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my enemy decides, the boxer, my two companions and I negotiate our way down the side of the ravine. I imagine Bergamasc checking satellite data, seeking any signs of the nuke we claim to have. He will be checking stores of fissionable material, pursuing manufacturing trails, searching databases on forbidden weaponry—and he will find the clues he needs. They're there. It's not possible to build something as deeply, darkly forbidden as this without leaving some kind of trace. I have in fact been certain to leave tracks in case of just such a moment. Nuclear weapons haven't been used on Earth for hundreds of thousands of years; no one would ever dream of making one any more, or of threatening to use it in such a contaminated environment. But now that I have, I want him to know it, to have no doubts at all that my threat is real.
    "All right," he finally says. "I'll send them in, provided you leave the nuke behind."
    "I'll abandon it in Malan once I'm certain we're not being followed," I promise him. "And one more thing. You're coming with us."
    "You're insane if you think I'll agree to that."
    "I don't think so. You have my personal guarantee you won't be harmed, which is more than I suspect you'd offer me. Aren't you curious to know more about the man you're fighting?"
    The silence is longer, this time. I reach the bottom before he replies. There, the body of the sniper has been retrieved and lies guarded by three of my troopers. They have removed the man's weapons and helmet. His face is angular and broad. The rain has flattened his dark hair across his temples. Steel-gray eyes peer from half-open lids, seeing nothing.
    "Bury him with the others," I instruct them. "Not deeply, but respectfully. We have time."
    They go about their new duty without question. The others are remounting wheels, distributing supplies, checking systems. Only two of the six-wheelers are roadworthy now. We will be cramped.
    "All right." Bergamasc sounds almost amused—but whether at my proposal or his acceptance, I can't tell. "We're on our way."
    The jamming resumes, slamming the door shut on our conversation as though he is afraid I might change my mind.
    I clamber onto the slippery roof of the vehicle containing the nuke and wait with the switch in my hand to meet my enemy face to face.
     
    No matter what Bergamasc says about a traitor, there are clear and unquestionable reasons for not doubting my allies. Periodically throughout the battle for Earth, representatives of the Round send offers of support. These come from individuals, corporations, and governments based in the systems surrounding Sol, smuggled to Earth via long and tortuous routes along the enemy's infrastructure. I am glad to know that his defenses are as porous as mine, that even his will can be subverted when necessary. He has weaknesses, and I suspect that he is very aware of them. To disavow them would be the worst kind of hubris.
    Such messages take many different forms. In my plastic cell, a faint buzzing at the edge of hearing presages the arrival of the latest. A spindly insect with nano-thin limbs and invisible wings extrudes itself from a tiny hole drilled in the wall. It flies the distance to my ear in fits and starts, buffeted by barely perceptible air movements. I follow its progress out of the corner of my eye, unsure at first whether it's something my enemy has sent, or word from people outside. When the mosquito alights on my skin and implants its message, I await with interest for the contents to unfold.
    The protein packet is unraveled by my skin's outer defenses. The complex molecular bunches perform no biological function, and are carefully examined to determine their true purpose. The message is encoded in the form of deviations from known sequences. It says, simply:
    EXTRACTION TEAM IN PLACE
AWAITING CONFIRMATION
SWAT BUG = GO
WINDOW CLOSES 2 HOURS
    I've ignored such messages before, and this time is no exception. Don't these well-meaning do-gooders realize