ROBOTECH:

The Smoldering Earth

By GVincent

THE WORLD WAS BEAUTIFUL ONCE,…

I know, I remember it.

I remember holidays at my grandmother's summer home in the countryside with great fields of green grass and streams sparkling and alive with fish. I remember the summer days with the sun hot on my shoulders with no cares but winning a football or cricket match against a team of my chums before the call came for tea. And that was life.

Life changed though.

Later I remember growing up worrying that the great Russian Bear would come tramping west to the tune of a hundred thundering tank divisions until he called the Thames a stream in his back yard.

That as much as anything made me sign up with the RAF, when there still was such a thing.

The Bear died in its sleep though- not so much as a whimper from the poor bugger, let alone a roar.

Through history though, bears have never been so dangerous as blokes, and after the Bear we were quick to find other blokes with whom to do battle. Mostly blokes with strange names in sandy places that the average chap couldn't find on a map, nor would he want to-.

Except the bloke with the strange name had oil.

Then one day one bloke with a strange name decided that he wanted the land of another bloke with a strange name and that oil was in danger. We had a cause to fight for again, and we did, pranging the sod something awful.

I got my first taste of killing and thought that I knew something about death.

What no one figured on was that pranging the bloke with the strange name who wanted the land of the other bloke with a strange name got the panties of a lot of other blokes with strange names in a twist.

Some were on a boil that we talked to God differently than they did and that their way didn't seem to be garnering much favor. Others only cared about the oil and the money and just used God for a rallying cry.

-People can be daft like that, especially blokes with strange names.

Finally, whether for God, or oil, or just because there weren't enough old chaps around who remembered the last big game to warn us- the world began to tear itself apart again.

They called it The Global War because "World War III" would have seemed like that sequel that takes an interesting cinema plot that one step too far.

For years we killed this bloke for oil, and that one for God, and this one over here for something he did to someone else's great grandfather a century before- and everyone held their breath waiting for the end to begin with a brilliant white light exploding over a capital city somewhere.

It didn't happen.

We were so bent on killing one another and so well-practiced in it that we didn't stop to think that we might not know a real thing about killing at all.

We were about to learn though.

7 July 1999, 0623.44 hours Zulu would later be noted as the most monumental moment in Earth's recorded history.

NORAD tracking stations detected a massive electro-magnetic pulse that they could not account for, coinciding with a significant flux in the Earth's gravitational field. First thoughts, on both sides of the war we found later, were that it had been a botched nuclear strike on the military satellite networks of one side or the other.

The world hung for forty-five minutes a key turn away from a real Dr. Strangelove grand finale.

Cooler heads prevailed though and both sides concluded that the EMP had been the result of some anomaly coinciding with the sudden appearance of an asteroid body between the Earth and the Moon. Possibly a collision between a large and a smaller asteroid was the immediate conclusion that allowed the men in underground missile command bunkers to breathe easier- for another seven minutes.

Then the asteroid changed course and reduced velocity as it entered Earth's gravitational field. Rocks don't slow themselves, you see…

The pucker factor went back off the scale.

0719.23 hours Zulu.

An uninhabited, unassuming, and unremarkable island by any standards named, Macross, in the South Pacific nearly ceased to exist as the "asteroid" came to the fiery and abrupt end of its journey.

Macross instantly became the most valued lot of real estate on the Earth- though we didn't know it just yet.

With campaigns raging, the Allies still found the time to break off a U.S. carrier battle group to rush to the scene to investigate. Maybe the high command had an intuitive moment, maybe it was just one of those odd things in war where you don't want the other sod getting to anything of remote interest first. Anyway, the Yanks went with great haste.

It was worth their time.

With all that was going on in the world, the obliteration of a small island in the middle of the Pacific barely made the second page of any paper's science insert, but the press had not seen what the shore party from the carrier had seen.

Reports went up the chain of command quickly, and what they said was more closely guarded than anything that had ever been put to paper. Generals and government leaders, reading the reports found the contents so serious that it was not long before the same reports were on the desks of the government leaders on the other side of the war.

The world rejoiced.

For reasons that could not be explained by any event of significance in The Global War, a general cease fire was ordered on 1 August, 0001 Zulu hours.

The killing and dying had stopped, the celebrations had begun.

Civilians did not notice the quiet, remote rumors of something extraterrestrial being found on an island in the Pacific. It was just as well, no one had answers at that point- only questions.

Jubilation turned to astonishment as the governments that had been determined to vanquish one another only weeks before quickly made provisions for peace and stabilization of Earth's affairs- and then surpassed peace to speak of something unheard of before: unification..

By December of the year, the Articles of Unification and a United Earth Constitution had been drafted and ratified by almost three quarters of the national representatives, and on 1 January 2000 the world became a single entity- mostly.

Historians might later describe the event idyllically, seeing it through rosier colored glasses, but it was a bloody mess. Anti-unification protests and riots in every major city, militant nationalist groups sprang up like weeds either attempting to build viable militias or acting out their discontent through terrorism- hardly everyone stepping out in the street to sing Imagine in one voice.

For months it seemed that the hastily conceived and even more hastily realized idea of a single world would fly apart at the seams. Then on the first day of March in the last year of the twentieth century, the world learned the great secret.

We weren't alone in the universe.

The most carefully guarded secret in all of human history was publicized- mostly. The "asteroid" that had nearly destroyed Macross Island in the South Pacific was no asteroid at all. A spacecraft of alien origin had fallen to Earth, split wide open, and was quickly spilling all its secrets to the world's foremost minds in science and technology.

The marvel of it all just about put an end to the raging of the malcontents overnight.

True to form of every government in history though, this new one did not disclose everything all at once. We were learning at an unprecedented rate from this Promethium gift- but not solely because of our own brilliance. The primer, intermediate, and advanced studies of a technology that had already been dubbed Robotechnology was not being spoon-fed, but shovel-fed to us by the ship's contents- along with a warning.

Others would come looking for it.

Disclosure of the "possibility" of "hostile aggression" from space was made public on 1 June 2000- but there was no need to worry as we had been given the means with which to defend ourselves in that "extremely unlikely event".

The world had focus, perhaps for the first time ever.

Technology advanced in bounds. Innovations that would have taken decades to conceive of and develop with the progress of only a year before began to occur on nearly a monthly basis. Radical new thinking in the areas of computers, mechanical engineering and design accompanied a new power source that had arrived with the alien technology. A perfectly "green" bio-energy fuel in the form of an alien plant's seed pods (named, by the translation from the alien information, "The Flower of Life") was quickly harnessed, and with it, away dropped the energy concerns of a planet.

New machines, equal parts alien and human were designed and built. Space stations were constructed, followed shortly by a Moon base and a Mars base. All the while sightings were reported of the ghostly apparitions of Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Gene Roddenberry, and Stanley Kubrick- all seen with knowing grins and blue steel erections.

Humankind recreated itself- outwardly at any rate- using the tools given to us by a benevolent alien benefactor whose name we learned was Zor. We rose quickly above anything we thought we were capable of becoming- constantly impressing ourselves with our own ingenuity. All the while, the centerpiece, the crowning jewel of all that we aspired to was the alien ship. Now named the Super-Dimensional Fortress-1, or SDF-1, it would be the H.M.S. Victory of our time and to our world.

Like Daedalus, we had fashioned our waxen wings, and like Icherus, we were prepared to fly too high. I myself had long since discarded my RAF wings for those of our world's new protector, the Robotech Defense Forces. We were confident like falconers to fly at anything.

Like Icherus though, we were on the verge of falling to the sea.

The fall began, as many do, with a lie, on 1 July 2009. Just under ten years to the day of its arrival on Earth, the Earth was to return the SDF-1 to the stars in our service following her commissioning.

Things did not go as planned.

What the world was told was that a militant anti-unification group had smuggled a fifty-megaton nuclear device just offshore of Macross Island and detonated it- incinerating the island, the now substantial population, and the SDF-1 entirely.

The world was in shock.

If the reaction of the world to the lie was shock- the reaction of the world to the truth would have been abject terror.

They had come.

Just as the warning had promised, the gods had arrived to take fire back from the mortals. Only we knew- rather, some knew- that the "they" were not gods, but slaves. An artificial race of giants called Zentraedi created by the same race that had built the SDF-1 had been sent to reclaim it.

They weren't going to get it without a fight.

While the world falsely mourned the loss of its greatest pride to "anti-unification terrorism", the SDF-1 was slowly making its way home from the outer reaches of our own solar system, having leapt there taking the whole of Macross Island with it, using the alien's faster-than-light, hyperspace fold drive system. The military at the highest levels and the government watched with great anxiety as the SDF-1 fought her way home, keeping a vastly superior force under the command of a Zentraedi general by the name of Breetai at a constant arm's length.

Debates raged behind closed doors of whether it would be better if the Zentraedi were allowed to recover the SDF-1. Perhaps then they would simply slip back into the void and leave a primitive race alone. All the while though, the world quietly- quietly, to the point where the civilian population barely noticed- prepared to defend itself.

The lie ended on 11 August 2011.

The SDF-1 came home and with a story to tell. The government had no choice but to admit the lie and own up to the truth. The world and humankind, as it often does, decided to sacrifice its savior in hopes of saving itself. The SDF-1, in no uncertain terms, was ordered to leave the proximity of Earth and in doing so, hopefully draw away the attention of the Zentraedi.

An old Japanese proverb tells us that our enemies are our best teachers. They are also our keenest students.

What the crew and the adopted civilian population (the survivors of Macross Island) had learned of the Zentraedi was that their "culture", if you could call it that, was a purely military one that made the Spartans look like an undisciplined Boy Scout troop. What the Zentraedi had learned from us was that their way of life was not the only one. In fact, indirect and direct contact with the humans aboard SDF-1 had begun to cause significant problems within Breetai's command. For the first time, questions were being raised about the nature of Zentraedi, by Zentraedi.

Unfortunately for both Breetai's army and the whole of humankind- the audacity and the threat of this questioning did not go unnoticed by the higher echelons of the Zentraedi command.

Perhaps out of fear of loss of control, or fear of something else- the supreme leader of the Zentraedi, Dolza, decided the fate of both Breetai's forces and humankind without hesitation.

Annihilation.

The contaminators and the contaminated would be destroyed in the same massive stroke.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Fortunately, some wisdom transcends the species. With no other choice, and beginning to see the possibilities of human existence himself, Breetai decided to side with Earth in her defense.

22 August 2011, 1135.08 hours Zulu- the fight began.

Zentraedi warships under Dolza's direct command appeared in such numbers that it seemed they would block out the sun. What followed seemed to promise the end of it all as far as Earth was concerned.

Three billion people died instantly at 1141.37 hours Zulu.

Actually, the exact numbers will never be known, but it was over half of the Earth's population that was wiped out by a singular, massive, planetary barrage.

I don't remember that event myself. I don't want to. I woke up in a makeshift hospital four days later with a nurse tying a tag to my left big toe.

I did awake to great news though. Through cunning, audacity, and a few tricks we had up our sleeves, the combined forces of Earth and Breetai had defeated Dolza's fleet by killing the Supreme Commander.

Stunned and disorganized, Dolza's forces had retreated to regions of space unknown.

Almost every major city, and a good number of the minor ones on Earth had been leveled. Oddly enough, Nelson remained standing in Trafalgar Square- a sign perhaps.

Great news.

Every silver lining has its cloud. Earth would have its share too.

True to the projections of every anti-war, granola-eating activist since Hiroshima, the resulting dust and debris from the Zentraedi attack darkened the sky within ten days. The Earth sank into a perpetual cycle of pitch dark and deep twilight. Plants seemed to die, animals followed, and in despair epidemics of suicide swept the remains of humanity.

No one knows how many died in those times either.

The skies stayed dark for six months- not the two or more years that scientists had projected. Perhaps that was our lucky break, because I'm not certain humankind could have clung on much longer. The world had become medieval again, and was sinking toward primitive.

I said that the plant life seemed to die. That wasn't a sloppy application of language. In the years since the alien ship had crashed, what no one had realized or discovered was that in its descent to Macross Island the alien ship had spread the spore of The Flower of Life into the prevailing winds of the atmosphere to be carried to all the corners of the globe. In our pursuit of technology over the following decade, no one had noticed the appearance of a strange new plant- mostly in the rich tropical regions of Earth. No one knew that the Flower's spore, and its very essence was infusing itself into the ecosystems of its new home.

When the skies darkened and photosynthesis halted, the plants did not die. They entered what scientists later called "protoculture sustained bio-stasis". They went to sleep- kept alive by the bio-ethereal energy of the alien flora.

When the sun returned, so did the plants and trees where the radiation levels were not too extreme. Those areas were few and far between- but humankind still had a toehold on life.

Thanks also to a highly secretive project known as "Ark", developed at the same time as initial studies of the SDF-1 revealed the threat of the Zentraedi, the technology and resources to replenish the plant diversity and animal population of Earth through cloning and other means had been stashed away in deep underground bunkers and on those Moon and Mars bases humanity had been so proud of.

Starvation, disease, and suicide still ran rampant- but we had a fighting chance.

Among the things that had changed with Earth's new dawn was that "we" now included a population of roughly a billion Zentraedi. Survivors from both Breetai and Dolza's forces, marooned on Earth, and not quite quit of their Zentraedi ways.

Aliens fought humans for the basic needs of life. Aliens also fought aliens, as humans also fought humans.

The new age was promising to be a dark one. Survivors seemed to band into almost feudal states as the United Earth Government struggled to keep control and distribute what resources there were.

It was a confusing time to be in the RDF. It still is, actually. We were sworn to defend, but the "who" we were defending against was never the same twice. After a bit over a decade's holiday, it seemed humankind was back in the business of killing itself while at the same time defending against the same Zentraedi threat- only now from within.

The Zentraedi, those bent on maintaining their old ways, had their final significant victory on 30 December 2012 when two renegade Zentraedi, Khyron and Azonia, of Breetai's former command killed themselves in a successful suicide attack on the SDF-1.

Many mourned the loss of a great symbol. For my part, I think it had done what Zor had built it to do.

So much for history.

The world was a beautiful place once.

We live in a burned out shell now. We're slowly on the mend, but I'll never live long enough to see the world the way it was when I was young and could look up at the stars without fear or anger.

I don't know why Zor sent his ship to our world. I don't care. I don't know if we've gained anything that was worth the price.

I don't know if human and Zentraedi can co-exist, though all of the social philosophers say we can and must be one and the same for either of us to survive in the new world.

Maybe the new world needs to be rid of those like me first.

I can't forget the world the way it was. I can't envision the world the way many say it should be. I can't forgive Zor for changing the old world, or the Zentraedi for taking it away. I hate them.

I hate them all.

Lt Col Nigel Patrick Winters

Commanding officer, 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron

Chapter One

Fighter Pilot's Breakfast

"..It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind- as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it, not a sentimental pretense but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea- something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to…"

Joseph Conrad

Heart of Darkness

Edwards City, the Mojave Desert, California

Lieutenant Colonel Nigel Patrick Winters awoke with a start- his right arm snapping out reflexively to find the alarm clock on the nightstand. Without opening his eyes, Winters found the alarm switch by following the contours of the clock with his fingers and pushed it a notch to the left into the off position.

He didn't have to open his eyes to know it was three minutes before the alarm was set to go off. It was a quirk he had developed for reasons he could not say- waking three minutes before the alarm. Winters had toyed in experimentation with this peculiarity of his over the years. He had set the alarm for different times, changed the hour he retired to bed- but always, when the alarm switch was pushed into the "on" position, he would awake three minutes before it.

Or as Winters preferred to think, and told those with whom he'd admitted the quirk, time was just three minutes too slow to catch him.

Creative musing aside, waking up three minutes before an alarm in the morning was an awful time to wake. It allowed the thought that there were a whole 180 seconds remaining before one had to rise and answer the call of an arbitrary fixed point in time- but 180 seconds was useless time. Too brief to drift back into sleep. One could only lie in the darkness and count the seconds slipping away.

In the darkness, Winters heard the soft pattering of sand carried by a sudden gust of wind against the streamlined stainless steel exterior of the camper trailer. The worn slats of the window blinds caught the same gust through the slightly opened sliding pane causing them to luff and rattle.

The bed next to him was empty. A soft hiss and gurgle from the main room of the trailer that acted as living room, dining room, and kitchen told him why. Rio was awake already and making what passed for coffee these days. Time was usually five minutes too slow to catch Rio, and Winters despite his tendency to sleep lightly rarely noticed when she slipped away.

Rio's counterpart remained though, and from Rio's pillow to which he had moved the moment it had been vacated, Lucky began to purr loudly. Winters opened his eyes slowly and by the green glow of the alarm clock's LED numbers, could see the cat's single eye staring back at him from inches away. Winters had no idea how the cat had lost its right eye, most of its right ear, and half its tail. It didn't really interest him. Lucky didn't interest him much either, but he'd come with Rio and an amicable co-habitation arrangement had been reached. The cat blinked its single eye indifferently at Winters before adjusting himself on the pillow to give the human his back.

"The same to you.", Winters muttered hoarsely as he tossed the threadbare coversheet and blankets aside and swung his legs out over the edge of the sagging mattress. He sat at the edge of the bed for a moment and flipped the alarm clock's radio switch on. He drew a deep breath and waited. It would come any second.

A great hacking cough rattled around in Winters' lungs and chest and then, in finding the route to escape, rose with the force and sensation of a cyclone up his throat. The taste of stale cigarettes and the local distillery's answer to bourbon filled his mouth having resided in his throat all night. A second wave of coughing, less violent than the first shook its way free of him. A third was much more manageable and barely worthy of notice.

Winters found his pack of cigarettes with three remaining and his Zippo lighter on the nightstand where he'd put it the night before and lit a smoke as the small clock radio crackled with mediocre reception.

"This is the BBC Foreign Service from London.", the pleasant female voice said through pops and hisses of the unstable airways, "This is the twelve o'clock news for the twentieth of September, 2015. The Ministry of Agriculture issued its report on northern hemisphere crop harvests and southern hemisphere crop projections yesterday. Harvest levels have exceeded the projected net tonnage yield by eight percent in wheat and other staple grains thanks to particularly productive years in the growing regions of Ukraine and Canada. At the press briefing following the official release of the report, Assistant Minister of Agriculture Swensen declined to speculate on the impact this yield will have on rationing this coming winter. In other news from Yellowstone City, Military Chief of Staff, General Breetai, is due to speak to Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations later today to argue the proposed increase in military spending for Fiscal Year 2016. The proposed budget for the Ministry of Defense from the Office of the President has drawn sharp criticism for showing the greatest increase in spending of any of the ministries- nearly triple the increase to the next largest budget, the Ministry of Internal Reconstruction. Committee Chair Jean-Bernard Rozier is expected to provide extreme resistance to Breetai's arguments based on written statements of position favoring use of global resources to accelerate reconstruction, and stemming from ongoing debates over the application of the manufacturing capabilities of the GS-95 Automated Factory to which Rozier is politically linked. Rozier is a founding member and perhaps the loudest proponent of the so-called, Home First movement in the Senate."

Winters dragged deeply on his cigarette, watching the glowing orange ring creep toward him along the cigarette's length leaving a crooked finger of ash. Nicotine began to swim his veins, slowly elevating him back to a state near human in feeling.

"-In news from the Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil, riots continued for the fourth night in a row in Brasilia over claims by leaders of the integrated Zentraedi population that rationing of food, relief goods, and medical treatment are preferential to humans."

"Go the bloody hell home then.", Winters growled at the radio as if to speak to the nameless, rioting Zentraedi masses the voice spoke of. Winters punctuated his statement by dropping the cigarette, smoked to the filter, into a half glass of water on the nightstand. A sharp hiss added the effect he was looking for.

"Army of the Southern Cross troops were called in to quell the riots leading to over a hundred injuries, but no fatalities. ASC officials refused to comment on the validity of the Zentraedi accusations, nor would they comment on similar accusations made in numerous regions of South America where the ASC holds responsibility for food distribution efforts. A sign of progress against typhus outbreak in Liberia was seen yesterday-."

Winters switched the radio off and rose in the darkness. He felt his way around the bed in the center of the small room and stepped through the curtain in the doorway into the hall. The glow and hum of the single fluorescent tube in the center of the trailer's ceiling was accompanied by that of a small space heater that Rio had moved to the floor just behind where she worked at the kitchen counter.

Rio's long hair that varied in color between the deep black of most Latina women of the region to light brown and almost blonde in natural streaks. It was pulled mostly into a ponytail that hung well between her thin shoulders. Her right bang, grown sufficiently long to hang to her chin, was free of the otherwise tightly pulled ponytail and performed the task for which Rio had grown it.

"Nothing to eat- just coffee.", Winters said, half in the bathroom, half out.

Rio's head turned to look at him with the hint of a small smile at the corners of her mouth. The pronounced scarring on the right side of her face below the eye, across the cheek, and down to the line of the jaw moved with the expression. Rio quickly smoothed and adjusted the concealing bang to cover it more thoroughly.

"Persian flaw, Rio- remember Persian flaw.", Winters said as he watched her pour the powdered contents of a small bowl back into a plastic storage bag and zip it again.

It could have been eggs- possibly porridge or cream of wheat. It didn't matter to Winters really. All were equally repulsive at any hour, and especially at this one. Another cigarette and a cup of black coffee would do.

The aluminum toilet bowl sang under a stream of urine as Winters leaned against the back wall with a single hand. The buzz of the small light fixture over the sink almost concealed that of the four liter water heater bolted to the wall over the chest-high showerhead in the fiberglass stall.

Winters leaned over to run the cold water and caught a glimpse of himself in the small hanging mirror. Grey. Grey was continuing its steady advance from his temples and the hair at the sides of his head into the last bastion of medium brown at its crown. Even his pale blue eyes seemed greyer. Winters looked away, turning on the cold water flow to the shower and resolving that the grey looked better with the creases at the corners of the eyes and mouth. He had never won awards for his beauty anyway.

Rio tapped her short, unpainted nails on the narrow countertop to entice Lucky, who had emerged from the bedroom just after Winters, to leap up. The cat's muscles tensed and the half tail spun like the propeller on a child's toy airplane as he struggled with the complexities of calculating a jump without the benefit of depth perception. When the cat sprung, he landed deep and bumped off the wall with a muted squeak of embarrassment.

Rio petted the animal soothingly and set down on the counter a small bowl of assorted meat scraps that she constantly brought home from work for him. The meal would have to be quick, as Winters' shower would be brief and though he showed little other interest in domestic cleanliness- he could never stand the sight of the cat on the counter.

"Good morning."

Rio swept the cat gently but quickly from the counter top as she herself was startled to jump. Lucky, licking his lips retreated to a cubby hole beneath one of the seats in the dine-in nook- breakfast would still be there later, he knew.

"Didn't mean to scare you, sorry.", apologized the man whose head of sand colored hair was just inside the partially opened door.

Rio grinned and shook her head, holding her hand to her chest as though to hold her heart in.

"Can I come in?"

Rio nodded and motioned the man inside.

The door opened all the way now and the head was followed by a body of medium height and fit build dressed in a faded green flightsuit with a matching flight cap bearing a lieutenant colonel's silver oak leaves, and a weathered but well maintained leather aviator's jacket. As the man entered, he removed his cap and sat on the corner of the dine-in nook's booth seat. Lucky came out to bump and brush the man's leg, prompting him to stroke the cat's grey and black-striped body.

Rio motioned to the coffee machine on the counter that had just about filled its carafe.

"No, I'm fine- thanks.", the man said politely as the cat, having had his fill of attention returned to Rio and the countertop to finish his meal of scraps.

"Is Jack ready yet?"

Rio motioned to the bathroom where the shower could clearly be heard running.

"I'm early anyway.", said the lieutenant colonel, "So, today isn't the day that you decide to talk to me?"

Rio gave the same shy grin she always did and shook her head.

"Okay, have it your way. There's always tomorrow."

Lt. Col. Fred Dalton hadn't actually expected a word from Rio, and as usual hadn't been disappointed in his expectations. The fun was in the attempt really. Dalton found that she was one of those whose body language and facial expressions- that portion of her face that she would show- spoke volumes. Dalton couldn't think of much that Rio needed to say to him that she didn't say already in her way.

"Fuck me!", came a bellow from the bathroom that rose into a shrill yelp.

"And that would be Jack.", Dalton noted, "He's awake now. Still have that little four liter water heater, Rio?"

Rio nodded, as she leaned against the counter, facing Dalton and pulling at her right bang to maintain a veil of hair on that side of her face.

Dalton imagined what she may have looked like before, picturing the slight and attractive features of the left side of her face transposed. The indifference of the world was bad enough, but deliberate cruelty in these times seemed that much more heinous. The worst of it all was that the scars ran deeper than her face. Somehow though she had retained a kind heart and Dalton admired her for that.

"Linda and I just got a twelve liter unit.", the lieutenant colonel said, "I'll bring the old eight liter job by tomorrow. God knows where you'll mount it in that phone booth, but Jack'll figure something out."

Rio's visible eye blinked, clearly unconvinced.

"Okay", Dalton said, revising his plan, "I'll come by with Lyle and he can figure something out."

Rio's relief was obvious.

The door to the bathroom opened and Rio hastened Lucky off the counter for a second time. Winters emerged with a towel around his mid-section. He nodded his acknowledgement to Dalton as he paused in the doorway to the bedroom.

"The blood flowing now?", Dalton asked.

"Like a snow-driven stream- which is about as warm as the shower was.", Winters replied, his pronounce British accent seeming thicker in contrast to Dalton's more non-descript mid-American one, "Did Rio set you up with coffee?"

"She offered."

"I'll be a tick."

"No rush- The Outlands will still be there.", Dalton called after Winters as he vanished through the curtain.

"You brought your car, Freddy?"

"No", Dalton replied, "I rode a mule. Of course I came in a car- I checked a rover out of the motor pool. Haven't gotten the car running yet?"

The heavy sigh from the bedroom was followed by, "You know, I spend so much time under the bonnet that I'm going to start calling my self Bo Peep."

"Face it, Jack", Dalton said, "Fixing things isn't your forte- you work on the other end of the spectrum. Just have Lyle-."

"It's not Lyle's bloody car, is it?", Winters snapped.

The discussion was over, Dalton could tell, it was time to let it go.

"Yeah, your car."

"You sure you don't want a cup of coffee?"

"No, I'm good."

"How about a cat?", Winters asked stepping out of the bedroom dressed similarly to Dalton.

"No, I ate something too."

Rio looked mildly disturbed at the exchange.

Winters emerged from the bedroom anachronistically looking like a pilot of the early 1940's ready to soar off in his Spitfire rather than one of the early 21st Century. His classic RAF leather aviator's jacket seemed part of a set with his equally worn, faded, and cracked leather officer's wheel cap. Perhaps most out of place with contemporary attire, though keeping with Winters' homage to history, were the well broken-in brown officer's jack boots he always wore in the place of the more utility oriented, standard issue boots available to him through the supply quartermaster. The flightsuit was regulation though.

"You don't have any fags, do you Freddy?", Winters asked, drawing the chrome plated, Smith & Wesson Model 29 .44 caliber revolver and all ten inches of its barrel from the holster that hung at his right thigh to open the cylinder and load it.

"The better part of a pack, actually." Dalton replied hearing the soft click of each heavy cartridge entering an empty chamber, "They're Winstons though."

"That's fine.", Winters said spinning the cylinder before snapping it shut, "I'm almost out."

"They're unfiltered."

"Even better."

"When are you going to get an automatic like every other peckerwood on post?", Dalton asked as Winters holstered the weapon appearing to be the parody of Biggles asWyatt Erpp.

"When simplicity fails me.", Winters replied, patting himself down to verify his pockets contained all that he needed, "Clint Eastwood never needed an automatic."

"He had script writers on his side. If you ever have to punch out, you won't have the same luxury."

"If I have to punch out, I'm likely buggered anyway.", Winters pointed out.

"It's your optimism I love so much, Jack."

"Again, is Buster short for ball buster?"

"Only when I care."

"You care?"

"Not really.", Dalton said rising as Winters crossed the room for the door.

Rio intercepted Winters, half standing in front of him and pressing a battered thermal mug of coffee into his hand.

"I didn't forget.", Winters said, bending slightly to kiss her on her visible cheek, "Working this afternoon?"

Rio nodded, making a turning motion with her right hand.

"Can't anyone else ever close?", Winters asked, slightly annoyed, "Never mind. We'll catch up with you there later and bring you home."

Rio nodded her agreement and waved a small goodbye to Dalton as he followed Winters out the door. Dalton returned the gesture as Winters left the trailer without so much as a backwards glance. He did though take up the upper half of a cane that had lost its lower portion sometime in the distant past. The upper shaft was a finely hand-carved piece whose dark wood had been worn smooth to the scepter-like cap years before by the previous, unknown owner. Dalton had always known Winters to carry the improvised swagger stick that he now twirled expertly in the fingers of his right hand- a vent for nervous energy. Like many of the small quirks of the commanding officer, it fit him without seeming ostentatious.

The "Suburbs" of Edwards City, built and named such after the town of Mojave had been deemed unrecoverable after the Zentraedi attack, were little more than a series of meandering dirt roads through sage and scrub bush outside of the town proper. Residents varied from military personnel choosing to decline the hospitality of base accommodations, to civilians seeking to detach themselves from the reviving cosmopolitan lifestyle of the town while keeping it in sight.

Edwards City was a fringe of light on the horizon, some eight kilometers away. It was a great sign of progress that the street lights (it was a sign of progress that there were street lights) burned all night, as it was that a year before the city water and electric utility systems had extended into the Suburbs. Winters speculated the latter meant that one day there were plans for the town to expand, and possibly truly become a city. For now though, the Suburbs were ideal to him. The town required only that residents register their claims on their lots annually, and that they pay for utilities. Otherwise, the City kept its nose out of the Suburbs. That was just fine by the residents, including Winters.

As Dalton had said, a standard Wolverine utility vehicle was parked on the sun-baked sand next to the partially shrouded form of Winters' vintage 1965 Ford Mustang. Unlike the Wolverine, with its six all-terrain tires that stood higher than the hood of the sportscar, and which could operate reliably in almost any climate or topographical condition, the Mustang had not run in months- nor did it promise to. Dalton could not even recall where Winters had found a vintage sportscar, let alone how he had acquired it. Some things were better not to pry into too deeply.

The Wolverine showed itself to be one of the older in the base's inventory, as it's light armored body and half cab showed clear marks of small arms impacts. Attack by highwaymen was still possible these days- even so close to a military base as the Suburbs were. It was more and more uncommon, but still possible. For that reason Dalton had also checked an infantry rifle out of the base small arms arsenal. It never hurt to be too safe.

"Driving or riding shotgun?", Dalton asked.

"Shotgun.", Winters said, fighting the inclination established in his youth and going to the right side of the vehicle to ride as a passenger.

As Dalton got into the driver's side of the cab, he tossed the pack of cigarettes he had spoken of to Winters who quickly tapped one free and lit it. A sip of coffee warmed his empty stomach and two drags on his cigarette energized him for the beginning of his day.

"Fighter pilot's breakfast.", Winters muttered to no one, then to Dalton he said, "Okay, let's go save the world."

The engine of the Wolverine started immediately and powerfully with minimal effort from the starter motor. Through the open window of his door, Winters could smell that they were burning diesel today. Re-supply of the base must have been good for the month.

Dalton flipped on the flood and headlights dropped the automatic transmission into gear and all six wheels of the Wolverine engaged to carry it up the narrow dirt drive and onto the main dirt road toward Edwards.

The Antelope Valley of California had heard the sounds of flight from nearly the technology's infancy. Its heritage began in 1933 when the United States Army Air Corps established Muroc Army Air Field on the ideal sight of the dry Rogers and Rosamond Lake beds. The remote location at that time, and the year-round weather conditions perfect for flight made it a logical selection for test flight and advancement of the technology from the beginning. The first sonic boom had rolled over the desolate desert landscape, and the names of aviation giants such as Yeager, Crossfield, and Armstrong still echoed in the remains of contemporary structures that still stood.

Renamed in 1950 for pilot Glen Edwards, killed in the testing of the YB-49, Edwards Air Force Base continued to serve as the premiere U.S. flight testing facility as home to the Dryden Flight Research Center, the Air Force Research Laboratories and "The Rock"- Edwards Research Site where the engines of the legendary Saturn 5 rockets had been tested among others- until The Global War. With the war had come the new, additional mission of defending the western approaches to the continental U.S. from air attack. Only during the peace years between The Global War and the Zentraedi holocaust did Edwards return to its mission of almost pure research and development.

As Dalton and Winters left Edwards City behind heading southeast on the newly paved Kern Expressway, the perimeter fence and main gate to Edwards Air Base (renamed as such as part of the NORAMWEST RDF base complex including the facilities of Nellis Air Base and China Lake Air Base) seemed to loom up out of nowhere in the darkness. A heavily armed squad of base security troops stood post outside of the reinforced guardhouse, the sergeant of the watch stepping out to meet the Wolverine as it rolled to a stop just short of the gate.

Everything about Edwards these days lent itself to the image of proper military discipline and operation. What was true of NORAMWEST was doubly true for Edwards though- it was a well maintained façade. The illusion was maintained as much for the personnel as for what civilian populations dwelled around the three bases of the complex and in remote but habitable areas between. NORAMWEST was the far backwaters of the ongoing struggle to maintain order over the substantial Zentraedi population that had congregated mostly in Central and northern South America. No less than a dozen base complexes composed of scores of bases stood between the real threat and California Province. Edwards, like Nellis and China Lake, seemed at best to stand as a symbolic beacon of order standing between the Pacific Ocean and the ocean of the wastelands, The Outlands- to the east.

NORAMWEST in truth was the posting where the highest service to the cause was to display the uniform as a flicker against the darkness. Unofficially, little else was expected and quietly, off the record, most knew it.

Dalton lowered his window and held his identification card up into the sergeant's flashlight beam, as did Winters when the light shifted to him.

"Good morning, Colonels.", said the sergeant stepping back and saluting.

Dalton and Winters returned the salute as the gate was opened and allowed them to pass.

"So, did you hear about Mumuni?", Dalton asked as the gate fell behind and Muroc Road carried the Wolverine toward the heart of the main base. The "main base" referred to the remains of the old USAF Edwards Air Force Base over which the Robotech Defense Forces base had been constructed. Destroyed by a nearby heavy particle beam strike during the Zentraedi attack, the only real similarity between the old facility and the new was the ground on which it was built.

"What about her?", Winters asked. The CO of the Vigilantes was an excellent pilot, bearable in small doses- even likable- but more often than not an itch that could never really be scratched.

"She's up for her bird.", Dalton said turning left off of the main road onto Sky Streak, to approach the southeast fighter complex.

Winters groaned and let his head roll back against the seat's headrest, "Bloody marvelous. That will make her that much more unmanageable."

"You could have kept yours, you know.", Dalton reminded Winters.

"Silver birds weigh too much on my delicate shoulders.", Winters said dryly, "Did you have to start the morning for me this way?"

"Well, as she's likely going to be at the club later- I thought you'd want time to brace up."

"You mean start drinking heavily before I show up."

"That too."

Dalton pulled up to a second fence and gate barrier, this only guarded by two security troops with side arms. The senior of the guards recognized both Dalton and Winters and waved them through, saluting as they passed.

The interior of the Wolverine was illuminated like day by the powerful flood lights of the hangar complex tarmac. The work of supporting the fighter wing at Edwards went around the clock, and as a result ground crews could be found in and amongst the hangars at all hours. As the Wolverine crossed the tarmac, many such crews could be seen ducking in and out of the hardened aircraft shelters on various tasks, or congregating in small groups on a smoke break. The crews were mostly in their late teens and early twenties- children assigned the daunting task of maintaining the most sophisticated fighting machines the Earth had ever produced with infrequent and often insufficient support from outside supply and logistics. For this reason, it was not uncommon to see utility trucks hauling parts scavenged from one machine to another.

This morning though, the level of activity and the general goings-on seemed indicative of the efforts needed to support putting a flight of the 623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron into the air for patrol. Such was the detail of four ordinance handling trucks that were also crossing the tarmac for the same relative destination as Dalton and Winters.

"A lot of bang rolling by there, Jack.", Dalton said, knowing that Winters had seen the ordinance handling detail himself, "And I was hoping for a quiet morning."

"One way to find out.", Winters replied as Dalton pulled into an open space beside the flight prep building.

"Who else is on the board today?"

"Vice and Scooter.", Winters said, "I think."

The flight prep building could function as a home to the pilots assigned to it if the threat conditions warranted. The threat condition at NORAMWEST had not warranted it in recent memory though. Besides the locker room and flight prep room, the building also had a modest barracks-style dormitory with a small recreating room that doubled as a mess with its modest kitchen. This area had leaned more and more toward recreation over the years as reflected by the wall decorations that varied from pilots' childrens' artwork done at the base school, to the far less benign, tattered posters and full-page magazine photos of attractive and famous young women both past and present- some even with their clothes still on. The atmosphere- if not made clear by the appointments of the general purpose area- was summed succinctly by the sign on the door to enter it, made by Winters himself with the aid of a standard military stencil kit, that read:

"HE-MAN WOMAN-HATERS CLUB.

NO GIRLS ALLOWED! KEEP OUT!"

Winters and Dalton turned left through an open doorway before they reached the general purpose room. The squadron briefing room was barely large enough to accommodate the sixteen aged recliner chairs (a standard luxury amenity afforded to pilots by tradition) that were divided into two sections before the briefing podium at the front, and the multi-function screen mounted on the wall behind it.

To either side of the screen, the obligatory assortment of flags stood in their mounts. In a hierarchy of importance from left to right were the United Earth flag- an ensign with a white field denoting purity, with a central red circle representing Sol (a significant symbolic victory for the old-Earth state of Japan, Winters always thought, who had managed to prevail with that aspect of the flag design during the heated debates over its development) and within the orb, a pale blue diamond symbolizing the common (carbon) made into something rare and precious. This was how Earth had chosen to represent itself.

The NORAMWEST flag had the same United Earth symbol located centrally on a field of blue and straddling crossed lightning bolts. Over the symbol (popularly called the "D&D", "Dot & Diamond") were the outlines of the California and Nevada Provinces and a pyramid of three linked stars representing Nellis, China Lake, and Edwards.

Of any of the flags, Winters was least impressed by that of Edwards. A red field with the outline of Rogers and Rosamond Lakes beneath an eagle (a bird whose rendering Winters always thought made it look deranged) clutching lightning in one talon and laurels in the other.

623rd "Knight Hawk" Squadron's banner still gave Winters' heart a rise at seeing it- even years after he had worked with the more substantial artistic talents of Lyle to create it. True to Winters, the squadron ensign grudgingly held symbols and motifs of the past.

Crossed broadswords as one might hang them on a wall for display lay behind a shield divided into a lower half containing the United Earth D&D, while the upper half contained in two equal divisions, a gold ring of unity and the symbol that Winters had won over Lyle in the battle of wills- a Union Jack. Perched atop the shield, its wings spread to a flight-like span, was a hawk- regal in appearance and fine in detail

The head of Major Vaughn "Vice" Vincenz appeared over the back of one of the recliners in front row of the section to the left of the room as he lifted himself in his seat and twisted to look back at who was entering. His "high and tight" haircut kept his thick black hair from being long enough to suggest whether it was his black or Puerto Rican blood that was dominant in him. His other features, darkened also by the sun, gave no resolution either way.

"Jack, Buster.", Vincenz said, greeting the CO and XO.

"Vice.", Winters replied simply, "Where's Scooter?"

"Ritual.", Vincenz replied.

"Ah.", Winters replied. It was understood to be like clockwork.

"We can't have a mission unless Scooter drops six pounds in the john.", Dalton said taking seat on the right side of the aisle, "Superstition will prevail though."

"Good fortune through regularity.", mused Winters settling into the seat beside Dalton and removing a simple tin flask adorned with a raised squadron ensign from his coat pocket made the gesture of a toast and drank. Winters sealed and tucked away the flask, and then tilting the brim of his wheel cap forward over his eyes said, "There's got to be a joke in there somewhere. Oh well- wake me when the briefing is over, Freddy."

Footsteps falling quickly on the floor announced the approach and arrival of Major Garret "Scooter" Phillips. So called for his sharp, youthful features beneath a diligently maintained crop of reddish-brown hair, a stranger to the squadron would have been hard-pressed to guess he was junior in age only to Winters. His perpetually energetic, some would say "manic", state added to the impression.

"We can fly now.", Phillips announced, entering the briefing room and tossing an old magazine into the seat of a recliner as he passed it.

"I truly believe we're buggered if you ever eat too much cheese.", Winters said from beneath his cap.

Scooter hopped over the arm of his chair rather than taking the extra step to round it, and in landing caused the worn springs to squeak.

"Yeah, but we're safe. Who the hell has seen enough cheese to bind you up in the last couple of years?"

"He's got a point.", Vice said.

"Better to err on the side of safety", Dalton insisted, "Keep eating your fiber, Scooter."

"Good morning, Knight Hawks."

Winters didn't need to lift his cap. He recognized the voice of Major Wang (a name and rank combination that would have drawn significantly more ribbing for the officer if he had not been an agreeable personality of the highest order) from the base's Flight Operations Center. Wang more often than not briefed the Knight Hawks- a tradition of lesser importance. The "tradition" was also something of a ritual in that the missions Wang briefed to them were regularly of the cookie-cutter variety.

Wang settled in behind the podium, activating the viewscreen and inserting a memory stick into the computer console before him.

Winters raised his cap enough to be able to see the screen. As the other three pilots went into the pockets on the sides of their recliners to retrieve the pads of paper and pencils routinely kept there for note-taking, Winters did the same after a moment. He, like they, could probably recite by memory the flight paths, waypoints, and general objectives of any of the missions they were likely to receive. There was no arguing with tradition or ritual though.

"This morning we have a circuit patrol of Sector Four.", Wang said as a detailed topographical map of the California and Nevada wastelands appeared on the screen with a roughly square flight path that would be the patrol circuit laid over it.

"Starting the day with a rim job on The Outlandss", Winters muttered, drawing a snicker from Scooter, "No wonder this job leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

"Yep", agreed Wang. He was very informal in his briefings, bordering on casual, but the pilots knew their duties and despite their relaxed attitude could be counted on to perform them reliably, "Standard rim job. There are a few details that might pep it up a little though, so heads up."

Wang tapped a control icon on his screen and the intelligence overlay appeared on the map.

"Army units are active in the southeast quadrant of the sector on population assessment and resource distribution operations. You can be sure that they haven't gone unnoticed out there. Intel suggests, and reports from outlying posts confirm, at least two and possibly three migrant populations moving into this general area. Mostly human, at least some Zentraedi of the micronized sort- but as you know that doesn't mean much. Anyone can get a dumb, train-robbery mentality if they're hungry enough."

"Dumb enough that they're crossing The Outlandss.", Dalton observed, "Radiation is still fairly high in that area. At least they won't be needing haircuts or dental care."

"Be that as it may, sir.", Wang continued, "They're smart enough to have picked up on the fact that supplies are making their way west and that distribution ops are increasing. They also know that with most of our combat units' attention and resources going south, there are fewer troops to protect those ops. So, we need to show a little deterrence from upon high. Call sign for our earthbound brethren is Pack Rat."

The pilots began to jot down notes based on what Wang was saying and what appeared on the screen.

Wang continued, "Let's cover C2 details and then other units that will be up there with you. I show wheels-up in an hour and a quarter."

Had Pablo Picasso been an aeronautical engineer, he would have been welcomed into and accepted as part of the design team that conceived theVF-1 "Valkyrie" series Veritech Transformable Fighter.

The most commonly recognized product of the fusion of Robotechnology with existing human science and military aircraft design was something that Picasso's gift for the abstract would have yielded. Driven by the need to fulfill many requirements of both air and ground combat- the Valkyrie was for all intents and purposes, three fighting machines in one package.

Its natural, primary configuration was that of a sleek, single seat, twin tail, twin engine, variable-sweep wing fighter jet. In this the Veritech's most swift and agile form, and propelled by twin fusion engines whose fuel source were "protoculture" cells derived from the alien Flower of Life- the Valkyrie was a lethal killer. With a superb performance envelope and a thrust to weight ratio unprecedented in human history, the Valkyrie had proven itself in the first xeno-teran conflict the equal or superior to any machine in the Zentraedi inventory. Equally capable in atmosphere or space, and with the requirement to refuel measured in months of flight time instead of hours- the fighter was the apex hunter of the skies. The Valkyrie possessed both the technical sophistication of late generation NATO fighters and the rugged durability for which the Mikoyan-Gurevich Design Bureau's "MiGs" had been famous. Even the sole, universal complaint of the pilots who had first operationally test flown the Veritech to critique it- that was the comparatively large radar cross section of the aircraft in comparison to late generation, purely terran fighters- had been compensated for with the application radar absorbent laminant.

The sizable RCS (50% again that of the American F-15 that still dominated the skies of the world during even the late stages of the VF-1's development) had been a recognized flaw from the beginning of the project, and a constant thorn in the design team's side. The flaw, stemming from the Valkyrie's numerous flat surfaces and distinct joints was a necessary evil and considered acceptable for the benefits it garnered in fulfilling the other established requirements for the fighter.

In truth, the Valkyrie was not purely a "fighter" in the truest sense of the word- nor was it purely an aircraft. Inspired by the advanced engineering tutelage discovered within the wreckage of the alien spacecraft found on Macross Island- human engineers had conceived a new kind of vehicle referred to as mecha. The Valkyrie Veritech Transformable Fighter exemplified what mecha could be.

Through modular, multifunctional components that necessitated physical joints- producing the RCS issue- the nimble fighter could physically reconfigure itself at the pilot's command into a Battloid, or humanoid form. Intended as a solution to doing battle with the giant alien, Zentraedi- a pilot could use the speed of the fighter form to reach a battlefield before engaging in close-quarters combat with an enemy ten times his physical size while retaining the light armored protection of a vehicle.

Though much training and practice was required, pilots by the end of their training were able to get the Battloid to perform any physical feat of movement or agility that they themselves were capable of through both the purely technical neural-intercept control system known as "Neuro-Pilot" and the rationally inexplicable properties of the mecha's Flower of Life fuel source that augmented the technical system with an almost symbiotic relationship between machine and pilot.

The third form, and that for which Picasso's imagination for the bizarre would have been most suited if he had in fact been one of the Valkyrie's designers, was neither aircraft nor humanoid machine- but both. Originally conceived as a physical configuration that would allow the Valkyrie vertical take-off and landing capabilities (a feature insisted upon by Harrier pilots of the British Royal Navy, and U.S. Marine Corps who had sat on the design requirements board) the "Ground Effective Reinforcement Wing-Armament Locomotive Knee-joint", or "GERWALK" form elicited the same question of how such a thing could fly from every person who saw it for the first time. To see the nose and sweep wings of the fighter form, with the engine/leg modules dropped down at a near right angle to the long axis of the air frame, and the Battloid arms protruding and usable from beneath each wing's joining at the junction box- one naturally was forced to question.

Much to the joy and vindication of the Harrier pilots who had protested so loudly the validity of such a configuration- it was quickly discovered by test pilots that the GERWALK form, or "mode", changed by the pilots to "Guardian" (a name that stuck) possessed the ground performance of the Battloid, while also providing impressive air performance in both vertical and horizontal flight.

Such was the origin and the development of the Veritech Transformable Fighter, of which all three forms were represented in Hangar 11-1 as Lyle supervised the arming of Lt. Col. Winters' fighter.

Senior Master Sergeant Lyle DeVeo's appearance was what one might have expected for a man with his responsibilities and in his billet. Aircraft Captain to all of Knight Hawk Squadron, the maintenance, repair, modification, and general well being of each of the squadron's sixteen Valkyries was DeVeo's sole purpose for being. "Sole purpose for being" was as much or more a personal conviction as a professional one.

Of medium height and of build and general physique that could be compared accurately to a burlap sack of potatoes, the Oklahoma native was rarely more than fifty paces away from one of his beloved machines when on duty- and almost as infrequently saw the need to be off duty. DeVeo was the type of man who looked as though he was born with the grit and grime of mechanical work under his fingernails- though he himself was oblivious to the social faux pas of his general appearance. His work coveralls were oil stained where they were not (and sometimes were) dotted with cigarette burns. His face was not unlike the old brown Western boots he wore- used, cracked, and abused by the elements to the point that they defied assessment of age.

"Lyle!", called Winters from the side entrance to the hangar, "You beautiful, bald bastard-. How's my love this morning?"

The mechanic (Lyle was officially the Aircraft Captain, but preferred to be called and referred to himself as a "mechanic" ) involuntarily checked the comb-over of his thinning, dark brown hair as the pilot made his way across the glass-smooth concrete hangar floor.

"Yer love? Sheeyt…", Lyle snorted, almost spitting at the thought then thinking better of it in the shrine of his occupation, "Mah baby."

Somehow to Winters, Lyle's drawl always sounded to him like an old vinyl LP played just a little too slowly on the turntable.

"Mah baby `til tha wheels leave ground, `n mah baby `gain when the wheels touch ground.", Lyle corrected laying his hand on the Valkyrie's grey fuselage as tenderly as he would touch an infant, "`N she's still mah pride `n joy when y're zippin' `round doin' all that pilot sheeyt. You just r'member that too."

"Good morning, Marilyn.", Winters said affectionately to the same, running a finger over the nose art of the cultural icon a half-century dead. Lyle had painted, and took great pride in painting all of the squadron's nose art, as well as personally applying the squadron crest to the fighters' twin rudders. Lyle was proud of all his work, and rightfully so to Winters way of thinking though the thought often went unvoiced. One could almost feel the air from the subway grate blowing up the dead icon's shapely legs in that, the most famous images of her, if one stood close enough to Lyle's rendering.

"How about, ours?", Winters suggested, swinging his flight helmet by the chin strap.

"Ah'll consider it.", Lyle said, "Whatchy'all doin' out there today? They got us armin' ya to tha teeth."

The aircraft captain followed the squadron leader as the pilot made a visual inspection of his fighter and stopped to pull at the missiles on the wing pylon rails. Ducking beneath the wing, Winters noted the fighter's GU-11 gun pod- a weapon that could be fired in fighter mode from its mount on the belly, or as a rifle-style weapon by the Valkyrie when in Battloid or Guardian mode. He settled for a brief visual inspection of the weapon rather than a physical one- Lyle had likely checked it three times already.

"What am I shooting today?"

"M-338A high explosive armor piercing.", Lyle replied referring to the 400 round munitions load of the brutally powerful 55mm tri-barreled cannon, "Ain't got no sabot rounds in the ammo dump fer ya, but those'll knock somethin' down but good. What they got ya shootin' at today anyway?"

Winters completed his walk around the Valkyrie, Marilyn, and began to ascend the retractable ladder in the left side of the fuselage to the cockpit.

"Desperados and outlaws- if we're shooting.", Winters said stepping down carefully into the cockpit and settling into the seat within the cramped space.

Lyle followed the pilot up the ladder and as Winters attached the air line to his G-suit, the aircraft captain was securing the pilot's safety harnesses and pulling them taut to the proper tightness that equaled mild discomfort to the pilot.

"Well, pard'", Lyle said in the Southwest vernacular, "Make sure ya draw first `n aim low. Bring back mah baby `n we can go into town later wearin' our spurs down."

"Lyle", Winters said putting on his helmet, "I have no bloody idea what the hell you just said to me- but I'm feeling slightly aroused."

Lyle thumbed at the opening hangar doors, "Geyt, ya pervert."

Lyle quickly released the ladder which slid back into its housing and backed away from the Valkyrie's port air intake- checking at the same time to verify that his crew of mechanics and ordinance handlers were clear. When he saw that no one in proximity to the fighter, he motioned to Winters that he was clear to start engines.

Winters flipped the few mechanical switches located to the lower left of the left most multi-functional display panel. The three "glass" MFD panels came to life, as did the Heads-Up Display located forward and central to the pilot's field of vision. Winters inserted a memory stick into the onboard computer port and twisted it into the locked position. As the fighter's computers came to life, running diagnostics of all of the systems and subsystems, the vital information of the day's operations were dumped into the navigation and combat computers.

Within seconds, the computers had verified that the Valkyrie was ready for flight and a large icon appeared in the center screen with "START" flashing in bold letters.

"Control check.", Winters called to the mechanic, "Left rudder, right rudder-." Winters alternated between depressing the left and right rudder pedals at his feet and in glancing over his shoulder could see the movements of the twin rudder fins. Lyle signaled that the twin nozzles for the fighter's multi-axis thrust vectoring system had responded in kind with the rudders.

"Flap, flap.", Winters called drawing the control stick back toward him, and then pushing it forward again. The leading and trailing edge wing flaps responded, as did the horizontal stabilizers to the rear and lower portion of the engine nascelles.

Winters signaled back to DeVeo that he was on the verge of start-up before he tapped the icon on the screen.

Port and starboard, the turbines of the fighter's fusion engines began to drone. The drone rose to a hum and the hum to a whine as the fans picked up speed greedily gulping down air with enough force that ground crews were forbidden to carry loose objects in their pockets lest they be sucked into an engine. When the whine reached a shrill pitch and a deafening volume, Winters heard the reassuring, double pop as the engines lit.

Winters moved the oxygen mask hanging from his helmet in front of his mouth to speak clearly into the microphone.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One in Eleven-One. Request instructions and clearance for taxi and take-off. Over."

The flight control tower, call sign "Joshua", replied, "Roger that, Knight Hawk One. You are clear to taxi to Runway Zero-Five and take-off on request with unrestricted climb to flight level angels four-five. Wind is at six knots from two-nine-one. Good hunting. Over."

"Copy.", Winters said easing the fighter's throttles forward.

Across the tarmac, Winters could see "Buster" Dalton's Valkyrie powering up to roll out after him in assigned take-off order. The cool desert night air swirled in around Winters as Marilyn rolled onto the tarmac and turned left toward the taxiway. Rogers lakebed lay ahead, and first light was upon it and the rest of the Mojave as the fighter taxied steadily for Runway 05.

Winters shut the canopy as he neared the ramp, and swung the nose northeast.

"Joshua, this is Knight Hawk One, requesting clearance to take-off.", Winters said. It was more of a statement of intention, really. He had been granted permission to take off already- and the best kind of take-off. One followed by an unrestricted climb.

Lining Marilyn up with the runway centerline, Winters slowly pushed the throttles to the stops. The engine turbines howled to either side of the pilot and roared to his rear as the fighter picked up speed and streaked toward the horizon. When the speed indicator in the HUD reached 150 knots, Winters eased the control stick located between his legs back. The vibration of the pavement dropped away and Winters was light as a feather as he increased his pitch until the nose pointed directly at the heavens. There was a hum and thud as the undercarriage retracted and closed, and the Earth fell behind.

Yellowstone City

The United Earth Congress building was both a forum for and the seat of power to the peoples of Earth.

Like the rising city around The Federal Triangle which the Congress Building stood at a corner of, the building was in a flourishing state. As great as any technological effort of the previous decade had been the effort to incorporate into The Federal Triangle architectural aspects and motifs from all the points of the Earth. Architects, historians, and surviving artisans where they could be found- and workers gifted at mimicry where they could not- had toiled for nearly three years to produce a seat for Government which the world could, with satisfaction, call its own.

Yellowstone City was emblematic of The United Earth in many ways some would argue. In 2011, Wyoming Province had not even entered the running for the contest of a permanent seat of planetary government- representatives arguing for this or that more historic seat of power. The Holocaust of The Robotech War, that had destroyed or significantly reduced each of the contenders to little more than grand rubble had also opened the door for others. Yellowstone City became viable because of its available, uncontaminated space and its access to resources and proximity to a means of defense in the form of one of the few RDF bases to survive the Zentraedi attack relatively intact. Perhaps there was something more that the civilian population grasped in the symbolism of this unlikely location.

Yellowstone City was a place where people would take the best of what was available and make something fine and grand of it.

The committee chamber in the Senate wing of the Congress Building showed under scrutiny, clear signs that it- like the rest of the Congressional Building, and of The Federal Triangle in fact- was still under construction.

For this morning's session though, the scaffolds and implements of work involved in the stone-cutting and carving details of the chamber's stone walls had been cleared and the residue of the work cleaned away from the main chamber and the galleries that now stood full with committee members, government figures from both the Senate and the Council of Provincial Representatives, and a substantial media presence.

Central to the chamber, key figures of the committee sat a bow shaped table reviewing documents that were before them. Anchored in the center seat of the committee table was a large man in a well-tailored suit, whose thick head of hair had gone completely, almost unnaturally white. His meticulously maintained, snowy mane was offset somewhat by his salt and pepper moustache, but more so by the keen, burning eyes below his thick eyebrows of the same grey and white.

A slight commotion and rise of soft conversation swept through the crowd as the steward at the antechamber entrance opened the door to admit the party for whom the committee sat in wait.

Quick heavy footsteps in hard soled shoes fell on the polished marble floor as a form dwarfing all it passed moved toward the center of the chamber. The Zentraedi, micronized to a mere two and a half meters in height, cast an admirable and distinguished aura that emanated from something more substantial than the Army uniform with five silver stars on the shoulders that he wore. His countenance, beneath a a metal faceplate that covered the right portion of his face and head from the cheekbone to the back of the skull and contained an electronic eye, was earnest but not grim. Battle scars earned in wars that predated the births of every human in the room gave him an outward appearance of credibility for his position- but still it was more his poise and the way in which the officer carried himself that commanded respect.

The general of the army went to the table with its pitcher of water, a glass, a microphone, and a seat large enough to accommodate his size and weight that had been set up for him directly opposite the man at the committee table with the white hair.

The officer placed a simple, dossier-style folder on the table and faced the committee table standing at attention.

"All present, this session of the Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations will now come to order.", said the man at the central seat of the committee table with a noticeable but not overwhelming French accent. His delivery of English was clean and certain. Senator Jean-Bernard Rozier actually spoke six Terran languages fluently and was quickly learning the Zentraedi dialect of the alien, Tirolian language- but in Yellowstone City and with the committee he would speak English.

"Please, for the record", Rozier continued, speaking directly at the officer, "state your name and occupation."

The officer's voice came deeply, like distant, rolling thunder, "My name is Breetai, General of the Army. I am billeted as Military Chief of Staff, Ministry of Defense, United Earth."

"General Breetai", instructed the senator, "Please raise your right hand for the oath."

Breetai did so.

"General Breetai, do you swear that the testimony you will give before this committee today is the whole truth given without omission or reservation?"

"I do.", Breetai replied.

"Then please consider yourself under oath and be seated."

Breetai lowered himself into the chair provided and adjusted the microphone before him to the correct elevation.

"General Breetai, I understand that you have a prepared statement that you wish to give to the committee?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman.", Breetai replied.

"You may do so.", Rozier granted.

Breetai opened the dossier folder before him and quickly reviewed the first several lines of prepared text. He then looked evenly from one face at the committee table to another and began.

"Mr. Chairman, distinguished Committeepersons, Senators, Councilpersons, and representatives of the press.- I do not need to recount the catastrophic events of the Holocaust four years ago as it was an event so pervasive and universal to the people of Earth that it is an experience of common memory. I will not attempt to evoke those all-too-recent memories in a play to benefit from an emotional response. I will rather speak to you today from the base of facts, and how those facts do effect and could potentially affect the future of The United Earth."

"The state of the known universe is transition and turmoil. The conflict between The Robotech Masters and the Invid for absolute dominion over The Flower of Life is ongoing and far from certain in its resolution. Argue as some have about the place of Earth in this conflict, there is no disputing that Earth became unwittingly involved the moment Zor's battle fortress crashed on Macross Island. That level of involvement has only increased since the discovery that The Flower of Life has been able to adapt to and to grow within the ecosystems of Earth. Independent of our intentions or our actions, our very home has become a commodity- the commodity- over which the Masters and the Invid struggle. It is not a question of if, but of when these warring civilizations will discover this and bring the fight directly to our shores."

"Let us speak of threats to our home and our existence. We will speak first of immediate threats. While the victory over Dolza's Imperial Fleet saved Earth and allowed us the potential for a future, it was by no means a decisive victory. Best intelligence estimates then and subsequent indicate that the in the best case scenario, only twenty-three to twenty-five percent- one in four- of Dolza's subordinates were destroyed. Their retreat, while immediate and disorganized was not a complete withdrawal to the distant reaches of the universe. Current intelligence, based on actual contact and engagement, as well as well-founded speculation indicates that a measurable portion of those remaining forces- perhaps as high as thirty percent- roam the regions of Sol's asteroid belt, the Kuiper Belt, and the regions of space beyond Sol's heliosphere. This figure could easily translate into forces exceeding a million ships with their complement of Zentraedi warriors. Only the disruption of the Zentraedi command structure accomplished in the death of Supreme Commander Dolza, and the subsequent in-fighting of his subordinates that we suspect has followed has prevented a rallying of these fragmented Zentraedi forces for redeployment against Earth."

"Let us now speak of more distant threats to Earth, that are nonetheless real. The devastation inflicted by the Zentraedi upon Earth pales in scale and scope to that threatened by an attack by the Invid. I have personal experience in these matters, and have seen first-hand the destruction wrought on whole worlds by this rage driven race. Only the Zentraedi's comparable numbers, and ability to reconstitute by artificial means an effective fighting force has given them the ability to meet the Invid on equal terms in warfare. It is a matter of cold fact that Earth has neither."

"Let us now speak of the options before us for courses of action to preserve our society and our Earth. Regrettably, there are few. We may do nothing. We may do nothing in hopes that the Invid and remaining Zentraedi will cripple and exhaust each other beyond the point of either being an effective fighting force. We may do nothing in the hopes that in their preoccupation with mutual annihilation, the Zentraedi and the Invid will forget an inconsequential planet in the far corner of an unremarkable galaxy and simply never commit resources to a new front. We may hope- but in reality, to hope with no provisions made for other alternatives is criminally and suicidally negligent in our responsibilities as civil and military leaders."

"Let us discuss the option of preparedness. The Senate Committee on Budget Appropriations and the Congress as a whole has before it the proposed military budget for Fiscal Year 2016, that includes allowances for viable defense programs. Defense by the carrot- that is to say continuation and expansion of the Open Arms Program, both an Earth and in the regions of space where Zentraedi forces are encountered. As demonstrated in the joint report issued last month by the Ministries of Internal Affairs, Reconstruction, and Defense- the Open Arms program in July alone was responsible for the indoctrination of one point eight million rogue and detached Zentraedi into Terran society. Two months later, following the socialization program developed by the Ministry of Education, seventy-five percent of those same Zentraedi entered approved military billets or labor positions on all levels involved in reconstruction efforts. Areas in Central and South Americas, even those outlying the so-called Zentraedi Control Zone of Brazil, where Open Arms has been maintained have shown a seventy percent reduction in Zentraedi militantism. Zentraedi are demonstrating that they not only can be reformed, but are eager to participate constructively in society. We must continue to offer the carrot."

"We also must not diminish the importance of, or our ability to use the stick. The proposed military budget provides for continued implementation of the Four Thousand Ship Fleet, to be accomplished by 2020, or 4kF20, as popularly abbreviated. Construction of a fleet including new, mission-capable ships of Terran design, and refitted ships of the Zentraedi fleet classes will benefit Earth by expanding our sphere of influence, control, and stabilization. The question of whether or not Earth is to be a space-faring society has been decided whether the decision was entirely ours or not. We must embrace this destiny and apply the resources required to meet the challenges of that destiny without fear or danger of failure. The Fleet, as proposed, will serve not only as a force of military defense, but as circumstances allow it will be the platform for Terran expansion into and colonization of the stars. With the immediate and future needs of population, agriculture, and resources- the benefit of 4kF20 is clear."

"The Ministry of Defense Budget for Fiscal Year 2016 also provides for the first construction phases of Project Aegis. This strategic planetary defense system represents the most ambitious and comprehensive construction effort in the history of Earth. Aspects will involve every continent and region on Earth, as well as additional construction on Moon and Mars. The project includes both the achievable goals of a satellite based, planetary energy barrier system to withstand direct attack of the Earth, as well as the unprecedented engineering feat to introduce a sizable satellite body into Earth orbit to serve as a base from which the Fleet can repel aggression. The centerpiece of the project, to be named Aegis Station, is past the survey phase- a suitable asteroid body having been found in the Sol belt. The design phase is progressing at an impressive rate and construction plan proposals are beginning to be formulated. The resources and capabilities of Aegis Station, combined with those of the captured and modified GS-95 Robotech Factory will provide Earth with a solid stepping stone into the universe, as well as a formidable defense of the Homeworld."

"In conclusion, I wish to acknowledge issues that many have claimed the Ministry of Defense is either oblivious or indifferent to. The ravages of starvation, disease, lawlessness, and hopelessness on Earth are showing signs of plateauing- but they are far from resolved. After almost four years of reconstruction, still only one out of six men, women, and children on Earth go to sleep at night under a solid, permanent roof, drink clean, treated water, have a nutritionally adequate diet, or receive regular medical care. Many children have never seen technology so basic as an electric light- and still we are asking for the funding to expand into the stars. We are neither oblivious nor indifferent to the plight of the population. In our proposed budget, we ask for the Congress to consider the very real possibility that without the proper tools to adequately defend Earth, we are in real danger of losing what little we have."

Breetai closed the folder on the table before him, folding his massive hands atop it, "I thank you for the opportunity to present my statement and am now prepared to answer the questions of the Committee."

Senator Rozier adjusted his own microphone and with no less poise or confidence than Breetai replied, "Thank you, General, not only for your statement to this committee, but also for your past and continuing service to this Earth and her people. There is no question to the validity of your observations as they apply to threats to the Earth, or the need to provide for her defense. The question before the Committee, one that is our responsibility solely, is that of balance. The world has many, many critical problems in these times and a finite quantity of resources to apply to resolving them. The Terran industrial production capacity is twelve percent of that prior to the Holocaust. While your statement alluded to the resource demands in the Ministry of Defense budget, the material implications are far more disquieting. Full funding and implementation of this budget, which includes the elements not mentioned in your statement of standing the Robotech Expeditionary Force- the Fleet, that is currently under RDF administration- up as an autonomous Service, and an undisclosed number of so-called, black projects, would require seventy percent of the GS-95 Factory's remarkable production capabilities for no less than the next fifteen years, perhaps as long as the next three decades. Allow me to translate that into readily understandable terms-. The same level of production applied to purely reconstruction projects could return the Earth's infrastructure to a state of status quo ante within nine years. Or, si vous ple- pardon me- if you please, the construction material requirements to fully reconstruct Paris and New York could be met in a week."

Murmurs of shock and conversation rose in the galleries of the chamber as unofficial discussion swept the crowds.

Rozier continued as though only he and Breetai were engaged in the discussion that was progressing toward debate, "Another way to express the material requirements of this budget is to say that the construction of one frigate of the Ikazuchi Class requires the time and resources that could provide homes, power, and potable water to two hundred-thousand people. With the resources needed to construct a single mecha in any of the Destroid classes, a hundred industrial farming tractors could be built- for a Valkyrie fighter, a hundred and fifty. When you consider that roughly thirty-thousand children died of hunger yesterday, based on the latest statistics, and millions more went to sleep hungry- you can see the need for farming tractors. Also, and not to dwell on this one subject, these are the principle, the principle production costs involved in this budget. What you failed to cover in your statement, General Breetai, are the peripheral and follow-on costs for support and sustainment. To provide combat and operational personnel alone for full implementation of the ships, bases, and space stations of this plan would require slightly under five million men and women. When you add support personnel- at the accepted ratio of ten support personnel to every one in a combat or operational role- you have fifty-five million military personnel alone. If you care to expand into the required civilian labor effort in the areas of agriculture, resource procurement and refinement, and labor- you can multiply that by ten once again. For each of those military personnel, you must also guarantee a ready and constant supply of adequate food, clothing, medicine, supplies and services. You see, General- when you begin to- as one of my staff enjoys saying,- peel back the onion, this budget begins to take on the troubling blueprint of society existing to support its military. I'm certain you are familiar with the concept."

Breetai waited patiently for Rozier to pause for his response.

"Mr. Chairman, I will not respond to the implication of that last comment. I will however reply to your more dignified observations. It is entirely true that the construction of a single Valkyrie fighter does require the resources that could be applied to constructing a hundred and fifty industrial grade, agricultural tractors. It is also true that to support the operation of that single fighter, it requires a pilot with the support of more than thirty other personnel. My experience has been, until recently, purely military and does not lend itself to the requirements of agriculture. But I know Zentraedi, and I know Invid. I know that both are still out in the universe in vast, almost unbelievable numbers. With my inexperience with tractors, I will still go out onto the proverbial limb and speculate that in a contest between a tractor and a Regult Battle Pod, or an Invid Shock Trooper- the odds would be in favor of one of the latter two."

"In all honesty, Mr. Chairman, I do not want to see military production or support demands escalate to the point of monopolizing Earth's resources and capabilities. I do want to see it elevated to the level, however, where it can provide a reasonable defense for the civilians who look to the military for defense."

"If I may, Mr. Chairman-.", said Senator Fa, from a province within what had been The People's Republic of China prior to global unification. The province she represented had once led China's effort toward achieving a place amongst the world's industrial giants. Even with the devastation of the Holocaust, these aspirations had not died.

"Please, Senator Fa.", Rozier granted, relinquishing the questioning to the committeewoman.

Rozier had opened the flood gates and it was no longer solely his task to make Breetai swim.

"General Breetai", Senator Fa began, "I sense a discrepancy in your statements here today, with those of a year ago regarding the Defense From Home proposal issued by the Ministry of Labor. As you recall, the Defense From Home program proposed slowly transitioning the industrial production required to support military projects from the GS-95 alone, to Terran industrial facilities as they came on line. You were very outspoken in your rejection of this proposal."

"I was, Senator.", admitted Breetai, "I was opposed to that proposal, madam, as it applied to the acquisition of capital military assets such as warships, mecha, and other sophisticated systems. I was and still am opposed to that proposal until labor-staffed industry can demonstrate quality assurance levels greater than the seventy percent projected by the Ministry of Labor for the first five years of the program. The GS-95 Factory- any Robotech Factory to my knowledge- has never produced a defective or flawed machine or component. I am a proponent of as quickly as possible expanding and applying the full effort of terrestrial industry to reconstruction and improvement, as well as providing material needs to both the civilian and military population. Once production quality standards have reached an acceptable level, I intend to support the distribution of military production responsibilities more evenly between industry and the GS-95."

"General, are you saying that our workers cannot reliably produce military goods?"

Breetai was quick to respond, "No, Senator, not at all. I'm saying that they require time and practice to reach proficiency at producing the technology needed in military systems and components. If a tractor is flawed and breaks down during the harvest- it must be repaired, but the impact overall is negligible. If a warship falters during battle due to a flaw, the results can be severe. As Senator Rozier pointed out, there is no shortage of work to be done in the world today. Terran industry will have sufficient projects to occupy itself, and on which to build technical skill."

Rozier rejoined the exchange, entering the melee without warning.

"Is a military build-up on this scale and at this pace realistically manageable? Military growth of this nature would involve incorporating a significant number of Zentraedi into the ranks of the United Earth armed forces. Can we guarantee that such integration can be accomplished safely? At the risk of making generalizations, or of sounding prejudiced- we cannot allow repeats of the Warren incident."

Breetai was momentarily at a loss for words by the Senator's invocation of such a divisive occurrence.

"Senator, every safeguard that can be put into place is in place. Zentraedi desiring to become part of Earth society must pass through the civil socialization process. Those seeking even an enlistment with the Robotech Defense Forces must pass through additional screening and is then subjected to the same indoctrination and basic training as their human counterparts. Technology is capable of many things, but we have no machine with which to look into the hearts and minds of sentient beings to know their intentions. That fact not withstanding, I do not think it is within the scope or experience-founded ability of this committee to determine the feasibility of executing the programs and projects within the defense budget."

"But", countered Rozier, "at the same time we do have a fiduciary responsibility to the population, human and Zentraedi, that we are not opening the purse to pay for the very knife that will cut our throats."

"As I have said, Mr. Chairman", Breetai replied calmly, "every safeguard that can be implemented is in place to protect against such an incident occurring again- complying with the findings and recommendations of both military and senatorial investigations."

"Yet that's little consolation to the families of over six hundred human crew members of the Warren."

The stern, commanding voice came (ironically perhaps) from the right wing gallery of the committee chamber. Camera strobes flashed and conversations swelled as attention was drawn in that direction.

The owner of the voice appeared every bit as stern and commanding as he sounded. Human, the man stood over two meters tall and with his moderately age-softened brawn was nearly half that around at the shoulders and chest giving him the general appearance of a tree stump left standing unusually high. His perfectly bald head shone like his dark eyes and the high boots he wore. The uniform between was pressed with creases sharp as razors, spotless, and adorned with enough medals and ribbons to stoop a less powerful man. The uniform was not Robotech Defense Forces though- it was Army of the Southern Cross, and the man was General Marcus Merill Leonard.

General Leonard stepped into the aisle between the rows of seats in the gallery, nearly filling it. His subordinates- two of them that Breetai could see- remained behind. Leonard never required support when grandstanding, and that was what he appeared to be about to do. How he had gotten into the session was no mystery- it had been open to the public and seats were available to those who had arrived early enough to claim them. How he had escaped attention up to that point was a greater mystery to Breetai, and how he had suppressed the temptation to draw attention to himself an even greater one.

Leonard had a way of sneaking up on you- much like his Army of the Southern Cross. The "army" teetered constantly on the cusp of legitimacy and was more realistically called an affiliation of provincial militias with their base of power in the southern North America, Central America, and South America sectors. Originally a stopgap measure, following the Holocaust, to quell uprisings from the marooned Zentraedi elements in those areas in a time when the RDF was combat ineffective- the ASC had retained its popularity with local governments and survived the reconstitution of the RDF. In no small part it had been Leonard's astute conviction to see to the localized defense of provinces and to attend to their needs that had gained him almost fanatical support amongst the people of the regions the ASC dominated. So much so that representatives and senators from those provinces and districts had kept the ASC alive through modest congressional funding and federal supply. Political attempts by RDF supporters in the legislature to isolate and minimize the ASC through caps on funding were thwarted by the additional funding received by the militias from their protectorate regions.

The Army of the Southern Cross was a loose affiliation at best, lacking the hierarchy of the RDF's structure, and the clear mandate and blessing of the Government- but it was nonetheless a real force in the mending world to be reckoned with.

At the center of it all, in every important decision made and action taken, was General Leonard.

Senator Rozier could tolerate only a single soap box per forum, and it was the one that he himself had intended to stand on. Leonard's presence was certain to take the session in another direction if not quickly checked. The General's appearance had also, oddly enough, made he and Breetai temporary allies. Neither would benefit from allowing Leonard to voice his position.

"General Leonard", Rozier said, summoning all the authority he could muster into his voice, "As an observer, you are welcome to attend this committee session. You have not requested, nor have you been granted the permission to speak or question the witness. This forum does not provide for an open question session, and-."

"I won't be long, Senator.", General Leonard said, cutting the chairman short, "I will speak my peace briefly and leave."

"You will not", Rozier countered, his face going plum in color, "or you will be removed."

Leonard ignored the senator and approached the floor of the chamber, nearing the table where Breetai sat without making any signs of physical confrontation. In fact, Leonard's body language spoke volumes to say that Breetai's presence was purely coincidental to his purpose.

"Six hundred dead, times two put overboard in lifeboats and surviving only by the grace of God and the sheer luck that a frigate should be passing close enough to detect them at long range.", Leonard quickly recounted the gross details of the incident that had troubled the world fourteen months earlier, "And to make matters worse, a new cruiser with our finest technology and some of our most secretive codes stolen by the allegedly reformed Zentraedi officers and members of the crew."

Rozier motioned to the chamber steward, saying, "We will require security , please."

"When will social philosophers realize that it requires more than two months of pretty speeches, seminars, and hand-holding to bring the Zentraedi out from their conditioned ways?"

Breetai rose from his chair, refusing to sit before Leonard as he paced in his tirade.

"I believe we are all familiar with your methods of reform, General Leonard.", Breetai said, his voice controlled but a noticeable edge now on it, "Brutality and oppression have never in your history proven reliable means of control over the long term. You may beat the local Zentraedi populations into submission briefly, but you have no hope of maintaining that control. The Warren incident was a tragic and glaring anomaly- and not the norm. Zentraedi, when given the option and given fair, decent treatment are as likely to choose a life of peace in a greater community as human beings. You are not smothering a fire, General, you are simply sweeping over the embers that will continue to smolder."

"We have Zentraedi in our ranks as well.", Leonard said, addressing the chamber and the galleries and not Breetai directly, "But our supervision and reconditioning of them has been more strict. Coming from the knowledge that the alternative to pacification and socialization is dire, they appreciate better the opportunities afforded them. They could be a great force for world defense if we were not limited by those who would strangle us with restrictions."

Breetai shook his head. Leonard's play into the real purpose of his appearance was rushed and sloppy for the officer, but security could be seen massing at the entrance through which Breetai himself had entered the chamber. Leonard knew he didn't have much time to get it all out and be heard.

"So this comes down to racism and money then?", Breetai asked.

"No.", replied Leonard, speaking for the first time in acknowledgment of the Military Chief of Staff, under whose umbrella of authority he did not reside, "This has to do with control and management of our society as we rebuild it. Will Zentraedi adapt and conform to our society, or will our society adapt and conform to theirs? The proposed defense budget is a straw man of the mechanism of the Robotech Masters' expansionist doctrine- and who better to fill the billets?"

Breetai's temper was slipping as the security team approached the floor.

"That statement is both irresponsibly unfounded and offensive, General Leonard…"

"-While at the same time whole human populations who have not chosen to follow this agenda have been denied fair and equal consideration in the areas of reconstruction and rationing-."

Leonard noted the proximity of the security team. Sensitivity to the authority that Leonard represented had persuaded them to leave their side arms and holsters with other guards outside the entrance- but their expressions still spoke of serious business.

Leonard clasped his hands together, like a professor concluding a successful lecture, "I'm finished here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chairman."

A.R.M.D II Space Station "Archer 42"

The mess room was quiet with the exception of the audio from the viewscreen on the wall opposite the coffee, beverage, and ice cream dispensers. A dozen tables with bench seating filled the center of the room four deep and three abreast. At each table were seated several enlisted crew and the occasional junior officer. Lunch had just been served and the smell still hung in the compartment like the thin, omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke despite the constant effort of the air circulation and purification system. Cups sat on the tables near these men and women, filled with their beverage of choice, as they attended to their various businesses. Many had operational or technical manuals that they studied. Others were in the process of writing reports or finishing paperwork in the time they could find between their other duties. Some smoked, others tolerated the sanctioned habit of their comrades. Most ignored the television feed on the viewscreen.

The camera providing the image to the news broadcast panned to follow as General Leonard was escorted by security guards out of the committee session he had disrupted. Even as the officer passed into the shadows, the sheen of his bald head marked his position. The image was joined by a voice-over from the anchorwoman-

"That was the scene earlier as Army of the Southern Cross General Marcus Leonard was removed from a Senate Committee hearing on budget appropriation-. The session, intended to address questions regarding the proposed Ministry of Defense budget-."

Master Chief Petty Officer Terrance O'Toole tapped the ashes of his cigarette into an ashtray that was in particular need of emptying before folding his meaty forearms onto the tabletop. He watched the final frames of Leonard's head glowing in the darkness, not listening to what the reporter had to say. He instead added his own soundtrack, saying in a thick, nasal voice, "We must destroy them-. We must incinerate them-. Pig by pig, cow by cow, village by village-. I do hate them, those Nabobs-."

Looking to his right for a reaction from the man seated next to him, and seeing none, O'Toole resumed his normal Chicago-tainted voice, asking, "Don't like my Brando, Commander?"

"Mmm.", the lieutenant commander grunted neutrally, "Do you do The Godfather, Chief?"

"Only after a bottle of chianti, sir."

Lieutenant Commander Thomas Jefferson Queffle (given his middle name from his mother's maiden name and not in homage to the figure from U.S. history) worked with a thin notebook computer reviewing personnel proficiency and conduct reports that would be due to the personnel command in a few days time. It was yet another mundane, routine task in a never-ending series of mundane and routine tasks that went with command of an Astro Ready Missile Defense, or A.R.M.D. space station, and part of the conditions of his stay in purgatory for his sins- real or perceived.

Unlike the Chief, senior NCO on the station of a hundred and sixty personnel, LCR Queffle had been listening to most of the excerpts from the committee session as he worked, smoked, and drank his coffee. His interest in the "4kF20" program was keener than O'Toole's- more personal, though he never voiced the interest.

"That Leonard guy-.", O'Toole mused, puffing on his cigarette the way a child might play at a candy cigarette, "-He strikes me as the kind of guy who could be a real cocksucker."

Queffle liked O'Toole and was constantly amazed by his grasp on the obvious.

O'Toole paused in thought, "Say, can you call a superior officer in another military a cocksucker?"

Queffle looked over at the Chief from his works, "Only if you show respect when you say it- same rules apply."

"Ah.", said O'Toole fitting the nugget of knowledge into his grander schema. The Chief was the workhorse that was lead on the team, and he could wax philosophic or speak with authority on almost any issue professional or other- but he did sometimes go off on tangents, Queffle knew.

"Still, you gotta wonder deep down", O'Toole continued in the tone that indicated to Queffle that he was about to begin on one of those tangents, "Leonard may have a point about those Zentraedi."

O'Toole always preceded "Zentraedi" with "those" in a way that he never did, to Queffle's knowledge, with other ethnicities or species.

"You figure", O'Toole continued to ramble, "all they ever done is fight. All they really know how to do is fight. Then on top of that toss being stuck into a group of folks who don't care too much for you or think that much of you for that matter-. Having to try to bond. Can you imagine being trapped in that?"

Queffle's fingers stopped moving on the keys of his computer for a moment, "Yeah. Yeah, I can actually."

Realization flashed across O'Toole's face and it turned apologetic, "Hey- sorry, Commander, I wasn't saying-. You know me, I just talk outta my ass sometimes."

"Forget it, Chief. No harm done."

The PA speakers in the mess room popped alive and the sound was followed by the attention tone.

"CO, contact the radio shack, please."

Queffle checked his watch and felt a rush of excitement. He snapped the screen of his computer shut and swept it under his arm in a single motion as he rose from the bench seat and pushed his glasses back higher on his nose.

"Hot date?", asked the Chief.

Queffle smiled grimly, "Not until the divorce papers clear. Do me a favor, Chief, get down to the hangar and stand on Chief Yusef for me- he was supposed to have his report on aircraft readiness in the squadron to me by thirteen hundred-. It's, what?- almost fourteen-hundred."

"Aye sir.", O'Toole said, rubbing out his cigarette as he got to his feet.

The Chief left the mess for a side passageway as Queffle went to an intercom phone on the wall and rang up the communications center.

"Radio shack."

"CO, here.", Queffle said, "You have a call for me?"

"Aye sir. Captain Billings from OCNO. Should I patch it in to you there, sir?"

"No.", Queffle said looking around and finding with some relief that his conversation was drawing no attention, "Send it to my quarters. I'll be there in a minute."

"Aye sir."

Queffle hung up the phone, and computer under arm walked briskly out the same doorway through which the Chief had passed a moment earlier.

The passageways of Archer 42, of all of the A.R.M.D. II class space stations, were cramped to the point where Queffle, a man of medium stature and medium build, could not have passed his twin coming the other way without one or the other turning to the side. Furthermore, the clusters of pipes and bundles of cables running through the walls and ceilings of the passages added a sense of confinement within the guts of a beast not purely organic or mechanical. The A.R.M.D. IIs were considered stuffy and uncomfortable, even by the crews of the Fleet's smallest frigates and corvettes- they were the last choice of duty stations when there was a choice.

Paradoxically opposed to the eagerness of most servicepersons to serve on an A.R.M.D. was the importance of the role they played in planetary defense. Much of the cause of misery aboard the station was, despite the consistently superior rations of food, the constant availability of vice and luxury goods like chocolate and cigarettes, and the ten percent pay incentive above hazardous duty pay received by the crews- the largest consumer of space, the reason for the station's being, and the cause of the cramped living and operating conditions were the missiles.

The A.R.M.D.s, 160 in all, circling the Earth in super, sub, and equatorial geo-synchronous orbits peered out and listened to the solar system with the most sophisiticated active and passive sensor systems that technology could produce. They watched and listened in cooperation with earth-based systems and interplanetary listening posts for the slightest signs of alien fleet movements toward the homeworld.

If detected, and should the threat enter their range, any alien craft would find itself the target of the A.R.M.D. II's arsenal. Its primary offensive capability was built around the four, 40 tube, cluster launchers containing the Mk-4 "Pegasus" anti-ship missile. Propelled from their tubes by a small, single-stage, solid rocket motor- the Pegasus would then be driven to its target- up to 450,000 kilometers away, by a sub-light drive engine capable of 45% the speed of light.

The 12 m x 1.2m weapon was standard ordinance to nearly all classes of REF vessel, and variants adapted for ground launch filled both new earth-based silos and those once occupied by the ICBMs of old Earth nations. The missiles aboard the A.R.M.D.s however, like those in the silos, delivered the largest warhead in the military arsenal. Each weapon delivered a 50 megaton thermonuclear warhead to target- either a single warship or a clustered formation if possible.

Once the A.R.M.D. II's complement of missiles was exhausted, it mounted two batteries, of synchro cannons with which to engage approaching enemy warships. Smaller versions of the SDF-1's legendary "reflex cannon", these energy weapons were capable of destroying even the largest of Zentraedi vessels with a single blast at ranges out to 120,000 kilometers.

The A.R.M.D II boasted a variety of defensive systems, including an energy barrier system, powerful ECM systems, anti-aircraft lasers and missile launchers, and a squadron of the most recent generation of Veritech fighters- the Alpha.

Still, despite the formidable arsenal, the crews of the space stations referred to themselves in that gallows humor sometimes found in the most forward-deployed units, as the "90 Second Club"- the commonly (not officially) assumed time the stations would survive in the face of a full-scale, Holocaust scenario, Zentraedi attack.

With cheery fatalism, the A.R.M.D. II stations were never wanting for volunteers despite the conditions and the general consensus that the station duty was the backwaters of the REF Fleet.

Days and nights, with no distinction between, were endless cycles of study, review, practice, drill, and maintenance of the station and its systems in the event that the call would ever come to employ the awesome weapons it was home to. Like the crews of ballistic missile submarines of the recent past, this occupied the time of the crews. Outside of these duties, there was little to do but enjoy the meager recreation and fitness facilities, and wait. Like the crews of the "boomers" also, the "90 Second Club" bore the burden admirably and with quiet pride for their personal sacrifices.

Queffle passed a ladder tube that connected all four of Archer 42's decks on his way to the officers' quarters. The officers' quarters space was actually only across the corridor and down a short passage from the petty officers quarters and enlisted berthing areas. Queffle, holding the illustrious position of commanding officer, was entitled to the only stateroom aboard the station that was not shared.

Queffle entered his small living space through a sliding door that was never locked. There was no need to secure the door- crews on the A.R.M.D. platforms were notoriously respectful of the private space and property of others- even more so than within other commands in the Fleet. Privacy existed only in one's rack for most, and as such was fiercely guarded and defended by all.

A bunk, a wall mounted dresser/closet, a desk with a computer workstation, and a viewscreen that could be switched from command function displays to recreational use were the contents of the stateroom. Queffle had not adorned the battleship grey metal walls with decorations or "personal touches" as most of the crew did. That, in his mind, would have been a sign that he had made Archer 42 his home and had an intention to stay.

Queffle sat in his chair and flipped open the screen panel of the videophone.

As he opened the line, the lieutenant commander was greeted by a clean image of an REF captain at work in his office space. The man, slightly older and heavier than Queffle took a moment to realize the lieutenant commander had joined him on the line.

"Captain, sir.", Queffle said as he was recognized.

"Tom.", replied the captain, pushing something on his desk away as he turned his attention to the junior officer, "How are things?"

"That's what I was hoping you'd tell me, Gary. How are things?"

Captain Billings' lips tightened in a discouraged expression that made Queffle's heart sink. He had his answer already.

"Not good, Tom- for this round, the answer is no."

Queffle ran both hands through his well-kept black hair that was showing signs of thinning on top, "Jesus, Gary- I thought you were pulling strings for me."

"I was, and I did, Tom- but Hughes pulls the rope."

Queffle's stomach clenched at the sound of the name of the insurmountable obstacle to his way back into the Fleet proper.

"What do I need to do, Gary? I was fourth in my class at the Academy, I've got my SpaWO pin with tactical and strategic certifications, Fleet hasn't put out a command correspondence course that I haven't aced a clean five on-. I've got top marks on every P&C report in my jacket- except one. You're telling me I can't even land a TAO billet on a frigate?"

Billings face grew stern and grave, "Yeah, Tom, that's what I'm telling you. You've got one bad P&C in your jacket, and an official letter of reprimand that just happens to be linked to the death of the CNO's only son."

Queffle began to roll his eyes, but caught himself. Such displays wouldn't advance his cause.

"Listen, Gary- the board of inquiry even said that it was an accident and not the result of anything that I, or anyone else either did or didn't do. Short version- not my fault. The worst I did was to leave that detail in command of a junior officer with clear instructions."

"Yes, Tom, I know.", Billings agreed, "I remember- I testified to the board, remember? But here's the kicker- that junior officer was an Admiral's son. The board found it to be an accident, and didn't assign fault to you- but Hughes saw it differently and still does. Simply put, no skipper is going to fight to get you aboard knowing that the Chief of Naval Operations looks unfavorably on you. Now, next month we've got another twenty ships being commissioned- all needing officers and crews."

"And how will that round of assignments be any different, Gary?", Queffle despaired.

"I'm not promising it will be, Tom- but I'll keep trying for you.", Billings said, "You've got to give this time- it's been, what?- sixteen months?"

"Seventeen."

"All the same. Hughes still steams over this from time to time. I got you a station command, didn't I?"

"That's because Hughes was hoping that I'd wither up and die here.", Queffle countered.

"Maybe- but it's a command and it looks good in your jacket.", Billings said, "Plus, word is that Hughes may be moving to another job-."

"Really?"

"Don't pop mahogany yet, Tom- it's just talk right now. But if he does, COs on some of those new ships may see a guy with your qualifications as a valuable commodity once there's no shadow of a fuming CNO hanging over you."

Queffle relented, feeling embarrassed suddenly for railing against his best advocate, "Hey, Gary- you know I appreciate-."

Billings shook his head, "No worries- don't mention it. I wouldn't have gotten my SpaWO pin without you- not that it's done me much good here. Anyway, I know the Fleet will benefit from getting you back out there- no matter what Hughes thinks."

Queffle nodded, "Alright. Thanks."

"Sure.", Billings said, then after hesitating, asked, "Have you heard from Stacey lately?"

Queffle laughed, "Have to open all the wounds, don't you? Yeah, she still hates me and wants half of what little I have."

"You're getting off light, Tom. Count your blessings."

"Yeah, I have so many."

"With that happy thought", Billings said, "I'm late for a briefing from my staff. Gotta go. Out."

The screen flickered to black and then defaulted to the dialing prompt.

Queffle snapped the screen shut with a loud click.

"Swell."

"The Outlandss", Eastern Nevada Province

To the impulsive, the sight of a Zentraedi Battle Pod moving across the sun-baked scrub of The Outlandss would have been alarming at the least.

More careful examination, had the alarmed chosen to remain in line of sight long enough to do so, would have revealed that the machine was not Zentraedi at all- but the quickly yet shrewdly adapted variant of the Regult- designated the MBP-4 "Ironhead".

Offensive to many military technology design purists, and a handful of other groups because of its Zentraedi roots and all that they symbolized- the MBP-4 had been designed and put into rapid production as a necessary evil. Following the cataclysm of the Holocaust, there had been a great need for a rugged means of bringing formidable fighting capabilities to a wide variety of environments and terrains that either naturally or by damage sustained in the Zentraedi attack were impassible to conventional vehicles.

The Regult had proven its unequaled deftness at negotiating such terrain already and was deemed a quick solution to the identified requirements that could be rapidly mass produced. The basic chassis was retained with very few noticeable modifications, though the main bulk of the mecha- the former pilot's compartment- now devoid of the need to seat a pilot averaging fifteen to twenty meters in height, was redesigned for the use of humans and micronized Zentraedi.

The high intensity particle beam cannons of the Regult had been kept by the human design team of the MBP-4, preserving the "antennae" of the Regult's somewhat bug-like appearance. That was where general physical similarities.

Gone was the bulbous body of the Regult designed to afford space to its giant pilot. The Ironhead carried atop its ostrich-like Regult legs, a more boxy, angular body, incorporating both sloping armor and a multi-layer composite material hull derived from old Earth battle tank technology. Still not as robust as a tank, or as one of the older generations of lumbering RDF Destroids, the Ironhead was still far more combat-survivable for its commander, pilot, and gunner than its Zentraedi relative.

With the increased protection had also come modifications to the weapons systems. Complementing the particle beam armaments, the Ironhead design team had added an outrigger weapons sponson to either side of the hull. Each stubby "wing" structure had three articulated hard points that could carry a variety of available weapons or sensor packages.

Concealed within blisters on the hull above the sponsons were the multi-purpose missile launchers that regularly carried the powerful, ground-to-ground, anti-mecha

"Hellfire III" eight to a launcher. Less sophisticated than its latest generation air-to-air cousins, the Hellfire III retained the qualities that made its predecessors famous- sufficient acquisition and homing sensors and logic, superior ground-to-ground range, and a warhead powerful enough to kill any enemy on the battlefield.

Answering the requirement to carry as much firepower forward as could be accommodated by the unit, the Ironhead's final armament specification was a swivel mount located atop and to the rear of the hull on which a variety of gun pods, rocket, or missile launchers could be carried to add that much more "teeth" to the machine's bite.

The MBP-4 Ironhead was still an awkward and odd-looking mecha that remained eerily similar to its Zentraedi forerunner. Many human troops took to sharing the same side of a battlefield with the Ironhead slowly- while many indoctrinated Zentraedi found the vaguely familiar form reassuring.

Sergeant First Class Blair Fenton was accustomed enough to operating in mixed units with an Ironhead that he didn't pay any mind to their similarities to the Zentraedi war machines. When he looked back at the single Ironhead in the column, he only saw another tool of the trade that had earned a little respect in Fenton's mind by saving his skin on more than one occasion. Like the five Wolverine land rovers and the six "8/4s" (grunt jargon for the eight-wheeled, four metric ton capacity utility and cargo trucks) in the convoy the Ironhead was painted in the molted beige, sand, and gray-green desert scheme- giving it some ability to blend into the landscape if seen at some distance by the naked eye. Fenton paid little attention to the machine itself though- barely noticing anymore the comparatively heavy thud of the mechanical feet behind his Wolverine through the well padded and supported cushion of the passenger seat.

Fenton had been in The Outlandss almost from the beginning, and had been around for the first patrols and supply distribution details to the remote pockets of surviving humanity. He had been shot at and ambushed by both humans and Zentraedi in that time. He had shot back at both in kind. Fenton, somewhat gleefully, also recounted to anyone who would listen about the time he had been bitten by a mule. He'd seen some of his people killed, and killed at least ten highwaymen including four Zentraedi as well. Still, despite this, despite the damage to the land caused by the Zentraedi attack that left great expanses looking like lunar landscape, and despite the often piteous specimens of humanity encountered in the waste- Fenton felt compelled to stay. It wasn't simply the stock answer of, "I like to help people.", that so many gave when asked why they volunteered repeatedly for duty in The Outlands. It was the land itself to Fenton. Brutalized as it was, it brought him back to his boyhood in Arizona with the perfectly clear, deep blue skies that swept from horizon to horizon over boundless reaches of baked brown earth shimmering with the heat of the desert sun.

"Pack Rat One, this is Four. We have Distribution Point Echo on bearing zero-three-seven. Looks quiet.", reported the commander of the lead Wolverine to Lt. Briggs in the rover directly ahead of Fenton's.

"Copy that, Four.", came Briggs' voice over the radio, "Approach from the south. We'll thin the lines when we get to within two kliks. No need to create our own traffic jam."

Behind the Wolverine's wheel with his hands gripped carefully at ten and two was Corporal Hailey. Looking too young to hold a learner's permit, the corporal was probably able to do more with the six-wheeled, six-wheel drive land rover than any driver Fenton had worked with. Almost as important to Fenton was the fact that Hailey was easy on the jaw-jacking during the "long rolls" through The Outlandss. He could talk, certainly, and for 23 he could even be interesting on any number of topics- but he had the quality of being able to shut up and just pursue the horizon.

Driver, passenger, and the gunner at the M-26 heavy assault laser weapon in the Wolverine's hardcover top swivel-mount hadn't said more than six words between them in as many hours. Fenton had noticed in the past hour though, and more so since the transmission between the Wolverine on point and Briggs' ride that Hailey was showing a progressively growing grin.

"Hey, Hailey", the private at the gun called down through the open hatch, "This is the place- right?"

Hailey nodded- not that the private could see this, the sun catching on the sun goggles strapped to his face beneath the cover of his helmet, "Yeah, but I don't-. Hey, Sarge, you think the LT will wanna camp local tonight?"

Fenton shrugged, beginning to understand. There were only a few things that could keep a 23-year old interested in staying in The Outlandss after a seven day supply distribution deployment, "Maybe-. I suppose it comes down to how long it takes to drop the supplies and have the medics check over the locals. Its two days back to base camp any way you slice it, so sure- maybe. You got a hot date lined up here or something?"

Hailey shrugged, his grin widening, "Nothing definite, but I didn't do too badly last time we stopped in Chavez Station."

Fenton chuckled, appreciating the priorities of youth and realizing that his lust of the past two days had been getting back to base camp for a warm shower in the wash tent and a cup of coffee that didn't come from a packet in an MRE pouch.

"That's borderline criminal, you know, Hailey.", Fenton said, "Taking advantage of the female population because you have the food."

Hailey shook his head, "No, it ain't like that, Sarge- I never went looking for a thing. But what can I say?… The chuck wagon rollin' in makes more than their mouths water, and then add in my own natural magnetism…"

"It's mostly the food.", said the private at the gun.

"Shut up, Dawson-!", Hailey snapped, "I should'a never told you a thing! For the past three days Sarge, it's been Chavez Station this, and Chavez Station that. Bastard can't get laid back in the world, so he's gotta go to the Big O to get his weasel greased."

Fenton looked at Hailey and then craned his neck to look back at Dawson's mid-trunk and lower body, "On the QT, I'd heard you were seeing that Philipino gal, the one from Supply with the big-." Fenton used both hands to complete the statement by hefting two, heavy invisible objects in front of his chest.

"-Sweater cows?", suggested Hailey, not opting for Fenton's subtlety of suggestive gesture.

Dawson groaned, "How'd you know that?"

Fenton replied as though conveying common knowledge, "Sergeants know everything. That'd be a yes."

"Yeah", snorted Dawson through his particularly large, sun-baked nose, "For what it's worth-. I've only gotten my fingers stinky- like, once. Maybe I'm ugly or something?"

"You're ugly.", agreed Hailey.

"To the bone.", Fenton seconded, "Enough of this though- I shouldn't be letting you talk about a sister enlisted person like this. Just do me a favor and don't catch some weird disease while you're out here. Your mothers would come after me, I know it."

Hailey followed the two Wolverines before him in a turn north.

Chavez Station, called that for reasons that Fenton neither knew nor cared though he had never met anyone by that name in his dozen or more visits, had cropped up as many settlements in The Outlands had- on the sites of old towns. The humble remains of three cinderblock buildings that had likely been stores on a main street before the Holocaust were the anchoring point of Chavez Station, on which the rest of the settlement had grown like a coral reef. Structures of wood and metal scrap, and even the rediscovered material of adobe brick comprised the thirty or so buildings of the station and served as dwellings, artisans' shops, and storage.

The structures of the station were not visible atop the gentle rise in the desert from where the supply convoy approached. Chavez Station had survived, and even bordered on flourishing for two reasons. A crude palisade of rusting steel I-beams, planted some three meters in the earth and jutting outward at a 45 degree angle formed a perimeter two hundred meters outside of the walls of the station. Not a proper "fence" by any stretch of the imagination, the beams were spaced sufficiently though to prevent the rapid approach of any vehicle (or giant for that matter) from any direction but the gateway to the south.

Surrounding the settlement directly, a makeshift wall had been erected of old automobiles, buried by the nose with the rear two to two-and-half meters protruding belly-out. Scrap steel and other metals had been spot-welded or affixed with bolts to provide for additional structural integrity and protection. Fenton knew, and had admired the defensive thinking of the builders at putting a raised platform along the entire inside area of the settlement's walls. Against a professional military assault, the defensive measures were well-meaning but crude- though they did provide adequate deterrence to the real threat of The Outlands- highwaymen.

As the walls of Chavez Station took form on the bluff beyond the palisade, Fenton could make out the corner towers in the wall- simple enclosed observation and defense platforms- and the other attribute that had allowed the settlement to take hold. Rising from the center of the station was sturdily constructed (perhaps over-engineered) windmill tower. Its six long blades that Fenton had learned early on had come from the wreckage of two separate military cargo helicopters, destroyed circa the Holocaust, spun lazily in the desert wind. The shaft they drove in turn powered a simple, yet fanatically maintained suction pump that drew water from a deep aquifer and provided clean, radiation-free drinking water to the station in abundance.

Fenton, though he did love the rugged beauty of the desert, could never understand the mindset of people like the inhabitants of Chavez Station in remaining in The Outlands. At the same time though, it was the ingenuity of their kind that gave him the hope that humankind would pull itself up again.

"I always expect that Max guy to meet us at the door, Sarge.", Hailey said as the lead Wolverine crossed through the palisade gate followed at two lengths by Briggs' vehicle.

"Mad Max", Fenton corrected, "And how would you know?- Those movies were before your time. –Hell, they were pretty much before my time."

"Shit, who needs to see it? We live it."

"Sure, well let me know if you see Tina Turner.", Fenton said putting on his helmet in preparation to dismount, "I do love legs."

As the MBP-4 behind Fenton's Wolverine crossed the palisade gateway, a solid curtain of dust raced up, immediately exceeding the mecha's height, as a powerful explosion kicked the sergeant's vehicle up by the rear. The Ironhead's leading leg sank dropped straight down beneath it as a concealed platform whose supports had just been remotely blown buckled beneath the machine's weight. The Ironhead crashed in to the hip joint of the left leg, its trailing right leg bending back at its hip joint to its full extension. The blunt nose of the mecha plowed into the dry earth and settled in a half-roll to the left as it was rendered immobile.

"Oh shit!", Fenton heard escape his own lips before the four rear wheels of his Wolverine had even touched ground again.

Ahead, large clouds of dust leapt from the ground as heavy projectiles zeroed in on the three light-armored vehicles. Hailey, not needing prompting had already thrown the wheel left and stepped on the gas as the hood and windshield of Lt. Briggs' Wolverine exploded with fragments of metal and glass.

Fenton saw that the lead Wolverine had ground to a halt, black smoke pouring from the engine as the three troops inside fell out the leeward doors. The gunner on Briggs' Wolverine had begun to open up wildly in return, as had Dawson just behind Fenton's seat.

It was at this point that Fenton first heard the heavy, rapid thud of a .50 caliber heavy machinegun mingled with the metallic clang of the armor-piercing bullets shredding his land rover's engine. Hailey's arms tensed noticeably on the steering wheel as the steering froze. The windshield imploded in a spray of shatter-resistant glass, and the Wolverine was at rest.

"Out!", Fenton barked, pushing Hailey toward his door that was now at a perpendicular angle to the enfilade.

The corporal fell out of his door, somehow taking his M-19 laser rifle with him as he went. Clutching his own weapon, Fenton began to follow over the gear-shift and central transmission hump when he heard the screaming.

Looking to his left into the rear of the Wolverine, Fenton could still see Dawson's lower body in the swivel turret's seat. Only the private's hands were no longer on the M-26, but clutching at his right leg just above the knee. Below his grasp, the desert camouflage pattern of his BDU trousers and body armor had gone red with the blood that pumped in spurts out from between his fingers.

Fenton tossed his rifle out the open driver's door, nearly striking Hailey in the head as he turned to assist. The sergeant pulled the wounded gunner's legs out from under him and had him half out the door before he had thudded to the floor.

Hailey half-carried, half-dropped the wailing private to the ground as Fenton spilled out onto the sand.

"Shit!", spat the corporal, a profusion of saliva and blood flying from his lips, "He's hit bad!.."

Pulling binoculars from a pouch at his hip, Fenton noticed the blood on Hailey's face, "You hit?!"

"Bit my fuckin' lip!", the corporal replied as he tore into the meager supplies of his first aid kit.

Fenton rose up just enough to peer through the binoculars over the smoking hood of his vehicle. From along the inside platform of the station's south wall, he could make out forms- some human, some clearly too large to be anything but micronized Zentraedi- poised with weapons at the level. Muzzle flashes indicated that they were carrying both old-style assault rifles as well as newer laser weapons. At either of the southern corner towers, the larger flash of heavy machinegun fire coincided with the deep report of "Ma Deuce". Perhaps the one consistency from old Earth that remained in The Outlands- food and medicine might be scarce in a region, but the determined could always find weapons.

The report of the M-2 .50 caliber machinegun was drowned out by the ear-splitting pound of the immobilized Ironhead's top-mounted, 120mm auto-cannon. Through his binoculars, Fenton saw the southwest corner of the settlement wall- tower and all- vanish in a shower of metal under a hail of high-explosive cannon rounds. The path of fire from the auto-cannon began to sweep right, easily reducing the wall as the attackers behind it fled the path. The rapid crack of the mecha's particle beam cannons joined the boom of the auto-cannon as energy salvos split the air on the same path as the cannon shells.

The southeast tower was partially obscured in a white puff of smoke as a rocket raced out from the platform and crossed above and to the right of Fenton. An explosion powerful enough to bounce his head against the Wolverine's side rolled over him, and when he turned, he saw that the Ironhead's sensor eye had been crudely blown away.

Hailey tugged at Fenton's shoulder, yelling over the exchange of fire, "We gotta get Dawson outta here, Sarge! I tied it off tight, but he's still bleedin' like a sonofabitch!"

Fenton glanced quickly at the small but spreading pool of blood beneath the now shock-dazed private's leg.

A quick survey of his surroundings found all three troops of the point Wolverine to be returning fire from behind their vehicle. Resistance from Briggs' rover had ceased, and Fenton could see the gunner slumped over his weapon. To his rear, outside the palisade, one of the remaining two Wolverines and all six of the 8/4s were immobilized under a rising haze of smoke- most likely victims of the .50 machineguns. There was no sign of the last Wolverine. To the northwest, beyond the bluff, and beyond the palisade Fenton suspected, clouds of dust were rising- doubtlessly the result of vehicles on the move.

They were immobile, and in the process of being encircled.

"Gabriel, Gabriel- this is Pack Rat Two.", Fenton said clearly and as calmly as possible into his radio, calling on the command and control aircraft that was on station somewhere in the distant sky, "We're being ambushed at Supply Point Echo. We've got people down and we are pinned. Request immediate air support and med-evac of wounded. Over."

"Pack Rat Two, this is Gabriel. Routing fast movers to your position now. ETA three minutes. Hang tight, Pack Rat- they're on their way."

Flying a Valkyrie at 50,000 feet and at a speed of 1,200 knots was to Winters analogous to floating on billowed silk. The sky hung above, concave in deep blue, and the Earth below was a convex expanse of uniform tan. At this altitude, the only terrain features visible were the more substantial ridges and valleys- and of course the craters from Zentraedi energy weapons that had pock-marked the desert in the Holocaust and created The Outlands.

At this speed there was no sound from the engines, as Marilyn was outrunning the sound waves as they were created. Only the slight, fine vibration of the turbines and the green lights of the systems status display even indicated that the engines were running. The loudest noise came from Winters' own breathing through his oxygen mask, and periodic beep of the navigation computer as it actually flew the fighter and counted off marker and waypoints in the pre-programmed flight plan.

Looking aft of his starboard wing, and slightly higher, Winters found Buster in his place as #2 of the Diamond-4 formation. Dalton, clearly visible in his cockpit had his head tilted back against the angled pilot's chair headrest. Winters knew he wasn't sleeping, but rather in a semi-conscious doze that all pilots were able to achieve given enough time flying eventless patrols. It was of little concern to Winters anyway, Taz's (named for and adorned with nose art of the whirling cartoon character) navigation computer was able to maintain the Valkyrie's station as well or better than the human pilot. Scooter and Vice were respectively in the #3, lower left, and #4, "tail-end Charlie" positions.

The flight's westerly course would continue for another twenty-one minutes according to the "time-to-waypoint" counter in the HUD, before they would turn north and then later east to complete the patrol circuit.

"Knight Hawk Leader this is Gabriel."

"Copy you, Gabriel.", Winters replied to the C2 AWACS/JSTAR-EC-33, "Go ahead."

"Knight Hawk Flight is to vector three-five-one at maximum speed for Supply Point Echo. Pack Rat requires ground support and enemy fire suppression. Be advised, gunships and med-evac are inbound from the west- ETA twelve minutes."

"Copy that, Gabriel. Knight Hawk Flight is en route.", Winters said, then passing the order heard by all to his flight, "On my lead, roll right to three-five-one, maintain level, and push it to the stops. Break to pairs- Buster, you're with me. Looks like we get some trade today, chaps."

Winters disengaged his autopilot and eased the stick gently right. At such high speeds only the slightest of maneuvers could be tolerated, but even with the slight turn the new heading came on quickly. As the pilot opened the throttles to the limit, Scooter and Vice intentionally allowed space to open as they paired off. In seconds, the Valkyries had nearly doubled their speed to just under four times the speed of sound.

"Lock and load, Knight Hawks.", Winters instructed, "Master arm switches on, master safeties off."

Winters did himself as he had instructed. The weapons display panel showed all the ordinance Marilyn was carrying to now be at the pilot's ready command. Winters quickly changed the destination marker in the navigation computer to the pre-programmed coordinates of Supply Point Echo. The "time-on-target" display counted down steadily from 143 seconds. And now there was nothing to do but wait.

A familiar tightness, one that had never gone away in all of Winters experience, gripped his stomach and made him glad that he'd partaken only of coffee for breakfast. The tightness spread to his lungs and chest, and caused a tingling in his fingers.

At 100 seconds, time-on-target, with his throat drying and to prevent his mouth from doing the same, Winters applied the only remedy he had found to work. He pursed his lips and began to whistle.

The slightly off-key, but recognizable strains of the old Irish cavalry tune, Gary Owen filled the cockpit. Winters felt the tension ease a little as he reached the end of the first round, and by the beginning of the second found the rest of the flight joining in.

One couldn't argue with tradition.

Sergeant Fenton watched helplessly as the situation continued to unravel around him.

Two soldiers, Fenton could not tell which, from the lead Wolverine in the convoy had emerged from their persistently burning vehicle and were exchanging fire with the ambushing highwaymen as shots presented themselves.

Similarly, the crew of three from the wrecked Ironhead had abandoned their mecha and joined Fenton's crew behind his rover. A warrant officer, and two privates first class- one of whom was out of action from the severe face and neck lacerations inflicted by the resulting spall of the missile hit- were of little immediate use as they were armed with sub-machineguns.

Fenton knew the ideal defensive option would be to drop back to the 8/4s and maximize the firepower of one position. The fact was that he had two immobile wounded, one of them critically, and seventy meters between himself and that one solid defensive position.

Fenton could see where the three scavenged trucks of the highwaymen had stopped short of the 8/4s' left flank to allow their occupants to make use of a scrapheap for cover. The sergeant's view of their right flank was obstructed by the fallen Ironhead, but he was certain their was similar highwayman activity there as the defending troops were trading fire in both directions with equal intensity..

A story a history teacher had told him once in high school came clearly to mind now, about the warriors of the Zulu. Fenton remembered how they would advance on an enemy in a great line, meeting them head on- before swinging their flanks in on the foe in simultaneous pincer movements. A warrior chief had dubbed it "the buffalo horns", and it was unlikely that the highwaymen, human or Zentraedi, had ever heard the story. Nonetheless- Fenton found himself seeing that same tactic from within the horns.

An explosion out on the desert, far behind the defensive position of the 8/4s caused a split second pause in the fighting that was barely perceivable. The first explosion was followed by a second, rolling heavily over the parched land, and was accompanied in a space of moments by two rising columns of tan dust mingling with black smoke.

"Pack Rat Two, this is Knight Hawk Leader- call sign, Jack. We are inbound on your six o'clock position. Be advised, you have a Wolverine northbound to you, minus two bad guys. Can you spot for air support?"

Fenton saw broad grins crack through the fear on the faces of Hailey and the two uninjured men from the Ironhead. He realized he was grinning too. He was fairly certain that Zulus had never had to contend with vertical envelopment.

"Copy you, Jack- and roger that. I can paint the bastards for you down to the man. Be advised, they've taken up positions in a civilian settlement. Repeat, there is a high probability of civilians in the target area. They may also have shoulder fired SAMs. Watch yourself."

"Copy that, Pack Rat. Knight Hawk flight is ten seconds out. You dot `em, we'll blot `em. Light the buggers up, Pack Rat."

Fenton peered through his binoculars again and toggled a control switch on the optics housing. An aiming reticule appeared in his field of view, along with a simple display of range and compass bearing to the center point. The sergeant lay the aiming point on the remaining tower at the southeast corner of the station wall and depressed the laser cue. A small but powerful laser generator in the binoculars shone a dot of invisible light the size of a basketball onto the center mass of the tower platform.

"Target lit, Jack."

Winters saw the world only through the window of the HUD as the station grew in size and detail before him. At 400 knots and as many feet above the desert floor, he'd have a single shot at whatever Pack Rat identified for him before having to circle for another pass.

At Winters' instruction, Vice and Scooter were orbiting the site and preparing for a second run on identified targets. Buster hung at a distance on Jack's tail in a "loose deuce" to cover the leader in the attack and to assist and assess.

Fine details of the structures in the station became visible as the deck swept by below in a blur. Thin laser bolts from infantry rifles, as well as the red dots of tracer fire from a single heavy machinegun rose up from the station and two positions outside the palisade to challenge the pilot. There were signs of movement just inside the station wall and within the complex- but the activity all seemed to be related to the fire directed at the Valkyries.

A missile from high on Marilyn's port wing streaked by and slammed into the ground short of a cluster of rocks outside the palisade that a handful of highwaymen had been using as a position to strike at a cluster of cargo trucks. The missile's shortfall was no accident though as the casing shattered and flung capsules of plasma napalm forward. A sheet of sun-hot flame burst skyward, washing over the ambushers' position and causing the sand directly in and around its path to first boil and then crystallize into glass.

The knowledge that there were civilians within the same walls made Winters keep a greater distance between his thumb and the trigger on his control stick.

A target indicator box appeared on the southeast tower of the station wall, showing that the fighter's optical sensors, as well as the seeker heads of the two remaining AGM-65-D "Maverick Mk-4" missiles it carried had recognized a laser cue.

Winters selected the target, released the firing point safety, and depressed the trigger in a single action.

Buster, high and to the left rear of Winters watched a billow and tail of white smoke as the missile left the center pylon on Marilyn's port wing. The weapon homed true, shattering the tower down to the base of its legs before the occupants had the chance to react.

"Good hit.", Dalton announced as the station whipped by beneath, bits of debris still raining down over the southeast corner of the wall where the tower had been a moment before.

Return fire from the southern wall was visible, but sporadic with the pattern showing the wild, disorganized panic that Dalton could imagine the highwaymen feeling.

"We're still getting resistance from that southern wall, Jack.", Dalton reported.

"I saw.", Winters replied, "Vice, Scooter- can you make a run at that wall and knock it down for me?"

Vincenz's voice was calm and business-like, "We're on it, Jack. A little fifty-five millimeter renovation coming up."

Sergeant Fenton still winced at the searing heat from the plasma-napalm strike seventy meters to his rear as the two attacking Valkyries pulled into a 45-degree climb to clear the way for a second assault. The air and ground vibrated with the deep roar of their engines as they quickly slipped out of the reach of the highwaynen's fire and became dots in the sky.

Looking back in the direction of the 8/4s, Fenton saw that the fire had shifted to defending their right flank now with nothing remaining to defend against on the left. Behind the Ironhead's form, a cloud of dust some hundred meters distant was rising and Fenton speculated the outlaws were in retreat having seen the fiery end to their accomplices.

From behind the shelter of the bulky cargo trucks, Fenton saw soldiers displacing and moving forward to his position in pairs. Among the first to arrive was the platoon medic, who had her kit open before she came skidding to a stop at Fenton's side behind his Wolverine.

"Doc, we have these two wounded here and maybe another three in the lieutenant's ride.", Fenton said as the medic nodded her acknowledgement.

Fenton knew the highly trained specialist was not ignoring him, even without the gesture. With her helmet's visor down and radio mike before her lips, Fenton was certain that she was in communication with the surgical unit at whatever base the wounded would be med-evaced to. The images of the wounded and their wounds was being transmitted as the medic worked by the small camera unit mounted to the left side of her helmet. Through her radio and the multi-functional display visor she could receive assistance and instruction including imagery from the surgical team.

Fenton turned his attention to the remaining members of the platoon, eight of whom had joined him forward. Among those rallied, Fenton was pleased to see the face of Sergeant Palacio from 2nd Squad.

"We secure back there?", Fenton asked the other NCO.

"I left four from Third back there with the transport crews.", Palacio replied, her dark face reddened by the sun and the heat of the napalm strike, "Those bastards lost their belly for fighting the second the air cover showed up."

The rising sound of jet turbines drowned out conversation between the NCOs, then it too was lost to a rapid peel of booming explosions. The south wall of Chavez Station disintegrated under a hail of 55mm high-explosive cannon shells as though made of paper mache and not rusting automobile hulks. The attacking fighter ripped the air with the shriek of its engines as it darted past low enough to sweep the rising smoke of its attack in its wake.

"Pack Rat Two, this is Knight Hawk Four, call sign Scooter. Your bad guys seem to be bugging out the rear…. Looks like they cut the palisades to be able to get their vehicles out the back door. They must have known the heat would come down on them."

"Copy that, Scooter.", answered Fenton over the dying rumble of the Valkyrie's engines, "Gabriel, Pack Rat Two…. Where are my gunships and med-evac birds?"

"Pack Rat, Gabriel- your birds are inbound. Three minutes."

Winters watched the dots and dust trails of half a dozen motorized vehicles begin to move away from the north side of Chavez Station. There were some hills and ravines ten kilometers further north- not significant cover but enough to make life tricky for a Valkyrie on the attack. There was little in the way of cover between though, and the highwaymen would have to cross the "between".

"Gabriel, Knight Hawk One- request permission to pursue and engage."

"Knight Hawk One, Gabriel. Negative. Orbit and stay on station until gunship support arrives. We're tracking their movements and will coordinate pursuit. Over."

"I copy.", Winters relented grudgingly, "Have someone put a boot in their asses for me. I was having such a pleasant day-."

Sergeant Fenton shielded his eyes as two UH-7 Lakota med-evac helicopters beat the air into a dusty haze as they lifted into the air from the makeshift landing zone within the palisade perimeter. The wounded had been stabilized for transport and loaded quickly by the crews, and would be in field hospitals inside of fifteen minutes.

Other Lakotas, configured as transports, or "slicks", remained on the LZ rotors still spinning lazily as the platoon of air assault infantry they had carried in as reinforcements continued to sweep the station behind Fenton. The four Aztec attack helicopters that had escorted the "dust off" med-evac choppers, and slicks into the area had continued north under Gabriel's instruction to pursue the highwaymen who had initiated and then fled from the fight.

Fenton burned to be able to load onto the Lakotas with the air assault troops when the call came for them to join in the mopping up of the highwaymen, but he knew he wouldn't have the pleasure. He would have to linger in the rear and see to the troops and equipment now under his command. Cargo slicks would ferry in the parts, tools, and specialists Fenton would need to get the 8/4s and the three salvageable Wolverines rolling again and then it would be the long ride home with scars to show and stories to tell.

As the dust from the two dust-offs settled in the mid-afternoon heat, Fenton could make out the approach of the four Valkyries from the southwest. They flew in tighter pairs now, but at a more leisurely speed it seemed to the sergeant. He watched the two lead Veritechs drop well below the second pair and witnessed their "magic trick" of Robotechnology.

Mid-air, and without a noticeable change in their flight path, the fighters seemed to sprout legs as their engine nacelles swung down at the ambulant joint a meter aft of the intakes. The thruster nozzles, squared and oddly boxy in Fighter mode, opened like the jaws of a pair of pliers to act as feet for the hybrid machine. Arms, stowed during flight as an aircraft along the Valkyrie's belly centerline rotated out and into position under either wing.

Fenton had seen this mechanical metamorphosis before, and knew it to all be no more miraculous than the execution of several hundred-thousand computer programs in the machine's flight and configuration controls- but it still was impressive to see.

Intake slats, placed to minimize the ingestion of dust and debris into the engines, in the tops of the wings and the airframe opened as the two Valkyries slowed to a hover and sank on a cushion of their own thrust to the ground. As the feet made contact, the legs of the "Guardians" at a broad stance, the knees flexed backwards like those of a bird and accepted the weight of the mecha.

The engines of the two craft powered down quickly and in the settling dust, Fenton saw the canopies to the still purely aircraft features of their fuselages open. A single pilot climbed from each cockpit, carefully feeling his way down from a ladder that had dropped from the side of each fuselage.

Fenton jogged the thirty paces to meet them, saluting as he approached.

"Pack Rat Two", Fenton said identifying himself, "Sergeant First Class Fenton. One of you must be Jack?"

Winters removed his helmet and turned it to read his call sign stenciled across the left brow.

"I suppose that's me.", said the lieutenant colonel, returning the NCO's salute, "This is my leftenant, Buster. We thought we'd stretch our legs for a minute. Care to give us the tour?"

Fenton nodded, "Not much to see, Colonel.- Not much that you'd want to see anyway. By the way, thanks."

"Not a word of it, Sergeant.", Winters said as Fenton led he and Dalton toward the demolished wall that Vice had taken down, "That's why they give us the fancy kites and the huge salaries- or so they tell me. Your losses, not too severe I hope."

"Six dead, nine wounded.", Fenton reported soberly, "Lost our lieutenant and five kids all under twenty years old. It coulda been a helluva lot worse if you hadn't gotten here as quick as you did though- so again, thanks."

"Again, don't mention it.", Winters repeated, surveying the twisted and torn nubs of car sticking from the ground that had once been the station's south wall.

Fenton led the way along the path least dense with razor-edged twisted heaps of torn metal. To the sergeant's left, he motioned to three distinct masses that were unidentifiable except to say they were flesh and once had been human by virtue of the pooling of red blood about them.

"A mixed bag here.", Fenton said, "Human and Zentraedi working together. You don't see that often in the outlaw types- sometimes, but not often."

"The social liberals will be thrilled.", Winters said in disgust, partially at the cloud of flies that was beginning to swarm on the mutilated remains.

"Somebody is going to miss that-.", Fenton laughed in the dark humor of one still numbed by a violent episode as he pointed to a leg, clearly micronized Zentraedi by its size and the nub of shredded blue flesh at the upper thigh where the limb abruptly ended.

"That's all you found of him?", Dalton asked.

"Yeah.", Fenton said, "Hell, the way your boy took that wall down, I'm surprised we found that much. You'd be surprised what those weapons you carry do to flesh and bone."

Winters remembered the warning about the civilians that he had received before the attack and felt an old, sick feeling return to his stomach, "I can, actually. Sergeant-."

Fenton pointed to a row of bodies, eighteen in all, mostly human, some micronized Zentraedi, three of each species female.

"Well, I had hoped that you wouldn't see the particulars from your planes up there, but it can be messy.", Fenton said almost apologetically, "These are the ones that didn't make it out. Figure another eight to ten like that mess back there. We'll dig a burial pit out here for `em- maybe even say a few words over the humans."

"Sod `em.", Winters said bitterly, spitting at the nearest Zentraedi form that lay face down in the dirt. Flies circled to investigate the added treat.

"Civilians?", Dalton asked hesitantly.

Winters felt the sickness stab him in the belly, but was glad that it had been Dalton and not he to return the sergeant to the subject.

Fenton swallowed, his hardened face softening slightly with pity for an unspeakable horror.

"We figure they must've come in last night under the guise of being nomads or travelers. You know- let us spend the night and we'll do this job, or that number of hours of work. Sometimes its other things..", Fenton explained, laying out a theory of the plot that had unfolded at Chavez Station, "Probably a half dozen humans- women among `em to lower the guard of the inhabitants. At some point, the others must have moved in from the outside after their moles killed or distracted the station's defenders from the inside. They couldn't`a wanted a fight- the whole idea being to secure what supplies the station had, and still have the place in good enough order to lure us in and jack us for the loot in the trucks. Anyway, it looks like the rogue bastards took the place pretty quickly. There were some bodies, killed by small arms, that weren't our doing. We figure they rounded everyone up in some storage sheds `n… Well, you can imagine."

"Show me.", Winters said, his voice having grown icy.

Dalton's expression was as shocked and unenthusiastic as Fenton's tone, "Colonel, you really don't want to see-."

Winters snapped viciously, "I wasn't soliciting a debate, Sergeant!.."

"Yes sir.", Fenton complied dutifully, "This way."

Hours of decay in the heat of the desert identified the shed Fenton had alluded to before the three men reached it. Flies could be seen flitting in and out of the darkened doorway, a constant drone of their wings to be heard as others inside the structure dinged softly and occasionally off the corrugated metal of the walls.

The smell, not only of rot, but the death smells of blood, urine, feces- the smell of fear became overpowering as Winters approached the door.

"Bastards didn't even shoot them in the heads.", Fenton explained motioning to somewhere between forty and fifty forms under a dozen tarps that someone had scavenged to cover them, "Their throats were slit- probably to save ammo and charge on their laser weapons. The civies we'll bag up and send back for a decent burial."

From beneath the closest tarp, Winters saw a foot smaller than the palm of his hand protruding, clad in a dirty and tattered canvas shoe.

He turned away, the sickness in his belly replaced by a solid, white-hot orb of rage.

Dalton stepped aside to let him pass, trying to be inconspicuous in holding his hand to his nose and mouth to keep down his own gorge…

The GS-95 Robotech Factory

Like all other Robotech Factories in the universe, the GS-95 was unimpressive to behold at a distant glance. Appearing to be a celestial rock body, abundant in the endless reaches of space- which in fact it was, it was what had been built within the asteroid that set it apart from others. Kilometers beneath its surface of nearly impenetrable rock, the Robotech Masters had constructed the means and support to build and sustain their aspirations to conquer the galaxies. Untold thousands of ships had been constructed for the Zentraedi by this very facility, along with the cloning of millions of the giant warriors to crew them.

This was the GS-95's past, and in terms of the service lives of Robotech Factories it was was a relatively unremarkable one.

Where this automated facility differed from all the others of its kind was that it no longer served The Robotech Masters. No longer did it answer the distant calls of Zentraedi fleets in need of refit and replenishment. It now served the race whom the Masters, through the Zentraedi, had sought to destroy for the offense of receiving and salvaging Zor's battle fortress for their own.

It had been a simple operation that had secured the facility for the service of United Earth, and to those who had carried it out it had been extremely suspect that the Masters had given it up so easily.

Breetai knew this- he had been there.

The Zentraedi officer also knew the wasteful character of The Masters though, and knew that the loss of a single Factory was hardly enough to arouse their concern.

General Breetai's trip to the GS-95 was not one of nostalgia though. In fact, the Factory's meticulously kept logs of arriving and departing personnel would not even have revealed that the Military Chief of Staff had been aboard. His visit would not be logged just as the wing of the Factory that he now navigated on foot was not officially acknowledged as "functional".

Breetai turned onto a corridor that had identity of its own only by the markings painted on it to allow personnel to negotiate the many such passages. Stopping at a door marked only by a number, Breetai pressed the button to open the door and stepped inside.

The lounge, a room of modest size and comfortable but not luxurious appointments, had but a single occupant waiting for Breetai despite its ability to easily accommodate a dozen or more.

"Breetai", said Vice Admiral Lisa Hayes, rising from her seat to greet the MCS. She spoke warmly to the Zentraedi officer in a way that perhaps could only come from developing a close friendship with one whom you had been pre-occupied with evading or destroying in the past. The epic perils of the SDF-1 belonged to history now, and as all things on Earth had, the relationship between Hayes and Breetai had changed.

"Lisa.", Breetai replied in kind, "How's Rick? I haven't seen him for nearly two weeks. I'm getting the feeling he's avoiding me."

Hayes shook her head, "I was thinking the same myself, only about me. He's tangled up in planning and staffing. You can imagine how difficult it is to select a staff and not be able to tell them what they're being selected for. Then throw in the hands-on fighter pilot mentality that means he has to be part of every decision-. I think you have the idea."

"And the wedding plans?"

"I'm thinking I can have him stand up an action officers' group for that and I can get on it- if I make it through staff selection. Call it a work in progress. Tea?"

Hayes gestured to a thermal carafe on one of the lounge's squat tables. The admiral had a cup of coffee for herself, but knowing Breetai's preference had made the proper arrangements with the stewards.

"Thank you, yes."

"I saw your testimony before the appropriations committee this morning.", Hayes said, inviting Breetai to sit with a motion of her hand, "Senator Rozier did everything but throw his microphone at you to rattle you. You came across well, I think."

Breetai settled into the functionally comfortable seat across from Hayes, making it look like children's furniture by his sheer size. Hayes poured the tea into a cup over a single cube of sugar, and handed it to him.

"Rozier has two distinct disadvantages", Breetai noted, sipping carefully at the piping hot contents of his cup, "He hasn't seen what I have seen, and possibly more impeding to his judgment, he must answer to the whims and opinions of the population. It's difficult to sell guns to a population that must consistently see their children go without sufficient food or medicine. I made the best argument I could- and I certainly don't need to argue it to you."

"No, you don't.", Hayes agreed.

"And how is our favorite thief of bread from the mouths of children?"

"The fitting out is ahead of schedule. If Dr. Lang would ever stop submitting change requests to the construction details, we might actually get well ahead of schedule.", Hayes said, her tone suggesting mild annoyance as she peered out the full wall viewing port that had been the center of her attention before Breetai's arrival.

The "thief" was the sole occupant of the officially inoperative construction bay beyond. The SDF-3 hung idle in the weightlessness of the dockyard, construction braces and scaffolds still affixed to her hull. The ship's design was nearly identical to the original battle fortress that Zor had created and sent to Earth, later to become the SDF-1. The alien influence was outwardly prominent with the ship's, organic, rounded appearance. Significant modifications of the original design to suit human use had been made under the supervision of Dr. Emil Lang, the project lead on the original SDF-1. Still, the kinship to vessels of the Zentraedi or Masters' fleets was unquestionable, and perhaps in some ways that was the point. Form followed function, and the function of SDF-3 had long since been conceived and was on the verge of realization.

That function though, every detail, and the very existence of the vessel was therefore a carefully guarded secret. Funded and built under the murky bureaucratic umbrella of a "black project"- SDF-3 enjoyed anonymity and invisibility from the scrutiny of committees and oversight groups.

"She's going to be something to see when she's finished though.", Hayes mused, alluding to her earlier complaint about Lang's obsessive attention to all construction details.

"Something to see, and all yours.", Breetai added.

"The tax-payers', actually.", Hayes observed, "Or so I'm told. Still, there are days I wish Admiral Gloval were here to see this. The idea was his, so the command should have been his as well."

"Fate plays out as it will.", Breetai said to his human friend, mindful of her sentimental attachment to the commanding officer of the SDF-1 who had traded his own life to save hers in the final moments of Khyron and Azonia's suicide attack on the vessel, "Admiral Gloval had every confidence in you when the plan was to involve the SDF-2. I see no reason why that confidence would have changed."

"I appreciate that, Breetai, I do.", Hayes said, "But this operation is unlike anything humankind has ever planned. An interstellar, pre-emptive strike against the home world of the Robotech Masters? Tactical wisdom aside, it shifts us from being defenders of ourselves to the aggressors."

Breetai set his tea down, "Lisa, this has been discussed at length. The commonly reached position, one that you supported, was that this operation is in response to the Masters' aggression. Defense takes many forms- some are more clear cut and palatable than others. Still, it is likely that the Masters are weak at home- the Zentraedi either engaged with the Invid or outside of their ability to control as a result of Dolza's defeat. By making the impression that we will not tolerate their all-consuming expansion into the universe, we will gain a position of strength from which to negotiate. At that point we will show our true nature. Hopefully it's as good of one as we want to believe."

"That's good, Breetai. You should put that down on paper."

Breetai smiled, "I have. You can never tell what committee you're going to have to testify before next."

Edwards Air Force Base

The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows of the hardened aircraft shelters and workshop buildings as Winters taxied his fighter, Marilyn, onto the tarmac. As the other three Valkyries of the flight pulled into line with him, he shut the engines down and removed the helmet from his head that felt as though it had grown four times its normal size with the pounding of a headache.

A second set of hands reached through the gap between the open canopy and the cockpit rim and began to unfasten the pilot's harness straps.

Lyle, as he often did on the flight line, had snuck up on Winters to the point of extending the fighter's ladder and scaling it without attracting attention.

"Did you ever attend commando school?", Winters asked as he detached his G-suit from the fighter's pressurized air system.

"Nope.", Lyle replied simply.

"Bloody shame- you could have been one of the greats.", Winters said, taking his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his flight suit and slipping them on. The tint of the lenses softened the glare of the desert sun and dulled the edge of his headache slightly.

"On top'a all the other stuff Ah gotta do?", Lyle chuckled, "Who'd keep mah babies flyin'?"

"Point taken, forget commando school.", Winters said as the ordinance handling vehicles arrived to reclaim the unused weapons on Marilyn's wings.

Lyle scooted down the ladder quickly to let the pilot deplane.

Seeing empty missile rails on the wing pylons, Lyle asked, "What should Ah be paintin' on the side later?"

Winters almost laughed, shaking his head, "A rusted out pick-up truck and a gun tower. I don't suppose you have stencils for those, do you?"

Lyle glanced at the artwork on the fuselage associated with Winters' tally of kills, "Nope- that's a new one on me…. Ah'll figure somethin'."

"Don't bother.", Winters said, "I'd as soon forget."

The ordinance handling crew, three micronized male Zentraedi, dismounted their open-topped Wolverine and made their salutes to Winters as they hustled with conviction to render the weapons mounted on his aircraft safe for removal and return to munitions storage.

As the three aliens passed Winters, towering over him even in their reduced state, the lieutenant colonel did not return their salute. Unnoticed by the ordinance handlers, he stopped abruptly, nearly causing Lyle to run into him. A strange numbness leeched its way through the tissues of the pilot's body until he no longer felt the heat of the sun or heard the voices around him or the noise of the flight line.

The numbness ended with a sharp, almost doubling pain as the searing orb of hate returned like a sunburst to Winters belly.

"Get those ditto bastards AWAY FROM MY BLOODY PLANE!", bellowed Winters, his voice rising steadily to a roar the way a whistle rose on a building head of steam in a kettle.

Lyle's face was a perfect mask of shock as Winters' gaze burned through him at the ordinance crew that had frozen in place and now stood helpless- unsure of how to react. Similarly, the three other pilots of the patrol stood nearby, equally dumbfounded.

"Get away!", Winters raged, flailing his arms as one might to shoo away a dumb animal, "Get away!.. Or don't you speak the King's English, you carbon-copy bastards?!.."

When the three airmen failed to reply, Winters face twisted into a grotesque sneer of contempt. The sun glinted off of chrome as the pilot's .44 revolver came free of its holster and leveled at the three- the muzzle drifting back and forth between them.

"Jack!", yelled Dalton, the only one of the three Knight Hawk pilots to manage words at the spectacle.

"Hey, pard'-.", Lyle said, slowly reaching for the long barrel of the revolver, "Just put `er down now-."

Winters sidestepped out of Lyle's reach, and there was another glint of polished metal accompanied by a solid click as the pistol's hammer was cocked and the cylinder rotated.

Dalton, now two paces away was less conciliatory in his words than Lyle, "Jack, have you lost your fucking mind?! Put the goddamn gun down!"

Activity had stopped on the tarmac to the man, though Winters was oblivious to it.

"Put it down.", Dalton said again, calmly this time. Seeing that Winters was starting to hear him, the squadron XO put his hand on Winters' right forearm and directed the barrel of the .44 at the concrete.

The three Zentraedi airmen began to breathe again.

Winters whirled on Lyle, bowing over him to the point where the mechanic had to bend backward at the waist to keep their noses from touching as the CO ranted, "They don't go anywhere near our kites, Lyle-! Do you hear me?! Not to load or unload weapons, not to clean the fucking windshields or check the tire pressure. If there's a fire and those Valkyries are burning, they don't piss on them to save them. Am I clear, Lyle?"

Still stunned beyond the ability to manage more, Lyle was able to get out, "Yeah…"

Winters withdrew from the scene without another word. He thumbed the hammer of the revolver forward and holstered it as he strode rigidly and briskly toward the flight prep building.

"I think I just peed myself.", Scooter said, joining Lyle and Dalton with Vincenz.

"Ah know Ah did…", Lyle admitted, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead in a delayed reaction, "What tha hell-?.."

Dalton looked at the aircraft captain, the other pilots, and the three airmen who remained fixed where they stood. He was aware that many eyes around the tarmac were still on what had just occurred- though activity was slowly resuming.

"It's a long story.", Dalton said, feeling the post-adrenaline jitters begin to tingle, "Let's just get cleaned up and get to debriefing. Lyle-. I don't know what to do about them… Have another ordinance team strip the birds. Jack's got his blood up."

Lyle nodded as the remaining three pilots followed the path the CO had taken to the flight prep building, "Yeah, sure…"

Lyle turned to the airmen and said apologetically, "It's awlright… Y'all didn' do nothin' wrong. He's just-. Whell, never mind- just go `n have a smoke `n we'll handle this."

The three Zentraedi retreated without a word from the scene. Lyle felt remiss in his attempt to reassure them that the incident had not been of their doing as he watched them skulk away like guilty dogs caught in the act of eating from the dinner table.

Lyle thought to follow them to say more, but there was no point to reliving the moment. It was best to let it go.

The mechanic cocked his Osaka Pistons cap back on his head and rested his hand on the nose of Winters' fighter as though Marilyn required consoling.

"Sheeyt…."

That said it all in Lyle's simple way.

The mechanic returned to work.

Yellowstone City

General Leonard consistently found his trips to Yellowstone City to be a mixed bag of pleasures.

The capital city of United Earth, for those who accepted the concept, was much further along in the process of reconstruction- or to be accurate, construction- than Mexico City where The Army of the Southern Cross Headquarters had relocated. Among the features of civilization that Yellowstone City offered were hotels, like the Hilton Federal Plaza, in which Leonard had the penthouse suite. His entourage of aides, staff, security, and a personal valet occupied most of the rooms on the level below. Those rooms that were not occupied had been reserved and paid for, but hosted no one in order to maintain uniform control of the level.

Such precautions were standard in Leonard's numerous trips to Yellowstone City. His opinions, and moreover his actions both on-the-record and alleged were well known, and not popular with all.

The waiter, sent by room service and security-checked in and accompanied from the kitchen by Leonard's personal guards was completing the setting of a dinner table for two in the suite's sun room. As the waiter poured the second glass of wine, the elevator chime rang, announcing the car's arrival.

Leonard looked at his watch and found it to be precisely 1930 hours.

Punctuality impressed the general.

The waiter pushed his cart toward the elevator as the guards received the nod of approval to open the elevator doors.

A guard turned a security key in the elevator control panel and the polished brass doors slid open allowing the occupant to step out.

Not quite as tall as Leonard, and far more slight of build, the white man in his mid-to-late fifties, dressed sharply in a well maintained, pressed, grey silk suit passed by Leonard's guards without comment or interference. His salt and pepper hair (mostly salt) framed and accented the sharp features of his nose and jaw line and was the best and only real indicator of the man's age.

The waiter rolled his cart onto the elevator, at which point Leonard said to his guards, "You can go too. I trust him."

"Yes sir.", complied the head of the security detail as he ushered the three other guards into the car before stepping in himself.

When the brass elevator doors shut, Leonard spoke again.

"Lott?"

"Yes, General", said the man, advancing across the floor to shake the ASC officer's sizable hand, "How good to finally speak to you without the filtering effect of aides."

Leonard motioned to the table, "I had dinner set for two. I felt it appropriate given the hour. Join me?"

Lott followed Leonard to the table, saying, "You'll pardon me if I don't dine-. I maintain odd hours and habits. I may have some of your wine though."

Leonard settled into his seat and removed the lid from his plate to reveal the veritable feast of lamb chops, roasted potatoes with rosemary, and a medley of steamed fresh vegetables.

"Suit yourself, but I intend to eat. We don't get lamb that often in Mexico City."

"Nor in many other places.", agreed Lott, raising the glass of red wine from the table and allowing the scent to drift into his nostrils, "I will also beg your forgiveness if I do not remain long. The essence of what I have to propose is simple and should take but a few minutes of your time."

Leonard watched as Lott reached into his suit coat's billfold pocket and retrieved a device, the size of a pack of cigarettes, cased in plastic which he set down on the table and flipped a switch on its side.

Leonard realized he must have looked concerned as Lott explained assuring him, "It's a signal scrambler. Any bugs or listening devices in the room will be disrupted by this device. I, like you, have those who are interested in my every word and movement."

"The room was swept for bugs.", Leonard replied.

Lott raised an eyebrow with his glass, "I know of three that they missed."

Leonard allowed the comment to pass without reaction.

Slicing into the lamb on his plate, the general kept the conversation flowing, though toward what he was uncertain.

"You know, Mr. Lott, my office receives solicitations and offers from every kind of fringe group and crackpot under the sun. Anti-unification groups, human supremacists, neo-nationalists- all call with the same message as you, that they have the means to help the ASC in a significant way."

"And what leads you t believe that I'm not just a crackpot?", Lott asked, seeming genuinely interested in Leonard's response.

The general went into his pocket and retrieved several printed pages folded into thirds. He unfolded the pages and lay them beside Lott's untouched plate, saying, "The fact that you sent me a copy of my itinerary before I had seen it from my own staff."

"The gathering and relevant dissemination of information is one of my- our areas of proficiency. One of them."

"I gathered that as soon as you stepped off the elevator.", Leonard said, "You were in the committee room today during the hearing. A row behind me and to the left. My plan to impose myself on that session was written down nowhere in this.." Leonard tapped the itinerary with the fingers of his powerful left hand. "Only my closest staff, whom I selected personally and trust with my life knew, besides the guards who were bribed to get me in of course."

"Who do you think told the guards to accept the bribe?", Lott countered, savoring a small sip of his wine.

"I don't know. Who?", Leonard asked, "You have my attention and my interest, Mr. Lott- sell your wares."

Lott set his wine glass down and began to speak in the professional manner one would expect from a banker or businessman negotiating a venture.

"General Leonard, first- you should know that I, like you, am a federal employee- though you would be hard pressed to find my name in any phone or email directory accessible to mere mortals. Like you, my organization and I operate with a loose affiliation to The United Earth Government. For The Army of the Southern Cross and yourself, it's the result of occurrences, events, plans and decisions by not only yourself but by the Government as well. My organization stands aloof, and has stood so since its conception, by design."

"Who are you?", Leonard asked, "Ministry of Defense? Ministry of Internal Affairs? Intelligence?"

"All and none.", Lott answered frankly, "I have no obligations to any of the ministries, though I have developed extensive networks in each. To be honest, General Leonard, my position is an action-minded agency director's utopia. My mission, though not written down in any charter, is clear and well defined. My authority to operate and my scope are broad, and the chain of authority to whom I report is short.- Very short."

Leonard chewed his dinner as he spoke, "You have a gift for speaking in ambiguities, Mr. Lott. You still have told me nothing of value. The intangible does me no good, sir. I live and operate in a very real world."

Lott nodded, "So you do, General, as do I. The name of my organization is hardly relevant, as it officially has none. The name, Inner Circle Agency seems to have become popular amongst my colleagues and subordinates and taken hold. I have to admit, it has a certain Masonic flair to it. We may even develop letterhead one day."

A spark of recognition glittered in Leonard's eyes.

"There have been stories, from time to time. Nothing concrete- only rumors. Hazy details of things that may or may not have actually happened."

"The result of a well-orchestrated, rigorously maintained information control program.", Lott said, a hint of pride showing through, "And not easily accomplished, General Leonard, mind you- not easily accomplished by any means."

Leonard nodded, "You'll have to help me here, Mr. Lott. I'm a simple soldier by nature, so there's something that I don't understand. You, I would guess as you seem capable of knowing more than I on the subject, must know better than anyone that The Army of the Southern Cross is considered by the Government to be an experiment. To be more blunt, Mr. Lott, it is an experiment deemed by its Government creators to be running amok- no small thanks to me. You've heard discussions in the Appropriations Committee, and you no doubt have access to many closed-door meetings. The Government is trying to put the ASC- to put me in a strangle hold. Perhaps its my military education, Mr. Lott, but an entity struggling for survival hardly seems like an ideal choice of allies. And that leads me to another thought, I'm not certain what you're proposing an alliance in."

Lott raised his glass again and drank from it before replying.

"An alliance, General Leonard, or any cooperative effort for that matter begins with recognition of common purpose and common adversities. I spoke earlier of my organization's undocumented mission. The origin of that mission lies in the policies of The United Earth Government regarding the displaced Zentraedi population. By Presidential mandate, legislative approval, and Ministry of Internal Affairs policy- the official Government approach to roughly a billion recently hostile aliens on this planet is assimilation through empowerment and inclusion in society. The Zentraedi, General Leonard, for all their faults are not an unintelligent race- many, a majority I venture to say, see the benefit of assimilation and through the various Government projects are willing to go with that program. The Zentraedi, while very capable of adapting to their new social environment, have also nonetheless their own well-established culture and heritage. Some beasts are not as easily domesticated as others. You, General Leonard and the ASC, grapple with those elements daily that will not be assimilated. Many in the Government and the Robotech Defense Forces feel that you have exceded your scope and authority in the way you deal with these malcontents. The simple answer would be to remove you from command by administrative or, shall we say, non-traditional means. The Government and the RDF cannot do this however because while renegade in your methodology, you are exceedingly popular with the civilians in your sphere of influence. They cannot simply make you go away- so as you said, they intend to strangle you into ineffectiveness by cutting your funding, your material resources, and in effect marginalizing the ASC. In short, the ASC will never mature to its potential so long as you are in command."

"I would agree that is an accurate summation.", Leonard allowed, "So, those are my problems. How do you tie in?"

Lott continued, "My problems are similar, though they differ in some of the details. You, General Leonard, have come up with a creative solution to the issue of funding your army. The harvest, processing, trafficking, and sale of narcotics has not diminished as a lucrative enterprise by any account-."

Leonard's face darkened with anger, "Unfortunate things sometimes happen in times of desperation, Mr. Lott- I cannot pursue security and quell every infraction of law in my command that-."

Lott raised a hand, "I'm not judging you, General Leonard. Given other options, I'm certain that a man of your background would not opt to fund his operations by such means- but let's speak as grown men and professionals. I know you receive a considerable subsidy to your Government funding from illicit activities. No, your problem is not funding in reality. You actually have a substantial purse. Where the Government has you in a strangle hold is in your ability to translate that wealth into material. Legitimate avenues of military production are restricted to you. The bulk of research and development, production, and sustainment go to the Robotech Defense Forces and the emerging Robotech Expeditionary Force. You have deep pockets, but nowhere to spend."

"We're slowly building our own industry.", Leonard pointed out, "On the local, even the cottage industry level. You are correct though, supply of the ASC will never be a top priority of the Government so long as I'm commanding."

"Which brings us to the similarities between The Army of the Southern Cross and the Inner Circle Agency.", Lott continued, "I said that our mission was rooted in official Government policy. My authority to operate begins where that policy fails to achieve results. We draw our funding from pots of black money because we are called on to do unspeakable things from time to time to maintain order. In doing so, we are very much like you. Where we are different is that you operate in the open and we reside in shadow. The Government can't let the tax-payers know that occasionally, even frequently, they are funding assassinations and massacres- necessary as they may be. I serve the function that you have been outcast for taking upon yourself. Though my reach into all of the areas I require to perform that function is great, I suffer from the impediment of funding. My money comes from black funds, but it is still carefully measured and disbursed by the Government. They are not trying to strangle me yet, but I'm given only enough sustenance to survive and operate at my present level- not enough to grow."

"And you're looking at my purse.", Leonard surmised.

"Yes.", admitted Lott, "But not without compensation. You see, we could endeavor to begin our own illegal enterprise to fund our aspirations- but that would inevitably mean conflict with the financial interests of the ASC. This would lead to war, General- a war that neither of us can afford because it would draw resources away from our common objective of security."

Leonard nodded, "A point well stated, Mr. Lott. I have no intention of allowing narcotics to dominate my time and energy. So, lets say you get money. What does the ASC receive?"

Lott smiled, pleased with the progress being made, "Honestly, General Leonard, I cannot provide you directly with what you need most- mecha, arms, munitions. What I can provide is a wealth of information with which you can do for yourself. You have very talented individuals working for you on all levels, though intelligent and gifted as they are they suffer from exclusion from the cutting edge of technological research. I can provide that. I can provide insight into highly classified manufacturing best practices. In your operational capacity, I can augment your intelligence capabilities with those of the Government. I can also provide covert actions to support your efforts. Perhaps most importantly, I can cloud the vision of those watching you. I can put a cataract on the eye of the Government that will allow your new knowledge to take root and flourish."

Leonard set his cutlery down, one appetite having traded priority over another.

"A very appealing offer, Mr. Lott. At the risk of sounding too skeptical though-. How do I know that you can deliver what you promise?"

Lott set his glass down and rose from his chair, "Tomorrow you will be leaving Yellowstone to return to Mexico City. You have a scheduled staff briefing at 0930 Mexico City time. When you conclude your meeting, check your classified internal email account. You will find a message with no sender name and no point of origin. There will be a compressed file attached. Be careful with it, General Leonard. It will be a series of technical reports including hardware design schematics and computer code from the Veritech Design Bureau within the Ministry of Defense, detailing progress with the latest generation Neuro-Pilot control system. You will be contacted in forty-eight hours. If your scientific and industrial experts do not find the information to be revealing and actionable- do not accept the call and I will consider this matter concluded. If on the other hand they find the information of value, and you wish to see what other services I can provide you- then we can begin detailed negotiations, under the proper security considerations of course."

Leonard nodded agreement, "I'll be sure to check my mail. Oh, and Mr. Lott-."

"Yes?"

"How do you know that I can and will deliver to you what you seek?"

Lott paused thoughtfully, "Every partnership begins with a certain degree of trust, General Leonard- a leap of faith, if you will. I feel you will deliver because it is in your best interest to do so. As our partnership evolves, I know you will also see that we are not to be meddled with. But mostly, it is a leap of faith. Mostly."

"Then I wish you a good evening, Mr. Lott."

"And I you, General Leonard.", Lott replied picking up his signal scrambler, "Have a pleasant and safe flight home."

Edwards City, California

Since the days of Muroc Army Air Field, there had always been an establishment on the outskirts of the military facility and of military control like The High Desert Pilot's Social Club. The tradition had been established in the 1940's by the earthy personality of Pancho Barnes- an accomplished pilot in her own right whose "Happy Bottom Riding Club" had served as a refuge to serviceman and civilian pilot alike until it burned to the ground in the early 1960's. The tradition of the Happy Bottom Riding Club having taken hold, it had passed through several incarnations and varying levels of sophistication since then.

The High Desert Pilot's Social Club in many ways marked the coming full circle of the Happy Bottom Riding Club- insofar as similarities in appearances could mark the completion of a cycle.

Wood framed and plank and corrugated metal clad, the Club was heterogeneous amalgamation of every conceivable type of construction material whose walls retained no heat in the cool of night, nor kept out the heat of day, and whose patchwork roof leaked at countless points onto the plywood floors in the infrequent occurrences of rain on the Mojave. The coalescence of odd parts did not end at the Club's exterior. It was a fact for all to see, and a boasting point for the Club's owner Roxana, that there were no two chairs or tables on the floor, nor stools at the bar that matched. Even the countertop of the bar that ran the modest length of the Club opposite the front door was clearly a Frankenstein spliced together from three vastly different sources.

Still, there was running water and power, possibly even legitimately obtained, which allowed the battered laser disc juke box to play and the occasionally functional neon lights to flicker. The booze was never watered down, the coffee strong, the bill of fare decent when available- and all faces were familiar to one another. That was the attraction of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club despite its dilapidated state and shortfall of refinements.

"How do you remember all of that?", asked the young woman, twisting an already curled lock of dirty blonde hair around a finger as she nursed the drink bought for her by the RDF major on the stool next to her. There was no need to make the one drink last really, as she had a sense it was the first of many he would offer. On the many nights she had noticed the pilot with other officers from his squadron, he had always run up a considerable tab and had always paid in full at the end of the evening. He could afford to buy her drinks. She wanted to find out more about him though before alcohol boosted her attraction to his clean, muscular, Latin attractiveness.

"It's my name- of course I remember it all.", the pilot said through a curl of smoke from his cigarette.

"Say it again.", the young woman said.

"What, you don't remember? What kind of woman are you, taking drinks from a man whose name you don't even know?"

The woman laughed, feeling the warmth of the gin spreading into her extremities, and she gave the pilot a playful shove to the shoulder, "I like the way you say it!.. What kind of girl am I?.."

The pilot offered another cigarette to the woman, which she accepted, and lit it for her as he repeated with an intentionally but not overwhelmingly pronounce accent, "Tomas Santino Juan-Pedro Mencia Cruz."

The woman snickered giddily, nearly choking on her gin, "Your name is Tom Cruz?"

The pilot smiled and nodded, "Why do you think they call me Maverick?"

The woman blinked, "I don't know- why?"

Cruz's expression went blank for a moment, and as it did the woman shoved his shoulder again and laughed, "C'mon!.. I'm not that dumb!"

Cruz laughed with her, "Okay, you had me for a second. I'm the genuine article though."

"You're genuine?", the woman asked, making an obvious display as she batted her long eyelashes at him.

"Very.", Cruz said, sipping from his glass of beer that was colder than usual tonight, "My mother taught me importance of sincerity."

"You haven't asked me my name yet.", the woman pointed out, "What kind of man are you to buy drinks for a woman whose name you don't know?"

"I know your name, Monica.", Cruz said plainly.

The woman's mouth dropped open, "How'd you know that? Did you lift my wallet out of my purse or something?"

"No, I just asked Tuawan.", Cruz explained, "Your name is Monica, you're in the same pre-law program as Tuawan, and you like your gin straight."

"When did you ask her all of this?"

"A couple of nights ago."

"And you waited until now to ask to buy me a drink?"

"Well", Cruz said, "I wanted to wait and see if you were going to show up with a man one evening first."

"Why not ask Tuawan?"

Cruz raised his glass whimsically, "You have to leave some mystery to be explored, don't you?"

"Oh God-.", said a voice from behind, "I'm gonna be sick."

Cruz recognized Vincenz's voice immediately, and acknowledged him without turning on his stool, "Vice."

"If your mother taught you sincerity, then where did you pick up your gift for bullshit?"

"My uncles.", Cruz replied, turning on his stool as Monica did, "Are you bothering us for a reason, or?-.."

Another pilot from Knight Hawk Squadron, shorter and thinner than Vincenz, cut in, "We're just trying to be of assistance. Ma'am, is this ruffian bothering you?"

Cruz motioned with his drink at the two pilots, "Monica, this is Vice, and this is Preacher. Good people, if looks and brains aren't a factor."

The young woman sipped from her drink, "This really is a pilot's bar, isn't it?"

"And one of the few they'll still let these two into.", Preacher said, drinking from his beer. The thin but fit pilot radiated a palpable energy that it would have taken a half dozen more beers to dampen- not that he would drink that much.

"Okay-.", Monica said, inviting the other two pilots into the conversation, "I get Maverick- but how did you two come upon the handles of Vice and Preacher?- I find these things really interesting."

Major Vincenz put on his best swagger, shifting from side to side in a macho display, "Because in the air, I'm like a bad habit- you can't seem to shake me."

"That, and some other guy already had the call sign, Herpes.", Preacher said, jabbing Vincenz in the ribs playfully with his elbow.

Vincenz smacked the other pilot in the back of the head with just enough force to make a slapping sound through his "high and tight" haircut.

"And you?", Monica asked the shorter pilot, putting the cigarette to her lips.

"Me? Nothing so creative I'm afraid-."

Cruz pointed and explained, "He's a real preacher."

"Ordained Baptist Minister, thank you very much.", the pilot explained, "Trying to bring the word of God to you heathens and the enemy. Major Minister Eugene Wayne, but you can just call me Gene."

Monica swirled the gin in her glass thoughtfully, "Doesn't being a fighter pilot kinda clash with the whole man-of-God thing?"

"Not at all.", Wayne replied, delighted at the observation, "I try to save souls before I send them to their Maker. You're talking to the only certified fighter pilot clergyman in the RDF-AF, ma'am."

"Hence, Preacher.", said Vincenz, "It's good to have God on your side- but he's a little freaky. I've known him for six years, and I've never seen him drunk or heard him curse."

"I curse!", Wayne protested flailing his free arm, "Gosh! -See? There? I did it."

Cruz laughed, knowing that Wayne would not be lured or tricked into profane or lewd language, "Careful, Preacher- You keep taking Gosh's name in vain, and you'll be darned to heck."

Wayne laughed, "-You guys…."

"Okay, now I get Preacher too.", Monica said, "So, will you drink with us?"

"No-.", declined Wayne modestly, "Just making sure this one was being an officer and a gentleman."

"Perpetually.", Cruz said with an innocent, "who me?" tone.

"Yeah", Vincenz said incredulously, "Give it four beers and thirty minutes."

"I've gotta go.", Wayne announced, "My wife's around here somewhere, and I don't want her to think I'm carousing."

"No risk of that.", Vincenz said.

Before the two pilots could leave, Cruz asked an additional, simple question.

"Vice, what's with Jack tonight? He looks like he's in a funk."

Vincenz and Wayne paused as though they had both just set bare feet on broken glass.

"Yeah, that.", Vincenz said, "Bad day on The Outlands. Better steer clear of him tonight. He's cleansing his soul with bourbon though, and should be his normal self tomorrow."

Wayne said seriously to Cruz, "I'll fill you in later, okay?"

"Yeah, no problem."

The liquid warmth of bourbon kept the chill of the desert night off Winters as he emptied his glass once again and set it heavily on the unfinished wood table. To Lt. Col. Dalton, Lyle, and Roxana- the proprietor of The High Desert Pilot's Social Club it was clear that the pilot was intent on a good drunk, and that he was well on his way. There was no point in arguing over it or trying to intervene. For Winters, drinking was not an accidental occurrence. Every bout with intoxication was as deliberate as the act of him putting on his boots in the morning.

The order of the evening would therefore be damage control.

Rio hovered not far away.

She kept part of the floor, seeing to the customers whom she knew mostly to the point of being able to serve them drinks without taking their orders in her way that was familiar to them all. Little else was done in Rio's section of the floor while Winters was there though, and Roxana knew it. She was a stabilizing influence. Winters would less likely boil over with her there- unless she interfered with the drunk.

Tonight's outcome was still a toss-up.

Rio lifted the bottle needed from where it sat on the bar countertop and crept to the table with a quick movement. The way the waitress carried herself was not a result of Winters' condition, though to a stranger's first glance it may have appeared to be. To Club regulars though, Rio's "creeping" was as commonplace as the flies in the afternoon heat. Not unlike her cat, every change in location seemed a dash from one point of safety to another.

With a tilt of the wrist, Rio filled the glass again without reaction from Winters.

Rio's free hand rose to brush the hair at his temple with the backs of her fingers. Winters recoiled abruptly, startling her before he could catch himself. Rio repeated the effort after a moment and this time Winters allowed it briefly. His hand came up after several caresses and gently but firmly moved Rio's away.

"Why don't you leave that bottle, sweetie.", suggested Roxana, her voice raspy from years of smoking and hard living. The owner's dyed auburn hair and made-up face were indicative of her attention, at least outwardly, to self-maintenance though a stranger to the bar had once made the appropriate analogy of applying fresh paint to a cracked plaster wall.

"You'll have run a marathon by night's end taking that bottle back and forth from the bar."

Rio nodded and looked for assurance in setting it down before the owner. She clearly wanted to see the vessel and its contents under Roxana's control and not Winters'.

"I got it.", Roxana said waving her hand at the young woman, "Go on, scoot."

Rio shrank in two movements to the safety behind the bar where she immediately picked up a clean towel and began to assist the other waitress, Tuawan, in polishing the spots from the clean glasses.

"Colonel-Select Mumuni.", Dalton said with an air of finality, "Well, it's official anyway."

Winters gazed over the rim of his glass at the petite woman of West African origin and athletic build. Smiles shone on the faces of the pilots in her squadron, the Vigilantes, as the revelries continued to build upon themselves in honor of her impending promotion to full colonel.

The air-brushed emblem of her squadron on the back of her aviator's jacket, a skull with crude wooden sign in its teeth marked, "3-7-77", over crossed Peacemaker revolvers seemed to Winters to be staring him down. He knew it was only the bourbon talking to him though and ignored the malicious imp whispering in his ear.

"Figure she'll be out of here soon?", Roxana asked.

"She hopes.", Dalton said, "No one wants to stay at Edwards."

Lyle looked into his glass at the film that had been the head on his beer, "Aw, it ain't that bad."

"The hell it isn't.", Winters said, having been silent for some time. His words weren't slurred yet, but it was clear the bourbon had its claws in him, "Edwards is the porcelain on the bottom of the bowl that your career leaves skid marks on as it swirls down. It's where they send the fuck-ups, because there's nothing here to fuck up."

Dalton attempted humor, "Are you saying that your dissatisfied with your current posting?"

Roxana laughed the throaty, hacking laugh of aged smokers and by her example Winters' disposition lightened a shade.

"I suppose I should congratulate her.", Winters resolved, setting his glass, now half-empty, down.

"Congratulate her or punch her in the teeth?", Dalton asked, not completely convinced that the sentiment Winters had announced he would express would be the one delivered.

"Not sure.", Winters said, rising slowly to his feet, assessing his own level of intoxication, "But I'm more drunk than them-. That will at least make it a fair fight."

"You're paying for anything you break.", Roxana called after him only partially jesting, as Winters picked up his glass to take it with him.

Mumuni sensed something in the change of her executive officer, Lt. Col. "Dusty" Drake's expression, because she turned before Winters reached her. She saw his state and was not certain what to expect from his lips until they cracked a forced but amicable smile.

"Colonel-Select, ma'am.", Winters said, "Congratulations on a well-deserved promotion."

"Thank you, Nigel.", Mumuni said, raising her glass to touch rims with the other squadron leader's, "Pull a few more patrols like the one today, and you'll have your bird back again before you know it."

"Not likely.", Winters said flatly.

"Sure.", Mumuni persisted, "You have to. I'm not going to be able to stand having you have to salute me."

"Well, I may not, Ganyet-. I'm looking to get busted to major by year's end."

"We all need goals.", Mumuni said, letting the original suggestion go, "Come, drink with us."

Winters motioned to his table, "No, I have a whole bottle calling me back. Besides, I know your pilots and you're going to spend a month's salary on them here tonight. Just remember the little people when you run this dung heap."

"You'll still be my favorite beetle on it.", Mumuni charmed.

Winters raised his glass high over his head and called back in the general direction of his squadron, "Lads!- To Colonel-Select Ganyet Mumuni and her valiant Vigilantes!"

Glasses rose, and in unison with the unnoticeable exception of "Preacher" Wayne, the squadron said in a single voice, "Fuck you!"

Familiar with the tradition, the Vigilantes laughed and raised their glasses in a return toast.

"Squadron song for the Colonel-Select!", ordered Winters, noting the look of disapproval on Lyle's face as he always had when the ditty was sung.

"Some Valkyries do Mach ten in space-

Others do Mach nine.

But if we get ours to start at all-

We say we're doing fine!"

A cheer went up from both squadrons as Winters and Mumuni touched glasses once again and parted ways.

"Ah hate that song.", Lyle said as Winters settled into his seat again and reached for the bottle of bourbon.

"Then put on another-.", Winters said, "You know the one."

Roxana swiped the bottle away possessively, "No way, hombre- I'm pouring as long as you're paying."

Lyle got up and moseyed to the juke box, punching in numbers known by heart on the faded keypad.

Winters pushed his glass toward her, "Well when was the last time I actually paid?"

"Can't remember.", Roxana said, "Drink up."

The speakers of the music machine, once high quality devices many years before, crackled and popped as Winters' preferred ballad began. The collaborative result of the country music greats of Nelson, Kristofferson, Jennings, and Cash which had transcended the artists' own mortality came strongly through the air with slight distortion from failing technology with "Boxcar Willie" beginning-

"I was a highwayman.

On the coach roads I did ride-.

With sword and pistol by my side.

Many a young maid lost her marvels to my trade.

Many a soldier shed his life's blood on my blade.

The masters hung me in the spring of `25.

- But I am still alive."

A breath of night air swirled through the bar as the hole-ridden screen door opened to admit four more customers. Uniforms under flight jackets identified them as RDF-AF, but it was the aura of the eldest man of the four and the way his companions carried themselves around him that quickly drew attention from all corners of the Club.

It was Dalton who first noticed, or at least voiced the most important aspect of the eldest man's attire.

"Stars- twelve o'clock level..", he said under his breath to Winters.

"IFF?", Winters asked, rolling his swagger stick on the tabletop with a stimulating effect to the hand as the cane head's carved shaft traveled back and forth.

"MFWIC", Dalton said, "Three stars. Shouldn't we stand or something?"

"I'm off duty.", Winters said.

"Motherfucker Who's In Charge.", Roxana sighed heavily, "He's probably going to expect a free drink."

Winters continued to reduce the contents of his glass unperturbed, as Mumuni became the third-highest ranking officer in the Club. The lieutenant general and three full colonels remained huddled tightly as they surveyed their new environment, even as the occupants of the Club were losing interest in them.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Colonel Winters.", the lieutenant general announced.

Dalton's expression was apprehensive as Winters raised his swagger stick with a lazy wave. The four officers moved as one in the general's wake, crossing to where the pilot sat.

"Don't get up.", the general said, much to Winters' relief as he feigned the intent to rise.

"Can I offer you a seat then?", Winters asked.

In the corner, Lyle discretely made certain to conceal the fact he was an NCO with whom the two lieutenant colonels at the table were blatantly fraternizing.

"If you don't mind.", the general said as a colonel in his staff who looked remarkably like the other two moved a chair from another table to accommodate his superior.

Winters motioned around the table by way of introductions, "My leftenant, Dalton, Roxana, the fountain of this oasis, and that's Lyle- he doesn't bite."

"I'm-.", the general began.

"Leftenant- pardon me, Lieutenant General Hume.", Winters said, "I know who you are. What brings NORAMWEST to Edwards?"

"Surprise inspection.", Hume said, removing his cap to reveal a stubbly grey haircut over his weather wrinkled face.

"I wasn't aware.", Winters said honestly.

"Mission accomplished.", said the general, "And I happened to be in Major General Butler's office when word of your engagement in The Outlands came across his desk. We had other matters to attend to, but I wanted to meet you. Unfortunately, you had already left post by the time our afternoon session had ended. Your CO said I might find you here. Can I buy you a drink?"

Winters raised his glass, "Have one, thanks. But oddly enough, Roxana was just saying how she should give you and your chaps a round on the house."

Roxana kicked Winters in the shin under the table.

Rio appeared with an attentive look on her face.

Hume said to her, "Do you have anything resembling scotch?"

"The best in the Valley.", Winters said and received another kick under the table.

"Scotch and rocks all around then.", Hume said.

Rio nodded with her odd little grin and departed to fill the order.

"Cute.", one of the colonels, a thick-necked man who impressed Winters as looking like a badger, said, "In an Outland, back-water sort of way."

Winters felt the ember in his gut that he'd been working all night to drown flare slightly. Another gulp of bourbon was quickly dispatched to douse it.

The Man in Black was beginning his part, the final lyrics in the song as Winters watched the badger watch Rio at work.

"I fly a starship-

Across the universe divide.

And when I reach the other side,

I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can.

Or perhaps I may become a highwayman again.

Or I simply may be a simple drop of rain-

But I will remain-."

Roxana's foot nudged Winters again, bringing him back to the one-sided conversation he was missing.

"-What?"

General Hume blinked, and chalking the pilot's inattentiveness up to drink repeated, "I was a pilot too, I was saying. Phantoms first in the last months of Vietnam, then Eagles in Desert Storm, and then Raptors in The Global War. You flew in The Global War, didn't you, Winters?"

"Tornadoes.", Winters answered briefly, "In the Gulf, and again in the Global scrap."

The badger was getting an eyeful as Rio stretched from atop a stool behind the bar to reach the good, pre-war scotch from the top shelf next to the bar's segment of mirror hung nearly center to the bar's length.

"I still try to talk to the pilots when I can.", the general continued, unaware that Winters was only giving him peripheral attention, "I'd still fly, but a middle-ear injury snipped my wings around the time of the Holocaust. I can still swap stories with the best of them though. Speaking of which, there seems to be a good bit of festivities going on in here tonight. What gives?"

Dalton spoke up quickly, noticing Winters mood as it began to darken again, "The Vigilantes' CO just got tapped for her bird, sir. It would probably be a thrill to her if you and your staff congratulated her- if you'll pardon my suggestion, sir."

Hume watched as an impromptu drinking game took off around Mumuni, orchestrated apparently by her XO, Dusty.

"No", Hume said, shying off from the suggestion, "She and her pilots look like they're in their stride. Brass showing up will just break the rhythm- though I'm looking at their jackets-. What's the three, seven, and seventy-seven for?"

"What was it, Jack?", Dalton asked of his CO, who was now locked on to the badger, "Back in the frontier days of Nevada-."

"Montana.", Lyle corrected.

Dalton kept talking, trying to draw Winters in, "Or was it Wyoming? Anyway, before the people had real law enforcement they'd drive off the local outlaws and riff-raff with vigilante gangs. They'd come up in the middle of the night and paint those three numbers on the door which meant that the bad guy had three hours, seven minutes, and seventy-seven seconds to leave town or they'd be in a hole three feet wide, seven deep, and seventy-seven inches long. Wasn't that what Mumuni told you once, Jack?"

"About outlaws.", Hume said, finding a segue into his topic of interest, "What happened on The Outlands today, Colonel?"

Winters was brought back by another toe-jab from Roxana.

"What?"

"The Outlands- what happened?", Hume repeated.

"A lot of innocent people had their throats cut by a handful of dittos and some trash that barely ranks better in my book. Then they shot up a convoy of kid soldiers, barely old enough to shave, to get the MREs, toilet paper, and tooth brushes they were distributing.- I filed a report. Read it."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell over the table. The general, visibly taken aback, relented somewhat realizing that the experience may have been too fresh in Winters' mind to be comfortably recounted.

"Well, I suppose that's the ugly side of our business.", Hume allowed, "You might have hit on the real issue though, Colonel. Civilians die, and I come looking for John Wayne stories about the engagement."

Dalton braced himself.

It could have been the half dozen glasses of beer in his system that had allowed the precise moment of the event to elude him, but he saw it now. He saw it clear as day. Winters was in a full boil, and the lid was about to pop.

"They didn't die, General- they were bled out like koshered cattle!", Winters raged, striking the tabletop emphatically with his swagger stick, "And it wasn't an engagement- it was the varsity rugby team beating up on the school retards!"

Rio arrived with the tray of drinks in time to cause a distraction.

"We'll just have our drinks and be on our way I think.", Hume resolved as Rio quickly set a glass down before him. Her gaze fell pleadingly on Winters, giving him a barely noticeable shake of the head that said, no.

Dalton knew the situation was too far gone when the badger spoke directly to Winters as Rio made her round of the table.

"Lieutenant Colonel Winters- your accomplishments today and your inebriated state aside- I'll remind you that you're talking to superior officers. Watch yourself, or face the consequences."

"Being?", Winters replied.

"Jim, let's just tone it down a little-.", Hume said, now working like Dalton to make peace but not grasping that the time had passed.

"The stockade.", the badger, Colonel Jim, said, "Or we might have to take it outside."

"Jim-.", Hume began.

Winters replied over the general, "You and me and the devil makes three…"

The general's words were lost to Winters as Rio set the badger's drink down and his hand rewarded her with a gentle swat on the rump.

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

Glasses and bottles flew as the light, unsteady table toppled at Winters' explosion. Neither the first glass nor a drop of liquor had touched the unfinished wood floor before Winters bore down on the badger wielding the cane-made swagger stick like a police baton. Blood and teeth flew as the stick and the badger's face made contact.

Dalton flew from his chair, not rising, but diving from the seated position and caught Winters about the waist and separating him from the colonel who lay curled and clutching his face on the floor between the other two full birds who had risen to defend him and perhaps the general.

Lyle was on his feet as well and with Vincenz and Cruz who seized Winters from behind carried the pilot who viciously swung at the thin air out the front door into the night.

Dalton stood in shock of what had just occurred and only began to hear the bellowing of the general as Winters' cursing and spitting faded into the night. The bar was otherwise dead silent with all eyes turned at the Knight Hawks' XO and the wild gesticulations of Lieutenant General Hume.

"-Do you hear me, Lieutenant Colonel?! That man is a maniac and I will have him drummed out of the Service! I will have him drummed out of the Service and see him stand tall before the Man with God as my witness! I will have charges on all of you!…"

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