We arrived in daylight, picking our way through litter and fresh dog excrement: thousands of 1st and 2nd Gens, more than anyone had seen, some bearing huge ‘Uto Percipi’ banners and makeshift steel-grey flags; us, armed humans, walking alongside. People were mown down indiscriminately before us. The old, legs foal-weak; women clutching babies attempting to shield them from gunfire; infant children, sandals flapping against their feet. The rules had changed with that temporary dawn. They ran from truth, filled with a desperate self-preservation that caused vile acts we never would have imagined, let alone carried out. Husbands pushed wives into the line of fire, leaving them for dead. People stole weapons from their weaker friends, rummaged in the pockets of broken bodies for ammunition, credits, food, anything they might need. The horrors we saw fuelled our justification, veiling our eyes until our expressions became as stoic as 1st Gens, and yet inwardly we were more alive than ever. The people entered sewers and underground tunnels, war bunkers and maintenance systems. We followed, attempting to slow our bodies’ vibrations so we might become machines, like those we fought beside.

CIRROSTRATUS

In the old days they were labelled freaks, outcasts. Made to roam cities and towns in cautious night, segregated, gazed at with aversion, maybe fear. Now they were celebrated, heroes. Alask promised himself they’d never forget, better still that they would never grow complacent.

The sky was a purpled bruise beyond dark hills. Hedges and bushes whispered as they drove. The truck was cruising, rocking Alask against Celayn, making him smile in the darkness, reminded anew how soft she felt. She was sleeping, of course, always was; mouth open, head bobbing, her snores like the baritone throb of the truck engine, her pulse steady, dress high at her thighs. Although the temperature was cool, it still made him feel warm to think about her, to feel her. The ancient CD deck whirred and played gentle music, pitched low. Orpheus hunched over the wide steering wheel, bouncing with jolts and bumps. Alask leant over Celayn to check the wing mirror – no need to, but it was comforting to see dipping lights and know everything was well. He put his knees on the dash, yawned and threw his head back. He wanted to sleep; knew he wouldn’t.

Alask was awake when they approached the building hours later, greeted by dark shapes beneath destitute street light. He clambered across Celayn, prising the door open and jumping from the truck while it still moved, door slamming as he leapt. His little trick always impressed the punters. The tarmac glittered with moisture. He almost slipped when he landed, but held his arms out and managed to right himself. A sigh of wonder came from the shadows. He strolled over towards the building.

‘Howdy,’ Alask said.

‘Hi.’ A tall man detached himself from the waiting group, offering an outstretched hand. He smelt of cologne and sweat, of musty clothes. ‘Walter Minsk.’