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blessed.”
    “Are you trying to tell me that there were no believers who took up arms anywhere else in the world? Or here, for that matter?”
    “Not in the way I want to fight.”
    And there it was. The Bickford hubris. Unlike the father, it was tempered in the son by kindness, and a generosity that sometimes tipped , Caldwell believed, into naiveté. She liked to believe the yokes she had borne through her childhood and then her adult life had purged the worst of that inheritance from her. But in Bickford, in this moment, the legacy was huge. Still, she was curious now. “And what way is that?”
    “I am leading a prayer service in Manchester Stadium.”
    “I’d heard. Quite a gathering of political extremists turned out for you, or so I understand. The same crowd that was still declaring England immune a week ago.”
    That made him squirm. “There are some–” he began.
    “The same crowd that would curb stomp the likes of me, given half a chance.”
    “That isn’t what I’m preaching,” he said, almost pleading now. “You know me better than that. But the doors are open to all. How can I turn away anyone who has the genuine need to pray?”
    “Prayer and spiritual help. That’s all you’re doing? I’d assumed you had ironic symmetry in mind.”
    He looked hurt. “Symmetry, yes. I would never feel scorn for what you’re trying to do.”
    “Even though I’m wrong.”
    “Half-wrong,” he corrected. “And so are we, without your help.”
    Finally , she thought. The point . “Which would involve what?”
    “I need one of your vehicles. A rocket launcher.”
    “Just one? Is that all? Will an M270 do the job?”
    He nodded. He never had been good at irony. “I don’t know anything about the different kinds. I trust your judgment.”
    “And you’re going to drive and operate it yourself?”
    “Of course not. We’ll need a crew, too.”
    “And this is going to make a difference how?”
    “Its rockets will be blessed. The prayers of thousands will speed them on their way. Their flight will be true.”
    “This will kill the Eschaton.” Her voice didn’t hold quite as much disbelief as it should have. Her command was also an act of faith, and she couldn’t utterly dismiss Bickford’s hope without hurting her own.
    He was impervious to all doubt. He was still smiling, and this time, he raised his eyes to the sky. “Once you admit the nature of the Eschaton, once you see the proof that it embodies, then you know that what I propose cannot fail. The Hand of God Himself will strike the beast down.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, as if basking in the light of Heaven. Overhead, the evening clouds were dirty with the smoke of distant fires.
    Caldwell waited, silent, for Bickford to finish his moment of communion. When he looked at her again, she said, “Go back to the stadium, Sam. Do what you can for that flock of yours.”
    “Please don’t dismiss this out of hand. Will you think about it? After all, what difference will one launcher make?”
    What difference would a thousand make? He didn’t have to say it. The thought came unbidden. “Go back to the stadium,” she said again. “I have work to do.”
    In the distance, but not nearly far enough, came the sound of explosions and the earthquake-deep boom of immense footsteps. And then the roar. That roar.
    The roar of the end of all hope.
    ~
    Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
    Bring me my Arrows of desire:
    Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
    Bring me my Chariot of fire!
    ~
    She had thought she would ride out for the front lines. No, that was wrong. She had hoped she would have to do that. That would have meant the lines held long enough for her to reach them. That would have meant they held at all.
    They didn’t.
    The explosions, the footsteps, and the roar approached with all the mercy of a storm surge. The stadium defenses had time to make ready, and then, lit by the spotlights, the Eschaton appeared. Caldwell felt her