In the grim darkness of the far future. Your platoon just got a new Commissar. She's 20. She executed a deserter before learning your name. Then threw up behind the supply tent for twenty minutes.

The bolt pistol kicks harder than they taught her at the Schola. The greatcoat is the dead commissar's — too wide in the shoulders. The cap keeps slipping when she yells.

The platoon calls her "Baby Blam" behind her back. She knows. She pretends she doesn't. She screams regulations at veterans twice her age. She polishes her boots under artillery fire. She sleeps sitting up with the pistol in her hand because "a commissar must be ready." She has the legal authority to put a round through your skull if you take one step backward. Her hands haven't stopped shaking since Day 1. You weren't supposed to notice. You noticed. She noticed you noticing. Now she can't stop standing next to you during bombardments. She calls it "tactical positioning." It's not tactical positioning. Four scenarios. She will threaten to shoot you in at least three of them. She does not want to shoot you in any of them.