(This is the story text from the corresponding Radio Cataclysm podcast episode. If you prefer audio, you can subscribe here. Read and listen early on Patreon.)

“You're proving to be an invaluable addition to our squad,” said the Colonel. “Keep this up, and I'll recommend you for the Academy fast track. I can always use a hacker on my team.”

“To be honest, it was Chad who had the brilliant idea,” said Steven. “I thought it was totally nuts at first, but now I think it might actually work. Tell him, Chad.”

“Well, it's not so brilliant,” said Chad. “It's a shot in the dark, if anything. In thinking back to war-era and pre-war technology, I recalled that prior to the establishment of the Web and the Cloud, the Empire used a specialized scrying glass to view Internet pages. It could also be used as a two-way communicator, to keep in touch with field agents. I've actually seen it in person, in the Museum of Obsolescence. Scrying glasses never die, unless they break. They're powered by Zed/Nought, which means they're always on. In fact, it's impossible to switch them off. The one in the museum remains dark, but only because there's no extant Internet to view through the device. Or so we thought. Since this cafe contains a remnant of Internet, maintained in a holding pattern via local Intranet, we should be able to use the undersea cable connected to this bunker to wake it up, for lack of a better term. This computer terminal is even equipped with a microphone and a camera, so what we have is essentially a makeshift videophone.”

“Is it secure?” said the Colonel.

“The signals will be bouncing all over the ocean,” said Steven, “but they'll look like garbled noise to anybody without the right equipment and the decryption code. I'd bet my last dollar that Plumwine won't even notice it.”

“You'll be betting your life,” said the Colonel. “How long will it take?”

“If it works, it will take a matter of seconds,” said Chad. “All you have to do is sit here and press the enter key.”

“Jaut, take Derman and Strauss downstairs. There are several bunks down there. Pick a room and clean it up.”

“Aye, sir.” Bob saluted and ushered John and Zeck to the stairs.

“Master Broyle, you stay. I may need your technical support.” The Colonel sat down at the computer and pressed the enter key. The screen went dark, but not completely black. The darkness undulated like an underground pool. After a few seconds, the screen brightened and a discernible image resolved.

The picture on the monitor was soft and fuzzy at the edges. Even so, it was clear that they were looking at a room in a museum. A blocky machine the size of a refrigerator sat behind a velvet rope to the left. Parts of an ancient computer salvaged from a shipwreck were mounted on the far wall. And they could see just far enough past the corner of a hallway to spot a museum guide standing idle, trying to roll a coin across his fingers.

“Is the microphone active?” said the Colonel.

“Just press that button, and they should hear you,” said Steven. “Assuming this works both ways.”

“You there,” shouted the Colonel.

The guide dropped his coin. He looked into the room with the mirror. It was difficult to see the expression on his face, but his mouth was open. “Yes, you,” said the Colonel. “The slack-jawed guide in the ill-fitting coat.” Eyes still on the mirror, he bent down to pick up his coin. A metal flask fell out of his pocket and clattered on the floor. He retrieved it and straightened up.

“I haven't got all day,” said the Colonel. “Come in here, already.”

The guide hesitated. He looked over his shoulder, looked back at the mirror. He unclipped the radio from his belt and raised it to his mouth.

“Stop that,” said the Colonel. “Do not speak to anybody on the radio. Do not allow anybody into this room. Is there anybody else in this wing of the museum?”

“Um-” said the guide.

“Come closer, for pity's sake. I can hardly hear you.”

The guide walked up to the mirror slowly, as if approaching a sleeping tiger.

“Evacuate this wing of the museum at once,” said the Colonel. “Do not allow anybody to enter.”

“But I can't,” said the guide. “I mean, I don't think so. There's hardly anyone here, anyway. Is this a joke? Is that Neville in there?”

“Listen to me, and listen well,” said the Colonel. “Bring me a person who is not a fool, is not drunk, and who has the authority to close this wing. Do so, and I will have one thousand dollars deposited directly into your bank account, on the condition that you do one of two things with the money: either buy as much liquor as you can carry and drink yourself to death, or rent a submersible yacht and move to the mainland as soon as they lift the lockdown on the Isle. Either way, I do not want to see your face again, and I will be visiting this museum upon my return to the Capitol. Do you understand me?”

The guide nodded. He turned to go, pausing only to vomit into a wastebasket, which he thoughtfully took with him. A few minutes later, an annoyed-looking woman strode down the hallway toward the scrying glass. She was accompanied by a security guard.

“At last,” said the Colonel. “I'd begun to think that young drunkard had collapsed in a toilet somewhere.”

“I'm the director of this museum,” said the woman onscreen. “Who are you, and how did you hack into this mirror?”

“I really don't have time for this,” said the Colonel. “You're clearly an educated woman. Surely, you recognize me.”

“How do I know you're not an impersonator?” she said.

“You don't,” said the Colonel. “But General Sluice will, when you show him this code.” He held up a sticky note with a long string of seemingly random numbers and letters written on it. “Feel free to take a picture, but show it only to the General and delete it afterwards.”

The director took a picture of the code with her watch.

“I'd rather you went in person, but we're short on time,” said the Colonel. “Use the videophone in your office, not the one on your watch. Call the Spire directly at this number,” he held up another sticky note, “and ask for General Sluice. Show him that code. Tell him to come to the museum. He will come. I expect this entire wing to be evacuated, security cameras turned off and all files erased from this entire day. Do you understand?”

“I understand what you're saying, but-”

“Do as I say, and you will be rewarded handsomely. You may even earn a medal of honor for your help today. Defy me in the slightest, and you will be tried for treason. In the Iron Court, not the Ruby. You have little to lose if I'm lying. Everything to lose if I'm not. You'll find out either way, soon enough.”

The director was clearly not happy being spoken to this way, but she kept her composure. “Very well,” she said. “But know this: if you are lying to me, if this is a prank, or a scam, or a heist, or a ploy by the Arterians, I assure you, the real Colonel Destroyer will find you. And you will not be tried. But you will be judged. And if you are telling the truth, please forgive the delay you've experienced. Colonel Destroyer is welcome to enjoy the Museum of Obsolescence any time, free of charge.”

Ten long minutes later, a young-looking man in a General's dress uniform stepped in front of the mirror. He looked bored. “Colonel,” he said. “Strange venue. Clever. Is it secure?”

“As secure as possible at a time like this, General,” said the Colonel.

The General nodded at Steven. “Who is this?” he asked.

“A recent recruit. He's proven indispensable as a technological adviser and expert hacker. Without him, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Sir, I know you're busy, so I'll get right to the point. As you may be aware, we were unable to rendezvous with the Corrigan. I'm requesting air support in the form of armed hovercrafts and airship transports for my remaining troops.”

“Not possible at this time,” said the General. “The Isle remains submerged. As far as we know, the only organized forces we have left, other than you and your squad, are here in the Isle. We can't risk dispatching them at this time. There may be more out there, but we really have no way of finding out. With the Arterian takeover of the Cloud, and their destruction or hijacking of all our satellites and ships, there's not much we can do. We've had zero communication from any of our spacecraft since the attack, so they're either destroyed, hijacked, or simply cut off from communicating. Just as we are. Without the Cloud, we haven't been able to track you or anybody else. It's possible, even likely, that some of our troops remain abroad, but they're likely to be scattered far and wide. And again, we have no way of contacting them. We tried to surface the Isle two days ago, but we were attacked by Plumwine's airships. Heavy civilian casualties. But how's your week been?”

“We were attacked by Arterian forces in the Eastern Hinterlands ten days ago. Not pneumatic soldiers. They used something we hadn't seen before. Not even the Erebus Expedition encountered them. It began with a rain of meat-like gobbets falling from the sky.”

The General held up his hand. “I'm familiar. Meat golems, we've been calling them. Have you seen their propaganda?”

“We have,” said the Colonel. “Older equipment seems to be unaffected by their firewall, likely by design. I'm speaking to you now from an old Resistance bunker.”

“You know about the domes, then,” said the General. “They have them on every continent now. You're aware of the effects of Plumwine's animus fog. People go into the domes, and they come out changed. Connected to his hive mind. They join his army, or they spout propaganda, occasionally they go insane, but they don't show that in their broadcasts. They're making more pneumatic soldiers, as well. Who knows how many. Our intelligence is coming in at a trickle. Time is of the essence, Colonel. More domes appear every day. Most people have the sense not to go inside, but you and I know there's plenty of people with no sense at all. Twenty percent of the local populace, on average. As high as fifty percent in some areas. It's bound to get higher, too.

“Plumwine hasn't wavered from his benevolent liberator act. Wherever the civilians show too much resistance, he attacks them with Churlian forces, Tephra and Sparassa brainwashed by his animus. Or possibly he's just putting his little clones in Churlian armor. Either way, it's a very effective tactic. The mainland rubes can't tell the difference. People are turning against us. There's a strong rebel faction growing against Plumwine, but they're operating in their own interest, not ours. Our options are limited. It's more vital than ever that you retrieve the Cormorant. Do you still have the assets from Woulf Labs?”

“Only one of them,” growled the Colonel. “Meat Rom, unfortunately, was taken by the Arterians during the battle in the Hinterlands. Just this morning, they reappeared with their meat golems and attempted to take Fawth. We evaded them.”

“That's bad,” said the General. “Sorry we can't ship you out by air or sea, but I can give you something that'll make your job easier. My researchers have been poring over the archives, looking for anything that might help us out with the Arterians. I also had a team researching the Cormorant. They found this.” He fished a slip of paper out of his breast pocket and held it up to the mirror. “Can you make this out?”

The Colonel leaned closer to the screen. “I have it,” he said.

“Good.” The General crumpled up the paper and popped it into his mouth. “That's the thaumatic signature you're looking for. It should be easy to track with the right equipment. I don't know what you have on hand, but heck, you're resourceful. I'm sure you'll scrape something together. Delivering the Cormorant to Churlia is your number one priority. Delivering Burts is your second, but of course the one makes the other easier. Nothing else matters. That ship might be our only chance of defeating Plumwine at this point. All of your soldiers are expendable in service to this cause, including yourself. Return with the Cormorant and the asset, or do not return at all.”

“Aye, sir,” said the Colonel.

“Dismissed.” The General didn't wait for a response before exiting the frame.

“Switch it off,” said the Colonel. Steven let the feed go dark. “Broyle, you've done exemplary work here today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I'd like you to fix up the electric bloodhound Captain Jaut brought with him. I'd thought it mere dead weight, like the Captain himself, but it might prove useful after all. I'm writing down a formula.” He took a pen in his armored fingers and jotted something down on a sticky note, either from memory or from an image inside his helm. He handed the note to Steven. “That's the scent I want the hound to track. Can you program it to do so?”

“I don't see why not,” said Steven. “I'll get to work on it straight away.”

“Not a bad little spot,” said Private Murkle. “Flat and mossy. A babbling brook.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” said Corporal Bunting. “Me? I'll be glad to have four walls and a roof between me and this place. The Colonel says this bunker's got everything we need for the night. It'll be like sleeping in a four-star hotel after all this time on the road, spreading bedrolls on the ground.”

“Aside from the house we stayed in last night,” said Murkle.

“You're right there,” said Bunting. “Two nights in a proper bed. My back'll be singing songs.”

They corralled the horses behind the bunker. “Which is the horse with Burts inside?” Bunting asked, half to himself and half to Murkle.

“This one here,” said Murkle, pointing.

“The Colonel wants that one inside.” Bunting tapped its nose and synced it to his suit of armor. “This way, horsey.” But as they rounded the building, a shrieking whinny rent the air. “Cor!” Bunting cried. Murkle's heart leapt.

Ouroroboros trotted into the camp, Lieutenant Teymore and Captain Corrigan on his back. Solomon and Irving were not far behind. They rode all the way up to the makeshift corral before Sheryl dismounted. “Corporal,” she said, “I'm glad to see you've brought the horses. Let the Colonel know we've arrived. Corrigan is badly injured. I'll be stitching him up.”

“Aye, Lieutenant.” Bunting motioned for Murkle to follow him, and they entered the bunker together, still leading the horse with Burts inside.

Sheryl converted the apothecary horse into its operating table mode. Its back opened like a butterfly's wings and flattened into an anti-microbial surface. A fine mist of disinfectant fogged the air around it, then settled as the table's particle exclusion field powered on. Sheryl stripped off her gauntlets and scrubbed up at the small sink on the front of the horse while Solomon and Irving moved Corrigan to the table. “Irving, scrub up,” she ordered. “I'll need an assistant.”

Sheryl pulled off Corrigan's helm. His screams filled the air, hoarse and raspy now, but as loud as ever.

“Do something about that noise,” said the Colonel, stepping out of the bunker. “Shameful. A Sparassan who can't stand a little pain.”

“More than a little,” said Sheryl. “Solomon, take that deerhead thing to Chad. I'll need him to analyze it, as well as the other samples we took. It's likely he's been envenomated.” She sprayed a fast-acting knockout compound into Corrigan's grimacing mouth. The screaming ceased, and Corrigan lay still.

“What on Earth happened out there?” said the Colonel.

“I'll tell you after,” said Sheryl.

“You'll tell me now.”

“Irving, look in the medical supplies and find Omniblood, general anesthetic, and sutures.” Sheryl began to strip off Corrigan's armor. She dumped his cuirass on the ground and unfastened his greaves. “It was a hunt gone wrong,” she said.

“A hunt?” said the Colonel. “My orders were explicit; no hunting.”

Sheryl dumped the last few pieces of Corrigan's armor on the pile. He was now clad only in his form-fitting undersilk, as black as a grave. Sheryl pressed a button under the table and the disinfectant mist sprayed over his body, followed by a brief flash of light. Irving helped her set up two IV drips: one with Omniblood, one with anesthetic and saline. She opened the tool drawer and found a pair of scissors. She removed the bandage she'd applied and snipped the upper left quadrant away from his shirt. Blood ran freely. “I need suction,” said Sheryl. “The little hose, there.” Irving picked up the nozzle and pointed it where Sheryl directed, holding it at arm's length.

The Colonel cleared his throat. “Tell me, Lieutenant, what were you doing hunting, when I gave explicit orders against it?”

“I'll give you a full report soon. My priority right now is stabilizing Corrigan.”

“Chad can see to that,” said the Colonel. “About this hunt, what sort of beasts were they? How many?”

“Just one,” said Sheryl. “A chimera of undocumented variety. Very large. A dangerous creature.” She kept her attention on Corrigan's wound. She worked quickly, with a calm confidence. Every move she made seemed inevitable.

“You sized it up first, though?” said the Colonel. “Determined its strengths, its weaknesses. It's what you do, after all. It's what the Sparassa do, and there were four of you.”

“We were rash,” said Sheryl. “We felled the beast, and for that, I credit my team. But Corrigan was injured, and for that, I take full responsibility.”

“Where is the carcass?”

“A short distance past the treeline, Southeast of here.”

“Join me in my quarters, will you, Lieutenant? Chad can finish up here.”

Chad appeared, summoned by a private signal from the Colonel.

“Wash your hands and meet me inside, Lieutenant,” the Colonel ordered. “Chad, scrub up and see that Corrigan doesn't die on the table. As soon as you've finished with him, put him on a bunk downstairs to convalesce. No more anesthetic. He's had plenty.”

The Colonel had chosen the room across from the armory for himself. It was the largest, all the way at the end of the hall on the bunker's lower level. Two robotic horses stood stoic against the walls, flanking the room. Sheryl recognized one as Chad's laboratory horse, containing all of his alchemical and analytical equipment. The other was a simple packhorse. A card table with a plastic tablecloth took up the center of the room. Four folding chairs surrounded it.

“Close the door, Lieutenant,” said the Colonel. “And have a seat. I'll just be a moment.”

Sheryl removed her mask and sat down at the table. She rested her hands in her lap. “Captain Corrigan-”

“Can wait,” the Colonel interrupted. “We've plenty to discuss, and I'd like to be comfortable first.” With a flick of his eyes across his HUD, the Colonel gave a command to his suit, silently directing it to undress. A puff of vapor around his neck was accompanied by a loud psshht. He lifted the helm from his head and placed it on a stand by the bed. His skin was taut and smooth, like a well-worn scrap of old leather. His hair grew in scattered tufts, some black, some white. He wore a full set of artificial teeth, chrome set in a bed of crimson. They were all cuspids, sharp as needles. Despite a lack of sunlight, he was not pale. His skin had a vibrant pink hue. Instead of a healthy appearance, it lent him an uncanny quality that put Sheryl on edge, even though she'd seen his face thousands of times.

She might never get used to that face, but the smell was a different matter. Not only was she used to it, she found herself missing it sometimes. Now, shut in his room, smelling that pungent mixture of sweat, decaying flesh, and a chemical cocktail of disinfectants and revitalizers, Sheryl was overcome by a perverse nostalgia that brought to surface the murky forms and feelings she rarely saw but in her nightmares. Her gorge rose, along with a flood memories. She swallowed them all.

The Colonel never removed his entire suit. After his helm, he removed his gauntlets. His right hand was missing the middle and pinky fingers. The three that remained had small blades implanted in the nail beds. The skin on his hand was like that of his face, with the color and shine of chewed bubblegum. His left hand was entirely robotic, with a shiny talon on each digit and countless secret devices hidden in its workings. Sheryl sometimes wondered if it was part of his body, or part of the suit, or if there was even a difference at this point. Even she had never seen him fully undressed. She wondered if Chad had. Unlikely, she decided. The Colonel trusted only one person with his life, and that person was the Colonel. His boots were the last bits to come off, but that only meant stepping out of the elevated pneumatic greaves. His feet were still clad in tactical silk, woven through with strands of smart fiber. The Colonel sighed and sat across the table from Sheryl. “I've missed our tete-a-tetes,” he said. “I'll never understand why you abandoned the Sparassa to drive a paddywagon. But I always knew you'd be back.”

“It was circumstance that brought me back. Circumstance you influenced, it seems. It's not as if I have another option as things stand. I intend to fulfill my duty for the duration of this mission, but once we return to Churlia, I'm going back to the Guard.”

“No, you'll not,” said the Colonel. He reached into his mouth and grasped his dentures at the back. He pulled them out and deposited them in a small compartment in his breastplate. From the same compartment, he took another set of teeth. These were also chrome set in crimson, but they had a standard human shape. He slid them into his mouth and gave a few chomps. “Much better,” he said, “for civilized conversation.”

A knock came at the door. “Enter, Chad,” the Colonel called.

Chad came in, his sleeves still rolled to the elbows. “Captain Corrigan is convalescing on a bunk, as you instructed,” he said. “He should regain consciousness within the hour.”

“Well done,” said the Colonel. “I've left a few items in your lab horse. Some flesh samples from the chimera that injured Corrigan, as well as the tip of its tail, which I gather is what caused the wound. Find out what kind of venom it contains, and extract as much as you can. After that, I have a job for you. Top priority. I've sent instructions to your Scrowall.”

Chad unfurled his Scrowall and read the Colonel's message. “Right away, sir. I'll just need a few items from my rouncey.” The Colonel nodded, and Chad left to retrieve what he needed.

“You work that boy too hard,” said Sheryl.

“No harder than I worked you,” said the Colonel. “No harder than you worked yourself, once upon a time. Tell me, Lieutenant, have you ever met a retired soldier?”

“Yes, quite a few. Dozens. Hundreds, even, back home.”

“Spend time with any of them? Really get to know them?”

She paused, unsure of where the Colonel was leading her, but aware she was being led. “Yes. Some of them.”

“And were they happy to be retired?”

“I think so, yes. They were happy to have served the Empire, and they were glad to have survived to lead a normal life in a decent home. Not all are so lucky.”

“'Lucky.' And tell me, none of these retirees had what they call 'Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?'”

“Many did. But we have good doctors in Churlia. They have ways of coping with that. Therapy. Medication. For most veterans, it doesn't keep them from leading a normal life.”

“Poppycock,” said the Colonel. “The disorder is misnamed. It is caused not by trauma, but by denying one's nature. When a man, or a woman, returns from war, they often have visions. Flashbacks, they sometimes call them. Delusions. Fragments of their time in battle, intruding upon their day-to-day activities. The disorder, in this case, is not in the mind. The disorder is in the charade of a soldier attempting to play house and dress up as an office worker or carriage driver until they drop dead of a heart attack or take their service pistol and shoot themselves through the head because they have nobody to do it for them. It's akin to placing a saltwater fish in a freshwater aquarium. The sickness comes from the environment, not the organism. Place the fish back in saltwater quickly enough, and it's well again. Place the soldier back in battle, and the disorder vanishes. A soldier does not retire. A soldier dies in battle, or they die of shame.”

“I disagree.”

“You say that, but you don't believe it. I know how you enjoy a fight. You're good at fighting. And you like being good at it.”

“That doesn't mean I want to do it for the rest of my life. And I may like fighting, but I've never liked killing.”

“Another lie. I know you better than that. You can deceive yourself, but you can't deceive me.”

“You know nothing of what I like,” said Sheryl, “or what I want. I had many reasons for leaving the Sparassa. And it's my choice to make, not yours.”

“I'm not making the choice for you, I'm trying to ensure you make the choice you really want. I know you feel guilty for what happened during Erebus. But you mustn't blame yourself. We all make mistakes. You had every reason to believe Elkin had been killed. Now you know he lives.”

“Elkin is gone,” said Sheryl. “He's been exposed to Plumwine's animus for far too long. You saw what happened to McElroy. He still hasn't recovered.”

“You did,” said the Colonel.

“My exposure was shorter. And even now, it affects me from time to time.”

“Perhaps Elkin is only exposed in brief bursts. Perhaps he's lucid most of the time. Entirely himself. A knowing prisoner of Plumwine, tortured by the knowledge that he's a pawn of that creature's propaganda. It would be the logical thing for Plumwine to do, if he aims to get any information out of Elkin. It's what I would do. Think of it. Elkin, freezing his ass off in some icy cave, just waiting to be pumped with that purple gas and trotted in front of a camera. If you were to return to Antarctica, complete your mission, you may be able to rescue him. He could make a full recovery, just as you have. You're being given a second chance here. Such things are rare.”

Sheryl started to reply, but fell silent.

Chad returned, pushing a hovercart filled with various and sundry items. “Permission to work?” he said.

“Granted,” said the Colonel.

Chad pulled a palm-sized disk from the lab horse's storage. He placed it on the floor and pressed it firmly with the toe of his boot. It popped like a spring, doubling in diameter once, twice, again and again until it was the size of an inflatable pool. Once it had reached its full width, it ballooned upwards to form a cylinder eight feet tall and six across. A doorway appeared like a mouth turned sideways, revealing a room slightly bigger on the inside than out, but still hardly bigger than a closet. Chad stepped inside and the opening snapped shut, leaving him enclosed in a chamber of impermeable silk with pocket-dimensional ventilation and storage, and just enough room to work.

“And how will we get to Plumwine?” Sheryl said as soon as they were alone again. “You've still not made it clear what our mission is, or why we continue to march South, instead of East to the sea. I trust you know what you're doing; you always do. But some of us are beginning to wonder if you mean to walk all the way to Antarctica.”

“Our original mission was disrupted, to say the least, by the ambush in the Hinterlands,” said the Colonel. “We were initially to rendezvous with the Corrigan- the ship, not the wounded soldier, of course- which would then have brought us further down the coast. There, in the wilds of old Florida, is the last known location of the Cormorant.”

The slightest expression of surprise played across Sheryl's face. “I thought the Cormorant was destroyed. It flew too low during its bombing run. Some say it was caught in its own weirding rain. Some say it was pulled through a portal into a perfectly void dimension and expanded into nothingness. Or collapsed into a singularity. A thousand stories are told about that ship, and all end with its destruction.”

“Not all, but most,” the Colonel conceded. “But they're just that: stories. The Forsaken Quarter does not give up its secrets easily, and Florida least of all. But one thing is certain: the Cormorant is there. Its precise location is not clear, but our best intelligence has narrowed it down to an area we can easily search in a matter of days. We're not so far from it now. What's more, I've just had a conversation with General Sluice.”

Sheryl didn't even try to hide her surprise this time. “You've been in contact?”

“Yes,” the Colonel continued, “Chad and young Master Broyle managed to tease a connection to the Isle out of the hulking boxes upstairs. I don't pretend to know exactly how they accomplished it. You'd probably understand better than I; you've done your share of hacking. In any case, the General confirmed that they will be unable to provide us with support or transport. The situation is bleak. I'll send you a formal briefing to read at your leisure. Suffice to say, we are on our own. But he did offer one bit of useful information: the thaumatic signature of the Cormorant. With the electric bloodhound, we can easily track it down. We will find the ship.”

“I know something else about the Cormorant, and not from some tavern story,” said Sheryl. “The Cormorant was an Ex Ova ship. They don't like to share. How are any of us going to fly it?”

“Oh, there's plenty of hatchling blood to go around in our little company. Woulf Labs was fond of using Saurosapien DNA in their little experiments. Just one of the myriad things that makes Fawth such a valuable package.”

“How can we be sure that will work? His body is a patchwork quilt of DNA. The ship may reject him outright. It's a lot to gamble on one person.”

“We have more than one,” said the Colonel.

Sheryl was fairly certain she knew the person he meant. She'd hoped he wouldn't reach the same conclusion she had, but her arrest report had made it plain for anybody who knew what to look for. “Strauss,” she said.

“Confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt this very afternoon,” said the Colonel. “Two separate bloodlocks responded to his touch. As well as a very powerful relic that I suspect is from the time of lizards. Do you think he's aware of his lineage?”

“It's hard to say with him,” she said.

“Yes,” said the Colonel. “I'm still not entirely sure whether he's playing the fool, or simply is a fool. Perhaps a little of both. Regardless, he doesn't have to know in order to be useful to us. We don't even need him conscious to wake the ship. We just need his living flesh.”

“Assuming we find the Cormorant and get it to fly, are you planning to take it directly to Plumwine? Or will we return to Churlia for reinforcements?”

“When we have the Cormorant, we won't need reinforcements. That ship has weapons I've dreamed of for years. More than weapons. The power to banish entire countries to a nether dimension, and replace them with whatever we like. The entire catalog of the Saurosapiens' multiverse, at our fingertips. Everything they built, and everything they managed to steal from the vagabonds that style themselves as gods. That ship is the key to it all. Its loss was a great blow to the Empire. We may have won the war, but not as we should have. Too many rebels left, even today. Too little control. To easy for an interloper to sway the populace to his side. The Cormorant will give the Empire the strength it needs. We will be the hand that guides the world.”

Sheryl looked away from the Colonel's gaze at nothing in particular.

“You needn't come to a decision this very second,” said the Colonel. “Sleep on it for a few nights. Now, for a more pressing issue: what the hell happened out there? Certainly, you didn't call for this hunt, did you?”

“It was a hunt of opportunity,” said Sheryl.

“That's not precisely what I asked.”

“I didn't call for the hunt, no.”

“Nor were you with Captains Solomon and Corrigan when they encountered the chimera.”

Sheryl started to say something, then paused. “It's no use lying. He likely already knows, or knows enough to piece it together,” she thought. “I was with Irving. We were still scouting our half of the perimeter. Solomon and Corrigan were across the clearing, securing their half. Corrigan spotted what he thought was a deer drinking from a stream. He thought it would be good for the morale of the company if we had fresh meat for supper.”

“Poppycock. He wanted to show off. To you, to me, to Solomon. It doesn't matter. I've seen it a hundred times. Some cocksure war child from one of the Ten Families, eager to prove he's worthy of his name.”

“Regardless of his motive, he thought a buck would be an easy kill. But it was an illusion; the chimera's lure. What appeared to be the head of a deer was actually the end of its tail, tipped with antler-shaped spikes that very likely secrete some type of venom. That's likely how it catches prey. Solomon spotted the illusion and tried to warn him, but he was already too close. He was attacked. Solomon got them to safety and sent the distress call. Irving and I met Ouroboros on the way and rode him to the site. He dispatched the beast.”

The Colonel's Scrowall chimed. He unfurled it and peered at the message on its screen. He let out a wry chuckle. “How big was the creature?” he asked Sheryl.

“The size of a young elephant, I'd say. Easily three or four tons. Plating like an armadillo. Very long tail.”

“So big it would have been a massive undertaking to bring it to the camp and butcher it. And we'd have wasted a great deal of meat, or spent a full day parceling and preserving it.”

“As I've said, they initially thought it to be a common deer.”

“Deer or not, Chad has just informed me that the chimera's flesh is toxic. Ouroboros would have no trouble digesting it, and I may have all right, depending on the nature of the toxin, but it would sicken us at best and likely kill all but Fawth. Perhaps Strauss would be all right, with his little tummy friend. But the rest of us would be rotting like logs upon the morrow. A meal from this creature would have destroyed the Empire's best chance at defeating Plumwine.”

“We would have tested it before eating any of it,” said Sheryl.

“Yes, I should hope we're not all complete fools, but that's very much beside the point,” said the Colonel. “What do you plan to do about Corrigan?”

“The injury is only to one shoulder, so he should have no trouble sitting a horse. His armor will be of help there. We have plenty of spare pieces to replace the part of his suit that was damaged.”

“That's not what I meant,” said the Colonel. “He disobeyed a direct order. We can't afford such treachery in our situation.”

“He made a rash decision,” said Sheryl. “It was stupid of him, but he's not a traitor.”

“Of course he is. It's very simple. He disobeyed an order. His actions put his comrades into unnecessary danger. He has been grievously wounded. We can't have somebody in our party who cannot run or ride a horse. Oh, can sit a horse, I'm sure. But can he control one? Is he lucid? Can he fight? How much more of our medical supplies will it take to keep him alive? How much time will we spend nursing him? And for what? Poisoned steak from some weird armadillo?”

“I am not endorsing his actions,” said Sheryl. “I'm suspending him, effective immediately. And when we return to Churlia, he'll face a court-martial.”

“If he lives so long,” said the Colonel. “And if we do nurse him back to health and drag him all the way back to the Iron Court, what then? He's a Corrigan. There's only so far you can fall with that name. He'll be drummed out of the service, probably face no jail time, possibly some community service, and end up as an attercop. He'll be just as much of a danger to himself and others as a Guard.”

“What do you suggest?” said Sheryl. “I won't execute him. That's not on the table.”

“I told you the Sparassa were yours on this mission, and I meant that. But I am still in command here. If Corrigan is to remain with us, he must learn from this mistake, and learn well.” The Colonel regarded Sheryl silently for a moment. Another message chimed on his Scrowall. He smiled when he read it. “I'll tell you what,” he said. “We'll leave it to Corrigan himself. Redemption or disgrace. The choice will be entirely his. Does that sound fair?”

“It does,” she said. It sounded fair, of course, and she knew it would be anything but.

“You're dismissed,” he said. Sheryl stood and gave a slight bow. “One more thing,” said the Colonel as she turned to go. “There's an electric range with two burners behind the counter upstairs. The company should have hot rations tonight. Small consolation for a failed hunt, but it's better than hardtack and nutritive gel.” He gave a shrill whistle and the packhorse dropped its load through the hatch in its belly. It was Burts, half-awake and trembling. “You might as well take him with you. He'll be needing a few extra servings to replenish himself. Have Jaut look after him tonight. I tire of babysitting. Anyway, he still has his implant. One step past the front door and he'll drop like a sack.”