"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.