The mess hall, so bright and loud at mealtime, was dim and stuffy as a cavern. The painted walls slumped away into shadow around a central circle of light. Lanterns and hurricane lamps lit a neat square of tables in the middle of the room. Chairs and benches were scattered across the humid darkness, dense partisan groups separated by no-man’s-lands masquerading as aisles. Mostly empty now, with a few seats pulled up close by diehard spectators or aides to the official delegates. The rank-and-file audience might have lost interest, but the tension at the tables left a stale taste in the air.

I nosed in quietly and slid into an empty chair a few rows behind the Unca Joe delegation. Set corner to corner, the tables formed equal sides—no head or foot, no one position of authority. Water jugs and cups clustered among the lanterns and crumb-dusted plates. Near-empty baskets tempted me with leftover fruit or scraps of bread. Nothing but a few bites of apple since breakfast. Hardly sustaining. But I restrained myself.

At the table in front of me, Rousseau sat between Jake and Spunk, his dark face somber. He’d pulled his chair back, like he was holding off from the argument, there to listen rather than hold forth. But his fingers played fitfully with the buttons on his leather vest.

Jake was hunched and frowning into the cross of his arms rested on the table. Spunk looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, though he’d spruced up for the event, in a clean tank top and sweats. He was even hatless, his wild hair dampened and combed into a dark red helmet. That, more than anything, said this gathering was unusual.

At the table opposite, a blond guy was droning on with facts and figures. But nobody was yawning, not even Spunk, who rarely sat still for lectures of any kind, even his own. I recognized the Empire dude from the first caucus, who’d had the face-off with Tall Tommy.

Rousseau’s assistant Song-yi perched behind him on a bench, slim and erect, dressed in her usual self-effacing gray. She tapped away at her tablet, an ancient device she was allowed to recharge every night, no matter what the power situation was. As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I was amazed to see Peeto and Ellie Mae among the small contingent of Joes still hanging on. Not only there, but sitting next to each other, an odd couple if ever there was one: she leaning eagerly forward, hands folded on her knees like she was watching a tight game, Peeto slouched all over his chair like a rag doll, but both somehow in relation to the other, familiar as old friends. This wanted further exploration.

But not now. Rubio clattered into the chair beside me, still breathing hard. He echoed my stance as I leaned in to catch what the Empire guy was saying.