He was tall with dark hair, and a bony face with eyes sunk deep. His face had the rust tinge of a Balyan. Her father had always said that all they needed was a bath. Their skin wasn’t stained; they were just dirty. As his sweat seemed to leave streaks down his face, she thought it might be true.

Kana’s father was dead now.

The remaining people of the commune had assembled loosely in front of this tall one. He seemed to be in charge. “I’m Lt. Henry of the Balyan Armed Force. Anyone who wants to live, get in the Ram. We’re leaving.”

A student shouted back. “We won’t go. Leave us weapons. We can fight them.”

“You can get in the Ram. Or die.”

An older man, a teacher who had taught with her father, took a step forward. “You just can’t blast in here and tell us —”

Lt. Henry turned, drew his pistol and without a word shot first the man, and then the student.

“This is not a discussion. Your commune is as dead as those bodies in the square. Get in the Ram. Or die.”