Muriel managed one final twist of the music box’s spring before her strength deserted her.

But it was enough.

The box sprung open on the ground where she lay in a spreading pool and began to plink out its simple melody. According to those that heard it, though, the sound quickly became far warmer and richer, almost like a harp or piano. Its music also spread far beyond what normal acoustics should have allowed–in addition to the Public Safety officers near Muriel, it could be heard by government troops in the base and on the firing line, along with their Revolutionary Guard opponents on the other side. Even riot police moving against a hostage situation twenty miles away, along with the hostage taker, reported hearing something.

The effect on all of them was the same: a feeling of overwhelming peace, safety, and tingling warmth like being held in an unconditionally loving embrace. Weapons clattered to the ground. Helmets were pried off to allow the divine sound to be heard with greater clarity. Many fell to their knees or wept openly.

One of the Public Safety officers approached Muriel and held out his hand. Weakly, she grasped it, and smiled–the last thing she was ever to do.

It might seem an odd thing that Maryann Steinman was the last heir to the long-dead city of Iram of the Pillars, but as is so often the case what seems odd at first appears less so on further examination.

Iram of the Pillars had been the key oasis that made travel across the vast Rub’ al Khali desert possible. But as more trade came and went, the water table had fallen and the spring collapsed in 190 AD, leaving the vast and unforgiving desert with no water to sustain travel. The royal family and all those who could do so fled north to Parthian Ctesiphon, for they had long been vassals of the king there. Shortly thereafter, Emperor Severus of Rome had sacked the city. The king of Iram and all his sons died in the defense of the city, with his daughter carried off to Rome in chains.

Purchased by a wealthy family, she was eventually emancipated and married into a powerful family of freedmen and Christian converts. They ran afoul of the later emperor Diocletian, who ordered the family wiped out in 305 AD. Only a single child survived the massacre, hidden by family friends and eventually smuggled to Gaul, where he raised a small family in an isolated village. In time, the village came to be part of France, but during the Great War it was totally razed; those that survived suffered terribly from dysentery and typhus. In the end, the entire town perished–save one man, Marcel Durand, who had left for Paris and later emigrated to New York City.

Before perishing in a typhoid outbreak, Durand managed to conceive a child, to the scandal of many, with one Gloria Feldman in the Bronx. Marrying George Steinman provided some stability for the child, who grew to father one child of his own before a heart attack felled him: Maryann.

A long path, yes, and one beset by the tragedies great and small which determine the fate of all peoples. But it led, inexorably, to Maryann.

“They have taken the road to Bangassou,” said Gbaya. “And they say that Mbomou is about to fall. Then men we will face today are but the first drops in a rainstorm.”

“That is why we have been placed here,” said Boganda. He stroked the heavy DShK machine gun mounted in the bed of the army Toyota. “If they come, we will kill them.”

“You are not listening,” Gbaya said, pounding the truck’s side. “The rebels are overwhelming at every point. If Bangassou is cut off, it will soon fall–it cannot be supplied by river or air, not with petrol rationed as it is. And if they take Mbomou…can Bangui be far behind?”

Boganda continued staring down the road.

“By next week, they could be sitting on the lawn of the National Assembly in Bangui. We’d be the rebels then, and they the government. Rather than a bulwark against a flood we would be an island in a sea.”

“Are you trying to get yourself shot for treason?” Boganda growled. “If the lieutenant hears that sort of talk you’ll be up against a wall.”

“No,” said Gbaya. “I’m just wondering what the hell it is we’re doing out here, expecting to stop the rising tide of a revolution with fifteen men and a technical.”

“I don’t really have any word for it,” Tobias said. “Nobody does. Our language, your language…language itself fails the test of conveying such horror. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about Verdun, about how units of men were fed into it like sausages into a meat grinder. Some say von Falkenhayn and Pétain conspired to bleed the other white; I don’t know. Maybe they conspired to unleash the horrors that we saw.”

“What sort of horrors?”

“You’ve seen some of it already.” Tobias replied. “In the frenzied combat around the Douaumont, the soldiers became violent, deranged. We began to lash out at each other, as did the French, until we were killing as many of our men over petty disputes as they were. Then the dead became restless and began to rise, fighting and re-fighting battles already won and lost. Units would complete an assault only to realize that half their number were corpses and specters, and tear themselves apart.”

“And then?”

“Every death was like coal on a blaze, intensifying the effect. It was like a maelstrom of death unleashed. Some of the men called it Seelesturm, or Soulstorm, and that’s as good a name as any I suppose. Once the news broke–the higher-ups believed it was hallucination and mutiny–that entire sector of the front was bombarded by artillery from both sides until everything had been churned into fetid muck. If this…if what we’re seeing here is an attempt to artificially create those same conditions…well, I can’t say I like our chances.”

Erniesum Onestone, a barrister of Italian-Czech extraction, had devoted his entire life to the law, first for Austria-Hungary and later for the newly-independent nation of Czechoslovakia. He’d consulted on the drafting of the nation’s constitution as well as numerous pieces of civil law, learning the enormously complex system from square one. An inveterate practical jokester and fervent nationalist, Onestone delighted in tweaking the system and those within it precisely within the bounds he’d helped establish, though never to an extend which might harm his beloved nation.

Such a life didn’t lend itself to starting a family, and all of his immediate family had died during the war, leaving Onestone to seek other ways to make his mark as he lay dying of lung cancer in 1927. Months of work in his law office resulted in an enormously detailed will that became a national sensation when it was read upon his death. One hundred and twenty-seven clauses contained instructions for the dispersal of an estate swollen with sixty years of legal fees.

A million-koruna mansion to two barristers who were both spendthrifts and notorious enemies.

A cash prize equal to twenty years’ wages to the woman in Prague who bore the most legitimate children over the next five years.

A fully-paid membership in a prominent upper-crust social club for a notorious Bratislava pimp.

And, most mysteriously, a professionally made safebox with instructions not to open it for 80 years–protected by a generous endowment for a family to guard it (invalidated by premature opening).

Distant relatives fought Onestone’s bequests in court, but the wily old barrister had known what he was doing and the will stood as was, unaltered. The rival barristers put up with each other for five years before agreeing, through intermediaries, to sell the property and split the proceeds. Three Prague women won the baby race with a fourth given a consolation price, each tied at five children apiece.

As for the sealed strongbox…it vanished from history. Most of the relevant records were destroyed in the accidental firebombing of Prague in 1945, while the family Onestone had subsidized to look after his treasure vanished in the maelstrom of war. The box was lost to history.

Until now.

Benedict was seated on an ammo crate, feet up. The tropical sun reflected off his Ray-Bans and the foil highlights on the Metallica shirt that peeked out from under his body armor.

“I don’t get it. The sunglasses, the t-shirt, the sneakers,” Cameron said. “You’re a professional. Why don’t you dress like one?”

“Does it really matter what I wear as long as they’re dead?” said Benedict. Seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy Cameron, he continued. “There are exactly two kinds of fighters out there. Those that’re intimidated by a uniform, and those that aren’t.”

“I…don’t follow.” Cameron said.

“I’m not here to intimidate anyone. You want to pay me for intimidation, fine. I’ll pour myself into a uniform, but it won’t come cheap. Otherwise, it’s better for my peace of mind and your bottom line if you let me dress however I please.” The sneer on Benedict’s face said that he’d given that speech before, and enjoyed it.

Cameron swallowed. “Point taken.”

“You think Lassiter’s out there wearing some itchy uniform instead of fighting comfortably?” Benedict said. He picked up a nearby magazine and began filling it with 9mm rounds. “Not bloody likely.”

The man picked himself up, and tossed aside the mangled remains of his weapon. “My name is Tobias Schiller, but to most around here I’m ‘the Kraut.'”

Vincent had never heard of anyone embracing that term with anything approaching good humor. “You don’t mind being called that?”

“What, a ‘Kraut?’ No. In fact, I’ve come to embrace it as a useful shibboleth,” Schiller said, grinning.

“A what?”

A shrug. “It means way of telling one sort of person from another. Anyone who calls me ‘the Kraut’ has exposed themselves as a little crude, a little ignorant, and certainly no friend of mine. Useful when consorting with gangsters and machine guns both, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lightoller adjusted the picture to try and cut out some static. “Come on now, Navy boys, come on. Don’t want to lose the feed.” He’d promised good, hard, stolen Navy intel for the Zouaves, and he intended to deliver.

“…thanks to the availability of cheap cigarettes and rotgut where I grew up, I’ve gained a lifelong fondness for both,” the interviewee—Peg, wasn’t it?—said. “Plus, they make me look cool, and having a nasty, smelly cigarette in between your lips makes it less likely a guy’s going to stick his tongue in there.”

“Wonder if that’s really the sort of thing the Zouaves are interested in?” Lightoller muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Well, they weren’t specific.”

“Not that I have to worry so much; I don’t make as many trips ‘down south’ as most of the writhing hedonists my age,” Peg continued. “And honestly, when my last memory’s of Darren Winston, filtered through a whole lot of drunk…well, I’m glad for both of us that he must’ve been shooting blanks. After I left home, I never saw him again, and that’s a good thing in my book—he had exactly one virtue, and it wasn’t his wit or sparkling personality. Not exactly husband or father-of-my-children material.”

“Look, miss, if we could just get back to the-” one of the Navy men began, clearly uncomfortable that his interrogation had been hijacked.

He was cut off. “Then again, there are precious few that are qualified for that job opening. The benefits are great, but you’ve gotta have a top-notch resume and be willing to relocate. There’ve been some promising candidates, but the last prospective hire decided to pursue opportunities elsewhere. We didn’t…gel…on an ethical level, which is to say that he accused me of having none. I’m of two minds on the subject of reproduction anyway; while it’s obvious the universe could use another such as me, the same gene pool spawned my dumbass cousin. I figure that’s one bridge to cross when I come to it, hopefully in the arms of a well-sculpted Adonis.”

Travis picked at his bandages. “I’m not afraid of dying.” He was squeezing the nurse’s call button, hoping Fiona couldn’t see.

Fiona stepped closer, pressing the muzzle of her pistol to Travis’s chest. “Good. That’ll make this easier.”

“I’m afraid of not knowing why. I’m nobody special, yet you already threw me out a window.”

“Is that all?” Fiona leaned in, whispered in Travis’s ear.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “Thank you,” he grinned. “You can hit her now.”

“Wha-” Fiona was cut off as a fire extinguisher, in the hands of a night shift nurse, clipped her from behind.

“Henri said that the tribesmen captured everything from the convoy. The Hotchkiss and its manual. A frontal assault would be suicide, mon capitan!”

“Then you may remain behind,” said Captain Richat. “Your cowardice will be noted in my official report.”

Claude’s eyes widened at the tribunal and bullet-pockmarked wall the captain’s words implied, and shouldered his rifle. “V-very well, mon capitan. I will lead the assault as you have requested.”

“Excellent. Carry out your orders then, corporal.”

Claude led his men over the crest of the dune, whooping and running. The distinct rumble of a machine gun soon followed; Richat kept himself low and quietly counted the bullets fired by tens.

“Ten, twenty, thirty…”

Screams from over the dune, and rifle fire.

“Seven-ten, seven-twenty, seven-thirty…”

The firing stopped just after Richat’s count made it to one thousand one hundred. He casually surmounted the dune and strolled toward the tribesmen’s position. They were violently arguing over the Hotchkiss, and clearly exposed. The captain’s Lebel cracked eight times, one for each of the raiders. His pace didn’t slacken as they fell; he tossed the rifle aside, its magazine empty, and withdrew his revolver from its well-oiled holster.

Several Bedouin were still alive; a quick report from the pistol put and end to that. Richat found Claude, breathing shallowly and weeping blood from multiple wounds, just before the Hotchkiss.

“You see, corporal,” he said, “the Hotchkiss tends to overheat and become useless after about a thousand rounds have been fired in quick succession. The tribesmen lack the discipline to perform a barrel change; all that was needed was an assault to soak up their fire until that point.”

Claude tried to speak, but red foam was all he could push out.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Richat. “I will be sure to mention your brave, foolish, and totally unauthorized charge in my report. You may even qualify for a posthumous promotion.”