Storming Battalion.â
âDo you have any idea where they took him? The kidâs scent trail goes cold about a mile from here.â
Sasha wracked her brain. Of course she didnât know where the Heavenly Kingdom did this sort of training but-
âAlexander said something about âthe factoryâ.â
And at that, Rolandâs eyes lit up. He turned around, as if to leave.
âI know where he is, then.â
He looked back, and down, to Sasha and said, âMoment of truth time, darlinâ. You wanna stay here in this shitpile kingdom? Or,â he jerked his thumb to the door, âdo you want me to break you out? I donât make offers like that often. So take it as a compliment.â
This time, it didnât take long for Sasha to make up her mind.
âYes,â she said, âIâd like to go with you.â
He knew where they were taking him as soon as soon as the transport exited Highway
75. It took exit 40B, White Avenue. McKinney. Heâd visited the town a few times as a kid, before things in this part of DFW had gone entirely to shit.
Manny thought of the satellite photos Reggie had shown them. He thought about that Tesla plant, and what strange mysteries it must hide. Somewhere in that plant was the answer to how the Martyrs had so thoroughly befucked the SDFâs defense network. Manny hadnât exactly planned to find an answer to that question on this trip. Now it seemed like he wouldnât have a choice in the matter.
His escorts, Alexanderâs men, hadnât said much. Theyâd directed him to the proper transport and told him to keep his mouth shut when he asked for an explanation. Manny did as they asked, because he half expected them to gun him down if he made a real fuss. Rolandâs bound to find me. He can find any-fucking-one. I just need to stay alive long enough for him to get here.
Once upon a time the Tesla factory had been an immaculate sign of what some commenters called the âTexan Renaissanceâ. After the fall of the old United States the Republic of Texas had been one of the first functional states to arise in the Southwest. Dallas had been wrecked by the Lakewood Blast but the rest of the state still had tens of millions of people and abundant natural resources. For a while the hardcore libertarian policies of the Republic had created a minor economic miracle. Tesla had gotten this factory going about three years before that boom went bust.
The first room they were taken to had clearly been some sort of reception area, and probably a showroom, at one point. There were three large oval-shaped plinthes that had once held cars and a handful of metal desks bolted hard into the ground. There were also several benches, stripped of whatever theyâd once been upholstered with, and a few dozen folding chairs that were clearly recent additions. Manny could see signs that the walls had been attacked at several places in an attempt to strip them of wires. The damage was obvious, but not as extensive as heâd expected. By ciudad de muertaâs standards, this building was in good shape.
A dozen Martyrs occupied the room. They wore quality non-powered body armor and toted rifles that mustâve been looted new from the Republicâs armories. One of the desks was manned by a harried-looking young man in an off-white suit. He wore no sign of rank, but did have a white cross armband around his left bicep and a golden cross pin on his lapel. He was balding, baby-faced and the deep bags under his eyes spoke of severe exhaustion. His face lit up when he saw Manny.
âAnother! My prayers have been answered.â
âAs the Lord wills it,â one of Mannyâs escorts replied.
They brought him to the desk and the besuited man looked up at him. He had a hungry look in his eyes. Heâd started to sweat a little too.
âYou may call me Isaac. Whatâs your name, young man?â
âM-ah, Emmanuel. Emmanuel Sanchez.â
The little man jotted that down on a piece of paper and then continued asking questions.
âWhatâs your date of birth?â
âDo you have any family history of allergies or illnesses?â
âHave you ever undergone surgery before?â
âWhat biomodifications, if any, are currently active in your system? Do you have any inactive modifications?â
And so on. After about ten minutes of questioning the little man told Manny to stand up and follow him into an examination room. His tone was cordial, even warm. But Manny tasted doom behind it. He smelled death in this place, and his soul cried out against heading further into its bowels. But there was nothing to do but follow. Alexanderâs men left after dropping him off but there were plenty of guards in the front room. Two of them followed Manny and the young man back through the double doors and into the heart of the facility.
They walked through what had once been an open-floor office. There were a few overturned desks and chairs but mostly the place was barren and half-cannibalized for scrap. It was ill-lit and derelict.
âWhat are we doing here?â Manny asked. Isaac put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.
âWeâre doing Godâs work,â he said, âthe same as everywhere in this blessed Kingdom.â
âI know that,â Manny said in a slow, careful tone, âBut I donât understand why I was pulled out of training. Or why I was removed from my unit. What is this place?â
Isaac didnât answer. Instead he walked Manny to a door in the back of the empty office and opened it to reveal a small, well-lit white room with a bench, a weight scale and a computer terminal built into the wall above a rolling cabinet. Isaac weighed him, marked down his height and then pulled a strange measuring device out of the cabinet. It looked like a cross between a protractor and a pin vice.
âThis is a craniometer,â Isaac explained once he saw the confusion on Mannyâs face, âitâs for measuring the size of your skull.â
Isaac set right to work. He fit the strange device around Mannyâs head and tightened it until the vice grip bit into Mannyâs scalp. Isaac jotted down some more numbers on his note pad and removed the craniometer. He looked pleased. That alone was enough to turn Mannyâs stomach.
âCan you please tell me what this is all about?â
Isaacâs eyes darted up from his paper for just a moment. He gave Manny an insincere, distracted smile.
âEverything will be explained soon enough, young man. Right now it should be enough to know youâre doing the Lordâs work.â
Manny was very, very tired of that response.
Isaac finished his notes and led Manny out a back door in the room and into what Manny had to assume was the final step in their journey. The scent of blood in the air was too heavy for anything else to be the case. Manny felt hair stand up on the back of his neck. His shoulders went tense, and a moment later he felt the strong hands of his guards on either bicep.
This new room was part mechanicâs shop, part abattoir. It had once been the main factory floor and it was filled with the half-looted carcasses of robotic autoworkers. Several of those machines had been restored to some level of functional capacity. Manny could see twenty-ish new vehicles in various stages of construction across the vast space. Instead of sleek, consumer-grade electronic cars, most of these vehicles seemed to be very old and worn sedans and trucks. A handful of them were outdated and nigh-obsolete military drones. Pallets of plastic explosives sat outside several of the vehicles. Manny could see human workers packing blocks of it into a battered off-white Kia a few dozen feet in front of him.
None of this was particularly shocking. Vehicle-based improvised explosive devices had been de rigeur for terrorist insurrections for the last seventy years. Two things about this factory struck Manny as strange. The first is that none of the vehicles in construction had any armor added to them. Most VBIEDs would be covered in thick slabs of concrete and welded scrap metal to ensure they made it safely to their target. The vehicles here seemed like they would look normal when they finally rolled off the re-assembly line.
The second odd thing was the dozens of surgical tables, and the rather significant amount of red blood coating the floor underneath them. Five of the beds were occupied with bodies, covered by blood-speckled white sheets. The men under them appeared dead.
âOh God,â Manny forgot his cover in the dawning horror of the moment. âWhat the hell is this place?â
âWatch your mouth young man,â Isaac snapped, âThis is a temple of the Lord, where young heroes deliver themselves into the waiting arms of eternity.â
A tall man in a white lab coat made his way over to them. He had grey hair and warm brown eyes behind horn-rim spectacles. He gave Manny a warm smile and extended out a hand in greeting.
âThe Lord be with you, Emmanuel. Iâm Doctor Arnst. Iâm sure you must be full of questions right now. Gentlemen,â he glanced towards the guards, who still had their hands on Manny, âYou can let him go now. This young man is a hero, and he should be treated as such.â
The hands loosened. Manny heard the men step back. He flashed a nervous smile back at the doctor. Keep him talking, Manny thought, the longer you drag this out, the more time Roland will have.
âWhat is going on here? These, um,â he grappled for the correct terminology, â...these martyrdom devices seem different. And I donât know whatâs going on with, with...â
â...with all the medical equipment, and the bodies?â Dr. Arnst finished his question without so much as a break in his warm smile. âYes, God bless him, but diplomacy is not Isaacâs strong suit. He gets rather focused on the task at hand.â
Manny noticed that the odd little man had already wandered off towards a rolling tray of medical equipment near one of the surgical beds. That set Mannyâs heart beating even faster.
âFollow me,â said Dr. Arnst, âand Iâll explain everything.â
The doctor lead him to one of the shrouded bodies and pulled its covering down, revealing the dead manâs face. Manny wasnât exactly surprised to see that it was Jonathan, the young man from Atlanta heâd met just a few days before. Jonathan was, of course, quite dead. A bloody red line ran across his skull, just above the ears. His eyes were closed, and his lips were turned up in a beatific smile.
âYou know this man, yes?â Dr. Arnst asked gently.
âYes.â
âOf course you do,â the doctor chuckled. âYouâre both colored men in the Heavenly Kingdom. Iâd be surprised if you hadnât developed a connection. Itâs only natural to gravitate towards your own kind.â
Manny fought down the urge to slap Dr. Arnst.
âJonathan here started on his journey to Martyrdom just a few hours ago. I know he appears dead. But, as it was with our Lord and savior, appearances can be deceiving. His brain is still quite alert and alive. Itâs just been moved.â
Dr. Arnst gestured over to the Kia. Manny saw that another lab-coated worker was now carrying a peculiar metal box over to the VBIED. The box was about head-sized, and covered with sockets and plugs. A single green light flickered on one side.
âSee? Theyâre loading him into his Chariot now. And soon heâll pilot this annointed engine of heavenly will to the ruin of our enemies.â
Manny thought back to that last day before the invasion, to Reggieâs questions about that mysterious checkpoint bombing. This must be how they did it , he realized. The SDFâs checkpoints were perfectly capable of reading the itinerary of any autonomous vehicle that drove towards them. Theyâd shoot anything that didnât broadcast its destination. But the Kingdom had found a way to hide a human driver, capable of taking over once the car was past the checkpoint.
His eyes drifted over to a combat drone lying half-disassembled on a table a few yards to his left. It was a hefty beatle-black monster with a heavy underslung machinegun. It reminded Manny terribly of the drone that had almost killed him and Reggie a few days earlier. This explains why the SDFâs drone jammers didnât work. The Heavenly Kingdom wasnât really using drones.
Manny realized, with dawning horror, that the droneâs open cavity was likely the intended resting place of his brain.
âAh,â Dr. Arnst smiled, âI see youâve already spotted your chariot. Yes, Emmanuel, you are quite fortunate. Martyr Ditmar noted your intelligence and suggested you be implanted into a drone. I assure you, itâs a high honor even in this sacred place.â
Mannyâs heart thudded like the tolling of a church bell. For a while he couldnât hear anything else. He felt himself gripped by a sudden claustrophobic terror. The worst thing wasnât even the thought of being cut open, torn apart. It was the thought of being trapped inside that little metal box, forced to kill and die in the name of a cause he abhorred. Manny knew heâd started to shake, but there was nothing he could do to quell the terror. I wonder if this is how Oscar felt before the end...
Dr. Arnst put a hand on his shoulder. Manny assumed it was meant to reassure him. It did not have that effect.
âEmmanuel, I know this is quite a lot to take in. But all you really need to know is that youâve been blessed â truly blessed â with the chance to play a real role in making the Heavenly Kingdom a reality. The Storming Battalion are Godâs elite, the holiest of our Martyrs. Iâm sure, once the shock wears off, youâll realize what a privilege this is.â
Manny heard footsteps. He didnât need to look to know his guards were stepping back up behind him. He felt the noose tighten, and his hope slip ever-farther away. Where the hell is Roland?
âI, um, uh,â he stuttered, âcan I have some time to th-to pray on this?â
âOf course, Emmanuel,â Dr. Arnstâs smile never looked false or forced. He put a hand on Mannyâs shoulder. âIt will be a few minutes before weâre ready to begin the operation. I commend your devotion. This is an ideal time to pray for guidance.â
A few minutes? His heart pounded so hard he thought it might beat its way free from his chest. He was sure Dr. Arnst must have heard it. But if he did, he said nothing about it. Instead the doctor led Manny over to a small carpeted area that looked to have been set aside as a prayer room for the soon-to-be-martyred members of this âbattalionâ. It consisted of a half-dozen chairs ( at least theyâre padded ) a three foot tall white stone statue of Christ on a cross and two small end tables, each with a couple of dog-eared bibles.
Manny sat down. Bereft of any better idea he grabbed a Bible and flipped it open to a random page.
King Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold, sixty cubits high and six cubits wideâŠ
Manny rolled his eyes. What the flaming hell is a cubit? He skimmed the next few verses, until he realized which story heâd stumbled upon. His religious schooling hadnât been intense, but he had gone to church most Sundays for the better part of a decade. Heâd listened to enough sermons and attended enough Sunday school classes to know the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, three stupid assholes whoâd walked into a furnace and trusted in deus ex deus to save them.
âŠIf we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majestyâs hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.
It struck Manny that his current predicament had more than a little in common with these ancient men (if theyâd ever existed in the first place). The chief difference was that, of course, Manny wasnât praying for the help of a God. He was, however, strongly hoping for rescue from a godlike being. That felt close enough to give him a sense of kinship towards the men in the story.
The kingâs command was so urgent and the furnace so hot that the flames of the fire killed the soldiers who took up Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, and these three men, firmly tied, fell into the blazing furnace.
He hadnât remembered that bit from Sunday school, the part where the Kingâs soldiers were burnt alive by the heat of his fire. Manny wondered what kind of soldiers would so willing step into a pointless death at some mad kingâs command. And then he remembered where he was. He looked up from the Bible at the twenty or so armed men stationed around the factory. I really, really hope someone comes along to burn them to death.
Manny heard footsteps behind him. He looked back this time and saw Dr. Arnst advancing with two guards and Isaac. The bald little man was visibly excited. An obscene smile played across his features. He held an almost comically large needle in his hands. Manny looked from him over to the doctor.
âEmmanuel,â Dr. Arnst said, âitâs time.â
Manny stood. His mind raced for some sort of delaying tactic.
âI need to, um, pray. More. I need more pray-time.â
Confusion passed over all the menâs faces. âTime is of the essence here,â Dr. Arnst insisted, âDonât delay this important work because youâre scared. Trust in the Lord. Open your heart to his will.â
âSee, I have, I totally have, â Manny stammered. âAnd Iâm pretty sure heâs actually not down with this. Yeah, I think he wants me to be a soldier. A regular soldier. With a gun. Not a brain in a drone.â
Dr. Arnst glanced back at the two guards flanking him. He nodded and they advanced. One man had a Kalashnikov on his back, the other had a holstered sidearm. Both men were much larger and more muscular than Manny. He glanced around for a weapon, as if anything left around would be useful against two firearms. There was still a Bible in his hands. That probably wouldâve been enough for Roland. Manny had no doubt the post-human could kill a dozen men with a book. More if it was hardcover.
âEmmanuel,â the doctorâs voice was low, soft, and as comforting as a lullaby. âI know this is a frightening thing. But you must trust me, you must trust all of us. The Heavenly Kingdom would not spend your life this way if we were not certain your sacrifice would further the will of our Lord. This is why you came here, Emmanuel . I know, if you listen to God, youâll see whatâs right.â
Manny closed his eyes. He listened, not for the voice of God but for the sound of footsteps. After a few secondâs pause he heard the guards move towards him again. He gripped hard on the Bible in his hand and he tried not to think too much about what heâd already decided he had to do. The footsteps grew closer until Manny could almost feel the heat coming off the other menâs bodies.
âVery good, Emmanuel,â Dr. Arnst cooed, âGod loves you...â
Manny opened his eyes. The guards were right in front of him now, reaching for him. Manny swung the Bible up, underhanded, into the Kalashnikov manâs chin. Then he dove to the right and slammed his head into the other manâs crotch with all the force his five foot, ten inch frame could bring to bear. The man howled. Manny half-fell, caught himself and dropped into a dead run aimed straight for Isaac. Both the bald-headed needleman and Dr. Arnst stared at him in astonishment. Belatedly, Isaac raised his arms up in defense. The gesture did nothing to stop Manny from plowing into him and knocking him to the ground. He punched the other man in the face, hard, and then scrambled back to his feet to-
He felt the pain of the gunshot before he heard it. Or, rather, he didnât register the sound of the gunshot as a gunshot until the pain made it clear heâd been shot. And then Manny was on the ground. His world shrunk to the space below his belly button, which now pulsed with spurts of deep red blood. His hands covered the wound, pressing back against it in an instinctive attempt to protect himself.
He stared in fascination at the spreading red. He watched as his blood turned chunky and thick. The spurting faded away to a slow ooze. The pain caught up to him now and Mannyâs vision went black for a moment. The world faded back into view after a while. Dr. Arnst, Isaac and both guards were standing above him. The guard with the handgun had it drawn. A whisp of smoke trailed up from the barrel. Manny watched, enthralled, as it curled up to the sky and gradually disappeared into the air around them.
â...youâve made a grievous error, my boy.â Dr. Arnstâs voice was grave now, devoid of all compassion. âYou were so close to paradise. It almost brings me to tears.â
The doctor was only a few feet away, but his voice sounded distant and muffled. Iâm dying, arenât I? Manny thought. No, if that was a kill shot Iâd be dead by now. The bleedingâs already stopped. The thought did little to calm his nerves. Heâd thoroughly blown his cover.
Even if they never guessed his true purpose in coming to the Heavenly Kingdom, heâd be executed for trying to flee.
âThis is going to put us even further behind schedule,â That was Isaac. His nose was bleeding but it didnât look broken. I wish I was better at punching .
âTake him outside,â Dr. Arnst said to the guards, âand make it quick. Thereâs no sense in stringing him up in public for simple cowardice.â
So this is how itâs going to end. Manny was confused by how at peace he felt with that. Some of it was guilt. Alejandro was dead, Hamid was dead, Oscar was dead, Mr. Peron was dead. This was nothing more than he deserved. He was pleasantly surprised to find that, as the little robots in his blood flooded his system with happy drugs, that sense of guilt began to fade. He felt wonderfully detached from the world. He wondered if this was how Roland felt all the time: disconnected and pleasant in a vague, indefinable way.
The guards bent down. Manny felt their hands on his arms. He felt them lift him up. He felt a terrible, shifting pain in his gut as another rush of clotting blood poured out of him. Manny thought of Mr. Peron; he could almost see his face. Maybe the Christians were right about the afterlife. That was a nice thought, actually. He thought Mr. Peron would be proud of him. I tried to do something, sir, I really did.
KRRRAK-THUD.
Manny didnât see the source of the noise. It sounded like something heavy falling from a high height onto something soft and squishy. Someone soft and squishy , he realized. The guards dropped him. Men started to yell.
Blak! Blak! Blak!
Gunshot! Gunshot! Gunshot! Manny thought, and he giggled a little bit. The sounds of chaos and violence that had erupted inside the factory could only be Rolandâs doing. Manny lifted up his head with considerable effort and looked over, towards the waiting area where most of the guards had sat idle. It was a mess now. Several of the chairs and one of the big tables were mashed together with a chunky red paste that resembled good salsa. People salsa! He thought, and then giggled again.
Manny caught a glimpse of Roland as the chromed man rocketed across the factory floor and into a trio of guards. The men didnât even have the chance to fire their weapons. The first guard burst like a balloon full of jelly. It was hard to tell exactly what happened next, as it occurred under a red cloud of human viscera. Manny slipped-in his own blood-and fell back onto the floor. He stared up at the ceiling for a little while and just focused on trying to keep his breath steady. There was nothing else he could do here, anyway.
âEmmanuel?â
Sasha? He thought.
âGlaaugh?â he said.
âItâs OK,â he felt her warm hand on his forehead. âDonât talk. Youâve been shot but youâre probably not going to die.â
Probably? He had to admire her fundamental honesty.
âIâm going to try and drag you out of here. If you can walk, that would be really helpful.â
She grabbed Manny under the armpits and tried to pull him up. He let out a coughing cry at the pain of being moved again. But he also realized, late in the game, that he still had some control over his legs. He pushed up and, with Sashaâs help, fought gravity well enough that he soon stood under (mostly) his own power. Sasha wrapped one of his arms around her shoulder and took some of the weight off his weakened limbs. And then, together, they hobbled free of the charnel factory that had almost been his tomb.
----
An hour later Manny sat with Roland and Sasha on the roof of an old Bank of America and watched as the Tesla factory burned in the distance. Manny had passed out almost as soon as Sasha got him out the door. He recalled waking up a few times during the run away from the factory. At some point Roland had met up with them and started carrying him.
Heâd come to on the roof of the old bank building, just in time to see Roland dribble a trail of weird-ass blood into his gunshot wound. Heâd felt a little revulsion at the act, but it had passed once his pain dissolved. I should really find a way to bottle that stuff , he thought.
âWhat happened?â Manny asked, once reality had solidified a little more.
âRoland found me,â Sasha said, âjust after they took you. I told him that Alexander had mentioned a factory and then, well, he seemed to know this must be the factory theyâd been talking about.â
Thanks for that, Reggie.
âHe told me he was going to, ah...â she coughed a little and and her cheeks reddened in embarrassment, â...âfeed them their own dicksâ, and that I should wait until they were engaged to run in and drag you out.â
A loud explosion echoed across the cityscape, and the trio watched a small orange mushroom cloud light up the sky where the Tesla factory had been.
âItâs about damn time,â Roland grumbled. âThe detonators those fuckers stole from the Republic were garbage. Hey,â he looked over to Manny, âwhat the hell was that place, anyway?â
âYes,â Sasha added, âand how exactly did you end up getting shot there?â
Manny related the whole story as best as he could. Sashaâs face went pale white with outrage and disgust when he explained exactly how the Heavenly Kingdom had managed to get its suicide vehicles past the SDFâs checkpoints.
âOh God,â she moaned, âoh God above no no NO!â
Roland just laughed. âThatâs as clever as a two-headed crow, Iâll give them that.â He clapped Sasha on the shoulder. âCâmon, lady, you canât still be surprised by how fucked the Kingdom is. How many people did you watch them hang?â
Sasha didnât respond. She just sat there, eyes red and watery, and stared out at the burning factory. Manny felt like he should have said something, but his mind was still catching up to his body after the events of the last couple of hours. Staring straight ahead represented the extent of his abilities right now.
âSorry,â Roland said in response to the silence, âI forget, you kids arenât used to this sort of shit. Iâll tell you, it gets easier.â
âWhat, almost dying?â asked Manny.
âOr being betrayed by the only thing you ever believed in?â asked Sasha.
Roland shrugged. âBoth, I guess. Neither is much fun. But hey, yâall popped some cherries today. So itâs gonna be nothing but downhill from here on out.â
Neither of them responded, but Roland plowed right along.
âI meant âdownhillâ in the positive sense of the word. Like sledding, or something.â
More silence. Roland sighed and took a loud gulp from a piece of sheet metal heâd bent into a makeshift cup. The beverage inside smelled like another batch of his gut liquor. It burned Mannyâs nose from three feet away. A minute went by, and then another, without a word. They listened as emergency sirens sounded and drew closer to the site of the blast.
âSo, what the fuck do we do now?â Manny asked.
Roland grunted, and then belched.
âWell, we gotta roll back into town. Break those ladies out of jail. And then, I dunno. We should probably leave, right?â
Manny rolled his eyes. The casual recklessness of Rolandâs confidence had been fun and reassuring when he wasnât recovering from a gunshot wound. The events at the Tesla plant had proved to Manny that the post-humanâs protection wasnât enough to guarantee his safety. Or Sashaâs. He was the deadliest thing Manny had ever seen, but he couldnât be everywhere at once.
âWait, who are you breaking out of jail?â Sasha asked.
âThose three negotiators,â Manny said, âfrom the City of Wheels. The women you examined and their male companion.â
Sasha gave Manny a look he couldnât quite parse out.
âWhat?â He asked.
âIs that why you started talking to me?â She asked. âBecause you knew I was working with those women, and you thought Iâd be able to get you into the jail?â
âNo-â started Manny.
âI mean, sorta, right?â finished Roland. âThat was sure as shit a big plus.â
Manny glared at the post-human. Roland had all the tact and diplomacy of a chainsaw.
Thatâs why Iâm here in the first place, he reminded himself.
âLook,â Roland continued, âthereâs no point in dressing any of this up. Sasha, you fled your home to join a militant terrorist organization that butchers civilians. Manny, you kinda manipulated her in the hope of getting information. I just beat like, twenty people to death. Plus I fed Martyr Ditmar his own hand, and I feel genuinely bad about that.â
Roland shook his head. âIâm really trying to not fall completely off the murder wagon here, guys. But when I get angry AND the battle-drugs start flowing,â he shivered, âI get ugly.â
Once again, Rolandâs words were met with stunned silence. And once again, he plowed forward nonetheless.
âWhat Iâm sayinâ is, this whole situation is ugly as fuck and none of us is a hero. But weâre probably the least shitty people in this city with any kind of power. So letâs all forgive each others trespasses and use that power to try and save a couple of nice people from being crucified or whatever it is Christians do to the people who piss them off. Is it just hanging?â
âI...â Sasha started to respond, and then shook her head in exasperation, âProbably not,â she said instead.
âAlright,â Roland clapped and put on a bright smile, âso how do we get in there? I mean, I can just sorta balls my way through the front door, or the ceiling. But since this is an actual jail itâs probably reinforced. Thereâs a good chance theyâll kill the hostages before I punch my way into the cells.â
Manny could almost hear the wheels turn in Sashaâs head as she caught her thoughts up with what was now, apparently, her reality. To her credit, she responded in short order.
âThatâs probably the case,â she nodded. âThere are armed guards outside of each cell. And thereâs a real disgust for those captives among the Martyrs. They probably would shoot those women rather than let them escape.â
âAnd what about the guy?â
âI never saw him. I dealt with the women: Marigold and, oh, what was her name-Tule! But I assume he was in the same jail.â
âHe is,â Roland confirmed. âOr at least, he was, last time I sniffed around there.â
Mannyâs mind finally spun up to full speed. The pain in his guts had subsided, as had the light-headed bloodless feeling heâd woken up with. He felt comforted by the mere fact of having a simple problem to solve. At its core this question was a logistical one, just like the problems he faced every day as a fixer. He needed to deliver his team into a certain location-the jail-in a limited timeframe. So Mannyâs first job was to figure out what connections heâd need to make in order for that to be possible.
âSasha,â he asked, âwho can help us get inside that jail? Do you know anyone who has the authority to come and go from there with impunity?â
âDoctor Brandt,â she replied. âHeâs a good man, I think. But heâs committed. Heâs not going to work with us to betray the Kingdom.â
âHe doesnât need to,â Manny assured her. âIâm going to guess heâs a smart guy, right? He has to be somewhat worldly to be an actual doctor.â
Sasha nodded. âHeâs not a mindless zealot, if thatâs what youâre asking. Most of us arenât, you know. There was a reasonable case for supporting the Heavenly Kingdom. It just...â she trailed off, and Manny put his hands out in a placating gesture.
âNo, no, thatâs not what Iâm getting at. I want to make sure this guy has a sober, realistic understanding of what someone like Roland can do.â
Sashaâs eyes went cloudy, but she nodded. âHe talked about them with me, a little,â She said. âI would say he has a healthy respect for post-humans.â
âGood,â Manny said. âSo we find him, and weâll make him an offer. Either Roland tears the heart out of the Kingdom or Dr. Brandt helps us get those captives out of the jail. If heâs a sensible man heâll have to see the reason in that.â
Sasha didnât look so sure about that. But after some consideration she nodded and agreed that it was, at least, possible.
âOK. So we find this Dr. Brandt. We use him to get inside the jail, Roland does Roland-things and then we beat feet to get out of ciudad de muerta.â
Roland shrugged and took another deep pull from his gut beverage. He seemed on board. Sasha raised another question, though.
âOK, so who are you two supposed to be, then? Every time Dr. Brandt and I visited the jail we had a driver and an armed guard. But you two donât exactly look like you fit the bill, right now. You,â she pointed to Manny, â...clearly just took a bullet. And you,â she jabbed a finger at Roland, â...look like you just destroyed dozens of people. Which I guess you did.â
âRight,â Manny clapped his hands, âThatâs easy enough to fix. Itâs what, five AM now? The cityâs starting to wake up. Do you know what shift Dr. Brandtâs expected to work today, Sasha?â
âLately heâs been doing seven to seven.â
âAnd Roland,â Manny continued, âyou know where the vehicle pool is?â
The big man nodded. âYeah, I tracked that down during my first recon day. Itâs about thirty minutes away on foot, for you guys. Five minutes for me.â
âWeâll go slow,â said Manny. âSasha, youâll let us know when you recognize Dr. Brandtâs jeep and driver. Weâll stop them, relieve them of their uniforms and drive on to the doctorâs house. Roland, you think you can take two men out without bloodying up their uniforms?â
He gave another shrug. â50/50.â
âAlright,â Manny nodded, âThatâs Plan A, then.â
âAnd whatâs Plan B?â Sasha asked.
âClose your eyes and hide behind Roland.â
âThat looks like them,â Sasha whispered into his ear.
The three of them were stationed on the third floor of an old office building that overlooked the Kingdomâs vehicle pool. Based on the posters and decorations inside, the people in this office had once helped coordinate for a string of restaurant supply stores. Roland suspected the coming of the war mightâve been a relief to the people whoâd been stuck working here.
He was positioned by the window, sitting down so only the edge of his face wouldâve been visible to anyone looking in from the outside. Manny had elected to take a nap out of view, behind one of the desks. His ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere marked him out as a true expert in warzone survival. Sasha had situated herself on the other side of the window frame. Roland had warned her to keep her head out of view until he saw new arrivals to the vehicle depot. Heâd called for her eyes six times already, and gotten six negatives. Now it seemed their target had arrived.
âAre you sure?â He asked.
âPretty sure,â she said, and nodded. âThe driver walks with a limp, one of his legs is shorter than the other. I think itâs a birth defect. He must come from some part of the continent where those still happen.â
âGood eye!â Roland was genuinely impressed. The girl had potential.
âSo what do we do now?â she asked.
âYou rouse Manny. Iâll keep an eye on things. When they depart Iâll carjack them into unconsciousness and bring back the uniforms.â
And thatâs more or less how it went. The guard and driver departed in a jeep five minutes later. Roland bounded down from one of the rear windows and landed on the hood as they took a right hand turn out of view of the vehicle depot. The âguardâ did not do his job title proud.
Roland slammed his face into the dashboard and knocked him out. He also knocked out most of the manâs teeth, but his hindbrain told him the guyâs odds of a fatal brain hemorrhage were only about 6%. Acceptable. He broke the driverâs jaw with a right cross, took the wheel and steered the vehicle to a stop while he was still hanging outside it.
Roland tossed both men in the back of the jeep and pulled into the office buildingâs underground parking lot. He stripped them both and cursed when he realized the guardâs bleeding face had stained the neck of his uniform shirt. He found some bottled water in the trunk and managed to wash out the worst of it, but the stain would still be visible to anyone who really took the time to look. Still, itâd probably be enough to get them through the door of the jail.
He stashed both men in a janitorial closet and dragged an old metal dumpster in front of it to wedge the door shut. Someone would probably find them before they starved to death. He felt a pang of guilt for how little he cared about what happened to those men. I should feel worse about this. Roland knew the battle drugs had suppressed his conscience. He knew that the longer they stayed in this dangerous place, and the more fighting he did, the more tempted heâd be to kill outright.
Roland leaned against the dumpster and closed his eyes. He tried to force himself to take long, slow breaths and meditate on the flow of air in and out of his lungs. He hoped taking a breather would prompt his system to reduce the drip. Instead, he found himself flashing back to more violence-
Red siren lights screeched and blinked on walls of institutional white. Men and women in lab coats ran and screamed and died, died, died as he squeezed the trigger of his Sig Sauer.
Roland kicked at a locked door and the metal buckled inwards, revealing a room filled with giant glass organ-filled vats-
He shook his head and tried to banish the memories. Heâd started flashing back to this place when theyâd rescued Manny. But the memories had kept coming, even once the violence had subsided-
âPlease Roland!â the old woman begged through bloodstained teeth. He looked down at the hole in her gut, the red blood on her white lab coat. She slid backwards on the tile floor until her shoulders hit one of the racks of vat-grown organs.
âPlease donât do this!â
Roland shook his head. He didnât know why this was happening, exactly. It was likely just a glitch, some unforeseen interaction between the wetware of his hindbrain, the procedural memories stored in his DNA and the battle drugs that flowed through his system. He questioned, again, whether he really wanted his memories back.
This wasnât the time to ponder that question though. Roland headed back upstairs to grab Manny and Sasha. He led them down to the garage and handed Manny the un-bloodied uniform.
âDude, thatâs really obvious.â Manny pointed to the bloodstains on Rolandâs own uniform. âTheyâre going to notice that.â
âYou think so?â Roland was so used to normal humans not noticing much of anything, he sometimes underestimated their senses.
âIâve got an idea!â Sasha said. âPop the hood.â
Roland and Manny were both a little surprised. But he popped it for her. The girl stared at the engine, reached for the dip stick and pulled it free from its slot. She rubbed her hand down the shaft and it came away covered in sticky black grease. She rubbed the grease into Rolandâs collar, coated the dip stick again and repeated the process two more times. When she was done, he looked like heâd been working on an engine rather than beating a man half to death.
âFucking brilliant,â Roland said.
Manny nodded his agreement. Then he said, âAlright, letâs go abduct a doctor.â
----
The abduction itself was easy. Dr. Brandt lived in an undamaged mansion about two miles away from downtown. As one of the Kingdomâs few medical professionals Dr. Brandt had apparently earned himself some luxury. Sasha hid in the trunk so the doctor wouldnât notice anything was off until he entered the vehicle.
âWhereâs Jerry, and Samuel?â Dr. Brandt asked as he opened the door and sat down inside the jeep.
Manny gunned the engine and peeled away. Roland put a hand on Dr. Brandtâs thigh and squeezed just hard enough for the man to feel like his thigh bone might shatter.
âI stuffed them into a closet somewhere,â he explained with a smile.
âMy name is Manny,â the fixer said. âThe guy whoâs about to break your leg is named Roland. Weâre kidnapping you.â
âAh,â said Dr. Brandt. Roland had to give credit where credit was due. The doctor endured the pain with a stony face, and without any signs of panic.
âWe need you to help us get into the jail,â Manny continued, âwhere those negotiators from Rolling Fuck are being held.â
Dr. Brandt grimaced, either from the obscenity or just due to the continued pain of Rolandâs iron grip.
âAnd what makes you think Iâll give you any aid?â There was a bit of strain in his voice now, but the doctorâs features stayed decidedly neutral. âI may be a doctor, but Iâm no less prepared to die for my Kingdom than anyone else here. You might as well just go ahead and kill me.â
Roland relaxed his grip. The doctor sighed in relief.
âYeah, we thought you might say something like that,â said Manny. âThatâs why Roland and I prepared an alternate proposal.â
Roland drew the guardâs stolen sidearm from its holster. He gripped the pistol in one hand and then crushed it in his grip like he was balling up a piece of paper. The doctorâs eyes widened in shock and horror.
âSo,â Manny said, âMy friendâs just fulla chrome. High grade stuff. He could walk right through a tank if he wanted. Youâre an educated man. You know what people like him can do.â
The doctor nodded, but didnât say anything.
âOur offer is simple. You help us out and weâll leave with our people. You refuse to help, and weâll get our people anyway. Only Roland here will take a little detour to burn half this city to the ground.â
âI see.â Roland could smell the fear wafting off Dr. Brandt now, but the manâs expression didnât change.
âYou wouldnât be a doctor if you didnât see value in human lives,â Mannyâs voice was soft, his reasonable tone wouldnât have been out of place in a boardroom. âIf you refuse to help us we wonât hurt you, wonât harm a hair on your head. But my friend here will break this city, and a few thousand of the people in it. Youâll be hale and healthy so you can pick up the pieces. And youâll know that every ounce of that suffering couldâve been prevented if youâd just helped us out.â
âItâs true, sir,â Sasha spoke up. Dr. Brandt stiffened. She sat up from her hidden position in the back. The doctor was a smart man; he put together that she was not being held as a prisoner. His eyes narrowed in contempt.
âSasha.â Dr. Brandtâs voice was cold, âIâm sorry to see you in such poor company.â
âSir, Iâm really sorry but-â
âBut nothing,â he snapped, and now the anger showed on his face. âHave you been a traitor this whole time, or did your will simply fail?â
âSasha,â Manny spoke up, âwe really donât have time for this...â
Roland disagreed. His hindbrain estimated Sasha and the doctor could afford a solid eight minutes of emotional closure before they got too close to the jail.
âIs eight minutes a lot of time for you people?â
Everyone stared at him, their individual disagreements forgotten for a moment. Roland realized, late, that heâd spoken out loud.
âSorry,â he said. âThat was just supposed to be in my head.â
They still stared.
âWell now you only have like, seven minutes and forty seconds.â
âIgnore that,â said Manny, âHeâs a maniac. Thatâs why you donât want us to let him loose in your city.â
âDoctor Brandt,â Sasha added, âI know youâre a good man. The Lord put you on this earth to save lives. This is your chance to do that.â
The doctor kneaded the bridge of his nose with his hand. He did an admirable job of not giving too much away with his body language, but Roland could smell the truth. The scent of stress wafting off the doctor faded. It was a sign the man had made a decision: there was something about choosing that calmed the human soul.
âYou are correct of course, Sasha. I never approved of us holding those women in the first place. It was foolish, to antagonize things like him,â he nodded towards Roland, â...if I can avert a massacre, I will. But I sincerely hope you plan to escape with them, Sasha. I wonât hide or protect a traitor.â
âIâll leave,â Sasha said.
The doctor gave a somber nod.
âI wonât be able to get you out of the jail with those prisoners, you know.â He said to Roland. âI can get you inside, and I can probably get them to send the prisoners into an examination room. But the guards wonât let them leave the building.â
âIâll take care of that part,â Roland promised. âIâm real good at making doors.â
----
Roland was aware of the old saying, âNo plan survives contact with the enemyâ. For some reason his hindbrain remembered the original version of the quote, from an old Prussian General named Moltke: âNo plan of operations extends with any certainty beyond first contact with the main hostile forceâ.
People who observed Roland in battle tended to think he just sorta winged it and ballsed his way through on sheer violent potential alone. But Roland was, at his core, a planner.
Having a plan was essential to take maximum advantage of the way his hindbrain worked. A plan was nothing more than a clear set of tactics meant to accomplish a concrete goal. In this case the goal was âfree the prisoners and take his new friends to safetyâ. The plan he constructed to achieve that goal was based mainly on Sashaâs recollections and his own espionage on the jail. He knew it would change once the shooting started. But the fact that he had a rubric would give his hindbrain something to focus on while it zeroed in on the best tactics for the evolving situation.
At any rate, the plan Manny and Sasha had cooked up actually did survive first contact with the enemy. Roland and Manny had posed as guards and followed Dr. Brandt and Sasha right through the door. The Martyrs inside were all used to seeing the doctor and his assistant, and they didnât pay a different set of armed guards any mind. When Dr. Brandt requested they send all the prisoners in to the examination room the officer in charge didnât even blink at the request.
The only thing that had seemed off to Roland was an odd scent of anxiety in the air. It wafted off the guards and hung in a thick cloud above the entrance room. The odor reminded Roland of countless hours spent sitting with nervous men in the cramped belly of an APC or drop aircraft. He assumed this had something to do with the giant explosion heâd caused earlier, or his escape from the training facility. Of course these guys are on high alert, he thought, some nutfuck monster-man blew up a factory this morning.
Doctor Brandt led them into a large waiting room and closed the door. He let out a long, nervous sigh and slumped back against the wall.
âOk. Youâll have your prisoners soon enough, and no one else will need to die. Right?â He looked straight at Roland.
âRight,â Roland said, and then added, âUp until you fucks invaded Dallas Iâd gone years without killing anyone. Iâm actually pretty good at it.â
The doctor did not seem comforted by this fact. Roland opened his mouth again, but Manny put a hand on his shoulder.
âNo.â he said. And Roland nodded. I could have avoided so many violent misunderstandings with this kidâs help. Roland mulled this over and wondered if Manny might be interested in an adjoining mountaintop shack. Just then the door opened.
A guard entered. He was followed by the three prisoners and then two more guards. Rolling Fuckâs negotiators were all handcuffed to each other. Roland had been shown pictures of all three captives before theyâd departed the city of wheels, so it wasnât hard to recognize Marigold, Tule and Rick. But they all looked different. Marigoldâs bright purple hair was limp and greasy. The sockets on her augmented arm had been filled in with some sort of resinous substance.
Tule, bald in her pictures, now had a head full of peach fuzz. Her necklaces and amulets and rings were all gone, of course. She looked pale and deflated. Roland could see the ghost of an old black eye, likely earned during the initial capture. She walked with a limp, but otherwise looked healthy enough.
And then there was Rick. His wounds were fresh, and extensive. He was covered in bruises and it looked like his guards had cut into him, âwritingâ over several of his scarified tattoos with a combat knife. His left eye was broken and looked dead. Roland could tell the manâs orbital bone had been shattered. And with the slow, juddering way his good eye looked around the room, it was likely heâd suffered at least one concussion.
Dr. Brandt sighed and went right to the injured young man. âHave the others sit down,â he told the guards. He started to examine Rick. His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. Roland felt the doctorâs heartrate accelerate in anger.
âYouâve been at him again, havenât you?â Dr. Brandt sounded angry. âI told you all this had to stop. Heâs clearly concussed. You could have killed him.â
The lead guard shrugged and rolled his eyes. One of the other guards snickered. Roland could tell by the look of fury on the doctorâs face that he was not used to being treated this way.
âSoldier, I am the senior medical doctor of this entire Kingdom. I will bring your superior into this, and I will...â
Roland heard, and then smelled, six new men enter the jail. His mind rocketed downstairs, away from the petty argument, and started to analyze the new arrivals. They were soldiers, he could tell by the sound of their footfalls and the strong smell of gun oil and powder that wafted off of them. One of them smelled familiar, heâd been present when Manny had been abducted to the factory. Roland guessed this was the guy Sasha had told him about during their impromptu rescue mission.
âHuh.â Roland said out loud. Manny was the only one who seemed to notice.
âWhat?â Manny asked in a voice low enough that the guards wouldnât hear it over the sound of Dr. Brandt dressing them down.
âThat guy, Alexander. He just entered the building with a squad of armed men.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âI dunno,â Roland shrugged, âprobably an ambush.â
Roland was a bit embarrassed that it had taken him this long to piece it together. Thatâs why the guards had been so accommodating of Dr. Brandtâs unusual request. Itâs why theyâd smelled so nervous. Somehow, the rescue attempt had been spotted before it had gone down. The soldiers of the Heavenly Kingdom must have assumed the doctor was a traitor too.
Roland stood up.
He knew that violence would need to happen here. There were too many decent peopleâs lives at stake for anything else. The instant his forebrain made that decision, his hindbrain started pouring adrenaline and battle drugs into his synapses. He felt the electric crackle of chemical glee start deep in the back of his neck. It spread out to his shoulders, down his arms, to the tip of his fingers. Roland fought back against the building euphoria while he analyzed the situation.
The world slowed down around him. He had plenty of time to watch as the guards started to reach for their sidearms. The word âambushâ had keyed them in. But it didnât matter: they still moved too slow to effect anything. His hindbrain calculated that Manny and Sasha were relatively safe. No one had a gun on them, just now. The prisoners were his priority, then. They were exposed, both to the door that enemy reinforcements would soon rush through, and to the guards already in the room. Dr. Brandt was a tertiary responsibility: he seemed like a decent enough guy, in spite of it all.
Alexander and his men are two-point-oh-four seconds from the door. Maybe faster, if they dropped into a dead sprint.
Roland stepped forward, into the lead guard. He grabbed the man by the hair, lifted him into the air, and slammed his skull hard into the second guardâs face. Bone cracked. 16.3% and 28.7% chances of a fatal hemorrhage, respectively. Roland dropped the first man and plunged his fingers into the third guardâs eyes. He gouged deep, stopped just short of the manâs brain, and then pulled his hand free.
That man staggered back, opened his mouth and started to scream. A surge of battle drugs hit Rolandâs synapses at just that moment and, in a fit of gleeful pique, he grabbed the man by the jaw and pulled. His intent had been to yank the manâs head into his knee. But he pulled a little too hard and ripped the whole jaw free. The man fell back, gurgled, bled.
âHuh. My bad,â Roland said to no one in particular.
He shoved the jaw into his front pocket, figuring it might make a useful weapon when the reinforcements showed up. In the meantime, he set to work ripping the prisonerâs manacle chains apart. Itâd have taken too long to remove the manacles. But at least with the chains free theyâd all be able to move with-
âWhat are you, oh my GOD!
âRoland wh-â
âAHHHHHH!â
Dr. Brandt, Manny and Sasha finally reacted. Roland had to remind himself that their brains wouldnât have been able to properly process what heâd done while it was happening. The whole altercation had lasted barely a quarter-second. To Manny, Sasha and Dr. Brandt the violence had been disorienting and almost unintelligible.
The three negotiators from Rolling Fuck were not stock sapien. Theyâd reacted faster and gone to ground almost as soon as heâd rushed the first man. At least, the women had. The young man was too dazed and battered to react to much at all, so his friends pulled him down and shielded him with their bodies.
Of the other three Manny was the first to react. He grabbed Sasha by the shoulder and shoved her down below the window line. Roland was proud. He would have said something about that, but everything went disastrously wrong a fraction of a second later.
Roland had known Alexander and his men were rushing the door. Heâd estimated a solid one-point-four seconds before they breached the entryway. Thatâs why heâd occupied himself by checking on everyone. Heâd trusted his senses and trusted that the Heavenly Kingdom didnât have any gear he hadnât already seen. That proved to be a mistake, because unbeknownst to Roland two men in powered armor hung off the outside wall of the building, directly underneath the window.
Their suits were bleeding-edge stealth technology utterly absent from Rolandâs petabytes of memory. His passive sensors had missed them entirely. Roland first realized they were there, and that heâd erred terribly, when they opened fire.
Close to a hundred .30 caliber slugs tore through the wall of the jail at roughly forty-two hundred feet per second. They were fired at such close range, and with such total surprise, that Roland was unable to dodge or prep his subdermal armor for impact. Nineteen rounds hit him: fifteen in his center of mass, one in his left thigh, and three in his right shoulder. Two hit Manny, ripping a hole through his left hand and another through his kidney. Dr. Brandt, whoâd only half-turned to face Roland at this point, was torn apart in a fusillade of steel. Roland also registered hits on their not-yet-rescued captives: one in Tuleâs left butt cheek, one that severed Rickâs index finger, and another in the young manâs shoulder.
Roland staggered back from the impact of the rounds just as Alexanderâs point man burst through the door. The coordination between the two teams was impressive, as was the fact that the suited men hadnât hit their allies on the other side of the door. On a normal day Roland wouldâve ripped the shotgun out of the point-manâs hands and castrated him with it. But this was not a normal day and Rolandâs brain was occupied with the damage to his body. The point man fired twice and sent one-ounce tungsten slugs through both of Rolandâs knees.
He dropped, rolled, moaned. And then the rest of the team was in the room. They moved well. Not like vets, but like men whoâd trained a lot for entries like this. They all wore heavy body armor. It wasnât powered, but it provided solid protection against small arms fire. They mostly packed auto-shotguns. Smart choice, Roland thought. When fighting post-humans, go for tissue damage.
He was hurt. Nothing fatal, yet. But the lost of momentum and control had cost him dearly. Now six men had a bead on him with weaponry powerful enough to do some real damage. Roland listened as one of the stealth suits smashed the remainder of the window in and crawled inside the room.
This armor was much more subtle than the standard Ares pattern armor. Aside from plating at the chest and shins it didnât look like it added a substantial amount of protection. But the suit was covered in high-definition display panels. The man was hard for Roland to see. He wouldâve been nigh-invisible to a normal human.
âShit,â Roland spat blood and looked up just as a very satisfied looking young man stepped into the room. He was tall, handsome and well-built. He wore the same armor as his men but lacked a helmet. Instead, he had a red beret with a lacquered gold cross pinned to the front. Roland took one look at the boyâs prominent jaw-line and well-tanned skin. He grudgingly agreed that it wouldâve been a crime to cover up that face.
âHow new are those fucking suits?â he asked the fancy-man.
âThe Republic had some very choice gear in its armory,â the youth replied. âMy superiors will be happy to hear how well it worked against you.â
He sauntered into the room like a conquering king, waving his pistol lazily at the captives.
âHello, Sasha!â he said with a smile and a cheery wave of his free hand.
âAlexander,â she replied in a tone as cold as ice.
The young man, Alexander, stopped in front of Roland, peered down and grinned the shit-eatingest grin in the history of eating shit.
âYou know,â he said, âit was rather easy drawing you into this trap. Once you played your hand at the training camp we knew youâd come here sooner or later. I was rather surprised to see you involved, Sasha.â He looked up at her. âI wonder: was this your plan all along, or are you merely an opportunist, clutching to these men because my proposition injured your ego?â
He laughed prickishly. Roland wanted to hit him, but the situation merited further analysis before action. Much of the damage done to him in the ambush had already healed, and none of it was substantial enough to impede his deadliness. But his position was rather tenuous. The second armored soldier crouched at the window, adhered to the outside wall. The first stealth suited soldier had one gun trained on Manny and another aimed at Roland.
Alexanderâs men all had him dead to rights, shotguns leveled and fingers on triggers. He could, perhaps, move fast enough to take out one or two of them. But the others would do a significant amount of damage in the meantime. And, more to the point, Roland could do nothing to ensure Sasha and Mannyâs safety. He considered their deaths unacceptable.
âI really am a bit disappointed in how easy this all was,â the young fuck continued. âI thought weâd be in for more of a fight here. I guess the stories about your kind were exaggerated after all. I suspected so. No amount of scientific tinkering can replace the blessing of God behind righteous men.â
Roland sensed movement. Not from Manny: he was frozen still, next to Sasha, under the gun of one of the power armored troopers. It didnât come from any of Alexanderâs men, either. It was Marigold. The woman had gritted her teeth and inched her hand towards the body of the guard Roland had de-jawed. He watched as she wrapped her hand around the grip of his sidearm.
Alexander stepped around him and headed towards Sasha. The other soldiers still had their weapons trained on Roland. They didnât seem to have noticed Marigold.
âI warned you, didnât I Sasha?â Alexander asked as a smile played across his lips. âI warned you what came of defying Godâs will. And then you allied yourself with a beast whose very existence is a sin against our Heavenly Father. If Christ had intended-â
Roland never got to hear the rest of that sentence, because Alexander never got to say it. He was interrupted by Marigold pulling the pistol free of its holster and swinging it up towards the groin of the squadâs point man. She fired twice, switched targets, and pumped two more rounds into the unarmored belly of a second man.
Roland was up and off the ground between the second and third shot. He swung his fist hard into the face plate of the nearest soldierâs helmet. The plexiglass shattered, and Rolandâs knuckles pushed shards into the manâs cheeks and eyes. The Martyr screamed and fired a shot that went wide, because Roland dove to the left as he retracted his fist and pivoted to rush the power-armored man holding a gun on Manny and Sasha.
There were no good options here. Marigoldâs intervention had given them all a chance. But Roland had been forced to make a choice between going after the armored men and saving his friends, or taking out the entry team and saving Marigold and her friends. He heard her fire two more shots, and heard them impact. But then his attention was consumed by the two men in powered armor.
Theyâd recovered first, and both men opened up on Roland as he charged. There was no dodging at this distance. It was barely possible to mitigate the damage in any way. Roland took thirty high-velocity rounds to the face, neck, shoulders and upper chest. Some of them were stopped by his subdermal armor. Most werenât. He felt ( holy shit !) real pain for the first time in what felt like years. Rolandâs wired nervous system rewarded this with a flood of chemical bliss. As he charged he smiled and âwhoopedâ like a sixteen-year-old railing his first line of blow.
He dove into the first man hands first, grabbed his enemy by the neck and then bum rushed him into the man hanging outside the window. This knocked the top of the second manâs body free from the wall and sent him reeling half-back into open air. The manâs feet were still attached to the building, but his body flailed free. Roland kept his grip and focus on the first armored man. The Martyrâs neck armor had hardened to resist the crushing strength of Rolandâs grip, so he shook the manâs head back and forth and slammed it into the frame of the window as hard as possible.
The soldier pumped another dozen rounds, point blank, into Rolandâs body. He saw red. He felt red. He was numbly aware of the tremendous amount of damage being done to him. But none of it had yet rendered him unable to throttle this motherfucker, so he continued to squeeze until the armorâs neck seals failed, cracked and Rolandâs fingers bit deep into the meat of the manâs throat and crushed his windpipe.
Roland tossed the body aside and went for the second man, still flailing outside the window. He was interrupted when Alexander fired a slug into his temple. The round impacted his reinforced skull and ricocheted off. But the impact, the force of the blow itself made him see stars. It hurt. Roland staggered back and to the side.
Then several things happened in very quick succession.
Marigold fired another round, her last. It was followed by the sound of the two remaining guards opening up with their shotguns. Roland heard as she was torn apart. Just as his eyes started to focus again, Alexander fired two more shots directly into his head. The man on the wall finally found his grip again, and Roland felt the power armored soldier steady himself to open fire.
Rolandâs shaken hindbrain advised him that going for the armored man was probably his best decision. So he surged forward, less steady than before, and hunched his shoulders in anticipation of taking another slug or four to the brainpan. But that didnât happen. For the second time today, Roland was surprised by the actions of a normal human. This time it was Sasha.
Sheâd gotten up from where she and Manny had taken shelter from the gunfight and crawled over to the body of the first guard Roland had disabled. Heâd been dimly aware of this in the semi-conscious way he was aware of the traffic passing outside. His brain had opted to not focus on it since the heavily armed men were a more pressing concern. But then Sasha had removed the unconscious guardâs helmet and rushed towards Alexander.
She swung first for his gun-hand. Roland heard her knock the pistol free of his grip. Then she hit him in the face, over and over and over again. Roland felt the urge to thank her but, just then, the power-armored man became a concern again.
The fucker managed to get off three more shots before Roland ripped the weapon free from its forearm mount and used it to cave in the armored faceplate. Blood spurted out and the man fell, limp, back out the window. His feet continued to adhere to the outside wall while his jerking, bleeding body dangled in the breeze.
Roland turned just in time to take another two slugs from another two shotguns. But then the men were empty. Theyâd pumped most of their rounds into Marigoldâs body. They fumbled to reload, panicked and clearly unused to carrying out the task in a combat situation. Roland could smell the terror as it wafted off their bodies. Their fear hit his nervous system like an ounce of crystal meth. He loomed towards them, and for a second the only sounds in the room were his footsteps, and the dull âthwhapâ of Sasha pounding her helmet into Alexanderâs now shattered skull.
Roland whipped his left arm out. A massive blade, not unlike a straight razor, tore through the flesh of his inner forearm and locked into place. The men screamed. One dropped his shotgun and tried to run. Roland tore into him first, using the blade to sever the fuckerâs arms. Battle drugs and pure, liquid satisfaction flowed into Rolandâs synapses. His dick went hard and he screamed in wordless joy as he slashed downwards and sliced off the manâs face. The poor bastard fell away, burbling, and Roland turned towards the last soldier.
He died an equally terrible death.
And then it was done. The battle was over. Quiet reigned. The only sounds audible to a normal human wouldâve been the blood spurting from dead and dying bodies and the sound of sobbing. Tule sobbed for Marigold. Sasha sobbed for, Roland guessed, her lost innocence.
And then, out in the city beyond, came the sound of a hundred sirens. The Martyrs were coming for them.
Alexander hadnât seen it coming. He hadnât expected her at all. The sound of his furious scream was the most beautiful thing Sasha had ever heard. She hit him again and again and he fell back, and then down to the ground. Blood streamed from his nose and a gash above his brow. His eyes looked unfocused. His lip was split. He tried to scream, or cry out, or beg her but she didnât give him the time to say one damn word.
Instead she hit him again. And again. And again. She didnât make the conscious choice to dive down on top of him and, in fact, Sasha was rather surprised to find herself straddling the prone, broken boy soldier. But once she was there she kept hitting him until she felt his skull give away and the helmet hit something soft, squishy and hot that lay beyond.
She sat back and, for what seemed like a year, just stared at the helmet embedded in Alexanderâs ruined face. Blood pulsed out from around the edges where it met the skin. The way the blood bubbled up looked just a bit like the water at one of the fountains outside the hospital her mother ran. For some reason that similarity did more to raise her hackles than the act of killing.
Her ears still rang, and so it was easy to lose herself in contemplation of Alexanderâs body. Her mind turned to the book of John, and the words of her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ:
â Do not be like Cain, who belonged to the evil one and murdered his brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own actions were evil and his brotherâs were righteous.â
Had Alexanderâs actions truly been righteous? Sasha knew, if she searched the Bible, she could find scriptural justifications for everything Alexander had done. Thatâs why sheâd come out here in the first place, wasnât it? The Heavenly Kingdom was finally going back to the letter of the Bible, the word of God. Only now that sheâd seen what that looked like Sasha had found she could not abide it.
Am I still a Christian? She couldnât say. Her faith had been such a part of her identity. It had been everything. And now it felt like a lie. What am I if not a righteous servant of the Lord? Where do I go from here?
âHey, Sashâ? Little problem here.â
Rolandâs voice jerked her out of her contemplation. She looked back at the man and her mind recoiled in horror. His skin had been shredded by gunfire; it hung in pale tatters down his face and arms. His clothing had been largely shot away, and the rags that remained were so drenched in blood that they clung to him. He looked almost as if he was clad in a single giant scab. One of his eyes was unfocused, dislocated, and something had happened to his left arm. It looked as if an enormous straight razor had burst out of the forearm.
âWhere did you get that?â She asked. Sasha was surprised, and a bit disturbed, by her curiosity. Roland seemed surprised too.
âThis?â He looked at the blade. âI really donât know. Iâd sort of forgotten it was in there.â He lifted his arm, and its blood-soake d blade, up, and looked at it like a small child opening a prized gift on Christmas morning.
Then he flicked his arm down, towards the ground, and the blade slid back into the meat of his forearm with a wet thwack.
âLook,â he said, âweâve got more pressing shit to deal with right now. You hear all those sirens?â
She actually couldnât. Her hearing had begun to recover from the gunfight, but Roland was just barely audible. A loud tinnitus hum still rang through her ears. Sasha was pretty sure sheâd suffered permanent damage.
âI canât hear much right now,â she said, âthe gunfire, you know.â
âOh,â He frowned. âI forgot that can happen to you folks. Well, ah, thereâs a shitload of cops or martyrs or militia, whatever, a bunch of them are coming. Probably two or three hundred. They got tanks and drones and shit.â
âGod almightyâŠâ Sasha felt fear rise up in her heart again.
âYeah, listen, Godâs not really the dude to worry about right now. Mannyâs all fucked up. I stopped his bleeding, but youâre going to need to get him out of here.â
Manny! Sheâd forgotten all about him. Sasha realized with a start that sheâd blotted the rest of the room from her mind. She looked around and took it all in. Manny was still lying where sheâd left him, nursing a gunshot wound to the belly. He was pale, sweaty and he looked to be in terrible pain. But he was conscious and alive. That was more than she could say for Marigold.
The poor woman had been shredded by shotgun fire. Sasha couldnât bring herself to look too closely at the shattered, steaming remains. But Marigoldâs friends were alive. The young man, Rick, was unconscious and drenched in blood. But most of that blood didnât seem to be his own. His head was in Tuleâs lap. Sheâd been wounded in the buttocks, and bled quite a lot, but the wound seemed to have clotted. There were tears, and a haunted, pained look in her eyes.
âOh my God,â Sasha said once her mind started to process the visual stimuli, âOh Lord in Heaven no, no, noâŠâ That poor woman. That unborn child. How could this happen? How could this BE?
âSASHA!â Roland shouted, âThis is a very bad time for you to have emotions. Try killing those for a little while.â
âHowâŠâ
âJust think about the fact that everyone but me will die if you donât get your shit together. And then get your shit together.â
Her initial action was anger and frustration. Is he that disconnected from humanity? Does he think people can just turn their empathy off? But then she stopped herself, listened to him, and tried. She imagined herself putting on a heavy jacket, something that blocked out pain and horror rather than the cold.
It worked.
âOK,â she said, âWhat do I need to do?â
âYou need to take Manny. And, ah, whats-her-name. And whats-his-face.â
âTule. And Rick.â
âRight, take the not-dead people, run down and out the back door and find me a car, then you need to-â
âA car?â
He stopped sifting through the dead menâs firearms to roll his eyes at her.
âYes, a car. Iâm not going to carry all you lame-bloods out of here on my fucking shoulders. Weâll need a getaway vehicle.â
âI canât drive,â she said, âall the cars in the AmFed are autonomousâŠâ
He shrugged. âYouâll figure it out.â
Manny moaned just then, almost as if it was in response to Rolandâs suggestion. Sasha knew it was more likely sheâd just been too focused on the big post-human to notice Mannyâs pained moans the whole time.
âCan he drive?â Sasha asked.
âSure!â Roland said with sudden cheer. âHeâs only lost, what, two quarts of blood? I gave him a little of mine. Iâm sure heâll be right as rain soon.â
Manny moaned again, hand at his blood-soaked belly. He didnât appear to be bleeding still, but he was pale and his face showed agony too obvious to ignore. Sasha doubted heâd be capable of driving a car in the immediate future.
âI can drive,â Tule said in a cracked, broken-sounding voice.
âRight!â Roland said, âWell thatâs lovely. Get your asses up and get moving. Youâve got about two minutes before shit and fan start their lovely dance.â The post-humanâs good humor was incongruous in this blood-soaked room, addressed to two people whoâd lost a friend today. He grabbed one of the guardâs pistols, which heâd shoved in his waistband, and handed it to Sasha.
âSafetyâs off,â he said cheerily, âso once you pull the trigger, stuffâll happen.â
Sasha took the gun, then went over to help Manny up. Tule did the same thing with her wounded friend. Neither Manny or Rick were in great shape. But Manny, at least, seemed capable of standing under his own power. Once Sasha got him to his feet he stayed there. She looked him in the eye and, while he seemed sort of dazed and glassy, his pupils fixed on hers and he nodded.
âWe have to go,â she said.
âSe trata de tiempo de mierda,â he muttered.
âWhat?â Sasha asked.
âI said itâs about fucking time.
âJust follow me,â she said with more confidence than she felt, âIâll take care of everything.â
âOh fuck that,â Manny said. He put a hand on her shoulder and moved as if to push in front of her and shield her with his body. Then he grabbed his side, groaned, and staggered back.
ââŠalright, yeah. You lead the way.â
Men.
Tule was up now. She had an arm around her friend and, together, they moved almost as fast as a single elderly person with bad hips. Manny was not much more mobile. Sasha looked back at Roland.
âWhere should we meet you?â
âThe next street behind this building is called Alma. Take it and go left until you hit a road named Cross Bend. I should be there by the time you arrive.â
âWhat if we canât find a-â
He cut her off: âNot finding a car is not an option. Talking more is not an option. I have to go kill people; you find something with wheels and get Tule in the driverâs seat.â
Sasha started to say something, but the sirens had drawn very close indeed. She heard several shouts from outside the front of the building. Roland cursed. Heâd already gathered up two of the rifles and slung them across his back. He had a large pistol in his left hand. At the sound of the shouting he brought his right hand up to his belly and dug it deep inside his skin. Sasha watched in horror as he tore a heavy, blood-caked weapon out of his gut.
Roland walked up to the front window of the room and fired the weapon once, twice, three times. Its report was deep and bass-y, like the sound of a heavy drum being struck. There was a brief island of quiet, followed by a trio of explosions that rattled the walls of the jail.
âLook,â Roland said as he glanced back to her, âIâve got to go be a distraction. Find the car. Get to Cross Bend and Alma. Iâll be there innnâŠâ He glanced out the window again and shrugged, ââŠten, maybe eleven minutes.â
âOk, should-â, Sasha started to ask.
âTalking time is done,â Tuleâs flat voice interrupted, âHe moves. We move. Now.â
She pulled her friend towards the door. There would have been something almost comical about the agonizing slowness with which they actually moved. But the gesture had its intended effect. Sasha took Manny by the hand. She let Tule lead the way the door, but once they were in the hallway the young woman had no idea where to go. Sasha took the lead then and guided her new comrades towards a flashing red Exit sign she knew led to a rear stairwell.
For a brief, passing second sheâd been worried that they might encounter other guards or jailers during their flight. That concern proved groundless. Gunfire had torn through the walls of the examination room and ripped apart the interior of the jail. She saw a few gouts of blood by the walls, and one sinister looking pool of it underneath a desk. It all drove an important lesson home for Sasha: bullets donât stop when they miss.
The stairwell was as deserted as the rest of the jail. They hobbled down it as quickly as three wounded people could manage. Sasha stayed in the back, under the instinctive assumption that itâd be best for morale if she didnât rush ahead. Their progress down the stairs was painfully slow, almost every step punctuated by the sound of gunfire out on the street below.
It sounded like a full-scale war had broken out there. There was a lot of screaming. Sasha tried not to think too much about which of the nice young Martyrs sheâd met in the square were now dying by Rolandâs hand.
What about Anne? What about Susannah? Youâre abandoning them. Sasha shook the thoughts clear from her head. Thereâd be time for self-loathing later.
Tule and Rick reached the bottom floor first. They leaned back against the wall together and caught their breath. Rick was as white as a sheet and looked like he could still barely stand. Tule was doing better but not by a wide margin. When she and Manny hit the bottom floor he went straight for the exit door. He clearly intended to be the first out, in case anyone had a weapon trained on the door.
Sasha stopped him. That wasnât hard because he was only a little more stable than Tule. She pushed him back, put a hand on the door and then drew the pistol Roland had given her. She fixed Manny with what she hoped was a firm, fearless look.
âYouâre in no state to be heroic.â
He looked as if he wanted to fight her. But then he looked down to the shaking hand he had pressed onto the sopping wound in his side.
âYeah, alright. Youâre down to do the hero stuff, then?â
She nodded.
âWell then, be my guest.â
----
Sasha didnât know how to use a gun. The AmFed banned almost all private firearm ownership. Her grandfather had owned a couple of bolt-action hunting rifles and heâd let Sasha hold them a few times. That was as close as sheâd gotten to firearms training. Sheâd never actually shot the darn things; once heâd died her father had sold the guns rather than deal with the hassle (and expense) of a license.
So she burst out onto the street with the pistol held out high in front of her, like sheâd seen in movies. It took her a few seconds to realize, sheepishly, that this behavior was more likely to get her gunned down than aid in her defense. Thankfully thereâd been no Martyrs watching the rear exit. Sasha waved for the others to follow her out and stashed the pistol under her shirt.
For a few minutes theyâd ran or, rather, hobbled in what seemed like the right direction. The city still rang with the sound of sirens, gunfire and the occasional concussive blast, but it seemed to be moving away from them. Plano wasnât exactly crowded but there were enough people out on the street to notice the fresh wounds on Tule, Rick and Manny. No one approached them though. Sasha wasnât sure if they passed unnoticed, but they were able to pass through the city without incident.
Fear and the flight reflex were enough to carry them a few blocks in relative haste. Once they were out of sight of the jail Rick put up a hand as he slumped back against the wall. Tule continued to hold him up. She was pale, sweaty and pained-looking. Ryan shook and shuddered. His eyes were unfocused and he was clearly in shock.
âHe needs to rest,â Tule said.
Manny stopped next to them and leaned against the wall as well. He nodded at Tule and then looked back to Sasha.
âYeah, ditto. I might prefer to lay down and die at this point.â
âWe need to find a car anyway,â Tule said as she helped lower Rick down to sit against the wall, âIf I carry him for much longer Iâm going to drop.â
Sasha realized everyone was looking at her.
âIs that...my job?â
Manny looked mortified. Tule looked angry. Rick, bless him, was too deep in shock to react.
âYes,â Tule said in a toneless voice that somehow still implied deep disappointment.
âOK then,â Sasha said. âWhen I find the car, I assume youâll know how to hotwire it?â
Tule laughed. It wasnât a nice laugh.
âIf youâre hiding a real nice deck somewhere in that silly head of yours, or you find a car thatâs older than my dad, maybe. Otherwise weâre going to need something with keys in it.â
âWhat-so Iâm supposed to just carjack someone?â
Tule stared dead-eyed at her. Manny gave a pained, helpful smile.
âI mean, youâve got a gun...â he said.
Sasha felt the heat rise in her again. Why not? Iâve given up every other principle I have today. I might as well commit armed robbery. The guilt stang her guts, but not as badly as it should have. Perhaps she was still numb from watching Dr. Brandt and Marigold die. Or maybe itâs because I killed Alexander. Maybe Iâm evil now, and this is what that feels like.
There was no time to mull the possibilities. Sasha left Manny and the others to catch their breath and darted down an alley, towards a larger street that sounded like it might have traffic. She passed two parked cars and looked inside with the vain hope that, just maybe, someone might have left their keys behind.
It was to no avail. Sasha soon found herself on the cracked and shell-pocked asphalt of Alma Road. The buildings on either side of this stretch of street had taken significant damage during the Heavenly Kingdomâs birth pains. There were no people out on the sidewalks, or visible in the windows. Anyone alive had probably hunkered down to avoid the shooting. There was still traffic on the road though. Three trucks and a dented, fume-spewing white Sedan shot by her at the speed of wartime traffic.
Sasha drew her gun, looked at it, and then hurridly stashed it inside her blouse again when she realized how dumb that had been. Godly women do not carry guns. A series of four loud booms sounded in the distance. Sasha didnât know enough about weaponry to guess what those had been, but she knew they had something to do with Roland. People are dying so I can find us a car and get everyone to safety.
She started walking down the street, face pointed towards oncoming traffic, hands waving above her head in the international gesture for âOh God, please help me!â Two more cars zoomed past without even slowing to check on her. It was odd how that shocked her after everything else sheâd seen in the Heavenly Kingdom. âThe faithful protect and support each otherâ, Pastor Mike had claimed. But not, it seemed, when a half-human monster was on a rampage through their city.
That helped to abate her guilt at least. Or it did right up until the moment a familiar janky brown truck rumbled to a stop next to her.
âSâcuse me, maâam, do you need...â She turned around and the manâs face lit up in surprise, âMiss Sasha?â
It was Darryl, the kindly old foreman whoâd driven her to the House of Miriam on her first day in the Kingdom. Was that really only days ago? It seemed like years. Sasha felt like an old woman, even though she was just on the edge of 18.
âAre you hurt?â He slammed the car into park and opened his door, âOne secâ, I got a first aid kit in the back. Whereâd you get hit?â
Sasha looked down at her chest and realized she looked like sheâd been badly injured. The blood wasnât hers, of course, but Darryl couldnât have known that. He thought she was hurt, and he was trying to help. Am I really going to rob a Good Samaritan?
She was. Sasha waited until Darryl had closed the door, grabbed his medical kit and turned towards her. Then she drew her pistol and leveled it at his weathered, grease-stained and now thoroughly surprised face.
âWha-â
âI need your truck,â she said.
Darryl dropped the medical kit and put both his palms out.
âWhoa now girl, alright. Why donât you just put that gun down? Darryl ainât gonna hurt you. Iâll take you anywhere you need to go. Letâs just be real calm, real slow about all this. Did somebody hurt y-â
âI need your truck.â
It was so hard to keep her voice even. So hard to do this cruel thing to a man whoâd only been kind to her. Sasha could feel white hot tears stream down her face. I must look like a crazy person , she thought. Maybe that will help.
âNow Miss Sasha,â Darryl said. âIâma guess you donât know how to drive a truck. Mine ainât autonomous. Itâs old, stick shift. Please, why donât you let me take you where you need to go...â
Sashaâs mind raced. It was the same species of nervousness that had always gripped her during major exams and college admissions essays. She ran through and discarded a dozen different courses of action in her head. What if he wonât give me the keys? What if he takes another step forward? What if-
He moved. It started with a single glance. Darrylâs eyes darted towardâs the driverâs-side door of his truck. She almost didnât catch it. But for some reason, the gesture rose goose pimples on the back of her neck and forearms.
âI need your truck.â
Her voice was cold, strong, firm. Darryl nodded at her. His body posture stayed the same. But his eyes changed. There was something hard and haunted in them now.
âAlright Miss Sasha, Iâm just gonna reach in here for my keys...â
He took a step back and moved towards the door. The bottom fell out of Sashaâs gut, and she screamed at him to stop.
âDONâT MAKE ANOTHER MOVE!â
He dove for the door, pulled it open and reached a hand down beside the driverâs seat. Sasha saw a flash of metal in his hand and she opened fire. She wasnât sure how many times she pulled the trigger but soon the gun was empty. Sasha watched as Darryl stumbled back into the truck and then slid to the ground. Most of her shots had gone wide, very wide. Sheâd shattered two of the truckâs windows and put four or five rounds into the vehicleâs body. But at least one had hit Darryl right in his throat. A kill shot.
He slumped to the ground, gagged on blood and jerked like an electrified marionette. Part of her wanted to run to him, to hold him while he died and say she was sorry. Then she saw the gun at his feet. It didnât dissipate her guilt, after all sheâd drawn on him first, but at least at least she hadnât shot and killed an unarmed man. Sheâd killed an armed man.
An armed man who only ever helped me.
Sasha slumped against the hood of the truck and lost herself in a storm of sobs. She didnât realize sheâd dropped her gun until it hit the asphalt with a dull clank. She couldnât control her hands or her breathing. Her frantic sobbing had robbed all the air from her lungs. Her legs weakened and she started to stumble to the ground when a pair of warm, semi-strong arms caught her from behind.
âHey, hey. Itâs alright. Itâs alright.
Manny.
âItâs OK. Youâre going to be OK.â
Her world went black for a little while. Sasha felt Manny lift her up, heard the sound of the truckâs engine rumble back to life. But she couldnât see, and she couldnât move, and she couldnât stop crying. Time lost any sort of meaning. When she came back to herself they were in motion. Manny sat next to her, and Rick next to him. Tule drove. Sashaâs eyes were drawn to Manny. He held Darrylâs pistol in his left hand. She couldnât help but stare at the four spots of dried blood on the silver slide.
âAre you alright, Sasha?â Manny asked. His question passed through her ears without hitting her mind.
Sasha couldnât stop staring at Darrylâs blood. I did that. I ended him. Sheâd ended two men today. She felt no guilt about Alexander, but that was almost more disturbing. It seemed impossible that sheâd been a pampered suburban girl less than a month ago. Now she was a murderer. Whoever sheds human blood, by humans shall their blood be shed. Sasha felt as if a thick cloud of doom had fallen on her shoulders.
The truck veered off to the right and slammed to a sudden stop. Sasha was flung forward onto the back of Tuleâs seat. A trio of vehicles zoomed past them, speeding in the opposite direction like several bats fleeing the same hell. Sasha realized, with a momentâs focus, that there was an awful lot of traffic heading away from them as fast as possible.
âCunt!â Tule cursed and fought with the stick shift. The truck lurched forward again and made it back onto the road for a few seconds. Then another speeding car roared into the oncoming lane and she was forced to veer off to the shoulder again.
The sounds of gunfire grew louder. Sasha heard the thrum of helicopter blades too, a second before one buzzed right over their heads. It looked like a military vehicle, painted matte black and laden with weapons. Sasha watched as it zoomed ahead and rose up over a pair of high-rise apartment buildings near the horizon line. There was a loud âkrump â sound and black smoke billowed from the side of the craft. It spun around drunkenly in the air for one very long second before slamming into the roof of one of the high-rises.
The resultant blast rocked the truck. Tule veered left and right around a pothole and another speeding truck, respectively. Her knuckles were white; her jaw was clenched. Sasha could see Tuleâs eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked terrified and angry at the same time. Rick moaned in pain with every shake and jostle. Manny closed his eyes, shook his head and muttered something low under his breath.
âAre we close?â Sasha asked Manny. He squinted and looked out at the road for a second.
âI mean,â he shrugged, â-yeah? Probably? Iâm going to guess Rolandâs close to the explosions. And also causing them.â
Smoke now dominated the horizon, which grew less horizon-y and more imminent with each passing second. In spite of all that Sashaâs eyes kept being drawn back to the gun in Mannyâs hand and the dry red-brown stains on the slide. That was a good manâs blood, she thought. How did it come to this?
âHey. Jesus girl.â
It was Tule. Sasha looked up to the rearview mirror and locked eyes with the other woman.
âBuck the fuck up, chica,â Tule said. For the first time, Sasha heard real anger and not just cold indifference in her voice. The other woman continued.
âMy best friend was just shot to pieces. My lover is bleeding out. And youâre all fucked up because you gunned down some Christofascist shitfuck. Suck your heart into your guts. I donât know where you came from, girl, but youâre in a hard-ass part of the world now. Itâs time to fortify.â
Fortify.
Sasha held onto that word like a life preserver. Fortify. Survive. Then you can lose your head in tears and shame.
âOK,â she nodded. She started to apologize but was interrupted when the truck screeched to another sudden halt and threw everyone forward. Sashaâs head hit the front seat again and her world dissolved into stars.
âSHIT!â Tule cried. Something rammed the rear of the truck. Sasha lost all orientation to reality. When her head and eyes cleared, the first thing she saw was Tule, nursing a broken nose. Blood poured down the other womanâs face. Manny seemed intact. Sasha looked behind them and saw a small sedan had dashed itself against the bed of their truck. It must have been following right behind when Tule hit the brakes. Sasha swung her eyes front to see why theyâd stopped.
She saw Roland.
He stood maybe ten feet in front of the truckâs hood. That arm-razor of his was extended again, but the blade was cracked and half shattered. His other hand held some sort of large black assault rifle he hadnât been carrying in the jail. The pistol-grip grenade launcher heâd been carrying was still with him, but heâd holstered it in an open hole in his belly.
The left side of his cheek had been ripped away. Most of his hair was burnt off and Sasha made out at least one clear bullet hole in his forehead. There might have been more: all the caked-on blood and gore made it hard to discern. His clothing had mostly been shot, burned or torn away. The dominant colors on his body were red and black, with a few horrible spots of white where bone shone through in the open air.
The city behind him was all smoke and fire. Emergency lights from several vehicles blinked madly in the miasma, but there were no Martyrs or emergency workers visible. At least, none that were standing. Sasha saw several terribly still bodies lying among the piles of rubble.
Roland staggered towards the truck and flung the passengerâs side door open. He slumped into the seat, bringing with him an overpowering stink of blood and fire. He leaned back in his seat and took three long breaths. And then he spoke.
âThe way aheadâs pretty clear,â he said. âBut you might want to hang a right and then take a left. Avoid the traffic.â
Tule nodded, and the truck jerked forward again.
----
The drive out was so easy it scared Sasha. In fact, it seemed to scare everyone but Roland. Mannyâs knuckles grew whiter and whiter as they navigated their way out of the old Metroplex. Tuleâs expression didnât change, but her body shook with nervous energy and her jaw was set so tight that the veins on her neck bulged from the strain. It was a mercy that Rick was unconscious by that point.
Convoys of military vehicles rolled past them, sometimes escorting ambulances and other emergency vehicles, sometimes bringing more soldiers to the chunk of the city Roland had devastated. Sashaâs heart leapt up into her throat every single time but, somehow, no one stopped their truck.
Roland assured them all that it would be fine (âI kicked their asses so hard itâll take âem an hour to find their cheeks.â) His only discomfort came once they left the zone of active danger. He seemed to deflate then.
After a half hour on the road his wounds had mostly healed. The new skin that grew back underneath seemed weirdly dark, compared to the skin above it. Roland scratched at it in irritation and then, as casually as if heâd been tossing an apple core, he ripped off his face in one smooth motion and tossed the bloody skin out the window.
âJesus dude,â Manny said, disgusted, âcould you have waited until we werenât all in the car?â
Sasha stared in shock. Her hands started to tremble and she felt the urge to vomit. But she fought it down, and forced her stomach to an uneasy calm. Youâve seen worse than this now , and that was true. She looked back at Roland and forced herself to take in his new face, which she guessed was really his old face. Neither iteration of him had been exactly handsome. She watched, in queasy fascination, as he picked the rest of the white skin from his hands and tossed it out the window. When heâd finished he glanced up at Sasha.
âWhat?â He asked. âPlease tell me youâre not racist. Thisâd be a very bad time for you to be racist.â
âSheâs not racist dude,â Manny said. âYou just ripped your skin off. That freaks people out.â
âOh,â said Roland, âright. Sorry.â
âItâs OK,â she said, âthis is just my first time seeing someone rip off their own skin.â
âFirst,â Roland grunted, âbut probably not last.â
Sasha didnât have the guts to question him. So she kept quiet for the rest of the ride. So did most of the other passengers. For a long time the only sounds inside the truck were Rickâs unconscious moans and Rolandâs occasional directions to Tule. He lead them through underpopulated neighborhoods and around checkpoints, past blackened buildings and wrecks of military vehicles destroyed during the Heavenly Kingdomâs first great advance. Sasha was surprised at the emptiness of most of the city. She began to understand why Manny called this place ciudad de muerta.
It took them two hours to escape the city sprawl and finally make their way out onto open plains. They avoided the main highway that linked Dallas to Waco, and instead spider-webbed their way across a series of farm roads. Every few minutes theyâd roll past the bones of a rural town. Every town out here seemed abandoned, as dead and dry as the acres of yellow grass that swallowed them up.
A little before dark they rolled over a decrepit bridge across a dry river bed. A bullet-riddled sign identified this area as âBasque Countyâ. Roland put a hand on Mannyâs shoulder and pointed towards a big metal barn on the horizon.
âTake us up there. We should probably stop for the night.â
âWhat?â Tule spoke up. âWhy? We could be at Rolling Fuck in an hour.â
Roland shook his head. âWe got two routes back to the city. Either we find the main highway and deal with Kingdom patrols or we keep riding these country roads. Thatâll take at least another two or three hours, and a lot of time off-road. In the dark. Thereâs no better recipe for cracking an axle or blowing a tire.â
Tule fumed. But she rolled the truck up and through a gap in what had once been the fence line of a farm. There were a lot of farm houses around them, stretched out across acres and acres of fields and pecan orchards. They all looked abandoned; devoid of light, half-reclaimed by vegetation. The barn Roland led them to was just as empty. There were large holes in the sheet metal roof and chunks of the metal walls had been peeled away for scrap metal. The underlying structure had been built from metal girders though. It seemed solid.
They got out of the truck. Roland helped Tule carry her lover across the last few yards of field and into the old barn. The innards of the building were dusty. Rusted tools hung from the wall and boxes of assorted goods littered the floor. Some of them had been ripped open by scavengers but most looked like theyâd sat unmolested since the property had been abandoned.
Manny found an old couch inside. Roland and Tule helped Rick onto it. Then Roland walked off into the middle of the barn and started to root around in boxes. He came back a minute later with a load of canned goods in one arm and a handle of brown liquor in the other. He set the whole lot down on the ground next to the couch, held up a can labeled âWATERâ in big red letters and then punched his finger through the top of the can. He handed it to Tule and she helped Rick drink. He was semi-conscious now. Sasha thought there might be a bit more color in his cheeks.
Roland opened three more cans, one of water and two filled with some sort of gloopy beef stew. He ripped the aluminum tops open with his bare fingers and then passed them around. Sasha was still too deep in the throes of depression and adrenaline dumpage to have any kind of appetite. The brown-grey color of the stew didnât help with that. But Manny insisted she take a gulp and, as soon as the food hit her tongue, Sasha realized she was starving. She took two more deep gulps of the salty, mushy mass before passing it along to Tule.
The crew ate and rehydrated without conversation, although not in silence. The sounds of gulping and lip-smacking filled the barn for a few minutes. Roland didnât join in the eating. Instead, he popped open the liquor bottle and drained it dry over the course of about ninety seconds. The big man closed his eyes, a smile crept up onto his features, and he gave a deep contented sigh. When the food was almost gone he stood up and staggered back into the piles of gear to grab two more bottles. These ones were filled with an off-yellow liquid. He sat one down in between Manny and Sasha and immediately began to guzzle the second.
Manny glanced at Sasha, then at Tule, then down at the bottle. He popped the top and took a belt. Then he offered it to Sasha. If there ever was a time to dive into drinking, itâs the day I killed two people. Sasha took the bottle and stared at it for a second. The label said âTaliskerâ, and identified it as a product of Scotland. The bottle itself was covered in dust.
âHey Roland,â she asked, suddenly curious. âDid you know this place would have food and water? And alcohol?â
Roland paused draining his second bottle and fixed Sasha with his strange blue eyes. He looked tired for the first time since sheâd met him. Sasha wasnât sure if that was due to the rampage heâd just carried out or her question.
âIâve been here before,â he half-mumbled. âYears ago. Back before this whole chunk of dirt was as much of a shithole as it is now.â
âWait, did you used to live here?â Manny asked.
âI donât know,â Roland shrugged.
âWhat do you mean you donât know?â Sasha asked. âYou clearly know this farm.â
He shrugged and gave a vague wave with his free hand.
âI have memories of this place. Bright lights at night, people dancing, drugs and wine and people and songs. I have memories of packing supplies into boxes. Burying ammunition.â He nodded towards the still-locked front door of the barn, âI remember locking that thing up. But I donât remember why, exactly. I might have lived here. It might have belonged to a friend. Either way, I feel like the last time I was here was back before the Revolution.â
âHis mind is fulla holes,â Manny explained. âSomething happened to him a few years back. He remembers pieces of who he is, what heâs done. But not everything.â
Tule kicked Sasha gently in the hip. She gestured to the bottle of whiskey.
âIf youâre not drinking pass the bottle. Some of us have grieving to do.â
On impulse, Sasha took a pull from the bottle. She started to hand it over to Tule, but then the taste hit her and she gagged. It was like someone had lit a fire in her throat, one that tasted of burning peat. She coughed and hacked for several seconds while Tule and Roland laughed. Once sheâd regained her breath, Sasha finally handed off the bottle.
âYouâll get better at it,â the woman said. Her lips twisted up into what might have been a real smile. âWhiskeyâs an acquired taste, like cigars. And anarchy.
Tule took a very deep pull and sighed in satisfaction. She handed the bottle off to Manny, and started gently petting Rickâs face. The wounded man was asleep, but he seemed much healthier than he had been a half hour earlier.
âHow are you doing, Sasha?â Manny asked. His eyes met hers, and Sasha saw deep concern in his gaze.
âIâm...fine,â she said, not really meaning it.
âSheâs all fucked up over the guy she killed for the truck.â Tule grunted. âYou shouldnât be. Fucker picked the wrong side.â
âSo did I,â Sasha tried to keep the anger out of her voice. âAt first. Darryl was a good man. He didnât deserve to die.â
âNeither did Marigold,â said Tule.
âNeither did Major Peron,â Manny added in a quiet voice, âThey hung him on the day you and I met.â
âThe whole worldâs full of good, dead people,â said Tule. âMy advice? Donât cry over someone you shot in self-defense. Thatâs a karmic freebie.â
âThe guy had a gun,â Manny added, âit seems like you just did what you had to do.â
Roland was quiet through all this. He kept drinking, but his pace had slowed. His face took on a dark cast and he slumped down into his chair. He seemed to collapse in on himself a little.
âLook, chica,â Tule said. There was a slight drunken slur to her words now. âI know I gave you a hard time, and it was dumb-as-fuck aâyou to move to this âKingdomâ. But I give you credit for breaking free, and for helping us escape. You might be a little dumb. But you arenât bad people in my book. Donât beat yourself up over doing what you had to do.â
There was quiet for a little while. Manny passed the bottle to Sasha. She took another gulp and managed to hold it down this time. Tule nodded in approval when Sasha passed the whiskey on. Sasha found her eyes drawn, once more, to Darrylâs gun. It was tucked into Tuleâs waistband.
Roland cleared his throat and gave a loud, phlegmy cough. Sasha looked back at him.
âYou didnât ask me for an opinion,â he said, âbut since everyone else is weighinâ in I might as well: There ainât nothing wrong with feeling bad about murder. Even justified murder. But personally, I donât think thatâs whatâs fucking you up.â
âWhat do you mean?â she asked.
He drained the last of the whiskey bottle and tossed it off into the darkness. It landed with a clank.
âI got real good senses, yâknow. I canât turn âem off. So I heard your heart rate. I smelled the neurotransmitters running through your synapses. I can taste the guilt wafting off you. But thatâs not the only thing I taste.â
He locked his unsteady eyes on hers. Sasha stared into the cold blue of his pupils. A chill ran down her spine. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. When he spoke next, his voice was barely above a whisper.
âBack at the jail, when you crushed that guyâs skull with a helmet. You enjoyed yourself. You liked it.â
Sasha broke his gaze. She stared down at her lap and struggled to find a reply. But there was nothing else for her to say. Roland was right.
Rolling Fuck was as bright, shiny and chaotic as it had been when heâd left. But Manny could see a real change among the citizens themselves. Gone were the lounging crowds of half-naked people. Instead of the perpetual party, a war camp spread out around the great superstructure of the city.
Hundreds of men and women were busy donning armor, applying war paint and checking over stacks of weaponry. Manny saw crates of guided mortars, piles of rocket launchers, boxes of high-velocity ammunition and enough firearms to equip every citizen a dozen times over. There was no discernible Rolling Fuck âuniformâ that Manny could see. Some of the cityâs warriors wore powered body armor, painted in garish colors and bedecked with various quotations. âFuck yer dayâ seemed particularly popular. Many of them wore pieces of pop-culture costumery mixed in with their gear. Manny recognized Darth Vaderâs helmet, Hellboyâs Red Right Hand, and a surprisingly number of people with Mickey Mouseâs face spraypainted on their chest armor.
An equal number of Fuckians wore no armor at all. Some of them were dressed in their normal flowing lounge garments. The weapons they wore were the only signs that they had plans beyond debauchery. Others were naked, or mostly so. He saw one man wearing the helmet of a Greek Hoplite and carrying two viking axes on his back. He saw a woman with a Dragunov rifle on her back, an old German Stahlhelm on her head and Ottoman mirror armor on her chest. She waved at at them, excited. It took Manny a second to recognize Topazâs face under the helmet.
âTheyâre here! Theyâre-â
She stopped. Tule had stopped too. She cast her face down. Manny could see the shimmer of tears on her cheeks. A crowd gathered around them. In a few seconds, they were encircled by dozens of heavily armed post-humans in a dizzying array of war costumes. Skullfucker Mike pushed his way to the front and ran up to embrace Tule. Manny was surprised when she started to sob. The big man held her tight but looked to Roland.
âWhat happened?â
Roland gave him a look that said, âYou know damn well what happenedâ. But then he spoke anyway.
âYour friend didnât make it.â
Skullfucker Mikeâs jaw went tight. His eyes bulged and he held onto Tule a little tighter. Manny thought back to the night theyâd spent in Brainbreakers, and the things heâd said about Marigold. Manny hadnât really known the woman at all, but he could tell Mike had cared deeply for her. He looked around at the crowd closing in on them, the dozens of half-human god-monsters with helpless rage carved onto their faces.
âWhat. Happened.â Mike demanded.
Roland opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and ran a hand over his bald head. He opened his mouth again, managed to squeeze out an ,âI...â before he slumped his shoulders and hung his head.
âI wasnât fast enough,â he said, finally. âThey had better gear, newer suits than Iâd expected.â
Skullfucker Mike stared at him. Behind him, Topaz slid down to the ground and buried her head in her knees. Murmurs swept the crowd. And then Sasha spoke up.
âYour friend saved my life.â
Mike looked over and seemed to notice her for the first time.
âAnd who are you?â His voice was not unfriendly. It wasnât exactly warm, either.
âMy name is Sasha,â she said, her voice clearly on the edge of a sob. She looked from Mike, to Tule, to Topaz, to the crowd, and then back to Manny. He saw panic in her eyes, barely held in check by a cage of steely resolve.
âI...made a mistake. I left my home for the Kingdom. I thought it was the right thing to do. I met Marigold while I was there and she helped me see how wrong Iâd been.â She pointed to Roland. âI tried to help him free your people. We all tried. But they were ready for us. They shot him,â she gestured to Roland, â...they shot him a lot. They had us all dead to rights. And then Marigold, I donât know how, but she got a gun. She shot two of them. And then they shot her. She died saving us.â
The silence that followed was louder than any artillery barrage Manny had ever sat through. Finally, Skullfucker Mike nodded at her. There were tears in his eyes and, Manny soon realized, tears on every face in the crowd. Some people fell to their knees. Others embraced and held their friends. One voice, hoarse and heavy with pain, howled out in anguish. It was met by another voice, and then another and then another as Fuckian after Fuckian tilted their head back and roared their grief out to the empty blue of the Texas sky.
----
Rolling Fuck preferred to mourn through activity. The wailing and gnashing of teeth over Marigold didnât stop the cityâs medics from taking Rick and Tule to whatever building served as their equivalent of a clinic. Topaz stayed behind with the gathering crowd of mourners while Skullfucker Mike gathered up Manny, Sasha and Roland.
âThereâll be time to process later,â heâd said as much to himself as to them. âThereâs a war council soon, and theyâll be wanting to debrief you.â
âFine,â Roland said, âbut Iâm stopping at the bar first. I need some opium and some goddamn tequila.â
Manny expected Skullfucker Mike to be angered by that, given the circumstances. But the other chromed man just nodded and said, âI could use a drink or nine myself.â
They headed for the lift underneath the Main Roller. Manny started to prepare himself for the meeting with this âwar councilâ, whatever that term meant in a place like this. Whatever happens, itâs bound to be weird. They reached the lift. Skullfucker Mike opened the door and gestured for everyone to enter.
And so, less than an hour after arriving back in the City of Wheels, Manny, Sasha and Roland found themselves seated around the same redwood table where theyâd first met Nana Yazzie and Donald Farris. The room was more crowded this time around, with two new people he didnât recognize. One was a shirtless man with writhing snake tattoos across his chest and a pair of chaps that did nothing at all to cover up his junk. It didnât help that the manâs legs were spread as wide as possible. He seemed to be deliberately showing off.
Manny looked away and found himself staring at a very tall, very muscular young-seeming woman with a mohawk made from thick chrome spikes. She had light brown skin, and her cheeks were covered in several long, thick, diagonal scars. The womanâs eyes had no pupils. They looked grey at first, until Manny realized that they were actually just filled with static. When Manny finally pulled his gaze away from her he was met with the biggest surprise of the day.
Deshawn Clark was seated two chairs down from Nana Yazzie.
âMajor Clark!â
âManny,â the Majorâs lips cracked open into a wide-mouthed grin. The left side of his face was still covered in hemostatic gauze, and the edges of the skin around the gauze looked black and burnt. His right hand was a smooth, angry pink color, a sure sign it had been severed and regrown in the recent past. Major Clark was bloodied, but unbowed.
âItâs damn good to see you, Manny. I canât tell you how proud I was to hear youâd volunteered for this mission.â
âMr. Peron...â Manny started to say, but Major Clark put up his hand.
âI know,â he said.
Donald Farris âahemâdâ, which Manny took as a gentle reminder that now was not the time for personal business. The old Brit gestured first to the man with the writhing snake tattoos.
âThis is Jim Shannon,â he said, âhe heads up a small mercenary outfit.â
âIâm the guy who roped Roland into helping,â Jim said with a wink.
âAnd this cheery lass,â Donald pointed to the woman with the chromehawk, âis Kishori. Sheâs been the cityâs elected War Leader for the last three years.â
âAnd who might this young lady be?â Nana Yazzie asked, nodding at Sasha. The old woman stood and stepped forward to greet Sasha with a hug. Sasha tensed up. She looked scared to return the embrace. So Nana Yazzie backed off and favored the girl with a warm smile.
âIâm sorry, child. I didnât mean to pressure you. Iâm just happy youâre here with us.â
Sasha relaxed at that, but she still didnât step forward.
âHer nameâs Sasha,â said Roland, âshe used to be with the Kingdom. Now sheâs not.â He paused a second, considered his words and added, âShe beat one of them to death with a helmet.â
âOh my. Oh dear...â Nana Yazzie tsked and shook her head. âIâm so sorry, Sasha. That must have been a terrible experience for you.â
âShe enjoyed it!â Jim said with a harsh bark of a laugh. âIâm sure Roland smells it too. Isnât that right, hon? You loved killing whoever-the-fuck you killed, and you feel shitty about that. Well let me s-â
âYouâll stop right now or youâll leave this room.â
Nana Yazzieâs voice was firm, but devoid of any anger or heat. To Mannyâs shock, Jim stopped. The post-human nodded and said, âI apologize, Sasha. That was a real dick move.â And then he lowered his eyes, just a little, in contrition.
Nana Yazziee offered Sasha a seat and then busied herself in the corner making Sasha a cup of tea. Once that was done, and they were all settled in, Nana sat back down and looked to Manny.
âWhat happened?â is all she asked.
Manny started talking. He told her, and by extension the whole table, everything that had happened since he and Roland left Rolling Fuck. He told them about their trouble with the checkpoints on the way into town. He walked them through the intake process, his and Rolandâs few days as Martyrs-in-training and what heâd seen in the few sections of Plano heâd been allowed to haunt during his time there. The woman with the chromehawk was particularly interested in what he and Roland had to say about the Kingdomâs preferred assault tactics.
âTheyâre not gonna be kicking in doors and fighting house-to-house,â Roland explained, âtheyâll just start shelling at the first sign of resistance. They donât care about civilian casualties.â
When Manny explained what the Kingdom had been doing at the old Tesla factory, almost everyone looked horrified. Donald Farris spat at the ground. Most of the others cursed, or at least shook their heads. Nana Yazziee teared up. Jim, though, seemed almost enthusiastic about the revelation.
âFascinating,â he muttered just loud enough for Manny to hear.
Once everyone was caught up, the table fired off a few questions at him and more towards Roland. They seemed mostly curious as to what theyâd been able to glean about the number of recruits in the Heavenly Kingdom. Manny didnât have much useful there. So he shut up, leaned back and let Roland give the answers. An awkward silence descended on the table after a few minutes.
âWell,â Donald Farris said, finally, âI suppose we were fools to hope for much more than what you got. As it stands weâre left grappling to try and account for the sheer number of men the Kingdom has deployed to assault Austin.â
âTwenty thousand martyrs,â Jim spoke up, âGive or take a grand.â
Mannyâs blood went cold. The SDF, at its height, hadnât been more than six thousand fighters. And those were spread out across the serried battlegrounds of North Texas. The whole Free City of Austin didnât have more than five thousand people in its full-time Defense Corps. Twenty thousand men was...
âImpossible,â he said. âThatâs fucking impossible.â
âIâd be inclined to agree with you, kid,â said Jim, âif my own men hadnât double-confirmed the count for us. The Kingdom has already marshalled half of that force on the outskirts of DFW, near Lancaster. Theyâll be in Waco tomorrow if no one stops them. Hell, they could be pounding Austin with artillery by dark.â
Donald Farris nodded. âMr. Shannon here,â he gestured to Jim, â...has agreed to lend a hand, along with several dozen of his mercenaries. Add that to the warriors of Rolling Fuck, and weâve got seven-hundredish post-humans. Itâs large enough force to hold Waco. And badly bloody their nose.â
âBut,â Kishori spoke for the first time. She had a deep, gravelly voice that sounded like sheâd been eating cigarettes for the last ten years. âRolling Fuck is not in the business of volunteering for our own Vietnams. My people arenât signing up for a war.â
âI can guarantee our presence on the battlefield for up to forty-eight hours, enough time for vengeance.â She continued, âAfter that, youâre herding cats.â
âIs that a problem?â Manny asked. âI mean, I saw Roland lay waste to half a city. Six-hundred of him...â
âThereâs only one of him,â Kishori said. Jim nodded in agreement and fixed Manny with his uncomfortable grey eyes.
âSee kid,â he said, âme or any one of Rolling Fuckâs warriors is good for a few dozen normal troops in a straight fight. More if weâre talking half-trained partisans. But nobodyâs like Roland.â
Manny looked over to Roland. The big man seemed distinctly uncomfortable with all the attention. He stared down at his hands, which seemed to be occupied with tearing up a paper drink coaster.
âThe Martyrs have a lot of half-trained partisans, but theyâve also got tanks, artillery, suits-the resources of a nation state. Or close enough. Rolling Fuck can hold that off for a while, but without Roland the best they can do is delay the inevitable.â
âNow WITH Roland,â Jim continued, âthis is a two-hour fight, tops. We set up our troops in some little chunk of the city and start dropping mortars and rockets on their vanguard. They pull up, encircle us and start deploying their artillery to bomb us to Kingdom Come. Then, when theyâre good and packed together, we drop Roland on their asses.â
Kishori nodded. âYes,â she said, âheâll hit them and disrupt their whole order of battle while our cavalry rolls around to their flanks and charges. That should be enough to make them panic. Then we chase them down until they lose cohesion.â
Rolandâs head stayed down. He didnât speak. Manny looked from him, to Jim, to Nana Yazzie and Donald Farris.
âSo whatâs the problem?â Manny asked. âIf Roland and Rolling Fuck are all-in, this should be a walk in the park.â
âRoland,â Nana Yazzie said, âprefers not to fight.â
âBut I just saw him...â
âYou just saw me break a long streak of not killing people.â Rolandâs voice sounded odd, hollow and dry and utterly without any of the mirth or mischief Manny had come to expect from the chromed man.
âI did that to get my memories back, Manny,â he shrugged. âAnd I did it for you, because youâre my buddy. But I got no stake in Austin.â
âBut you know what the Heavenly Kingdom will do if they take the city!â Manny protested. âYouâve seen what they did to Plano. Theyâll do that to millions of decent people if they can. You have the power to stop that. Youâre telling me you wonât?â
Roland met his eyes and just said, âYes.â
âYou son of a bitch,â Manny felt the anger well up inside him. It merged with his grief over Major Peronâs death, Oscarâs death, and his rage at the Heavenly Kingdom, the Martyrs and every other group of assholes whoâd helped turn his young life into a parade of nightmares.
âYou absolute son of a bitch. You fucking coward!â
Manny didnât think. Couldnât think. He pulled back his fist and swung as hard as he could for Rolandâs face. The chromed man didnât move, didnât even blink. Manny hit him right on the nose. He was softer than Manny would have guessed. It didnât feel any different from punching a normal human. Manny swung again and again, until he felt something crack in his knuckles. He cried out from the pain and pulled back to nurse his wounded hand.
For a few seconds Manny forgot about the rest of the room. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts dissolve into an ocean of physical pain. The agony of his broken hand was almost soothing. It was better than thinking about Mr. Peron. It was better than thinking about Alejandro, or Oscar. It was better than thinking about his soon-to-be-shattered home.
Manny felt a hand on his shoulder. The sensation pulled him out of his spiralling thoughts. He looked up and saw Nana Yazzie. She smiled her sad smile and said, âManny, everyone here understands your pain.â
âNot me,â said Jim, âIâve never been a big fan of Austin. Too damn-â
Roland threw his empty pint glass at the other post-humanâs face. It shattered on impact, embedding shards deep into Jimâs cheeks and forehead. His head snapped back, and he blinked in shock a few times.
âSorry,â he said, âI deserved that.â
âAnd I deserved that,â Roland said to Manny. âNo hard feelings. I get why youâre pissed. But kid, youâve got to understand something. Austinâs home to you. To me itâs just another city, held by just another side. Half my remaining memories are of one cause or another asking me to go murder in their name. Iâm fuckinâ done with it.â
Manny looked to Major Clark. The SDF officerâs eyes were lit by a familiar cold fire. He spoke in a tone of barely controlled anger.
âThat is your right, of course. You can choose to leave, just as I will choose to fight and die. I wonder, what will Manny choose?â
Manny hadnât really settled on that himself. Before he could stumble through his response, Sasha spoke.
âIâll fight,â she said. âI donât know much about guns. But Iâll do my best.â
Roland slumped back in his chair and tossed his arms up in a dramatic show of frustration.
âEt tu, Jesus Girl?â
âIâll fight,â Manny said to Major Clark, doing his best to talk over Roland, âIâll choose to fight too.â
âThis isnât going to work, you know.â Roland said. âIâm not going to be shamed into fighting again. Itâs just not going to fucking happen.â
Jim leaned in. He fixed Roland with a look that seemed almost hungry.
âI think it will happen. I think the peculiar arc of your moral compass wonât let you leave these kids to die.â He seemed surprised by the revelation. âHuh! Fascinating.â
âEnough of that,â Donald Farris sounded angry. âI wonât stand to see this man badgered and pressured into fighting against his will. We might as well dissolve the council for now and reconvene without Roland.â
âGood!â Roland stood up and stomped over to the exit. âIf thatâs all you people need from me, Iâm going to get good and pissed and start my walk back to Arizona.â He flipped his middle finger out at the room and slammed the door behind him as he left.
All eyes turned to Manny.
âI should...probably go talk to him.â
âDonât do anything youâre not comfortable doing, Emmanuel.â Donald said.
âFuck that,â Jim said, âThe bastard is on the ropes. Shame him! Shame him good.â
As he headed for the exit Manny looked to Major Clark. The old soldierâs one good eye was narrow and focused.
âManny,â he said, âif he didnât want to talk he wouldnât have gone up to the bar. Heâd have just left. Thereâs no honor lost in another conversation. Another try.â
----
Roland was three beers in by the time Manny reached him. And knowing Rolling Fuck that could mean heâd already ingested enough acid to kill a large octopus. The chromed mercenary was already wavering in his seat by the time Manny pulled up a seat.
âHey,â Manny said.
âHeeeeeey buddy,â Roland replied in a voice that was just... super stoned. âSorry about getting angry back there.â The post-human spun his empty pint-glass around on the bar table. It was a strange sight to see. Manny had gotten so used to seeing Roland as something akin to a Greek God. He certainly wasnât omniscient, or omnipotent, but he was unspeakably powerful and just as irresponsible to leave out around humans.
And yet here he was, fiddling with an empty pint glass like a nervous College freshman standing at the back wall of some house party. Manny felt a surge of sympathy.
âItâs O.K., man. I actually think I get it,â he said. âLike, Iâve had plenty of chances to join either the SDF or the Austin Defense Forces. I never did. Maybe some of thatâs because Iâm scared. Hell, up until like...a few days ago, my plan was to get the fuck off this continent as soon as I could afford it.â
Manny paused and bit his lip. It was an instinctive gesture, his gutâs reaction to a sudden burst of self-awareness. Manny hadnât thought about any of this before.
âI dunno,â he said. âThis shitâs been going on basically all my life. I canât remember a time when I wasnât scared of something like this happening. I didnât understand any of it as a kid. But I can remember being seven or eight years old and just being so angry at the soldiers. Even our soldiers. I thought, if all you assholes would just refuse to be led into battle, none of this could happen.â
âBut you know thatâs not how it works, right?â Roland asked, as he turned away from Manny and waved at the bartender.
âWe love this war shit. At least some of us do, those of us who are-oh!â The bartender arrived. Roland ordered âa mai-tai mixed with a margarita and one of those, whaddya goddamn call âem, oh yeah a fuckinâ MO-HI-TO.â
âRoland,â Mannyâs voice was gentle but firm, âHow many beers did you drink before I got here?â
âNot beers,â Roland said in a casual voice, âMushroom rum. Sweet, but not bad.â He licked his lips while he watched the bartender work through the Herculean task of crafting his requested beverage.
âRoland.â Manny said. And the chromed man turned back to him.
âAh, sorry. Itâs been too long a stretch of sober for me. I got excited. What the fuck was I saying?â
âThat war is fun.â
âOh, yeah. As long as you donât think youâll die. Thatâs why all throughout history you had so many generals and politicians kickinâ off conflicts. Because they felt safe, and when youâre pretty sure youâll live war is an absolute hoot. Thatâs the problem with me and fighting.â
âThe problem is you like it too much?â
Roland grabbed his hand. The chromed man moved so fast Manny didnât even see the motion blur. Rolandâs hand was just wrapped around his wrist, immovable. He squeezed, hard enough that it hurt. Rolandâs eyes bulged out and stared into Manny with a manic intensity that was frightening.
âI. Fuckinâ. Love. It. Itâs like sex on heroin and bungie jumping and getting rammed in the ass and that first shot of liquor you sneak when youâre fourteen, all at once and mixed with the best actual battle drugs the most bloated military budget in history could buy.â
He loosened his grip and turned half away from Manny.
âThatâs why I shouldnât do it. Because Iâll get carried away, like I got carried away in Dallas. Maybe this time I wonât be able to stop when itâs time to stop.â
Manny kept his eyes on Rolandâs. The big man turned a little further to the left, but he didnât look away.
âHow do you know that your intervention wonât make things better?â Manny asked. âMaybe if we can kill enough of the Martyrs their power will be broken forever. Maybe your intervention will be the first step towards making this a more liveable part of the globe.â
Roland laughed. It started as a low chuckle that then cascaded into a series of rolling, rib-cracking howls. Manny didnât get the joke and couldnât find any humor in his words. So he sat tight until Rolandâs mirth subsided and the chromed man had recovered enough to explain himself.
âSorry, sorry,â he said between chuckles, âItâs just-ah shit, kid, youâre too young to know how funny that is.â Roland straightened up and wiped a tear from his eye. âSee, youâre talking about me the exact same way people talked about the U.S. Military back when I was a kid.â
The bartender came by and sat down Rolandâs drink, an enormous jug filled with a multi-hued mix of alcoholic beverages. The post-human took a deep pull from his maitaigarito. Manny took the chance to ask a question.
âI thought you didnât remember anything further back than a few years ago?â
âI donât remember anything clearly,â Roland said. âBut I do remember bits and pieces. And I remember being a young man and watching the news break in an off-base bar. Some election had gone bad in Bolivia. The President announced he was sending in soldiers to help keep the peace.â
âDid it work?â Manny asked.
âI dunno, kid. Whatâd your school teach you about Bolivia?â
âThat there was a genocide in-oh.â Manny said as Rolandâs point sunk in. âRight.â
âAyep,â Roland grunted and took another, deeper gulp from his ridiculous beverage.
They were quiet for a while. Manny took the opportunity to take a long look at Roland. His face held only a few lines around his eyes and lips. And yet he still looked old, positively ancient. There appeared to be a tremendous weight to the manâs eyes, accentuated by the deep wrinkles underneath them. It looked as if the chromed manâs face was sagging underneath the weight of what he had seen.
âRoland,â Manny asked, âdo you have any idea where you came from?â
âI think I was born around Mississippi, b-â
âNo,â Manny interrupted, âNot like, where you were born. But how you became what you are today. You said youâve been disconnected from the Internet for the last ten years. Iâve got to guess your implants are even older than that. But the way everyone here talks about you youâre still King Shit.â
âOh,â Roland said. âYeah. That. I got no real idea what happened there. I know I was in the Army. Iâm pretty sure thatâs when the tinkering started.â
âSure,â said Manny, âBut didnât a lot of the Road People start as ex-special forces who went rogue? Why are you special?â
âI got no clear answer to that question, buddy.â He smiled as if heâd just remembered something good. âI guess Iâve got that surgery coming up. Once I get my memories back, Iâll let you know what I find out.â
Manny laughed too, but his was cold and bitter. âSure. Iâll probably be in a refugee camp at that point. Or dead.â
âDamn kid,â Roland said.
âYeah,â Manny said, âIâm really not trying to manipulate you here. Itâs just-â
âNo, I get it,â Roland waved him off. âItâs fair. Youâve got every right to be pissed. I just canât...â He trailed off. Manny put a hand on Rolandâs shoulder. He didnât understand how the post-human felt; how could he? Manny couldnât even conceive of having that kind of power. But he could see why it was a difficult choice.
There was a part of Manny, a dark manipulative chunk of his soul, that knew he was on his way to changing Rolandâs mind. This was essentially the same strategy he used on the job. You built empathy with people through a combination of shared experiences and regular engagement. That empathy paid dividends when you needed some Lieutenantâs approval to cross through a checkpoint. It would pay dividends here if he was careful and consistent.
Thatâs fucked up man , he thought. Youâre manipulating your friend into killing a bunch of people.
âYou know what,â Manny said, âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to-â
Roland drained the rest of his mug, belched and looked over at Manny. He looked unsteady, half-conscious. The chromed man put his left hand over Mannyâs hand while it rested on his shoulder. He fixed Manny with his half-focused eyes and nodded.
âFuck it,â Roland said, âIâll fuckinâ help you. Iâd be a dick if I didnât.â
âThank you,â Manny said with a nod. âI know-â
âDonât say anything else, kid. I really donât want to think about what I just promised to do.â
---
Manny found Sasha sitting around a firepit, outside the city proper, deep in conversation with Donald Farris. She sat on the ground, legs splayed out wide with her butt in the grass. Donald sat in a folding chair. It wasnât cold outside, precisely, but it had cooled off a great deal from the heat of the day. The air held just the barest hint of winter. It was shaping up to be one of those odd September days where Texas seemed on the verge of an actual seasonal shift.
One look at Sashaâs face told him she was at least as unsettled as Roland. He didnât want to crowd her so he squatted down on the other side of Donald.
âEmmanuel,â the old manâs voice was as smooth and rich as Manny remembered from the narration of his documentary. âItâs good to see you. Sashaâs been telling me her story. She actually just turned to the subject of You.â
âYeah?â Manny asked.
âYes, she was telling me how she met you and Marigold, and how you both helped her find her way free of the Kingdom.â
âOh,â he said, and looked to Sasha. âI never really met Marigold. I didnât realize you knew her well.â
Sasha shook her head. âI only knew her a little while. I was just supposed to be administering tests to her. But I couldnât stop her from talking and...she made sense. She made more sense than what was going on out in the Kingdom every day.â
Sasha stared down into the fading embers of the fire.
âI feel stupid for ever believing in that place.â
âAnd what do you believe in now?â Donald asked.
âI donât know,â she said. âIt seems arrogant to decide that God doesnât exist just because I let myself get taken in by a cult.â
âMmm,â the old man nodded. âThe good news is, youâre young. Youâve got plenty of time to figure things out again.â His cheeks turned up into a smile and his face blossomed with wrinkles.
âNow,â he looked up at Manny, âwhat have you been up to, my dear boy?â
âTalking to Roland,â Manny said, âhe agreed to help, by the way. Heâs going to fight.â
Donald Farrisâs smile turned into a frown. Manny hadnât been expecting that.
âHow did you do it?â He asked in a somber, grave voice.
âWe just talked for a while,â Manny said, âHe explained why he didnât want to fight. It sounded very reasonable...â Manny paused, and then made the choice to lie just a little. âI wasnât trying to change his mind. I didnât ask him to help.â That last part was true, at least. âI do feel bad, though. Iâm sure he changed his mind because of me.â
âIs it really on you if he chooses to fight?â Sasha asked. âI killed two men. Both of those deaths are on me. But you didnât order Roland to do anything.â
âNo,â Donald Farris agreed, âBut I doubt Roland wouldâve made the decision to intervene if Manny hadnât pressed.â
âThatâs probably true,â Manny admitted.
Donald looked from Manny to Sasha.
âThereâs a war ritual, peculiar to the men and women and whatevers of this community. I think youâd benefit from seeing it.â
âA ritual?â Sasha asked.
âNot a religious one, I assure you. But yes. They call it their war ritual.â He extended a hand out to the field around Rolling Fuck. Manny looked out at it for the first time since coming out here and realized that people seemed to be packing up.
âRight now,â Donald said, âThe citizens are packing up their tents and their RVs and preparing the city for departure. Itâs moving out with their army. Theyâll drive that thing,â He jerked a thumb in the direction of the City of Wheels, âright up to the damn battlefield. Itâll be behind them the whole time theyâre fighting. I think they stole the idea from the ancient Celts.â
âAnyway,â he said. âOnce the city is in position, theyâll open up these little boxes that look quite a lot like bee hives and theyâll let out a swarm of about a thousand little drones. Thoseâre mostly just facial-recognition cameras attached to wings and a wee engine. Theyâll record everything and send data on the faces of every enemy fighter to a central computer in the city.â
âWhat good does that do?â Manny asked.
âIt gives us a chance to identify those men, or women, so we can scrape their social media profiles and display pictures and videos from their lives, once they die. The whole city, everyone who isnât fighting, turns out to watch that.â
âThat sounds fucking terrible,â Manny said. âWhat do we gain from watching the home movies of dead men?
âA memorial.â
Manny didnât understand, but he could see that Donald Farris was revving himself up for an involved explanation. He let the old man talk.
âI was a small child when my country invaded Iraq, along with the United States and a few other nations. The war was news, yes. But thatâs all it was. Even our own soldiers were more numbers than real people. Iâd hear that two Royal Marines had died in a roadside bombing, and it meant less to me than when my neighbor broke his leg slipping down the stairs.â
âWar isnât like that for us,â Manny said, âI donât know anyone in Austin who hasnât lost a friend, or family, to the fighting. It affects us all.â
âSo it does, my boy. So it does. And if any of our warriors die today, you can bet itâll effect everyone in this social experiment we call a city. But you didnât let me finish. The thing that was truly toxic about my childhood knowledge of war, is that it erased the other side. Our boys didnât do bodycounts. So there were seldom reports on how many civilians we killed, how many enemy fighters died. That information was out there, but you had to look hard. Most people never did.â
Donald Farris shrugged, and then winced from the motion.
âItâs easy to get people to care about their own soldiers. But if you want to stop wars, or at least make them less common, youâve got to get people to give a shit about the soldiers on the other side. That, my young friend, is where your people are even worse than my own. Youâre close enough to the war to not just feel indifferent about these Martyrs marching off to die. You actively want them to die. Thatâs understandable. But itâs also poisonous. When you dehumanize others, you become less human yourself.â
Manny nodded, not sure of what to say.
âIn my youth,â Donald Farris continued, âthe country that occupied this continent was the most powerful nation on earth. They held the keys to the deadliest military machine ever constructed. It was easy to get Americans to support involvement in a thousand little conflicts, because each only required a small fraction of the nationâs military power. It only risked a few American lives. But millions of people around the world died. Women and children and old men and dumb, young boys from Yemen to Turkey to Guatemala. To justify those murders Americans had to make those people less than human. And once theyâd done that, it wasnât such a great jump to do it to their neighbors.â
He stared up at the setting sun, and Manny saw tears in his eyes.
âWhat youâre going to see tomorrow is the best attempt Iâve seen, so far, to bridge the empathy gap between a people and their foes.â
Rolling Fuck trundled forward, crunching its way over the Texas plains and leaving a carpet of flattened grass and broken trees in its wake. And Sasha Marion, situated in a little purple building atop one of the cityâs tallest spires, couldnât quite believe her eyes. In spite of its many wheels the city didnât look like the kind of thing that should be able to move. It was as if the Empire State Building had taken up jogging.
Sasha had been more or less alone since the war council had concluded. Sheâd wanted to go up to the bar with Manny and Roland, since they were the only people here she even sort of knew. But their conversation had seemed a private sort of thing. At first sheâd thought that her hosts had made an oversight in leaving her unwatched. Surely they wouldnât let someone whoâd been their enemy just a few days ago wander freely through their home? But as the hours went by it became clear thatâs exactly what theyâd done.
So Sasha explored. It had been exhilarating, actually. Every inch of the city was different and strange and new to her. Across the gantries there were numerous market stalls with fresh meat and produce. At first she recognized all the foods. But the higher and further she went, the stranger everything seemed. The meat went from beef and chicken to alligator and zebra and mammoth and, eventually, something Sasha thought might be from an actual dinosaur. She was sure it was all lab grown. And the produce was certainly gene-modified. At one point she came across a kiosk filled with fruit that had been tweaked to take the shape of gigantic, erect penises. There were penis watermelons, penis oranges, penis apples and even bags of tiny penis-shaped grapes.
She knew she should have felt disgusted. Two weeks ago, Sasha would have been horrified. But somehow she just...wasnât. She felt a vague sense of unease, awkwardness at the sight of so many genitals. But after all sheâd seen in the Heavenly Kingdom it didnât exactly horrify her, either. How could it?
The Fondleboats were another matter. The sight and the strange musky sweet smell that wafted out the grinding, groping crowd inside it made her queasy. This is exactly as depraved as Pastor Mike said it would be, she thought. But she also thought, is this really worse than all that violence and death? Who are they hurting?
The Lord, said a shrill, small voice in the back of her mind.
Why would God hate this, and not the hanging of good people? Sasha wondered. Why would this make Him angry but not the butchery inside that factory?
You know what the Bible says, Sasha. There was no getting around that. The scriptures were clear.
Well maybe theyâre wrong then. Maybe theyâve always been wrong. Or maybe I read them wrong. Maybe they didnât say what I thought they said.
It was odd how freeing that thought was.
She made her way past a fondleboat and, for no reason beyond curiosity and the desire to stretch her muscles, Sasha started to climb upwards. The gantrys that made up the bulk of Rolling Fuckâs walking space were fairly easy for a human to traverse. They had high walls, so even the very drunk were unlikely to fall, and in spite of the cityâs clutter and bustle its designers had done a good job of making two clear lanes for foot traffic. But the gantrys only gave Sasha access to a handful of the strange, glittering buildings that dotted the cityâs rolling superstructure.
So she left them, and she climbed up.
It was not an easy climb. Here and there she found small sections of ladder or knotted rope to ease her passage. For the most part, though, she climbed hand over hand up the criss-crossed metal girders. She passed several buildings filled with people, drinking and partying. Sasha didnât stop to talk. The climb was hard but at least it allowed her to avoid awkward conversation with whatever manner of creatures lived in this place.
By the time she reached the top of the spindle Sashaâs body was drenched in sweat and her arms were too sore to pull her up one more foot. She was grateful to whoever had decided to cap this spindle with a tiny purple shack, and she was even more grateful that the shack appeared unoccupied. Sasha pulled herself inside and collapsed on the floor. For a while, it was all she could do to regain her breath.
She wondered, in a vague sort of way, if sheâd just broken into someoneâs home. Nobody had warned her that there would be certain places she couldnât travel here. But no one had told her much of anything at all after sheâd arrived. Sasha took stock of her surroundings. The interior of the room was plush. The walls were carpeted in thick, cushiony velvet. The floor below her seemed to be some sort of black shag. There was a framed picture on one wall. Sasha didnât recognize the artist, but it looked like a cross-section drawing of a handgun with fetuses as the bullets. The sight of it made her feel a bit sick, but there was also something about the art that drew her eyes.
The center of the room was a low, flat table that appeared to be made entirely out of mirrored glass. There was a pile of white powder on the center of the table along with a strange rectangular piece of green paper. Sasha picked up the paper and stared at it. It took her a moment to realize what it was.
âMoney,â said a voice from behind her. âOr, it used to be. Once-upon-a-time.â
Sasha froze. Stiffened. She turned around, not sure what to expect but with an apology already spilling out of her mouth.
âIâm sorry sir, I didnât-â
Something in the manâs smile, and the relaxed slump of his shoulders made her stop talking. He stood in the doorway of the little building, just a few feet in front of her. She had no idea how he could have climbed up and in there without her hearing him. She didnât remember the manâs name, but she recognized him from the war council. Those writhing snake tattoos identified him as clearly as a nametag.
âIâm...â she trailed off. He smiled at her. There was something about his eyes that seemed off, wrong. She couldnât place it. His pupils were somehow different than they should have been. When he spoke, though, his voice was warm and friendly.
âYou are Sasha Marion. The girl who was brave enough to flee her home and family for the Heavenly Kingdom, and then brave enough to leave it when she realized what it truly was.â His head dipped down into a slight bow. âIâm Jim Shannon. Itâs an honor to meet you, Miss Marion.â
Jim squatted down on his haunches and dropped his arms in between his legs. It was a casual motion, but he executed it with almost mechanical precision. There was something to his movements that spoke of terrible potential energy, kinetic force just waiting to be unleashed.
âItâs nice to meet you,â she said, because what else could she say?
Jimâs smile didnât change, but his eyes did. His pupils contracted and then changed shape, from a circle to a spiralling rounded star.
âNo itâs not,â he said. âLetâs not lie to each other, eh Sasha? Iâm weird. I move wrong. My eyes,â as he spoke his star-pupils started to spin in a hypnotic spiral, âare wrong. They donât look human. I can hear your heartbeat elevate as we speak. I can smell cortisol in your brain and elevated levels of blood glucose. I can see in your eyes that me saying this has made you even more nervous.â
â...yes,â she admitted, âyes, youâre right. You scare me.â
âThatâs perfectly normal, Miss Marion. It is not an act of weakness to admit fear. Quite the opposite. You feel better now, donât you?â
She actually did. There was a queer sort of relief in admitting her fear and discomfort in this man-thingâs presence.
âI do feel better,â she said. âWhy is that?â
âAdmitting fear is the first step to conquering it. You donât strike me as someone who wants to live in fear, Miss Marion. You do strike me as someone who seeks control. Strength. Power over your own life.â
âI-â she sputtered, âI donât know. A week ago Iâd have told you God was in control of my life.â Sasha looked down at her lap, suddenly embarrassed. âIt wasnât very long ago but it feels like a lifetime. It was so peaceful, just handing over control.â
Jim nodded and leaned his head forward a few inches.
âThat didnât end well though, did it?â
Sasha shook her head.
âYou traveled to the Heavenly Kingdom with a certain set of beliefs about the universe. Those beliefs met reality. Reality broke them into little pieces. Thereâs no shame in that. It happens to all of us. Now youâre a bit older and a few bits wiser.â
She looked up at him. His smile seemed somehow softer now. She felt like opening up, confiding in this stranger. Sasha wondered if that was another aspect of his modifications, some alteration of his body chemistry and physical appearance that allowed him to seem more familiar and trustworthy to her. She opened up anyway.
âI just donât know what to do now. I guess I could go home but I donât think I was wrong in leaving home. I donât want a life in the American Federation. I know that. I just...â
âYou donât know whatâs right,â Jim finished, in a voice that was gentler than she would of guessed he was capable of sounding.
She nodded as she struggled for her next words.
âI know I canât go back. I donât know where to go next. I donât have any money, or really any useful skills, so I canât go to California or Cascadia. I doubt this place will take me,â she gestured down at the rolling city below them, âand even if they would, I donât really feel comfortable here either.â
âMmmh,â Jim nodded, and leaned back. âPerhaps,â he said, âyou should worry less about where you want to end up and more about what you want to end up doing.â
âI donât have any options,â Sasha said, fighting down a rising panic that tickled the back of her throat, âI didnât even finish high school. Iâve spent the last two years preparing to join the Kingdom. I donât know how to do anything useful.â
âThatâs where youâre wrong,â Jim said in a firm voice. âYou lied well enough to hide your intention from your parents and AmFed law enforcement. You did that for years.â
Sasha wanted to argue that she hadnât lied, not according to Pastor Mikeâs definition of the word. But she stayed silent while he spoke.
âYou escaped from one of the most fortified borders in the world,â Jim continued, âand you did useful work in a medical facility. Then you helped facilitate the escape of several prisoners from a Kingdom jail. You functioned effectively in a firefight and killed a trained soldier in hand-to-hand combat. Then you killed another man and stole a vehicle to aid your comrades in an escape. Am I missing anything?â
Sasha looked down again. She didnât speak. She felt bad about taking praise for murder, especially for Darrylâs murder. She did, however, feel a tiny swell of pride at Jimâs words. It was immediately accompanied by a flood of guilt.
âKilling is not something to be proud of,â she said.
âOh, I disagree,â Jim chuckled. âKilling is a highly technical skill. And youâve proven yourself a talented amateur. With some training, and a spot of chrome, you could really be something...â He trailed off. Sasha was quiet for a moment. She looked into Jimâs eyes and tried to read something in them. That proved a foolâs errand. There was nothing in those orbs but cool confidence, and even that might be false. What did any gesture or look mean from a man who could control every aspect of his body, right down to his pupils?
âI donât want to get better at killing,â she told him. âI donât want to fill my body with unnatural...things. Just thinking about it makes me feel ill.â
âAnd yet.â Jim said.
âWhat do you mean, âAnd yetâ?â She asked.
âAnd yet, that thought intrigues you too. Itâs no use hiding it. I can taste deceit.â
Sasha shuddered a little at that. But she couldnât deny that he was right. As much as the idea repulsed her, sheâd spent too much time powerless to not crave power.
âIâm not looking to push you into anything, Sasha. But I would like to provide you with a unique opportunity.â
âWhat do you mean?â she asked.
He smiled, plopped down on his butt and swung his legs in to sit cross-legged on the shag carpet. Jim stuck a finger into the thick black fibers of the carpet and started tugging at them. It was an idle, nervous gesture, and Sasha found it oddly endearing. Part of her suspected that had been his goal.
âI mean that I would be willing to take you on as a project.â
âA âprojectâ?â
He nodded. âMy organization has access to skilled surgeons, military-grade augmetics and vat-grown organs. Iâll front the bill. And Iâll train you. And in return, youâll work for me.â
âForever?â she asked. Jim laughed. She felt a little annoyed by that, and it must have shown on her face because he stopped.
âSorry,â he said. âItâs just, thatâd be debt-slavery. You must not know this, but I helped kill the last country that lived on this land to end that sort of thing.â
âSo how much time would I owe you?â Sasha asked.
âFive years,â he said.
Sashaâs heart trembled with excitement at the offer. When she thought about the way the adrenaline had coursed through her during the fight in the clinic, she wanted to say yes. But when she thought about Darryl bleeding out next to his car the shame inside her overwhelmed everything else. Sasha knew she couldnât handle more weights like that on her conscience.
âI donât want to kill people,â she said in a tiny voice. Shame dripped from every syllable.
âThatâs fine,â Jim said, his grin widening. âWe always need medics, youâve shown an aptitude for that already. I have a feeling youâll take well to combat engineering. Thereâs plenty for you to do without pulling a trigger.â
âIf I work for you,â Sasha said, âI have a feeling I wonât be able to avoid pulling triggers.â
âNot entirely,â Jim shrugged, âbut any shooting youâd do would be in immediate self-defense. And youâd have the right to refuse any missions that violate your moral code. I know thatâs important to you.â
The way he said that last bit set the hackles on her neck arise.
âIs it not important to you?â she asked. âMorality, I mean.â
He swung his hands out to the side, palms up, in a vaguely Buddhic pose.
âWhen I was a young man, not much older than yâself, I knew a lot of gallant men who claimed to live by codes of honor. Such things were fashionable in the warrior culture of a dying empire. None of those codes stopped the men I knew from serving that great beast we called a state. When you see enough good, moral men enable war crimes, you stop seeing value in the term âmoralityâ.â
âSo what matters to you?â Sasha asked. âWhat do you believe in?â
âChange, Miss Marion.â He smiled, revealing rows of pearly white teeth. The snake tattoos on his chest and shoulders writhed in excitement. âI believe in change. I grew up in a time when the climate changed, and my home became a deadly broiler. Politics changed, and democracy became a dictatorship of capital. For a time I believed in the promises of change handed out by progressive politicians and centerfold revolutionaries. But every one of them was either co-opted by the system, or killed by it.â
He shrugged, and cast his eyes down to the carpet. For a moment, just a moment, his mask slipped. Sasha saw a deep yawning pit of despair in the tight lines at the edge of his lips and the subtle twitch of muscles below his left eye. It passed, and a black velvet smile took its place.
âThen I met a man who showed me the way. Nothing new could grow on this continent until the weeds of the old were pulled out by the root and tossed into the compost pile of history. So, he said, forget the old debates about what system should replace capitalism. Kill the state, and the seeds of a thousand new worlds will sprout on its corpse. Youâve seen two of those sprouts already.â
Sasha shook her head, âIf youâre referring to the Heavenly Kingdom...itâs a nightmare. The old U.S. canât have been worse than that.â
Jim shrugged. âDepends on your perspective, I suppose. Tell me Sasha, you left the AmFed, the old U.S.A.âs most direct successor state. Why was that?â
âBecause itâs a soulless pit,â she said, the words almost leaping from her throat. Jim smiled at that.
âThis isnât though, is it?â He gestured out at the City of Wheels below them.
âNo...â Sasha said. Whatever else it was, Rolling Fuck was not soulless.
âNeither is the Navajo Nation,â Jim said, âOr Cascadia. The Blackstone Nation. Even the Mormons are up to some interesting things these days. One faction, at least.â
âSo which do you believe in? Who do you fight for?â
He grinned again. âNeither, child. As I told you-I fight for change, to cast down the ossified bones of the old world and make space for the new. I owe allegiance to no nation or god save, perhaps, Lady Eris.â
âWho?â
He smiled. A bit of smugness leached into the expression, she could see it clear as day right around his eyes. It should have repelled her more than it did.
âEris was the Greek goddess of discord, back when people cared what the Greeks believed. She set the spark that lit the Trojan War. I know itâs a bit silly, reaching back to that old mythology. But I canât help myself. Thereâs something about those old gods that calls to me. I can identify with them.â
He leaned in. There was an eagerness to his posture, his tone, his eyes. The snakes jerked and spun on his muscled chest and arms.
âIâm offering you a chance to join us on Olympus, dear Sasha. Youâve spent your time in worship. Itâs time to embrace your own Godhead. Leave your antique books behind and rewrite the world with your own will.â
âI donât know if thatâs what I want,â Sasha said in a still, small voice. She tried to ignore how much part of her ached for what he promised. The thought of killing again nauseated her as much as it excited her. But the thought of having power, the kind of power sheâd seen Roland exercise...that was intoxicating. She hated how badly sheâd started to want it.
âWell you donât have to decide now,â Jim shrugged his shoulders and gave an amiable smile. The floor rumbled underneath them, and there was a loud, clattering whine as the whole structure of Rolling Fuck came to a slow stop. Jim waited for the scrunching noise to cease and said, âCome and watch what we do today. Then make your call.â
----
Dawn broke just as Rolling Fuck pulled to a long, slow stop by the shore of Lake Waco. The city had taken the long way around the reservoir, which had added at least an hour to their journey but also put a sizeable water barrier between Rolling Fuck and the advancing forces of the Heavenly Kingdom. It had been a tight fit at several points, and Roland had enjoyed watching the wheeled city crunch over several abandoned homes and many a street lamp. But eventually the pilots and navigators had found a suitably large public park and brought Rolling Fuck to rest there.
âItâs a nice sunrise,â Manny said. The kid stood next to Roland, on a wooden deck built onto the side of the Main Roller. Skullfucker Mike had assured them this spot provided the best vantage point to watch the rising sun. It looked like heâd been right in that. The sky around them was a heady blend of red and orange that brought up fragmented memories of Mai Tais and fireballs in Rolandâs head. Clouds clustered at the tip of the horizon, ripe to bursting with the color and light of the new dayâs sun.
Roland nodded. âYeah.â
âItâs a shame no one who lives here gets to see it,â Manny said. âIâve never seen the city this empty.â
Roland looked over at his young friend. The boy had seen a lot for his age, and Roland could see how much it pained him. Sorrow had a scent all its own. The plunging levels of norepinephrine and serotonin brought out the sharp stink of cortisol and the greasy odor of opioids. Lurking just behind those smells was the odd spicy tinge of the IL-18 protein. Roland could almost hear it weaken the valves of Mannyâs heart.
âI imagine this sucks extramuch for you. I mean, youâve been where they are, right?â
âTwice,â Manny said.
Roland nodded. âI canât exactly recall,â he admitted, âbut I expect I had something to do with the first time.
Manny looked over to Roland. Chemically, it was clear the kid was battling a melange of sadness, trauma and anxiety. His actual thoughts, though, were just as hidden from Roland as they would be from any stock human. Perhaps moreso. There were moments when Roland feared he was losing the ability to read human emotions, or even display them properly on his face.
âWhatâs that look youâre giving me?â He asked, finally.
âWhat do you mean?â
âI canât tell what the look on your face means,â Roland explained. âAnd Iâm curious. Are you angry at me?â
Manny shrugged, and then he sighed. His shoulders slumped. His head drooped forward and down just a bit.
âNo,â he said. âIâm not angry. What would I even be angry about? If you canât remember what you did back then, are you even the same person who did those things? And even if you are, maybe you were doing the right thing. I assume someone was at some point in that fucking mess of a war.â
âMaybe everyone was,â Roland offered.
âI know the Heavenly Kingdom think what theyâre doing is right,â Manny said. âI also donât give a shitting dick what they think. Theyâre murderers. They can all sit and spin.â
âYouâre confident that me murdering the lot of them is the right thing to do, then?â
âIâm confident that itâs better than letting them win,â Manny said.
Roland nodded quietly and stared out at the rising sun. The red had faded and the orange had grown brighter. He could see the shape of the sun behind the clouds. Mist rose off the field in front of them and, across the lake, a low light fog rolled in over what appeared to be an old golf course.
âYouâre probably right about that,â Roland said. âBut where does it end?â
âIt ends when theyâre beaten, and Austin is safe.â Mannyâs words were forceful, but he looked down and away from Roland when he spoke.
âYou know thatâs not true,â Roland said. âI forget my own name a lot of the time and I still know youâre full of it. Killing these fucks buys Austin time. And probably not a lot of it. There are still millions of guns and millions of pissed off, desperate people in this ragged chunk of country.â
âSo what are you saying, Roland? Itâd be better to just let the one place around here that isnât terrible get eaten by darkness?â
âNo,â Roland said. âBut read the writing on the damn wall. This place,â he waved his hand out in a gesture that encompassed the whole horizon, âis fucked. Donât stay here and die with it.â
Manny crossed his arms in front of himself and leaned forward onto the railing of the deck. His head slumped into his hands and he was quiet for a while. Roland knew the army of the Heavenly Kingdom was less than forty miles distant. The scent of that vast, ramshackle horde had grown more prominent over the last few minutes. His nose took in the stink of diesel, the ozone odor of discharging batteries and the cumulative reek of hundreds of vehicleâs worth of engine oil. Behind those prominent smells lurked the foul, gangrenous stench of ten thousand men sweating stress and fear out of every pore.
Roland looked down, over the deck onto the yellow grass that led up to the shores of the lake. The warriors of Rolling Fuck had started to assemble themselves there. A large group of men and women had started to unpack dozens of Quadrophracts. The four-legged robots had been built by Boston Dynamics, back before the fall of the old U.S. Theyâd been meant to ferry men and equipment up steep Afghan mountainsides. Roland stared at them, and-
-He stalked through the lab, a razor-sharp machete in one hand and a machine pistol in the other. The air reeked of blood. Ahead of him, he could smell the fear-sweat wafting off two engineers as they hid beneath an overturned metal table. Pieces of robotic equipment were scattered on the floor. Roland reached out his senses, and felt that these were the last two people alive in the facility. He stepped forward, swinging his blade in an arc that he knew would end in flesh-
Roland shook his head and pulled himself out of the past. The flashes of memory were growing more frequent. Guilt came with them. It took some effort to force his mind to focus again on the world around them. Roland looked back out at the mustering yard.
Warriors donned armor-a fantastic array of old-fashioned polished steel plate mail, ultramodern powered body armor, antique flak vests and a significant number of costumes. He watched a man in armor that mixed the aesthetic of a Polish Winged Hussar with an Imperial Stormtrooper help a woman in a crop-top neon green ghillie suit as she locked a pair of rocket launchers onto the flanks of one of the four-legged robots.
Over to his left another group of warriors had started to assemble the cityâs vehicle pool. Ramps had descended from garages in the bellies of the rollers. A slow, steady stream of armored vehicles motored their way down the ramps and into ragged lines on the field.
The bulk of Rolling Fuckâs vehicles were either modified APCs or armored motorcycles sporting portable field guns or automatic grenade launchers on side-cars. There were tactical arguments for the use of such vehicles in open field combat, of course, but Roland suspected theyâd mainly been picked because they were fun to drive. Almost every vehicleâs engine had been souped up well beyond any potential battlefield benefit. Most of them also had nitrous oxide tanks although, Roland suspected, those were more for huffing than they were for speed.
âWhere did they get all this stuff?â Manny asked Roland.
âIâve got no idea,â Roland said, âbut when the old government fell it left behind a lot of equipment. Bases and bases full of mothballed ordnance. My guess is these guys got in early, before the rush, and grabbed whatever they could.â
At that moment Roland caught Sashaâs scent moving down one of the spindles above the Main Roller. His hindbrain guessed she was headed to the deck he and Manny occupied. Roland couldnât smell Jim â who was good at staying hidden â but he knew that Sasha couldnât have known where they were on her own. That meant Jim had likely sniffed Manny out, and made the same assumption about Rolandâs location that Roland made about Jimâs.
It wasnât long before the sliding metal door slid open and Jim and Sasha walked out onto the deck. Jim was in his familiar battle-gear. His blood-red chaps almost shone in the blinding light of the morning sun. He had a smug, self-satisfied grin and gigantic pupils that spoke of recent drug use. Beside him, Sasha looked disheveled and exhausted but jittery. He could smell the coffee wafting from her pores.
âHey fucknuts,â Roland said. âHey Sasha.â
She looked confused for a moment. Jim just nodded and said, âHey shitbird. Hey Manny.â
Manny waved vaguely at them without turning his head to meet them. He continued to look out at the army assembling in the field.
âItâs a pretty cool show down there,â Roland said. âI kinda wish I had some dissociatives, and maybe a blunt. Now would be the time for one.â
âAwwwww shit,â Jim said, âjust so happens I got both.â He stepped up alongside Roland, extended his forearm and then tapped his left index finger to the back of his right wrist. The tip of that finger detached and rolled up onto his knuckle. A line of white powder poured out onto the back of Jimâs other hand. He offered it to Roland.
âSure,â Roland said, and railed the line.
Ketamine wasnât Rolandâs favoritest of drugs. He preferred MXE if he was going to snort a dissociative and, in all honesty, a big bottle of DXM-heavy cough syrup mixed with vodka was even more his speed. But hey, drugs was drugs. Once Roland had finished, Jim poured out another line and offered it to Manny.
âNo thanks,â said the fixer.
âItâs pretty good stuff,â Roland said in a helpful tone. âKetamine goes well with unspeakable violence. It might be fun to watch the battle that decides the future of your people from inside a K-hole.â
Manny looked offended.
Roland shrugged. He glanced at Jim, who gave him an I-donât-know-why-youâre-looking-at-me look.
âIâll try some,â Sasha said, âI mean, f-fuck it. Why not?â
It was a little cute, how she stumbled over the fuck. Roland found it endearing. It seemed Manny did too. The cocktail of dopamine, testosterone, and oxytocin that wafted off him made his feelings as clear as day.
âHell yeah, girl,â Jim said with an exaggerated Southern twang, âget on over here and rail this.â
âThat means âsnort itââ, Roland said helpfully.
Sasha approached Jimâs arm. She looked him in the eye, then looked over to Roland and, last, to Manny. Then she stared down at the powder as if she was hoping it would say something to her. It didnât, but she leaned in anyway and snorted about half of it before she sneezed, and then retched and then staggered to the side of the deck and vomited over the side.
Jim and Roland laughed in sheer joy. Manny, being a good person, moved to hold her hair back and help her deal with the pukey aftershocks. While the humans engaged with their frailties Roland and Jim did a couple more lines each.
âThat was terrible,â Sasha said, a few minutes later.
âYeah,â Jim chuckled, âit takes some getting used to.â
And then the door slid open again. Skullfucker Mike walked out onto the deck.
âOy, asshats,â he called out. âWeâre about to war up. You should get down to the field ASAP if you want to see the face-taking.â
âWhat?â Manny asked.
âExcuse me?â Sasha said at the same time.
Mike just laughed and clapped them both on the shoulders.
âIâll explain down in the field. Get a move on.â He nodded to Sasha and added, âThereâs a puke-wash station just inside and to the right, next to the bathroom.â
âRight,â Jim rubbed his hands together in excitement, âwhy donât you kids go roll with Skullfucker Mike. Iâve got to get Roland over to my mechanic so we can suit him up.â
Roland didnât like the eagerness in Jimâs eyes, or the excitement in his voice when he said that. There was something indecent about it. But a promise was a promise. So Roland nodded and gave Manny a little squeeze on the shoulder.
âIâll see you soon buddy. This wonât take long.â
----
âSkullfucker Mike?â Manny asked as the chromed man led them through the gantries and towards the elevator. âWhat exactly is so special about Roland? I mean, heâs a nice guy, but what makes him so much scarier than other chromed folks, like you and Topaz?â
âWhat do you know about Rolandâs past?â Mike asked in return.
âVery little,â Manny admitted. âHe doesnât seem to remember much. Iâve sussed out that he was in the Army, back before the Revolution. Heâs talked about fighting in Turkey. But also in Dallas and Denver and a bunch of other American cities.â
Mike nodded. âYeah. We met in Dallas, back before it was ciudad de muerta. Iâd just been dishonorably discharged from the Marine Corps for...â He frowned, shook his head and continued, â...it doesnât matter what for. I was broke and I had a body fulla Uncle Samâs chrome. He wanted it back. I wound up taking shelter in the White Rock Commune. Roland was there too. He was pretty political back in those days, always quoting Bakunin and Ăcalan and Red John.â
âDid you guys actually know Red John?â Sasha asked. Up until that point sheâd walked quietly in the rear of their little group. The few times Manny had glanced back sheâd had her head down, stuck in her own little world. But now she was alert and engaged. Manny guessed it was hearing the name of the famous revolutionary that had done it. Thatâs odd, he thought.
âI never met the guy,â Mike said. âBut Roland did. He was in real deep with that whole circle. So was that weird fucker, Jim. I was tight with Roland but I never got into the political side of things. I liked smashinâ stuff and they needed stuff-smashers.â
âHow does this relate to why RolandâsâŠRoland?â Manny asked.
âWell, Iâve known olâ Roland for a while, back when he was still fully himself. He was always cagey about his background. But we had our theories. And mine was that heâd been part of Project Orange.â
âWhat was that?â Sasha asked.
âHoly fuck,â Manny said.
Heâd heard of Project Orange, although he wasnât surprised Sasha hadnât. The AmFed was the closest descendant of the old United States. Theyâd have kept most of the bad stuff out of their history books.
âWell yâknow,â Mike said, âthrough the â20s the military struggled with declining enlistment numbers. All the little resource wars climate change sparked created the need for a capable, nimble force that could project power without requiring a public commitment of force So back in the late 30s the U.S. Military started fuckinâ hard with gene-editing tools and biomods. At first it was just basic upgrades to select combat units, early versions of the healing suites yâall both have now. Then they moved on to carbon fiber laced bones, bullet resistant skin, nano-healing suites. The end result was Project Orange, the best warriors in the entire military loaded down with experimental self-adapting neural and physiological upgrades.â
âYeah,â Manny added, âit was a real success right up âtil they wiped out a whole city.â
Skullfucker Mike nodded and looked back to Sasha. âHeâs talking about the battle of Incirlik.â
âIâve heard of that,â Sasha said. âA U.S. airstrike hit a giant munitions cache. Like ten thousand people died.â
Skullfucker Mike gave a noncommittal grunt.
âThat was one version of the story,â he said. âThe story I heard, the story everyone told back then, is that it was Project Orange.â
âThey blew up the city?â Sasha asked.
âThey didnât blow it up,â Manny said. âThey justâŠbutchered everyone, mostly in hand-to-hand combat.â
âThe DARPA guys miscalculated,â Mike nodded to Manny. âTheyâd entirely revamped the endocrine systems of these soldiers. It made them immune to exhaustion and gave them perfect situational awareness, but it also made bloodshedâŠâ he trailed off and frowned while he searched for his next word, ââŠaddictive.â
âSo what happened to Project Orange?â Sasha asked.
âWell,â said Mike, âthe scientists did what scientists do. They refined things. They revised their hypotheses and tweaked their creations until the Joint Chiefs had another job for the Orange Team. They must have done well for a while. Incirlik was â39, and no one heard shit from them until â41, when they hit that protest in Denver.â
âSix-hundred dead,â Manny said, reciting the facts heâd memorized a half-dozen times during his elementary education, âincluding a sitting senator.â
They reached the lift doors, which slid open once they got close. Sasha and Manny stepped in first and Mike came in after them. He fiddled with the control screen on the wall for a moment-
âIâm just making sure this thing is set to normal human speeds. We donât want anymore puke from yâall today.â Mike winked at Sasha as the lift doors closed. There was a soft âklumpâ sound and Manny felt the lift descend.
<br>âSo yeah,â Skullfucker Mike continued, âthe President deployed the Orange Team against a fortified camp that had blocked off access to most of downtown Denver. They cleared out the camp, sure enough. After the bloodbath some hackers with the Jester Collective took close to a terabyte out of the Pentagonâs servers. It contained a few files on Project Orange and A partly-redacted report on the Incirlik Massacre.â
âAnd then?â Sasha asked.
Mike shrugged.
âAnd then they disappeared. They werenât used during the Revolution, and theyâd have been pretty damn handy for the old U.S. at a couple points. Midway through the war we recovered some intel that theyâd been wiped out, some terrible accident in orbit. OnlyâŠâ
âOnly Roland,â Manny said softly.
âAyep,â Skullfucker Mike nodded. âThat was certainly my suspicion. Still is. But the fuckerâs never confirmed it. Or denied it. Not that he remembers now, anyway.â
The lift reached the ground with a gentle bump. Its doors slid open to reveal an army. Six-hundred people in three large clumps out by the shore of Lake Waco. To the left was the cityâs vehicle pool. In the center were the infantry, bedecked in a ridiculous melange of medieval weaponry, small arms and handheld field artillery.
And then, to the right, were the Quadrophracts. The sight of them took Mannyâs breath away. There were well over a hundred of the strange, horse-like robots. Most of them were still being fussed over by the riders: having bolts tightened, weapons belted onto their chassis or, in a few cases, old time-y leather saddles strapped onto their backs. Manny saw one saddle with what looked like a large purple dildo attached to it.
The Quadrophract riders were the most uniform group of warriors on the field. While Rolling Fuckâs infantry wore everything from Roman Legionary armor to bikinis made of bullets, the cavalry wore nothing. Even from here, he could see that every nipple in the group was hard as diamond. They were all covered in the same sort of LED tattoos that Jim wore. But where his took the form of ever-writhing snakes, theirs appeared in blotches of grey-black static all up and down their bodies.
âWhat are they?â Sasha asked, voicing Mannyâs thoughts too.
âThe elite,â Skullfucker Mike said. âThe best of the cityâs warriors. Real tough motherfuckers, mostly former soldiers who augmented their government-issue upgrades way back in the day. Some of âem have five or ten thousand hours of combat experience stored in their bodies.â
âWhy arenât you out there?â Manny asked.
âEh,â he grunted, âQuadrophracts make my ass look big. Besides, Topaz is a sniper. She keeps to the rear. And I keep to her. Itâs not as fun as fuckinâ shit up at the fronty-front,â his lips curled up into a wistful smile, âbut we all gotta grow up sometime.â
While Sasha and Manny gawked the Main Rollerâs other lift descended. The doors opened just twenty feet to their right. Nana Yazzie was the first one out. She moved slowly. Some of that was surely due to her advanced age, but there was also a note of Ritual to her movements. It was something in the arc of her spine, the cadence of her step, the way she held her head. The enormous gold-bladed knife in her hand didnât hurt either.
Behind her walked the citizens of Rolling Fuck. There were around fifty of them in the lift. But as that group walked forward, ropes and ladders began to roll out from all around the enormous wheeled city. Within a matter of minutes hundreds and hundreds of people had descended. More continued to disgorge from the lifts under the Main Roller and the Rear Roller. The riders had all formed into ordered ranks. They stood at something very much like a military attention. It was the only time heâd seen post-humans do anything in an orderly fashion.
Nana Yazzie stood in front of the cavalry, and the human civilians clustered behind her in a big semicircle. The other warriors gathered behind them. Mike maneuvered their little group to a hill that overlooked the whole scene. It took almost twenty minutes for the entire city to gather.
âWhat are they doing, Skullfucker Mike?â Sasha asked, only stumbling a bit over the curse word in his name.
âThis is what I wanted you to see,â he replied. âSheâs about to take their faces.â
....
The process of getting ready for war made the bile rise up in his gut. That was curious. Rolandâs stomach didnât still produce bile, not the same kind of bile it had when he was human. It had been years since his nervous system had been natural enough to respond to anxiety with any kind of physical symptom.
And yet, there it was. The bile, or the hallucination of bile, curdled at the bottom of his stomach while Jimâs men strapped him into the murdersuit. The armor theyâd constructed was altogether different from the powered armor heâd faced a few days ago in Dallas. It was also different from what little he remembered of the armor heâd worn as an American soldier. That made sense, of course. Rolandâs wetware got better with time and experience. Gear did not age so well.
He watched while Sardar bolted a gauntlet into place over his left forearm and hand. He could tell it was made of boron-nitride carbon tubes but the weaponâs blister carried a sextet of tiny rockets that were not familiar to him.
âSarâ, what are these things?â
A smile split the little manâs dark, handsome features.
âScatter rocklets,â he said with relish, âeach of them contains twelve guided solid-fuel warheads. The left hand are all antipersonnel, built to blow up big. The right hand rocklets,â he tapped the second gauntlet, which sat on the work table next to him, âthose pack a tiny bronze dart. Oneâll penetrate a Leopard Mk5âs front armor, no problem.â
Roland sighed and looked around at the workshop of death that Jim had flown out here. From the outside it had looked a bit like a shipping container, but painted a glossy white. Itâs edges were rounded and smooth, and the whole thing looked slick enough that it could have been an Apple product.
Inside, the box was wall-to-wall weaponry and armor. Jimâs personal stash. Roland couldnât actually name any of the weapons inside. Most were similar enough to older weapons systems that he could make an educated guess as to their capabilities. But there were strange new things on the walls that heâd never seen before.
Jim sat in a comfy chair at the rear of the workshop and watched Sardar work while he sipped scotch out of an enormous ramâs horn.
âSo is this like, your man-cave or what?â Roland asked him.
Jim took a deep gulp and then smiled.
âI find it relaxes me,â he said. âIâve spent a lot of time curating this collection over the years. I spent a lot of time working on that suit, too, so donât fuck it up.â
Something tingled at the back of Rolandâs mind. The suit had clearly been built to his specifications. That suggested Jim had been planning this for a while. But Roland had been retired at CamelToe until very recently. So how-
âHey man, I need your port.â Sardar said.
The squat mechanic held up a pair of fiber-optic cables that terminated in peculiar boxy plugs, not unlike an old ethernet cable. They were connected to a metal breastplate on the table. Roland pointed to a pair of lumpy white scars on his lower back.
âThe input sockets are in there. Theyâve scarred up, youâll have to cut them back open. But it should still fit. The nice thing about DARPA engineering is that a bit of blood and skin never gets in the way.â
Sardar set to work carving the sockets back open. Roland felt the pain as a distant sort of itch. He was having a hard time focusing his senses on his immediate surroundings. The smells of the advancing army presented an almost overwhelming flood of data. Roland had loaded up on ketamine and vodka to quiet his hindbrain, but all that interfered with his introspection.
âYou built this thing for me to wear, Jim. How long have you been planning this?â
âYears,â Jim said. His forthrightness surprised Roland.
âYour pacifism is a mistake,â Jim continued, âbrought on by your overactive conscience. There is so much more you need to do in the world. I figured at some point youâd realize that yourself. So I kept my men working.â
Sardar lifted the heavy metal breastplate up over Rolandâs head and settled it over his shoulders. The weight was comforting. A cold electric shock ran through his body as the armor connected to his central nervous system. Roland felt parts of himself wake up that he hadnât truly realized were asleep. Something in him had missed that feeling, and he felt guilty for that.
âIâm taking this thing off the instant the fightâs over, Jim. You wasted your money.â
Jimâs smile only deepened. âYouâve forgotten how fun it is, Roland.â
âAnd youâve forgotten what itâs like to be a fucking human,â Roland countered. âHave you always been a sociopath? Is this what I was like, back before whatever took my memories?â
Jimâs amused smile didnât shift by so much as a nanometer. Roland felt a spike of irritation, before he was distracted by Sardar.
âRaise your hand, please,â the mechanic said. He lifted up a four-barreled machinegun on a circular frame and slid it around Rolandâs right arm. Sardar bolted the weapon into place while he explained.
âItâs a stacked charge machine gun, magnetically fired. Similar to the old Metal Storm weapons. But this fuckerâs capable of putting out twenty thousand rounds per second.â
âHow long can it fire?â
Sardar laughed, âA little less than a second.â
The mechanic turned back to his table and Roland tried to direct his wandering mind back to the conversation with Jim.
âYouâre going to love it,â his old friend said. âI know youâve BEEN loving it. When you fought your way out of that city I could smell the dopamine wafting off your brain from all the way out here.â
Sardar snapped a cuiss around Rolandâs thigh. The armor also sported a bulky weapons blister on its outside edge.
âGas grenade launcher,â the mechanic explained. âIt should go great with the frag rocklets.â
âOh, so weâre committing war crimes now?â Roland asked Jim with more indignation than he really felt. Jim rolled his eyes.
âItâs just tear gas,â he said, âmostly, at least. I may have included some aerosolized LSD in there. Iâve been on a big psychochemical warfare kick lately.â
For a little while Sardar worked in silence. Jim drank and Roland stared near him, but not at him. The self-inflicted haze in his head had cleared a bit. That meant his hindbrain grew louder. By now it was all but shouting about the approaching army. Roland felt a trickle of adrenaline, oxytocin and endorphins. His left hand twitched involuntarily. He felt the power of the weaponâs system around him, and he felt the power in his own body. Something like arousal gripped him. Roland fought it down, as best he could. But it lingered there at the edge of his consciousness.
âIâve been remembering more,â he said to Jim, as much to distract himself as out of a desire to get it off his chest.
âMmm?â Jim cocked an eyebrow in interest.
âIâve had a few big flashes of memories. Once, when we drove into Dallas past the site of the Lakewood Blast. I remembered-â
He locked eyes with Jim and Jim nodded back. His eyes said âI knowâ, so Roland moved on.
âThe memories come most intensely when Iâm in combat. I remembered hiking with Topaz. I remembered burning the TAZ in Denver. I got flashes of you and me in Mexico and...a lot more. Iâm still sorting through it. Itâs confusing, because thereâs no timeline for any of this, just dissociated memories I know happened at some point.â
Jim leaned forward. His eyes flashed with excitement.
âInteresting,â he said. âTell me, have you been able to draw any conclusions about who you were from what youâve remembered? Have you gotten any insight into the old Roland?â
Roland frowned. Heâd been so focused on trying to remember his old life that he hadnât given much thought to what the memories he had said about the man heâd been. As he pondered Rolandâs mind lingered on the memory of shooting the Cheney boy in the back of the head.
âI think I used to be a lot more like you,â Roland said.
Jim grinned. His lips curled up to reveal long rows of white, straight teeth.
âThatâs true,â he said, âwhy else do you think Iâve missed you so much?â
....
A part of Sasha had believed that, after the Heavenly Kingdom, nothing she saw would ever shock her again. That part of her was proven wrong when Nana Yazzieâs aged, arthritic hand began to messily carve at the first warriorâs face. Her target was the young woman with the chromehawk Sasha had seen in the war council. The carving was a messy thing. It took the better part of a minute for her to slice and peel the skin free. Sasha noticed that there was very little blood. It was messy, but not as messy as it shouldâve been.
Once she was finished, Nana Yazzie stepped back with the womanâs face in her hand. As she did, dozens of citizens stepped forward. They pulled out daggers, swords, straight razors and switchblades of their own. Each civilian paired off with a warrior and began to carve. Some of them were quick and practised. The motion of their hands reminded Sasha of an autopsy video theyâd watched in one of her pre-med classes.
But other citizens were cruder with their cutting. A few verged on brutal, hacking and slashing at the faces and necks of their persons. None of the post-human warriors showed any signs of pain or discomfort. They just stood unmoving and, without their faces, seemingly without emotion.
âI donât understand...â Sasha said. She hadnât expected to say it out loud. The words just slipped out.
âItâs a symbolic thing,â Skullfucker Mike explained. âBefore they leave, the cityâs warriors give up their identities to the group. They leave their humanity behind in bloody tatters in the hands of their friends and loved ones. Itâs a way of making sure the cityâs civilians donât leave a war without blood on their hands. And-â
âAnd it makes them look fucking terrifying,â someone said from behind them. Sasha turned around. A short, fit man approached them. He had a thin build, but his body was girded with lithe muscle. There was something familiar about his face, and the short mop of curly black hair atop his head. The man smiled when Sasha saw him, revealing pointed metallic fangs. Hey, wait a second...
ââLo, Topaz,â Skullfucker Mike said.
Manny looked shocked as well. He stared at the man in surprise.
âTopaz, what...happened?â
There was a woman with those exact same teeth yesterday, when we arrived at the city.
Sasha hadnât gotten the womanâs name. But sheâd born a striking resemblance to this man.
âI felt like a man today,â Topaz said, âwhat with the war and all.â
Sasha finally realized what had happened. Of course , she thought, these people can change their physiology on a dime.
âAh,â Manny said with a nod.
Skullfucker Mike walked up to Topaz and the two embraced, and then kissed. They twined their arms together and, a few seconds later, Topaz seemed to finally notice Sashaâs presence.
âSorry,â he smiled as he spoke, âbut I donât believe I got your name.â
âSasha. Sasha Marion.â
Topaz stepped closer.
âWell, Sasha Marion,â he said in a low voice. âHow are you liking our strange ways and customs?â
âTheyâre...erm...interesting,â Sasha said, diplomatically.
âDo you find this place more to your liking than the Heavenly Kingdom?â
Topaz stepped closer. Sasha took a step back and then another. The manâs expression was friendly enough but there was a sort of queer menace in the set of his shoulders. It may have had something to do with the very large rifle slung across his back.
Sasha started to sweat. Fear gripped her mind.
âTopaz, back off.â Skullfucker Mikeâs voice was devoid of anger, but firm. âYouâre scaring her.â
Topaz stopped and stared at Mike. His expression went from placid smile to rage and then back to a smile almost faster than Sasha could process.
âSorry darlinâ,â he said in an artificially chipper voice. âI just wanted to make sure our guest was enjoying her stay here.â He looked to Sasha again. âYou are, arenât you?â
âY-yes.â
âGoooooooood,â Topaz purred. âHopefully you wonât be joining any more extremist groups that get my friends killed.â
He turned immediately to Manny and, with barely a pause for breath, embraced him and kissed his forehead.
âIâm proud of you, buddy. As far as Iâm concerned, youâre family.â
Manny mumbled his thanks and returned the hug. But he glanced to Sasha and they shared a âwhat the hell?â look. Skullfucker Mike seemed to want to plaster over the awkwardness.
âYep,â he said, âweâve made some wonderful friends, these last couple of days.â He pantomimed looking down at his watchless wrist and checking the time.
âOh my goodness!â he said, in mock surprise. âLook at the time! Topaz, weâve got a war to get to. You kids had better find some decent seats.â
Topaz smiled at Skullfucker Mike. His eyes lingered on the big manâs face, and then drifted back to Sasha.
âEnjoy the show,â he said with an empty smile.
....
It was windy on the landing pad. He and Jim stood next to a heavy black VTOL aircraft, the steed that would carry him into todayâs massacre. Roland could taste the dying summer and the faint stirrings of a North Texas fall in the air. It was cooler than heâd have expected this time of the year. Greyer, too. A gust of chill wind blew across his face, and Roland found himself falling back in time again.
He was shorter. The world seemed sharper, even though his senses were dim and unenlightened. Roland felt a hand around his own. It felt big, powerful and comforting. He looked up and saw a woman standing over him. She was tall, a giant. Her hair was brown and straight and long and clear as day in his mindâs eye. But her face was blank, obscured even in memory. His head turned to track the passage of a blowing leaf. He felt chill, winter air on his arm and he watched as a red sedan rumbled past them, spraying water into the air as it hit a puddle on the asphalt-
âRoland, pay attention.â
Jimâs voice snapped him back to reality. The other chromed man held a paper-thin tablet in front of Rolandâs face. That memory flash had been the most immersive yet, although not the longest. He was a little confused at that. Why that moment? Had it just been the similarity in weather or-
âROLAND.â
Jim was angry. It was actually somewhat refreshing to see genuine emotion on the other manâs post-human face. Veins bulged at his neck, and his eyes were fully open. Roland caught a harsh whiff of methamphetamine from his breath.
âAlright, alright, fuckinâ chill,â Roland muttered. âWhat am I looking at?â
He neednât have asked. Once he focused on the tablet it was obvious that it displayed a map of the area around Lake Waco. Rolling Fuckâs warriors and vehicles were displayed in little blue pin-points. Jim scrolled up a few inches and Roland saw a swarm of red. It was half-over the Brazos right now, and it crept millimeter by millimeter towards their position.
âThe river slowed them down a bit,â Jim said, âbut the bridges there were still in good order. Iâd say theyâll hit Rock Creek in about ten minutes.â
Roland nodded and asked, âCouldnât we have killed those bridges, bought some hours?â
Jim gave a careless shrug. âWhy would we want to slow them down? Weâre ready enough. No sense in dragging this out.â
There was a strong smell of ozone as the VTOL aircraft next to them woke up. Red lights glowed on the missile pods slung under its belly. The chaingun on its nose cycled. The whole thing hummed with potential energy. It was too modern for Roland to know the make and model. But it reminded him of the Russian Coba assault transport, which had been state-of-the-art back in the mid-40s.
âSo whatâs the plan?â he asked Jim.
âWell,â his friend said, âwe know theyâve got at least a half-dozen mobile anti-air batteries. Old U.S. Patriot IIIs. Inaccurate garbage. Nothing Iâm worried about-â
The name conjured up the ghost of another memory. A big Patriot battery wheeled around on its truck-sized chassis. He heard the machine whine of the motors and then the reek of fear hit his nose, as rich and heavy as Texas thunder. There were missiles in the air, aimed at him as he fell. They were childâs play to dodge in his suit. He descended as fearstink rolled up towards him from the soldiers below. The poor fuckers-
âRoland!â Jim shouted. âAm I going to have to find another murder-gorilla to take your place?â
âWha-no,â Roland shook his head. âSorry,â he said, âjust memories.â
Jim gave him a long look. âAnything you need to talk about right now?â
âNo,â Roland said. âItâs just, the memories are coming at me faster now. Itâs distracting.â
âThat makes sense,â Jim said. âIâd imagine stimuli that reminds you of your past could prompt your brain into sudden healing. Hmm,â he reached into a bag at his hip. It looked like a standard dump pouch, meant for half-spent magazines in the heat of battle. But Jim pulled out a fully loaded crack pipe. Even unlit, it smelled like burning tires.
âEighty-nine percent pure,â Jim held the pipe up to Roland.
âAight,â Roland grabbed the pipe and lifted it to his lips. Jim reached out and flipped on the lighter built into his index finger. He held it under the glass bubble of the pipe. The rocks vaporized into white smoke. Roland inhaled and felt the vapor dissolve into his bloodstream through his mucous membranes. There was a tingle as the crack reached his brainâs ventral tegmental area and said, in essence, âYâknow how much dopamine you were planning to produce? Make a shitload more than that.â
The happy chemicals flooded Rolandâs mind. His anxiety at the recently churned-up memories faded, as did the memories themselves.
âBetter?â Jim asked.
âSuper good,â Roland said. âCan I...?â
Jim waved, âSure man, keep the pipe. In fact-â he pulled his index finger free from his hand and gave it to Roland. âKeep that, Iâll grow a new one.â
âCool.â Roland took the finger, flicked it alight and took another deep pull of burning crack.
âSo,â he said as he exhaled a plume of cracksmoke, âthe plan?â
âRight,â said Jim, âlike I toldja, Rock Creek is where we plan to hit âem. The Edmund Fitzgerald here,â Jim banged a hand on the side of the VTOL craft, âis gonna take you up to around fifteen thousand feet and then drop you right on their heads. I expect weâll take some flak afterwards but this bird can handle it. And besides,â he raised his voice and jerked his head towards the cockpit, â...Andersonâs piloting it today, and itâs not like I give a shit if he dies.â
In response, the nose-gun wheeled around on its mount and locked onto Jim. There was a clanking sound as it ratchet a round into its chamber. Jim rolled his eyes.
âFucking pilots. Anyway, meân my people will be with the Rolling Fuck folks, getting shot at,â he tapped Rolandâs helmet, âwhen weâre ready for you, Iâll ping you both and Anderson can drop you on top of their asses.â
âSo,â Roland asked, âIâve just got to fall on top of a hostile army and start shooting?â
Jim nodded.
âRight then, letâs get started.â
....
Years ago, in what now seemed like another life, Manny had gone to a watch an outdoor movie at Zilker Park in Austin. Ghostbusters . He was pretty sure it had been Ghostbusters. Hundreds and hundreds of people had shown up, families with children and couples on dates and so, so many dogs. The sound hadnât been great, and the projectionist couldâve been better. But he remembered the evening fondly.
Rolling Fuck before a battle reminded him of that experience. The people were different. Very few of them were children. But clusters of citizens, friend-groups and families and families of friends, had set up little viewing nooks across the wheeled city itself and in the field in front of it. The whole scene would have been idyllic, if they werenât about to watch a battle.
The vehicles, cavalry and infantry were already almost out of view. He could just barely see shapes out on the horizon, setting up firing positions on top of buildings in Rock Creek. They move so damn fast . Manny didnât think heâd ever get used to the pace of post-human life. He knew Topaz and Skullfucker Mike were somewhere out there. He knew where theyâd be soon and, in spite of their confidence, he worried for them. More than anyone he worried for Roland.
âDrinks for everyone,â Donald Farris said. He had a tray full of drinks in his hands, fresh from the bar. He sat down next to Nana Yazzie and smiled. Manny and Sasha sat on the opposite side of them, in a booth in the Main Rollerâs bar, looking out over Waco.
Donald started handing out beverages. First, bubbly drinks in long brown bottles that smelled familiar.
âCoca-Cola,â the old documentarian said, ânot the stuff they still sell all over. The original recipe, with cocaine and alcohol. Itâs great shit, we go through gallons of it every day.â
Nana Yazzie took a sip from hers and smiled. âItâs quite good,â she said, âand the intoxicating effect is mild. Our chromed comrades have a stronger variant, of course.
âWeâre all humans here,â Donald smiled, âmore or less.â
Manny took one of the cokes, sipped it and nodded to Sasha. âItâs really good,â he said, âyou should try it.â
It was good. And it didnât seem like it was too strong. Manny took another sip and smiled as Sasha grabbed her bottle and took a gulp. She seemed to like it.
There was a loud âpopâ sound from somewhere up above. Manny tensed up. But then he tracked its origin to one of the landing pads that extended from a gantry tower at least a hundred feet above them. Dozens of small black shapes flitted out from it and soared forward, off in the same direction the army had gone.
âSpy drones,â Donald Farris explained. âTheyâll be at the front by the time the fighting starts.â
âThis all seems...so weird,â Sasha said. âI think I read about people doing something similar during the Civil War. Theyâd set up picnic blankets on hills overlooking the battle.â
Donald Farris grunted and shifted in his seat, a bit awkwardly. Nana Yazzie smiled and said, âIt is a bit like that. The difference is that weâre not doing this to be voyeurs. We wonât see much fighting.â
âWhat will we see?â Sasha asked.
âJust watch,â Donald Farris said, and reached for a tiny shot-glass filled with a yellow-brown liquid. âBut have a drink first. Itâll help.â
Manny took one of the shot glasses and moved to belt it down. But Nana Yazzie put her hand on his.
âThatâs fine tequila, son. Iâd recommend sipping.â
So he sipped it. And it was good. The burn rolled down his throat and mixed with the cocaine and alcohol from the coca-cola. A comfortable warm haze settled over Manny. He was about to encourage Sasha to try some when another sound intruded. The high hum of drones filled the air. Manny fought down an irrational surge of anxiety. He wasnât sure heâd ever feel comfortable with the sound of drones again.
Each of these drones was the size and rough density of a rottweiler. They flew in pairs, connected by what looked like a thick, bendy white tube that hung between them. Several pairs settled in front of the Main Rollerâs bar in a stable hover. With a whir and a click, the white tubes in between them opened up and unfurled into screens. A second later the screens lit up.
Manny took another sip of truly fabulous tequila and looked back across his new friends. Donald Farris looked somber, as solemn and grey as a granite wall. Nana Yazzie seemed almost excited, as if sheâd reached the first jump scare in a good horror movie. Sasha hadnât touched her liquor. She didnât seem to have taken more than a few sips from the coke. Manny found himself wondering what would happen to her after all this.
What am I going to do after this? Manny realized with a bit of shock that Oscarâs wife was the only person heâd messaged in almost a week. He hadnât sent anything to his family, or his friends back in Austin. Heâd had the excuse of his deck being deactivated when heâd been inside the Kingdom. But now that he was back, and his deck was functional, his lack of communication felt less and less defensible. Just thinking about Aisha, and the terrible news he still had yet to deliver, brought a spike of anxiety that was somehow worse than his fear over the coming battle.
Thereâs a certain sound that happens when a very large group of people all notice something at the same time. That sound shook Manny out of his contemplation and alerted him to the fact that something had started to happen on the screens. He looked up and he saw that all the screens scattered around the city and hovering over the field now shared the same images.
One side of the screens displayed a video feed of a man in full tactical armor, his eyes covered by goggles and his head protected by a black helmet. He was seated in the cupola of an armored vehicle, rolling fast over the highway. Next to that video feed was a picture of the same man, sans armor, in more peaceful days. He was fair-skinned, with red hair and an easy smile. He wore a shirt that, Manny guessed, signified his allegiance to some sports team in the AmFed. The images sat there, alone, for a second.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Manny looked out at the horizon towards Rock Creek, where Rolling Fuckâs soldiers had embedded themselves. He saw three black-grey contrails rush out from an old office building and out towards the highway. The Heavenly Kingdomâs forces were just barely visible to his naked eye, tiny ant-sized tanks and transports. All three rockets hit, and the black smoke of their detonations obscured the head of the vehicle column.
And then, on the video feed, a rocket burst right above the man in the cupola. Manny watched as he was torn apart in a hail of shrapnel. The video, and the still image of his smiling face, were replaced a second later by a looping video of an older man playing with a baby girl. He picked her up and spun her around and the camera zoomed in on his joyous smile. Another video played, of a younger man attending his high school graduation. More videos and still images popped up, displaying gentle moments in the lives of at least a dozen different men.
And then all the screens cut, violently, to video of an exploding APC. Manny jerked back in surprise. He saw that Sasha had reacted similarly. Nana Yazzie just sat and stared, her face unreadable. Donald Farris frowned. And when he noticed Manny looking back at him, he waved a gentle hand towards the screen and mouthed the word, âWatch.â
Manny turned back to the screens in time to see them populate with more faces and more looping videos. He watched as children opened birthday presents and celebrated graduations. He saw young men pose with teammates or hug their kids. He saw pizza parties and Christmas mornings and laughter and love and then-
Another vehicle detonated. The screen cleared. And then it populated again with scenes from four more lives, next to video of a detonating Leopard Tank. The parade of shattered lives went on as rockets, mortars and now gunfire lashed out from Rock Creek and towards the vehicle column.
Roland isnât even there yet. This is just the beginning . Manny stared out, numb and queasy, and watched as the Heavenly Kingdomâs armored spearhead changed direction and began the drive to Rock Creek. They were firing now too, pouring explosive shot and long range rockets into the neighborhood.
This is what you wanted, he reminded himself, as the parade of death sped up.
....
It was downright cold at fifteen-thousand feet. Roland relished the bite in the air and stared out the Edmund Fitzgerald âs side window as he hit Jimâs crack pipe for the last time. His synapses bubbled with dopamine now. He couldnât stop his lips from curling up into a grin as he looked out onto the distant fields below.
âFive minutes to drop point.â The pilotâs voice echoed throughout the cargo compartment. Normally it wouldâve held an array of smart bombs or close-assault drones. Today it held only Roland. He stepped forward, towards the rear bay doors of the craft. The feeling of the cold deck under his feet and the elevated hemoglobin levels in his blood brought the threat of another rush of memory to Rolandâs mind. The dizzy glee of the crack high helped him shrug it off.
Combat soon. Battle. And battle-drugs.
He tried to temper his excitement. He didnât want to crave that high as much as he did. Itâll just take a few minutes, he told himself, and then I can disengage. He could already feel the Heavenly Kingdomâs army, far below, settling in. Their nose had been bloodied by Rolling Fuckâs rocketry, but theyâd suffered relatively few casualties so far. The plan did seem to be working. Dozens of vehicles and thousands of men had already moved into position around the
Rock Creek neighborhood. Roland could hear the sound of their mortars, recoilless rifles and assault guns opening fire.
He reached out with his senses and tried to find Topaz and Skullfucker Mike in the mess, but their scents and heat profiles were obscured by shellfire and smoke. Roland was able to locate Jim, as well as Bigsby and his assault team. They were hunkered down at the edge of the neighborhood, embedded in an abandoned apartment complex and engaged in a furious firefight with the Heavenly Kingdomâs vanguard. Roland could smell the dopamine rushing into Jimâs synapses from fifteen thousand feet in the air.
His heart began to beat faster. He felt his left hand start to shake. Not in fear, but in delirious anticipation of the battle drugs. Another flash of memory took him and his hand shook so bad he could barely hold the needle straight. Heâd already missed the vein twice. âGod dammit, god dammit!â he cursed before taking a deep breath and preparing himself to try again-
âSixty seconds to drop,â the pilotâs voice pulled Roland back into the moment. That memory had felt weird. It had been blurry, in his mindâs eye, but Rolandâs hands and arms had felt smaller then. Was I shooting up dope as a teenager? He knew the answer, based on his current predilections, was âprobablyâ.
Roland shook his mind away from the past and focused, again, on the war downstairs. The Kingdom had moved quickly, he guessed around four thousand of their men were already in position. These would be the elite, their most veteran fighters, the soldiers wearing power armor or riding in real armored transports and not up-gunned trucks. He could feel the rest of the Kingdomâs army flung out far behind them, in a long tail that stretched back to the Brazos. How many of these men will die today? How many are already dead?
âTen seconds!â
His nose caught the distant gasoline reek of a flamethrower opening up on a squad of advancing Martyrs. Thatâs got to be Jim, right?
âFive seconds!â
The jump light turned from red to green and the bomb bay doors opened with a rush of air and wind that cracked the uncovered skin on Rolandâs face.
âThree,â said the pilot.
He stepped out to the ledge and planted his feet. The world whipped by around them at a maddening speed. Roland looked down, focused, and saw the Heavenly Kingdomâs army underneath him. Dozens of vehicles and thousands of men had taken up position in a large park and several buildings surrounding Rock Creek. Two large gatherings of mortars and a trio of Leopard tanks made up the bulk of the artillery now pouring onto Rolling Fuckâs forces. There were also several large field guns and rocket batteries, currently being bolted into place in an old parking lot behind the park.
Competent. Roland was impressed by how the Kingdomâs soldiers had parked their armored transports to help complete a fortress wall around one side of Rock Creek. Theyâd sent a few probing attacks of power armored troopers but, he could tell, they wouldnât launch a full assault until theyâd flattened the neighborhood.
âTwo.â
A trickle of endorphins and serotonin joined the soggy mush of dopamine in Rolandâs synapses. He closed his eyes and, with a thought, activated the sundry weapons systems that Sardar had wired into his body. The missiles in their pods hummed and the barrels around his right arm chimed in readiness. Lyrics from a half-remembered song flittered through his mind. Time, time, time, for another peaceful war...
âOne.â
Roland stepped off the back of the craft and into the skyâs embrace.
----
The faces flashed by, along with video clips and curated posts from social media and of course, scenes of death. Some of the men died from sniper fire, cut down as they ran for cover. Others died in long range firefights, or from shrapnel. The pace of death had gradually risen over the course of the battle.
Some of that was due to the fact that the Martyrs had sent in several assault teams, to test the mettle of the defenders. Those men had died fast, and badly. Many of them had been burnt alive. The sight of it all should have horrified her. She wanted it to horrify her. Everyone else at the table had tears in their eyes. Even Nana Yazzie was crying, and that lady looked like sheâd been through some shit.
Since when do you curse like that?
Sasha felt a pang of guilt at how easily the swear word had come to her mind. Then she felt really, really stupid. She was literally watching people die. Sheâd killed two human beings fewer than forty-eight hours ago. What the fuck does cursing matter?
But still, the guilt was there. Perhaps what she felt was a betrayal of her past self. Or maybe she was just dumb. Sasha shook it off. She tried to focus on the carnage. It was horrible, she knew that in a detached academic sense. She couldnât quite feel the horror, though. It was as if shooting Darryl had opened up a great, gnawing hole inside her heart and that hole had spread, like a black film, over her entire body. All her feelings seemed so distant now.
She wanted to cry about Darryl. She wanted to cry about this. She wanted to cry for Suzannah and Anne, left alone in that living hell of a Kingdom. She wanted to cry for herself, too. But she couldnât. And so she didnât. Instead, she sat and watched as the warrior gods of this strange city helped the Martyrs earn their title.
Sasha looked out at the citizens of Rolling Fuck. Most of the people she could see were crying, and even those who werenât looked shaken, horrified. The perpetual party atmosphere sheâd come to associate with the City of Wheels was gone. It had been suspended to allow for pain. Sasha wanted to hurt with them.
But instead she thought about the offer that man Jim had made. She thought about the squicking sound of the razor blade flipping out of Rolandâs forearm. Sheâd seen the way he fought. She longed for the high that had come with the violence in the clinic, but she couldnât stand more of the guilt killing Darryl had brought her. I could be a medic, Sasha thought , Jim said so.
She looked up to the screens again, at the parade of death. She wasnât sure if any of the dead had been Rolling Fuckâs soldiers. It didnât look like it. But as she settled back in to watch, something glitched on the screens. The stream of faces sped up, well past the point where she could focus on any of them. Then the flow stopped, sputtered, the picture glitched out and then righted itself.
Whatever algorithm handled the show eventually stabilized, and the individual images on each screen shrank to accommodate many, many more people, a flood of the dead and moments from their lives. The nature of their deaths changed, too. Most of the first wave seemed to come from a sudden burst of explosive detonations. But the explosions stopped and the dying continued, and whatever was killing the Martyrs now moved too fast to be clearly seen.
âWhatâs happening?â she heard Manny ask. âIs something wrong?â
âNo,â the old man said, âthatâs just Roland.â
....
Forty-five seconds after his feet hit the dirt, Roland was out of ammo. Heâd managed to do a tremendous amount of damage in that short span of time, decimating their mortar batteries with cluster rockets and clearing the Martyrs away from their field guns with a mix of gas and fragmentation grenades. Heâd emptied his machinegun in three long bursts, mostly aimed at the infantry whoâd been clustered behind the APC barricades when he landed. Then heâd taken to scavenging rifles from the dead and emptying those into targets of opportunity.
By the one minute mark, Rolandâs hindbrain estimated heâd killed or wounded close to a thousand men. The sheer ferocity of his initial assault sent the Kingdomâs forces reeling and cleared a circle of ground around him about two-hundred meters wide. Roland finished gunning down the crew of a Patriot battery and ran for an abandoned anti-tank rifle lying next to a pile of bodies.
Bullets smacked into him from all sides, diversionary fire, meant to distract him from the up-armored Mattis APC that suddenly gunned its engine and barreled towards him. They think they can run me over , Roland realized with something like glee. So he slowed down, reducing his sprint to something like a normal human running speed while the vehicle closed the gap between them.
He jumped at the last moment, landed on the APCâs roof and punched a hole through the top armor with both of his fists. Then he gripped the ragged metal at the sides of the hole and tore the APC open-
-the smell of fear hit his nose as he tore through the concrete wall. The room held a dozen men, a mix of guards and officers. One man in the middle wore the stars of a general in the United States Army. Some of the soldiers screamed. A few opened fire. But the general just stood there while Roland killed, he didnât even blink. No fear poured off him.
âItâs our fault,â the general said, once they were the only men left alive in the room, âthis is all our fault, Roland. Iâm-â
A bullet hit his face and Roland snapped back to reality. The men in the APC below him were dead, it looked as if heâd shredded them with his bare hands. But while heâd been lost in a memory two more APCs had roared up and disgorged a dozen power-armored soldiers.
They shot him with big guns, weapons meant to hurt monsters. He avoided some of their rounds, but not most. Roland lost the better part of his right hand, a chunk of his skull, and his left knee. It hurt, but that didnât stop him. He leapt off the Mattis and soon he was among them, ripping off armored plates and shattering bones with his bare hands.
The battle drugs poured into his brain and lit his synapses up like the New York skyline. Roland let out a terrible whooping cry that was half laugh and half scream and he tore into the men as they tried, in vain, to do him real harm.
It took nineteen seconds to eliminate them all. As the last man dropped, Roland realized with some surprise that he could hear Jimâs voice, distant but getting closer. His old friend was charging, screaming out war whoops and firing those big dumb pistols. Then he heard the familiar crack of a Dragunov sniper rifleâTopazâs rifle! He remembered it now. The sound was as familiar to him as the voice of his own mother.
Holy shit! Roland realized that, for the first time in years, he could remember the sound of his motherâs voice. Her name and face were still lost in memory, but all this violence was clearly knocking things loose. He took a step back, behind one of the intact APCs, to avoid a spray of heavy machinegun fire and take stock of the situation. Now that he focused, he could feel the hoofbeats of Rolling Fuckâs cavalry. He could sense that many of the cityâs infantry had charged out from their positions in Rock Creek to meet the Martyrs in hand-to-hand combat.
The Heavenly Kingdom was not in flight, not yet. But they would break soon. Roland knew it. He could smell it in the air. Time to stop now. Time to let Skullfucker Mike, Topaz and the others finish the fight. Heâd done enough, he knew heâd done enough. And yet...
The drugs. Even after just a few seconds out of direct combat, the high was starting to fade. And Roland wanted more. He thought about cracking another skull and his hand itched.
He heard one of the Martyrs open up with an automatic grenade launcher, and thought about how good that gun would feel, bucking against the meat of his shoulder. The man with the grenade launcher was close. Roland could close the distance between them in two, maybe three seconds.
No. You donât need to do this. Stop. Fewer people will die if you just-
Roland charged.
....
Manny had seen nine people killed by bullets or bombs. Heâd seen a good deal more fresh corpses, in the aftermath of firefights. He had a strong stomach and he was not easily distressed by gore. The opening stages of this battle, and the war ritual, had been unsettling, but not because of the violence.
That changed soon after Roland landed.
âHeâs just tearing people apart...â Manny said, without really meaning to say anything at all. Donald Farris replied with a grim nod.
âItâs hard to watch,â Nana Yazzie admitted, as another dozen lives ended messily on the screens before them. âItâll be over soon, though. They canât take much more of this.â
âI havenât seen any of your people die yet,â Sasha said. âIs that abnormal?â
âNo,â Donaldâs voice was grim. âThereâll be a lot of injuries, but I donât expect Rolling Fuck will lose a single warrior.â
âGood,â Sasha said.
âIs it?â Donald asked.
âOf course itâs good, you silly fuck.â Nana Yazzie snapped. That was the first time Manny could recall hearing her angry.
âI disagree,â the old man grumbled, âweâre on a precipice here, the edge of a deep cliff. Every time this happens we get a little closer to falling off.â
âWhat do you mean?â Manny asked.
âHe means,â Nana Yazzie replied with a bit of drunken slur to her voice, âhe doesnât trust the people of this city. He thinks theyâll get a taste for war and this whole experiment will turn into a nightmare.â
âYou canât trust the dark,â Donald Farris insisted, âand weâre in the dark here.â He waved out at the field and the hundreds of people watching the faces of the dead in tearful silence.
âRight now weâve managed to lash together a chain of rituals that keep them peaceful. How long can that last?â
Nana Yazzie glared at him, and then shifted her gaze to Manny. She pointed a finger at Donald.
âHe thinks we should have let your people die,â she said, âI think we have a responsibility to intervene.â
âIâm not saying we donât,â Donald Farris insisted, âIâm just saying, Iâve seen how this story ends. History may not repeat itself, but it does rhyme.â
âPithy,â Nana Yazzie said, âbut-oh!â
She stopped mid-sentence and stared out into the screens. Manny looked back just in time to watch the flow of dead faces speed up again. The screens jerked and shuddered to accommodate the new flow. Once they adjusted, Manny was shocked again at the violence on display. He saw men run through with lances, gutted by scimitars, burnt by napalm and trampled under the spiked hooves of Quadrophracts.
âOh god,â he moaned.
âAh yes,â Nana Yazzie sighed, âthat would be the cavalry. It wonât be much longer now. Theyâre here to finish the job.â
....
The Knights of Rolling Fuck were a sight to see, truly. It wasnât often that Roland came across something that registered as completely new to the deep, battered banks of his memory. But there was no dĂ©jĂ vu here, no sense that heâd watched anything like it before. Rolling Fuckâs riders worked in two-and three-person squads, mostly using a mix of hand-grenades, small arms, flamethrowers and melĂ©e weapons for shock value.
Their timing was exquisite. One-hundred riders hit the Martyrs at the same time. They didnât seem to have specific targets, or goals beyond causing mayhem. But they did this expertly, spiking armored vehicles and field guns with white phosphorus charges and scattering any clusters of Martyrs they could find.
The woman, Kishori, rode past him, her face skinned and weeping blood as she lobbed a hand grenade towards a group of Martyrs hunkered behind the shattered remains of a public restroom. She pulled a macuahuitl, with an iron trunk and gleaming obsidian blades, free from her belt as her steed leapt over the burning wreckage of a jeep and bounded towards the survivors. Roland followed her, tearing a piece of rebar free from some rubble as he charged.
The restrooms were at one end of what had once been a giant playground in a public park. It had been derelict for more than a decade, but the corpses of swing sets and remnants of slides were still visible. Several hundred of the Martyrs had fallen back to this position trying to create some kind of defensive line. Panic and mass death had robbed them of a lot of cohesion, but they still managed to pour a lot of fire into Roland and Kishori as they charged.
A rocket-propelled grenade hit the chest of her quadrophract and burst, ripping off one of the machineâs legs and sending the chromed woman tumbling to the ground, gravel and rubble embedding itself into the red musculature of her bleeding face. Roland didnât stop for her. He charged ahead, absorbed a few dozen rounds of small arms fire and dodged a handful of rocket-propelled grenades.
He hit a group of twenty-three men, hunkered behind a long Stihlglass barricade and several heavy metal crates. These Martyrs had been trying to get a trio of anti-tank guns back into the fight. They gave up on that once Roland closed to about twenty feet. One of them, an older man with a spine, shouted words of encouragement and charged forward, firing, with a dozen of his men.
These soldiers werenât wearing powered armor. They werenât good enough to hit more than one in twenty shots. They wore old upcycled body armor. Only a few of them had bayonets. They presented no real threat. Twenty seconds and I can put every one of these fuckers down for the rest of the fight. No one needs to die. His hand twitched. The river of dopamine in his synapses shrank to a babbling brook. Roland felt a craving rise. Maybe just a few more.
He was among them. Roland found that brave old fucker, picked him up by the skull and used him as a flail until the bones of his face came loose in Rolandâs hands. He deployed the razor in his wrist and started slicing off hands and ears. He moved on to slashing tendons and muscles and, eventually, just hacked at his enemies like a drunken butcher. One boy dropped his gun, tried to back away and fell on his ass as Roland stalked towards him-
â The protesters screamed and screamed. They swung sticks and tried to bash him with their shields and he knocked their clumsy strikes aside and waded into the mass. Roland didnât even consider drawing a gun. He tore. Every fistful of human flesh sent a wash of orgiastic glee bubbling through his brain. A young woman screamed and tried to run he grabbed her hair and pulled and the sound of her neck snapping almost made him shriek with joy-
âPlease-â said a different man, before Roland shattered his skull against the pavement and leapt up to chase down trio of fleeing Martyrs-
He was back in Incirlik, bloody and injured and almost snowblind from the battle drugs. Roland shoved his way through the door and into the air raid shelter. Heâd already pulled a grenade free from his harness when he found himself face-to-face with a room of women and children, old men and young boys; civilians. Unarmed.
And, with sudden shock, Roland realized he didnât care about that last part. His synapses screamed for more. Roland obliged them.
â-my God stop, STOP!â
He came back to himself and realized he was on the ground and locked into a pretty darn good half nelson. It took him a moment to realize that woman, Kishori, was the one holding him.
âOh,â he said.
âWhat the FUCK man?â
Roland looked around. None of the Martyrs near him were still standing. It was hard, even for his hindbrain, to identify how many people had fallen around him. He guessed south of a hundred, but not far south. The number was shocking, it implied a longer blackout than any others. What was scarier was the sheer violence evident in these menâs death. Most of them were in more than two pieces.
âAre you gonna flip out if I let go?â
Roland shook his head, and Kishori released him. He turned around, still seated, and looked at the young woman. She was filthy with grime and blood, some of it her own. Her skinless face wept red but, even so, he could still see the judgement in her eyes.
âThat was not fucking necessary,â she said.
âIâm sorry, I...â
âRoland!â
It was Skullfucker Mike. Topaz trailed behind him at a sizeable distance, sweeping the field with a rifle. Roland tried to catch his eye. He avoided Rolandâs gaze for a second or two but then they connected and-
â she stared at him with those big, brown, tear-stained eyes.
âThis isnât what I wanted, Roland. This isnât what we said we were fighting for. This is just butchery.â
He felt anger at her, blind rage that warred with his love.
âOf course itâs butchery!â He screamed. âThe world is built by butchers!â
-âDude!â Kishori slapped him, hard, and Roland came back to himself. Skullfucker Mike was closer now. Roland looked for Topaz, and found him. He was closer too, and looked worried, but he didnât say anything.
âIs Roland alright?â Mike asked Kishori. âWas he hit?â
âSure, but thatâs not the problem.â Kishori said, âHe just went bugfuck on like, a company of those guys. Ripped them apart with his bare hands.â
âItâs a fuckinâ relapse,â said Skullfucker Mike. He knelt down in front of Roland and put a hand on his shoulder. âBuddy,â he said, âitâs done. Theyâre starting to run. Whole army will be routed in a few minutes. You just sit here and catch your breath and-â
Routed? Roland looked down and realized his hands were shaking. He felt a vast, throbbing emptiness in his synapses. He realized that the emptiness was always there, and had been for as long as he could remember. Most days he hid it under a haze of narcotics but now that heâd had it filledâfor just a minute! â its emptiness hurt like an amputated limb.
He looked out and saw that, yes, Skullfucker Mike was correct. Several pockets of Martyrs still held out, but the bulk of the vanguard was either dead or fleeing for the line of transports and technicals that stretched back to the Brazos. It felt like the rest of the army had started the slow process of halting, and reversing its advance. The Kingdom had decided to pull back.
Are you done or not, Roland? Asked an evil voice in the back of his skull. If youâre not done, if you want more, youâd better go get it.
Roland leaned back. He looked from Skullfucker Mike, to Kishori, and finally to Topaz. Then he reached behind him, grabbed a busted rifle he could use as a club, and stood up.
âRoland, no...â Skullfucker Mike started to say. Roland didnât hear the rest. He bolted off, as fast as he could run, in the direction of the fleeing Martyrs.
....
It was amazing how much she could tell about the course of the battle just from watching the faces of its casualties. The pace of the killing had escalated to a certain level, and then started to slowly fall. More and more of the men died with their backs to the enemy, running. Sasha guessed that meant the army, or at least a lot of it, had started to break. The pace of death slowed to a trickle.
âWell then,â Donald Farris grumbled, âit seems like thatâs more or less settled. Iâm going to get us another round. I think weâve all eaten enough guilt for the-â
He stopped. His jaw dropped.
âOh no.â
Sasha turned back to the screen to see that the roll of the dead had started to increase again. These men were running too, but most of them werenât dying to ranged weaponry. They were being grabbed from behind, ripped apart or clubbed to death by something moving far too fast for human eyes to focus on.
âRoland,â Manny said in a dull voice filled with sorrow.
Sasha scanned the faces of her tablemates. Manny looked almost overwhelmed with guilt. His eyes were watery and he just kept shaking his head and muttering to himself. Nana Yazzieâs mouth was closed. Her face looked tight and frozen in horror. Donald Farris was quite clearly furious. His face was so red Sasha worried his heart might give out.
And yet she felt nothing.
Thatâs curious, isnât it? Sasha could remember how angry sheâd gotten as a girl, when she read some story about anti-Christian brutality in Turkey or Illinois. She remembered being horrified by the executions sheâd witnessed. But she could only picture her emotional state in those moments from a great distance, as if she were staring at it through the fogged up lens of a telescope.
Why am I not angry? Why am I not horrified? Her concern over this fact actually generated a stronger emotional reaction than anything happening out on that battlefield.
Sasha stared out at the cameras and the continuing parade of violence. She heard Manny cursing under his breath. She heard Nana Yazzie fight back a sob. But Sasha felt nothing. Save, perhaps, a bit of jealousy.
....
The scene out by the Brazos felt less like a battlefield and more like a playground. This might be the highest Iâve ever been, he thought as he broke a manâs neck with the back of his hand. Bullets whizzed by as a few of the braver soldiers tried to cover the retreat of their comrades. Most of them, even the drivers, had abandoned their transports. Hundreds of men were already wading into the river, tearing off their armor and tossing aside their weapons as they plunged in.
The Heavenly Kingdomâs army would not rally anytime soon.
A Martyr turned and drew his knife in a feeble attempt at resistance. Roland caved in the manâs sternum with a fist and squashed his heart like a junebug. Ten meters ahead he saw three soldiers, preparing to make their stand behind an overturned flatbed truck. As he ran, Roland grabbed a discarded rifle off the ground. A Thompson submachinegun , he realized. It didnât feel like a reproduction either. Roland brought the gun up to his shoulder-
â The Thompson gun bucked in his hand. Roland laughed as he danced through the charnel house that had once been a forward operating base. Most of the National Guardsmen were dead, but his nose told him one of them was still in the game. Roland turned past a Hesco and saw the young man, propped half up against a pile of sandbags. The boy held a hand to the bleeding hole in his gut. His black face was bloodless-pale and young. SO young. Roland didnât know if heâd ever seen a soldier who looked that young. There was something familiar about the boyâs face.
âR-roland?â the kid said. And recognition dawned in Rolandâs eyes-
-And then he was back. He was about fifty yards further ahead than heâd been before he blacked out. The Thompson gun was still in his hand, pointed at a man twelve yards to his left who was scrambling to get a wire-guided rocket launcher into a firing position. Roland put a bullet through his brain. He turned, past the burning wreck of a semi truck. A dozen bullets impacted his chest and side. Then three Martyrs charged him, their bayonets fixed-
â The hit wasnât bad. Nothing but a flesh wound. Skullfucker Mike looked worse; heâd lost most of his left arm. Topaz had taken three rounds to the dome but she was still firing her Dragunov. Rolandâs mind stretched into the city of Dallas around them. There were a lot of men coming their way. But those men were mostly police, SWAT officers. Nothing substantial. No one who could stop them from getting this bomb where it needed to-
â â Go!â Roland screamed as he broke his Thompson gun over the skull of another Martyr. Then he reeled back and dropped the gun. That last memory had felt different, like heâd unlocked something. Roland shook his head. The last Martyr in front of him broke and ran. Roland didnât even think to chase him. His head hurt, in a way he couldnât remember it ever hurting before. What the hell is going on? It had all started the second heâd thought about-
â The bomb is small as nukes go. Just about one megaton. It matches the ones at Ft. Leonardwood. The Guardian already released the hacked documents, showing the government considered a bombing several of the separatist camps. I think we can trust the American people to put two and two together.â
Jim smiled. Roland did not. This was his plan, but he didnât like it. He knew, though, that it was the only way forward for the Revolution.
âThere has to be another way,â said Skullfucker Mike. âThis feels wrong. Really really wr-
The floodgates of Rolandâs mind opened, and a tidal wave of memory swept him away. He dropped to his knees. The Martyrs around him continued to flee, too shocked and awed to take advantage of his vulnerability. The battle drugs were gone now, or at least he couldnât feel them anymore. Hundreds of memories assaulted his consciousness. Thousands.
For the first time in years Roland knew who heâd been. Who he was again.
Iâm back.
Roland stood. He took one halting step forward, and then another, and then he leaned against the frame of a broken APC for a little while as he pictured his motherâs face and voice for the first time in years. He wanted to sob. But there was no time.
He knew who he was now. And he knew what he was bound to do if he stayed this way. Rolandâs conscience wouldnât allow that. So he trudged forward until he found the right tool; a handheld automatic grenade launcher, clutched in the dead hands of a Martyr.
He took the weapon and sat, cross-legged, in the blood-soaked Texas dirt. Roland looked up at the sky one last time and allowed himself a long moment to remember his parents, and his brother, and the day he and Topaz had first met.
And then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
....
Nana Yazzie, Sasha, Donald Farris and Manny had all rushed to a transport as soon as Rolandâs face showed up on the screen. It seems the drones either didnât know, or didnât care enough to separate dead friends from dead foes. Maybe that was the point.
Nana Yazzie drove. It took about six minutes for the shiny green jeep to make its way over the broken roads and towards the site of the battle. No one spoke.
They reached the battlefield. There are so many dead people. Manny had seen a lot of carnage in his life, but nothing like this. The stenches of burning flesh, opened bowels and burning fuel were so overwhelming they almost knocked him down. Donald Farris and Nana Yazzie looked just as queasy. Only Sasha weathered the sights and smells with calm. She stayed focused enough to spot Skullfucker Mike in the mess and direct Nana Yazzie his way.
Rolling Fuckâs soldiers were out in force. They stalked through the killing fields in groups of four or five, searching for survivors or just looking for loot. Mike stood with Topaz and Kishori and a couple of chromed Manny didnât recognize. Most of them were seated by a handful of large metal crates in the center of what had once been a large playground. Oh god.
The dead men here had been torn apart. There was so much blood, more than Manny had ever seen. It sluiced around on the concrete like some sort of macabre kiddy pool. The jeep came to a wet stop in front of the group. The act of breaking sent a spray of gore out across Skullfucker Mikeâs legs.
âHey,â he said, âwhat are you all doing here?â
âRoland,â Manny said, âwhat happened to Roland?â
Mike looked confused. Topaz raised his head up to look out at them. Manny was surprised to see tears rolling down his face. His lip trembled a bit, but when he spoke there was steel and fury in his voice.
âHe decided to keep killing. Iâm sure heâs still killing now.â
âNo,â Manny said, âheâs dead or, thatâs what the drones said. We have to find him.â
âGet out of that seat,â Mike said to Nana Yazzie, âIâm driving.â
In an instant, Topazâs tears stopped and, before Manny could say anything, Topaz hopped in the back seat of the jeep.
âFast,â Topaz told Skullfucker Mike as he took over from Nana Yazzie. âGo very fast.â
It didnât take long to find him. Rolandâs route through the army was painted in red. Hundreds of dead men, maybe more than a thousand, made a clear path with their corpses. That path didnât end until they were almost at the Brazos, and they saw where Roland had fallen.
Rolandâs armored body was splayed out limp, next to the carcass of an old semi truck. There were two very dead men directly in front of them, but neither of them looked to have done him in. Roland hadnât gone down to enemy fire. Heâd jammed a very large gun in his mouth and blown the top off of his head. To all signs, and to all logic, he looked dead.
Donald Farris shook his head and muttered something. Sasha just stared. Nana Yazzie put her hand on Mannyâs shoulder.
âHe was-â she started to say. But she was interrupted. By Roland, as he lifted his ruined head up to look at them. His eyes were still unfocused. Blood drooled down his nose, out of his mouth, and down from the gaping exit wound in his forehead. He spit out several teeth. Manny saw daylight through his skull. But still, Roland was able to speak.
âWho the fuck are you people?â he asked.
Manny stumbled out of Aishaâs house at around 7 PM. It was still bright outside, the scorching boil of the day had faded a bit, into more of a humid simmer. The normal stark blinding blue of Texan September had been replaced by the oily grey-white of cloud cover. It looked, and felt, like a storm front was moving in.
He took a few steps forward, just to get away from the door. The meeting had gone awfully. Thereâd never really been any chance of it going well, of course. Manny had opted to be as blunt and honest as possible. Heâd told her that Oscar had been captured, and executed by the Heavenly Kingdom. He left out that Roland had mercy-killed him, as heâd left out his own little stint in the Kingdomâs militia. It wouldâve taken too long to explain.
Sheâd reacted with rage. Aisha had hit him a few times. Sheâd screamed at him off and on for more than an hour, in between bouts of collapsing into his chest and sobbing.
âIf you hadnât talked him into this fucking job heâd still be alive,â sheâd spat at him. Manny hadnât argued in his defense. Aisha had been right, after all. There was nothing for him to do but endure her rage, soak up her pain, and transfer tens of thousands of AmFed dollars into her bank account.
Before the bodies at Rock Creek had gone cold, Manny had made up his mind to hand Aisha every penny heâd saved. Skullfucker Mike and Topaz had assured him that the cash would be all but useless in his new life on the road with Rolling Fuck. And more than that, it was the right thing to do. He couldnât bring Oscar back, he couldnât make anything OK, but the money heâd saved would mean Aisha had one less worry in the immediate wake of the tragedy.
He stepped off her porch and tried not to focus too much on the muffled sounds of her howling cries behind him. Ahead, parked across the street, was an old beat-to-shit Jeep Wrangler. It had no doors, no top, and Tule Black Elk sat in the driverâs seat, legs propped up on the dash and a fat cigar bleeding smoke into the air around her. She glanced up as he approached and favored him with a lopsided grin.
âHey kid, howâd it go?â
Tule had seemed less than friendly on their initial meeting. Given the circumstances, Manny couldnât blame her. Sheâd warmed up to him in the two days since the battle, and had thanked him repeatedly for saving her and Rick. Manny had tried to brush off her praise, but sheâd ignored his every effort. When it came time to take his last trip into Austin sheâd volunteered to drive. Her mods were all minor enough that she was still legal inside the city.
âIt went the way it went,â he replied, âSheâs fucked up about it and she hates me. Probably always will.â
Manny hopped into the passengerâs side seat and looked around for a seatbelt before remembering that Tuleâs jeep had none. He settled back into the seat and looked over to her.
The woman took two more deep puffs of her cigar, then put the nub out on the side of her vehicle. She exhaled, belched, and then fixed him with a weary smile.
âIs that it, then?â
Manny had already visited his father. It hadnât taken long. The old man was happy to see him alive, proud of what heâd done, and livid that he planned to flee Texas to live with a bunch of weirdos in a moving city. He hadnât fought Manny on the matter, though. Life in Austin didnât exactly promise a bright future, for anyone.
The cityâs defense forces had counter-attacked the Martyrs coming up from Lake Houston at the same time as Rolling Fuck and Roland had made their stand. That battle hadnât been as one-sided, but the Martyrs had been pushed back. Rumor had it the SDF forces around Lake Houston were sallying out now, sending gunboats with pocket artillery into the flooded parts of the city to shell Kingdom forces in the suburbs.
The Heavenly Kingdom had withdrawn from Waco. Theyâd probably pull back from around Houston soon. But they still held Dallas, Galveston, and hundreds of miles of territory besides. Word was the Canadians and Californians were sending in more military advisors, the Choctaw and Navajo were sending in special forces. The UCS had recoiled at all this foreign intervention; they were threatening to send in ground troops to protect the faithful. Texas would not stop bleeding anytime soon.
âYeah, thatâs everything,â he told Tule, âAustinâs got nothing else for me now.â
âGood.â She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. One look at her eyes told Manny sheâd been crying while heâd been inside with Aisha. It was odd, but he appreciated her grief. She hadnât said anything about Marigold, but the fact that she was clearly wracked with pain and guilt too made his own burden easier to bear.
Tule popped the jeep into drive and, together, they rolled forward and out of the subdivision where Oscar had lived, and Aisha still did. Without really thinking about it, Manny opened the glove compartment. His time with Rolling Fuck had taught him that there had to be drugs squirreled away somewhere inside. He was right: a full, clear plastic hip flask sat next to a ziploc bag filled with blunts. Manny grabbed the flask and fished out one of the blunts.
âYou got a light?â he asked.
Tule snorted in laughter.
âWhat kinda fuckân question is that? âCourse I got a light.â
She handed it over. He lit the blunt, hit it, passed it off to her and then unscrewed the top of the flask and pounded back a shot.
âYouâre learning,â Tule told him, as she took a sharp right turn onto South Congress Avenue.
âLearning what?â
âLearning that the worldâs too fucked to take on with a clear head.â She passed the blunt back. Manny took it, and handed off the flask.
âWhen I first came to Rolling Fuck,â she started, âI didnât get why everyone was so damn wasted all the time. Iâd been an activist back in Albuquerque, yâknow. I thought having a clear head would help me fight.â
She laughed, took a deep belt of liquor and then continued.
âIt turned out my clear head and my hard work didnât stop home from going to shit. After a couple weeks with Marigold, Topaz and Mike, I realized something.â
âWhat?â Manny asked, already kind of sure he knew the answer.
âThe worldâs gonna be more-or-less exactly as fucked up, no matter how serious I take it. So I might as well enjoy the shitshow.â
Manny nodded. He gulped down more of the liquor, took another hit from the blunt and stared off into the sun, which had started to set over the Colorado river. It was a beautiful day. He thought it was fitting that this would be his last day in the city of his birth. It was like Austin had dressed up to say goodbye to him.
âI never really thought I could fix the world,â Manny said, âbut I thought I might be able to fix my own life, you know? Be clever enough, good enough, to escape to somewhere better.â
âYeah?â Tule grinned. âDid you give up on that? Or did you decide Rolling Fuck is âsomewhere betterâ?â
âI dunno,â Manny said, âbut itâs definitely somewhere different. I think right now, thatâs enough.â
Rolling Fuck had moved south since the battle, to Georgetown. Tule pulled onto Highway 35, waved her way through a handful of checkpoints, and tore ass until they reached the outskirts of the camp. By then the flask was long empty, and the blunt burnt down. That was fine, though. Manny was a bit of a lightweight, and he felt pretty wasted as they pulled up to the greeterâs station. Skullfucker Mike and Topaz were waiting for them.
âWelcome home pal,â Mike told him, and wrapped him in a rib-crushing embrace. Topaz kissed his cheek and smiled at him. It didnât reach her eyes. She was still fucked up, he knew, over Marigoldâs death, and over whatever had happened with Roland. So was Manny, for that matter.
Rolandâs brain had reknit within about an hour of his injury. Manny had expected things to go back to normal then, or as normal as Roland ever was. But the post-human had been left with no clear memories of Manny, Sasha or anything that had happened inside the Heavenly
Kingdom. He remembered Mikeâs name, and he talked frequently about a shack on the top of some mountain in Arizona, but that was it.
Manny tried not to dwell on it. Together, he, Mike, Topaz and Tule started to walk towards the enormous modified Bagger at the heart of Rolling Fuck. Mike put a hand on Mannyâs shoulder and squeezed.
âGot some bad news for you, bud.â
âWhat?â Manny asked, hypervigilance spiking anxiety into his brain.
âSasha left,â said Topaz, her voice as gentle as it ever got.
âWhat?â he asked, âWhere? Back to the AmFed or...â
âNo,â Mike replied, âShe went with Jim, in that stupid aircraft of his. I think he offered her a job.â
âIs that bad?â Manny asked. He wasnât sure how to feel. Heâd wanted to get to know her better. Heâd also gotten the distinct impression she wouldnât be happy in Rolling Fuck.
âDepends on your perspective,â Topaz said, âJim can give her a lot of the things she might need right now. Heâs also the worst person on earth.â She paused for a moment, then reconsidered.
âOkay, second worst.â
âYou talking about Roland?â Manny asked.
âFuck you,â she replied.
âKidâs got a right to talk about him, Topes,â Mike said. âThey went through a nightmare together.â
âYeah,â Topaz said, looking up at Manny, âAnd now heâs left you alone with the shit you did together, while he wanders off into the desert to get wrecked, hasnât he?â
Roland had, in fact, started his walk to Arizona about a day ago, laden down with several backpacks full of painkillers and psilocybin. He hadnât bothered to say goodbye but, then again, he hadnât remembered Manny at all.
âHe canât help it,â Manny told her. Heâd been thinking about this a lot. âRoland warned me, before he went out there. He told me he couldnât handle the guilt, the killing. He made it clear how much it fucked him up. And I still asked him to go anyway.â
âSure,â Topaz said, her voice icey and sharp, âAnd you donât have guilt over anything that happened out there? You think Mike and I donât have blood on our hands?â
âSkullfucker Mike,â Mike gently insisted.
âWe spent years fighting alongside Roland,â Topaz continued. âWe shed a lot of blood together. He told us heâd always be there, to help us deal with whatever came after.â
âAnd then one day he was gone,â Mike said in a dull, haunted tone. âHe left us just like he left you.â The big man shook his head, as if to clear out the darkness inside. âI donât hold it against him. Itâs just how he is.â
âFuck that,â Topaz spat, âhe doesnât get to do that and not be a son-of-a-bitch. The rest of us have to live with our consciences. He takes a bullet-train to forgetsville, and thatâs fine?â
âItâs not fine,â Mike said, âbut it is Roland. We have to take him as he is.â
âYou do, maybe. Iâm happy cutting the fucker out of my life. Youâd do well to do the same, Manny, when he comes back next time.â
âYou think thereâll be a next time?â Manny asked.
âOf course.â
âAlright, cut the shit,â Tule said, as they reached the lift that would lead them up to the Main Roller. âMannyâs here for good now. Weâve all got plenty to sniffle over, but itâs time to properly welcome this dumbass to the city.â
âWhatâs that look like?â Manny asked.
âWeâll probably take some MDMA,â Mike said.
âAnd Iâve got a couple dozen pounds of dynamite,â Topaz added, âexplosives are stupid fun when youâre rolling.â
âWe can toss it while we do donuts in the jeep,â Tule said. âIâll crack open a case of whippits. Weâll make a night of it.â
Skullfucker Mike squeezed Manny into a bear hug. Topaz joined. And, after a few seconds, so did Tule.
âThis is gonna be the best party of your life,â he said, âat least, âtill whatever we do tomorrow.â