Next week will be an epilogue, wherein I'll talk about this story and how it came to be. If you have a question you'd like for me to answer, let me know by review or PM. For now, enjoy the finale of "Shattered".

"Well done, both of you!" said the Minister for the Office of Reploid Relations. "You've both done an excellent job, as usual."

"Thank you, sir," said Commander Grant. X did not respond.

"It's too bad about Final Weapon," said the Minister, looking especially at X. "Preliminary reports say the mass driver might be unsalvageable. Looks like we might end up saving the rest of the station and merging it with Eurasia. A real shame, isn't it?"

X blinked. "It couldn't be helped," he said.

"Uh huh," said the Minister, and for a moment his look was keen. X never flinched. The Minister shrugged. "Like I said, it's a shame. But everything else seems to have worked out. With Repliforce, anyway. There are plenty of other cities that are having Maverick troubles all of a sudden. Too bad we don't have a deployable force to help them."

Both of the Hunters recognized what the 'deployable force' was supposed to be. Neither of them rose to answer.

"I guess it's not that funny," the Minister played off, "but that is something to think about. When will the Hunters be ready to begin their assistance missions again?"

"It'll be a while," said Grant. "We've taken heavy casualties and lost lots of equipment. Just covering our basic responsibilities will be touch-and-go. There are still plenty of Mavericks here in Abel City, and they might see this as an opportunity. If we spread any more of our strength elsewhere, the temptation might become irresistible."

"Yes, yes. We must protect Abel City." The Minister tapped the desk with his fingers. "I'm glad to see you have your priorities in order."

"We serve," said Grant.

"Yes, yes," said the Minister approvingly. "I'll be needing your full report, soon."

"Of course."

"But in the meantime… I think the Hunters acquitted themselves well. More than well, in fact. Your losses notwithstanding, this was a very hard war for you, and we came through it in short order with a minimum of civilian casualties."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Yes, yes… it's hard to find organizations and people that can do hard jobs well. We always have to be careful not to lose people with that expertise."

"We lost a number of them in this war," said X. "Clement, Rekir…"

"Sad, to be sure," said the Minister without much in the way of sadness. "But those who lived… certainly they're the cream of the crop. The most capable, and the most loyal. We have to be sure to retain them, and put them in positions where they can do the most good."

"Oh?" said Grant. His voice betrayed surprise, but something else was joining it.

"Hm... You know, I still haven't found the right person to take Mr. Green's place as Under-minister for Enforcement. And I need that post filled urgently, seeing as Ms. Gerry won't be working with us any more, and we need to do a reshuffling of GARRD and a few other offices."

"I'll look through my contacts lists for good referrals," promised Grant.

"Actually… I was hoping you'd consider taking the job," said the Minister. "And that would bump X here up to Commander of the Hunters, so that relationship would remain intact."

"I'm honored by the offer," said Grant. "I hadn't considered it before."

"Well, I hope you'll consider it now. We need men like you, Grant. And reploids like you, X."

"I'll talk with my wife, of course," said Grant. "She's my real boss, after all. And… what's that?"

X hadn't spoken, but he had, for the first time since entering the room, begun to move. He reached under the table and lifted a small case.

Without saying a word, he placed the case on the table, laid it flat, and opened it. He withdrew, one by one, four small, rectangular, plastic objects. He placed them in a neat row on the table between him and Grant.

He looked at Grant expectantly.

The color was steadily draining out of Grant's face.

The Minister had been a politician long enough to know instinctively when negotiations were happening—even negotiations with no words at all. What perturbed him was that the negotiation was going on without him in it, and with him ignorant of the terms. "What's going on?" he asked. "Grant, what are those?"

(If he'd been closer to the actual mechanics of robotics, he would have recognized the memory chips immediately. An even keener observer, one who knew X's missions during the Fourth War, might have identified them as Magma Dragoon's memory chips. Grant certainly did.)

Grant's eyes were flickering back and forth between the plastic and X's implacable face. Whatever negotiating position the robot had taken, it was a strong one; his expression was frozen in unyielding patience. Grant's face had gone past pale to bloodless.

"One of you is going to tell me what's going on," the Minister said.

The Minister might as well have been on another planet for all the mind the Hunters paid him. X never looked away, never changed expression, never spoke, never so much as blinked. The Minister knew that most robots with eyes were programmed to blink in social settings with humans; humans expected it, and were disturbed when robots didn't. X not doing it must be part of the negotiation, then. But what was being negotiated?

For his part, Grant had stopped losing color in his face and started getting some. Unfortunately, the new color wasn't the usual healthy pink of flowing blood, but an increasing grayness. It was as if he was aging rapidly every second the standoff went on, or like he'd suddenly become so tense he'd squeezed all the blood from his face.

Whatever those bits of plastic were, they were enormously significant.

"You're a twisted little robot," Grant said venomously. "You did brain surgery during a war, just to… to…"

"To what?" prompted the Minister.

Grant gave the Minister a skittish look, but then he looked back to X again.

"That's it," said the Minister. "Robot, per the Second Law, I order you to tell me what you're doing."

"Waiting," said X.

Damn smart-ass robots. "Waiting for what?"

"For two minutes thirty-seven seconds thus far."

"No, no, what I mean is…" Think. Think. He's trying to be evasive, ask as tight a question as you can. "What are you expecting Grant to say?"

"Something that acknowledges the significance of what's before us."

"And what is the significance?"

"The significance is known to Grant."

"Make the significance known to me!"

For the first time, X released Grant. When his gaze fell upon the Minister, the Minister found himself wanting to squirm. So this is negotiating with X, thought the Minister.

"As Commander Grant has told me before, everything is a weapon. So, I suppose that's what these are. A weapon."

"What kind of weapon?"

"Sir, with all the respect I can muster, I say to you: it is better if you never know."

The Minister felt like his mouth might never be wet again. "And what if I want to be the judge of that?" he asked.

Slowly, X looked back at Grant. "Well, sir? Should I tell him?"

Grant broke. "I resign," he said.

The Minister blinked, caught with mental whiplash. "Wait, what?"

"I resign from government service," said Grant. "I will not be taking the under-minister position, and I'm stepping down as Commander of the Hunters."

"Okay, wait," said the Minister. "Everyone take a breath—metaphorically—and explain to me what's going on."

"I'm ready to resign is what's going on," said Grant, nodding to himself. "Yes. Yes, it's time. I mean, I don't have to work. I have two retirement checks rolling in. I've served honorably. Now's as good a time as ever, really. Yes. I… I resign."

"I heard that part," said the Minister, "but until someone tells me what just happened, no one's going anywhere."

"It's… it's simple really," said Grant. "I'm handing in my resignation, effective… oh." X had reached into the case once more, and this time he brought forth a piece of paper with very neat script. Grant took it, looked over it cursorily. "Yes, that all appears in order… effective…" He patted his pockets. X had already gone into the case a third time. He offered Grant a pen. "…oh… yes, thank you X… very courteous of you… My resignation is effective im-me-di-ate-ly." The pen flowed, scratching out Grant's signature. He looked it over one more time, nodded, and passed it to the Minister.

"I'm throwing this right into the shredder unless someone explains to me what's going on," said the Minister without touching it.

"The stress is really starting to get to me," said Grant. "That war just took all my energy away. I need to get out of the city. It's bass season, didn't you know?"

"You were one conversation with your wife away from a promotion to Under-minister and now you're talking about fishing? Screw this—X, explain to me what's going on."

"Grant resigned," said X impassively. He gave no indication he would speak again.

The Minister lost his temper. "Okay, that's it. Both of you, out. Get out of my office. Grant, I'm not accepting this, we're talking about this later."

"There's nothing more to say," said Grant as he stood. "Thank you for your consideration, Minister. Good luck with the reploids."

When he did exactly what the Minister had told him to do, the Minister found himself unexpectedly furious. Furious-er, anyway. "And you," the Minister said to X, who had packed the plastic away but hadn't yet made good his escape, "you've never tried to dictate human power structures before. You always said it was 'not your place'. What is it with you?"

X blinked calmly. "I obey the Three Laws," he said, and whether this was explanation or excuse the Minister couldn't tell.

"Fine," said the Minister. "If that's how it's going to be, leave that case here."

X looked down at it, as if surprised it was still in his hand, then looked at the Minister anew. "The trouble with weapons, sir, is that they cut every which way. I'm telling you again: it is better if you never know what this is. If you know—if this is made public—then we will have lost the Fourth War, not won it."

He frowned at himself. "Won it? Well... that's overstating things. This wasn't victory. What happened must never happen again. If we're to break this history repeating... we have to start somewhere. I have to start somewhere." He huffed unhappily. "How novel."

The Minister put his face in his hand. "And 'starting somewhere' means forcing Grant into retirement? Why? Do you want to be Commander?"

"No. For the seventeenth time, I decline promotion. However, I would be willing to submit recommendations for the position."

"Do that," said the Minister.

"Yes, sir."

It was only after the door had shut that the Minister realized X had interpreted "do that" as an order overriding "leave that case here".

Negotiations were closed.

Riff. Tap-tap. Riff.

"Are you going to deal? Or just keep shuffling?"

Altern started at the words, then pursed his lips. "Poker's not as much fun with just two," he said. He started dealing anyway. He dealt two hands. He didn't so much as look at the third, empty chair.

"He's not the only one missing," Signas said.

Altern winced. "I know, but…"

To avoid finishing the sentence, he picked up his cards and looked. And stopped. For the first time, he was having trouble deciding which cards to toss and replace. It wasn't because he didn't know the probabilities—he did. It was because he was suddenly having issues with the idea of replaceability.

"I was supposed to be dead, too," Signas added, "if certain plans had come to fruition."

"'Certain plans'?" echoed Altern, puzzled.

"Make squad leader and I'll read you in."

"Maybe I don't want to make squad leader."

Altern hadn't looked at Rekir's chair, but both Hunters knew the spirit of his words. "And did that save him?" Signas asked pointedly.

Altern's face fell. "No."

"So. Make squad leader, and I'll read you in to why I wasn't supposed to survive."

Altern half-smiled. "Counter-offer: If I get promoted, read me in to the Final Weapon battle report. The un-redacted version."

"No."

Altern opened his mouth to speak, and closed it just as quickly. In a single processor cycle, it seemed, Signas had petrified. Instantly Altern knew he would never see the document. "Can you at least tell me why not?"

"No."

There was no arguing with that. "Okay, fine. I'll think about it."

Signas seemed to reanimate, and nodded, satisfied. "We suffered many casualties even with my survival," he said unbidden. "All told, we lost about a third of our field Hunters."

"I wasn't prepared to hear that," said Altern.

"I thought you loved morbid statistics."

"Probabilities aren't the same as certainties. Knowing what might happen is… totally different from knowing what did happen."

"It does sound bad," Signas allowed, "but it's better than the First or Third Wars, especially for our support staff. For once Hunter Base didn't get hit, so our staff had only six killed or wounded. And both of those figures are far better than Repliforce's casualty rates. They were right at a hundred percent for their combatants, and above eighty percent for their support staff. They even had casualties amongst their humans."

"Hm… so Repliforce fragged their human overseers when they went Maverick?"

"I was referring to Ms. Gerry, their leader."

Altern cocked his head. "What, did they frag her?"

"No, she… violated the Third Law."

"She… ah. Got it. But she's not a casualty of the war, then."

"Her death was a direct result of Repliforce's Maverickism," Signas said. "It counts."

"It doesn't count against us, though, does it?" Altern said, suddenly distressed.

"No."

"Oh… that's something, at least."

"Officially, she's tallied as collateral damage, along with two thousand, three hundred, and fifty-two others."

Altern sighed. "That's a lot."

Signas put his cards down on the table. "It's relative, isn't it?" he asked. "I thought you were alive during the First War."

Altern's hackles rose. He tried to control them. "I was. I wasn't a Hunter then."

"But it still means you know how much more death and destruction occurred then. You know from experience and statistics both. This war was a mild one, as wars go."

"That's not the point," said Altern, slamming his cards down on the table, all thoughts of poker forgotten. "We're the Maverick Hunters. We're supposed to be upset about any human casualties. We're supposed to care." His hand tightened. "Some of us actually do."

The room went quiet. There was no noise from outside, either—Rekir had picked a low traffic area for his games, and with one Hunter in three KIA, there was even less traffic than usual.

Signas tapped his finger on the table. Once. Twice. Thrice. Still. "Did you change weapons when you were promoted?"

Altern blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"A heavy magrifle is classified as a sniper weapon," Signas said. "For sniper weapons to perform at their best, you have to intensely focus on just one target. You block out the rest of the world. That's why snipers rarely get promoted. They can't see past their scopes. They never learn how."

"Except you," Altern said.

"Have you noticed that most squad leaders, even most Azzles, have short-range weapons? Even the ones that start as long-ranged specialists. They usually get their weapons changed out when they get their post-promotion retrofit. I didn't. They realized I could focus on one target, like a sniper needs to, and still keep my eyes and ears on the larger situation. I could do both at the same time.

"And not just in combat, either." His eyes almost imperceptibly tightened. "So, if I talk about the larger implications of humans dying, that doesn't mean I'm numb to their deaths. It doesn't mean I don't care."

Altern's eyes widened in incredulity. "Signas… are you trying to say I hurt your feelings?"

Signas slipped into the more-than-formal stiffness that was his version of embarrassment. "Maybe."

Altern smiled. "You know, most people can say that in fewer than a hundred-something words."

"One-hundred and fifty-seven."

That earned a laugh. "We do math on the things we care about, don't we?"

"I suppose," Signas said, and he relaxed slightly.

"I'm still stuck," Altern said. "I'm still in the grieving stage. But you're not. That's why you outrank me now, isn't it?"

"Something like that," Signas replied vaguely.

Altern sighed and steeled himself. "Well? What are the larger implications of humans dying?"

"You're sure you want to know?"

Altern sim-swallowed, imitating a human gesture with muscles that weren't there. "I joined the Hunters because I was done with running. Sock it to me."

Signas nodded respectfully. "There are two reasons for the lower casualty count in this war. First, people have gotten very good at bunkering down. They protected themselves very well."

"At this point, that's expected," said Altern. "This is the only city on Earth that has a "Maverick attack" section in its building code."

"That's the less important factor, though," Signas went on. "The bigger one is this: killing humans just wasn't a priority for Repliforce."

Altern leaned back in his chair. "Huh. I hadn't thought about that, but… now that you mention it, it's kind of obvious."

"Most of the human deaths we did get came when Sky Lagoon crashed. The war inflicted lots of property damage, but it didn't kill that many, because Repliforce just didn't bother. They didn't target human population clusters, and there were none of the revenge squads we always see with Sigma's Mavericks. Repliforce had different goals."

Altern nodded with a frown. "Well, okay, but… where's the 'so what'?"

"The 'so what' is in Alexandria."

Altern had to think about that. "What, you mean the one city Repliforce deployed to?"

"That's right. They're experiencing lots of unrest. Protests. Expressions of sympathy. Spontaneous Maverickism, even. And it's spreading to the humans, who are doing their own counter-protests and counter-violence."

"They just had a major Maverick incident, though," protested Altern. "The Mavericks rose up in Alexandria and got cut down. That usually buys you at least a month before anything big can happen again."

"Not this time. Not in Alexandria, or in Nineveh, Shiloh, or Megiddo. They're all at different points in their Maverick cycles, but they're all experiencing the same kind of problems."

Altern nodded, comprehending. "You're saying this is a different kind of Maverickism. Repliforce spawned something… new."

"That's right. Put it this way: why do Sigma's Mavericks kill humans?"

Altern winced, but powered through despite his pain. "It's what they do. It's their ideology: kill the humans to save the reploids."

"Yes and no," said Signas, holding up his hands. One was down low, one was up high. "What are a few thousand deaths—even tens of thousands of deaths—out of a population of billions? Even the worst of Sigma's wars don't dent the population of the world."

"You said killing humans was a priority for Mavericks," said Altern accusingly.

"It is, but not because they're going to kill them all in one go. It's a form of political speech. They're telling humans, "We can kill you and your government can't stop us"."

"But we do stop them," objected Altern. "We kill them."

"We can only kill them after they've acted, which means the message is delivered. But that's not the only message. It's also a message to reploids—"This is what you can do", or, "This is what you should be doing". And it's a message to everyone: "This is how angry we are. This is what happens when we're mistreated"."

"Murder as marketing," Altern said queasily.

"As political theater," Signas corrected. "It has its downsides, though. The biggest is that it turns off any reploid that wants more rights, but isn't keen on genocide."

Altern's eyes widened in realization. "Like Repliforce."

Signas nodded. "And now we've martyred an organization that didn't want genocide, that only wanted independence. Almost any reploids can sympathize with that."

"And are, apparently."

"Apparently," Signas agreed.

"We're going to be busy," said Altern morosely. "Sigma's Mavericks are dangerous because they're organized and fanatical. These spontaneous Mavericks are neither, but if there are ten times as many of them…"

"Very, very, busy," agreed Signas. "And don't forget: Repliforce was a widely-advertised government project. They trumpeted it as a success and a major step against Maverickism before they did anything. Then the whole Repliforce went Maverick all at once."

Altern grimaced. "What was the Maverick message? "Your government can't stop us"?"

"Exactly. Which is why we see humans in Alexandria taking matters into their own hands. Imagine the backlash if the true nature of Final Weapon got out. If people understood just what kind of weapon Mavericks had gotten a hold of..."

"I don't think I want to." Altern shook his head, and looked at Signas with new admiration. "You sure have thought a lot about this."

"Actually, I didn't."

"Huh?"

"X did most of it. I just supplied some data to confirm it—he's been a bit too busy to do all his own research lately."

"I can imagine."

"The thing is…" Signas paused, considered his words. "…this was as far as he got. He didn't take the next step."

"Which is?"

"What to do about it. Which, come to think about it… if he doesn't know that, nobody does."

The room grew quiet.

Poker suddenly had tremendous appeal, especially if it meant changing the subject. Altern looked at his cards again, as if for the first time. They let him down just as quickly. What a wretched collection of mismatched scrap… Sighing, he tossed them into the middle of the table. "Fold."

Signas graciously accepted the cards and the ante, but he hadn't finished gathering them before there was a beep from his waist. "Looks like I'm needed," he said regretfully. "Take care of the cleanup, please. I trust you to keep it all straight."

Altern smiled. "You'd know if I didn't."

Signas returned the smile and rose to leave.

"What was your hand?" Altern asked.

"Pair of jacks, king high."

"Huh," huffed Altern. "Go figure."

"Beg your pardon?"

Altern gestured to Signas' head. "Your new armor mod looks good. It suits you."

Signas self-consciously touched it. His latest modifications had altered his headpiece so that it resembled an officer's peaked cap. His shoulders had been modified to suggest epaulets, while his chest resembled the buttons of a uniform. Gold shoulder loops completed the look—a bit of ornamentation unique in the Hunters to their current Commander.

"People keep saying that," muttered Signas. "I'm running out of ways to thank the armor shop."

The device at Signas' waist beeped again. "Coming, coming," he said aloud. He closed the door behind him.

The room fell to silence and emptiness—the silence of things that are absent. To Altern's right, a chair emptied by promotion. To his left, a chair emptied by attrition. Such was life in the Hunters.

He sighed, and broke the silence by shuffling the cards. "Well," he said, "looks like it's solitaire today."

The sun was low in the sky. Oranges and reds stretched across the horizon, between and amongst Abel City's skyscrapers. There was little blue left in the center of the sky; on the one end it faded into greens and on into the orange, and on the other was ever-darkening indigo, and purple, and darker colors still.

On the roof of Hunter Base, there was only one distinct sound. All the sounds of the city, from the traffic to the construction to the hocking of wares, blurred together into the everyday buzz of white noise. Only the thrumming of a Z-saber stood out.

Zero swished and struck, around and around, as he danced through a kata. Horizontal slash into a withdrawal into a plant-and-lunge into a spinning finisher.

Easy. Pure. Right.

Not right.

Maybe just not right enough.

Slowly, Zero did another diagonal slash, an unscripted one. He was more self-aware this time, less focused on the executing the move and more focused on how it played out. If he looked at the slash just right, it was almost like his saber was cutting through one of the skyscrapers.

It was an illusion, he knew. Persistence of vision, the burning brightness of the saber lingering in his sight even after the blade had passed. But it was an… interesting illusion.

He sliced down through one skyscraper—a second—a third. He imagined them falling before him. Memory filled in the details from his experiences with collapsing buildings and felled enemies alike. He could see the skyscrapers falling—it wasn't so very different from what he could actually do…

There were people in them, he realized. If he knocked those buildings down—there was no question that he could, if he chose—then those people would die. X would not approve of that kind of fantasy.

But what did X know? He was just a…

…a…

...just another machine. Like Zero. Maybe…

Maybe they should both accept that. Stop trying to be things they weren't. Stop trying to fight their natures. Zero didn't have to be the One That Kills Mavericks; Colonel's death, Iris' death, and General's sacrifice had taught him that. If he hadn't been the One, Iris would still be alive. Whatever had made him think that killing her was right, well, that couldn't be right.

So, then… what was he supposed to do? If he wasn't that, what was he?

He was the Red Demon after all... at least in part. It was inescapable, built in to his innermost being. But if that was true—if warbot instincts were part of his true self—he needed to ensure that the Red Demon feasted on the right targets. How to do that?

Return to basics. Return to Zero. Understand, first of all, what he was made for, what he was built to do. What his circuits were insisting on. What would feel right.

Whatever that was, it had to be better than this pain.

Pain…

Zero didn't resent pain. Like anger, it had a role in negative reinforcement, a role Zero understood and appreciated. It motivated him to act and remove the source of the pain. If the source of his pain was being a Maverick Hunter, well, that was a solvable problem.

Except that X needed him. Yes. It was important for him to be there for X.

…said who? And X needed him to do what, exactly?

Zero swept his saber across his whole field of view, decapitating every skyscraper in his sight. Destroying this whole city, he believed, would be easier than finding his answers. Unless of course he already knew his answers…

Memory—annoying thing—pulled insistently at the corners of his mind.

Zero wanted to ask X for help, but he knew he couldn't. Not on this subject. Anything else, and X would do everything he could to help him. 'Friendship' was what X had called that behavior. X would want to help, even about this. He'd try. But there was really nothing he could do. Zero had to do this himself.

He was alone.

…which wasn't that bad, really. He didn't mind it that much, he was sure. He didn't need friends, or allies, or love. Maybe he was made to be alone. Who knew?

He went to sheathe his saber, but as the hilt came past his face it caught his eye. He looked at it. It was the replacement saber, the one Iris had given him.

Emotion swept through him. His face twitched. Metal ground on metal as he squeezed the saber tight. He slammed it home in its sheathe and stomped back for the stairs.

Behind him, the sun sank below the horizon. The sky flooded with red.

Fin