Gundam 0085: Wargames (Revised)

Chapter 1: Short Introductions

7 December 0084
Konpeitoh, L5
Restricted Zone

Two blunt-nosed warships coasted through the infinite night, nearing their destination. Any observer able to see them would immediately recognize them as a derivative of the Federation's ubiquitous Salamis cruiser line. But where the first post-War iterations had been small and packed from stem to stern with weapons, these two were much longer, the same size as the versions used against the Zeon Principality during the War. The two vessels approaching the Earth Federation Space Force's base at Konpeitoh had quite a bit in common with the early Salamis designs, but conspicuously carried an enlarged bow with no foredeck cannon, and also mounted a pair of twin-gun turrets on the flacks, where the original models had only radiation vanes. Presently, the reason for the widened bow made itself apparent as, on the leading cruiser, a mobile suit sporting the black-and-blue colors of the Titans rose through an opening in the ship's foredeck, stepping forward to attach its feet to what could only be a catapult.

"Are you ready, Lieutenant Yelot?" the man sitting in the command chair of the leading Salamis Kai asked.

"Ready and able, sir," the helmeted face displayed on the bridge communication screen replied.

"Excellent," the bridge officer responded. "I'm expecting you to make that Federation trash void their bladders, but don't launch until our so-called escort is much closer; we want to maximize their surprise."

"I copy, sir. "

Lieutenant Commander Lica Satain readjusted himself in the command chair, trying to find a more comfortable position for the straps that kept him seated in the null-gravity environment. Satisfied at last, he turned his attention to the data screens and their various displays showing the details of his command. "Well, Lieutenant Sulate, do you think these Aggressors will be much of a challenge for us?" he asked his executive officer without turning to face her.

Columbia Sulate looked up from the sensor display she had been studying. "The Konpeitoh Aggressors have a strong reputation, sir; they consistently embarrass the units sent against them."

"Yes, so I've heard, Captain," Satain replied, narrowing his eyes and steepling his fingers in front of him. "But they have yet to face a single group of Titans. Never have they confronted a unit composed, as is ours, entirely of impeccably trained Earth-born personnel; our standards are much higher than any the genetically-contaminated Space Force can possibly maintain." He paused to throw a contemptuous smile at the sensor showing the progress of the mobile suit escort approaching his ships. "We breezed through the training regimen at Luna II, and they also had a 'reputation' for defeating incompetent Federal officers. In my opinion, Lieutenant Sulate, sending us all the way out here for another round of training is but a waste of time; our skills could be better used hunting down Zeons and their sympathizers."

Satain's executive officer opened her mouth as if to reply, but closed it again quickly and returned her attention to the sensor screens without giving voice to her thoughts or reporting the fuzzy and intermittent contact she had been working on; neither of the sensor operators had the skill to recognize it and she decided that it wasn't really her problem this close to Konpeitoh.

-------------

Low Yelot breathed a sigh of relief when Satain closed the communications link, checked the feed he was getting from the cruiser's Combat Information Center, decided it was working, and flipped the switch to his platoon's communications frequency with one gloved finger.

"Tsib, Browning, we'll begin launching in eighty-two seconds," he told his two subordinates. "If all three of us aren't clear within twenty-eight seconds bad things will happen to us all."

"Don't worry about us, boss," Yelot heard Browning, six weeks out of training and full of a newbie's misplaced confidence, say over the radio. "We may be in these ass-sucking Quels, but even these out-dated shit piles are worlds ahead of anything those Space Farce jokers will be able to throw at us; we certainly cut the Luna II Feddies to pieces."

"Hell, yeah, preach it, brother!" Yelot's other subordinate added. "I couldn't have put it any better, myself. Honestly, Lieutenant, I don't know why you an' Sulate are actin' all worried and such; this'll be no different from shakedown at Luna II, and we tore those Feddies a new one."

The senior pilot winced within his helmet and ground his teeth together. "How the hell," he grumbled to himself without keying his radio, "did I wind up in this crew? Bad enough having an arrogant, bigoted martinet for my skipper, but how am I supposed to turn these willfully irresponsible, spoiled children into useful pilots?" He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Well, Low, that's why they pay you the big money and gave you another platoon; you'll figure something out."

He glanced once more at his displays. "Aw, hell, here we go. Yelot, Quel, launching," he informed the bridge.

--------------

Satain smiled again as his three mobile suits were catapulted into the star-filled void. "Time?" he inquired.

"Twenty-eight point one seven seconds, Commander," Sulate told him.

"Close, very close. But not good enough," Satain remarked coldly. "Lieutenant, you will have another discussion with Lieutenant Yelot when he returns," he ordered.

"Very well, sir," Sulate replied, forcing her voice to be even.

"You don't think he requires it, Lieutenant?" Satain asked.

The Exec paused a moment to consider her words. "Sir, I think that Lieutenant Yelot is perfectly capable of handling any disciplinary action necessary for maintaining standards within his platoon entirely on his own, sir, without our getting involved."

"Hmm, perhaps you're correct," Satain said, stroking his goatee. "Yes, yes, we'll allow Yelot a chance to show his mettle; he is in far greater contact with the pilots and mechanics, so it is only natural that he would know their failings very well. See to it, Lieutenant."

"Of course, sir."

-------------

"Aw, sir, they're only Kais; I could take all three of 'em myself,"Browning said.

Yelot kept his temper in check, wishing he could afford to do otherwise. "Maybe you could, Browning," he found himself saying, "but they're not an enemy. All we've been ordered to do is try to spook them."

"Sure, boss,"Browning replied, "but what better way to scare 'em than to open fire on 'em? Not hit 'em, of course, just put a few rounds next to their suits."

For what seemed like -- and possibly was -- the thousandth time Yelot struggled to keep from yelling at his inexperienced pilot. "It would indeed scare them," he said evenly, "but it could also scare the entire base into attacking us, and I don't really think two cruisers and six mobile suits are enough to defeat Konpeitoh's entire garrison."

In truth, Yelot had his doubts that his unit would be able to startle the Federal pilots except by shooting at them; the three GMs he was supposed to intercept hadn't shown the slightest reaction when the Titans mobile suits launched, continuing their course to rendezvous with the cruisers.

The pilots remained silent for the rest of the time required to close upon the Federal platoon.

"Okay, people, we'll do a few formation passes, by the numbers - no showing off," Yelot ordered. "Follow my lead."

The senior pilot adjusted his machine a little so it would pass within a hundred meters of the three Federal GMs and the two other Quels maintained their positions relative to Yelot's.

"This isn't working, boss,"Tsib said after their second pass came within fifty meters and the Federal pilots still failed to react at all. "Those C-types could be unmanned on a computer script for all their response to us."

"Maybe they are," Yelot replied, "or maybe their discipline is good."

"Yeah? We'll see!"Browning called out.

"Browning, stay in - Dammit, Browning get back into position!"

"Watch this, boss, I'll wake 'em up!"

Yelot gave up on reason and watched as Browning angled to pass within the triangle formed by the Federal mobile suits and went to maximum thrust.

All three of the GMs' heads snapped over at the Quel as it approached and tracked it during Browning's trip through their formation, but that was the only reaction his stunt elicited.

"See, boss? I got 'em to move!"the rookie exulted.

"Get your ass back in formation, Browning," Yelot ordered sternly, barely holding back his temper.

"Great flying, Paul," Tsib said admiringly as the prodigal brought his machine back into its place. "Wasn't that amazing, boss?"

"Oh, yes, that has to be one of the greatest displays of discipline I've seen in years," Yelot said dryly. "I was particularly impressed by the way all three of them acquired and maintained weapons lock the entire time Browning was in range. The only thing missing was the display of what happens to a Quel when half a dozen vulcans open up on it simultaneously from close range; that would have been most impressive." Yelot took a deep breath to regain control of his temper. "All right, that's enough, we'll shadow them back to the ship."

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7 December 0084
Konpeitoh, L5

"Hey, this looks like the place," Tip Tsib said as he, Paul Browning, and one of the pilots from the other Titans cruiser walked into Konpeitoh's main Pilot's Club.

The three men's black-and-red Titans uniforms were conspicuous among the two dozen grey-clad Space Force personnel, but few of those glanced at the Titans more than once as they stood just inside the doorway looking the room over.

"What a dump!" the third Titan remarked. "This place must have been built by Spacenoid trash; Earthnoids would have chosen better décor."

"Really," Browning agreed, loudly. "Did the Space Farce even refurbish this place when they took it over from the Zeeks?"

"If you don't like it, Tetons, you can leave; we didn't invite you," a voice with a vaguely Irish accent called from across the room, arousing a muttering of agreement from the other Federals.

"Who said that?" Browning asked angrily. "You can't talk to a Titan that way! Who said that?"

"I said it," a man in the right-hand corner said, jumping to his feet.

"And who the hell are you, Feddie?" Tsib demanded. "What's your name?"

"I am Spartacus," the Federal officer replied.

"He's lying," someone at the bar shouted, "I said it, and I am Spartacus!"

"No, I'm Spartacus, and it was I who spoke those immortal words!" another man said.

A woman shot to her feet in the far left corner. "They're all lying," she said, "I said it, and I'm Spartacus."

A loud laugh spread across the room, accompanied by a rousing round of applause.

"What the hell is going on here?" Browning shouted, trying to be heard over the noise.

"QUIET!" roared a man sitting at the same table as the woman who had last stood up, and the din quickly receded. "I appreciate yer assistance, lads and lassies, but ifin' ya'd take a looksie at 'm, ya'd see that I don't really need it; these young kiddies the Tetons sent us are hardly out of the trainin' pants, and not likely ta do more'n throw a tantrum at us."

"The hell you say," Browning yelled, getting red in the face as the crowd laughed again. "We're not afraid of you, little man!"

The large-mouthed Federal smiled down at the woman and two men sharing his table. "Did you hear that?" he asked rhetorically. "One o' these kiddies thinks I'm small! What d'ya reckon I should do with 'em?"

One of the men at his table glanced briefly at the Titans pilots and then turned his attention back to his drink. "Throw 'em back, Ketch; they're not big enough to keep."

"We can take the both of you, jackasses!" Browning shouted without consulting his companions, both of whom were beginning to shift their feet nervously and look ever more anxious.

"Ah, but you're wrong there, laddie; only one of us is an Ass, and it's not one I'd recommend kicking!" the loudmouth said, drawing a chorus of agreements from the other Federals.

"You disrespectful son of a-"

"Browning!" a sharp voice barked from behind the Titans, interrupting the rookie's next insult and causing all three to jump. The lanky, handsome figure standing in the doorway was obviously upset and from all appearances only at his fellow Titans.

"Lieutenant Yelot, I'm glad you're here," Browning said gleefully, completely misunderstanding the newcomer's anger. "We've got a bad case of disrespect to senior officers here."

"So I've noticed, Browning," Yelot said coldly. "I take it you would like my assistance in resolving the situation?"

"You bet, sir!" Browning said, relief obvious across his face.

"Very well. Browning, Tsib, you're both on report; if I catch either of you out of line again you'll receive no more liberty on this rock for the duration of our stay. As for you, Nkurmah," he continued, turning to the third Titan, "I'll be informing both Lieutenant Maint and Captain Pemco of what transpired here, so you'd better keep that sickly brown nose of yours clean, too."

"What? Sir? What are you doing?"

"I've just resolved the situation, Browning," Yelot said as soon as the laughter raised by the young pilot's anguished complaint died down, "exactly as you requested. This is a club; either shut up and order a drink or shut up and leave. Your choice." For his part, Yelot moved to the bar, ordered a drink, and walked over to the table with the loudmouth.

"Since when," he asked, staring at the loudmouth, "have you been picking on defenseless children?"

"Since they started getting a mite too big fer their britches, Lieutenant," the man replied, grinning.

Yelot winced. "Ketch, that accent is terrible."

The other man laughed. "Yes, I know," he replied in a Side 5 voice devoid of the pseudo-Irish he'd been using up until then, "but it tends to upset the young whipper-snappers when they get insulted by someone who can't even pronounce things properly. Have a seat, Low, I'll introduce you."

The Titan pulled a chair to the table and sat down between the woman who had claimed to be Spartacus and the other man who had thrown insults at the Titans.

"So, you're still Warrant Officer Meade?" Yelot asked his host.

"That I am. I see you're only a Jay-Gee; what gives?"

"I was up for promotion before I joined the Titans; now I've got the clout and perks of a full Lieutenant, but not the pay." Yelot shrugged and took a swill from his drink. "Not like I care what they pay me, anyway."

"Ah, I see," Meade replied. "Well, that's the Titans' loss, Low."

"Didn't you say something about introductions, Ketch?" Yelot asked, looking around the table.

"That I did, Lieutenant, sir. Thank you for the reminder," Meade said bashfully. He gestured to the woman on Yelot's right. "This lovely lady is Ella Steinway, Ensign Extraordinaire; she enjoys long walks in null gravity, chocolates, and proving beyond all doubt that woman have better dexterity and hand-eye coordination than men as she flies the pants off all comers."

"God, Ketch, you're such a liar," the woman said. She was short, a little heavyset, and didn't seem to spend much time worrying about her appearance; her light brown hair was cut short but wild, looking as if she had just taken off a normal suit helmet after a six-hour flight. Her face was kind and open, however, with a large smile and some laugh lines etched around her eyes. "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, throwing Yelot a smile and offering her hand.

Yelot shook the hand and smiled back. "Low Yelot. And Ketch has been an accomplished liar for years; I think he took classes on it in grade school." Everyone laughed at that, and the two other men at the table relaxed a bit.

"This," Meade said next, slapping the man on his left, sitting across from the Titan, "Is my platoon's so-called leader, CWO Gainer Arras. Gainer, meet Low Yelot, Titan Ace."

"Howdy," Arras said across the table. He was barrel-chested and muscular, with thinning black and grey hair atop a grizzled, weather-beaten face.

Yelot looked him over with more than a little surprise and wonder. "You're a platoon leader with only a warrant? I didn't think there was anyone like that left in the Space Force."

"We're a dying breed," Arras confirmed heavily, "but none of the officers are able to hold my yahoos in check ashore and keep up with them in flight, so they put 'em in my care."

"Bullshit," the man on Yelot's left said.

"Now, Gainer, don't lead the Lieutenant on like that, I can do all the lying required for the platoon, thank you very much!" Meade admonished. "You can't rein us in or keep up with us in flight; instead you lead us in our trouble-making here and play sitting duck while Simon and I keep the enemy from killing you."

"Well, what else do you want in a leader, Ketch?"

The others at the table laughed at that, and Yelot found himself joining them.

"I think I see why they put you in charge, Chief," he said.

"Oh, don't call me that," Arras said. "Here at Konpei only one man is allowed to be addressed as 'Chief'; he's a bit protective of the name, and those who face his left hook only allow themselves to be a target for it once, unless they're masochists."

"Funny you should say that, Gainer, seeing as how you've been put down by it, what, six times in the last year?" the man on Yelot's left said. "Is there something you're not telling us about yourself?"

That brought another round of laughter to the table. When it was over, the still unnamed man noticed that most of the glasses were empty. "I'll get us a pitcher of bock," he said, getting to his feet.

"Who's that?" Yelot asked after the man was out of earshot.

"Oh, him? He's, ah, well, he's the unlucky third bastard in our platoon," Meade admitted. "Simon Mullet is his name, and if I were you, I'd head over to those three tenderfeet of yours and get ready to stop a fight."

"Hmm? Why?" Yelot asked, looking around.

The trio of young Titans had claimed an area of the bar for themselves and had been avoiding interaction with the other people in the room since Yelot had chastised them.

"Because I suspect they will take an objection to Simon, there," Meade said.

"Whatever for?"

"Because they're young, arrogant, and pissed off, and he's a chief petty officer."

"What's that have to do with anything?"

"How many enlisted pilots do you have in the Titans?" Meade asked.

"Half a dozen, maybe, all very good. If your man is still flying at that rank he must be good, too."

"Are yours good enough to embarrass young officers and make them defensive and status-conscious?"

"Oh, shit," Yelot said after a moment's pause.

"The hell you doin' here?" they heard Nkurmah shout from across the room.

No one at the table could hear Mullet's answer, though everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to watch the second round. Yelot saw three people at another table pull out money and set it on the table before them.

"Oh, you're just a waitress," Tsib said scornfully.

"That's done it," Arras breathed.

"No, you jumped-up piece of Earther shit, I'm a fucking pilot," Mullet shouted for all to hear. "If you and your moronic buddies want to lodge a complaint about my presence here all three of you can get off those stools and we'll settle it here and now, man-to-girls!"

"I suppose we should stop this," Steinway said.

"That's your commission talking, ma'am," Meade put in. "My warrant, however, says that these three need to be taught a lesson, and what better teacher could they find than Mullet?"

"Point," the Ensign admitted.

"You're just going to watch?" Yelot asked, amazed.

"No," Meade admitted. "If Nikoden gets around to us I'm going to start betting."

"Mullet sweeps 'em with five," Arras estimated.

"I agree it'll only take him five blows, but I say he takes a couple himself," Meade decided. "What do you say, Ella?"

"Mullet in thirteen, taking about seven."

"What?" the warrant officers asked in unison.

"He's going to play with them first," Steinway declared. "To make them see how out-matched they are. By a Spacenoid."

A commotion brought their attention back to the altercation at the bar. Much to their surprise, Yelot was trying to break things up.

"Aw, hell."

"Don't worry, Gainer," Meade said to console his superior, "they'll be here for a good four weeks; I'm sure there'll be plenty of mix-ups in that time. Probably even some we can join in."

"Men!" Steinway said.

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8 December 0084
Titans Cruiser Jintsu

"Aw, c'mon, Boss, why all these last-minute sims?" Tsib whined as he clambered tiredly out of his bunk. "This gig's gonna be easy, none of those Feddies have half the training we've got."

"And you don't have a tenth of their experience, Tsib," Yelot shot back as he finished adjusting his pilot's suit. "Some of the Aggressors have been with Keram for more than five years; Browning was still a virgin then."

"The hell you say!" the man in question shouted from within his bed. "I made my first score when I was nine!"

"You're still less experienced than anyone on this rock," Yelot continued, ignoring the youngster's claim. "Ella Steinway has only been 'killed' in three of her last hundred sorties. Ketch Meade was one of the most active pilots in the War, starting out as a Saberfish pilot in March of '79; he had five kills by April, and did even better when they put him inside a mobile suit. Heidi Brennan fought for six months in a captured Zaku, made ace in it - including the destruction of a particularly nasty Z'gok near Hatteras - and then caught a pair of Rick Doms during Star One. She's never had formal training. Neither has Simon Mullet, but he, like Meade, is driving a -79SC."

"Pfft, that's a brick compared to the Quel," Tsib sneered. "Hell, even my old Kai beats it."

"Tsib, how many kills did you get last year in that C-type?"

"I splattered a Zaku all over a Pazock," he said proudly. "It was one funny sight to see that ship plough through the rubble."

"That's it? Mullet got three or four Zakus, a pair of Rick Doms and a Gelgoog Cannon in his Sierra Charlie, despite only fighting here during Wyatt's Folly. From the gossip around this rock I gather he got one of the skirts and the Gelgoog without firing a shot; sabres only."

"So what? It's not like they'll be flying their GMs," Browning scoffed from under his blankets. "They'll be in Zakus and Doms; nothing to worry about."

"I suppose you're right, Browning," Yelot said heavily. "After all, so far as I've been able to find out, only Brennan, Nikoden, and Hawke have actual combat experience against veteran Zeon pilots while in Zakus; the rest have only been simming in them for two or three years."

"Glad you see it our way, Boss," Browning said with a yawn, missing the irony in his commander's voice. "Now can we forget this sim nonsense so I can get back to sleep?"

"Sure, I'll just go and vent this compartment to space," Yelot said gently, grabbing some files from his drawer and exiting.

Yelot flew along the passageways until he came near the senior officers' quarters, pulling himself to a stop outside Sulate's stateroom, and knocked. A few moments later the door opened and a bleary-eyed head looked out.

"Oh, it's you," Sulate said, brushing some hair out of her eyes. "Come in, find a hold."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, cut the formalities, Low, I'm not dressed for them."

It was true, Sulate's blouse was hanging near one of the corners overhead and a trouser leg was showing out of an improperly closed drawer. Sulate herself was wearing only a dirty t-shirt and shorts.

Yelot watched her as she floated back to her bunk and strapped herself down to avoid floating away from that position. He hooked an arm through a hand-bar and closed the door. "Did you get any rest last night?"

"Of course not," Sulate yawned back at him. "I was researching the Aggressors and Keram. How did your reconnoiter go?"

"As well as could be expected, I suppose. The only advantage we have on my end is our equipment; these pilots are a lot sharper than the ones at Luna II, and they've been together longer. All of 'em have been here for more than a year and several in the units served together in the War."

"Th-that jives with what I've discovered of the ship officers," Sulate replied tiredly. "Harlock - the same one from Loum, by the way - served as Keram's Ops officer for most of the War, and Oruma was first a ship commander and then a Squadron leader under Keram; he's been with him since the war ended, too."

"How should we tackle this, then?"

"Damn if I know, Low," she replied, putting her face in her hands. "We both know that the Commander isn't up to the task."

"Pemco on Holstein-"

"Is still junior to Satain!" Sulate snapped. "Sorry," she returned quickly, adding a tired smile. "I think the situation is getting me down a bit."

"Well, first exercise doesn't start until tomorrow afternoon," Yelot said kindly. "Don't let yourself go to seed, Columbia; we'll all need you in good shape when things start going awry."

"That's . . . kind of you to say, Low," Sulate blushed, "but there's not a whole lot I can do on the bridge."

"Every little bit helps," Yelot replied fervently. "I owe you a dinner or something for whatever you did to keep him from tanning my hide yesterday."

"It was nothing, Low."

"I've heard of a couple wonderful restaurants on Luna," he suggested.

"Really, Low," she insisted, turning scarlet, "I did what I thought was best for the ship."

----------------------

Konpeitoh, L5
S-field Docking Bay 3

Commodore Yama Keram watched as a peculiar ship ended the vaguely obscene mating ritual of a ship attaching itself to something larger in zero gravity, and slowly made his way to the main entrance hatch of the vessel, where his staff was waiting.

"Hell of a strange looking bitch," one of his senior officers said as Keram arrived at the entryway. "But it does look a bit more solid than the Lunar Patrol Buckets."

"Yes, Ray, it does. Igor claims to be singularly proud of it, and is looking forward to showing it off over the next few weeks."

"I'll bet he's 'singularly proud' of it," Commander Raymond Oruma went on, "If only because he's the only one proud of it."

"Hey, I think it looks gnarly," another officer said.

"You would, Derek; you like even the Lunar Buckets."

"They work, don't they?"

"Nothing can 'work' that attracts the worst the Space Force has to offer. I'm surprised none of those crews have mutinied and turned pirate," Oruma commented.

"Ah, here he comes," Keram interrupted. "Do behave, children."

Everyone followed the Commodore's gaze and did indeed see a group of people disembarking from the ship before them. The man in the lead was short and barrel-chested, hunched forward even weightless. As he came closer his facial features began to be discernable, though each of the senior officers knew the man's face quite well already. His hair was light and thin, showing no small amount of mottled pink scalp; the man's eyes were brown and frequently described as 'beady'. The cheeks were a sick, pasty shade of pink and pocked with a multitude of the small scars of nigh-intolerable childhood acne. Even on his best days, as this one appeared to be, the man looked unwell.

"Igor," Keram said with a smile, sticking out his hand as the man came near, "so good to see you again!"

"Commodore," the man replied, taking the hand in his own small, pudgy one and deliberately using the naval form of Keram's rank. "It's good to be in orbit again." The man looked at the assembled officers and grinned. "I see many a familiar face among your harem; I guess the rumors are true."

"Rumors? Which rumors are these?"

"The ones that say once you find someone with skill you never let them go."

Keram laughed, clear and loud, and was joined by several chuckles from his staff. "Oh, rubbish, Igor; I let you leave, didn't I? In fact, I rather think Jaburo is afraid that if they give me new personnel my, ah, 'personality cult' or whatever I'm supposedly building out here will only grow larger and more sinister; by keeping the same officers with me all the time they're hoping I'll go stale."

"Fat chance of that," the smaller man said before turning to the officers near by. "I can't believe that just to get another command I had to get sent back out to work with you clowns."

"I can't believe that they let you have another ship, Makarov," Oruma grumbled.

"At least I lost my last one in honest combat, not from a mickey slipped into the center of a beauty pageant. I trust you've been keeping busy, Raymond?"

"Naturally."

"And I suspect you're still chasing skirts and insane battle plans, Derek?"

"Of course, sir," Lieutenant Commander Harlock replied, grinning. "If you still need pointers, sir, my offer -"

"Thank you, no, Derek; my goal in life is not to see how many diseases I can acquire."

"Well, now that everyone is all caught up with each other," Keram said, "why don't we retire to my quarters, gentlemen?"

"Is my pilot still here, Commodore?"

"He is," Keram replied, leading the group away from the dock area. "I've thoroughly enjoyed having him the past year, Igor, but if you'd like him back we can probably get along without him."

"Nah, I can't take him, the hangar's stuffed as it is with a trio of C-types and an old Sierra Papa."

"I was under the impression that you were getting special reconnaissance units, Igor; how did you end up with -79Cs?"

"The new suits aren't ready yet. But Dolvich stopped in to see me a couple months back and suggested this whacked-out shield setup he used on basic GMs during the War. We've tried them out and I'm damned if they don't work pretty well."

"You're damned, regardless, Mak."

"Stuff it, Ray, you're just upset that your ship doesn't have a trippy name like mine."

"Bastard!"

"No, that's one of the names proposed for the second batch."

"What? What are they naming your monstrosities?"

"Mule is mine," Makarov began.

"Appropriately so," Oruma interjected.

"Hey, I'm tryin' to tell a story here!" Makarov growled, glaring at his old friend. "As I said, mine is Mule, Pretentious is just about finished, while Fiddle II and Hubris are only just being laid down. If we perform well, we might get another four, tentatively named Strumpet, Harlot, Eunuch, and Bastard."

"My God, who picked those names?" Harlock asked, shocked.

Oruma cocked an eye at Makarov. "It was you, you son of a bitch, wasn't it?"

"Damned right it was!" the other man gloated. "Most of 'em, anyway, there were one or two suggested by that nutter Beard. She's slated to get Fiddle II."

"Wait, not Martha Beard?"

"That's the one, Derek," Makarov replied. "Why, didn't like her pick of positions or something? She was suggesting things like Kama and Sutra, too."

Harlock laughed. "Yeah, that sounds like Marty. She taught me an awful lot."

"Oh, she did? Guess I should ask her for pointers, then."

"Not that kind of stuff!" Harlock said, actually blushing. "At least, not much of that."

Keram chuckled, raising a few eyebrows.

"Not you, too, sir!"

"Relax, Derek, I wasn't laughing at you so much as the entire situation. It's quite nice to have so much of the old team back together, even if Igor isn't actually going to participate directly on our side. You're here as an additional Observer/Controller to test your reconnoitering, I believe, Igor?"

"S'right. I'd rather play for real, of course; O/Cing is like shooting blanks; unfulfilling and a waste of resources. What's the setup for tomorrow's match?"

"Both Jintsu and Holstein versus our choice of two Musais or one larger ship. We get more suits out of the Musais."

"You'll be taking your Zanzibar, then."

"What makes you guess that?"

"It's not a guess, Derek. The Titans probably won't expect it and with two catapults it'll get your suits deployed the fastest."

"But two Musais would give us two catapults, too," Harlock pointed out.

"Sure, but the suits are split three and five between them, and they'd all be Zakus; the Zanzibar gives you some Gelgoogs for your aces to strut in."

"It's a pleasure to see that your powers of deduction have not atrophied, Igor."

"What's for supper?"

"His stomach's still the same, too," Oruma groused.

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This story is copyrighted by Dan Cowden 2004. Yayness.

Bandai, Sunrise and folks like that own Gundam, however, not me.

As usual, Trioknight, His Divine Shadow, Zetasphere and many others have helped me with editing and suchlike, so I'm thankful.