Disclaimers—here's your fine print, people. None of the Star Blazers/Yamato characters are mine. They're Voyager Entertainment's. I am making not one thin dime or red cent from what is written herein; this is for entertainment only.

Likewise… any song lyrics appearing in any of the chapters will be credited appropriately to the artist in question. I don't have any money; don't sue me, people, I'm just enjoying myself. No, this isn't a songfic; get that look off your face.

If you are under 18, CLOSE THIS STORY. The rating is M for several reasons, and those reasons would be copious gore, possible adult language and situations, and disturbing verbal imagery.

Note: the Rapanui (Easter Islander) names are written as they would be pronounced phonetically. 'Atiranhyi' would actually be written 'Atarangi'.

1.

Comes the Night of Fire

Is there a fire in the sky? Is there a moon up there?

Is there anything alive now? This darkness is what I hear

This is a breathless silence; a moment out of time

I see your face in the shadows; the tell tale signs are in your eyes

More than I can hold in my hands; running through the cracks like

water

Aching with a passion inside as deep as the river…

—Shriekback, This Big Hush

March 15, 2182

The sea, still a rich blue this far out in the Pacific, knocked and slapped against the hull of the small fishing vessel. Here at Easter Island—called Rapa Nui by her indigenous people—it was still easy to forget the war… the radioactive hell rained down upon Terra by the alien race known only as 'Gamilons'. Piri piloted his outrigger through the choppy water with an expert hand; these waters were dangerous, but he had made his living from them throughout his life, as his people had for hundreds of years. As he passed Aku Akivi, he kissed his hand and waved to the seven moai statues, standing like silent sentinels, the only such stone giants that looked out to sea. All others faced inland, watching protectively over the descendents of the loving hands that had carved them, centuries ago.

It was a perfect day. The very last one.

As Piri turned toward the sea, he lifted one dark hand to shield his eyes from the sudden, hot brightening of the sun. The sun? Not from the north. He opened his mouth to cry out to Atua, Mahina—any of the several gods of his people. The last sensation the fisherman felt was the agony of his tongue cooking within his screaming mouth, and the wet heat of the liquid from his rupturing eyes pouring down his face. And then Piri, and the rest of the island once called 'Te Pito o te Henua'—'The Navel of the World'—simply ceased to exist. The planet bomb erased the sixty three square miles of ancient, volcanic land as though it had never existed. And the resultant tsunami would see that not even flotsam and seawrack would be left...

Hands the warm brown of sun-kissed sand clenched on the edge of her desk. The young resident doctor, far away from the destruction she was witnessing, felt the loss of the island that had given her birth like a gut-punch. Haka'ea Paoa Riroroko opened her mouth to scream as the news reports filtered in; all that emerged was a choked, sick sob. Her dark eyes poured tears; the warm salt trickled into her mouth, tasting of the sea… the sea, now poisoned, that had just swallowed every living soul of her Rapa Nui people—save herself. Finally, the scream came; a heartsick, bitter wail of denial, rage, recrimination and loss.

She was still screaming when the hypospray was pressed to her arm; the dose of sedative was all her colleagues could do for her in the immediacy of the horror.

Beware the Ides of March…