Madargeisa is a capital torn to shreds. In the morning light, the jagged outlines of ruined buildings draw long shadows. The streets are deserted. The air smells like burnt petrol. And, yet, from above, the old center retains its charm. Here, the trees are still alive. The patinated brickwork still stands on its ancient wooden foundations.

  A man frantically forces his bicycle over the cobblestone streets. He weaves to avoid the shrapnel littered about. He is not fooled by the calm. By his maps, this territory is in the hands of the revolutionaries. In the hands of his side. But the maps change every day.

  His name is Dena. He is risking his life because the radio says that the second battalion has taken the imperial palace. This means that everything hangs in the balance. This is the end of the war, the moment everybody has fought for. The moment they would all happily die for. That so many have died for. And right now they could throw it all away in a heartbeat.

  The palace is only a symbol, of course. The fight continues on a hundred fronts and thousands will still die, however the war ends. But once the people see the revolutionairy army on those azure marble stairs, once their flag hangs from the grand balcony, they can finally believe out loud. They can finally show what they have kept hidden so long. Support will shift. And eventually, even those that never supported them will see what is coming. And it will be their turn to hide what they truly believe.

  There will be those who cannot hide. Who have made their affiliation far too clear, in actions and in words. Dena has studied history. He knows what is coming if they win. He knows what a population will do when it has been starved, beaten and denied for generations, when the floodbank finally gives way. He can only relish the idea.

  Six months ago he would have been horrified at the notion. Despite his hatred of the regime, despite the full knowledge of exactly what they have been responsible for, he still had that intellectual stiffness, that basic decency. That immovable granite core of fundamental values that told him that mob justice was always to be abhorred. No matter in whose name, no matter to whom.

  After seeing the front line, that core had been knocked loose. He hadn't even been in the thick of it. He was always safe, in the rooms where the plans were made. But he knew that if they lost, he would be the example. The others would be put on trial, given a quick death, or even a reprieve to publicly show how merciful the regime was.

  But for the intellectuals, an example would need to be set. The regime as a whole despises people like Dena. It keeps an absolutely minimal intellectual class, and spends considerable effort maintaining control over them.

  After a full scale revolution, there will be no limit to the cruelty they will allow themselves. He might be lucky enough to die or kill himself, but his wife, his son and daughter, would not escape so easily.

  They are old-fashioned. They will torture the boy and rape the women. This will not be publicised, but plenty of photographs and recordings will be made, to discreetly slip to the others in his class. Make no mistake. This is what will happen. He has seen his share of colleagues end up in those photographs. He knows what was coming if they lose the war.

  So he fought. He signed orders and sent men and women to their deaths. With a smile, he would tell them this was the big one. The last fight, for the big break. The truth was usually that it was a scrap over some insignificant bit of infrastructure, and that on balance of probability, the losses would work out in their favor.

  Except that for the last six months, they never had. They had found themselves continuously on the back foot. Always second guessing. Always one breath short of gathering themselves together. Forever found out, forever hit in the worst places.

  Then, five days ago, the second battalion went dead quiet. The second comprised nine-hundred and eight of the most ruthless sociopaths they had at their disposal. Their single greatest asset. Killers to the last. Professional enough to be led, and unpredictable enough to frighten the living shit out of their allies and enemies alike.

  The second stopped answering their radios, and took almost a third of the most high-value hardware the revolutionary army had at its disposal. Command had panicked without hesitation. The main theory was that the second had been bought. Dena knew this was bullshit. The second were sociopaths, but they were not for sale. Who knows why people like that join a cause, but they had, and he thanked god every day that they had killers on their side, because the other side had a lot more.

  The answer came fifteen hours ago, around noon, when rumors of shelling in Madargeisa began to trickle in. By nightfall, command had managed to confirm that an entirely unsanctioned attack on the capital was taking place.

  Then, as command was piecing together what was happening, the second announced over public radio, in a booming voice that Dena did not recognize, that they had gone quiet for the simple reason that the revolutionary army was as leaky as a rat fucking a porcupine, and they had decided five days ago that they weren't going let the regime listen in anymore if they didn't feel like it.

  Then they had taken some time to make their plans and started an assault on Madargeisa. With three main columns to draw fire, three secondary columns had forced their way to the single objective they had set themselves: the palace.

  In the end, two of the secondary lines made it to the palace and forced their way in. They were too small to clear a path for any supply lines or long term support, but that didn't matter. From the palace, they could disrupt communication, and sabotage air support, giving the primary columns a fighting chance. They could secure the major roads, which the main army could then reinforce in the long term.

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  Their orders to command were clear. Reinforcements were to be sent to the suburbs only, and only Stiem Aekamla, leader of the revolution, with a maximum of five representatives was to be allowed near the palace. The threat of leaks was too great to allow anyone but the trusted members of the second so near this new center of operations.

  The frontline command, where Dena was stationed, had erupted in a frenzy of concurrent excitement and indignation, and spent most of their time arguing about how to get in touch with the head command and with the first battalion, where Aekamla was embedded.

  Dena had felt an intense and overwhelming sense that he was the only person in the world who grasped all aspects of what was going on. This development was at once a gift, a sudden glorious chance at success, and a desperately precious situation. Fighting was fighting. Always messy. It was about making fewer mistakes than the other guy. But winning, that was something else. To come out of war, to lead the people to peace. For this they needed different weapons. And all of them were in the palace.

  At the same time, he had for the first time seen what command really was. The second had seen what needed to be done and done it. They had a chance of winning the war and it was only because the people with insight, who could see ahead, had ignored the people in this room. And he had insight too. It was time he started using it.

  So he had walked out, unnoticed he assumed, and stolen a radio truck. Or perhaps he had taken it, since he probably outranked whoever was in charge of it. Near Park Berdetta at the southern edge of the city, at the outskirts of the first canton, he decided he was pushing his luck with the truck. This close to the center, either side would probably shoot to kill at an unknown truck.

  He had parked the truck somewhere out of sight, and had found an intact bicycle in the tiled courtyard of an old, ruined apartment building. A calculated risk. A cyclist would only be fired on by accident, or perhaps by a particularly bored and sadistic sniper.

  To the north, the medieval cobbled streets give way to the ruined tarmac of the People's Square. A great, open rectangle where traffic flowed in the days before the war. It separates the charming chaos of the old center from the vulgar neoclassical show of force that is the imperial palace.

  The square is quiet, and with good reason. Even with untrained eyes, Dena marks a handful of places from which a sniper could cover the whole area, and far beyond. The surrounding buildings have been shelled, probably to drive out or kill enemy snipers. Dena recognizes the remains of the natural history museum. That was always his favorite when his father would take him to the capital.

  From the great balcony hangs an improvised revolutionary flag: white with a red diamond. The hand-painted effect has the potential for an iconic image, but from this distance, the thing is simply too small. The gargantuan palace makes everything small. That is its whole purpose.

  Already in range of the snipers, Dena lets the bike fall to the ground. He realizes now that a white headband, the signature dress of the revolutionary army, would have made a clear signal that they should let him approach. He has never owned one. Another sign that he is an officer, but no soldier. Instead, he takes off his shirt and, bare chested, holds his arms out wide. He begins to walk slowly towards the palace. The second are not the type to fire warning shots. If they decide it is safer to kill him, he will never know it.

  He begins to walk slowly across the ruined asphalt. Are they debating whether to shoot him? Waiting for their orders? He is staring into the low sun. As far as he can tell, all windows have been blacked out, or have had their curtains drawn. No telling where the shot will come from.

  He feels a chill as he steps into the palace's long shadow. He has been walking for a few minutes, and the sweat from the cycling has evaporated from his back. He would like to put his shirt back on, but any unnecessary movement could mean a bullet. Even if they were waiting for orders, they would have come by now. It seems they've decided he's no threat. On the other hand, it could just mean they prefer not to shoot him in the middle of the square, where the body is harder to collect.

  The ceremonial steps curve around luxuriously to the left and right. He knows the left wing is closed. The regime never managed to fill the whole palace, so the left wing has been empty since it was built. With no money for maintenance, the place is locked away, decaying everywhere but on the outside. The second will have holed up in the right wing, with working heating, communications, and running water. He takes the left staircase. Don't walk into their blind spots, stay in plain sight. Be anything but a threat.

  The steps are awkwardly high. As he comes up to the enormous glass facade, he sees that it's been meticulously barricaded on the other side. A neat wall of heavy iron desks backed up by filing cabinets. Behind them, he can just make out stacks of documents. At least his instincts weren't wrong. He needed to come here.

  A shot rings out and a small impact kicks up chunks of marble behind him. He feels the dust spray his back as he freezes. A warning shot after all.

  "Don't move! The window on your right. Walk over, and stand with your back to it."

  Jaw clenched, he walks over. He holds his tongue. The more control they have, the safer he is.

  "Back up to the window. Keep going. Lean into it. Harder."

  The glass feels cold against his back. With a metal clank, it disappears, and he stumbles. He is caught, and pulled back by two, three arms. He drops the shirt. They flip him over and slam him onto cold tiles.

  "Who are you? What the fuck are you doing here?"

  "Lodjeambo, Dena. Command, Intelligence. Corporal. Look at the shirt, I'm on your side. I need to talk."

  "That was a mistake, intel. We told you not to come here. We told you. Akeamla only."

  "I'm not official. I wasn't ordered."

  "Then that shirt is a lie, deserter. You know what the second does to deserters?"

  "Please, let me speak to your commander. Please. All I need is five minutes to talk. You know I'm no danger."

  "Don't be so sure of what I know, buttercup."

  The voice sighs deeply.

  "Stick him somewhere. A cupboard or a toilet or something, nothing with windows. Two people by the door. I'll talk to Horamk."

  More rough treatment. Two men drag him to a nearby toilet. One pushes his chest into the the wall, while the other inspects the makeshift holding cell. They push him in and slam the door. The light is broken. Dena sits awkwardly on the toilet seat.