Depending on where one lived, the term 'Panser-bjørner' elicited one of two reactions. In the Americas, confusion—"Some kinda German tank?"—or amidst the well-read, mention of Philip Pullman. In Eurasia, particularly in those states bordering the Eastern Union, it carried with it an aura of fear comparable to Curt's Death Korps. Panser-bjørner, literally "armour-bears", was the nickname of an elite unit of cybernetically-enhanced soldiers that had been officially inducted into the Union Armed Forces the year previous. Ironically enough, Thorvald had pulled the moniker directly from His Dark Materials, but there any similarity ended. The project's aim was to equip a soldier with neurally-controlled prosthetics in what popular media might have called a 'battle suit'. The Coruscantis had themselves begun early experiments into powered armour prior to their defeat, but the Union's programme went radically further: the unit was formed of volunteers, mostly veterans, and all physically handicapped; the project was conceived chiefly to make these men able-bodied soldiers, with integrated weapons a corollary perk. They weren't just piloting the tank: they were the tank.

The programme had taken years and billions of Euros in investment to reach its current state; rumours abounded that it was under development even before Thorvald's rise to power. Its engineers aspired to an almost impossible level of dexterity in the finished components, arguing the technological breakthrough would be a godsend to the civilian medical sector. Additionally, each individual system had to be specially-tailored to its operator's specific disability, which initially presented a nightmare to the manufacturers until the designers, in a stroke of hilarious if expensive hindsight, redesigned the components around a modular framework. And it worked. The prototypes weren't quite the 'new flesh' as their ambitious proponents had hoped, but they were deemed more than satisfactory for combat and in 2010 the unit was incorporated into the official chain of command.

While development had remained top-secret (even Curt wasn't aware, so they claim), once the project was cleared for the front lines Moscow strategically leaked its existence to its immediate neighbours. Ironically, the public perception of the Panser-bjørner bark far exceeded any testimony to their bite; although the interface was designed around the sort of heavy armament one would expect in a field battle, they were used nigh-exclusively in domestic police and counterterrorism actions, where their real force multiplier lay in their intimidation factor rather than actual firepower. Small squads had assisted in surgical operations in the Union's covert war with Taillenia, proving that the unit had teeth, but to much of the world it remained the sort of legendary trump card that they prayed would never be tested in their yard.

And yet, to the Imperial liaison receiving the Union's special forces dispatch to New England, it was not the tall, steel-suited cyborgs standing before him that provoked unease, but the very normal officer they flanked. He had short, pale-blond hair and a bristly moustache, a small beret atop his head and a field jacket whose epaulets denoted him as senior brass. He didn't sport a chain gun for an arm or a rocket pack on his shoulder, but his razor wit proved a more than equal substitute.

"I'm not questioning the mission," he sang with as polite a smile as his contempt for the man in front of him permitted, "I am merely inquiring as to what, precisely, it is."

"Thorvald didn't tell you?" he challenged, desperately trying to keep from drowning under a cynicism that transcended any mere chain of command.

"He told me as much as Curt told him," he replied, "Which, evidently, wasn't much." It was a lie, of course: Curt had said plenty, and Thorvald had spared no detail in his briefing. The Triumvirate had released CivGeneral into the wilderness, and sure enough, within hours he had contacted Vault 44, headquarters of the Coruscanti Resistance. The rebels invaded New London the next day. While Curt's troops readied for a retaliatory strike that night, Thorvald was given responsibility for cracking the vault. Curt had specifically requested the Panser-bjørner, from which Thorvald inferred the operation was a loyalty mission, or at the very least, a means to scapegoat him if, for whatever highly improbable reason, the counterattack failed.

In of itself, the mission was a routine sweep. What complicated matters was the time frame. Curt didn't just want the Coruscantis beaten back; he wanted the cell destroyed for good, and he wanted it done before they had the chance to regroup. If the Coruscantis behaved as expected, defeat in New London would lead to a retreat to the vault. If they felt their base was still secure, they would spend the next two or three days planning an evacuation; but if they thought its location was compromised, they might flee as soon as that morning. Curt's men wouldn't have had a problem planning such an operation; indeed, their knowledge of the region meant they could have orchestrated a joint strike if they so desired. The Union was not so readily prepared: the force had to leave literally as soon as the reprisal was conceived, the actual plan had to be concocted during the flight over with no familiarity with the area of operation, and even a military bee-line only got the unit to the front by evening local time. As the Imperial liaison reiterated the basic facts with the smugness of a king dispatching an undesirable on an impossible quest, it became quite clear that the mission had been designed to fail. But the Empire hadn't bargained on Kirill Gedeonin.

"So, to cut the crap," he interjected, speaking with the speed and clarity of a debater that had constructed a responsory torpedo during his opponent's spiel, "We were flown out here to plan and execute the sort of high-profile sting that usually takes at least a week of preparation in less than a day, despite the fact that Curt's own troops are better-informed, better-prepared, and all-'round better-suited to the task, in what we both know is a scheme to leave your armed forces a PR lifeline should they fuck up the hit on CivGeneral." He grinned as his counterpart scrambled to concoct a reply. "Educated guess."

"Of course, if you feel your current force is inadequate," he stumbled, "Curt is happy to provide a contingent to support—"

"Yes," he pounced, "After spending a twelve-hour commute with no sleep because I need to come up with a plan for this evening, nothing would delight me more than to retool everything at the last minute to incorporate an army that follows an entirely different combat doctrine. Do send my thanks to Curt for the offer, but we'll handle this ourselves. Good evening."

He turned to leave, and the liaison spoke up. "Are... are you dismissing me?"

"Unless you want to make this a social call, in which case I must by needs decline as I have a vault to crack. Some other time, perhaps."

"Just a minute, you can't do that!" called the soldier, briefly reclaiming his nerve, "The Union task group requires a liaison to maintain a communications channel with the New London relief force."

"That's where you're wrong," said Gedeonin with a crooked smile. "I know for a fact that Curt told Thorvald we were free to conduct this mission in whatever way we saw fit, and completely independent of his own operations. Probably his way of maintaining plausible deniability," he winked, withdrawing a photocopied memo that he passed to the officer. "Now, I do intend, of my own volition, to keep a channel open with the New London unit, but it will be one of my men bearing that link, not yours." He snatched the memo back and returned it to his jacket pocket. "So, go home and get some sleep, and you can join us tomorrow when we auction off the vault estate. Good evening." He spun about and walked off. His bodyguards lingered for a moment until the liaison got the message and resigned to depart.

It was a tall order, for sure, but Gedeonin was undoubtedly the best man for the job; indeed, Thorvald's first call after meeting with his fellow triumvirs was straight to the officer. His career was built in the special forces, and he had a detective's knack for investigative analysis, honed through over a decade of shadow warfare and office politics. His nickname, "The Inquisitor", was thus well-deserved. Likely the only reason he hadn't been promoted to head of the Federal Security Service was because he would have turned it down anyway, preferring the excitement of field work. Thorvald knew that if anyone could devise a miracle plan on such short notice, it was Kirill.

Gedeonin in turn had his own trump card. Sjurd Haugen, codenamed "Switchblade", was a special agent with years of experience in covert operations. His talent was infiltration; he was fluent in a dozen languages and could speak American English with nary a trace of an accent. In optimal conditions, Gedeonin would have spent at least a week getting a lay for the land, worming his unaugmented special forces into Coruscanti confidence, and then, once he had a firm grasp of their strategies, schedules, and disposition of forces, lay siege to the vault. What he concocted on the flight was incredibly risky, relying as much on Coruscanti naïveté as his operatives' skill; but if it worked, he could skip the siege altogether. Switchblade and a detachment of Spetsnaz would deploy in the woods north of Waterford; when Curt rolled into town and the forces fled, the team would pick off a rebel retreating westward, and Switchblade would don his uniform. (If it didn't fit, they'd hunt down another rebel.) Exploiting the confusion of the retreat, not to mention the Coruscantis' own bleeding-heart idealism, he would work his way into the garrison's confidence and into the vault. He would then bide his time, divining troop movements as best he could, and broadcast a radio signal once they appeared to have settled. The Panser-bjørner, who by then had optimally located the vault entrance and its emergency escape, would deploy, issue a response signal, and when the opportune moment arose Switchblade would head to the entrance and throw open the gates.

Gedeonin returned to the airport hangar that served as operational headquarters. He was pleasantly surprised that Curt had set them up in the military wing of Bradley International Airport; he would have preferred something with less of an echo, but it was no trade-off at all given they would enjoy the protection of the local Imperial garrison, allowing him to devote all his men to the operation. Sleeping bags, most of them occupied, were laid out in neat little rows by the wall; a few guns were propped nearby, but most of their supplies were kept at the other side. The squad leaders snapped to attention as he approached; he idly answered their salutes before leading them to a table where he unfolded a map of the area. "Do you want the team for this?" asked one of the officers as Gedeonin flattened it out.

The general looked up, pausing for a moment as his sleep-addled brain fought to remain in gear. "No," he breathed, rubbing his eyes as he straightened up. He withdrew two coloured pencils, one blue, one yellow, from his inside pocket, taking a breath before plunging into the briefing. "Curt plans to hit the town at approximately 2000 hours. Two mechanized companies from the northwest," he sketched yellow arrows along Routes 85 and 32, "And a tank platoon from the east." He marked an 'x' in Groton and an arrow toward New London.

"Eight o'clock?" interjected an officer, "That's less than an hour from now!"

"Exactly," he growled, "Which is why I hope you all slept on the plane." He gestured to the area southwest of the city. "The approach leaves the rebels an escape corridor in the south; the expectation is a retreat will dip down and back towards Waterford, and from there, to the vault." He swapped to the blue pencil. "Your job," he gestured to the Spetsnaz commanders, all dressed in woodland camouflage, "Is to intercept the rout as it enters the forest." He drew a line just above the main highway, circling its bottom end near the Niantic River. "We can't be sure of their scatter pattern, but with Curt's forces on their heels they're highly likely to bee-line it, so your focus will be on this area." He drew a second circle at the river's mouth. "They may try to divert through Niantic, but that's too far south for our operations and I've put in a request for the Imperials to station a watch." He promptly crossed it out before returning their attention to the line. "It's a fair stretch of ground, but it'll be easier than trying to net them deeper in the forest. Petrov and Sadowski, you'll be responsible for patrolling Route 161;" he drew a dotted line along a north-south road. "The rest of you will break your squads into fire teams and establish ambush points within this area." He scribbled in shading covering roughly three kilometres to the upper left of the line. "You can pick your points." He handed the blue pencil to the nearest squad leader. "Where's Haugen?"

"Sir," the agent replied, leaning forward.

"Good God, Major, you look awful."

"Thank you, sir," he said, without a hint of irony. His face was streaked with dirt and he looked like he hadn't properly shaved in days. Given that he'd only been seconded to the mission earlier that day, Gedeonin was actually astounded by how dishevelled he'd managed to make himself in such a short time frame. Had they not met that morning, he might've been tempted to ask if Haugen had just come from a mission.

"The plan is the same as what I briefed you," Gedeonin continued to the group, "Grab any rebel you find, get his measurements, and if they match up, radio in. We'll set up a half-way house at this RV lot here," he doodled a flag by a small water body next to Route 161. "Rendez-vous here and Haugen will don his uniform."

"Sir, if I may add?" the agent spoke up.

"Of course."

"We need to make sure the captive is taken alive, and with as little physical harm as possible. The rebels' equipment may be ad-hoc, but too much damage without a corresponding injury, especially any sort of blood, could cause problems down the line."

"That's a good point," muttered Gedeonin, rubbing his eyes again, "Colonel Trusov," he turned to one of the three Panser-bjørner attending, standing a little behind the rest of the group, "Your men could probably help; how many do you think you can spare?"

The officer addressed did a quick head-count. "One, two per squad?"

"Horoshiy. Go find some volunteers. Ah! No, wait—" he called as the cyborg made to leave, "One last point." He blinked hard twice before sharing a meaningful stare with the assembled commanders. "The Coruscantis don't know we're here, and I intend to keep it that way up until we hit the vault. You kill anyone, you hide the body. We're not here to clean up Imperial leftovers, so once Haugen has a uniform you get out of the area as quickly and quietly as possible. Understood?" Heads nodded and confirmations were muttered. Gedeonin looked over the map as the officer to his left set down the pencil. "Alright. I want everyone ready to leave in the next five minutes."

******

By the time the Spetsnaz arrived, the attack was already underway. More disconcerting than the fact that Imperial forces had lied about the operation's schedule was the distant flash and echo of aerial bombing. Gedeonin could easily write off the first as a further attempt to undermine his side of the mission, but he had to smirk from the second: evidently there were still some tactics to which Curt preferred not to draw Thorvald's attention. The transport trucks, all unmarked, pulled into the RV lot, which thankfully was deserted for the season. Gedeonin, Switchblade, and a security detail of Panser-bjørner would hold field headquarters on the property while the squads did their work. The general went over the key points of the mission one last time, then dismissed the squad leaders with a sharp salute.

"I want regular patrols in at least a 300-metre perimeter from the lot," he instructed Trusov. "Rotate them as you need; we could be here 'til daybreak. I'll be sleeping in the cab; call me when the Major has a uniform or if something important comes up."

"You're not commandeering the house, sir?" the colonel asked, confused.

Gedeonin, trembling slightly from his weary nerves, twirled his finger. "Machiavelli says: You can kill a man's father, but don't you dare touch his property. We're already squatting... The owners probably don't know Russian, but I figure, why take that chance? Besides: I've roughed it worse than your boys."

Trusov couldn't help but answer the general's grin with a smirk of his own. "Very good, sir. Sweet dreams."

The rebels began to filter in at around 10 P.M. The fire teams, suffering the double handicap of getting the lay of foreign land in pitch darkness, couldn't respond fast enough. One guerilla spotted the road patrol and had to be shot; he was brought back to base camp unconscious but stable. Haugen assured Trusov it was no big deal: these were the eleventh-hour partisans, the early deserters, most of whom were boys rather than men and probably not in his size anyway. When the city fell, more would come. Gedeonin was concerned he was casting his net too wide, but Switchblade thought the real problem would come when the rout began in earnest and the fire teams would be swamped with full squadrons. They would have plenty of targets; the trick would be to break up the herd.

About twenty minutes after midnight, the trickle turned into a steady stream. The Spetsnaz were genuinely surprised at how well-organized the evacuation was: the Coruscantis kept themselves in tight squads of at least five men that couldn't be broken up without live fire. Numerous times they had to back off, and as the night dragged on without a single catch the squad leaders twice asked for permission to engage, and were twice denied. At half past one, however, the cohesion evaporated as the rear guard broke ranks to escape its Imperial pursuers. By the next half-hour, the fire teams had captured a suitable donor. They returned to base camp with a total of nine prisoners: three the wrong size, three shot, one woman, and one in the right size snagged just seconds before the mission was called off. Switchblade sullied himself up to match the pilfered uniform, swapped weapons, and after one last word with the general, headed into the forest preserve.

He knew the general direction of the vault from their headquarters, but not knowing the rebels' standard-issue kit had opted to leave behind his GPS tracker and night vision goggles, relying on his field compass and a local road map picked up from the airport. Fortunately for him, the retreat was still underway and he stealthily followed other rebels fleeing through the woods. In about an hour he began encountering Coruscantis much more frequently, and determined that he was in the vicinity of the vault. Strangely, as he continued north he found himself leaving the dense forest, crossing through a transmission line route and into much sparser terrain. He stepped cautiously across the underbrush, keeping alert for possible patrols. While the retreating guerillas hadn't tried to mask their approach, he knew the danger of growing complacent.

The agent began descending a steep embankment when he heard a shout from his back right. "Who's there? George?"

Shit, he thought, dropping prone, Of course they'd use a challenge!

"George?" the sentry called again, agitated, "George!" Peering up from his hasty cover, he could see the dim outline of a soldier picking his way down the slope, veering a safe distance to his left, swinging what looked like an antique rifle about as he did so.

Switchblade thought. He'd shouted, which had given away his position. 'George' might be a friend, or it might be a challenge; but even if it was the latter, the way the poor sod was raising a ruckus he probably hadn't been taught how challenges work. Although the Major had two guesses as to what the answer might be, the wrong one would almost certainly give him away, even to this greenhorn. No—better to play down to the sentry's inexperience.

"Hey!" the agent shout-whispered, dropping his rifle and slowly standing up, arms raised, "Don't shoot!" He winced as a torch was shone in his face. "Hey, put that light out!" he hissed, "You'll get yourself spotted!"

"Sorry," he muttered, relaxing his posture and stepping forward. "Had to make sure. You from New London?"

"Yeah. We were told to retreat to the vault, but I got separated from my squad. I only joined up the other day, so I don't know where—"

"Don't sweat it," said the sentry, comfortingly, "You're almost there." Switchblade picked up his rifle and followed the rebel down the slope. Circling south, they followed a dirt track to a shallow depression where a featureless concrete front appeared buried into an outcropping, one half of a steel double-door standing open. "Vault 44," announced the escort, "Your home-away-from-home." Switchblade gushed a thank-you before proceeding in. Past the front door was the vault entrance proper, standing slightly ajar so that a single person could slip through either way. Illuminated by the dull light seeping through were three guards that appraised him as he approached.

"Do I... just go in?" he asked shyly.

"Yeah," answered the nearest man after sizing him up. He slipped through into yet another entranceway, this one a rolling chain-link gate that likewise stood ajar. More soldiers and a three-wheeled robot stood on either side but quickly ushered him through. Sitting on benches or lying on the ground across the foyer were the real evacuees, all sullen and tired. Medics picked their way through the crowd, conducting triage and tending to the non-critical injuries. The stench of sweat, blood and gunpowder was so thick he wondered if some of the coughing and hacking was from people choking on it. He proceeded deeper into the complex; all the corridors seemed lined with refugees, and he determined quite quickly that the vault was well over capacity. Already the plan had complicated: Gedeonin had assumed that Vault 44 followed Vault-Tec's basic blueprint, but as Switchblade had just observed, the front door opened up straight into the interior, and given the present situation, likely couldn't be emptied. He didn't know how he would be able to get the troops in with that many spectators.

He saw two orderlies carrying a badly-limping soldier down the hall and claimed the vacant seat on the bench. To his left was a young-looking fighter with short blond hair and a filthy face; to his right, a toque-wearing woman folded in on herself, sleeping. "Hey," said the man with a weary smile, "You made it!"

"Barely," he replied automatically, wondering whether this man mistook him for a friend. "Dodging bullets the whole way out."

"I feel ya, bro," he said, extending his hand. "Name's Pierce."

"Simon," he answered, accepting the shake without missing a beat.

"God, you look even worse than me!"

Switchblade gave a wan smile before feigning a first glance down both ends of their stretch of hall. "Damn, how many people are in here?"

"I'unno," he sighed, "But it was cramped without all the last-minute recruits."

"Maybe I should go, then," he muttered embarrassedly, moving to rise.

"Nah. Curt's probably gone full reprisal mode on everything in a twenty-mile radius from New London. Surface probably won't be safe for another day, at least." Pierce's face suddenly contorted in rage. "They fuckin' bombed the city! Who the fuck does that?"

"Scum of the Earth," he spat. The agent screwed up his face as he recalled memories he never had. "I dunno what we're gonna do," he murmured.

"But what hurts the most is that we'd been planning for years," the soldier continued, "This was s'posed to be our big break!" He slowly shook his head. "Fuckin' blew it."

"Hey now," Haugen shuffled to face him better, "We've got CivGeneral on our side. He'll find a way! Right?"

"Shit, I don't even know if he got out of the city."

"Didn't the command squad make it out?"

"Well, sure, the Colonel did, but I heard he and his girlfriend went to scout Groton. We were gonna retreat east, but they blew the bridge, so..."

"I blame 'im fer this!" They turned to a woman slumped against the wall a little way down, her arm in a bloody sling. "I o'erheard brass chattin'. They had ta fight wi' Ci'General t' even plan a wi'draw'l."

"Fuck you, Chelsea!" someone hollered from even further off, "You weren't even scratched by the bombs and you were ready to turn tail! Bet you didn't even hurt your arm!"

"Well," said Switchblade in a hushed tone, "The night's still young. Ish. He'll turn up. I'm sure."

Pierce gave him a rueful smile. "Hope's got us this far, hasn't it?"

He stayed with the man for another ten minutes before he too dozed off. Switchblade picked himself up and decided to explore the vault further. Rooms that weren't already devoted to sleeping quarters or storage were serving as medical wards where emergency surgery was in regular performance, the doors kept shut to muffle the screams after the base's limited supply of anaesthetic ran out. Haugen was filled with an immense sense of pity for the Coruscantis. They had invested all their hopes and dreams into breaking Curt in New London. Perhaps not-so-coincidentally, the state of the vault reminded him of those stories about families taking shelter in the Underground during the Blitz. Had circumstances in Europe been different, he might very well have been in their shoes, fighting his own war of liberation. But then, he would have a country to fight for; Coruscant's cause had already been lost.

Amid all the confusion, he found he met no resistance as he ventured into the depths of the complex, eventually stumbling into what looked like either the main communications room or the hub for the vault's computer network. As technicians went about their routine business, three soldiers were speaking with a bespectacled, black-haired woman in a wheelchair. No-one having acknowledged his entrance, he quietly approached.

"...is more than triple what we can supply for a month, not to mention the bedding," an elder, bald man was saying.

"Well how long will our current provisions last?" asked the woman.

"Not even a week at this rate."

"Besides," interrupted the man beside him, "At least half these people are injured and/or sick, and we simply do not have the supplies to take care of them all."

"Who are you?" the woman asked, noticing Switchblade. The soldiers turned around.

The agent snapped to attention, pretended to fumble his rifle into his left arm, and gave a stiff salute. "Private Simon Gardner, ma'am, Utica, New York, ma'am."

"Utica?" frowned the elder.

"Oh, he's one of those volunteers," the other man surmised. "At ease, private," he sighed.

"What brings you down here?"

"I, um, I was wondering if you knew if CivGeneral made it back yet, sir? It's been a couple of hours and no-one's seen him about."

He noticed the woman swallow hard. The elder officer also cast a glance toward her before speaking. "He hasn't radioed in. I can let you know when we find out."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, giving another quick salute before making for the exit. The officers turned back to the woman and Switchblade pretended to fiddle with his rifle.

"Actually," the third man began, "It'll be sunrise in a couple of hours and most of the squads have reported in. If Curt's trying to track us down, he'll be sweeping the forest by now."

"Lock down the Vault?" asked the older man.

"We're way past capacity anyway."

There was a moment of silence before the woman spoke: "Recall the patrols."

Switchblade picked up his rifle and turned into the hallway. As he walked back up to the main corridor, he reached into his breast pocket and switched on the beacon.

******

The trucks left Bradley Airport at 0822. Only eight soldiers remained behind, two of them Panser-bjørner. Ostensibly they were there to watch the prisoners, but the Imperial garrison was more than sufficient for the task; their real job was to watch the Imperials. Gedeonin was surprised to learn that the supposedly elusive vault was almost close enough to a residential roadway to simply drive in. The Spetsnaz were deployed easterly at a kilometre's radius from Switchblade's position to comb the countryside for the entrances while the Panser-bjørner stood by at a new bivouac. Timing was crucial to avoid tipping off the Coruscantis: once the entrances were sited, the Spetsnaz would establish perimeters around both areas to keep stragglers and wayward scouts out, and the cyborgs would deploy in preparation for Switchblade's invitation.

In spite of their fearsome reputation, beneath their technological augmentation Trusov's men were still human, and thus, vulnerable to bouts of boredom. To keep them entertained, Gedeonin elected to make camp in front of a roadside tourist trap along Route 85. The operators were understandably upset by the billet, particularly given that it occurred one hour before opening time, but they recanted somewhat when they learned the soldiers were willing to pay cash in the gift shop. "You know, it's funny, Vadim," one soldier said to the other, standing before a replica stegosaurus further in the park, "When I was little, I always thought about visiting America to see what all the fuss was about. Then when I joined the army, I figured if I ever did, it'd be as part of one of those stereotypical Red invasions. And now here we are... and I still can't tell if this is business or pleasure."

His partner gave him a bemused look before turning back to the dinosaur. "Too bad these eyepieces aren't equipped with cameras, or I'd fancy taking a shot of you riding that thing." He gazed idly around their stretch of the park. "I wonder how many visitors they get in a year, what with martial law and all."

At 1047 the order came to move out. The Panser-bjørner reassembled in the parking lot where they geared up for combat, switching out prosthetic hands for their heavy attachments—mostly chain guns, a couple with oversized shotguns—and donning their extra combat armour. Travelling back up the highway and then following a country road west, the convoy arrived at a clearing where two teams of Spetsnaz were waiting. The troops debarked and Gedeonin gave instructions to the drivers, who circled about and headed back down the road. The unit split into two groups, one led by the general and a smaller squad by Trusov, and they headed off on foot. In about twenty minutes both groups were in position and Gedeonin transmitted the return signal. The main force was north and just out of sight of the entrance. "Rules of engagement," the general began: "If he's got a gun, take him out. Mêlée weapons or unarmed hostiles, aim to incapacitate. Ignore non-combatants; even if they escape the vault they won't make it past the quarantine. Now, none of you has incendiary weapons, correct?" There was a muttering and shaking of heads. "Good. Grenadiers are armed with smoke and tear gas; use that to mask your approach and confound retaliation. Needless to say, combat helmets are on and NBC filtration stays on until you're back outside. Also, and this is very important: when you go through that door, make sure you're watching your infrared scan. Major Haugen's beacon is emitting a visible pulse to distinguish him from the rebels. I find out any of you shot him and I'll have your titanium guts for my Christmas tree. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Comrade General," they stated in unison.

"Horoshiy. Take up position, but stay out of range of their security camera. When you hear the door open, get in fast; you need to secure the terminal before Haugen is overpowered. Happy hunting."

The situation had improved somewhat: the refugees had been moved further into the vault, and with lunch approaching the base's attention was fast turning to the soup lines. The entrance was thus clear of loiterers, but there were still three guards at the gate, plus the sentry bot, which was three more than Switchblade was comfortable handling. Fortunately, all the security cameras were on the other side of the door, meaning if he could get the soldiers out of the way he would have a brief window of privacy. He still didn't know how to deal with the robot—he had left his EMP tricks behind in case he was searched for non-standard weapons—but he figured that if worst came to worst he's just grapple with it and hope the Panser-bjørner had AP rounds.

He screwed the silencer onto his pistol before stashing it under his vest, then left the bathroom stall and made his way to the entrance. "Hey, guys," he called, "They're doling out lunch, you want a break?"

"Can't," said a man, "Haven't been relieved yet."

"I saw the line," he continued, "By the time they switch you out they'll be down to the broth. Go on, I'll cover for you."

The man gave a dubious look to his partner, who shrugged. Obviously happy to get away, the two took off down the hall, leaving a woman at the other side. "What about you?" asked Switchblade.

"Naw, I'm stuck here. Always gotta keep two guards at the door at all times."

"That's OK, I got Sparky here." He jabbed his thumb at the robot. "A real droid, eh?" he squinted as he inspected the machine, silent and stock-still. "So who controls it? Guys down in comm?"

"No, it's totally automated. Don't know how well it works, though," she confessed, "I think it's been here since the Vault was built."

"So how's it know who to shoot?"

"Some sort of pattern recognition algorithm or some such, I don't know. I don't like it, personally. It's old and hasn't been properly serviced for a couple years now. Even when we're all wearing the same thing it reads false positives. Nearly had a disaster a month ago." The agent carefully stepped forward and waved his hand in front of the robot's head, prompting a chuckle from the woman. "They probably turned it off to deal with all the evacuees last night; wouldn't be surprised if they forgot to turn it back on."

"Hey, shush!" he hissed, "There might be an Imperial agent listening in!" There was a brief pause, and then they both laughed.

"You were out there last night?" He nodded. "How bad was it?"

"Hell," he said simply, staring at the door.

A moment of silence passed as she regretted the question. "Well, we're safe here, at least. They still haven't found us, you know. Seven years and they still haven't found us." She snickered. "Bet they find bin Laden first."

"I'm Simon, by the way," he reached over and extended his hand, which she took.

"Nat."

He looked her over. By her build and voice she looked young, not much older than 19, but like everyone else in the tomb her face was marred by early stress lines. "You've been a vault dweller your whole life?"

"Well, not whole life, but since the end of the war, yeah. I was about twelve when we fled here. Couldn't wait to join up, once I was old enough. Mom's an aide in the medical wing and Dad was part of our regular supply runners."

He caught the key indicative verb and refrained from further prying. "Yankee born and bred," he said. "Came down here from Utica when I heard you were planning to take New Port. Figured it was my last chance to cash in on the winning team." He shot her a rueful grin.

"It's not over yet," she said, tone betraying the switch from candid honesty into zealous rehearsal, "CivGeneral will not let New London go unavenged. We've hit a temporary setback, but the next time we strike at Curt, we'll—hey, are you alright?" He was wincing, backing up against the wall and slowly lowering himself to the ground. Nat hurried over.

"Ah! I don't know, I just felt this pain in my arm."

She pulled off her gloves and put her fingers to his neck, just under his jaw. "Your pulse is racing!"

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he panted, "Damn those supersizes..."

Her face went white as she leaped to her feet. "S-Stay there!" she stammered, "I'll go get help!" She spun about and sprinted into the vault.

He waited until her footfalls were a distant echo, then withdrew his pistol and hastily stood up. He scanned the room, spying a yellow console matching one he'd seen on his way in. He strode over and began testing buttons and switches, not knowing which operated what and having no time for a methodical test. After a few seconds of playing around he heard a deep thunk and the screaming of metal as the gear-like door began to roll away. Hearing footfalls, he dashed to the opposite side of the room, sprawling himself out on the ground such that he could train his gun on the console in a second.

"The hell's going on here?" someone shouted, "Vault's supposed to be in lockdown!" The footfalls slowed, then stopped.

"Where the hell's the sentry?" asked another.

"Look, someone's down! Go check on him while I shut this off."

Switchblade waited until he heard the figure begin to kneel down, then spun onto his back and delivered a shot into the man's chest. The guard gave a startled choke before the agent pushed him away, straightening up and shooting the second man before he could react, once in the shoulder and then again in the chest before giving the first man a second bullet in the back.

Hearing more footsteps, he hastily repositioned himself between and behind the two men. "Men down at the gate!" came a cry, and the footsteps broke into a run. "Donahue to Hive, we have a security breach at the main gate. Three men down and—wait, what in the fu—"

The report was silenced by a burst of gunfire that reverberated through the hall. There were heavy, clanking footsteps and a metal screech as the chain-link partition was torn away. Switchblade slowly righted himself, looking up as a chrome-plated legion rushed through the gap. One stopped and helped him to his feet as the corridor was quickly drowned in the sound of machine gun fire. Clapping his hands to his ears, he clung to the right wall, his aide standing behind him as a shield, as he fought against the current of cyborgs. After he squeezed out of the false entrance, his escort gave him a salute before disappearing back into the deluge.

******

The operation was over in ten minutes. Disoriented by the smoke and gas, the front lines crumbled quickly, and even with a clear shot the rebels simply couldn't pierce the armour of the Armour-Bears. A rookie desperado had tried to use a LAW on one, but a fellow soldier shot him before he inadvertently committed murder-suicide. Some of the Panser-bjørner emerged pock-marked and physically tired, but otherwise there were no substantial casualties. Coruscanti losses, on the other hand, were still being tallied as cyborgs and Spetsnaz streamed steadily out of the entranceway carrying captives, cripples or corpses. Mostly corpses. The trucks had driven in from the north following a dirt track; soldiers were at work separating able-bodied POWs from the critically injured before loading them into the trucks for transport to Hartford. Based on Switchblade's observations inside, Gedeonin thought it might take eight separate trips to shuttle them all; but as the bodies piled up, he thought they might be done in only two: one for the captives, and one for his men.

The Coruscantis did use the emergency escape, but very few, only 31 (rather, 27, as four opted for a suicidal stand rather than surrender), and to Trusov's surprise, apparently none of importance within the Resistance pecking order. He therefore concluded that the base population was small, and when he regrouped with Gedeonin he was sincerely horrified by the number of bodies they had already pulled out. It seemed the only people that did survive were the medical staff and everyone too infirm to hold a gun... and even some of those had tried to resist. "I just don't understand it," he muttered to the general as they overlooked the processing, "They must have recognized they were hopelessly outmatched from the beginning."

"I do," Gedeonin replied, matter-of-factly. "After Curt sank Republic Island, Vault 44 was their last refuge. They had nothing left to lose." Two soldiers, one Spetsnaz, one cyborg, emerged carrying a wheelchair holding a figure draped in a white cloth, stained by red patches where it touched the abdomen. "You shot a cripple!" the general shouted disgustedly.

"Sorry, sir," called the cyborg, "She refused to surrender. We think she might have been the base commander."

"Sladkiy mat' Meri," he groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

The woman winced as she was brought into the sunlight. As her vision adjusted she made out a sparse row of soldiers watching the procession idly from the ledge above. A number of the soldiers ahead of her veered off to the left, and she swallowed as she saw them add bodies to rows upon rows of Coruscanti corpses. Further up ahead, she could see the POWs being searched for weapons, split up, and loaded into one of two sets of trucks. The whole thing seemed so surreal; one minute she was eating her lunch, the next she was coughing and hacking as armour-plated astronauts stormed the room. Who were these guys, anyway? They sounded like Russians, but that made no sense. If her pain and her anger hadn't been so palpable she might've written it off as a dream. She supposed she should be happy they weren't sent by Curt. Well, they probably were, but at least they weren't his men.

She heard a shout from above and she was brought to a halt. Two figures descended from the hillside, one of those cyborgs and a man with a beret and a bristly mustache. He came up almost right in front of her, peering at her as though appraising a long-lost antique. "Jeel? Jeel Valentin?" She took a moment to think if she'd ever met this man before. Mouth too dry to spit, she simply scowled. After a moment, the man muttered something and she was nudged along.

"Change of plan," Gedeonin said slowly, eyes still locked on the woman's back, "We're taking the lot to Lubyanka."