The party begins at dusk. A messenger arrives to say we are required. He says invited, but that is not what he means. He talks to my sergeant, because Rachel is busy stitching my good hand. I put it through a window.
How was I to know Paper lied about their glass being unbreakable? It has been a long day, and I’ve wasted most of it trying to find out why she will not return my calls. It should be simple: I tap a wall and ask it to connect me.
Works anywhere the U/Free are.
Technically, this is impossible.
According to Haze, the galaxy is x light years across by x light years thick. So messages take whole lifetimes and longer to go anywhere. But the U/Free have ships that tear holes in space and post themselves through the rips.
That is impossible as well.
I’ve been tapping walls all day. Until tapping turns into punching. None of the walls bothers to tell me why a connection to Paper Osamu isn’t possible. My temper is not helped by a conversation I hear on returning to our living room, fist bandaged.
‘It’s obvious,’ says Shil.
‘No way.’ Neen sounds certain.
‘Neen,’ says Shil, ‘grow up.’ She shouldn’t say that, even if he is her brother. ‘And now she’s dumped him.’
My sergeant shakes his head.
‘Serves Sven right.’
‘I thought you liked him?’
‘Neen . . .‘
‘Just saying.’
‘Well don’t.’ Shil stamps over to a window and stares out at the rain. When she turns back, she sees me in the doorway. She is wondering how much I heard.
‘Where’s Franc?’
‘Still resting, sir.’
I haven’t seen her yet. Although we’d expected her this morning, it’s early afternoon before she is released for tests. What tests no one tells us. She will be good as new is all they’ll say.
‘It’s complicated,’ says Morgan, when I ask for more information.
Perhaps threatening to break his neck again was a bad move. I mean, how was I to know he and Paper are married . . . And while I’m thinking this, a patch of living-room wall goes fuzzy and Paper finally returns my call. She’s naked and Morgan stands behind her. He’s naked too.
They’re smiling.
‘You were trying to get hold of me?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We won’t be making that party.’
Morgan’s gaze flicks past me. When he speaks, it’s to whisper something in his wife’s ear. She nods.
‘It starts in five minutes.’
‘Paper,’ I say, ‘we’re not-’
Irritation flicks across her face. Maybe this is not a discussion she wants to have in front of the Aux. Or perhaps it’s Morgan. He has his hands on her hips, and he is standing close behind her. I don’t want to know what he is doing. Except I already do.
We all do.
‘Get a room,’ mutters Neen.
Morgan laughs. The U/Free are different to us. How different we are all coming to realize.
‘You should get changed,’ says Paper.
‘So should you.’
She smiles. ‘I’m wearing a gown. You’ve got all that braid.’
‘All that . . . ?’
‘Jaxx had your uniforms sent over.’
Paper says this as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. As if General Jaxx shipping some lieutenant’s uniform for a party was normal.
‘Sven,’ she says, ‘the general told us you’d be happy to attend any functions necessary. After all, you’re here on a cultural exchange.’
First I’ve heard of it.
‘Do call Jaxx to check,’ says Morgan. ‘If you want.’
Neen’s puzzled. It looks like his jacket, but it feels wrong. So he turns up the lights for a closer look and realizes it is only pretending to be his jacket. Someone has taken standard-issue battledress and re-created it in spider’s silk and fine wool.
The changes do not end there.
Braid edges his collar; his belt is leather not webbing.
As for our Death’s Head patches . . . Franc cut those from the skin of a cold-water alligator on the marshes outside Ilseville, the night we formed the Aux. It seems longer ago than it is.
The patches remain, but someone has tidied the edges and wrapped them in silver. A new row of stripes decorates Neen’s left sleeve.
They’re the real thing.
Death’s Head official issue. Sergeants, for the use of . . .
‘Shit,’ says Shil. She looks at her brother, uncertain whether to be upset or pleased. A dagger fills Neen’s hand; it’s plain black, with a silver pommel. That is official issue too.
Franc is here now. We’re all pretending that’s normal. She looks like Franc and sounds like Franc and even smells like Franc. I know that, because I get close enough to check. Her face looks the same, as does her body, what I can see of it.
Only her eyes are different. They’re terrified.
She has been brought back from the dead. No one asked her if that was what she wanted. How could they? So we’re ignoring it, she’s ignoring it, and I’m letting Shil and Rachel fuss over the new uniforms like children with a toy-box.
‘Let’s unpack the rest,’ Rachel says.
Franc has proper stripes for a corporal. And everyone has a battle ribbon, a slash of red and white. Must be for Ilseville, because it cannot be for anything else. We are obviously claiming that as a victory now.
My uniform is last. It looks like before.
Silver collar bars show my rank, an Obsidian Cross hangs on its black silk ribbon; a run of silver braid falls to the left of the jacket. Although the braid is better quality than it was. The jacket is less ornate than Neen’s, but that is how we work. The uniform General Jaxx wears is simpler still.
My boots are new, though, their heels higher. This is unnecessary, as I am already taller than everyone else.
‘Sir,’ says Shil, nodding to a roll of cloth. ‘Think this might be yours.’ Her voice is way too neutral.
It’s a cloak. Staff officers, for the use of . . .
Staff officers? Why not just shoot me and have done with it.
The outside of the cloak is black, and what I can see of the silk lining is red. A silver skull on one side of a floppy collar grins at a skull on the other side. A metal chain loops between their teeth.
‘So you,’ says a voice.
‘What?’
‘Tacky, tawdry, tasteless.’
As I shake out the cloak, Neen ducks and something flicks across the room and bounces off an opposite wall. I know what it is before it lands. There aren’t many weapons that can swear like that.
Very carefully, Haze picks up the SW SIG-37.
‘Haze . . .’
‘Just fetching it for you, sir.’
‘Clips emptied,’ protests my gun. ‘Molested by U/Free experts‘ – it puts particular emphasis on this word – ‘then thrown across the room by a moron.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Good to see you too.’
It snorts.
So I threaten to introduce it to an elevator.
The SIG-37 snorts some more.
Its fold-down wire stock is gone. Its pistol grips are mother of pearl rather than neoprene. Chrome glints where a slate-grey slide should be, and a small ruby replaces the original red dot sight.
‘U/Free orders,’ it says.
‘What - pimp my gun?’
‘Not that,’ it says bitterly. ‘Take a proper look.’
The cinder-maker capacity is gone. Some idiot’s taken the world’s first fully intelligent pulse pistol, with advanced AI and battle-precognition capabilities and reconfigured it as something a fifteen-year-old gangbanger would be ashamed to carry.
In the bottom of the box is a holster.
Black leather, silver buckle. A full-dress dagger sits under that, its pommel a skull. Slamming the SIG into its new holster, I ignore the fact it’s now sulking, and say, ‘Let’s get this over with.’