A conversion. I’ve always had a soft spot for this, but a few people don’t like the ending.

Heroine

Sally gazed through the derelict pump house’s window over the brown expanse of the estuary. Narrow face pressed against the hole she had scratched through the centuries of grime, she observed the complex interactions of tugs and ferries, yachts, cruisers and liners, tankers and cargo ships, mine layers, frigates, dreadnoughts, and corvettes. Beyond the busy river traffic, on the opposite bank, she admired the elegant architecture of the King’s Administration Building and its necklace of golden birds glittering in the evening sun; looked with affection at the crumbling sandstone towers of the St Judas cathedral; tried to discern the convoluted detailing of the fluted marble Queensway and Kingsway Tunnels exhaust towers; frowned with distaste at utilitarian cube of the Royal Protective Shield generator housing.

A footstep behind her. She sighed, tugged at the short hem of her dress to straighten it. Forcing a seductive smile to her face, she turned to greet her client.

-oOo-

Later, after a call to Madam confirmed there were to be no more liaisons that afternoon (as she hoped and guessed would be the case), she once again made herself comfortable on the wide concrete sill of the pump-house window.

Traffic had increased, if it was possible, with much of it decorated in black and green bunting – the royal colours. The noise was considerable. Highly polished horns shining painfully in the summer sun wailed at one-another, engines variously roared or chugged, loudspeakers played a cacophony of patriotic tunes. On the pleasure yachts of the aristocracy expensive wines were downed like cheap beer, and richly dressed couples danced the carioca. Tiny power boats weaved amongst the larger traffic at foolhardy speeds, arcing out from the Woodside pier (a popular meeting place for young men with access to fast boats — and once, when youth had also been hers, a regular source of income). Great glasshouse tour-boats moved sedately –if ponderously– about, each filled almost to the point of taking on the foul water.

A klaxon on the opposite bank began to wail. Traffic moved for the jetties and wharves, some craft barely quick enough to clear the way for a half-dozen sleek grey man-o’-war speeding in from the west. The vicious-looking vessels throttled back and positioned themselves three to each shore, weapons trained high over the city’s towers and shield pylons. As one, they sounded their melancholy horns. Every single boat on the river cut its engines. The klaxon stopped its eerie wail. Music was silenced, loudspeakers switched off. A gull screamed raucously, startled at the clamour’s sudden cessation.

But the silence didn’t last long. A low throbbing became apparent, subdued yet somehow huge — auditory hint at the gargantuosity it preceded.

The eptune King’s Bellow was returning home from her battles against the Imperium.

Slowly, the eptune moved into the scratched-grime frame of Sally’s field of vision. So huge it seemed impossible the vessel could be mobile — more likely the world turned to her whim while she remained aloofly still. She was a pyramid of iron and brass; tier upon tier of cannon, missile launchers, phased-light and heat batteries, coiled shield generators, detection grids and globes. Her hull alone rose twice as high as the King’s Administration Building, while from the dome of the command bridge, her highest point, the most energetic gulls could be looked down upon.

Torn into the top of the hull and the bottom five tiers of the superstructure was the reason why the King’s Bellow was not still out in the middle of the ocean blasting the so-called God Emperor’s forces from sea and sky — a gaping, ragged, hole, scorched black and blistered. Roughly twenty meters in diameter, it still contained the wreckage of the suicide fighter plane which somehow skirted the eptune’s defences. As Sally watched, a small –oh, how so when compared to that immense bulk!– corvette moved in beneath the Bellow’s hull – engineers inspecting the damage. As if the corvette’s appearance were a signal, the other river traffic gradually resumed their earlier cacophony, their movements now, of course, severely restricted.

The throb of the Bellow’s engines changed pitch as her house-sized screws reversed to slow her further. From her handbag, Sally took out a tube of Prostitute’s Friend and popped one of the small lozenges into her mouth. Chewing on the mint-flavoured combined contraceptive and universal STI drug, she began to hum tunelessly, and departed the ancient pump house for the dock’s edge.

She sat on the warm concrete, feet dangling over the filthy river ten meters below. Leaning back on her hands, she gazed for a moment into the clear blue summer’s sky, squinting against the sun’s glare. She gave a pleased sigh. Madam had given her an hour – she intended to make the most of it.

Her attention returned to the infinitely slow dance of the King’s Bellow. The immensity had commenced manoeuvres which would, in the early hours of the morning, and aided by a team of the biggest tugs the Royal Navy had to offer, finally see her securely berthed.

-oOo-

It was ten o’ clock. The sun had sank below the horizon, but there was still plenty of light left in the sky — yellow in the west fading through cloud-streaked pink to a darkening blue in the east; and all visible through the RPS’s vague sheen of interference, apparent only on such clear evenings. Across the river, the King’s Bellow was almost secured, her progress illuminated by huge, twilight-banishing kliegs on the roofs of St Judas Cathedral and the Queensway Tunnel exhaust tower. A carnival atmosphere still prevailed over the estuary, spreading to the opposite bank where throngs of people sampled the delights of a small fairground that had sprung up there.

Sally sighed. The last call to Madam had revealed tonight’s work to be at Capstan Girls, a seedy club little more than a converted warehouse at the back of King’s Number One Dock. The club didn’t open till eleven, giving Sally more free time than she had expected. However, the prospect of a night of drunken sailors, drugged businessmen, and low-life sampling hoorays from the richer of the city’s districts, was anything but pleasant, and had spoiled her unforeseen break. Even worse, Madam had informed her tonight’s rate would be piecework. Years ago that meant a tidy profit; now, however, advancing age resulted in less actual clients, and –for those that did exist– ever more bizarre demands and degradations endured in order to make any money at all.

Ah well, she thought, Perhaps the Bellow’s captain will be there and want to take me up to his bridge and —

A splash directly below her. She looked down. The river had been unable to support life for centuries, though tales were rife of pollution-spawned monstrosities inhabiting its black depths…

Something was moving towards the dock wall. Something large, and, by the way it floundered in the poisonous water, something nearly drowned. In the instant she recognised it for a man, he sank. For a few moments nothing but slow bubbles penetrated the river’s too-thick meniscus; before the man surfaced adjacent to the dock wall, coughing and gasping. A hand came up, scrabbling for purchase on the slimy stonework.

‘Go to your right! Your right!’ He showed no signs of hearing her, continuing to clutch desperately at the wall. Sally looked around. It was no use shouting for help, the dock was deserted. She could try and hail someone on the river, but most of the traffic was over on the other side. Perhaps she might run down to the Woodside Pier speedy-boat boys, but by the time she got back the man would have most likely —

‘Oh, you idiot!’

There, barely five yards away, was a pole, upon which was a life ring. Seconds later, she had retrieved it.

‘Here!’ She dropped the ring – knocking the man back under water.

‘Oh shite.’ She whispered. ‘Sally, you silly cow.’

A hand rose up within the bobbing ring, followed by the man’s head. Coughing and retching, he managed to hook the arm over and lodge himself above water.

‘Can you swim to the right? Can you hear me? Swim to the right, there’s a ladder there. Not far.’ Perhaps he’s foreign? Sally knew no other language. She would have to try and demonstrate.

But there was no need. The man was slowly kicking in the desired direction, still spluttering.

‘That’s it, lover, nearly there.’ And then he was there, gently rising and falling with the lapping water at the foot of the iron ladder, right hand clasping tightly at the lowest visible rung. For a minute he remained there, wracked by coughs and retching. Then, for the first time, he looked up.

He was young, surely not much older than twenty. His roughly-stubbled face was lean, expression grim, hair brutally short. The combination of these factors suggested one thing to Sally: soldier.

‘Do you think you can climb up?’

Still not speaking, he took a deep breath and, left arm pinned to his side by the life-ring (Sally guessed the limb to be injured – he made no attempt to free it), began a jerky and intensely laborious climb.

‘That’s it, come on. Bloody ‘ell, you’re a strong un, aren’t yer? Up another one. Keep going. Exercise a bit do yer? Must do, muscles like them! Another one. Nearly there.’ Sally kept up her encouraging prattle until he was finally within reach. Lying flat on the dockside, she leaned over the edge and hooked her hands into his armpits, trying to ensure as strong a grip as possible on his black wetsuit. The man was so startled by the contact he almost let go of the rungs. Never once during the climb had he looked up or spoken to his rescuer, keeping his face to the desperate challenge.

‘Forget I was here, did yer? All right, love. It’s all right now. I’ve got yer.’

Aided by what must have been the very last of the man’s strength, Sally tugged him onto the dockside. For a few moments, both lay side by side, Sally panting almost as hard as the man. ‘Bloody’ ‘ell. Yer mum looks after you, don’t she?’ She pushed herself back to her feet and looked down at him. ‘Now. What we gonna do with yer, hm? Where’s it hurt? Your arm? Let’s ‘ave a look then.’

He had been cradling the injured limb. Sally tugged off the life ring and gently moved aside his sound arm. She steeled herself for a gaping wound, bones bent in sickeningly wrong directions, perhaps even charred flesh — a likely injury caused by one of the hundreds of possible accident scenarios that could have almost drowned a man in the toxic river. But what she saw complied with none of her expectations. His forearm was swollen to twice its normal size and lined with rough rows of warts or pustules which actually glowed softly in the evening gloom – some green, others purple and yellow. Good intentions momentarily forgotten, Sally watched in amazement as one of the more prominent green warts began to pulse, reminding her of the exaggerated comic injuries seen in childish animations.

‘Bloody’ ‘ell, love. Did something bite you out there? That looks ‘orrible! We’ll ‘ave to get you to hos-‘

Before she knew what was going on, a short, wide-bladed knife —Sally knew of stiletto heels of course, but didn’t know certain knives took the name— was sticking out from the man’s good fist, its tip pressing against her leather-look left shoe. A little pressure was brought to bear and Sally gasped as she felt the blade’s cold edge suddenly resting across her toes. The man’s first words curtailed her startled scream.

‘It don’t take… much… to cut ‘em off. Knife’s sharp… No screaming. No doctors… No… hospital.”

A fit of coughing tore through him. He spat, and something large and wet splattered across the cobbles. The stiletto never left her foot and its horribly keen edge had not broken her skin.

The man’s accent – so familiar from the propaganda broadcasts that had saturated the media networks in the war’s early stages, before the RPSs were energised.

Imperial.

He noticed her astonishment. ‘That’s right, Lady, Emperor’s finest at your… your service.’

‘You’re imperial?!’

He smiled (or grimaced). ‘Yes, by the… the God Emperor’s damn graces… Yes I am.’

The enemy.

‘What are you going to do with me?’

He seemed taken aback by the question. The smile/ grimace fell from his face. He looked around the dockside and nodded towards the disused pump house. ‘Take me there.’ With another cough-and-spit, he pulled himself upright by grabbing handfuls of Sally’s cheap cotton dress. He leaned heavily against her, the knife now tickling the tiny hairs of her left earlobe. Water from his sodden clothing rapidly soaked through to her skin, and the stink off him was almost overpowering. ‘After you, Lady Heretic.’

Slowly they walked towards the ruined pump house, Sally doing her best to keep her captor steady in order to keep the knife steady — though even when convulsive shivers shook him she only felt the slightest sympathetic quiver along the blade.

At the black maw of the pump house entrance, Sally hesitated. This would probably be her last chance. Once he got her inside there would be no opportunity to raise help from passing river traffic. She took a deep breath, and, in the instant between resolve and execution, felt the stiletto cut into her neck. Hot blood immediately welled out and trickled down to her shoulder, staining the prettily-patterned cotton. She hissed in pain.

‘Don’t. Didn’t want to do that… Told you it was sharp. But only… only shallow. Now get me inside.’

There was no longer any sign of daylight in the clear sky. Without Sally noticing, darkness had fallen. The four kliegs blazing the way for the King’s Bellow had become miniature suns. Whimpering, she helped her captor over the threshold, into the old pump house.

-oOo-

Pale light washed the interior through gaping skylights and window frames. For all the pump house’s daytime familiarity, Sally would never have conceived of entering it at night. She wasn’t too bothered about the likes of rats, having encountered much worse than the furry kind; and even the danger of falling into the partially flooded pit that housed the smashed, rusting snail-shells of the huge pumps was remote – she was quite familiar with the structure’s layout. None of the physical things bothered her. However, the building was ancient and had to be haunted. The docks were rife with ghost stories which had left a lasting impression on Sally. And, though she had never seen one, she hardly wanted to tempt their manifestation by invading what became their property after sunset.

Yet even ghosts were far from her mind now. The imperial indicated she take him to the window from where she had watched the Bellow’s arrival. ‘Now, gently… Emperor’s balls! Gently, lady! Lower me down.’

The stiletto slid down her body as she followed his directions, here and there splitting her dress’s fabric, but never again cutting her skin.

He grimaced up at her. ‘Sit down, Lady… Make yourself at home. Pull up a chair. Put wood… wood in’th ‘ole. Put yer feet up, luv. Park yer arse… Sit thi darn.’ He seemed to relish mimicking her country’s various accents, until, noticing Sally still stood, he spluttered, ‘Sit down!’

She sank to the cold floor beside him.

The man leant forwards and gently tilted Sally’s head to one side with the back of his knife-hand, examining the cut in the dim light. ‘Blood’s stopping now.’ For the first time he looked at her properly, taking in her tear-streaked make-up –ever-more thickly applied as the years passed– and long blonde hair. He looked down at her ruined dress, noting it was at least two sizes too small, that it clung to her slim body and just barely reached to the top of her thighs, that its top buttons were undone to reveal a teasing amount of cleavage. He grinned widely, then slumped back against the wall and commenced a laugh which rapidly degenerated into a loud cough so fierce it caused him to hunch over.

Sally thought she might be presented with a chance at escape – but, as if sensing her desire, her captor quickly regained control of both his mirth and clogged lungs. ‘You can’t be. You’re not, are you?’

‘Not what?’

He was still smiling. ‘A whore?’

Sally didn’t answer.

He giggled softly. ‘My God Emperor. This is one for the pict soaps, this! Rescued… by the… the Whore with a Heart of Gold!’ Again, his accent changed to become a mocking rendition of a southern dialect. ‘How much for a quickie, luv?’ Racking laughter once more shook him, was stifled. He winced, looking down at the terrible swelling of his left forearm.

Sally couldn’t help but do the same. His arm looked as if it was splitting in two! The pustules were much more prominent now, and all were flashing in a lazy, almost hypnotic manner, blues and reds and greens, arranged in neat rows.

In spite of herself, Sally asked, ‘What is that?’

He gingerly rubbed the protrusion, moved it gently from side to side. It seemed loose. He looked back at Sally. ‘Do you read… Do you read books?’

What was he talking about now? ‘One or two.’

‘Do you know what… what a cliché is?’

She shook her head. ‘Sounds foreign.’

He smiled again. This time it seemed genuine, almost affectionate. ‘Yes. Well… What’s your name, Lady Heretic?’

‘Sally. And I’m not a heretic.’

The smile broadened. ‘Of course you are. You… do not seek succour from the Throne Eternal, therefore… you are Heretic. You get it instead from… What is it…? An omnipresent, invisible deity?’

‘Omni- what?’

‘God, Sally; your damned… God.’

Lord God Our Father. The word awoke sudden memories of childhood visits to church, its cool grandeur and stained-glass windows, the hymns, candles, the beautiful murals… the pawings and surreptitious gropes, the whispers of ‘It’s our little secret, Sally, between us and God Our Father.’

The soldier was looking at her, his smile gone. Was that concern on his face? Could he sense something of her memories? He coughed again, ‘Never mind, Sally.’

Was he talking about what he had been saying, or what she had been thinking? She had heard stories of how some imperials could read minds. Was this soldier one of them?

He was aware of her suspicions. ‘I’m empathetic, Sally, I sense and interpret moods… emotions. Masters regard it as Emperor’s gift, advantageous in… tasks they set… Act- … Actually makes things a hundred times as difficult. Never enough to break… conditioning, of course – I’d eviscerate babies if they told me to, no matter… the wretch’s little brain was filled with warm, glowing thoughts of… of mother and… womb.’

He coughed again. It had a disturbingly liquid sound to it. ‘When I mentioned your god, you were… momentarily lost in pleasant mem-… memories, weren’t you? Childhood memories? Then things turned sour… dark, didn’t they? What was it? Where you… priest’s “special” little friend?’

Shock jolted Sally’s spine. ‘You nasty bast-’ She stopped herself, and not because of the knife held close to her neck. His words were horrible, and, where they concerned her past, so terribly close to the truth. Nevertheless, he seemed to have spoken them without desire to offend, hurt, or frighten. It was, rather, world-weariness, a resignation to the dark, twisted side of human nature, which tainted them.

How can a lad as young as you be so jaded with life? You haven’t the right. You can’t have seen half the –

But then he could have, couldn’t he? He was a soldier. Moreover, he was an empathetic soldier. And his gift would force upon him all the dashed hopes, the unrealised dreams, the suffering, the grief, the terror, of friends and enemies alike.

He had the right.

Sally’s heart went out to him.

He was still looking at her. His eyes suddenly widened. ‘Oh no, please… Not sympathy… You see, I’m going to kill you all.’

Kill…? She whimpered.

‘Shhh, Sally… Shhh. No need for that. You won’t feel a thing… None of us will. And, as we’re all… going to die anyway, I’ll tell you every- … thing. That was my cliché joke, Sally… before we went on to other… other concerns.’

‘N-none of u-us?’

‘Oh, I’ll be dying with you. Your damn river saw to that… Happy days, eh?’

The sardonic smile had returned. He spoke on. ‘That’s my mission, you see. To blow up your city… They… they would have preferred one of your capitals, of course, would… have wet themselves over your primary hive… But they weren’t so lucky. Your War Office decided to send the Bellow home for its repairs — morale booster… suppose.’ He coughed, spitting out more phlegm. His breathing became a wheeze. ‘Sally, you should have seen it — hundreds of thunderbolts, marauders, five, five, Emperors-o-War supercruisers with every single one of their outriders committed… Missile batteries firing well beyond capacity… We had at least ten Krackens under water, and I overheard some of the sailors on my… my… launch platform talking of adjusting Death-Rains into a useful orbit! …It looked like half the bloody navy’s military might directed upon one uicide! But, Sally, you should have… have seen her,’ he said again, ‘They’d lured her into the Golgotha Strait after a pair of carriers. Everything… stealthed, but they’d reckoned wrong on the Bellow’s sensors — she destroyed a… a… a God-o-War before we even realised what… happened! After that? Pure chaos… Maybe it even deserved the capital.’

The coughing that had steadily punctuated his recounting suddenly reached a crescendo, buckling the man over and causing him to shake uncontrollably. This was his worst attack yet, and Sally was certain that if he wasn’t taken to a hospital soon he would die. But then, according to him, millions of citizens were somehow under the same threat.

Slowly, the coughs subsided and he continued his tale – voice now exhibiting a pronounced rattle.

‘They weren’t expecting such a fight… they were only trying to give the… the impression. But the Bellow’s crew didn’t know that… It was all an Emperor-damned diversion, you see. All that hardware, all that planning, all those lives — given to get one man on board a bloody boat…’ For a few moments he was quiet, except for the horrible rattle of his breathing. ‘And then that pilot in the thunderbolt… Don’t know why he did it — they would have buckled the shields eventually… Such pounding, what? ... Perhaps he didn’t like the waste either, though I doubt… knew the real reason for the attack… He announced it first, you know, common frequency, “Strike Twelve Something-or-other, Monroe’s Murderer Wing. Remember Uline’s Last Stand?” Don’t even know who… Uline was. Prob- Probably some damned hero who uicide in duty’s damned line. Watched him over the screens, flew straight as an arrow through everything, ours and theirs, and nothing even wobbled his bloody wings… Command screamed “Abort! Abort!” But he… carried on. Must have detected an irregularity in the Bellow’s shields because when he hit… Only lost his wings… fuselage went through like a missile… Must have had… full compliment… Should have seen that explosion, Sally… And there was the buckling I’d waited for, much earlier than expected ‘cause of this fool… Jumped into my capsule… not even strapped in before ordered to launch.’

Another pause, more rattling intakes of breath. His eyes were closed now, right hand rubbing vigorously at his left forearm. The pale light within the old pump house reflected off a sheen of sweat slicking his exposed skin. He was getting worse by the minute.

‘Made it through… buckle with hardly a flicker of interference on my screens, shields so weak… Got to the hull, discarded the capsule, inflated camo-blister… Command tamed down the attack… provided “accidental” passage from trap… Hounded her all the way across the ocean, but only… only keeping up appearances…. Ate densefood and popped hydration tablets… eating for two then, you know… Growing bomb in my stomach… my Baby Boom… That was the only time I left the blister to plant… Plant bomb… Want to see my scar… Sally?’

With his good arm he tugged at his wetsuit’s top, revealing a long pink scar across his taught stomach. Even in the dim light the wound looked puffy and discoloured — infected from his dunking in the river.

‘Yer grew a bomb, yer said? In yer belly?!’

‘What? Oh… Yes, Sally. Apeptus Biologis been doing a bit of reading up, apparently… Much less likely to get detected by security scans than if… if carrying mineral device… Takes it out of a guy, though… pregnancy… Been pregnant, Sally?’

The question stumped her for a moment, so incongruous was it to their conversation and situation. ‘N-no. Pro’s Friend makes yer sterile after a bit. Can’t ‘ave kids. Doesn’t make for good business anyway, though there are some blokes… I can’t ever ‘ave kids.’

‘That’s right, Sally… can’t ever have kids again.’ He covered the scar.

Sally did not want to consider the double meaning of his statement. ‘How did you end up in the river?’

He smiled, aware she was changing the subject. ‘Blister couldn’t take the pollutants… started rotting five kilometres out from the estuary… Sally, that is one dirty river… worse than my home hive’s sewers… I remember —’

Coughs again tore through him, rattling deep in his chest, so much so Sally thought they must surely shake something loose. Again he doubled over, spitting out thick lumps of dark phlegm. This time the attack did not subside, it intensified — hacking coughs so powerful he actually bounced slightly in place.

With shocking suddenness he turned the stiletto on himself, slicing at his left wrist. Sally’s first thought was that he was committing suicide, but she quickly realised he was sawing at the weird growth on his left forearm. ‘What’re you —’

‘Shaddup, Lady… Dying, you dumb whore!’

He continued to slash, ignoring the violent coughing as best he could. Presently the growth hung by a single ribbon of skin — a grisly pendulum. There was surprisingly little blood, and little evidence his actions caused him pain. With a convulsive jerk, he tore the growth free. Feverishly, he began to press at the flashing protrusions lining its surface. The stiletto, forgotten, clattered to the crumbling concrete floor.

With a quick swipe of her right foot, Sally sent the blade skimming off over the edge of the pit. It hit bilge water with a dull plop a full two seconds later. Sally stood. The imperial, still prodding at his ‘growth’ remained unaware of her actions. He seemed to be having trouble. ‘Come on… Emperor-forsaken transmitter should have dried out by now…’

Sally’s mind began to skitter frantically. She had to try and delay him. Desperately, she said, ‘But you’ll die, too.’

He grinned, quite manically. ‘Oh, I wasn’t supposed to, Sally. If it wasn’t… your damned superior shield technology… wouldn’t be here at all – can’t get… electronic transmissions through ‘em, you see… Couldn’t time it, because they didn’t know where the Bellow would end up. So they sent me in, as… as mother. Supposed to get out of… blast radius and press… button. But, like I said, your filthy river…’

He continued to push and prod –seemingly randomly– at his organic device. ‘What’s wrong with this thing? Throne of — Ah.’

He looked at Sally, smiling a sickly, bloody smile; his thumb poised over the flashing pustules. ‘Oh, Sally… Oh happy days.’

Sally kicked.

She had intended to knock the device from his hands and send it the same way as the knife, instead her foot connected solidly with his stomach. The breath was knocked out of him, and the device went skittering over the floor. Sally jumped after it, expecting at any moment a hand on her ankle or even the slicing edge of another knife. But she reached the device without incident, and turned to face the soldier.

He was still hunched over, shoulders heaving as he tried futilely to suck breath into his flooded lungs. He was looking at her, leaning forwards on his right hand whilst clutching his left to his chest. His face was a ghastly mask of pain, black vomit, and sweat. He began to speak, forcing the words around tiny intakes of breath – all he was capable of. ‘Sally… My loveable whore… My heretical heroine… My wonderful cliché… We’re both prostitutes, aren’t we? But… least you do it… for… for money… to exist. Me? … Do it because they tell me to… Whatever you do, Sally, don’t press the red one.’

The man laboriously lay down on the cold floor, turning his frightening stare to the unseen apex of the pump house roof. His last expression was a smile Sally considered almost beautiful — gently teasing, fond, endearing.

The sort of smile an older brother might have had for her.

-oOo-

The next day Sally approached a Royal Navy checkpoint. Two guards watched her. They began to smirk.

‘Shite, luv. Look at the state of yer.’

‘Not today, luv. Not ever, by the look of yer. You honestly expect me ter pay for that?’

‘Nowt more pathetic than an old tart, is there?’

‘No, mate. Get lost, whore, before we set the dogs on yer.’

Sally turned away without comment. In a quiet side street she took the imperial’s transmitter from her handbag. It was now quite dry; its little lights pulsing brightly even in the daytime.

She had been about to hand it in, but the guards’ insults had caused something to snap within her. A lifetime of abuse, of succumbing to the wills, whims, perversions, and lusts of others, surely had to have some reward, didn’t it?

For the weeks the King’s Bellow was being repaired, she would have the power of life and death over a city.

She stroked the lights with her thumb and wondered if the soldier had been joking about the red button.

-oOo-

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