The first thing that he felt was the cold. He choked on the air of a great rattling breath before descending into shallow, pitiful gasps. There was a great sound of clanking around him, servos whirring. “Sir. Sir. Sir.” It was the sound of a woman somewhere. A grasped his own, warm even through the fabric. He wanted to pull away, but his entire body felt like lead. “Sir. Sir. Sir.” It was always like this; went you were in for too long. He felt needles and tubes being pulled out of him; all he could do was focus on breathing. “Sir. Are you ready to have the blindfold removed sir?” “Yes,” Sutler gasped. He felt the warmth of hands near his head, and the rustling of fabric, before everything became a blurry white haze. “Here sir.” He felt the tingle of real moisture and took great rasping pulls from the damp cloth pressed to his lips. “Get the gurney,” the voice said. “He’s ready for transport.” He felt more hands—so warm—envelope him as he was lifted from the cradle into the gurney. The wheels whistled and rattled as the gurney was moved. He felt something over him, getting closer, and felt the wrap the plastic arms of his eyeglasses around his head. [hr] It was an unusually iron sky over Arlington, appropriate for the events. It had taken Sutler three days to be properly rejuvenated—endless rounds of massages and drip-feed bags—which had allowed time for the 1st Troop to be recalled to the capital. Menzel lay in a simple box draped with the flag. Fortunately, Sims and Rivas had survived the crash landing. Blue-One had come down hard in the designated area. Broken bones all around and an expedited ticket to permanent internment in the simulation. Blue-One herself was done—an irreplaceable loss. Sutler, Granite, Fuentes, and the rest of the Old Guard had come out for the occasion. The whole of 1st Troop, with representatives from the others were arranged in formation on the other side of Menzel. The great American flag which flew over the Commandery flew at half-mast. Sutler had even permitted some members of the Party to be present. Observers rather than participants, they were off somewhere to the left keeping solemn silence. Sutler loathed their presence, but understood the realpolitik that they had to see that the Enclave did lose their own for the Peace. More so, he knew that they were awed too by the ceremony of official events—every action had purpose and tradition and weight. The Peace Force had its own traditions, its own marches and salutes and styles, but Sutler had invented them in a single afternoon somewhere between an after-action report and an evening agenda. They held no weight. When it was time, he alighted the podium. “You lost your compatriot. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. I sent him there. And I’ve been there, I know what it is. Corporal Menzel gave his life for the future. For our future. And he will rest here, forever, amongst the heroes. We will right the great error of history. Remember always the words of the Good General. When you kill enough of them, they will stop fighting. We will take that that to it's logical conclusion. When we kill all of them, there will be no fighting.” He stepped back from the podium before giving the signal. “Firing Party! Present! Fire!” Sutler and the rest of the Old Guard stood to attention as the full 21-gun salute was offered. The flag was folded and offered to the standing Troop commander Cheeves, before the tinny music began from the assembled eyebots and they dutifully sung. [i]“Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave,”[/i] The whole thing brought back nasty memories—they hadn’t had to bury someone in five years. Recovering the bodies from the Purifier under the ceasefire terms he’d bullied Eden into. Finding Autumn’s shattered corpse, his badges and ribbon bar taken as ghoulish souvenirs by the Brotherhood. Sending him into the furnace later. Sobbing into Lucy’s shoulder back in their quarters before becoming so blinding angry that he’d actually scared her. [i]“Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep;”[/i] Just before the battle of Adams, his intended swansong, they’d euthanised the non-coms—the last four women and children in America at the time. They cremated them in a crater on the runway atop a mattress of all the remaining flags folded and the Declaration of Independence; the camp doctor shot himself afterwards. He remembered Granite’s face the day before when he’d been given his orders; when he’d listed them as bullet points on the last lot of materials to be scuttled somewhere between some old archive material and a bunch of spare generator parts. [i]“O hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.”[/i] “If I should die for some reason,” he said to Granite. “Don’t put me in the soil… or the air. Keep me on ice; you know where I want to go.” “Yeah Alan. I know. How long are you staying out for?” “I’m not sure. But since I’m out, I’ll show my face for a while.” He glanced over at Chair Moria Brown and the other Party officials in the distance. “Put some stick about amongst the rabble. Let them know I’m more than some glowering portrait. I am here. And I exist now as much as ever.” “Of course.” “I’ll make them fear. This is a world of terror, as much as a world of triumph. Until we can get rid of them. Send the photos of the raid north to Pittsburgh, with a redacted AA report, perhaps it’s time I met with this Queen of Pittsburgh.” It was so ludicrous a thing to say, he regretted it given the setting. He felt a monstrous urge within him rise up, only to be settled. The members of the 1st troop filed past Menzel’s box, each tapping it twice. After it was lowered, they returned to the Commandery—beating the retreat to a sole bagpiper playing Auld Lang Syne.