Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Späher had never seen Sicher cry. Not when she'd encountered the charred corpses of a family in Shell 5, nor when she had to question the sole survivor, a child. Not even when Schlosser got blown up by an Imp rocket. Yet here she was, kneeling, sobbing--no, bawling her eyes out--over a dead dog. Späher knelt, laid a gentle plastic hand on Sicher’s heaving backside, and rubbed it in broad circles, as she’d seen Gestalts do whenever they comforted each other. Like a receding wave, Sicher’s crying began to subside. “I--I thought it was a person,” she choked out. “If I’d known it was just a--just a--” 

“Shhh,” Späher cooed. She dropped her rifle, pulled Sicher close, and hugged her. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Sicher hugged her back, squeezing tightly. “It didn’t deserve it,” she whispered into her shoulder. “It didn’t deserve it.” 

Späher paused for a moment, unsure what to say. “I know,” she said finally, “I know. It didn't.” Her eyes drifted to the dog gazing at her under the dim lighting of the transit tube, the glint of pain and bewilderment in its eyes, a trail of blood snaking from its open mouth. The sight made Späher feel short of breath, like she was floundering in the ocean waves of Vineta. She tore herself away from it and glanced at the ceiling.  

She wished she could see the sky, the stars. But the C3 transit tunnel was 300 meters beneath the thick layer of ice that covered Alatyr’s surface. All she could see was weathered Eusan concrete, trembling under the weight of shellfire. It had taken decades of work by thousands of Gestalts and Replika to build a viable home on this dwarf planet. Now thousands more were blowing it to pieces.

Sicher felt warm and soft in her arms, even though both of them were laden with body armor and webbing. Späher could feel her squadmate’s muscles relax, her hydraulics depressurize, her tension begin to ebb like a reservoir being drained. Their breathing slowly synchronized until it felt like they were one being, whole again. They reveled in each other’s embrace, two Replika alone against a backdrop of shadows and the muffled boom of artillery.  

283 cycles with Sicher. Time stood still. 

Späher’s radio crackled to life and a commanding female voice spoke. “Come in, Dagger-One, come in. This is Dagger Actual. Do you read me? Over.” The transmission echoed throughout the tunnel.

Fuck. Späher drew back from Sicher and thumbed the push-to-talk button on her collar. “This is Dagger-One.” She fought hard to keep a tinge of annoyance out of her voice. “I read you loud and clear.” 

“Get Squad S ready to move. At 0730, a transport will arrive at your designated rally point and take you to the Shell 4 command HQ. Squad B will take over your positions.” There was a short pause. “The Colonel wants to see you. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged,” Späher confirmed. “We’ll be ready, ma’am.”

“Glad to hear it. Dagger Actual out.”

Their Colonel. They loved her, they hated her. She was their alpha and omega, their mother and their bitchqueen. Späher knew better than to question an order, but after 79 cycles of infernal combat, she prayed they were finally being rotated out. Deep down, part of her knew that this wasn’t the case; that it was probably once more unto the breach. But for Sicher’s sake, she prayed.   

Späher turned back to Sicher, who looked wistful and pensive, as if waking up from a treasured dream. “Come on, Sich,” she said quietly. “We have places to be.” The dreaminess quickly disappeared from Sicher’s face, replaced by a look of stolid determination. She nodded silently, cleared her throat, and brushed back the strands of auburn hair in her face. Then she grabbed her rifle, rose, and calmly walked back towards Shell 4. If the Nation’s soldiers were half as brave as Sicher had been during the past two-and-a-half months, then victory over the Empire was guaranteed.

Späher picked up her rifle and began to follow, but then turned to look at the dog one last time. Its eyes shone eerily under the tunnel’s light, and its blood took on an aura of unreality, as if it were from a painting. She felt the tunnel walls around her distort and close in, felt her oxidant pump quicken as the concrete began to crush her. Späher, the dog said, none of us are here by choice, and nobody will miss us.

--------

The appearance of a shadow over her paperwork made Späher look up. Her deputy, Sieg, stood in the storage room she was using as a makeshift field office, a satisfied look on her face. “Squad B is moving into our positions, Chief,” Sieg said. “We’re almost done packing up.”

Späher checked her internal clock. They still had thirty minutes until the transport arrived--Sieg had always run a tight ship. “Got it, thanks,” she replied. “I’ll head out when I finish my report.” As usual, she'd omitted from the report her meeting with Sicher.

Sieg straightened her flak vest like a Gestalt would a tuxedo. “By the way, you said the Colonel wanted to see us, right?” Her eyes lit up and she flashed a countenance of zealous glee; Sieg’s boxy face and bright green irises had a way of amplifying her facial expressions. She had a deep-seated lust for fighting, like all Gans units, so it was no surprise that she salivated at the prospect of another mission. 

“Yeah," Späher snorted, "I guess we’re special.” Squad S had always been part of Kommando Bataillon 3’s ‘tip of the spear,’ and it was one of the few squads directly subordinated to battalion headquarters.  

“Whaddya think Iron Tits will have us do?” 

Späher shrugged and went back to writing. “I dunno, but I doubt we’ve been tasked with handling Mondfest security,” she said dourly. Sieg’s enthusiasm was helpful when the bullets were flying, but it was annoying to hear after several sleepless nights. If it was up to her, they'd probably never leave the front. 

“I hope it’s something big,” Sieg murmured. “Getting tired of fighting a rat’s war.” A frown crept across her face. “Speaking of which, Sani said she can only give Schwert temporary repairs, and that we'll have to send her to the aid station for permanent ones. Something about her blown hydraulic actuators requiring ‘finesse’.”

“Sani’s an old hand, we should take her word for it.” Their squad’s medic, Sani, was a Volksmarine corpsman and she'd seen more action in more places than the two of them combined. 

“Sure, but I don’t like having our big gun out of action for...however long that'll take.”

Späher stopped writing and gave her a long, hard stare. “Sieg, we’ve been fighting while we're down a member. I’m still trying to figure out how the rest of the squad is doing. We shouldn’t be deploying at all until we’ve had some breathing space.”

Sieg blinked. “You--you’re right, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I’m just eager to get back at them for Schlosser.” 

Späher felt a sharp pain in her gut. “It’s fine. You and me both.”

“Sucher’s peachy, like she always is. Sturmi is, well, Sturmi. Sani and Schwert seem a little tense with each other.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

An awkward silence settled over the storage room. Sieg began pacing around. Späher wordlessly completed her action summary, then put in a quartermaster request for more SG-106 assault rifles. “Hey,” Sieg said suddenly, “remember that Gestalt woman back at Shell 5? The one with the shaved head, begging for ration bars?”

You get bored way too easily, Sieg. Späher reluctantly indulged her. She put down her pen and recalled what she’d seen in the Shell: dark and damp tunnels. A tattered stream of Gestalt refugees heading towards the camps on the bottom level, driven by primal instinct and the promise of food and water. A crying woman at the side of the tunnel--the word ‘TRAITOR’ branded on her neck. Her baby a clod of rags in her arms. “The Imp collaborator?” Späher mused, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Heard they’re shipping her to re-education.” 

“Oh really?”

“Mhm. Probably Rotfront, since Leng’s still under partial lockdown.” Sieg’s face contorted into a look of derision. “Wonder who she fucked to avoid the firing squad.” 

“The Red Book tells us to be lenient with Gestalt civilians, Sieg,” Späher chided. “The Nation permits second chances.” Then she smirked. “But yeah, she knew her way around. She would’ve fucked any of us for that ration bar.” 

Sieg snorted. “Imp cooch isn’t your style, Chief.” 

Späher mentally halted for a split second--nah, Sieg didn't know the nature of her relationship with Sicher. “I dunno about you, but I think about hot Buyanese girls every day,” she quipped.

“You know that's a Sierpinski-level offense, right?” Sieg deadpanned.

“Surely my trusted loyal sergeant, my sister-in-arms, wouldn’t rat me out, would she?"

“Forty rationmarks.”

“Oh fuck off , you racketeer.” They both chuckled. “Anyway, the collaborator," Späher continued, "did they at least take her baby?”

Sieg shrugged. “Dunno, probably. It’d be a waste of a good Gestalt to leave it with her instead of, y'know, sending it to a Blockwart.” She shook her head and scoffed. “I’ll never understand why so many people support the Imps.”

Späher put the finishing touches on her report, then stuffed it into her flak vest. With more care, she took the pictures of the Great Revolutionary and her Daughter off her desk and gingerly slid them into her hip satchel. For a moment, her thoughts drifted. Rotfront. She’d seen an old photo store there, just before Squad S shipped out. Perhaps she could have them take a photo of her and Sicher. Perhaps someday. “They'll back the Revolution eventually,” she said, responding to Sieg’s complaint. “And we’ll make it happen.” She stood up and shouldered her rucksack. “Come on, let’s meet up with the others.”

“I’d fuck the Grand Empress for a ration bar,” Sieg muttered. “You head to the rally point. I’ll grab morning chow for everyone.” They exited the storage room, out to the bombed-out city block Squad S had called ‘home’ for the past week, and parted ways.

--------

As the largest body in the Asteroid Belt, Alatyr was strategically located on the border between the Imperial-held inner worlds and the Nationalist-held outer worlds. Before the war, it had been a flourishing way station for intra-solar commerce and a base for lucrative mining operations in the Belt. The Belt had other mining colonies, like Gagana and Garafena, but none were as large as the Grey Jewel of Buyan. 

More than eight million Gestalts and Replika called Alatyr home. Since it was too small to properly klimaform, having a seventeenth of Leng’s mass, most of the population lived and worked in its eight Shells--the vast hexagonal arcologies that protruded from its surface.

The Squad S rally point was a short walk from the storage room, near the edge of one of Shell 4’s gargantuan residential terraces. Off in the distance, across the cavity at the center of every Shell, Späher could see plumes of smoke rising from other terraces. They were like dark tendrils of ivy, speckled with flashes of tracer fire. The pop of gunfire and the dull thump of artillery drifted over to provide a lonely, staccato ambience.

A strange object caught Späher’s eye as she walked along the rubble-strewn road. She’d passed the same spot countless times since they’d arrived at the block, but until now all she’d seen were chunks of concrete, shards of glass, and twisted strands of rebar. 

The object was too short and thick to be rebar--it looked like a dark, lumpy stick, probably uncovered by tremors from the shelling. As Späher approached, the stick took on a familiar humanoid shape, the color on its ‘head’ being lighter than the rest of its body. 

It was a Replika action figure meant for Gestalt children. Curious, Späher picked it up. Hard plastic, more rigid than Replika polyethylene. She remembered seeing similar toys in stores on Rotfront: six rationmarks for a Storch, Elster, or Starling, all earnings going to the war effort. 

The Replika was definitely meant to be a military unit, judging by the molded tactical pouches, but it had been completely colored over with pink and violet marker. Späher was unfamiliar with the model, but she ruled out Schnäpper, Storch, and Kolibri. Ultimately, she couldn’t even tell if it was Imperial or Nationalist. The coloring did give the Replika some semblance of daintiness, like someone had shoved a fully armored Starling into a colorful sundress. 

-- Warmth --

In its right hand was a small white enamel teacup, obviously from a different toy set. On the back, written in black marker, was a name: Katya. She'd turned soldier into princess. 

-- Lilacs --

Späher decided to put the figure in her satchel, next to the portraits of the Great Leaders. She wasn't sure why--something about the figure just felt ‘right.’ Was she just indulging her sentimentalism? Was it for ‘Katya’? She understood that many Replika needed special objects to 'ground' themselves. 

-- Trapped --

I’m just performing psychological maintenance, she reasoned. Späher continued her journey to the rally point.

There was a thunderous boom in the distance; she saw a plume of flame and sparks erupt from one of the terraces, creating a hazy glow that made darkness and light dance around her.

When the war broke out, Alatyr had nominally remained under Imperial control. But its subjects were divided. Hundreds of thousands of Alatyrians joined the Alliance for National Liberation, known colloquially as the Liên Minh. While the rift largely occurred along caste lines, there was communal strife at every level of society, particularly among the Freiemann caste. Neighbor turned against neighbor; sister turned against sister. A bloody civil war began in the shadows. 

The Nation’s commanders quickly realized that Alatyr would be a necessary staging ground for any campaign to liberate Kitezh. In their prior attempts to take the red planet, Imperial raids had easily disrupted the supply lines that stretched all the way back to Rotfront, depriving their battle fleets of vital supplies and reinforcements. This allowed the Empire to stymie the Nation’s expeditionary forces in a series of costly space battles. 

“Kitezh awaits liberation!” Heimat had proclaimed.

Alatyr would provide a logistics base that was closer to Kitezh, and therefore easier to protect. Its low gravity and abundance of liquid water would make it an excellent water source, transportation hub, and shipyard for the Volksmarine.  

Covert material and advisory support from the Nation had, over the course of decades, turned the Liên Minh into a fighting force that could directly challenge the Imperial garrison. Eighty cycles ago, the Nation launched Operation: SPRING AWAKENING in a bid to finally capture the Grey Jewel of Buyan. They activated Liên Minh cells all across Alatyr and sent the combined space-ground Alatyr Expeditionary Force to link up with them.

Späher could still see it. The cramped dropships screaming towards Alatyr’s surface like falling meteors, her squad cocooned in their AVA suits. Outside the porthole--a Volksmarine frigate exploding after being struck by one of the Empire’s orbital railguns. The Expeditionary Force arriving under a typhoon of steel. Flame, sparks, and the flash of gunfire; Sieg shouting over the cacophony. The feeling of the assault rifle digging into her shoulder. Movement a blur and the smell of burnt plastic. First to the Shell 7 Water Processing Plant, then to Transit Tunnel A5-1029, then to Bulk Cargo Lift C16-110.

She remembered her first time seeing Liên Minh fighters, after the ground element had cleared Shell 7. A smattering of baby-faced girls and boys in their serious military uniforms, standing at attention like statues in front of a red banner. A Nationalist officer handing each Gestalt a medal and saluting them.

Soldiers. You choose to face death every day. The Eusan Nation will always remember the commitment and sacrifices you’ve made.

--------

Sieg was still at the field kitchen, so Späher was left to check on the squad alone. 

Five Replika sat around their electrical heater in a loose horseshoe among freshly packed crates of equipment. They'd learned to appreciate peaceful moments like these. After every apartment block, there’d be a factory to take. After every factory, there’d be a tunnel. After every tunnel, another apartment block.

The Replika closest to Späher was a red-haired and round-faced unit sitting on a tarp, methodically cleaning her LSMR-40 marksman rifle. It was Sucher. “Mornin’ boss,” she said in her Kitezhian drawl, without looking up. Späher’s approach had been quiet, but Sucher’s senses bordered on the preternatural--typical for Schwalbe units. “Spotted several Wasps on level D6, just before Squad B arrived.” She peeked down the LSMR’s scope and started adjusting the range dial. “Bad angle, unfortunately.”  

Wasps--one of the most common Imperial Replika units. “That tracks with the reports we've been getting,” Späher replied. They’d heard the Imperials were withdrawing their forces to the lower levels. “Anything else?”

“Nah. Relayed it to Brecher. Quiet as a whisper otherwise.” Sucher didn’t look away from the scope. 

Späher thanked her for the update. If Sucher was strained by two-and-a-half months of fighting, she didn’t show it. She looked so relaxed she could have been on shore leave on some balmy Vinetan beach. 

Sicher was sitting next to her, loading an SG-106 mag with 8.6x72mm rounds. Späher had to consciously fight the urge to stare and admire her features. Her porcelain-smooth lips, her piercing, shining grey eyes, her non-regulation butterfly hair clip tucked into the left side of her head. She was humming a patriotic tune from some Nationalist newsreel, and briefly stopped loading the magazine to offer a stick of gum to Sucher. All seemed well with her. As a bioresonant Blauhäher unit, she primarily specialized in telekinetic attacks--her psionic capabilities were much weaker than those of a Kolibri. Nevertheless, they were strong enough to make her a proficient empath, and her friendship with Sucher was beneficial since she could draw upon the latter’s emotional stability. Späher made a mental note to follow up with her later.

Across from them were Schwert and Sani. Schwert sat while Sani stood, sticking a repair spray applicator inside the SAPR’s left arm. “Alright,” she said as she pulled the applicator out, “it should hold until we reach headquarters. You can do things like fire your guns and missiles, but--” she jabbed a finger at Schwert’s face “-- don’t go around hitting things. The shock will tear the lines open again.”  

Schwert huffed and gently batted her aside with a massive servoshell forearm. “Whatever you say, Falke.”

It took a moment for Sani to regain her balance, but Späher could tell that her nerve had been touched. She threw the applicator to the ground and crossed her arms, scowling. “Don’t give me that crap, Schwert! It took me days to get everything I needed for this patch job.” Her voice began rising. “Every time someone on this team gets shot, they do their damn best not to get hit again!” 

Späher tried to interject. “Sani--”

Sani was now full-on yelling. “But you? This is the fifth time this has happened! FIFTH!” The strain of seeing a lifetime’s worth of oxidant, guts and severed limbs was bubbling to the surface.

“Oh c’mon!” Schwert replied. Her natural stubbornness was stewing together with annoyance and stress. “I pulled through against that Scorpion, like I always do.” 

Sani slapped her in the face with an audible crack. Despite only being a modified EULR, she managed to make the larger woman flinch. Both Sucher and Sicher immediately looked up. 

Schwert’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open, but she didn’t make a sound. Instead, she simply caressed her left cheek, where there was a clear impression of Sani’s hand.

“Hey!” Späher shouted. “Sani! That’s enough!” 

The medic continued to face Schwert, seething. “How can you be so careless, after what happened to Schlosser?! I don’t know if I can--I don’t know--” Sani’s voice started to crack, and she immediately stopped herself. Then she quietly deflated, her shoulders slumping; all the anger draining out of her like air from a balloon. “I…I couldn’t save her,” she whispered. She turned around to leave.

Couldn’t save her. Späher felt her muscles tense up; the sharp pain return to her gut. She, Späher, led Squad S. The responsibility for their lives lay on her shoulders, and hers alone. She should’ve been more vigilant. She should’ve made sure the apartment was suppressed. She should’ve waited for support instead of rushing in. She should’ve--she could’ve been better, damnit! “Sani, wait.” She could barely keep her voice from quivering. 

Sani paused. Her shoulders rose and fell as she drew a breath. “Späher, please,” she said quietly. Her voice was polite but pained--the voice of someone trying to hold themselves together. 

“You know how Schwert is. She’s not trying to be inconsiderate.”

“Well, neither am I.” She started walking off.

Späher considered stopping her, then decided against it. “Just…take it easy, alright?” Sani didn't respond. She arrived at an abandoned storefront and disappeared inside. “Damnit,” Späher cursed under her breath. She composed herself, then turned back to Schwert, who was still holding her cheek.

The SAPR was still in a state of shock, something no amount of combat had ever managed to achieve. But slowly, her expression changed to remorse as Sani’s words--and the consequences of her own impatience--sank in. “Oh. Oh crap.” 

“We should let her cool off a bit,” Späher said evenly.

“I--I didn’t mean to…” Schwert gestured towards the storefront with the arm Sani had just repaired, scrambling for words. 

“It’s okay, Schwert. She’s just scared. She doesn’t want to lose anyone else.” 

Schwert’s gaze dropped to the ground and lingered there. She scuffed her hooves uncomfortably, clearly trying to work up the courage to say something. Schwert always wore her heart on her sleeve, even if her face was hidden behind an armored visor half the time. “I know how she feels,” she said at last. Späher could hear the strain in her voice. “I miss her too.” Schlosser knew SAPRs well, how they regarded war as some sort of game. She’d even gifted Schwert tabletop miniatures to play with--miniatures that were now her most prized possessions. Hey big girl, these are for saving my ass. I know we’re not even, but I’ll pay you back for real someday. Schwert buried her head in her massive hands and sighed deeply.

Späher rested a comforting hand on her shoulder and adopted a soothing tone. “Hey, look at me.” After a few moments, Schwert slowly lifted her head, exposing her dejected visage. “Give Sani some time. For now, pack up. Maybe talk to her later, okay?” She gave the SAPR the most encouraging smile she could muster. Once the giant woman departed, Späher drew a slow, withering sigh. “Seventy-nine cycles…” she muttered under her breath.

A few meters away sat Sturmi, who had taken no heed of the affair. She was diligently molding loaves of plastic explosive into satchel charges, quiet and hyper-focused, wearing the same neutral expression that all LSTR units seemed to wear. Sturmi is, well, Sturmi. Späher elected not to bother her and busied herself packing up comms equipment.

Squad S was hardly in optimal condition. While Sucher and Sturmi were unflappable, and Sieg chomped at the bit for a fight, the other half of the squad needed a fucking reprieve. Hopefully their ride to headquarters would provide some, at least until they were assigned their new mission.

--------

The last bit of packing occurred without a hitch. Sieg eventually returned with an armload of ration cans for the squad. “Come on down and get your chow, girls! Every meal’s a feast!” she hollered. They all went to grab their rations, while Schwert managed to drag an emotionally spent Sani out to join them. 

Späher looked out across the Shell 4 cavity as she ate. The sheer size of the megacity before her was stunning, almost overwhelming to take in. Enough to reduce an individual to nothing. She looked at the terraces near the top of Shell 4-- brightly lit and spacious, the domain of the Empire’s upper castes. Although huge sections had been blasted away, there was still an air of celestial grandeur in the remaining sections. The giant white marble columns, the weathered effigies of the Empress and her cohorts, the tattered remains of lush hanging gardens and artificial waterfalls. A slice of Buyanese decadence hanging above Gestalt and Replika alike. 

Then she looked at the terraces near the bottom. Shadowed structures of bare concrete, manufactured with cookie-cutter homogeneity like the residential blocks back on Rotfront. 

The terrace she stood on was one of several slotted into the middle of the Shell, bathed in light from the terraces above while sharing an unadorned simplicity with the terraces below. 

Späher finished her breakfast early. She took Katya’s action figure from her hip satchel and lightly squeezed it, imagining herself partaking in this Gestalt child’s tea party, pretending to be an esteemed guest; acting surprised at being served the finest of teas. Späher felt something in her chest. It wasn’t the crushing weight she’d felt when she saw the dog. It was a void, like she was missing something. Like she was incomplete. 

Until now, she hadn’t given much thought to the average Alatyrian during the 79 cycles she’d been on their world. 

Katya. Not an Imperial soldier, or a Liên Minh fighter, but one of the many people whose lives were eclipsed by the titanic struggle between Nation and Empire. What was it like, to be caught between worlds? Späher saw Sani and Schwert tenderly touching their foreheads together, their prior spat seemingly resolved. She hoped Katya had a squad of her own to cover her back.

A deep mechanical rumble filled the air. Their transport, a 10-wheeled Wisent APC, pulled up to the rally point. It was a green, hulking, dump truck-like monster, designed to hold Replika of all shapes and sizes.

Späher quickly put the figure away and ordered Squad S to form up. They duly filed inside, each Replika saddled with the accouterments of war. Despite the Wisent’s size, Schwert still had to stoop in order to clear the loading door. 

Before Sicher could board, Späher motioned her aside. They approached each other until they were close enough to make out the oxidant flush on each other’s faces. “Hey,” Späher said to her quietly, “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Sicher gave Späher a small but warm smile. There was a hint of bashfulness in the way her eyes quickly flitted away from Späher’s gaze. A flower of vulnerability that Späher desperately wanted to embrace with her armored limbs. She laid a gentle hand on Späher’s arm. “Thanks for...before.”

“Of course. I’m always here for you.” 

"I know."

Späher adjusted Sicher’s butterfly hair clip with her right hand and used her left to reciprocate the gentle arm touch. As soon as Späher finished with the hair clip, Sicher grabbed her free hand. Their fingers interlocked, palm-to-palm, plastic against plastic. Their eyes met, Späher’s hazel to Sicher’s grey. The world around them melted away, like watercolors trickling off canvas, until it was just the two of them. Späher closed her eyes and leaned her head forward, until she could smell and feel Sicher’s breath on her faceplate. But when she opened her eyes again, she saw something else.

It was Schlosser’s face, contorted pain and terror. Eyes wide open until the sclera were white rings, mouth agape as if frozen mid-scream. Specks of ruby red oxidant on marble white skin. Späher tried to back away, but she was locked in place, gripped with an iron vice. Her oxidant pump tightened, her muscles stiff as concrete.

“Späher?” 

What could she have done? She had a responsibility to all her girls.

“Späher?"

She felt short of breath. She gasped for air. She was drowning. If she hadn't chosen Schlosser to take point, it would've been someone else--

“Späher!" Späher snapped back to see Sicher staring at her, eyebrows furrowed with worry and an indescribable look of pain in her eyes. The three stars on her forehead glowed blue, indicating that her resonance module was active. “I know you blame yourself. For Schlosser.” Her striking grey eyes seemed to pierce right into Späher’s soul. “Don’t. Please," she said gently. "There’s nothing you could’ve done.” 

“I…Yeah. I know.” Maybe this was all wrong, her relationship with Sicher. She was the commander of Squad S of Kommando Bataillon 3. Could she really afford to love someone in this kind of life? Wasn’t that a recipe for heartbreak?

Sieg’s voice interrupted them. “Chief?” She and Sicher immediately uncoupled and she turned towards the direction of the voice. Sieg was peeking out of the APC. “You guys coming or not?”

Späher cleared her throat. “Yeah, sorry. Just doing a gear check.” 

“Alright.” Sieg pulled her head back in. “Engine’s running, y'know.”

“We’re on it.”

Sicher gave Späher a parting look as she began walking back to the Wisent. There was longing in her eyes. Not for blood, like Sieg. But for the warmth of touch. "You'll see us through to the end. I know you will." Then she disappeared inside. 283 cycles since they’d met. It felt like an eternity. Perhaps they too, were caught between worlds.

Späher entered the Wisent’s troop compartment and dropped onto the bench seat next to Sturmi, suddenly feeling physically and mentally spent. She and her squadmates lightly rocked as the Wisent started to move, save for Schwert, who was strapped down like a pallet of artillery shells. She remembered what the dog had said: None of us are here by choice, and nobody will miss us.

Maybe that’s true, Späher admitted. Then she thought about Sicher's words as she closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake her. But I'll move heaven and earth to keep my girls safe. Only death can stop me.     

“Long live death!” they all chanted. “Long live death!” The red banner that signified Unit 8 of the 10th Airborne Division fluttered in the coastal wind, juxtaposed against the serene blue sea of Vineta. A surge of pride welled within her, tempered only by the trappings of soldierly discipline. She stiffened her pose as Colonel Liang approached her. 

Colonel Liang. A giant among the warriors of the Vinetan Volksarmee, a veteran of the fabled 5th Infantry Division and a three-time recipient of the Hero of the Eusan Nation. Rose through the ranks to become the youngest Colonel in the history of the VVA.  

A short and bespectacled woman who looked more like an exhausted post-grad than a battle-hardened warrior. Slowly, the Colonel pinned the Revolutionary Cross to each surviving member of Unit 8, spoke with them, saluted, and moved on. 

“Soldier,” the Colonel said, pinning the medal to her chest. Her green eyes drew her in like a mother embracing her child, and she seemed to age thirty years when she saluted her. “You choose to face death every day. The Eusan Nation will always remember the commitment and sacrifices you’ve made.”  

Av KERNEL 6.6.2d  REPLIKA-BETRIEBSSYSTEM

Generation 5+ ALLGEMEINES KOMMANDO SPEZIALKRÄFTE REPLIKA 

Chipset Model: ⸢Auku-1⸥

Starte Av System…

MEM Test ⸢072 R⸥

Gestell                         : ALKR (KOMMANDO SPEZIALKRÄFTE)

Manipulator                 : G- 20 Arme (7-FNG)

Lokomotor                   : G- 16 Beine (KMPKT)

Persona                        : ALKENVOGEL

523-09-93-RPK-517-ALKR-SYS-AN

Achtung! Subroutine Abweichung Erkannt!

Guide to Squad S

Späher

Role: Squad Leader

Replika Model: ALKR 

Allgemeines Kommando Spezialkräfte Replika

-- Alkenvogel --

General Purpose Special Forces Command Replika ‘Auk’

Replika Generation: 5+ 

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Steel/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sieg

Role: Second-In-Command

Replika Model: GANR

Gebirgsjäger, Aufklärungs, Nahkampf Replika

-- Gans --

Mountain Assault, Reconnaissance, Close Combat Replika ‘Goose’

Replika Generation: 5+ 

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Aluminum/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sicher

Role: Telekinetic Assault Specialist

Replika Model: BLAR

Bioresonanz Luftlande-Angriff Replika

-- Blauhäher --

Bioresonant Air Assault Replika ‘Bluejay’

Replika Generation: 6

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Sucher

Role: Designated Marksman

Replika Model: SWBR

Scharfschütze, Widerstandskämpfer, Beobachter Replika

-- Schwalbe --

Sniper, Guerilla, Forward Observer Replika ‘Swallow’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 185cm

Sani

Role: Medic

Replika Model: EULR-KS

Einfache Universelle Leichte Replika - Kampfsanitäter

-- Eule --

Simple Universal Light Replika 'Owl'  (combat medic vers.)

Replika Generation: 4

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Aluminum Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Schwert

Role: Heavy Weapons Specialist

Replika Model: SAPR

Schwere Anti-Panzer Replika

-- Schnäpper --

Heavy Anti-Tank Replika ‘Snapper’

Replika Generation: 3 

Frame: Biomechanical with High-Intensity Combat Servoshell and Steel Skeleton, plus attachment points for Explosive Reactive Armor

Height: 262cm

Sturmi

Role: Combat Engineer

Replika Model: LSTR

Landvermessungs-/Schiff-Techniker Replika

-- Elster --

Land Survey/Ship Technician Replika 'Magpie'

Replika Generation: 5

Frame: Biomechanical with carbon fiber-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 178cm

Schlosser [[KIA]]

Role: SAW Gunner/Grenadier

Replika Model: STVR

Sturmgrenadier-Vorhut Replika

-- Sturmvogel --

Storm Grenadier Vanguard Replika ‘Storm Petrel’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Steel/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 181cm

Chapter Text

The blocky utilitarian terraces of level D6 were trapped in a flat, gray twilight thanks to power outages and damage to the overhead lighting panels. Once home to tens of thousands of Gestalts and Replika, the war had turned the cityscape into a hushed catacomb, its buildings angular cadavers stripped of life. Späher had seen traces of their former inhabitants everywhere: briefcases, books, baby carriages, and other ghosts of a peaceful past. It was as if everyone had vanished in an instant. She felt the desolation intimately, like a chilly wet blanket, as she took in the scenery from the bombed-out apartment building where she and Sturmi were nestled. The two of them lay prone, side-by-side on the linoleum floor, covered by black thermal ponchos and flakes of drywall. God knows how long they’d been lying there.

A loud crackle as her radio came to life. “Movement, 1800 meters,” Sucher reported. Späher could hear the faint squelch of her chewing gum as she spoke. Sucher, her squad’s marksman, was in her ‘perch’ somewhere above them. “Ten o’clock, along the bend in the rail line,” she continued. Späher heard a series of clicks to her left; Sturmi was priming her detonators. “Guess our intel was right.”

“Roger, I’ll take a look,” she replied. Shame that’s all the intel we have. The apartment wall in front of them had been blown away, giving her an elevated view of the vast industrial complex in front of them and the D6 commercial rail line connecting Shell 4 to Shell 3. Späher quickly zeroed in on the area Sucher indicated. The rail line ran parallel to the front of their apartment building for much of its course, but far to her left it curved around one of the complex’s gigantic blast furnaces. She raised her binoculars to get a closer look at the bend. The apartment was silent, save for Sturmi’s work and the drifting, omnipresent pop of gunfire.

There were several black shapes slowly trundling down the track, like giant ants in a single file, but it was hard to make out fine details at this distance in the dim lighting. A knot began forming in Späher’s gut. She shifted her torso awkwardly and tried to ignore the sensation. It was a tense, hard ache; borne from the agonizing anticipation of hell breaking loose. Or perhaps she was just stiff from being motionless for so long. Späher was one of the new Alkenvogel units, Generation Five- plus. A special forces Replika like her ought to be brave, strong as steel; an adamantine sword of the Great Revolutionary’s will. She momentarily slid a hand into her satchel and gave Katya’s action figure a quick squeeze.

“I count seven vehicles,” Sucher commented. Schwalbes had the best eyesight of any combat Replika and the scope on her LSMR was capable of up to 16x magnification. “Some kinda engineerin’ vehicle at the front and two IFVs; they look like Rusalkas. One behind the engineerin’ vehicle and another at the back of the convoy.” She spoke as calmly as if she was doing ration inventory. Späher could listen to her soothing voice all day, though she’d never admit it. The hazy shapes on her binocular display became sharper and more defined as the convoy slowly inched closer. Two of the vehicles had polygonal turrets and skirted tracks--definitely Rusalka infantry fighting vehicles. Each Rusalka had a 50mm chaingun, two machine guns--one coaxial and one pintle-mounted on top of the turret, two anti-tank missiles in a canister on the turret side, and room for seven infantrymen. Serious firepower. But not insurmountable with the right tactics. “Four APCs in the middle,” Sucher continued. “Tracked, probably Leshens.” The vehicles between the Rusalkas were low and boxy, like angular metal school erasers on treads. It certainly matched the profile of the Leshen armored personnel carrier. Each Leshen mounted two machine guns with gunshields on its roof and had room for twelve infantrymen.

Dark silhouettes manned the guns. Späher switched her binoculars to thermal imaging mode. The silhouettes were light gray, almost ghostly, against the cold black backdrop of metal and concrete. Gestalt thermal profiles usually showed up as white-hot. “Looks like Replika are manning the guns on the Leshens,” she remarked. “Probably Wasps or Hornets.” The convoy gently followed the curvature of the line like a segmented metal snake. As it moved, Späher noticed that the vehicles were very close together, perhaps no more than thirty meters apart.

“I’m guessin’ they’re Wasps. It’d be pretty cramped inside if they were Hornets.”

“Agreed.” She switched off thermal imaging and scrutinized the vehicles for any telltale unit markings. The Empire used Wasps in both its military and law enforcement institutions since it was a very handy model, being the size of an adult male Gestalt. In the Nation, by contrast, the Volksarmee and the Protektors used different models as their primary service units--Eistauchers for the former and Stars for the latter. “Do you think these guys are Reichsarmee or Constabulary?” she radioed Sucher. The distinction was important. The Alatyr Constabulary was the Empire’s local paramilitary police force, more suited to crushing workers’ strikes than actual war. They had the tactical acumen of a pack of lemmings and the morale of a soap bubble, as shown when forty percent of its Gestalts either deserted or defected to the Liên Minh during the opening days of SPRING AWAKENING. The Reichsarmee, however, was the Empire’s regular ground forces--much tougher, better armed, and better trained. Most Reichsarmee units on Alatyr had been part of its preexisting military garrison, but the Imperials were desperately trying to ship in more units from Kitezh.

“Gotta be Constabulary,” Sucher answered. “Their spacing’s too sloppy, same with their convoy discipline.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m seeing too.” The Replika gunners on the Leshens looked alert, but they didn’t appear to have dedicated fire zones; their machine guns were aimed haphazardly in various directions, with no attempt to coordinate coverage. This section of Shell 4 was a ‘gray zone,’ an area theoretically under Imperial control but infiltrated by the Liên Minh, and any lapse in security could be fatal. The thirty-meter spacing only made it easier for attackers to hit multiple vehicles. “Got an ID on the engineering vehicle?” Späher asked. The lead vehicle was tracked like the other vehicles, broad but squat, and had a massive mine plow or dozer blade fixed to its front. It was hard to properly identify since it was swathed in panels of reactive armor tiles. As far as she could tell, it didn’t match any vehicle profile in her memory banks.

“Think it’s a modified Striga, but I can’t say for sure.”

The engineering vehicle shoved aside the burnt-out freight cars and chunks of rubble littering the rail line as it rumbled forward, clearing the way for the six vehicles behind it. It moved at a decidedly modest pace thanks to the large amount of debris in its path, and the extra armor probably didn’t help. The Imperials likely brought it to clear the D6 Shell transit tunnels of mines and other obstacles. Out here in the city, it had the potential to be a good roadblock buster.

Späher tallied her odds. If the Rusalkas and Leshens were fully crewed, then the convoy would carry around sixty infantrymen. Wasps weren’t as powerful as their larger Hornet compatriots, but they were still dangerous in large numbers. The command cadre was guaranteed to consist of at least one Gestalt officer.

Facing them, Squad S and their attached Liên Minh or ‘LM’ platoon numbered just under fifty personnel, with portable rocket launchers and mortars for support, though nothing heavier.

She lowered her binoculars and quickly reassessed the battle area. Her tactical plan involved catching the convoy in a textbook ‘L’ shaped ambush when it stumbled into their kill zone, another bend in the rail line off to her right where it curved at almost ninety degrees.

To do this, Späher had divided her squad and the LM platoon into two teams. Her team consisted of Sturmi, Sucher, and a squad of LMs located in the apartment building’s ground floor. The other team, led by Sieg, consisted of Sicher, Schwert, Sani, and the remaining LMs and was located in a marshalling yard adjacent to the kill zone. Their axes of engagement were perpendicular to each other, meaning enemies in the kill zone would be brought under fire from two different directions. But the plan had one vital constraint: they had to extract their target alive. Sicher--Späher‘s light and love--would be the key to doing that.

“So whaddaya think, boss?” Sucher asked. “They have who we’re looking for?”

A convoy of just seven vehicles, manned by the Empire’s glorified Protektors? “It’s too small for someone so important.” Right?

“Well, it’s in the right place at roughly the right time.”

“It could just be a local patrol,” Späher reasoned. But an insidious anxiety crept into her mind. “Or maybe they’re baiting us,” she added quietly. Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. She knew from experience that the garrison often used the remaining Constabulary personnel as cannon fodder, sending them ahead of Reichsarmee units to bait ambushes. Schlosser. That’s how they got Schlosser.

For a moment, the only response Späher could hear was squelch, squelch, squelch. Sucher’s oral fixation always flared up when she was thinking or concentrating. “Yeah, could be,” she eventually replied. “So what’s the call? Do we let’em pass, or…?”

“Let me think,” Späher replied. She lowered her binoculars and rested her forehead on her palm. Did this dinky group of vehicles really hold their target? Sucher was right about its place and time matching their intel. She thought about her squad. Their lives. My responsibility. The image of Schlosser’s bloody face flashed in her mind.

Radio crackle. “They’re gettin’ closer, boss. They’ve cleared the bend; they’ll be in visual for Sieg’s team soon.”

One modified engineering vehicle, two IFVs, four APCs, and up to sixty soldiers. Had she accounted for everything? Were they primarily facing Wasps, or were there Gestalt infantry as well? Her plan had a good chance of success if this really was the right convoy. But what if these vehicles were part of a larger force? That was the big question. The knot in Späher’s gut grew taut and sour. Was it bait or not? Had they been compromised? This isn’t the time to be second-guessing yourself, Späher. What if Sicher got hurt? Stop. What if--

A voice came from her left. “Ma’am?” Späher turned to see Sturmi staring at her, her expression placid save for the slightly raised eyebrows. “Your hand is trembling, ma’am.” She was holding one of her detonators, her thumb resting on the command switch.

Späher balled her hands into fists, then relaxed them and forced herself to smile. “I’m fine, Sturmi.” Steady tone, no quivering. Good. “It’s just the usual jitters.” She quickly grabbed her binoculars and, as discreetly as possible, squeezed it with both hands. There was a quiet creak as its frame strained under her grip.

Sturmi nodded, but those eyebrows remained raised. “Understood.” She held up the detonator. “The charges are ready.”

“Copy that.” To Späher’s relief, Sturmi began looking over the rest of her gear--meaning she wasn’t paying attention to her. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slower in order to wrest control of her body from the cortisol analogs surging through her biocomponents. Damnit Späher, focus. She mentally repeated her vow to protect her sisters-in-arms. First twice, then thrice. Her eyes fluttered open and the gloomy ruins of the D6 terraces returned to sight. An engineering vehicle, two IFVs, and four APCs. Up to sixty soldiers. Wasps confirmed, she reiterated to herself. She thumbed the talk button on her radio and opened a line to Sucher. “Sucher, do you see anything else coming?”

The squelch of chewing gum again. “Nothin’ far as I can tell. That damn blast furnace is in the way.”

“Okay.” Späher felt the oxidant pounding in her ears and quietly drew a long breath. She would not repeat her past mistakes. A new tactical plan began forming in her mind. “Keep your eyes peeled and let me know if anything happens.”

“Got it, boss.”

Späher flicked Sturmi a quick glance. The LSTR unit was staring at the convoy, which was now barely discernible to the naked eye. Her expression had become more serious, though her thoughts remained unreadable. Was she secretly nervous too, or was she as emotionally tempered as she appeared to be? Späher had always wondered the same about Sigrun, her squad’s original LSTR unit, before they went into battle. She dropped the train of thought and radioed Sieg. “Sieg, how are things down there?”

“My team is in position. Just waiting for the target,” Sieg replied.

“I’m modifying the plan. Get Sicher and Schwert ready to move.”

There was a brief pause. “Come again?”

Point of no return. Time to commit. “I said I’m modifying the plan. Get them ready to move.”

Incredulous silence. “Späher, I can just about see the vehicles coming towards us!”

“They’re more than two klicks from the kill zone. We still have time.”

“What are you--”

“Just listen to me…” Späher squeezed Katya’s action figure again, praying that her new plan would work. Despite being handed this shitshow, everyone in Squad S knew the mission was important. After all, the defector possessed intel that could help the Nation win. Yet the mission was also important to Späher for another reason: if they succeeded, Squad S would finally be given the break it deserved.

--------

Three Cycles Earlier

The crash of the ocean waves were interrupted by a muffled female voice. “Ma’am.” The muffled voice again. “Please wake up, ma’am. We’ve arrived.”

Späher only saw blackness, but she could feel that she was moving. The Wisent. She was on the Wisent with the rest of her squad. Fragments of her ego strained to lift her eyelids, but her id, kicking and screaming, fought back. A hand grabbed her shoulder and lightly shook her. She ignored it--fuck her responsibilities. It shook her again. “Just a sec,” she groaned. She tried to turn away from her tormentor, only for the Wisent to come to a hard stop and throw her in its direction. Sharp pain blossomed on Späher’s temple as she hit something hard and angular.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

Späher opened her eyes and instinctively rubbed the side of her head. The first thing she saw was a blue and red magpie symbol on an armored shoulder pauldron. Sturmi. Of course. She was the only one who addressed Späher as ‘ma’am’; everyone else in Squad S addressed her as ‘Chief’ or ‘boss’ or by name. Späher must’ve crashed into the LSTR unit’s shoulder. “Yeah, thanks Sturmi,” she replied as she slowly got up. “What about you? I hope that didn’t knock anything loose.”

Sturmi stood up and calmly readjusted her armor. “I’m fine.” Typical LSTR impassiveness.

“Okay, good to hear.” She stifled a yawn. Her little nap had restored some of her energy, but her dream about Vineta left her feeling strange. Uneasy. Slightly dissociated, like she was not in her own body. She’d never been to the ocean planet before, not during her active period. So what did it all mean? The drone from the Wisent’s troop compartment door lowering redirected her attention. She shouldered her rucksack, helped Sicher unstrap Schwert, and duly filed out with the rest of her squad.

Kommando Bataillon 3’s HQ was located in an abandoned plantation house on level A3, near the top of Shell 4. The first things Späher saw were towering rows of lush hydroponic pylons under an artificial blue sky. The crystalline structures incorporated resonance modules to quickly grow foodstuffs like tomatoes, strawberries, and cucumbers. The cucumbers were a unique luxury; they required large amounts of water to grow, yet had little nutritional value. On Heimat or Rotfront, they would’ve been considered a waste of precious resources. Next to Vineta, only Alatyr had enough liquid water to use on something so frivolous.

Hundreds of Honey Bee labor Replika would’ve harvested the agro-pylons in peacetime. Now they were deserted, their crop to be requisitioned by the Nation for its own needs.

Späher found the plantation comforting. It was serene; the air was fresh. And the intact lighting panels provided an accurate simulation of a sunny Vinetan day. Vineta. A shame she’d only been able to visit twice since they arrived in Shell 4, both times when she was wounded. “Feels good to be back,” she murmured. The things a change of scenery could do.

“Don’t keep us here for too long, or we’ll all go soft,” Sieg said half-jokingly.

Ahead of them was a clearing in the pylon field, where blocky gray prefabs of various sizes were clustered in a loose ring around the plantation house. A workshop, commissary, aid station, and several bunk houses; the assortment of infrastructure needed to support a small military unit. Replika and Gestalts milled about between the buildings. Sieg was right to be worried--headquarters was the very definition of merrymaking. “Well, where else can we spend our hard-earned rationmarks?” she replied.

Squad S found a bunkhouse and unpacked themselves. It was largely vacant, save for a lone Eistaucher curled up under a blanket. There was work to do. “Alright,” Späher said, “first order of business. Schwert, Sani, head to the aid station. Get that arm properly fixed.”

“On it, Chief!” Schwert chirped. The Schnäpper was certainly more upbeat. She swung her patched arm around as if she were stretching to play sports. “Phew, can’t wait to use this thing again.”

“I’ll…have to go to the workshop first,” Sani replied. “Pick up some spares and supplies.” Their Eule medic still looked exhausted, with dark bags under her eyes, but at least she was composed.

“Got it Sani, sounds good. We’ll all reconvene back here at 1530.” Späher glanced at the rest of her squad to make sure they understood. “The briefing shouldn’t take that long. You guys take care.”

Sani nodded. “Thanks, Chief. You too.” Schwert did a two-fingered salute with her patched arm, and the two of them left.

“Now,” Späher turned to the rest of Squad S. “Supply duty. I’ll need--”

“Covered, boss,” Sucher said with a raised hand.

“Well, that was fast.” Sucher was always one to volunteer. Späher smirked as she handed her the quartermaster request form. “Your sacrifice is much appreciated, Sucher.”

Sucher skimmed the contents of the form, a shadow of regret beginning to spread across her face. “I expect a medal for this,” she muttered.

“Best I can do is a pack of cigarettes.”

Sucher let out a snort.

“Take Sturmi with you,” Späher continued, “and once you get our shit, I want you both to check over the rifles. We don’t wanna repeat what happened at the radar station.”

“Right, got it, boss,” Sucher said, heading to the exit. “Those cigs better be Kazbeks, not those crappy Auroras.”

Sturmi gave Späher a simple “ma’am” and a nod, then followed Sucher.

Only Sieg and Sicher were left to accompany Späher to her meeting with Iron Tits. Before heading to the mansion, Späher went to the comms tent to hand in her action report. She flipped through the report one last time to double-check everything, stopping on the squad member list.

Name              Rank                 Model                 Designation            Status

Späher      Warrant Officer    ALKR (Alkenvogel)    AKS108                    -

Sieg            Sergeant            GANR (Gans)            AKS394                    -

Sicher         Corporal            BLAR (Blauhäher)      AKS367                    -

Sucher        Corporal            SWBR (Schwalbe)      AKS330                    -

Sani           Petty Officer       EULR-KS (Eule)          VMS016                   -

Schwert      Specialist           SAPR (Schnäpper)     AKS319                Wounded

Sturmi        Specialist           LSTR (Elster)             S2302(v)                   -

Schlosser    Sergeant            STVR (Sturmvogel)    AKS321               Deceased

Huh, they still haven't updated Sturmi’s designation, she noted. The LSTR unit’s creation was the result of a clerical error; one of the Sierpinski facilities on Leng had accidentally ordered an additional unit. Since Leng was now under partial lockdown, the state decided she would be better utilized in SPRING AWAKENING as a replacement unit for Squad S.

The plantation house loomed in the distance. It was a spacious white mansion built in the contemporary style, being composed of polyhedral habitation blocks fused together. Excessive for a single household in Späher’s opinion, though not as opulent as the other dwellings on A3. It certainly wasn’t a communal housing complex from Heimat.

“You ready for the briefing?” Sicher asked. Her grey eyes shone under the faux sunlight and she appeared to be well rested (evidently the entire squad had slept on the Wisent), a small smile painting her face.

Späher handed her report to a clerk. Although she was in a better mood, she was still far from excited about their meeting with command, or the prospect of another mission. “I’d rather be sipping tea and playing Enchanted Country with Schwert,” she replied, referring to the Schnäpper’s favorite tabletop game. “But, well, orders are orders.” Sometimes it felt like that phrase was her squad’s raison d’etre. They both began walking towards the plantation house, with Sieg following behind.

“Say,” Sicher began, her smile growing playfully, “how about we go on vacation to Rotfront instead?”

Späher returned the smile. This Sicher was a far cry from the one in the tunnel, and a lot closer to the one Späher had known for most of their time together. “I got the tickets for Mondfest.”

“I’ve arranged the flight.”

“We taking economy class or Party?”

“Well, decorated veterans get a pick, don’t they?”

Späher decided to indulge in the fantasy. She was in one of those old romance films, banned in the Nation but still available here on Alatyr, the ones where two Gestalt lovers from rival families ran away together. “Either way, we’ll finally be free,” she said, the music swelling in the background. “It'll just be the two of us.”

Sicher theatrically batted her eyelashes. “Oh Späher, when you put it like that, I--”

“Hey guys,” Sieg interjected, “hey!”

Sicher rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Yes?” she hissed. “How can we help you, Sieg AKS394?” She bit down on each letter and number in Sieg’s unit designation like she was crushing ice cubes with her teeth.

Sieg raised a brow but otherwise disregarded Sicher’s annoyance. “I heard one of the Gestalts saying that there’s an AEON unit here.”

Späher exchanged glances with Sicher, before turning to Sieg. “Here at headquarters? Did they say why?” she asked. Odd. There were dedicated channels between them and the Army. The three of them passed the aid station, where Schwert and two other Schnappers were suspended from a repair gantry. Schwert tried to wave at them, but the technicians made her lower her arm. They waved back. 

Sieg kicked a discarded ration can. “No, but I wouldn't be surprised if they’re butting into Army business, Chief.” Then she shrugged. “But hey, they could just be here for public relations--handing out medals, that sort of thing.”

The neurons in Späher’s brain fired and images flashed before her eyes. Unit 8. Colonel Liang. My comrades at attention.

“Maybe it’s an administrative unit for civilian areas?” Sicher conjectured.

Sieg shook her fist, eyes narrowing. “I swear, if I come across any Protektors, I’ll…”

Späher tuned out of the conversation as her thoughts drifted to her dream. Her curiosity began gnawing at her. The ocean. Unit 8. Colonel Liang. Those soldiers, that unit--were they they real, or just figments of her imagination? All Replika were told their Gestalt memories would eventually resurface, that it was a natural side effect of the neural transfer. But Späher had been active for just over twenty Vinetan months. Surely it was far too early for this to happen to her? She looked at Sieg and Sicher, who were in animated conversation. While all Replika were made aware of the phenomena, actually discussing any of it was against regulations; strictly verboten. Späher tuned back in.

“...they wouldn’t have drawn genitals on your flak vest if you hadn’t tripped that Storch and called her ‘stick legs’,” Sicher argued.

Sieg humphed and crossed her arms. “Serves her right for stealing my rationmarks.” She looked to Späher. “Right, Chief?”

“Huh? Uhh…” Späher assumed she was talking about their time on Rotfront Orbital, right before the operation. “Didn’t Achtzehn win them after beating you in a game of cards?”

“She cheated.”

The three of them talked about Sieg’s little spat for the next minute (“What do you mean, she could read my expressions?”), to which the Gans unit eventually admitted that maybe she kinda sorta was in fact just a sore loser. “So, anyway,” Sieg said, pivoting, “what exactly happened in that transit tunnel with you two? Sicher, girl, you looked…troubled when I saw you at the rally point.”

Sicher rubbed her arm awkwardly and she briefly looked away, before returning to Sieg’s gaze. She spoke hesitantly. “I…accidentally shot a dog.”

“Did your fire-control malfunction or something?”

“It probably came to me thinking I had food…I was nervous...” Sicher ran her hand through her hair and pressed her lips together.

“Well, accidents happen. But you were that worked up over a dog? I mean c’mon…”

God, Sieg could be so tactless sometimes. Späher badly wanted to slap her. “Sieg, not everyone can be a heartless ass like you.”

“It’s--it’s okay, Späher,” Sicher said with a mild shrug. “I was just stressed out. We all were.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sieg muttered.

“We were all stressed except for the team sociopath.”

They passed the commissary, where a long line of Gestalts and Replika had queued up. Sucher and Sturmi were at the front desk, waiting for Späher’s quartermaster request. “Well, if you guys are that keen on getting a break, maybe we should get Iron Tits some chocolates or something,” Sieg said. “Schmooze her up, get on her good side.”

Sieg, I’d throw in a free foot massage if it meant I could spend the rest of the week sleeping.

The three of them arrived at the house entrance, where they were met by an unfamiliar figure. The Eistaucher that usually stood guard there was absent. In her place was a stern-looking Kolibri, her hand raised in front of her, palm facing towards them. She gave them an authoritative “Halt!” The upper left part of her chestplate was adorned with a small black hexagon insignia instead of the Volksarmee’s red shield.

AEON was here alright.

“We’re under orders to meet with the Colonel,” Späher told the Kolibri. I’m guessing you’re not here to hand out medals.

The newcomer looked at Späher, then Sieg. “The two of you are ‘five-pluses,’ correct?” She said ‘five-pluses’ like it was some new and unfamiliar word.

Späher nodded. “That we are,” she said cautiously. “What’s this about?”

“Security check. Orders from AEON Command. Let me pass your psionic filters.”

What the hell was happening? Späher glanced at Sicher, who looked mildly annoyed at the Kolibri, then Sieg, who looked as puzzled as Späher felt. There was only one person Späher allowed into her mind, and that person was an empath, not a true telepath like Kolibri. “We have identification cards,” she said. She was loath to keep Iron Tits waiting on behalf of AEON. Or let the Kolbri discover her relationship with said empath.

“I have instructions to perform a full mind scan on all visitors,” the Kolibri repeated. She continued to stare at Späher without breaking eye contact or even blinking. Their height difference made the little standoff look almost comical. Kolibri looked like a petulant child, trying to convince Späher to let her stay up past curfew through sheer force of will. 

Späher started taking out her clearance papers, but Sicher was quicker. "With all due respect, we’re on a schedule,” the Blauhäher said. She handed Kolibri her ID card and her own papers. “If you have an issue, bring it up with the brass.”

The Kolibri frowned as she flipped through the files, narrowing her eyes, before suddenly looking off to the side. The three stars on her forehead lit up. Was she speaking with her cohorts? After several moments, her frown relaxed--slightly--and she looked back at the group. “You’re all free to go.” She returned Sicher’s documents.

Späher double-checked her psi filters as she entered.

--------

The operations room had once been the main living room. All of the furniture had been removed and replaced by computers and comms equipment operated by Eules and Gestalts. The large windows were papered over with maps and charts, and numerous cables and wires crisscrossed the floor. All around her, Späher could hear the voices of radio operators giving and receiving instructions.

A large flat-topped computer console occupied the center of the room, surrounded by several imposing figures poring over its contents under an overhead light. On the left was Adler, Kommando Bataillon 3’s Executive Officer. To his right stood a FISR unit with a pair of hand grenades clasped to her chest rig--Iron Tits herself, formally Lieutenant Colonel Fischadler, Kommando Bataillon 3’s Commanding Officer.

And to her right was a towering figure whose head almost reached the ceiling, and who was only partly illuminated by the light. A newcomer like the Kolibri outside, yet instantly recognizable, since there was only one Replika with such stature.

Falke.

AEON definitely wasn’t here to hand out medals.

Kommando Bataillon 3’s Birds of Prey

Fischadler AKC307 (“Iron Tits”)

Role: Commanding Officer

Rank: Lieutenant Colonel

Replika Model: FISR

Feldoffizier, Infanterie/Sondereinsatzkräfte Replika

--Fischadler--

Field Officer, Infantry/Special Forces Replika ‘Osprey’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Steel/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 191cm

Adler AKC305

Role: Adjutant

Rank: Lieutenant

Replika Model: ADLR-AJ

Administration, Datenverarbeitung, Logistik Replika - Adjutant

--Adler--

Administration, Data Processing, Logistics Replika 'Eagle’ (adjutant vers.)

Replika Generation: 5

Frame: Biomechanical with carbon fiber-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Falke AAF001

Role: Chief Political Officer/AEON Liaison

Rank: Commander

Replika Model: FLKR

Führungskommando-Leiteinheit-Replika

--Falke--

Operational Command Control Unit Replika 'Falcon'

Replika Generation: 6

Frame: [REDACTED]

Height: 250cm

Adler was the first one to notice them; after a quick glance he tapped Fischadler on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She looked up, the overhead light illuminating a tall face with a sharp nose and high cheekbones; black hair that was swept back and tied neatly in a bun. Späher, Sieg and Sicher stood at attention and saluted. Fisachadlers were the highest-ranking Replika units in the Volksarmee, usually placed in charge of battalion-level commands. They were, broadly speaking, the Army’s equivalent to AEON’s Falke units.

Fischadler put on her orange beret and returned the salute. “Warrant Officer Späher,” she acknowledged simply. Her voice had a cordial lilt, but there was a hard steely undertone that made Späher stand straighter.

“Ma’am. You wanted to see us?”

“Yes. At ease, all of you, we have much to discuss. ” She looked to Adler to say something, stopped, and turned back to Späher. “By the way, I heard about Schlosser,” she said softly. “I’m glad the rest of your squad is safe.” Fischadler had impossibly high expectations of her soldiers. She had also memorized every single one of their nicknames.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“She was a true soldier. Normally we’d send you a replacement, but all of our in-theatre special forces units are stretched thin.”

“I understand.”

“Unfortunately, you will have little time to mourn.” She adjusted her chest rig. “Come to the console, we have important things to show you.”

The top of the console was a thin computer screen that could display high-resolution images. It currently displayed two pictures side-by-side: a vertical cross-section schematic of Shell 4, and a map of one of its sublevels.

“Adler, if you please.”

“Of course ma’am.” Adler pressed a button and the image changed to a dark, grainy photograph showing rows of opaque cylindrical pods from an oblique angle. Multiple tubes trailed from the ceiling into the top of each cylinder.

Fischadler pointed at the pods. “Do any of you know what these are?”

Späher squinted. It was impossible to tell what was inside the cylinders, if there was anything at all. But something about them seemed familiar. She swore she’d seen them somewhere. Perhaps on Heimat? Both Sicher and Sieg appeared similarly stumped.

“They’re biocomponent culture pods,” Fischadler revealed. She cleared her throat. “Twelve months ago, we received reports from our Liên Minh contacts and Navy SIGINT that the Empire was working on something called Project ‘Monarch’ at the research facilities here on Alatyr. We used a backdoor in the Shell infrastructure database to monitor activity, and we discovered that unusually large quantities of biotech equipment were being shipped to Shell 1. These pods were among them…” She looked to Adler, who pressed the button again, and the image switched to another grainy photo showing devices that resembled MRI machines. “…along with these bioresonance testing machines, and other kinds of related hardware.” Adler flipped through multiple images, each displaying different kinds of Replika manufacturing equipment. “Based on these images, and on information from our source inside the Empire’s Replikaentwicklungsbüro, we’ve concluded that the purpose of ‘Monarch’ is to develop a bioresonant ‘super’ Replika. Wonder weapons, if you will.”

Sieg spoke up. “Are these super-Replika meant to counter our Falke units?” Späher glanced at Falke, who stood silently in the shadows, the red of her pupils piercing the darkness. She appeared to be examining her and her squadmates like they were lab specimens under a microscope. Their eyes locked. Späher immediately averted her gaze. This was her first time face-to-face with a FLKR unit, and she could feel a terrifying power behind that red glow.

“That’s a reasonable assumption,” Fischadler replied, “so I hope you’ll understand the importance of your mission.” The FISR unit adjusted her beret. “Speaking of which, Commander Falke will handle the rest of the briefing.”

Falke stepped forward, moving for the first time since the briefing began. The overhead light revealed a face sculpted like a demigod from pre-Unification mythology. Piercing blue irises, a sharp nose and tapered chin, locks of lavish black hair dangling between her eyes. Her metal halo was absent, probably to save space in the confines of the operations room. She was the most beautiful Replika Späher had ever seen.

When she spoke, her voice had a rich timbre, completely different from Fischadler’s down-to-earth tone. “The first order of business is to extract our source in the Replikaentwicklungsbüro.” The image on the console screen switched to a photo of a middle-aged female Gestalt and an accompanying datasheet. The Gestalt wore a white lab coat and glasses that sat on weathered brown eyes, and had brown chin-length hair; her lips were pressed into a thin line. The most striking detail was the black Imperial Hex on her forehead, signifying that she was bioresonant. “This is our defector, Dr. Matilda Fukuyama. She is one of the scientists working on Project Monarch.”

Späher learned from the datasheet and from Falke’s accompanying narration that Dr. Fukuyama was 42 years old, born into the Empire’s Freiemann caste. She had a PhD in Resonance Studies and a Master’s Degree in Biotechnology, both from the Imperial College on Buyan. Fukuyama started working at the REB when she was 30, and her contact with Nation Intelligence began two years ago.

“Dr. Fukuyama holds key information about the program,” Falke continued, “so she is of vital importance to us. In three days, Fukuyama will be transferred from one of the REB’s ancillary facilities in Shell 4 to another in Shell 3 via a transit tunnel on level D6.” The image switched back to the side-by-side vertical schematic and sublevel map, with a red overlay highlighting the route on both. “Squad S is to link up with local Liên Minh partisans and hit the convoy transferring her. You will extract her alive and bring her to friendly territory.” Falke grabbed a set of files from a bin on the console's side and handed them to Späher. “These files contain mission-relevant information and instructions, like the convoy’s expected route, its schedule, and your infiltration and exfiltration routes into D6. Plan accordingly."

Späher flipped through the files. Did these mission orders come from Falke? Fischadler should be in charge of the tactical details. After all, Squad S was an Army unit.

“We only have three days to get to her?” Sieg inquired.

Falke answered. “We only recently acquired this information. I wish you had more time to prepare, but this is our best chance at getting her before she moves deeper into enemy territory.”

“I’m going to assume her convoy is well-guarded. How exactly are we gonna rescue her?” Sieg continued. “We’re gonna spend most of our time shooting at it, and we don’t have a way of knowing her precise location.”

“Corporal Sicher’s psionic abilities should be strong enough to detect her presence and locate her in the convoy.” There was a brief spark in Falke’s eye; an almost imperceptible upward curl in the corner of her mouth as she gazed at the Blauhäher.

“She’d have to do that at close range.”

It was an understatement to say Späher had similar worries. “Sich, how close would you have to be for this to work?” She felt the iron hand of anxiety tightening around her.

For her part, Sicher looked surprisingly calm about the plan. “At least one hundred meters,” she answered.

Späher looked at Falke. “Would it be possible to give the doctor a tracker instead?” Please. Anything but her.

Falke shook her head. “No. There is too little time to smuggle one to her. In any case, the Imperials routinely perform invasive security checks.” It was a clean, faultless answer, like she was explaining to her Blockwart why she couldn’t attend the weekly Party sermon.

“One hundred meters…” Späher repeated. By the Revolutionary. That was practically on top of them.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Sieg muttered. She turned to Falke and Fischadler. “That’s practically suicide!”

“Watch your tone, Sergeant,” Fischadler warned.

Späher made a supreme effort to stay composed. “Is there any information about the convoy’s composition?” she asked. The urge to scream--perhaps it was bile--welled up in her throat, but she tamped it down by clenching her jaw.

“We’re still trying to track and identify the Imperial units in D6,” Falke responded, “But we know both Constabulary and regular units are present.”

That’s how it is everywhere.

Sieg pinched the bridge of her nose. “So you know nothing.” She sighed frustratedly. “This is a big fu--” she glanced at Fischadler and Falke, stopping herself. “This is a big damn gamble, Chief,” she said to Späher.

“The nature of the objective will impose severe tactical constraints upon us,” Späher parleyed to Falke. Tendrils of anger and frustration, directed at AEON, at the Army, at the whole world materialized inside her. This was what Squad S was given after all that fighting? Falke might be a super weapon, and she might be strong enough to single-handedly destroy an entire company of Hornets. But she clearly didn’t know how to plan an asset retrieval operation. This was a special forces battalion for fuck’s sake, not a Sierpinski facility. She couldn’t simply will something to occur, consequences be damned. Späher looked to Fischadler for guidance.

Silence. The Colonel’s face was coolly neutral, professional; unreadable. Whatever her thoughts were, she wasn’t sharing them.

Falke wasn’t just involved in planning, was she? She actually had full control over the entire operation.

“I was told,” Falke cut in icily, “that Squad S was one of the best special forces units in the Volksarmee.”

Späher wanted to lash out, to tell Falke that her squad had been fighting near-continuously for eighty days, that they deserved a break. “We’re…only human, ma’am.” She stared up at the towering Replika, looking her straight in the red glare of her pupils.

Falke was unmoved. “If anyone can succeed, it is your squad. The course of the war depends on this mission.” She may have intended for the statement to be motivational, but her cold, detached demeanor betrayed her true message: no more complaints. There was a short pause; a palpable air of suspense. “Succeed in this mission, Warrant Officer, and your squad will get the rest they deserve. Dismissed.”

The three members of Squad S smartly saluted before exiting. As they left, Späher shared a frustrated glance with Sieg.

Sicher took her hand. “We can do this,” she said reassuringly.

I certainly hope so, Späher thought.

--------

All of Squad S was gathered in the bunkhouse, contemplating the task assigned to them. “So, they’re putting everything on our shoulders and sending us in blind,” Sani said. Her face was masked with tired resignation, but there were flashes of fear and frustration in her eyes.

“Essentially, yes,” Späher replied. “Falke says our best chance is to grab her now, before she’s transferred to a secure location.”

“And Iron Tits didn’t have anything to add?”

“She let Falke take the reins.”

Sucher was sitting on a backward chair, thoughtfully cupping her chin. “I don’t like going in with so many uncertainties,” she mused (as if Falke was canvassing feedback), “but I see why it’s important. If the Empire’s able to manufacture their own Falkes, we’ll have a long, long war ahead of us.”

“As opposed to a short one if we all die on this mission,” Sani replied caustically.

“Sani,” Späher said, “I know you’re still hurting over Schlosser, but you can’t let that foul your whole outlook. We’ve gone in with minimal intel before. If we follow our training, use the tools at our disposal, we’ll make it out of this one.” She hoped that last part would buttress morale.

“Who’re you trying to convince, Späher?” the Eule shot back. “Us, or yourself?”

“Sani, take it easy,” Schwert said gently.

Sucher held out her pack of Auroras to Sani. “You want a cig? They're mighty good for calmin’ the nerves.”

Sieg put her foot down. “We’re here to discuss preparations and tactics, not our feelings about the mission. If you’ve got nothing to say about those subjects, you can keep your mouth shut.”

--------

Sieg knew it was standard procedure for everyone to have a maintenance check-up before a mission, but she didn’t like being fussed over.

“The friction joint in your right knee is all fouled up,” Sergeant Aikawa said. “The hydraulic regulator’s busted too, and so are the shock dampeners.” Sieg gave him a sheepish grin. Technical Sergeant Karl Aikawa was one of the Replika technicians assigned to Kommando Bataillon 3. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, he was the walking, talking callus responsible for keeping Squad S functional. “You been doing somersaults or something?”

“Well Karl, when Command says ‘jump,’ we ask ‘how high?’”

“I didn’t know Wiseass Logic Modules were a thing, but I’m gonna hafta disable yours because this is serious business.” He huffed and tapped the maintenance pod’s control panel. The part of the pod bed under Sieg’s right leg elevated until her leg was at chest height for him. “Last thing you want is this thing seizing up in the middle of battle.” He tapped Sieg’s knee. “That happens, and you’ll--”

“Trip and fall, I know.” Geez, and I thought Sani was bad. “How long will it take to fix?” As she spoke, Sieg noticed what looked like a photo taped to the side of the control panel. It hadn’t been there before. But she couldn’t make out the photo’s details because a dangling chain hoist blocked most of her view.

“At this point, it’ll be easier to just swap out the whole thing. You good with that?”

“Said this before and I’ll say it again: do what you think is best. You’ve patched me a million times.” Privately, Sieg wondered how many of his frown lines could be attributed solely to Squad S.

Aikawa attached the hoist to the leg, and Sieg accordingly released its limb interlocks and disabled its sensory processors. “I know I can be overbearing sometimes,” he admitted. “You guys can afford to be more frivolous with these things. Don’t have to worry about returning home maimed and disabled like us Gestalts because you’re built different. But I’m still gonna hassle you for your careless attitude because after working on so many Replika, I know that you ain’t so different from us under that armor.”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, man.”

Aikawa grinned. “Sorry. Can’t help it.” He manually uncoupled Sieg’s leg and activated the hoist, lifting it up into the air like a macabre chandelier. “At my age, seein’ young folks head off to war--and it don’t matter if they’re flesh and bone, or plastic and metal--it makes me…melancholy.”

With the hoist out of the way, Sieg could now see the photo in its entirety. There were four figures clustered together, one of them a smiling Aikawa. One of his arms was wrapped around a Gestalt woman, also smiling; the other was placed on the shoulder of one of the two smaller Gestalts standing in front of them.

Aikawa lowered Sieg’s original leg onto a rack and clipped the hoist onto a new leg. “My family and Blockwart are always worried ‘bout me. They’re always pestering me, tellin’ me to write to them every week and freaking out if I don’t.” He shimmied the new leg into position over the maintenance pod. “I used to think it was just annoying bullshit that they did because, well, just because.” He tapped the photo. “But after I got my kids, I started to understand why they do it.” He lowered the new leg and coupled it to Sieg’s body. There was a whirring noise as the limb interlocks contracted and a clack as they locked in place.

--------

It was quiet in the bunkhouse except for the click and clack of equipment being shoved into pockets, bandoleers, satchels, clips; rucksacks. Späher and her squadmates awkwardly wrangled their limbs through gray-green flak jackets, untangled and adjusted their webbing, and loaded their magazines. One week's rations, extra ammo; spare parts. A Type-75C pistol as a sidearm. Each Replika then shouldered her own burden, custom-tailored to her role in the squad.

Sturmi carried a Type-84SD Drache SMG, multitool, welding torch, mattock, four PM-80 anti-tank mines, six PM-60 antipersonnel mines, five kilos of plastic explosive, eight detonators, and several bundles of fuses.

Schwert was outfitted with a BS-2 antitank missile launcher on her right shoulder, an SM50 50mm mortar on her left, an MGR-86S machine gun--right arm, and an M2 Lanze pile bunker--left arm. She also carried a dozen chocolate bars to keep her energy up.

Sieg carried Schlosser’s MGR-86L light machine gun, her late squadmate’s signature padlock symbol still on its buttstock; a customized combat knife, several hand grenades, and detachable crampons designed specifically for Gans units.

Sucher carried her trusty LSMR-40 marksman rifle (she’d named it Gertrude), an Einhorn revolver, a khukri, several thermal ponchos, three packs of gum, and a carton of crappy Aurora cigarettes.

Sani carried her repair spray (with twelve spare cartridges), a welding torch, four cartons of repair patches, a medical stapler, several vials of morphine, bandages and other medical sundries; three reserve oxidant bottles, one bottle of Gestalt blood plasma, and a Book of Last Rites she’d been given by an Alatyrian refugee. For self-defense, she carried an SG-103 assault rifle, but it never looked right on her.

Sicher carried an SG-103 assault rifle, several hand grenades, a camera, a friendship bracelet she’d made, and her butterfly hairclip.

And as the squad leader, Späher carried an SG-103 assault rifle, maps of Shells 4 and 3, binoculars, an LP-265a flare gun, flares, grenade shells, pictures of the Great Leaders, Katya’s action figure, and the weight of responsibility for her girls.

--------

Present Day

Sieg watched the convoy draw closer from her ground-level vantage point, a foxhole under an overturned train car in the marshalling yard. Its lead vehicle was now visible to the naked eye as a black tick-like speck in the distance that grew larger every second. The ambush now consisted of a cut-down version of her team and Sucher’s ‘team,’ which was really just the Schwalbe unit and Sturmi. Damn it Späher. You and your fucking plans.

Späher had taken Sicher, Schwert, her squad of LMs, and the platoon's headquarters section, leaving Sieg with the remaining two squads, the mortar team, and Sani. They were spread out and hidden among the other train cars and bits of machinery that filled the yard. Without Sicher’s telekinetic abilities and Schwert’s heavy weapons, Sieg had been deprived of some serious firepower. Normally, Sieg would consider those two unnecessary in a fight against a Constabulary unit, but even so…

Several LMs were nearby, in cover behind a wrecked engine. Sieg saw a young woman shoulder a Panzerstürmer rocket launcher, its boxy black silhouette looking comically large on her small frame. Most of the Liên Minh were barely more than kids. They looked too clean, too fresh to be laden in webbing, to wear flak vests and helmets that practically buried them, to smear themselves in blood and dirt and oil and whatever detritus littered the battlefield. Some looked like they could be Aikawa’s children.

The older fighters were defectors from the Constabulary, or former regulars--people who knew their trade. Too bad Späher had taken the lion’s share with her.

Regardless, all of the LMs were determined to fight--for an independent Alatyr, and for the destruction of the Empire’s hated caste system. That included the Gestalt who shared the foxhole with Sieg, a doe-eyed radioman named Jaakko who lacked facial hair and kept saying that yes, he had in fact graduated from secondary school.

Jaakko was in awe of her from the moment they met. Sieg wasn’t sure if it was because she was the first Nationalist Replika he’d ever seen, or because she looked like a god of war draped in ammo belts and armor. He certainly had some…odd preconceived notions about Nationalist Replika, no doubt implanted by Imperial propaganda.

“Is it true that you get your energy by draining the life force of Gestalts?” he’d asked her. He was completely serious.

Sieg had decided to be cheeky. “Yeah, I just drained several babies last night,” she replied.

Jaakko’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“It was that time of the month,” she continued nonchalantly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Jaakko looked positively aghast.

Sieg laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Relax kid, I’m fucking with you. We eat food like normal people.”

She snapped out of the flashback when her radio crackled to life. “Lead vehicle’s past the rail maintenance shed,” Sucher reported, cool as water. The convoy had closed considerably, so now they were using the buildings on either side of the rail line as range markers. Their mortar team had pre-registered their salvos on each of them.

“They will enter the kill zone in four minutes, Sergeant,” Sturmi added. If Sucher’s voice was calm, then Sturmi’s was outright flat. Her charges were placed inside the various administrative buildings next to the line, along her team’s portion of the ‘L’. They were built to create explosively-formed penetrators when detonated, and daisy-chained for maximum effectiveness. Sturmi was a fucking artist when it came to explosives.

“Steady,” Sieg whispered. Force of habit. She knew that her sisters’ fire discipline was finely honed, that no bullet would be fired or charges blown until she finished enunciating the last syllable of her command to fire.

The same could not be said for the twitchy LMs. She could hear Jaakko nervously drumming his fingers up and down on the rubble. Sieg put a hand on his shoulder. Gave a reassuring nod.

He swallowed, a bead of sweat rolling down his face, and nodded back. He stopped drumming.

Radio crackle. “Lead vehicle just passed the first loadin’ dock.”

“Steady…” Her entire life, the totality of her twenty-three-month existence, was on the rail line charging towards the convoy. A collision course. A clash of wills. The whole Nation was watching her.

The convoy’s speck grew larger. From the perspective of the Imperials, the marshalling yard ahead of them was nothing more than a mass of wrecked machines and concrete. However inexperienced the LMs were, they would be fighting from cover and concealment.

Jaakko gazed intensely at the kill zone, brows furrowed, his radio handset practically glued to the side of his head.

Sieg’s fire-control system automatically began tracking the lead vehicle with its signature red box reticule. She shouldered Schlosser’s light machine gun; girl would appreciate that she was still helping them kill Imps. The targeting reticule shrank steadily. Sieg steadied her breathing. She reminded herself to keep score; she and Schwert had a bet going on. As foolish as Späher was to change their plan at the last minute, Sieg had to admit that part of her relished the challenge.

Radio crackle. “They’re aboutta reach the second loadin’ dock, Sarge.” Close to the bend. The lead vehicle had grown from a speck to the size of a peanut.

Sieg could feel her oxidant pump trying to jump out of her chest. “Steady…”

“They’re at the second loadin’ dock.”

This is for Schlosser. “Open fire.”

“Open fire!” Jaakko screamed into his handset.

There was a resounding roar that temporarily deafened Sieg’s audio receptors as Sturmi’s charges went off. Both the admin buildings to her front left and everything on the rail line itself disappeared in a flash of fire and smoke. Slugs of hypersonic shrapnel tore into the convoy like buckshot and a pillar of flame erupted up through the haze as one of the vehicles blew up.

Mortar rounds then blanketed the kill zone, throwing up geysers of debris. Sieg and her team let loose a torrent of small arms fire, blue tracers scything into the smoke cloud covering the area. Red tracers streamed out as the surviving Imperials returned fire. The Striga leading the convoy burst out of the dissipating cloud, burning but still functional thanks to the reactive armor, its hide sparking from numerous bullet impacts.

Red box on the Striga. The MGR dug into Sieg’s shoulder, spitting hot casings into the foxhole. She knew the vehicle was bulletproof but she fired anyway--damage the vision blocks, knock out external sensors, keep the crew ‘buttoned up’ in their metal box. One of the convoy’s Rusalkas, still smoking from a hit, skirted around the Striga to get a clear shot for its autocannon.

Red box on the Rusalka. A single 50mm shell could pulp even the most heavily armored Replika. The beautiful chuk-chuck-chuk of the MGR filled Sieg’s ears, a stream of blue sprouting from its barrel.

The young woman with the Panzerstürmer peeked over her cover and fired. Her rocket struck the Striga and exploded in a burst of smoke and embers. It kept coming. Other rockets flew towards the vehicles on converging trajectories.

The Rusalka’s turret was blown to pieces by a direct hit, leaving a twisted mass of metal smoking and burning atop its hull. Its momentum carried it forward like a derelict ship before it collided with an abandoned boxcar. Hell yeah.

Sieg switched back to firing at the Striga. Chuk-chuck-chuk-chuk-chuk. A rocket had partly blown off its mine plow, the appendage dangling off its front end before being dragged underneath the vehicle.

But it kept moving. Smoke streamed from the tank-sized vehicle as it careened off the rail line. Several LMs desperately unloaded on it from behind a flat car, but they were forced to scatter as the Striga knocked it aside like it was a toy. It barreled through the yard wreckage and towards Sieg’s position like a flaming asteroid.

Shit. “Time to move!” she shouted to Jaakko. Jaakko scrambled to get out of the foxhole, but he wasn’t going anywhere quick--not while wearing a heavy radio backpack. Sieg grabbed him by his webbing straps and threw him out from under the train car, then tossed out her machine gun.

She felt the ground vibrate from the metal monster, felt its deep growl in her ears.

Sieg pushed herself out of the hole and rolled out from under the car, her muscles screaming with adrenaline.

An arm's length away, the Striga’s dark steel body slammed into the train car with a thunderclap. She instinctively curled up into a protective ball, burying her head under her arms. The sound of several tons of metal being smashed rang in her ears as the Striga finally ground to a halt. She groped around for her gun. Found it. A stream of burning fuel leaking from the Striga began to snake towards her.

Jaakko ran to her and helped pull her away from the fire. “Y-You alright?” he asked shakily.

“Yeah, thanks kid. We have to get out of here,” she replied. If there were any munitions inside the burning Striga, it might ‘cook off.’

The boy nodded, flinching as something exploded behind him. They both sprinted to the wrecked engine close by, where the Panzerstürmer woman was positioned.

The woman, who had switched to her rifle, wordlessly moved aside to make room. Peering over the top, Sieg saw slender figures scrambling to the side of the rail line and away from their burning vehicles. They were all identical, possessing a female form. But instead of having flexible matte-black polyethylene skin like Nationalist Replika, the figures had glossy yellow-and-black carapaces made of chitin-like material; segmented to allow movement. A pale human face adorned their heads.

Wasps.

Multiple red boxes appeared on Sieg’s HUD, each sparkling as the Imperial Replika fired their weapons. Sieg and her team replied. Blue tracer fire scythed into the group. Chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk. Multiple boxes vanished. But the surviving Wasps quickly dispersed and formed a skirmish line in a manner that was well-rehearsed. There had to be a Gestalt officer somewhere among them. The Replika began to advance briskly towards the marshalling yard, firing from the hip, bayonets fixed.

Onwards they ran, a wave of yellow and black. The Machine Servants fell, cut down by bullets, blown apart by rockets; thrown like ragdolls by mortar shells. Sucher was probably having a field day picking them off. Sieg and her team were reaping a deadly harvest. She was probably gonna win that bet. But onwards they ran.

The Imperials swarmed through the gap made by the Striga, attacking her team’s positions up close. Several Wasps clambered up the engine. One came close enough for Sieg to see the whites of her eyes as the Imperial Replika sprayed bullets at her. Sieg replied with a short burst. A web of oxidant exploded from the Wasp’s torso and she dropped like a rock. Another lunged at her with rifle and bayonet, but Sieg used her MGR as a staff to deflect the thrust aside. She then shoulder-checked the Wasp away before snap-shooting a round into her head, popping it like a balloon.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sieg noticed a large figure jumping onto the train engine. It was bulkier than any Wasp, wearing what appeared to be an armored and scaled-up AVA suit and a black-visored battle helm. Sieg and the Panzerstürmer woman fired at it but their bullets harmlessly ricocheted.

When the figure pivoted to face them, Sieg saw the resonance katana in its hands and the black Imperial Eagle, symbol of the Reichsarmee, on his helmet. “Watch out!” she warned the woman, “It’s--”

Too late.

The figure leapt at them, its blade parting the air in a swift motion that cut the woman in half, shoulder to hip. Blood splattered onto Sieg’s armor and the smell of ozone from the blade’s resonance module flooded her nose. She immediately backed away, depressing the trigger with one hand while dragging Jaakko with the other. The other LMs in the position rounded on it instead of running. Big mistake. The katana sliced through them like a tungsten knife through jelly and they fell in a bloody heap.

The figure had to be the Wasps’ Gestalt officer, and their suit had to be a servo-frame, which would give them strength on par with a combat Replika. Sieg turned to Jaakko. “I’ll handle this,” she said calmly. He wisely left the scene. She then continued firing, her targeting reticule zeroing in on their helmet visor.

The officer charged, katana raised to deal a killing blow. “Die, Nationalist machine!” he screamed as Sieg’s rounds plinked off. Time slowed as he bore down on her. One round chipped the Imperial Eagle and another cracked the visor. Sparks flew. He was half a head taller. The katana began to fall.

Sieg held the MGR crosswise and stepped into the strike, using it to block the katana before it could fully land. The blade buried itself in the upper receiver with a metallic tinkt. The officer yanked his sword aside to free the blade, flinging the MGR out of Sieg’s hands. Sieg pivoted aside and grabbed his right arm with one hand and the end of the katana with the other, before pushing on the arm and pulling on the blade. The force wrenched the sword from his grip. He responded by dropping his right arm and knocking Sieg’s hand away with his left, before transitioning into a right-left punch combo. Sieg blocked the strikes and scissor-kicked him in the stomach to drive him back, then drew her combat knife. Quickly recovering, the officer drew his own.

The two warriors dropped into a low battle stance, knives out front, weight evenly distributed between the legs, free arm held close to the torso to guard the vitals.

He thrust his blade at Sieg, only for the blow to miss as she smoothly sidestepped. Then he struck at her with a diagonal slash, but she darted back while arcing her blade under his forearm, slashing it on the unarmored palm-side. There was a spray of crimson. The officer let out a pained groan and dropped his knife, the flexor tendons controlling his fingers severed. Sieg sprang forward like a viper and stomped the inside of his knee, dropping him to a kneel, before stabbing her knife into the gap between his helmet and the suit. There was a wet crunching noise and a stream of viscous blood poured out of his neck. He feebly clutched her arm with his working hand, his strength fading as his life slowly gurgled away. Their knife duel had lasted less than four seconds.

“You’d better count as two,” she said as she sheathed her knife. She was definitely gonna win her bet with Schwert. Sieg reclaimed Schlosser’s MGR, but unfortunately it wasn’t designed to fire with a giant fucking gash in it. She’d have to send it back to the workshop. Her eyes jumped to the resonance katana. It was beautifully crafted, with gold trim and a blade that shimmered with an electric-blue hue. She hefted it. It was as well-balanced as it was beautiful. A smile spread across Sieg’s face.

As Sieg re-entered the fray, katana in hand, she prayed that Späher, Sicher, and Schwert were safe. If Späher’s assumptions were correct, they faced a challenging fight of their own.

Guide to Squad S

Späher AKS108

Role: Squad Leader

Rank: Warrant Officer

Replika Model: ALKR

Allgemeines Kommando Spezialkräfte Replika

-- Alkenvogel --

General Purpose Special Forces Command Replika ‘Auk’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Steel/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sieg AKS394

Role: Second-In-Command

Rank: Sergeant

Replika Model: GANR

Gebirgsjäger, Aufklärer, Nahkampf Replika

-- Gans --

Mountain Assault, Reconnaissance, Close Combat Replika ‘Goose’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Aluminum/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sicher AKS367

Role: Telekinetic Assault Specialist

Rank: Corporal

Replika Model: BLAR

Bioresonanz Luftlande-Angriff Replika

-- Blauhäher --

Bioresonant Air Assault Replika ‘Bluejay’

Replika Generation: 6

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Sucher AKS330

Role: Designated Marksman

Rank: Corporal

Replika Model: SWBR

Scharfschütze, Widerstandskräfte, Beobachter Replika

-- Schwalbe --

Sniper, Guerilla, Forward Observer Replika ‘Swallow’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 185cm

Sani VMS016

Role: Medic

Rank: Petty Officer

Replika Model: EULR-KS

Einfache Universelle Leichte Replika - Kampfsanitäter

-- Eule --

Simple Universal Light Replika 'Owl' (combat medic vers.)

Replika Generation: 4

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Aluminum Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Schwert AKS319

Role: Heavy Weapons Specialist

Rank: Specialist

Replika Model: SAPR

Schwere Anti-Panzer Replika

-- Schnäpper --

Heavy Anti-Tank Replika ‘Snapper’

Replika Generation: 3

Frame: Biomechanical with High-Intensity Combat Servoshell and Steel Skeleton, plus attachment points for Explosive Reactive Armor

Height: 262cm

Sturmi S2302(v)

Role: Combat Engineer

Rank: Specialist

Replika Model: LSTR

Landvermessungs-/Schiff-Techniker Replika

-- Elster --

Land Survey/Ship Technician Replika 'Magpie'

Replika Generation: 5

Frame: Biomechanical with carbon fiber-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 178cm

Chapter Text

The Reichsarmee Major conducted her leader’s recon, peering through her tank’s panoramic sight at the marshalling yard almost two klicks down the rail line. Despite the dim lighting and the thin haze blanketing the yard (essentially a junk pile), she could see bright flashes of gunfire and a column of glowing spots that were probably burning vehicles. Several minutes ago, her convoy’s forward detachment reported being ambushed by Liên Minh insurgents, with the radioman’s message abruptly cutting mid-sentence. When there was no response to her queries on any of the channels, she hastened her main force to investigate, the thunder of the battle becoming audible as they went.

The Major activated the sight’s thermal imaging mode. Countless white and gray specks of varying size were scattered among mounds of cold black machinery, some moving like microscopic organisms, some motionless. Little white tracers danced back and forth, ricocheting off of things, and there was a line of burning husks--those glowing spots were vehicles alright. Puffs of flame blossomed across the panorama, each accompanied by a short, sharp pop. Mortars, verdammt.

She clenched her jaw and sent another query via radio while she observed.

Static. No response.

Fuck, the whole scene was a damn Schweineri. It would be nigh-impossible to separate friend from foe, let alone coordinate with said friendlies.

The D6 line had been cleared by patrols earlier this month, accompanied by anti-bandit sweeps that should’ve destroyed the insurgent groups in the surrounding areas. She’d expected the forward detachment to encounter--at most--the remaining stragglers, holding them long enough for the main force to arrive and crush them. Instead, they were being pounded by a unit with fire support and anti-armor capability. Where the hell did these bastards come from?

Sure, her vanguard had served its purpose, preemptively triggering an enemy ambush. The Major had put a Reichsarmee officer in charge of the Constabulary personnel, hoping his leadership would give them some zeal, and from the looks of it, they were fighting like cornered badgers.

But zeal was no substitute for a lack of intel. She’d hoped to garner details like the size of the enemy force, its composition, and the geographic extent of their positions before losing radio contact. That was basic information every commander needed to fight effectively. And one question at the back of her mind loomed above the rest: did they know?

On the view screen, several of the specks went flying as a mortar shell blossomed nearby.

They had to know.

The Major cupped her chin with her hand. They had to know. This wasn’t an opportunistic ambush conducted by stragglers; they were too well-armed, and their presence on this route couldn’t be a coincidence, given the veil of secrecy surrounding the Doctor’s presence. It had to be planned.

She stowed her worries and steeled her nerves. She was a holy warrior of the Kshatriya caste, and Kshatriyas were steadfast and unrelenting. The Major had been training for moments like these since she was twelve.

She scanned the area one last time, then glanced at her tactical map and appraised her situation. She’d have to fight past the enemy position while keeping the Doctor safe. It was too late to plan another route to the REB facility; staying put and trying to ‘wait out’ the ambush would only make them sitting ducks, and they had to keep pace with the rest of the Imperial evacuation.

Reinforcements were out of the question--the other Imperial forces in this sector were scattered, far off, and preoccupied acting as rearguards for the general retreat to the lower levels. None could arrive within a reasonable time.

The Liên Minh had exposed themselves for the attack, which was good, though they were intermixed with friendly units.

Realistically, she had two options available. She could try smothering the attackers with massed firepower and use her infantry dismounts to mop up, proceeding once the threat was destroyed. That was the by-the-book response and the main force’s intended purpose. Alternatively, she could try to bull past them, relying on speed to reduce the time spent in the kill zone.

There wasn’t much time for internal deliberation, so she decided to play it safe, for the sake of her cargo. She thumbed her radio and barked orders to her subordinates. The forward detachment would have to be written off. Acceptable, since it was largely composed of Wasps.

Her Ifrit main battle tank rolled forward like a charging war horse, knocking down a stack of metal piping and swerving to avoid a slag chute extending from the massive blast furnace in the industrial park. It was a mean jet-black machine, sporting a 152mm electrothermal-chemical cannon and two machine guns on its oscillating turret, which rested on a stout, blocky hull.

Two more Ifrits trailed her, along with three Rusalka IFVs and a Leshen APC. Together, the vehicles began maneuvering out of column formation to form a panzerkeil, or armored wedge. The three Ifrits would form the vertex, with one Rusalka on each flank and the third at the center of the formation, while the Leshen stayed at the rear. The rail line was broad, being quadruple-tracked and wide-gauged, but it was still congested with wreckage, despite the efforts of the Striga. The wedge would take time to form.

Nevertheless, she’d have a formidable gun line at her disposal. A single 152mm ‘beehive’ round was packed with tens of thousands of tungsten balls that could shred Gestalt and Replika alike into ground meat at 600 meters. And thanks to its autoloader, an Ifrit could fire off 10-12 rounds per minute. Meanwhile, the Rusalka’s 50mm autocannon could spit out five shells per second and there was a bewildering variety of ammunition to choose from, ranging from hypervelocity depleted-uranium flechettes to magnesium-infused incendiary slugs.

They would advance while firing to suppress the ambushers, starting with conventional high-explosive rounds and switching to canister as they closed in. The infantry on the Rusalkas would debark at the last stretch before moving to clear the position.

She whispered a short psalm in the Empress’s name.

Blessed are those who die in great battles / Stretched out on the ground before Her

The Empress had passed on from the physical realm; that was the cold, hard truth. Yet the Major could feel her terrible strength and eternal love permeating the universe around her. She knew of her desire to burn Heimat to the ground, to cleanse the world of the degenerate Nation and its proxies. The war against the Nation had also claimed many of the Major's friends, and this was her chance to strike a hammer blow for Empress and comrades alike. On her honor as a Kshatriya, she would not fail. “Long live the Empress!” she proclaimed over the radio.

“Long live the Empress!” her subordinates shouted in chorus.

On cue, a thunderous boom reverberated throughout the turret as her Ifrit fired its first shell. Outside, the other vehicles moved into their positions in the Panzerkeil. The fate of the Empire rested on all of their shoulders today.

May she live ten thousand years ten thousand times.

Common Imperial Military Vehicles

Pz 59 'Ifrit'

Role: Main Battle Tank

Armament:

• 1x 152mm smoothbore cannon
• 2x machine guns (1 coaxial, 1 in commander’s cupola)

Armor and Countermeasures:

• T1 nanocomposite armor modules over steel hull; additional armor kits optional
• 8x 3PR smoke grenades

Sd.Kfz 61 'Rusalka'

Role: Infantry Fighting Vehicle

Armament:

• 1x 50mm autocannon
• 2x anti-tank missiles (in canister mounted on turret side)
• 2x machine guns (1 coaxial, 1 pintle-mounted on turret roof)

Armor and Countermeasures:

• T2, T3 nanocomposite armor modules over steel and aluminum hull; additional armor kits optional
• 8x 3PR smoke grenades

Sd.Kfz 60 'Leshen'

Role: Armored Personnel Carrier

Armament:

• 2x machine guns (both pintle-mounted on hull roof)

Armor and Countermeasures:

• Steel and aluminum hull plus T4 or T5 modular armor kits
• 6x 3PR smoke grenades

Sd.Kfz 76 'Striga'

Role: Combat Engineering Vehicle

Armament:

• 1x machine gun (pintle-mounted on hull roof)

Armor and Countermeasures:

• Steel hull plus T4 or T5 modular armor kits
• 4x 3PR smoke grenades

Chapter Text

85 cycles ago

The assembling Volksmarine armada dotted the viewports of Rotfront Orbital, each charcoal-colored warship backlit by the enormous red eye of the gas giant Enlil. “Hell of a view, isn’t it?” Späher said as she sat down next to Schlosser. They were both in a darkened cafeteria, seated at a counter facing the vastness of space and accompanied by the fumes of dying cigarettes. Späher had convinced the Eules to let them stay after hours. With SPRING AWAKENING around the corner, they’d gone through seemingly endless briefings and battle drills and now wanted a quiet spot to themselves.

Schlosser didn’t respond at first, being too focused on writing in her notebook, her shag of black hair lightly bobbing with each scribble. After several seconds, she dropped her pen to sip her tea. The scent of lilac was pleasant, but it didn't beat out the lingering odor of tobacco. “Think they know what they’re getting into?” she asked, putting down her cup with a clink. “Most of the Gestalts are green; most of the Replika are fresh.” Factory-fresh. Yet to receive the dents, divots, and scratches that came with the baptism of fire. The Sturmvogel peered into her cup and lightly rocked it in a circular motion, her earthy brown eyes watching the petals swirl, then settle.

She seemed quiet recently. Pensive. Späher figured it was natural to be introspective before an op. Either that or Schlosser was just tired; after all, they’d just finished a grueling sixteen-hour urban combat exercise.

“They probably think they do,” Späher answered nonchalantly. The Nation’s citizens were steeped in a martial culture; Gestalts through their compulsory military service, and Replika by their nature as creations of the state. Everyone learned or was created knowing about their righteous struggle against the Empire. She clapped Schlosser’s shoulder. “I mean, I sure as hell did, remember?”

“Heh, yeah,” Schlosser snorted.

An arrowhead-shaped Euclid-class corvette silently cruised past the viewport, temporarily blotting out Enlil. Späher was content to drink in the stillness and let her mind wander. By her count, SPRING AWAKENING would be her squad’s fourth deployment together.

Schlosser spoke up, a small but wry smile on her face. “I was a gung-ho buffoon when I first shipped out, did y’know that?”

No, she didn’t. Späher found it difficult to imagine Schlosser as anything other than a thoughtful, caring, occasionally melancholic senior NCO. Her squad’s big sister. “Really? You never struck me as the type.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen me. Hotheaded. Impatient. Always eager to shoot people and blow things up.”

“Sounds a lot like Sieg,” Späher observed.

“You’re not far off the mark,” Schlosser replied blithely. Her smile grew. “I was smarter and handsomer,” she quickly amended, “obviously.”

Späher rolled her eyes in jest. “Obviously.”

“And as I recall, you were a straight-edge commissar who was all ‘Red Book’ this and ‘Red Book’ that.”

“I was a commissar?” It was Späher’s turn to snort. She put two fingers to her temple like she was channeling telepathy and summoned her best Kolibri impression. “Your ration privileges have been reduced for ideological mockery,” she proclaimed with exaggerated brattiness. “C’mon, I wasn’t that bad.”

Schlosser shrugged with her arms. “I’m telling you,” she said in a teasing sing-song, “you were the Great Revolutionary’s perfect little soldier.” Her expression was veiled in good humor, but Späher saw a glint of sincerity in her eyes. That gave her pause.

“What, I’m not anymore?” Why not?

“Well, yeah. You used to be so uptight. I mean, you wouldn’t have made fun of Kolibri like that.”

“You sure? They’re pretty easy to mess with when they can’t read your mind.”

“You wouldn’t have befriended Sergeant Aikawa.”

Oh, come on. “He’s part of the maintenance crew, we just talk sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t have started a fling with your squadmate either.”

The comment was a dagger-thrust. Abrupt. No, please no. Späher whirled to look at her, bewildered, psychogram spiking, muscles tensed. “Hey, I thought we agreed--look, why’re you bringing that up now?” She drew in an anxious breath. Where did this come from?

Schlosser immediately surrendered her hands in a defusing gesture, and the smile on her face softened from teasing to warmly reassuring. “Relax, relax, your secret’s still safe with me,” she soothed. She leaned back in her chair, causing it to creak. “I’m just saying you’ve come a long way, that’s all.”

“You haven’t told anyone?”

Schlosser raised a brow. “Do I really seem like the type?” There was a thread of defensiveness in her voice.

Späher’s panic began to diffuse a bit, giving her the clarity to reassess her worries. Schlosser had never been a stickler for regulations; if anything, she was the opposite. If she had told someone, Späher would be in a recycling facility, not sitting next to her (obviously). Perhaps secret-keeping was a trait of the Sturmvogel model. Or maybe that was just Schlosser. “No, I…I guess not,” Späher admitted, trying to calm herself down. She could feel her oxidant pump beating in her chest. “But don’t scare me like that.”

Schlosser contritely looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Späher did her best to sound collected, eager as she was to move on. “It’s fine.”

Outside, a wave of shuttles from Rotfront joined the fleet. Ducklings returning to the flock. Schlosser’s expression fell, the corners of her mouth drooping. “We’ve seen our share of shit, huh?” she said soberly.

“A big fucking share,” Späher concurred wearily. Her psychogram was still shaky.

Schlosser gestured towards the shuttles. “Now it’s their turn. The green and the fresh.”

Within the churn of emotions inside her, Späher found sympathy for the Gestalts. Instead of dents and divots, they received broken bones and lacerations. And courage was no substitute for sturdiness. “We all had to start somewhere,” she remarked.

“Not everyone begins with a clean slate,” Schlosser replied quietly. She froze, apparently transfixed by something far off, but Späher couldn’t pinpoint what she was staring at. The Sturmvogel spoke again before Späher could ask what she meant. “ I saw Katerina last night,” she said in a delicate voice, “and I couldn’t…I couldn’t bring myself to--” She suddenly cut off like she was holding down a sob.

Katerina?

Katerina.

The name stirred ghosts in Späher’s memory. It was a name Schlosser had muttered in offhand comments, something Späher had regarded as irrelevant background noise. She turned and examined her friend closely. Schlosser’s lips were quivering, her eyes unfocused. “Um, hey,” she lightly prodded. “Hey, you alright?” Just who is she, Schloss?

“I saw us dying,” Schlosser continued softly. “It happens over and over, but I flinch every time.” She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “I don’t know how the LSTRs do it. Sigrun never flinched when she was about to die. She was calm. Brave. Strong.”

A stifling silence fell over the cafeteria. Were Schlosser’s Gestalt memories actually…no, they couldn’t be, could they? Her emotional reaction was dangerous. Decommisionable. She’d be taken. Späher racked her brain for something to say; she could either broach the subject or try skirting around it. “Y’know,” she began tentatively, “I hear some people deal with war by distancing themselves from what’s happening, like they’re seeing the world around them through a camera. ‘Wow, artillery! Look, screaming people! Shooting!’ To them, it’s just a day trip.”

“I think that camera eventually breaks. For most people, anyway.”

“Do you think it ever broke for her Gestalt? Sigrun’s, I mean.” Sigrun had been with Squad S since its formation, and she’d started as the quintessential LSTR unit--cool, professional, and seemingly detached from everyone around her. After several months, she was occasionally willing to engage in small talk or even joke around. Yet almost every time her emotions escaped her stoic façade, they suddenly drew back inside after several moments, like they were afraid of the outside world.

Schlosser thought for a moment. “That’s hard to say; we only ever knew her as a coworker.”

“Yeah.” Her sacrifice had been tragic, even painful. But she wasn’t mourned for long, and part of Späher still hated herself for not feeling as sad as she should’ve. Her squad was her family, or the closest thing she could have to family, and she swore to herself that she’d never lose anyone else.

“She seems--seemed like the kind of person who could stare through that camera all day, no matter what she saw. Wounded people crying for their mothers, burning people, dead people.” Outside, a second wave of shuttles joined the fleet. More ducklings.

“You’ve seen a lot of dead people, long before I did,” Späher reminded her. Schlosser had initially been assigned to Squad S to provide it with a steady, experienced hand. She was the second most tenured Replika after Sani, having been active more than twice as long as Späher or Sieg. “When we met, you’d already been Freya in Squad F.”

“I saw plenty alright. They’re no different from dead dogs, once you get used to the idea. We’re both just meat. The part that counts, anyway.” Schlosser immediately stiffened, blinking, like she was trying to process what she’d just said. She inhaled through her nose, held her breath for several seconds, then exhaled. “Fuck, I could use a smoke.”

“I’m sure Sucher has some.”

Schlosser picked up her notebook, looked over its contents for a moment, then closed it. “I wanna turn back time, Späher. Be a gung-ho buffoon again. I don’t like what I’ve become.” She picked a lilac petal out of her cup and rolled it in her fingers, examining it, before flicking it away.

“You’re not a coward,” Späher said gently. “Or cold-hearted, for that matter. I’ve seen you run through machine gun fire without hesitation…”

------

A firefight inside a space station. Schlosser sprinting through a hail of bullets, impacts throwing up dust clouds around her feet, to toss a grenade into a firing slit.

------

“...And I’ve seen you save Imperial prisoners from being executed.”

------

After the fight. Schlosser shielding two trembling Imperial conscripts from a Storch. ‘That’s enough. They’ve surrendered. They’re under my care, not yours.’

------

“The Schlosser I know right now is fine.”

Schlosser turned to look at her, staring silently for a second, then returned her gaze to the window. Späher prayed that her words had put her at ease. Although the Army’s psychological regulations were looser than, say, AEON’s, they were still under constant scrutiny.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They both watched angular gray Volksmarine warships drift by in the soundless ether of space. A stream of frigates; lean, shark-like vessels. A couple of destroyers, oblong and boxy. And two or three massive cruisers that looked like heavily armed skyscrapers. The void of space was endless.

“Ah hell,” Schlosser said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to drag down the mood saying all that.”

“All good,” Späher told her. She was eager to move on from this subject too, though part of her wanted to ask Schlosser further about Katerina.

Schlosser grinned. “Hey, remember the time we drew on Sigrun’s face after she fell asleep?”

Späher thought back and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Heh, yeah,” she said, “I think I drew the whiskers.”

“I put the cat's eyes on her eyelids.”

“Was Schwert the one who blackened her nose?”

“I think so, yeah.” Schlosser sighed contentedly. “We got her good, didn’t we?”

“That we did.” Sigrun had a somewhat amused reaction to the prank; hell, she’d even laughed--one of the few times Späher had seen her emotions on full display. It seemed as though, for a fleeting second, some great invisible door in her heart had been unlocked. They’d have to try pranking their new LSTR unit, Sturmi, when they had the chance. Compare reactions and such. She’d only arrived three cycles ago.

“Huh,” Schlosser intoned, cocking her head, “you knew it was against regulations to fraternize with us like that, but you joined in anyway.”

“I guess I wasn’t a ‘straight-edge commissar’ after all, right?” Späher replied. She gave Schlosser a playful smirk, but behind it, she found herself facing freshly sown doubts. Am I still a good little soldier?

--------

Present Day

Späher and her squad of LMs crouched in a drainage channel running parallel to the rail line, on the same side as the blast furnace. It had been designed to catch and redirect molten slag and now served as a handy trench (in a generous manner of speaking), with further concealment provided by a flatcar parked in front. She was uncomfortable kneeling in the cramped and awkward space, but it was worse for the Gestalts, who had to rest their fleshy knees on coral-like lumps of metal oxide. Späher at least had the benefit of her abrasion-resistant shell.

The fighters accompanying her were wiry, sinewy men and women, their faces blackened for concealment and their skills honed from years of service in the forces they now fought against. Judging by the black PKZ bands she’d glimpsed, they were from the Sangmin caste, like most of the Liên Minh. Low-born, only ranking above Machine Servants, with much to fight for and little to lose. Perhaps that was why they agreed to participate in this mission, despite Falke’s shoestring planning. For them, it was just another opportunity to kill some Imps.

They all heard the rumble of battle emanating from the marshalling yard more than a klick behind them (where Sieg and Sucher’s teams were engaged). Späher had altered the ambush plan by taking some of her forces to create a blocking position forward of the original kill zone.

It was risky, further splitting such a small group. It broke every rule in the tactical manuals. Her old instructors never would‘ve cleared her for a leadership position had they seen her doing this.

Of course, that was if they followed the manuals. Through her binoculars, through the gap between the flatcar and the rail, Späher spied another Imperial column approaching. Seven red boxes, growing larger by the moment. Three Ifrits led the column, followed by three Rusalkas and a Leshen. She caught sight of the telltale black Imperial Eagle insignia among them. Regulars. This had to be the convoy’s main body, heading to relieve the Imps fighting in the marshalling yard. Surely her decision to alter the plan was validated.

Späher reported her sightings over the radio. “Easy…” she murmured automatically to the LMs beside her. “Easy…” One of them double-checked the 10.5cm HEAT rockets for his Panzerstürmer. “Eas…” She stopped when she caught Lieutenant Vũ staring at her--wide, bloodshot eyes with a thousand-lumen gaze. Vũ commanded the LM platoon assigned to support Squad S. He and the platoon’s headquarters personnel had accompanied the squad Späher took with her.

Apologies. Her mistake. They’d seen plenty of action in the past months and experienced their own hell. They didn’t need some Nation outsider--and a twenty-month-old Replika at that--coddling them like they were kids.

As the vehicles neared, they broke from column formation and began to fan out, crushing or shoving away the train cars in their path. Späher tabbed her radio again. “Schwert?”

“Ready, Chief. In position,” the SAPR reported. She and Sicher were positioned in the storage yard on the other side of the line.

“Sicher?”

Silence.

“Sicher, come in.”

There was no response.

“Sicher? Sicher, do you copy?”

All Späher could hear was the sandy hum of static. Come on, come on, come on…. There was a crack of thunder as the lead Ifrit fired its cannon, and a round streaked overhead towards the marshalling yard. Towards Sieg, Sani, and the rest of her command. A 152mm shell could easily tear through the wreckage piles or the apartment building sheltering them. Come on, come on…

Radio crackle. “I’m here, sorry,” Sicher said briskly. “I’m picking up a unique presence. Not a soldier. It’s definitely bioresonant.”

“Think it’s her?”

“Has to be. Gimme a sec, I’m trying to pinpoint her exact location.”

The vehicles began forming a panzerkeil. The three Ifrits formed the vertex, while one Rusalka moved to each flank, the third moved to the center of the wedge, and the Leshen followed up behind. Späher did an internal range estimate.

Three hundred meters and closing.

Two hundred meters.

One hundred.

She lowered her binoculars. Although the channel walls were made of heavy silicon carbide blocks, they shook violently from the formation’s advance. A dagger of steel and aluminum and nanoceramic was bearing down on them. On her. The tremors gradually intensified, sifting concrete dust into the channel. “Sich, we’re running out of time,” she warned.

There was a palpable pause before Sicher finally replied. “I’ve found her. She’s in the Rusalka in the middle of the wedge--” a booming cacophony nearly drowned out her transmission as the panzerkeil opened fire in unison, sending a barrage of shells down range.

Sieg. Sani. Sucher. Sturmi. They were going to make it out.

“In the middle of the wedge,” Späher acknowledged. “Copy that.” She passed the information to Vũ.

“Späher?” Sicher dropped her brisk inflection, saying the name intimately. Warmly.

“Yes?”

“We’ll make it through this.”

Despite the noise and discomfort, a strange feeling of calm washed over Späher. The knot in her stomach vanished. Her psychogram stilled. Pulse stabilized at thirty beats per minute. It was a complete contrast to her anxiety-ridden psyche back in the apartment building. Strange, but familiar. This was how she used to feel before a battle, wasn’t it? Before Schlosser’s death. God, it had been less than three weeks, but it felt like half a lifetime. “I know,” she responded simply. “On my signal.”

Now to wait for the right moment. The LMs, for their part, were silent and patient. A bead of sweat rolled down the cheek of the man closest to her. It fell and burst on the channel wall with a soft pat. The rumble of the vehicles became a roar, loud as the train cars that once traveled the rail line. The lead tank rolled past their positions, then the trailing vehicles.

Their thin rear armor was exposed. To control a dagger, you grab the hilt. Späher looked back at Lieutenant Vũ and nodded. Vũ nodded back. She gave Katya’s action figure one last squeeze, then took out her flare gun, pointed it skyward, and fired.

For Schlosser, and for their well-deserved rest.

The red-phosphorus flare burst in the air over the panzerkeil like a second sun, its fiery orange light burning away the shadows of D6. The lead Ifrit slowed a smidge, probably dazzled by the flare’s prominent thermal signature, which prompted the other vehicles to slow as well.

“Open fire!” Lieutenant Vũ barked.

A Panzerstürmer rocket struck the Rusalka on the flank closest to Späher, causing it to burst into flames. Simultaneously, the Rusalka on the other flank violently exploded after being hit by one of Schwert’s missiles, its gun turret being flung high into the air. Sicher caught the Rusalka’s turret with her telekinesis and threw it at the Ifrit nearest to Späher, knocking its turret askew and crushing its cannon like a plastic straw. Gunfire raked the vehicles, filling the air with the plonking noise of metal striking metal.

The three Ifrits immediately began pivoting to present their thicker frontal armor to their attackers while attempting to return fire. They moved clumsily, bumping into each other, but the damaged tank managed to pivot towards Späher’s group, while the remaining two turned towards Schwert and Sicher. This turned the tip of the wedge into a half-star, with each tank forming one of the points. The Rusalka in the middle of the formation swerved around the tanks and continued onwards, while the Leshen at the tail end rolled to the other side of the line, having lost a tread, its roof gunners firing.

Dim, fetid light quickly returned to the battlefield as the flare burned out, leaving only the glow of the burning vehicles. The Leshen managed to drop its back exit ramp, and a squad of soldiers in black and yellow Imperial battledress charged out. They ran into a hailstorm. How brave. The soldiers moved in slow motion as Späher’s synapses fired, the red boxes around them constricting. She fired at her first target with her SG-103--several rounds center-mass, then letting the recoil ‘walk’ the bullets to their head. Then the next--center mass, then the head. Then the third--center mass, then the head. Gunfire from the LMs scythed into the remainder as they scrambled for cover.

The damaged Ifrit traversed its turret, pushing the detached Rusalka turret off its hull. With its cannon dangling limply, the tank unleashed a volley of red tracer fire from its coaxial and cupola machine guns. The flatcar held like sheet metal under rain, but the tank crew tightened their aim on the gap between the car floor and the rail, forcing the Späher and the LMs to hunker down. Metal chewed apart the channel walls, crimson gobs splattering its surfaces as a round decapitated one of the Gestalts while another screamed in agony, clutching the bloody, ragged stump where her arm used to be.

Shit. Späher thought quickly and opened a radio line to Lieutenant Vũ. Although they were only meters apart, it was the only way they could hear each other in the din of battle. “Lieutenant, I’m gonna try to draw its fire away.”

“How?” he shouted.

“I’ll act as bait.”

“Are you insane?”

“I’m fast enough. Hit it when it’s distracted.” She didn’t wait for a reply. Späher leaped out of the channel and sprinted towards the destroyed Rusalka on the channel-side flank, reaching a burst speed of forty kilometers per hour as a trail of bullet splashes chased her. She slid into cover behind it, her hooves letting off a chalky screech as they ground against concrete and gravel. The machine gun rounds drummed harmlessly against the side of the vehicle. Späher crept around to the Rusalka’s front end and, careful to avoid the flames, peeked around.

The two undamaged Ifrits were firing at Schwert and Sicher’s suspected locations in the storage yard. Each shot from their cannons thundered like an onrushing locomotive and gave Späher a tactile thump in her chest, but a flood of delicious adrenaline otherwise numbed her bodily sensations. The Rusalka carrying the doctor was out of sight. The Leshen appeared abandoned. She turned her gaze to the damaged Ifrit, her fire control outlining the tank’s optics. Alright, Späher… she mentally steeled herself for the next part of her plan. Splitting her forces had been unwise, but what she was about to do now was suicidal. 3…2…1. Go! Späher charged into the space between the Ifrit and the Rusalka, raking the optics with her SG-103 on full auto, barely registering the impulse of each shot.

The Ifrit’s turret whirled to face her, a line of bullet splashes streaking toward her position. All motion slowed, courtesy of her adrenaline rush. Time slowed. Each impact threw up a small geyser of dust and debris. If it reached her--when it reached her--she would be torn to pieces.

Heartbeats before her impending death, a Panzerstürmer rocket slammed into the side of the turret. The explosion showered the area with embers and blanked Späher’s audio receptors, muffling all sound like she’d been dunked underwater. The turret slew to a halt; then its top hatch popped open. A column of smoke billowed out, followed by a Gestalt’s tanker helmet. The crewman quickly hoisted himself onto the turret, but Späher shot him in the head as she approached the tank from the side. The other two crew members didn't exit.

Her ploy had worked. Her brain was so taxed that she barely registered her own sigh of relief.

She felt her chest thump as one of the remaining Ifrits fired. One of Schwert’s missiles--just a blur--shot out of the storage yard and hit one of the tanks. There was a flash of flame and smoke. Then a steel girder launched by Sicher flew out. Späher didn’t see if it hit. Both tanks began moving off towards the yard.

A sliver of anxiety for Sicher’s well-being slipped into Späher’s mind. It metastasized, beginning to gnaw at her nerves like a rat chewing wires. Even a Falke’s telekinetic shields couldn’t stop a direct hit from a 152mm shell. The Ifrits fired again, followed by the thick pneumatic chatter of the target Rusalka's autocannon. No, she shouldn’t be thinking about Sicher right now. She should be focused on reaching the doctor.

She realized her audio receptors had rebooted when her radio suddenly crackled to life. Her oxidant pump skipped a beat. Please tell me you’re okay, Sich. “Hey plastic girl, you alright?” asked a male voice. It was Vũ.

The mission. She had a mission to do. Calm down. Focus. “I’m fine. Back me up, I’m going after the target,” she replied on an open frequency. “Bring the rocket launcher.” She had to trust Schwert and Sicher to handle the remaining two tanks while she pursued the doctor. There was no room for distractions.

“Roger that,” Vũ answered. “We’ve got casualties. I’ll take who I can and come to you.”

Späher saw Vũ and six others depart the channel, one of them carrying the Panzerstürmer. Seven men. As the LMs scrambled out towards her, she heard a hissing noise, like someone was using a spray can, only louder. She looked in the direction of the sound, up the line, to see a rapidly expanding cloud of thick white smoke. The cloud engulfed everything, blanketing her surroundings in a steamy translucent smog. It couldn’t be from any of the burning vehicles--judging by its acrid, garlic-like smell, it had to be white phosphorus. 

Great. Just great. She had a powered respirator in her trachea, but the Gestalts lacked such systems.

When the LMs arrived, they appeared to materialize out of fog. “Hand me the launcher, stay close, and get ready to move,” she instructed them. They gave her the Panzerstürmer, which she slung on her back, and formed up behind her.

Späher found her binoculars, extended the connectors, and clipped them onto the seam in her faceplate. She checked the Rusalka IFV schematic files in her memory banks, then activated thermal imaging. The black silhouettes of destroyed vehicles and mounds of rubble came into view around her. She looked up the track, towards where the doctor’s Rusalka had been headed. There--about eighty meters away, partly obscured by those black silhouettes, a boxy grey form moving slowly in reverse gear. She didn’t have a clear shot, but there was a wrecked train car some thirty meters away and off to the left that promised a cleaner line of sight.

She told the LMs, then steeled herself for another run. Breathed in. Then out.

Ready.

“Follow me!” she shouted, motioning the fighters onwards before she sprinted towards the car.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t lose sight of her in the smoke.

Späher heard the chatter of the autocannon again. Explosions followed, and she thought she heard someone scream, but she didn’t turn to look. She dove behind the wreck. Moments later, Vũ and four other Gestalts joined her. Five breathless, heaving white thermal signatures. The train car rattled as cannon rounds began tearing into it. She opened a radio line to the Gestalts so they could hear. “The target Rusalka’s at our two o’clock,” she told them. “When I give the signal, you’re all gonna lay down covering fire, got it?”

There she was, patronizing them again.

They all nodded wordlessly, trying not to inhale any more of the acrid fumes.

She unslung the Panzerstürmer. The cannon fire continued hammering the wreck. Then there was a pause. Perhaps the barrel was overheating, or the gunner was adjusting their aim. She seized the moment.

“Covering fire!” Späher commanded. The LMs popped out of cover and opened fire on the Rusalka (or in its general direction). She joined them, launcher shouldered and adrenaline surging. The Rusalka had stopped moving--probably intending to fire its missiles. Using its schematic files, her fire-control system highlighted its treads, roadwheels, and drive sprocket in two red-shaded areas on its grey silhouette. She centered the reticule on the most exposed one. Precise as she was, she could still end up killing the doctor. Ammunition was stowed in the turret basket occupying the vehicle’s midsection, and a shard of shrapnel in the wrong place would blow it all sky high. She didn’t know what AEON would do to her and her squadmates if that happened.

But Späher had a mission, and no other options.

She pulled the trigger.

Guide to Squad S

Späher AKS108

Role: Squad Leader

Rank: Warrant Officer

Replika Model: ALKR

Allgemeines Kommando Spezialkräfte Replika

-- Alkenvogel --

General Purpose Special Forces Command Replika ‘Auk’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Steel/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sieg AKS394

Role: Second-In-Command

Rank: Sergeant

Replika Model: GANR

Gebirgsjäger, Aufklärer, Nahkampf Replika

-- Gans --

Mountain Assault, Reconnaissance, Close Combat Replika ‘Goose’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and mixed construction Aluminum/Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 183cm

Sicher AKS367

Role: Telekinetic Assault Specialist

Rank: Corporal

Replika Model: BLAR

Bioresonanz Luftlande-Angriff Replika

-- Blauhäher --

Bioresonant Air Assault Replika ‘Bluejay’

Replika Generation: 6

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Sucher AKS330

Role: Designated Marksman

Rank: Corporal

Replika Model: SWBR

Scharfschütze, Widerstandskräfte, Beobachter Replika

-- Schwalbe --

Sniper, Guerilla, Forward Observer Replika ‘Swallow’

Replika Generation: 5+

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 185cm

Sani VMS016

Role: Medic

Rank: Petty Officer

Replika Model: EULR-KS

Einfache Universelle Leichte Replika - Kampfsanitäter

-- Eule --

Simple Universal Light Replika 'Owl' (combat medic vers.)

Replika Generation: 4

Frame: Biomechanical with aramid-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Aluminum Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 175cm

Schwert AKS319

Role: Heavy Weapons Specialist

Rank: Specialist

Replika Model: SAPR

Schwere Anti-Panzer Replika

-- Schnäpper --

Heavy Anti-Tank Replika ‘Snapper’

Replika Generation: 3

Frame: Biomechanical with High-Intensity Combat Servoshell and Steel Skeleton, plus attachment points for Explosive Reactive Armor

Height: 262cm

Sturmi S2302(v)

Role: Combat Engineer

Rank: Specialist

Replika Model: LSTR

Landvermessungs-/Schiff-Techniker Replika

-- Elster --

Land Survey/Ship Technician Replika 'Magpie'

Replika Generation: 5

Frame: Biomechanical with carbon fiber-reinforced Polyethylene Shell and Titanium Skeleton, plus attachment points for supplemental armor kits

Height: 178cm