Tonight was New Year's Eve. But there would be no parties, no singing or fireworks to welcome in the New Year. Apart from the 9pm curfew, everyone was simply too tired, thought Daisy. Too worn out.

Slowly and painfully, the war was limping into its sixth year. The war which was supposed to have been over by Midwinter, five years ago, but which was dragging on and on, eating up people and resources.

Mind you, the Brettons had started it. Invading Khajiit's territory to the north, claiming they were only taking back what had been stolen from them in the last war, thirty years ago. For a while it seemed the Brettons were going to win, sweeping all before them, but then the Khajiits had begun to turn the tide, reclaiming their land foot by foot, battle by battle.

Now the Khajiit and the Brettons had fought each other almost to a standstill. The Brettons would have to surrender, wouldn't they? Everyone knew it was the only sensible thing to do.

On her way to work, Daisy couldn't help wondering, if the war didn't end soon, would there be anything left to fight over. She ducked down a side street, stepping over the rubble which had fallen during the night and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw her workplace was still intact.

Then there was a loud ping and her left arm twitched once before dropping to hang uselessly at her side. Damn it! Daisy plucked irritably at the leather sleeve and peeled it back. Made of delicate gears and springs, she was supposed to be looking at a top of the range clockwork limb replacement, but like everything else these days, it was a makeshift job. Blast! Looked like the main spring had broken this time. She hoped she would be able to fix it before she had to start work.

Daisy pushed open the door into the huge hangar and stepped inside. Instead of the dozen stately dirigibles in various stages of construction or repair, there was only one, floating up near the ceiling, tethered by a rope ladder. Small and battered, the airship's beautiful balloon was marred by ugly patches and the once-blue gondola below could have done with several coats of paint. But it was still in working order and even more importantly in Daisy's eyes, it was hers.

Forgetmenot hadn't been intended as a military vessel, nor had Daisy ever wanted to be a combat pilot when she was growing up, but the war had given them no choice.

Awkwardly, with only one working hand, Daisy climbed the rope ladder up to the gondola.

"Hi Daisy! I thought I heard you." A young woman popped her shaven head out from inside the engine room and smiled at her. "I've been working on that steering problem we had and I think I've fixed it... Oh dear, arm gone again? Want me to take a look? "

"Thanks, Anna," said Daisy gratefully. Her engineer, chief steam-technician and sole crewmate, stepped forward and took Daisy's broken limb gently, in work-roughened hands.

"I think I can fix that."

Daisy watched Anna as her clever fingers worked on the mechanism.

Anna was wearing her favourite leather corset, now bereft of all those beautiful, shiny brass fittings. All brass, up to and including personal ornaments had been requisitioned by the War Office months ago—every last piece scavenged to feed the war effort. Anna had covered the holes left behind with embroidered patches. Some of them, such as the bolts of lightning were rather cool, but to Daisy's eyes it just wasn't the same.

"Have you heard the news?" asked Anna, her expression suddenly grim. "You know how the War Office has been threatening to trigger an explosion at Mount Nariu? In north Bretton? Well, they've done it. Blown a hole in the Nariu reservoir wall and sent millions of gallons of water into the magma. They're saying it could be as many as twenty thousand dead. And you know the worst thing? It wasn't the lava that killed people, there was hardly any, it was the steam. Steam and poisonous gasses."

Daisy paled. "That's terrible," she whispered. "But at least it will mean the end of the war. Surely they'll have to surrender now?"

"I hope so," said Anna. "Because if they don't, the War Office is threatening to do it again. At Mount Guinea."

Underground and many miles to the north, inside the headquarters of the Bretton High Command, ten people sat and stared at each other. They were old—all the young people were on the front lines. Their faces were pale and drawn, reflecting their shock and horror at the disaster which had just befallen them.

"Twenty thousand dead. Most of them not even soldiers!" exclaimed one.

"How could they? So many children..."

"Monstrous!" whispered another, then sighed, "We'll have to surrender... "

"No. Monsters!" corrected the first speaker, anger rushing in to replace the shock. "We must fight back! We can't let them get away with such a hideous crime!"

"But what can we do? They have no volcanoes anywhere in their wretched land for us to threaten in return."

"We must surrender! We have no choice. If we don't, they've threatened to destroy Mount Guinea! Thousands more will die."

"Never!"

"Monsters."

High above, invisible in their ship outside the atmosphere, the aliens watched—and waited.

"Hullo? Is anyone there?" A young male voice called up from the floor of the hangar.

Daisy left the engine room and leant over the side of the gondola. A boy of about thirteen years old—too young to be a soldier, at least this week—was standing there in a dark grey messenger's uniform. She felt a punch to the stomach. Her baby brother, Mikey, would have been around that age by now, if only he hadn't been killed in the second year of the war.

Daisy cleared her throat.

"Yes?"

"I have a message for Pilot Daisy Walker," he answered, holding up a white envelope. "Is that you?"

"Yes, that's me. Hold on a moment and I'll come down."

"It's from the War Office," the boy announced, importantly.

Daisy bit back a sigh. So here they were then, orders for another mission. She'd been hoping that her last assignment, which had been relatively easy—ferrying supplies back and forth to the front—would be her final one. She would have thought having her arm shot off by a Bretton ray gun would have allowed her to retire gracefully from active service, secure in the knowledge that she had done her best for her country. But no sooner had she been fitted with her prosthetic arm, than she was summoned back to light duties.

Light duties! Huh! Daisy raised a scornful lip. Her clockwork arm wasn't as good as the original despite the maker's promise and flying the Forgetmenot had become hard work.

She reached the hangar floor and stretched out her right hand for the orders.

"I'm to wait," said the boy, handing them over.

Daisy raised her eyebrows and tore open the envelope. The message was brief enough. "Report to the War Office, immediately."

She read the words again, but they could only mean one thing. She was going to be assigned a combat mission. She winced. How bad had things got, that the War Office had to rely on disabled veterans?

"Anna? I have to go. I'll be back later—I hope," she added under her breath.

Reluctantly, she followed the messenger boy out of the hangar.