“Oh, yeah. As long as you don’t think you’ll die. That’s why all throughout history you had so many generals and politicians kickin’ off conflicts. Because they felt safe, and when you’re pretty sure you’ll live, war is an absolute hoot. That’s the problem with me and fighting.”

“The problem is you like it too much?”

Roland grabbed his hand. The chromed man moved so fast Manny didn’t even see the motion-blur. Roland’s hand was just wrapped around his wrist, immovable. He squeezed, hard enough that it hurt. Roland’s eyes bulged out and stared into Manny with a manic intensity that was frightening.

“I. Fuckin’. Love. It. It’s like sex on heroin and bungee jumping and getting rammed in the ass and that first shot of liquor you sneak when you’re fourteen, all at once and mixed with the best actual battle drugs the most bloated military budget in history could buy.”

He loosened his grip and turned half away from Manny.

“That’s why I shouldn’t do it. Because I’ll get carried away, like I got carried away in Dallas. Maybe this time I won’t be able to stop when it’s time to stop.”

Manny kept his eyes on Roland’s. The big man turned a little further to the left, but he didn’t look away.

“How do you know that your intervention won’t make things better?” Manny asked. “Maybe if we can kill enough of the Martyrs their power will be broken forever. Maybe your intervention will be the first step toward making this a more livable part of the globe.”

Roland laughed. It started as a low chuckle that then cascaded into a series of rolling, rib-cracking howls. Manny didn’t get the joke and couldn’t find any humor in his words. So he sat tight until Roland’s mirth subsided and the chromed man had recovered enough to explain himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said between chuckles. “It’s just…ah shit, kid, you’re too young to know how funny that is.” Roland straightened up and wiped a tear from his eye. “See, you’re talking about me the exact same way people talked about the U.S. Military back when I was a kid.”

The bartender came by and sat down Roland’s drink, an enormous jug filled with a multi-hued mix of alcoholic beverages. The post-­human took a deep pull from his maitaigarito. Manny took the chance to ask a question.

“I thought you didn’t remember anything further back than a few years ago?”

“I don’t remember anything clearly,” Roland said. “But I do remember bits and pieces. And I remember being a young man and watching the news break in an off-base bar. Some election had gone bad in Bolivia. The president announced he was sending in more soldiers to help keep the peace.”

“Did it work?” Manny asked.