At 0600 hours on a frost-laced morning, Gargouille moved for the first time.
There were no cheering crews. No ceremonial banners. Only silence, broken by the low, pulsing growl of its ignition core — a vibration so deep it made gravel tremble.
Its twin barrels, recessed and angled forward, emitted faint vapor as coolant systems equalized internal pressure. The exhaust nozzles hissed rhythmically, releasing bursts of steam like the snorts of a massive, waking creature.
Inside the command deck, Emil Laurant sat alone.
No co-pilot. No gunner. No engineers.
Just him and the machine he had carved from fear, defiance, and necessity.
He pulled the brass headset over his ears and murmured the activation code.
"Maudit silence."
Cursed silence.
The mainframe clicked.
The analog dials spun.
And Gargouille awoke.
Emil's destination lay far to the northeast: a pocket of reinforced German ground known in intercepted communiqués as Zone Blaumeer — "Blue Lake," though no such body of water existed. Intelligence suggested it was a cover name. A site designated for the Doppelte Lunge's first full test.
He intended to stop it.
The approach was surgical.
Gargouille traveled under cover of fog and friendly artillery barrages. Every movement was timed with precision: rotate here, wait there, power surge only during lightning overhead. Emil operated like a conductor, drawing music from gears, wires, and armor. He had designed this machine for more than war.
He had designed it to listen.
The forward sensor suite picked up faint EM distortions at 0742 hours — rhythmic, deliberate.
"Capacitor preheat signature," Emil said aloud, adjusting the gain on the dashboard. "They're starting the cycle."
Zone Blaumeer lay in a shallow depression flanked by stone outcrops. At its center: a low bunker with a domed roof, flanked by six cylindrical storage units and a wide loading platform.
On that platform stood the Doppelte Lunge.
Even from 800 meters out, Emil could see the thing's shape — long, symmetrical, like the rib cage of an industrial beast. Twin projection barrels mounted flush against the chassis. Vents along the sides. No tracks. It sat on magnetic cushions, tethered to coils embedded in the concrete.
"It doesn't move," Emil whispered.
"It sings."
At 0750, Gargouille began its descent into Zone Blaumeer.
The first enemy scouts spotted him at 500 meters.
The alarm went up.
Within seconds, the Luftsignal horns began blaring — not in a pattern of retreat, but activation. The Doppelte Lunge's rear lights flashed red. Tech-crews scrambled to detach the safety clamps. The launch core began to hum.
Emil had minutes.
He activated his own systems.
"Target acquired. Calibration zero-point set. Payload ready."
He lifted the safety lever from the primary fire control.
Then paused.
Through the viewport, the Doppelte Lunge adjusted. The twin barrels extended like insect mandibles. The interior of the platform glowed — not orange or yellow, but a deep, ultraviolet blue.
He realized the barrels weren't cannons.
They were resonance chambers.
And whatever was about to be fired wasn't explosive.
It was sonic.
He muttered: "A weapon of pressure and vibration... aimed to liquefy structure. Not detonate. Collapse."
He pressed the ignition.
Gargouille fired first.
The twin shells cut through the air like spears hurled by titans. They slammed into the forward bunker and the control scaffold beside the Doppelte Lunge, triggering twin detonations. Concrete cracked. Screams rang out. Fire erupted.
But the main body of the machine remained.
The Germans, in panic or desperation, activated the lung.
There was no flash.
No recoil.
Just a single, inhuman note.
A low, thrumming frequency burst outward in a perfect circle. The snow evaporated. Stones cracked. The left panel on Gargouille's chassis buckled inward as if struck by invisible fists.
Emil's vision blurred. The glass viewport spiderwebbed. He slammed the override throttle forward.
"Range: 400 meters. Too far for a kill shot. I need 300."
He powered through the wavefront.
The second pulse hit harder.
It blew trees into fragments. A deer, caught mid-run, imploded. Emil felt his nose bleed. The hull strained. Interior rivets snapped. One pressure valve exploded in sparks.
But he kept going.
"Range: 310. Almost there."
Then he saw it.
Behind the Doppelte Lunge, a coolant tower — tall, steel-framed, unarmored. It fed directly into the generator chamber.
He didn't need to destroy the gun.
He needed to kill the lungs.
Emil rerouted targeting manually.
He turned Gargouille 15 degrees and fired the secondary payload.
It struck the coolant tower dead center.
The explosion was not fiery.
It was instant fog.
A white blast of vapor and debris burst out, flooding the base and choking the Doppelte Lunge's intake. The hum faltered. Sparks erupted from its rear frame. One of the barrels twisted violently from thermal stress.
A third pulse began to charge—
But the resonance collapsed in on itself.
The weapon imploded with a terrible crack.
The resulting shockwave lifted the entire platform into the air and dashed it against the concrete like a child's toy.
The battlefield fell silent.
Then the fire reached the ammunition depot.
The entire base vanished in a mushroom of smoke and dirt.
Emil came to moments later.
The interior of Gargouille was dark. Emergency lights glowed faint red. Steam hissed from the forward coolant line. Fournier's voice crackled over the long-range transmitter.
"Emil? Emil, do you read?"
He coughed. Blood on his lips.
"Status... Gargouille damaged. Core stable. Target eliminated."
There was silence.
Then Fournier: "Copy. We're sending recovery crews."
He leaned back.
His machine — broken, bruised, and breathing fire — had survived.
So had he.
Three days later, in Paris, Lavalle stared at the aerial photos of the wreckage. He read the report twice, then once again. He folded it carefully.
"He did it again."
Minister Claude tapped the desk. "And now?"
Lavalle looked up.
"Now we decide whether he is our sword — or our rival."
In the farthest depths of a forest laboratory near Kassel, Wilhelm Rainer examined the burnt remains of a broken barrel — one of the Doppelte Lunge's twin mouths.
He turned to a new engineer.
"Start work on the replacement."
"What should we call it?"
Rainer grinned.
"Stimme der Tiefe."
Voice of the Deep.