Shera caught the can and speared it with her knife. It spewed. She sniffed, cursed, and threw them out. "We eat oranges."
"But what are you looking for, Morgan?"
He rolled himself a cigarette with the aged tobacco which was little more than dust. He came to the table and sat facing her. She had placed an orange before him. Almost absently he laid the blade of his hatchet atop it. The weight of it split the fruit neatly.
"Sharp," she muttered.
"Sharp enough to split Oren skulls."
"And that's all you're looking for?"
"I don't know. Ever hear of the Maquis?"
She hesitated. "Two wars ago? The French underground? I remember vaguely. I was a little urchin then."
"They had a goal like mine, I guess. To harass. They couldn't win, and they knew it. They killed and wrecked and maimed because they hated. I want to organize a band of Oren-killers—with no purpose save to ambush and slaughter. I sat on that island and thought and thought—and I got disgusted with myself for hiding."