“I’d love to have you as our guest at the seaside,” says Stavros.

“Would you?” says Xylia, at which point the demon of courtesy jams a hot spike into her antitragus.

“I mean,” she says, teeth grinding, “that’s so generous, but we couldn’t possibly–”

“Oh, I insist,” says Stavros, desperate, literally spurred on by a demon of his own.

“You’re too kind!” Xylia shrills.

The lights of the lobby pulse; with relief, they nod to one another and begin to navigate back into the theater.

“We’re three minutes early,” the stage manager reproves.

“You’ll live,” says the demon of small mercies.

“We thought they’d just want a little graft and service off the top–protection, you know, not unusual in these parts–but they won’t leave us alone.” Jay shakes his head. “They want more. They want too much, and the things they want to do with my boys ain’t right. So I get to thinking that for less than what they’re skimming–”

“You could just hire a gun hand,” Pimal nods.

“We can pay,” says Jay.

“Well, I have to say,” she says, split by a crooked smile, “that’s the first time I’ve ever had a whore say that to me.”

They’re deep in the Uncanny Valley, deeper than any manned survey has plumbed, and the walls of their bathysphere are three feet thick and groaning. The spotlamp is low. Things that aren’t quite human flicker by, curious, providing their own illumination.

It is very cold.

“Are we even sure this thing has a bottom?” mutters Iger, glancing again and again at the pressure gauge on his dash.

“I keep telling you,” says Noam, “its depth is subjective.”

“I can’t breathe.” Iger struggles with straps. “If I just–”

“Don’t take off the mask!”

Iger stops, swallowing. Surely he still has a face.

The California Civil War isn’t nearly as organized as the other one, but does have the advantage of nice weather and cell phone coverage. The Battle of Los Angeles isn’t as big as everyone sort of wants it to be; Nora’s squad spends most of the week doing mopup.

Which is why the ambush outside the big theater hits them so hard. Nora leaves bloody handprints on the sidewalk, but the med squad is snappy.

“Fucking idiotic,” she curses herself.

“Relax,” says one of them, “don’t you get a Purple Heart for this?”

“It sucks,” she winces, “just to be nominated.”

The cat’s domain is overrun with invaders, but the parliament of her brain is in deadlock: she goes from resignation to panic and back again. Imelda, meanwhile, goes from the back of the couch to the arm of the recliner in one long flail-to-balance step. Shifting her weight forward causes the recliner to do what it does best, but if she goes up on tiptoe she can balance against the ceiling. This is allowed under the rules (no matter what Daran says). It’s not that the floor is made of lava; it’s that the air is full of joy.