"Colonel Chase to all units: we're withdrawing from the west side of the river. Fall back to the Jackson Line and await orders to retreat to Groton. Out." After a moment, CivGeneral needled him again. "This was a mistake," he confessed, "We've overextended ourselves."

"What are you talking about? You've fought Curt before; you knew what you were dealing with–!"

"Guerilla raids on targets of opportunity are not the same thing as taking and holding a city," he shot back. His face briefly flashed an inward horror. "As only now we realize..." He quickly shook his head. "Sure, we took it, but we sure as hell weren't ready to hold it. We needed more time; more troops, more equipment, more—"

Chase's head blew out sideways and he fell to the ground. "Jesus, fuck!!" screamed an officer, throwing CivGeneral prone. A mix of rifle barks and electric exclamations echoed around them, creeping steadily closer.

"Everyone, get to Huntington!" he cried, picking himself up.

"Forget it, sir, he's dead!" a soldier shouted, trying to drag CivGeneral to the rendez-vous. He cast one last glance over the broken skull before conceding there was nothing to do.

The retreat was a blur. He didn't know which way he was going but at least his feet did. By the time he finally got his bearings the group had reached the rendez-vous point at the foot of the bridge, parched and panting. Soldiers were throwing up makeshift fortifications, anticipating a lengthy siege as the few surviving vehicles would shuttle squads to the other side of the river. Picking their way through the men and women, many of whom looked much the worse for wear, they reached what looked like the command group. Most of the officers were busy guiding their forces to the rally point, but a few saluted as CivGeneral approached.

"Where's the Colonel?" asked a dirty man with scraggly brown hair.

One of the officers shook his head before tallying the rest of the group. "Lost Jacobs, lost Keller, Setridge," he rattled off matter-of-factly. "What's our status?"

"Slower than we'd like," he replied, casting furtive glances to CivGeneral. "Curt's got way more men than we thought. We can't pull back at once without risking them swarming us. I mean, if they had tanks..."

"Any movement from Groton?"

"Negative. "

"I don't like it," muttered another man. "This stinks of a trap. If Groton's not clear and we try to cross, they'll bottle us on the bridge and rip us to shreds."

"You didn't scout Groton?" CivGeneral asked, incredulous.

"With respect, sir," the dirty officer replied, tone betraying everything but, "It was you who insisted we not plan a retreat."

CivGeneral lurched forward and seized the man by his lapels before anyone could react, bringing them nearly nose to nose. "You fucking listen to me," he growled, "We're all neck-deep in this shit. You can politick all you want once we're clear, but right now, our priority's getting out of this mess alive. So button up and do your fucking—"

"CONTACT! CONTACT TWELVE O'CLOCK!"

The street erupted in a cacophony of gunfire. The enemy was coming from all directions, laser bursts mixed with that awful baying of the heavy rifles. Soldiers fired anywhere and everywhere, Curt's troops materializing wherever CivGeneral turned. "We can't hold!" someone cried, "Retreat to Groton!"

"ARMOR!" came a holler, "ARMOR ON THE BRIDGE!"

A man beside CivGeneral collapsed from a shot in the neck. "Golf Black, Golf Black," screamed a signals officer, "Armor on the bridge, blow the charges, repeat, blow the charges! Golf Black, come in! Golf Black, report, over?!" The soldier turned to him, face white. "They must be down..."

"I'll go," he said at once. "Ayane, with me." Not waiting for confirmation, he primed his gun and rushed across the road, dodging panicked rebels and shooting any hostile he could see. Barely bothering to check his surroundings, he sprinted down the side-streets toward the riverbank where the demolitions team was supposed to be camped. Everything became eerily quiet, the fighting fading into a distant echo. He finally reached the shoreline; the team lay lifeless around the detonator, primed and undamaged. He looked around but there was no sign of any combat. "What do you think happened to them? Ayane? Ayane!" Yet she was nowhere to be seen.

"Sithspit," he muttered, hurrying to the detonator. There was a whistle, a sharp bang, and CivGeneral felt himself floating through the air. He hit the ground silently, the stars above winking at him as though the night were as calm and quiet as any other. Gradually the shock eased; he started breathing again and the ringing faded back into shouting and gunfire far too close than he recalled. He tried to pick himself up yet could barely crane his neck forward, the rest of his body leaden.

A choking dust swirled around him. Shadows flitted by, illuminated by the flaming wreckage of buildings and foliage. He could hear rebels rushing past; he tried to call for help yet his throat seized up. Dead ahead, a spectre materialized, rapidly closing in. Emerging from the dust was CurtSibling himself, uniform eerily immaculate. CivGeneral tried with all his strength to get up, get clear, get out—his archnemesis calmly unholstered a Walther pistol, tipping his head forward, electric-blue eyes illuminating the death-grin.

"End of the line, boy."

PAPP

CivGeneral sat bolt-upright, heart thundering like a freight train. His eyes roamed wildly, muscles hyper-tense. As lucidity returned he found himself in what looked like a shed; he was slick with sweat yet his skin felt frozen. Collecting his thoughts—and his breath—he gradually calmed down.

"CivGeneral?"

He winced slightly as light flooded the room and Ayane appeared in the doorway. Grey bags hung under bloodshot eyes, a mottled colour to her face. After momentary confusion he groaned, dragging a hand across his own visage.

"How long was I out?"

"Several hours," she replied simply.

He checked his watch. It was almost two in the afternoon. "Sithspit," he groaned, struggling to his feet. "Ayane, I'm so sorry—I'll take watch, you—"

She shook her head, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. We should not stay here longer."

The plan had been to sneak across the railway bridge back into New London, detour south, and then hopefully outrun any mop-up squads. He'd still stubbornly clung to the fleeting hope that Chase would've mustered an eleventh-hour counter-thrust and they could at least link back up with the main force before the retreat began in earnest. Ayane had ultimately convinced him to abandon the plan in favour of a northerly retreat via Route 12, arguing the area would not be as heavily-patrolled. They had made decent headway, managing to get back across the river at the Mohegan reservation before daybreak; there what he thought would be a quick rest-up had evidently dragged out.

They pressed on. A day crossing right after battle was dangerous, but as long as they stuck to the forest they should avoid most patrols. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, CivGeneral realized just how out-of-practice he was as every joint and muscle ached and groaned in protest from even a moderate march. The longer they travelled, the more frequent the rest stops became, Ayane standing guard as he lay on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. Around Montville road patrols began to pick up but the woods were empty. He wasn't sure whether this was a blessing or a warning: they hadn't seen any bodies, which either meant the retreat had succeeded, or Curt had been diligent cleaning up.

Darkness was swiftly overtaking by the time they finally made it back. CivGeneral was tired, parched, and hungry, having burned through rations intended to last only a half-day. Even as the nightlife chatter reminded them that there was yet life in the woods, the creeping sense of isolation was becoming much more pronounced. "We should have been challenged by now," he muttered as they crept through the underbrush; "Something's not right."

"Perhaps they are not taking chances," Ayane suggested. "The vault is well-hidden. Even a dedicated comb would struggle to find it if Curt had no clue where we were gathering." He nodded; given the catastrophe at New London, they wouldn't want to risk anyone topside in the next few days unless absolutely necessary. Even a single sighting could put the hounds on their scent.

At last they arrived at the entrance. CivGeneral gave an audible sigh, partly out of relief and party from sheer exhaustion. Descending the ridge, Ayane suddenly grew hesitant, crouching down and scanning their surroundings. "What is it?" he whispered, shuffling up beside her.

"The ground has been disturbed. A large group was here." Deciding they were still alone, she slowly rose to her feet. He followed her lead as she swept back and forth across the ground, occasionally pausing to inspect something. "Blood," she said, clutching a handful of dirt. The light was low, but CivGeneral could make out some features himself. The ground outside the gate was packed down from more footprints he could reasonably identify, littered with stains and debris. He wanted to say it was post-battle triage, but there was no way they'd risk it out in the open if Curt was on their heels. Not to mention, how many casualties would they have suffered to need to do it outside the vault?

"Over here," called Ayane further afield, "Tire tracks." He jogged over, following her finger as she pointed out several sets worn deep into the dirt.

"Trucks, and big ones," he muttered with growing unease.

They looked to each other, then looked to the vault entrance. Wordlessly they drew their weapons, cautiously approaching the gate. The entrance was darkened but as they rounded the main door they could see the flicker of interior lighting. His throat tightened and his breathing grew heavier. Priming their weapons they crept inside; the fence had been torn down and the far wall was riddled with bullet holes. Entering the main hallway they were assaulted by a heady mix of blood, sweat, and gunpowder that steadily worsened the deeper they delved, more pockmarks and spatters attesting to the worst. He'd call it a tomb, but tombs were cleaner than this—and to have a graveyard, you needed bodies.

Their footfalls echoed through the empty corridors, low hum of the electric lights the only other company in a fruitless search for survivors. The vault hadn't been looted per se, but it had been stripped of most provisions. Part of him thought such a thorough job meant they could spend the night reasonably confident no-one would intrude—but the other part, still in solidarity with his cousin and his friends, abhorred spending another minute on this lost battlefield.

A motion in his periphery snapped him back into combat mode. Tapping Ayane on the shoulder, he motioned to a room on the left where he thought he saw a figure enter. They stealthily approached the doorway; someone was definitely rummaging around inside. Ayane covering, CivGeneral silently spun around the corner. The figure's back was to him; a man's voice muttered softly, rifling through the drawers in clear vexation. Both hands appeared involved in the task and no weapon could be seen.

The humiliation of the defeat, the gnawing anxiety on the trip back, and now this heartbreak of the empty vault spilled over the edge.

CivGeneral dropped his gun. In two strides he was behind the man; one hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around as the other flew straight into his gut. "You fucker!" he screamed, pummeling the figure before he could even react, "Why? Why did you do this?!" In seconds the man was on the floor, CivGeneral leering over him, fists flying wildly, not even registering when or where they hit. "Where are they?!" he choked, "You killed them! Why?! Why, God damn you?!"

"CivGeneral! CivGeneral, stop! Get off him!" He was only dumbly aware of Ayane prying him off; the surge of adrenaline evaporated as fast as it arrived and he found himself tumbling backwards, fists aching as they registered the physical shock. "He's one of us!" She held him at arm's length, struggling to help the battered man to sit up.

He blinked; looking from the figure on the floor to his own dirty vest, he finally recognized the make-do outfit of a fellow resistance fighter. "He's one of us," she repeated, softly. Coughing and wheezing, the maligned comrade slowly righted himself. "I recognize you!" she exclaimed, "Francisco, is it not?"

"Fern–hack!–Fernando," he sputtered, "But thanks for remembering..." He winced as he rubbed where his head had hit the floor, before regarding his assailant. "Oh my God," he breathed, "CivGeneral–!"

"What are you doing down here?" he said, more forcefully than intended.

"Picking up the pieces, same as–same as yourselves, from the looks of it." He winced, clutching a rib. "I guess I should consider it an honor to be punched out by—"

"Where's Marsha?" he interjected, "Where's everyone?"

"I don't know where they took 'em, I only saw from the hill—"

"Saw what? Curt slaughtered the whole vault??"

"Not Curt... They were Russians, I think... Got in just as they were leaving, I don't know what happened exactly but obviously it wasn't friendly—"

"Russians?" CivGeneral repeated, uncomprehending, "Why are Russians working for Curt?"

"Shit, you really have been out of it," Fernando muttered, perhaps a bit louder than intended—he winced as CivGeneral lurched toward him, but Ayane held him off. "It's his ally, Thorvald, head of the Eastern Union—some neo-Soviet or something, I dunno."

"What exactly did you see?" she pressed.

"I got back here maybe Noon-ish, they were hauling people outta the vault and loading them into trucks. Field was littered with bodies; I don't know what went down but it must've been a helluva fight... I knew they weren't Curt's 'cuz I've never seen those uniforms, and I assume they're Russian 'cuz of their accents... Really tight-knit operation, too: somehow I got lucky and dodged their outer patrols, otherwise I probably wouldn't be here to tell about it."

Ayane glanced at CivGeneral; he was staring at the floor with a scowl on his face, wringing his hands. "Do you know how many survived? Colonel Chase? Overseer Conrad?"

He shook his head. "They were wrapping up by the time I got there, but from the number of white sheets they must've taken out most of the—actually there was one girl, I remember her uniform... Head Russkie seemed to be interested in her... I think I saw her in the medical bay..."

"What uniform?" CivGeneral cut in.

"Green mostly, green shirt, weird shoulderpads... Jenn-something... Jill..?"

"Jill Valentine."

"Yeah, I think that's the—"

"And you just watched it happen?" he snapped, "Close enough to hear them talk and you just sat there and watched it happen?"

"CivGeneral—"

"Yeah, me and my antique rifle are gonna take on the whole friggin' Red Army by ourselves!" Fernando shot back, "I'd be lucky to put a dent in one of those tank-men before they shot me, and then you wouldn't even know who you're supposed to be blaming! You're welcome, by the way."

"CivGeneral means you no disrespect," Ayane began hastily, "Like yourself, we are tired and hungry after a bitter night and are not in our right minds."

"No sense sticking around here, then," he grunted, struggling to his feet, "I snuck in after they'd cleared the bodies, but looks like they've cleared the place out."

"What if other survivors show up?" CivGeneral asked.

"Doubt it. They only cleared out early evening—anyone else's probably been scared off. You're the only two I've seen."

They swept the rest of the vault just to be sure, managing to scrape together enough food to last another day or two at a stretch. Poking through the command chamber, they found most of the equipment damaged, apparently from crossfire. He swallowed, wondering whether Marsha had been taken alive or opted to make a last stand. He pulled up the compound's limited security footage on one of the surviving computers. He was glad there was no sound—a veritable tsunami of space-suit-clad troopers poured over the tenacious defenders, and within the first minute he knew the base was doomed. They gave it their all but it wasn't enough, and he eventually turned away from the screen as his stomach threatened to turn inside-out. He never saw what became of his cousin.

"Jesus Christ," Fernando breathed.

When the records ended, Ayane walked over to where CivGeneral sat, curled up against a far wall. He hastily recomposed himself as she approached, but a stray sniffle betrayed his true feelings.

"So that's it," croaked the rebel, "Curt won."

"No," CivGeneral stated, rising to his feet. "I'll make Curt pay for this, I swear it. The Russians—who'd you say their leader was?"

"Thorvald."

"Thorvald," he growled, "He'll pay for this. I'll kill him. I'll hunt him down and make him wish he'd never so much as looked across the Atlantic."

Fernando burst into laughter. "You, you think you, the most wanted man in the Empire, are gonna sneak across the ocean, roll into Moscow, and single-handedly kill a Triumvir before they realize you're still alive?"

CivGeneral faced him full-on. The smile fell from his face and he flinched as he beheld the raging fire in the man's eyes.

"Just watch me."

******

Gedeonin had a knack for hiding his true feelings in several layers of casual disdain, but Colonel Trusov could see the visible relief in his face as the Antonov touched down. It was another eleventh-hour miracle in a mission that had been built on far too many, but once again the general had done the impossible—he'd actually managed to pull one over Curt. "As soon as the ramp's down I want the prisoners loaded pronto," he told a subordinate. "We don't leave 'til that plane's in the air."

"Yes, sir," the man saluted before jogging off.

"Sir!" He turned around to find another officer running up. "Messenger from Curt in the hangar; he says it's urgent."

The sigh that followed, on the other hand, was clearly meant to be noticed. "I figured our luck would run out," he muttered.

Returning inside, the general was bemused to find the lackey from the welcoming party hadn't learned his lesson and was back for a rematch. "Unfortunately I was mistaken," Gedeonin called, "Turns out everything recovered from the mission is the property of the State, and I can't actually auction it off myself."

"General Scheer requests that as citizens of the Empire, all prisoners taken from Vault 44 be immediately transferred to his custody."

"Firstly, please deliver my congratulations to the general for the excellent execution of his action in New London," Gedeonin began, drawing up in front of the liaison. "I acknowledge his request, but must respectfully decline."

The man swallowed, nervousness fighting with indignance as he scrambled to respond. "General Gedeonin, as you are well aware, the Coruscanti terrorists are of prime concern to the security of America and the Sibling Empire, and we believe it to be of vital importance that they be questioned by American authorities."

"I'm sure you do," he grinned mirthlessly. "Nonetheless, since they were recovered in our operation, we believe preliminary debriefing to be be most valuable to the Eastern Union."

The man's chest rose and fell with growing anxiety. "Sir, with respect, as New London was an Imperial operation, General Scheer is entitled to custody of any and all persons captured in its execution."

"Rightly so. However, you will recall that Vault 44 was my operation, executed wholly by Union personnel, conducted in affiliation with but independent of, General Scheer's mission. He is entitled to his prisoners, and I am entitled to mine."

The liaison inhaled sharply as he fought to regain control of the situation. "Sir, Curt is ordering you to—"

"I trust you're familiar with Double-A-grade initiative protocol?" he cut in. The messenger hesitated, wanting to say "yes" when he could only truthfully say "no". "It's usually applied when one Triumvir comes up with the task, but needs another Triumvir to actually do it. It applies to this mission. Long story short, it's used to uphold the integrity of the executing country's chain of command. If Curt really needed these prisoners, he would have told Thorvald, and the order would have descended to me. I have received no such order; ergo, Curt is not ordering me to do anything, and if you ever lie to me again I will be certain that Thorvald submits a Double-A to have you dishonourably discharged for insubordination and intra-alliance sabotage." Smiling faux-sweetly, he sang: "Are we clear?"

The man swallowed audibly. Licking his lips, he stammered: "P-P-Perhaps I was mist-taken."

"Understandable, it's been a long night for all of us. Good night." Pale-faced, the messenger turned and departed with just the tiniest hint of haste. "And good riddance," scowled Gedeonin.

"What was that all about?" Trusov asked as they headed back out to the tarmac.

"They fucked up," he stated, "They lost CivGeneral, and now they're trying to cover their asses before Curt hands them their own."

"You could tell that from a two-minute exchange?"

He smirked, eyeing Trusov sidelong. "Consider yourself lucky, Colonel, that you haven't had to deal with staff politics. New London was supposed to be the main sting; we were the mop-up: if CivGeneral escaped the battle, we'd pick him up in the vault. They assumed if he escaped us, we'd take the fall—our failure would outweigh theirs. But according to Haugen, CivGeneral never made it to the vault. Our job was to crack it—and we did it perfectly. They fucked up."

"So this business with the prisoners?"

"They don't want them for interrogation—they don't know where he is. The Imperials would torture them for some false confessions and then kill them as part of the cover-up to save face with Curt." They gazed out to where soldiers were shepherding the captives aboard the airplane. "At least we might be able to grill them for something useful."

The colonel chuckled. "I didn't know you were such a humanitarian, sir."

Gedeonin's smile was genuine. "We may be allies with Curt, but that hardly makes us friends."