"It happened so fast we didn't have time to think," Nika told her sister. "I watched an armo coming down. I wanted revo troops to pour out and destroy the riot bots mashing the people. But it flew past the carnage and landed on the roof of the ministry building. We made barricades in that office you found us in and took up firing positions. Then we heard the stamp of boots outside the door. It was the bots we'd been warned about. They marched in with guns blazing."

They were sitting on a low stone wall that ringed one of the fountains in Trafalgar Square. Cradling his rifle on his knees, Zach wore a blank expression and shook his head when she pulled out her brandy flask and offered it to him. She passed the flask to Sasha, shadows flashing over her as people with somber faces drifted by in the early evening light.

She sat nursing her aching ribs and gazed at the piles of flowers and messages heaped around the base of Nelson's Column. After the recent massacre of civilians by riot police bots, crowds of people came to congregate in the square and pay their respects to the fallen. The handicapped in wheelchairs mingled with veterans in fatigues and red, white, and blue bandannas in front of a band playing revolutionary anthems. Britain's brand new revolutionary flag was flying everywhere. Volunteer cooks were carving a whole roast pig in the middle of the square. More volunteers were distributing slices of roast pork to the masses, along with large quantities of Badassa pie, beer, and Schloop. Blanketed figures squatted down, preparing to join the hordes of sleeping people spending the night in the square.

Sasha swigged from the flask and handed it back. "Were they like the bots who attacked us?"

"No, they were humanoid robots--smarter than the purples. They took out my whole squad in about a minute." The pain in her ribs flared up and she winced. She took a final nip of brandy and stowed the flask away.

"How did you and Zach manage to stay alive?"

Her mind slid back to her last seconds of consciousness before oblivion. The crack of bullets from squaddies trying to fend off the smooth-faced humanoids. Penny saying, "Flame is better than bullets if we hit 'em between the plates of their armor." Penny calmly sliding an arrow onto her bow and Stella sparking it. The jet of liquid fire spearing the leading bot and splashing over his chest. The bot screaming at them, "You'll die for this!" A blow from his rifle sending her into a backward sprawl and a steel-toed boot slamming her ribs. Then nothing. Until she felt the tip of his boot nudge her forehead. "Get up."  She couldn't. She waited to be killed. The bot sprayed bullets, killing Penny and Stella. Chas and five squaddies were wiped out by the other bots. Her whole squad lay dead, except for Zach who threw himself flat on his face. Finally, the flames did their work. The lead bot collapsed, scattering debris, his metal torso smoking. The smell of the smoke. Then nothing.

"I don't know how we survived. I only know I came to and the bots were gone. Maybe they figured we were all dead and moved on to mop up other squads."

She craned her neck at the squeal of car tires. An armored six-wheeled vehicle pulled up on the far side of the square and squaddies scrambled out. "Time we hauled our arses out of here. Let's hitch a ride with those revos."

Zach rose to his feet and offered Nika his hand, which she gratefully accepted. The strain of pulling herself up contracted her chest and she started coughing, spitting phlegm out of her throat. After wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she dragged herself to her feet, staggered, and almost dropped to her knees. Zach nimbly leaped to her side and caught her, and Sasha supported her other side. The evening was turning chilly, and she shivered. A wind was blowing across the square.

She limped along between Sasha and Zach toward the mud-colored troop carrier. Her skin felt warm in spite of the cool breeze and she tried to conserve her energy with measured steps. Her hearing had recovered from the grenade blast and she picked up the rasp of their boots as they scraped the pavement.

Built like a bus, the troop carrier stood with its sliding door open. A green-helmeted squaddy stood lounging beside it, his rifle pointing down. He had a young, acne-cratered face and he touched his helmet in a quick salute when he noticed the commander's flashes on the shoulders of her uniform.

"Are you going back to base?" she croaked, her throat parched. "We were wondering if we can get a ride."

"Yes, ma'am. Hop in."  "Cigarette?" He tugged out a pack of Bullet, a particularly smelly brand favored by revos who smoked.

"Ugh!" she waved the pack away. "No, thanks."

A trio of returning squaddies, including a commander, plucked cigarettes from the soldier's pack. She was soon gagging from the suffocating cigarette smoke that rolled in her face.

"Hi, Commander," the officer said, exhaling a pungent cloud. "You guys are part of a squad, right?"

"Two, actually," she said. "We occupied a government building, according to orders, till we were wiped out. My squad took nine casualties and my sister's, four."

"Shit storm." The commander inhaled on his cigarette.

"That's an understatement," she said wearily.

He blew out another acrid cloud, grinned, and pulled a steel flask from his fatigues. "You sound like you could use a drink."

"Thanks." She took the flask and swigged. She had to hold in a sneeze, the vodka was so strong. It burned all the way to her stomach.

She passed the flask to Sasha, who took a swig and spluttered. "That's some vodka."

"Ninety-percent alcohol," the commander replied. "The best there is."

"Time to go," the acne-faced squaddy said.

She looked inside the carrier and saw two squaddies, one of them the driver, sitting in the front. Behind them, two rows of empty seats separated four squaddies huddled in the back. With help from Zach and Sasha, she climbed aboard. The commander crushed his cigarette under his boot and followed them in. Two more squaddies climbed into the carrier, the last one sliding the door shut. The commander, sitting in front of her, caught a message on his ajna and swung around in his seat.

"Listen to this, guys." He increased the volume. Ahimsa's crackling voice rang out: "...Attention, all squads. The government has capitulated and is negotiating with our leaders. Enemy forces are being eliminated. All non-wounded are advised to assist the injured. Salvage all equipment and square away your gear. Await further orders. Out."

The officer beamed at her "Good news, eh, Commander? We're going home."

A smile tried to climb onto her face. It faded when she caught sight of Sasha's disdainful look. "The message didn't say we were  goin' home, did it?" 

The troop transporter carrying her and the other squaddies bounced over a rough road that led north. Sitting in her cramped seat, she coddled her sore ribs and tried to stay upright without seizing up. Zach dozed beside her while Sasha sat across the aisle, jammed next to the acne-faced squaddy, and stared out the window at the shadowy, lamplit streets. When they slammed over potholes and ruts, she had to cling hard to the armrests.

"Shit," Sasha grumbled. "This is worse than ridin' the bus."

She gazed at her sister. "How are you feeling?" 

"Incredibly thirsty. I wish we had somethin' to drink--my throat's as dry as a witch's tit."

"Me, too. I'm dreaming of a big cup of Schloop with lots of ice."

Sasha grunted. "What did you make of that message we just heard?"

"It was blather," she muttered. "Why would the government capitulate, unless they were defeated? And how could we defeat them when we don't have any weapons to destroy the bots? You saw what happened today--they're not afraid of grenades, and bullets don't stop 'em." She gave Sasha a despairing look. "I'm beginning to think this war's a lost cause." 

Sasha's face twitched. "Did I tell you the cops smashed up Tyrone's place? The rooms are all trashed."

Her thoughts took a dive. So much for me being the lady of the house. She shot her sister a worried glance. "Do you know what happened to Mum?"

Sasha fluttered her eyelids. "Honestly, Nika, I don't give a shit. Knowin' her, she's prob'ly somewhere safe."

"What about Tyrone and Harley--are they somewhere safe?" 

Sasha's face flushed and she lowered her eyes.

The other squaddies, buoyed up by the news, started hollering a ragged version of the revos' 100-year-old anthem: Do You Hear the People Sing? The squaddy with the Bullet cigarettes passed the pack around. After a while strong-smelling tobacco smoke billowed from the front of the carrier.

Oh God, the stench. And the driver looks a bit crazy. The driver had a mouthful of silver teeth and looked like he had been in plenty of fights.

Watching the dull streets flash by, she began to feel the faint fluttering that preceded nausea, although her stomach was empty. Turning around in her seat for more comfort, she peered out the rear window and gave a start. A gray-and-yellow car was streaking toward them, bouncing over the potholes at high speed.

"Driver, we're being followed!" she shouted. Sasha, glancing behind, leaned across the squaddy beside her and began rapping the window with her fist to attract the driver's attention. "Faster, you pillock!"

The dun-colored car was hopping over ruts and dents in the road, rapidly narrowing the distance between them. Her heart beat faster. In a few seconds the car was going to slam their rear bumper. The two squaddies in the front began whispering to each other. The driver said: "It's a government bot car. It's packed with explosives and we can't outrun it."

Shoving the squaddy next to her aside, Sasha grabbed her rifle and smashed out the glass of her window. Aiming down the barrel, she loosed off a shot.

She held her breath and everyone in the carrier was silent. She could almost feel the tonne of metal speeding toward them. Until it wasn't. The car veered off the road, bounced over the curb, and plowed through a privet hedge into a front yard. It crashed into the porch of a house and exploded. An enormous whump rocked the troop carrier and she clung to her seat. Squaddies yelled as the vehicle shook from side to side and through the rear window she glimpsed a shower of masonry shards and twisted metal spraying the road behind them.

The smoldering remains of the car and the surrounding wreckage dwindled from view, then a panicked cry snapped her head around.  "We got another problem. Look!" The soldier in the front seat gestured at the road ahead.

She squinted through the windshield. Straddled across the road, six tank turrets stood with their weapons pointed at the carrier. Two meters tall on four sturdy legs, muscular like those of synthetic horses, they were mounted with heavy machine guns.

"Fuckin' hell--spider tanks," one of the squaddies said. "We're all gonners now."

The spider tanks plodded in a ragged line toward the carrier, with one tank in the lead. The driver pulled the vehicle to a halt and jumped out. She watched him galloping across the road, looking wild-eyed and lost. Bullets gouged into him and he fell on the ground in a heap.

"Enemy contact," the commander stuttered into his ajna.

Fat lot of good that's going to do. By the time HQ sends reinforcements, we'll all be dead.

Sirens shrilled from the approaching tanks. They sounded like the bellowing of war horns, signaling a triumphant victory. They were gloating, and it made her guts churn.

Sasha jumped to her feet with her rifle and launched herself down the aisle like a bowling ball. She flung open the vehicle's side door and leaped out.

"Coordinates acquired, target identified," the commander's ajna squawked. She wanted to run to the open door and bawl at her sister, "Take cover!" Sasha hurtled across the road, clutching her rifle, bullets punching holes in the pavement beneath her flying feet. She flung herself through a privet hedge. A hell storm shredded the hedge. The walking tanks swiveled their turrets and sprayed it with heavy-caliber machine gun fire.

Nothing was left but clouds of whirling twigs and leaf motes. She sucked in her breath. Sasha was crawling, flat on her belly, beneath the tumbling twigs until she had a good view of the spider tanks. Then she propped herself on one elbow, took aim and fired her rifle. The cannon barrel of the lead spider tank stopped belching flame and the leader tank stalled, gas jetting from its hydraulic joints. Sasha popped off another shot.

The stricken leader gave a blast from its siren. The other spider tanks stopped firing and swung round. They began lumbering toward their chief. Fascinated, she watched the leader clumsily pirouette like a drunken harlequin, until its engine sputtered and its armored legs buckled. The machine slowed to a grinding halt and crashed to the ground.

The leaderless spider tanks formed a crouching circle, kneeling around their fallen chief. She thought they were trying to help it self-repair, which would take at least a few minutes.

She heaved herself from her seat, wrapping her fingers around her rifle, and stared through the open door. "Sasha!" she called. She yanked back the slide on her rifle and put her finger in the trigger guard. "Get your arse over here."

Sasha rose from her crouching position and jogged back to the vehicle. "What are they doin'?" she shouted.

"I don't know, but while they're doing it let's get the hell out."

The long-limbed tanks were kneeling over their leader, doing repair work. Sasha frowned at them, then turned to her. "Let's toss a grenade at 'em."

She laughed, pulled out a grenade from her webbing, primed it, and gave it to Sasha. "You toss."

The troop carrier sped away from the shattered spider tanks with the commander in the driver's seat. The vehicle rattled onto a slip road which led to a vast motorway, its eight lanes jammed with cars and trucks all moving in the same direction--away from London. The commander took an off-ramp and they became marooned in a maze of streets packed with dull, suburban houses. "Where are we going?" she asked him.

"Command HQ's been moved to Hemel Hempstead." He gave a hollow chuckle. "We should be there before midnight."

They arrived, hours later, at a large country house which impressed her with its grandeur and rural isolation. Passing through hectares of dark trees, they approached a pair of brass-studded wooden gates, spiked with steel. The gates creaked slowly open to admit them.

She noticed the squaddies were becoming more relaxed and supposed they were looking forward to getting fed, washed, and billeted for the night. The commander braked the vehicle and twisted his head around.

"This is it, chaps--your new home." He indicated a large courtyard flagged with gray stone surrounding an imposing mansion, and the other soldiers laughed. He pulled out his flask and offered it to her. Still a little queasy, she passed it to Sasha, who brought it up to her mouth and swallowed for many seconds.

If she gets any more buzzed, she'll light up like a Christmas tree.

Sasha belched and handed it back to the officer.

The squaddies scrambled out and she painfully followed. Climbing down from the mud-colored vehicle, she looked about her. Lit by halogens, the shrubs, hydrangea bushes, and moss-covered rockeries bordering the mansion provided a pleasant sight--the only jarring aspect being the fence of high, chain-link steel surrounding the estate.

Exhausted by the day's exertions, she hobbled behind Sasha and Zach into the large house. They filed up the front steps, shouldering their rifles and stumbling under the weight of their packs. They were met by a stern-featured woman wearing the stripes of a staff sergeant. She looked about sixty and had short blue hair.

"Welcome, Commander." The sergeant's eyes ranged over her and glanced at the other two. "I'll show you to your quarters. Orientation is in one hour, after which you'll be fed."

Orientation? I thought we were here to nosh and crash.

The sergeant led them along a brightly-lit, oak-paneled corridor and up a wooden staircase to a room on the second floor. There were three single beds, three small nightstands--each with its own table lamp--and two dressers. A table and a chair completed the austere scene.

"It's tiny," she whispered to Sasha. Sasha shrugged. The blue-haired sergeant was standing in the doorway. "Remember, orientation in the dining hall in one hour." She turned on her heel and left.

She dumped her rifle and the rest of her kit on one of the beds. "Guess I should find a medic and get my ribs looked at. You guys get some rest."

Sasha stretched out on her bed. "Suits me. See you later."

She plodded downstairs, taking each step with caution. The house was humming with voices. Squaddies passed to and fro, entering and leaving their rooms. In a small cubicle next to the dining hall she was treated by a medical orderly, who mended and bandaged her injured rib cage and gave her a shot of antibiotics. Shuffling into the hall, a wave of nausea caused by the sour, institutional odors from the kitchen assaulted her nostrils like a pepper spray. This place smells like a nursing home. I'm not looking forward to dinner tonight.

She wandered through the dining hall where the orientation was due to take place and bagged front-row seats for herself, Sasha, and Zach. Sitting on a flimsy plastic chair, she gazed up at the high, vaulted ceiling. It was making the noise of people entering the room turn into a bouncing roar. Her eyes grew heavy and she started to doze off. She awoke with a jolt when Sasha nudged her shoulder. "Wake up, sleepyhead. The talk's about to start."

Blinking, she glanced around the room. The trickle of squaddies coming in had swelled to a crowd that filled the large hall. They chattered and squirmed, trying to ignore the rumbling of their hungry bellies.

The blue-haired staff sergeant stood on the speaker's podium and coughed into the mic. She announced, in a fluting voice, that Rafe Clapper, a leading revolutionary, was going to address them. She stepped back and a plump, balding man in his late sixties approached the mic. He wore an orange suit with an orange shirt and tie. His socks, shoes, and even the frames of his glasses were orange.

I've seen this guy before. He was spouting stuff on his soapbox the night we went to that holoshow.

Clapper spoke close to the microphone and his rasping voice echoed around the hall. "Soldiers and fellow citizens, this is truly a historic day. For the first time in its long history, Britain has given birth to a people's revolution. The recent news that the connivin' government and its greedy corporate allies are negotiatin' with the people's Revolutionary Council, our own representatives, should give us cause for cheer. The fightin' will soon be over, and you'll all be goin' home to your families to help build the land we call New Britain. From now on, we'll be livin' in a new country with a new flag, the People's Flag, and a new constitution--the People's Rules. For the first time, every citizen will have a say in how this country is governed. Those of us who can't afford an ajna--" He tapped his mid-brow with an index finger. "--will be fitted with one for free. Seventy million people will then be on the neuronet and able to holo-attend meetin's of the Revolutionary Council." He paused and wiped the back of his hand across his damp lips. "Okay, you'll be gettin' dinner in a few minutes--but first, I want to talk to you about why we're here and what we're fightin' for."

The audience began murmuring, and she smiled thinly. Another lot of blather, no doubt. I'm hungry, and I don't need to hear any revo propaganda.

"This revolution is for the people," he went on. "From now on, the bots are gonna be servin' the needs of us, the people, and not the bleedin' one percent--the stinkin' rich." He paused, and there were chuckles and murmurs of agreement.

"The bots are gonna be workin' to make our lives more comfortable, not takin' our jobs away. We'll make sure every family and single person livin' on welfare will get a robot housekeeper and a generous food allowance. It's not only the rich who deserve to be pampered and served gourmet meals." He stopped again and there were a few shouts of derision.

Clearly not everybody here is living on welfare.

"However, the first task of the Revolutionary Council will be to make sure that every one of us is paid a decent bloody income, whether or not we've got a job."

Clapper's announcement produced prolonged applause, and he took the opportunity to pour water into a paper cup from a carafe on the podium. He gulped a mouthful of water from his cup before continuing.

"We also intend to hold to account all those crooks--" He lowered his voice as if imparting a secret. "--and I'm includin' the toad called Yuke Corrigan the First, who, sadly, is now beyond the reach of justice, all those bloated capitalist bastards who've been bleedin' the people white an' makin' shitloads of money from their fuckin' AI." His voice rose to a crescendo. "We're gonna make sure their plunder--all their ill-gotten gains--are seized and given back to the people."

There was more applause and Clapper paused to let his words sink in. 

"So, what are we fightin' for? We're fightin' for the right of all citizens, especially those of us who've been grievously mistreated by the capitalist oppressors--the poor, the homeless, and the disadvantaged--to live dignified lives of comfort, luxury, and ease. Right now, we all have to pull in our belts. As with every revolution, the next few months are gonna be a time of austerity. But let's not allow present shortages and deficiencies to make us forget what we're fightin' to achieve--the universal principles of socialism: freedom, equality, and brother-sisterhood. And now I'll leave you to your long-awaited dinner. Power to the people!"

He raised his right arm stiffly, fist clenched, and large sections of the audience rose to their feet, arms raised in salute. Most of them bawled: "Power!" Clapper nodded and turned away. He disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the stage.

She looked at Sasha and shrugged, while the crowd of squaddies erupted into cheers, whistles, and yells. The blue-haired sergeant mounted the podium and, adjusting the microphone, spoke to the departing speaker. "Thank you, Citizen Rafe, your words are an inspiration to us all." She addressed the audience of restless squaddies. "You will now proceed to the canteen in the rear of the house where dinner will be served. After dinner, your platoon leaders will meet with you to--"

Her last words were drowned out by the energetic scraping of boots and chair legs on the floor as the squaddies clattered out the room.

Sitting with Sasha and Zach at one end of a long formica table, she surveyed the drably-furnished canteen, and the squaddies scraping their plates and muttering at the spartan meal. A  food shortage in the kitchen meant dinner of cabbage and turnip mash with a slice of bread on the side. The dessert of bread pudding with custard was reserved for ranks of platoon leader and above. A kitchen orderly handed them a jug of water from a wobbly aluminum cart.

She poured water from the jug into a plastic cup. Sasha sat, glassy-eyed, gazing at a large screen hanging above the long table. A news report was showing a squad of  revolutionary soldiers ransacking Buckingham Palace. Trucks lined up in the palace courtyard were being stacked high with royal treasures. Smiling troops carried silverware and jeweled ornaments to add to the piles.

"They're cleanin' the place out." Sasha leaned back on her tubular metal chair and folded her arms. "It didn't take 'em long, did it?"

"No, and I guess we shouldn't be surprised after what we just heard." She sipped from her cup.

The camera followed a gabbling reporter inside the palace. As the reporter droned on, she glimpsed empty walls, their oil paintings wrapped and stacked, and once-stately rooms stripped bare of furnishings. She watched female revos in the royal bedchambers pulling clothes out of closets and searching through dressing-table drawers. She supposed they were looking for pieces of jewelry the deposed royals had hidden before their hasty evacuation. 

"So much for the monarchy. I guess we'll be living in a people's republic from now on." She glanced at Sasha. "What did you think of the talk from Orange Man?"

Sasha dredged her spoon through her plate of gooey sludge. "It was bollocks. I bin hearin' that stuff for years an' it ain't made my life any better." Sasha quit toying with her spoon and gave her sister a look of brutal derision. "How do they expect us to eat this slop?"

"We have to make sacrifices, Citizen Sasha. This is a time of austerity, remember?" Watching her sister push the plate away in disgust, she smiled. "Don't you want the revolution to succeed?"

"I wish the bleedin' fightin' would end." 

"You know, we don't have to go on fighting." She looked around the room. Some of the squaddies were conversing in low, murmuring tones, others maintained a sullen silence. "We could always walk away."

"You mean... desert our posts?"

She slammed down her cup, flinging blobs of water onto the formica. Her indignation against the violence and bloodshed, that had been simmering below the surface, spilled out. "Why the hell not? What have we got left to fight for? My squad was virtually wiped out, I've lost my job, my flat, my eemee... My friends have all gone, my boyfriend--well, he's not really my boyfriend--is either dead or in a labor camp, Mum and Harley are god-knows-where, your boyfriend's dead..."

"D'you think we could find a way outta here?" Sasha whispered.

"I don't know, but we could give it a damn good try."