“Mr. Grike? Can you hear me?”

A very young woman was looking down at him. He had a faint, tantalizing memory of a girl, and wondered if this might be her. But no: there had been something broken about the face in his dreams, and this face was perfect: an Eastern face with high cheekbones and pale skin, the black eyes framed by heavy black spectacles. Her short hair had been dyed green. Beneath her transparent cape she wore a black uniform with winged skulls embroidered in silver thread on the high black collar.

She set a hand on the corroded metal of his chest and said, “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Grike. I know this must be confusing for you. You’ve been dead for more than eighteen years.”

“DEAD,” he said.

The young woman smiled. Her teeth were white and crooked, slightly too big for her small mouth. “Maybe ‘dormant’ is a better word. Old Stalkers never really die, Mr. Grike…”

There was a rumbling sound, too rhythmic to be thunder. Pulses of orange light flickered on the clouds, throwing the crags that towered above Grike’s resting-place into silhouette. Some of the soldiers looked up nervously. One said, “Snout guns. They have broken through the marsh forts. Their amphibious suburbs will be here within the hour.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder and said, “Thank you, Captain,” then turned her attention to Grike again, her hands working quickly inside his skull. “You were badly damaged and you shut down, but we are going to repair you. I am Dr. Oenone Zero of the Resurrection Corps.”

“I DON’T REMEMBER ANYTHING,” Grike told her.

“Your memory was damaged,” she replied. “I cannot restore it. I’m sorry.”