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Frisian vehicle swung around the bogged second road train, ripping the right treeline with its full firepower. The guerrillas on that side were already disengaging. Hoses of cyan plasma devoured the few snipers trying to provide a rear guard for the main body.
    Artillery shells began to land on both treelines. They were late as Margulies had feared, but at least they were accurate.
    She saw a Brigantian carbine, dropped or flung on the ash ten meters from the crater. She crawled toward the weapon, ignoring the pain in her legs.
    Halfway between her and the smoking gap in the treeline, a man in Frisian khaki rose on one arm and waved his muddy pistol at Margulies. Her eyes filled with tears of joy, but she continued to crawl.
----

Nieuw Friesland

    The door opened and a full colonel stepped unexpectedly into the anteroom. Sten Moden rose to his feet and saluted crisply.
    “Captain Moden?” the colonel said. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
    Which, when asked down a gradient of three steps in rank, was a rhetorical question if Moden had ever heard one.
    “Yes sir,” Moden said, sounding as alert and ready as he knew how. His tailored dress uniform was brand new; he’d had his hair cut that morning—he’d showered afterward to wash away the clippings; and for the first time in his military career he was wearing all—all but one—of the medal ribbons to which he was entitled.
    Not even for this purpose would Sten Moden wear the most recent citation for bravery. That would be too much like drinking the blood of his own troops.
    Moden followed the colonel, Dascenzo according to his name tape but not somebody Moden knew or knew of, into a comfortable office. One wall was a holographic seascape. Waves surged from horizon to horizon without a hint of land.
    The view could have been from Dascenzo’s home-world. Moden’s suspicion was that the view was intended as a soothing backdrop for interviews by an officer with a medical rather than personnel specialty.
    Moden wasn’t worried about his physical profile. If that was the only determining factor, the Frisian Defense Forces would give him a new assignment with no difficulty. The fact that he was talking to a colonel instead of an enlisted clerk proved what Moden was afraid of: there was a problem with his psychiatric evaluation.
    “Please, sit down,” Colonel Dascenzo said. He gestured toward a contour-adapting chair. “This isn’t anything formal, Captain. I’d just like to chat with you.”
    The chair into which Moden lowered himself was the only piece of furniture in the office, save for Dascenzo’s own console with integral seat. Moden wondered how many sensors were built into the chair or focused on its user from the surrounding walls.
    Captain Sten Moden had given the Frisian Defense Forces valued, even heroic, service, so no invasive methods would be used on him. Apart from that, however—
    The FDF would recompense its veterans for past service, but the organization had to look to the future as well.
    “I’ve gone over your file, of course, Captain,” Dascenzo said. “I must say I’m impressed by it.”
    Moden decided a slight smile was appropriate. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “All I’m looking for now is a chance to continue serving Col-C-President Hammer for the foreseeable future.”
    “Well, that’s what I wanted to check with you about,” Dascenzo said. He looked serious, though he wasn’t scowling. His expression was probably as calculated as Moden’s own. “You do realize that you qualify for a pension at one hundred percent pay?”
    “Yes sir,” Moden agreed with a measured nod, “and I very much appreciate the honor implicit in that offer. But I’m still able to provide the FDF with useful service, and I’d like to stay on the active list for as long as that’s true.”
    “The extent of your injuries . . .” Dascenzo said, letting his expression darken into a frown. His voice trailed off, forcing the captain to