(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.)

“Ah, Strauss. So glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.” The Colonel gestured at the end of the table opposite himself. Chad pulled the chair out for him.

“Thank you,” said Zeck. He kept Sheryl's advice in mind, and didn't say anything about it, but he couldn't help but stare at the Colonel's bubblegum complexion and patchy hair. Every time the Colonel spoke or smiled, Zeck's eyes were drawn to the rows of chrome teeth behind his lips. “Nice set of chompers,” he said impulsively.

“Why, thank you,” said the Colonel. He smiled, a disquieting act made no less eery by the lighting. Electric lanterns were set on various surfaces around the edge of the room. In the center of the table was a strange candle holder shaped like an antique mechanical hand, a single taper in its upturned palm held in place by a drip of wax. “I understand you have a number of chrome-capped teeth yourself.”

“It's true,” said Zeck. “Bad habits, I suppose.”

“Hm.” The Colonel drummed his mechanical fingers on the table and gave Zeck an unblinking stare.

Chad pulled out a seat halfway between Zeck and the Colonel. Sheryl sat. “I didn't know we had liquor in stock,” she said.

“I have a little something stashed away for special occasions,” said the Colonel.

Chad brought around a tray with three small cocktail glasses. Each contained a clear liquid.

“I had no idea you were a tippler,” said Zeck.

“Alcohol doesn't affect me,” said the Colonel. “I have a cybernetic liver that metabolizes or sequesters any harmful substances and renders them inert. I could drink a gallon of moonshine without becoming inebriated.”

“Sound like kind of a boring party trick,” said Zeck.

“I've never considered it a trick,” said the Colonel. “Flourish would have, I'm sure. Nobody you know, Strauss, just an old colonel I used to know. I have a feeling you'd have gotten along. That's not necessarily a compliment, though he was a friend of mine.”

“Thank you?”

“A toast,” said the Colonel, raising his glass. “To friend and foe alike.”

The Colonel drained his glass. Sheryl and Zeck followed suit.

Zeck shuddered. “That's quite potent,” he said.

“Churlian gin,” said Sheryl.

“You can really taste the juniper,” said Zeck.

Chad collected the glasses and replaced them each with a small dish.

“Hot rations are always a delight,” said the Colonel, “but I feel it's a damned oversight to exclude dessert from the menu. I always try to carry the ingredients for this. Lieutenant Teymore will tell you what it is.”

Sheryl stared at her bowl. “Nothing fancy,” she said quietly. “It's rice pudding. No raisins. True cinnamon, not cassia. Toasted pecans on top. Best served warm.”

“I remember it being your favorite,” said the Colonel. “As I recall, they served it on holidays at the Lieutenant's boarding school,” he said to Zeck. “A very exclusive school, only a few dozen students per year. All hand selected.” The Colonel took a bite. “Chad has the recipe duplicated nearly perfectly. I understand there's some other secret or trick to getting it just right, but I'm no chef, so I couldn't even begin to tell you what it is. You do still like rice pudding, don't you, Lieutenant?”

“I'm not very hungry,” she said.

“Well, eat as much or as little as you like. Ouroboros will have the leftovers. Strauss, on the other hand. I know you couldn't possibly be full. Digestive enhancements are something you and I have in common.”

“You mean Borb?” said Zeck.

“Yes, your little symbiotic stomach virus. I imagine it gives you a very high rate of digestive efficiency. Ah, but that's not a conversation to eat by. Please, your pudding's getting cold.”

Zeck took a bite of pudding. His eyes lit up. “If I'm being quite honest,” he said, “I've never been a fan of rice pudding. But this might just sway my opinion.”

The room was silent for a minute, but for the sounds of Zeck and the Colonel eating. It didn't take long for the delight of the pudding to wear off and the discomfort to creep back in. Zeck swallowed a spoonful and broke the silence. “Nice centerpiece,” he said, pointing with his spoon at the candle holder.

“Thank you. It's a working replica of Corrigan's Claw,” said the Colonel. “Are you familiar?”

“I'm afraid my knowledge of weird hands is a bit lacking,” said Zeck.

“Finish your pudding. I'll tell you the story. Corrigan's Claw is a Churlian military faction. It is named for one of the greatest commanders of the Aegis in history.”

“The Aegis?”

“Aegis was the original name for Churlia's military,” said Sheryl. “It means shield.”

“Corrigan saw that a shield in one hand is useless without a blade in the other,” said the Colonel.

“Is this the Corrigan that our comrade was named after?” Zeck asked.

The Colonel gave him a dark look. “Disgrace me not with the memory of that man,” he said. “He's no comrade of ours.” Just as quickly as it had darkened, his demeanor brightened. “Richard Corrigan was a blacksmith's apprentice in medieval England. He was very talented, better even than his mentor. He had a promising career ahead of him. He made the finest tools, the sharpest weapons, and the strongest armor in all the land. One day, there was a terrible accident at the forge. Some say the blacksmith was jealous of Corrigan's skill and attacked him. Some say it was simple carelessness, or just a freak accident due to the primitive tools of the time. Regardless, Corrigan's left hand was mutilated and had to be severed at the wrist. Now, in those days, that could easily have been a death sentence. But Corrigan's constitution was strong, and he was back at the forge the next day.

“The blacksmith balked. He told Corrigan his career was over. A blacksmith needs two hands, after all, one for the hammer and one for the tongs. Corrigan insisted he could work with just one. He was ambidextrous, after all, and if he was twice as skilled as the average smith before the accident, he ought to be at least average with just one hand. The smith felt bad for the boy, so he gave him a chance to prove himself. The two of them worked together just fine, but any time Corrigan had to work on his own, production slowed to a crawl. The quality of his work was just as good as it had been before the accident, but he was much too slow with only one hand.

“The smith felt he had no choice but to find a new apprentice. A cousin of his in a nearby town had a son of about the right age, so he traveled there to make the offer in person. He didn't tell Corrigan where he was going, but the smith's wife took pity on the boy and broke the news. Corrigan had four days before the smith would return with his replacement and he'd be forced to take to the streets with a begging bowl. So he ate a hearty breakfast and went straight to the forge. He knew all of the orders that needed to be filled. A thousand nails for a local builder. A full suit of armor for a knight in a jousting tournament. A new cauldron for the tavern. They would all have to wait. He worked all day, into the small hours of the morning, melting and forging and heating and hammering and assembling. And later that next morning, after a full day of work and no sleep, he went into the hut for a good breakfast that would see him through the next day.

“The smith's wife took one look at him and nearly dropped her frying pan, for Corrigan had made himself a new hand. It was fully functional, could grasp and release, all of the fingers moved independently. It was quite painful to wear, but Corrigan relished the feeling. It reminded him that he was still alive. And it showed him that he was in control of his own destiny.

“On the second day, he made a full suit of armor for the knight, stronger than any the knight had worn before, yet lighter, with more range of movement. The knight won the tournament, hands down.”

“A tasteless pun,” said Zeck.

“Don't interrupt,” said the Colonel. “On the third day, Corrigan made the new cauldron the tavern needed. The tavern owner declared that their stew tasted better than ever before, never stuck to the bottom, and stayed hot hours after being taken off the fire. Word spread, and people started coming from miles around just to sample the stew.

“On the fourth day, he made the nails. One thousand nails, one after the other. A tedious job, but he worked all day and never flagged. They were the strongest nails the builder had ever used, and sank into the wood with a single blow from a hammer. Corrigan finished the final nail just as the blacksmith arrived back home with his new apprentice. He saw what Corrigan had done, and his wife told him of the knight and the tavern owner, and the smith wept, for he knew he'd made a mistake. But the new apprentice was his cousin's boy, and he couldn't renege on the contract.

“The smith didn't sleep at all that night. An impossible task awaited him, but he had no choice. He summoned Richard Corrigan. He sat the boy down, fed him another hearty breakfast, the last he'd be eating there. Just as he was about to deliver the news that would break his heart, there was a knock at the door. It was a Churlian scout. He'd heard stories of the one-handed smith boy, and had come to recruit him. He bought out Corrigan's apprenticeship and brought him back to the Isle.

“Corrigan made the armor that outfitted the Aegis during the War of Shades. He made their weapons. Their shields. And when the battle was at its bleakest and a hero was needed, he himself commanded the battalion that beat back the Shadow Spinners.”

“Pretty neat story,” said Zeck. “Just a few quibbles about the timeline and some of the historical details-”

“Who cares?” said the Colonel. “It's a legend. It remains true no matter what the details are. Historical accuracy has nothing to do with the facts, and everything to do with what people remember. Ask any nation that ever won a war. Nobody asks the losers. Ask Richard Corrigan. Ask Emperor Vincent, who formed the faction we call Corrigan's Claw during the Cold War of the Twentieth Century, when the world's nations were scrambling to amass the power to wipe each other from the map. Vincent recognized the importance of a strong military force. He was inspired by the legend of Corrigan, and countless other legends about his military prowess during a time in our history when the rest of the world was still unaware of our very existence. Corrigan's Claw increased the size of Churlia's armed forces tenfold in just over a decade. They founded the Tephra and the Sparassa. They produced the first airships. They uncovered the arcane secrets of the ancient sorcerer race we call the Saurosapiens. And under the command of General Nightward and Emperor Vincent, we very nearly conquered the world.”

“Am I meant to see that as a good thing?” said Zeck. “Because the world is kind of a slagheap right now.”

“That's only because we haven't finished the job. When Emperor Craugh assumed power and signed that damned treaty, he hobbled us. Now, we've only the power to keep the rebellions at a simmer. We don't have the authority to do anything productive during peacetime. If a war were to break out once more, a true war, not this piecemeal flyswatting, things would be different. The world would once more be clay for us to shape as it should be. We could build a utopia. But that was never going to happen with things in their current state. No nation on Earth has the will or the power or the resources to attack us. Nobody trusts each other enough to join forces against us. But now, of course, we are at war again. And not against the allies of the treaty, but against a power mad mutant with a vendetta against the Empire. In a way, it's perfect.”

“Ah,” said Zeck. “I get it now. It makes sense, I suppose. Churlia orchestrated this war. Plumwine is yours. It's a military coup, with Corrigan's Claw behind it all. It's the only way you can clench the fist tighter. Somebody in Corrigan's Claw is going to usurp Emperor Craugh. There'll be a new treaty. Or none at all. Or better yet, a perpetual state of war. Churlia will never have to play nice again. I mean, you can water a plant and feed it and give it sunlight, but I guess it's easier to just burn it. Either way, the plant is in your control.”

“Churlia wouldn't do that,” said Sheryl. “I know what you think of us, but I was there. I went to Antarctica to investigate the Arterian menace. They've been there for hundreds of years, all alone. We've given them no aide. We have every intention of stopping them.”

“You're both partially right,” said the Colonel. “We didn't so much cause this war as allow it to happen.”

“You what?” said Sheryl.

“Oh, you can't be shocked,” said the Colonel. “You practically gave us the idea in your intelligence report.”

“But why?” said Zeck. “Why world domination? This war isn't even about anything; it's just war for its own sake.”

“Of course it's about something,” said the Colonel. “Have you entirely missed the point of Corrigan's tale? Consider what happens to an animal in the wild if it loses its foreleg. Perhaps it gets into a fight, or it's trapped somehow and has to gnaw its own foot off. Purely in the moment, it's resourceful. Brave. Willful. It lives another day. But it can't survive that way. If it doesn't immediately bleed to death, it'll be infected and die in a matter of days. To the same animal, uninjured, naked body to naked body, a human would be no match. Any predator can eviscerate a human, all things being equal. Even a dog many times smaller than a man can make a meal of us. But all things are not equal. Cheetahs have their speed, wolves have their teeth and claws and packs, bears have their size and strength. But humans have a brain superior to all of them. A few other animals use tools; corvids, certain apes, some varieties of ants. But none have the sprawling ingenuity and unslakable ambition of homo sapiens.

“If we can't find suitable shelter, we build it ourselves. We lack claws and teeth, so we fashion blades. We lack great speed, so we tame the horse, and later, build robotic horses that run faster and never tire. We lack gills, so we build submersibles. We have but one planet, so we colonize others. Well, we will, at any rate. There is nothing our minds cannot accomplish, given the proper motivation. Necessity is often called the mother of invention, and the only necessity greater than the preservation of one's own life is the preservation of one's species.

“Churlia was founded hundreds of years ago, an empire in name only. An empire of knowledge, they called it. An empire of humanity, dedicated to the betterment of the human race. And for centuries, the Churlian Empire, with so much knowledge and so many tools, accomplished so little. We didn't even attempt spaceflight until the eighteenth century, and quickly gave it up. We dabbled in the thaumaturgical arts, and then abandoned them after the slightest setback. It wasn't until the middle of the twentieth century, with global thermonuclear war a constant threat, that we finally stopped fearing magic and learned to properly use it. We developed the practice of magma diving, exerted mastery over the volcanic forces of the Earth, perfected airships, created a truly global communication and computational network, and at the turn of the millennium, at last became the empire we were always meant to be.”

“And made a bit of a mess in the process,” said Zeck.

“The world has always been a mess,” said the Colonel. “And it has never been as good as this. Had you a time machine, you would not last ten minutes at any other point in history. Those who wish to survive must earn it. The strong survive, the weak perish, and so our species gets stronger. Start coddling the weak, and you condemn us to extinction.”

“How does that make us better than other animals?” said Zeck.

“I never said we were better,” said the Colonel. “Just smarter. If you think you're better than any other type of animal, you're deluding yourself. We dress our brutality in formality. Otherwise, we're just as vicious as any other mammal. More so, even. We're certainly better at thinking up new ways to destroy each other, which leads us to new ways to defend ourselves, and new ways to rebuild. The second World War gave us one of the most terrible weapons humankind has yet developed. But the same technology that allows us to level an entire city with one bomb also gave us a powerful source of energy. It also led to Churlia's Atomic Neutralizer, rendering nuclear weapons ineffective, for which you are welcome.

“Churlia abandoned their space program after one of their arks was lost, over two hundred years ago. It wasn't until Russia and the United States started popping satellites and canned crews into orbit as part of their little war that Churlia launched our own network. The advent of hydrophones and radar necessitated new cloaking technology, to keep the Isle hidden. That came in handy when we finally launched our own war. Emperor Vincent may have used the pretense of an old grudge against some founder of the United States when he launched the first attack, but I never saw the need for an excuse. Conflict leads to great accomplishments, which lead to greater conflicts, which lead in turn to greater accomplishments. And so we rise, from the mud to the stars.”

“Yeah, I saw the Third Man, too,” said Zeck.

“The Third- To whom are you referring?”

“The Third Man? Harry Lime? The cuckoo clock speech?”

“It's an old movie,” said Sheryl. “Technically contraband. I haven't seen it.”

“I have no time for movies,” said the Colonel.

“You've never seen a movie?” said Zeck.

“I've seen training films. Propaganda pieces. That sort of thing.”

“I have so many questions about your childhood,” said Zeck.

“It was brief.”

“I'll bet. Anyway, so Orson Welles gives this speech about how the Italians had years of murder and terror under the Borgias, but they produced Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and all the other Renaissance turtles, and the Swiss had centuries of peace and democracy, and all they produced is the cuckoo clock.”

“Yes, precisely my point.”

“Except it's not true,” said Zeck. Switzerland has been in a bunch of wars, and they didn't even come up with the cuckoo clock. It's from the Black Forest.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that it's all buncombe. You say whatever you need to in order to justify your actions. To convince yourself that what you're doing to the world is not only justified, it's inevitable.

“You may believe that. Fortunately, your opinion has no bearing on the outcome.”

“I suppose not,” said Zeck. “And I'm quite sure you did not invite me here for conversation, and if not for conversation, I can't imagine you called me in here just for drinks and pudding. Although, if you did, I have no complaints, and I'd like the recipe.”

“Not just for the pudding,” said the Colonel. “Chad, bring me that thing in the container.”

Chad brought a transparent cylinder over to the table and set it in front of the Colonel. The cylinder was sealed on both ends with redundant gaskets and status monitors. Inside the container was a blob of flesh from the meat giant that had chased them.

“Not to worry,” said the Colonel, tapping on the container with his metal hand. “Chad assures me it's quite secure. I understand you encountered the Arterian Pneuma soldiers during the initial attack.”

“That's right,” said Zeck.

“The pneumatic soldiers are a great threat, but a threat that can be dealt with. We are well familiar with them, thanks to an expedition led by Lieutenant Teymore. She and her team brought back invaluable intelligence on Plumwine and his army. But the mission was cut short. Even so, we thought we had a rather complete picture of what the Arterians are capable of. We underestimated them. They're capable of things we did not even dream of. It's not entirely the Lieutenant's fault. We should have sent a second team to follow up. But then the Lieutenant left the Sparassa, and it turned out that Plumwine had spies in more places than we anticipated. And more tricks up his sleeve than we knew.”

He scooped a spoonful of pudding from his bowl and pressed a button on the cylinder's top. A small opening appeared in the lid. The Colonel plopped the pudding in, and it fell through as the first hole closed and another one opened beneath it. The pudding glob fell through the series of gaskets one at a time until it finally landed on the meat inside. The purple capillaries that ran through the blob's flesh had faded to a pale lavender. They throbbed as the pinkish meat stretched and caved in on itself, engulfing the pudding.

“It doesn't have to be food,” said the Colonel. “It can and will eat anything. Not unlike a certain horse I know. The glass of the container vibrates at some frequency that deters it, else it would surely engulf its own prison.” He dropped the spoon through the container's lock, and the gobbet consumed it just as hungrily. “Given the chance, these fragments of Plumwine's body would devour the entire world. Or as much of it as they could before choking on it. Tell me, Strauss, do you want to see that happen? A pink and purple ball of decaying flesh, floating through the galaxy, the only remnant of the once powerful human race?”

“No,” said Zeck, hesitantly.

“Nor do I,” said the Colonel. “Nor, should I hope, does anybody but Plumwine. Tell me, Strauss, how would you stop that from happening?”

“Well, John got a pretty good start when he turned that horde into dust.”

“A very impressive feat,” said the Colonel. “And completely useless as a long-term strategy. It's quite possible to prepare for such an attack if you anticipate it. And they will be anticipating these things from here on out. They have Meat Rom at their disposal now, quite possibly the most advanced cyborg on the planet, designed expressly for advanced tactical planning. Even without his input, anybody could come up with a handful of ways to counter a thaumatic attack like that. They could use a negation field to repel it. They could brainwash mages of their own with that animus fog. They could simply send Pneuma along with the gobbets and overwhelm us with firepower. That purple animus is the most insidious element. How would you counter that? If your own friends and family were to be brainwashed, would you take up arms against them? Should you?”

“Are you really asking me?”

“Merely illustrating a point. Derman had the right idea when he dessicated the meat horde in the Hinterlands. It was a monstrous act, defending us against a monstrous foe. But there are millions more where those came from. Take the chimera from this afternoon as another example. It wasn't our soldiers that defeated it. It was Ouroboros. From what I hear, he did it without blinking. Killing comes to him as naturally as eating. Some see a monster. But he's merely acting according to his nature. The same as this gobbet.” He tapped the jar. “The same as Plumwine himself.”

“And you?” said Zeck.

“It is in my nature to destroy,” said the Colonel. “That is why I chose it as my name.” He tapped the jar again. “This is not an enemy that can be reasoned with. It is not an enemy that requires clever tactics or diplomacy or treaties. The only way to defeat it is to utterly annihilate it. And that, Strauss, is what I am best at.

“And now we come to the reason I've called you in here. The setback we have suffered is temporary. A detour, at worst. It's true that Plumwine currently has the high ground. You are going to help us regain it.”

“Me?” said Zeck.

“You and Borb, to be precise. Do you remember when I had Chad take a sample of your stomach virus?”

“How could I forget? It's not every day I have my belly button swabbed.”

“Borb, as you call it, proved quite difficult to keep alive outside of your digestive system. Infecting another person would be quite difficult. I gather there's more to it than the virus itself.”

“There's some hardware involved,” said Zeck.

“Even the word 'virus' is a bit of a misnomer,” said the Colonel. “It's really more of a partly cybernetic colony of microbes. Ouroboros has something similar in his gut, though it only serves to aid in his digestion. Nothing at all like the nanotechnological manufacturing yours is capable of. Even though our sample of Borb died within a day outside your body, Chad was able to learn a great deal about the way it works. He tells me it's not dissimilar from three-dimensional printing, though it is a bit more complex. He's quite sure he's worked out how it functions, nevertheless. He's even devised a few recipes.”

Zeck looked down at his empty bowl. “I don't think I like where this is going.”

“The gin was part of it, of course, but most of the components were in the pudding. Only your serving, of course; not to worry, Lieutenant. Nothing too strange in there, except perhaps for some dust from the dessicated meat golems.”

Zeck put his hand over his mouth.

“I'd recommend against vomiting. You'd find it quite difficult, in any case; we included an anti-emetic. It should take no more than twelve hours for Borb to produce a self-propelled missile, programmed with a very simple directive: seek the flesh of Plumwine. Not the man himself, mind you, and not his purple animus, lest the missile spiral away into the infected Cloud. Once the missile is launched, it will find its way to the nearest concentration of Plumwine's flesh, be it his tiny clones or his ravenous blobs of meat. In our current situation, that would direct it towards the airship that dropped the meat gobbets on us. As long as we aim it more or less in the direction of their hovercraft, it should take only one shot to bring them down.”

“Won't they just shoot the missile with their lasers?” said Zeck.

“They don't have lasers on their airships,” said Sheryl flatly. “Part of their strategy. They want to appear non-aggressive to people. Only their Pneuma soldiers carry lasers, and they've only deployed those against our infantry.”

“It's possible they assumed they wouldn't need armed airships,” said the Colonel. “They simply drop off their Pneumatic soldiers, or dump a load of meat wads and grow their fighters where they land. They're quite vulnerable to being shot from the sky, and they know it. It's why they targeted us through the Sunrise Window. It gives them an easy way to swoop in and out of the shroud.”

“Wouldn't it be better if we could commandeer their airship?” said Zeck. “Sheryl- Lieutenant Teymore and Steven nearly managed to do just that, back when we were first ambushed. I'm sure there's all manner of intelligence that could be gathered from one of their ships. Not to mention, flying is quite a lot faster than walking or horse riding. Even where your destrier is concerned.”

“My dear boy,” said the Colonel, “If one could simply fly a ship into the place we're going, we'd have done it ages ago. No, over ground is the only way. The only thing delaying us is the ship that chased us into these woods. If we can take it down, it should delay their forces long enough to allow us to reach our destination.”

“Which is?” said Zeck.

“On a need-to-know basis,” said the Colonel.

“My mum was a vegetarian,” said Steven “We couldn't afford meat when I was little, and then later on... Well, never mind what happened later on, but it put us off meat for good. That's that.”

“But we have vegetarian rations,” said Bob. “You could have told me days ago.”

“You never noticed I always give the jerky or dried sausage to John?”

“I thought maybe you just didn't like it,” said Bob. “And I know that John needs a lot of salt for his magics.”

“I do like the salt, but I'll eat just about anything,” said John. “After years of rambling, you develop a taste for not turning down an edible morsel.”

“I'll give you vegetarian rations from now on, Steven,” said Bob.

“Nah, don't worry about it,” said Steven. “The hardtack and nutrigel are enough for me. I'm used to not having a lot to eat. Since the day I was born.”

“Oh, don't start with that, now,” said Bob. “The Empire has Threesquare kitchens all over the globe. Those who can't afford food get regular shipments. Anybody who goes hungry is doing so by choice.”

“I keep having to remind myself that this is your first time off the Isle,” said Burts. “Because I'm holding out hope that you're not a complete asshole, you just don't know shit about stuff.”

“What did I say?” asked Bob, sincerely.

“Have you ever had a Threesquare?” Steven asked him.

“I've never had need for one,” said Bob.

“It may be sustenance, but it ain't food.” He nodded at the hardtack Burts was shoving into his mouth. “It's about as bland as that stuff, but at least the hardtack has a crunch to it. You think Emperor Craugh has ever eaten a Threesquare? He'd choke on it. But sure, people will eat anything if they have to. If the shipments are on time. If there aren't production shortages. If they don't skip a few freight loads because somebody pissed off the Governor. They always blame it on a clerical error, but nobody's dumb enough to buy that. You think people want to go hungry? You think we should be grateful for scraps? You lot are the reason we can't grow food in the first place. Blacking out the sky and parceling out sunshine like you created it.”

“Now, thaumatically fortified areas can grow crops just as well as sunlight,” said Bob. “Better, according to some studies.”

“I suppose that's why the Empire controls those, too. Sure, you could try farming in the Hinterlands, which also happens to belong to the Empire, so good luck if they feel like kicking you out or feeding your children to their horses.”

“Now, that was an accident,” Bob started, but quickly trailed off.

Steven's face was red, and he was breathing hard, but he kept going. “You gotta be rich in Rintburg to afford real food every day. Most people scrimp and save to buy what they can from the caravans each month. A block of cheese, a sack of flour. Dried fruit and veg sometimes. Fresh fruit and veg, almost never. It don't last long before you're back to plain old Threesquares, if you can even get them. And then you wish you'd never tasted real food, because at least you wouldn't know what you were missing.”

“Well, I may have never had a Threesquare,” said Bob, “but I ate plenty of dry rations at the academy. Especially during survival training. If you make it last, a little can go a long way. I actually quite like the nutritive gel. If you spread it on the fortified hardtack, it's almost like jam on toast.”

“Spoken by a man who's clearly never had jam or toast,” said Burts.

“Anyway, if ravagers hijack a shipment, you can't blame that on the Empire,” said Bob. “If your Governor is corrupt, petition Craugh for a new one. The Empire works very hard to support all of its citizens.”

Burts just laughed at that, spraying hardtack crumbs across the room.

Steven continued, angry now but not quite shouting. “Sure they do. You still think everybody's happy in the Empire? The food's bad enough, but it ain't the worst of it. Remember that Sunrise Window this morning? The one they dropped the meat gobbets through? I never seen one before. Not once in my life. I know I'm only sixteen, but I was born and raised in Rintburg, and not once has one of those windows flown over our town. I've lived my whole life without once seeing the actual Sun. Or the Moon, or the stars. It's even worse when the shroud thins out sometimes, and you can see the Sun almost peeping through, but it never quite does. Just a smudge on the soot. Once, I thought I saw a star, but it was just an airship dropping out of the shroud. I never saw the Sun before today. Never saw a blue sky. Not once. I know you're not supposed to, but I wanted so bad to look right at it. I wanted to stare into the Sun and let it burn its way to the back of my skull and turn my brains to soot, just to make up for all the days I never saw it or felt it on my skin, and all the people who never will.”

Bob didn't answer for a moment. “Well, Rintburg's not a farming community,” he finally said. “And there are no nature preserves nearby. Why would you have a Sunrise Window?”

“Sunlight, you twat! We get our vitamin D from lamps.”

“Sunlamps the Empire provides for you,” said Bob.

“Oh, they send the lamps, but we have to buy the bulbs. They cost a weeks' pay from what most of us make. And we pay for the electricity to run 'em. And we've still got the old models, that can give you a sunburn if you use 'em for more than ten minutes at a time. You lot wrecked the world, not us. It's like you burnt down our house, and now you want us to thank you for pissing on the ashes. And your precious Colonel, who really did burn down that family's house this morning-”

Bob scoffed. “They were the ones keeping a dangerous broken staff-”

“Arsehole.” Steven's chest quaked. He shoved away a tear with the back of his hand before it could roll down his face. “You were there. You know what happened. You saw it happen, and you still don't care.”

Bob stood up. “Listen. I understand that you feel strongly about this. And you're young. You haven't had the benefit of a well-rounded education. But you can't speak to your superior that way. I'll let it slide this time, because you've done some exemplary work today.” He looked around the room. “You all have. You've worked together well as individuals, and as a team. Even Zeck, and apparently the Colonel thinks so, too. Inviting him for drinks. Even you, Burts. As misguided as your attempt to give yourself over to the Arterians was, I know it was motivated by a desire to protect your comrades. I'll overlook the transgression. But I expect to see a change in attitude among you four.

“I'm going to pay my respects to Corrigan and see if the Tephra need any help. I don't expect you to come out for the pyre. In fact, it may be better if you don't. But while I'm gone, I want you all to consider the opportunity you've been given here. I know you have the potential to do great things. I want the Colonel to see in you what I see. If you really make an effort, if the Colonel sees your potential as I do, you all may have long, productive careers in the service.”

Zeck held his hand over his belly as they walked away from the Colonel's room. “'Drink,'” he said. “'Be polite. You'll be fine.'”

“He didn't poison you,” said Sheryl. “You will be fine. From this, anyway.” Halfway down the hallway, she put a hand on Zeck's arm to stop him. She made a shushing motion. There was an empty storeroom there, and she pulled him inside and closed the door. “Speak no louder than this,” she said, just above a whisper.

“Okay,” he said in the same quiet tone. “What are we doing?”

“I'm not doing anything,” she said. “I'm on my way outside to pay my respects to a fallen comrade. You're on your way to your quarters.” She stopped for a second, still as a statue, listening intently. “I have one goal on this mission: keep everybody alive. That's it. This goal is made more difficult by your presence, and that of the other recruits.”

“It's not as if we signed up,” said Zeck. “'Drafted' is a generous term.”

“I'm not blaming you,” said Sheryl. “I know you weren't given a choice. My point is, I can't keep you safe. Any of you.”

“I'm not asking you to,” said Zeck.

“No,” said Sheryl. “I know. But it's partly my fault that you're here in the first place. When Bob and I arrested you back in Rintburg, I had no inkling that any of this would happen. I fully expected to have taken a ship back to the Isle and have you in a holding cell awaiting trial by now.”

“Not the most appealing alternative,” said Zeck.

“Regardless. As your arresting officer, I took stewardship of the four of you. Five, including Meat Rom. At least we can hope that Matthew has made it home. Now you've been pardoned by way of conscription, but I still take my responsibility seriously. It's become clear to me that I can't keep any of you safe, let alone my own soldiers. Not around the Colonel. All I can do is try to mitigate the damage he causes. The only lives he cares about in this company are his own, Burts Fawth's, Chad's, and possibly mine. Everybody else is merely a means to an end, as far as he's concerned. Possibly, he wants you alive, but only your body. That does not require this.” She tapped Zeck's forehead. “We have a device in the apothecary that attaches to the brain stem and keeps a body alive indefinitely, even if the head is gone. He won't hesitate to use it.”

“All so he can keep using Borb?” said Zeck.

“That, and something else. What do the words 'Ex Ova' mean to you?”

Zeck thought for a moment. “Out of eggs?”

“Never mind,” said Sheryl. “It's a discussion for another day.” She sighed. “If you're to stay with the company, you should at least have a choice in the matter.” She gave Zeck a hard stare. “All four of you.” She reached into her utility belt and brought out a flat piece of metal with the outline of a horse's head etched into its surface. “This is an equine lead,” she said. “It does exactly what it sounds like. It leads a robotic horse, or horses. This one is silver, and will work on any horse in our herd except Ouroboros and Chad's rouncey. Your satchel is in the packhorse with the butterfly stamped on the side. To use the lead, you feed it to a horse. It will spit it back out after a second, after which it will only obey the person who carries the lead. To program four horses should take less than half a minute. It's possible that Ouroboros may find himself distracted for five minutes or so at twenty-three hundred hours tonight.” She handed the lead to Zeck. “Do with this information what you will.” She listened for a second, then stepped back into the hallway without another word.