MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 2

Duisberg, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
May 1, 0087

It's so typical, thought Rudi Leiger as he settled his large frame down into his equally-large chair. He had not been in his office three minutes after getting back from a very pleasant, albeit late, lunch when the Line 1 light began blinking on the telephone. It had to be his wife. Only she could successfully ruin his digestion on command. Inhaling deeply, he reached a bony finger over and mashed on the button. "Yes?"

The face that appeared on the small screen was, amazingly, not the shrewish visage of his wife of twenty-three years, but rather the mousy features that belonged to Hans Josef Biebel, the regional charterer for Rhein-, Maas-, und See Schiffahrtskontor GmbH, the company that Rudi owned.

"Hans? How pleasant to hear from you! What's the occasion?" asked Rudi, smiling in genuine honesty. He'd always liked the little man. Professional paper-pushers who knew what they were doing were hard to come by.

Biebel was sweating slightly. "Guten Tag, Rudi. I didn't mean to call you today, but a matter of great import has suddenly appeared, and I fear I haven't the authority to negotiate something like this."

Rudi's lips turned downward, and his brow furrowed in question. Biebel had the authority to charter any of their ships for transit anywhere in Europe. "What are you talking about, Hans? Explain."

"I think you'd better take this call personally, Rudi. I'll transfer him over to you now. It's audio only, so it may be a crank, but he asked for you personally, and if it's not a joke---I'll let him tell you about it."

"Patch it through, then," confirmed Rudi, his curiosity rising. Hans Josef Biebel's face disappeared, and the Line 2 light illuminated. He pressed it with only a minor hesitation. "This is Leiger. How may I be of service to you?"

"That I will detail in a short time," spoke the voice from the other end of the phone.

Strange accent, thought Rudi, trying to place it. Bavarian? No, further north. . .Thueringian, perhaps.

The voice continued. "I am of a mind to make you very rich, Herr Leiger, provided you can follow instructions implicitly, with a high degree of discretion. Are you able to do these things?"

"Who are you?" demanded Rudi, angered that anyone would believe him incapable of keeping to a contract. RMS Schiffahrtskontor GmbH had not been in business for three hundred years by violating terms of contract.

"Ah, my apologies. I introduced myself to your charter manager, and I presumed he had given you my name. I am Ernst Schwarzeidechse, and I represent a concern that wishes to charter a number of your vessels for a medium-term contract."

"We are in that line of business, Herr Schwarzeidechse. Could you give me the specifics on what it is you need?"

The voice spoke again, "Are you alone in your office?"

"Ja."

"Then here are the specifics. I am in need of three 1000-ton draft cargo vessels, rated for IMO-1 and IMO-5 hazardous material capacity. If you wish me to be more specific, I am in need of RMS Westfalia, RMS Duisberg, and RMS Ruhrort, all of which are available now without delay. Before you begin, I realize that none of those three ships are IMO rated. You must make them so, and with speed."

Rudi stuttered for a moment. "M-May I ask what it is you're needing carried?"

The voice laughed. "Some rather dirty chemicals from the Time of Division have cropped up again in Sachsen-Anhalt. We need them removed. It's a few short tons of weapons-grade phosphates and several hundred tons of ammonium nitrates. Rate one of the ships for IMO-1 and the other two for IMO-5 and that should be sufficient to transport these loathsome substances to their intended destination."

"Certainly, but why the secrecy? This is a simple enough matter."

"My concern recently had an altercation on a site with some environmental extremists. The case was ruled in favor of us in court, but with this new discovery. . .you know what happens then. At any rate, the substances have been trucked to Regensburg, but they must be shipped via rivers for their final destination in Heidelberg. Hence, the necessary subterfuges."

Rudi sat back in his chair, contemplating. This whole thing smelled of criminal activity. Only one way to find out for sure. "You realize, of course, that this will not only take time, but money, and not small amounts of it."

"Of what? Money, or time?"

"Both."

"Money is negotiable. Time is not. This must be done at the earliest possible convenience."

"It will take days just to figure up the monetary amount."

"My concern tables an offer of three million credits, with another possible two million or more in queue if the ships are prepared and arrive in Regensburg on schedule."

For the first time in his business career, Rudi Leiger was struck completely speechless. His mind, however, was more than capable of screaming. Three MILLION? Plus another two million later? Who ARE these people?

The voice continued without missing a beat. "I will be in Duisberg tomorrow morning. Shall we meet and discuss it at length and in person?"

Rudi blinked. "That would be. . . perfectly fine, Herr Schwarzeidechse. Say about ten in the morning?"

"Ten in the morning. I will see you in your office then, Herr Leiger. Auf Wiederhoeren."

The phone clicked off at that, leaving Rudi Leiger wondering just what he'd gotten himself into this time.

Indianapolis, Indiana, North America
May 1, 0087

"That's impossible!" snorted Sales Manager Fred Barnes. "No one wants that many Model 908s!"

"This guy does," explained the weary clerk on shift at Magnetic Instrumentation, Inc., supplier of field and laboratory instruments on a worldwide basis. It was eight in the morning and already there was someone on the line with an order so insane it could not be a trick.

"Where's this asshole at?"

"Munich. He wants 90 Model 908 Gaussmeters, several thousand meters of 1000-kilogauss Hall Effect Probes, and a Model ML-400D MagLab with a multi-signal adaptor. What'm I supposed to tell him? We've got it all in stock, and it's not like they're flying off the shelves."

"Yeah, yeah," said Barnes, "but in Munich, Germany? What does he want them for?"

"Why don't you ask him?" muttered the clerk, exasperated with his superior. "He's on the phone now."

The clerk passed the receiver over, then watched as Sales Manager Barnes filled out a sheet with an order for 90 Model 908 Gaussmeters, with the multiple thousand yards of Hall Effect Probes, and the MagLab, all to be shipped posthaste to an address in Munich, Germany, to a man named Wolfram La Vesta from the Bundespublikwerk. Whatever it was they were looking for, it was apparently very big and very discreet, but their credit card number took the (substantial) amount entered into it without blinking, so it had to be a government job.

The stockworkers began preparing the boxes for shipment in the morning. They would arrive in Munich in seven days, which suited Mr. La Vesta just fine.

Geismar, Louisiana, North America
May 1 , 0087

Other than the fact that it was a private message, the rest of the text was fairly unassuming. That, and the fact that it came out of nowhere, instantly made Herbert Jenkins extraordinarily nervous. He only ever got into IRC conversations to talk about chemicals with weirdoes who blundered into his chatroom, but this sounded like a business proposition.

10PzK: Are you interested in a trade?
HerbieJ: What sort of trade?
10PzK: Elemental white phosphorus.
HerbieJ: Nice try j/k. What you got to trade for it?
10Pzk: How much white phosphorus do you have available?
10PzK: Or is this not the same Herbert Jenkins of Rhodia Chemicals, Ltd.?
HerbieJ: That's me.
HerbieJ: I've got 35,000 short tons available for distribution.
10PzK: Are you authorized to deal?

Of course I'm authorized to deal, nimrod, thought Jenkins angrily. It was only HIS company.

HerbieJ: I think I can work something out.
HerbieJ: Standard cost is 1.25 per pound.

Whoever 10PzK was, they took a long time getting back to that one. Jenkins lit a cigarette and began to wonder why they'd need white phosphorus. Nasty stuff, that.

He never thought to wonder how they knew who he was. That information was public record under the properties of the chatroom.

10PzK: So at 2.75 per kilogram, 10 short tons would ultimately cost 12,100.
HerbieJ: That's company rate. Open market gets pricier. Do you represent a company?
10PzK: Oh, yes.
10PzK: How much will 10 short tons cost at 2.75 per kilogram, with the addition of 4 short tons of organic salts for trade?


Ten short tons of white phosphorus? That was an incredible amount of phosphorus. The organic salts were not hard to come by on the market, but not many were willing to use it for trade.


HerbieJ: How does 9,800 sound to you?
10PzK: Eminently fair. How soon can you ship them?
HerbieJ: Where am I shipping them to?
10PzK: Air transit in closed-cylinder containers to Bad Reichenhall, Germany.
HerbieJ: White phosphorus is a controlled substance due to its properties. Getting the paperwork from Germany alone will take three weeks.
10PzK: I possess the paperwork, which will arrive with the payment and the organic salts. How soon can you ship them?

Hmm, thought Jenkins, a fast mover.

HerbieJ: Two weeks, minimum.
10PzK: Unacceptable. One week, maximum.
HerbieJ: That's not possible within the confines of international law. The Federation would shut me down.
10PzK: If I paid the full 12,100, and added the 4 short tons of organic salt as a bonus, would that inspire greatness in your company's ability to deliver on schedule?
HerbieJ: It's not a matter of money, 10PzK. It's charters and passes and-
10PzK: You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Jenkins. 30,000, plus the organic salts.
HerbieJ: You aren't getting the picture. I can't-
10PzK: 50,000.
HerbieJ: Listen, stop cutting-
10PzK: 150,000, and that is my final offer.

Jenkins bit through his cigarette in shock. Who the fuck is this guy, and why does he need that much white phosphorus so soon?

Despite his misgivings, Jenkins was a business mind, and business minds knew a solid deal when they saw one. 150K for a measly 10 tons of elemental phosphorus was an atrocious amount of credits for so common an element, and an unthinkably good deal. No, not even a good deal. A windfall. Getting around the Federation's customs laws was not a hard thing to do, and this was simply too good a deal to pass up.

A hot point flared on his upper leg, and he cursed as the still-red cherry of his cigarette began to scorch its way through his trousers towards his flesh. He slapped it out with a quick flurry of his hands, then returned his attention to the keyboard, typing carefully so that his shaking hands did not cause illegibility.

HerbieJ: Give me your address. I'll ship to you in seven days, guaranteed.
10PzK: A pleasure doing business with a true patriot, Mr. Jenkins.

33,000 km above Antarctica, Inner Van Allen Belt
May 1, 0087

"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Director," muttered Antares de la Somme as he flipped a rack of switches until it was a row awash with green. Piloting the Non Sequitor was easy enough normally, but this was going to be a real interesting trip. A worthy challenge for any pilot in this circumstance, but failure was not an option.

The interior of the bulk freighter was far less extravagant than the starfield in which it sailed. Despite de la Somme's best efforts, it still seemed so boring. A stereo blared Jimi Hendrix next to his head, and a small plastic Death Star hung from a suction cup attached to the viewport. Twinkie wrappers littered the interior, floating to and fro in the null-gravity environment. In essence, Non Sequitor's living conditions were more suited for inbred squatters or a pack of condors than a soldier of Zeon. De la Somme liked things just the way they were, minus that boredom thing. Besides, it wasn't long now before all this would change, and Twinkies would be hard to come by.

A couple of skilled course alterations had brought Non Sequitor to this heading, where he was cruising in a northern direction, preparing to angle over Africa and over the Mediterranean to his final destination. No sweat. This would be easier than making Margul cry.

The Minovsky reactor kicked into high gear as the three OMS booster engines roared into noisy life. De la Somme knew that in space, there would be no sound at all, but the racket inside the bulk freighter more than made up for the lack of stimulus beyond the scope of the ship's atmosphere. He glanced at the instruments, watching the red digital numbers beginning to descend as the view of Earth swelled before his viewport. It was only a few minutes before the rangefinder reached the 25,000 km mark, which put him in range of terrestrial radar networks and radio communications range as well.

Good evening, Federation. It's 9 o'clock in Central Europe. Do you know where your Zeon are?

De la Somme could not have cared less about the radar or radio ranges. His quarry was---there! Right where it was supposed to be, moving in at a 45 degree angle to his own course, and several hundred kilometers lower, in a course currently taking it over Asia. Clutching the stick that manually controlled Non Sequitor's pitch and yaw, he gave the attitude thrusters a bit of juice and angled the heavy ship into a 32 degree re-entry angle, cutting back on the bigger OMS retro rockets so he could simply cruise on inertia for a moment. Compared to the leisurely speed de la Somme had lived at for the last few months, the speed was almost an adrenaline rush.

Exquisite, but not the kind of rush Antares de la Somme lived for.

"Showtime, God. This is one of those times where it's harder than it seems to carry the weight of Your plans while hiding in shadows, but You've put me here for Your reasons, so let's make this a run worth the time and trouble." With that, he punctuated the end of his statement by thumbing the transmit button to ON.

"London Town, London Town, this is commercial bulk freighter Non Sequitor. I'm two weeks out of Granada with a shipment of Luna ore bound for Gibraltar. Flight code 3D42TGRD, shipping code RZ44543. Requesting immediate landing clearance for the Gibraltar starport. Respond, please."

London Control, British Isles, Western Europe
May 1, 0087

"Non Sequitor, this is London Control. You are cleared for approach in five minutes. Maintain course and altitude." The traffic control officer did his best not to yawn. Another banner day for London central control, with all the shipping that did not get picked up by the Titans or preyed upon by the AEUG. This made all of a half dozen ships in three days to run the gauntlet and actually speak to a Federation tower.

"Roger that, London Town. What's the weather like down there?" replied the voice of Non Sequitor's pilot.

"Balmy. Unlike Gibraltar, we are neither sunny nor with clear skies. You are getting off lucky with this run."

"That so? Rain is fun, too. You should learn to appreciate it. It could always be snow, you know."

The control officer sniffed, reaching for his tea. Rain, fun? This bloke's been up there too long. "Whatever you say, Non Sequitor."

He raised the teacup to his lips, his eyes not seeing the altitude of the incoming freighter begin to plummet very rapidly.

The pilot was not done chatting yet. "So, do you like music?"

5000 km above Central Africa and descending
May 1, 0087

Stupid Earthnoid, thought de la Somme. He was not paying attention to the inclination angle anymore, nor his rate of descent. Only his speed relative to his quarry occupied his time. The conversation with the tower controller was just icing.

"Re-entry in three, London Town," he spoke testily. His impatience was beginning to surface, now that he was so close. He thumbed the MUTE on the radio as his eyes took in the object he was about to intercept.

"Thank you, Admiral Delaz. This may be the best gift you gave Zeon after all," he said to thin air, hoping Delaz heard him wherever he was. After all, if it were not for Stardust, then the mass approaching his ship would not be here to help him smuggle his cargo to Earth.

During the course of Stardust, a great many ships, fighters, and mobile suits were destroyed while in relative orbit of Earth. Rather than cleaning up the mess, the Federation simply allowed such debris to be drawn in by the gravity of Terra to burn up in the atmosphere. A simple solution to the problem, and cheaper than using tugs to haul all that scrap to wherever they would haul it.

"I'm a fan of old rock and roll, London Town. Elvis, Steppenwolf, Guns 'N Roses, you know? You sound kinda cultured, so I just wondered if you were into it, too."

Some debris, however, had something of journey to complete to receive its final friction immolation. One of those objects was the forward half of the Gwazine-class Zeon battleship Gwadan, the late Admiral Delaz's flagship. The aft section had been blown apart during the battle, and the remainder of the ship had been gutted and vented into space, but the outer hull had held up to the stress. Thus, there was a nice Gwazine bow section shell floating in space, preparing for its last mission.

"I mean, after all that proto-music that spawned out of Europe that called itself rock and roll for the last couple of centuries, it's no wonder most of the planet only listens to that pop shit . Or that hideous punk crap people think is rock and roll. C'mon, how much rock and roll can you make when your brain-dead lead guitarist only plays three stupid chords for the entire track? That's not music! That's for herding cattle back into the pen by causing a stampede!"

And it would cross in front of Non Sequitor in one minute.

London Control, British Isles, Western Europe
May 1, 0087

Two desks down from the traffic control officer, the man seated at the fast-track telemetry console was not nearly as low-key as his co-worker. The reasons behind his anxiety were twofold, the first being that he was in constant communication with a network of other telemetry sites that tracked orbital debris, and a rather large piece of that was due to arrive in the lower atmosphere today. The second reason was that his boss, the Colonel Himself, was standing right behind him.

"Affirmative, Ankara. I have it on my scope. Tracking Gwadan on a north-northwest course to overfly Europe and across the Arctic Pole. We will take it from here, thank you. London out," he severed the connection to the last in the string of sites, then sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Gwadan's right where she's supposed to be, sir."

The Colonel leaned closer, watching the red blip on the screen. "Is there enough left of the ruddy bitch to make it through?"

"Maybe, sir. She's a bit worse for wear, but she may have enough mass and armor left for something to come through. But Gwazines aren't built for atmospheric entry, so it's doubtful, sir. Even if so much as a micron makes it through re-entry friction, it'll splash down somewhere off Greenland."

"Make certain, Sergeant. That heap of shit gave us enough trouble back in 0083, let's make absolutely certain it won't give us an encore." The Colonel, satisfied, turned away to continue his rounds.

Two desks down, the traffic officer commented, "No, I can't say that I think Eddie Van Halen was a better guitarist than Carlos Santana. . ." He was beginning to tire of hearing this man's boyish voice chattering in his ears. This had been the longest two minutes of his life.

"But it's so obvious! Haven't you ever sat down and actually listened to classic rock? Van Halen's chord movements are so complex that unless you have a real ear for it, you won't even hear the fact that one note is more like three, played so well that you can't tell between them. Santana is simple in comparison!"

"You've got two more minutes, Non Sequitor," the control officer was rapidly losing his patience. The pilot of that freighter could outtalk a tabloid rag, and have words left over for a street preacher.

"And as for British folks like Clapton, no chance in hell. Too stuffy."

"Now, now, none of that." The pilot had just pushed a button. Clapton was one of his favorite classic artists.

"Ohhhh, you're a Clapton fan. No wonder you're so sheltered from real talent. England only produced one decent artist in the 20th, and that was David Bowie. All the others were cheap Beatles knockoffs. . ."

The traffic control officer went red. "Now see here, chappie. The 20th Century was chock full of excellent English rock and roll, and no bloody Lunarian is going to-"

"Yeah, this from the country that gave us EMF, the Rolling Stones, and Elton John. What-ever. Any nation that has to depend on Phil Collins to dredge them up from conformity is musically an evolutionary dead end."

The officer's knuckles went white. The gall of this man! "And I suppose Rob Zombie is held as a paragon of 20th Century American culture?"

The laugh of the freighter pilot was sharp, almost like a bark. "No more so than Fatboy Slim or Judas Priest is for the English. Face it, old boy, English music died a screaming death when you gave Parliament all the power."

The officer made a strangling sound. "That was centuries BEFORE the 20th, you cheeky nit!"

"Retroactive karma," replied the pilot smugly. "It's what English culture deserved for oppressing Canada and giving the world Alfred, Lord Tennyson's godawful poetry to inflict upon the fragile psyches of the young."

"No one's forced to study Tennyson anymore!"

"And it's a good thing, too. Now if we can just kill off any mention of the House of Windsor, you'll be on the fast track to recovery as a culture. At least you're lucky, though."

Teeth gritted, the officer spat, "Why's that, then?"

"You're not British. Your accent firmly places you as a Norwegian, and your only problem is an unhealthy fascination for fish and pillage."

The traffic control officer, born in York and a product of Sandhurst, used every ounce of discipline he could muster not to rip the headphones off his head and fling them at the screen with the green blip that designated Non Sequitor's position and altitude---what the hell?

"Non Sequitor, your rate of descent is too steep. You are not cleared for approach yet. Correct your altitude to 20,000 km and hold position."

"Ha! Nice try, Sven. Why don't you go bust up some Polish wedding and claim the bride as vergeld? My altimeter puts me at 35,000 km already, and you're not getting out of this conversation that---Jesus God! What the fuck is that"

The Gwadan-Non Sequitor Linkup
May 1, 0087

This was the tricky part. Non Sequitor was moving in excess of 17,000 kph, slightly faster than Gwadan was. Gripping the stick with his right hand, his left hand poised over the retrothruster controls, Antares de la Somme closed his eyes, extending his perception through the hull of the freighter.

He did not know how he was able to do it, but ever since he was a boy he'd been able to make vehicles act in a fashion as though they were a part of himself. This talent had made him a very successful mobile suit pilot, and even an excellent fighter pilot, but this was the first time he'd attempted this with an object the size and mass of Non Sequitor.

"I hate this, God. I don't want to have to do this, really I don't."

Sweat began to form inside his helmet, threatening to drip into his eyes. His grip on the stick was so tight he could feel the plastic squeaking, but the ship's course did not waver. The looming aft of the remainder of Gwadan was there, preparing to swallow him whole.

"Mayday! Mayday! London Town, this is Non Sequitor! I've just collided with a large mass of postwar debris! Maneuvering thruster control is down and am moving off course for Gibraltar! Mayday! Mayday!"

The proximity alarms screamed into his helmet, drowning out Hendrix. He ignored them. The ship's computer tried to assert direct control over the thrusters, trying to save itself. He overrode it by sheer power alone. His perception told him he had six inches between the flanks of his cargo section and the edges of the Gwadan's bow section. Gritting his teeth, he gave the ship one burst of speed, driving the freighter into the gaping maw.

"C'mon and squeal for me, you repugnant fuck!" he hissed at the bulky ship's control console.

With three inches to spare on each side, he slid the freighter into Gwadan's shell. The harsh grinding of the two hulls, as the exposed superstructure of the battleship tried to dig into the hull of the invading freighter, made his teeth hurt. When his perception told him that his nose was a foot away from the forward bulkhead of the Gwadan, his left hand flew over the retrothruster buttons.

"Aft-aft-aft-port-starboard-port-port, and BAM!"

With a last bump, Non Sequitor slid home, nestled firmly within the confines of the larger mass of steel. It had been, in his mind, just like slipping a glove over his own fingers.

With a flick of a button, the collision alarm sounded, and he kicked the OMS thrusters to full power, bringing the combined vessels into a sharp incline course at flank speed. Then he toggled the TRANSMIT switch.

"Oh, GOD! Hull breached in three places! I am going DOWN, London, and that thing is attached to my goddamn SHIP!" Unable to keep a smile off his face, he concentrated his efforts on keeping the smile out of his screams to the control tower.

London Control, British Isles, Western Europe
May 1, 0087

Bedlam ensued.

"Aspect change! Drastic course alteration to transient!" screamed the fast-track operator.

Simultaneously, the traffic control officer yelled, "Collision alert! Impact with orbital transient at 2000 km altitude!"

The Colonel ran up the steps to their aisle. "Report!" he barked, pointing at the traffic officer.

"Freighter Non Sequitor reports collision with large mass. Course aspect has been altered drastically. New heading now towards central Europe. Trying to reestablish contact now."

"Now you!" pointed the Colonel at the fast-track operator.

"Gwadan has just undergone a massive course shift. New aspect is now central Europe. Time to reentry is fifteen seconds."

"Damn," cursed the Colonel. The freighter and the debris had collided in orbit, now they were both taking a plunge into Earth's atmosphere, apparently out of control. "Get back on the horn with that freighter pilot. See if he can't shake loose from Gwadan manually."

"I'm trying, sir, but there's Minovsky radiation beginning to interfere with the signal. I think the freighter's taken reactor damage."

The Colonel sat down. "Then he's dead. I want a direct spot of landing triangulated immediately. Notify Bonn that they may be getting a visitor."

In the headset of the control officer, who was on the verge of losing his own control, the shrieking of the pilot and his pleading cries for mercy were dissolving into unintelligible static.

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
May 1, 0087

The Tag der Arbeit fest was in full swing. In typically eccentric Bavarian fashion, all the stops had been pulled for the May Day celebration. Ancient customs were resurrected, including the dreaded Lederhosen and Dirndl dresses. The Maypole had been decorated gaily, with children dancing around it while the adults sat around, eating, drinking and generally having a good time about it. Beer was produced in copious quantities, and consumed in a ready fashion. It had been a gorgeous day, but now it was getting into the evening time, when the sun sets and the fires begin to burn high. In Germany, after all, no party ever has a curfew, until the police showed up to inform you of a new one.

The Maypole had been brought down late last night, but the party had continued through today and into the evening. Bavarians knew parties, and May Day Eve and Tag der Arbeit were no exceptions.

A traditional band, the same one that had been playing for almost a decade in Berchtesgaden, churned out ancient tune after tune, pausing only to eat and drink. What made this one so different from the others was the fact that people across Obersalzberg made the journey on May Day to hear them play. Their violinist, it was said, could make Paganini cry, and Mozart rise from the dead. While a violin was not the average instrument in a folk band in Bavaria, it was enough of addition with the accordion, brass, pipes, and drums that it seemed as though it had been there forever.

Across Obersalzberg, everyone knew that Tomas von Seeckt was a master of the fiddle, and only played once a year. That once a year time was enough to warrant the cost for the trip.

Von Seydlitz had just finished this last set and was listening to the applause from the appreciative audience at his performance, when a blinking light above him caught his eye. He turned his gaze upwards, to see a ball of fire go streaking across the sky, followed by several sharp booms as the sound barrier broke over and over again. He knew exactly what it was, and where it was going.

For the ones who paid attention to the band and not the flaming fireball streaking overhead like Wormwood falling from the heavens, for the first time anyone could remember, Tomas von Seeckt actually smiled.

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
May 1, 0087

"The spots are up and ready, Captain," grunted Vladimir Margul to the much smaller man facing him. The trucks were idling behind them, well-secured in a treeline. A rack of ten IR spotlights were up and operational, placed in parallel rows stretching about a kilometer. All they were waiting for now was the arrival of Antares de la Somme and his all-important shipment.

Margul did not believe de la Somme capable of completing this task. Colonel von Seydlitz had always placed too much faith in the crazy little shit, and more often than not, trouble followed even after accomplishing the mission. No, de la Somme was too unstable to be trusted with so important a task.

The smaller man, Captain John Roberts, knew Margul hated de la Somme with a passion, but was willing to let that slide as long as the delivery went on without a hitch. Roberts was the only man in the 10th with rank equivalent to von Seydlitz's. A Marine, Roberts was accustomed to doing "the bestest with the mostest", whether it was prudent or not. Margul was the "mostest" he could get for this trip.

A contrast with his superior, Margul was a big man, with a peasant's build and hands, a ruddy face, and hair that may once have been auburn but was fading. His capacity for violence was almost uncontrollable. He'd built his name in the war by being a killer during Lorelei, leading his 2nd 'Grimravers' Shock Battalion into countless firefights and coming out of them intact, bearing their trophies of victory like the Cossacks of old returning from the fight with the heads of the dead on their sabers. He personally held the second-highest kill rating in the Division, and the Federation had nicknamed him 'Demon', but his kill rating could not stand up to fellow Commander and rival Antares de la Somme's.

The reason for that, Roberts knew, was that Margul was an animal by nature, a beast that existed for the purpose of death and carnage. De la Somme was a soldier with a penchant for destruction, and a skill at piloting that still had Roberts baffled. Being baffled was something he was not accustomed to, nor was it an easy state to bestow upon him.


John Roberts had seen his share of combat. As the head of the Marine detachment assigned to the 10th Panzerkaempfer by Kishiria Zavi herself, he had grown used to being the fish out of water. A Fleet man assigned to an Army unit, his "Captain" was two grades higher than the Army "Captain", making him the equivalent of a Colonel (which had not been an issue until after Paris, when the virtually the entire Division had been promoted two ranks). He was unassuming, a short, fireplug-built man who was usually very quiet and not known for outbursts of temper. He looked like a farmer, and nothing about his appearance detracted from this first impression, at least superficially. However, he was one of the most dangerous men in the Division, with fists, guns, or alcoholic beverages. The crisscrossed scars on his knuckles were proof positive that John Roberts was not a man to be trifled with. The 22nd 'Onslaught' Marine Battalion had gained its share of glory during the war, and its reputation spoke for itself.

"That's good, Commander. Now we wait." Roberts was a master of patience and opportunity, two necessary features for successfully working with a man like von Mellenthin. How someone like Margul had managed to survive the war under the command of someone like Dietrich von Mellenthin was a mystery to Roberts.

There were nine of them here, in the foothills of the Alps, taken from the various Battalions. No, thought Roberts, Platoons. All our men put together wouldn't make a battalion, even if we keep the names. Nine trucks, nine men, half of the remainder of the 10th Panzerkaempfer, all here to retrieve this single chance at something greater than a life of salt mining.

Roberts, for one, would be glad to get de la Somme back. The twisted little man, despite his youth and eccentricities, was a real fighter. Margul, in Roberts' eyes, was just a terror. De la Somme was a controller of terror, and that made him far more dangerous than all the Marguls in Zeon.

And von Seydlitz could freeze the blood in their veins at will. That made him even that much worse.

Still, the time was coming when Margul's talents would be needed. In a fight, Roberts would rather have Margul on his side. The brute was an effective weapon. He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and passed it to Margul without a word. The Commander accepted and took a long pull from it.

"It's only a matter of minutes now, Vladimir. After so long."

Margul nodded, wiping his lips with the back of a sleeve and passing the flask back. "That little parasite had better have gotten the order right, or I'll kick his ass back to Granada from here."

You wish you had the balls for that. Roberts did not dignify Margul's statement with a verbal response, especially since a rumble sounded through the mountains, and a bright spot in the sky began to swell in his vision.

Margul noticed it, too. "INCOMING!" he brayed, his voice echoing through the valley, overriding even the staccato of the outboard generator the spotlights were being powered by. "GET INTO POSITION AND START PRAYING, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS!"

Roberts winced. It was like standing next to a bear when it was angry and bellowing, or a freight train rushing past your head while you were in a tunnel. Loudmouthed gorilla's going to get us all caught.

Gwadan-Non Sequitor
May 1, 0087

His thumb mashing the button intermittently, releasing streams of built-up Minovsky particles over both the vessels, de la Somme's eyes were riveted on the course reader. It was fluctuating to several degrees port and starboard, moving off the mark he'd assigned to it. This was all going to have to be done manually. He would have spat on the console, but his helmet would have stopped that. As it was, he was slamming his fist on the instrument panel when he was not pressing buttons.

"Stupid, dirty, beastly device! I'm not dancing with the dinosaurs today, not when I'm so damn close!"

Gwadan's shell was breaking up, boiling away at the tremendous heat from re-entry, and the insane speed the paired vessels were traveling at. De la Somme's eyes flickered over the speedometer, which still read in excess of 13,000 kph. Too fast. He was going to overshoot his mark at this rate, and he had but seconds to slow this hulk down.

They were passing over the Alps now. Locking the Minovsky stream to the ON position, thus helping break up their pattern to radar, he moved his hand and pushed the button for the aft thrusters to fire at full power.

The jerking of the freighter pressed his back into his seat, as the shell of Gwadan wriggled its way right off of Non Sequitor, continuing on its heading at speed, glowing red-hot from re-entry friction. Nothing of it would reach the surface. The Delaz Fleet was now well and truly gone from space.

The whole craft shaking around him, as though it would fly apart, Antares de la Somme began to pray. "God, if I stand, then let me stand on the promise that You'll pull me through this, and if I can't, let me fall on the grace You used to bring me to You!"

Cutting off the OMS thrusters and applying more power to the aft managed to bring the ship to a mere 8,500 kph. Still too fast, and he was entering the lower atmosphere in an uncontrollable power dive, where friction would not aid in his slowing this hulk down to land safely. The nose would not raise itself up, even with all the weight in the aft section, which guaranteed the ship would break apart on impact.

"And if I sing let it be from the joy You have brought me in songs, but if I weep let it be as a man---"

One last shot, and the most dangerous. The rangefinder was squealing that he was going to smash into the Earth like a colony. The position was good. There were several IR spots in his visor's vision, right if front of him, but they were five degrees too far to starboard, and he was going to overfly them. Only this one shot left. He kicked on the maneuvering thrusters one last burst.

"---who is longing for his HOME!!" he screamed with all the fury that a man who had never bothered to hide his true emotions from anyone could muster.

And a voice in his head spoke: 'Now.'

With a cry of absolute determination, he stomped on the release pedal for the cargo bay. With a thump-ing sound and a shudder that rocked the entire freighter, the cargo containment bay dropped off of the ship. Had anyone alive at the time been there to see it, it was a very similar maneuver to a WWII Luftwaffe Stuka dive-bomber making a pinpoint strike with its payload at speed.

The laugh tore itself from his throat. "HA!! Suck it down, Feddies! I'm a comin', and Hell's comin' with me!"

Now, like the Stuka, the trick was to pull up before the plane also hit the target.

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
May 1, 0087

"Mother of Zeon, he's going to crash into the mountain," this revelation was whispered by Roberts as he watched the glowing form of a cargo freighter plunge through the atmosphere at a speed that would have stunned the 'Red Comet' himself.

Margul licked his lips as he watched. Maybe wishes DO come true. Antares de la Somme, perishing while pan-caking on a big rock, would be so appropriate. Once he was dead, the white star-and-sword symbol Margul despised so much would be eclipsed by the horned demon of the 'Grimravers', and he and his men would reign supreme throughout Operation Nemesis.

The way it always should have been.

Roberts was running even before the cargo section of the ship separated itself from the fast-moving fireball. He had been a Marine long enough to know when to think and when to act. He was pleased to note that the other Marine, Private Gary van Allen, was also moving towards the spotlights, several seconds before the rest of the troops started to move.

Margul stayed behind to watch. This was a sight he would not miss for anything.

London Control, British Isles, Western Europe
May 1, 0087

"It's gone, sir. It crashed somewhere in the Alps," reported the traffic officer to the Colonel.

"And Gwadan?"

"Presumably destroyed with it, sir. A whole shipment of Lunarian ore, up in smoke."

"On our watch, on top of it. Carry on, Sergeant. Whatever's left will be recovered by Bonn, though I doubt much will be there. It's not like it was a colony or what-not."

Non Sequitor
May 1, 0087

On top of having a bizarre name, with equally bizarre genetics, Antares de la Somme had always had certain qualities that made him even stranger than most people could admit to, much less understand. His piloting skill, his inability to cloak his emotions and ego, and his absolute devotion to von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz notwithstanding, the one quirk that caught the most attention but was spoken of the least was his ability to "see" certain things during times of intense stress. De la Somme attributed this to God really liking him, but also preferred not to dwell on the ramifications too much.

Besides, someone might call him a Newtype or something, and then he'd have to stab them with a screwdriver. . .or something. He preferred to be a normal person with some special individual qualities, not some special person who looked normal. That would get him landed in a lab somewhere, and that would be immensely boring.

At this moment, he "saw" the cargo container make a perfect landing right between the rows of spotlights. He "saw" his fellow Zeon moving towards the impact site. He "saw" Margul remain with the truck, watching him about to crash with a big "I'm too stupid to know what I'm thinking right now" grin on his broad, flattened face.

He "saw" his way out of this mess.

With the loss of the cargo section, the Non Sequitor had begun to cartwheel, with the big OMS thrusters now pointing towards the mountain, and the crew compartment spinning towards aft, on its way to making a complete revolution back towards the front, just before impacting on the side of Kehlsteinberge.

Strapped into his chair, with gravity trying to drag him towards the ceiling of the crew compartment as the ship suddenly reached the "upside-down" point in its cartwheel, Antares de la Somme grabbed his plastic dangling Death Star and kicked the EJECT pedal behind the flimsy glass.

With an explosive burst of force as the charges blew the ingress-egress airlock doors open, de la Somme and about a thousand empty Twinkie wrappers rocketed into the atmosphere.

Out of control and not knowing which way was "up", the Zeon ace did the one thing that came naturally. He made it a show.

"Yeeeeeee-HAWWW!!"

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
May 1, 0087

The freighter plowed into the mountain with a deep basso boom that would probably echo for hours in the Alps, disintegrating from the speed at which it was traveling and carving a divot into the 1,885-foot tall mass of igneous granite.

From the time of first sighting the incoming Non Sequitor and its impact, nine seconds had elapsed. The cargo containers had landed at a brutal speed itself, slowed only by the dozen parachutes attached to its exterior and the packed earth of the surface of the planet.

Without hesitation, the Zeon hurried to the massive box containers, all neatly arrayed in their own respective craters, and went to work on the containers, separating them from each other to be loaded onto the trucks. Three others began collecting the spotlights.

"Let's go, people, time is wasting. Erase all traces of our presence and get those containers loaded now." Roberts's adrenalin was flowing freely now. The cargo was here, and hopefully intact. The freighter was destroyed, but what of the pilot? Roberts did not believe for a second that de la Somme would perish in such a fashion, but that may have just been the case. The ship had been inverted just before impact, and he had not seen a parachute.

Von Seydlitz was not going to be pleased if his foster brother had just bought the farm in such a clumsy way, and Roberts wondered how many of them would survive his wrath.

Just then, the sharp eyes of Private (First Class) Kyle Haskell, of von Seydlitz's 358th 'Unsullied', caught sight of something in the darkening sky. Pointing, he cried out, "Sieg Zeon! There's de la Somme!"

Roberts's eyes tracked towards where the soldier was pointing, and sure enough, there was a parachute coming down just a few dozen meters away. It could only be de la Somme. Only he would use a parachute sporting the ancient Tasmanian Devil animated figure across its surface.

The normally quiet Marine let out a banshee yell, which was taken up by the other Zeon (except Margul and his two men), as the parachute drifted down. The figure attached to the billowing silk waved, his helmet tucked below his left arm.

Roberts snapped his fingers, and Haskell and Lieutenant Dalyev went rushing to assist their prodigal comrade.

"Howdy, boys!" yelled de la Somme from thirty feet in the air. "Daddy brought home the bacon!"

Dalyev grinned. "Is the pig still grunting, though, Commander?"

De la Somme huffed. "You doubt my abilities, faithless one?"

"No, sir, just the quality of the shell on the egg," replied Dalyev smugly. The containers had hit the dirt rather hard, and making an omelet out of what was within them could have been very loud and very messy.

With a smack of a hand, de la Somme released the latch on the parachute while he was still twenty feet in the air. He dropped like a stone, weighted even more than usual by gravity and the weights in his flight suit. He landed like a cat, rolling to absorb the impact. He clambered to his feet, a Cheshire-cat grin on his bearded face.

"Like riding a bike, boys. Stay a bit back, though. I smell pretty rank right now." Several months in a closed environment wearing the same flight suit created some vicious smells, even though de la Somme could not detect them now. His lungs were filled with Earth's atmosphere for the first time in years, and he was reveling in it. Even the weight of gravity could not take him away from this moment.

"That doesn't mean we're any less unpleased to have you back with us, Commander," said Haskell.

The changes time had inflicted on the Zeon ace were less-than remarkable. His hair hung down past his shoulders in a greasy mass, almost like dreadlocks. His beard, a light brown color that matched his hair, was wild and untamed, angling from his face in all directions, flattened in others from the helmet he'd worn for so long. The eyes, however, despite being rather simple amber, were filled with an energy and exuberance that one could not help smiling at. Beyond the hair length on scalp and face, nothing else had changed a bit.

The face attached to de la Somme, and his unruly natural hair, was undeniably his. With the long, tapered nose, the hair, and the mania behind his eyes, he more resembled one of the characters from the syndicated "Two Angry Beavers" cartoon show than a human. He was built more like von Seydlitz than von Mellenthin, with the ranginess of someone who was fast rather than strong. The difference, however, was that where the much taller von Seydlitz's slender frame concealed true physical power and the quickness of a fencer, the 5'4" de la Somme's was more sticks-and-bones, with the capacity for freakish bursts of speed one moment, and lackadaisical sloth the next.

Despite having that package to work with, the master of the 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' Fast Attack Battalion was the most successful mobile suit pilot in the 10th Panzerkaempfer Division. His record was a dozen kills above his next closest competitor. While not nearly as famous as the "Space Aces" like Char 'Red Comet' Aznable, Shin 'White Wolf' Matsunaga, or Johnny 'Red Lightning' Ridden, de la Somme was the only member of the 10th to have space kills in his record, from his brief time as one of Vice-Admiral Dozul Zavi's Space Assault Corps. Von Mellenthin had wagered control of his then-autonomous command with Dozul that he could take Berlin within ten days of the 10th's landing on Terra, and Dozul had wagered de la Somme that he could not. Von Mellenthin had won the bet, and de la Somme had landed on Earth, bringing his white star-and-sword standard with him, to reap fire and death on the Federation.

The Feddies had dubbed him 'Killing Star'. He was the fourth ace to survive Metz, and the war. He was now 24 years old and no different in personality now than from when he was a 16-year old recruit, four years younger than von Seydlitz, five years younger than von Mellenthin, and the only person who could truly claim to fully understand the motivations of either man.

Love him or hate him, Antares de la Somme was the personification of self-confidence and humor. Exactly the opposite of Reinhardt von Seydlitz. How the von Mellenthins had survived either of them, much less both in the same house, was beyond anyone's ability to rationalize.

"I trust the gravity is to your liking, Commander," commented Roberts as the three men approached the recovery zone and the rest of the Zeon, who all wore grins on their faces. Margul had moved down to the recovery site and stood next to Roberts, glowering at de la Somme with all his might.

De la Somme threw a hasty salute, Roberts outranking him and all. "It sucks ass, sir. I'd rather we were all in space this time around."

"Agreed, Commander," responded Roberts. "I miss space, as well. But it won't go anywhere, and our war is here on Earth. And watch your language, please." One of Roberts's taboos was profanity, and he was almost Benedictine about its usage. This changed with the simple application of alcohol and decent conversation, of course. Once a Marine, after all . . . "Go rest in the lead truck, Commander. We'll take this from here. Colonel von Seydlitz will be pleased."

"Thank you, sir," said de la Somme, "I live to make Colonel von Seydlitz giggle like a schoolgirl at every opportunity." The shorter ace turned his eyes on Margul. "I see that while he couldn't personally be here, he sent his mule with you. Hello, Vlady."

"Fuck yourself, Antares. I didn't miss you a goddamn bit, you half-rate," spat Margul. So close. . .

De la Somme's grin swelled until it seemed to encompass his entire head. Without a word or warning, he swung the helmet clutched in his left hand and whipped it across Margul's face. It hit with a dull thwack, and the larger man reeled backwards, hands moving to his face in reflex.

"You say the sweetest things, murderer. Get used to being Number Two again." On that note, de la Somme stormed past Margul, who stared at him in hate, held back only by his two men and the harsh glare of Roberts.

The 'Killing Star' had again fallen to the Earth, and God's wrath had come with him.