01-Jan-2003
Title: The Knight
Author: Hope of Dawn
Critical commentary desperately desired. Hit me with your best shot!
Archive: GW Addiction at http://www.gwaddiction.com
Notes: Hey everyone! *waves* I know it's been a while, but here is my
first fic offering of 2003. It's the second Otto fic that I've been
promising forever. This is only the first half, but hopefully it'll
hold people over while I get the second half finished--this fic
turned out to be much more of a monster than I had ever anticipated!
Anyway--Happy New Year, everyone!
Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs
to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others. For time-wasting
purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Summary & Warnings: The Gundam Wing story from an OZ-centric POV,
focused around Lt. Otto. This story starts a year before the
series begins and continues through to Operation Daybreak in episode
nine.
Warnings: profanity and angst.
Writer's Notes: Since there are no details available on the OZ, the
Specials, and how they function, I've sort of reinvented them, using
a combination of historical and modern military protocol to keep the
'feel' of the Romefeller/OZ/Alliance structure. I've tried to keep
actual series dialogue and events as canon as possible, but I have
added a great deal of surrounding material and used more colloquial
English than was used in the series. This is also a direct sequel to
'The Prince' and the second story in a trilogy--reading the previous
story isn't absolutely necessary, but it does help!
As promised, I ended up in Nairobi--and also as promised, so did Marquise.
It was an improvement over Tshabong, though not by much. Apparently the word had spread of my little Aries debacle a few weeks ago, and a lingering air of suspicion and resentment hung around the work crews even as far as Nairobi. The fact that Marquise had somehow been involved in my reassignment didn't help either, and I got rather tired of having conversations stop whenever I entered a room. As annoying as the whole situation was, though, it certainly wasn't anything new.
More surprising to me was the discovery that somewhere along the way I had stopped hating Marquise. Mind you, that didn't mean that I *liked* him. He may have saved my ass, but he was still an arrogant bastard with an ego two sizes too big for his uniform. If he was expecting to fawn all over him in gratitude, he could forget it. The less I saw of him, the better.
I don't do the bootlicking thing. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I was there for over four months, working on the prototypes for OZ's new marine Mobile Suits: Cancers, they were called. Apparently their secondary control circuitry kept frying under the heavy pressure of undersea maneuvers. While my main area of expertise was aerial Suits, I could reluctantly see the point of my transfer. These Cancers were the first generation of undersea MS, and there weren't any Cancer experts to call on besides the ones who built the damn things. Your average civilian engineer may be hot shit at tech design, but most of them don't know the first thing about military maintenance procedures. So the Suits end up in drydock while they call in the poor bastards who'll end up handling the things--namely me. Well, me and the Seventh Mobile Suit Engineering Division, that is.
Even though he was stationed at the same base, I didn't see much of Marquise. According to scuttlebutt, he was in and out a lot, doing the diplomatic thing with the Alliance naval types who wanted these Suits. Better him than me, I guess.
The Cancers were a mess. Whoever designed their main circuit boards was worthy of being drug out into the street and shot. The only way to get at them was to slither inside the service hatch under the missile mountings, twisting yourself into a pretzel in the process. Then you had to rewire and solder circuits with your head smack up against a heat-transfer pump for the main power plant, because the boards were welded in and couldn't be removed short of cutting open the entire Suit. The entire division spent a lot of time speculating on the best way to kill the son of a bitch who designed those accesses. By the time we left, the most popular idea was stuffing him into one of his own maintenance hatches, welding it shut, and dropping him into the Marianas Trench. The general consensus was that imploding at six thousand fathoms was an appropriately messy fate for the bastard.
Bad design or not, these were the Alliance's new multi-kajillion-credit babies. So we fixed them. It took a judicious amount of grease, sweat and profanity, but we were the best mechanics in the Specials, dammit, and the job got done. We also took a little time out to point out a few home truths to the civilian 'experts' that they'd flown in for consultation--namely that access hatches designed for double-jointed circus midgets were NOT designed to endear themselves to your average grease monkey.
For once I wasn't the instigator of that little bit of trouble. It was Bubba who did most of the talking.
Bubba's real name was Richard Harcourt the Third. In addition to being a Master Sergeant, a Knight-Commander in OZ, and one of the sharpest technical minds in the Alliance, he was also over six feet of rawboned muscle with a twice-broken nose and perpetually flat blond-ish hair. He *looked* like a Bubba. With typical grease-monkey humor, the moniker stuck, even if most of the crew ended up calling him 'Bubba sir'.
The civilian geeks were quite impressed with Bubba. He used small words to make sure they got the point, but I think they were even more impressed by his practical demonstration of exactly how you had to fold a man to make him fit into a Cancer maintenance hatch. Using a civilian 'volunteer', of course.
The Powers That Be had a hissy fit when they found out, but the fallout was pretty minor. That in and of itself was unusual. Verbal reprimands all around, of course--we were very naughty boys, don't do that again, yatta yatta yatta. We all nodded and looked appropriately chastised--Yessir, we understand. Playing Origami Geek does not help Alliance PR. Bad dog, no biscuit.
Still, it was a slap across the wrist. They knew it, and we knew it.
A week later my division was transferred to San Francisco. It was a relief to get out of Africa for a while. The weather was nicer, the women friendlier, and you didn't have to get shots for fifty different kinds of tropical diseases every two weeks while stationed there. A bit smoggy, but you can't have everything.
Another day, another Suit malfunction. Those same Aries prototypes had finished their preliminary testing runs and were now going through live-fire exercises. Problem? The weapons guidance systems were acting strangely. Random glitches and targeting errors kept popping up, making life hell for the pilots. So the pilots bitched--and unlike us mere menials, when pilots bitch, OZ listens.
I had a sneaking suspicion that this particular problem might be a bit out of my purview. It sounded more like a software than a hardware problem to me, and my coding skills had never been the best. A few diagnostic runs and some exploratory surgery seemed to confirm this. As much as it grated, I had to step back and let the computer geeks of the division have at the battle computer protocols and the Aries OS. It made me bored and twitchy. I hate being relegated to backseat driving.
Marquise arrived two weeks later, and immediately started intimidating the hell out of the local pilots. Everyone on the ground could tell when the dogfights were over. All we had to do was look for the bloody shreds of overinflated egos falling from the sky.
He hadn't been on the base three days when the request came down--engine problems with Marquise's MS that the crew assigned couldn't seem to handle. They would like me to assist, right now thankyouverymuch. I was vaguely surprised, but jumped at the chance to be useful. I'd been going stir crazy, and having me breathing down the computer guys' necks wasn't helping their performance any.
The Aries' problem wasn't so much a matter of fixing a malfunction as it was repairing existing damage. Marquise had simply been pushing the MS too hard and too fast for the standard thruster config to handle. Basically he was asking for power that he *knew* the machine had, but that the built-in safety circuits weren't allowing the thrusters to provide, and it was throwing his maneuvering out of whack. Trust Marquise to push his MS so far beyond spec that even the latest model Aries couldn't keep up with the man. Fucking typical.
So I rewired the safety circuits, rerouting the power necessary for the extra thrust into secondary circuits I knew had the capacity to handle it. Marquise's crew chief, a weasely little man whose name I made a point of not remembering, nearly had a stroke when he found out. He waved his hands. He shouted. He accused me of threatening his crew's reputation and Marquise's safety. I ignored him. Then he trotted us both off for a repeat performance in front of Marquise.
Cornered in the middle of a stack of paperwork, Marquise listened with his head propped on one fist. When the man finally ran out of breath, he looked at me and asked one question.
"Do you think it's safe?"
I shrugged. "As safe as I can make it."
He turned back to the crew chief. "His modifications stay."
"But..."
"Objections noted. Prep the Aries for the hop at 0600 tomorrow. Dismissed."
Since I had a vested interest, I showed up for the dawn preflight. As I watched Marquise once again reduce OZ's finest to tears, I replayed yesterday's little confrontation in my head. My suspicions began to solidify. Once was happenstance; twice, a coincidence. Three times was enemy action.
Marquise brought the Aries to a precise landing on the tarmac, settling its bulk neatly between the waiting crews. I stepped past him as he climbed out of the hatch and began hooking up the cables to the ADR modules preparatory to download. Judging by the satisfied line of his jaw, the modifications were the kick he'd been looking for, but I wanted the hard data, just to be sure. You can never trust a pilot completely on these things, not even Marquise. Every MS pilot I've ever known has been supremely confident of their own immortality.
I decided to strike while the iron was hot. "So exactly what are you trying to pull, Marquise?"
The bulk of the engines were between us and the other techs, giving the two of us a certain amount of privacy. He glanced over at me, features inscrutable behind the mask.
"What?"
"I'm not stupid, Lieutenant," I snapped, even as I punched up the readouts from the run. The green numbers scrolled by obediently, and I grunted in absent approval. "You don't think I haven't noticed what you've been doing?"
"Do you have a problem with it?" He'd gone from inscrutable to slightly amused.
I punched a few keys a little harder than necessary and shot him a glare over my shoulder. "Look, Marquise. I don't know what you're up to, and I don't really give a damn where I go. But if you're going to have me tagging around like some lapdog, then do yourself a favor. Stop pulling strings and just get me reassigned as your personal secretary or something. This kind of cloak and dagger crap is annoying."
He gave me an odd, quirky half-smile from under the mask as he straightened his cuffs. "I'll take it under advisement. . .under one condition."
"What?" I asked suspiciously.
"Call me Zechs." The smirky smile widened, white teeth flashing under the helmet. "Every time you say 'Marquise', you look like you're sucking on a lemon."
And then the bastard turned and strolled away, just like that.
Okay, so I wasn't expecting him to take my suggestion seriously. But he did. It wasn't long after that I was assigned to Marquise's staff--exactly *what* staff, I'd like to know--as his 'chief engineering liaison'.
Oh well. At least I didn't have to take dictation.
Turns out that while I was the first man assigned to Marquise's staff, I certainly wasn't the last. After a few months, more personnel came on board: a mix of military analysts, pilots, and even a few tech-heads like Harcourt that I'd recommended when asked. It was because of the Gundam threat of course, though we weren't informed of that until much later. There was no proof at first--just unconfirmed intelligence reports and vague suspicions. Then came more serious rumblings of a military buildup within the colonies, and rumors of new superweapons under development. Apparently what intel OZ did have was enough to make Khushrenada nervous.
The end result? Authorization for Marquise to form a squad of his own, and the latitude to mount a front-line defense against the colonies and these so-called Gundams, wherever and whenever an incursion might occur. Marquise also had a blanket authorization to do practically anything he liked, and reported only to the General himself, which drove the Alliance nuts.
Khushrenada knew what he was doing, though. The pieces started to fall into place over the course of the next year or so, and I grudgingly came to realize that at least some of Marquise's arrogance was justified. The man had a head for strategy that would have done Machiavelli proud, even if his execution tended to be a bit loony. It sure kept the rank and file on their toes, though. They could never figure out what he was going to do next. That fact gave me both a perverse sort of satisfaction and a new respect for Marquise. The colonies may have succeeded in concealing the details of their terrorist activities from us, but it was Zechs that made sure they had to work damn hard to do it.
We bounced all over the planet, including several jaunts to the colonies, chasing after rumors of rebel factions and terrorist enclaves while Zechs played shell games with the Alliance that made my head hurt even to think about. Thankfully, my job was a hell of a lot easier. All I had to do was fly whatever Marquise needed me to fly, and fix whatever needed fixing. As a side benefit, I ended up with my MS certifications. Between the threat from the colonies and the upcoming Operation Daybreak, OZ wasn't taking any chances on coming up short on pilots. It wasn't the way I had once hoped to fly--but I told myself that it was enough.
Then A.C. 195 rolled around. After spending a little over a year with nothing better than rumors and false leads, we finally ran smack into a Gundam for the first time--and then got sucked into everything else that followed in their wake.
Not that running into a Gundam had been an accident on our part, mind you. We'd been getting intel on this 'Operation Meteor' of theirs for months, and had been on high alert for the last week or so. OZ intelligence knew *something* was going to happen; they just didn't know when. This meant we spent most of our time in low orbit with our sensors wide open, waiting for the other shoe to drop--and sure enough, it did.
"We've caught up," I reported briskly. I'd almost gone stir-crazy staring at these instruments; any longer and my eyes would have been permanently crossed. It was nice to see it hadn't been for nothing. "I'll bring it on screen."
"Just as I thought." Somehow Marquise managed to sound worried and smug all at once. "So that's their little battle-seed, all ready to sprout into new battles."
"Operation M?" asked Lt. Vance. It required a near superhuman effort, but I managed to resist any smart remarks. What did he think we were up here for--stargazing? He'd had the same briefing as the rest of the team, and we all knew what the colonies were trying to do. How oblivious could you get?
Marquise chose to ignore the comment. "He'll have to reduce speed. There's a civilian shuttle in his way." There was a faint undertone in his voice, one that I couldn't identify. Not quite concern, but something else.
I glanced sideways at Vance in confusion. Playing games with civilian lives isn't usually in Marquise's repertoire. "Don't you think he'll shoot down the shuttle and increase his speed?"
"The fighter has to know we're behind him," he replied neutrally. "I doubt he'll shoot it down in front of us. He is on a secret mission, after all." Behind the confidence, though, I could tell he was worried, and for good reason. The presence of noncombatants changed everything, and it wasn't just our lives on the line anymore if he was wrong.
"He's entered the atmosphere, but we're still on him," I reported. Reentry was going to make tracking difficult, but not impossible. Then the bandit's flight path suddenly changed radically, altering its angle of descent--it looked like we'd been spotted as well. I kept my eyes on the sensors, alert for any signs of jamming as I reported the news. "The capsule has changed its course."
As Marquise sat up straight and blurted, "What? That's suicidal!" I mentally chalked one up for the terrorist. It's not every day the great Lightning Baron is surprised. Sometimes Marquise believes a little too much of his own press.
"Maybe he thinks that the only way to keep this mission secret is to destroy the evidence?" Lt. Vance, everyone--our very own master of the obvious. Then I looked at my numbers and cut off that particular line of thought.
"No--the capsule is accelerating. He's trying to break away!" In addition to the radical acceleration, the entry angle had become dangerously steep. Was the colony pilot an idiot?
Vance voiced my confusion out loud. "Impossible! No spacecraft could endure the heat of reentry at that speed."
"Not necessarily," Marquise said, leaning forward in interest. "It appears our enemies are very technologically advanced."
Advanced technology or not, it still looked like the pilot had overestimated his craft. The thing's shell was cracking even as we watched, fragmenting into flaming debris. Massive fissures snaked across its surface as the thing continued to plummet, and it was only a matter of time before the thing exploded as its fuel overheated. The armor plating broke apart, right on cue--and then a fighter folded out of the molten debris!
I boggled, bug-eyed. "Lt. Zechs, is this...?" I blurted, then cut myself short in order to track the enemy fighter through all of the fallout.
"The colony's new weapon is a fighter," stated Zechs speculatively. He was probably wondering exactly what kind of fighter pilot would think he could take on the entire Alliance. He wouldn't be the only one.
"So this is the colonies' secret weapon..." Vance murmured, impressed.
Our sensors were doing their work, busily feeding us data on the machine. I swept an assessing eye over the brightly-colored armor, shaking off my surprise at the colonies' unorthodox tactics, and commented, "Odd design. It moves just like a bird..." Now that my brain was working again, I could see what appeared to be compartmentalized engine units. The swept-back wings and thruster array seemed to be based only vaguely off of an Aries' suit design.
"We're reached cruising altitude. We can proceed to attack," Vance reported briskly.
Overeager little bastard. I suppressed a grimace. It was our job to neutralize the colony invader, no matter how intriguing a piece of machinery it was. But that didn't mean I had to like it. "OK."
"Let's wake him up with a warning shot," Vance said, fingers already flying to calibrate the targeting system.
"No, it won't listen to a warning. Just shoot him down!" Marquise's order surprised even Vance.
Mister 'Death Before Dishonor' Marquise, telling us to fire without warning? For the first time in this engagement, I hesitated. I dared to pull my eyes away from my instruments for a minute and glance back over my shoulder. "Lt. Zechs?"
"We were told that the purpose of this mission was to intercept the weapon, but the real target appears to be right in front of us," he replied. I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. That meant that this was no longer an easy interception of a lightly-armed carrier, but a confrontation with a heavily-armored and -fanged enemy aircraft. I had been part of Marquise's squad long enough to see most of the intel OZ had on these so-called 'Gundams'. It wasn't pretty.
That was all the confirmation I needed. I turned back to my console--only to discover that apparently Zechs wasn't the only one who wanted a fight. "Lt. Zechs, the enemy fighter has reversed its course and is heading straight for us!"
"Is the Leo ready?"
I just knew that was coming. Marquise would use any excuse to get out there in a Mobile Suit, just so he could fight with the damn thing on his own terms. That damned duelist's mentality was his biggest weakness. I tuned out Vance's brief 'discussion' with Marquise on whether or not using the Leo was appropriate. Truthfully, I suspected that fighting in an Aries wouldn't give Zechs that much more of an advantage. That thing was moving damnably *fast*.
Luck seemed to be with us, though. Even with Marquise's Leo in freefall, it was clear that the enemy fighter was at a disadvantage. Sensor data couldn't tell me why, though I was betting on either the pilot's unfamiliarity with atmosphere or a mechanical failure of some kind. Nevertheless, he was still giving Zechs a run for his money. The dogfight was brief but brutal, and I had my hands full just trying to stay out of the line of fire as Marquise clashed with the colony pilot.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Marquise finally got the opportunity for a clean shot, and even gundanium proved to be no match against a chain rifle at point-blank range. With his usual panache, Marquise blew him away, sending the fighter spiraling down towards the ocean.
Vance was busy serving as Zech's personal cheerleader, I noticed. "Nice shot, Lieutenant Zechs!"
In contrast, Zechs sounded downright disappointed. "...so much for him. That was much too easy."
Reed and Kerzchoff, now finally deployed in their Aries, hovered uncertainly, unsure whether the brief flurry of engagement was truly over. "Lieutenant, should we chase him down once you return with the Leo?"
"No, we'll follow him down with the carrier and capture him on land," Marquise replied. "This will be our chance to find out the purpose behind this Operation M of theirs."
Watching my instruments as they tracked the path of the falling machine, I asked, "What about the possibility of a self-destruct?" It was the oldest terrorist trick in the book, and it seemed like too basic a precaution for the colony pilot to overlook.
"He's made it all the way to Earth. He's not going to commit suicide before he even sets foot on it."
Marquise picks the damndest times to get poetic.
Our little invader wasn't done with us yet, though. Instead of crashing into the ocean like a good little bad guy, the bandit recovered... and then seemed to break apart in midair. I watched in disbelief as the wing and engine units slid away revealing a standard torso breastplate, swiveling and locking themselves an entirely new configuration. In a matter of seconds, familiar armored appendages and gauntlets extended into place from their housings, and then just to top it all off, it pulled out a monster rifle of some sort. This thing wasn't just a fighter--it was a fucking MS!
Even Zechs seemed to be in shock. "It transformed into a Mobile Suit?" Score another one for the terrorist. Zechs' unflappable facade was not faring well.
"Lt. Zechs, what kind of Suit is that?" I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. That design wasn't like any I had ever seen before, unless Romefeller had taken some new strides in MS technology that I didn't know about.
Marquise echoed my thoughts aloud. "No idea." He left the rest unsaid, but I could almost hear the wheels turning. Obviously the colonies were more of a threat than we had ever suspected.
"Sir, leave him to us," Reed replied eagerly. I snorted slightly. Reed was the new kid, just reassed to Marquise's staff, and very eager to prove himself in front of the great 'Lightning Baron'. Still, he was an excellent pilot, if a bit green when it came to actual combat experience.
Triggering the Leo's chute, Marquise gave the go ahead. "Do it."
Reed and Kerzchoff had already settled into a classic attack formation, flanking the enemy to either side. Reed led the attack run against the enemy MS, diving hard and taking full advantage of his Aries' maneuverability to attack from both sides with rifle fire and missiles. The guy wasn't pulling his punches; I approved. Better safe than sorry, especially against something like this.
Vance and I watched in disbelief as the 40mm rounds rattled off the gundanium armor like spitballs. The enemy pilot barely seemed to register the barrage of firepower leveled at it. Turning, it didn't even bother to evade, but instead leveled that huge rifle of his and fired at *both* Aries at once. For a moment I thought it was a blind, desperate shot made by a sensor-blinded pilot. But then the enemy pilot proved me wrong, unleashing a cannon-blast of firepower from that oversized rifle that fried most of our forward sensors and completely destroyed both Aries in one shot!
My knuckles were white on the controls. Two Aries lost within a matter of seconds. This was far worse than what we had been expecting--and apparently Zechs felt the same way.
"He blew away two Aries with just one shot?! Not too shabby!" Deciding that it was time to pull one of his trademark insane maneuvers, Zechs disengaged the Leo from its chute harness and let it fall.
"What the--?!" Vance caught himself in mid-outburst. I bit my own tongue, feeling my neck hair prickle as the Leo, saber out, slammed into the enemy MS and sent them both tumbling into freefall. The two Suits strained against each other in a crazy midair wrestling match, the ocean surface rushing up at them. Despite the other pilot's midair advantage, Zechs managed to pin the enemy MS in a modified jointlock with only seconds to spare. Locking down his Leo, he blew the hatch and jumped free, cool as a cucumber.
In retrospect, the stunt was a smart tactical maneuver. After all, it used the Leo's strength to best advantage, all the while staying too close for the enemy pilot to simply blow him away. It also happened to be a move that bordered on the suicidal. For a moment, I had been a bit worried... it would be just like Zechs to follow the enemy down. Since I really didn't want to have to explain to General Khushrenada why his favorite lieutenant was splattered all over the Mediterranean, it was a bit of a relief to see that white emergency chute pop open.
Not that I would ever tell *him* that. "Lt. Zechs, are you all right?"
"Yes. Sorry to worry you, but I did what I had to."
I bit back my initial response. After all, telling your commanding officer that he is a fucking idiot is never a good idea. "What you did was damn near give me a heart attack. What kind of fucked-up maneuver was *that*?" I muttered, too softly for the pickups--or Vance--to hear. Shaking my head, I continued more loudly, "We have a complete data analysis. Judging by the strength of the armor, it could only be made of gundanium alloy."
"So then... that was a Gundam." Over the crackle of the wind, I heard the background roar of the two Mobile Suits as they crashed into the ocean. "The Mobile Suit may have survived undamaged, even if that reckless pilot didn't."
Another signal came online. "Sir, the Marina mothership is offering to salvage the unregistered suit."
Zechs' reply was dismissive. "Let them do as they wish. Give them the coordinates for retrieval."
"Yes, sir." I opened a priority channel, keeping one eye on Zechs' parachute. His attention was focused on where the two Suits had crashed. He was intrigued. . .I could tell. The sheer possibility of a pilot that could match his level of skill had him hooked, no matter how brief the fight.
I couldn't really blame him. If the pilot fascinated him, then I was just as enthralled by the Gundams. I itched to get my hands on them, right to the depths of my mechanically-obsessed soul. I realized how morbid that was; after all, we'd just lost two good men in taking out a single Gundam, and if Zechs hadn't been there, we probably would have lost more. Even so, all I wanted to do was take that Gundam apart, see what it was made of. . . and what it could do.
My wish came close to being fulfilled after our first encounter, but I lost my opportunity due to the Alliance's bungling. We lost Vance at the same time, in an underwater encounter with yet *another* Gundam. As much as the twit had irritated me, his and the others' deaths hit us all hard. We'd lost almost half our team in just two days. Still, I knew we would see more of the Gundams, especially if Zechs had anything to say about it.
I got my second chance sooner than I had expected... in the form of an old friend and an early-morning vid-call.
Walker was practically babbling, stuttering words in his excitement. "Otto! You'll never believe it--I couldn't believe it myself. I mean, it was just sitting there in storage; half of it's in pieces, but I think--no, I *know* this has gotta be it!"
Walker was a rare bird--an OZ pilot that I could call a friend. We'd met during a nasty little operation a few years back in Bogotá. He'd been a wet behind the ears sprat just out of the Academy, flying recon over areas with suspected rebel activities. Snipers had been taking potshots at the officers, and his crew chief had had the top of his skull blown off in a shot meant for the kid. As luck would have it, I ended up filling in as the guy's replacement.
It turned out that Walker was a pretty decent kid, with none of the prissy arrogance I'd come to expect from a pilot. His family wasn't noble in any way, shape, or form. Instead, he was one of OZ's rare scholarship recruits. He'd started out in the Alliance engineering program, and then later fought his way into the Specials' closed ranks through sheer talent. He worshipped the ground that Khushrenada and Marquise walked on with a kind of starry-eyed idealism that I'd always found annoying, but at least he had a sense of humor about it.
He also had absolutely no qualms about getting his hands dirty if something needed to be done, and in the end that's all that mattered in my book. Of course, it also helped that he was damn amusing to hang out with while off-duty. The kid couldn't hold his liquor worth a damn--give him a couple beers, and he'd be crooning 'Blue Moon of Kentucky' to the nearest thing that looked even vaguely female.
I hadn't seen him in over a year, however. He'd been under Marquise's command briefly, only to end up posted to the Middle East Aries Unit while I bounced all over the damn planet in Zechs' wake. So I think I could be forgiven for being a little dense when he woke me out of a sound (and jetlagged) sleep with his big news.
I rubbed my eyes and groped around for a sweater. This base got damn cold at night. "Walker--you're my friend. And as a friend, I'm gonna give you exactly two minutes to start making sense." I glanced over at the dimly glowing numbers on my bedside clock. 0300 hours. I had to be up at 0530. Shit. "Otherwise I'm going to hunt you down and beat you to death with a torque wrench."
Walker blinked. "Oh, sorry--did I wake you up?"
"WALKER!"
"Right. Sorry, sir. It's just that--okay, you remember a few days ago? Zechs' teleconference on the Gundam data? The vid got distributed to all pilots before our briefing on the Gundam threat, and something in it started to bug me. Remember how you were going on about how we couldn't figure out how the hell those Gundams were getting the kind of power curve the sensors said they were? Well, I thought that data looked kind of familiar, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before until I finally pulled up one of my old Academy papers on the development of Mobile Suit technology in the Alliance, and there it was!"
I resisted the urge to pound my head against the desk. "There *what* was, Walker?"
"The Tallgeese!"
Walker had unearthed it, rotting away in an Alliance armory. The thing was enormous, easily twice as big as a standard Taurus, and armored beyond all belief. Ostensibly it was a prototype, an obsolete model from which modern MS technology had been developed.
Obsolete, my ass.
Walker had been positively giddy on the com. Thankfully he calmed down before meeting Zechs again face to face. Otherwise I would have lost all respect for him, old friend or not.
Zechs got first crack at the Tallgeese, of course. Walker gave him the guided tour while I was busy speaking with the tower (again!) about our flight plans and the lack of documentation thereof. I keep hoping the Alliance will figure out what 'top secret' means, but no luck so far. The delay didn't annoy me too much, though. Walker and Zechs could talk all the pilot-babble they wanted. What I wanted was to see this thing with my own two eyes and make sure that it was actually a viable craft after being mothballed for so long.
So I snagged the kid after Marquise got through with him. Since we were short on time, I had him give me the complete rundown while I climbed around the pieced-apart Suit. Walker had done his research--unfortunately, there hadn't been much information to find.
"So, according to Alliance records, this was the first Mobile Suit prototype to be built?"
Walker grimaced. "Well, the first viable one, anyway. There were some earlier ones but they all. . ." He gave a descending whistle and dived his hand at the floor.
"Crashed and burned, huh. Not surprising," I remarked, poking at the inside of an access hatch. One thing to be said for a climate-controlled armory; there was hardly a speck of rust on this thing.
"Well, apparently they were trying for a flight-capable model that could also fight effectively on the ground. Considering that we just managed to achieve that a few years ago ourselves with the introduction of the Aries, I'd say it's pretty impressive that they got as far as they did."
I snorted. "You know what they say. Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nukes."
"Cynic," Walker accused mildly. "Anyway, the Alliance didn't have much luck until they brought in a new design team. Apparently there were a couple maverick geniuses on the team who made some real breakthroughs in Mobile Suit design, and the Tallgeese was the end result."
"Yeah?" There didn't seem to be any major parts missing, which was good. This Suit was a helluva lot more complex than it seemed at first, and I didn't want to make any bets on being able to rebuild any important components. "So who were these so-called geniuses? And how come I've never heard of them?"
Walker slouched against a nearby cannon housing, crossing his arms. "You know, I'm not sure. The records are pretty clear that there were two guys heading the project--Dr. Jerrod Slator and Howard K. McClure--but after the Tallgeese project was scrapped, I couldn't find any other mention of them in reference to any other projects, military or civilian." He shrugged. "One of those things, I guess. Maybe they didn't like the way their research was being handled."
"Yeah, well, academic eggheads are notorious for getting their shorts in a bunch when it comes to military applications." I snorted again. "What did they think the Alliance wanted giant piloted robots for, anyway? Playing chess?" I pulled out a couple of circuit boards and blew off the dust. A quick comparison with the schematics told me I was looking at secondary stabilizer motherboards... but with the oddest damn processor configuration I'd ever seen.
"Well, they certainly knew their stuff. Here, take a look." He pulled a file from the stack of schematics and handed it over. "These are the results of their initial test runs."
Wiping off my hands, I flipped through the file. "Wait a minute.... these numbers can't be right."
Walker shook his head. "No, they're correct. The Tallgeese has power to spare." He met my eyes soberly. "And the medical records on what happened to their test pilots were quite extensive."
"Huh." I tossed the file back down to him, and jumped down after it. "Well everything seems to be here, so I think we can rebuild it. And if Zechs can't fly it, then no one can." As if on cue, the phone rang.
Walker picked it up. "Hangar five." I watched his eyes narrow as he listened. Something was up. "Already? Do we have an E.T.A.?"
The answer didn't seem to be good. "Damn." Another pause as he listened. "All right, I'm on my way." He hung up and glanced over, face grim.
"Otto, get the Tallgeese loaded up. The base is going on alert--we've got an incoming Gundam."
"Move it, people!" I hollered. "Don't worry about the paint job--just pack her on and get going!" There was a crash from outside--inside the crew ducked falling pieces of rafter and scrabbled for footing.
We'd just managed to maneuver the last sections of the Suit onto a cobbled-up double dolly when the first explosions rocked the ground underfoot . None of the regular Suit dollies had proved big enough for this monster, and even now we were struggling to wrestle the huge sections into place. Not to mention we knew the combat was moving our way; we could all hear the continuous rolling thunder of shelling along with the screaming of missiles.
With the last chain locked down, I punched the dolly into motion. "Go! Get to the carrier and stand by to secure this thing down!" The dolly lumbered forward, heavy engines whining under the strain. The running crew easily outpaced me as they headed for the half-open hangar and its waiting aircraft, and a fresh billow of oily black smoke filled the air as the doors rumbled open. Outside, the airstrip had become a battlefield.
I was halfway to the plane, hunched low over the wheel, when the com crackled open. "Lieutenant! We've got movement towards the end of our runway!"
I squinted but didn't stop, trying to see through the haze. "Threat assessment, Mr. Arzvahd." A thick plume of smoke swept past, leaving me coughing. Then a glint of gold pierced through the gloom, and my blood froze as I saw an unidentified MS advancing on the base, armor glinting gold and armed with a pair of saber-style weapons.
"Sir, it's a second Gundam--and this one has support troops!"
"Fuck! " Could this get any worse? I kept the dolly pointed straight, pushing it as hard as it would go. Unfortunately, that still wasn't very fast; these things were built for strength, not speed. "Keep those engines hot and stand by. I'm coming in!"
The dolly hit the loading ramp with a reverberating *thud*, the metal groaning under the weight. MS in tow, I maneuvered hastily to the center of the empty bay and brought the dolly to a shuddering halt, grateful I hadn't broken an axle along the way.
I swung out of the cab. "Harcourt, Sikes! Secure it down. Make it tight--I don't care if you have to fucking weld this thing in place, just so long as it stays put! I don't want it sliding around on us." The crew was already in motion, hauling chain and locking down the Suit. I ran for the forward cabin. "Status?"
"It looks like they haven't noticed us yet, Lieutenant," Arzvahd reported, relieved. "The new Gundam is heading towards the first one's position, and the Alliance is keeping both of them engaged."
I snorted. "I knew they had to be good for something. Where's Marquise?"
"Still trying to get through to the Alliance CO. The tower was the first thing the Gundams hit, so he's over at the hangar twelve communications relay."
"Shit!" That was within spitting distance of both Gundams. Knowing Zechs, he'd stay until the absolute last minute unless someone hauled his ass away. Guess who got that little job? "Arzvahd, get her prepped for takeoff. I'm going after Lieutenant Zechs."
"Yes sir!"
Finding the hangar was easy enough, but getting there was another matter entirely. With that massive firefight going on over most of the airstrip, taking the direct route would be like asking to get shot. So the long way around it was. I ended up using most of the base buildings as cover for my commandeered (and hopefully inconspicuous) jeep, keeping one ear on the radio chatter as the battle progressed. It didn't come as any surprise that the Alliance forces were losing ground.
I screeched up to the hangar, just in time to see an Aries squadron scream into the sky in perfect formation... and head straight for the Gundams.
Walker. It had to be Walker. I slammed a fist into the steering wheel. "Damn it, Walker--what are you *doing*?" That damned stupid kid. He'd contracted a case of the Marquise Disease, and I was suddenly, terribly certain he wouldn't survive it. This was no place to sit and stew, however, as a stray missile hit a nearby fuel tanker, turning it into a boiling pillar of flame. I ducked flaming shrapnel reflexively, rolling out of the jeep. Head down, I scuttled for the safety of the hangar.
Once inside I pounded up the stairs, trying to remember what Suits might still be available. Walker's squad had the only Aries stationed on base, but there should be a few Leos left. I was grasping at straws, and I knew it. A single Leo didn't stand a chance against one Gundam, much less two. But perhaps as a diversion... I threw open the door, heart pounding. "Lt. Zechs, we're ready to leave--"
--and I saw Walker die.
The Aries MS was the first fighter-type aerial suit ever developed. It has superior mobility, long-range strike and reconnaissance capability, and the most advanced ACM of its type. But the Aries is no tank; its armor is light in comparison to your average Leo. It was never meant for extended close-range combat.
The second Gundam's blades tore through the main body of the Aries like it was made of paper. It sliced apart the lower engine units and legs from the main cockpit module, severing fuel lines and shredding the missile bays . The rest fell apart in a cascade of sparks, drenched in thruster fuel--then exploded in a fireball of smoke and fire.
Walker didn't even have a chance to eject.
The Gundam continued its progress, not even scratched by the point blank explosion. Zech's voice was rigidly controlled, barely audible over the rattle of continuing gunfire. "And Commander Bonapa?"
Finger by finger, I loosened my deathgrip on the doorknob. My own voice sounded eerily calm in my ears. "We've received word that he's safe. Lt. Zechs, let me go fight in the Leo."
"Otto!" The arrogant facade faltered for the barest fraction of a moment as he snapped, "Don't make this harder for me."
"Sir?"
"I need to convince myself to stay here and protect the Tallgeese." He never took his eyes off of the remains of Walker's squad. "Please... I need your help."
I somehow managed to unclench my fists and salute. "Sir."
"Let's go." He turned away, his final words so soft that I almost didn't hear him as he made one final promise to Walker.
"You won't be forgotten."
It was a promise I'm sure the kid would have treasured--if he'd been alive to hear it.
One thing to be said for OZ: it throws great funerals. I had no doubt that after they managed to scrape up what was left of Walker off of the airfield, they would send him home in state. He would be buried with full military honors: pomp and circumstance, honor guard, heraldic flags and all. If our mission hadn't been such top priority, we would have been there as a matter of course. However, that metal monster that Walker had bequeathed to us took precedence over everything... including saying a proper goodbye to one of the bravest men I'd ever known.
After the fiasco at Corsica, we landed at Tripoli to refuel and patch various bullet holes. After a two-day layover, we would be heading out again. Even during such a brief stopover, the crew was jumpy as hell, and I was no exception. It felt like I had 'OZ officer! Come kill me!' printed in big red letters between my shoulder blades every time we stopped moving. The Gundams' terror tactics were damnably effective, and only Zechs seemed to be his usual unflappable self.
Since I had a sneaking suspicion that I might not get the chance otherwise, I dedicated one of those nights at Tripoli to Walker.
I was on my third round and feeling hazily morose when Zechs decided to barge in. He stopped short in the doorway, a sheaf of papers forgotten in one hand. I could practically see his nose wrinkle as the smell hit him.
"What are you doing?" His voice was sharp and disapproving.
I raised my glass to him in a sloshy salute, glad to see that my reputation as a shiftless drunk hadn't completely disappeared. "Just spending some quality time, sir. One last hurrah for the recently departed." I tilted my head sideways, glancing cockeyed at the three untouched shots sitting on the empty side of the table. "Too bad Walker's not holding up his end of the conversation. But then, he always was a lightweight."
"Otto... " Zechs stopped. I could practically see the wheels turning underneath that shiny metal dome. He tried again. "Otto--this won't help."
"Well it certainly won't hurt, either." I kicked a chair out with one foot. "Take a load off, Mr. Lightning-Lieutenant sir. Whatever it is, it can wait." I gave him a mocking, sardonic look. "Unless you're too good to drink with the likes of us?"
He stiffened, and I could see him getting ready to leave in a huff. Then his eyes dropped to Walker's empty seat, the three shots sitting haphazardly in front of it. His shoulders sagged, and he dropped into the chair with a resigned air.
Admittedly I hadn't been expecting him to take me up on the offer, but I had too much alcohol in me to really be surprised. I thumped a glass down in front of him and poured another round, the bottle clinking loudly against the glass rims in the quiet. Planting my elbow on the table, I raised my glass and looked him in the eye. "So what do we drink to?"
Zechs contemplated his own glass, then raised it to meet mine. "To the soldiers of the future."
My mouth twisted sourly, but a toast was a toast. "To the soldiers of the future." I tossed back the shot, and added under my breath, "Damn fools."
"Why do you say that?" Zechs asked. I mentally damned his sharp ears--then damned my inability to keep my damn mouth shut for good measure.
"Nothing." I waved a hand dismissively and refilled my glass. "Never mind, sir. It doesn't matter."
"I beg to differ." Zechs watched as I emptied the bottle into his glass, one arm thrown over the back of his chair. "I think it matters a great deal."
"Christ, Zechs! Can't you just get drunk like the rest of us?" I chucked the bottle in the general direction of the wastebasket. It thumped to the floor and rolled against the baseboard. "It doesn't matter what I think, all right?"
Silence descended. Zechs twisted the glass between three fingers, watching the alcohol slosh, then knocked it back with precision. Watching him, I must admit I'd never considered the logistics of drinking with a big silver bucket on your head before. He'd obviously been practicing.
Setting the glass back down on the table, Zechs gave me a forthright stare. I headed him off before he could ask me another probing question. "So where are we heading next?"
He cocked his head to one side. "Well, that depends. What bases have the facilities we'd need to rebuild the Tallgeese?"
"Well... " I considered it, running the possibilities through. "Off the top of my head, I'd say the closest one would be Victoria base. The Alliance has a full production line there, so they'd have all the materials and the expertise we're going to need." Since we were out of whiskey, I got up and rummaged around in the icebox. Grabbing a few haphazard beers, I thunked one down in front of Zechs and then flopped back in my chair.
"Victoria... " He drummed his fingers. "They're not very covert, are they?"
I snorted. "Victoria base? They're about as far from top secret as you can get. Everyone knows the Alliance manufactures Leos out of Victoria." I twisted the top off my beer and took a healthy swig. "And you can bet good money that it's on the Gundams' hit list."
"It's a risk, but... " He popped open his beer, but didn't drink, white-gloved fingers playing idly with the bottlecap. "Anywhere else, and we run the risk of being intercepted."
"Always assuming that wherever we ended up going hadn't already been blown to hell and back." I gave him a twisted smile. "We seem to be running out of bases."
"Hardly. Trouble does seem to follow in our wake, however, and I'd rather not see any more men die because of it." His fingers clenched around the bottle so hard I almost expected to hear it creak.
Somehow I didn't think Zechs was really talking about the Alliance soldiers on the bases ahead. Then again, knowing Zechs' tendency towards noblesse oblige, maybe he was. I shrugged. "Maybe so. Maybe not." I looked up at the ceiling, and chanced a shot that I knew would sting. "Walker knew the risks, and he made his own decisions."
Zechs didn't have any clever reply to that. I listened to the faint sound of someone's radio seeping in through the cracked-open window, a country crooner warbling soulfully away between bursts of static, and wondered if the kid had ever managed to find himself a girl. Not that it mattered, really.
Leaning forward again, I tipped one of Walker's untouched shots over with a finger. Watching the liquor puddle onto the table, I murmured, "He may have been a damn fool, but he died the way he wanted. Not many people get to say that."
"What about you?" Zechs asked suddenly.
It took me a minute to pull my wandering brain back into orbit. "What about me?"
"You said that Walker had made his decision. How about yours?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me." He looked at me soberly. "This whole Gundam thing--it's turned into a bigger mess than I ever expected, and my men are the ones who are paying the price. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to be reassigned to some other squad. Considering how you feel about OZ, this is a whole lot more than what you signed on for."
"Shit, Zechs... I'm not nearly drunk enough for this." Leaning back, I closed my eyes and rolled the bottle against my forehead. I could tell he wasn't about to let it drop, though. My remarks about Walker had cracked open that ironclad armor of his, and he was going to keep picking at mine until I either spilled my guts or took a swing at him.
After a moment's consideration, I caved. Though the alternative was tempting, I didn't really feel like being court-martialed right now.
"They killed Walker." I pinned him with a flat stare, and repeated it to make sure it sunk in. "They killed him--just ripped him apart, and he never even had a chance. This isn't about OZ, the Alliance, or even Operation Daybreak anymore, not for me. This is personal."
"Otto--" Zechs seemed startled at my sudden vehemence. But then, there was no real reason why he would have known just how far back Walker and I went.
"I'm going to rebuild the Tallgeese, sir." My eyes never wavered from his. "I'll fix it, and you'll fly it, and maybe between the two of us we can show these terrorists what the Specials can *really* do."
End Part 1
(:./hope/knight1)
