Severed Lines
Drones. 850 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.
The drones materialized in the pale dawn light—silent constellations racing over Ukrainian wheat fields that had changed hands seventeen times in twenty years. Colonel Petro Kovalenko watched through bloodshot eyes as his tactical display populated with blue icons, each representing a machine that would kill without bleeding.
His fingers traced the worn edge of the display where he'd etched five small notches. One for each year since his last brother's death.
"Deployment complete," Captain Myroslava reported. "Lattice communication array established."
"This is the fifth time we've met Volkov's unit in this sector," Kovalenko observed, his thumb absently spinning the wedding band he still wore eight years after his wife had evacuated to Poland. "Fifth time in this field."
Eight kilometers east, Colonel Yegor Volkov stood before an identical display, though his command center gleamed with newer equipment. The red icons of his swarm formed aggressive patterns, machines programmed to destroy other machines.
His hand moved unconsciously to the photograph inside his uniform pocket—his brother Mikhail in a wheelchair at his son's wedding. Spinal damage from a 2026 artillery strike.
"The Ukrainian deployment matches their configuration from November," Lieutenant Barsukov noted. "Predicted response rate 98.4%."
Volkov nodded without enthusiasm. Predictability was an asset in military planning but a curse in military life. Twenty years fighting the same enemy over the same land.
"Deploy primary assault pattern," he ordered.
In the Ukrainian command center, Kovalenko watched the red swarm accelerate.
"Standard response?" Myroslava asked.
Kovalenko studied the approaching formation. For a brief moment, he saw not drone signatures but the faces of men and women who had orchestrated this mechanical dance for two decades.
A memory surfaced—2026, when he and Volkov had both been junior officers at a short-lived peace negotiation in Minsk. They'd shared a smoke outside the conference building. Volkov had shown him pictures of his children.
"No," Kovalenko said, the word surprising even himself. "Something different today."
"Sir?"
"Twenty years. The same tactics, the same fields, the same results."
The first collision occurred at 0614 hours. The impact shattered both frames, sending carbon-fiber fragments spinning outward. Propeller blades sliced through nearby units and the gossamer-thin fiber-optic threads that linked command drones to their autonomous counterparts.
Across the field, more drones collided. The sky became a storm of mechanical destruction.
"We're losing command links," Myroslava reported as his communication infrastructure fragmented under the Russian assault.
In the Russian command center, Volkov watched with muted satisfaction as Ukrainian command links were systematically destroyed.
A notification chimed on his personal tablet. He glanced down—a message from his wife: Will you make it home for Sasha's graduation next week?
Twenty years of war compressed into a single question about a family event he would likely miss.
"Sir? Ukrainian formation changing. Unconventional pattern."
The blue icons had shifted, forming a massive circle around the Russian swarm.
"They're broadcasting something," Barsukov said, confused. "Using directional laser communication."
The Russian drones froze in mid-air. On every control screen, a message appeared:
ДАВАЙ ПОГОВОРИМ. МЫ УСТАЛИ. (LET'S TALK. WE ARE TIRED.)
Then the tactical displays changed, showing split-screen video feeds: Ukrainian and Russian forces from 2024 fighting with conventional weapons. Then the same field in 2029, with early-model drones. 2034, with more advanced drones and fewer human soldiers. 2039, with drone swarms and remote operators. And today—machines fighting machines over the same blood-soaked earth.
The final image showed statistics: casualties, displacement figures, economic impact, territory gained and lost—a mathematical representation of futility.
Volkov reached for the secure communication channel.
"Kovalenko," he said, revealing nothing of the turmoil beneath. "Interesting tactical choice."
"Not tactics, Yegor. An observation."
Volkov switched to a private channel. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Twenty years. Millions dead. And the line between us has moved less than forty kilometers in either direction."
"Both sides have legitimate grievances," Volkov said automatically.
"Both sides have losses that can never be recovered," Kovalenko countered. "My proposal is simple: local ceasefire. Just our units. Just for today."
"And tomorrow?"
"We decide then. Maybe we fight again. Maybe we find something else."
Volkov glanced at his wife's message: Will you make it home for Sasha's graduation?
"Twenty-four hours," he said, the words strange in his mouth. Not victory, not surrender. Something different after two decades of binary outcomes.
He gave the order, and across the field, Russian drones descended toward the wheat, settling gently among the stalks. The Ukrainian drones followed, powering down one by one.
Volkov sent a brief reply to his wife: Yes. I'll be there.
In the Ukrainian command center, Kovalenko watched the last drone settle into the wheat. The field had fallen silent for the first time in his memory.
"What did we just do?" Myroslava asked quietly.
Kovalenko looked at the dormant swarms resting side by side in the morning sun.
"Twenty years ago, we handed this war to our machines," he said. "Maybe it's time we took it back."
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