“Order of march through the tunnel will be Maulers, Raiders, then Lobos.” Filson scratched out a diagram on a painted wall of the Metro station concourse with his bayonet as he gave his final instructions. Merko, McGowan, Paredes and Hatch listened intently. Mauricio, shorter than the rest and standing behind them, shifted back and forth on his feet, trying to see.

  The combined force of Centaurs, soldiers and robots stood waiting in the wide ticket hall behind them. The sounds of magazines slapping into rifles, drone thrusters revving, armored boots scraping the floor, and robot servos flexing bounced off the hard tile surfaces and magnified. Filson had to talk loudly to be heard.

  “All air assets, other than recon, will remain here, staged in the tunnel. They won’t move until after we blow the roof. At that point, they will launch and take the lead up to the street.” Filson paused and looked around at his leaders. “Please make sure your people know and understand this. Anyone who lifts their head up too early is going to have it taken off by a Valkyrie.”

  Valkyries were the heaviest aerial weapons drones assigned to the company level. About the size of a compact car, each Centaur company had three.

  The humans nodded at the sound advice. Hatch stood still, head pointed at Filson.

  “I will be upfront with Hatch. I’ll have Mauricio with me. He’ll help navigate and will put the explosives in place.” Filson looked away from his bayonet scratching. “Where the hell is he? Mauricio!”

  “Yes, sir. I am here.”

  “Get up here, dammit.”

  Hatch and Merko stepped aside to let the short Chilean pass through.

  Filson stifled the urge to laugh at the sight. With his ill-fitting body armor and oversized helmet, Mauricio looked like a chunky kid playing army—if kids had gray beards.

  “Like I was saying, Mauricio here will place the explosives.” Filson shot Merko and McGowan hard looks. “That means what he says goes. I don’t want to hear a single wannabe expert chirp out of the peanut gallery.”

  Filson paused.

  “Yes, sir,” McGowan and Merko said in unison.

  “Based on the map and engineering recon, we’re gonna drop two holes in the street. One breach on the east side of Third Platoon’s position. One breach on the west side.” Filson turned back to scribble on the wall. “Mauricio said we’d bring their building down if we set the charges any closer.

  “I’ve divided our force into two equal assault teams. You should already have your assignments. We’re gonna haul ass down this Metro tunnel to the breach points, set the charges, then unleash hell.”

  Filson turned from the wall. He looked at Captain Paredes.

  “You get enough protective gear, Suave?”

  “Yes.” Paredes smiled. “My sister company doesn’t know it yet, but they were very generous.”

  Filson smiled. “Yeah. Well, the Battalion Motor Sergeant is going to call for my head when he sees Hatch and his guys are missing.”

  The group chuckled. Merko patted Hatch’s shoulder appreciatively.

  The smile faded from Filson’s face quickly. He stood quietly as the group focused back on him.

  “The mission brief with full supporting data has been loaded into your tactical AIs. Fragos and deviations will come over RaiderNet. Succession of command is me, Captain Merko, then Captain Suave.”

  Filson returned his bayonet to its scabbard, seating it with a loud click.

  “Oh yeah. TAC briefing.”

  The whole group groaned and rolled their eyes as Filson continued.

  “All kill chain requirements apply.” Filson shrugged derisively as he spoke the well-rehearsed words. Merko made a masturbatory gesture with his free hand. “A human must authorize every kill. No automations or machine-only loops authorized.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  The Tokyo Accords were the world’s response to the Russian atrocity of 2039. Acting to finally end their Ukrainian dispute, the Russians sent two divisions of autonomous robots into the country. By the time the AI-enabled war machines marched back across the border into Russia, they had killed over fifty thousand people. Most of them civilian. Many of them children.

  The next day, the world recoiled from the vision of autonomous machines killing humans. It had been happening on a smaller scale for decades, of course. But the sight of entire villages destroyed, Kiev burning, and thousands of mangled bodies struck a nerve. A fear of the future was finally realized.

  World leaders met in Tokyo. In April 2040, the International Agreement Regarding the Prohibition of Machine-Based Killing Decisions was signed by every country with a functioning government. The world’s highest military and governmental officials could now be charged with war crimes if their forces violated the treaty. They took the responsibility and liability seriously, responding in the age-old manner: they promptly transferred it onto the shoulders of frontline junior officers and soldiers.

  A Tokyo Accords compliance briefing had to be given before every combat mission, advising the participants of their responsibilities under the treaty. That way, any violations then fell on them—the ones trying to survive.

  “Does everyone understand their responsibilities regarding TAC compliance?” Filson continued in a monotone, indifferent tone.

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Good.” His voice was sharp and loud. His men straightened. “Does everyone understand their responsibilities to their fellow Raider and Lobo?”

  “Hoah, sir!” the group responded in unison.

  His intent understood, Filson nodded in approval.

  “What are your questions?”

  A moment of uneasy silence extended. The men shifted on their feet, like athletes before a contest. Hatch stood motionless.

  Filson nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s—”

  “Actually, I got one, sir,” Ramirez said. McGowan glared in his direction. “Any word on the exfil? How’re they gonna get us out?”

  “Exfil is good to go. They’re down to just a few details, then I’ll get the finalized plan. I’ll pass it over RaiderNet as soon as it hits.” Filson’s eyes narrowed. “But you let me work that piece. You focus on keeping your men and yourself alive, and saving Third Platoon and the Lobos.”

  Filson scanned his leaders as they nodded back at him. He checked his watch, then gave his first sergeant a thumbs-up.

  “Move out!” McGowan boomed as he spun to face the troops. “Lock and load! Deploy aerial recon! Assume order of march! Patrol spacing!” The first sergeant’s voice reverberated through the ticket hall as fighting men and robots headed for the tunnel.

  Dozens of golf-ball-sized drones launched into the air and careened between heads and the low ceiling. They shot over the train platform and banked hard right, disappearing into the darkness. Armored boots and metal robot appendages thunked and scraped forward. Urgent, clipped voices delivering last-minute instructions filled the air.

  Beneath that audible cover, after his subordinates had joined their units, Filson turned back to the wall and snuck in a quick radio call to Commander Akande.

  “Apache Zero Six, Raider Zero Six. We’re on the move.” Filson put an armored hand over his mouth to hide what he was about to say. He almost whispered into the mic embedded in his battlesuit’s collar assembly.

  “Roger that, Raider Six.”

  “We should be out of the tunnel and in the fight in half an hour. Till then, sir, we’ll have no connectivity. We’ll be out of comms and without access to AegisNet.”

  AegisNet was the American command-and-control network, sharing intel and situational data across the area of operations.

  “Understood, Raider.”

  “What’s the word on our exfil, sir?”

  After what seemed to Filson like an awkwardly long delay, Akande came back with, “I’m not going to bullshit you, Raider. We got nothing so far.”

  Filson shook his head. “Shit, sir.”

  “Apache Zero Three is working it. But looks like our insertion of Third Platoon had a cascade effect across the sector. It’s chaos at higher. All air and armored assets are spoken for. We’ll keep working it, but you might have to fight your own way out.”

  Filson shut his eyes. They would never make it out on their own.

  “Listen, Don.” Akande’s using his name on the radio surprised Filson. His eyes snapped open. “Losing Third Platoon would be a big hit. A tragic, big fucking hit. But losing all of Raider Company in a doomed attempt to get them out would be devastating. Military malpractice, really. Now, I’m not going to order you to stand down, because I don’t give orders I can’t enforce, and I’ve worked with you long enough to know that you’re gonna damn well do what you’re gonna damn well do.”

  Filson looked down at the tips of his armored boots, his mind racing.

  “But my formal recommendation is that you abort, get back here to HQ, and we start planning how to avenge Third Platoon.”

  “Raiders and Lobos don’t leave men behind,” Filson said. “I know you won’t either, sir. Filson out.”

  Filson ended the transmission and cursed. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and don his mask of command.

  Can’t show fear. Go save Third Platoon. Akande will find a way to pull us out.

  Filson turned from the wall into the waiting gaze of Hatch.

  The M-47 stood still as a statue, the way robots do, multi-sensored eyes staring at the major, scar glinting across his metal face.

  “The hell, Hatch?” Filson said in a voice he hoped sounded composed. “You need something?”

  “No, sir. I had a question, sir.”

  “What is it?” Filson leaned over and picked up his helmet.

  “You just answered it, sir.”