He ducked down the nearest alley. Muttering a curse and a prayer, he waited for the black unmarked car to pass. A crevice in the side of a building afforded him some decent cover. The alley was dark and strewn with garbage and rubble of all sorts, so this suited his purposes well. Of course, he reasoned, it might also be a two-edged sword: They might expect him to be here. His heart nearly stopped at the thought; icy terror shot through his veins. God, if they catch me…

The black car drove up to the alley entrance and halted momentarily, shining its searchlight into the thick darkness. He hunkered closer to the building, trying to make himself flatter. He wanted to vomit. After a few seconds of seemingly eternal duration, the black car moved on.

A sense of urgency overtook him. He knew he had to get out of here. Right now only the Irregulars were looking for him, but he was certain that the Regulars were on their way. They had technology the Irregulars could never hope to own. The DiNASTy II (Infrared Diribonucleic Acid Signature Tracker) was most to be feared. It didn’t matter where you were hidden; anywhere within a fifty yard radius, they could tell exactly where you were located, and not only that, they knew it was you. But the Irregulars, they were rougher, tougher, meaner. He wasn’t sure which he’d rather fall into the hands of; the Regulars were more professional, but at least the Irregulars would kill him more quickly--if more brutally.

Stop it, he shouted at himself. You don’t have time to think about that! Just concentrate on evading the patrols! His other self acquiesced, OK, yes, you’re right. Just evade the patrols for now. You’ll have enough to do later. Yes, but…

A gray confusion seized his mind. Which way to go? Perhaps it might be best to continue down the alley, heading for safety. Or might it be best to dog the patrols for awhile, observe where they think he might be, then go another route? Seconds were ticking away, precious time. His heart was beating so fast, faster, faster, FASTER! and his mind swirled.

Finally he broke and ran; he wasn’t sure where his legs were carrying him, but they instinctively knew to get him away from the DiNASTies.

This was war of the worst kind. Bellum omnium contra omnes.

Somewhere behind him--two, three blocks maybe--a man was lying face-down on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. Dead? He wasn’t sure, but probably so. By now a crowd had certainly gathered, lights were flashing red, blue, red, blue, harsh voices were shouting orders over radios--cursing, swearing, threatening; God, why can’t you ever do anything right?!--women were clasping hands to mouths--some were crying--and solemn-looking men in black suits were arguing with eager-looking men in gray-green military dress. Not an altogether uncommon occurrence these days, if one believed the reports. But it never happened here; no, not here. Always somewhere else. Not here.

All things considered, the City was really very quiet tonight. He heard the slap of his feet against asphalt, the straining of his lungs for air, and the occasional conversation--argument, maybe?--on the street corner. No sirens, no shouting, no shooting. Not yet. That would come with the opening of Act Two.

Stop! he screamed in his brain. An Irregular was standing just around the corner. He was armed, and appeared to be looking at something very intently. Distracted. I can kill him. Stick him in the back, quickly, quietly. He felt for his knife, and began to draw it from its holder. No, wait. This guy’s probably part of a larger unit. And what if he yells or something? And when somebody finds him, they’ll report it; they’ll just be able to track me better. No. Can’t do it.

But he couldn’t let the Irregular see him. They’d hold him for interrogation, call in the Regulars, and then he’d be finished. Back the other way, but quiet.

As he beat a retreat, he considered his options. One: He could simply continue this cat-and-mouse game, hoping to evade the Regulars and their DiNASTies until he was killed, captured, or got lucky enough to escape. Two: He could storm into somebody’s apartment or something, take a couple hostages, and create a standoff situation. They would probably kill him in the end--an outcome he was not particularly fond of--but he might be able to use the hostages for leverage; they’d never attack him if he was holding hostages, and he was sufficiently well-armed to repulse any assaults for quite some time. Three: He could head for the river and try to cross it. But the bridges were held by Regulars equipped with DiNASTies. They’d spot him for sure and be on him in less than a minute. There was one thing, though: He was carrying four EMP rifle grenades. They’d fry the circuits of any electronic device out to a hundred yards or so, DiNASTies included. That would give him a start. Maybe.

He ran for the river. It was wide and black and bottomless. The lights of the city created golden sparkles on the rippling water, in some places like bolts of electricity dancing wildly, randomly, in others like the colorful shower of fireworks in the night sky, and for a moment--just a moment--he wanted to cry for the sheer beauty of it.

He approached an eight-man outpost. Earlier, he had been anxious--scared, even--about doing something like this, but now his fear had subsided, at least a little. Now, he could feel the clouds in his mind being dispelled by cool determination. No noble determination borne of confidence in a righteous cause; simply determination not to die. At the moment, that was all he cared about. Causes, slogans, rhetoric, ideologies, they had their place, of course, but this was not it.

The initial plan was to set off the EMP grenade at about sixty or seventy yards from the outpost. But if he went for the grenade that close, he’d be shot dead in an instant. And there was no cover for him to utilize to his advantage. Besides, if he did try hiding behind some kind of cover, they’d almost certainly open fire, and they had enough firepower to blast right through his meager protection.

“Sir, stop where you are,” a voice commanded him from the loudspeaker. Yes, they’d spotted him. They’d seen him coming from 500 yards away at least. And no one ever went down to the river like this; that alone was enough to arouse suspicion. “Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head. Comply immediately or we will commence firing!” He froze in his tracks. He only had one hope… “Repeat: Comply immediately or we will open fire!”

He didn’t waste a moment. His heart was pumping quickly and his head was swimming; he wanted to cry, just to apologize for everything, to make amends, restitution, to seek forgiveness.

He heard someone saying something inside the outpost but he couldn’t make out what, exactly. “Remain where you are until ordered otherwise,” the voice shouted at him over the loudspeaker.

A few moments later, he heard the sound of engines and he could see himself being silhouetted against the pavement. The shadow seemed to be fleeing; in his mind, he was running away with it, to safety. Two vehicles stopped behind him. Some doors opened and shut, and he heard the tramp of boots approaching him. A rough hand grabbed the back of his neck, and a boot slammed into his lower back, forcing him to the ground. He saw a blur--a blur that he could tell was a man holding a gun on him--and then his chin struck the ground hard, causing him to cry out in pain. He wriggled slightly, trying to free a hand to nurse his hurt chin, which provoked one of the men holding him down to scream, “Do not move!” He lay still, wincing as tears began to stream from his eyes.

The armed men showed him no mercy. “Raymond Gregory Klaus”--Regulars, had to be--”you are under arrest! Do not move or we will use force!” Force?!

“What fo--What was that?” A sharp stinging pain, like being touched with a hot coal, suddenly flared between his shoulder blades. Only one hope, he thought. And then, blackness--

* * *

A boot striking his ribs awoke him. “Sit up,” a calm but firm voice commanded. Raymond held his side and rolled onto his back, coughing violently. His eyes wouldn’t focus; he only saw flashes of gray, some black boots, and two--three?--figures standing over him. “Sit up,” the voice said more firmly. Suddenly filled with an anger that drowned the knifelike pain, he complied. Gray walls, no window, a steel door. A holding cell, apparently.

“Raymond Gregory Klaus, you know why you are here.” The voice belonged to a tall, fit man in his mid-forties dressed in a gray uniform. A golden eagle was pinned to his left breast--a Regular officer.

“No.”

“That was not a question.” The officer scratched at his left ear lobe.

“I see,” Raymond responded.

“Good.” The officer began to pace around Raymond as he sat on the floor. Raymond felt small. “Will you be willing to cooperate? To tell me what you know?” Raymond stared at the officer in silence, trying to make himself look as determined and menacing as possible. He’d always done a pretty laughable job of it before. He tapped his foot on the ground impatiently three times.

“Raymond,” said the officer more gently, tugging at his left ear again, “will you cooperate with me? Tell me what I want to know.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about tonight.” The officer clasped his hands in front of him; it gave the appearance that he was begging.

“What about tonight?”

“Let’s start with you giving me an explanation as to why you were on this side of the City.”

“I suppose you found my EMP grenades.” The officer circled behind Raymond. “And my automatic pistol.” Only one hope…

“Yes. Let me warn you to avoid sarcasm.”

Only one hope… “My orders were to perform a hit.”

“And you were successful in that endeavor.”

Raymond did not answer.

“Of course you were. Your victim’s body is lying in the morgue right now.”

Yes, one hope…

“Raymond, I have another question for you.” He paused, then stooped down to look Raymond directly in the eyes. “Your unit--they are planning an attack?” Raymond nodded. “Where?”

“On the East Bridges.” He scratched his nose.

“The East Bridges. And what sort of attack may we expect?”

“A raid. Thirty men. Small arms. Sometime tomorrow night. 10:00, probably.” One hope…

“Thank you, Raymond, for your cooperation.” The officer rose to his feet and exited the room without another word. As the steel door clanged shut behind him, he heard a single shot and the sound of Raymond Klaus’s body thudding dully against the gray concrete floor.

* * *

The information Raymond had provided was verified by an encrypted note found buried inside the sole of his shoe. It read

BRING BOB TO THE OFFICE AT LUNCH.

HAM ON RYE PREFERRED.

PHYLLIS

which meant

THIRD PLATOON TO RAID EAST BRIDGES TOMORROW 2200 HRS.

DETACHMENT REQUESTED TO AID IN DISABLING DINASTIES.

“Captain Rollins.” He turned to see that his adjutant had opened the door slightly and entered his office.

“Yes?”

“Would you like some coffee? I’m heading downstairs.”

“No. Maybe later.” Lieutenant Vazquez was that kind of guy, always thinking of everyone else.

“OK.”

Vazquez closed the door, and Rollins turned back to the electronic wall map. Grid lines, numbers, letters, colored blocks, symbols, X’s. Unit dispositions. Command districts. This is insanity, Rollins thought.

He sat down at his desk chair and stared at the map abstractedly. Was it always going to be like this? It’s not getting any easier. True, Raymond Klaus was only a pawn. He had provided the information Rollins had sent him to retrieve and taken care of the man who had threatened to expose the whole deal, Captain Erlandsson. Klaus had trusted Rollins. And Rollins had killed him. But it had to be. That’s the way that things are done. Klaus was stupid. You don’t trust anybody. That’s how you get yourself killed. That’s why Klaus is dead. I didn’t kill him. He killed himself. Besides, Rollins reasoned, I didn’t betray him; at least he had no way of knowing that. Klaus had only been told that he was to deliver his message to an officer who would be identified by a pre-arranged signal: Tugging at the left ear lobe. He had no idea who it was who had sent for him--it was Rollins, of course, that much was true. But he didn’t know Rollins was the one who had promised him amnesty. So, there was really no betrayal. At most it was a shady business deal. But that was life. Kill or be killed; emotions, compassion, mercy, loyalty, they were only a surefire way to find yourself cold and six feet below--if you were lucky.

So, the Enemy were going to raid the East Bridges tomorrow night. Rollins knew that that was not true; it, too, was only an arranged signal, a code. Instead, the Enemy were going to blow up three buildings: Central Bank, an apartment complex, and a café. All three targets were in the Northwestern District, nowhere near the East Bridges. And there would be no platoon carrying out the deeds; maybe six, eight guys at most. That was the way this war had always been fought--secretly.

Rollins pushed the black button on his intercom. “Vazquez.”

A thin, tinny-sounding voice answered. “Captain?”

“Come in here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thirty seconds later Vazquez entered and saluted quickly.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant.” Vazquez was that kind of guy, never one to presume. You’re too nice, Rollins thought. Rollins rose to his feet and walked toward the wall map, like a teacher about to give a lecture--or maybe an actor preparing to give a monologue? “You know that prisoner we brought in tonight?”

“Klaus?”

“Yes. He was carrying a note. The Enemy are going to raid the East Bridges around ten o’clock tomorrow night.” Rollins slid the note across to Vazquez, who glanced at it quickly and nodded. “We’ll need to rearrange troop dispositions slightly. The Second Light Armor Troop”--Rollins pointed to the red rectangle representing the unit--“bring them over from the Southeast District. Good unit, excellent record. And bring in the First Special Operations Squadron. Set up a perimeter, a thousand yards around the Bridges on all sides. Anyone entering that perimeter is to be shot on sight. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Vazquez answered. “Civilians?”

“There are no civilians. Everyone is a combatant.”

“Yes, sir.” Vazquez cast his eyes toward the note found on Klaus.

“That is all, Lieutenant.”

Vazquez rose and saluted, then turned on his heel and left the office.

* * *

Rollins struggled to breathe through the air mask covering his mouth and nose; dust, smoke, and fumes burned his eyes. As he stepped over some rubble, his foot bumped a severed arm lying in his path.

“Captain, some Irregulars are holding two men for interrogation.” The Northwestern District Commander, Lieutenant Nakamura, was always trying to impress Rollins. Almost from the moment he received reports of the attacks, Nakamura had been scurrying about, ordering searches, cordons, preparing for Rollins’ arrival.

Rollins stopped walking for a moment. Turning, he looked past--through--Nakamura. “Casualty count?”

“Right now, we estimate about two hundred fifty.”

Strange. The air smelled like coffee, some expensive kind Rollins had once had, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it had been called.

“Total?”

“No. Just at this site. At the Bank, about eighty; at the apartment complex, closer to a hundred, hundred twenty-five. All told, probably four hundred-plus.”

And another four hundred would die tomorrow, four hundred more the day after that. But that’s the price you paid. There always had to be a lamb slain for the sins of others. “I want aerial patrols mounted. Get some DiNASTies up there.”

“Yes, sir.” Nakamura shouted Rollins’ orders--almost verbatim--into his walkie.

This was one of the worst attacks Rollins had seen in a month. The attackers had tossed several pipe-bombs into the café, then high-tailed it to an alley across the street. The initial blast had blown the front off the building, scattering steel, brick, wood, glass, and flesh in the street. As the dazed survivors stumbled out of the wreckage, they had been picked off mercilessly by the attackers in the alley. As they retreated, they had set off an EMP grenade. Maybe it would be just enough of a head-start for them to get away.

The sound of rotors in the distance indicated that the choppers were already in the air. Two patrolled east to west, two north to south. Without warning, one of the choppers near the River dropped from the sky. Rollins jumped as he heard the boom of a huge explosion; turning round, a massive ball of flame was visible over the tops of the buildings along the River.

Nakamura’s radio screamed. “Chopper down! Enemy attempting to cross River, sector 8-F! Armed with EMP grenades! Remain at two hundred yards’ distance or greater! Repeat, armed with EMP grenades!” The remaining three choppers turned toward the River. A few minutes later, the report of two rounds fired by an airborne sniper reached Rollins’ ears. No more shots were fired. The shattered bodies of two men now lay heaped like so much garbage along the riverbank, or possibly they were sinking into the water. Nakamura’s radio spoke again: “That was them. Identity confirmed via DiNASTy.”

Rollins slowly released his breath, unaware that he had even been holding it. “Nakamura, you said the Irregulars are holding two men for interrogation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who has them?”

“Seventh Patrol Squad.”

“Have them transferred to your CP.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nakamura, you are too eager. “Confirm their identity. If they are in fact Enemy, execute them.”

“Yes, sir.”

Too eager.

* * *

Of course, retaliatory action must be carried out. No question about it. In fact, the Enemy knew it was coming. Even knew where. The East Bridges, naturally. Rollins had his reputation to look after, and they understood. C’est la vie.

The Second Light Armor Troop made a successful incursion into Enemy territory. In and out. One killed along the way, but fifty-plus Enemy were put out of commission. Some Regular infantry would consolidate control of the captured territory--about five or six blocks in a residential district; they weren‘t worth anything except to appease Rollins‘ superiors--after which the keeping of order would be entrusted to some newly-established Irregular Patrol Squads. SOP.

The funny thing about this whole war was how no one seemed to notice that it was even happening. There it was, right there under their noses, but--what war? Whatever are you talking about? The daily casualty counts on the news, the endless stream of body bags, the countless armed men milling about the streets--it was like none of it even existed. Even those who experienced the war firsthand willed themselves--somehow--into believing that all was well and man lived in a healthy, happy symbiotic relationship with his fellow man.

Oh, of course they really did know that a war was being fought. They just didn’t call it that. War? No, no, no. Much too harsh, much too violent. Competition. Yes, that’s much better. Very healthy. Very sportsmanlike. And there were all kinds of reasons to justify the kindermord. Times like these were good for the character of a man. They made him strong, smart, brave. Society was really the better for it all. True, people were dying, and that was of course most unfortunate. But greatness could only be gotten through sacrifice. And, besides, what about the economy? The war was a great boon for everyone. If the few had to die so that the rest could live, so be it. One mustn’t allow emotions to get in the way. The Enemy certainly wouldn’t.

And so the bombings continued, the body count mounted, graves were filled, and the river of blood swelled, grew deep, spilled over its banks, inundated everyone, man, woman, and child, young and old. And nothing changed. Not short term. Not long term. Never.

* * *

Rollins was in his study, a half-lit room of middling size with off-white walls, chestnut paneling, and an immense quantity of books. He sat at his desk, his fingers massaging his temples, a flood of emotions assaulting him, a notebook open before him, his computer on. Both were blank.

A voice buzzed in on his intercom. “Sir, there is a man here to see you. Philip Dmystryshyn. Says you know him.”

“Let him in. Tell him I’m in the study.” Rollins leaned back in his chair and looked at the blank computer screen out of the corner of his eye. The report had to be written; it was policy. But what to say?

The door to the study opened, letting in a flood of light from the hall. “Rollins.” Dmytryshyn nodded as he entered the room. Here was a man Rollins really respected. Despite his young age--he was only thirty-two--he’d seen it all, done it all. In a strange way, Dmytryshyn was the only one Rollins really trusted. But why? Dmytryshyn would kill him just as soon as look at him. Well, maybe that‘s it… “Did I interrupt you?” A cutthroat with etiquette.

“No. I haven’t started yet, actually. Have a seat.” Dmytryshyn sat in the chair across from Rollins, who in turn rose from his chair and began to pace the room slowly. “Well?”

“I just want to thank you for your help.”

Save your thanks. It’s all so much acting. “You’re welcome.”

“You followed through on your end; now I’m going to follow through on mine.”

Rollins didn’t answer. Why do we do this, Dmytryshyn? What are we after? You and I, Dmytryshyn, we are the smallest of men. Small men, small hearts, small minds. There is a fine line between a blessing and a curse, Dmytryshyn. A very fine line. And who among us can say when we’ve crossed that line? Certainly not me. Not you. Not Nakamura. Not even Vazquez, bless him. God alone. Yes, only God.

* * *

The phone rang, shattering the stillness of the night. Rollins answered groggily, “Hello.” Of course, it wasn’t as if he were being disturbed; he hadn’t slept a wink, although it was well after three in the morning.

“Captain Rollins?” It was Vazquez.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Weston is dead.”

“What?” Rollins tried--he tried--to feel something, anything. But he did not.

“Lieutenant Colonel Weston is dead. An Enemy raiding party broke into his home and shot him. His family, too. They’re all dead.” Vazquez sounded as if he were trying to hold back a great flood of emotion.

“All of them?” No, that’s not what was supposed to… “What about the Enemy?”

“There were seven of them. Pretty well-armed. An Irregular Patrol Squad tracked them down at a warehouse near the River. They’ve got them pinned down right now. They’re waiting for Regulars to get there before they attempt an assault.” Vazquez paused. Hesitantly, he continued, “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“With Weston dead, you’re now acting Regional Commander.”

Rollins knew that. But what could he say? Was there anything to say? He cast his eyes at the floor, ashamed of himself. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Dmytryshyn…

* * *

Quickness and efficiency. The Regulars were renowned for both. That’s why the Enemy was so afraid of them. If you didn’t get out before they arrived, well…

Rollins was a Regular through and through. This is what he was born to do. Sometimes men just were.

Sporadic gunfire echoed into the night sky. A bunch of kids shooting off firecrackers. When Rollins arrived on the scene, three Irregular Patrol Squads were working their way through the warehouse, room by room. A detachment from a Regular Light Armor Troop was establishing a perimeter while some infantry were preparing to join the Irregulars inside.

Vazquez briefed Rollins on the situation. Enemy inside structure. Original seven appear to have been part of larger unit. Probably forty to fifty altogether. Equipped mostly with small arms and a couple of anti-armor shoulder-fired missile launchers. EMP grenades have disabled DiNASTies. Two Irregulars, one Enemy confirmed dead.

Vazquez was interrupted mid-brief as gunfire exploded crazily somewhere in an upper level of the warehouse, muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness like so many strobe lights. As quickly as it had begun, the shooting ceased. Vazquez resumed briefing Rollins.

A spray of bullets bounced off the ground around Rollins and Vazquez. Four Enemy were firing from an opening on the second floor. As Rollins watched, six Regulars heading into the warehouse were caught in the open and shot down. The Light Armor’s chain guns swiveled about and opened fire, creating a veritable cloud of sparks and concrete chips. But the Enemy had already taken cover. One hoisted his gun into the opening and fired blindly, by chance sending a bullet into the head of one of the chain gunners. Emboldened, other Enemy began hurling homemade explosives down on the Regulars. The hot shrapnel pierced the air invisibly, finding its home sometimes in the ground, sometimes in a nearby building, sometimes in a man. Good God, the joy of it all! Thank you, Dmytryshyn! Thank you, oh God, thank you!