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“I don’t know,” said Samm. “I don’t drink. It’s unopened, though, so it’s probably fine.”

Shon examined the bottle, then unscrewed the top. The smell was exactly what he remembered, and he took a small swig straight from the bottle. “I used to drink this all the time back at Benning. Something about the South spoke to me in a way the rest of the country didn’t.” He took another drink. “Did you know that when you brought the bottle?”

“No, sir,” said Samm. “I only had time to raid one empty house before coming out here, and that’s what they happened to have.”

Shon took another small drink, savoring the burn in the back of his throat. “You know what goes well with bourbon? Fried chicken.”

“Are we going to talk about bourbon all night, sir?”

“You came to me,” said Shon. “Do you have something else you want to talk about?”

“I want you to stop this attack,” said Samm.

Shon’s surprise trickled out across the link. “As a thank-you for the drink?”

“I want you to put down your guns and free all your prisoners. And then you and I are going to go talk to the human refugees.”

“About what?”

“About a peace settlement,” said Samm.

Shon shook his head. “This is getting less and less plausible the more you talk. The humans killed our people. You killed our people, at least by association and probably, if I’m reading you right, by actually pulling triggers and killing them. That’s not the kind of people I make peace with.”

“I regret every bullet I’ve had to fire in this war.”

“That doesn’t make my soldiers any less dead.”

“Neither will killing the humans,” said Samm. He didn’t move, but his link data swelled with urgency. “Eighty percent of our people were killed in that nuclear blast, and that was a tragedy we can never make up for. But if you don’t make peace, you’re signing the death warrant of the last twenty percent. The humans aren’t your enemy here, General, expiration is, and killing those humans won’t change that. Attack and everybody dies, on both sides, whether it’s tomorrow or six months down the line. Make peace, and we can save the precious few we have left.”

“You’re saying the humans have a cure for expiration?”

“The humans are the cure for expiration,” said Samm. “Come with me to talk to them and I can prove it to you—I can show it to you, live and in person. Are you familiar with the Third Division?”

Shon nodded. “The Third Division took Denver; it was one of the biggest battles in the revolution.” He felt a sudden weight on his shoulders and took another drink, staring at the window. “They expired two years ago.”

“Most of them.”

“You’re saying some survived?”

Samm pointed toward the human camp. “Three of them, right over there. And six more still in Denver.”

Shon looked back at the bourbon, swirling it again, then capped it tightly and set it down on the desk. “Don’t you dare joke about this.”

Samm voice was firm as granite. “I am completely serious.” His link data practically vibrated with sincerity.

“How did they survive expiration?” asked Shon.

“Human interaction.”

“Are they prisoners?”

“They’re allies,” said Samm. “They’re friends. Some of them are even . . .”

Shon felt the prisoner’s emotion on the link and looked back sharply. “You’re in love with a human.”

“Close enough,” said Samm.

“So is that why you want to save them?” asked Shon, and he felt the bitterness creep back into his link. “’Cause you found a piece of tail?”

“What can I do to convince you I’m sincere?” asked Samm. “I’m not a talker, I’m not a leader, I’m just a guy. Just a soldier from the trenches, trying to do the best he can, but this is not the kind of problem a soldier can solve. I can’t cure expiration by shooting it, and I can’t bring peace between the species just by following orders and marching in formation. If I were a diplomat or a politician or a . . . hell, if I were anything but what I am, maybe I could tell you what this means, how important this is, how much I believe in it. But all I can give you is my word as a soldier that this is the right thing to do. Put down your weapons and make peace.”