Phase-01: Half a League, Half a League, Half a League Onward
First Conference Room, Parliament Building of The Lunar Union, Arno City, Medici Federation, Luna.
June 10, Space Colonisation Era Year 144. 0900 Lunar Standard Time.
At a large, oak table, several men sat, dossiers in front of them. On one side were politicians, dressed in expensive black suits from the finest tailors on the Moon. On the other side were military men and women, admirals of the Lunar Union Force, all in their smartest black uniforms. At the head of the table was another of the politicians, Cosimo Vecchio, the Prime Minister of the Medici Federation and current Supreme Chairperson of the whole Lunar Union, the body representing the interests of all the provinces of the Moon.
"Ministers, Admirals," he began, "You are all aware of why this meeting has been called. Two days ago, all contact was lost with Churchill Prefecture, the largest of the colony clusters at Lagrange Point Four. At the present, we have no idea just why communications have been lost. The last report from the local administration was ordinary, even banal, to say the least. A transcript is in the dossier, of course. The question, one I hope to have answered soon, is just why we have lost contact."
There was a general murmuring around the room, as those assembled digested the information. Some browsed through the dossier provided; the transcript mentioned was indeed there, as well as facts and figures about Churchill Prefecture, amongst other things.
One of the Union Force admirals, a well-built man, chimed in with his thoughts: "I'd be willing to put this down to the rising levels of colonial terrorism. Damned ungrateful colonials killed half a dozen soldiers last week at the Aswan Colony with a suicide bomb. For all we know, this could just be another example of their ungrateful and childish behaviour!"
More murmuring, louder this time. All those present were Lunarian, so there was no dissent, simply doubt.
"Admiral Zerck, terrorism is of great concern to us at this time, of course, but this would be a far different and far more significant act than any we've previously seen. Of course, the safety of our troops is a major priority, but no act of terrorism in any colony has been sufficient to prevent communication between a colony group and the government."
"There's always the possibility that these terrorists are increasing the scope and size of their activities, being buoyed by other acts of terror at other colonies." chimed in one politician, the representative from the Lido Alliance.
"Exactly!" replied Zerck. "If this is the case, it's quite possible we may be facing a militia, an enemy using stolen Union Force hardware!"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Admiral. It is quite possible that colonial rebels have done this, but then it's also possible to be transmitter failure. Deploying a fleet to replace a faulty transmitter would look rather extreme, would it not?" it was clear that Vecchio agreed with what Zerck suggested; it would just take one more push to convince the other politicians.
The push came from another of the military men, an Admiral named Bannerman: "Can we afford to take that risk, though? In all honesty, we need to take action, if a problem exists. If there's no problem, we could pass it off as an admiral sent to take a formal review of the Churchill Prefecture forces."
"Now that sounds like a fair plan. Either way, the Union Force can do what is appropriate without losing face. Are there any objections?"
Nobody had any objection to the plans.
"Very well, then. Admirals, I leave it in your hands. We shall soon get to the bottom of this… curiosity, I believe. If there is no further business, this meeting is adjourned."
And so it began.
Fort Croydon, Blenheim Colony, Churchill Prefecture, Lagrange Point Four.
June 11, SCE 144. 1330 LST.
All across the military base, preparations were being made. Since the termination of contact with the Union on the eighth, everyone had been on a war footing, awaiting the imminent arrival of a Union Force fleet. It was the Medici Federation's way of doing things; if it threatens, kill it; if it's unknown, kill it and examine what's left.
And it was because they so opposed this that the Space Colonies Allied Territories existed.
The ideal was nothing new; movements to oppose the Union had been tried before over the past half-century. Sadly, all previous attempts had been loosely organised coalitions formed from numerous anti-Union terrorist groups. Things had changed after the Joshua Tragedy, however, and now the leading figures in politics and in industry had galvanised the population of the Churchill Prefecture colonies.
Blenheim Colony, from the outside, would seem nothing special. Like most of the other colonies created in the past century, it was composed of two cones, each almost thirty kilometres from base to point, points joined by a central zero-gravity spaceport area, two huge round solar panels branching from this section. The circular base of each cone, ten kilometres in diameter, supported a lush environment with considerable amounts of water and vegetation; a manmade paradise, for sure.
On the inside, Blenheim was quite something. Its "south" cone had been converted into a military base, dominated by the Marine Corps of the SCAT Strategic Military Self Defence Force, and contained huge numbers of hangars, factories, barracks, and peripheral facilities for the Marines.
Two members of the Marine Corps were standing outside a hangar, talking; the conversation was becoming quite animated, as they discussed the current state of affairs.
"So you really think that those cavemen on the Moon will attack us?" asked one, a tall, blonde man in a red uniform.
"It's quite possible… they've not heard from us in three days, and you know what happens when the Union Force is uncertain…" replied the other participant, a slightly shorter, brown haired man with piercing blue eyes, dressed in a purple uniform.
"Hardly matters, Julius. They have a big fleet, that's true. A habit of shooting anything that moves as well. But we have the Dauntless. And that's where our power comes from." exclaimed the red uniformed one with a typical pattern of pauses between and even during thoughts.
"Cyril, you're too optimistic… the Dauntless is a good machine, but it's not the be-all and end-all of warfare."
"Well, one of us has to be optimistic. And, as the lower ranking one, I think that should be me. I'll leave the realism to you, Commander."
Saluting, Cyril turned on his heel and made his exit, jumping into a parked jeep nearby and set off for a destination Julius could only guess at. Letting out a brief sigh, he strode into the hangar that the two had been lingering outside, to inspect its contents. Orange-suited mechanics scurried around between berths, checking and rechecking every last piece of equipment.
A display on the wall marked the hangar as being designated for the Van Steenvoort Team. His team. Looking at the contents of the four berths on either wall, he felt extremely aware of what his team was: mobile suits, eight of them, all of the Dauntless type, SCAT's ace-in-the-hole. Seven were the "basic" model Dauntless Spartan, painted in the standard dark gray colours of the SCAT Marines, each bearing a white rose on the left shoulder and a number between 02 and 08 on the right. One, the closest on the left, bore a stylised red "CC" next to its unit number 02; Cyril Cheshire, nicknamed "Cheshire Cat" for his gigantic smile and the almost perverse delight he took in combat simulations.
The final machine, the closest to him on the right, was a Dauntless Leader, superior to the Spartan; it too was gray, but both its shoulders were purple, the number "01" marked on its right shoulder's rectangular armour, the rounded corners of the armour finished in white. A crown adorned the White Rose on its left shoulder; this was his machine.
The eight were soon to be transferred from this hangar to a warship which would serve as their mothership. The transfer had been delayed due to an error in the SMSDF central database, which had somehow lost the orders between the Marine side and the Armada side; Julius put this down to the ineptitude of mostly ship-driving bureaucrats, as always. The SCAT Armada was the navy of this military, controlling its warships and ports. The Armada also served as the means by which the Marines would get their mobile suits to battle, but they were no mere transport fleet; the Armada's warships were at least on a par with Union Force ships of equivelant size, though the colonial force had no match for the Union's huge flagship carrier Indomitable.
Few people at Fort Croydon doubted that there'd be a war; the Union's attitude towards the colonies had been diminishing for decades as the Moon became more and more dependent on their manufacturing capabilities, and the Colonials seemed to become more like "hired help" to the Lunarians. The colonies had power over the cavemen who hid from Space inside the gray rock; if only they'd used it properly, sooner…
"Julius, you daydreaming again? I pity your squad if you do that in combat, man!" yelled a burly pilot as he passed in a jeep with his buddies.
Turning, a smiling Julius shot off his reply: "Why not write that into your next song, Andy Wallace? I bet the ladies will love that lyric!"
The smile quickly disappeared from the burly pilot's face. Scowling, he faced straight ahead, trying to ignore the barrage of jeers from the others in the jeep. Andy Wallace Richmond had been named after a popular lounge singer from a few years before he was born, famed for his silky voice, pretty-boy good looks, and swooning lyrics. Sadly for A.W. Richmond, the name didn't imbue him with such luck in life; he had a brash voice, was built like an ox, and tended to struggle with long words.
Alex smiled to himself for a few moments, until one of the mechanics dashed upto him, a gawky young redheaded man, barely out of puberty but a superb engineer nonetheless. "Commander! Commander Van Steenvoort! Your mobile suits are ready for transfer to ship sir!"
"Thank you…" The purple-uniformed man subtly glanced at the nametag on the mechanic's orange jumpsuit, "...Thompson. I'll call my team. Is that all?"
"Yes sir! May I say it's been a pleasure to serve your squadron and that I hope to serve with you again sir!" The young officer was good at his job, but spoke far too quickly, as if he'd forget what he was saying if he didn't get it out of his mouth as soon as he thought it.
"Your service was greatly appreciated. You and your comrades served excellently. The thanks is all mine." Julius snapped off a smart salute which the young mechanic quickly returned, before dashing back to the other orange-clad men. The mobile suit pilot smiled; he barely remembered being that young, let alone that earnest.
Reaching for an inside pocket, he reached for his phone. Furiously hammering away at the keys, Julius entered a text message:
All squadron: Report hangar immediately.
Mobile suits to transfer to battleship today.
Last one here does the paperwork!
- JVS.
A few keys later, the message had been sent on the group-send code to all seven other members of the Van Steenvoort Squadron. Within moments, seven "message delivered" confirmations came up on his phone. He hoped they wouldn't reply; the default message tone annoyed him, and figuring out how to change it was far too much effort.
Sure enough, the damned thing made that beep-beep, beep-beep noise seven times within a minute. All the messages were largely the same:
OK Cmdr will do!
Just have to let the curry burn I guess P
I liked that kitchen too… oh well!
- BR
…and…
2 minutes sir!
- AP
…not to mention…
OMG WTF NOW! LOL P
I'll be there Julius.
- CC
The other four were relatively "ordinary", by the standards of his squad. All of them were somewhat bizarre, in their own ways. Sometimes, it seemed the craziest members of the Marines had been lumped together in one unit, led by a man who considered himself reasonably sane. He doubted anyone else considered him overly sane, though.
However, these pilots weren't mere nutcases in uniforms; for all their rather "unique" personality traits, they comprised some of the best in the Marines, pilots who could – if pressed – hit a human-sized target sixty kilometres away at the other end of a colony, in motion, without the aid of the Dauntless' superb targeting computer.
Well, maybe not. But they were almost that good.
With the rest of the squad on the way, Julius found himself with nothing to do but wait and brood. And so, on impulse, he ambled straight towards the hangar. The best place to brood, he found, was the cockpit of a twenty metre tall robot. That way, if he felt the need to vent, he'd have a gigantic metal body and its superb arsenal to do so with.
Main Bridge, SCAT Armada Battleship Ibuki, Blenheim Colony Main Spaceport, Churchill Prefecture, Lagrange Point 4.
June 11, SCE 144. 1410 Hours LST.
Jame Demry was annoyed.
The rest of the Ibuki's crew would readily agree that this was something of a regular occurrence. However, the captain's annoyances were frequently mere "storm in a teacup" affairs, and could be defused simply by agreeing with him, or just staying off the bridge. This afternoon's first annoyance was the fact that his ship, which was supposed to have a full load of eight mobile suits, currently had no mobile suits.
On the other hand, Demry thought, no mobile suits meant no Marines. And that wouldn't be so bad, really.
Sighing, Captain Demry – captain in position only, for the Armada had no rank structure, like the Marines – stood from the captain's chair, cold gray eyes looking across the expansive bridge. A combination of transparent aluminium panels and computer monitors provided him an impressive view of the port area ahead and to the sides. Noticing a wrinkle in his black "commander" uniform, Demry sighed again, fixing the imperfection. A slight, polite cough by his left shoulder alerted him to the fact that his weapons officer, a petite red-haired woman named Olivia Fisher, wanted his attention.
"Yes, Olivia?" he enquired. Despite his demeanour, the Ibuki's captain had a soft voice. "Oh, is this the inventory?"
"It is, captain," replied Fisher, perkily, "We now have a full stock of missiles, of all three models; 'Starburst mark four' assault missiles, 'Skyflash mark three' pursuit missiles, and 'Shotlancer' interceptor missiles are all loaded in both magazines for use by all six launchers. All four dual cannons are fully prepared, as are both single cannons. The sixteen dual close-in lasers will be ready within the hour, sir."
"Captain Demry!" interrupted the communications officer, Amy Morrison. "We have confirmation that our mobile suits, those of the Van Steenvoort Squadron, will be aboard within the hour."
Demry sighed again. "Thank you, Amy. Inform the hangar deck."
"Yessir."
Ibuki would be ready for battle soon enough. All they needed now was for the Union Force to hurry up and arrive so they could show what the Space Colonies Allied Territories Armada could do.
Bridge, Lunar Union Navy Battleship Intrepid; Halfway Between Luna and Lagrange Point Four.
June 12, SCE 144. 1010 LST.
On the bridge of the 102nd "Hallam" Fleet's flagship, Garth Lauser stood, impatiently staring out at space, gazing disdainfully at the ominous hourglasses in the distance. For dozens of kilometres to either side and behind the Intrepid the fleet cruised toward their destination, the Churchill Prefecture of space colonies. Fifteen ships comprised this fleet, primarily from the Medici Federation, of four different classes; the Lancer A2 and Striker C4 battleships, the Jorvik B1 escort cruisers, and the Tudor F1 light cruisers. The presence of the light cruisers disgusted Lauser; the last modification of an obsolete class, they were being steadily replaced by the Jorvik, but not quickly enough. The Tudor was incapable of mounting cosmofighters, and its nuclear reactor was too weak to support plasma cannons. All in all, it seemed a waste of space.
Still, it wasn't his problem. Lieutenant Commander Lauser was a cosmofighter pilot, a Typhoon pilot at that, and commander of the elite 600th "Elephantine" Team, the best of the best of the best in the Lunar Union Cosmofighter Force. Better than anyone else from the Medici Federation, whose cosmofighter pilots were the best in the Union. He would be leading the small fighter craft into battle. It annoyed him, though. He disliked stupid people, and considered most other cosmofighter teams to be comprised of stupid people; useful, often capable, but stupid. It annoyed him further that he'd be commanding teams using three models of cosmofighter: the brand-new Typhoons currently exclusive to top Medici teams, their Albizzi Alliance doppelgangers the Mustang, and the slightly older Medici model Hurricanes. Three distinct models of cosmofighter weren't really necessary; they all did the same things, at a roughly equal level. The reason for the three was to keep the defence industry corporations backing various Union politicians happy.
"Bloody politics." He muttered under his breath.
"Did you say something, Mister Lauser?" the ship's captain, a portly man with few skills but numerous connections, enquired.
"I was just musing on how dull this mission will likely be, sir."
The portly Captain seemed ready to reply, but was cut off by another man, of similar age but a bodybuilder's figure. Admiral Brice Milberger was an imposing figure to say the least, especially when crammed into the black uniform of the Union Force admiralty.
"Commander Lauser," he intoned in a gravely voice, "I believe we may be surprised by what we find amongst those colonies. To be as prepared as possible, I chose your fighter unit to provide the spearhead of our force."
Lauser, who had snapped to attention as the admiral floated onto the bridge, didn't hesitate in his reply. "Yes sir! Apologies for my doubts, sir!"
"Don't worry yourself, Commander. Now, go and make sure your pilots are prepared." Responded the Admiral, nodding his bald head slightly.
Lauser nodded in response and pushed off the deck, leaving the expansive bridge through the central rear doors. As the elevator descended to the deck the battleship's hangar was on, he cursed his misfortune at being assigned to a ship run by an idiot in a fleet commanded by a brute stuffed into a uniform. This building irritation gave Lauser the inspiration he needed for what he'd do to prepare his pilots:
"Simulation training. Extreme difficulty. Outnumbered three-to-one."
Hangar Deck, SCAT Armada Battleship Ibuki; Rendezvous Point Alpha, Colony Side of Resource Asteroid L4-A03.
June 12, SCE 144. 1845 Hours.
The hangar deck of the Ibuki was silent.
At least, that's what Julius believed, with the external audio switched off in his pilot suit's helmet. Pressing a button on the back of his right glove, the audio came back on.
The hangar deck of the Ibuki was incredibly loud.
Even with the automatic volume control in his helmet, the noise was almost headache inducing. It was like being at a Blast Impulse rock concert, only without the superb guitars, drums, or superb Robert Plant-esque vocals. Mechanics scurried back and forth in their orange normal suits – the term for "ordinary" space suits – preparing the eight mobile suits in the hangar for combat. Pilots spoke with varying degrees of enthusiasm and politeness with the mechanics, demanding their machines be at the highest performance level possible for the upcoming battle. Julius wasn't overly concerned, he knew the Ibuki's chief mechanic, and was sure his Dauntless was in good hands.
To save time, the Van Steenvoort squadron was having its mission equipment attached as early as possible, rather than equip the various bits and pieces on the catapult as would be done normally. Three of the Spartans, under his command, would go out with the Type-A configuration; this would put his team in the "standard" Dauntless Spartan configuration.
Dauntless Spartans were superb machines, even if untested in combat. Just under nineteen metres tall, the torso was broad, the limbs suitably sized for the size and power of the main body, with large hands and feet. Two shields, almost as wide and tall as the torso, were mounted on a pivot on each shoulder. On the upper edge of the shield there was a hardpoint to mount optional weapons; further hardpoints were on the forearms and the shins. The machine's only permanent thrusters were the pair on the rear of each shin of its long, broad legs; swappable backpack units allowed for different thruster packs for the different mission configurations. Finally, the head was roughly round but also tall, a single red sensor camera mounted on a track in the centre of the head, with a pair of long sweeping fins pointing back from either side; these contained decoy launchers and had small blue secondary cameras mounted on the front.
The weapons of the Dauntless Spartan were as impressive as the machine itself. Its standard armaments included a pair of 35mm Close-In Weapon System guns mounted on its armoured collar to either side of the head, a "camera blinder" gun mounted below the sensor track, a quartet of hyper-vibration knives, and a pair of hyper-vibration tomahawks. The emphasis on melee weapons on a unit designed for ranged combat wasn't unusual; the Marines' tactics emphasised close-range battle where their opponents wouldn't be able to use their long-range armaments.
The three Spartans in Van Steenvoort's team, units 03, 04 and 05, were to be equipped with the three-thruster backpack of the Type-A; whilst less powerful than the five-thruster unit of the Type-B, it contained more apogee motors for manoeuvring, and consumed far less propellant; a Type-A could remain in combat for just over three hours, whilst a Type-B had a mere fifty minutes of combat life in it.
Depending on pilot preference the arms would be equipped either with 35mm guns or a triple-barrel grenade launcher, or one of each; the hips would carry either a pair of grenade racks or a single grenade rack and a hyper-vibration sword; the shields could be fitted with a pair of fifteen-barrel micromissile launchers; finally, its handheld armaments would be a combination of 75mm assault rifle with attached 200mm grenade launcher, dual 140mm pistols, and an optional 230mm bazooka. The Type-A could also carry an 80mm ultrahigh-velocity sniper rifle, designed to be used with the Type-S head unit; unfortunately, Ibuki carried no Type-S heads, only the standard Type-G, and more to the point carried no sniper rifles either.
The quartet of Type-B units would carry a vastly different armament; a pair of triple-barrel shin missile launchers and six twin-barrel heavy missile launchers – two on the forearms, two on the hips, and one on each shield, complimented by a 100mm machinegun and massive 560mm bazooka. Less weapons overall, but considerably more heavy firepower. These four units were intended to be the "big gun" force, to strike at and destroy enemy warships, rather than their cosmofighters. In simulations, Cyril had perfected a tactic of using a tomahawk to cut through a ship's bridge before unloading a bazooka round into its engines; despite his superb simulator scores and "ace" status, the Marine Corps' development teams still refused to manufacture the "anti-ship scythe" he longed for.
His friend's lack of concern over ending lives sometimes concerned Julius. Granted, they were fighting for their independence and the like, but he was still hesitant about killing people. One reason for his own high simulator results, and assignment as a squad commander, was his precise aiming, shooting to disable rather than to destroy.
"Julius! We've got your machine armed and ready. Could you climb in and make sure everything's calibrated properly?"
Snapping him back to reality – via means of the skin-to-skin transmission system in all "normal" and "pilot" suits – was none other than Ibuki's chief mechanic, Donna Angel. A relatively tall brunette with looks men yearned for and some women envied, she seemed out of place amongst the other mechanics. Still, those hazel eyes of hers could see virtually any fault in a machine, and her mind could come up with any number of solutions. Mind of a natural engineer, body of a natural model, several in the Armada said; unfortunately for them, Donna was on record as saying that she hated ship drivers.
"It is… oh, excellent! Thanks, Donna, I'm glad you're the one keeping my team's mobile suits in fighting form." He smiled back, genuinely glad that he'd be serving with another of his long-time friends.
"Don't flatter me too much," she giggled, "I may hate ship drivers, but I loath Marine flyboys. You can thank me by taking your people and mine out for a drink or several at My Name's Jim on Blenheim when this is over."
"Donna, you have a deal!"
With a helping hand from the woman in orange, Julius pushed off the deck towards his mobile suit, the lone SMAF-CMS03DL Dauntless Leader aboard the ship. Though largely the same as the Spartan, Leader models had a few unique features. For one, their standard back unit was larger than the Spartan's, but mounted only two thrusters; to compensate, they had a pair of wing-like binders containing an extra two thrusters attached to either side of the backpack. There was an extra thruster on the side of each shin, and the feet contained retractable blades at the toe end. The head, though mostly identical to the high-performance Type-S, mounted a large "horn" communications antenna for its commander-use radio system. The fixed weapon loadout was identical to the Spartan, and the Leader could mount any of the "grunt" model's optional armaments.
Grabbing the small handgrip below the cockpit hatch on the top torso below the head, Julius scurried up the hatch and dropped into the cockpit itself. Positioning himself in his seat, a tap of a button by his left elbow brought the cockpit systems online; tapping the button next to that closed the cockpit hatch, the hatch sliding back to lock against the base of the mobile suit's neck.
A quick glance confirmed everything was as it should be: an array of six large monitors provided a 240-degree view of the hangar around him, excluding only the areas behind him, and monitors on the inside of the cockpit hatch provided a view directly above the mobile suit. At the point where the front and upper screens joined was a small console bar; three smaller screens were set into the console, the side ones for communications, the central one to provide a rear view. In front and to his sides were various consoles, between them containing the thirty-two buttons and switches necessary for operation of the machine and sub-displays for necessary information, the largest being the heads-down display, or HDD, on the front panel. A keyboard could be raised from an alcove on the left side of the cockpit for OS modification and sending of text messages, if necessary.
Manoeuvring was controlled by eight devices; a pair of joysticks positioned arm's reach away on the side panels, acceleration and thruster controls that ran alongside his arms running upto the base of the sticks, and a quartet of foot pedals whose functions were divided between leg movement and thruster output. Though the system appeared extremely complicated – and it was, despite the incredibly powerful automation computers – a trained Marine could handle such a machine with practiced ease gained from hundreds of hours' worth of SCAT Marine Corps Academy simulator training and frequent practice runs as part of their day-to-day duties. The best pilots were so adept at manipulating a mobile suit that they barely noticed the complexity involved.
As the cockpit systems ran through their startup sequence, the OS loading screen appeared on the HDD:
SCAT-SMSDF Marine Corps
Mobile Suit Operating System
Dauntless Series
Neural Network Version 1.42.17 mod. DL.002/B
Pilot Data ID – 1986/JVS/2612
The loading screen was quickly replaced by the system screen, displaying damage conditions, equipment status, and so forth; all of the data could be called up from this or any other of the machine's touch-screen displays onto the main monitor, for ease of use. As requested, Julius pressed the release key for the keyboard and began running a full system analysis, to make sure that everything was in order. Sure enough, Donna's team had done an excellent job, and the Dauntless Leader was fully combat ready.
Reaching for a panel on his left side, the pilot switched his mobile suit's communications system to the mechanics' frequency and reported in.
"Dauntless Leader checks out. I owe you guys a beer when we get back." Julius reported, affably.
On the hangar deck, just to the left of centre on his monitor, he could see Donna look up at his mobile suit and give him a thumb's up. She may have been smiling, too; he couldn't tell through the faceplate of her helmet, and it seemed a waste of time to switch on the object zoom function of the monitor, as she had turned around by the time he'd of even reached for the sub-display.
A glance around confirmed that the rest of his squad were in the hangar, standing in front of their mobile suits, or on, or near their mobile suits. Cyril Cheshire in front of 02, Barry Rowse in front of 03, Anna Pilkington on 04's left shoulder, Becks Klein by 05's foot, Philippe Mia near 06, Laurence Stuart on 07's head – for some reason, and Valentina Yalchin boarding 08.
Though none came from the same colony, the Academy and their time together at Blenheim had created a close bond between all of them. All for one and one for all was most definitely a theme throughout the Marines, and the military as a whole. The lack of any absolute rank structure helped, too; in the Marines, one could be a Mechanic, a Pilot, a Commander, or an Officer. The first three purely described job function – though a Commander was technically slightly higher than Pilots and mechanics – and the Officers were the equivelant to the Armada's admiralty, the top people who made the big decisions.
Julius had to wonder if the Officers ever longed to be Dauntless pilots.
Everything was good to go, it seemed. Mobile suits were ready, mechanics prepared for anything, and the ship seemed to be battle-worthy, too. The Union would never know what hit it, and even if they did they'd have no way to outmatch a colonial army like this.
"Okay, everyone, good work! Once you're done, go get some rest, it's going to be a long day tomorrow."
Cosmofighter Squadron Commander's Quarters, Lunar Union Navy Battleship Intrepid; Between Lagrange Point Four and Luna.
June 12, SCE 144. 2120 LST.
Lauser was exhausted. Strong as he appeared in front of his team, it was extremely draining to be so short-tempered. Collapsing – very slowly in zero gravity – onto the bed, the cosmofighter pilot thought over the day's events. His team once again proved adept in combat training, holding their own against a force three times larger and of superior ability. Even in a Typhoon versus Typhoon encounter, the Elephantine Team would be able to come out on top. If only the rest of the imbeciles in the Cosmofighter Corps were so capable, they'd have no problems.
A chime alerted him to the fact that someone was at the door. After a quick call of "It's open" the hatch slid open to reveal Lucy Boyd, smartly dressed in the green uniform of a Union Force officer. Lauser suddenly felt extremely shabby with his unfastened and creased jacket. The newly-arrived Boyd stepped into the room, standing to attention as the door closed.
"At ease, Ensign. What brings you here?" he enquired, tired mind picking up on just how attractive the red-haired woman was.
"Nothing special, sir. The ship's chief mechanic reports that our fighters are prepared and ready for combat. He also said there's a rumour going round that Churchill has seen a full-scale revolution and has its own secret army." She replied, her soft voice reflecting the boredom in her blue eyes.
"That would be… interesting, to say the least. I wonder if this so-called 'secret army' has weapons to match ours…"
The young ensign nodded. "That would certainly make this assignment less of a bore."
Realising what she had said, Boyd put a hand to her mouth, wide-eyed. Lauser simply laughed, as he stood himself up.
"Don't worry, Lucy. I'm glad I'm not the only one who finds this mission a complete waste of this team's time. I'm missing a performance of Macbeth for this joke sortie."
"Sir, I hadn't realised you liked Shakespeare! You do realise it's bad luck to say the name of… The Scottish Play… don't you?"
"Hah, superstitious nonsense! My luck isn't going to be affected by the name of an ancient work, as superb as it is."
"Not this version, sir. As well reviewed as the play was in The Times, Mark Booth doesn't play the lead role at all well." She shook her head, recalling the night she'd seen the play, and how Macbeth didn't seem at all… well, like Macbeth.
"How disappointing. In that case Churchill Prefecture damn well better have an army, so at least something interesting happens."
They both laughed at that.
"Well, if there's nothing else sir, I need some rest before we launch tomorrow."
Lauser realised he hadn't said anything yet. "Oh! That's all Ensign, yes. Goodnight, then!"
"Goodnight Commander. See you bright and early tomorrow!"
As she turned to leave, Lucy winked at Lauser, before walking through the reopened door and back to the pilots' quarters she shared with the other female member of the team, Keelie Michaels. The team commander simply stood, blinking a few times. It seemed like some bizarre daydream, or a scene from a tacky romance movie like This Love. Still, he secretly loved tacky romance movies, so it wasn't bad at all…
Tomorrow they would ride to battle. But for tonight, rest…
Phase-01 End