Dear Readers, this is work of fan fiction, a piece of literature based on the licensed series Gundam Wing. Bandai and some other people have rights to the series and all related copyrights, but they do not forbid the non-profit writing of fan-based literature.
This is non-yaoi, though a yuri element may or may not see final submission. Viscount and I wrote this work of experimental art, therefore this isn't necessarily meant to appeal to a large audience, as commercial writing is.
I, Typewriter King, began this as a means to discover new devices for better telling a story. I'm convinced the written word as a medium still hasn't reached it's artistic potential, after all these millennia, though different people, since before Homer, have tried their best.
Please keep in mind I'm trying something new, when and if you review this.
Despite the title, this is not something as cheap as a political statement dressed in a work of fiction. This isn't vitriol, it is lighthearted. Any resemblance to real or perceived events in reality are coincidental. The "Blood" in the title is a reference to vampires, and the "oil" has more to do with a classic television show than Iraq.
If I wanted to be that sort of fiction writer, I'd become a journalist.
Like the Russian author Tolstoy, if someone told me I could write a book that would sway a reader's political thinking to my way of thinking, I wouldn't consider writing worth the effort, but if another person told me I could pen characters that readers would cherish enough to share with their children and grandchildren, then I would sacrifice everything to write that book.
-Typewriter King, fiction writer.
Casting: Quatre is the Robber Baron
Heero is the company network security expert
Une is the German cyborg
Noin is the transport Captain
Zechs is the Count
Relena is the Countess
Rashid is the Yowie (no reference to yaoi)
Afmad is the Israeli pilot
Auda is the dinosaur
Duo and WuFei will be the South African detectives
Trowa and Catherine with be the Uber Vampires
Treize will be the regent
Iria will be Quatre's sister (as usual).
Abdul will be the virus-writer
Nichol will work on Iria's security team.
Sally will also be on that team.
Septum will command the Alliance Space Forces, as usual.
Sanc's history will be that of Romania's
The United States will be referred to as the "Alliance," and the World Nation will be called "Oz."
Viscount co-wrote this.
Prologue
The old family rooster crowed it's five-part morning song as the sun crested over the huge untouched oaks in the east at the tree line marking the outer limits of the Winner family lawn.
Young Quatre slipped on his handed down boots as he did every morning. It's a very warm August morning in the Red River Valley, deep in America's heartland. The boy bolted from bed as he does every morning in the summer time, glad and ready to forge through every day that comes free of school.
He finds the aluminum birdseed pail on a thick birch stump, grabs fistfuls of the yellow dots inside, and scatters them to-and-fro on the barren dry earth, where chickens peck for seed even before any rains atop the beige dry crackly dead Bermuda grass of rural Oklahoma.
A giant dust cloud rolls in the valley below the Winner home. Its horn pleads for someone to trot over. Quatre pays no attention. That's just the special commuter bus that services the little cotton ball of Oklahoma dubbed "Little Dixie" by the founders of Roosevelt's "New Deal" man that founded the program that carried the same name.
It comes now and then, rather irregularly, to shuttle Iria to her vocational classes at Kiamichi Tech, where she's training to become a nurse. He watched his sister go. She carried a brown lunch bag, sagging with a sandwich and a fruit, probably. She walked casually, to the ire of the bus driver, who jabbed his horn again. She hustled a bit faster.
The chickens looked fine, so Quatre moved on to hefting another fifty-pound cellulous sack to the cattle. He removed one from the 18x15 red barn, a little dry structure full of cattle feed sacks. He latched one bag to his chest, wrapping his small arms around it in a bear hug, and clasped his fingers together on one side. This way he walked normally to the gridiron gate.
He dropped the bag through, and leaped over. The cows, a black heifer and a steer, the first bull he'd ever castrated all by himself, galloped over to their cluster of feed troughs, five blocks of wood Quatre had nailed together, and waited for the bag's contents. The bag's lip was seamed as poorly as usual, and Quatre barely had to give it a tug, before dried hominy dripped into the troughs.
The hominy will bloat the cows before Papa Winner hauls them to the stockyard for auction later. The heifer joyously wagged its ears around, seconds before digging its snout into the feed.
He took one last look, to make certain the cows didn't bully one another, and parted from that duty. They looked happy enough for PITA to approve.
Quatre left his home duties to stalk into the woods with his .199 BB gun, an old favorite silent hunting weapon. After twenty pumps, he felt the pressure could take the game he tracked. Dad said squirrels were the problem, but the boy insisted rabbits were the ones nibbling the tomatoes. He'd seen them bathe in the sun at the tree line a few times, and knew they didn't show up for social purposes. He tried pointing out the small Amarillo pellet feces, typical of bunnies.
Papa Winner scarcely looked, and stuck to his point. Quatre would see who had the right conviction.
I made sure I'd pushed in the safety before lining the front and back sights over the brown animal, kept the stock on my shoulder, even through with a BB gun, all you'd get would be a click as the sole sign you shot. It twitched its nose and hopped. I was thirty odd feet away when I hit that animal. I felt the electric itch on my wrist that told me I killed it, and strode over. The creature's little black eye stared blankly out at the world, not following movement as it should. I didn't find the hole on it, and figured the BB got it in the gut underneath. I had a little yarn and tied him to the muzzle of my gun, and let it limply rock at arms length.
When I walked a few feet, I saw something black dripping off its foot. I didn't know what that could be, but I remember Iria saying something about black blood dripping out of the liver, when shot. I don't know about that, 'cause I think she just wanted to scare me out of becoming a soldier when I grow up. I don't know what it matters what color leaks from someone when they're shot, but I know most soldiers don't ever see the other soldiers in a war, but to that she said that it happens, though, even if the news doesn't see it that way, 'cause the President only shows them bombings from planes and satellites, so it only looks like buildings are killed, and it's wrong to do that, and junk.
I may only be a kid, but if that were so, why would the news show video of them human shields talking about being killed, before we see the bombed buildings? Then Dad tells me not to talk about it, and that God forbids killing, unless the man being killed is killed for killing somebody's kids, and the court agrees. We have judges and juries to decide who lives and who dies, and that's the best way things can be, until God brings paradise back to the good believers, then we can let God kill all the bad people in fire, 'cause he makes the last judgment of everybody.
Anyway, I backtracked and found oil flowing from the ground, where I shot the rabbit, and thought that had been pretty cool. I pictured my cousin Dorothy, and thought maybe she'd pay attention to me now, and that I'd fix her up so she wouldn't be flat as Kansas anymore, and that I'd get her fixed up with Colorado on her chest, and get her fancy china dolls, like she always wanted, and maybe she'd forget about other boys, and I wouldn't have to go to war to get her attention.
I shouted at the house and ran for the door. Later I learned I hit a gusher of light sweet crude, that bubbled up from the bedrock after the Mississippi Earthquake.
No one in the Clan could have suspected this foul defilement of the most precious of Count Peacecraft's icons-by the Count himself!
Treize was sweating madly, and shuddering ever more violently.
"He was so honored to have won, He worshipped that trophy, he had swum the floods of Hades from one end to the other for it, braved Olympus, a-and trekked the slough for that prize; How could he? How could he sever the idol that had always been his goal?"
A spear-wielding guard stepped into the gothic tower prison cell, demanding the Regent's attention.
"Your Excellence, the Espada-Class Attack Submarine is making an unauthorized departure from the docks, it requires your attention."
Treize sighed, then nodded his pale face.
"I understand, relay the message to pursue with Katana-Class Escort Subs."
This "Pilgrim's Progress" would be far harder than most, thought the defector, glumly.
Too bad you can't scheme your own railroad with mental power. Yep, too bad.
It's too bad you can, if you're stupid enough to sale your very essence to a vampire cult. But such power can be avoided in the land of Mermen, and the Espada was what the heir of the Dracula Clan was going to prove it with.
An hour passed, giving the Count time to think.
He reflected on his flight from that previous life, in which he had betrayed the Clan in a bloody manner.
The escape was simple for him, and not completely his style, with variables that one couldn't eliminate.
But good humor crept back into his mind as Count Milliardo Peacecraft, known in chat-rooms as "IF," thought with dark humor of the poetic justice involved in the tool of surgical destruction he used.
The plan didn't require perfect timing, so he waited for the guards with the darkest records- sparing the more innocent ones- and cut them down with the tool hidden in the trophy.
The memories were becoming more vivid as the details came to mind.
Milliardo unscrewed the golden robed vampire from the base of the trophy, and slid the shining little cylindrical plasma fire-saber from its evil housing...
He remembered lighting it.
The blade was trimmed with a demonic red, with a dark orange being the interior color.
He wasted no time; once he felt the power pulsating through him.
...The guards. They were bruisers in leather helmets and gray jerseys. Their pants were black and tight, perhaps made of nylon and polyester.
...Most of the savagery was forgotten; all he could remember was the morphing fire blade, losing the neatness of a simple isosceles triangle as it "flared up."
...The next few minutes were a blank.
"Awe, that's it."
The Count recalled slicing open the utility-closet, and retrieving the fishing net.
Milliardo did the only thing he could do to avoid security, that is, scale down the tower for a few stories.
...Those moments only left feelings, and ones of panic at that...
"If" popped out of his recollections at that point.
"Too many blank spots, he said sadly, shaking his head.
"But it's over," he perked up.
Looking up from his bunk, he prepared to stake out the bridge.
1
"An estimated 400 persons are only dust, slowly being identified. Sir, so few are still
considered missing, and thus the list of suspects is dropping as quickly as the missing
list."
Intercom message from Bucharest Castle.
Once again, Treize breathed in the air of the Mediterranean, and felt the same warm glow of pride the Greco-Roman Fleet Commanders must have felt two thousand plus years ago.
The de'ja vu feeling of reincarnated glory summoned powers in him that made all of the nightmares of the situation worth it; almost.
Despite the setbacks, Treize was certain that he would be capable of managing the clan until Milliardo Peacecraft's understudy was ready to take the reins, and that would be fine.
And yet, revenge would be necessary.
Teize's vampire blood demanded it.
"Une, report," Count Peacecraft demanded. The cyborg named Une turned from her terminal and eyed the Romanian.
"Sea Sparta helicopters have pinged the towed array. We've cut power, and are drifting below operating depth; they'll never find us now."
At it's deepest, the Black Sea's floor dips beyond two thousand meters, a stretch below the ideal operating depths for a fast attack nuclear submarine. Furthermore, at the sub's currant location, warm Mediterranean waters flood through the strait, creating a shielding layer in the cold Black Sea.
Relena Peacecraft's diary provides an insight on just what happened in the tower that fateful episode when the Count escaped his chamber:
"Last night "If" asked me to insert a disk, and upload it into the Clan Network Server.
Something about a Trojan horse file, or something.
Then, after that, a strange request, pump wine up from the cellar to him.
After that, an hour, maybe, I don't know, a fire blazed everything, and the power went out.
I'm scared."
Milliardo debated the situation with Captain Une.
M: "Helicopters and patrol planes may not stay for long, but what about picket submarines and trawlers?"
U: "We may be immobile at the moment, but we can still fight."
The Count and the Captain discuss escape plans. Master Quatre had made it clear that Une evaluate Peacecraft's analytical skills during the journey.
"Er, I think we should adjust the dive planes, so we can bring the bow up, and attempt a start on the reactor, blow the ballasts, and rise out of this."
The German cyborg placed her hand under her chin, in deep thought, saying,
"Yes, I like it. However, I'd hate to do that immediately, See, I'd like to hide until we're in range of the Katana Class Escort Subs, which should be here in, uh-
A distant explosion rocked the Espada, demanding the Captain's attention.
"Status."
A technician spoke up.
"Sir, Katana Alpha has struck a mine, and is currently surfacing."
Une popped a question at the tech.
"Was it our mine?"
The sonar systems operator confirmed it.
"Yessir."
So the seabed SOSUS-linked mine plugged one of the Katana's.
Une summoned a passive sonar window on her personal terminal, then a window for the sonar detector network making up SOSUS, analyzing both simultaneously.
"Mr. Peacecraft, see that echo? Good. Fix its position while I contact the stern torpedo tube."
"Aye aye," Milliardo obeyed.
The Captain contacted the room, saying,
"Armament control, Load a mark forty-eight Evolved ADCAP torpedo, and fire upon point-" Milliardo speaks out of turn.
"At 6,8,5."
The Espada rocked as the mark forty-eight torpedo left the tube, but, worse, the launch gave away the position of the sub.
"Helmsman, raise the bow forty five degrees." Hitting a button, Une immediately contacted another section.
"Propulsion, attempt re-ignition, full speed ahead."
'Aye, Sir."
Sensors: "Captain, enemy torpedoes (are) homing in."
Captain Une sat still, with Mr. Peacecraft gripping her shoulder tightly.
"Captain, do something," Peacecraft said, with a nervous edge in his voice.
Une tapped an icon on her monitor, typed MAG, and pressed ENTER.
"Sir, passive sonar detects a wall of high energy noise, above and around us!"
Milliardo remembered the sonar tech's voice, as plain as telepathy.
The Count saw the Captain smile, a common victorious edge in it.
BOOM!
Contained in deep sea, the explosion's acoustic energy rushed through the ship, soon followed by the rushing tsunami.
"Ignition successful, reactor (at) full power!"
Captain: "Full blow, empty th' tanks! Weapons, blast propellant out the stern tube, asap!"
Cap' in had opened COM with everyone as the wave collapsed downward, toward the Espada.
As the sub reached operating depth, clearing the dreadful tsunami, the sub exploded upward, so did the field of battle, requiring a change in the Captain's orders.
"Wep' systems, release radar towed array, fire Sam's at targets of opportunity! "
As this was happening, Milliardo had an insight.
"MAG." She had a magnetic link with all the decoys out there," he exclaimed to himself privately.
"I guess we're in good hands."
Both Katana class subs have taken hits that have forced them to surface.
Great.
The Espada is still running... and it had taken the time to blast some sub hunting craft out of the sky!
After all this, Treize could not accept this and go home.
The heir had to be destroyed, despite the resources lost.
"Seal up the straits, we'll tighten up on them with the older hunter-killer subs."
"So, Brother, where to next?"
Milliardo smiled in spirit, thinking that little sister Releana seemed to think this was a simple car trek.
"Down the Nile. It's only logical, since the Clan would cut off the routes out of the Mediterranean, so we must move out of the sea before the search party combs it all," he answered in an attempted conversational tone.
"So we're going to abandon the sub?"
Milliardo flinched. He hadn't been considering it a loss.
What had her line of thinking been?
He asked as much, and got,
"I was just thinking that the Espada had some value, and that we were going to salvage it somehow."
The great Count eyed the quarters that would usually belong to five commandos, and decided,
"It is entirely up to W.E. what to do with this submersible."
I could jump and avoid the fate- whatever that is- waiting for me at the end of the Nile.
Such thoughts entered the mind of the exiled Count Peacecraft, but no wheels were turning as gears, his thoughts having no teeth.
"How good is my Arabic anyway? And my Coptic? How far along the Nile are we? How extensive is the search?" The variables kept adding up, and escape didn't seem too promising anyway.
Best to ride it out.
Across the bare-steel gray room, Releana Peacecraft had her own thoughts.
"How could my brother have engineered an escape with the assistance of WE, an American company?
What type of deal did he make?
"I had better ask him."
She nimbly slid out of her bunk and walked across the room.
Milliardo Peacecraft was gently nudged out of a slumber he had barely been allowed to fall into.
Tiredly, he pushed himself up without opening his eyes, climbing to lean against a bulkhead. He opened his eyes and switched on a reading-light.
"Brother, wake up, I need to ask you some pressing questions," he was urged.
Eyes fully adjusted, he recognized his little sister, Relena.
Concerned, and not fully hiding it, he asked what was wrong.
"You have got to tell me about your contact with Winner Enterprises," demanded Relena.
"What's wrong with you?"
Winner Enterprises is a strange privately owned "Corporation," owned mainly by one man, but sales stock to the public in order to expand.
Sometimes, branches of the superpower are led by executives, but often, by the workers themselves, or the owner himself.
Many spy movies have been based on the owner taking over the world, but he could actually buy it, if he were inclined to do so.
"He seems to have been attempting to recruit me for a long time," ("He" being W.E.)
The Count whispered, "That's the impression I got from Une, when she secretly contacted me at my Black Sea vacation home a while back." (In the past.)
"So she told you that she would hijack the Espada, and that she would wait at a certain time to pick you up?"
Milliardo grimaced; Relena made it sound so easy.
"Yeah, she also gave me a plasma-saber, so I could improvise if whatever plan I came up with fell apart."
Relena leaned toward him.
"Did it fall apart?"
"Er, no, at least as much as I remember," he fumbled.
Despite Milliardo's vocal breakdown, Relena understood him.
"Do you know Winner's motive at all?"
She was prying from a blank source and she knew it.
"Thanks anyway, I'm glad we had this talk," she said, retreating to her own bunk.
"Awe," she sighed as she slid into her bunk, "I can't trust any of these dreadful conspirators."
2
Dear Journal,
If spotted north of Istanbul, chances of escape would have been nil, but thankfully, the mission went as smooth as ironed pants.
It's important to remember just how fragile you really are; not even a real Man of Steel can take much.
-Une.
The lovely Espada drops an acoustic absorption pod prier to surfacing its conning tower on an early Egyptian morning on June twentieth, 2023.
At noon, the sun will be directly overhead, but right now it is gazing at the sub from a spot just over a sand dune.
Une is up and watching it from the CCD-periscope.
She could see a wedge shaped sunspot grow larger and ever larger until the sun stopped shining at all.
"Word," Une stretched out in awe.
The sunspot banked left, ending the illusion.
This black raven performed a difficult landing on top of the choppy Nile, dropping a cargo-bay door for a transfer of select crewmen.
"My Corona."
First Hand Account :Quatre Winner
"Upon landing, I remotely operated the rear cargo bay door.
While stepping out of my recliner, I signaled Auda, a troodon-cyborg special purposes agent of mine.
Five feet tall, and about the same distance in length, his appearance is reminiscent of a scaly horse-jockey.
Anyway, I signaled him to escort me onto the ramp of my black XB-70 super modified bomber, named My Corona.
It was determined that my appearance was needed to clinch the loyalty of vampire defector Count Milliardo Peacecraft.
My briefing reported that he was a mathematician of the genius level.
More interesting, he was a real vampire, and, a descendent of Count Dracula.
Also, along with him was his younger sister, Relena Peacecraft, Gymnast, and notable student of Karate.
It's all very fascinating."
Below, an entry from Relena Peacecraft's diary:
As I woke up, I felt tired, yet restless.
I felt a quiver in the air; someone of unheard importance was coming.
I didn't know if he was good or evil, but I knew it meant the end of our journey, aboard the Espada, and I felt the chill of dread for a few moments.
It was nearly five.
I had to stay awake!
I showered.
The water was hot, and that was the way I needed it.
Because of the chill.
It took the steam of a nuclear reactor to bake the chill out of me, it was that bad.
Fear is irrational, at least when it's the fear of the unknown.
I considered bailing again, (Author's note, her line of thought was similar to Milliardo's, when she was not pondering over If's involvement with W.E.) but I had exhausted the fear by the time I stepped out of the shower.
My dress was senseless.
I put on an Egyptian blue sweater with a Koala on it, and a cheerleader skirt.
How was I going to warm up with bare legs?
Highly skilled exile Peacecraft awoke at 5:30, and was highly stressed out.
He could feel things rapidly breaking down in his stomach, and heat coursing through his head and torso.
A stress related fever.
"Man, I gotta unwind," he moaned.
Moving under the showerhead, in the bathroom, he coaxed water out.
"Argh!" He yelled, "How could water be cold in an atomic sub?!"
After enduring freezes wrath, he put on black warm-up pants, one leg in, then the other, just like any mortal, then he pulled on a thick navy blue t-shirt.
"Forgot underwear," he breathed, remedying the problem.
"Now, about that hot water!"'
He rushed to find out about this odd occurrence.
The Count found Relena watching a "chick movie" in the cafeteria.
How'd that get in a submarine?
Eyeing the screen, Milliardo asked about it.
"Perhaps Captain Une placed it in here, thinking about my entertainment needs," while saying this, she smiled faintly, glad to see her big brother.
"So what's it called?" Milliardo was avoiding the hot water subject for reasons he didn't understand.
"It's called Upward Lift, and it's about this guy, Hiro, and he builds rockets in his garage, see, and a woman that is temporarily teaching literature at the local high school.
"IF", was smiling, as if humored.
"Don't laugh," she warned, "after various bazaar contacts, this substitute teacher named Silvia and Hiro begin dating," she paused and put on a serious expression.
": But trouble starts brewing," she said, in a theatrical tone of menace, "for a jealous student plots to kill Hiro and sabotage his projects-"
She gasped, and reached for the remote.
"Oh dear! Go back to where I was before!"
Milliardo laughed at how distressed his sister was about missing a bit of this movie.
"Quiet, Brother, must you always laugh at all of my tragedies!"
The young Captain Une abruptly entered, and coughed for attention.
Relena blushed, and stammered an excuse, but Milliardo displayed a cocky smile for the benefit of Relena, causing her cheeks to burn the air around her.
Une waited a moment before reporting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, My Corona has landed and is awaiting your appearance on the deck."
Upon hearing, Milliardo ran to the nearby coat rack, and grabbed a dark Prussian (midnight) blue hooded raincoat for use as a desert cloak.
Meanwhile, Relena followed Une to the deck, gravely, it appeared.
She's worried, Milliardo thought. So worried, she forgot about the movie.
He pocketed the film thoughtfully, and caught up with the others into the new environment.
3
The first contact that follows cannot be covered from one point of view, so material must be barrowed from various sources, and rigid lines of distinction must be kept when concerning the sources.
Enjoy.
FIRST HAND ACCOUNT.
ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN GENDER AMOZONIA, A FEMINIST NEWSLETTER.
Narration by Quatre Winner: "The Espada was already cabled to My Corona for well over ten minutes before I spotted Une, a counterpart of Auda, on the deck with Relena, Transylvanian exile, and directly behind, Milliardo.
I was instantly impressed with how protective she (Relena) was of her eighteen year old brother.
Only fourteen herself, she'd already gained recognition as a superb athlete, but hadn't quite earned my respect until then, placing herself between her brother and me; she was dressed for combat.
Wearing a blue sweater to keep her upper muscles warmed up, and a white cheerleader skirt that allowed maximum mobility, she was hiding her readiness to fight by not wearing a karate gi.
Although wearing her long light hair loose, I doubt even Auda could have been able to grab it, should a fight have broken out."
The rest of the Winner story is original material, never before seen.
It could almost be a continuation from the end point of the Gender Amazonia article.
"...I could go on all day about the deception of her {sic} clothing, since it gave a better impression of her character than Milliardo's, - he was wearing a black cloak and black pants.
It seems that he was building an image for himself, but the gothic stuff didn't work in 2023, and it doesn't work now.
Twenty years ago, maybe, he would have given the impression of being a tough guy...
(Lost material.)
Auda and I stepped off the ramp as I greeted my guests.
I said "hi," then acknowledged Une's success in delivering them {Sic} and the Espada back safely.
Intimidated by my stunningly handsome looks, Relena turned away shyly, and so, I finally got to shake the Count's hand.
"It's an honor to meet you like this, Sir," he said, smiling with a controlled giddiness.
It was as if I were his hero or something.
His skin was fair and flawless, (light, even for a Caucasian). His hair was as light as my jet's color is dark, and he was around 185cm tall. Weight was a little light, judging from his build.
He spun around on his heel, and introduced me to Relena, who was smiling as if in the company of close friends.
"Hello Mister Winner, Milliardo and I thank you for the excellent extraction," she said, as a diplomat might.
I noted that her handshake was as firm as Milliardo's, and that the blueness of her eyes matched the color of the water surrounding Tahiti. The most striking feature about her was a star shaped scar on her left cheek, which is said to have come from a cookie-cutter that a disgruntled rival jabbed her with some time before.
4
It shan't be long now, Count Milliardo Peacecraft would be seeing the big cheese soon.
Already, he was impressed.
"Look at that Super Modified XB-70, just look at it! I-it's floating on water! A-and the color, makes it look like a raven," he fumbled madly at ev'ry one 'round 'im.
Relena didn't seem impressed.
"So, there are a lot of float-planes out there," she bit out, annoyed.
Milliardo paid no more attention to her, but he continued to watch "her," that is, the mach-3 transport.
Just over Relena's head, two figures stepped out of the black beauty.
One, a large man of about forty, and the other, a small erect lizard in a trench coat and fedora.
"G'day, I'm from Oklahoma, and my name is Quatre Winner. I am pleased to see that you have arrived in good health- and high spirits, I hope," he greeted in an authoritarian tone.
Hmm, black and yellow golf shirt, black slacks, and brown fly-fishing vest (open). I understand that his school colors were black and gold, and it appears that he's a fly-fisher; not what I expected from the owner of an international business like his.
It appears he was at least subtly influenced by his surroundings when growing up. Pity. Not the best environment for culturing a captain of industry. Milliardo mused, with that little data to go on.
Is that an iguana?
Whatever it was, it scared Relena all the way to the back of the group, giving Milliardo the chance to meet Quatre Winner face-to-face.
"It's an honor to meet you like this, Sir," he said, struggling to control his excitement as he shook the Robber Baron's hand.
"Sir, Peacecraft, is that the right title? This is Auda De Laboratory, a Troodon, not a mutant of any kind, but a highly skilled dinosaur in my employment.
Gesturing with his hand, he directed the Count's attention to an obviously intelligent yellow-orange beast.
"How dja do," the lizard-man greeted in a nasal-human voice, as he offered If his hand.
Milliardo used a similar greeting, then stepped to the side of the Espada.
Relena finally fell into her proper role. Using an adaptable and Simi perpetual smile, she grasped the American's hand and shook it lightly.
"Hello, Mister Winner, Milliardo and I thank you for the excellent extraction."
Indeed. I've got to learn how he hijacked the Espada! Even though it won't do me any good now, the Count was his as the Baron waved them into the shuttle.
"C'mon, I gotta go somewhere," he called.
5
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Milliardo, Miss Relena, if you've ever ridden Concord, well, you'll still be impressed," Captain Lucrezia Noin gloated, using her Italian accent as always.
"This baby can cruise at mach-3 at 80,000 feet, or fly supersonic at low altitude, should we chose to waste fuel," she added.
The Peacecraft duo nodded as they strapped themselves into some plush royal gray, or whatever colored seats.
"If you need anything, don't bother me, your Captain Noin, just call the flight attendant, or steward named Pagan. He'll help you to the limit of his abilities, all right?"
The captain left the guests in order to operate the craft, leaving them to themselves- and talk behind her back!
"She looked a bit young to be a captain," Relena whispered silently to If, a little doubtful of Captain Noin's credentials.
"I'll check the records," the pale count assured, pulling the hidden laptop from his "black" navy -blue raincoat.
He bragged about having a backdoor built into the Scotland Yard terminals- not a bad feat, methinks.
"This 'ill only take a-"
A window appeared in the middle of the screen, saying:
YOUR MODEM DOESN'T SEEM TO BE OPERATIONAL. PERHAPS YOU SHOULD CHECK FOR AN UNSTABLE CONNECTION. OK.
"Wha-?"
Quatre Winner appeared, standing in the aisle, beside the freelance hacker.
"Mind not using that?"
Milliardo didn't comprehend just what the old guy was talking about.
"What do you mean?" The athletically shaped fourteen-year-old pointed at the laptop computer as an answer.
"Well, if it's only a webplinace, don't use it at all, but in any case, I don't want any wireless transmissions coming from this craft, understood?"
Affirmative. We're to stealthily escape the Vampire Clan's extensive search. I know what you're saying.
The crew seemed to have chosen that minute to begin takeoff.
Outside the window, these three passengers watched sand and small pebbles blow along the riverbank.
The engines were kind of silent, but fairly noticeable, so the Oklahoman sat down on the opposite side of the aisle from the Peacecrafts, - could have been a rough takeoff, from a river don't you know?
The Chief of W.E. pulled a palm-top out of his fishing vest, and pressed an icon that looked like a ringing bell.
"Hey, ah... Heero, I'd like an interface field and a holographic display beamed into the guest cabin, workstation for my eyes only." A thought occurred. "And Heero, have Gouch bring in some drinks."
(Gouch is a small robot.)
Heero.
That name clicked a memory out of Milliardo's mind.
He reached into a pocket of his hooded raincoat lying on the chair in front of him, and pulled out that film he had placed in there.
Lift-off.
Milliardo had a question for Quatre, but as he looked his way, he had another question first.
"You using a transparent hologram?"
Looking up, Quatre delivered an answer.
"Uh, yeah, actually, I've got two magic waves, one giving me an image in the visible light spectrum, except it's not visible to anyone but me, get it?"
Seeing that the count had a vague idea of what W.E. owner Winner was talking about, Mr. Quatre told Mr. Peacecraft about the laboratory-produced touch-sensitive field, called the interface field.
The Peacecrafts seemed highly interested.
Mr. Quatre moved his hand in a strange delirious sign language for a few moments, then he moved his hand in a theatrical gesture, complete with breathtaking golden fairy dust pixels trailing his hand as a comet's tail follows the nucleus.
In the comet tail's wake, a bodysuit-clad image appeared... it was Quare Winner!
This earlier self was smiling, and surrounded by a light orange aura.
His surfing suit (or whatever it was) had an imitation of the Winner coat-of-arms on the face of it; Super dark green base, red diamond trimming, and the royal purple courtyard inside the diamond.
Crowns sat among the purple in imitation of King Arthur's coat-of-arms.
The image of a twelve-year-old Quatre Winner finally spoke.
"How do, I am Quatre Winner, founder of Winner Enterprises and co-discoverer of Luminos, a transparent hologram residing within the Van Allen Belt.
Sadly, valuable data has been lost due to time, cosmic rays, and the very magnetic belt that bounced his neural network around. Of course, without the belt, his brain would have disintegrated."
The twelve year old or older child downed some water, then continued.
"Despite deterioration, Luminos proved to be useful in improving our knowledge of the Minoan Civilization, and was useful in developing magical wonders like the transparent hologram that complements the interface field, the discovery of aura photography and concealment of, and data of life beneath the ocean floor."
The hologram went on to speak of geothermal power, novel electronic devices, hanging vineyards, ballooned cavities for transplanted muscle fiber, brief tales of Minoan literature, and details of architecture.
"...Volcanoes powering steam through puppets, who would be manipulated into...Electronic impulses, either a dot or a dash, the votes could be counted, and the results would reach...and so grapes could be produced...with this power soldiers could...as one walked on the treadmill, scrolls of athletic heroes would speak of...the massive volcano-glass tower was also the center pillar and chapel for..."
The stories of this dead civilization were accompanied by awesome images of related topics.
Time passed, and the Peacecrafts were so preoccupied by the holographic epics and all that Milliardo never thought of decrypting Quatre Winner's phantom typing.
The young man smiled cunningly.
"Gotta OK these documents, analyse those reports, make sure the company operates honestly, and above all else, keep it confidential and on time." :-)
6 :-)
Elliot Tudor had never imagined that he would receive a blessing by watching the horizon on the day of the solstice.
But, not unlike the paleontologist studying fossilized dung for profound knowledge, practicing ones observation skills can provide astounding bits of information.
By stabilizing the image, Elliot Tudor clearly identified the fast black plane as an XB-70 Bomber.
"My Corona."
"Master Treize, Inspector Auct has received word that My Corona has just flown over our terrorist camp in Libya. He asks you what Quatre Winner would be doing in the Mediterranean on his birthday," a young messenger relayed.
Could this mortal, Quatre Winner even know about the vampire cults?
Is Milliardo such a maniac, the type willing to stop at nothing in order to exterminate all of the Transylvanian order?"
Treize was keenly aware of the perceived dangers of Winner Enterprises.
That company would think of slaughtering all of us as nothing, that is how ruthless they really are, and that boy has betrayed us to them!
The misinformation campaign that had begun far in advance was brewing desperate thoughts in the mind of the Vampire Regent King Treize, leading to an intensely violent action.
People act not on reality, but on their perception of reality.
Those "cavalry" interceptors saw a bomber built in the 1960s, not stopping to think that the Boeing 747s , products of the sixties, were chosen to be the United States President's most common shuttle twenty years later, and was trusted to handle threats to the Chief twenty years later, and something comparable to the superpower's leader is good enough for industry's leader as well. The airframe doesn't matter so much in modern aeronautics, remember that.
Rashid, the yowie from Australia, and pilot of My Corona, was confident that this heavily modified XB-70 Valkyrie was better than Air Force One, and Israeli co-pilot Afmad Hill and Italian Captain Lucrezia Noin doubtlessly agreed.
Nothing can escape determined blood-suckers forever, and the appearance of Fangs brought such thoughts to mind for Quatre Winner, who was interrupted from his work rudely by all warning systems known to anything.
Auda popped to life exclusively on Quatre's monitor.
"Sir, hostile Blood Pact Fang Interceptors approaching from stern positions, red alert recommended."
The boss approved.
"Prep the cat'. Miss Noin and Lady Une have command aboard Corona."
The orange man looked troubled,
"Sir, please don't use the parasite, those-" the idea clicked in the dino's mind; the nimble craft could avoid the bomber intercepting Fangs after flying in the middle of the parallel formation and Voila!
"As ordered. Sir!"
The one-of-a-kind fighter summoned the free-lance fighter jock into actions that bordered on the heroic.
"Within fang targeting range in twelve," the tanned and chiseled retired IDF pilot reported and re-reported time to engagement while Winner suited up in the cabin.
"Une, give me something [to work with,]" Captain Noin demanded over the PA.
"Um, the fighter is being deployed," the German Cyborg fumbled.
"Oh, then tell Auda good luck for me," Miss Noin replied.
Une looked troubled.
"Very well Captain, out."
The Italian Captain spotted an orange lizard behind the German a moment before the screen went blank.
"Une!!" The Italian woman yelled, "Exactly who is flying the Aries?"
But the intercom was shut down, as was the close circuit TV.
She slammed a food tray near her hip, then thumbed her radio to contact the patella-less hacker named Heero, a kid with his own workstation aboard Corona.
"Heero, drop what you're doing and assist the boss. He's in the parasitic Aries.
"Roger," Heero clipped.
And so, Heero leapt into the duty of keeping the boss alive.
The cargo bay had just slid open, and all systems were going.
"Une. Did you see all the surfaces move correctly?"
Combat Pilot Quatre Winner heard an affirmative, and thus Pilot and Une powered up the cat' and the jets, and launched the parasite fighter.
Braced and ready, the fourteen-year-old everything licensed kid tolerated crushing pressure as blue and white leapt at him.
Rush!
He armed the slug canisters and placed the nimble craft into a fierce belly roll.
High density tungsten carbide slugs fired in the direction of the Fang type Aries every time the cheap CCD'S spotted one, and so some vampire pilots were caught napping.
Countless Fangs were holed in the opening volley, but this young man was far from finished; some chose to continue the battle.
Without processing sensor data, Quatre Winner kicked his plane into an immalman (half-loop and roll) and turned on his Guiding Light radar package.
From passive to active.
The youthful pilot, fangs-out after the lead plane, paying the bewildered trailing victims little mind.
"I'll take you down."
Boss Winner followed the jinking wedge, anticipating the involuntary rhythm. The fretful pilot was running- not a pattern, but a situational mentality that controls someone's state of mind; a primal-like takeover that runs one's tempo and depth in maneuvering.
The Robber Baron didn't have a titanic task of putting this bandit in no escape range before assistance could save his butt.
The Fang pilot made a violent effort to shake the missile, or turn the tables on Winner in a dime sized turn, but the smokeless missile nailed him with no further incident from that direction.
Medium range radar-guided missiles were closing from way out, and the alert system wouldn't let the American businessman alone.
Winner pressed the fighter stick forward, sending the craft into a non-afterburning mach-one dive.
White towering clouds were approaching; just the way the Robber liked it.
He switched off the guiding light and adopted the CCDs for radar detection.
"Watch, if at all possible for...THE PALE BLACK NINNNJAA, AIRBORNE!"
The Baron hit the clouds, dropped the towed decoy, and the two chaff canisters. At just the right time, he pulled the nimble jet into a climb, then a vertical hover, disappearing from Doppler radar.
Forced to pull his hands off the controls for a moment, he deployed the endothermic cocoon, a layer of skin used for masking heat, and fed liquid hydrogen, the cool-juice stored in a small drop-tank, into the engines.
The missiles streaked by the canopy, and toward the only target left; the towed decoy.
"I've faked my death...again!"
Quatre checked the HUD for the target Fangs; North Korean/Transylvanian interceptors.
Seven nonhuman pilots died using active perception.
They didn't know only a phantom menace was destroyed, and the owner of the shadow used their radars as beacons
"Corona, this is RIB, seven Fangs have just been canceled."
Before the cat' could launch the flea, Heero had brought up air defense monitors, and, more importantly, pressed his one-touch Space Force access button- a massive pad that internet board was.
The Red Baron collected cups and perhaps other Memorabilia... Digital Diablo collects rapid dial buttons of his fallen foes.
Heero found it easier to upload than to type in commands when in a jam like this.
Somehow being forced into a premeditated strike didn't diminish the fun of wrestling the controls of a particle-beam firing satellite.
Heero decided that shooting a floundering Fang would be best, since he was positive he could blast such a lame loser before Colorado overrode his controls.
The wrath of Thor followed his choice. An illuminated God-rod splashed the strato-bird beyond the realm of matter, convincing all disabled Fangs to flee.
"Aye aye eye, my poor heart," Heero exclaimed, "Zeus really kicks!"
"Soy Capitan! Soy Capitan! Soy..."
Captain Stone slammed her mike as she always does when caught between a jam and incompetence.
" Grunt who would (ever) buy that caca about an audio screen-saver?"
Rashid and "The Golani Guy," (Afmad) focused on their jobs, careful not to provoke her.
Stone picked up the microphone and called Auda.
"Listen up, dear Auda, I need Heero's workstation on screen, Ayer," She demanded. No Pronto, no chance for praise.
It zipped on.
"Wooey, that boy's got uh Trojan horse invading security in order to withdraw from Space Force. Oh, and what's he pulling over here? Mimicking a Navy sentry and calling up some French Air?"
How overworked he is, but he's still so incredible!
Meanwhile, Rashid stepped up his evasive.
The Captain was forced to put her head back in the cockpit.
First Hand account by Quatre Winner
"Rib one, I'm now Rib two. See any Dassault Mirage Aries suits at your six? They're with me, over," the Robber Baron heard his radio crackle.
The Iberian's voice was gruff and masculine, hiding any accent.
This guy could be from anywhere, but Heero has a message on screen saying they're authentic.
"Rib two, I've got two Fangs on my six, could you brush them off for me?"
So he says to me...
"Roger. Intercepting. Flip on your box."
I turned on my IFF, (an identification transponder) in active mode, and continue the dive mentioned earlier, but with afterburner now.
Jinking would have slowed me down, only giving the Fangs' medium-range guided death-tubes a chance to reach me.
I was hoping my new wing would get 'em before my tanks went dry. (I had the emergency auxiliary engine running too; this "flea" would never fly again.)
I was calm, even though a vampire could try to plug me from that range and have a thirty-to-fifty percent chance of success.
(Corona was feeding me data.)
Seconds passed.
A blue, (Rib two?) fired a long-range missile.
This air missile hammered the second trailing Fang into mulch, leaving the big fish ahead alone among enemies.
I knew he looked back instinctively, so I showed him my last-ditch move a little early.
I forced forward my throttle, kicked out my break, and slanted all my control surfaces for a climb.
Having done that, I fired my two infrared missiles toward the bewildered Fang once the target was acquired.
Stupid move; I didn't even have a lock on the guy, but they found him, thanks to Heero slaving them to Corona's guiding light.
"You rule!"
I told the French (I guess) pilot "thanks and so long."
I had somewhere I needed to be!
7
"Welcome back, Boss," Une greeted the returned parasite pilot.
"Likewise. I, ah, think that's proper, right?"
He seemed to be humoring the cyborg-German at his own expense.
What a guy.
The servant named Pagan handed the Romantik a phone linked to Heero and Auda.
"Hey, got the Roger Wilco of the Fangs?"
"Yes, they're getting directional assistance from a shuttle. That's the big dope at the moment, please stand by."
Quatre spent a moment thinking about a possible sixties song parody about a crime lab in the sky.
"It shan't be done."
"What?" Pagan asked.
"Nothing, just letting my mind drift into insanity. It shan't happen again."
Just then, Count Peacecraft and Relena stepped in.
"Boss job out there. Those hombres are nothing to sneeze at," Milliardo congratulated.
Very American of him. Maybe we can relocate him after all.
"Thanks again. We're in your debt," Relena inputted.
Quatre brushed that aside politely.
"It was nothing- this plane and crew can sweep away a shabby taskforce no problem."
Winner used his own intercom.
"Rashid, Afmad, Noin, lend me your ears," he said theatrically.
"Yes Me Lord," the captain answered in a British sailor imitation. Quatre loved the manners of Star Wars imperial officers, a quasi-fetish he shared with Noin.
"Which are we in better shape for, landing the lake, or D-FW?"
"We could land in either the Trinity or Red River if you want to," she said confidently.
"I'll take the lake, thank you," the young old man chose.
"What lake would-"
Quatre cut her off with a weird zip-grunt.
"You know what lake I mean. That'll be all," he said, with much restraint in his voice.
Milliardo Peacecraft hoped he'd be allowed more time to mingle among Winner Enterprises personnel; he really felt at home with this mini bunch.
Treize was peeved.
Out of the Aries hanger and into the cabin...or holographic rainbow. Mr. Quatre Winner walked down the aisle as if he owned the place. Even if it was the guts of a rainbow.
He picked his phone out of his belt, pushed Lucrezia Noin's button, (The button on the phone that dials her number) and moved his chin around, or that's what a deaf person would perceive
"Noin, is that shuttle tailing us?"
She paused a moment to- Quatre doesn't know what- then reported, "The Mirage Aries are escorting it into Europe, Sir, things are looking up on all fronts."
Quatre ended the transmission and relaxed. He called Heero's workstation.
Heero's face appeared among other holo-projections.
"Heero, have the Mirages defeated the Fangs?" The boss already knew the answer.
"Affirmative. Thirteen to zero after we left," he said, subdued.
'He's probably covering his tracks, or probing the Colorado defenses. Space Force just might nab him one day.'
Winner parted from Heero, and moved back to his chair.
"I think I'll give the patella-less Diablo a real crisis sometime," thought the Robber Baron out loud.
He set to work scheming a plot against his own defenses.
Between 8:00 & 8:30, Space Force HQ, Colorado Springs, CO.
It pained the Space Force Chief to give in to a Oz Inspector, but he promised his involvement would be off the record, and if you can't trust Inspector Maxwell, who can you trust?"
"Nice to be a part of this investigation, Chief Septum," the disturbingly honest looking young South Africa native greeted.
"Well, nice to have you take a part in today's duties, Duo," the aged Chief grumbled.
Duo pivoted to the rows of personal computers and called for his assistant/partner, Chang WuFei.
"Let's toy with his head," he whispered, sotto voce.
"The suspect had uploaded a Trojan horse into the counter-hacking terminals, but he had no intension of crashing the systems. Instead, he only loaded the fiber-optics to the max," the virtual dark-colored variant of the white Mr. Maxwell reported, walking toward his partner.
"So this guy had no intention of doing harm to your State, Mr. Septum," the Oz detective translated.
Once that had sunk in, WuFei continued.
"The intruder only wished to use your space defense satellite against an immediate threat to his or her well being."
The Chief nodded, so WuFei went on to his point.
"This means that the intruder knows your system, and could enter rapidly at any time, thus, he has hacked here before, but this is so obvious it should go without saying."
Duo rebooted a PC, and the previously nullified interface tools were once again online.
"That's not quite a T-horse, but it doesn't self replicate, like a virus," he told the two guys behind him.
"But it was a T-horse, it was just uploading a takeover that could be countered simply by shutting off the PCs," WuFei chimed in.
"Giving the hacker time to use the mainframe no matter what we did," the Chief finished.
"Correct."
The Australian Bigfoot encountered no further trouble on the way to Oklahoma. Relena watched her movie, and Miiliardo played an interactive detective movie.
Quatre could develop a solid plan to fight the real-life Heero with, but he wasn't grumpy.
"Maybe I should get Une and Auda into this," he considered to himself.
"What are they doing right now?"
"Ha! You didn't expect those landing craft to have howitzers, did you?" Une was taunting Auda after a high-risk move that was paying off at the moment. She was prepared to sacrifice the cannon if she had too, and she new that Auda would make her lose them somehow.
"Take better care of your forces, Une," the voice of the boss said.
Une turned around to see Quatre Winner walking toward her.
The boss pointed at the board.
"Auda's recon cavalry is armed and ready to sweep down into your shore batteries."
That's exactly what the cyborg-dinosaur did. He was even successful in capturing the guns before the artillerists could scuttle them.
Quatre coughed.
"You guys want to help me on a project later?"
They both moaned, "Yeah," clearly disinterested.
Auda turned the cannons toward Une's ships, just as expected, but he added some mule carried rockets to the battery fire as well.
Nice little game they conjured up.
Finally, at around nine 0'clock, My Corona prepared to land on the lake.
The sun was still not all that high.
Hairy Rashid had found a nice deep spot and touched down.
Before touchdown, the shutters were opened on the Corona, so the passengers could look out.
"So what lake do you think this is?" Milliardo asked Relena where they were, even though she couldn't have a clue.
"Oh, well, I really don't know," she fumbled, "but I'd guess we're in Oklahoma anyway."
"I've got a better idea, and another better idea," he said cryptically.
He un-strapped, and walked over to the exit door.
"What do you mean, Brother?"
He told her what he meant.
"And my second idea is that we will get out once we reach that marina," he gestured toward (what else?) the marina.
"Now I see what you mean."
8
It turned out that the Count was right once again; but there was an unexpected twist.
He was sure the Lincoln before him was going to pick him up, but it happened that the group was to walk to an open field- where a jump jet waited.
"In love with jets, Mr. Peacecraft?'
The fourteen-year-old youth turned around while walking.
"Hey, they're the only way to travel!"
A stupid, semi antagonizing answer for a foolish, challenging question.
They're hardly blasting warning shots, but Relena was a bit troubled by the sudden hostile air of Count Peacecraft.
Don't insult the man's choice of transport. Do you remember what he saved us from?
Afmad and Noin both frowned for some time- until they reached the jump jet, that is.
It was somewhat like riding a raft, but the vertical takeoff craft reached the destination very quickly.
That was the whole point, really.
The Peacecrafts didn't see much of the Winner Enterprises compound, sense they buzzed by everything. The house and lawn, however, where they landed, didn't escape them.
Stampeding tag football players were also visible from the cabin.
One team, the one currently on defense, was full of big boys, ages varying from gifted twelve-year-olds, to around twenty five-year-old men.
The other team was full of middle-aged bell shaped dudes wearing Hara-kiri (quite literally belly splitting) jeans.
The fatallion placed the ball around their own 40 as the jump-jet shutdown.
Someone stopped the clock at sometime between the landing, and lowering of the ramp.
Both teams, with keen interest, watched the crew exit.
First out were Afmad and Une, then came Auda, Noin and Rashid.
Next down were Pagan, Milliardo and Relena. Finally, Quatre stepped down the ramp. (Heero was still on Corona.)
Everyone was a shield for him, thought the Count of Winner bitterly.
While If's head was frying, Une was ordering a grounds crewman to taxi the jet, and the crewman's fear of the towering yowie, Rashid, motivated him into complying.
Everyone was surprised to see Quatre Winner, who secretly picked up Une and the Peacecrafts while keeping up the front of rabbit hunting with very important clients in far off Australia.
They would be surprised to learn that Monroe Morgan and Stan Gandhi are imaginary people.
"C'mon, Quatre, the juniors are killing us," one old boy called, so Quatre broke off from the rest of the group.
"Watch him run circles around kids twice his age," Auda shouted to the group admiringly, "The boss will make it a game again!"
Afmad concurred
"He can run some routes that'll frighten the secondary!"
The Romanian defectors would see that the fourteen-year-old did run routes that brought the old guys back into the game.
They also saw that the modern brick home wasn't the only habitable structure on the lawn; a concrete home also existed in a hidden corner of the woods.
Eighteen-year-old Count Milliardo Peacecraft was told that he was actually standing above a massive complex as he was already on the cement patio.
"Yep, hee! hee! They dug t' Chiner an' filled it (the hole) wit' a techno-palace or something!"
I don't believe that. Just imagine the sinkhole that could form, he thought skeptically. There are subtropolises and bunkers, to be sure, but directly under this home?
Time passed as Milliardo learned more Quatresian myth.
It was obvious that so much of it was made up.
Would you believe he was a New York congressman's secret project, designed for counter-terrorism? Neither would Count Peacecraft, the vampire-defector who refused control of a vampire clan plotting to become a world power.
With that said, (in dreamland only) the Count went hiking.
Down hill from Milliardo, Une and the gang watch the boss with little interest and talk about Romanian Mafia military strength with much more gusto.
"When I contacted him at his Dacha last month, the count told me that the vamps were buying some Arab League Saladin Main Battle tanks produced above the official quota this year, and built more without license," Une said, even though she was watching and noting If's departure.
"You're not supposed to go on vacation until August though," Pagan informed the group, bewildered.
"That's right, but Peacecraft would be the new chief this month, so he moved his Black Sea vacation up to May, so he wouldn't slack off his duties within two months of gaining his new position," Une explained.
"You mentioned the Arab League, so how many connections could the vamps have?" Afmad asked the germen.
"Many, and they don't mind letting people know they exist. Did you know the Peacecraft's dacha was an exact replica of the Gorbechev vacation home?"
"That's going to grab attention," Rashid commented. Look who's talking.
"What type of reach does this group have?" Afmad speaking.
"I tracked an agent all the way to Christies Auction House. He bought Brezenov's Hearst for Milliardo," Auda answered.
"Morbid son ova gun," Ms. Noin swore.
Afmad cracked a smile at Noin, then asked,
"So how does this guy strike you, Une?"
Captain Une pondered this thoughtfully.
"Well, he's a nice guy, I'm sure, but he does have a dark side, like a good vampire." Everyone groaned in disappointment, and Une caught on.
"That's not all. If you must know more, he really doesn't strike me, as you call it, like a modern fellow. He's more like a man of the pre World War genre, President Wilson would really like him, and some of his social concepts seem pre Darwin. In fact, he might be a big Crimean War buff. Who knows?"
Everyone got the picture; the mention of Darwin meant that Milliardo was something of a European traditionalist in a social sense.
So, if I want to kill him someday, I could attempt to beat him in a fencing duel, thought the aggressive Italian woman.
Everyone had their own idea of what Une was saying about the kid, but they all believed there was something noble about his ideals: they'd already sensed it.
Lt. Colonel Thurman Dynamics has just called the Space Force; first human to get through.
Septum put the call on screen for the African detectives to see.
This guy has actually been a Brevet General on several occasions.
The screen changed from a phone tracing- map to a live transmission of an unnaturally angry looking soldier of above average size and sub-Saharan appearance.
The Detroit native inquired about the shutdown.
Chief Septum answered.
"We suffered an attack against out network, and all surface COM was cut."
He didn't mention that the mainframe was still running auxiliary functions, nor that a hacker fired a satellite based particle beam.
"As acting CINC of the US Electronics Warfare Corps, I'll be flying over via C-21 in two hours," Dynamics told those concerned.
I guess he thought we didn't know where he's working these days, thought WuFei and Maxwell, amused at the naivety of the idea.
"We'll be leaving now, saving you're crisis will be enough," Maxwell said with a pinch of salt.
As expected, Septum's face morphed into a mask of rage as WuFei said he'd stay. "To close up things here,"
Whatever that means.
After the American football game ended, the younger team departed to ride jeeps off-road in the mountains.
"Some time back, I played both ends of the ball, just like (I did) today," Quatre said, walking up the slope.
"Great job in the valley, too," Afmad and Noin called.
Quatre smiled at that, most likely, already thinking that.
Just like so many guys, the old team reviewed the game in conversation, explaining how they kept the other guy from running over oneself all day, exaggerating ones role in the victory, (they won!) and all stating the importance of Quatre Winner stepping in at clutch time.
"We should ask Heero to do an electronic search for more vampire activity," Quatre whispered to Rashid, passing by.
"Aye aye."
Odd, this Teletype message is unlike anything a human is likely to create. It has got knots and grooves across the entire message; and had Maxwell failed to trace it, he'd have been in the dark. However, the message was corrupted!
"Why does this guy have an enveloping shield around the beam?"
Inspector Maxwell manipulated a keypad while maintaining control of his United Nations issued Jeep Liberty.
"Can't get a complete fix on it, no further than Texarkana to the southeast," he croaked.
The Doppler direction finder failed to get a complete fix on the tight-beam transmission.
Duo saw a lightning streak flash across the finder.
"That's a bomb detonation transmitter!"
A ground based electronic counter measure from a nearby location locked onto the Liberty, fried it, and toasted it.
"Elliot Tudor's information has been accurate, and our Fang interceptors indeed engaged Corona over the Atlantic. However, the personal jet hailed the Iberian Authorities, who canceled our force," Treize updated the Vampire Confederation Delegates, who have come to Vienna to attend an emergency hearing called by Romanian Regent Treize.
"Do you wish to outlaw the Peacecrafts, Mister Treize?" The Austrian host wanted everyone to know the intention of those already concerned.
Treize answered, "Yes, but only these two traitors, the rest of the family is no threat to the safety of the Clan."
The elderly Austrian nodded respectfully, there was no hint of foul play in the regent's words, but Host Vampire Zack Hamlet was sure the outlaw order started the conspiracy wheels turning on many heads that afternoon, as the graybeard meditated on the issue during a recess early that evening.
Traitors don't tend to escape before doing anything, except in a totalitarian nation...even Aaron Burr shot Hamilton before that strange Midwest thing occurred.
"I think some of Treize's dirt escaped into the wind."
"Why have a number for every single media outlet? W.E. security has the answer."
-CUTTING EDGE SCOOPE, 3rd rate tabloid.
While eating cake, the pager registered to Someone beeped while hanging on to Quatre Winner.
After stumbling out of his chair, he successfully unclipped it, and read the message.
LOOK UP.
An airship drifted across the cloudless sky, with the message: "Yowie message intercepted. Don't worry, the spy has amnesia. Send Corona up the river."
Half to himself, and half understanding, Quatre said "Roger," flatly.
And so, Heero's radiant sign guided the Peacecrafts relocating taskforce to the end of they're kickoff in a hostile arena.
Epilogue
Quatre merrily indulged Milliardo by thrusting a death-rail at him.
"I plan on keeping you in America for awhile," he was saying, having fallen back from the Count's counter-strike, "I was thinking about letting you live in an Astronomy commune for a few weeks, before your interview."
Milliardo's eyebrows rose. I guess this guy doesn't need intelligence on my clan as awfully as I calculated at the outset.
Without even betraying his intention one bit, Quatre thrusts with an abbreviated outward slash that the Count found himself parrying. No!
The Baron reversed, slashing Peacecraft's left shoulder with a backhand movement.
"I understand that you're actually competitive in math and hacking, but I'm sure you have solid reason not to reveal THOSE skills too, right?"
If snorted, attacked like a modern athlete.
But Quatre owned him so much...
It's not even worth mentioning.
Satire can be one of our most beautiful and ugly genres. This is written in a ton of genres, in a mottled fashion, but many of you may errantly deem this a satirical defaming of the American President, but this is not an anti-Bush story. Quatre's casting as "an oilman" swam into my mind, (a) because the Gundam series leads one to assume Quatre's Arabian family earned their money in the energy industry, (b) I wanted to set a GW story in the Heartland, and all the pundit scuttlebutt about "Bush Country" practically wrote the plot for me, though, as I said earlier, nothing here is based on actual events. (c) I actually had most of this humorous plotline jotted down well before public opinion turned south for the president, who I have no malice toward, BTW.
I appreciated Swift's timeless satire, Gulliver's Travels, as a great work of art. Despite everything, it was good-natured, and a joy for Tory and Whig.