Sparks were crackling over its front armor. The militia were fighting back.

“They’d do better saving their ammunition,” said Petrovitch. “Something tells me that it’s going to be the least of their worries.”

Sonja put a hand under his shoulder and tried to pull him away from the window. “If it’s under Jihad command, we have to get to it.”

“Don’t trust them.”

“You want to stay here?” she asked.

“Do you want to go out there?” he countered. “You’ll be at the mercy of a bunch of crotch-scratching code jockeys whose hallmark is ‘oops.’ They damn near killed me playing with their oversized train set. I’d much rather be the author of my own salvation than rely on them.”

He steeled himself to get as far as the door, and only had to stop once, when he thought he was going to black out. His vision grayed and his ears roared, but the moment passed.

The Paradise residents were still standing at the window, but had now started arguing with each other as to what to do. Petrovitch found a chair and slumped into it, and, despite Sonja’s best efforts, he refused to move.

“Hey,” he said, then when that made no impression, he fetched out Sorenson’s Magnum and banged the butt hard on the table. “Hey!”

A dozen people turned to face him. He slid the gun across the tabletop and let them draw their own conclusions.

“Does that mean we have to do what you say now?” A rodent-faced woman stepped forward and leaned against the back of a chair.

“Yeah, that’s right. All of your base belongs to us.” Petrovitch snorted in disgust. It hurt, but it showed his contempt. “Get a clue and sit down, the lot of you.”

“Sam, we don’t have time for this,” said Sonja.

“There’s always time for this. Workers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains.” He watched them as they moved closer, perching on the edges of desks and plastic chairs. Their unspoken deference to him made him squirm.

When he thought they were ready, he flipped his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes.

“You know, I don’t give a shit about your culture or your traditions, because they suck. I don’t care that I killed your new leader who killed your previous leader, since that way of kingmaking died back in the seventeen hundreds, and wake up!” He slammed his hand down hard, and the resulting noise even made himself jump. “It’s the twenty-first century out there, people. The Metrozone functions quite happily without you taking part. All you’ve done is made yourself a ghetto—a dysfunctional, kleptocratic ghetto—that your own children fight to get out of. This is not freedom. This is slavery, and you’ve done it to yourselves.