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stiffies from Spasm poisoning and some of them were wearing class two. I even heard of a couple wearing class three who took darts.”
    “I don’t believe it.” He knew that was not true, he wasn’t so stupid he’d try a class three with a spetsdod.
    “My information comes from high places, Emile. But if you hear any of the troops babbling in their smoke or splash, see if you can’t shut them up before they get their asses into a sharp crack. The Old Man would love to have a target to shoot at, any target, including our own.”
    “Okay, Subbie, I’ll try and keep your boys out of trouble in my place. It would be bad for business if somebody thought they talked too much in here and made me off-limits.”
    “Thanks, Emile. I appreciate it.”
    Khadaji left the shaken Lojtnant inhaling flickstick smoke and walked for the closest exit. He needed some unpolluted air. Sometimes, this game seemed to get too twisty, even for him. But Lojtnant Subru was in Administration, he had access to all the facts about the campaign against the Shamba Scum and he believed that the rebels were able to knock off men in class three body armor with spetsdods, something Khadaji himself knew was impossible.
    It was twisty, but it was going better than he’d hoped.
    And the end was nearly here.

Chapter Five
    SLEEL’S PHLEBITIS MUST have responded to treatment, Khadaji thought, because the bouncer was working the floor, watching for signs of trouble from the crowd in the Jade Flower. It was quiet, though. Butch had run out of mid-range sops and had, reluctantly, begun offering the high-range chemical at the same price. Soldiers loved a bargain, and a lot of them were barely awake at their tables, stoked with the glow of the depressant drug. Nobody fought on high-sops, it took more energy than a user had available.
    Anjue gave him the news when Khadaji went to check on the line.
    “Have you heard about quadman Pendragon?” “I don’t believe I know a trooper by that name.” The doormaster waved his hands. “He was one of the first—if not the first—hit by the Shamba Freedom Forces. Six months ago, it was.” Khadaji nodded. “So?” “He’s awake. The first to recover from the poisoning.”
    “Ah.”
    “Good news, eh?‘
    “Indeed.”
    He wandered back into the octagon, thinking. So. The first one was out of it. He tried to remember the earliest troopers he’d stationed. They all seemed to run together, it was hard to pick out a single man or woman. There were some who stuck in his memory, of course: the couple drinking contraband voremhdlts in the swirltub; the trooper who covered his face with his hands and would spend the months that way; the two nude women who came at him with knives. There were so many of them, though, he couldn’t summon up, they were just bodies falling, locked in tetany. But they were coming back to their interrupted lives, now. Quadman Pendragon may or may not have seen him. Probably not—he’d been particularly careful in the beginning, sometimes wearing skinmasks, sometimes shooting from hiding. But not always. They would start awakening by the dozens pretty soon, and some of them had seen him. Some of them had known who he was. Very shortly, the game was going to be over. Now it would get tricky, it could all fall apart if he allowed it to go too far.
    Khadaji found he was breathing faster, that his heart was rumbling along quicker than normal. Funny. He had known this was coming and yet now that it was here, he felt a thrill of fear running through him like some electric current. The years of mind and body training, of mental and physical control kicked in, and he calmed himself. He slowed his pulse and breathing, but the hormone balance was not so easy. The chemicals were stirred and it took more than a quick effort of will to smooth those waters. Later, he would go to his cube and spend a few minutes meditating, that would do it. He needed a clear mind for what was to come.
    One more station.