Roland sighed, looked at his severed arm, and crudely shoved it into place. It had clotted a bit, and his stub burned as the tiny robots in his blood got to work re-attaching his once-and-future limb.

“Jim,” he said again, sounding a bit less like a frog after a six day coke binge. “You fucked up my house, man. That’s not cool.”

Roland didn’t know how long he’d known Jim. He couldn’t even pin down the man’s last name. But he was pretty sure they’d fought together, back before the Revolution. And he was certain they’d had a threesome with a devilishly handsome Spetznaz man. He couldn’t remember that guy’s name, or why they’d all been in Panama, but he didn’t expect that was the sort of experience past-him would’ve shared with someone who wasn’t a friend.

“You remember me?” Jim asked.

“Basically,” Roland answered.

“Good. Cause I got a favor to ask.”

Chapter 3

Sasha.

The drone gun rotated on its axis and brought a new, slightly different chunk of cityscape into view. The world was a dull green-gray color through the lens of the weapon’s camera. Once again, there were no humans in sight. That was the norm, but Sasha still logged in for her scheduled gun-time every day. Her parents would have been mortified if they knew how she was spending her few hours of free time. But she had a good VPN, or at least it was good enough to hide her activity from her non-tech-savvy elders.

She doubted they’d ever suspect her of something like this. Sasha was a good student. Her grades guaranteed her admission to the Ameri­can University in D.C. At one point she’d had a shot at being her high school’s valedictorian, and maybe of gaining admission to Stanford. But then she’d discovered the true Gospel and given herself to Christ. Her grades were still good, but probably not good enough to earn her an educational visa to the California Republic. The extra time the old-her had dedicated to school was now spent glued to a guncam, browsing live feeds from various Christian militias, and reading everything she could from the few pastors brave enough to preach the Word.

The new-her didn’t want to go to school near San Francisco, capital of what Pastor Mike had called “the world’s most sinful nation.” Sasha didn’t even really want to go to college in D.C. What was the point?

“Sash’,” her dad called from the kitchen, “dinner’s on. Cheese ­enchiladas!”