Free Tomorrow, the Killing by Daniel Polansky

little walk with us, rather than push this into a direction it doesn’t need to go.’
    That was in fact the smart thing to do, even if it was Hroudland saying it. And if Hroudland wasn’t sure he and Rabbit could force my attendance, I wasn’t sure they couldn’t. And it would be a damn stupid thing to die over, because I felt like taking the weather out on two men I vaguely disliked.
    ‘You’ll buy me an ice on the way over, Rabbit?’
    Rabbit laughed, the same as he had with death thick in the air. ‘Lieutenant wants to know if I’ll buy him a ice!’
    Rabbit was an easy audience. It was one of his few positive qualities.
    The Association for the Advancement of the Veterans of the Great War – or the Veterans’ Association if you were a fan of brevity, or simply the Association if you were really obsessed with the concept – was an institution claiming to represent those unfortunate souls who had found themselves manning the trenches during the Empire’s last foray into mass suicide. It was founded by Roland Montgomery six months after the Humbling of Donknacht loosed a quarter of a million former soldiers back upon the homeland they had killed to protect. When Roland died two years later, it had been taken over by his long-time second, Joachim Pretories, and he’d spent the interim turning it into a respectable political power. For all its pretensions it was a typical corporate entity, nominally advocating for the rights and privileges of its members, in practice cadging for the few lucky souls at the top.
    For a while it had been something else. But then things used to be different all over, back in the day.
    They headquartered in an old banking house in Offbend, a few stones’ throw from the Old City, or one really good throw for those well practiced in throwing stones. It was a beautiful structure, four floors of white brick on a cobblestone square. A wooden platform had been erected in the middle of the arcade, a focal point for their frequent rallies. A handful of men stood stiffly outside the entrance, their attempts at loitering spoiled by too many years in the ranks. They nodded at my escort and allowed us inside.
    ‘I’ll tell the commander you’re here,’ Hroudland said, disappearing into the back. I took the time to inspect my surroundings.
    The entrance hall was big enough to hold a few hundred people, though at present there were barely a dozen occupying it – apart from me and Rabbit, there were a handful of men seated at a long wooden table, waiting to cater to the needs of paying members. Trophies of our conflict hung on the wall, captured pennants and Dren weaponry, tapestries depicting major battles. I spent a moment inspecting these last, though I had trouble recognizing myself in the ranks of proud spearmen chasing the fleeing enemy into the distance, or in the mounted officers leading the charge. Hung over a huge fireplace was a portrait of the Association’s founder, staring down at his children, blue eyes stern but supportive.
    His father’s name could have earned him a spot away from the front line and the dangers of combat, but that hadn’t been Roland’s way. Indeed, no promotion seemed sufficient to force him back from the front. By the time I’d met him he was well on his way from man to myth, and if the first had ended three years after the armistice, face down in the Low Town mud, the second had only continued to grow. A decade on and his was still a name to conjure with amongst anyone who’d ever served in the ranks.
    Hroudland opened the back door and waved at us. Rabbit and I followed him down a narrow corridor, up a flight of stairs and past several more watchmen, stopping in front of the commander’s quarters. ‘Through here,’ Hroudland said. ‘When you’re done we’ll take you back to your bar.’
    ‘Rough neighborhood like this, I need someone to protect my virtue.’
    Hroudland shook his head, glad to have me off his hands. He opened the door and I