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Vestal Sins: Prologue: City Upon a Hill
Date: 12 June 2009, 7:26 am

       The smell of coffee permeated the air. Not the communal pot of the station, but his own brew, fresh and over-strong—just the way he liked it.

       He stirred his eggs in the pan, adding a little more milk until the color was right. The bacon was simmering nicely on the stove, emitting a few cheery cracks as the grease seeped onto the pan. Neither were real, of course. Too many mouths to feed these days. But they were passable semblances of the real deal, and with a few added ingredients he was able to trick his stubborn memory into accepting them.

       He forked the strips of bacon onto his plate and tipped the eggs from the pan into place next to them. From the toaster he retrieved two slices of bread and spread a thin layer of butter across their golden surfaces. He poured some coffee into a broad-based mug, the black liquid overcoming the milk already within.

       A fleeting memory. It was the smell, he knew. But never mind. He would remember her later, over a bottle of rum, when his day was through. But for now, he would indulge himself. He deserved it. He knew he did.

       One final touch: a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. He had bought it especially for today, his first day off in nearly three weeks. He allowed himself a small sip; sweet, so much sweeter than damn saccharin. It was dark red in color and just a little bitter, made from the blood oranges that used to be cultivated so widely in the South. Now they were hard to find anywhere, at any price.

       He set his breakfast, coffee, and juice at the table. Turning to his stereo, he scrolled through his catalogue of songs. Bach's Orchestral Suite Number Three: his favorite piece. At last, he sat down. He started first upon the eggs. The texture was good, and a little bit of cheese, salt, and pepper invigorated the rather flavorless concoction.

       Retrieving his reader from beneath a stack of files, he downloaded the most recent issue of the [i[Economist. He was somewhat surprised to see the cover. It featured an illustration of a man prostrate before a woman, the man's arms stretching pathetically towards her. The man was clad only in the tattered flag of the UNSC, his arms emaciated, his skin covered in ash. The woman was seated before him, vigorously robust and imperious, herself wearing an elegant blue stola: the unofficial but extremely popular emblem of his own colony, Vesta. His interest piqued, he continued on.

The Economist
February 9th-15th 2556

The tragedy of Corsini
Sangheili forces besiege Doisac
Recovery efforts in Africa stall
What to do about Epsilon Halo?
Lexington: The Western Union's Reconstruction ambitions

Briefing: Vesta
The Colony of Vesta has been mostly known to Earth as a thorn in the UNSC's side. Now it may be humanity's last best hope


       "Our world stands alone. We did not ask for this. But we must take up take up the call, and help our brothers across this galaxy. Vesta alone is in the position to lead humanity back to peace and prosperity. Vesta alone can rebuild all that was taken from us."

       Alexander Lansing's speech last Thursday night didn't exactly strike the note of unequivocal unity many on Earth were hoping for. Despite the candidate's assurances that he will at last usher his colony into the UNSC, his speech was another reminder of the continued reluctance of many Vestals to join with Earth.

       In the event, Mr. Lansing is not wrong. Vesta is the only sizeable human world left that was completely unscarred by the Covenant. Its agricultural and mining activities continue apace, while its industrial sector, which had been languishing since the Battle of Earth, has recently experienced a major revitalization. Furthermore, its native population of around 120 million has been bloated to nearly 200 million by waves of refugees from Earth and other devastated Inner Colonies; Vesta recently surpassed Earth to become the most populous world in human space.

       Earth is a ruin, and, despite assurances by all the old hands, it will remain so for the foreseeable future. All her major cities are destroyed; much of her land has been rendered unusable by the Covenant's orbital bombardment. Even three years after the war, Earth's skies are still darkened by ash and debris. Her climate is much cooler, her rains dangerously toxic.

       Earth is now dependent on Vesta to take all the survivors she cannot feed and to feed all the survivors the colony does not take. UNSC headquarters have been temporarily moved to Vesta's capital, Massilia, with President Renka's reluctant permission. Almost all remaining slipspace capable vessels are now Vestal in origin, including the meager remnants of the human naval fleet. The irony of the current situation is lost on neither Earth nor Vesta: the one colony to elude the UNSC's hegemony has now become its last port of call.

       This has stirred some understandable frustration over President Renka's stubborn reluctance to at last join the UNSC. Her Vesta Party cannot countenance the thought of losing some of their hard-fought independence to an organization which has so long disparaged their existence. UNSC Chairman Terrence Hood did not help this perception when he said last year from his new Massilia abode, "We survived the Covenant onslaught only to be undone by antiquated notions of sovereignty."

       This newspaper urges patience. The evacuation of nearly 20 million people from Earth between the first and second invasions—what Admiral Stanforth called "the one logistical success we were able to pull out of this whole Goddamn mess"—were received unflinchingly by Vesta. Since then, the colony has taken a further 60 million, with thousands more arriving every day upon Vestal ships. One would find it hard to question their dedication or their compassion. Their hesitance to officially join the UNSC is a product of a long and complex history, one that the people of Earth would do well to understand.

       Vestal Sins
       Vesta's history began, interestingly, at the colony of Abbakum in 2401. After the simultaneous rebellions of Pegasus and Eridanus, which had sparked the Inner Colonies War, the people of Abbakum picked up the insurrectionist banner and joined the fray. The Marine contingent stationed outside the capital was besieged by the colony's separatist self-defense force. A single Destroyer was present in the system at the outbreak of the rebellion: the UNSC Indefatigable, under Captain Francis Perry. Fleetcom decided to draw their line in the sand at Abbakum, and ordered Captain Perry to deploy tactical nuclear warheads to relieve the Marines on the surface. Perry disregarded the order and evacuated the Marines instead. He was later court-martialed for dereliction of duty, dishonorably discharged, and sentenced to three years in prison.

       Francis Perry became a vocal critic of the war after his release. At first dismissed as a bitter malcontent, he gained steady popularity as the UNSC's heavy-handed tactics came under increasing criticism. Even many within the Navy supported his cause as the bloody war dragged on. With the conclusion of hostilities in 2409, Perry petitioned the Colonial Administration to allot a newly terraformed planet in the Beta Aurigae system for the settlement of refugees and veterans. Under intense pressure from a war-weary public, the UNCA relented, and in 2410 Vesta was founded.

       Perry proved to be an adept coordinator. In lieu of support from the uncooperative UNCA, Perry raised most of his own funds privately from sympathizers on Earth and Reach, as well as from what fortunes remained on the devastated rebellious colonies. He tirelessly visited refugee camps and veteran enclaves, promising them a better life on Vesta. The result was the most rapid colonization effort yet seen. In just five years, four million people were settled on the surface. In 2413, Perry moved to create the Vesta Party, to represent the colonists' interests against the UNCA, whose latent interest had been awoken by the success of the effort. In 2414, Perry was able to force the signing of the Vesta Accord by UNCA director Li Na. The Accord granted Vesta near complete self-governance, bounding the colony only within the parameters of the UN Charter. Perry was able to achieve in peacetime what the Insurrectionists had been unable to obtain in eight years of war: independence.

       The success of Vesta continued under Perry's independent leadership. As leader of the Vesta Party, he remained the colony's president for almost two decades, from 2413 to 2432. His legacy continued for many years after his retirement; Mr. Perry never lived to see his party seriously challenged in the elections.

       Yet the colony did not develop in the manner Mr. Perry had envisioned. Named after the Ancient Roman goddess of hearth and home, Vesta was always meant to be a primarily agricultural colony. Yet the cooler north slowly leaned towards manufacturing and services and began to urbanize, while the fertile south remained mostly rural. The divide became more and more pronounced, and in 2439 led to the formation of the northern based United Party, which sought to build closer economic ties with the UNSC. Initially an interest party representing big business, particularly the burgeoning shipbuilding industry, the United Party eventually entered the northern mainstream, winning its first election in 2449. From that point on, Vestal politics were split along north-south lines, often finding its flashpoint with periodic demonstrations in the colony's capital, Massilia.

       Political contention was partisan and at times became particularly vicious, but it remained peaceful. In 2513, however, a United government under President Kisangi made official overtures to the UNSC representative on Vesta to get a seat on the Council. While the seat was to be strictly nominal, it outraged many as a sign of UNSC encroachment. Unfortunately, the incident occurred during the outbreak of the Second Colonial War at Eridanus. A southern-based group calling themselves the Black Hand, caught in the revolutionary air, bombed the UNSC consulate and Intera Industries headquarters in Massilia. The bombings killed hundreds, mostly native Vestals.

       President Kisangi responded by sending Vesta Self Defense Forces to southern cities in order to quell the protests. The heavy-handed tactics inflamed the region. In an incident which is still contended to this day, VSDF soldiers opened fire on a rally in the southern university town of Paredes, killing twelve. Local police forces turned on the VSDF troops, forcing them from the city, killing three. The Paredes incident touched off an eleven year civil war that would claim over one million lives.

       After a handful of pitched battles in 2414-15 in which superior northern manpower overwhelmed the south, the conflict devolved into a guerilla war. The Black Hand continued terrorist attacks on northern cities, particularly Massilia, while Northern Legion forces in the south often resorted to indiscriminate bombing and widespread crop-burning. Atrocities were attributed to both sides by UNSC observers, who often noted with some smugness the chaos wrought by their absence.

       The glassing of Harvest in 2525 brought an almost immediate cessation to hostilities, as both sides watched together the destruction of an entire world. After the Second Battle of Harvest in 2531, northerners and southerners alike enlisted in the Vesta Expeditionary Force, which was independently attached to the UNSCDF. Despite a few incidents between the two halves of the VEF, the integration was remarkably peaceable and swift. As the press noted at the time, there was nothing like an "other" to halt a seemingly endless civil war.

       Far more acrimonious was the relationship between the UNSC and the VEF. Then-Admiral Hood was particularly critical of the arrangement which often saw VEF Marines serving on UNSC vessels. However, after the heroic defense of Paris IV's capital by an all Vestal Division, Admiral Hood grudgingly admitted, "these men are as stubborn on the battlefield as they are in the Council." When the planet was subsequently glassed, Hood pronounced, "the special status of the VEF has never once compromised an operation. We are grateful for their contributions, and we mourn their losses on this day."

       City Upon a Hill
       Vesta's transformation from the UNSC's pariah to its salvation has been rapid, and neither faction has been as swift to adapt to their new roles. Chairman Hood needs to swallow his pride and realize that he had been reduced to a supplicant. His haughty manner and righteous indignity is winning him no allies among either of Vesta's parties. Yet fundamentally, he is not wrong—the plight of Earth and the continued vulnerability of all humanity necessitates unity now more than ever. A new era has dawned for all men. The old enmities and bitterness no longer make any sense, and do not accord with our age.

       Fortunately, the people of Vesta seem to have come to this conclusion as well. Mr. Lansing, the United Party's candidate for the presidential elections next week, commands an almost insurmountable 15 point lead against Maria Renka's Vesta Party. Ms. Renka is still highly respected by many Vestals, particularly in the South, and rightly so. She led her people through the toughest years of the Covenant War, and has adeptly managed the post-war crisis that could have easily thrown the colony into chaos. Despite much criticism from UNSC exiles, she has done everything that could be reasonably expected of her to assist the recovery of Earth and to help the homeworld's diaspora. Joining the UNSC now would be a mere formality, ratifying on paper the reality of Vesta's new position. Yet words matter, and in an ironic twist of history, Ms. Renka's stubborn adherence to the old mantra is likely to cost her a third term.

       Yet problems abound for likely incomer Lansing. Fleetcom's "one logistical success" has not been received so merrily by the people of Vesta. While it has coped much better with the influx than other colonies, namely Corsini (see page 56), the near doubling of Vesta's population over the past three years has stretched its services to the limit. The agricultural sector has had troubles keeping up with demand. Not only must Vesta feed its natives and its refugees, but it also exports much of its food to Earth and other devastated worlds.

       "I see the newsfeed from Earth, people starving in the streets, and it turns my gut," says Sara Rothschild, a native Massilian. "I mean, people starving to death on Earth… Earth! But we can't shoulder this burden forever, or people will be starving here, too."

       Vesta still receives around 50,000 refugees a day, mostly from Earth. Its spaceports are clogged with a steady stream of ships laden with human cargo. Vessels leave the colony bearing food, and return with thousands more mouths to feed. Investments in agriculture have improved capacity, but not fast enough.

       "It takes every able-bodied person we have just to function at minimum capacity," explains Secretary of Labor Rachel Stimson. "So far it just hasn't been possible to muster the manpower to sufficiently improve our farming output."

       Officially, unemployment on Vesta is less than half of one percent. However, this does not include the vast body of refugees, who for the most part are stuck in sprawling camps located mainly around urban peripheries. This has bred much impatience among Vestals for their unwanted guests. If nothing else, northerners and southerners are now united in a common contempt for the refugees.

       But as Ms. Stimson explains, it's not their fault. "We have tried to organize work programs for the refugees, but coordination is extremely difficult," she says. "A given camp can double in size in less than a week. Most of them are undocumented anyway. Just feeding and housing them consumes almost all our resources. Mobilizing them for employment just isn't feasible at this point."

       The situation has improved somewhat since last year. More and more refugees are being redirected from northern urban centers to smaller, more disparate camps in the south. There they have been tasked with assisting in the agricultural activities, with some success. The vast majority of refugees, however, still live isolated, monotonous, and sometimes wretched lives in the northern camps.

       "If we just had a temporary respite from the flood [of refugees], we might be able to absorb them and put them to work," says Stimson. "But they just keep coming. The situation is becoming untenable."

       The influx of refugees is not Vesta's only source of social woes. The demobilization of the VEF continues at its deliberately gradual pace. Vesta kept her forces relatively intact after the war, fearing the remains of the Loyalist Covenant fleet or treachery from the tentative Sangheili Alliance. However, with the Sangheili gaining the upper hand in their struggle and the Alliance proving sound, Ms. Renka decided last year to speed the process of demobilization and ease the burden of the bloated VEF on an already strained economy.

       Reintegration of veterans has not always proven easy. At its peak, Vesta had nearly thirty million men and women under arms, around one quarter of its population—the highest proportion of any colony. At the time of publication, that number is now below four million. There is no shortage of jobs these days, but marrying millions of veterans, who are sometimes mentally or physically scarred, with jobs for which they are qualified has often been tremendously difficult. Many have been drafted into the Militia, a paramilitary force enlisted to assist the police with the unstable situation on the ground. While their primary task has been to protect and enforce the refugee camps and provide backup for police in firefights, their responsibilities have grown along with their size. Militia officers are becoming a common sight in urban centers as well, and they recently formed their own investigative branch. This creates considerable overlap with local police jurisdiction, and is the source of much acrimony between the two enforcement bodies.

       There is no question that Mr. Lansing will have his work set out for him if he wins next week. Vesta is rife with problems, and many of the colonists are bitter that they must bear humanity's burden alone. Yet Vesta's avoidance of the Covenant's scourge was a matter of sheer chance. Earth has bled to save humanity, and many of her colonies have bled worse still. Vesta has no choice but to suffer with the rest, and use her good fortune to restore humanity to what it once was. Hopefully, Lansing's favor among the voters signals this realization. Hopefully, humanity will weather this era of darkness as one.

       He contemplated the article with a sip of coffee. The Earth-based editorials had become more lenient towards Vesta ever since Lansing had surged ahead in the polls. The magazine's stubborn adherence to the term "colony" would irk some, but it had never bothered him. As the article had pointed out, "joining" the UNSC was a mere token gesture. It would solve nothing, end nothing, start nothing. And he was never much disposed towards symbolic flair. But he supposed others were.

       Looking up from the reader, he gazed out his window at the city that lay before him. The rising sun, just visible through the clouds, reflected blue off the snow-covered rooftops. Traffic was already thick on the roads below, lines of cars turning the white streets brown. It was the regular hustle and bustle of Massilia, of which he would normally already be a part. But not today.

       The phone rang.

       His heart turned first to ice, then to fire. His world was admittedly small. It could only be one of two people, and he had told both not to call him this day. He desperately did not want to hear from either.

       He grabbed the phone, checking the ID. He closed his eyes. The worse of two evils.

       "What is it?" he answered as calmly as he could.

       "I know, Eyal," his partner said, her voice pained. "I know. I'm sorry."

       "What is it?" he repeated.

       "We've got a DB out in Waverleigh. It's a Militia officer. Captain said he needs all hands on deck. I'm really sorry."

       "I'll be there as soon as I can." He quickly ended the call and tossed his phone back on the table.

       He finished the rest of his meal in a few hurried bites. He swigged the remainder of his coffee in a single gulp, the still hot liquid burning his throat on the way down. The juice he did not touch. That he would savor, no matter what.

       He glanced at his watch. His day off had measured exactly forty-six minutes, twelve seconds. The day would have to wait.

       But he deserved this. He knew he did.

Vestal Sins: Chapter One: The First Forty-Eight
Date: 19 June 2009, 3:20 am

       Detective Sergeant Eyal Dayan pulled his car to a slow stop in front of the Waverleigh Heights Manor House. Eyal wondered if the owners were being intentionally ironic, or were simply optimistic. Before him lay one of the most dismal tenements he had ever laid eyes upon. His manner of work had brought him to places far worse than this, looming towers of ill-repair and foul odors. Yet this tenement, its bare concrete face set against the craggy mountains of the valley and the slate sky above, made the scene an entirely grey affair, gloomy enough to plunge his spirits to even greater depths.

       Eyal turned off his stereo at the conclusion of Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata, allowing himself at least the pleasure of the final haunting keystroke. He brought the bottle of juice to his lips and finished the last of the sweet liquid, thus concluding, rather early, all his day's planned delights. As he opened the door, the elements greeted him with a particularly chill gust of wind that cut through his coat and gloves like a blade. Almost immediately the tips of his fingers turned to ice. He kicked the door shut and proceeded to the outer stairwell of the dungeon before him.

       Contemplating his misery must have had an ill-effect on his concentration. On the second flight he slipped on a patch of ice, slamming his shin hard upon the stair edge above. He clutched his leg in pain and cursed foully. A passing woman asked if he was alright, and he responded with a guttural snarl. She retreated down the stairs as he slowly righted himself. He winced at the incident; he could not bring himself to feel good about it.

       On the third floor balcony he saw a pair of Militia officers standing outside one of the many apartment doors. They regarded him coldly as he approached. The Militia were the ex-Marines of the VEF who presently helped the Department maintain law and order in their bloated city. Their primary responsibility was the security of the refugee camps, but their presence was becoming increasingly pervasive in the central districts as well. They often chafed with the local police, and took issue with their ascribed role as a mere buttress to the Department's authority. Having the investigation into the murder of one of their own conducted outside their ranks own must have boiled their blood. He couldn't say that he blamed them, though their hostile stares irked him nonetheless.

       Eyal nodded curtly to them as he prepared to enter. One of them held up a hand to stop him. "It ain't pretty in there," he said simply. Eyal could detect nothing the officer's eyes. He continued in, somewhat bemused.

       The interior was as bleak as the prison façade. The deceased appeared not to be keen on furniture. A single tattered couch sat before an unpretentious vid screen. An oak desk and a small bookcase were the only other accouterments that populated the room, the rest of the remaining space being empty save for a few free-weights and other pieces of exercise equipment. Eyal suspected a woman—a civilian one, at any rate—had never stepped foot in this apartment. It was a soldier's space, through and through.

       His partner emerged from an adjoining room, a look of consternation upon her face. "Eyal," she said. "You're here."

       "No need to walk on eggshells, Michelle," he said with a sigh. "I'm here now. Let's just get this the fuck over with."

       Eyal could not resist a sense of nostalgia for better days. A few years ago, a crime scene such as this one would have been crawling with detectives, uniforms, and analysts. This long after the discovery of the body, every square centimeter of the room would have already been processed. Still, an entourage of four responders was better than what was accorded to most crime scenes these days. A testament to the stature of the victim.

       As he approached he began to detect a certain familiar smell—not quite the putrid stench of human decomposition, but the rather more subtle scent of death. His nose had become very sensitive to the indefinable odor over the years, at least when he was expecting it.

       The body was in the bedroom, and the sight of it took him aback. A man was tied to a chair in the center of the room, his arms and legs bound tightly with bloodied twine. His torso was covered in so many gunshot wounds that Eyal could not distinguish their number; a rather easier task for his head, which showed, above the dripping cloth that gagged his mouth, a single hole between the eyes.

       "You must be Eyal," said a woman kneeling beside the body.

       He raised his eyebrows at her unfamiliar face. "Yes. Hello."

       "My name is Dr. Salehi," she said shortly.

       "The Department requisitioned her from the hospital," Mantega explained when no further introduction was proffered. "Dr. Jessop was otherwise occupied today, so she'll be the coroner for this case."

       "Taken from the sick to tend to the dead," Salehi muttered.

       "I'm sorry to waste your time," Eyal responded evenly.

       Mantega shook her head slowly, and Eyal relented with a sigh. "So, I presume the deceased has been identified."

       "His name is Luis Cordova," Mantega said. "He's a Major in the Massilia Militia Corps. Apparently he's well known to his comrades—our friends outside both knew him personally. He distinguished himself in the war, now he's a mainstay in the Militia. Or was."

       "Right. Who called it in?"

       Mantega nodded towards the door. "They did. They tell me that Cordova has never yet absented a shift in his three years with the Militia, certainly not without leave. They dispatched a pair of officers in the area to check on him. They found him like this."

       Eyal studied the body again and resisted a shudder. "What can you tell me about him, doctor?" he asked.

       Salehi, submerging her own hostility beneath her work, plunged quickly into her findings. "Clearly the victim was restrained before he was killed." She lifted the man's hand from the armrest. "His fingers were all broken, and his face also sustained multiple lacerations and breaks."

       "He was tortured?"

       She nodded. "Undoubtedly. However, there is almost no bruising or swelling around the fractures, so he wasn't tortured for very long before he was killed."

       "I see. What else?"

       "Time of death was approximately eight hours ago, around 0200 last night. I'd need to perform an autopsy to officially determine cause of death, but excessive bleeding indicates he was killed by the gunshot wounds and not before. It could be exsanguination, but my guess is brain damage brought about by ballistic trauma."

       "You think the headshot was the fatal wound?"

       "Yes."

       "Why?"

       "I believe this was an act of pure rage. Likely the assailant wished to torture Mr. Cordova longer than he did, but could not restrain himself any longer, and executed him, face to face. Emptied the clip in fury afterwards."

       Eyal could not resist a smirk. "Were you a detective or something, doctor?"

       There was no mirth on Salehi's face. "No, but I was a corpsman." Eyal averted his eyes. Salehi continued, "With that in mind, I must comment on the gunshot wounds themselves."

       "What about them?" Mantega asked.

       "Well, the casings you recovered were from .40 caliber rounds, and there were sixteen in all. Plus, I saw my fair share of GSWs just like this during the war—usually in suicides. You'd have to confirm in your lab, but I'd guess your weapon is a Sai-ngam G6."

       "Standard issue VEF sidearm," said Mantega with a nod.

       "Standard issue for Militia, too," Eyal murmured. "You're sure he wasn't just killed with his own weapon?"

       "His sidearm is stowed away safely with his uniform," said Mantega. "It hasn't been fired recently."

       "Alright." He turned to Salehi. "Anything else?"

       "No. That's all I can tell you without an autopsy. Speaking of which…"

       "Our CSUs will be here shortly," said Mantega. "They'll collect the body."

       "I'll just wait here, then," Salehi said grumpily.

       "They'll bring the body to your hospital's morgue later today," Mantega reassured her. "Thank you for your time. You can leave."

       The doctor said nothing further, though she appeared gratified. Hastily gathering her effects, she briskly left the apartment.

       A cold gust of wind violently shuddered the windows of the bedroom, interrupting the moment of silence between the partners as they awaited the doctor's departure. "Well, don't I just look like an asshole," Eyal muttered, running a hand across his unshaven face.

       "You were never any good with people," Mantega said, amused. "I can't blame you, though. You put in more hours than anyone I know. I hated to have to call you in earlier."

       "I appreciate that, Michelle." He glanced sidelong at the body in the center of the room, feeling obscene to be having a conversation in its presence. Corpses did not typically bother him—he had seen plenty over the years. But they were usually body-dumps in alleyways, or unlucky victims of drunken brawls. A man who had been tied to a chair, tortured, and executed was a sight unfamiliar to him.

       He looked mournfully towards the door. "Have you questioned the neighbors yet?"

       She smiled. "I was waiting for you."

       "Time to put my people skills to work, then."

       They left the apartment in turn, Eyal glad to leave the horrific corpse behind. The lock on the front door was still busted from the officers' initial entry, though he tried to close it as best he could. "No one goes in or out until the CSUs get here," he said to the officer who had spoken to him earlier.

       "I know the drill," he returned coldly.

       "Alright." He turned to Mantega. "You go left and I'll go right?"

       "Sounds good," she said, immediately setting off to her task.

       Eyal strolled with purposeful slowness to the apartment door immediately to the right of Cordova's. Only one other part of his job aggravated him more than questioning witnesses, and that was informing people of their loved one's death. The predictable reactions of anger and grief would follow, and he would stand there stolidly, absorbing it but not feeling it, and so made awkward. Questioning witnesses was much the same, only instead of grief there was spluttering confusion, and the anger was often more palpable. All the same, he preferred to bear the brunt of abuse rather than helpless sorrow.

       The first apartment was mercifully empty. He marked the number in his notepad in case they had to return.

       He was not so lucky with the second. A man promptly came to the door upon his knock. He was middle aged, probably close to fifty. Eyal guessed the man was a veteran: he walked with the sort of artificial gait characteristic of prosthetics. His face, covered in thick stubble, was rough-skinned and marred by several scars that were either too deep or too expensive to be completely covered. He reeked of alcohol, despite the early hour.

       "What do you want?" the man asked, his deep-set eyes narrowing at the sight of him.

       "Sir, my name is Eyal Dayan. I'm with Massilia Metro Police. Can I ask you your name?"

       The man continued to eye him warily. "Get enough of your types 'round here. Well, not really your type though, are they? The Militia, they call themselves. The soldier boys. Only they ain't soldiers anymore. War's over."

       Eyal sighed. "Were you here in your residence last night, sir?"

       "Of course I was. Where else would I be?" He frowned. "What kind of question is that?"

       "Did you hear anything last night? Any strange noises?"

       "This damn building, it creaks and moans something awful. Rickety old place, this. And it catches all the drafts coming off the mountains."

       "I mean something more particular. Loud noises, like an altercation, perhaps."

       "No." The man scratched his head. "What is this about?"

       Eyal pointed down the walkway. "A man was killed last night, two doors down from you. He was a Militia officer."

       The man's eyes opened wide, his face suddenly animated. "Killed? How?"

       "He was shot to death," Eyal said, his patience waning.

       "Shot, eh? No, I didn't hear any shots. I would have, too, you know. I wake up at every little thing. Haven't gotten a proper sleep in years, years." The man rubbed his nettled chin and clucked his tongue as Eyal shoved his notepad away. "Shot. Unbelievable!"

       "What's that sir?" Eyal asked tiredly.

       "Well, Christ, boy, you remember before the end of the war, surely! A lawman, murdered in his own home? Such things just didn't happen! I'll bet it was another of those Goddamn fugees, escaped from their wretched camps. It's not enough they suck us dry, take everything from us. But they lash out, kill, steal, rape! We bled for them on their lands, and they repay us by pillaging everything we have. We are more miserable in victory than we were in defeat!"

       "Thank you for your time, sir," Eyal said, trying to depart. But the man persisted.

       "I follow the news, you know. Not much else to do, these days. They say that Lansing fellow is going to win. I don't understand it! He promises more of the same or worse, and they cheer him for it. We must save ourselves, first."

       "Get some rest, sir," Eyal said as he walked away.

       "Catch him!" the man shouted after him. "Put a bullet in him! No more room for vagrants!" He shuffled back inside, still muttering to himself.

       Eyal stood in front of the next door for a moment, breathing the cold air deeply. He tried to prepare himself for the next encounter. Just as he was about to knock, however, the door opened of its own accord. Below him stood a young girl, no more than six, dressed in a plain but clean pink frock. Her face was too thin, her bright blue eyes appearing sunken and over-large. Her wispy blonde hair was tied back in a carefully prepared pony-tail.

       "Hello," she said kindly.

       "Good morning," he said, careful not to bend down and so appear condescending. "My name is Eyal. I'm a police officer. Do you have a parent home?"

       "My mom's in the shower," she replied, gesturing behind her. "What are you here for?"

       Eyal hesitated, wondering what he should reveal. "Did you hear anything strange last night?" he asked at length.

       The girl thought for a moment. "No, I didn't hear anything strange. I did see something strange, though."

       "What do you mean?"

       "I saw a man pass by our room last night. He didn't belong." She leaned closer and whispered, "I think he was a monster."

       Eyal felt his heart quicken. "Where did you see him? What time was it?"

       "It was really late last night, I don't remember when exactly. I was sitting right there." She pointed to a small chair situated next to the front window that overlooked the walkway.

       "Did you get a good look at the man?" he asked.

       She nodded slowly. "Yes. He looked right at me—I think he saw me." Her eyes widened in remembrance. "His face was really hairy and his clothes were all ripped up. When he looked at me, his expression was wild, like a dog's. I think…" she paused in thought. "I think he was a werewolf."

       At that moment, a woman in a bathrobe emerged from the bedroom. Her hair, still damp, was blonde as well, but like her face, it was much fuller than her daughter's. She walked quickly to the girl and put her hands protectively across her shoulders, withdrawing her a few steps from Eyal. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Why are you talking to my daughter?"

       He pulled out his badge and held it out for her. "I'm Detective Dayan, with Metro," he said.

       She frowned as she scanned the badge, but was apparently satisfied by it. "Why are you here, Detective?"

       "Ma'am, a man was murdered on your floor last night. A Militia officer, no less."

       She appeared startled at the news, though not half so much as her daughter. The little girl's eyes opened wide, and her mouth dropped open. She edged closer to her mother's robe.

       "My God," the mother breathed. "He was killed? Here?"

       "Yes, ma'am. He was shot to death in his room. And I believe your daughter saw the murderer."

       "What?" This did rather more to unsettle her. She looked down at her daughter, directing her face upwards with her hand. "Who did you see, Lauren?"

       The girl's eyes opened even wider, as Eyal had scarcely thought possible, but her voice did not tremble. "He scared me, mama," she said.

       "Who did?" Eyal asked. "The bearded man?"

       "No," she shook her head, returning her frightened gaze to him. "The army man. He had mean eyes."

       Eyal paused at this. "What about the bearded man?"

       "He looked scared, too," she said. "He looked at me, into my eyes. And then he ran away, that way." She pointed down the walkway in the opposite direction of Cordova's room.

       He nodded slowly. "Thank you Lauren. You've been a big help."

       "Go to your room, sweetheart," her mother said. She let her gaze rest on Eyal once her daughter was gone, coldly regarding him in silence.

       "Did you hear or see anything, ma'am?" he asked.

       "No. Will that be all?"

       "Did he scare you, too? Cordova, I mean—the officer."

       She shrugged. "He never bothered me."

       "That's not what I asked." When she remained silent, he continued, "One more thing, ma'am. Your daughter—how did she see this man? Our pathologist indicated he was killed around two o'clock last night. I just ask to determine her reliability."

       "If Lauren said that she saw something, she saw it."

       "I mean to ask..."

       "I know what you meant," she said sharply, cutting him off. "Lauren has leukemia. They don't have enough beds at the hospital for her unless her condition worsens. Her medication keeps her up at night. She says watching the cars pass by in the dark helps her fall asleep sometimes."

       Eyal lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry."

       "Is that all?" she asked brusquely.

       "Yes."

       "Don't come back here." She closed the door.

       Eyal slowly walked away from the door. He tried to shake the encounter away, casting the memory of the little girl's eyes from his mind. He strode past the remaining apartments on the floor, heading instead for the far edge of the balcony: retracing the steps of the murderer. He gripped the balustrade tightly and surveyed his surroundings.

       Waverleigh was a residential district situated in the northern end of the Ravenna River Valley, a sorry crop of grey tenements and squat warehouses bounded by the impenetrable escarpment of the mountains above. Far away from the city center, the district was at least well-serviced by the Massilia subway network. Across the street below was one such station. Eyal dialled the Department.

       "Hello?"

       "Lee. It's Eyal."

       "Ah." He sounded harassed. "How goes the investigation?"

       "I spoke to a witness who I think might have seen the murderer. I don't think our man has a car. Probably doesn't have much of anything at all."

       "What are you thinking? A fugee?"

       "Maybe. I don't know yet. Anyway, I need you to pull the security footage for the subway station at Waverleigh Heights Manor. Mantega and I are finishing up here, we'll be back within the hour."

       "I'll have it ready for you," said Lee, promptly ending the call.

       Eyal turned sharply to retrieve his partner. He was done here. God willing, he would make this a short day.

       The station was chaos. It always was.

       Eyal could remember the usual scene in the station before the end of the war. The floor would be filled with desk sergeants quietly filing their paperwork and tending to the various administrative duties the Department demanded. Tired officers would be coming off their shifts, grabbing some coffee before they left and mingling with the officers just arriving. Detectives would cluster around a desk or in a corner to discuss a case, at times passionately or urgently, but more often than not in the even tones of routine. Maybe a few pick-ups would be hanging around the peripheries, usually troubled teens or desultory prostitutes, those veterans of arrest who were bored by the well-practiced system.

       No longer. About the same number of people did three times the work. The same desk sergeants, the older officers who had once anticipated a comfortable retirement, frantically tried to file paperwork that was never entirely finished. Haggard officers stopped only to retreat from their double shifts, or to deliver pick-ups for processing before heading back out. The pick-ups themselves were no longer the familiar faces of the street, but only those dangerous enough to warrant the time and effort. Addicts and hookers were turned loose with only a warning and a fine they would never pay. Uniforms were too scarce to waste their time on such pedestrian crimes.

       Eyal and Mantega rushed past the bustling throng towards the rear of the station. They entered the records room, which was uncharacteristically quiet. Lee sat before the monitors, scribbling something on a piece of paper. Amrita Singh, the captain, stood with her arms crossed, staring at them intently as they entered.

       "You're back," she said.

       "Indeed," Eyal returned with a nod.

       "I'm sorry I had to call you in, but there was no one else."

       "I've been apologized to enough, today, captain. I'm over it."

       She sighed, rubbing her haggard face. Eyal could summon no anger against her. Singh was seemingly omnipresent at the station, like a fixture on the wall. The ragged couch in her office sometimes had a blanket tucked beneath its uneven cushions; he suspected she had spent many nights without seeing home.

       "Good," she said. "Now that I have you, listen up. I can't stress this enough: this case is priority one. We have less than forty-eight hours to tie this one off before we have to hand it over to the Militia. As you can imagine, our friends are chomping at the bit to get a piece of this guy, and the city council has given us a strict deadline before they relent. We all know the Militia have been muscling in on our jurisdiction. Murder one is still a firmly Metro responsibility. Let's keep it that way."

       They both nodded. "I think I have an actionable lead," Eyal said.

       "So I've heard. Lee has pulled the footage you asked for."

       Eyal leaned over Lee's shoulder to stare at the screen, knowing it irked the analyst. "This is the entrance cam for the Waverleigh station last night," he said, shifting uncomfortably.

       "Alright. Narrow it to between two and three in the a.m."

       "Do you know exactly what you're looking for?" Singh asked.

       "I have an idea." He watched the screen intently as Lee sped the feed to double speed. There were very few passengers entering the station so late—picking out a man of the child's description would not be too difficult.

       "Who was the witness, anyway?" Mantega asked.

       Eyal thought back to the little girl. "A woman on Cordova's floor," he lied. "A few doors down."

       "Why didn't you bring her in?" Singh asked.

       He shrugged. "She was heading off to work and didn't want to be detained. She gave me a pretty good description. Wait!" He pointed to the screen as Lee stopped the footage. He studied the still form on the screen, the figure in the middle of a rapid descent down the station's steps. The timestamp was 02:21. "He matches the description."

       The others crowded around the screen, carefully examining the man. "He looks like a vagrant," Mantega said.

       "Looks like a fugee," Lee murmured.

       Singh remained silent for a moment, still looking at the figure. "You think that's the killer?" she asked earnestly.

       "Time matches, description matches," Eyal confirmed with a nod. "And he looks to be in a mighty rush."

       "Play the footage, Lee," Mantega ordered.

       They followed the man's hurried progress across the surveillance network. He squeezed onto a near-empty train just as its doors were closing. "Looks like the forty-two," Lee said. "Southbound."

       "Follow the train's stops," Mantega said. "See where he gets off."

       After seeing the dismal interiors of more than a dozen subway stations, Eyal finally saw their quarry emerge into one particularly scarred stop. "There he is."

       "That's the Sackville station on Sofia and fourth," Lee said.

       "What's the surveillance system like in the Sackville area?" Mantega asked as they watched the man leaving the station.

       "Same as it is in all those shitty neighborhoods," Lee grunted as he twisted his chair around. "City never bothered to put many cameras up in the first place, and the locals always seem to find them and bust them."

       "They do like their privacy," Mantega sighed.

       Eyal scratched his chin, still watching as the man climbed the final steps to the surface. "This guy did get the drop on a Militia officer, but I don't think he's a master criminal. My witness said he seemed panicked, and he certainly looks like it on the cameras, too. My guess is that if he got off at that station, he's living or squatting within walking distance of it." He turned to face Mantega and Singh. "I'll bet he's still there."

       Mantega smirked. "What are we still waiting for?"

       Singh nodded slowly. "Okay then. I'll put an APB on this guy and get our own uniforms to double up in the Sackville area. And I'll get our Militia friends to stand by in the area, just in case." She clasped her hands together in satisfaction. "Now you two: do your jobs. Find this guy. Today."

       Neither the day's progression nor distance from the mountains could do anything to warm the air. The wind was still frigid and biting, freezing the ubiquitous mounds of snow into solid blocks of ice. The poor weather did not, however, dampen the energy of the day. The streets of Sackville were clogged with people and cars.

       It was a blessing, Eyal knew, that Vesta had responded to the crisis with such verve, even if it occasionally took a bitter turn. Other colonies, like Corsini, had simply collapsed under the sheer weight of humanity; many others still were now but names for history. Yet the crowds and traffic that followed him everywhere forever violated his pretentions to privacy and space that his upbringing had imbibed in him, and more than once drove him to thoughts of a quiet retreat.

       "Where in Christ are we going to start?" Mantega asked above the general din.

       It was a good question. The man's appearance suggested that they ought to start with the local tramps, but getting information out of them was usually an exercise in futility, and they had little time to waste. Yet asking passersby or locals in the current environment would likely prove equally unsuccessful.

       "We need a local business that a poor man would frequent," said Eyal after some thought. "A grocery store, maybe. Or a bar."

       Mantega nudged him and pointed across the street. At the corner of the far block was an Ithaca Post, a privately run organization that tried to reunite native Vestals or acclimated refugees with family members in the camps. "He did look like a fugee," Mantega said. "Maybe he was looking for someone he left behind."

       "It's worth checking," he agreed. They crossed the street at a rare break in traffic and entered the building.

       Considering its purpose, the interior was surprisingly clean and well-kept, but the small space was unbearably crowded. A long, twisting queue led to a counter where three harassed clerks sat behind row of computers and tall stacks of paper. Along the walls were dozens more distraught people, desperately checking all the latest postings or the arrival times of the incoming transport ships.

       At length, Eyal and Mantega were able to elbow their way towards the front. One of the clerks eyed them warily as they approached, and a security guard behind the counter took a step forward. "Excuse me, sir," Eyal said to the clerk, "we need to ask you a few questions."

       "Are you kidding me?" the man snapped, turning his attention from the woman he was attending to. "Do you see all these people?"

       "We're in a hurry," said Eyal, pulling out his badge.

       The man glanced angrily at the offending article. "You know, you cops are in here every week, waving your badges around, treating refugees like the bogeyman."

       "Hey," Mantega said sharply before Eyal could respond. "We just need a moment."

       After casting the woman a quick apologetic glance, he turned to face them. "What do you want?"

       Mantega showed him a still capture of the man in the subway. "Do you recognize this man?" she asked.

       The clerk gave it a quick scan. "No. I've never seen him before." He looked back up, his tired eyes full of anger. "Is that it?"

       "Come on, man," Eyal said, leaning closer to him. "Give us a break. We don't know if this guy is a refugee, a local, or a Goddamn ghost. That's why we're asking you. And the sooner you give us an honest answer, the sooner we'll leave."

       The man sighed deeply, giving the picture a closer study. "No," he said, more evenly this time. "I get a lot who look like that, but not him."

       "You're sure?" Mantega asked.

       "Look," he began quietly, edging closer so that the woman he was attending to could not hear. "We get the same people in here every week. They always come back, stand in the same line for hours, get the same soul-crushing news. I've seen a lot of faces, but I've never seen that one. And I'm here all the time."

       Eyal looked into the man's tired eyes, saw the week's growth of stubble on his face: he believed him. "So probably not a refugee, then."

       "Who can say," he answered with a shrug. "All I can tell you is that if he is a refugee, he doesn't live around here."

       "Thank you," Mantega said in parting.

       They emerged into the cold, standing together for a moment just outside the door. A few passing pedestrians cast them irritated glances. "Probably looking for a native," Eyal said slowly. "Not a refugee."

       Mantega said nothing for a moment, just rubbing her hands together for warmth. "Or he's smarter than we thought," she said at length. "Knew we'd be watching him on the vids. Gave us the slip."

       "No." Eyal shook his head confidently. "No, he lives here, I'm sure of it. Let's keep going."

       A few more stops offered equally fruitless results. They tried varied businesses—a bank; a convenience store; a laundromat. None had anyone who recognized the man, or at any rate were willing to say as much to the police.

       "This must have been easier back in the day," Mantega said in frustration as they left a local vendor. "When they could actually commit more than two damn officers."

       Eyal's face darkened at this. Mantega winced and opened her mouth to say something—he willed her not to. She must have understood, and simply averted her eyes.

       "That fits the bill," Mantega announced instead after another block of silence. She pointed to a prominent café ahead, with the words "North Star Coffee" emblazoned in Mandarin on the awning overhead. Its snow-covered patio tables lay abandoned and overturned in testament to the season and the neighborhood, but beyond the frosted windows lay bare a veritable crowd within.

       "Let's do it," Eyal said.

       The café was indeed as busy as it looked. The tough times over the past three years had been the death knell for many businesses, both large and small. Yet in these days, when lawyers were building ships and accountants were plowing the earth, homey neighborhood cafes like the North Star were thriving. Such businesses flourished as gathering spots for the mass of workers with little money or no access, enlivened by passionate discussion or even public displays of artistic talent. Some were even suggesting that the current troubles had saved humanity from the permanent isolation wrought upon modern man by technological delights. Or so Eyal had read. He did not partake of the social pleasures so described.

       One man at the counter was idly cleaning the machines while the baristas struggled to keep up with the orders. Eyal and Mantega headed straight for him.

       "Can I help you, officers?" the man asked without looking up from his work.

       Eyal chuckled. "With just your peripherals," he said, impressed. "Good eye."

       He looked up with a faint smile on his own lips. "This is Sackville. We get plenty of your types coming in here. Now what can I do for you?"

       "We're looking for a man we think might live around here." Eyal showed him the picture.

       The man looked at the still for a moment; he blinked. Quickly he snapped his head back up, and held Eyal's gaze steadily. "Never seen him." He slid the photo back to him.

       Mantega slid it back. "Take another look," she growled.

       "I've never seen him before," he repeated stolidly.

       "Look," Mantega began, holding the photo in place on the countertop, "this guy isn't wanted for jaywalking. He killed a Militia officer—a Major, no less. He tied him up, tortured him, and executed him." The man's face remained emotionless, but Eyal could detect a flicker in his eye; of nerves or just surprise Eyal could not quite tell. "Now Metro has forty-eight hours to bring this guy in, or else the case is being handed off to the Militia. And then they're gonna come here, and use their own particular methods to find the man who killed one of their own."

       For a moment the man retained his mask, before frowning and grumbling a harsh obscenity. "I know the man," he sighed, before holding up a hand and casting Mantega a severe look. "Not that well, though."

       "You don't say?"

       He returned to his frown. "He comes in here a lot, usually after five. Said his name was Isaac Gables."

       Mantega cast Eyal a sidelong look. It was a lucky break. Eyal brought out his notepad. "Tell me about Isaac, Mr…"

       "Jiang. Proprietor," he added before continuing. "I've owned this place for thirty-three years, back when the Covenant didn't mean anything outside the Bible. I've seen more faces pass through here than I could ever count, but I remember them all pretty well. Isaac started coming in here about twenty years ago, been a regular ever since. Comes in here a couple times a week, usually after five—always orders the same thing: coffee, cream, no sugar, and a blueberry muffin. Always tries to sit right over there," he pointed to a corner table by a window.

       "What can you tell me about him, Mr. Jiang?"

       "Nothing profound. He didn't talk much. At least not to anyone here." He squinted his eyes in remembrance. "Back when he first started coming here, though, he caused a bit of a disturbance. See, he sits alone in his corner, and talks to himself sometimes… sometimes pretty loud, too."

       "What does he say?" Mantega asked.

       "Nothing. Just gibberish, as far as I can tell. Asks for his mother sometimes, and someone named Claire." He shook his head. "Anyway, some of the customers started complaining about him when he first came here. I thought he was just another crazy off the street. So I went over to kick him out, and ended up talking with him for about an hour. One of the nicest guys I've ever met. Now everyone's used to him, and they mostly just leave him alone. He has a few screws loose, no doubt about it. But he's harmless." He shook his head again. "He's just not capable of doing what you say."

       "Was he a war vet?" Mantega ventured, remembering Dr. Salehi's suggestion.

       "I don't know. I never did ask. I do get a lot of 'em in here, though—veterans, that is. Usually they came in two kinds: hollow or angry. Isaac struck me as the type born the way he was."

       Eyal prompted Jiang to return his gaze to him. "Do you know where we could find Mr. Gables?"

       "No. Honestly, no," he repeated, after Eyal narrowed his eyes. "As I said, I don't know him very well. He's just a customer."

       "Thank you, Mr. Jiang," Mantega said. "We may be contacting you later."

       "I understand," Jiang said, turning quickly back to his half-hearted cleaning.

       "You believe him?" Eyal asked as they exited the cafe.

       "I think everything he told us about our suspect was true," she said. "He might be lying about not knowing where he lives. But if he got off the subway in this neighborhood, and frequents this place, he's gotta be nearby."

       Eyal glanced up and down the busy street, scanning the second story windows of the long rows of buildings. "How do you want to do this? Stake out here, see if he comes back?"

       Mantega frowned. "Jiang said he only comes in a couple times a week. We're on a timeline here—we don't have the luxury to fuck about. And even if he isn't a criminal mastermind, he might be spooked, getting set to run."

       "Let's close the net, then," Eyal said, reaching for his phone. He dialed Lee.

       "Eyal," Lee's voice greeted after many rings. "Tell me you're getting somewhere. The Captain's in a state. I'm pretty sure she's gonna give herself a heart attack."

       "You'll be glad to help, then," he remarked grimly. "I need you to check if there are any registered residents by the name of Isaac Gables within ten blocks of my current location."

       A pause. "Sorry, Eyal. No luck."

       "Try just first name Isaac."

       "Yep," Lee confirmed. "Two. I'm sending their addresses to you now. Anything else?"

       "Not for now. Thanks Lee." He turned to Mantega. "Two possible locations."

       "How convenient," she said with a grin.

       "We'll get our friends to standby at both locations. And we'll get this son of a bitch." He returned her grin. "You go left and I'll go right?"

       "Sounds good."

       Sackville was populated with drab but serviceable buildings. Their walls were marred by the occasional spray-paint tag or smashed window, but they were not generally the deathtraps that they were sometimes thought to be by those fortunate enough to live elsewhere. The apartment which Lee had directed him to, however, epitomized the stereotype of urban decay that plagued the neighborhood. From without, the tenement loomed high and crooked, as if it were tired and had to lean on the adjacent building to keep from collapsing under its exhaustion. Inside, the lobby was bereft of heat, though the cold could do nothing to suppress the foul odor that seemed to waft from the cracks in the walls. As he so often did, Eyal wondered whether disreputable types were naturally drawn to such places, or if such places effected such hopeless anger that they begot disreputable behavior.

       Eyal walked right in, for the lock on the door was broken and looked as if it had been so for quite some time. Beyond a row of mostly broken postal boxes was an elevator. He opted for the stairwell instead, despite the rather demanding climb.

       A lot of graffiti lined the walls along the stairs, mostly amateur scrawlings of little or only personal meaning. A few, however, were more sinister and recognizable. He picked out a few local gang emblems, simpler and more precise than the inexpert attempts at art that surrounded them. He even saw a handful of symbols of the Black Hand, the southern political terrorists who, after the Civil War gave way to the Covenant War, reinvented themselves as street thugs and extortionists. These tags were old and faded, faintly peering out from the walls like specters of Vesta's violent past.

       He reached the sixth floor slightly out of breath, taking a moment to scan both ends of the long corridor he found himself in. The hallway was poorly lit and littered with heaps of garbage and loose papers. He was startled as one such refuse pile writhed on the floor next to him, and almost went for his gun. Looking closer, he saw a man's face in the midst of the trash, a squatter sleeping under newspapers and a filthy rag. He smelled like an open sewer.

       He proceeded down the corridor towards the apartment number Lee had pulled up. Towards the end he saw a man approaching cradling a bag of groceries in his arms. The bag obscured his face, which to Eyal looked little different from the squatter he just passed, and very nearly he did not recognize him. Yet something in the way the man slowed as Eyal approached compelled him to a closer study, and he saw among the bristling hair the eyes of which the little girl had spoken.

       Eyal's hand dropped to his hip as the man came to a complete stop. "Isaac Gables?" he queried.

       For a brief moment, Eyal and Gables stood still, facing each other, staring the other down. Then, in a flash of movement, Gables flung the bag at Eyal, missing him but forcing a startled lurch. Gables was already half-way down the hall before he started to pursue, gun in hand.

       "Stop!" Eyal screamed, almost incoherently.

       Gables ran to a window at the rear wall, slowing a little to wrench it open. Eyal almost thought he could catch him, but he slipped through just beyond his reach. Gables vaulted onto the rusted platform of an unsteady fire-escape. Eyal followed without hesitation.

       "I have the suspect," he panted into his radio as he chased Gables down the narrow steps. "He is proceeding down the east fire-escape on ninth."

       Gables was putting distance between them, racing down the treacherous steps with reckless abandon. On the bottom platform he simply vaulted over the rail, landing hard on the pavement almost twenty feet below. He stumbled, but hardly slowed, and continued running.

       Eyal grabbed his radio in frustration. "Suspect is proceeding north up the rear alley," he grunted.

       He lowered himself rather more cautiously from the bottom ladder and resumed his chase. Ahead he could see a couple of Militia Warthogs blocking the exit to the street. Their flashing lights bathed the dark alley in an alternate red and blue glow. Gables lay on the ground before three Militia officers, curled up in a protective ball with his hands covering his face. Eyal arrived just as a brutal kick was delivered to Gables' side.

       "Stop," was all Eyal could manage, his breath robbed by his exertions and his nerves.

       They cast him a fleeting glance before they resumed their beating. Gables did not scream, but only grunted and curled up into a tighter ball.

       "Hey, stop!" Eyal commanded, catching his breath. "He's ours."

       One of the officers stopped to turn and face Eyal. He was not especially tall, but he had the broad shoulders and thick jowls of a boxer, and even at an appreciable distance Eyal could see the intensity with which the officer's eyes bore into him. "He didn't kill one of yours," he growled, quietly but dangerously. "He's ours. Now fuck off." The officer punctuated his command by bringing a heavily booted foot upon Gable's clenched fingers, eliciting his first agonized scream.

       "Stop right now!" Eyal shouted. For the second time in the last few minutes, his hand drifted towards his holster. The Militiamen all clutched their weapons a little tighter, and turned at last to face him seriously.

       The lead Militia stared at him furiously. "Are you serious?" he hissed. "You'd draw on us over this piece of shit?"

       Eyal was not serious—even a flick of his hand would almost certainly invite his death. He hoped only, perhaps in vain, that his show of insanity would oblige their cooperation. Yet they seemed intent on keeping Gables, and dealing with him as they wished.

       He was not sure how much further the confrontation would have progressed were it not for the arrival of a fourth man appearing from behind one of the Warthogs.

       "That's enough, Grantmyre," the officer commanded.

       "But sir," the other said, grinding his teeth.

       "You will safety your weapons, men!" the interjecting officer shouted as he entered their midst. "Sergeant Grantmyre, get the 'hogs ready. We gotta get right back to it."

       "Yes, sir," he scowled, leaving with his men.

       The fourth officer studied Gables as he lay writhing in pain upon the pavement. "This is him, then, eh?" he said. "Not much to look at, is he, Detective…"

       "Dayan. Eyal Dayan."

       "Colonel Dai," he said, introducing himself in turn. "I apologize for my men. They get a bit tetchy when one of us falls to a civvie."

       "Can't say that I blame them."

       "Me neither. Still, though, it was unacceptable behavior. Your Department has the Militia's full cooperation."

       Eyal nodded his gratitude. "Thank you, sir." He bent down to pull Gables to his feet, and Dai stooped to assist. Gables moaned in protest, but did not resist. Eyal gingerly put the handcuffs on him, careful not to touch his twisted fingers.

       "Need any help getting him back?" Dai offered.

       "I appreciate it, Colonel, but my partner should be here shortly. We'll take him in."

       Dai smirked. "I understand. We'll be on our way then." As he started to walk away, he suddenly turned and called, "Oh, and Detective?"

       "Yes?"

       "Get him good."

       Eyal just nodded, and the Colonel continued towards his Warthogs.

       "Can you walk?" he asked the bloodied Gables.

       "Go fuck yourself," the prisoner breathed between agonized gasps.

       "Alright then." He led Gables down to the far end of the alley.

       As he neared the street, Mantega's patrol car pulled up. She quickly sprang from the vehicle and ran towards them. "You got him?" she said, almost surprised. She frowned at Gables' battered face. "Christ. What happened to him?"

       "He took a nasty spill of the fire escape," Eyal said nonchalantly.

       Mantega peered down the alley just as the Warthogs drove off. "I see," she murmured with a slow nod.

       Eyal hauled Gables towards the car, inducing a sharp groan. "Let's get this piece of work processed. Maybe I can at least go home early."

Vestal Sins: Chapter 2: Surrendering to the Tide
Date: 26 June 2009, 3:18 am

       Was this really the face of a monster?

       Eyal studied the battered face of Isaac Gables through the one-way mirror. The cut on his nose had not yet clotted—a few drops of blood still dripped into his already thickly matted beard. His swollen eyes were downcast, hidden by the untamed mass of grey-streaked hair that sprang in every direction from his face. His hands were folded on the metal tabletop, the rudimentarily bandaged right resting gently upon the other. Gables sat perfectly still in his chair, such that it almost appeared as if he were not breathing. Only a few twitches of his head assured Eyal that his prisoner had not expired.

       He remembered the little girl's assessment of Gables earlier: a frightened animal. It took very little stretch of the imagination for him to see it, too.

       Eyal looked downed at the file he held in his hands. It was Major Cordova's service record that the Militia had kindly forwarded to him. He had to admit, it was an impressive tome. Cordova joined with the Vesta Expeditionary Force in 2531, heading out along with the first big drive. Saw action at Harvest in '31, Purple Heart. Earned his commission at Jericho, '35—another Purple heart. Picked up a Bronze Star for shipboard combat during the Atlas Moons Campaign, '37; a Silver Star at Katowice, '41; another Silver Star at Sihnon, '48; a Medal of Honor for actions at Boston, during the First Battle of Earth. The man had been decorated with more campaign ribbons than he could count, along with almost a dozen lesser medals and a slew of general accolades. Eyal clucked his tongue. A genuine war hero.

       He raised his head once more to look at Gables, still sitting motionless in the interrogation chair. For a moment Eyal's mind slipped back to Waverleigh Heights, and he saw instead Cordova tied to his chair, blood still oozing from the hole in the back of his head. Eyal steeled himself. Frightened or no, he was dealing with a monster.

       The door opened with a sharp squeak behind him, and Assistant District Attorney Melanie Haskell slipped in. "Hello, Eyal," she greeted him with a warm smile.

       "Melanie," he said with a nod, watching as she shut the door. Her tall frame was dressed in a crisp black suit and her blonde hair was tied back in an elegant ponytail, not a strand out of place. He could never quite figure how she maintained her immaculate appearance after the long hours of her day. Next to the motley crew of cops, with their frayed suits smelling of stale coffee, Haskell always stood out like the moon against the stars.

       She strode over to stand next to him, peering through the mirror like a visitor studying a curiosity at the zoo. "This is the guy?" she asked him flatly. "You sure?"

       "More or less," he returned. "He matches a witness' description, and was seen on camera leaving the crime scene. We got our CSUs turning out his apartment. They've already recovered a handgun that matches our murder weapon. They're running the tests now."

       "Well, we need to be sure about this," she said. "Stanley wants this one tied off before it even makes the evening news. But there can't be any fuck-ups. He wants a confession."

       "I'm glad he thinks so highly of my skills," he retorted. "I'll do my best, Melanie, but he doesn't seem like the cooperative type. He'll plead insanity, regardless."

       "Doesn't matter. As long as we have a name and a face to give the networks."

       They were silent for a few moments, together sharing the company of a man entirely unaware of their presence. It was Haskell who, at length, broke the silence. "You coming over tonight?" she asked evenly.

       Eyal sighed, unconsciously scratching the back of his head. "I got a lot of work to do," he said slowly.

       She looked at him meaningfully. "How would that be different from any other day?"

       He had reserved this day for private indulgences, to do all the things he wished he could do every day if only exhaustion did not drive him to a premature sleep. To delve into the memories of his past without fear of distracting himself from all the pressing matters that assaulted him at work. And to do these things away from the constant scrutiny, real or imagined, of all the people in his life.

       This ambition already dashed, he committed to indulging his other needs. "Alright," he acceded. "As soon as I'm done with this."

       She just smiled, and remained silent.

       The door opened, and Eyal turned to see Mantega and Singh enter the room. Singh, as ever, looked hassled and tired, but wore on her face an expression of mild relief.

       "You got him," she said wearily.

       "Well, due process and all that, Captain," he returned with a smirk. "But I believe so, yes."

       Singh returned the smile and then turned to Haskell. "Melanie," she said, greeting the ADA with a nod. "You were prompt. Stanley must have a stick up his ass over this one."

       "You have no idea, Captain," she returned earnestly. "Has he asked for counsel yet?"

       "No," Mantega interjected. She had a glint in her eye as she regarded Haskell. "When I offered he practically snarled at me."

       "If only they were all so generous," Eyal said wistfully.

       Mantega chuckled. "We've contacted legal aid, but they're, uh, real busy over there just now."

       "And the injuries?" Singh inquired.

       "A nasty fall," Eyal assured her.

       "I see." She seemed disinclined to pursue the matter further. "Well, I'm sure Ms. Haskell is looking for a confession."

       "Indeed she is," Eyal said. "But it would be a whole lot easier if we knew anything about the man. Any luck finding that out, Captain?"

       "No," Singh replied, weariness again seeping into her voice. "There are only a handful of Isaac Gables planetside, and they're all accounted for. It's an alias. Unfortunately that's all I can tell you for now."

       "Didn't you run his prints?"

       "We're doing it now, but it's taking a while." Singh frowned. "Lee thinks the system might be down."

       "This Goddamn city," Eyal muttered, shaking his head. "Well, I'll see if I can get a confession from our nameless perp. I'll have him sign it 'X.'"

       Eyal and Mantega left the room, and approached the door to the adjoining interrogation room. Just outside, Mantega grabbed Eyal's elbow and pulled him close. "You didn't tell me you were fucking the ADA," she said accusingly. Eyal raised his eyebrows and began to speak, but Mantega only smirked and opened the door.

       Isaac jumped from his trancelike state at the sound of the door, casting wide, unblinking eyes in their direction. Upon recognizing them, he simply scowled and continued to stare at the table.

       "Little nervous, Gables?" Mantega asked, circling the room like a shark. "Or whatever the fuck your name is?"

       Isaac remained silent, adamantly staring at nothing.

       Mantega glanced at Eyal. "Maybe we should just give him up to the Militia," she suggested with a shrug. This seemed to do little to faze Isaac, who, were it not for a few involuntary twitches, Eyal would have suspected to be in a catatonic state.

       Eyal slowly seated himself on the chair opposite their suspect. "Look, Isaac," he began, reluctantly settling into the gentler role Mantega had left for him. "It's over. We got you. We've found the murder weapon in your apartment, we found the silencer, and we have you on camera leaving the scene. And I'm betting those cuts on your hand have Cordova's blood in them." He waited for a moment in vain for a reaction.

       "I don't know if there's any part of you that still cares about anything," Eyal continued. "I don't know if you care about your people, or your homeworld, or what's left of humanity, but if you give up now, you'll save a lot of time, and money, and suffering. Let us not waste resources we don't have acting out a fantasy where your guilt is actually in question."

       When his plea was met with silence, Mantega snorted. "Look at him. He doesn't care. He's gotta be a refugee."

       "I ain't no fucking fugee!" Isaac spat, suddenly rearing his head.

       Eyal was taken aback by the outburst, and so hurriedly continued to conceal his surprise. "You would be put in jail, Isaac, and you could stare at the walls all you liked until the world forgets about you. That's what you want, isn't it? You didn't try very hard to flee from your crime. Just make it easy on yourself, and us. Confess, and let's end this charade."

       Isaac was now looking into Eyal's eyes, but he still refused to answer. He unconsciously massaged his broken hand and stared defiantly back at him.

       "Not gonna give it up, eh Isaac?" Mantega asked, sensing Eyal's defeat. "You want to continue to live in a fantasy, where you didn't kill Luis Cordova, and where your name really is Isaac Gables. Well tell me," she said, seating herself on the edge of the table next to him, "who are you really? What happened to you that would drive you to torture and murder, and to suck up our few remaining resources to prove what we already Goddamn know? You're not a refugee, apparently, so what does that make you? A native Vestal?" She paused for effect as he continued to look at Eyal. "Okay then. But from whereabouts, I wonder. From around here?" She pretended to study him. "No, I don't think so. I'd wager you're from the South… another Southern simpleton lost in the big city. No wonder he was pissing his britches—probably never seen the inside of a police station that wasn't a shithouse." His eye twitched, but Isaac remained still.

       "All this electricity got you dazed and confused, Isaac?" she continued, leaping like a tiger upon this reaction. "Big city lights get you disoriented? Small minds turn to violence when thrown from their element. What happened—that northern Militiaman disrespected your miserable fucking culture?" Isaac, apparently steeling himself, remained composed under Mantega's latest verbal salvo.

       "You don't react to much, do you Isaac?" Eyal asked, trying to penetrate his glassy stare. "You keep concentrating on a single spot. Someone teach you to do that?"

       Mantega leaned a little closer to Isaac. "It's interesting—the weapon you used to kill Cordova is a standard VEF issued firearm. You in the army, Isaac? Is that it? I hear Cordova was a harsh man—did you serve with him? Did he cross you?" She made a sudden move to grab his wounded wrist and began to retract his sleeve. Though handcuffed, Isaac seized her arm and pulled her sharply forward, dragging her from the tabletop. Eyal rounded the table in a bound and roughly grasped his bandaged hand, slamming it upon the table. Isaac internalized his pain, but immediately released Mantega.

       "Like a fucking animal," she murmured as she pulled Isaac's sleeve up to his elbow. On the underside of his forearm was a tattoo approximately six inches long, depicting the familiar form of Vesta, her sharp-featured face turned to profile with a sword held aloft above her head. It was a departure from her usual detached serenity, though it had become all too familiar over the past thirty years.

       "Mark of the VEF," Eyal said, examining the design.

       Mantega shook her head and clucked her tongue. "I really didn't think you would be," she sighed. "A man who faced the Covenant… who faced down the ultimate Other… who saw the End with his own eyes… turning on one of his own like that. I can't fathom it… can't fathom what kind of twisted piece of shit could do that."

       At last, Isaac inclined his head towards Mantega. "Shut your fucking mouth. You don't know what you're talking about." He sullenly crossed his arms, gingerly resting his bandaged hand upon the opposite arm. "I'm nothing like him."

       "Like who, Isaac?" Eyal pressed. "The man you killed?"

       He just shook his head. "I'm not a monster."

       "Really?" Mantega asked. "Because you left some pretty compelling evidence that you are."

       Isaac strained his head towards hers. "I don't kill children," he hissed.

       "And Cordova did?" Eyal ventured, trying for a solid confession.

       He held his penetrating gaze into her eyes. "If you take a life before it's lived, you're a monster. And you deserve to die."

       Isaac's aphorism was greeted with a momentary silence. Mantega seemed to be unable to conjure a response; Eyal, for his part, could not avert his eyes from the burning intensity of Isaac's glare.

       They were spared a graceless recovery by a knock on the door.

       Eyal and Mantega promptly exited, leaving Isaac to return to his impassive state. Lee and Singh stood expectantly outside, the former clutching a folder in his hand.

       "Well?" Mantega demanded.

       "We finally got a hit on his prints," Lee said. "Off the VEF database." He opened the folder. "His real name is Isaac Stahl. Born 2515 in Cedar Gables, a small town in the South."

       Mantega grunted. "Cedar Gables," she repeated.

       "Lost both his parents in his youth," Lee continued. "He was put in an orphanage in Daesan in '24, spent most of his childhood there. Enlisted 2534 out of high school, discharged the following year for unspecified reasons and committed to a military psych hospital here in Massilia. Released in '36. He's stayed in the city and has been employed in various manufactories since then. He practically fell through a hole in the fucking earth since '53—no idea what he's been up to. All I can tell you is that he hasn't been receiving his medication for the past three years."

       "Fantastic," Mantega said.

       "Anyone in Cedar Gables who might actually know this guy?" Eyal asked.

       Lee shook his head. "Place doesn't even exist anymore."

       "What?" Singh demanded.

       "Happened to lots of little Southern hamlets," Lee explained. "Conscription rate got so high by the end that entire towns were depopulated of young people. Everyone that was left moved to the factories in the cities. The South is about as urbanized as we are now."

       "Any family at all?" Eyal asked.

       "I could only find his parents and a sister. All deceased."

       "Alright," Eyal said, turning back to Mantega. "Let's see if we can use any of that."

       They returned to the interrogation room, Isaac still sitting in his approximation of a marble statue.

       "Holding up well, Mr. Stahl?" Mantega asked, gaining the man's attention rather sooner than her first attempt. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he regarded her.

       "Yes, we know all about you, Isaac Stahl," she said. "Your tat is a little misleading, isn't it? I mean, if you're discharged in less than a year and thrown in the nuthouse, can you really say that you've served?"

       "You said it," he growled in return, his tongue flicking across his front teeth. "Not me."

       "And yet you bear that mark?" she shook her head with a sigh. "If it were me—if your disgrace were mine—I would burn it off with acid, or tear it from my flesh with my fingernails. Even if I were stayed by cowardice or false pride, I would never have the gall to kill a war hero, no matter what crime I'd dreamed he had committed."

       "Shut your mouth, you fucking cunt!" Stahl shouted, his voice infused with fury. "You've got no fucking idea what you're talking about."

       "Tell me, then, Stahl," Eyal started, edging nearer to him. "What did he do to deserve what you did to him? From what recess of your mind did you pass judgment on this man? What urgency compelled you to rob not one but two men from humanity's hour of need? The same conviction, no doubt, that had you pissing on the grave of your family, and on the carcass of Cedar Gables."

       Stahl screeched a guttural howl, nearly upending the steel table as he lunged wildly towards Eyal. Though handcuffed and chained to his seat, he generated enough momentum to seize his lapel with both hands, dragging him to the floor as his shackles unbalanced him from his lunge. Eyal wrenched his hand away by twisting his wounded wrist and pinned his arm to the ground with his knee. Mantega rushed forward to help restrain the wild man.

       "There's no one left," Stahl breathed, once subdued. "No one."

       "What are you talking about?" Eyal demanded, out of breath.

       "He deserved it," he said in barely more than a whisper. "He had to die."

       "Who did?" Eyal pushed Stahl harder against the floor.

       "Cordova," he said at last. "He deserved… far worse than I could give him."

       Stahl closed his eyes and let his head fall to one side. Eyal looked to Mantega, who returned his gaze with a subdued expression of triumph. They rose and together righted their exhausted captive in his chair, neither saying another word.

       They returned to the observation room, where Singh greeted them with a rare look of satisfaction. "Well done, officers," she said.

       "He could plead improper coercion," Mantega replied, her voice restrained.

       Haskell, leaning against the wall, laughed softly at this. "He most certainly will," she chuckled. "But it'll do for now. It'll make a fine headline. I have to take personal affront to your methods, though, Michelle—I am, after all, a Southern girl."

       Mantega spread her hands and smiled faintly. "Just doing my job."

       "And very well done. I'll tell Stan the good news."

       As Haskell left, Singh turned to them with her more customary expression of stony unrest. "Alright. Close this one off. File your paperwork quickly and have it in order for the DA's office ASAP. With the Militia breathing down my neck I want to be rid of this son of a bitch fast."

       "Yes ma'am," Mantega acknowledged as Singh was already leaving.

       Left alone in the room together, Mantega seemed unable to meet his eyes. She roved the room searching for some triviality to set her focus upon, and at last decided on their battered suspect in the adjacent room. "Nice turn, Eyal," she said. "At the end."

       "Thank you," he replied. "And Michelle?"

       At last she faced him. "Yes?" she asked guardedly.

       "I would take it as a kindness if you could file the paperwork. As recompense for lost time, if you will. I have something I'd like to take care of."

       "Yes, of course. Do you have something in mind?"

       "Nothing special." He picked up Cordova's vitae which he had discarded earlier upon the desk. "I feel compelled to liaise with our friends—inform them of our good fortune."

       Mantega narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You think there was something to Stahl's ravings?"

       "Why so cynical?" he asked caustically. "I merely wish to celebrate this hour of common triumph."

       "Fine," she said. She stopped him by the elbow as he left the room. "All that I said in there…" she began.

       He shrugged. "You were just doing your job, Michelle."

       "…Mr. Lansing will remain in Massilia until the election next week," the reporter intoned over the radio. The United Party candidate returned to his native city last night after an extensive tour of the Southern provinces. Mr. Lansing will be attending a last minute fundraiser on Thursday to fund his final campaign drive, and will be otherwise engaged at various rallies scheduled every day until Election Day."

       Eyal navigated the crowded streets of the Taiga Dockyard, only half-listening to the news. The twisting roads of the docks were perpetually clogged with vehicles, so much so that the freshly fallen snow had not yet been plowed but was merely crushed under wheel to a slick, brownish sludge. The sidewalks teemed with people; the day nearly over, an army of dockworkers fought to get home while time still afforded some respite besides sleep.

       The Taiga Dockyard was the turbulent confluence of Massilia's land, sea, and space transportation networks. Dominated by its twin space elevators, nicknamed Castor and Pollux, the docks were the material lifeline to what remained of the outside world. Much of the shipbuilding work which had sustained Vesta for so long was done on the surface and sent to the orbital platforms via the elevators. The requisite metals came by sea from the Northern mines, or from the few remaining mining colonies further afield. The city's continuous flow of human cargo landed elsewhere on the coastal plains to the east, where most of the camps were located.

       "Lansing's Vesta Party opponent Maria Renka continues to shore up support in her traditional Southern strongholds," the reporter continued. "Lansing holds a solid majority in nearly every province, putting the president decidedly on the defensive. For his part, the United Party candidate has maintained a subdued confidence over the past weeks as his numbers in the polls continue to climb."

       "'We have come a long road, my friends,'" Lansing's authoritative voice sounded, immediately capturing Eyal's attention. "'We have sacrificed all to defeat enemies which only thirty years ago we would never dared to imagine existed. Now that they are gone we are left alone, battered but unbroken. Our course now should be clear—yet some still shy away from our Earth kin, who among their sacrifices must count their own world. Did we fend off the Covenant hordes to submit to the ancient evil of faction? Do we flee from victory into the cold embrace of instinct?

       "'No. My friends, I ask you: we must, all of us, cast down the demons of our past and forge a new future as one people. They have left deep scars on the body of humanity, and none alive will ever see them healed. But we can rebuild. We can create. We can find, as we always have, the ray of light amidst the darkness pulled around our ears.'"

       Eyal switched off the radio at the speech's conclusion. Having reached his destination, he sat for a moment in his car, studying Cordova's vitae that rested on his lap. Certainly, his coming here was not in the spirit of Lansing's vision, nor even of his own philosophy. The passion of the speech very nearly compelled Eyal to restart his car and return home. Yet, once set upon a thing, he had always found it hard to turn back. And so, carried on the dubious wings of inertia, Eyal set about his task.

       The Militia's urban headquarters were located in a converted warehouse near the northern edge of the docks. Its expansive lot was covered in a sea of idle Warthogs—mostly of the transport variety, though a handful still retained their menacing rear-mounted chain guns. Silhouetted against the setting sun Eyal could see the distinctive outlines of a half dozen Pelicans parked upon the roof, as well as a small army of technicians milling about them, rendered diminutive by the crafts' massive hulls.

       The scene resembled his precinct on a vastly greater scale. Dispatches announced over the loudspeakers prompted sudden movement among the many Militia who congregated around the lot. Ever in full military gear, the groups of four immediately piled into a waiting Warthog and tore off in a thunderous roar. In a city of fifteen million citizens and nearly as many refugees, their services were often called for.

       He earned a few passing glances of contempt as he entered the warehouse, but he was not stopped. Within the cavernous building was perhaps more chaos than without. The wide space was broadly partitioned into many smaller communications arrays where teams coordinated the Militia's movements across the city. The loudspeakers roared their dispatches only feet from a mechanic hard at work repairing a broken-down Warthog. Eyal could not imagine being forced to operate under such conditions—though he supposed these men and women were adept at functioning under far more trying circumstances than these.

       Eyal approached one tech who appeared to be taking a break. The man regarded him coldly as he approached. "I'm looking for Colonel Dai," he said curtly.

       The man eyed him disdainfully. "You a cop?"

       "Is he here?" Eyal maintained steadily.

       He grunted scornfully, but pointed across the cluttered floor. "Towards the back."

       Eyal could not see precisely where he pointed among the sea of computers and people, but he gathered the general direction. "Thank you."

       Crossing the floor was a harrowing task, especially as it appeared that his suit made him seemingly invisible to the teeming uniforms. The harried soldiers made little attempt to navigate as they moved about, knocking roughly into him and nearly throwing him off his balance. He wondered for a moment if his civvies made him the target of the rough treatment, though he began to realize that the roughness was only the necessary reality of the situation.

       At last he reached what seemed to be a command station, if only judging by its relatively larger size. He sidled up to one woman seated at a desk near the front. "I'm looking for Colonel Dai," he said.

       The woman did not even look up from her work, his voice apparently lost in the din. He cleared his throat. "Colonel Dai?" he shouted.

       His over-vigorous query successfully attracted her attention, and a few others besides. He was spared further awkwardness by the approach of a man stepping out of the throng. "Hello, Detective," he said, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."

       "Yes sir, it is," he replied, taking his hand.

       "I assume this is regarding Major Cordova?" Dai was only half-attentive, his ear turned towards a nearby radio.

       Eyal nodded. "I thought you'd like to hear it personally that the man we apprehended confessed about an hour ago."

       The woman seated nearby overheard this and seemed gratified by the news. Dai, however, offered only a dim smile. "That's excellent news, Detective. I congratulate you on the swift catch." He ended on a tone of finality and half-turned away from Eyal, evidently prompting his departure.

       "Thank you," Eyal said, stubbornly staying put. "I was wondering, though, if I could have a word with you. In private."

       The trace of a smile vanished from the Colonel's face. He shook his head firmly. "I'm sorry, detective, but I don't have a moment to spare. Cordova did a lot around here—we're feeling the loss."

       "I appreciate that Colonel, I do," Eyal assured him earnestly. "And I'm sorry to intrude on your time. But I have a rather sensitive matter that needs to be resolved quickly. It will only take a moment, I promise you."

       Dai glanced around him, taking in a sweep the chaos of the scene. At length he relented, heaving a sigh. "Fine. Follow me." He turned to the woman. "I'm taking a quick break, Chris," he told her. She nodded absently.

       The Colonel led him past the comm. station towards the back of the warehouse. He pushed open the door to what appeared to be a sideroom and was greeted by a rush of warm, moist air. Through the light haze Eyal realized he was in a shower room, where dozens of men were showering nude in plain sight. A few cast uninterested glances at him, but most seemed not to notice at all. Dai pulled him aside to the locker area, where only a handful of Militia lingered.

       "This is private?" Eyal asked.

       "As private as you'll get around here," Dai retorted gruffly. "What is it you need to know, Detective?"

       "I have a few questions regarding the deceased."

       Dai grunted. "I assumed as much."

       "Of course." He paused for a moment, considering his phrasing. "I was wondering, Colonel, how you would characterize Major Cordova?"

       Dai raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

       "What was your opinion of the man?"

       The question did not seem to be the one the Colonel expected. "He was an excellent officer. He did his duty well. I never had the pleasure of serving with the Major, but I hear he conducted himself with the utmost bravery throughout the war."

       "And never missed a shift, I hear?"

       Dai narrowed his eyes. "That's right."

       "I see." Eyal shifted on his feet. "Fortunately, Colonel, I've had the pleasure of reading Cordova's vitae. I am aware of his impressive record. I was referring more specifically to your judgment of his character."

       Dai let his arms fall to his sides. "Excuse me, Detective, but just what the fuck are you trying to ask me here?"

       Eyal paused before he answered, taking stock of the man before him. The tall, well-muscled body of the Colonel was tensed as if for action, one foot slightly in front of the other, the fingers of his hands curved and twitching. His rough-featured face, looking as though it had been hewn from granite, was set in an aggressive scowl. His eyes, which appeared almost black, regarded him as he imagined they had regarded dozens of battlefields before.

       This was not a man to be strong-armed. Eyal decided on an earnest appeal instead.

       "Colonel, I'm not the press. I'm not here to nail anybody. I'm just trying to do my job, same as anybody else."

       "And a character study is requisite to that end?" he demanded brusquely. When Eyal did not respond, Dai scratched his unshaven face, his countenance relaxing as much as it was likely able to. "Well, Detective, I'll tell you one thing about Cordova: he was popular with the men. And they wouldn't like it if some cop was digging around in his past—especially after he just had a secluded chat with the Major's CO."

       "I understand that. And I think we both know, the situation being what it is between our two outfits, that I'll never be able to compel you to tell me anything. But if you've got something to say—now's the time."

       Dai looked around the near empty room, silently contemplating his position. "Cordova was a hard man to work with, sometimes," he allowed after a pause.

       "In what way?" Eyal pressed.

       "He was… intemperate. Hot-headed. As I said, he was popular with the men. They often mistook fervor for leadership."

       "Against your prerogative, you mean?"

       Dai frowned. "I'm not pissing on the memory of a dead comrade because of a personal disagreement."

       "I didn't mean to suggest as much," Eyal said, holding up a hand. "I only want to get a picture of the man."

       He seemed satisfied by this. "Look, Detective," he said. "This role they've cast us in: soldiers turned police? It's not good for the men. The command structure has gotten a lot looser since we started fighting junkies instead of Covies. It's gotten a lot more civilian." He said this matter-of-factly, not disdainfully. "The boys get a little restless sometimes, patrolling the streets. They're still ready to fight a war, they gear themselves up the same every day. Only there's no war to fight."

       "And Cordova took advantage of that."

       "Yes. Sometimes." He shrugged. "Cordova was the man on the streets. He ultimately commanded them in their duties off this compound. And he could be… overzealous in his duty. Brutal, even."

       Eyal did not press for details. "He treated the policing of the city like it was war."

       "Yes."

       "An attitude useful against the Covenant, I assume, but destructive here at home."

       "Yes," Dai repeated, a little less enthusiastically.

       "This leads me to a curiosity I've found in Cordova's vitae." He pulled the document from his jacket pocket. "According to this, Major Cordova enlisted with the VEF in 2531. That would have made him 27 at the time."

       "And?" Dai asked impatiently.

       "Does it not strike you as odd that a man of Cordova's disposition was not involved in the civil war beforehand, considering the heavy recruitment towards the end?" he asked. "I struggle to imagine what he was doing prior to the '31 drive. A janitor, perhaps? Or maybe he was in finance?"

       "I wouldn't know," Dai growled. "We don't keep records of private employment."

       "I'm sadly aware of that deficiency, having perused his vitae at length. I was only wondering if you could check Cordova's enlistment date against your own records."

       Dai shook his head and made to leave. "I don't have time for this nonsense, Detective. If it says '31 then it was '31."

       "Please, Colonel," Eyal stopped him. "It's my last request. Then I'll leave."

       The prospect of his leaving without a bother apparently being too enticing to resist, Dai pulled out his datapad with a sigh. After examining its contents at length, Dai appeared surprised at what he found, his brow furrowing in confusion.

       When he offered no explanation, Eyal prompted him. "What?"

       Dai frowned. "Seems Cordova joined the Northern Legion in 2523. He was involved in multiple actions before the armistice in '25."

       Eyal looked down at his own record, pausing to collect this information. "Colonel—why was I given a redacted vitae?"

       Dai did not look up from his datapad. "I don't know."

       "Could I have a copy of your records?" Eyal ventured.

       Dai quickly shut off his device and shoved it back into his pocket. "No," he said bluntly, his face reassuming its hard line. "You'd better leave now."

       "Colonel…"

       "I've no more time for you Detective," Dai cut him off. "Leave now or I will have you removed."

       His tone was not threatening, but it was stern and emphatic; Eyal did not doubt his intentions. An unceremonious ejection from the premises would reflect worse upon the Department than the Militia, given the pretext of his visit. Dai had every reason to make true his warning.

       "Thank you for your time, sir," Eyal said respectfully, turning on his heel.

       He beat a hasty retreat across the cacophonous warehouse floor. He mulled over what Dai had told him. By all rights, he knew he ought to consider it nothing more than a curiosity, a discrepancy to spare only a passing thought for. Or, perhaps, to regard it as a brick wall, an obstacle that would prove fruitless and destructive to try and surmount. But a fleeting image of Cordova's body convinced him that he could not ignore the truth. A poor excuse it was, he thought, to shackle oneself to one's nature. Yet surrendering to the tide had always been his preferred manner of existence.

       As he approached his car, he slowed his steady clip. Several Militia had congregated around his car and followed him with keen eyes as he neared. At length he recognized one of the officers who were leaning against the hood of his car. The man took a few swaggering steps towards him, his rifle resting casually upon one of his broad soldiers.

       "Sergeant Grantmyre," Eyal said with false joviality. "And here I thought we'd never meet again."

       "This is the wrong place to come if you'd wanted that to hold true," Grantmyre returned. His comrades seemed to gather around him in a rough semi-circle, intent on the show. "Just what the fuck are you doing here, Dayan?" He put an unnatural emphasis on his name.

       "Just came to share the good news," Eyal answered, trying to be civil. "Cordova's killer confessed."

       "Well that's fantastic," Grantmyre returned. "Now we get to watch him plead insanity or stupidity or whatever the fuck else—see him dance around your system while we put a Goddamn hero in the dirt."

       "He'll get what he deserves," Eyal murmured.

       "He already was, when you took him away behind Dai's skirt." A few of the Militia chuckled as Grantmyre took a few steps closer to Eyal. "Which raises a question that's been nagging at me all day. I wondered what kind of a serving man would draw on his comrades over some piece of shit. He must have been part of some chicken shit Home Guard outfit or something, I thought."

       Grantmyre came even closer towards him, until his face was mere inches from Eyal's own. "But I looked, and found that you were never with any outfit—that you never served at all. But that can't be right, I thought. Since they all but drafted my dear old grandma by the end, I wondered how it was that a healthy young man such as yourself didn't go. How is it that after Paris, after Siggy, after Reach… you somehow managed to slither away from fighting off our extinction?"

       Eyal tried to hold the Sergeant's menacing gaze, but he could not resist a darting glance at the ring of Militia that surrounded him. They regarded him with open disdain, even anger. Eyal was not sure who they would rather get their hands on: Stahl, or himself. He trusted at least the exposure of their present location, and tried not to appear nervous.

       "You know a lot about me, Sergeant?" Eyal asked steadily.

       "More than I'd care to," Grantmyre returned, his voice harshly sibilant. He let Eyal wallow in silence for a few minutes, then began to slowly back away. He spat on the ground in disgust. "Get the fuck out of here. If I ever see your face again, I'll cut it the fuck off. Understand?"

       Making good his ignominious retreat, Eyal hurried to his car. They remained tight around his vehicle, forcing him to turn sharply out of the lot. As he drove away, he saw in his rear-view the group of Militia watching his departure, like a pack of lions watching the lucky escape of their prey.

       Only with several blocks distance did he realize the radio was still in.

       …in other news, Metropolitan Police have taken a man named Isaac Stahl into custody for the murder of Major Luis Cordova, an officer of the Massilia Militia. Major Cordova was killed in his Waverleigh Heights apartment last night…

       Darkness had fallen completely now, bringing with it fresh flakes from the dark sky above. The lights of the city did little to illuminate the gloom, especially this far away from the streets. Even leafless, the maples overhead seemed to absorb the glow of the cityscape, casting the night like pitch upon the frozen ground.

       There was something sublime about the whole. The gentle chill against his face, the blue faintness of his surroundings. A good night to be dead, he thought. Conditions were suitable for a peaceful repose.

       After a time Eyal relented to the use of a flashlight to navigate the long rows of gravestones of the Pytheas Military Cemetery. Even in daylight, distinguishing the swaths of modest headstones was no easy task. Yet he felt crass shining casting light upon the dead, and he tried as best he could to keep it away from the shallow swells of the earth.

       Some of the trees began to strike him as familiar, and he found his feet guiding his way. He knew the stone by sight, for its neighbor had a long vertical crack along its left side. He knelt down, and brushed away the frost from its unadorned granite surface. With his gloved hand he traced the indentations which formed the name. Eva Cruz Dayan.

       It was an indulgence coming here, he knew. Speaking to her as he sometimes did certainly was. A latent sense of duty drove him to it. His single stake in honor.

       He rested a hand atop the headstone, steadying himself as he knelt before it. "I haven't a clue anymore," he whispered in confidence to the gray rock.

       His phone rang, its discordant chirp disturbing the silence like the crashing of a tree in a tranquil wood. In his haste to stop the noise he neglected to check the caller's ID.

       "Hello?"

       "Eyal? Where are you?" It was Melanie Haskell.

       If before he had felt crass, he now felt like Alaric in Rome.

       "I'm just getting off work now," he answered quietly.

       "Are you still coming over?"

       He closed his eyes and turned from the grave. "Yes."

       "See you soon, then." She hung up.

       He shut his phone and slid it into his pocket. He did not turn again to face the stone. "Goddamn it, don't you judge me," he said softly.

       Thereupon he left, his footsteps padded by the snow, granting silence its rightful union with the dark.

       She lived in one of the finer districts of town, the seaside strip of the North Delta. The gleaming glass and steel towers lined neatly along a perfect grid of the streets formed the very picture of old Massilia's self-image: a bastion of refined civilization standing strong against the backward South. Now the North Delta represented the imbalance between the original denizens of the city and those forced to migrate to the city's factories, and an especially painful reminder to the refugees of all that they had lost.

       Melanie always seemed embarrassed by her luxurious neighborhood, but was by no means willing to give it up. It was the product of a line of work that Eyal had always envisioned for himself. He did not begrudge her, or any of her neighbors, despite his own modest abode. Someone ought to still enjoy the fruits of better days.

       It was quite late. The apartment's marble clad lobby was silent, but for the low hum of a television belonging to the security guard. After Melanie rang him through, the guard smiled absently from his desk. The man was ancient, appearing as if he had been retired from his main line of work since the civil war.

       "Good evening, sir," he croaked.

       Eyal nodded to him as he had many times before. "Good evening."

       The elevator delivered him swiftly to the upper reaches of the building. The long corridor, immaculately clean, was completely silent, the elegant fixtures on the wall emanating a comforting light. He turned when he reached her apartment, and gently rapped the door.

       Almost immediately she answered. She was dressed in a white undershirt and jeans, and her long blond hair was down about her shoulders. It was her regular departure from the prim figure she cut as an ADA, and seemed to delineate in his mind the woman he knew at work from the woman he met in this apartment.

       "I'm glad you came," she said, a smile lighting up her face. "For some reason I didn't think you would."

       He strode in, closing the door behind him. "How would you expect me to stay away?" he asked.

       He kissed her, his hands slipping under the light fabric of her shirt. Her arms snuck under his own, casting his heavy jacket to the floor in a heap. She embraced him fully, the heat of her body suffusing his own, and led him with measured steps towards the bedroom.

       And for the first time in the day, Eyal thought nothing of Luis Cordova.

Vestal Sins: Chapter 3: Lanced
Date: 3 July 2009, 4:47 am

       He awoke slowly, and without quite realizing it. Like watching the approaching darkness of a sunset, he did not fully perceive his final emergence into consciousness. When at last he remembered where he was, he could not resist the thrill of contentment that surged through his body.

       There were moments during mornings such as these when he could almost convince himself that he would be satisfied with this life. Replicating such moments over a lifetime, wrapping himself in the comforting embrace of sameness—briefly such thoughts held great appeal for him.

       Then he would leave, and dread the thought of returning. He always felt, even when she was her most open to him, that he was intruding upon her. Even more, he felt that he impugned what remained of his character by his presence. But ever did he return, as he would until the invitations stopped. He did not know what he was to her, but he appreciated her lack of judgment, and felt for her, if not love, then at least a warm affection.

       He watched her head rise and fall upon his chest, and experienced the full force of his affection. He stroked her honey blonde hair and smiled to himself.

       "Good morning," she murmured drowsily.

       "I thought you were still asleep," he returned, propping his head up on the pillow.

       "You know I never sleep."

       "I thought maybe I'd finally given you cause to."

       She sniffed in amusement. For a while longer they lay together in silence, watching the sun's edge creep ever closer to the bed. The muted calls of the crows outside were just audible through the thick glass of the windows. These were punctuated by a soft patter against the panes—more snow.

       "I don't want to get up," she whispered to him.

       "Me neither," he said. He tensed as he prepared to break their gentle stirring. She seemed to sense it, for she uttered a lucid sigh. "I have a favor to ask, Mel."

       "Of course."

       "I need to get my hands on the official service record of Luis Cordova."

       Her head still lay upon his chest. "The officer who was killed?"

       "Yes."

       "Didn't the Militia forward his vitae?"

       He shifted uncomfortably. "They did. But you know how it is between us. I asked for clarification and they were reluctant to supply it."

       "I'll ask around," she said. Her voice was now completely awake.

       Eyal paused for a moment. "Try to keep it… you know… under the radar."

       She pushed herself up from the bed and turned to face him. "Eyal—is anything wrong?"

       He shook his head. "No. No, it's the same old story. I'm just trying to find a shortcut around the Militia."

       The concern etched on her face eventually disappeared as she studied his earnest expression. At last she nodded. "I have a friend in the Judge Advocate. I'll ask her—she owes me."

       He leaned forward and kissed her, pushing a few strands of hair from her face. "Thank you."

       She swung her legs from the bed and headed for the bathroom. He studied her as she left and felt the cold pang of guilt in his chest. He hated himself for using her in this manner, and for shying away from her confidence. And for pretending the life he led with her was the one he had envisioned with another.

       The guilt evaporated the moment she closed the bathroom door. He glanced around at his plush surroundings. A delusion, surely, to think it was not reciprocal. Two damaged people using each other.

       He pushed himself reluctantly from the warmth of the bed.

       He arrived at the station at the small hours of the morning. It was a rare moment of calm in the precinct at the very tail end of the night shift, just before the morning shift overlap arrived. A few desultory addicts awaited processing, while the wizened desk sergeants made half-hearted attempts at putting a dent in their mountains of paperwork. It was the very best time to be at the station, barring the detriments of the hour.

       Mantega had not yet arrived, and Singh was either not present or had not seen him enter. He was grateful for the reprieve. He glanced down a few times at his phone, waiting for the expected call. His desk was a mess of papers, photos, and datapads. It depressed him to look at it. Any thought of actually tackling a portion of it was immediately thwarted by a feeling of predestined defeat. It was never ending, like bailing out the sea.

       His phone finally rang. After a quick glance around, he answered it. "Melanie."

       "I have it for you," she said. "The real thing, I think."

       "Already?"

       "I move fast," she answered wryly.

       "That you do."

       There was a brief pause over the line. "Eyal, if there's anything…"

       "Honestly, Mel, it's nothing," he tried to reassure her. "It's just something I need to see. It's probably nothing. You know how I get."

       She chuckled, but it did nothing to dispel the anxiety in her voice. "Alright. I'm sending it to your computer now."

       "Thank you, Mel. Really."

       She just sighed. "Take care of yourself, Eyal. And don't get into too much trouble."

       "I wouldn't dare." He hung up.

       Eyal found the document amidst the mass of emails that lay unread or unanswered in his inbox. At first glance, Cordova's record appeared to be identical to the one that the Militia had sent him. The date of enlistment, however, had changed: 2523, fully eight years before the date he had been given. He looked through Cordova's combat history throughout his short stint in the civil war. After basic, Cordova had been posted to Charlie Company of the 95th Reconnaisance Regiment, 10th Infantry Division.

       He checked out the outfit's roster that was attached to Cordova's official vitae. He scrolled down through the long list of names, checking the current status of each. Of course he knew the casualty rate of the Covenant War from the news reports given throughout the conflict and the even more dire numbers that had emerged after the treaty. Yet he was still shocked to see how many of the men listed had been killed in action. Only a handful had died during the course of the civil war; the vast majority had been killed many years later at the hands of the Covenant. A familiar tightness gripped his chest at every KIA he saw.

       It was not long before he discovered a discrepancy. He checked the company's activity in 2524: the year Stahl had been orphaned. The company had been remanded to the sidelines during the main action of that year, Operation Pegasus—yet three of the KIAs were listed as having died during that time. He made a copy of the log.

       He cross-checked every survivor's name against the Department's database. Few appeared to live in the Massilia Metropolitan Area, and those that did were permanently committed to veterans' hospitals. At last he came upon one of Charlie Company's survivors who worked and resided in Massilia, a Sergeant Martim Salles. Salles had been discharged due to an injury sustained at the Siege of Miridem, only just escaping the colony's subsequent glassing. He was currently employed at one of the refugee camps along the coast.

       It would have to be Salles, then. He could not return to Stahl—even if he were able to get anything useful out of the man, the testimony would be tainted by his obvious psychosis. In any event, he did not want his delicate questioning appearing on the record quite yet.

       Eyal decided to end his search with the company's officers. For a moment his heart jumped to his throat, his world shifted beneath him. The name stared back at him, the eyes of the man to whom they were attached glaring at him through a thousand monitors. His ubiquitous voice boomed in his ears, and commanded him firmly: go no further.

       Alexander Lansing. Captain of Charlie Company.

       "You're here early," a voice sounded behind him.

       He hastily closed the vitae and spun about in his chair. It was Captain Singh. He had been foolish to think that she was anywhere else but here.

       "Captain," he said breathlessly, still recovering from his discovery. "Good morning."

       Singh cocked at eyebrow at him. "Are you alright, Eyal?"

       "Yes, of course. Just a bit tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

       "Well, I mean to correct that," Singh replied with a gracious smile. "You did a hell of a job yesterday, even though you weren't supposed to be here. So take the rest of the day off, and take tomorrow, too."

       A rare full weekend. It was a good justification for expressing his shock. "Thank you, Captain. Very much."

       "You deserve it Eyal," she said. "Now go home and get some rest. You look like shit."

       "Yes ma'am." As she left he downloaded the information on his datapad and grabbed a few necessities from his desk. He wanted to leave before Mantega arrived, and escape the awkwardness of her inevitable questions about how he would spend his free time. He had no good answers for her.

       It was a long drive from the station to the camps, made worse by the heavy traffic. The ordered grid of the old city devolved into the tangled mess of streets that had sprung up along the South Delta throughout the war. Millions had migrated to the city in search of employment in the factories as Vesta had become an increasingly vital component to the UNSC war machine. Most had settled into the hastily constructed sprawl of tenements among the low hills of the South Delta. Navigating the curved streets and irregular intersections during the morning rush was a frustrating experience.

       As he reached the top of the steep incline of Hawthorne Ridge, it slowly became visible. The dark clouds of the early morning had been replaced by brilliant blue sky and a bright sun that conveyed no warmth. The crisp clearness of the day revealed in full the sight of the camps. They stretched beyond view along the plain; more than ten million people, many of whom had lived in the finest cities on Earth, now consigned to the crowded obscurity of the camps.

       The sky above was thick with shuttles, as it always was at every hour of the day. 50,000 refugees still landed on Vesta every day, as per the quota strictly enforced by President Renka. The United Earth Government insisted this was still not enough to relieve the suffering on Earth, and it was an issue which Lansing had relentlessly attacked Renka about. Indeed, for all their complaints of the refugees, the general public seemed ever moved by the news vids that showcased the plight of the homeworld. Images of men and women who looked like little more than skeletons, struggling to survive in the burned out husks of former capitals of the universe like New York and Singapore proved very effective at dissipating the common Vestal bitterness. It was popular among many to fault Renka for not doing more.

       Of course, Eyal knew the reports. He knew the quota was not arbitrary, but was based on the estimate that any more than 50,000 would plunge Vesta into dangerous food shortages. Lansing's talk of increasing the quota was either just talk or exaggeration—people would continue to starve on Earth under any administration. Still, he supposed the sentiment was a positive sign.

       He pulled off the highway to one of the many checkpoints. The queue was long; dozens of trucks awaited entry bearing all the supplies necessary to sustain ten million people. He glanced up at the high walls that surrounded all the camps and spotted a few Militia patrolling the rampart above. Many activists decried the camps as little more than open air prisons. Eyal, however, knew the defenses were for the refugees' own protection. Occasional bouts of violence sometimes erupted in the overcrowded confines of the camps. There was also the rarer but more pernicious threat from the outside—he had seen too many young refugees end up in prostitution rings or worse.

       At length he was waved forward and stopped at the checkpoint gate. One of the Militia stepped up to the driver's window, and he dutifully lowered it.

       "What's your business here, sir?" the man asked gruffly but politely.

       Eyal showed him his badge and identification. "I'm here in connection with a murder case."

       "Wait one moment," he ordered, and took Eyal's ID with him into the checkpoint's small guardhouse. The camps were the Militia's primary charge, and they took the responsibility seriously.

       The guard returned a moment later and handed back the badge. "Go on through," he said and waved for the next vehicle.

       He drove past the long rows of prefabricated houses along the gravel road. They were not quite the ramshackle dungeons they were sometimes made out to be, largely consisting of an amalgam of military prefabs stuck together to produce some passable facsimile of a home. Still, they were crowded, bleak, and uniform; draped as they were in snow they presented a suitably miserable image for the vids. Groups of refugees standing listlessly about with blank stares on their faces did nothing to help the impression.

       A short drive brought him to the camp's warehouse. Eyal parked the car as near as he could to the squat, ugly building and proceeded on foot. A crowd had assembled around the building, obstructing his path: the refugees, come for their allotment of food. They did not appear undernourished, as it was sometimes said, though he could see how one could leave with that impression. Their faces were drawn, their eyes lifeless. They waited in line with surprising silence, and hardly reacted to him as he pushed through the throng. They were crushed by the monotony of their lives, disheartened by their uselessness.

       He emerged from the crowd and approached a side entrance guarded by two heavily armed Militia. They eyed him warily as he approached, but waved him through without difficulty when he flashed his badge.

       The interior was predictably cavernous, though surprisingly empty. Towering pallets of crates were being moved into the huge space from the rear: fresh supplies from the fleet of trucks. A solitary man sat in a booth nearby, filling out paperwork and intermittently glancing up the check the progress of the men on the floor. Eyal headed towards him.

       "Excuse me, sir," Eyal addressed him. "I'm looking for Martim Salles."

       The man studied him with a frown. "Who the hell let you in?"

       "I'm with a Massilia Metro, sir," he said pointedly. "Where is he?"

       The man grunted. "Mr. Salles is our foreman. He should be back in receiving. He always helps unload the trucks when they come in." The man gave an exaggerated shrug, as if such a thing were unfathomable.

       The receiving area was extensive, and was presently at full capacity. Dozens of trucks were being unloaded by a large crew of workers and machines, while a second team moved the supplies to the storage area. They worked with impressive swiftness and practiced ease.

       Eyal approached one woman who was operating a forklift. "I'm looking for Martim Salles," he shouted above the din.

       She pointed further down the row. A few more inquiries finally led him to the man himself, rather than a general direction. The man identified as Salles was assisting a group of men who were recovering the supplies from a pallet that had fallen from a forklift. A few containers had opened and spilt large piles of oats on the filthy warehouse floor.

       He sauntered up next to the man. "Excuse me, Sergeant Martim Salles?"

       The man barely cast him a sideways glance. "Not anymore," he said. "Not for twelve years."

       Salles kept working, leaving it to Eyal to continue the conversation. Eyal obliged.

       "My name is Eyal Dayan, I'm a Detective with Massilia Metro. I'm here to ask you a few questions."

       Salles snorted, sparing a moment to study him with contempt before hauling another crate back onto the forklift. "You damned cops," he said through a grunt of exertion. "First damn place you come when you can't find a real killer is the camps. You use them as scapegoats because it's easy and the people hate them anyway. Fact is, these people have far more to fear of the outside than the outside does of them."

       Eyal stooped down to help. "In my experience, that's true. I've never once found a refugee to be guilty of murder one. A few have been implicated in self-defense cases only, mitigated by their abduction."

       To this, Salles seemed to find little to say. He allowed Eyal's assistance though he did not remark upon it. When Eyal fumbled one particularly heavy container, Salles checked its fall and, with one hand, swung it up onto the pile.

       "Impressive," Eyal remarked, his breathing becoming labored.

       Salles knocked a fist against his left shoulder, eliciting a hollow clunk. "Prosthetic," he explained tersely.

       With the supplies recovered, Salles ordered the men to fasten them tight and hasten to make up for lost time. Then he turned to Eyal. "Alright, Detective, I'll give you a few minutes. I suppose we all have our jobs to do."

       He led Eyal away from the tumultuous noise of the receiving bay towards the offices in the back. Eyal attempted a conversation as they walked together.

       "That's a well made arm," he said, observing the naturalness of his movements.

       Salles nodded, his grim countenance softening somewhat. "The leg too, if you can believe it. I lost 'em on Miridem, back before it all started falling to shit. UNSC sprang for the best back then, when they could still afford it. Prosthetics got worse as the war dragged on—all the resources went to the front, not the wounded. Lotta people got fucked."

       "A lot of them must have ended up here," Eyal said, gesturing around.

       Salles shook his head, a scowl settling once more on his weathered features. "Most of these folks don't even have a damn peg. We just feed 'em and water 'em, like they're fucking vegetables."

       He pushed open the door to what must have been his office and ushered Eyal in, while he rounded the room to stand behind his desk. Eyal studied the man now that he was no longer in a flurry of activity. Salles' face plainly showed his age. The dark skin around his eyes and mouth were cracked like old parchment, while the thick stubble on his cheeks were gray even if it had not yet spread to his black hair. His body was small and compact. His left arm, despite its flawless appearance, was held by its owner slightly askew, in such a way that only a man who knew of its artificiality could detect it.

       "So what's this about?" he prompted. "If you're serious about asking after refugees, you'd be better served asking the camp administrator, or maybe someone at Ithaca. I just manage this warehouse."

       "I'm sure that's true, Mr. Salles. But in point of fact I'm here to talk with you."

       Eyal was satisfied to see the stunned expression on Salles' face. "Me? What for?"

       "In connection with a murder case I'm investigating. Have you heard about the murder of the Militia Officer Luis Cordova?"

       Salles did not answer immediately, but kept his eyes determinately locked with Eyal's. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes. I heard about it on the news."

       "Did you know Major Cordova?"

       "Did I know him?"

       "That's what I asked."

       "Of course not."

       "Why of 'course?'"

       "Because why the fuck would I?" Salles growled.

       "Because you served in the same unit in the Civil War," Eyal said, offering him his own vitae. "You saw multiple actions together."

       Salles took a moment to study the file given to him. He looked up and shrugged. "I've served with lots of men, Detective. I suppose I may have known the man thirty years ago. So what?"

       "I'm trying to fill in some gaps in Cordova's record, and I thought maybe you could help." Eyal shuffled through the papers he had brought. "I'm interested in one discrepancy in particular. Your company was not listed as having taken part in Operation Pegasus in '24, yet your company sustained three casualties during its course. I wasn't able to find any details on the soldiers' deaths."

       "Is there a question in there?" Salles demanded angrily.

       "It's just, the man who killed Cordova lost both his parents and his sister in the winter of '24, and he named the Major as responsible. Then I find a big black hole in Cordova's vitae right over Operation Pegasus in the winter of '24. Now are you really gonna tell me that your company sat on its thumbs while the rest of your division went off to war?"

       "I don't remember what I did thirty fucking years ago," Salles hissed. He took a step closer, and Eyal had to force himself to stand his ground.

       "Your memory is shot," Eyal said, nodding his head agreeably. "Fair enough. Would Alexander Lansing remember?"

       "Excuse me?" Salles asked incredulously.

       "Alexander Lansing. Your CO back in the war. What can you tell me about him?"

       Salles could only stare at him in wonderment. "You're out of your Goddamn tree, you know that?"

       "I'm asking you a simple enough question, sir. What was Charlie Company doing during Operation Pegasus?"

       "I don't remember!" Salles shouted, slamming his artificial hand upon his desk in impotent fury.

       "Well, that's not good enough!" Eyal returned.

       They stared at each other for a moment longer before Eyal chose to continue. "Does 'Cedar Gables' mean anything to you?" he asked.

       At this Salles barely reacted at all, but for the smallest flicker of his dark eyes. Then he shook his head and lowered his gaze, leaning heavily upon the surface of his desk. "Jesus fucking Christ," he murmured. He raised his head and studied Eyal through narrowed eyes. "And just what outfit did you serve in during the war, son?"

       Eyal clenched his jaw. "I didn't serve."

       Salles expressed surprise at this, but did not press the point. "Well, of course you're too young to know about the old days. Back when it was man that men had to fear most. You can't know the hatred we felt for the South—the raw, passionate hate for those upstarts, who rejected civilization in favor of their squalid shithole. Every time a bomb went off in Massilia, I would spit poison at the whole continent. They were animals—animals killing real men, animals attacking real civilization.

       "Then the Covenant showed up at Harvest. And then I was serving with the same men I was trying to kill a few years before, putting my life in the hands of those animals." Salles paused for moment, regarding Eyal with suspicion. "Have you ever seen a man get hit with plasma?"

       "No," Eyal said with an involuntary flinch.

       "No, I suppose you wouldn't have," Salles returned contemptuously. "It burns everything. Like you wouldn't believe. There were no injuries, only deaths. It hit your arm, and you'd go up like a torch. It set every piece of clothing, even body armor alight. It spread like poison, up the arm to the shoulder, finally to the chest, burning everything from the inside out. And they'd scream and writhe for a few seconds, until suddenly they were silent. There were never enough remains to bother salvaging.

       "And after seeing that, it didn't matter who the man was. Whether he was from the South, the North, or some other place altogether. All you wanted to do was rend those fucking aliens limb from limb. No man is an animal, Detective—only them."

       Salles let out of mirthless chuckle as he took final stock of Eyal. "The only man who'd go digging up the past now—after all that's happened—is a man who has no fucking idea what I'm talking about." Salles cast him his last look of disgust and sat down at his desk. "We're done," he finished without looking up.

       Eyal lingered in silence for a few moments before turning to leave. "It's like you said, Mr. Salles," he said quietly. "We all have a job to do. I'm just trying to do mine." He lay his card on Salles' desk. "If you have a change of heart, please call me."

       With this he left, left the noise and chaos and misery, and sat down heavily in his car. He rested his hands for a moment on the freezing wheel, contemplating his next move, never wondering whether there should be a next move. He looked up at the sharply blue sky above—it was still early. Plenty of time left in the day.

       He would need it. He had some research to do.

       Eyal awoke the following day exhausted, and, this time, alone.

       He had no trouble rising, however, as he did most mornings. He did not bother to set the alarm half an hour early to afford himself the luxury of languishing in bed and contemplating his day. Today was his day off, after all, even if it were not the one he had originally imagined. At any rate, he was infused with a sense of purpose that brought energy to his heavy limbs.

       The aroma of coffee soon invigorated his mental faculties as well. He had already used his ration of eggs on his abortive holiday, so he satisfied himself with an extra helping of toast. He turned on the news and listened intently as he settled down to eat his dry, tasteless breakfast. He had to be sure that no plans had changed.

       It was not long before he was interrupted by the doorbell. He got up slowly to answer it, but was hastened by a second impatient ring.

       He opened the door. It was Michelle.

       "What the fuck, Eyal?" she said by way of greeting, striding through the door before he could invite her.

       "Good morning," he returned, bemused.

       "Fuck off." She took out a cigarette and prepared to light it, but Eyal held up a hand. She glared at him. "Are you serious?"

       He crossed his arms. "Not in the house."

       "Jesus Christ," she murmured, letting out a false, irritated chuckle. "Just as I was coming in yesterday the Captain got a phone call," she began, replacing the offending article in her pocket. "It was a Sergeant Grantmyre, complaining that one of our officers was snooping around and causing trouble. Later, she got a call from some other guy—get this: he didn't even come up in any case file. Martim Salles. Complained about the same cop."

       Eyal returned to his table as she spoke, casually sitting down to resume his breakfast. "Is that right?" he asked with mock innocence.

       "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded angrily, following him into the kitchen. "You looking to piss away all the good will earned by capturing that piece of shit Stahl? Singh is furious you went off book to aggravate the Militia. She sent me here to find out what was going on, and maybe to talk some Goddamn sense into you."

       "What do you think the chances of that are?" he said through a mouthful of toast.

       "A futile effort, I know." She rounded the table and sat down opposite him, fixing his eyes earnestly. "Come on, Eyal. Talk to me."

       "Look, Michelle," he began, matching her seriousness. "Just turn around and walk away. If you feel like committing career suicide, do it somewhere else and save me the guilt. I already have enough."

       Mantega met him with a blank stare. "What are you on about?"

       Eyal took a swig of coffee and drew a deep breath before answering. "I'm going to question Alexander Lansing in connection with the murder of Luis Cordova."

       He had to admit: it sounded rather ludicrous when it was said out loud. Mantega seemed to agree.

       "Wow," was all she could say at first. "You've really gone off the reservation."

       "I'm not crazy. Well, maybe a little," he allowed, "but on this I have my reasons."

       Mantega spread her hands expectantly. "Well, tell me a story, then."

       Eyal drew in a deep breath, gathering his thoughts and thinking of how best to irreparably damage his credibility with his partner. "When Isaac Stahl spoke of his home town, Cedar Gables, he said there was no one left. He said it like they were all dead."

       Mantega shrugged. "It's as Lee said: plenty of little towns faded away during the war."

       "It didn't just fade away," Eyal insisting, rising and pacing about the room. "It completely disappeared after '24. Every inhabitant's record is listed as missing."

       "That's not so unusual either. The South was notoriously bad for keeping records. And there was plenty of disruption after the civil war."

       "So the historical record for a whole damn town just fell down a fucking hole?" Eyal asked, exasperated. "And the Militia keeps circling its wagons every time I ask about Cedar Gables. Their commander told me to get loss, and Salles, who served with Lansing, shut down at the mere mention of Cedar Gables. Is this all just a coincidence?" He heaved a sigh and lowered his voice. "Come on, Michelle. Aren't you the least bit interest as to why Stahl killed Cordova?"

       "As an abstract curiosity, maybe," she said off-handedly. "But there are enough damn sob stories around that I won't waste a tear on that piece of shit Stahl. Or Cedar Gables, for that matter. Which begs the question: just what the fuck does Lansing have to do with any of it?"

       "He was the Captain of Cordova's company back in the civil war. I think his company passed through Cedar Gables during the Pegasus campaign of '24."

       Mantega stared at him with a raised eyebrow. "You 'think?'"

       "Yes."

       She grunted. "This is supposed to convince me?"

       Eyal studied his partner's expectant face, skepticism plainly in her eyes, doubt etched into the hard lines of her jaw. He remembered when she had first been assigned to be his partner after her discharge in '53. His previous partner, Sam, had been too elderly to be conscripted and retired immediately after the return of the soldiers. Despite being the senior detective, he had been roundly terrified of Mantega in their first few months together. At that time she had had a soldier's contempt for him, an utter inability to respect one who had not served in humanity's fight for survival. By his efforts, and fuelled to ever greater heights by her derision, he had earned first her indifference, then her esteem, and finally her friendship.

       All of this he now risked by asking her to denounce Vesta's most vaunted war hero based on his own tenuous instinct.

       "No," he said finally. "Like I said. You should leave me to fuck up my life on my own. I really don't need the help. I'm well practiced at it."

       Mantega smirked and held his gaze with her penetrating eyes. "You know, I've been your partner for almost three years now, but I've still got no idea what you're about. All I know is, I can't let you do this alone."

       Eyal regarded her with genuine surprise before shaking his head. "Michelle, you can't…"

       "Fuck off, Eyal," she said dismissively. "We're partners. You tie an anvil to your waste and jump in the fucking ocean, I gotta jump after you. Besides, the captain already bumped me to the swing shift to come talk to you, so I got nothing better to do. I'll bet she's gonna wish she hadn't done that, huh?"

       "Thank you, Michelle," he said earnestly.

       She immediately brushed past even this modest show of sentimentality. "So where will be meeting the good candidate?"

       Eyal retrieved his datapad and handed it to her. "He's attending a last-minute fundraiser today to fund the final week of the campaign," he explained, pointing to the news item. "The spending money like a drunken sailor."

       "Alright," she said, looking at him expectantly. "Let's go."

       "It's not for a few more hours," he said, leaning back in his chair and sipping his coffee.

       "Oh."

       He eyed her with a smirk. "You'll be wearing that?" he asked.

       She looked down at her own outfit. Her hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, her suit was tattered and worn, and her white blouse was so old it was turning brown. She shrugged. "Those high society types can go fuck themselves," she said.

       He laughed. "Indeed."

       Mantega looked around the room for the moment before finally taking a seat. She glanced at his breakfast.

       "I'd give you some food," he said, "but with rations and all…"

       "Uh huh," she snorted, and grabbed a piece of his toast.

       They arrived at the He Xiangu hotel soon after noon. Mantega drove.

       Security was tight around the building. Perhaps a dozen guards patrolled the front entrance, and he was sure there were many more out of sight. As Eyal and Mantega approached the doors he could feel at least a dozen pairs of eyes following them.

       He flashed his badge to a pair of Militia Officers who stood in front of the door. "I'm here to question a guest in an ongoing investigation," he announced.

       One of the agents seized both badges. "The guest's name?" she asked brusquely as she examined their IDs.

       Eyal winced; he had hoped the badge would let him sail on through. "Alexander Lansing," he answered honestly.

       She glared at him severely. "Are you serious?"

       "Yes ma'am."

       The officer narrowed her eyes in suspicion and scanned the badges for authenticity. She frowned at the result but was apparently satisfied. "Our men inside will direct you to the senator at the conclusion of his speech," she said, handing back their badges. She held up a hand as they started to move off. "No guns," she ordered.

       They handed over their sidearms without a fuss. "Fine," he said.

       As he entered he could not resist a moment to appreciate the grandeur of the convention hall. He Xiangu was an upscale hotel that was located—as he had noted with some discomfort—in the same neighborhood as Melanie's luxurious apartment. The décor was very fine, an elegant blend of Western and Oriental styles. The walls were made of rich porphyry marble that was beautifully patterned with dark, almost black oak. The floor was composed of a dark obsidian stone particular to Vesta, and was polished such that the chandeliers overhead were reflected upon it almost as if it were a mirror.

       The guests in attendance clearly matched the venue. They sat at large, round tables arranged before a stage at the front and decorated with immaculately white table cloths. Many of the faces he recognized as belonging to the captains of Vesta's burgeoning industries. These were the celebrity rich, those successful entrepreneurs who loudly claimed credit for rescuing Vesta from the total collapse that had claimed most of the surviving colonies as well as Earth herself. Most of the faces, however, he could not place. These were the truly wealthy, the men and women whose fortunes were of mysterious origin and immeasurable proportions.

       It was not as ostentatious as some of the galas that had been common before the war had taken a bad turn. Such flagrant displays of wealth were no longer vogue in a world that saw refugees lining up in the cold for soup and sixteen year-olds working sixty hour weeks. Yet the quality of the hotel, the caliber of the guests, and the harmonic strummings of Handel's Andante Allegro made the gathering an effortlessly aristocratic affair.

       Almost as soon as they entered a pair of plainclothes Militia flanked them and ordered them to remain at the rear of the hall. "You mean we can't mingle?" Mantega asked one of them. He was not amused.

       A few minutes after their arrival the quiet chattering in the hall subdued. Eyal turned his attention to the stage where a woman was tapping on the microphone to get the room's attention. He identified her as the anchorwoman of a partisan pro-United news program based in Massilia.

       "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," she said to the well-behaved crowd. "We are gathered here today as the end of a long journey draws near. It began with our victory over the Covenant, but it did not end there. Still there are those who resist unity, who insist on keeping us divided at this moment of great weakness. But one man has always given voice to the majority who desire a lasting peace and a permanent recovery. One man has taken up the banner of reason and has fought those who stubbornly advocate the dead politics of a bygone age. Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome Senator Alexander Lansing!"

       There was loud applause as Lansing walked on stage, louder and more raucous than Eyal would have guessed considering the audience. He was certainly a man to inspire enthusiasm.

       "Thank you," he said graciously, gesturing for silence. "Thank you very much." His voice was booming—no television or radio interview could truly capture it. It filled the whole hall, resonating powerfully against its stone walls.

       "And thank you, Ellen, for that kind introduction," he added, still waiting for silence. "Yes, the time is fast approaching when we'll know for sure whether or not I've just been wasting all your time." There were a few chuckles. "Indeed, this impressive turnout at the eleventh hour makes me just a little nervous." A few more chuckles, then an attentive quiet.

       As Lansing settled in, his demeanor became more serious. "There is no doubt that the opposition is formidable. Maria Renka steered us through the worst years of the war, and she represents a sentiment yet strong within the hearts of many proud Vestals. Yet a great and growing number have come to understand the fallacy of reverting to our lesser natures when the universe abounds in newly discovered perils." There was some supportive clapping at this. "At a time when humanity has been so severely reduced in number and in strength, we can not make a casualty also of our hard fought unity. If we shackle ourselves now to the false comfort of faction, then the loss of the greater part of our species will have been in vain.

       "From Harvest to Earth, I was there. I fought the Covenant for almost thirty years. I witnessed the unimaginable cruelty that they inflicted upon humanity. For many years I wondered at the origin of their seeming hatred for us, what motivation drove them to so methodically eradicate humanity's very existence. It was during my tenth year of service, when I had my first ringside seat to a glassing, that I realized the truth: they did not hate us. They thought nothing of us. We were a hindrance, and nothing more. When they burned a world, they paid the people upon the surface no more heed than the trees or the rocks or the oceans. The particulars of human politics and infighting were beneath their contempt. How silly our feuds seemed to me then!

       "I realized that any barriers between the Vesta Expeditionary Force and the UNSC had to be broken down. Even if we had operated well before, I knew that we must strive at least for the spirit of unity: for if we were to fall, we had to fall together. When I became the Chairman of the VEF in 2548, I did my best to fulfill that spirit. And in so doing, I discovered the friendship, the brilliance, and above all, the courage of Lord Terrence Hood." He gestured to one of the tables nearest the stage. At length Eyal realized that Lord Hood was in the audience. He could barely make him out at his considerable distance. The great man waved modestly to the crowd as they began clapping and cheering for him. One or two stood to honor him, and eventually the whole room was roused to their feet in appreciation.

       Lansing waited until the people had taken their seats before continuing, but he still reached out a hand towards Hood. "Sir: I know how badly the people of Earth bled so that we may be safe. I know why it is that idle complaints echo in our streets rather than the cold winds of oblivion. I know that Earth burned while Vesta's verdant lands remained fertile. I know this because I saw it, and because I wept for it.

       "I do not mean to derogate the contributions of my own people. We fought and we bled as much as any other. But we were never subjected to the helpless terror of the Purple coloring our sky. We have never felt its flame upon our surface. We have never lain in bed with our children and waited to die. That is a pain that Earth suffered on our behalf. I feel your sacrifice, and I offer my undying gratitude for it. And next week, the people of Vesta will show that they feel it too."

       Lansing's voice rose as he approached his familiar promise. "When I am elected President, Vesta will at last join the UNSC! Humanity will be united once more! Next week, we may finally brave all the new dangers of the galaxy as one people!"

       There was thunderous applause at this finely delivered sentiment, and the room was again brought to its feet. Eyal had to appreciate the man's theatrics. Were he not flanked by such dour company, he might have been driven to giddy cheering himself.

       From this point the speech delved into specifics, citing the shortcomings of the Renka administrations and offering vague solutions that Lansing planned to implement. Of course, specifics were not what garnered Lansing his support. He was, as he said, selling a spirit, an idea. And it was an idea that many people were desperate to believe in.

       As the speech drew to a close, and Lansing humbly beseeched the assembly to contribute to his campaign, Eyal was reminded of another reason why the Senator was so popular. Integration was popular with the business and industrial sectors, and they had been extremely adept at mobilizing financial support for Lansing. While showy ad campaigns were frowned upon considering the bad times, Lansing's juggernaut campaign had sponsored numerous banquets for the poor, eroding support for one of President Renka's most loyal constituencies. While this was legally ambiguous, there were few willing to tell the Senator that he could no longer feed poor people.

       As Lansing drew to a close, one of the Militia nudged his shoulder and leaned towards his ear. "Alright," he said. "Follow me."

       They followed the two officers around the perimeter of the hall, avoiding the bulk of the crowd. Lunch was being served by an army of waiting staff. Eyal inhaled deeply—it smelled good. It was certainly not the ration food that he was accustomed to.

       They were led into a small side room that looked like a disused office. The two Militia stood on each side of the door and stared at them grimly. "Jesus Christ, soldier," Mantega said with a single, sharp laugh. "You gonna shoot us or something?"

       Neither man responded. Eyal decided to take a seat at the room's only table, the surface of which was cluttered with old papers and other garbage.

       They waited for about ten minutes before Lansing entered. When he did so, Eyal instinctively rose. As he approached them he wore a subdued smile.

       "Good afternoon, officers," he said, extending his hand first to Mantega.

       She grasped it and shook it firmly. "Good afternoon, sir. It's an honor, truly."

       Eyal looked at her: her expression was genuine. He turned to Lansing and smiled. "Yes, sir. It is an honor."

       "And it's a pleasure to meet you, too," Lansing replied. "Though I must confess I was a little shocked when I heard two homicide detectives were here to see me. How is it I can help you, officers?"

       Eyal hesitated as he studied the man before him. Alexander Lansing had an imposing stature, standing at perhaps six foot two inches tall and, despite his age of 56, he retained the broad shoulders and slim waste of his soldiering days. His grey hair was fashionably long, and upon his square jaw was an immaculately trimmed beard. His eyes were cold and grey, and betrayed no thought or emotion. His suit was cheap and unassuming, a product of his attempt to appeal to the poor and the working class that traditionally voted for the Vesta Party. Yet he wore the outfit with effortless class, and it seemed to sit perfectly upon his frame—clearly he was an aristocrat in any garb.

       Eyal had the sudden image of Lansing emerging from some roaring battlefield, his face composed, his uniform miraculously unscathed, not a hair out of place. Instantly he regretted having come to the hotel.

       "I have a few questions regarding an ongoing murder investigation," Eyal forced himself to say.

       "Is that right?" Lansing replied. "Well, the one benefit of running this perpetual campaign is that I have a twenty-four hour alibi." He laughed. Off the microphone, his voice had the consistency of gravel. It was a voice born to lead.

       "You're not a suspect, obviously," Mantega said. "We have already apprehended the perpetrator."

       Lansing took a seat, and Eyal and Mantega quickly followed suit. "Really? What do you need me for, then?"

       Eyal swallowed and prepared himself. "Well sir, we're investigating the Luis Cordova murder." He paused to study Lansing's face for effect—nothing. "Have you heard of it?"

       "Well, yes, I've heard of it. It's all over the news. Wasn't the murderer some indigent fellow from the South?"

       "Yes, sir," Mantega answered. "As we said, we have our man."

       "But, what?" Lansing ventured. "You don't think he really did it?"

       "No, we're quite certain he did it," Eyal said. "We're just trying to determine why he did it. If maybe there is some shared culpability in the murder."

       "I see. And how can I help in that regard?"

       "Well sir, didn't Luis Cordova serve with you?"

       Lansing looked surprised. "No. I don't believe so."

       "I can assure you he did," Eyal persisted, handing him a copy of Charlie Company's roster. "Back in the civil war."

       Lansing glanced at the paper before shrugging and returning his impenetrable gaze to Eyal. "I suppose he did, Detective. I have served with many men in my career."

       "Yes, sir, I can appreciate that. But it is very important in this instance. You see, there's a gap in Cordova's vitae that no one seems willing to fill in for me. It occurs around 2524, during Operation Pegasus."

       Lansing shrugged. "I'm sorry, detective, but I just don't remember the man."

       "I see," Eyal said, nodding with understanding. He took a moment to steel himself before saying, "Does Cedar Gables mean anything to you?"

       For just a moment, Lansing's impassive countenance slipped. His eyes widened perceptibly and his unaffected expression soured. Almost instantly he reassumed the mask, though to Eyal it looked more artificial.

       "No," he said eventually. "I don't know what that is."

       "It's a town, in the South," Eyal said, gaining some confidence. "Or I should say, it was a town in the South. It was where Cordova's murderer hailed from. And it mysteriously vanished around 2524—the same time as the redaction in his vitae."

       "Your point eludes me, Detective," Lansing said sharply. "Make it quickly. I have other business to attend to."

       "Sir, what was Charlie Company doing during Operation Pegasus?"

       "I have no idea. I don't remember. Look it up."

       "I did that. And I found that three soldiers in your company were killed in action during the operation, even though the records say that Charlie Company was remanded to the sidelines. So I'll ask again: what happened?"

       "Have you been listening, detective? It was thirty years ago. I do not remember."

       "With respect, sir, I don't believe you." Eyal realized only after this last utterance that his voice had risen considerably. The two Militia Officers looked as if they could not believe what they were hearing. Even Mantega appeared shocked.

       Lansing's demeanor did not appreciably change, but the room felt as though it got about five degrees cooler. "Good Lord," he said slowly in an even tone. "Is this what Massilia's finest is up to these days? Or are you just some sort of delusional burnout?" He turned to Mantega. "Just what is your story? Did he drag you into this foolishness?"

       Mantega said nothing.

       Lansing rose to his feet. "I will put in a call to your captain, Detective," he said, his tone never changing yet becoming suddenly menacing. "I hope for your Department's sake that yours is an isolated lunacy. Now I will have my men escort you from the property. I hope that you at least have the sense to avoid causing a scene." With this he turned and left the room.

       The Militia Officers stepped forward to bid them rise. "Alright," one of them said. "Follow me."

       They were led out of the hotel, back through the low hum of the convention hall. Once outside their firearms were returned and they were instructed brusquely to leave the premises and not to return. They acquiesced and wordlessly walked to their vehicle.

       Inside the car Eyal exhaled sharply as if he had been holding his breath since accusing Lansing. Mantega shook her head in wonderment. "You really are mad, aren't you?"

       He shrugged, and for about a minute they sat together in silence.

       "Jesus," Mantega said eventually, staring at the hotel through the window. "Jesus fucking Christ. The man was lying through his teeth."

       "I'm glad you agree," Eyal said. "Means I'm not totally fucking nuts."

       Mantega laughed breathlessly. "Jesus Christ," she said again.

       After another moment of silence, Eyal said, "So, what do we do now?"

       She looked at her watch. "Well, it's still three hours to my shift. We could grab a bite to eat, talk things over."

       "Good idea," he agreed. "We have a lot to talk about. Like, for instance, what my new job is gonna be."

Vestal Sins: Chapter 4: Cedar Gables
Date: 24 July 2009, 4:03 am

       "That motherfucker," Mantega said.

       Eyal shrugged. "We don't actually know what he's lying about."

       "Well, it's nothing good, is it?"

       They had settled on a small diner away from the North Delta, closer to the Taiga Docks to the south. It was a dingy joint, with plastic booths and a flickering neon sign, but it served good coffee in generous portions. Even the sandwiches were passable—the meat was rubbery and tasteless, but the bread seemed genuine.

       "Of course, he gave us nothing," Eyal said slowly.

       Mantega nodded, holding her mug of coffee just below her mouth. "I know it. It wouldn't matter even if we did."

       "I could go to Cedar Gables," he said suddenly. "I could go to the site. There must be someone around there who knows something."

       "Eyal…"

       "Maybe I could go back to Stahl… try a last ditch effort to get something from him…"

       "Eyal!"

       "What?"

       She stared at him intently. "You realize this is something you're gonna have to drop, right?"

       He shook his head. "I can't do that Michelle."

       "There's no win here for you Eyal." She tapped each of her outstretched fingers as she made her points. "You could go to Cedar Gables and very likely fall off the edge of the fucking world. Or, you could survive and come back with nothing and be out of a job. Or, you could actually find something or someone who doesn't treat you like the plague, and Lansing just denies everything." She dropped her hands and leaned back, apparently finished. "You've satisfied your damn curiosity: Lansing's a piece of shit. That's where it has to lie."

       "Fighting the Covenant absolves all sins, then?" he asked sullenly.

       "You're not hearing me," Mantega said through clenched teeth. It was always a touchy subject between them. "Even if he did do something at Cedar Gables, you won't be able to get him for it. It's been too long. You'll only destroy yourself." As soon as she said this, she sighed heavily and ran her hand through her hair. "Jesus Christ. Don't tell me all this time you've been harboring a death wish."

       "No," he said, lowering his eyes. "I just don't think I can let this one go."

       "Please, Eyal," she pleaded seriously. "Don't end yourself. If for no one else than for me. I've actually gotten used to you as a partner. I even kind of like you."

       He gave her a bland smile but said nothing. They finished the rest of their meal in near silence. Eyal insisted to pay but Mantega would not relent. They walked to her car and she drove him home.

       "Christ, I don't want to work this shift," Mantega grumbled as they neared his apartment. "I'm sure Lansing's already called Singh. I'm sure she's preparing to rip my head off right now."

       "I'm sorry to have gotten you involved," Eyal said.

       "I involved myself," she returned.

       She pulled up alongside his apartment and he offered his thanks. "Apologize to Ellie for me," he said in parting. "I'm sure she hates me for fucking up your shift."

       Mantega smirked. "Don't worry, Eyal. She hated you anyway."

       Eyal watched her car drive away until it turned a distant corner. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and turned his head towards the sky. A few snowflakes drifted onto his nose—from the rooftops, he decided. It was not snowing.

       He stood in this position for some time, feeling passersby knock roughly into him and likely cursing him in their minds. He thought seriously making the long drive down to Cedar Gables to see if the locals had any pertinent information. Questioning Stahl now was completely out of the question, even if he had thought it to be a good idea. Instead he could track down the few remaining survivors of Charlie Company. Yet leaving now, when the fallout of the Lansing interrogation not yet even fallen, would surely get him fired, or worse. He contemplated the loss of his job, and decided quickly that he would not risk the one good thing in his life.

       Suddenly breaking from his reverie, he walked to his car parked further down the block. He set off northwest, along the river, taking a longer but more scenic route. The river was frozen solid. For weeks the ice had only crept out from the edges, but with midwinter approaching the surface had frozen and would not flow for some months. A few children could be seen skating on the flat expanse, but not as many as there used to be.

       He arrived shortly at his destination: the Alehouse, his favorite bar in Massilia. Or rather, the only bar in the city he cared to patronize. The prices were good, but it was the healthy respect for anonymity that he appreciated. He had noticed that cops tended to frequent the seediest bars—he was grateful this one remained his little secret.

       The bar was nearly empty at this time of day. A few unsavory characters lurked about—off-duty shift workers or dead-eyed retirees. He saw one or two men in workers' jumpsuits, likely tying one on during their lunch break. The room was dank and smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies. A perfect place to lose oneself for an afternoon.

       He walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum. The barman acceded without a word. It was why he loved the place.

       His world had become bleary and indistinct. The bar was now humming with distant voices. The temperature had risen several degrees. He glanced at his watch: it was only nine o'clock. This meant nothing to him, for he could not remember when he had entered. He did know, however, that he was done. He paid for his drinks, left a generous tip—inebriation always loosened his wallet—and stumbled out of the bar.

       The blast of frigid air that greeted his departure was welcome after the hot closeness of the bar. He nearly slipped on a patch of black ice just outside the doorway, and was saved an embarrassing fall by an entering patron. He offered his thanks and chuckled in drunken amusement. He should not be driving, he knew—but he would be damned if he would leave his car in this neighborhood.

       He fumbled for his keys at his car, but they caught on the fabric of his jacket and fell to the ground. As he knelt to recover them, he mysteriously collapsed to the ground, feeling the pain of the blow only a few seconds after his fall. His whole world turned black and breathing suddenly became difficult as something was slipped over his head. Eventually he realized that he was being dragged away by two pairs of very strong hands. Only belatedly did he begin to struggle, but to no avail. He guessed that even had he been sober he would not have been successful—his captors did not even falter from his efforts.

       He was lifted unceremoniously onto a hard surface and held down by a third pair of hands. The sound of two doors slamming shut could be heard behind him, and then his world was pulled out from under him. He rocked around from side to side for a few moments before the blackness that enshrouded his eyes was lifted.

       The space was dark and his hazy vision took a moment to adjust. At length he was able to make out a figure that was seated before him, apparently immune to the jarring turbulence that had Eyal twisting even on his back. Soon his face came into focus as well: a thick, weather-beaten face set upon a pair of broad shoulders. Even in the low light Eyal could see a malevolent glint in the man's dark eyes.

       Sergeant Grantmyre.

       Instantly Eyal's chest turned to ice and his already unsettled stomach clenched painfully. His hands no doubt would have trembled were they not restrained by two gorilla-sized men on either side of him.

       Grantmyre chuckled mirthlessly at the expression of terror no doubt plastered on his face. "Detective Dayan," he said slowly. "Do you recall what I said I would do if I ever saw you again?"

       Eyal could not find the voice to protest the terms of their meeting. Grantmyre, however, surmised his argument from his countenance.

       "You see, Detective, you fuck with any one of us, and you fuck with me." Grantmyre leaned closer to Eyal, and any trace of false amusement evaporated from his face. "That's something you wouldn't understand. You fucking coward."

       He returned to his original position. "So, the persecution of war heroes continues unabated, eh, Dayan? Un-fucking-believable. I've never met a man with so much to be ashamed about so obsessed with other men's skeletons. What is it? Self-loathing? Self-righteousness? Or are you just out of your fucking mind?"

       Eyal could think of nothing to say. He could only stare at the Sergeant unblinkingly and will him not to pull out a knife or gun.

       "I dug around your file some more, Dayan," Grantmyre continued. "Never served a day in your fucking life, did you? Course, I already knew that. But then I saw that you were married."

       Eyal flinched at the mention of his wife. "Christ, is that real guilt I see?" Grantmyre spat. "Are you even capable of feeling it? Does it kill you inside to think that while your wife was dying on Siggy you were arresting some teenagers for partying too fucking loud? I wonder what she thought of you, at the end, while she burned. I wonder how much she hated you. I wonder how humiliated she was by you." Grantmyre shook his head in disgust. "It must be self-loathing," he decided.

       "What do you want, Sergeant?" Eyal asked, finally finding the will to speak. He was surprised by the steadiness of his voice.

       "I just want to understand you, Detective," Grantmyre said. "I want to figure out where such a miserable little cunt like you finds the balls to go after great men. If only you'd found them earlier, at the enlisting station.

       "Are you really so damaged that you can't see the bigger picture here? You think it's a good idea to drag up the ghosts of the civil war now that humanity is finally united? And especially during this election? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

       Eyal did not bother to say that he was done prying into the matter. He simply remained silent and hoped the session would come swiftly to an end.

       "You will stay away from Senator Lansing," Grantmyre hissed. "You will stay away from HQ. You will give a wide berth to any Militia you see from now on. Do you understand?"

       He nodded intently.

       "You see, Dayan, I'd kill you right here, right now, and I would sleep just fine tonight. Only, the disappearance of a cop might raise some questions. So I'm gonna rely on your cowardice to see that your bullshit gets buried. And I'm thinking that's a safe bet."

       Eyal could not resist a parting question. "Did you organize this, Sergeant? I'd have expected more violence from you."

       He had his answer from Grantmyre's hesitation, even though the Sergeant did not oblige him with a response. He simply shrugged and said, "Good point."

       At Grantmyre's signal, the two men at his side promptly began to beat upon his stomach and face. He had never suffered a sustained beating before, and though the experience was even more painful than he had expected, it was also somehow less debilitating.

       After what seemed like an eternity of this treatment, the vehicle came to an abrupt halt and he was heaved out the back. He landed heavily upon the pavement, the fall accentuating the pain of his thrashing. Grantmyre yelled something to him as the van took off, but he could not make it out above the ringing in his ears and the screeching of the tires. He was sure the particulars were not important. He got the gist of it.

       For several minutes he lay face down against the street, the frozen asphalt numbing the searing pain of his skin. He was in agony, but he nonetheless offered gratitude to his estranged God for still being alive. He remained in this position until a passing car sounded its horn right next to him. He blindly reached out for something to assist his rise, and grasped the edge of a car parked to his side. As he got to his feet, he realized that the car was his own.

       At least they were courteous, he thought.

       He arrived safely at his apartment after a long and cautious drive. If nothing else, the beating had sobered him up.

       Exiting his car was a painful exercise, and forced from his lips a protracted groan. He stumbled to his building's door, unlocked it after four tries, and took the elevator to his floor. A woman in the elevator gasped in shock at his appearance. He managed a smile that was intended to reassure her, but succeeded only in eliciting another gasp.

       He eventually made it to his room, limped along its length, and collapsed into a chair in his living room without removing his jacket or shoes. There he remained for some time, keeping the apartment dark and waiting for the pounding in his head to subside. The sharp ringing of his phone did little to help the matter.

       Eyal fumbled for the phone and answered it. The voice was loud and he instinctively removed it a few inches from his ear.

       "Are you kidding me, Eyal?" the voice demanded. A lot of people had been saying that to him recently.

       "Captain Singh?" he asked blearily.

       "You interrogated Alexander Lansing about Cordova while off-duty?" Singh asked incredulously, pausing between each point and heightening her outrage. "What the hell are you doing?"

       "I don't really know, Captain," he replied, utterly unable to form a cogent response.

       "Goddamnit, Eyal. I sent Mantega to talk some sense into you. I thought at least you'd have the decency to keep her away from your insanity. But you dragged her into it as well, along with the whole Department."

       "It was my doing," he said. "Mantega begged me not to do it."

       "I'll deal with Mantega separately," she said, her voice regaining some composure. "I know that this escapade was your idea. Christ! I'm trying to keep a place for the Department in this city and you pull a stunt like this?"

       She paused for a moment as if she expected a defense, but he gave none. She just sighed and continued. "I'll have to suspend you, of course, even though you know I can't spare you. One week without pay. Goddamn you for forcing me to do this. And if you do anything else like this, you're done." She hung up, and Eyal threw his phone into some corner of the room.

       One week. What a coincidence, he thought. The day after the election.

       He rose from his misery soon after the call, noting with displeasure that he had stained the fabric of his chair with blood. He walked to his bathroom and shed his bloody and tattered clothing and stepped into the shower. The warm water burned upon his cuts and bruises at first, but after a time it began to feel soothing. He kept his head down and watched the water empty down the drain; it slowly turned from red to an off brown. When at last the water became clear he emerged from the shower and gently toweled himself dry.

       He steeled himself to study his face in the mirror. He appeared less ghoulish than he had feared, the shower washing away most of the blood and grime that had so shocked his elevator companion. His body was a mass of cuts and bruises. He had a large gash on the right side of his forehead and both eyes were blackened. No doubt he would look and feel worse by morning.

       Walking remained painful, but measured steps carried him to the kitchen without undue agony. He was hungry, but his jaw was swollen and he did not really feel like eating anyway. Instead he fixed himself a drink—rum with bitters—and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. He lay down gingerly on his couch, placed the ice on his head, and sipped his drink. He turned on his television, saw Lansing's face, and immediately shut it off. He reached for his copy of the Economist instead, and continued his way through the issue. He would have a lot of time to catch up on his reading, it would seem.

       He was interrupted some time later by the doorbell. At first he ignored it—he could think of no one he would like to see at the moment. Yet his visitor was persistent, and began ringing the bell in rapid succession. At last he was brought to his feet, making his way to the door. He flicked on the monitor to see his caller's face and drew in an involuntary breath.

       He had not expected this.

       Reluctantly, he opened the door. The man shoved aside the half-opened door and entered the room without a word. He carried his left arm like a club—it swung limply from his shoulder as if it were not a part of his body. He shook with a pent up energy, his head twisting from side to side, his eyes darting across the room. Eyal began to regret his decision to grant his visitor entry.

       "Martim Salles," Eyal greeted his guest quietly.

       Salles looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, then heaved a racking sigh and began pacing frenetically about the room.

       "Why did you come to me, Detective?" he asked without looking at him. "Why now? Why would you bring that back to me now?"

       Eyal shrugged. It was a question he was still unsure of himself. "I just want to know why Luis Cordova was killed," he offered simply.

       "I know why. You probably do too. It's because of Cedar Gables. Cedar Gables," he repeated, halting in midstep.

       Eyal's heart seemed to skip a beat. "Why are you here, Martim?"

       "I'll tell you what you want to know," Salles said, his face set.

       For a moment Eyal was at a loss for words. Then he said, "Would you like a drink?"

       Salles looked at him as if he did not understand. Then he began pacing again without a reply. Eyal almost smiled—stupid question.

       "Can I record what you say?" Eyal asked instead, more lucidly.

       "What kind of coward would I be if I confessed my sins only to you?" he returned.

       Eyal nodded, and retrieved a recorder from his desk drawer. The pain that accompanied his movements offered a good reminder of all the reasons why he should not be doing this, but he ignored both his body and his mind. He took a seat upon the arm of his sofa, while Salles stubbornly continued pacing as if he were unable to stop. Eyal switched on the recorder.

       "State your name for the record," Eyal said.

       "Sergeant Martim Salles, retired."

       "What were you doing in the winter of 2524?"

       "I was a Private First Class in the Northern Legion, Charlie Company, 95th Reconnaisance Regiment, 10th Infantry." His voice was robotic and emotionless.

       "Who was your company commander, Mr. Salles?"

       Salles paused, as if just now realizing the weight of what he was doing. "Captain Alexander Lansing."

       "Did your company see action during Operation Pegasus of that year?"

       "Yes. Operation Pegasus was meant to root out the insurgents entrenched in the central highlands. Charlie Company was assigned to advance recon along the 10th's right flank, to prevent an ambush on our boys in the valley. We secured numerous towns along the flank. One was called Cedar Gables."

       "And what happened at Cedar Gables?"

       Salles swallowed hard before continuing. "The operation turned bad real quick. The main invasion force was dealing with unexpectedly high resistance. A few klicks from Cedar Gables we sustained a casualty from a landmine. There was a ban on landmines, no one should have been using them," he insisted angrily, as if trying to convince himself of something. Then he sighed and continued, "Anyway, when we got to the town we were all—demoralized.

       "When the company reached Cedar Gables we secured the area. Intel said we should expect no resistance from the residents, that they were all women and children." He shook his head ruefully at the memory. "Well, they got pretty riled up by the operation, and emboldened by the rebels' success. As we were policing their weapons, one of the civilians shot one of our men. It was a neck shot—our man bled out slowly. The shooter was dragged out from one of the buildings. He was just a teenager, but the men beat him to death. Ripped him limb from limb.

       "Then my Platoon Sergeant, Luis Cordova, turned to the boy's mother, who was screaming at us to stop." Eyal's ears pricked at the name. "He killed her. Beat her with the butt of his rifle until she was unrecognizable. A bunch of us were gathered around, watching him. When he was finished he started screaming about burning the town to purge it of hostiles.

       "We were angry. We were cold. And we were frightened. We listened to him.

       "It started slowly, and then it spread. We went from house to house. We shot them first, and then we burned the buildings. A few tried to flee but we cut them down as they ran. As we made our way through the town, the survivors gathered in a church. Some of them had weapons but they didn't put up much of a fight. Sergeant Cordova set fire to the building. We barricaded the door from the outside and shot anyone who jumped out through the windows."

       He stopped his pacing for a moment and gazed off into the distance. "I can still remember them screaming inside, banging on the doors. I held my rifle, ready to shoot in case they broke through." He shook his head unbelievingly, as if he could not fathom that the memories accorded with his own actions. "Eventually the church was consumed and all of a sudden there was total silence."

       Eyal let the long pause play for a few moments. As he did so he studied Salles' face, and eventually decided that he was telling the whole truth. "Where was Lansing during these events?" he asked hoarsely.

       "He wasn't there," Salles said. "He was on the horn with command at the edge of town. The division was planning a general retreat."

       "Lansing was absent the whole time?"

       He nodded slowly.

       "How long did the slaughter last for?" Eyal asked.

       Salles winced at the term "slaughter" but did not protest. "Three hours, I think. Maybe four."

       "So Lansing knew what was going on?"

       He paused for what seemed to be a long time, then nodded. "Yes. He must have. He couldn't not. There was screaming, shooting… the whole town was in flames."

       "And he made no attempt to stop it?"

       "No."

       "What happened afterwards?"

       Salles cleared his throat and continued his account. "Lansing entered the town. He was pale and wide-eyed… I think he was genuinely shocked. Then he ordered us to dig a mass grave and to get ready to move out. Our division was already retreating."

       "Were there any survivors in the town?"

       Salles shrugged. "Probably. There were some woodlands downhill from the town. Some of the residents might have escaped that way."

       "Is there anything else you would like to add?"

       "No. Just that…" Salles ran a hand across his mouth and closed his eyes. "I don't know why I did it. I don't even know how it happened. I just… I don't fucking know, is all."

       Slowly, Eyal reached for his recorder and turned it off. He felt breathless. He was not sure what he had expected to uncover—he supposed it always had to be something along these lines—yet hearing the details of the atrocity, conveyed as they were from a man who helped commit them, was a shock to the mind.

       Eyal allowed himself to imagine Isaac Stahl walking down the street and seeing the face of Luis Cordova, still in uniform only now as a Militia officer. Probably he heard him, too, barking out orders in the same harsh voice that had incited the men of Charlie Company to killing Stahl's family. He wondered how long it took for Stahl to work up the courage to follow him to his home, and thereupon to exact his vengeance with a brutality beyond his nature. Once again the image of Luis Cordova's body flashed across his mind.

       In the heavy silence that followed his confession, Salles finally collapsed into a chair, utterly deflated. "Jesus Christ," he murmured. "I can't believe I just did that."

       "Would you have gone to your grave with it otherwise?" Eyal asked. He was strangely calm in the wake of the shocking confession, and felt greatly sobered as well.

       "I don't know. Maybe. I expect I'll be there soon, though."

       "Where?"

       Salles grunted irritably. "My grave. They'll bury me for this, you understand. You cannot turn on your own, Detective. Especially not Lansing—and especially not now. I suppose the honorable thing to do would be to fall on my sword."

       "I wouldn't know about that, Mr. Salles. I prefer to live with my shame until it kills me."

       Salles let out a single, hollow laugh. "Well then. I guess I'll meet you there."

       When Eyal arrived at the He Xiangu hotel it was nearly midnight. It was freezing in the dark, and a stiff wind blew off the mountains to the north. The breeze carried a few ice particles into his face, the kind that seemed to congeal in the frigid air rather than falling from the clouds. They stung his cheeks and clung to his jacket.

       There were few people about, and he was confident that most of the tightly bundled people gathered around the hotel were Lansing's Militia entourage. He tried to walk casually up to the front doors, but he was almost immediately approached by one of the guards.

       "Excuse me, sir, can I see some identification?" the guard demanded. It was a woman. He had not been able to tell from the low cap and the high jacket.

       He pretended to be startled. "I'm a guest here. Just trying to get to my room."

       "May I see your room pass?"

       Eyal frowned and scratched the back of his head. "Alright. I'm a police officer. I'm here to see Alexander Lansing regarding a sensitive matter."

       The Militia Officer stared at him without blinking. "Sir, I'm going to need to see some identification."

       "Fine," he grumbled, and handed her his badge.

       She inspected it, and then glanced back up. "Detective Eyal Dayan?"

       "That's right."

       "You've been suspended," she said severely. "Lansing instructed us to remove you immediately if you came anywhere near here."

       "Be that as it may, I have a pressing matter I must discuss with the Senator."

       The guard raised her hand, and three more nearby guards started closing on him. "You have to leave, right now. You do not want to make a scene out of this." Only now did he realize that her hand had drifted towards her holster.

       "You don't understand," Eyal insisted stubbornly, ignoring the three brutes who were approaching him. "I have information that concerns the Senator's safety."

       She must have sensed the desperation in his voice, for her response was laced with dismissive sarcasm. "You can inform the Senator of any danger through the proper channels."

       The reinforcements were upon him now. One of them grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to twist him away, but he held fast. "Please. Just radio Lansing the phrase 'burning church gables.' He'll know what it means."

       She flicked her hand and two of the guards seized him and began dragging him away. "Your supervisor will be contacted for this breach of your terms."

       "Wait!" he pleaded, struggling uselessly against the guards. "I am no random kook. I am a police officer, and I'm telling you the Senator is in danger!" The commander held up a hand, and the dragging stopped. "Just radio Lansing the phrase," he said, out of breath. "If it means nothing to him, I'll leave peacefully."

       He was in no bargaining position. He was confident even one of the guards could have removed him without much difficulty, let alone three. Yet she stared at him for what seemed like forever—perhaps appraising the level of his insanity, perhaps judging the consequences of a false alarm. In the end, however, she relented.

       "Fuck," she muttered, and brought out her radio. "Put me through to Lansing," she ordered. Eyal could not hear the other half of the conversation, but when he heard the commander address Lansing, his heart seemed to skip a beat. "Yes, sir. Detective Eyal Dayan was caught trying to enter the hotel. He's in our custody now. Yes, sir, I'll do that right away."

       She paused for a moment, then said, "The detective wanted to pass along a message first. He said you'd know what it means." She hesitated once again, clearly regretting her decision. "He said, 'burning church gables.'"

       The phrase hung in the air for many moments. The breeze whistled through the tall buildings of the North Delta, whipping more ice pellets into his bare face. He felt as though he had been standing out in the cold for an age.

       "Sir?" the commander prompted. "Are you still there?"

       An answer. Eyal could see little of her face, but every inch of it registered surprise. "Yes, sir." She closed the link and nodded to the men who were still holding Eyal by his shoulders. "Bring him over to the hotel. Hand him off to Lieutenant Hamza." She continued to stare at him in amazement as he was led off.

       The lobby of the He Xiangu matched its convention hall, all marble and dark wood. It was a high-ceilinged affair, with an impressive waterfall cascading down the rear wall. The long reception desk, manned by only one clerk at this late hour, was beautifully polished and adorned with ornate Oriental carvings. The whole scene was a holdover from more prosperous times, a garish anachronism in the city that Massilia had become.

       The two perimeter guards handed Eyal over to two Militiamen dressed in suits and earpieces. They wordlessly received him and handled him in the same rough manner. Only after they brought him to the elevator, the double doors thudding together and the lift soaring skywards, did he begin to contemplate the hopeless situation he was plunging into.

       He had no solid notion as to what he thought he might accomplish by seeing Lansing. Coming to the hotel had been the first thing that had come to his mind after hearing Salles' confession—he had done it almost on instinct. He had not even truly expected to gain entry. He chastised himself for his foolishness in coming to this place without a plan. He frantically began to formulate questions in his mind, but found that he could not think clearly over the pounding in his ears.

       Lansing's room was on the fourteenth floor. Eyal wondered if the whole floor had been booked as a security precaution. It was oppressively quiet, even for an upscale hotel corridor at midnight.

       They stopped at what he presumed to be Lansing's room. He was ordered to spread his arms and legs and was thoroughly scanned with a small handheld device. Apparently satisfied, one of his escorts opened the door with a key that hung from his neck and announced their entrance as the door swung open.

       Alexander Lansing was seated on a leather sofa facing the doorway. A datapad rested on his lap, illuminated by a lamp situated on the end table next to him. The room was large, obviously a suite, though Lansing kept it dark, leaving Eyal to imagine the luxury that surrounded him.

       "He's clean, sir," said one of the men beside him.

       Lansing continued reading for a moment or two after their entry, putting on an air of calm. At length he looked up and frowned at the sight of Eyal. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You may leave. You, too, Harry," he added, turning to a man standing to the right of the door.

       The man looked surprised. "Are you sure that's wise, sir?"

       "I gave you an order, Captain," Lansing returned sternly.

       The man called Harry turned to leave without further protest, but he shot Eyal a hostile look on his way out the door.

       Alone now with the great man, Eyal felt more nervous than before. His mind seemed blank. Lansing was staring at him with an inscrutable expression, the datapad still balanced on his crossed legs.

       "You didn't bother to come bugged?" he asked eventually.

       "There was no need," Eyal replied, trying for confidence. "I already know everything."

       Lansing sniffed. "Just who the fuck are you, Detective?" Lansing asked. "The Ghost of Christmas Past? A blackmailer looking for his big payday? Or are you just a total fucking crackpot?"

       The expletives somehow sounded even more menacing with Lansing's erudite inflection. His eyes bore penetratingly into Eyal's own. He was still standing by the door where the Militia had left him, feeling desperately exposed before the seated man in front of him.

       "I have no interest in blackmailing anyone, Senator."

       "Just the other two, then?" Lansing laughed, and finally put the datapad aside. He stood and paced slowly to the opposite side of the room, where he was enveloped in shadow. "So, just what is it you think you know, Detective?"

       Eyal heard the clink of ice from the darkness, and surmised that Lansing was fixing himself a drink. Eyal recognized this as an attempt to demonstrate control over the situation. This realization finally brought calm to his nerves: Lansing was concerned.

       "I know that you led your company into Cedar Gables in 2524," he answered, his voice steady. "I know that your men proceeded to wipe out every man, woman, and child in the town. And I know that you stood by and did nothing."

       Lansing was standing now in the half-light behind the sofa, nursing a glass of brandy. When he spoke his grating voice emerged as a growl. "Son, you don't know a Goddamn thing."

       "Normally I would agree with you, sir," he allowed. "But this—this I know."

       "And who told you all this?"

       "One of your men."

       "Who?" Lansing demanded.

       "You will find out soon enough."

       Lansing remained silent for a moment, then chuckled ominously. "You are an insolent little prick, aren't you?" He drew a deep breath before continuing. "Let me try to explain something to you, Detective, as I have been told that you may be unfamiliar with the subject. Things happen in war that you cannot control or stop or undo. Situations devolve with frightening speed, and you have to just keep moving. Cedar Gables was just one of those things that happen during war that you have to put behind you."

       "Sir, with respect, you stood by for four hours while three hundred people were murdered by the men under your command. Are you really trying to pass it off as spilt milk?"

       "Must I remind you that there was a war on?" Lansing retorted angrily. "We were in the middle of a catastrophe. Our division was retreating under fire. I was trying to get my men out of those mountains without getting surrounded."

       "It took you four hours to put in a call to command?" Eyal asked. "And were they talking so loudly that you could not hear the screams of women and children being burned alive?"

       Lansing slammed his fist upon the wooden frame of the sofa. "Goddamnit man, are you really going to lecture me on how to fight a war? We had lost good soldiers taking that piece of shit village. Good men! And thousands more were dying in the valley below. Some of those soldiers had been waging that war against unreason for almost a decade. So, yes, my men were on edge, and they did some bad things."

       "So you decided to let them have their revenge? Stay out of it until they had their fill?"

       "You have no idea what you're talking about, Detective," Lansing said through clenched teeth. "You have no idea of the cruelty that nine years of intractable fighting can produce in the human man. They liked to raid first aid tents and slit the throats of the wounded. Sometimes, we could come across ambushed patrols, and the men would be lying in a circle, bloody holes in their crotches and pain etched in their faces. It was a war of brutality—on both sides.

       "I mention this for your benefit only. I forgave myself for Cedar Gables many foxholes ago. I spent twenty years fighting the Covenant. I spent the last three trying to make sure that aliens are the only thing humanity need fight in the future. I wonder what service you believe that you are rendering by dragging this up now?"

       "I have an insatiable curiosity," Eyal said. "I had to see just how full of shit Senator Lansing was."

       Eyal was surprised at his own brazenness. Lansing's expression seemed to turn to stone. "You did not come to hear my defense, then," he said slowly. "Why did you come?"

       "To ask you a favor."

       Lansing's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What?"

       "To tell the people what happened. To let the people be the judge of your actions. To work in mention of Cedar Gables between one of your war stories and a plea for unity."

       "I see," Lansing said, taking his first sip from the glass of brandy. "That puts us at an impasse, then."

       "You fear the people's judgment?"

       "I fear rattling old skeletons. Skeletons better left long buried."

       "You might as well do it yourself, Senator," Eyal suggested. "Put a positive spin on it. Because it will come out, and in a light which may cast you rather poorly."

       Lansing shook his head. "You understand I cannot allow that to happen."

       "Will you sick Grantmyre on me again?" Eyal asked pointedly.

       Lansing did not deny the charge. "You won't make it to Grantmyre, Detective," he replied instead.

       They stood together in silence for a few moments, appraising each other with smoldering eyes. Lansing once again wore a mask of detached calm, leaning heavily against the back of the sofa, his mouth set in a firm line. Eyal felt like a mouse chasing a lion. The weight of the man's experience and fame was almost palpable. He conceded their test of wills without much of a fight, turning away and opening the door.

       "Goodbye, Senator," he said in parting. Lansing did not respond.

       The three Militia waiting outside the door stared at him as he left. He could feel their eyes on him even as he walked away. He tried to maintain a steady stride, though every instinct screamed at him to start running.

       About half-way to the elevator, he heard footsteps following him down the hallway. Had the adrenaline from his meeting not been coursing through his veins, he likely never would have heard them. They were soft and measured—the sound of a predator stalking its prey.

       He increased his speed without breaking into a sprint, passing the elevator doors without a pause. He sharply turned the nearest corner, resisting the urge to steal a glance behind him. An identical corridor lay before him, also devoid of any sign of life. To his left was a derelict cleaning cart. He quickly searched through the scattered spray bottles and damp rags and discovered a set of keys. He slid the key into the nearest door and slipped through just as he saw two of the Militia turning the corner.

       The room was thankfully empty. As he had surmised, the whole floor had probably been booked for Lansing's safety. He bounded across the room to the balcony doors and slid them ajar. Immediately he was blasted with a rush of frigid air, the wind even more treacherous fourteen stories up than it had been in the plaza. Once on the terrace, he jammed one of the deck chairs in the doorframe and turned to the edge.

       He could not keep from peering down. His stomach churned at the height, and an image of cleaning crews scraping him off the pavement flashed unbidden across his mind. Turning his attention to the next balcony over brought no reprieve to his nausea. They were spaced much further apart than they had appeared from down below. He swallowed hard. Inside the room he could hear the muffled sounds of the Militia trying the batter down the door. He was not fond of either of his options.

       At last he brought himself to make the leap, vaulting over the balustrade with his arms flung desperately forward. He very nearly missed, barely grasping the bottom ledge of the adjacent terrace. His body crashed painfully with the concrete underside, the collision sending a wave of agony from his bruised torso. He swung himself from the ledge and landed in a graceless heap upon the balcony below.

       As quickly as his aching body could manage, Eyal pulled himself to his feet. He smashed the glass pane of the balcony door with a metal table and ran towards the door. Unlike the rooms on the floor above, this one was occupied. A startled woman screamed at his entry and fell out of her bed. He rushed through the door and into the hallway, shutting the door behind him to contain the woman's shrieks.

       He moved towards a fire exit near the end of the hall. Voices echoed down the stairwell from above. He clambered down the stairs as fast as he could, each step sending a horrid wave of pain coursing through his body. He surprised himself by his ability to ignore the pain, and moved with impressive alacrity.

       The fire door at the bottom of the stairs slammed open and a single Militiaman rushed in, spotting Eyal immediately. Nearly at the bottom, he gripped the railing hard and flung himself bodily at the guard, throwing his shoulder into the collision. The impact likely debilitated him as much as the guard, but by a stroke of luck he landed almost at the threshold of the door to freedom. The Militia grabbed his ankle as he tried to flee, but a desperate kick connected with the man's face and forced his release. He stumbled free and made a headlong dash out the rear of the hotel.

       He could hear shouted commands echoing against the walls of the hotel and into the alley, but they were distant. Each stride brought almost unbearable pain. He had to hope that his head start would make up for his condition.

       So he ran. And prayed. And kept on running.

       Eyal rang the buzzer twice in rapid succession. He quickly scanned the street, sure that he was still being pursued. He rang the buzzer a third time.

       "Who is it?" a tired voice sounded over the intercom.

       He sighed. It was not the voice he was hoping for. "It's Eyal."

       "Go home, Eyal," came the irritated response. "It's the middle of the night."

       "Ellie, let me in," he said, gritting his teeth.

       Her answer never came, but eventually a buzz was sounded and the door unlocked. He hastily entered the building, slamming the door behind him. The elevator was not far from the front door, yet, on this final stretch, it seemed miles distant.

       The apartment door was already opened at the end of the hall. Ellie was leaning on the doorframe, watching him limp down the hall towards him. Her expression of distaste gradually transformed into reluctant alarm as she saw his face.

       "Jesus Christ," she exclaimed, as he came to a stop before her. "What the hell happened to you?"

       He felt his shoulders slump, and his vision started to fade. He teetered and fell against the wall, grasping blindly for some support. Ellie held out a restraining arm before he collapsed to the floor.

       "Fuck," she murmured, draping his arm around her shoulders. "I'll get you inside."

       She stumbled under his weight but was able to drag him to the couch, dropping his near unconscious body upon its hard surface. Some of his blood had smeared on her robe. She cursed and wiped the stain in a hopeless effort to remove it.

       "Michelle!" she called angrily. "Your partner has dropped by for a house call."

       He heard another pair of footsteps approach, but he did not see the person they belonged to. Their voices were muffled and indistinct. He could detect their movements around him, but they seemed distant and random, as if he were in the midst of a crowd.

       He must have passed out, for the next thing he knew he was staring into Ellie's face, only inches from his own. Something cold was pressed against his head. He tried to investigate with his hands, but Ellie smacked them down.

       "You're a damned annoying patient," she muttered. He looked up without moving his head, and saw she was wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.

       Eyal studied her face as she worked. She had soft features and smooth skin, and her eyes were an inviting shade of light brown. He supposed it must have been a welcoming face to most, but a perpetual scowl marred its friendliness whenever he was in her presence. She reserved a very special hatred for him within her otherwise warm heart.

       He shifted his eyes to the left, where Mantega was staring back at him, her arms crossed and concern etched on her face. It was that expression which would stir Ellie to anger: a concern she would never understand. His own self-flagellating need to work his sins away had ensnared Mantega on many occasions, and had kept her many hours from her wife.

       Eyal returned his gaze to Ellie. "Thank you," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

       She wrinkled her nose and drew away. "You reek of booze," she said, disapprovingly.

       "Don't knock the alcohol," he said after clearing his throat. "It made me do something very foolish that probably saved my life."

       "It probably got you into the mess in the first place," Mantega growled, still staring at him.

       "Good point," he agreed.

       Ellie withdrew the cloth from his forehead and dropped it in a bowl of water. The water instantly turned red. He must have bled more than he had thought.

       She stood up and began applying something to his wound, and was rewarded with an agonized moan. Ellie was a nurse, and apparently a very fine one, though on this occasion she seemed to be performing her craft with undue roughness.

       "What the hell happened anyway?" Mantega pressed.

       He heaved a deep breath and collected his thoughts. "You recall the man I spoke to you of earlier? Martim Salles?"

       "Christ, Eyal, I thought I asked you to drop this!"

       "He came to my apartment a few hours back," he continued, ignoring her. "He wanted to confess what happened at Cedar Gables. They killed them, Michelle. Everyone in the village—slaughtered them. He told me every detail. They shot them, burned them, killed them all. And Lansing let it all happen. He as much admitted it to me himself."

       Ellie stopped what she was doing and stepped back. "Lansing? As in Alexander Lansing?"

       "The one and only," Eyal confirmed.

       "My God," she said, wide eyed. "You didn't tell me it was because of Lansing that you got into shit."

       "Alright, fine," Mantega said to Eyal, avoiding Ellie's accusation. She seemed unsettled by the news, but not so much as to steer her from her course. "You curiosity is satisfied. Stahl killed Cordova for killing his family. Lansing's an evil fuck. Fine. But that's where the story ends."

       Eyal shook his head. "No, Michelle. I have the recording of Salles' confession. I'm going to go to the press with this."

       "Goddamnit, Eyal," Mantega spat in helpless anger.

       "You confronted Alexander Lansing with this," Ellie said slowly. "Presumably threatened him with it. And then you came here?" Her eyes were ablaze.

       "I know," he said, holding up his hands in a conciliatory manner. "I'm sorry. I'll leave right away. I just needed a place to recover for a second."

       This was not entirely true. He came here to be stopped, to hear all the reasons why he should not do what he had set his mind to. He wanted to be convinced against destroying himself. Yet he kept parrying Mantega's attempts, even as he desperately wanted to listen to her.

       "Eyal, if you do this, they will kill you," Mantega stated flatly. "You will disappear one day from your apartment and they will never find your body."

       "There it is, then," he replied simply.

       "Fuck you!" she screamed with unexpected ferocity. "Fuck you, Eyal! If you wanted to die, why didn't you just ask me to put the bullet in you? Christ knows you'd never be able to pull the trigger yourself! You fucking coward!"

       She stalked off to her room and shut her bedroom door with a reverberating slam.

       He realized Ellie was still tending to his wounds. She was closely examining the gash on his forehead, though she still somehow managed to give him a withering look.

       "This usually isn't the order of things," she observed.

       "Does that mean you're coming around to me?"

       She did not reply, but a particularly vicious graze to his wound gave him the sentiment of her answer.

       "You know," she said in the measured tone of someone whose attention is elsewhere, "quite frankly I agree with you. If Lansing did what you say, he should go down for it. Too smug by far, that one. Plus, if it gets you out of the picture, all the better."

       "This is you agreeing with me?" Eyal grunted.

       She turned his head so that their eyes met. "Listen to me. If by some miracle—or curse, rather—you end up alive, I want you to find another partner. You're fucking poison."

       He smiled tiredly. "We're finding much to agree about tonight, Ellie."

       She frowned, and continued her work. She bandaged the worst bits of him and cleaned up the greater part of the blood. At last she injected him with something that had an immediate soothing effect.

       "That'll keep you going for a little while longer before you drop again," she said.

       "Thank you," he replied shortly. He offered his hand. She did not take it.

       "I thought the hours Michelle spent with you would at least get her rapid promotion. Then you fucked that up for her. If this little stunt comes back to bite her a second time, I'll find your corpse and I'll kill it again."

       He withdrew his hand. "Goodbye," he said instead. He left.

       The shot that Ellie had given him had both dulled the pain and infused him with renewed energy. As he walked down the street, he felt almost none of the effects of the day's varied beatings, save for a limp in his right leg that seemed to stubbornly resisted his mind's assertion that all was well. There were a few souls out to keep him company, the usual two o'clock crowd: drunks, thugs, and the occasional civil servant. Life seemed so much simpler, strolling down the street at night.

       Eyal slipped into a café a few blocks from Mantega's apartment. It was one of those twenty-four hour joints, catering to hipster students who enjoyed sipping coffee and writing bad fiction throughout the small hours of the morning. He asked the young barista if there was a public terminal available. She directed him to the back, raising an eyebrow at his appearance.

       He retrieved Salles' recording from the database he had uploaded it to earlier. He played the recording once or twice to make sure it was uncorrupted, and to confirm that he had not imagined it. Then he prepared to send it to a journalist he knew from the Massilia Post.

       Before he did so, he paused and took in his surroundings. The room had been heated to a pleasant temperature; warmer perhaps than it should have been, but a comfort against the cold wind that blew outside. There were an unusual number of patrons at this hour, though none appeared the least bit tired. A few midnight lovers exchanged hushed words of affection, while two friends in the corner carried on a lively discussion about a sports team. The barista, meanwhile, was alternately reading from a datapad and then scribbling something down, no doubt studying for a test she would write when the sun rose.

       He thought about what he was about to do. About the old hatreds he risked rekindling, of the newfound sense of unity he sought to destroy.

       It was but a passing thought. He sent the recording. The computer helpfully informed him that his attempt was successful.

Vestal Sins: Epilogue: All Too Human
Date: 7 August 2009, 5:21 am

       Detective Sergeant Eyal Dayan sat in his car, staring dismally out the windshield. Cradled in his lap was the day's newspaper, but he did not look at it. He did not want to acknowledge the failure that compounded his ruination. Yet he had found that denying reality was only ever effective for so long, and in this case the expiry would come rather sooner than usual. So he resigned himself to glance down, and read the headline once more.

       Alexander Lansing Wins Landslide Election

       Unfortunately, he had not misread it. Admittedly, it had been a long shot. He rested the newspaper on the steering wheel and at last began to read the article in earnest.

       Alexander Lansing Wins Landslide Election
       Eleventh Hour Scandal Barely Dampens Lansing's Numbers

       Wild cheers rang out across Independence Square in Alexander Lansing's native Massilia last night as the election results were promptly announced to the assembled crowd. The Senator won by a comfortable margin of 8%, somewhat less than the opinion polls had indicated but a decisive victory nonetheless.

       President Renka's camp quietly accepted the verdict. Despite her stalwart insistence throughout the campaign that the election was still up in the air, few were in doubt of the outcome. A hushed moan reverberated through the Vesta Party's Headquarters, followed by silence.

       "The people of Vesta have spoken," Ms. Renka announced last night in her concession speech. "I wish my opponent the best of luck in leading our great world through the many trials that lie ahead."

       Braving the chill air, the United crowd in Independence Square could scarcely hear the speech above the raucous cheers. Any attempt to quell their unbridled joy was immediately rebuked by the seething mass. When Lansing finally emerged onstage, it was many minutes before he was able to speak.

       "We have done it, ladies and gentlemen!" Lansing proclaimed. "Right here, right now is where we may say that the new age of humanity had properly begun. Not because of me, but because of you…"

       Eyal scanned the remainder of the obsequious article for any mention of the Cedar Gables incident, but found only more excerpts of Lansing's speech and a litany of election results. At the bottom he discovered that the story continued several pages in. He switched to the page indicated, and scrolled towards the bottom.

      … Lansing's victory arrives on the heel of a revelation by one of his ex-soldiers that places him at the scene of a massacre that occurred during the Civil War. Martim Salles, a soldier under Mr. Lansing's command in 2524, claims that the President-elect led his company into a Southern town called Cedar Gables and proceeded to slaughter all of its inhabitants. Mr. Lansing does not deny his Company's actions, but maintains that he was not present during the massacre.

       "I was outside the town, trying to coordinate our retreat," Lansing said in a statement made last week. "When I arrived, Cedar Gables had been burned to the ground."

       Other survivors from Lansing's Company were contacted to corroborate the story. While they uniformly refused to be interviewed, all of them agreed that Lansing neither took part in, nor sanctioned the killings.

       Martim Salles has declined further comment on the matter. The anonymous source who delivered Salles' testimony to the Massilia Post last week, and whose voice can be heard with Salles' on the tape, also remains elusive.

       Mr. Lansing, for his part, addressed neither party in his response to the scandal, offering instead a lengthy mea culpa. "The horrors of Cedar Gables have followed me for many years now. They followed me through the Covenant War, they followed me through this campaign, and they follow me still. I could have done more. I should have done more.

       "I can only offer my heartfelt apology to all our brethren of the South—and not just for Cedar Gables, but for the arrogance and the intolerance that produced it. But I can also offer my assurances. I assure you that I am a better man. I assure you that we are all better men. And I assure you that I will dedicate every effort to making sure that man need never again fear war against his fellow man."

       Several Vesta Party Senators vowed to make Lansing pay for his past sins. While few were willing to charge him with war crimes, a small coterie of VP politicians were threatening to take him to task for whitewashing the incident. With Lansing's decisive win last night—and with several of those Senators now without a seat—most of that talk has ceased.

       "I think the people of Vesta understand that what's past is past," said Nikita Bhatt, a prominent strategist for the Lansing campaign. "Many awful things happened during that war. That's exactly what we're trying to move past…"

       Eyal stopped reading and gently placed the datapad to rest on the passenger seat. He shook his head ruefully. From the hovel that he had exiled himself to over the past week, he had closely examined the news media's coverage of the scandal. Eyal had expected the story to explode like a bomb across the headlines, yet the reveal had fallen limply on an unresponsive public. Most publications were almost apologetic for Lansing, following every half-hearted critique with a catalogue of the man's accomplishments. Even the most vehemently pro-Vesta Party outlets had handled the story with distaste—not for Lansing, but rather for being forced to discuss the long-dead Civil War.

       He slowly clambered out of his vehicle. His joints ached, and his week-old wounds had taken on the stiff, throbbing pains that accompany a prolonged recovery. Before him lay a dismal sight: a squat, concrete building surrounded by a high chain link fence and barbed wire. The Massilia County Jail. It was hardly a destination that inspired him to overcome his pain.

       He was briefly stopped at the entrance, but once he identified himself as a police officer they gave him little trouble. The reception area was suitably bleak, the humming fluorescent lights above reflecting brightly off the institutionally white linoleum floors. A security guard in a white shirt and blue windbreaker sat behind a couple of inches of bullet proof glass, apparently reading a magazine. He took several moments to notice Eyal standing expectantly in front of him.

       "How can I help you, sir?" he asked in a drawl.

       "I'm looking for a prisoner. Isaac Stahl."

       "Visiting hours begin at noon," the guard replied. He turned back to his magazine, apparently satisfied that the matter was settled.

       Eyal pulled out his badge and stuck it against the glass. "I'm here on business, not pleasure," he said caustically.

       "Sorry, officer," the man grumbled, turning to a monitor at his side. "What was the name again?"

       "Isaac Stahl," Eyal repeated. He spelled it.

       The guard seemed surprised at the result of his search. "He was brought in last week on murder charges?"

       "That's right," Eyal confirmed.

       "Were you the investigating officer on the case?"

       "Yes," he said slowly, beginning to worry.

       The guard frowned. "I'm sorry to tell you that prisoner Stahl committed suicide early this morning."

       Eyal felt his heart skip a beat. For a few moments he was unable to speak. "Was he alone in his cell?" he asked at length.

       "Yes, he was in solitary. Men like him tend not to last long in here otherwise. Guard on patrol this morning found him. Would you like to see the report?"

       "No, thank you."

       He turned and left in a daze, his feet carrying him unconsciously to his car. He sat back down heavily, unsure how to feel.

       Isaac Stahl—the last casualty of Cedar Gables.

       By the time Eyal made it to the precinct, he was nearly ten minutes late. He was never late.

       Captain Singh was standing near his desk, speaking with another officer. She looked up as he approached with an expression of surprise on her face. "I didn't think you'd show up," she said.

       "I always show up."

       "Yes, but…" She stared at him for a few moments. "It was you, wasn't it? Wait," she held up a hand, shaking her head. "Never mind. Don't answer that. Then I'd have to fire you. Of course it was you."

       Eyal said nothing.

       "Mantega is already here. She should be out back. She'll fill you in on what she's been up to." She turned from him abruptly and walked away, as if she might become contaminated by his presence. It was still a better reunion than it might have been.

       Eyal went out back to the lot where Mantega was leaning against the driver's door of their squad car. Immediately she spotted him. He was unable to read her expression as she followed his approach.

       He stopped at the passenger door and remained there, returning her gaze. He was not sure what to say. 'Good morning' seemed inappropriate.

       "You're late," Mantega said impassively, still in the same pose.

       "Yes," he replied.

       "You're never late."

       "I know."

       "I figured you were dead."

       "Well, here I am."

       She got in the car. Eyal followed suit. He felt like a duckling.

       Mantega started off wordlessly, pulling out of the precinct and heading north. She obstinately refused to look at him. Eyal coughed loudly.

       "So, where are we going?" he asked quietly.

       Mantega seemed to appreciate his avoidance. She was all business. "You recall that refugee prostitution ring we were tracking before the Cordova case?"

       "Yes."

       "We finally found it. You'll never guess where it is."

       "Where?"

       "Waverleigh."

       Eyal grunted. "Well, that has a sort of symmetry to it, I suppose."

       He allowed everything else to remain unsaid. Words alone would fix nothing with Mantega. He entrusted the burden solely to time.

       The drive was long and uncomfortable. It was little trouble recognizing when they had reached their destination. Four Warthogs and as many police vans had cordoned off a section of a narrow street in one of Waverleigh's seediest neighborhoods. Their object of attention seemed to be a large two story house with boarded windows and a dilapidated porch. A crowd of locals had assembled at the sidelines to catch a glimpse at the spectacle.

       Mantega parked outside the perimeter. They proceeded together through the throng of civilians and were admitted entry by the aggravated Militia guards. At length they reached a police van near the center of the action, where a detective was talking animatedly with a Militia Officer.

       "What's the situation, Sam?" Mantega asked the detective.

       He turned to face her, breaking in mid-conversation. He spared a quick glance at Eyal, but addressed his response to Mantega. "They're holed up in there pretty damn good," he said, his voice carrying his stress. "Looks like they're Obschina… hard to tell one gang from the next. Could just be one offs. In any case, they're not surrendering."

       "Which is why we gotta root 'em out," the Militia Officer put in.

       "No," Sam said flatly. "If they're not surrendering to two dozen cops, it means they're planning on going out shooting. We must be careful."

       "Have we made contact with them at all?" Eyal asked.

       "They say they'll start killing the kids if we don't give them a vehicle to get out of here," the Militiaman growled. "Time isn't exactly on our side."

       "There are refugees in there," Sam insisted. "Not to mention civilians."

       "Civilians?" the Militiaman barked. "You mean the patrons. Of sex slaves."

       "It's just too dangerous," Sam protested firmly. "And this isn't your jurisdiction."

       "Refugees are our jurisdiction," the officer countered. "We're going in. With or without you."

       Sam did not reply immediately, though Eyal could detect his anger smoldering beneath the stony surface. Sam was a senior detective in his mid-fifties. He had been with the department for almost thirty years, avoiding conscription due to his age. Like many of the old school officers, he viewed the Militia with particular resentment for their encroachment on traditional police duties. Yet reining them in was near impossible—they had become too big and too vital for any politician to stand up to them. Sam knew this well.

       "Alright," he said finally. "We'll take the back, you take the front."

       The Militiaman nodded wordlessly, and began rounding up his men. Sam turned to Mantega. "Someone's gonna die here today," he said.

       Mantega said nothing. Eyal guessed her thoughts.

       They gathered ten officers to stack up at the back entrance of the building. Eyal, Mantega, and Sam took up the rear behind the more heavily armed Hostage Rescue Team. The lead man latched an explosive to the door and took his position.

       "Ready," Sam radioed to the Militia.

       "Confirmed."

       "Breaching, breaching!"

       The explosive detonated, followed quickly by the Militia's around front. They rushed in, Eyal at the end of the line. He was hit by a wall of smoke, his gun raised uselessly in front of him. The HRT were screaming things like "Get down" and "Show me your hands." Through the haze he saw two men on their faces, the knees of a pair of officers digging into their backs.

       Gunfire sounded towards the front of the house, followed by incoherent shouts. It was chaos. He heard feet thumping on the floor above. Mantega and Sam remained with the two men in custody while the rest continued on through the house. Eyal followed them.

       The Militia had already fanned out and secured much of the downstairs. They were now lining up next to the stairwell to take the second floor as well. Eyal noticed the body of a man near the front door, slumped against the wall. A second man lay on his face to the left of the stairs, three bullet holes visible in his back.

       The remaining HRT joined the Militia by the stairs. When there was no response to their demand for surrender, they rushed up, each man trying his best to cover the other in the narrow space. The leading man fired twice when he reached the top, and Eyal heard a body thud to the floor.

       Eyal was the last to the top. The men of both teams moved with deadly efficiency—Eyal had never been certain how they could perform with such certainty in the midst of such chaos. He heard several men sound off "Clear!" but there was still a lot of commotion within the house's numerous rooms. He ducked into one such room, where a Militiaman was beating a half-naked man with the butt of his rifle. The man's face was a bloody mess, his jaw horrifically askew.

       "Alright, man, that's enough," the Militiaman's partner said. "There's a kid watching."

       In the corner, a young boy dressed only in his underwear was watching the beating with silent tears streaming down his face. The officer halted in mid-swing and averted his eyes. The bleeding john writhed on the floor.

       Eyal stumbled out of the doorway, almost running into a passel of HRT hauling a half dozen men off into custody. He backed into one of the cleared rooms to avoid getting caught in the rush. The arm holding his weapon grew weak, and he lowered it, gripping the pistol with both hands. He sat down slowly on the edge of a bed in the room, utterly without energy.

       Gradually he became aware of a noise within the room, and realized he was not alone. Once again, he lifted his sidearm and scanned the room: nothing. He bent down and peered carefully under the bed.

       Lying in a curled up ball amidst what looked like a decade's worth of dust and detritus was a young girl, no older than fifteen. She was entirely naked and much too thin, with a trickle of blood from her swollen lip shining brightly against her pale skin. She did not blink and barely moved, her wide eyes on him but seemingly not seeing him.

       He reached out a hand towards her. She declined to take it. "It's all right," he tried to assure her. He gripped her tiny wrist and pulled her from under the bed. She barely reacted. Eyal studied her eyes. They were fully dilated and did not track his movements.

       "I need an EMT upstairs, ASAP!" he radioed, his voice hoarse. He picked the girl up and lay her on the bed—she seemed to weigh nothing at all. He bent over her, trying to get any response at all. "Can you hear me?" he asked. "Can you see me?"

       Still she made no reply. Eyal guessed her condition, as he had seen it many times before. Abducted refugees were often forcibly hooked on a synthetic opiate known as "the Blue," to make them less rebellious and more pliable. The drug was highly addictive and extremely potent, and prolonged usage quickly effected permanent brain damage. A child this far gone would likely never be the same again.

       The paramedics were mercifully swift. Eyal backed away into the corner, feeling like a child himself as they performed a few perfunctory tests upon the girl. One of the men gave the other a meaningful look, and then loaded her onto the stretcher and carried her downstairs. Eyal followed in a daze.

       The all clear had been given, and the scene on the ground floor resembled a battlefield after the last shot had been fired. The Militia's kills had been stacked unceremoniously by the front door and covered with a blanket. In the kitchen, the surviving members of the Obschina Mafiya were lined against the wall along with the clients who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the siege. Two of the men had bullet wounds, and all of them looked to have suffered some rough treatment.

       Eyal emerged out the back, where the abducted refugees were being gathered. There were more than a dozen assembled, most of them looking as if eighteen would be a stretch of the imagination. They were very thin and their faces were haggard, if mostly unmarked. It was the eyes that truly told their story—they were deadened and unfocused, the light of youth utterly extinguished from them. From a good life on Earth, they had been removed first to the camps, and then to this house. Misfortune had broken their spirits, and the Blue had destroyed their minds.

       He staggered to the edge of the porch and sat upon its edge. More ambulances were arriving, bearing teams of already exhausted paramedics. They rushed up the stairs to where the refugees were gathered. It seemed children in distress could always bring energy to tired limbs and focus to hardened eyes.

       At length he noticed that someone had taken a seat next to him. He did not bother to look over. "Another win, eh, Michelle?"

       "Welcome back," his partner replied.

       They sat together in silence for a time. They studied the stream of children being led to the ambulances, and next the line of culprits being led to the paddywagons. The worst of both groups were carried on stretchers.

       "Good God, Michelle, but I am a damned fool," Eyal said.

       Mantega did not respond, allowing him the time to explain himself.

       "This is my job. This is my job. It's the only thing I have ever done right. And I nearly wasted what little I'm good for on a vendetta I had no business pursuing." He shook his head and breathed a deep sigh. "How can any of that matter when this is what goes on every day in this fucking city? Christ, I'm sorry," he added, almost as an afterthought.

       Mantega placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've no need to apologize to me. You were right in the end. Of course you were. I get why you did it, Eyal. I should never have tried to stop you."

       "You know, I'm almost glad I failed," he confessed quietly. "I suppose, if nothing else, it shows this newfound kinship of humanity to be durable. Yet the fact that we elected a man who presided over the murder of an entire town with hardly a murmur sends a chill up my spine. Stahl killed himself, by the way," he mentioned offhandedly. "This morning, in his cell. Small wonder. Probably he thought that if only the truth would out, that justice would be served. Then he found out that no one gives a fuck anymore."

       To this, Mantega had nothing to say, instead letting silence fall once more between them. A crew of CSUs accompanied by more detectives arrived to turn out the house and recover any relevant evidence within. The ambulances and paddywagons eventually departed, and the crowd that had gathered to watch the show dispersed in kind. It was another episode for them to discuss with horror and excitement and then promptly forget.

       Mantega began to stir next to him, slowly pulling herself to her feet. "Three shootings, four gang members, six johns, and fourteen abductees," she said, listing their morning's haul almost musically. "I foresee a mountain of paperwork and hours of debriefing from Internal Affairs."

       Eyal nodded tiredly. "Better get to it, then."

       As they approached their car, Eyal's phone beeped in announcement of an incoming message. He checked the sender, and stopped dead in his tracks.

       "What is it?" Mantega asked.

       "It's Lansing," he said, his voice hollow. "He wants me to meet him at Raphael's."

       "Don't tell me you're actually thinking of going?" she asked, studying his expression.

       "What choice do I have? Besides, if he wanted me dead, he would hardly do it at midday in an upscale restaurant."

       "Eyal…" she began.

       "No," he said firmly. "I'm not running, Michelle. This is going to have to end one way or the other."

       Mantega paused to light a cigarette, leaning against the car for a moment to enjoy her first puff. "Fine," she said. "But I'm coming with you."

       Eyal had never been to Raphael's, though he knew it well. It was one of those ancient restaurants that had been around for as long as anyone could remember. Famous as a haunt for the rich and the powerful, it was as much an institution as any governing body, and had seen many of the same men pass through its doors.

       When they pulled up outside the building, Mantega stirred and opened the driver's door. Eyal held out a restraining hand. "I'm going in alone," he said.

       She glared at him. "You must be joking."

       "Lansing will want to speak with me alone," he said. "He will not want a witness to our conversation, so you'll have to wait outside anyway. At any rate, I don't want to implicate you any further in this."

       She hesitated, but eventually nodded her wordless assent. Taking a moment to compose himself, Eyal lifted himself from his seat and headed inside.

       A couple of Militia patted him down at the entrance and swept him for listening devices. Once cleared, he entered the restaurant proper. The high-ceilinged interior was dotted with numerous crystal chandeliers that ringed the base of a sparkling, clear glass dome. The tables, mostly unoccupied, were topped with immaculately white tablecloths and an endless array of shining silverware. In the back, an ancient-looking pianist played some inoffensive tune that seemed to blend in with the very fabric of the room and its army of wait staff. Eyal could hardly fathom that this place existed within the same universe as the slave den he had busted earlier, let alone within the same city.

       He was led by a suited Militiaman to a secluded table in the back. Lansing was seated there alone, eating a pasta dish with some sparkling wine. He smiled broadly as Eyal approached, as if meeting an old friend.

       "Detective!" Lansing stood to greet him, finding a tone of impressive geniality. "Thank you, Francis," he added to Eyal's escort. The Militiaman nodded and left them alone.

       Lansing settled back down and took a sip of his wine. "I allowed myself some calm before the storm," he said, studying the bubbles in his drink. "I have speeches to make, a cabinet to form… busy months lie ahead, with promise of worse to come."

       Eyal looked around at his opulent surroundings. "No need feign modesty anymore, eh, Lansing?"

       He ignored this attempt to deflate his cordial demeanor. "You hid well. My people could not find you, despite their best efforts. You needn't have hid after you had already sent the recording, though. I am not a vindictive man. The damage having been done, you were under no threat from me."

       "You'll forgive me if I had the opposite impression."

       Lansing grunted. "I am sorry for what happened at the hotel. Ugly business."

       "Ugly business seems to follow you around, doesn't it, Mr. Lansing?"

       "I am profoundly sorry for what happened at Cedar Gables," he returned calmly, refusing to be angered. "That was a war of tragic stupidity. And the anger on both sides was so intense for it. I admit that I could have done more, and that perhaps a misguided loyalty to my men stayed my hand. It is a burden on my conscious that I must accept. Yet all men have such burdens, do they not, Detective?"

       Eyal sidestepped the accusation. "Even if you are to be forgiven for your inaction, what about your decision to whitewash the incident? Why did you not bring charges against Cordova, or any of the other men?"

       "The cover up was not my decision, though I certainly did not protest. With the deed done, what good could possibly have been achieved make a spectacle of it? What purpose would have been served by shaming the Northern Legion, or by angering the Southern populace? As for Cordova, how many men do you supposed I saved by sparing him? You read his vitae—he was an exceptional soldier. He fought the Covenant for thirty long years. He was a monster, but he was my monster. And in the end, I was right."

       Eyal chuckled mirthlessly and scratched his chin. "You sound very much like a man trying to convince himself of his innocence. I see it often in my line of work. I thought you had already forgiven yourself for Cedar Gables."

       "I have," he replied simply. "And the people seemed to have done the same. I could have done without the blemish, yet history is populated with flawed men. Just so long as the blemish does not become the man."

       "Why did you ask me here, then?"

       "Because you are a curiosity, Detective." Lansing regarded him intently. "I confess to a certain grudging admiration. You are dogged, intelligent, and in your own way courageous. Yet I do not understand you. Your actions belie your past. This last week—one of the busiest and most important of my life—I have spent an inordinate amount of time studying your record."

       Lansing bent over to retrieve something from a satchel on the floor next to him. It was a nondescript tin box, olive green in color with a faded emblem of the VEF on its lid. Eyal silently awaited the President-elect's explanation.

       "Your wife was killed at Sigma Octanus, no?" he asked bluntly.

       Eyal's jaw line hardened. "That's right."

       "Her battalion was attached to the Pucelle."

       This time Lansing did not ask, but Eyal nodded anyway.

       "Her effects were returned home before the Pucelle was later destroyed at Reach. A lot of these belongings never reached the intended families, especially towards the end of the war when things got messy. This had been sitting in a warehouse for three years." He slid the box across the table over to Eyal.

       For many moments Eyal stared at the container, unable to look inside. Finally he lifted a shaking hand to open the lid. Inside were scattered trinkets and photos—a locket; a ring; a picture of himself. There was a recording device as well, probably a journal. He wondered if he would ever be able to bring himself to listen to it.

       "That's the look right there," Lansing intoned. Eyal looked up to see the man studying his expression. "The look of guilt on your face just now… it's palpable. Was it that guilt you sought to assuage by coming after me? Perhaps you thought your persecution would consume us both, and so kill two birds with one stone."

       Lansing stopped, waiting for Eyal to make some response. He did not. He merely stared unblinkingly at the contents of the open box, his face utterly drained of color.

       After a time, Lansing pushed forward his half-full plate and stood. "I was not that hungry anyway. Too much to do to be hungry." He cleared his throat. "I guess this is goodbye, Detective. I can't say that I'm pleased I met you, but I do respect you. And I hope that box brings you some measure of peace."

       As he made to leave, Eyal stopped him by finally breaking his silence. "Let me ask you one last question, Mr. President. When I first came to you, I spoke of the war, and of Cordova, and Operation Pegasus. And you looked at me like I was speaking a different language." At last he lifted his head to look at him. "Had you completely forgotten of Cedar Gables?"

       Lansing returned his gaze without blinking, the supreme confidence within the grey depths of his eyes burning unabated. "Goodbye, Detective. May we never meet again."

       The great man departed with his entourage, leaving Eyal nearly alone in the cavernous dining room. He waited until he was sure they were all gone before slowly rising and heading towards the door. Mantega watched him with concern through the windshield, following his approach until he got in the car.

       "Jesus Christ, when they left and you didn't, I was getting worried," she said once he was inside. She looked at the box clasped in his hands. "What's that?"

       "It's nothing," he said firmly.

       She did not pursue the matter. "Well," she said hesitantly. "What did he want?"

       "He told me he's called off the dogs. That I have no more to fear from him."

       "Which isn't to say that Grantmyre won't still try."

       "At any rate," Eyal said through clenched teeth, "as far as Lansing goes, it's over."

       She seemed to read his tone. "Alright then. Back to work."

       The remainder of the day played out much to Mantega's predictions. Internal Investigation was crawling all over the station when they returned, prying into the morning's shootings. Never mind that all three of the shootings were conducted by the Militia. IA had to put on a show to make it seem as though law enforcement were not being conducted like a war.

       Singh, for her part, held a lengthy press conference discussing the raid on the slave den. Abducted refugees always seemed to garner a lot of attention. Mantega had made herself a target for IA by her intransigence, and disappeared for most of the day. The other officers, meanwhile, mostly avoided him, as if the taint of his suspension might infect them. As such, he spent the rest of his shift busying himself with paperwork.

       Mantega reappeared around five o'clock, looking petulant and more disheveled than usual. "Fucking IA," she grumbled, sauntering angrily over to his side. "Why don't they get a real fucking job?"

       "You survived their assault, then?" he asked.

       She grunted irritably. "Let's get the fuck out of here before I kill one of them."

       Eyal had considered offering to pull a double so as to help with all the regular work that had been neglected as a result of the morning's raid. Yet he felt the time was not quite right for penitent servility, and that Singh would rather see him depart. At any rate, he was not willing to entangle Mantega in a personal burden, and so yielded to his desire to leave.

       "Let's go," he said.

       She drove him home just as it started to snow. The dark clouds obscured the setting sun, and delivered an early evening to the streets of Massilia. Mantega said little as she drove home, but she rarely did at the end of the day—especially a day such as this one.

       When they arrived, she turned to him and wished him a rather awkward goodnight.

       Eyal did not get out right away. "Are things going to be okay between us, Michelle?"

       "They will be," she said. "Ask me again tomorrow."

       "Ellie said…"

       "I know what she said."

       "She meant it this time. She told me to find a new partner. I'm not sure she's wrong."

       "Ellie will come around," Mantega asserted, looking straight forward. "She's gonna have to. I'm not fucking learning a new partner's quirks."

       Eyal laughed softly at this. "Alright, Michelle," he chuckled. "Alright." The time for sentimentality was not right, if it ever was with Mantega, so he said nothing further.

       "See you tomorrow," she said as he got out of the car.

       He nodded. "As usual."

       As she drove away, Eyal remained on the sidewalk outside his building and glanced up. He desperately did not want to go to his apartment. At best, an empty home awaited. At worst, Grantmyre lay within, ignoring Lansing's call for exoneration. Dreading both options with equal vigor, he opted for neither. He turned on his heel, got into his car, and drove off.

       Gathering his courage, Eyal pressed the buzzer. At first there was no answer, and he thought that perhaps she were still at work. The second ring, however, finally got her attention.

       "Hello?" came the tentative voice.

       "It's Eyal," he said.

       There was a long pause, but eventually the door unlocked with a click. He hurried through, lest she changed her mind. He strolled purposefully through the lobby, nodding curtly to the antediluvian doorman. The man offered an indistinct greeting, devoid of recognition.

       He took the elevator to her floor and waited for a moment outside her door. She was prompt to answer his knocking, opening the door half-way and leaning against the frame to bar him entry. Her look of stone-faced anger was interrupted by momentary surprise at the faded bruises that still marked his face, but it quickly resumed its previous state.

       "I don't even know what to say to you right now," she said.

       Eyal spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Mel," he offered weakly. The words sounded empty, even to him.

       Melanie Haskell appraised him coldly. "Do I appear desperate to you, Eyal? Do I seem the type the hold my breath for two weeks while you disappear and ignore my phone calls?"

       "No," he answered truthfully. "Actually, I'm standing here wondering how a man like me ever even gained the esteem of a woman like you. Or how I was able to rouse you to such anger simply by my absence."

       She continued to study him, her countenance unchanged. Yet slowly she opened the door and stepped aside. Eyal entered with caution, taking time to remove his coat and shoes in the alcove.

       "So where were you?" she asked when he was finished.

       "In hiding," he answered shortly.

       "Might that have something to do with the recent revelation of Lansing's past?"

       Eyal nodded slowly, declining to speak.

       "The pursuit of which you enlisted my help, without my knowledge," she continued angrily. "With no regard for whether or not I desired to assist towards that end. And at every step shirking my confidence and betraying my trust."

       "I am sorry, Melanie," he said, trying to imbue the hollow words with some measure of earnestness. "I did not want to implicate you in a matter that at the very best might have ruined your career, and at worst…" he did not continue.

       "You told no one of your intentions, then, out of your concern?" she asked caustically. "Not even your partner?"

       Eyal averted his gaze, unable to lie to her. "I perhaps mistook the nature of our relationship."

       "What the fuck does that mean?" she yelled, throwing her hands in the air.

       "I have never been sure of what I am to you," he confessed. "I did not think it right to risk your life because of me."

       "Why do you think I invite you here every night? Don't you think I was worried sick about you these past weeks? Don't you think I missed you? Goddamnit, Eyal!" she cried, tears forming in her eyes. "I missed you."

       He moved forward instinctively and embraced her. She was limp for a moment in his arms, but eventually returned the hug.

       "I am sorry," he said again.

       She turned her head and kissed him fiercely, moving her hands to cup his face. Her face was hot and wet with tears. She pressed her body tightly against his own, and it sent waves of dulled pain from his battered torso.

       He did not protest.

       They lay together in her bed, neither one attempting sleep. She lay on her side, with one arm slipped under his neck, the other on his chest. Though the room was not warm, they both still glistened with sweat.

       After a time, Eyal shifted, so that his face was closer to hers. "Mel?" he ventured.

       She murmured a vague response.

       "Your husband," he began softly. "How did he die?"

       Instantly she stiffened. She removed both her arms from him and crossed them upon her chest, staring at the ceiling. "What?"

       "I never did ask. I never asked about him at all."

       She swallowed audibly. "He was killed at Paris, when it was glassed. My ship was posted there when it happened. I saw it burn."

       "I'm sorry," he said once more. He was saying it a lot, lately.

       "And your wife?" she asked quietly.

       "She was killed, on Sigma Octanus," he said matter-of-factly. "She was so close to making it, too, but she was convinced she'd die before the end. She said that all she wanted was to die on her feet. At least she got that."

       "I'm so sorry, Eyal," she said. Now it was her turn.

       "I've been forcing myself to remember her, lately. I've tried hiding from my memories at work, but they always find me. I wonder what it says of my character that when I think of her, all I can feel is guilt."

       Melanie said nothing. The silence in the room was thick.

       "My father was the Police Commissioner. Did you know that?" He felt her shake her head. "He kept me listed as essential personnel, even as all the other young officers were conscripted, one by one. He kept me off the draft list. I didn't ask him to," he adding quickly, as if she had protested. "But I knew what he was doing. And I didn't ask him to stop.

       "I am a coward. I have a good deal to feel guilty for. I supposed that's why I went after Lansing with such determination. To see a man, who ought to be ruined by his contrition, instead running for high office with a conscience cleared by own absolution…"

       "You are no coward, Eyal," she said. "Do you know how many would have done what you did, had they been given the option?"

       He sighed deeply. "I've said that to myself a thousand times, and not once has it eased my conscience."

       "If you need someone to absolve you, let it be me," she insisted. "You are a better man than Lansing will ever be. Would you truly sacrifice your soul to lessen your guilt, as he clearly did?"

       At this he only grunted. At length, he admitted, "You know, I voted for him. Who else would I have voted for? I am a perverse human being."

       "And I am lying with a man who fed me untruths and then abandoned me for more than a week without a word. So let's just lie together now in our perversity."

       He put his arms around her and was silent. For him, sleep was still far off, but he did not rekindle their conversation. He thought of confessing the depth of his affection for her, perhaps even his love. But the time was not right, and the silence that hung between them was of the peaceful variety. So he simply remained in place beside her, holding her in his arms, feeling her breath against his skin.

       And it was enough.

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