Ellen crossed and uncrossed her legs as she waited for her father to return. She propped one foot on the brass corner of his imposing oak desk and stretched her hamstring. She thought the itching scabs forming under her bandaged calf would drive her mad. She had a patchwork of purple and blue bruises across her shins, thighs and back but, after the ordeal of the last two weeks, she supposed she should be grateful to be alive.

Almost as bad as the nagging itch was a question never far from her mind: did she have a price on her head? Yes, she accepted responsibility for volunteering for dangerous raids; and yes, as her father often said, no battle plan survived contact with the enemy. But here was the sticking point: she no longer knew who the enemy was.

She had contemplated this deeply in the late hours of the night. Until recently, she felt the enemy was disorder and chaos. Her enemies were those scavengers who resisted the order and rule of law the MPD imposed on the city. In her mind they were anarchists who fought with each other and authority in equal measure. They were distrustful, dangerous in their drug-fueled unpredictability. For the others who were just scraping to get by... Well, too many survivors could swamp the rescue boat so, lamentably, some had to stay in the water.

The last several weeks had forced her to reconsider this mental picture. Things changed the night they found the Reichman girl. That night they were ambushed on the way back to the Tombstone with her in custody. That attack was meticulous and methodical. How long had her crew been stalked? It wasn't coincidence that they were fell upon at their most vulnerable moment, and the tactic had damn near killed them all. In the end only two survived: Ellen and Delia.

The same went for the ambush at the swap. As her father predicted, it appeared to be a very shabby affair, and certainly not the epicenter for the rebellion that Ellen suspected. But again their attackers were deviously clever to lure them into the trap before hitting them hard, with zero regard for the lives of the bystanders.

The evidence pointed in one direction: Concord. The high-tech weapons. The coordinated attack. She imagined a steady stream of MPD informants running from Summerland to the Bazaar, spilling everything they knew in exchange for bullets and blowjobs. The MPD had traitors in their midst, that much was clear, but this prompted another question: how deep was the rot?

Her father hadn't wanted to hear any of this of course. He was well over an hour late for their appointment this morning and was certain to tell her he was short on time. He had granted her request for emergency enrollment to the Rock without any resistance. What did he have in mind? A new project? Project Restoration? Annihilation? Disinfection? Her father put more stock in titles than she did.

Ellen hoisted herself to her feet and worked her legs help her circulation. Her father's office window looked down into the courtyard where fresh-faced young men—and more than a few women—ran wind sprints while their partners tugged on the tail of their t-shirts. They all looked lean and fit. They had lowered the enrollment age to 15.

When her father arrived she would tell him her theory. He would sit, silent, staring into a corner where the ceiling met the walls. He refused to believe the scavengers had the nous or will to organize, and he dismissed Concord as a threat. The worst mistake they could make, he would say, would be spreading themselves too thin. Risking a dozen officers on rinky-dink campaigns out in the Reaches to keep the elder Reichman appeased was one thing, but Ellen was advocating was an all-out assault on a fortified position. She was talking full-blown war. And, he would say, you don't win a war with half measures.

"Let them have their drugs, let them have their guns," her father had once said, his cigar tip glowing as he spoke. "Keeps them busy. More power to them."

That had been true for years in the wake of Project Unification, but was it still true now? The city's population had swelled in the past year and the immigrants brought with them new guns, new drugs, and, most dangerous of all, new ideas. How far could this new breed be pushed? How long could they slink around fortresses like Ol' Federal, the Tombstone, and Summerland and not resent the stockpiles of riches hoarded inside? The Four Families had always sworn that the settlements would expand when the production of food and medicine could sustain a larger population, but progress in those areas had been nil and disatisfaction was growing. Imagine when the food rationing went into effect. Who would be more dangerous then, the enemies without or the enemies within?

Ellen heard the door open and watched in the reflection of the window as her father ambled in, threw a folder on his desk, and collapsed into his chair. "Have a seat, cupcake," he said, his voice old, tired.

"No thank you," Ellen said curtly, turning to face him. "I prefer to stand."