They said the sky over Verdun was made of smoke and steel. The old veterans, the ones whose eyes had stopped blinking at shellbursts, whispered that the ground there was alive — not with roots, but with memories. Verdun was not a place one captured. It was a place one endured.
And now it burned again.
The northern salient, held by remnants of the 51st French Infantry, had collapsed after a six-day bombardment. German stormtroopers, newly equipped with lightweight flamethrowers and reinforced masks, had poured through the breach like liquid fire. The French lines had bent, then snapped. Entire companies were buried beneath the churned mud and falling fortifications.
Emil Laurant read the reports in silence. They were not tactical notes — they were obituaries masquerading as logistics. One name caught his eye: Lieutenant Henri Vacher, a signals officer Emil had once trained during the early acoustic trials. The margin noted him as missing, presumed dead.
"What's the situation now?" Emil asked.
Rousseau handed him a map. "General Gamelin has ordered a fallback to the Douaumont perimeter. They've set demolition charges on the northern bunkers. The idea is to delay the Germans long enough to evacuate the artillery crews."
"They'll never make it," Emil said. "They'll be gunned down before they reach the slope."
"They're asking for volunteers to hold the trench mouths."
"No," Emil said, standing. "They don't need volunteers."
Fournier looked up. "Then what?"
"They need monsters."
The Chimère wasn't ready. Not by any sane standard. Its chassis was still raw steel. The internal shielding hadn't been tested under heat. Its weapon system — a compressed-gas mortar that fired shaped charges at high arc — was uncalibrated. And it had no proper armor plating on the rear.
But it moved.
And it frightened every man who looked at it.
"I didn't design this for frontal combat," Fournier protested as Emil climbed into the cockpit.
"No," Emil said. "You designed it to survive the future. And that future is already here."
Rousseau gripped the railing. "If you die out there—"
"I won't," Emil interrupted. "I'm not going to Verdun to die. I'm going to remind them we haven't stopped thinking."
The journey took eleven hours. The Chimère, mounted on a flatbed rail car under canvas, rumbled through night and ash. Emil rode beside it, watching the stars disappear behind layers of smoke.
By the time they arrived at the Verdun station, the city was nearly unrecognizable. The air reeked of cordite and rot. Barricades had been turned into bonfires. Soldiers shuffled through the streets like ghosts wrapped in burlap and desperation.
General Gamelin met them in the ruins of an old wine cellar turned into command. His uniform was tattered, but his voice sharp.
"What is this?" he demanded, eyeing the Chimère as it rolled off the flatbed.
"The end of retreat," Emil said.
Gamelin squinted. "It looks like a beast."
"It is."
"And what do you propose it does?"
"Hold the northern breach for thirty minutes."
"Against flame troopers and mortars?"
"Yes."
Gamelin laughed — a hollow, brittle sound. "You're insane."
Emil handed him a field radio tuned to the Chimère's signal band. "No. I'm betting on it."
At 0300 hours, the Chimère moved alone into the remains of Trench 9C. The mud was too thick for wheels, so Emil activated the track runners. The vehicle hissed forward, slow and steady, like a waking leviathan.
Inside the cramped cockpit, Emil adjusted the resonance sensors. The prototype had a rudimentary pressure-detection system — not sonar, but something close. With it, he could "feel" the tremors of footsteps through the hull.
By 0312, the first pulses arrived. Rapid. Organized. Coming from the north.
German stormtroopers. At least three squads.
Emil didn't wait.
He engaged the mortar rig and adjusted the arc. The Chimère bucked as the first round launched — a gas-propelled shell tipped with a fragmentation coil. It arced over the ridge and landed behind the approaching line.
Screams followed.
Then fire.
The Germans returned with rifles, grenades, and eventually flamethrowers. One gout of fire struck the Chimère's flank, melting part of the outer grating. The cockpit filled with heat and warning lights.
Emil gritted his teeth and switched to counter-ventilation.
The system roared, releasing a cloud of steam through side vents. The heat plume confused the German sensors, giving him seconds to adjust position. He reversed the tracks, dropped the rear anchor, and deployed the secondary mortar.
Two more shots.
Two more arcs.
The trench lit up with fire and screams.
And then, silence.
The Chimère remained.
By dawn, the breach was still held. The artillery had been evacuated. The demolition charges were triggered remotely.
Verdun did not fall that day.
It smoked. It wept. But it did not fall.
Back at the foundry, Fournier paced as the confirmation telegram came in.
CHIMÈRE OPERATIONAL. BREACH HELD. RETURNING.
He slumped into a chair, exhaling.
"They'll never let him near the front again," Rousseau said. "They'll bury him in medals and keep him away from anything explosive."
Fournier laughed bitterly. "Then they've never met Emil Laurant."
When Emil returned, he did so with burns on his hands and soot in his lungs. But his eyes were bright. And in his satchel, stained with blood and engine grease, were sketches.
"Are those repairs?" Fournier asked.
"No," Emil said. "Improvements."
The Chimère had survived.
But he wanted more.