"With our supplies as they are now, we need one anyway," Piotr mutters, half to himself. The smile is gone now, but that fierce glint in his eyes persists. Oh, he wishes he could see Zahal's face right now. That face-painted son of a bitch must be in apoplectic fits by now. Is it too much to hope that the ghem-General himself catches the flu and dies choking on his own lungs? Ah, maybe. But Piotr will dream.

"This will certainly make it easier. We'll assemble every able body we can spare and hit them hard while we can." A flicker of that smile returns briefly. "Then we'll see just how much harder the epidemic hits them."