The Drogan Schedule
From: Timothy Groves <groves_ca@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: [Macross][FanFic] The Drogan Schedule
X-Original-Date: Tue, 28 Jan 2003 22:21:35 +0000
Disclaimer
I don't own Macross. If I did, I would be far too rich to be bothered writing fan fiction.
Prologue
Trailing mists like some great bird, the VF-1A Valkyrie cut cleanly through the cloud cover and into the clear air below. The sun was just rising behind Seraph 210, burning across Sora's shoulder and illuminating the black and white Valkyrie. Far below her feet, through the wonders of the holographic cockpit, Sora could see the jungle of Viet Nam, mostly untouched by the Zentraedi holocaust. Not completely untouched; the city of Ban Me Thuot, forty miles ahead of the pair of fighters, had been lasered from orbit, and a Zentraedi Destroyer had crashed into the heart of the city. Nothing grew for miles around the impact site, even though the city had been abandoned; the toxic fallout from the ship's engines had poisoned the very ground for many miles about.
The earpiece in her helmet crackled. "Come right to three-five- four for ten seventy, ascend to Angels twenty."
She checked her nav computer, and sighed; a return heading to the base at Haiphong. Pity; she loved flying, even a simple patrol, and she was unfortunate enough to have a group commander who knew it. Unfortunate, because the CAG's favourite punishment, whenever Sora was in hack, was to ground her. She started to think the jet through the turn, then paused as her radar pinged at her.
"Hold on, Lieutenant." She adjusted the set, and frowned. "Two contacts, sir. Bearing two-six-five for fifty, down in the clutter."
"I've got nothing on passive." Protocol for this sort of patrol called for the wing commander to run with his radar on standby; this made little sense when the wing commander was driving a VF-1S, with its powerful sensor system. But nobody said that the rules had to make sense.
"Hold on, running IFF..." She thumbed the button on the throttle, and her radar transmitted an IFF - Interrogation Friend or Foe - request. IFF was a little more advanced than it had been last time there had been an air war here; even a civilian aircraft whould respond with its transponder code, and there were no hostile aircraft in the region.
No response was forthcoming this time. She scowled, and thumbed it again. "Sir, I'm getting no response." She checked the radar again, but the A's system could only give bearing and distance, and a rough guess at velocity and direction of travel. "I've got no reliable velocity figure, but their bearing appears to be about forty degrees northeast."
"Probably just some civvies in a prop job."
"I don't think so, sir. Rate of climb is measurable, and it wouldn't be on a civilian prop aircraft."
The Lieutenant sighed. "You just want to have an excuse to continue flying. All right, Hasukawa, we'll go check out your contacts."
"Vector two-seven-zero at six hundred for intercept, sir." Sora advanced her throttles and pulled her jet slightly to the left. "I'd advise you to go active, sir."
"Good idea." Her RWR beeped quietly as the more powerful radar on the VF-1S came online. "Got them now...they're just above supersonic. Skin paint says VF-1, but the computer's not 100% certain." There was a click, then he said, "Sora, get within five and give me a visual. I'll backstop you."
"IFF cannot confirm or deny friendly aircraft, sir."
"Master arm is on."
Sora threw the throttle all the way forward, past the afterburner detente. The engines roared, as the "afterburner" began dumping water into the thermal stream of the FF-2001 fusion engines, producing a blast of plasma. The fighter leaped forward, and Sora could almost imagine it was a state of the art machine, rather than the fifteen-year-old relic that it was.
"Visual contact, sir." She rolled the fighter inverted, so she didn't have to rely on the holographics. "Not VF-1 types at all; some atmospheric fighter, probably Eagles or Flankers. They're pretty big." She frowned, and rolled her ship upright. "Aspect change on them...I think they're getting curious."
"Back off, Hasukawa."
"Roger, sir--"
The RWR went nuts, giving off the high-pitched warbling noise of an active radar homing missile. Her eyes widened. "Missile!"
"Confirm. I'm jamming. Return fire."
Her hand flew across to the master arm ring and depressed it, cranked it, and let it pop back up. "Weapons hot." She spun the weapon selector, located on the throttle just under her thumb, until it rested on Point Five, the laser turret. She pickled her thumb button once, and the laser came on line.
She glanced through the holographic floor at the incoming missile, and pickled again. A burst of laser fire slagged down the missile.
"Missile is down."
She pulled on the stick, bringing the fighter around on the bandit. The fighter reconfigured as she maneuvered, the engine booms swinging outward to sharpen the turn. She never had to use the reconfiguration levers anymore; the Valkyrie could read her mind, through the sensor-studded helmet and gloves, and act on her very whim.
She dropped in behind the bandit, and rolled the weapon selector switch to Point One. The warbling tone of a locked-on heatseeker filled her ear, and she squeezed the weapon release trigger.
"Fox one!"
Th missile was homing, hot and true...but to her shock, the fighter ahead merely reconfigured, reshaping itself into robotic form, and hosed down the missile with its cannon, now held as a rifle.
"Lead, target is a variable!"
"Confirm. Get the hell out of there!"
She pulled up, but the reconfigured bandit continued firing the rifle/cannon at her, and she screamed as the fighter started to come apart around her.
"Two's hit!" She glanced over at her engine controls. "Starboard engine's out, and I'm losing power on port." She fired two more missiles at the bandit in front of her, then jettisoned the rack. "Jettisoned...still losing power. I'm punching out!"
She reached down between her knees, to the ejector handles, and gripped them firmly. She hesitated long enough to mutter, "Good riddance", and pulled them sharply. There was a series of sharp cracks, as the canopy was blown away, and then she lost consciousness as the blast of the ejector seat catapulted her out of the doomed Seraph 210 and into the air.
01: Situation
Major Brian Sutton, U.N. Spacy, Base Commander of the Haiphong Firebase code-named Ghost Lodge, raised his binoculars and watched as Seraph 209 began its final approach to the small airfield.
Major Sutton was not a happy man. He had twenty-four Variable Fighters at his disposal, most of them Valkyries, and eighteen pilots. The loss of even a single aircraft was a very bad thing, and the loss of a pilot nearly catastrophic. Lieutenant Black had reported the loss of Seraph 210 as soon as he entered radio range, but had also reported the successful rescue of its pilot, Warrant Officer Hasukawa. It was the one bright spot in the morning thus far.
He had also reported contact with Variable Fighters of an unknown type. The very idea was enough to put a curl in Sutton's mustaches, regardless of the wax he used to hold them straight.
Seraph 209 had shifted to its hybrid form, referred to in the manuals as Gerwalk Mode, and dropped cleanly onto the landing field, and Black proceeded to walk the fighter into the hanger. Sutton noted some superficial damage on the aircraft, and nodded to himself as Black backed the bird into the secondary hanger and onto a service elevator. The fighter knelt, the cockpit opened, and Black and Hasukawa jumped out.
Black waved to the plane captain. "She's got three breaches, and some electronics systems damage, Corporal."
The plane captain nodded. "I'll get on it, sir." He touched a control, and the aircraft began to descend into the facility.
Black and Hasukawa walked over to the Major and saluted. Sutton returned the salute, and glanced over at Hasukawa. The Japanese woman's face was damaged and both temples showed feedback burns from the Thinking Cap. Lord only knew what injuries her flight suit concealed.
"Lieutenant, I'll need to see you in my office in one hour. Scratch out a preliminary report if you have time. Warrant, get down to sickbay and get the doc to check you over. Then report to my office one hour from now."
"Yes, sir."
"Sir."
"Any chance of recovering Seraph 210?"
Black answered the question. "Not unless you got a magnet and a lot of time to spend, sir. I recovered the Flight Data Recorder when I picked up Hasukawa."
"Hasukawa, are you currently in hack?"
She winced; he doubted that it had anything to do with her injuries. "Not right at the moment, sir."
"Good thing; I think you'll be buying some drinks later on." He waved them away. "Dismissed."
Both saluted, then turned and walked over to the elevator that would take them down to the personnel level. Sutton turned and yelled across the hanger.
"Chief Ford!"
Ford was the chief of maintenance, and one of only two Chief Warrant Officers on base. He turned and ran over to the Major, snapped to attention, and saluted.
Sutton sighed, and returned the salute. "Ford, I need readiness reports for all the unassigned Seraphs on my desk in forty minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"Also, Warrant Pawlak has dropped six complaints on my desk about the size of Barak 104's gripe list. Has it got any down gripes against it?"
Ford pulled out his notebook and flipped through it. "No, sir, but it has been a problem plane for a while. Six down gripes in as many months."
"I want as many gripes as you can fixed on Barak 104. I'm getting tired of having to initial her friggin' complaints."
"Sir."
"And if you can spare anyone, get 'em to run down Captain Roberts and Lieutenant Gorilla. They're probably in rec, makin' out or something."
* * * * *
"Now this piece," said Lieutenant Borela, "comes from the mid-to- late twentieth century, and has been labelled jazz, alternative and several other names. While not strictly jazz, it has a good beat and nice vocal work. It is more mellow than true jazz. It has been redone a couple of times since its original publication, including by Sade, the band that published it originally, but none of the remakes have ever done justice to the original."
Cindy shook her head. "I wish I had your passion for music, Borela."
He looked puzzled. "I though all intelligent beings had a passion for music."
She smiled. "Maybe one in ten of us put as much energy as you do into it. You'll listen to anything, and then compare it to jazz."
Borela nodded. "True...true." He sipped his coffee, and smacked his lips appreciatively. "Jazz is just one of those things that I have discovered I can not live without. Espresso is another." He lifted his cup in salute.
"Well, I may not have your passion for jazz, but I know a good thing when I hear it. You always have the best tunes playing." She glanced at her watch. "Not even ten, and you've got jazz playing."
"I don not appear to be disturbing anyone."
Indeed, the large rec room was mostly deserted. Two other soldiers had taken seats at the far end of the room, near the massive picture windows, playing cards. Thursday morning happened to be down time for the two officers, but eighty percent of the base was still on duty.
"It is not like we're in here every morning, raising a ruckus," continued Borela. "In fact, you can hardly hear the music outside of the pit. I have arranged the acoustics to make sure of that."
"I know, Borela." Cindy set down her own coffee. "But you know that the Major has it in for you. Why give him an excuse?"
"I disagree with that." Borela shook his head. "Sutton may have a problem with my people, and who can blame him for that? He lost a lot of family in the war. But he treats me no differently than he does any other member of my race."
"That's the problem, Borela. He should treat you better. You're an officer."
Again he shook his head. "Sutton is a young officer, and this is his first command. He's only been here two months. At Everglades, there was no Zentraedi contingent. He simply does not know how to deal with my people. He will learn. It is, after all, something you Micronians have a knack for. You can get along with anyone."
An enlisted man, a specialist from the motor pool, had walked up to the pit and come to attention. Borela stood up and walked over to the soldier, and even though the floor of the pit was two feet below that of the rest of the rec room, he was eye to eye with the specialist. The specialist saluted, and said, "Major wants to see you, sir, and Captain Roberts."
"Thank you, Specialist." He turned back to Cindy. "Duty calls."
"At least he didn't send for 'Lieutenant Gorilla' this time," muttered the Security Officer.
* * * * *
"Lieutenant, can you tell me anything about the aliens in this sector?"
Borela cleared his throat. "Well, sir, I have as yet been unable to make contact with any independant Zentraedi factions within the area. Five Zentraedi vessels crashed into southeast Asia, numbering one Command Cruiser, two Troop Transports and two Destroyers. Those last are what you used to call Scout Cruisers. The Command Cruiser was a Meltraedi vessel, attached to the Sixth Tagoma Battalion; the other vessels were attached to the Fourth Nagazi Battalion.
"Many of the Zentraedi in the area made use of the Protoculture resizing chambers within their ships for as long as their power supplies lasted. I have checked out each one, and all of them are drained. Given the likely number of Zentraedi survivors from the crashes, and the lifespan of a Protoculture resizing chamber, I would estimate that eighty-five percent of the Zentraedi within the area have been Micronized. Among the Meltraedi, the number is certainly closer to one hundred percent."
"Why a higher ratio for the females?"
"The Meltraedi do not have a seperate Officer Caste; every one of their warriors is as well designed as a Zentraedi Officer. They would be more likely to realize that their chances of survival are higher if they are Micronized."
"Mmf." Sutton shuffled some papers on his desk, then looked back up. "How many of these aliens would be capable of designing a new mech?"
"Sir?" Borela frowned. "You mean, a completely new design, from thin air?" He shook his head. "Not a single one. Innovation was not part of our design specifications. Even learning to repair mecha is something that only the most gifted Zentraedi are capable of."
"What if they had a plan, or a prototype?"
"The possibility is slight, but an Officer or a Meltraedi might be capable of re-creating a design from a prototype."
Sutton considered the alien Lieutenant's words. "All right. Fair enough. What if said Zentraedi had help from a local?"
"You mean the native population of this area?" He shook his head. "The local people seem to be somewhat xenophobic, sir. A Soldier-caste Zentraedi might be accepted, but an Officer would certainly not be. And a Zentraedi Soldier would not have the required skills, even with local help."
"So if the local Malcontents suddenly had a new Variable Fighter, they would certainly have to've had human help, and not local human at that. Right?"
Borela blinked. "The Malcontents have a Variable Fighter?"
"Someone has a Variable Fighter. Two of them. Or had, I should say. Black shot them both down three hours ago, and one of them chewed up Hasukawa pretty bad. She had to jettison the airplane."
"I am surprised."
"Yeah, well, so were they." He turned to Roberts. "Captain. Do you have any new intelligence on anti-Unification terrorist forces in the area?"
"Yes, sir. Intel has developed one cell, located in Phnom Penh, and at least two other cells are known to exist in the sector. Intel has not managed to penetrate the Phnom Penh cell. There are two anti-Unification groups that have no armed troops and have been infiltrated, one in Hong Kong and one in Mandalay; mostly, civil disobedience and protests are their weapons of choice. In addition, there is an anti-Zentraedi organization located in Haikou, but they are thoroughly infiltrated and have yet to do anything illegal."
"Can you get me a list of prominent members in the organizations that have been penetrated?"
"I can, sir, but it will take a few days."
"Get on it." He turned back to Borela. "I'm sending out a lance of Destroids to investigate Crash Site 1137E, at Ban Me Thuot. Pick three of your men and go with them."
"Yes, sir. How will we be transferred, sir?"
"We have no Tunnies; they'll be walking. Where's Scutum 303?" He turned and checked the Table of Organization and Equipment. "All right. You'll be travelling with Third Lance. You depart tomorrow. Oh-eight-hundred hours."
"Yes, sir. I shall take Nikada, Wog and Saro in an AAR-2." He glanced over at the TOE. "What is the distance to our destination?"
"About twelve hundred miles."
"Say about twenty-seven hours travel. Three days to get there. I will take Corporal Roph instead of Nikada. We will also need extra fuel cells for the vehicle."
Sutton scrawled his signature on a requisition form. "Blank check. Get on it now, so you can get back to your day off."
* * * * *
There was a knock at the door, and Miriya Jenius looked up from her papers. "Come."
The door opened, and an aide stepped in. "Flash traffic from intel in SEA, General."
"Thank you." She took the document, and scanned it rapidly. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she looked back up at her aide. "Can you confirm this?"
"No, ma'am. Not at this time."
"Who's commanding Ghost Lodge?"
"Major Brian Sutton, ma'am. Destroid pilot, originally. Good, solid reputation."
"What assets do we have in the area?"
"Four agents, ma'am, not counting our agent in place at Ghost Lodge." The aide handed her a second sheet.
"You read my mind." She read the names on the second document, then tapped the third on the list. "Activate STELLAR, and send him to Ghost Lodge." She hesitated, then tapped the second name. "And VOLUME; send him to 1137E. I want as much detail as he can get, and I want it yesterday. I need confirmation on this sighting, I need personnel briefings, I need...hell, you know what I need."
"Yes, ma'am." The aide withdrew, and Miriya leaned back in her chair. She briefly contemplated kicking this upstairs to Admiral Hayes, but decided against it. After the various fiascos centered around the Malcontent Uprising, the last thing that CINC-SPACY needed was more headaches.
She should be able to deal with the problem easily enough.
* * * * *
"Warrant Officer Hasukawa reporting as ordered, sir."
"Good." Major Sutton took the medical report from the young woman and started reading it. "How are you feeling, Warrant?"
She kept her eyes on the back wall. "Very stupid, sir."
He glanced up from the report. "Why?"
"For losing my airplane, sir. I was taken down by a simple maneuver, the first we are taught to avoid when facing Variable Fighters. I should have anticipated the maneuver."
"Warrant Officer, did you at that time suspect that the aircraft you were facing was a Variable Fighter?"
"No, sir."
There was a knock at the door, and Sutton dropped the medical report on his desk. "Come."
The door opened, and Lieutenant Black stepped in. "Reporting as ordered, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
Black dropped a sheaf of papers on the desk. "My written report, sir."
"Summarize, please."
"Yes, sir. At oh-seven-forty, Raptor Two - Warrant Hasukawa - reported two unidentified airborne contacts. We closed to investigate, and at first believed we were tracking VF-1 Valkyries. On closer inspection, we concluded that the aircraft were conventional fighters bearing a resemblance to the VF-1. One of the aircraft fired a missile at Raptor Two, which she destroyed, and I authorized her to return fire. She did so, but the unidentified aircraft converted to Soldier Mode and shot her down. I destroyed one of the aircraft with a missile, and the other with gunfire.
"We had not considered that the aircraft might actually be a new form of Variable Fighter. Neither aircraft had any markings indicating point of origin."
Sutton nodded. "I was speaking with Lieutenant Borela. He assured me that the odds of a Malcontent building and flying a Variable Fighter are about a million to one. You happened to hit that one, but I think you can be forgiven for not expecting it." He glanced down at the medical report. "Multiple contusions, mild concussion, feedback burns. Doc recommends that Warrant Officer Hasukawa be taken off the flight roster for two weeks, and her reinstatement subject to his approval." He picked up a pen, made a mark on the sheet. "I can't spare a pilot for two full weeks. You've got a week off. Spend it healing."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, as for your replacement ride."
"Barak 107 is unassigned, sir." There was hope in the young officer's voice.
"Hasukawa, I want you to take a close look at the chart hanging on the wall to your left. Do you see it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And do you see your name on it?"
"Yes, sir."
"And where is your name, Warrant Officer?"
She sighed. "Second Flight, sir."
"Exactly. Second Flight drives Valkyries. Seraph 224 is unassigned, and has the least number of gripes against it. Talk to the plane captain..." He flipped through the readiness report. "...Lance Corporal McCoy. Get some gripes worked out of the airplane, and get your name and stars put on the cockpit."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you for the report, Lieutenant. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Black saluted, turned, and left the office.
"Hasukawa."
"Sir?"
"If you lose Seraph 224, I will take a giant shit on you. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"I mean it. I don't care if you fly it into the Macross Cannon on a mission to save all mankind. If you lose that bird, you will be in a world of hurt. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dismissed."
* * * * *
"Officer on deck!"
Sutton stepped into the rec room, and glanced around quickly. "Borela, turn that crap off."
"Yes, sir."
"Hasukawa. Front and center."
Hasukawa gulped, and stepped up to the Major.
"By order of the Commander in Chief, Southeast Asia, Warrant Officer Hasukawa Sora, Serial Number JP-335234-95, is hereby awarded the Purple Heart, for wounds sustained in battle. Said decoration to carry with it three points on her advancement record." He pinned the medal on the lapel of her uniform. "Traditionally, I'm supposed to pin this on your pillow, but the U.N. Spacy takes a rather dim view of male officers entering female subordinates' quarters." A chuckle ran around the room at this, and Hasukawa blushed.
"As you were." Sutton leveled a finger at Hasukawa. "Except for you, young lady. You owe me, and everyone else in the room, a drink."
02: Reaction
Hasukawa looked up at the fighter in disgust.
"Cripes. Three years spent flyin' goddamn Valkyries. All I want is to be assigned a Lightning. Is that too much to ask?"
The plane captain snorted. "If you've been flying for three years, why are you still only a Warrant Officer?"
"Shut up, McCoy. Gimme this bird's list."
McCoy shut up, and handed the gripe list over to the rather volatile Warrant Officer. "She's got no down gripes against her at the moment." He had to speak rather loudly; the mecha hangar was a noisy place, what with a lance of Destroids preparing to march.
Sora flipped the list open. "What has she had for down gripes?"
"Left powerplant failed three times since the jet walked out of the factory. We replaced it two months ago, and she's been running fine since then." McCoy closed his eyes, thinking. "Radar has been kinda hit-or-miss, but only once has it gone down bad enough to ground the bird. She's had some hydraulic problems, grounded her a couple of times. Battle damage once, but that's not exactly chronic." He shrugged. "She ain't no hangar queen, but she's had more than a few ailments."
Sora nodded. "What are her up gripes right now?"
McCoy started ticking them off his fingers. "Point six has had some problems with the ejectors; doesn't always drop. Battle computer has two bad bytes of RAM; unless your target count goes above one hundred, that won't be a problem. Radar is, as I've said, hit or miss; right now, the IFF isn't energizing. Left- hand gyros are not communicating at all properly with the drive computer; you'll have to rely completely on imaging for the left arm. Some surface corrosion, since she hasn't been used for a while. Jungle's hell on surfaces. Two weak hydraulic pumps; the result being that the bird takes almost three seconds to shift from Gerwalk to Soldier mode."
"Fix that first."
"You worried about the pumps coming apart?"
"Yes, I am." She flipped through the folder in her hand. "Pumps four and twelve?"
"Four and twelve. Four's in the right engine nacelle, but well protected; if it comes apart, you'll lose the use of your right leg. Twelve is in the right trailing edge glove; if it comes apart, you'll lose the ability to fold the right wing. If it comes apart violently enough, you might lose your right tail."
"The plane can fly with only one tail, right?"
"Yep."
"Fix the pumps first anyway." She snapped the gripe list shut. "According to this, this ain't the first time number four has failed. I'm gonna go over this. I can't fly for six more days, so you got plenty of time to repair those pumps."
"No problem, Warrant." He was making notes on his own datapad. "Pump replacement will take four days. I want to replace the left-hand gyros as well, since we'll have the airplane torn down anyway. And I think we can squeeze in the IFF problem as well, if you can shake one extra person free to help out."
"I'll talk to the Captain about it."
* * * * *
Lt. Borela watched as Naxos 206, the fourth Destroid in Third Lance, stepped off the lift. Naxos 206 was a Spartan MBR-07, a mostly humanoid machine. Instead of a head, it sported a small laser turret; the pilot operated the machine from within a sealed compartment in the torso, with only three small windows for external views. A powerful VR/holographic system gave him more information about their surroundings, but for all intents and purposes, the Spartan was operated entirely on instruments.
It had been more than fifteen years since Borela had piloted mecha of any sort, and that had been a Glaug Combat System. The Glaug had boasted impressive maneuverability, far more so than this walking tank, and excellent visibility, but had been far more fragile than this machine. In truth, he was of two minds which was the better machine.
This Spartan carried the GU-12 rifle/cannon, a large-bore armour- piercing weapon. Despite the great distances it could throw a slug, it was effectively a short-range weapon; the slugs were barely guided, and lost any hope of accuracy beyond half a kilometer. But the Spartans - there were two in the lance - were the close-in support for the larger Mech in the lance: Lucern 104, a Tomahawk MBR-04.
The Tomahawk was somewhat less humanoid than the Spartans; rather than hands, its arms supported massive gun barrells, and under each of the two shoulder missile packs was a cluster of cannon. Six surface-to-air "Diamondback" missiles rested in a box-launcher over the right shoulder; a searchlamp rested over the left. And still no head.
"Excuse me, Lieutenant."
Borela turned, to see a Microne standing near the APC. Who knew how long he'd been standing there; he'd been obliged to shout over the din of the hangar. Borela glanced down at his shoulder boards, and was surprised to see the golden leaf of a Major. He saluted the officer, and was surprised again when the man returned the salute crisply.
"Can I help you, Major?"
"Perhaps. Can you tell me who it was who encountered the two Variable Fighters yesterday?"
Borela frowned; Major or no, this was not a fit subject for conversation on a crowded hangar deck. "I'm afraid you'd have to take that up with Major Sutton, sir."
"All right, fair enough." The man glanced around the deck. "How do I get to him from here?"
Borela's frown deepened; U.N. Spacy firebases were fairly standardized, and if a person did not know his way around one..."One moment, sir." He cupped his hands over his mouth. "Corporal Able!"
The Corporal stopped whatever it was he was doing - Borela had never entirely figured out what it was Security did from day to day - and ran over to the APC.
"Corporal, I want you to take this man downstairs to Major Sutton's office. If Major Sutton is not there, take him to see Captain Roberts."
"Yes, sir!"
"And do not let him get lost."
"Understood, sir. This way, sir."
The Major had little choice but to follow the Corporal, but Borela could see that his words had not been lost on the officer.
Naxos 206 was finishing its calibrations, and the Destroid's pilot flashed a thumbs-up to Lucern 104, the Lance commander. Borela's radio crackled. "All four units ready to depart, sir."
Borela clicked on his throat-mike. "Very well, Sergeant Tesch. Do you have your navigation data?"
"Yep. All waypoints programmed in."
"Excellent. Let us begin." He switched off the mike, dropped down into the AAR-II, and dogged the overhead hatch.
"Micrones drive the mecha, and the Zentran just drive the bus," grumbled Saro from the machine-gunner's station.
"Gently, Private. They are sending us because they cannot do the job without us. Corporal, you may start your engines."
* * * * *
"I don't care if you have a note from God. I cannot allow you to see the black box data."
Major Sutton had been born in Blackpool, England, but had been a resident of North America since before the Global Civil War. His dialect was completely North American, and his accent all but gone. The only time it made an appearance was when he was very angry, or very drunk.
Right now, he was angry.
The Intelligence Major - he had declined to give his name, as many of his ilk were wont - was unruffled. "It is a matter of planetary security, Major Sutton, and my orders are quite clear. I need the FDR readouts at the very least, and preferably the gun camera footage as well."
"I can't give you that data." One hand unconsciously twisted the end of his mustache. "Ignoring, for the moment, the many regulations banning any tampering with the boxes. The black boxes are sealed units, meant to be decoded only at a full installation. We don't have the wherewithal to access or display the data, and even if we did, I doubt you have the wherewithal to understand it. They will stay in the avionics bay until they are sent for!"
"It would look very bad on your record, Major, if I were forced to report to my superiors that you were obstructing this investigation."
"You may feel free to report whatever you like to your superiors, Major. Oh, and whom might they be?" He waited, but got nothing but silence for his answer. He nodded. "That's what I thought."
* * * * *
"Enter."
Hasukawa stepped into the Commander Air Group's office and saluted.
"Put that away, Sora." Captain Kosuji was a veteran of the Space War, and one of the first female fighter pilots in the U.N. Spacy. She had earned her Ace of Aces ribbon in that war. At the moment, she had her feet up on her desk, one hand behind her head, and a report in the other. She tossed the report onto the desk, and straightened up. "Whaddaya want?"
"Sir, I'd like to requisition one extra tech in order to repair my fighter."
"You've been assigned Seraph 224, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Varley just handed me the repair report on Seraph 209. So he's got nothing pressing on his plate. Do you think he'll have any problems taking orders from McCoy?"
"No, sir." She shook her head. "Varley's seniority is only a couple of days."
"Right, right..." She grabbed the report, flipped it open, and ran her finger down the list. "He's pretty good...according to his report, Seraph 209's got an empty list for the first time since it left the factory." She snapped it shut. "Get him on it, then."
"Yes, sir." She turned to leave.
"Sora."
Hasukawa paused, then turned back. "Yes, sir?"
"I notice you've shed no tears over the loss of 210."
Sora flushed slightly at that. "I wanted to be posted to a Rapier squadron, or a Lightning squadron, sir. Flying state of the art machines. Not these dinosaurs."
"These dinosaurs, as you call them, won the Space War. Not the Rapiers, which were a grace note, if anything. And certainly not the Lightning; the prototype for that flew in 2011."
"Yes, sir. But the A-type is the oldest of the Valkyries."
"Noted." She frowned, then turned to look at her TOE. "Tell you what. If you can go a full three months without managing to get yourself in hack - and that's a full three months from today - I'll push an upgrade through the Major. Get you installed in a VF-1J. It's not a Lightning, but it's a world better than the old A-type."
Sora's eyes lit up. "The Jaybird is supposed to be a real sweet bird."
"Performance-wise, she isn't much better than the A. It's the electronics that are better."
"Better hydraulics, better flight computer, four percent higher Theta levels..."
Kosuji grinned. "For someone who detests those old dinosaurs, you know your stuff, Sora."
"I've got to, sir, if I'm ever going to get a newer machine."
"Well, here's your shot. Stay out of trouble for three months, and Seraph 215 is yours. Supak's transferring out, so I'm gonna have to re-juggle the entire TOE...And your Lieutenant's board is coming up in two months." She flipped the younger pilot a thumbs-up. "Who knows, I may even give you Third Flight."
Sora's eyes lit up, but before she could say anything further, there was a knock on the door.
Kosuji sighed. "Come!" She glanced back at Hasukawa. "Dismissed, Warrant."
The door opened, and Captain Roberts stepped in. Kosuji leaned forward. "Captain."
"Captain." She nodded, then turned to face Hasukawa. "Carry on, Warrant."
"Sir." Hasukawa saluted, turned and left.
"May I?" Roberts gestured towards the chair.
"By all means. Coffee?"
"No, thank you." Roberts sighed. "Mina, I've got a problem, and I think you need to be told about it."
Kosuji shrugged. "Shoot."
"Someone tried to force their way into the avionics bay earlier today."
"Whoa!" Every last scrap of Kosuji's attention was now on the Captain. "I don't like that idea at all! Hell, the friggin' nukes' detonators are in there!"
"Exactly." She pulled out her notebook. "At 0745, a Major of Intelligence, who refused to give his name, turned up in the mecha hangar, asking to speak with Hasukawa or Black. He was directed instead to Major Sutton. Major Sutton reports that he was in conversation with the Major from 0830 until about 0945. Apparently, the visiting Major needed to communicate with his superiors."
"So where is he now?"
"Oh, wandering the base, most likely asking nosy questions." Roberts flipped a page in her notebook. "But the attempt to bypass security was made at 0930, while Major Matuchek was in Communications."
"Thought he didn't give his name."
"Do I ask you how you fly fighters? No? Then leave me to my methods." She snapped the notebook shut. "Matuchek wanted the Flight Data Recorders from Seraph 210."
"Good luck," snorted Kosuji. "Those left by helicopter yesterday."
"Really?" Roberts' eyebrows rose. "Does Major Sutton know this?"
"He does."
Roberts grinned. "Guess he wanted to jerk this guy around." She sobered. "But I think we have reason to suspect someone on our Firebase of being an Intelligence spook."
* * * * *
The Daedalus-class submersible mecha transport was unable to approach the Hong Kong docks under her own power; the churn from her massive screws would flatten the hundreds of small boats tied up around the city. The harmour had Fifteen tugs available for such duty, but the Drake's captain would have none of that; several of her Spartan Destroids were drawing lines, like thirty- tonne sailors pulling in a fifteenth-century galleon. The docking operation would likely take another day, after which the Drake's crew would have a two-week liberty in the city. And even though it had taken a horrible pounding at the hands of Dolza's armada, Hong Kong was still there, and still beautiful.
The tall, blond man clapped a hand on his even taller companion's shoulder. "Easy, Kinota. We can't do anything today, anyway. Not for at least seven more days."
"They were idiots, Gregory."
Gregory shook his head. "I disagree. We had to move the planes, we had to move them immediately, and we still didn't know the firebase's patrol schedule. It's just bad luck, my friend."
"Bad luck." Kinota turned to face the Human. "Bad luck is what you Micrones blame everything on. The pilots should not have attempted to engage the U.N. Spacy fighters!"
"We still don't know what exactly happened."
"It doesn't matter, in the long run. We lost the aircraft. The pilots paid for their stupidity with their lives." Kinota turned back to face the docks.
"How much of a crimp will the loss of the two Variable Fighters put in your operation?"
"A fairly sizeable one." Kinota sighed. "I don't suppose that the prototype can fly, can it?"
"It can, but it won't fly as well as the two lost fighters."
"It doesn't need to."
"There is also one other aircraft. We haven't finished it yet, but it should be ready by the time you need it."
"Can you be certain of that?"
"Oh, yes." Gregory nodded. "Powerplants have already been fitted, as have avionics, and both tested out fine. We just need to finish surfacing the jet. As long as you don't mind it seeing combat on its maiden voyage, it will be ready."
"Good." He smiled. "The crash site is certain to draw attention very soon; we must get as much out of it as we can, and to our new headquarters."
03: Reconnaissance
Private Saro adjusted the binoculars. "Range is about two hundred forty meters. Four subjects in sight...three Zentran, one Microne."
Corporal Wog grunted. "Can you tell if the Microne is a Human?"
"I do not think so...wait. He just stepped out into the light. He is definitely Zentran. Skin colour is not human."
"Okay." Wog pulled out a walkie-talkie. "Wog to Borela."
"Borela here."
"We have confirmation of Zentraedi presence here, Lieutenant."
"Estimated force?"
"We can only see four, one of them Micronized."
* * * * *
Borela considered the report, then opened a channel to Tesch. "I need a secure link to Ghost Lodge."
Tesch grimaced. "Talk to Takemoto. The Defender's got the long- range commo gear."
"Very well. Thank you." Borela tapped the console again. "Lance Corporal Takemoto?"
The Japanese woman's face appeared on the screen. "Long range? You want satellite link?"
"If you can."
"Of course I can. Why do you think they sent me?" She chuckled, and re-oriented her mecha. "I'll throw it on tight-beam, and encrypt it besides. There should be no way for the aliens to detect it, yes?"
"Yes." Borela nodded. "Just so long as Ghost Lodge can detect it."
* * * * *
"Subcommander!" Corporal Banat swivelled in his chair. "Micronian communications radiation detected, three kilometers away, sixteen degrees from magnetic north."
"Understood, Corporal." Subcommander Kibeji nodded. "Alert the first company, and have them close to engage."
* * * * *
Saro's eyes widened. "Movement! Regult-type mecha, in company strength, with artillery!"
"Got it." Wog grabbed his walkie-talkie.
"Also one Nousjadeul-Ger...wait..." He dropped the binoculars. "Destroid!"
"What?" Wog whirled, to see the Tomahawk Destroid rising above them. He clicked open his radio. "Lieutenant, company-strength unit detected, including--"
The shoulder-packs on the Tomahawk popped open, and the mecha fired six rockets into the spotter's position.
* * * * *
"Eyes Front to Ghost Lodge! We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack and require immediate air support!"
Major Sutton stormed into the Command and Communications Center. "When did the attack commence?"
Private Kainer spun around in her chair. "About thirty seconds ago, sir, during a routine check-in signal."
Sutton grunted. "And what is the enemy force?"
"Approximately company strength spotted, sir, but Lt. Borela believes there to be a full battalion in reserve."
Sutton turned to Kosuji. "Who's in that area?"
"Standard patrol, call-sign Scorpio. Janosky in Barak 103, and Pawlak in Barak 104."
"Call them in. Launch the Ready Five, and promote Ready Ten."
"Yes, sir."
* * * * *
"Ghost Lodge to Scorpio One. Say your state."
Warrant Officer Janosky clicked his mike. "Scorpio flight is two each Victor Foxtrot Four Alpha." He had the bird's ordnance memorized, but doublechecked both the battle computer and his knee-board before continuing. "Six Jackhammer multi-role missiles, six Coral Snake air-to-air missiles each. Thirty-five tonnes reaction mass each."
"Fire mission, Scorpio. Your course is two oh three for five hundred. Drop to Angels Six."
Janosky grinned, and radioed his wingman. "Two, get ready for a bombing run."
* * * * *
"Ghost Lodge to Eyes Front. Two Lightnings are en route to your position. Call sign is Scorpio. ETA is one minute. We also have four Valkyries launching, but they will not be available for twenty minutes."
"Understood." Borela grabbed the overhead hatch on the AAR-2 and slammed it shut. "Twenty minutes," he muttered. "Might as well be twenty days. Roph! Man the machine gun!"
"Yes, sir!"
Four Regult Combat Pods broke cover, leaping into the air. Scutum 303, the Defender, immediately locked onto them and opened fire. The machine's four precision pulse lasers blew right through the armour of the first pod, destroying it. The Defender's gunner, Private Webb, traversed the guns and impaled a second pod. The battle pods hit the ground, only to find themselves immediately engaged by the Spartans.
Borela tapped the Tac Net controls. "Tesch, I want you to draw the Destroids back!"
"Understood, sir." Lucern 104 began to walk backwards. "Third Lance, fall back slowly. Cover Scutum 303."
"Roger."
"Okay!"
"Scutum 303. I have visual on an MBR Tomahawk. Appears to be a Mark VI." Takemoto's gunner was already engaging the Destroid. "We'll try to keep it busy."
A Zentraedi missile screamed into the clearing, slamming into the Defender and severing its left arm. A second missile struck the Destroid, knocking it down completely.
"Takemoto! Respond!"
There was a pause, then a click as Takemoto activated her comm system. "I'm okay...injured, but not seriously. Private Webb is not moving...I think he's dead."
"Abandon the Destroid, Takemoto. Get Webb out if you can."
"We have to put an end to that Artillery Pod." Borela keyed the AAR-2's engine. "We shall advance to the enemy position."
"You're kidding!"
"Those fighters will need ground support to make their attack. We have got to get forward!"
* * * * *
Janosky pushed the nose of his Lightning further down, and flipped on his laser seeker. "Scorpio One is thirty seconds out."
"Roger that, Scorpio." The commander of the ground force was brave, there was no doubt of that; his signal came from within fifty meters of the enemy's position. "I need six missiles, ten seconds apart, with a five-meter variance max."
"Not a problem. Start the music."
"The music is playing."
There was a cheerful beep from the laser seeker head, and Janosky smiled. He hurriedly punched the attack data into his battle computer, then opened a line to his wingman. "Two, get lined up."
"Roger."
The computer clucked, as he dropped the airplane into optimum attack posture. The ship bucked, as a Jackhammer missile was fired from its conformal mount.
"Breakaway!"
* * * * *
The Jackhammer slammed directly into the Regult Artillery Pod, converting it instantly into hamburger and steel wool. Borela let out a battle roar, then dragged the laser-dot across to the Nousjadeul-Ger Powered Armour.
The second missile arrived hot on the heels of the first, tracking on Roph's Ground Laser Designator. It slammed into the midst of three Regult Battle Pods, scattering them like chaff. The third missile slammed into the Nousjadeul-Ger, tearing it in half.
"One's off."
The four remaining Malcontent battlepods were not waiting around for the second part of the show. They broke for cover. Borela cursed, and shifted the ground laser designator to follow his target.
The second VF-4 dropped into its attack run. Borela's radio crackled. "Two's in and hot."
"MacDonald! Dammit, Bart! Answer me!"
"Naxos Two-Oh-Six is down and out, Sergeant."
"Lieutenant! Come in!"
"Borela here."
"This Destroid is chewing us up, sir! We've got him pinned down, but he's knocked out Naxos 206. We need--"
"Negative breakaway!"
"Pawlak, get off target!"
"Two's off. My ejectors have failed again."
Sergeant Tesch scowled angrily. "Dammit, we can't dig this guy out, and we can't close on him either. Scorpio, we need air cover here."
"Sergeant, you belay that."
"Fuck you, Borela! Scorpio, request immediate air support. The aliens are kicking our ass down here."
"Scorpio One, please assist the Destroid team. Scorpio Two, are you still combat effective?"
"Yes, sir. I've jettisoned my rack, but I've still got my cannons."
"Two, I want you to lay down a strafing column. Start at grid co-ordinates 54-25 and strafe to 57-35. Drop into Soldier afterwards to mop up."
"Roger."
"Nakamura, paint that Destroid for a missile strike. Scorpio One, two Jackhammers, please."
"Got it, Sergeant."
"Hai!"
Scorpio Two rolled back into its attack corridor. "Two's in and hot." The paired heavy pulse lasers on either engine mount of the fighter spat crimson energy, setting even the damp jungle on fire instantly and slicing right through two battle pods. The VF-4 reconfigured to Gerwalk Mode, altering its flight path to touch down in the clearing, then shifted again to Soldier Mode.
"One's in and hot. Breakaway, breakaway!"
The earth shook under Borela's feet, as Scorpio One's Jackhammer missiles slammed into their target.
"Holy Christ, it's still there!"
"Naxos 205, indirect fire, six rockets."
"SAM!"
"One's hit! Surface-to-air missile fire, from the Destroid. I can still fly, but I can't continue the attack."
"Go home, One."
"Aye, sir."
"Scorpio Two. I've finished off the last of the battle pods. There are some full-sized Zentraedi inside the hulk, with rifles."
Borela snapped on his radio. "Can you subdue them?"
"Maybe, but I'm likely to end up killing them."
"Do your best."
"Yes, sir."
"Lieutenant, that damn Destroid is still there. It seems to be out of rockets, except for its SAMs, but all we've got left is some laser-guided ordnance on Naxos 205. My particle cannons are overheated, and 206 is blown to hell."
"All right, Tesch, I am on my way." Borela shouldered his GLD and turned to Roph. "We should go back to the APC."
* * * * *
"Major? Barak 103 reports moderate damage due to missile fire. Battle computer is damaged, sensors are damaged, and left engine and laser cannon are damaged. Lieutenant Borela gave him an order to return to base."
"Understood."
"Hummer reports six unidentified aircraft, four hundred fifty kilometers out at bearing one-nine-two, their vector zero-eight- five at five hundred klicks. Shall I vector Peregrine Flight to intercept?"
"No. Eyes Front may need them yet. Track the aircraft as long as you can."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Roberts turned from her own monitors. "Major! Security breach in the Avionics Bay!"
"Oh, great!" Sutton turned to Roberts. "Who the hell's in there?"
"Private Schiller, sir. Infantryman."
"Have him arrested. Toss him in the brig. Once this situation is dealt with, I'll want to have a chat with him."
"Yes, sir."
* * * * *
The AAR-2 slid to a halt next to a small hillock, providing it with partial cover from the opposing Destroid. Borela popped the hatch and mounted the GLD on the forward pintle.
"Roph, pop the floor hatch. You may need to abandon the vehicle."
"Understood, sir."
He swung the infrared ground laser designator around until the Destroid was centered in its sights. The Destroid was crouching behind another hillock, and seemed much the worse for wear; the left arm was damaged, and the entire left-side weapons bay was gutted, but the machine was still fighting. Borela knew the Tomahawk's limits, and knew that this machine was running out of options. But it still had more than enough firepower to finish off the U.N. Spacy Destroid team.
"Naxos 205, your target is painted."
"Got it, sir." Naxos 205 popped up and launched six rockets. The Malcontent Destroid took the opportunity to return fire with its remaining particle-beam cannon, hammering the Spartan with blue energy. The reactive armour on the Spartan flashed and sparked, sacrificing itself to turn aside the charged particles, and Naxos 205 ducked back down under cover.
The missiles slammed into the Malcontent Tomahawk, rocking it back, but failing to destroy it. Borela frowned. "That Destroid is using some non-standard form of armour. It is tougher than a normal Destroid."
His headset crackled. "Lucern 104. My particle cannons will be back on-line in thirty seconds. Any chance of Scorpio Two assisting us, Lieutenant?"
"Scorpio Two is cleaning out the foot soldiers, Sergeant." Borela drew his sidearm, checked the chamber, and re-holstered the weapon. "I shall engage the Destroid."
"WHAT?!?"
>From the machinegunner's position, Roph stared at his commander in disbelief. "Sir, are you insane?"
"No." He climbed out of the APC. "As soon as I start my attack, I want you to move the AAR out of the Destroid's firing range. That means at least two miles, since it still has a functioning PBC."
"Sir, how are you--"
"MOVE, soldier!" He jumped down off the APC and charged the Destroid.
* * * * *
Tesch shook his head in disbelief. "That fucking crazy bastard! Taylor!"
"Sir?"
"I'm taking us up, front line. Use the guns, try and distract that thing."
"Yes, sir."
He shoved the throttle forward, kicked the foot-pedal that selected walking speed, and the massive war machine began stomping its way forward. His gunner haloed the enemy Destroid and opened up with the 50-calibre machine guns and 25mm autocannons.
* * * * *
His gamble appeared to be successful, so far. The Tomahawk, distracted by Tesch's assault, completely ignored Borela, and he managed to reach the Destroid without being noticed. The service ladder was retracted, of course, but this didn't slow him down.
The Destroid was kneeling to avoid cannonfire from Lucern 104, which made his life easier. Running up the front of the Destroid's foot was not particularly difficult. Two small latches on the leg, placed there for maintenance reasons of some sort, provided the next foothold to boost him up to the mecha's knee, and from there he leapt up to the massive beam that formed the Destroid's waist.
Lucern 104 ceased fire, and began to walk backwards. The Tomahawk stood, and twisted at the waist to bring its particle cannon to bear. The sudden movement knocked Borela off-balance, and he dangled for a moment by one hand. He grimaced, and pulled himself up until he could brace one foot on the Destroid's thigh, then pushed himself, one arm reaching out to wrap around a fragment of metal in the left weapons bay. From there it was a matter of seconds to climb up to the pilot's hatch. He undogged the hatch, and jumped down and into the cockpit, catching the surprised pilot in the face with both boots.
He pulled out his pistol and pointed it down into the gunner's station. "Hands up."
* * * * *
The Malcontent Destroid shifted to a kneeling position again, and shut down. Borela stepped up out of the hatch, dragging two bodies with him. One was obviously dead, ts head at an odd angle; the other had his hands tied securely together, and bound behind his neck. Borela tossed a thumbs-up to Lucern 104.
Tesch shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe it. The crazy alien bastard pulled it off."
"Seems that way, Sarge." Taylor chuckled. "You think you're gonna regret telling him to fuck off?"
* * * * *
"Lt. Borela reporting in, sir. He states that all enemy forces have been defeated, and he has three prisoners in custody. Two Micronized Zentraedi and one full-sized."
"Understood. I want all three back here as soon as possible."
"Scutum 303 is heavily damaged and requires a salvage team. Naxos 206 is damaged, but Sgt. Tesch believes it can be repaired on site."
"Can we still divert Peregrine to those bogeys?"
"No, sir. They're travelling too fast."
"Hm." Sutton twisted one end of his mustache between finger and thumb. "All right. Recall Peregrine."
"Yes, sir."
Sutton turned to Roberts. "What's the story with Schiller?"
"He's in the brig, sir, but the only response he's given to questions is to claim Section Twelve protection."
"Intelligence?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bloody great. All we need is more spies." He sighed. "PNG him back to his home base." PNG was an acronym for 'persona non grata.' "I don't care what kind of bullshit story you have to give to get him out of here."
"Understood, sir."
* * * * *
"The aircraft are safe?"
"Yes, Kinota. They were not even detected."
"You're certain of that?"
"Yes."
"Good." He paused. "What of the soldiers?"
"Wiped out, all but three. And none of the captured soldiers know the plan."
"A pity." Kinota turned back to look out over the harbour.
"Something tells me you don't mean that, my friend."
"Really?" He chuckled. "Imagine that."
04: Marathon
The knock at the door was louder and more forceful than was normal; Miriya knew this was a bad sign. She sighed, slid the file she was working on into her desk, and called out, "Enter."
The door opened, and her aide walk in.
"Bad news, Watson?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. VELOCITY acted without forethought, and was countered by Ghost Lodge's security officer. He was at least smart enough to claim Section Twelve, but they're shipping him out rather quickly."
"Damn." Miriya scowled. "Did he at least get the information we were after?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well, the regulations are clear on this point." Regardless of success or failure, an agent who had completed his mission was never used for another; like a round of ammunition, he was spent, whether or not the target was hit.
"Understood, ma'am. His last paycheque has already been cut." The aide flipped open her folder. "STELLAR was also sent back from Ghost Lodge."
"Was his mission successful?"
"Yes, ma'am. Perfect success, possibly because of VELOCITY's bungle."
"Good. And our third agent?"
"We've lost contact with VOLUME."
"All right." Miriya stood. "Leave the STELLAR file with me."
"Yes, ma'am."
After the aide had left, Miriya again sat down at her desk. Her eyes wandered across the broad chunk of maple; aside from a picture of her daughter, it was bare of personal effects. Only the STELLAR file and a small jar of pens - a Mason jar, not some piece of office paraphernalia - shared space with the photo. Miriya picked up the photo, a three-by-five print in a simple wooden frame, and gazed at it.
Mylene's hair was starting to bleach out as she aged. Though a lovely shade of green at birth, much like her mother's, it was beginning to turn the pale blonde that was her father's natural colour. Max had always despised that shade of pale, and had dyed it several times, in several colours. Once he had even imitated her own green hair. But he usually came back to the bright blue that had become his trademark.
Every time she saw her daughter's face, she felt an instant of panic, a gut feeling that something was horribly wrong. She had spent endless hours with children, playing with them, tending their injuries and grievances both real and imagined, and still could not shake that first momentary panic. Perhaps this was why she coddled her own daughter, even though she knew she should not.
It was something that she and Max had never seen eye-to-eye on. Take the incident near the beginning of the Malcontent Uprising. An emergency had arisen, one that she felt she could deal with, but would not be permitted to deal with if she attempted to go through official channels. So she had gone AWOL, flying to the Amazon Jungle on an illegal flight, telling nobody.
At least, that had been the plan. But so worried for her daughter she had been, that she not only told Mylene where she was going, but went so far as to leave a time-delayed message for her friend Jean, to come over and take care of Mylene. By the time Jean got the message, Miriya was already on the ground in Brazil.
Max had exploded; he accused her of leaving her daughter defenseless. As if the electronic defenses of their house were not sufficient to deter anyone who would harm the girl. As if any person would risk bringing the wrath of the two greatest aces of the Space War down on themselves by harming their daughter. As if Mylene herself, trained in hand-to-hand combat since the day she could walk, couldn't handle most common thugs. And many uncommon ones. Nonetheless, the incident could have ended their relationship, and even to this day, the strain formed at that time had not dissipated.
Miriya sighed. Combat piloting seemed sedate and tension-free compared to trying to survive within a bureaucracy, not to mention a marriage. Sometimes she wondered how much more she could take.
* * * * *
"Lieutenant, I don't know how much more of this we can take."
Borela looked up from the campfire. "You mean of the forced march?"
"Yeah." Sergeant Tesch sat down opposite his commanding officer. The multiple bruises he had suffered at Borela's hands, during a "discipline session", had faded to an unpleasant yellow, and he could move without groaning in pain. This was a decided improvement over yesterday.
"The giant is the biggest problem. We simply have to keep at least one Destroid running all the time. Otherwise, he's gonna head for the hills, and we won't be able to stop him."
Borela shook his head. "You still do not understand my people, Sergeant. He will not attempt to escape. He will instead attempt to kill us all."
"That makes me feel so much better. Sir." Tesch scowled. "The other two we can keep penned up in the AAR-II, but you've gotta rest sometime, sir."
"I can perform adequately without sleep for up to three days."
Tesch shook his head. "But you still gotta sleep."
"Corporal Takemoto covers the prisoners while I sleep."
"You're not getting me, sir. We're undermanned for this. Webb is dead, MacDonald is dead--"
"I am aware of the casualties, Sergeant. It does not change the fact that--"
"You goddamn alien freak!" Tesch's face darkened, and he stood up. "Doesn't this team mean anything to you? Do you even have feelings? Or were they programmed out of you like everything else?"
Borela's movement was sudden enough to be invisible; one moment he was crouched by the fire, the next, he had one huge hand wrapped around Tesch's neck and was holding him a foot higher than Borela himself.
"You forget yourself, Sergeant. Remember that my creators felt it neccessary to leave us with some emotions. Such as anger. Do not press your luck any further. You are running out of it."
He tossed the Sergeant aside as though he were weightless, then sat down near the fire again. Tesch slowly sat up, rubbing his neck, and stared at the alien in shock.
* * * * *
"Lieutenant."
Borela's eyes snapped open, and he sat up in the seat of the AAR- II. "I am awake, Takemoto."
Takemoto jerked a thumb back towards the rear of the APC. "The skinny one wants to talk to you."
"Does he now?"
"Yes, sir. Says he's not a Zentraedi."
That got Borela's attention. He swung the chair around and hopped to his feet. "Then I suppose I should talk to the man."
The man in question was duct-taped into his chair. Bands of the silvery tape had been placed around his wrists and ankles, preventing him from moving very far. Even for an Officer-Caste Zentran, such as himself, it was an effective means of immobilizing a prisoner.
Borela sat down opposite the man. "Well, Microne. It seems that you claim to be Human."
The man smirked. "And obviously, you believe me. With so little proof?"
"You've just offered one bit of evidence. No Zentran would consider himself Human, simply because he was referred to as a Microne."
"Here's another." The man closed his eyes a moment, then began to speak rapidly. "You are Lieutenant Second Grade Borela, service number ZO-336575-56. Your genetic stock code is fourteen-PPF-four. Three times decorated for courage under fire, one Purple Heart, trained in operations of most Zentraedi mecha. Also officially trained in the operation of the AAR-II, the Viper Fan Jet, and the Sea Sergeant."
Borela nodded. "Not bad. Either you are a Human officer, or you have very well-placed spies."
"And you listen to Jazz music with Captain Roberts, the security officer at Ghost Lodge, every Thursday morning."
Borela nodded. "Very well-placed indeed. I don't believe that the Malcontents could have a spy that well-placed in our firebase. Very well, my friend, you have my attention."
The man opened his eyes again. "I am a Section Twelve agent. I was sent in by the head of Intelligence to investigate reports of Malcontents manufacturing Variable Fighters. I managed to get my hands on some documents, and committed them to memory. I have a photographic memory; that's why I was selected for this mission. It is imperative that I get in contact with Section Twelve as soon as possible."
"I see." Borela stood up. "I am afraid that I must deny your request."
The man gaped. "What?"
"I cannot allow you to contact anybody at this time."
"Lieutenant. I am a Captain in Intelligence. And by my section's regulations, I need to report my findings immediately."
"I am sorry--"
"That's a direct order, Lieutenant! Untie me and give me access to a long-range communications terminal! I demand--"
Borela clapped a large hand over the man's mouth. "In the first place, you are in no position to demand anything. I am in command of this operation. In the second place, even if I were willing to allow you access to it, the communications link on Scutum 303 was destroyed. Long-range communications are impossible, and in this terrain, short-range communications are equally impossible." He removed his hand. "So you may give me any order you wish. It will not avail you."
The man scowled at the Zentran. "You will at least untie me?"
"No." Borela shook his head. "We have no reliable means of testing whether or not you truly are human. I cannot risk it."
"But my orders--"
Borela picked up the roll of duct tape. "I cannot hold my hand over your mouth forever."
The Captain shut his mouth with an audible clack.
* * * * *
"Traitor."
The Zentraedi, at forty-five feet tall, was slightly taller than the two Destroids escorting him, though considerably less broad. Borela discovered that rather than being bothered by the fact that this person towered over him, was rather amused. So much larger, and still Borela was the victor.
Though he was also slightly irritated; to make himself heard to the giant, he had to use a bullhorn.
"What is your name?"
"Tivaz."
Borela raised an eyebrow. "I know your gene-stock, Tivaz. You and your brothers are known for clear thinking. Why do you remain on the losing side of this war, five years after the war ended?"
"The war never ended, traitor. Not until the Supreme Commander says its over."
Borela sighed, then clicked the bullhorn back on. "The Supreme Commander is dead, Tivaz. Exedore and Breetai now command the Zentraedi people."
Tivaz shook his head. "Until my commander says the war is over, it is not over."
"You are a very stubborn man, Tivaz. Who is your commander?"
The Zentran flexed suddenly, and his wrist-binders snapped. Borela's eyes widened; he hadn't thought that the binders could be so easily broken. Tivaz pivoted and kicked backwards, knocking the GU-12 gun pod out of the hands of Naxos 206.
"Sergeant!"
Tivas launched another kick, throwing Naxos 206 down onto its back, then turned and ran. Directly towards Borela.
Lucern 104 took a single step forward, and fired both of its arm- mounted charged-particle cannons directly into Tivaz' chest. The blue beams ionized the giant's chest, causing the various molecules to simultaneously repulse each other with great force. The result: The man's chest literally exploded, throwing him back, a look of surprise and pain permanently etched on his face.
Borela winced; it was an ugly way to go, even for a Zentran. He turned to face Tesch's mecha, and clicked on his radio.
"Excellent reaction time, Sergeant. Could you not have used the autocannons, rather than the P-beams?"
Tesch clicked his mike. "Sorry, Lieutenant. But autocannon shells are limited. Reaction mass for the particle cannons isn't."
* * * * *
"Third Lance is never gonna be the same."
Borela shook his head sadly. "I am sorry for that, Corporal."
"It's not your fault, sir."
"I was in command."
"Look, can we forget rank for a second, sir?"
Borela nodded. "Very well, Kaori."
She smiled. "Thanks...Borela. Look, you did your best, okay? More than any of us mere Humans could do. Without you in command, we probably would've been history. So please...stop blaming yourself." She tilted her head. "Besides, even by that warped sense of Zentraedi honour, you completed your mission, so it's all glory, right?"
"Kaori...I wish you could understand that I am trying to be better than Zentraedi." He waved a hand, out towards the jungle. "If it were not for my desire to improve myself, to rise above what I was made...I would be no better than the Malcontents."
"Well...just to remember rank again, sir. I've gotta go check on the prisoners again." She stood up, stretched, and grabbed her carbine. "Wish there was a coffee maker in this thing."
"You and I both."
She grinned again, then stepped into the back of the APC. And came running forward again. "Sir! The maybe-human is gone!"
"What?" Borela jumped to his feet, and ran back into the rear of the APC. The Zentran was still there - unlike the other, this one was obviously alien, with a dark green skin-tone - but the other chair was empty. Borela pulled a bit of tape off the arm of the chair.
"Cut somehow. This is a clean cut. Takemoto, check your knife."
She drew it. "Still here, Looie, and clean."
"He must have found something he could use to cut himself loose, but I can't think how. Find him!"
* * * * *
"This is VOLUME to SEA Command. Respond, please."
The Tomahawk had been standing open, its powerplant turned off. With the death of the full-sized Zentran, there was no need to keep it running. Luckily, the communications rig worked off the batteries.
"Volume to SEA Command. Dammit, where the hell are you?"
"The local terrain blocks communications. Have I not told you this?"
The Intelligence officer twisted in his seat, to find Borela standing at the Destroid's hatch. The tall Alien had a look of smug satisfaction on his face. VOLUME dropped the microphone and sighed. "Guess you were right."
"Of course I was. You should be pleased I do not allow Sergeant Tesch to discipline you for entering his Destroid. He takes it rather poorly when one does this."
"Oh, really?" VOLUME leaped forward, striking Borela in the solar plexus. Borela whuffed, the breath knocked out of him, and staggered backwards, falling twenty meters to the ground below. VOLUME swung out of the cockpit, clambered down the ladder, and turned to run.
And promptly fell face-first into the dirt. Trying to run while a three-hundred pound alien has a hand wrapped around an ankle will do that to a person.
"Excuse me, but I believe I also told you that you would be accompanying us to Ghost Lodge."
The man twisted, trying to kick Borela. The Lieutenant simply increased the pressure on the man's ankle, until he screamed in pain.
"You are not co-operating, and that leaves me unlikely to show you any clemency. How did you break your bonds?"
"How the hell did you survive that fall? You shoulda had at least some broken bones."
Borela smiled. "Our creators built us to last." He picked up the man and searched him roughly. "A razor blade. I shall not ask where you had this concealed. You would not tell me anyway." He tossed the blade into the darkness. "Now then, my friend. Back to your chair."
* * * * *
"Sir? Lieutenant Borela's patrol has entered radio range."
"Good." Major Sutton leaned over the tech's shoulder. "Please put me through to the gentleman."
"Yes, sir."
The screen cleared, and Borela's impassive face came into view. "Sir, we are within twelve kilometers of base, and have an update for you."
"Very well."
"The full-sized Zentran was slain while attempting to attack me, sir. One of the Micronized Zentran turned out to be Human, and an Intelligence Officer. He has attempted to escape, attempted to take command of this patrol, and attempted to use communications to contact Southeast Asia Command."
"Really?"
"Yes. I have him currently restrained in the back of this vehicle. We should arrive back at base in fourteen minutes."
"Any sign of Variable Fighters?"
Borela shook his head. "Only our own, sir."
"Noted. Report to me the very instant you get back to base."
"Understood, sir."
Sutton straightened, and sighed. "Well, well. Another spook."
"It would make sense, sir," noted the tech. "Intel can't help but be interested in this rogue fighter."
"True." He sipped his coffee before continuing. "But they seem to have this funny idea that they're in charge, and we're here only for their convenience."
-- ICQ#66022322
http://tailkinker.contrabandent.com
It's not easy having a good time...even smiling makes my face ache.
