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"This is the most decisive victory in human history? There have been so many times in the past where one side has won the war, but never could be sure the other wouldn’t rise again one day and take revenge. But that can’t ever happen this time."

"Why not?" BP began, and realisation struck. "Oh."

"Exactly." The Director nodded genially. "You’ve removed a permanent threat, forever, and that’s exactly why you’re a hero. The country isn’t ungrateful. You can pick any reward you want."

BP’s mind whirled. "I..." he began. "I..."

The Director held up a hand. "Take your time. There’s no hurry. Come and tell me tomorrow morning what you want. I can assure you in advance you’ve got it." He smiled again. "In the meantime..."

BP waited.

"Go out to the town, why don’t you? Have a night out. You’ve earned the pleasure."

BP looked down at his hands and up at the Director. "Thank you," he said, "but I’m very tired. I just want to go to bed."

"Suit yourself," the Director said. "It was just a suggestion, but you can do anything you want. You’ve earned it, now."

BP dreamed.

In the dream he saw a city. It was an enemy city, as he’d seen it in photographs, with its tall grey buildings with the baroque architecture and the gargoyles on cornices, the broad streets with the sandstone bridges, pillars with lamps at each end. The signs on the shops and buildings, too, in the enemy’s language, angular letters just on the other side of making sense. It was a lovely city, and should be bustling with life. But there was not a single sign of life, not a noise. On the broad, beautiful streets, nothing moved, not even a scrap of paper blown by a gust of wind.

Then, at last, he saw movement. He didn’t immediately realise what it was. Low to the ground, slow and spasmodic, it twitched and lurched in the shadows of a half-open doorway, like something afraid of the light. Curious, he drifted closer.

At first he thought it was some kind of monster out of a dream, something bright red and sprawling that crawled blindly and felt its slow, eyeless way. Even when it opened a gash in the round mass at its front end, he didn’t realise what it was.

He realised it only when the blind, crawling thing called him by name...

BP jerked awake. His heart was thudding so hard it felt as though it would burst out of his chest. It was some moments before he realised that a soft voice was actually calling him by name.

The blankets were drawn back as someone slipped into the bed beside him. He felt smooth, naked skin, the swell of a breast surmounted by a hard nipple. "Don’t you lock your door at night?" D whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

"What are you doing here?" He tried to sit up, but she swung herself over him, straddled him, and pushed him back down. Her index finger lay on his lips.

"Shh," she said. "Don’t you want me? I can tell you want me."

"No," he wanted to say, but his body was already responding, independent of his mind.

She smiled down at him, her teeth a flash of white in the dimness.

"I always wanted to fuck a hero," she said.

The Director had put a vase of fresh flowers on his desk. The red of them bled into the air. "So," he asked, "have you decided what your reward’s to be?"

BP nodded, looking at the flowers, whose colour reminded him of the crawling thing from the dream. "Two things. First, I want to continue my research. Fully independently, with all the funding and equipment I need."

The Director shrugged. "I suppose that’s what they’d expect anyway. We might need your weapon again, in future, against someone. What’s the other?"

BP told him. The Director nodded slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," BP said. "Do you think it can be managed?"

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