are all coming to realize.
‘You should get changed,’ says Paper.
‘So should you.’
She smiles. ‘I’m wearing a gown. You’ve got all that braid.’
‘All that . . . ?’
‘Jaxx had your uniforms sent over.’
Paper says this as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. As if General Jaxx shipping some lieutenant’s uniform for a party was normal.
‘Sven,’ she says, ‘the general told us you’d be happy to attend any functions necessary. After all, you’re here on a cultural exchange.’
First I’ve heard of it.
‘Do call Jaxx to check,’ says Morgan. ‘If you want.’
———
Neen’s puzzled. It looks like his jacket, but it feels wrong. So he turns up the lights for a closer look and realizes it is only pretending to be his jacket. Someone has taken standard-issue battledress and re-created it in spider’s silk and fine wool.
The changes do not end there.
Braid edges his collar; his belt is leather not webbing.
As for our Death’s Head patches . . . Franc cut those from the skin of a cold-water alligator on the marshes outside Ilseville, the night we formed the Aux. It seems longer ago than it is.
The patches remain, but someone has tidied the edges and wrapped them in silver. A new row of stripes decorates Neen’s left sleeve.
They’re the real thing.
Death’s Head official issue. Sergeants, for the use of . . .
‘Shit,’ says Shil. She looks at her brother, uncertain whether to be upset or pleased. A dagger fills Neen’s hand; it’s plain black, with a silver pommel. That is official issue too.
Franc is here now. We’re all pretending that’s normal. She looks like Franc and sounds like Franc and even smells like Franc. I know that, because I get close enough to check. Her face looks the same, as does her body, what I can see of it.
Only her eyes are different. They’re terrified.
She has been brought back from the dead. No one asked her if that was what she wanted. How could they? So we’re ignoring it, she’s ignoring it, and I’m letting Shil and Rachel fuss over the new uniforms like children with a toy-box.
‘Let’s unpack the rest,’ Rachel says.
Franc has proper stripes for a corporal. And everyone has a battle ribbon, a slash of red and white. Must be for Ilseville, because it cannot be for anything else. We are obviously claiming that as a victory now.
My uniform is last. It looks like before.
Silver collar bars show my rank, an Obsidian Cross hangs on its black silk ribbon; a run of silver braid falls to the left of the jacket. Although the braid is better quality than it was. The jacket is less ornate than Neen’s, but that is how we work. The uniform General Jaxx wears is simpler still.
My boots are new, though, their heels higher. This is unnecessary, as I am already taller than everyone else.
‘Sir,’ says Shil, nodding to a roll of cloth. ‘Think this might be yours.’ Her voice is way too neutral.
It’s a cloak. Staff officers, for the use of . . .
Staff officers? Why not just shoot me and have done with it.
The outside of the cloak is black, and what I can see of the silk lining is red. A silver skull on one side of a floppy collar grins at a skull on the other side. A metal chain loops between their teeth.
‘ So you ,’ says a voice.
‘What?’
‘ Tacky, tawdry, tasteless .’
As I shake out the cloak, Neen ducks and something flicks across the room and bounces off an opposite wall. I know what it is before it lands. There aren’t many weapons that can swear like that.
Very carefully, Haze picks up the SW SIG-37.
‘Haze . . .’
‘Just fetching it for you, sir.’
‘Clips emptied,’ protests my gun. ‘Molested by U/Free experts ‘ — it puts particular emphasis on this word — ‘then thrown across the room by a moron.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Good to see you too.’
It snorts.
So I threaten to introduce it to an elevator.
The SIG-37 snorts some more.
Its fold-down wire stock is gone. Its pistol
‘You should get changed,’ says Paper.
‘So should you.’
She smiles. ‘I’m wearing a gown. You’ve got all that braid.’
‘All that . . . ?’
‘Jaxx had your uniforms sent over.’
Paper says this as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. As if General Jaxx shipping some lieutenant’s uniform for a party was normal.
‘Sven,’ she says, ‘the general told us you’d be happy to attend any functions necessary. After all, you’re here on a cultural exchange.’
First I’ve heard of it.
‘Do call Jaxx to check,’ says Morgan. ‘If you want.’
———
Neen’s puzzled. It looks like his jacket, but it feels wrong. So he turns up the lights for a closer look and realizes it is only pretending to be his jacket. Someone has taken standard-issue battledress and re-created it in spider’s silk and fine wool.
The changes do not end there.
Braid edges his collar; his belt is leather not webbing.
As for our Death’s Head patches . . . Franc cut those from the skin of a cold-water alligator on the marshes outside Ilseville, the night we formed the Aux. It seems longer ago than it is.
The patches remain, but someone has tidied the edges and wrapped them in silver. A new row of stripes decorates Neen’s left sleeve.
They’re the real thing.
Death’s Head official issue. Sergeants, for the use of . . .
‘Shit,’ says Shil. She looks at her brother, uncertain whether to be upset or pleased. A dagger fills Neen’s hand; it’s plain black, with a silver pommel. That is official issue too.
Franc is here now. We’re all pretending that’s normal. She looks like Franc and sounds like Franc and even smells like Franc. I know that, because I get close enough to check. Her face looks the same, as does her body, what I can see of it.
Only her eyes are different. They’re terrified.
She has been brought back from the dead. No one asked her if that was what she wanted. How could they? So we’re ignoring it, she’s ignoring it, and I’m letting Shil and Rachel fuss over the new uniforms like children with a toy-box.
‘Let’s unpack the rest,’ Rachel says.
Franc has proper stripes for a corporal. And everyone has a battle ribbon, a slash of red and white. Must be for Ilseville, because it cannot be for anything else. We are obviously claiming that as a victory now.
My uniform is last. It looks like before.
Silver collar bars show my rank, an Obsidian Cross hangs on its black silk ribbon; a run of silver braid falls to the left of the jacket. Although the braid is better quality than it was. The jacket is less ornate than Neen’s, but that is how we work. The uniform General Jaxx wears is simpler still.
My boots are new, though, their heels higher. This is unnecessary, as I am already taller than everyone else.
‘Sir,’ says Shil, nodding to a roll of cloth. ‘Think this might be yours.’ Her voice is way too neutral.
It’s a cloak. Staff officers, for the use of . . .
Staff officers? Why not just shoot me and have done with it.
The outside of the cloak is black, and what I can see of the silk lining is red. A silver skull on one side of a floppy collar grins at a skull on the other side. A metal chain loops between their teeth.
‘ So you ,’ says a voice.
‘What?’
‘ Tacky, tawdry, tasteless .’
As I shake out the cloak, Neen ducks and something flicks across the room and bounces off an opposite wall. I know what it is before it lands. There aren’t many weapons that can swear like that.
Very carefully, Haze picks up the SW SIG-37.
‘Haze . . .’
‘Just fetching it for you, sir.’
‘Clips emptied,’ protests my gun. ‘Molested by U/Free experts ‘ — it puts particular emphasis on this word — ‘then thrown across the room by a moron.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Good to see you too.’
It snorts.
So I threaten to introduce it to an elevator.
The SIG-37 snorts some more.
Its fold-down wire stock is gone. Its pistol
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