I can see clearly in my mind the expressions of the others, Nostand, Medic, Lieutenant Aimer putting on a brave face after his ordeal. They watch raptly, hanging on every syllable of this quarrel between their absolute commander and their young creator. It is enough to make these brave men shake. But you are braver still, reader. Yes, you, who trust your life to distant leaders whom you cannot watch firsthand, and whose Creator decides your fate invisibly, without warning, explanation, or apology—and yet you rise to face each morning, head held high. Brave reader, these happy army men are here to hear their maker’s argument themselves, and will hear the verdict firsthand, instead of having to deduce it from a thousand years of experiment and guesswork. And, best of all, they know that both these beings, Bridger and the Major, love them. Benevolence, real, before their eyes. Do you not envy them? Does it not make you call This Universe’s God a little cruel? These are the sorts of questions Ἄναξ Jehovah calls me to His rooms to ask, that He was asking me at that very moment as I sat beside His desk, forgetting Carlyle downstairs, forgetting the investigation, forgetting even Bridger as His questions made the present seem just a drop of history. I rarely manage to offer Him any answer, but it is a comfort to Him that at least I understand.

The Major shook his head. “Mycroft does not want to be saved. I know him, Bridger. If he lingers on as someone’s captive, it is because of some relationship he has to that someone, awe, honor, fear, something.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “Then I want to know why. I want to go and ask. I’m not going to let anybody see me. I just want to talk to them. The crystal ball isn’t good enough, I need to really see, and hear, and have Mycroft hear me. I want to try to talk them into leaving, that’s all. Just one try.”

“It’s not like you can stop the kid, Major.” Trust Croucher to pounce on the truth nobody wants to hear. “He can just unmake you if you try to stop him.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Perhaps this kind maker blushes with guilt that the thought was in his mind. “I don’t want to do that. Major, I want you to help me. I want your advice, your planning. There has to be a first time I try going out and really doing something, so walk me through it, talk me through it, guide me, make it a surefire victory. If anybody in the world can, you can.”

“ ‘If anybody in the world can, you can,’ ” Croucher repeated in a whine. “What’ll it be this time, Major? Give in? Or sit and sulk while the kid goes off and dies?”

Quick as a striking carp, the Major hurled his pocket canteen at Croucher’s face. It flew true as a javelin, striking the cheekbone below the helmet’s rim hard enough to split the skin. Croucher vanished into his puzzle-fort like a seal beneath the waves, and closed the entrance with a last piece, which almost muffled his curses. These soldiers are made of fiction, reader—did you think they would coexist in boring harmony?