"Canada is divisible because Canada is not a real country."
- Lucien Bouchard, former Premier of Quebec

There were a surprising number of people, Corporal Gaetan Bastien thought, brave enough to fly the Canadian flag in Montreal. Most were ripped, torn, and faded almost beyond recognition. They hung from every pole on Canada Day, of course - the Army made sure of that - but today they seemed like trespassers, frozen solid by the cold autumn breeze. In Montreal, everyone knew God was Quebecois.

He walked carefully. Two feet to his right, Private Nick Tiffin was telling a joke that would've got them all shot in Quebec City.

"--so the Ontario guy, he thinks for a minute, then he says to the genie, 'So let me get this straight. Quebec's surrounded by this wall, a thousand feet high and a hundred feet thick, and nothin' can get in or out, right?' And the genie says, 'yes, that's right.' So then he--"

"God dammit, Nick, I thought I asked you nicely not to--" Bastien said. Tiffin talked over him like a machinegun blazing.

"Come on, this is the best part, let me finish. So then the Ontarian, he looks right at the genie and says, 'Fill it with water.' Fill it--!"

Tiffin's chuckles turned into deep guffaws, and in a few seconds he was doubled over with laughter. He almost lost his glasses, and he was lucky that he didn't manage to drop his weapon as well. Bastien shook his head and snorted. The kid should have stuck with playing war from behind a keyboard.

The wind blew a discarded poster against his boot. One quick glance was all he needed to crumple it up and toss it away. Another one of those posters glorifying the Foundation, an alliance of most of the insurgent factions that fought over the ex-province's scraps like mangy dogs. _Vive le Quebec libre!_ He cursed and wished he could bury them all.

"Don't be an idiot, Tiffin," said Master Corporal Kevin Crawford. "Especially not today. Goddamn felkies'll be hunting for idiots today. Best day for a sacrifice. Goddamn terrorist sons of bitches."

Not many people were out along the patrol route. Bastien watched a woman and a young boy, both bundled up in heavy coats, scuttle across the street with their eyes down. He could remember a time, not so long ago, when the streets would have been full of children getting ready for Monday's trick-or-treating and families enjoying what time they had left before winter. No kids would be going from door to door this Halloween, not if they wanted to live to see November.

The kid looked up, just for a moment, and saw Bastien and his section. His eyes lit up like little stars and he broke from the woman's grip, wriggling out of his heavy coat before she could pull him back in. His underclothes would leave him freezing before too long. Crawford looked at Bastien and Tiffin and nodded. The kid couldn't be hiding explosives, even if the FLQ had sunk that low.

"Look, Mommy!" the kid shouted in French, scrabbling across the dirty road. "Soldiers, Mommy, soldiers!"

"Jean, don't!" the kid's mother shouted. "It's dangerous! You'll--"

"It's all right, ma'am," Bastien said. The kid came to a stop just in front of him, so fast he almost fell back onto the asphalt. Bastien kneeled down and offered him a hand. The kid looked up at him like a lost puppy. "There you go, little guy. Jean, right?"

"Yes, sir," the kid - Jean - said, with the kind of practiced diction he'd expect from a schoolchild reading Shakespeare. "Mommy named me after the prime minister. She says God rests his soul."

He looked at the kid for a long moment. He couldn't be more than six, nowhere near old enough to remember Ottawa. Bastien envied him that.

"A lot of people say that," Bastien said. The way things were going, Jean Chrétien would probably end up being Quebec's last friend in Canada for a long time to come. "My name's Gaetan. It's good to meet you and your mother."

Jean's mother didn't waste any time racing after her son. She gathered him up and bundled his coat on as fast as a magician pulling the tablecloth out from under the dinnerware. Once she was done she stepped a few paces back, eyeing the three soldiers carefully, as if deciding whether to fight or flee.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but could I please see your passcard?" Crawford said. He spoke in French only because it was polite, but the language couldn't hide the menace. The woman shivered and fumbled in her pockets for a moment before producing the passcard, a thin brown booklet about the size of a passport and emblazoned with the national coat of arms.

Despite his coat, made for Arctic winters, Bastien shivered. Martial law or no, those damn things only belonged in dictatorships.

"Begging your pardon, sirs, but we don't want any trouble," she said once Crawford handed the passcard back with a gruff nod. "It's been a quiet day and I'd like to keep it that way. Come along, Jean."

"But Mommy, I want to talk to the soldiers!" Jean said. "Can't we, please?"

"The soldiers are busy, Jean," she said. "They have enough to worry about without you bothering them."

"It's no bother, ma'am," Bastien said. "A lot of kids your age would be afraid, Jean. You're pretty brave."

"I have to be, sir," Jean said, as earnestly as if he was telling Santa Claus what he wanted to find under the tree. "I'm the man of the house and I keep Mommy safe from the terrorists. Just like you."

"Just like us," Bastien said. He dug into one of his pockets and produced a chocolate bar. Jean's eyes lit up like miniature supernovas when he saw it. "Here, promise me you'll keep your mom safe, and you can have it."

"I promise, sir," Jean said. Bastien gave him the bar. "Thank you." There wasn't a word of French on the wrapper, but Jean didn't seem to mind. Most kids he met in his patrols would have wolfed it down on the spot. Jean put it in his pocket and trotted back to his mother's side.

"Have a good night, soldiers!" Jean said as his mother hustled him away. "Mommy says I need my sleep and you need it too. Bye!" Bastien smiled as he watched them turn down a side street and disappear.

"Let's get a goddamn move on," Crawford said, motioning forward with his rifle. The shadows seemed to have lengthened in the few minutes they'd been stopped. "Time's wasting. Goddamn felkies'll be coming out soon. Goddamn cockroaches."

Bastien nodded and tightened his grip on the light machinegun he carried. The Front de Libération du Quebec had grown up since the kidnappings and terror bombings of 1970. No matter how tightly Canada and the United States clamped down on Quebec's borders, the scum always oozed through - money-hungry mercenaries, irredeemable IRA bastards, even Middle Eastern jihadis trying for a crack at the Great Satan. Quebec was where they all met and Montreal was where the line was barely held.

"I can't believe you gave that kid your chocolate, man," Tiffin said. He lifted his helmet, brushed some sweat off his brow, and grinned. "I'd have been happy to take it off your hands if it was gettin' too heavy for you. Not like he'll remember it at all anyway."

"The only heavy thing you've got to worry about is that helmet of yours," Bastien said. Tiffin's headgear might not protect him from a heavy caliber round or an improvised explosive device, but it was leagues better than the ceremonial beret he'd been saddled with. "Besides, it's called being good and decent, Private. Try it sometime. Maybe you'll get fewer nightmares."

Tiffin turned toward him, probably getting a snide comeback ready, but he never had the chance to say it. Entire libraries could have been filled with the words people hadn't had the chance to say since the dark clouds of terror had fallen over Montreal. Thunder cracked, tearing through the air, the man-made thunder that filled all the island's storms.

He saw a blur to his right, and turned to see Tiffin collapsing like a rag doll. Some lucky insurgent's bullet had tore through the man's neck with a spray of blood and flecks of bone, and his eyes didn't go dark until he fell. It took him a few seconds to stop jerking, and by that time Bastien had thrown himself behind a burned-out car for cover. Bullets ricocheted off its rusty frame. Obscene shouts of victory filled the air.

"The roof!" Crawford shouted, pointing. He'd taken shelter behind an old, overflowing dumpster. "The fucking roof!"

Bastien spared a glance. There was a small apartment building across the street, about three stories tall with crumbling balconies. He saw what could have been half a dozen insurgents up there, spraying the street with automatic weapons fire. If they'd shown up a few minutes earlier, would they have spared Jean and his mother?

He opened up with a blast from his light machinegun. The heavy bullets, more than enough to punch through a man, stitched across the concrete. Fist-sized chunks of masonry rained onto the street, but the insurgents wouldn't yield. Not until they were all dead.

A bolt of lightning slammed into him, knocking him down to the ground. He barely had time to gasp before the darkness took him.

#

"--listening to CBC Radio One, with the news for Sunday, October 30, 2005--"

Gaetan Bastien blinked, and for a moment he saw the world in double. Patterns of darkness and light swam above him, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming. Then he remembered the bullet, the brief pain, and then nothing. So much nothing... he grunted and pulled himself up toward the light, and it felt like doing a chin-up with legs of lead.

He must've hit a piece of debris on the way down and been knocked out. His head felt like it was bobbing in a sea of molasses and his eyes spun like those on a child's googly-eyed doll. He'd been shot before and he'd had a concussion before, once on the same day. This was a better day than that.

"--say that we should give in! That we should reward the terrorists for their bloodthirsty--"

That voice. Calm, authoritative, powerful, just like his old pulpit-preaching uncle. He reached toward it and found a radio.

"--and to all of those people, I have only one thing to say. We will not stand back, we will not turn away from the task, as dirty as it is. This government will not bow down to terrorism. We will continue forward until justice is served, peace established, and unity restored in every part of Quebec. We can't--"

Bastien exhaled with all the reverence of a prayer. He'd seen the shadow of Death back there on the street, when his scythe had cut Tiffin down, and he'd expected that shadow to cover him as well. Still, he was hard-pressed to imagine a hereafter where he was greeted by the Prime Minister's blood-and-guts rhetoric.

"--Toronto Police bomb squad disarmed the device, which is believed to have been intended to detonate in the crowded--"

He sat up, carefully, and looked around. He was in a small, cluttered room with heavy curtains drawn over the windows, but a few fingers of light trickled in nonetheless. Morning light. It was too bright to be from streetlights, and there had only been a couple of hours until twilight when his section had been attacked. The rest of the men should've found them before too long, unless--

"Captured," Bastien said. "Good Christ."

Thoughts of escape offered themselves almost at once, but Bastien laid back down on the cot and forced himself to evaluate things calmly. Going off half-cocked, with no weapons or equipment at all, would do him no good. The absence of anyone else in the room struck him as strange, as did the lack of restraints. None of the hardline Felquistes would have such a soft touch.

The flag of Quebec was tacked to the wall, light playing across the cross and fleurs-de-lys. Bastien winced and tried to forget. That wasn't his flag anymore. Not after Ottawa. He'd got there almost a week after Canada Day, and the fires had still been burning.

"--detonated between Outremont and Acadie stations on the Blue Line. Unconfirmed reports indicate at least one hundred people were killed or injured in the explosion. Military authorities have urged all citizens to remain in their homes until--"

In the end, it wouldn't matter. Every able-bodied terrorist in the FLQ was probably on the streets of Montreal today, waving their AKs at anyone who crossed their path. Twenty men and a couple of Leopard tanks might be enough to do the job his three-man section had been doing the day before. Bastien wasn't willing to take his chances out there, alone and unarmed.

"--in Camp David today, Prime Minister Harris and President Bradley have pledged to combat terrorism in North America and around the world, ten years after the historic vote that separated Quebec from--"

The news couldn't end soon enough. The soothing strains of some old jazz band didn't completely settle him, but they helped. He could forget the world outside for a little while. He got so caught up in the wail of the saxophones that he didn't hear the door creak open.

"_Bon matin, caporal_." It was a woman's voice, soft and flowing like honey. He groaned and tried to focus. In the room's darkness he could only make out the impression of a finely sculpted face framed by long, dark hair. The voice, though-- "It's good to see that you're awake and all right. He stayed up most of the night watching you, Jean did."

"Jean!" It all came back to him, the woman and child who had almost lingered long enough to get caught in the ambush. "What happened? I remember an ambush, and then--"

"I heard the gunfire," she said. "Jean wanted to rescue you. I've never known a more steadfast six year old. I knew he would never forgive me if we left, so... I went myself, and I found you unconscious. You'd hit your head on a piece of rubble. It was a good thing I found you first, you know."

"The other men," Bastien said with a cough. "What happened to them?"

The woman looked down and shook her head. He'd known that Tiffin wouldn't have had a chance, even if they'd been right outside an emergency triage station, but he'd have expected at least Crawford to get away. To think that he was the last--

"Thank you," he said. "I owe you my life. I don't even know your name."

"Call me Marie," she said after a moment's hesitation. It was a common enough name and pretty as well, whether it was really hers or not. "I'm sorry that I didn't bring your equipment, but it couldn't be helped... I'm only one woman. I can see that you're tired, sir. Rest a while longer."

"Marie," he said, tasting the name. Soft, sweet, and satisfying. "That's a nice name."

Marie turned toward the door. As it creaked open Bastien could see her features, a thin nose and wide violet eyes that seemed too bright to be real, to bright to be anything but a dream, wreathed in light from the next room. He sat up and coughed.

"You were right," he said. "It was dangerous. Why did you come back?"

She turned to look at him. The heavy shadows under her eyes looked like they could swallow every bit of light the sun had left in it.

"Because you were kind to my son," she said. "Please, rest. Breakfast will be ready soon."

She shut the door behind her and cast Bastien back into darkness. He met it gladly, but sleep did not come easily. It was a bright day behind the curtain, but all he could hear was the thunder.

#

"Why are you here?"

Gaetan Bastien looked up from his ham and eggs into the swirling depths of Marie's eyes, a pair of nebulas hiding a dozen newborn stars. The food was runny and tasted of rust and ashes, and he had torn into it gladly. There weren't many places for fine dining outside the Blue Zone.

"Pardon?" he asked, taking time to swallow first. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect--"

"He's here to fight the terrorists and keep the country safe," Jean said, as if his conviction was enough to make it so. "That's a pretty silly question, Mommy."

"It's an important question, Jean," Marie said. "You are our guest, Gaetan. I would appreciate if you would answer it."

He looked at the pockmarked ceiling for a moment and scratched the back of his neck. "Because it's my duty, I suppose. I don't think I can explain it any other way."

"You're all the same, you know that?" Marie set down her fork and frowned at him, as if every sting Quebec had felt in the last decade was his responsibility and his alone. "They fight because they have a duty to free Quebec. You fight because you have a duty to keep Quebec. You all just fight, fighting for the sake of the fight. It's nothing for a boy Jean's age to grow up in. It's all he's ever known."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Bastien said. "But we can't just--"

"They're teenagers, you know," Marie said. "Most of them were barely older than Jean when Parizeau told us we were standing tall. They hardly remember a united Canada. Ask one of them, they'd say they're fighting for freedom. They think they're chasing some romantic ideal, that they're the rebels and they're the good guys because of it. Then they get sucked into the quicksand and can't get out again."

"They're there just the same," Bastien said. "Freedom fighters don't blow up streetcars or shell Parliament. Doesn't matter why they think they're fighting. If they all put their guns down they just might start being the good guys for a change."

"Where are you from?" She fixed him with a look of intense concentration, the sort he might expect from a hypnotist on stage. Bastien bit back the taste of blood.

"Winnipeg," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Manitoba. Since I was about Jean's age."

"That's all very good, but I asked you where you're from, not where you happen to live," Marie said. "If the two of us left today for Yellowknife, Jean would not grow to be a Northwest Territories man. Blood is thicker than that. Heritage is more important than that. It's not something light to be tossed away."

Bastien leaned back and sighed. Fewer and fewer people in the nine provinces were willing to look past Quebecois ancestry these days. Only his fifteen years in loyal Manitoba had made the Forces seriously consider him. Ever since the army had fractured between loyalists and Quebec patriots, the generals had become a lot more careful.

"Quebec was my parents' home," he said. "Mine is Canada, and my Canada includes Quebec."

She didn't even chuckle. "Yes, I know. I had the T-shirt myself, and the bumper sticker," she said. "That was a different time. Things were easier again. You can't pretend what was true in 1995 is still true now."

"I can try," he said. "There's no point otherwise."

"So you keep fighting them, and they keep fighting you," Marie said. "It never ends, and your homeland falls. I don't know how you can watch it fall. I can't imagine why you stay."

Gunfire cracked through the street below. Bastien could hear the sharp reports of Kalashnikovs and C7 automatic rifles clashing. He wondered if he was listening to another Canadian patrol about to get swallowed alive by the hungry city.

"Because someone has to try to end it," Bastien said. "It's as simple as that."

Marie didn't look at him as she gathered the empty plates. They clattered against each other in the sink, neatly piled and waiting for the water to be turned on. This early there wouldn't be much in the system, not after the job the FLQ, or the Patriotes, or the Fils de la Liberte, or the goddamn Foundation had done on it.

"I need to see to some errands," Marie said. "I would appreciate it if you could watch Jean while I'm gone. It's too dangerous for him outside today."

Bastien bit back venom. He wanted to thank her for saving his life, walk out of the apartment and never have to see her again, but it could never be that simple. Besides, he had a duty, and if he couldn't help guard all of Montreal he could still protect his own small part of it. He nodded weakly and let his shoulders sink.

"Not just for him,," he said. "It's mad out there. I wouldn't want to go out there in anything less than a tank. What's so important that you need to go out in that?"

"Like you said, somebody has to try to end it," She disappeared down the hallway, past the room he'd awakened in, and a few minutes later he heard a lock loudly clap into place. She was wearing the same coat from the day before when she returned. Almost the same, at least. He hadn't remembered seeing the butt of a revolver then, or the Quebec flag pin. "You don't know the city like I do. I won't be long. Be safe, both of you."

Rifles cracked in the distance. No self-respecting insurgent would be intimidated by a lady's revolver, not when they swaggered in packs with enough weaponry to bring down mid-sized Third World governments. Still, a gun was a gun.

"I will, Mommy," Jean said. "You too!"

Marie could only chuckle nervously before heading out the door. Jean hopped out of his chair and locked it behind her. Bastien wondered if they'd ever see each other again.

"Thank you," he said as the lock turned.

#

Marie hadn't been gone twenty minutes when Gaetan Bastien's peace was shattered.

The knocks came like a machinegun tearing chunks out of the door, or a desperate survivor trying to beg and smash his way into the fallout shelter. Bastien found a baseball bat - not the best weapon, but preferable to fists - inhaled, exhaled, and looked through the peephole. The teenager on the side was slick with sweat and jumped around as if he'd just spent all night drinking coffees on the dance floor.

The kid raised his hackles. He'd seen it all before.

"Hey, Marie, are you there?" The teenager was raspy and panting, as if he'd run straight across the city. He reminded Bastien of the fast-talking phone salesmen and charity peddlers that had had the run of his old apartment building. "Hey, it's Edmund, and I know I'm a bit early but I got serious issues! Just let me in and we can get it done real quick, okay?"

Edmund didn't look to be armed. Bastien wasn't willing to take a chance on that. He unlocked the door and stepped away in one fluid move, and a second after the teenager burst through into the apartment he was down on the floor, doubled over and coughing. His stomach was a far easier target than a baseball.

"Keep your hands where I can see them, buddy," Bastien said. "Let's not make this harder than it already is."

"Dude, what the hell!" He was speaking the subtly French-flavored English of a Montrealer, and wore a Canadian flag pin on his chest. He'd probably had a good reason to run. "Who the hell are you, Marie's new man-toy?"

"Doesn't matter," Bastien said, walking around him and shutting the door. Privacy, after all, was sacred. "Who the hell are you? Auditioning to be a battering ram or something?"

"Goddammit, I'm just one of her clients," Edmund said. "I just came to give her this. That's it, I'm done. I can't stand it here. It better be worth it." He handed him a grimy envelope that had a dozen names scratched out. Marie's was scrunched into a corner. It was sopping wet and nearly disintegrated before he could put it down.

"You're pretty quick to hand that over," Bastien said. "How do you know I'm not some burglar?"

"I'll take my chances," Edmund said. "You wouldn't get out of here with it with those goddamn felkies on the roof anyway. Fuckin' vultures with sniper rifles."

Bastien didn't betray his emotions, but inside him a wave of fear crested. The FLQ had strongholds honeycombing the city, from fastnesses in the subway tunnels to deadly perches on top of apartment buildings, and if Edmund wasn't playing him for a sap he might be just underneath a boatload of angry, sneering terrorists. Terrorists with soft triggers who didn't tend to pick their targets carefully.

"Then I'd suggest that you go," Bastien said. He let the door swing open and motioned toward it. "Now, before they have a chance to reload."

Edmund shot him a look that reminded Bastien of a tiger he'd seen on a childhood trip to the zoo. The big, angry cat had leapt at a plump-looking rabbit that had got into the next enclosure, only to be blocked by a few iron bars and a sheet of reinforced glass. The teenager recoiled, sneered, and scuttled down the hall. The puddles of sweat and gym-sock stench of desperation didn't leave so easily.

Once the door was locked Bastien sat down, sighed, and stared at what was left of the envelope. It had held its last letter, and a thick stack of blue bills - worthless old livres with Parizeau's face, backed by the full faith and credit of a government that had never got off the ground - and a thin brown booklet about the size of a passport were splayed around the soggy wreckage. The same sort of thin brown booklet he'd seen God knows how many times on the streets, the only document that - so the government said, again and again - separated decent, law-abiding Quebecois from the terrorist hordes.

He flipped it over to find a golden coat of arms emblazoned on the cover. Wrapped around it, written on a sheet of moist paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out many times, he found a shaky handwritten request for a surefire ticket past the city patrols and border guards. Marie's name was at the top and buried in thanks at the bottom.

Bastien wished he had a cigarette, and he wished he hadn't kicked the kid out. He couldn't imagine what he was thinking, but it didn't matter. He'd made his choice. The teenager wouldn't last ten minutes without a passcard on the streets. Forged or not.

#

Marie came back covered in blood, cursing to make the wallpaper peel. A strip of thick white fabric was tied around her left arm, not the best sort of bandage but far better than bleeding out in some alley. Bastien was thankful he'd locked the door to Jean's room. No child needed to see this.

"_Calisse_," she hissed between gritted teeth. Her curse, the strongest in Quebec's arsenal of liturgical profanity, hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes. "The bastards! There's no room for an honest woman in this goddamn city anymore."

Bastien bit his tongue. The temptation to rake her over the coals with Edmund's delivery tied his stomach in knots. He hoped that she didn't see he was distracted as he rose to assist her. At least she didn't seem to notice the bills and the passcard as she staggered inside.

"Don't say anything about it being dangerous," Marie said. "It had to be done. It's honest blood, at least." She smiled weakly, but Bastien didn't have any trouble seeing past her brave facade. Most civvies couldn't stare death in the face without blinking.

"Then I won't," he said. "Let me take a look. At least your son doesn't have to see this. He's asleep."

"I knew he would. Some nights when it's quiet I throw coins against his door. It helps him get to sleep. It's better than a lullaby."

Bastien felt the breath catch in his throat at how dismissive she was. He expected to grow into one of those old men who dived for cover whenever a car backfired or someone cooked popcorn too loudly. It was with a heavy soul that he started to work on her. Though he wasn't a trained medic, no one could serve on the streets of Montreal without picking up some of the basics.

"Careful, careful," he said. "Do you have any liquor?"

Marie dug into a pocket and produced a beaten silver flask. "It's got me out of difficult situations before. I never like needing to use it." She braced herself against the counter, closed her eyes, and groaned. "Thanks. I'll probably regret it."

He wasn't a trained medic, but martial law had made him a generalist. He untied the tourniquet and peeled it off, slowly, to reveal a long, thin furrow some insurgent's bullet had torn through the meat of her shoulder. It was a good thing she hadn't been gone long. It hadn't had a chance to pick up a bad infection yet. She winced but didn't complain.

"Jesus," Bastien said. The flesh around the wound was red as uncooked meat, and it stank of sweat and blood. "What the hell were you doing out there?"

"Seeing to business," she said. "As much as I'd like to lock the door and never have to go outside, well, it's not exactly easy to be self-sufficient here. I'd make a garden in the living room if I didn't think it'd make the floor rot through."

He gritted his teeth as he inspected the wound. It looked relatively clean, no dirt caked into it or pus weeping out. She was lucky the bullet hadn't cut through muscle. Hopefully, the alcohol would keep it from going gangrenous. He'd always keep seeing those kids less an arm or a leg trudging down the snowy sidewalks.

"I'm sorry." His eyes crossed as he unscrewed the flask, the alcohol fumes strong enough to knock down walls on their own. He poured a trickle over the wound, as red and angry as anything he'd seen the medics deal with in their triage tents. She shuddered and stayed firm. "What are you doing here, Marie?"

"Hardly the time for philosophy, don't you think?" Marie said in a mocking tone. "You had every chance to ask that back when we were all at the table, and--"

Marie had cast her good arm toward the table to illustrate her point, and her eyes followed it to the pile of bills that weren't supposed to be there. For a moment she looked like she'd been punched in the gut. Then she gave him an angry, icy stare, like a wife who'd waited in the darkness until her husband stumbled back from the bar.

"I told you the city wasn't a place for an honest woman," Marie said. She kept looking right at him, daring him to challenge her. "I can see it in your eyes, but do you know something? You haven't seen anything. You see the worst of the human race every day and you still haven't seen anything. You have no idea what it's like here for the rest of us."

"Maybe you wouldn't mind explaining," Bastien said. "Your friend Edmund seemed pretty desperate. Has he killed all the soldiers he can under that name, maybe?"

Marie didn't seem to move. All Bastien knew was that she _switched_, as if she skipped all the motions in between like a poorly spliced piece of film, and her hand left his cheek red. He took a step back, boggling, waiting for the world to slow down again.

"How dare you," she said, hissing like a jilted girlfriend who'd found her lover in the arms of another woman. "You think I'm one of them? A traitor, an helper of terrorists? You think I could sleep at night knowing that I helped dig Quebec's grave that much deeper? You've seen a lot, Corporal, but you haven't seen anything."

"What do you expect me to think?" The side of his face still stung. "That you're just in the hobby of collecting passcards from desperate men? That the pile of worthless money is for your kid's art project? Do you have any idea how bad this looks, or how many tribunals would give you the firing squad because of it?"

"I know you're only seeing what you want to see," Marie said. "Death. Destruction. All of it going on forever. Did you ever stop to think that people want it to stop? Did you ever consider that we just want to have the chance to walk away? Did you?"

"Then what? What kind of business are you in that makes you forge passcards for sweaty teenagers off the street?'

"Because I care about people who are in bad situations," Marie said. "You volunteered to come here and fight. They didn't. They just picked up guns and did what they thought was right, not knowing any better. They're not all bad people, Corporal. Some of them deserve a second chance."

"So you make them forged passcards to get them out of the province, and for what?" Bastien wanted to roar, only keeping his voice down for Jean's sake. He shouldn't have to suffer for his mother's choices. "So they can go plant bombs on Bay Street and shoot up a Tim Horton's in Calgary?"

"Once your army time is done you'll be able to walk back to your old life with hardly a bump," Marie said. "What about these children - and that's just what most of them are - who didn't know what they were signing up for? Take a look at the FLQ, and the Patriotes, and the Fils de la Liberte. They're just as bad as the mob. You don't ever leave. So they come to me for escape. For a new life."

"How noble of you," Bastien said. "It's like you're running your own underground railroad. Was forging government documents just a hobby of yours before everything went to hell?"

"I used to work in the Office of the French Language," Marie said. "Before that bastard McKenna fired everyone who wasn't 'reliable.' I know some people. That's all you need to know. You know how it is."

Bastien nodded. After Ottawa, the federal government hadn't cared a whit about Quebec's supposed independence. The army had charged in with a speed and anger that made the October Crisis look like a ticker tape parade. There were hardly any native Quebecois in the provincial civil service anymore. Some of them had been replaced. Most hadn't.

"It's a big leap from being a language cop to smuggling people across the border," Bastien said. "What the hell do you think--"

Someone slammed against the door as if they were trying to knock it down. Dust erupted from the doorframe and danced lazily in the air. Marie looked like a ghost, her face a deathly pallor. Bastien reached for the baseball bat again and wished for his gun, any gun aside from Marie's battered old six-shooter. He pushed up against the wall next to the door and waited for the visitor to break through.

For a moment he hoped that it was the Canadian Forces. Though the disappearance of a soldier wasn't something to write home about as the occupation marched toward its tenth year, they'd still turn the city upside down if there was a chance one of their own was alive somewhere. The only people who tried to break doors down were the same ones who drowned Montreal in blood.

"Open the door!" No soldier could have a voice as full of bile and venom as the one that smashed through the door. "Marie Desrochers, open the door in the name of the Foundation! You can't hide from us anymore! You will be brought to justice!"

"How many bullets?" he hissed. She held up one trembling finger. He cursed and raised the bat as the door crashed against its hinges. Whoever the bastards were, they weren't going to let a simple piece of wood get in their way. It didn't hold them for long.

"We are the-" The man, a lanky tower of a man that would've looked more at home driving logs down a river, didn't have a chance. Marie's bullet pierced his chest and he went down like a toddler tackled by a bear-sized linebacker. Bastien greeted his comrade with a blow to the stomach and some more to his head. The second man's AK-47 clattered to the floor, unused.

"Is... is that all of them?" Marie asked, her voice quivering. She'd taken cover behind the counter the second she'd fired. Her face was as flushed as a marathon runner passing the finish line. "Any more coming?"

"Not this second," Bastien said. He scooped up the Kalashnikov and felt secure for the first time he'd woken up in on Marie's old cot. "Get Jean. We've got to get out of here."

He expected her to raise a fuss, to yell and whine and accuse him of only God knew what, and her meek nod and hurried motions almost knocked him back. For what seemed like forever he stood on guard at the ruined door, peeking into the hallway to check for intruders and keeping out of sight in case they were armed.

It felt like far more than two minutes had passed when a sleepy-eyed Jean toddled out of his room, clutching a stuffed bear in one hand. Marie threw a coat on him and dumped the contents of Edmund's package into her deep, heavy purse.

"Don't say anything," Marie said. "I owe it to him, to all of them. Have you seen anyone?"

"If they've got reinforcements they're taking their time," Bastien said. "What's the best way out?"

Marie scooped up the dead man's pistol and motioned ahead. "The second stairwell leads down to the basement. There's a service entrance into the alley there. We'll be out of here before they realize they've lost us. I use it all the time."

Hesitation crossed his eyes for a split second. Taking orders was in his blood, and carrying them out well was the only thing that could keep a man alive in the city, but Marie was still a civilian.

"The only other way is the window, and it's five floors down," Marie said. "I don't think your legs would forgive you. Now let's get moving, mister."

"Yes, ma'am," Bastien muttered under his breath. He didn't look back into the apartment. He didn't expect any of them would see it again.

#

They huddled in a burned-out bank off the main roads, waiting for the storm to pass. The day was barely half over and there was no sign the insurgents were running out of lightning. Bastien counted the seconds between bursts of gunfire, wondering how long it would take for him to hear the thunder.

Marie was curled up with her son against a smooth-worn piece of concrete, and though she was sleeping she didn't look peaceful. It was almost a wonder she could sleep at all. He'd given the two of them three hours, hoping that the insurgents would start getting seriously clobbered by force patrols by then, and the minutes passed like marchers at a funeral.

He sighed. She didn't look much like a terrorist, and after the performance at her apartment, he couldn't help but think she wasn't, after all. He had plenty of time to ponder when he wasn't jumping at every noise, every flicker of light or movement. If a rat had found their den, he'd have reduced it to a bloody smear. When the mother and child woke up, he felt like an old man as he shepherded them.

There was no one else on the streets that he could see, and for a moment Bastien didn't feel like he was in a city under siege any longer. He felt as if he was one of the last survivors of nuclear war. The only thing missing was a dusting of snow to cover every last hint of green.

"So then, Mrs. Desrochers, where do we go from here?" Bastien asked. "Any stations in your underground railroad to check up on?"

"Just Ms., actually," Marie said. "I never knew Jean's father before the church. A bomb got him five years ago. I'd rather Jean not have to worry about not knowing me. How far is it to a safe zone?"

"Three, maybe four kilometers," Bastien said. North Montreal was full of old oil refineries, long emptied of every last drop but still haunted by terror. "It's a big island. If we get lucky we might run into a patrol before then, but I wouldn't put any better money than those livres of yours on it. Felkies'd probably find us first, assuming anyone comes here anymore."

She nodded hesitantly, and it didn't escape Bastien that she was giving him responsibility for her life and Jean's. It wasn't any weight that he hadn't already prepared himself to bear.

"We're not far from the water," Marie said. "We're closer to it than the Blue Zone, at least. Surely things can't be that bad in Laval."

"Not likely," Bastien said. Montreal's neighbor city, just across the Riviere des Prairies, had been an FLQ stronghold for years. Not even the nine-year occupation had dislodged them. "Grunts call it the Ninth Laval of Hell. No, if we can make it to the forward base down by the tunnel we'll be better off. Army's got a strong presence there. Even then, it won't be easy. We'll probably be walking into November."

"Assuming we can even find it," Marie said. "Montreal is like the Labyrinth, but with not so many bulls. There's no way to get your bearings here. Nothing in this city is obvious. Especially not anymore."

"Mommy, I'm tired," Jean said, picking his way through the debris as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Can't we stop and sit down for a bit? And how come there aren't any other people around? It's weird."

"Don't worry about a thing, love, we'll be safe soon," Marie said. "Just keep walking. We can't stop yet. I'm sorry."

They walked in silence for a while as Bastien learned how right she was, and he realized how much he missed patrols. Taking every step knowing that a fate like Private Tiffin's was more than bearable with good maps and constant radio contact with the base. If Marie had only deigned to bring his along, he would've been safe before sundown - and she and Jean would probably have died in the apartment.

Maybe it wasn't so much of an accident after all. Two people had died and he hadn't been able to stop it. Now, because of him, two more people had a chance to live. He breathed deep and wished he hadn't lost his good coat. It had cost him an entire case of old Niagara wine.

"I don't suppose you have any idea why you're enemy number one now," Bastien said. "Or at least high enough up there for the felkies to do housecalls."

"The only thing I can think of is that they found me out," Marie said. "Like I said, Edmund's not the first teenager who's ever had second thoughts. They don't tend to look kindly on people who try to steal their recruits. I don't think they think it's very neighborly."

"You don't say," Bastien said. They came to an intersection that might have been thriving once. The stoplights were smashed and fallen now, and the street signs buried under dust and rubble. He bent to clear one off and grinned.

"Sherbrooke," he said. "We're closer than I thought. There's an outpost near the entrance to the Lafontaine Tunnel. Best place to keep a lid on things. If we follow it south, if we can find the autoroute, we'll be in Longueuil and home free."

"No such thing as free," Marie said. "No matter what you do, you're still a prisoner of your past. It doesn't matter what you do with the rest of your life. There's only one thing that can wipe the slate clean."

They hadn't been walking down Sherbrooke for long when the screech of tires and the throaty roar of a poorly-maintained engine made the air tremble. None of them had time to hide before the technical, an old pickup truck with a heavy machinegun mounted on the back, screamed out from around the next corner. The driver must have fancied himself a knight of the post-apocalypse.

"Get down!" Bastien shouted, throwing himself behind a pile of fallen masonry. There wasn't much chance the insurgents in the technical had missed them. Sure enough, the truck wheeled back around after it passed the hiding spot and rumbled to a stop. Three teenagers who should've been joyriding and vandalizing railway bridges hopped out of the cargo bed and started walking toward him.

No - not toward him. Toward Marie. She'd thrown herself behind an old newspaper box, and there was no chance the insurgents could have missed her. Even the driver hopped out of the cab, leaving the engine running, as he sauntered with his comrades to where she shivered in fear.

"Wasn't I just saying it's been a while since we've had any fun?" asked one of them. They liked their lips like starving men presented a pork roast. They swaggered toward her, all of them carrying rifles. "Hello there, beautiful."

She struggled as they dragged her to her feet, and Bastien had to resist the impulse to open fire. Marie was in the middle of the group, surrounded by the toughs, and the AK-74 didn't have the best sights in the world. Even if they weren't expecting an attack they weren't unarmed, and one of them would get a lucky shot before he got them all.

They held both her arms and knocked the pistol out of her hands. Bastien bit his lip and waited. She knew he was there. All she had to do was hit the dirt, just for a second, enough time to leave them reeling. Enough time for him to do his job.

Marie flinched and looked toward him. Her eyes were heavy and cold, like lonely icebergs in the middle of the sea. In that instant he saw them melting. The insurgents were jeering and joking like the puffed-up teenagers they were, the sort of people that kept digging Quebec's grave deeper.

Bastien shouted like thunder and let loose his lightning. They were stunned for an instant, frozen like ice sculptures only pretending to be alive, and he could see them melting as well. His Kalashnikov chattered, but its voice wasn't the only one he heard.

Two of the insurgents were down. The other two had got a bead on him. Bullets slapped against the masonry he hid behind, cutting wailing trails through the air. It sounded like the wind was weeping at the storm. He fired the last of his bullets, and so did they. Ten seconds after the firefight had begun, Bastien struggled to his feet and vomited the remnants of Marie's ashy breakfast over the muddy sidewalk.

When he saw Marie, he wanted to throw up everything he'd ever eaten.

"Mommy!" Jean shouted, bursting from his hiding place. "Mommy! Please be okay!"

Marie was lying on her back watching the shifting clouds, a wide smile on her face. Her arms were crossed like a martyr ready to be taken, and thick blood oozed from beneath her hands. The wound was as deep as the abyss.

"I think... I think I'm going to need something a little stronger than regular liquor this time," she said, coughing. "I should have hid better. Doesn't make much difference now, I guess."

Jean crouched next to her, still clutching his teddy bear, pressing it against her. Its downy white fur was caked with mud. "Mommy, please say you're going to be okay! It's going to be okay!" He was bawling now like Bastien had never seen. Marie reached up and hugged her son's neck. She left a faint, bloody handprint on his coat.

"You need... to be strong, Jean," Marie said. "I'm so sorry I need to make you do this. This had to happen. I'm so sorry."

"Don't talk," Bastien said. "We're not far from help. We can--"

"Don't waste your breath, you're going to need it soon enough," Marie said. "You... you should have listened. I told you that the past is our prison. Now I've got the key to it all."

"If you're going to talk, then don't talk like that," Bastien said. "There's nothing--"

"I never told you about why I do what I do," Marie said. "Forging government documents isn't exactly a hobby people just fall into, you know. I've been wondering when I could tell someone... it looks like this might be my last chance."

"Then tell me," Bastien said. "Tell me and I'll listen."

"God," she said. She exhaled long and low and tried to laugh. It came out only as a gurgle. "I've kept it under for so long and now it's tying my throat in a knot." She smiled for a brief moment. "All right... I was at Ottawa. I fired one of the mortars. I killed Jean Chretien and I killed Canada."

Bastien reeled back as if she'd shoved him, and he came down hard on the ground. Before Ottawa there had still been a chance that everything would have gone right, despite the countless negotiation sessions that almost devolved into brawls. Canada hadn't fired a shot in anger to gain its independence, and the leaders of potentially independent Quebec, the leaders with a majority in favor of separation, had lost control.

He still remembered watching it on live television, nearly nine years ago now. The Canada Day celebrations on Parliament Hill had seemed more like a funeral, full of "we will endure" and "this is not the end" and everything else the government had said to distract everyone from the fact that it had lost one of the cornerstones of the country. There had been thousands there, led by the Prime Minister, mourning the dream of a dominion that stretched from sea to sea.

Then the first mortar rounds hit. The Parliament Buildings had been less than a kilometer from the far side of the Ottawa River, Quebec territory. They had crumbled during the onslaught, collapsing into a storm of dust and fire. One of the CBC's cameramen recorded it all, and before the sun had set the next day, thirty million people had seen the foundation of their country consumed by it.

There had been no hope of salvation after that. That it was a terrorist action by disaffected Quebecois nationalists didn't matter. Canada had wanted blood, and ever since then they had been drowning in it. The Maple Leaf, in retrospect, was an appropriate color.

His hands trembled. Shooting Marie would put a down payment on the debt she'd taken out when she'd help take out Ottawa, but it wasn't what Jean deserved. There was no need to toss him into a cell yet, and she had rotted in her own for long enough. There was always time for second chances.

"We were young and stupid," Marie said. "I was young and stupid and my head was full of garbage about free Quebec. It's that bastard DeGaulle's fault. I don't think... I don't think any of us really knew what we were getting into. We didn't think ahead. We just thought it would make them stand up and notice us, that we were independent and strong. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this."

Bastien sighed and surveyed the wasteland that had been a city. Ten years ago it had been a green place, full of life and hope for the future. Ever since then it had been shadowed under heavy rainclouds, clouds that would never break.

"I'm so sorry," Marie said, clutching his hand as if it could pull her out of the abyss, absolve her for everything she'd done. He wondered how many people she'd killed with those hands, and how gladly she'd done it. "I told you. The past is our prison. I only wanted to help them get out before they could lock themselves in. I'm sorry, Gaetan. You were right about me."

She took a deep, hoarse breath that sounded like a sword being pulled out of its sheath. Bastien wanted to throw her a rope, pull her out of the abyss however he could. Her eyes were starting to go dark, like Nick Tiffin's had when that insurgent had cut him down. All he had was her stare, and he didn't look away from their swirling depths.

"Take care of Jean, Gaetan," Marie said. He held her hand in his, squeezing like a lover. "He doesn't deserve this... I don't deserve him. Make sure he doesn't... please, take him home. Take him home and leave me here... this is where I deserve to be."

Marie Desrochers kept her eyes open until the end, struggling like a woman trying to pull herself over the edge of a mountain summit. In the end she fell into the darkness, and there was no one who could catch her.

Gaetan Bastien closed her eyes, said a prayer, and gathered up Jean, wailing and mourning, in a hug that his own father had always been too tough to give. The child had a long way to go, and he would be with him every step of the way.

"There's still a long way to go, Jean," he said, burying sadness with duty. Once he left Montreal and the occupation behind, he didn't think he'd have nearly enough tears. "We can make it, you and me."

"Yes..." Jean sniffled, wiping his tears away. "Yes, sir."

Sunset would be coming soon. The clouds reflected the blood of the city as the two of them trudged down the rubble-strewn road. Night was falling, and precious few stars shone down on the battered bones and forgotten glories of the city of Montreal. He knew that tonight, a new one would join them, a beacon of hope for the city of Mary.