WhenRedwins,shestandsalone.
Blood slicks her hair. She breathes out steam in the last night of this dying
world.
Thatwasfun,shethinks,butthethoughtsoursintheframing.Itwasclean,at
least. Climb up time’s threads into the past and make sure no one survives this
battle to muddle the futures her Agency’s arranged—the futures in which her
Agencyrules,inwhichRedherselfispossible.She’scometoknotthisstrandof
historyandsearituntilitmelts.
Sheholdsacorpsethatwasonceaman,herhandsglovedinitsguts,herfingers
clutching its alloy spine. She lets go, and the exoskeleton clatters against rock.
Crudetechnology.Ancient.Bronzetodepleteduranium.Heneverhadachance.
ThatisthepointofRed.
Afteramissioncomesagrandandfinalsilence.Herweaponsandarmorfold
into her like roses at dusk. Once flaps of pseudoskin settle and heal and the
programmable matter of her clothing knits back together, Red looks, again,
somethinglikeawoman.
Shepacesthebattlefield,seeking,makingsure.
Shehaswon,yes,shehaswon.Sheiscertainshehaswon.Hasn’tshe?
Botharmiesliedead.Twogreatempiresbrokethemselveshere,eachareefto
the other’s hull. That iswhat she cameto do. Fromtheir ashes others will rise,
moresuitedtoherAgency’sends.Andyet.
Therewasanotheronthefield—nogroundlinglikethetime-mooredcorpses
moundedbyherpath,butarealplayer.Someonefromtheotherside.
FewofRed’sfellowoperativeswouldhavesensedthatopposingpresence.Red
knows only because Red is patient, solitary, careful. She studied for this
engagement.Shemodeleditbackwardandforwardinhermind.Whenshipswere
notwheretheyweresupposedtobe,whenescapepodsthatshouldhavebeenfired
didnot,whencertainfusilladescamethirtysecondspasttheircue,shenoticed.
Twiceiscoincidence.Threetimesisenemyaction.
Butwhy?Redhasdonewhatshecametodo,shethinks.Butwarsaredense
withcausesandeffects,calculationsandstrangeattractors,andallthemoresoare