It was both harder and easier than Magma Dragoon expected to pick his way through Abel City. Easier because, with the low traffic, he had his choice of routes; harder because, for the same reason, there was no cover.

Everywhere he looked people were, or had finished, battening down. The people who'd chosen to flee were mostly in the southern portions of Abel City. The further north he got—the closer to the oncoming Repliforce he got—the more people sheltered in place. They knew, from three wars' hard experience, that fleeing into the streets and jamming traffic just put them in the middle of crossfires. Better to take cover and wait until things quieted down.

Not coincidentally, companies selling home fortifications and personal weapons had been doing brisk business ever since the First War. Shelters, too, had proliferated—though not all of those were being used for their original purposes.

Dragoon zigged, avoiding a street he knew was monitored, then zagged across an open-air food court. His eyes caught occasional bits of movement from people making last-minute preparations, but most had either fled or hid. If he were still a Hunter, he would have congratulated them for their prudence.

He wasn't, and that prudence was helping him. No eyes watching. No one reporting.

There was a subway entrance. He wasn't interested in it—the subways were converted into shelters in emergencies like this, and heavily fortified—except as a landmark. One, two, three, and he turned into a gap between two buildings. It was fenced, but Dragoon cleared that with a predator's athleticism.

There. The door. Through there was a safe house—a hidey-hole for Mavericks. That's what he was, now. They'd promised him shelter amongst them after he'd struck his blow. That was the bargain—his betrayal for their protection—and he'd upheld his end. He knew personally that no Maverick got more attention than a traitor Hunter, and his Maverickism had been spectacular indeed.

It was time to disappear.

He stood before the door and whispered, "The sun also rises."

His internal chronometer ticked off the seconds—tick, tick, tick—as nothing happened.

Maybe they hadn't heard. "The sun also rises," he said, more loudly.

Tick, tick, tick, pain, fear, panic.

He looked around frantically for some… anything. Something to speak in. Some camera or monitor. Some… some sign of habitation. Some signal that this was the right place.

This was absolutely the right door. There was no question of that. This was exactly where his Maverick contact had shown him the shelter—he'd even seen a reploid go inside. This had to be it. So where were the Mavericks?

"The sun also rises!" he bellowed.

Nothing.

He'd seen a reploid go inside!

Nerves frayed to breaking, he reared back and kicked the door in. It banged open, ricocheted off a close wall.

This wasn't a shelter. This wasn't a Maverick safe house. It was a utility closet. All along the wall to the right of the door were the meters and breakers for the building. There was no sign of Mavericks—not even so much as a graffiti Sigma-mark.

The betrayer had been betrayed.

He looked around, frantically, seeing if anyone else was there, anyone to silence him—but no, nothing. He was alone as ever. It was certain, though, that he couldn't stay. The utility closet was too small for him and there was no comparable shelter. Especially not at a time like this. The whole city was locking down. Any loyal shelter, human or reploid, would question what a Hunter was doing sheltering when he should be fighting.

And the Mavericks had deceived him. He wasn't welcome amongst them. He didn't know where they were. Or he would've Hunted them before, he realized painfully. They hadn't trusted him, and he'd naively let them use him. There had been no forgiveness for his time as a Hunter. Sinking Sky Lagoon had burned his bridges and built no new ones.

Where could he go? His head whipped around, as if there were someplace nearby, but of course there was nothing, he didn't even know what he was looking for and it wasn't here anyway. Trapped!

He couldn't run. Robots couldn't exist without technology; they couldn't just disappear into the countryside. He couldn't hide; even in a city honeycombed with hiding spots, there was a war on, and every hidey-hole was already filled.

He was dead, he was dead…

…unless Repliforce won.

It was a totally crazy idea, so absurd it made him laugh. Still, its mere existence calmed him, settled him. His other courses were impossible, while this one was merely dangerous. It put his chances of survival at a number other than zero. That made it worth trying.

Repliforce was coming from the north. Therefore, he needed to go north, and stay ahead of the Hunters while doing it.

On he ran.

"Contact."

Signas nodded, though he couldn't see the speaker—she was back at Hunter Base, talking over the radio. "Where?"

"Coming down Ezekiel, right in front of you. Click and a half."

That close? They'd be in sight any second now. This was late warning. "I'm guessing our mechaniloids are being picked off."

"Some. More like they've got a lot of ground to cover."

Signas grunted. She had a point. A city that housed millions of humans and hundreds of thousands of reploids was a sprawling affair. Even if there were one Hunter for every fifty thousand people—which there weren't—and ten mechaniloids for every Hunter—which there weren't—that still would have made for a very thin line.

Rather than attempt the plainly impossible, the Hunters were forming a series of roadblocks at key junctures. They wouldn't stop Repliforce, but they would hurt Repliforce, slow them down, and reveal their intent. The trick of it was to be out of the way before overwhelming force came up.

The margin there was pretty thin. That was why advanced notice was so important. Signas had it, but only just barely.

"Clement," Signas radioed his boss, "I've got Repliforce coming down Ezekiel. I will engage on sight."

"Roger. We're negative contact in our zone, so we may come to cover you. If we do, we'll be coming down Samson."

Samson—perpendicular to Ezekiel, behind Signas' current position. "Sir, I have a suggestion."

"Shoot."

"Be ready to come down Samson in ten minutes. I will skirmish with Repliforce and force them to deploy, then I'll fall back, as we've been instructed. When they pursue…"

"I'll hit them in the side," Clement finished, seeing Signas' intent. "Do it. Keep your escape route clear."

"Yes, sir." Signas disengaged the headphones. "Tortle, Crag, secondary strongpoint on the south side of Samson." The two Hunters acknowledged, then set off—slowly; their high defense but low speed meant falling back as Signas planned would have been dangerous for them. Conversely, they were ideal for anchoring the fallback position.

He'd given them orders as their Azzle plenty of times before. It still unnerved him, though, that the only response to his sudden elevation to Squad Leader was one mutter of "It's about time".

"Have visual," said another Hunter.

Signas hefted his heavy magrifle. Following his subordinate's gesture, he looked through his scope—there. Column of vehicles. Moving quickly. Well, Signas would see to that. Magrifles in general weren't the preferred anti-reploid weapons—busters' thermal properties made them the favorites—but they had their uses. Anti-materiel with less collateral damage potential than explosives, for starters.

Signas drew his crosshairs around the closest wheel of the oncoming vehicle. "Weapons free on my lead," he ordered.

Wait for it… wait for it…

With this blow, history is changed.

Up to this moment, the Fourth War was merely words. This shot, this first shot, will echo across the globe.

Hmm… Interesting, but not relevant.

He squeezed the trigger.

The hyper-accelerated spike lanced down and across the street, blasting the wheel to fragments. The transport, top-heavy with its full load of soldiers, heeled over, then toppled and crashed on its side.

Seven other Hunters started barraging the downed transport. Signas calmly shifted his sights to the second transport in line. There were, he reflected, targets enough for everyone.

Colonel swore internally. "Fourteenth Lance is to withdraw. Halt the Twenty-first and Thirtieth. They are not to proceed without mechaniloid cover."

"Yes, sir."

"How did they advance so far with no reconnaissance support?" he wondered aloud. "The Hunters are too good for us to blunder into them."

He frowned as he looked elsewhere. "Storm Owl, why haven't your fliers engaged?"

"We've had no calls for support."

Colonel shook his head. Every lance was supposed to have had training on how to call in Storm Owl's air support, but either some had been missed or they'd forgotten in the heat of the moment. Three lances so far had been roughly handled in consequence, and another had been wiped out by Hunter counter-attack. "Sweep the airspace behind our line, and a kilometer ahead. Target the Hunters' mechaniloids. The Hunters have gotten ahead of us in several spots—they've seen us coming. We need to blind them."

"Yes, sir."

"And get some mechaniloids ahead of the Thirtieth before they step on spikes," he barked. Taking a moment, he looked back to General. General hadn't said a word in minutes. "Your thoughts, sir?" he asked.

"Our soldiers are raw," General said wistfully. "Mistakes were bound to be made. The operation is proceeding on-schedule so far. Take solace in that."

Colonel found it difficult to accept, but he had to try. It was an order. "Yes, sir."

"How are you holding up?"

It was a quieter, more private voice this time—all the more jarring for how different it was from the strained, strident voices all around. "Fine, sir," Colonel replied stiffly.

"You're alright with what we're doing?"

"I meant what I said in our speeches."

"Even with your sister and your friend on the other side?"

"I'm not conflicted," said Colonel, offended at the notion. "Iris is conflicted. I feel that. But I, myself, am not. I am Colonel of Repliforce. I was built to be Colonel, I will die as Colonel, and I cannot be anything else."

"That may be true," General said. "I'm sorry if the question bothered you. No one else has your… relationships. I had to be sure."

That mollified Colonel a bit. "I understand, sir."

"Can you tell us anything more about what the Hunters are up to? Listen in on them with that link of yours?"

"It doesn't work like that," Colonel answered. "I just feel emotions—Iris', mostly, and from the people around her. That's how I know she's the conflicted one, and…"

"Colonel, emergency transmission from Split Mushroom."

Colonel turned. "Emergency? Has he not finished evacuating his lab yet?"

"Sir… he's under attack."

"Under—how?" Colonel looked at the map. Split's facility was far behind the front lines; it was an adjunct of Repliforce's base in the forests north of the city. How could the Hunters have slipped any appreciable force that far…

Colonel felt a spike of worry. A second later he realized it wasn't his worry—and he knew what was going on with Split Mushroom.

"Zero," Colonel growled.

There was no visible movement in front of Zeroth Squad's barricade. As Rekir knew full well, that didn't mean they were safe.

"Watch your left," he said. "I'll clear the right."

As Zeroth Squad opened up against one flank, surprising Repliforce soldiers who'd thought their cover better than it was, Rekir moved closer to the other. A human food court was an indescribable maze to a reploid, but whatever it was offered plenty of cover. Plenty of concealment and routes to move.

There—a hint of a helmeted head, bobbing just above the row of stalls. Careless.

Rekir grabbed for his waist. He didn't normally go around with a beltful of explosives, but in a war of this size, it paid to carry enough ammo that you never hesitated. First in was a smoke grenade, gently lobbed to lead that bobbing head. Make it stop. Make it hesitate while its vision was obscured.

In that split second of indecision, the Rekir's second, lethal grenade dropped in, hidden by the smoke for a critical moment.

The bang dispersed the smoke, but that was a small price to pay. Rekir leaned over the top of the stalls and pumped follow-up shots into the two flanking soldiers. The grenade had maimed them; Rekir's buster put them out of their misery.

That should have made his instincts quiet down. It didn't. Time to skedaddle, then. Rekir rushed back to the main position. "Fall back," he said. "Now. Get to rally point bravo."

He didn't need to repeat himself, and his squad didn't need a reason to obey. They went. He dropped two more smoke grenades in front of the Hunters to obscure their movement, and covered them as they retreated, last one in the line.

He'd cleared only a single block from the barricade when he heard the sizzle of lasers, then the explosions and heatwaves from impacting plasma balls, and only then the swoop of flyer engines. He didn't look backwards—he didn't need to. He knew that the Hunter position had just been annihilated by Repliforce air support. The Hunters had escaped with only seconds to spare.

"And that's why we trust our instincts!" he screamed to no one in particular, and dove for cover.

The first blast caught Dragoon square in the chest.

Against an unarmored reploid that would have been an instant kill, but Maverick Hunter Squad Leaders were made of sterner stuff than that. It still surprised and hurt and terrified.

Dragoon dropped to the forest floor; plasma bolts cooked the air where he had just been.

"I surrender!" he called out. It was hard to hear over the din of weapons fire. He shouted again. Knowing his odds still weren't good, he rolled over on to his back and raised his arms.

That helped the enemy know where to shoot. The next few shots came perilously close to his head-but then they stopped.

"I surrender!" Dragoon called again into the sudden silence.

He heard voices, faintly-the voices of people trying to figure out what to do. "Don't move," was the first voice Dragoon knew was speaking to him.

"I won't, not until you tell me to," said Dragoon. He was all too eager to cooperate.

"Who are you?"

"A refugee." They didn't need to know his name or identity yet. They'd figure it out, but hopefully only after-

"You can't come this way. This is Repliforce territory."

"I know," Dragoon said. "I'm seeking asylum."

"...what's that?"

Light preserve me from newbuilts! Dragoon thought. "I'm a defector," he tried again.

"A defector?"

What kind of garbage dictionaries did they give these scrapheaps? Or maybe they know the word but don't know how to respond to it. "I'm trying to join you. I can help you."

"We... uh..."

While they dithered, Dragoon winced. Damage assessment was in: the blast had been a good one and had taken a chunk out of his chest armor. Self-repair would take a few hours to patch it back up. He could take another few shots like that before collapse, but that didn't mean he was happy about it.

"Stand up," came the command.

"Before I do, I want you to promise you won't shoot me," Dragoon said. "This is a lot more dangerous for me than it is for you."

More whispers. Dragoon tried very hard not to get frustrated. It was hard; his nerves could hardly be more frayed. And his chest hurt.

"If you stand up and don't do anything, we won't shoot," was the eventual reply. "Try anything funny and we'll gun you down."

"I won't," Dragoon promised.

"And keep your hands raised!"

Dragoon sighed, but complied. Painstakingly he leveraged himself off the ground while keeping his arms in the air.

His full appearance caused quite a fuss. "It's a Hunter-it's a Hunter!"

"I'm not!" Dragoon shouted back, trying to derail that train. "I was. No more. I'm a defector! I want to be on your side!"

One of the Repliforce soldiers emerged. Though his armor had camouflage elements to it, his lower body remained a bold white. It was a unifying color in Repliforce's ranks, camouflage or no camouflage. "Now look here," said the soldier-clearly some sort of leader, "we're under orders to screen the main force and you're trying to come through our screen. I ought to just kill you, but I'm willing to take you back to Web Spider and let him decide what to do with you. Just so we're clear, if he decides he wants you dead, then you're going to die."

Dragoon's lip curled in a wry smile. "So you're saying I might survive."

"I suppose that's one way to look at it."

It beat the alternative. "I'll take it."

"Suit yourself. Keep your hands where we can see them." The soldier whistled, and three more soldiers emerged. They'd been in good cover, but as soon as they started moving their color schemes gave them away. Dragoon snorted. What a bunch of amateurs- if he had been their enemy, the information they'd just given him would have been good copper.

What did it say about his mental state, though, that those same amateurs had been able to wound him so badly?

He took care to move slowly, predictably, as he walked into their midst. "Lead me on," he said. "And we'll see if I can't convince your leaders."

"Ow, ow, ow!" said Altern, smacking his fist against the ground in pain. There was no more smoke rolling up from his chest, but the large black mark remained.

"You alright?" asked Vertos, coming over to Altern's fallen form.

"What kind of are-en-gee is this?" Altern said with a grimace. He put a hand to his chest, probing the extent of the wound. "We take two bad hits, and one's on the guy in the squad least capable of soaking damage…"

"It can't be too bad if you can complain about it," said Vertos. "Any burn-through?"

Altern shook his head. "No, didn't reach my carapace. It cooked me enough to hurt, but not enough to melt."

"How long to repair it?"

"I can't."

Vertos blinked. "Huh?"

"My self-repair doesn't reach this," he said, patting the over-armor. "It's external. It's not part of my design, so it's outside my self-repair boundary. Even with my post-Hunter mods, I don't have nanites for it. Any damage my armor takes I have to live with." He sighed. "I'd say this ups my chances of death by at least thirty percent."

"Light's tights, you would do that math," said Vertos, shaking his head. "Alright. Back to Base with you."

Altern looked up in shock. "Sir!"

"What? I can't have you getting yourself killed."

"We're in combat," said Altern. "I can't just… leave."

"Even with a thirty percent increased chance of death?" Vertos said skeptically.

Altern looked down sullenly. "Approximately. But sir, we all have pretty high chances of death at a time like this."

"I didn't need to know that."

"Sorry."

"It's not even the point, though," Vertos went on. "We don't need you in the line to do this kind of fighting. We're going to fall back as soon as Repliforce comes around again. We can do that without you in the line, without putting you at unnecessary risk."

Altern's face hardened. "I never told you why I joined the Hunters," he said quietly.

"And what if you had?"

"You'd know that letting other people suffer while I can't help them is… is…" he turned his head, clamped his eyes shut, shook his head.

Ah. That was a problem Vertos could solve. "Crux, what's your combat effectiveness at?"

Vertos caught Crux's eye. The other wounded Hunter's eyes popped in understanding. "Uh… pretty bad, sir. Under…" Vertos nodded expectantly. "…under fifty percent, with my arm hurt like this."

"Bad math," muttered Altern. "Recalculate."

"Even if the number's higher," interrupted Vertos, "it's still a bad number. Crux needs to go back and get repairs. And he can't operate a hover cycle solo, not with his arm like that. Altern, I'll need you to escort him."

Altern's face betrayed his affront. "This is a dirty trick, sir."

"You have your orders, Altern," said Vertos, unfazed. "He's suffering, and you can help him. You couldn't abide just leaving him, not when you could help, right? So here's your chance. Escort Crux back for repairs. And, since you'll be in the repair shop anyway, have someone at Base fix you up before you return."

Altern looked furious, but he couldn't refuse. "Yes, sir. I understand. Come on, Crux."

Vertos gave an encouraging grin to Crux as he passed, but he kept his eyes on Crux and Altern until they were rounding the corner. "Just so you know," hollered Altern before passing out of sight, "this lowers the whole squad's chances of survival by twelve percent."

When he was safely away, one of the other Hunters grumbled, "I really wish he'd keep those tidbits to himself."

Vertos just shook his head. He never could tell, with Altern, whether his Third Law gate had been installed at double strength, or not installed at all.

"Here they come again!"

"Just in time." Vertos turned; servomotors in his arms whined as his weapons spun up. "Alright, bots, our Operator's picked out our next vacation spot, so we don't need to hold this one much longer. Suppressive fire for twenty seconds, then we conceal and retreat. Let 'em have it!"

Gerry's phone wasn't ringing.

She stared at it, wondering if it would ring. She felt like it was supposed to be ringing.

The phone didn't ring.

All around her was uncanny silence. She lived close to the government district in the southeast of Abel City. The people in this neighborhood were especially experienced with wartime drills. Mavericks directed much of their ire at the government; those living close by had adapted. Some had evacuated; others had gone to the shelters; many had sheltered in place in fortified apartments.

Gerry had done as all those people had done. She'd shut down her lights and anything that made much noise. She'd closed all curtains, doors, and any windows she couldn't cover. She'd broken out her reserves of food and water in case she was stuck for a while and plumbing got knocked out. She'd set the extra locks and seals. That was all the preparation one could do at that point. Now came the waiting.

It was warm, dark, and quiet. That didn't make it comfortable.

If the fighting had started, it was far away still. No sign of it penetrated to Gerry's home. It might not be happening at all, for all she knew.

The phone didn't ring.

It was supposed to be ringing.

This… wasn't… right.

She tore her eyes away from the phone. They drifted upwards. The fan was the only motion in the room, though it, too, was silent. It was a simple affair; the whole place was simple. Its attraction was its proximity to the seats of power, not any inherent glamour. Armor mods aside, that meant skimpy budgets for home furnishings and things like fans.

She wondered idly if the fan would support her weight.

She blinked and shook her head the moment the thought hit her. That just let her eyes wander again; they came to rest, inevitably, as if drawn by magnetism, on the phone.

The phone didn't ring.

The phone wouldn't ring.

Repliforce was out there, fighting. Her Repliforce. It might not have been her idea at first, but she'd championed it, carried it through the halls of government, made it happen, made it real. It had taken years of effort, overcoming dozens of enemies, scrounging up every free zenny in the budget…

And it had worked. By God, it had worked. She'd gotten into so many fights, put knives into so many backs, and in the end she'd won. They'd built it, her way. Her Repliforce.

The phone didn't ring.

The phone wouldn't ring.

It would appear Repliforce has completely escaped government control. Those words were like a stake through her heart. There could be no recovery. Her Repliforce… wasn't hers, any more. And that meant no one needed her. If she didn't have Repliforce, what use was she?

Useless—so useless they didn't need her to do anything, so useless they needn't even call her to ask her for her opinion, or her insight—because what insight could she possibly have, if this was what her labors wrought? How could she be trusted ever again? She was a failure.

The phone didn't ring.

The phone wouldn't ring.

Until the time for accounting came.

The insight chilled her. She knew of the fate of Dr. Cain: licenses revoked, forbidden from building reploids ever again. She'd engineered for him a harsher fate even than that, after the stunt he pulled with Iris—forbidden even from touching a robot, barred forever from his life's work. And why? Because he was the Man Who Allowed the Maverick Wars.

What did that make her? And what fate would come for her? She thought she was a failure, but she was actually something far worse, deserving of far worse a punishment…

The phone didn't ring.

The phone wouldn't ring.

Until the time for accounting came.

No one would miss her…

Her eyes rose away from the phone. They rose and rose, once more, to the fan.

And there they stayed.

Next time: Deny