“Oh, dear God,” said the commander. “For what I am about to do, I will go down as history’s greatest monster.” But she leant over, and she said: “Ignition is there—those are the three brake lines. The lights will need to be green before you hit the ignition. This will start the automatic checks. Press this button to indicate you have read them. If you flip that switch—and do not flip it before everything else has gone green—it will free this lever, which can be manipulated forward … and the wheel turns, although it will also turn automatically with the wall detection … Do you have that?”
Pyrrha said, “Please let me drive.”
“No chance,” said Palamedes-and-Camilla comfortably. And: “Commander … thank you. Leave everything to me.”
“I do—I have,” said We Suffer. And— “Every single hope of Eden now rests within this clapped-out vehicle.”
“Same for the Nine Houses,” said Palamedes-and-Camilla.
“You know what I want,” said We Suffer. She turned to address the rest of the driver’s cockpit. “To complete what she started. Troia, listen to me. Every so often there is invoked a Blood of Eden mission protocol—we call it Protocol One. It is used in times of either terrible joy or the worst possible outcomes. Protocol One means there are no more formal orders—if given in the field of battle, often it is understood as ‘Scatter. Retreat. Disunite,’ but it is not quite that. There is a different protocol that is simply used for retreat, protocol that means ‘Save yourselves.’ I received the order to save myself when I was young … and I saved myself, which is why you hear me now, starting this terrible truck, putting my life’s work in the hands of my enemies and of strangers I do not understand. But now I give you Protocol One … and Protocol One is ‘Live.’”
Crown saluted. Pyrrha looked at the commander, and she saluted too, a slightly different salute with her hand over her heart. Palamedes-and-Camilla turned around in the seat, and they said— “What mission protocol are you about to give Blood of Eden?”
We Suffer flapped her hand dismissively. “Oh, a very common one. It is basically ‘Fight like hell and do not shoot any civilians.’ We can do that one any day of any week. I only wish civilians were not so dumb, like rocks are … Lieutenant Crown Him with Many Crowns, good luck. Pyrrha Dve … I am amazed to say this, but I wish you luck. Nona … I wish you luck. You…”
We Suffer paused. Camilla-and-Palamedes cocked their burnt head to one side.
“Paul,” they suggested.
“Paul. Good luck, Paul,” said We Suffer. “Now … you have my coat, which you can keep, but my wallet is in the breast pocket, so hand it over.”
Palamedes-and-Camilla—Paul—obediently dislodged the wallet and handed it over. We Suffer said, “Now I will give final orders to Aim and Lieutenant Our Lady of the Passion. I will also say goodbye to Juno Zeta, who I understand is your mother, and who is an extraordinary lady who has already memorised the names of various people in my family.”
We Suffer turned around and walked out without ceremony; she paused only for one long, last look at the corpse prince. Nona noticed that Crown held her salute for a long time after the door shut behind We Suffer, and only reluctantly let her hand drop.
“Buckle in,” said Paul.
Pyrrha tested and tightened the seatbelt over Nona’s arms, and asked, “How long were you planning this one?”
“They had a lot of rainy-day backup plans.”
“Yeah, but—Paul?”
“Just Paul,” said Paul.
Crown suggested, “Paul … Hect?”
“Just Paul,” said Paul.
“U Lap,” said the corpse prince, from the back of the cabin.
“Thanks for your contribution,” said Paul.
“Aulp,” said the corpse prince.
“No,” said Paul.
A light started flashing on the megatruck control board. Paul leant over and touched the button, and We Suffer’s voice crackled through.
“Troia cell, do you read? You’re clear. Goodbye, and good hunting.”
“Troia cell copy. Good luck,” said Paul, and, a little laconically—“See you soon.”
“You have a big ego,” she said. “I enjoy that. It is a good and terrible sign. Ctesiphon-1, out.”
Paul settled back in the chair and buckled in. Nona watched as Paul depressed a button until the lights flickered green; a pleasant ding sounded as a screen rolled across the front of the big blackness—as the lights in their little cabin dimmed into nothing, and as a long squiggly readout filled up fully a third of the glass. Paul tapped a button—the readout shifted smoothly over to one side—and flipped a switch, then freed a lever.