We dropped off Hannah and Anastasia early in the morning on their mission to infiltrate the pilot candidates for the German mechs. Then most of the Polish troops and I headed off deeper into town. The others remained behind with the gunship. I left Frank with only enough crew to fly the gunship. Angelica, Eva, and Tamara were preparing for the assault phase. The plan was to meet up with Anastasia later, and she would take the final word back to the gunship with last-minute updates of our plan.

We had a heck of a time finding the secondary rendezvous point. It seemed like half the city was shut down. Roads were blocked for the upcoming parade celebrating the restoration of the Tsardom under Alexander. The festival was what General Petrov was using as the pretext for his weapons exhibition. Because of it, half the roads in town were closed off and the other half packed with people who should have had something better to do.

The rendezvous was in an upper floor flat along a main street. We had to ditch the vehicle some distance away and approach on foot. I didn't want to attract the notice of the police picketing the parade route, so it took us a while to get there. The parade had started by the time we made our way in through the back entrance of our secondary rendezvous site. The front of the building faced onto the main avenue, which was now lined with crowds and filled with troops marching and waving. We split into three groups to attract less attention. My group got to the apartment first. We climbed the three stories to the designated flat and let ourselves in.

My plan had been to stay at the safe room which was our backup rendezvous site and coordinate the Polish enlisted scouting locations around the expo. All that went out the window when we stepped into the apartment.

Colonel Mazur was there. And he wasn’t alone.

I had told myself when the colonel had been captured that I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned back up unexpectedly. I was surprised anyway. He lifted a hand in a nonchalant greeting but didn’t stand.

“Sergeant Golem, Sergeant Wysocki," Mazur said, "I'd like to introduce you to my new friend... Pierre."

The stranger was French. That was obvious from the language they were conversing in, the man's outrageous mustache, his name, and everything else about him the instant he opened his mouth.

"Ah, so good to meet you,” the Frenchman said. “Do, come in, sit down.” The man gestured with a glass of wine. The open bottle was on the table next to them. I noticed an empty bottle on the floor behind Mazur’s chair.

“Yes, if you'd be so good to join us, Sam, there's much to discuss," Mazur said, his tone casual. He gave no indication he had been in the clutches of the Russian police. I thought I saw a fresh bruise on his cheek, but that could have been a trick of the light.

"We were just discussing this spectacle we're about to see." Mazur waved a hand towards the window. He and his French companion had arranged their chairs near the door to the balcony, where they had a view of the street below. From the way the roadblocks had been set outside, I gathered the parade would go directly under our window. "Pierre here has brought some very interesting hardware from France. He's quite disappointed he won't be able to show it off."

"Ah, it is so. These confounded Russians have no appreciation for proper military hardware. They invite us to their little exposition, but do they really want to see what we have to offer? No, no, no. It is only 'mechs this and mechs that'. Giant robots is all they want to see. Giant robots. What need do the French have of giant robots? Piloting such monstrosities, it is a waste of the flower of womanhood." The man was getting warmed up to his rant and Mazur was nodding along. While he nodded he refilled the Frenchman’s glass.

The door opened and another group of Poles came in. Pierre looked at them in surprise before continuing his rant.

I waited patiently. I was curious what this man had brought. Military hardware that was not mech-related. If it was worth bringing to this expo, it must be something interesting.

"Tall ungainly things stomping around. Reliant on unholy magics. It is no surprise that Germans have gone in for such things. Always distracted by the latest piece of technology just because it is new and shiny. No, no. For the best military engineering, one must go to France. Our aeroplanes and mechanized vehicles are second to none.”

Mazur turned to me. "Pierre here has brought something quite interesting. What do the English call it? A tank?”

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“Yes, yes,” the Frenchman agreed. “A silly name. But no sillier than what the Germans call it." He waved a dismissive hand. "The British did some interesting things with the technology. At least back before…" he trailed off and then gave a shudder but didn't elaborate.

For some reason, since I had arrived in this world, everyone had been hesitant to talk much about England. Whenever it came up, they would change the subject. It was odd. I had not pursued the matter. There had always been more important topics at hand.

"Yes, interesting things the English have done. But France has been experimenting with armored wheeled vehicles for many years. We have made it a priority since we saw Germany investing so heavily in mech technology. They learned their folly at the Somme. Their big mechanical men were very impressive. Oh yes, coming across our border and trampling through our farmlands. But in the open country, against our 75mm howitzer, they did not have it so easily," he chuckled to himself. "What finally won our war was tanks. Tanks have none of the drawbacks of mechs, you see. They can be piloted by hardened soldiers instead of fresh young girls. They can be built quickly on a production line in large quantities. Even the most rude peasant can be quickly trained in their use," he continued.

"And most importantly on the defilade, they are not as exposed as the mechanical men," he gestured with his hands, indicating something driving up a slope. "In rolling terrain, they need not expose themselves to the enemy.” He used a finger to indicate a gun poking over the top of a hill. "It is much superior. Have you ever seen a mech trying to lay prone and wield its big cannon? Well, it is comical."

I nodded. "Yes, I've seen it."

The man looked at me in surprise, and I realized it was the first time I had spoken. He peered at me closer. "You're a golem, this is interesting."

Mazur had been sitting quietly in an attentive posture, but now he stirred.

"Yes, our Sergeant Sam is a unique specimen."

He cast a suspicious look back on Mazur. "You have said you are not Russians, and I can tell it from the look of you and from how you have golems," he gestured at Mazur as if to indicate how he was dressed, and then flipped a hand at myself. “Look, see there, those are what the Russians take for mechanized forces." The Frenchman indicated the street below as a column of trucks was moving slowly along with the parade. I had to admit, while the troops in the back of the trucks looked fairly smart, the vehicles themselves were outdated already, even for 1920.

"And see here, what comes next," Pierre said, exasperation filling his voice. "This is what they have done with our creations." A row of tanks was moving up the street. They were tiny. They looked to be of a similar design to the ones we had seen in Frankenstein's Fortress. And my implanted knowledge told me they were TF-17s, and their construction seemed somehow shabbier.

“They mean to upstage my vehicles as well. Pathetic. Russians put all of their money and energy into the walking mechs and not the much more practical and effective vehicles," Pierre added. “But you have not said where you’re from.”

Mazur shrugged. “Does it matter? Russia makes many enemies. France does not make so many.” He leaned forward. “It’s enough that we wish to discredit General Petrov, who has also offended you. I think it would be good if while doing this we could show off French hardware to best advantage.”

Petrov's suspicious look softened. He nodded slightly despite himself, but still seemed hesitant.

"And if we can make fools of the Germans along the way," Mazur said with a shrug.

Pierre broke out in a grin. "Then so much the better. Yes, yes, yes. I am with you. But how do you intend to accomplish this miracle of discrediting my rivals and burning those who have snubbed me?”

As he spoke, the door opened yet again and the final group of our Polish troops entered. On the gunship, we had felt undermanned, even tight as those quarters were. Here in a prim apartment, it was starting to look positively crowded.

“You have men,” Pierre said, considering. “So, perhaps something could be arranged.”

“Are you thinking of crews for your tanks?" Mazur refilled his glass of wine. He was stringing this man along masterfully, and it was impressive to watch.

"That's just it," Pierre cried. "These Russians, they invited us here to bring our hardware and promised that we would be training Russian crews to use them. This would have let us show off just how easy to operate they are. But no, instead we get here and they assign us no men, no soldiers to learn. They're technicians, they look over our vehicles and they dismiss them. The Italians and Bulgarians, even the Spaniards are here. All were snubbed, though their efforts were so laughable it is hard to blame the Russians for it." He laughed before taking another swig of his wine. "But with your men," he turned in his chair to look over the Polish group, which was now mostly standing around, unsure of what to do with themselves. They had that unmistakable air of men who had seen action. Pierre nodded his head thoughtfully. "Yes, with your men I think we could show off my machines to great advantage."

"But how would you use them?" Mazur asked.

"That we still need to discuss. Yes. These Russians, they intend to show off their own feeble attempts at recreating the Renault 17 in their parade. But even then, it is merely a showpiece. They have given us a few of the most inept fools to learn to operate my 19s. And do they want to learn the gunnery system? No. Do they want to learn the radio or the turret controls? No. They only want to drive in a parade and collect their pay."

"We would love to see your machines," Mazur interjected.

Pierre eyed him while taking another drink of his wine. "That could possibly be arranged."

"You could get us into the factory?" Mazur asked.

The Frenchman shrugged. "Most likely. More than likely."

"Then perhaps we can discuss how we might use them, how we might show them off with more than just a drive in a parade."

The Frenchman stroked his mustache. "Tell me more."