0400

​

Small yet deep footsteps wound around the twisted helicopter carcass, buried under year-long snow. Its detached blades had gouged scars on stone walls and sliced through thatched, icicled roofs. The footsteps ascended the winding street towards the northern cliff. At its bottom, blanketed by the westward pointing shadow, stood Skorpion, oblivious of the arrival of these stamping boots. 

 

Rows of shallow graves, all desecrated. The closest body, wrapped in a tattered burgundy greatcoat, had its jawbone crushed and its organs excavated through pried ribcage. Yet, its mummified visage remained that mask of fresh terror, as though last year’s Dragoon, its murderer, had waylaid it mere minutes ago. 

 

“Name?” 

 

Skorpion stirred slightly. Her reply was trepid yet solemn, “...Archibald. Thomas Archibald.”

 

“I see.”

 

Picked up the shovel buried by the street. One…two…Ten graves reconsecrated. Then, planted the boots beside Skorpion and, with exerted hands, stabbed the shovel into the cracking soil. 

 

Skorpion’s expression still inscrutable, her gaze still fixed on the gnarly grave marker. Placed the true palm firmly on her cold shoulder. “We will win.” 

 

She blinked, then lowered her gaze. “...Yea...” She breathed into her palms and rubbed her pallid cheeks. “Yeah. We will win.” She wore a smile which did not match her eye. “We are Erlikan Company! We are the best! We will win!” 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. Mist before the false eyes. “Breakfast is ready.” 

 

She gave her former commander’s grave her last glance, then declared aloud, “Then, we better return! Don’t wanna keep Springfield waiting!” She then pitter-pattered briskly away, hurriedly yet furtively. 

 

Looked at the grave marker again. Removed the left glove, unsheathed the knife. A sting sliced across the true palm. Clammy flesh spilt, drenched the peeling bark in red. 

 

Two oaths sworn; one spoken, another silent.

 

“We will win, for Skorpion’s sake.”

 

I will not abandon my people as you did, Grifon Commander Thomas Archibald. 

​

​

​

0530

​

Pulled the brake, cut the ignition. The door swung open. “Race you to Springfield’s!” Skorpion proclaimed.

 

“Carry on without me.” 

 

She blinked.

 

“I must check in with Lev and Griga on the wellbeing of the hellcannons.”

 

“Oh...” Though her smile remained, her pigtails had drooped. “Okay.” She hopped out of the jeep and turned around. “See you there then. Don’t keep us waiting, y’hear?” Her scampering footfalls punctuated her statement.

 

The driver’s door snapped shut. Soft footsteps halted; it came from the direction from whence Skorpion departed. “Hey, Pops!” Ingram greeted in between bites of her bread. “So you found her in the village after all.” 

 

“She was there, at the makeshift cemetery.” 

 

She chewed on her food and the information as she shut the passenger’s door. “How did it go? And before you say anything,” she pointed with her pinky, “I want to hear it from you.”

 

“...We had to rebury your hallowed dead.” 

 

Ingram pursed her lips, “Damn. We’ve only been gone for three weeks.”

 

Looked past the road, past the barricade of expended dummy containers at Intruder’s fort beyond. The village was below the plateau; any journey there would either be by the winding cliff road or by scaling the cliff below from the east.

 

“How regularly did you visit?” 

 

“Once a week.” The jeep shook; she sat on its boot. She finished her meal and gulped down a mouthful of coffee. “Skorpion insisted. Had to climb along the cliff at night, y’know, so the Sangvis can’t see us. How we got our supplies out, too.” 

 

“You carried?” 

 

She smirked and shook her head. “Nah, that’d be dumb. We bundled them into crates and tossed them down into the river. Had one of us stay at the bottom to fetch them.”

 

“I see.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “Immense risks you took for a weekly visit.” 

 

“We didn’t take the road.” She took another sip. “We used a rope. You can’t see the rope now. It’s gone; we took it down after we completed every visit. Skorpion, Papasha or I would climb up and stick the rope in the hooks we hammered along the cliff wall. Jumped from hook to hook. Last one down does the same thing, but in reverse.”

 

“In pitch blackness?”

 

“Didn’t say it’s easy. ‘Sides,” Ingram slapped her left chest. “We are dolls. We are made of harder stuff. Not to mention, if we fall, we fall into the river.”

 

“I see. Lev!” 

 

The captain meandering around the hellcannons grunted. 

 

“How are our cannons?” 

 

“Alyona’s almost at breaking point.” He tapped on the barrel, freshly rewelded. “Five shots, ten if we stretch the firing intervals… and if we are lucky.” He then pointed at Branka and Viktoriya; Sudaev was rewelding their cracks. “Branka’s the same. Viktoriya...well, she’s got plenty of life yet. She would have to pick up the slack.” 

 

“If all goes well, they will complete their tasks long before they fail.”

 

He stood up and stretched backwards. “I hope so.” 

 

“Feeling like Orban today,” said Griga as he approached from behind Branka. He was smiling, in high spirits. “Got to build three great cannons and watch them pound that wall to dust.”

 

“Didn't Orban die?” Lev inquired, his tone sardonic. He glanced at Alyona. “When his own cannons exploded from overuse?” 

 

“We’ll be fine.” Griga also glanced at Alyona, or rather, the welded cracks on her barrel. “We’ll be fine,” he repeated with a wrinkled smile. “Like Kommandir said, we will take those walls down before the cannons fail.” 

​

“Then we take care of the rest,” said Ingram, wearing a manic grin. “Get in there as soon as the walls fall and clear them all out. Then…” She shadow-boxed. “We get all mano-a-mano with the boss of the hill.”

 

“Do not do anything rash, Ingram.” 

 

“Yesssssss, Pops,” Ingram replied with a drawl. 

 

“I’m not so sure things will go so smoothly, Tovarisches.” Makarov joined us, bearing her binoculars. “You saw the cables running between their generator to their jamming tower and the walls. Not just the gate, but the junction points along the wall.”

​

“You suspect something is amiss.” Looked to the wall again. “What do you think Intruder has to spring against us?” 

 

Makarov shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, Kommandir. Could be hidden turrets.”

​

“Whatever tricks Intruder has up her sleeves, our cannons will take care of them,” Griga patted Alyona assuringly. “They have nothing left to match our firepower.”

 

“Besides,” Lev interjected. “AR-15 assured us they are out of skirmishers. We’ll be fine.” 

 

“All these ‘We’ll be fine’s’ aren’t reassuring.” Makarov sighed, then turned her ruby gaze towards the false eyes. “Kommandir Washington’s convoy’s across the bridge. The first truck has just begun its crossing.”

​

They will all arrive within half an hour. Another hour to unload and sort out the supplies. 

 

“What of Team FAL? Have they reported in?” 

 

Lev read his watch and replied. “They aren’t due for another fifteen minutes.” 

 

“I see.” Looked at the watch. Time, 0546. “We will begin the operation at 0700.”

 

“Copy,” Lev nodded. He glanced over his shoulder then nudged his head towards the food tent. “Get something to eat before Springfield gets angry.”

 

Gritty warmth washed over the true cheek. Rumbling engines echoed the fitful excitement of the present staff. Dolls and aux guards tuned and tweaked the BTRs and the trucks, welding wounds and loading ammunition. The sulphurous stench gave way to the aroma wafting from the canteen tent. Skorpion and Sop II beckoned.

 

“I told you not to keep us waiting!” Skorpion chided as she presented the lukewarm toast and soup, a thick broth of onions and potatoes with peppery flavour. “I helped!” Sop II waved, her ruby eyes glittered. “So when are we going to attack?” 

 

“0700. Contain your excitement lest it leads to rash actions.” 

 

M4 sandwiched between her and AR-15, her eyes fixed on her paper map as though entranced. Odd. She had an electronic map in her neural cloud for her perusal. 

 

“Your echelon will be spearheading this operation.” 

 

AR-15 elbowed her team leader, and she blinked and glanced at the false eyes. She nodded. “I know, Commander.” She then resumed brooding over her map. 

 

The map had red arrows drawn over it. 

 

“Have you any doubts on the battle plan?”

 

She maintained her anxious silence.

 

Opened the mouth, then closed it and frowned. Springfield’s calm interjection had derailed the train of thought. “Did you hurt yourself again?” 

 

Bit the lips and clamped the teeth on the plastic spork. Springfield turned her emerald gaze towards the false hand, wearing a smile like sunrise over these snowy peaks. 

 

Dipped the spoon into the soup again. Springfield’s expression was unchanged when she spoke again, “Show me your hand.”

 

“I am fine.”

 

“You winced.” 

 

“He didn’t hold the steering tight!” Skorpion stated. 

 

Inhaled. Exhaled. “Not in front of the present company.”

 

“What happened?” Sop II inquired demandingly. “What? What?” 

 

A horn blared close behind; the first resupply truck had arrived. 

 

Stabbed the spork into the broth. “I will speak to the arrivals.” Springfield folded her arms. She did not scowl, yet she emanated palpable disapproval.

 

Sulphurous stench encroached upon the hearth’s aroma. The engine growled even as Cilka and Ai disembarked their truck. “Deliveries!” the doll with the pale pigtails declared, rapping her knuckles against her vehicle’s side panels, her tone scarcely concealing her disdain. 

 

“Cilka!” Skorpion cut between us. She planted her feet firmly and pointed accusingly, “Why that tone? I thought we already settled!”

 

“You called that settled?” Cilka scoffed. She held out her clipboard, shaking it impatiently. “Shipping manifest! Take it! I don’t have all day!” 

 

“Stop starting fights and help me!” Ai shouted as the truck’s back panel fell with a loud crash. “We gotta unload before the operation starts!”

 

“Woah! More boom-tanks!” Sop II exclaimed, her eyes glittered excitedly. 

 

“Rejoice!” Cilka puffed up her chest. “Nivy’s considerate enough to have ten more shells built for you.”

 

“We have sufficient shells, but...” 

 

Cilka kept her chest puffed, still wearing her prideful smirk. Skorpion, her teeth ground, reared to retort.

 

Sigh exhaled. “...we appreciate the assistance all the same.”

 

“Are you all mad?!”

 

Cilka frowned, then regarded the stomping Makarov. She was joined by a handful of dolls and guardsmen, all donning exoskeletons. “Does the vice-director know?” the blue doll demanded, hair seemingly expanded, her usual pallid visage beet-red. “Did you even test any of these?” 

 

“Oh, come on, Soudruhu Komisari.” The pigtailed doll rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “We can follow instructions. Down to the letter even. Unlike a certain machine-pistolier.” 

 

“Hey!” 

 

“Besides, Kalina drafted detailed blueprints, unlike that napkin scrawl the Lame Commander handed her.” Cilka shot a stink-eye. “You should treat hard-working girls better, Taskmaster Commander.” 

 

“We will be having words with her about running her mouth,” Makarov scowled. 

 

“We’ll take care of the cargo.” Springfield had joined us, still wearing that oppressively sunny smile. “You, Ai and Danilov should have breakfast. Cetin and Sten will take care of you.” 

 

The aforementioned driver nodded appreciatively from his seat while Cilka clasped her hands. “Really?” She bounced towards the matriarchal doll and wrung both her hands. “Pani Springfield! Thanks!” Upon releasing Springfield’s hands, Cilka turned towards Skorpion, then at the false eyes, and smirked. “Here’s a proper host, right here.” 

 

Skorpion scowled. 

 

Sigh exhaled. "Skorpion, make nice. Come along.” 

 

“Yeeeeeessss.” Skorpion puffed her cheeks and stomped towards the hearth, with the guests following close 

 

“Anyway, what’s with you? You haven’t called me Crabby today.” 

 

“Shut!”

 

Fleur waited at the counter just ahead, her anticipation bared despite Kalina’s shades. She pinched an envelope between her digits. 

​

​

​

0655

​

MDR, her arms folded, sat cross-legged on her cradle. She snuck glances at David, turned her nose at him and pouted. David, meanwhile, typed and clicked on his console, seemingly oblivious to her discontent. 

 

MDR’s phone was by his right hand, and her camera drone rested, folded, to the right of the ECM console.

 

“What had transpired during my absence?”

 

David leaned against his chair and pinched his nose’s bridge. He glanced at the phone and replied, “Makarov caught her touring the camp with this rolling.” He nudged the dormant drone with his right foot. 

 

“H-hey!” MDR protested. Seeing her devices unharmed, she sank back on her cradle, crossed her arms and glared. Her pink eye seemed to gleam with utter discontent. A barrage of vile expletives, accompanied by wild gesticulation, gushed out, followed up with, “Why does MP41 get to get away with this? That <expletive> was also running around snapping photos of everything!” She then wrung and failed her arms agitatedly. “Unfair! You <expletives> are unfair! It’s unfair I was caught, and that <expletive> wasn’t!”  

 

“Watch your language; you are in the presence of Tovarisch Kommandir.” Makarov, emerging from behind the jammer, reprimanded after a sigh. “Yeah! Language!” Skorpion followed her close. “And on the subject of MP41, She is already taken care of.” Makarov, her brow furrowed, gazed disapprovingly at MDR. “MP40 has reprimanded her and confiscated her camera. She has also destroyed the film.”

​

MDR pouted ever more furiously. “Hmmmph!” She folded her arms and turned her nose.

​

“Everyone’s at their post,” Makarov informed, sneaking side glances at Skorpion, “Except us, of course.” 

​

“Oi!” Before Skorpion could retort, she caught her pale comrade’s emphasis. She decided to withhold her comment and grinned sheepishly instead.

 

“I see. Skorpion.” 

 

She blinked again and turned her gaze towards her false eye. 

 

Showed her the true forearm. “We will win.” 

 

She raised her forearm, wearing a cocky smirk. “And we’ll be fine!” 

 

After knocking our arms together, she hurried after Makarov.

 

The truck bed yawed. Sat on the chair, placed the thermos by the keyboard. A line of green blips, Nivy’s convoy, had exited the AO. Gaze fell upon the village to the northwest, across the bridge and below the base camp, where Commander Thomas Archibald and Skorpion’s deceased comrades lay. They will be exhumed and reburied in proper graves.

 

All blue blips at their posts. Two BTRs and two gun-trucks arrayed in a column. Gap between expended dummy containers wide enough for them to pass. Hellcannons pointing northeast towards the hill, one kilometre from the black walls and sheltered behind the makeshift barricades.

 

Another sip of coffee. Sour and bitter, with floral notes. Wore the headset, muffled David’s clicks and taps. MDR had fallen limp on her cradle.

 

Red blips withdrew away from the wall; Intruder knew of our intentions. Regardless, she will be overwhelmed. In an hour, her menace will end.

 

We will win.

​

“Command to All. Commence the operation.”

 

The truck trembled; the hellcannons thundered. Bright flashes on the screen, swiftly smothered by thrown-up dust. Cheers erupted; the shells had found their mark.

 

Flashes faded into afterimages. The black wall and black gate emerged from the settling dust unscathed.

 

Stunned silence roused into confused clamour.

 

“Command to Perseids, report.”

 

Svet’s voice on the headset, agitated. "Viktoriya and Branka, direct hit. Alyona, off-target ten metres. No effect!”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“I...” she hesitated. “I think I saw a shimmer at the sites of impact.”

 

Clicks and taps. All micro-drone feeds directed towards the walls and gate, zoomed in. 

 

“Fire a second volley.”

 

“A!-Affirmative!”

 

The cannons roared again. Direct hit, flashes of light. Iridescent bubble behind the dust clouds broke into shimmers. 

​

Phaser bolts fizzled into light flashes before they could scorch the Enterprise’s hull. Yet, the bridge crewmen were thrown off their feet, scalded by exploding consoles.

​

Energy shield.

 

Picked up the radio. It buzzed before the button was pressed. 

 

“Perseids to Command,” Lev had spoken. “Sangvis’ got a force shield, same one the Argos trains use. We can’t crack it with what we have; we’ll have to walk, run or drive through it!” 

 

“With that gate closed to us? This tactic is unfeasible.”

 

“Looking at that generator model,” David interjected. “At least three days of sustained artillery fire…”

 

“Alyona and Branka can’t last eight volleys, let alone three days!” Lev barked. 

 

David opened his mouth, snapped it shut, frowned and pressed on his headset. “Breach at port twenty!” He spun towards his console and resumed his work with furious vigour. 

 

“Oh, how flattered I am by your eagerness to attend my tea party,” the headset emitted that familiar husky voice. 

 

“That you would claw so savagely at my gate. My, the fragrance must be quite intoxicating indeed,” Intruder continued mockingly.

 

“It’s an audio file!” David announced. 

 

“Alas, you are uninvited, and the gate is closed to you…unless you brought a suitable gift: M4A1 and her comrades, all wrapped up in pretty. Little. Ribbons.”

​

“Scan result! No malware!”

 

“Alas, I know I will be disappointed. I know you will not surrender them to me.”

 

Arid gusts coursed up the windpipe. “Let it play.”

 

David nodded in affirmation and returned his attention to his console.

 

“But can you afford to be so obstinate? After all, you think Master is devising a plan.”

 

Team FAL had reported no Sangvis forces amassing in Sector Ten Subsector Four, but what of tomorrow? Or the day after?

 

“You think M16A1 is in my clutches.” 

 

M4 at the spearhead. She must be leaning against her driver, frustration etched on her brow.

 

“You think you are short on time.”

 

Helianthus insisted the hellcannons be retired by the end of the week. This directive applies even if the cannons were assembled within this week. 

 

“You can continue to besiege my bulwarks as though they are the walls of Constantinople.”

 

Three days to build more cannons and five days to assemble sufficient shells, assuming Nivy’s people can salvage the materials in time.

 

“But I doubt you will succeed. You won’t march into my abode triumphantly like glorious Suleiman.”

 

No, he will not procure the materials in time.

 

“Nay, you will be forced to withdraw in disgrace like Bayezid.”

 

We cannot withdraw. The oath is sworn. We must win!

​

“I offer you the opportunity to accede to my request, and deliver unto me a Trojan’s gift.”

 

Suicide drones to strike the generators? Can they pierce the shield? And even then, we would need at least thirty, with the Ringleader in that position and her anticipating their use. Does Nivy even possess the materials and means to fabricate them before the week is over?

 

“I’ll await your response with bated breath.”

 

Mechanised night raid? No, the risk of Intruder’s sentries spotting the dolls traversing no man’s land is too great! She has enough Jaegers and Jaguars to repel the incursion, with no fear of retaliation, under the protective umbrella of that accursed shield!

 

“Do keep me waiting. After all, this has been an amusing way to kill time.”

 

The headset fell silent. One of the feeds had gone dark, pitch-black. Then, that all-familiar yellow text emerged. They flowed behind the drifting, blinking, searing box.

​

FOLLOW THE GLITCHED LINE ON THE MAIN SCREEN.

 

Glanced over the shoulder. David had ceased typing and was rubbing his nose. Turned the false gaze towards the main screen. Sipped the coffee; the brew tasted bitter.

 

Faint pixelated line traced a path along the cliff face. A ledge? Goat’s path? An opportunity to turn Constantinople into Thermopylae?

 

“Command to Team SVD. Report to the command truck.”

​