“Sir, they have him!” General Patton’s aide, Lieutenant Harper, burst into the room, breathless from the sprint up the stairs.

“Him who?” Patton snapped back, irritation clear in his voice. He juggled a dozen operations, each with a dozen key personnel missing or evading capture. It could have been anyone.

Harper straightened, catching his breath. “Kovacs, sir. They’ve got Kovacs.”

Patton paused, the name cutting through his frustration like a blade. He had been after Kovacs for weeks now. The reports were scattered and conflicting, but one thing was certain: Kovacs had the potential to change the war. Patton leaned back in his chair, reflecting briefly on the irony of finally having a proper desk to lean on. It was the third office in as many days—he’d been forced to move his headquarters repeatedly, keeping one step ahead of enemy strikes and trying to establish a more permanent base.

Right now, he was occupying the office of a salt mine manager near the outskirts of Toledo. The view from the window, however, was far from ordinary. Below, workers moved like ants, clearing debris and preparing to transition from salt extraction to a full-scale mech manufactury. The building was still rough, with walls marked by soot and makeshift repairs, but Patton had a clear view of what would soon be the production floor. The thought of the machines that would roll out of here filled him with hope.

“Kovacs,” he repeated as if testing the weight of the name in his mouth. He turned his gaze back to Harper. “Where is he? Who has him?”

“A militia unit operating out of the old factory district near the western line,” Harper replied quickly. “It seems he was fixing their mechs in exchange for supplies. They radioed in for support and extraction, saying they’ve secured him.”

Patton’s expression remained unreadable, but his mind was racing. Kovacs had been a ghost—constantly slipping through the cracks, leaving only traces of his work behind. But now, to have him in hand…

“Any resistance expected?” Patton asked sharply.

“Possibly,” Harper answered. “The militia’s desperate, and the area’s crawling with enemy recon units. There’s a high risk they’ll try to intercept any extraction.”

Patton nodded slowly, his gaze drifting back out the window, where the hum of machinery was gradually overtaking the silence of the mine. “We need him, Harper,” he said at last, his tone more controlled now. “And we need him alive. Get an extraction team together—one of our best. I want him here within the next twenty-four hours.”

Harper hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Sir, sending in a full extraction team could draw too much attention with the enemy presence in that sector. We’d risk—”

“I know the risks,” Patton interrupted, his voice steely. “But we can’t afford to lose him now. Kovacs knows things—things that could change the tide of this entire war. And if the enemy gets to him first, we’re as good as finished.”

Harper nodded, understanding the urgency. “Yes, sir. I’ll arrange it immediately.”

As Harper turned to leave, Patton’s eyes lingered on the rough production floor below, envisioning the lines of mechs that would soon emerge from this makeshift factory. He had been building toward this moment for months—a turning point in the conflict, where the machines would become more than just tools of war; they would become symbols of dominance.

“Harper,” he called out, stopping his aide at the door. “If there’s any resistance from the militia, make it clear that Kovacs is coming with us. No negotiations.”

Harper gave a curt nod. “Understood, General.”

As the door closed, Patton allowed himself a rare moment of anticipation. The pieces were finally coming together, and Kovacs could be the linchpin holding the plan.

If everything went right, the new production facility would soon be churning out mechs faster than the enemy could destroy them. And Kovacs’ secrets—whatever they were—would be the key to unlocking the next generation of war machines.

He stood, hands behind his back, staring at the sprawling floor below. “Soon,” he murmured to himself. “Very soon.”

***

The barracks door slammed open, and a lieutenant strode in, exuding an air of authority mixed with impatience. His gaze swept over the exhausted soldiers sprawled across bunks, barely back from their last brutal shift on the front lines. He didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“I need five volunteers!” he barked, the word ‘volunteers’ more a command than a request. He pointed at a cluster of men near the center. "You five, get up. You’re it. We’ve got an evac mission—grab your kit and be ready to move.”

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Groans of disbelief rippled through the squad. One of the men still slumped against the wall, glanced up with bloodshot eyes. “Sir, we just got off duty,” he said, voice heavy with fatigue and frustration. “We need time to rest, for God’s sake.”

The lieutenant’s face hardened, his voice turning icy. “If you didn’t get the bleeding memo, you’re in the fecking army now. You follow orders!” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Rest later. Right now, you’re going back on duty.”

The men exchanged weary looks but knew better than to argue further. They were soldiers; they had heard that tone before. The sergeant, a grizzled man with a scar on his cheek, grunted as he struggled.

“What’s this evac about, sir?” he asked, more out of habit than curiosity. “Who are we bringing out this time?”

The lieutenant shot him a cold look. “You’ll get the details when you’re moving. You’ve got ten minutes to get your gear and be at the rally point.”

The men sighed and reached for their rifles, the sound of metal scraping against worn wood filling the room. They moved with the practiced rhythm of men too tired to be quick but too disciplined to drag their feet.

“Isn’t this how it always goes?” one of the privates muttered to the sergeant as he adjusted his helmet. “We’re the ones that get sent back out, no matter what.”

The sergeant gave a grim chuckle, his voice low. “Yeah, kid. Welcome to the army.”

As they filed out, the lieutenant stood at the doorway, watching them with impatience and authority. "Hurry up, lads," he barked, echoing down the narrow hallway. "There’s no time for hand-holding on this one."

The soldiers moved on, tired but resolved, knowing they were again headed into uncertainty. The mission details were sparse, but one thing was clear: this wouldn’t be an easy run.

The squad trudged toward the rally point, their boots heavy with fatigue. As they neared the designated spot, they spotted a small group of young soldiers waiting. Four of them stood together, clad in clean uniforms that stood out against the squad's ragged, mud-splattered gear. These were the once cadets, newly deployed but carrying a sharpness and energy that came with their recent training.

The group leader stepped forward, a tall woman with short-cropped hair and piercing blue eyes. She carried herself confidently, suggesting she was more than ready for the task ahead. “Cadet Stewart,” she introduced herself, her voice clear and direct. “We’re here for the extraction mission.”

The sergeant from the squad, still grizzled and tired from the recent action, stepped up to her, giving her a nod of acknowledgment. “Ma’am, do you know what the mission is?” he asked, his voice rough but steady, still trying to piece together the details.

Stewart shook her head, her expression serious but calm. “All I know is that it’s an extraction from a potentially hot site. We expect resistance, so we must be ready for anything.”

The squad exchanged knowing glances. A “hot” extraction was never a good sign, especially not after just coming off a brutal shift. The sergeant rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the exhaustion. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Just what we needed.”

Stewart caught his tone, a faint, understanding smile tugging at her lips. “Look, I get it. None of us want to be out here again, but this is a priority. We’ve got our orders, and we’re going in. We do this right, and we get out fast.”

The squad gave a reluctant nod. They weren’t happy about it, but they knew the drill. One of the privates adjusted the strap of his rifle, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What’s our approach, ma’am?” he asked, voice tight.

Stewart leaned in, speaking quickly but clearly. “Simple plan. We move as a unit, two groups—one to secure the site, the other to cover the extraction. We don’t know the exact situation on the ground, so stay alert. We get the asset, and we get out. No unnecessary risks.”

“Understood, ma’am,” the sergeant replied, his voice resigned but ready.

“Good,” Stewart said with a nod. “We head out in five. Make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

The squad moved to make their final preparations, checking their weapons and gear. The sergeant turned to his men, voice low but commanding. “Alright, you heard the cadet. Keep your heads down, follow orders, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Stewart and the other cadets watched them prepare, their expressions a mix of anticipation and determination. The sergeant gave her a sideways glance. “First extraction mission?” he asked, trying to read the young leader.

“Yeah,” Stewart admitted, then straightened her shoulders. “But we’re ready.”

The sergeant grunted. “Hope you’re right, ma’am. Let’s make sure everyone gets back in one piece.”

“Copy that, sergeant,” Stewart replied, eyes steady. “Let’s move.”

The mixed group fell into formation and was combat loaded onto a Peregrine transport. Jackie noted that the transport was militarized, with weapons mounds and blisters.

***

The vault was silent except for the faint hum of the containment field surrounding the Black Egg. General Patton stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes locked on the obsidian sphere resting on a reinforced pedestal. Its smooth surface reflected the sterile light of the chamber, giving it an almost ethereal presence. Beside him, Dr. Maren Clive, lead scientist of the CID’s experimental research division, reviewed her notes on a flickering datapad.

“You’ve reviewed everything we recovered from the derelict?” Patton asked, his voice low and commanding.

“Yes, General,” Dr. Clive replied, her tone carefully measured. “Though calling it everything would be generous. The logs were heavily corrupted, and what we could decipher raised more questions than answers.”

Patton’s gaze didn’t leave the Black Egg. “Summarize it for me.”

Dr. Clive hesitated, then sighed. “The derelict was ancient, at least a few centuries old. Its origin is unclear—no identifying logos or known faction markers. But based on the construction of its hull and its limited database fragments, it was likely a research vessel.”

“Carrying that thing,” Patton said, gesturing toward the Black Egg.

“Exactly,” Clive replied. “From what little we could reconstruct, it was referred to in their logs as a Field Generator. The crew’s final entries suggest they transported it to a testing facility. Something went wrong.”

Patton raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘something.’”