By the time they returned to Saltilla the claustrophobia gripping Marja Mentzer''s heart had already built to an unbearable degree. Be that as it may, she gave it several kilometers after their command-humvee left Vehicle-Decontamination before instructing that the topside hatch be opened; and she climbed the hatch-ladder and closed her eyes and thrust her head out into the warm and equatorial afternoon, feeling artificial winds caress the skin of her cheeks and making of it enough relief to arrest the involuntary trembling in her hands.


    She opened her eyes and found herself in the midst of a permanent summer. The squeak and clangor of the vehicle chassis trundling down the thoroughfare made a jarring bassline to her shallow breaths.


    The main road ahead was cordoned off in sections by barricades striped red and white and thronging with beefy policemen decked out in riot gear. They were all of them brandishing angular stun-guns, the policemen, and their weapons emitted droning buzzes which overlapped in an ominous soundscape that reminded her of swarms of swelling, chittering, hornet-like things. The sounds of apocalypse, according to the passing knowledge of Theli''s eschatology bequeathed her by Mother.


    She squinted her eyes under the yellow glare, scrutinizing the ranks of police deployed before the movement column and finding that they were plated in heavy-duty blacksteel and thick kevlar padding, their armor chitinous and vaguely reflective of the Saltillan sun, as if they were cockroaches the size of men. She''d heard such things actually existed, man-cockroaches, and that they thrived on those farflung planets the Democracy had designated nuclear armaments testing-sites.


    Marja permitted her brows to knit, wondering about the need for such a heavy police presence. She closed her eyes again. Behind her were chugging and clanking and rumbling the machines of war newly returned from battle, their treads crunching crispily into the asphalt beside the buzzing cockroach sentinels.


    The noises coalesced into one and seemed to calm and disconcert her at the same time.


    "You okay there?"


    Jirani''s voice filtered up from the v-com seat, and she looked down through the hatch and nodded, affording those furrowing sable brows a wan smile. The skin of his scalp by the front, bald portion of his head was several shades lighter than the rest of his face, and Marja found it glinting sallowly at her from the crepuscular interior of the vehicle. The white hair growing out of a semicircular patch on the back half of his scalp stuck out in messy tufts, as it always did after a bad night of sleep.


    "They have the police out in force today," Marja remarked.


    "Most likely for civilian control, although this wasn''t included in the morning brief," Jirani said, pressing his lips tightly together.


    "You''d think they would turn down the lights…" Marja said, trailing off, raising her head to squint at the sun. Maybe if she let enough light stream into her brain through her eyeballs the cobwebs in there might clear.


    slow down here


    The humvee slowed to a walking pace, and as they passed a group of policemen, Jirani cranked the side-window down with jerky, pseudo-circular movements and rested his bare elbow upon the sill just below his cotton sleeve. Marja, her exosuited torso still extended halfway out of the topside hatch, leaned forward to position her own padded elbows upon the roof of the humvee and then her face upon her gloved hands.


    "Walk with me, officer, I need to ask you something," he motioned toward the closest of the stun-gun-toting contingent.


    The tannish face behind the visor scrunched up in surprise, then hardened into impassivity within the second, his eyes passing over Jirani''s shoulder-epaulet where three scepters were laced in gold-thread and recognizing that this was a TAF-Colonel he was speaking with.


    Quite disciplined,theyOh well, if we can''t even do this…


    "How can I help, sir?" the man said, canted nostrils flaring. A broad and flattish nose centered his strong features, and the skin of his cheeks was brown by the Saltillan afternoon. His gait was measured and feline beside the plodding crunch of their humvee.


    "Why so many of you out here today?" Jirani asked, pointing forward for emphasis.


    "Executive order by Home Affairs, sir, promulgated early this morning."


    "An executive order?" Jirani echoed, glancing at Marja who was just in the midst of shambling down the hatch-ladder. "City-state-level or federal-level?"


    "It was… ah…" the man stammered, suddenly looking unsure of himself. "Hold on, let me check with my Sergeant."


    "Yes, please do so," Jirani said, turning back to the road. They were almost upon the first row of barricades, and as they came before it a team of policemen dragged the masses of colored impact-resistant steel-reinforced polyethylene aside to make way.


    Yes, it''s a TAF-Colonel, Sarge, asking whether it''s city-state-level or federal-level. Understood. Understood, sir,


    "Commander," the man addressed Jirani, greater deference evident in his tone, "the order is Saltilla-specific. It was signed off by Mayor Grimmersby."


    "City-state-level, then," volunteered Marja, throwing her voice from the passenger seat behind.


    "But the order originated from Home Affairs, you said? If I remember correctly, it''s under that Apparatchik. Apparatchik Kroder," Jirani clarified.


    Bilal Kradir


    "Ah, yes."


    "—That''s at the federal level. This particular order is specific to Saltilla, and comes under the purview of Underapparatchik Tenton Jorges-Ross. He leads the Saltillan Department of Home Affairs."


    "Noted. That is quite clear," Jirani nodded, waving his hand with affected nonchalance. "And the stated rationale of this executive order?"


    Gimma Ashby


    "Why?" Jirani pressed.


    "I''m not privy to that, commander…" the man said, bowing his head deeply so that his apology seemed sincere.


    "That''s fine. As you were."


    Jirani cranked the tinted windows up again, and once it thumped shut the dim silence reasserted itself. The humvee''s engines vibrated as the vehicle accelerated slowly. Ahead of them groups of policemen were heaving with exertion and hauling away more of the barricades at speed.


    cells FafasAbuna Yem''ataFafasbreathing through the tip of your nosecirculating air in a circlemaintaining a slow and constant rate of flow of airFafasFafas


    Impressive stamina,


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Jirani instructed the driver to slow down, and the man slowed to a comfortable trot. Jirani cranked the window down again.


    The man was speaking even before the window had fully retracted: "—I''m sorry, commander, comms from Marshal Grimmersby. There''s an urgent meeting currently underway, and he''s requesting that you and Deputy Marshal Mentzer attend—he says to take the tunnel into the Underground. A military train will convey you toward the Vines."


    "The hell izzat? Why not the Government House?" Jirani snapped, narrowing his eyes. Seeing the man cringe reflexively and lower his head, Jirani added, in a gentler tone of voice: "Where is this Vines?"


    "It''s i-in Saltilla''s southern quadrant, commander. I''m not privy to the specific reason for the venue," the man managed, stammering slightly, his tone apologetic in the extreme, "but I was told it is a more secure location."


    "Then the rest of the contingent?" Jirani questioned, thumbing behind him toward the trundling column. "The Marshal knows we''re supposed to take strength and manage the post-op, I hope."


    "Instructions are that the Allied Forces will proceed toward the Barracks for admin, and that one Captain Crowley will take over—"


    "No way that is happening. The damn fool wouldn''t know if half the contingent was MIA. Private Kiristiaan," Jirani addressed the driver beside him, indicating to the comms-panel fitted into the dashboard, "you get the good Marshal on the line right now."


    "Yes, commander."


    It was several seconds of fiddling with the humvee-comms and authenticating his identity, before the comms personnel on the other side let Private Kiristiaan through. The policeman continued walking beside them, unsure whether he had been dismissed, but unwilling to move away in the absence of any indication to the contrary.


    Private Kristiaan motioned toward the dashboard, nodding to emphasize that the comms-link had been established. Digging a finger into his right ear to stem the irritating scratch of static against his tympanum, Jirani called out: "Colonel Jirani Mzeeka speaking. I have Marshal Grimmersby on the line?"


    "Commander. It is good to hear you. Yes, it is Marshal Phyllis Grimmersby—I trust you have been apprised of the meeting?"


    "Marshal. Captain Crowley cannot be the one to manage post-op admin. I must request you dispatch one of your generals to take strength at the Barracks. Someone that can be trusted," Jirani said, wasting no time with the pleasantries.


    "... I am happy to do so, commander… I will send Major-General Goggins. He''s better than most."


    "Goggins? You have a War Apparatchik, Saul Goggins, I had been briefed," Jirani stated, scrunching his cheeks so that his crow''s feet ran like deep troughs and so far they intruded upon his temples. There were things written into his wrinkles, Marja thought, sitting there diagonally from Jirani and watching him converse with the Saltillans, strange and slanted wisdoms that were never straightforward to parse.


    "They are related, commander," Marshal Grimmersby said.


    "More than obvious," Marja muttered, and Jirani shot her a sly smile.


    "Well, send Major-General Goggins down. I want the muster report sent to me by twelve hundred hours tomorrow."


    "Understood, commander. Will you be attending the meeting?"


    "Yes, yes. I must ask, why not at the Government House, like before?"


    Gimma Ashby


    Gimma Ashby.


    "Anything else I can clarify?" Marshal Grimmersby transmitted, and Marja sensed in his tone a poorly concealed irritation. ''Perhaps he hated playing butler to the Democracy,'' she thought.


    "No."


    "We''ll see you soon, commander."


    The comms-link was cut. Jirani turned his head to find the policeman still trodding steadily beside them, his breathing smooth and not the least bit off-kilter. They had gone some way at a mere six kilometers per hour, and looked to be reaching the exit to the Barracks up ahead. Looming above them in the distance were the darkish Saltillan columns, overlapping like strip curtains and wavering in the artificial heat.


    "Still here?" Jirani inquired.


    "I''m sorry, commander—the maintenance shaft run-off will be made accessible on the left and you can proceed down to the Underground," the policeman bowed his head yet again.


    Jirani waved the man away with a flick of his wrist.


    <hr>


    They took the left turn into what looked like a cul-de-sac that was no longer than two hundred meters. Beyond that was Saltilla''s Cropland, acres upon acres of cornfields dotted with low-rise greenhouses placed equidistant to each other, the transparent panes catching the gleam of the Saltillan sunshine and reflecting bright spangles into Marja''s eyes. Ears of corn sprouting, it appeared, from darkened soil and taller than the maize stalks themselves. Ears of corn with small silks and swollen with golden-red seeds peeking out from scanty husks. Fields teeming with them, food to feed millions upon millions of souls. ''Food to feed lives brimming with untold potentialities,'' and Marja pondered whether it was right that all of it was to be swallowed by the Democracy.


    One moment they were rumbling overland and looking as if they were about to crush into the forest of corn, and the next the road descended, and they were flung, shuddering, into a tunnel of pitch-black darkness.


    And Marja groped with her eyes for purchase in the darkness, strained herself to see, until she felt that she could discern the smooth tessellations of the wall-tiling, see the glossy textures brighten steadily until that curvature reflected a warm glow that suffused the closed, spiral space.


    She could feel the gravity pull them downwards, the rough trill of the humvee engine whining diminuendo and crescendo in alternating pattern until the respective undulations became lost in soft burbling and indistinct by the brightening environment.


    They were traversing a flat section of the tunnel when shortly they found themselves looking at what appeared to be a dead-end.


    No, it was a shutter of solid steel outlined in stripes of yellow and black, and as they came into proximity it juddered open in fits, scraping against a rusted portion of pulley straining somewhere in the bowels of that place.


    Harsh, piercing streams of white canted into the mellow dimness from beyond the shutter, and then they crossed through the glaring curtain of light and found themselves there, trundling across an underground square dotted with policemen and a few ranging individuals, the uttermost geometries of which could not properly be discerned through the serried rows of limbed, mechanical devices. It was an army of headless and vaguely humanoid robota, and it inflamed her imagination.


    See there Autonomous Augmentation Suits


    But… the Jegorich First Brigade… gone, just like that. All of them dead. Colonel Bincollan, LTC Brexar—their anger is understandable.


    They went on, humming their way into another stretch of claustrophobic tunnel.


    The phantoms renewed their attack, and Marja could not help thinking and brooding. Wide-ranging abuse of the compulsion matrix was common, and heavy casualties had been sustained, it appeared, from ''internal complications''—almost as many as had been killed outright by the enemy. There were raging inter-ethnic politics, myriad reports of insubordination amongst the Saltillan Division, and whole brigades gone to dust chasing nothing but a few rogue officers’ attempts at self-aggrandizement and credit-exchangeable merit.


    less than nothing—


    Too much tendency to be affected by others’ appraisal of your worth,


    The width of the tunnel started to widen and before long Marja found the vehicle halted before a wide and flaring flight of stairs leading up to the entrance of ''Hydrax Station''—the sign emblazoned across a stone lintel and so garishly lit it resembled the neon signs on ancient Earth. They exited the humvee, leaving their weapons behind as per SOP and exited the humvee with instructions to Private Kiristiaan to return to Barracks and join the strength-taking.


    Jirani climbed the flight of stairs two steps at a time, his agility belying his age. Flushing her troubles to the back of her mind, Marja followed on his heels, scampering through a cavernous and deserted vestibule awash with more of that horrendous white light and passing into a place bounded at the opposite end by a short and a long side.


    About the short side leaned a section of Saltillan policemen against a steel-colored ledge, their jabbers and chortles echoing across the vaulted ceiling of craggy stone that pressed down upon them in bulbous swells. They straightened as they saw Jirani''s form stalk sternly before them, raising their stun-guns to ready position, and as he passed under a beam of light Marja saw their eyes widen in recognition of his rank. They tilted their wrists so that the underside of their weapons faced toward Jirani, keeping in the universal salute-with-arms position until Jirani had snapped off a return salute. They did not salute Marja because by then the two had passed far beyond their vicinity.


    At the long-side of the space the train with two carriages was already waiting. It was a sleek construct of curving chrome, and the doors to one of its carriages lay open and flanked by two corporals dressed in green PDF uniform.


    They saluted crisply as Jirani passed, and the old Colonel snapped off the return salute without looking in their direction. Then they saluted Marja.


    She fumbled the return salute and felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment, and suddenly the pounding echoes of her exosuit boots seemed very loud in her ears, bouncing from shuttered storefront to shuttered storefront and ricocheting through the empty station.


    Marja tried not to look at the corporals as she stepped into the mellow-lighted train carriage—little more than a metal box—fitted haphazardly with canvas chairs.


    To one end of the carriage stood four armed PDF personnel, railguns slung over their shoulders. A man entirely dressed in khaki was sitting in one of the canvas chairs and he took to his feet on Jirani''s entrance, extending his hand and proffering a handshake.


    "Koval Moore. Director, Intelligence."