MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

by His Divine Shadow

The 10th PzK and the Titans nearly turn Hameln's Remembrance Day into its Armageddon, as Kaempfer battles Barzam on the bridge across the Weser, while the Church's plan to stop Mellenthin reaps a bitter harvest. Chapter 21 UP!

4. Chapter 3

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 3

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
May 2, 0087

"And you say that both the wreckage of Gwadan and the bulk freighter it collided with are in my jurisdiction?" It seemed so hard to believe for Colonel Lucas Edgrove, commander-in-chief of Federation European Theater Command. It was so long ago that anything of importance had happened here, not since the One-Year War in fact. The Delaz Fleet and the depredations of Stardust had not touched Europe in any way, shape, or form, except to bring the paltry Federation presence on the continent to a state of heightened alert for the duration. Even the political shakeup at Jaburo and the rise of the Titans had done little to affect daily operations here.

Europe was peaceful, calm, and unproblematic. It was civilized here, and the horrors the war with Zeon had wrought on the psyche of Europe would not long be forgotten. Even after eight years, the war had joined Europe's countless other wars as a memory, but a firm one that generations would not fade. There were times that facet of these people frightened Edgrove. When that happened, he had cognac to fix it.

One thing he had not gotten used to was the immense responsibility for even the littlest of details. With the Titans running the show, military strength in Europe was barely worth noting on the strategic level. In fact, as a Colonel, Edgrove had direct authority over civil matters in Europe, but only had a single company's worth of forces left to use, and they were based in Kassel. He'd never had to call them to do anything.

There were other assets, too. There was a signals platoon still in Lammersdorf, operating the massive telecommunications station that had been there since the ancient Cold War. There was a company of field engineers that still held Federal grant, and they went all over the place fixing storm damage and keeping tabs on weather-worrisome areas. There were scattered units throughout the continent, doing other menial tasks. They all had daily jobs to do, and did them to the best of their abilities. Edgrove sometimes envied them. He'd resign if even so much as a high school made him a decent teaching offer.

Then there were the Titans, and they were everywhere. They ruled the military infrastructure. It was through the Titans that Edgrove's small defense force received the bulk of its supplies and its support. The Titans fielded a Tactical Combat Brigade out of Lyons, their regional headquarters, and they had liaisons and representatives in every aspect of Federation politics. Edgrove even had a Titans adjutant, a young Captain who did not fight in the War or against Delaz. That same Captain also wielded more direct power than Edgrove could ever hope to bring to bear, though the aging Colonel had more than enough wily regulations tricks up his sleeve to keep the Titans from simply absorbing the remaining Federation military presence into their own structure.

"Yes, Colonel. They crashed somewhere in the Alps, sir. I've taken the liberty to dispatch a search and rescue team to the site to evaluate if anything can be salvaged. London Control reports that the chances are less than a percent that they'll find anything except a smoking hole, with the speed the two ships were falling at, sir."

"Well, it can't hurt to check, can it? Order the team to verify the destruction of the freighter and the ore, and try to find out the name of the pilot and the next of kin. You said it was out of Granada, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then that will make it hard to trace, but try anyway." Edgrove ran a hand through his thinning hair, mentally cursing the exhaustion he'd felt in his bones since Metz. "If you absolutely have no choice, contact the Titans for-"

"For what, Colonel?" cut in a harsh, acidic voice from behind him. Edgrove turned to face the chiseled arrogant visage of Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, his adjutant.

Edgrove cleared his throat and waved the other Federation officer away with a hand. The other man saluted, then fled, leaving Edgrove with the capricious Sajer. "I trust you've heard about the accident from last night, Captain?"

"Accidents don't concern me, Colonel, so why should it concern the Titans?" Sajer was a tall man, his slender frame topping Edgrove's ever-broadening one by several inches. His emerald eyes held hardness that someone who'd never seen combat should not possess, and despite his age, his coal-black hair was receding into a widow's peak that only served to make him look more vicious. If there was ever a stereotype for people like Garrett Sajer, it was the one of the sociopath from the old cult films. The young Captain did nothing to deter this judgment, as his prickly nature and volatile temper often overrode his judgment. Sajer spent a lot of time in the simulator and the mobile suit range, readying for the day he would go to war.

Edgrove would not have wished that fate on a more appropriate soul. "The ship that went down last night was from Granada. An ore freighter."

"Really?" Sajer smiled. "I'll have to assemble a battalion immediately, to hunt down those dangerous Spacenoid ore commandoes that seek to lay the Federation low. Why are you wasting your time and your men on a pointless search and rescue mission, Colonel? Moreover, why do you feel the need to waste the Titans' time? The pilot is dead, the shipment is destroyed, and the craft itself is probably sitting with some damned goat up on one of those stupid mountains."

"I don't doubt that," explained Edgrove, once again on the defensive against the younger Captain, "but regulations state that we have to be certain. In specific, Regulation Number 57, Article 5, subsection-"

"Enough!" barked Sajer, loud enough to have heads poke out of offices in the hall to see what the commotion was about. Sajer hated being quoted to, which was why Edgrove insisted on doing so to him.

"-subsection A specifically states that any mayday acknowledged during time of peace must be investigated by search and rescue, as a determination of the possibility of sabotage." Edgrove thanked the retired General Derrick again for hammering those into him as a young officer.

Sajer snorted. "Fine, whatever. Go sweep your dust particles from your crash site. But do not waste the Titans' time with this idiocy, Colonel. We aren't so desperate for adventure that we feel the need to go peek-a-boo into every fuck-up in Europe."

The Titan pushed past Edgrove, leaving a fuming trail of annoyance in his wake. Edgrove watched him march down the hall, then turned and continued his own travel to the C & C to check his itinerary for the day.

And we won the war for THIS?

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
May 2, 0087

The rumbling of the trucks' engines was not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the men, much less the pounding racket of a set of sticks whacking away on top of the metal roof of one of the big vehicles. The sound echoed throughout the caverns until it was a cacophony that hurt the mind as well as the ears. Its unbroken dissonance wavered only with the cheers of the reception, and the howling of the same source for the horrendous drumming.

Perched atop the roof of the cab of the lead truck, Antares de la Somme flailed away at the metal beneath him with a pair of stout tree branches he'd managed to snag on the way to Salzbergewerk from the crash site. Unlike his foster brothers, he possessed no musical ability himself, though he considered himself an expert on what he liked. This poor attempt at percussion was more a signaling device than a musical endeavor.

Besides, he had to do something on the way back. His stench had been so overpowering that he'd been banished to the exterior of the truck. For that luxury, he'd made the two men in the truck suffer with migraine-inducing pain of hearing him 'drum' and 'sing'.

Bang-a-BANG-a-BANGABANGABANG-a-bang! went the drums. "The CHAMP is here!!" bawled the pilot. "The CHAMP is here!!"

The rest of the men loved it. Cheers and catcalls rang out throughout the lower cavern as the trucks rumbled to their intended destination, the stopping and cutting engines once they'd been parked. The caterwauling continued even afterwards, with the enlisted men adding their voices to de la Somme's yowling. After the truck stopped, the diminutive Zeon ace jumped up and down on the roof, letting his boots do the drumming in place of the sticks.

"Raise the roof, boys," de la Somme cried out over the cheering, "And thank God for the privilege!! Zeon is coming and ain't nobody going to forget us when we're gone!!"

The exhortations only grew louder. Even Margul's men were swept up in it, though their commander was not swayed by the zeal of the younger pilot. The noise threatened to become a tempest, one that would bring the mountain crashing down by its mere power, as if to spite the engineers who made its caverns impregnable.

"SILENCE!!" thundered a voice that vanquished the drumming, the cheers, and de la Somme with but that single word. Everything stopped immediately, and every eye turned upward towards the main cavern, several meters up and distant from the trucks.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz heard the convoy arrive before he saw it, thanks to the monkey business being conducted before him. He stood on the balcony leading to the offices, hands clasped behind his back, watching the display below him like a gargoyle, face impassive as ever. He'd allowed it continue until ten minutes had passed. By then, even his own tolerance had snapped. That, and they did have a schedule to keep.

His grey eyes never wavering from de la Somme's amber ones, von Seydlitz continued, using his 'command voice' that had prompted everyone's attention in the first place. "Get the truck under cover until after the morning shift has ended. Get the new programs loaded into the simulators and update their tactical data. Then get some sleep, or to work, whichever shift you are on. Somebody hose Kommandant de la Somme off and get him looking like a soldier of Zeon again in the event that he has forgotten how! I can smell him from up here! Mach schnell!"

The hustle began with extreme haste. De la Somme stared up at von Seydlitz, a big grin affixed to his face. "I'll be there to see you in a few, Colonel! Gotta get pretty first!" With that, two men grabbed de la Somme and hauled him physically towards the shower room, their victim cackling like a fiend the whole way.

Von Seydlitz turned on a heel and walked back into the office, but not before Dalyev had brought him the technical manuals for the oh-so-lovely toys de la Somme had brought here for them.

Clutching them in a hand, von Seydlitz allowed a small upturning of his lips to show through. "Sehr gut, Kommandant. Ich freue mich ausserordentlich."

I am well pleased, indeed.

Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe
May 2, 0087

The radio was spouting the morning news when the cell doors clanked open. "'. . .and there has been no further word from Side 1 about supposed charges of murder being levied against the Titans for their suppression of peaceable protests being held in Bunches throughout the colonies. The most-recent protest ended in tragedy, when Titans mobile forces quelled dissenters with deadly force three days ago, killing fifteen people and wounding dozens more. Titans Space Commander Colonel Bosque Ohm has no comment on the matter. . .'"

Dietrich von Mellenthin habitually did not leave his cell until after the news. As his only real avenue of information from the outside, the news had become part of his routine. This morning was no exception. The news was intelligence, the stuff of life itself.

It was the great reminder of Hatred, and that gave him the only thing that mattered in the universe: strength.

The other prisoners were being noisy this morning. Hoots and howls from below, in Gen-Pop, threatened to drown out the broadcaster's voice. He frowned slightly, but decided not to do anything about it. Most of what he was listening to chopped through the clamor below.

Titans. More cattle, but powerful cattle. Will I have to face them someday? he thought. A soldier always kept his enemies known and listed. Prudence dictated it, as did Sun Tzu. Those were two things von Mellenthin had based his life around following: instinct and the words of those who had come before him to the great field called Armageddon.

He sat up, shifting his legs until his feet rested on the ground. Then, he slowly stood, and began to bend until his palms were flat on the floor, his legs straight. This began his morning stretching routine, to keep himself limber. Routine after routine. My life has become nothing but a series of routines. This train of thought was dangerous. Only his will enabled him to continue to live in this Hell the Federation placed him in. Will, and hope that someday, he would be free again.

I will be free again. Reinhardt will drown the world in blood if this does not happen. I have to have faith in him, in the men. Patience, patience. . .

That mantra grew harder and harder to keep to with each passing week, he realized as he swung a heel up to the top bunk, then leaned across the extended leg until his forehead was touching his knee. Unlike von Seydlitz, who could remain calm in the middle of a cyclone, von Mellenthin possessed something of a vile temper, one that had landed him in tremendous amounts of trouble in his youth. It was because of that flaw in his nature that he took to planning ahead for all possible contingencies, to prevent a rash of temper from interfering with a plan or idea. He dictated situations, they did not dictate to him.

"'. . .Federation officials did not comment on the lapse in the world economy, though analysts claim that the ongoing campaign with the AEUG continues to dominate the feel of the market. . .'"

And what of the future, though? Is it possible to accomplish what all of Zeon failed to do? His elbows popped as he stretched his arms to their limits. He would have kicked himself for allowing his thoughts to dilute to such pathetic hopelessness. The best reason to have hope was out there, in Germany somewhere, waiting and watching. They would not have forgotten their mission.

Besides, he'd grown quite the army around himself here. Plenty of former Zeon soldiers incarcerated along with him, all looking for something greater than themselves. They all counted on him. If his morale faltered in this place, it would take them all down with him.

Unacceptable. The demeanor of those commanded is a direct reflection of the demeanor of the one in command. Von Mellenthin would rather die than see these men shamed before the Federation any further than they already had been.

It is not conceivable for God to have invested me with the fate of a legion, only to die like a commoner in a cell. I will command again, as is my destiny, and not even the Titans will stop me then. No one will. That was the key to it all. He had to remember that he, above the others, had been Chosen, by the Will of the Ordnung, to lead them into battle and to victory. His failure or success reflected on his House and New Koenigsberg, as well as Zeon.

"'. . .the Council promised a new reconciliation for the doings of the past, saying that Zeon loyalists and AEUG renegades would be made to pay the price for disloyalty to Earth, but that the Federation would overlook past transgressions in exchange for total disarmament. . .'"

The Field of May, now fifteen years in the past, was where it all came together. The great decision, as the Elector-Princes of the German Peoples resurrected the old Taiding tradition and crowned one who would lead them into a war they knew was inevitable. That act ended an Interregnum that had spanned hundreds of years. New Koenigsberg, as a colony of Side 3, was obligated to give its sons to the Zavi's War of Zeon Independence, but not to relinquish its old forms in deciding which among them would rule. There had been fifteen of them, all but one of them aged fifteen years, each representing the Laender their lineages came from prior to the Reise zum Raum, the establishment of New Koenigsberg in space.

Because no ruler had been elected since the deposition of Wilhelm II, last of the Hohenzollerns of Prussia, the Ordnung had declared a grand melee to decide, by trial by combat, who among them would be worthy to lead them into battle, and unite the Houses under a single name until the war ended, and civil order would be reestablished. Von Mellenthin remembered the smell of the steel that encased him, the heft of the German warhammer in his gauntleted fists, the insurmountable feeling of correctness of wearing the crowned red-and-white striped rampant lion, on a blue shield, the ancient symbol of Hessen, on his surcoat, and the weight of the steel chainmail and plate that he wore beneath the arms of his House. He remembered facing the other fourteen souls on that flat, grassy plain, with the mirrors and stars above them, rotating, watching the scions of the ancient Houses clash in the old way, as was ordained. Each of them represented their own affiliation, each of them as worthy as he had been.

But not as strong as he had been, and for that they had fallen before him. He'd personally vanquished four of them with his own hand, bringing them to their knees and forcing them to yield before his might. The last had been the hardest of all. Reinhardt von Seydlitz had been among them, a year younger than the rest of them, the only one without a House of his own, the orphan with nothing but his name, bearing the weight of the honor of Brandenburg-Preussen on his shoulders. He had been von Mellenthin's only ally in the whole mess, and had stood back-to-back with him on the field, and for his loyalty von Mellenthin had laid him low with the others at the end of it all, before the entire population of New Koenigsberg, but whereas the others had yielded and remained on the ground, he had been forced to club von Seydlitz into unconsciousness in order to claim victory.

It was the cruelest thing he had ever done to his foster brother, whom he had known and loved since he was seven. But they both understood what was at stake, and if proud Reinhardt had ever resented it, he'd kept it to himself.

God had not let his strength falter then, and He would not let his strength falter now.

"'. . .in other news, reports have come in from our affiliates in Europe that a freighter crash-landed late last night in the northern Alps, after a re-entry collision with a piece of space debris. Nothing has yet been confirmed, but Federation aerospace officials were quick to comment that it did not land in a populated area. Only the pilot of the freighter is presumed to have died in the crash, and the ship's cargo of Lunarian ore was lost in the accident . . .'"

A shotgun blast to the face could not have stopped von Mellenthin's exercise routine faster than what the newscaster spoke.

Lunarian ore? That's it. It HAS to be. Nemesis is here, on Terra, right now. They did it. . .they actually DID it! Reinhardt hasn't failed me, the son of a bitch! He laughed aloud, practically running from the cell in his glee out into Gen-Pop. The guards looked at him, quizzical expressions slapped all over their faces, as they watched the most respected person in the prison acting like a kid, grabbing people's hands and shaking them, embracing others, laughing all the while.

Von Mellenthin could feel their stares, smell their confusion, and hear the thought that had to be running through all their idealistically-inferior little minds: what the hell's got HIM so fucking happy?

Keep wondering, assholes, thought von Mellenthin back, his own jubilation pouring forth in an uncontrollable wave. He must have used Antares to get them. Only Antares could pull that landing off and walk away from it. It's taken years, and none of them have shown themselves in all that time, except Antares. Very slick, Reinhardt, too slick for the Feddies to pick up on, but I know what you've been up to!

He was almost giddy once he reached the floor level, snagging a Federal guard with both hands and twirling the stunned enlisted man around in a clumsy waltz, before letting go and rushing away before the rest of the guards could start clubbing him or tasering him or whatever it was they'd feel like now that he'd touched one of them.

"Wh-what the fuck is your PROBLEM??" sputtered the guard as his back hit the far wall, staring at von Mellenthin as he crowed his way down the stairs.

"I'm a father again! Can't you tell?" yelled von Mellenthin back, the smile on his face like a sunrise after a cold rain.

Unable to stop himself, the guard, a Corporal with a child of his own, grinned back, leaning over the rail. "I'll be sure to smoke a cigar for you then, General!"

Von Mellenthin pointed at him as he literally jumped down the flight of stairs to the landing, both shoes hitting with a solid thump. "That stuff'll kill you, Unteroffizier!" With that, he went tearing off to infect the rest of the prison with his own joy.

Another Federation guard approached the guard von Mellenthin had touched. "I think 'zee General' has finally lost it, the silly fuck."

"Cut the guy some slack, Lenny," said his comrade, throwing an arm around the shoulder of the other man, "it ain't every day you get to be a new daddy. Besides, it's good luck to wish another man's kid to be okay, you know?"

"Yeah, maybe," said his comrade as they walked down the hall, "but how'd he know? Mail isn't for another six hours yet. . ."

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
May 2, 0087

"'. . .ain't seen nothin' yet! Buh-buh-buh BAY-bee, you just ain't seen nuh-nuh-nothin' yet!'" sang de la Somme as he opened the door to von Seydlitz's office without so much as a knock or a whistle.

The transformation was complete. What was once a wild-haired, wild-bearded hobo of a man was now a clean-shaven, short-haired person that might actually look like a soldier if you put him in something other than the tie-dyed T-shirt and stonewashed black denim he was wearing at this moment. His hair, while now dreadfully cropped, was still awry, retaining the appearance of comical cartoonery, but the revelation of the rest of his face to the outside air only served to accentuate the fact that his smile was his most prominent feature. The tapered nose took a backseat to the eyes.

Those same eyes beheld von Seydlitz sitting behind the desk, fingers steepled under his nose, with his cold gray eyes boring into him with an intensity that was more chilling than a hundred Alpine winters. His tongue faltered on his song, and de la Somme trailed off into an uncomfortable silence under the harsh gaze.

Minutes passed quietly, the only sounds coming from the mines outside. Chaos glared at Order, daring a word. Order simply watched, until Chaos finally gave in to its superior will.

"Hi, Reinhardt," was what de la Somme said. Von Seydlitz said nothing.

"Like my shirt?" The T-shirt was one he must have been stashing since the One-Year War. It was a jumble of psychedelic colors, with the words 'Voodoo Chile' etched in shock pink across the chest.

Another minute passed uncomfortably. De la Somme began to fidget under his older foster brother's implacable scrutiny. "I missed you. Really, I did."

Still, von Seydlitz only glowered, eyes never blinking.

De la Somme began to sweat. "It's the cargo, isn't it? Look, I did my damnedest to fill ever single part and parcel of what you told me to get, but you have to understand that stuff like this isn't easy to get hold of, even nowadays with civvie Gelgoogs and shit on the open market. I did the best with what I could weasel out of Granada and Zeonic, but the Titans have made business hard to do these days.

"And the weapons," he continued, moving gingerly to sit down in the chair across the desk from von Seydlitz, whose eyes simply tracked him as he sat, "hoo-wee, the weapons were a pain in the ass! Gold's only as good as a salve for so long with that kinda pain, lemme tell you. I had to bribe more low-level dingleberries and no-load dipshits to get even close to what you asked for that I lost count after six gabillion or something like that, and then there was getting a freighter BIG enough to haul a thousand tons of crap and it wasn't like I was going to just drop them but then I had to get past the patrols and it took forever and---"

Von Seydlitz continued to stare at him. The grin sliding off his face like an avalanche, De la Somme started to feel a bit like a rabbit, being sized up for choice cuts by a hawk. Or an eagle, he admitted. He's gotten BAD since I've been gone.

De la Somme sighed, hanging his head low and folding his hands in his lap. "I've fucked up. I'm sorry, but I did my best," he bit his lower lip, his eyes turning downward away from von Seydlitz's dauntless, piercing discernment.

After another eternity's moment of uncomfortable silence, Antares de la Somme mustered what strength he had left under the pressure and snapped to perfect attention, chair sliding backwards as he stood to his full height, eyes shifting to a point on the wall above von Seydlitz's head, the picture-perfect formal military stance.

Von Seydlitz quirked an eyebrow, eyes still tracking de la Somme.

"You're disappointed. I can tell. What do you want me to do, Colonel?" The 'Killing Star' was doing his best not to tremble from maintaining the full attention for the first time in four years.

Then, von Seydlitz moved, placing his hands on the desktop and standing upright. Still not speaking, he moved towards a cabinet to the left of the desk, opening the doors to it and beginning to move things inside. De la Somme continued to stare at the wall, fighting the urge to glance at what von Seydlitz was doing, but knowing the Colonel's radar would pick it up instantly and then he would be made to truly suffer for the infraction.

But de le Somme could not help but frown as he heard a gentle clink from inside the cabinet. After a moment, the tall man turned and moved towards de la Somme, two glasses and a bottle in his hands. Still silent, he pulled out the cork on the bottle, filling the room with the heady scent of molasses and alcohol. He poured two fingers of the black liquid in the bottle into the glasses, and then replaced the cork carefully, placing the bottle back on the desktop.

Holding one glass in his right hand, he held out the glass in his left, offering it to his subordinate. "Stop your chatter and take the glass, Kommandant. Your hesitation is the only disappointment noted for the record."

De la Somme's knees almost gave out from under him as he slid into an at-ease posture and accepted the glass, not fighting the urge to sniff at it.

The taller von Seydlitz raised his glass. "Zum Wohl!" he said, wishing him good health before taking a sip, wondering if de la Somme would remember what to do with the drink.

De la Somme raised his in return, also sipping. He'd encountered this beverage before, and its terrible side effects when slammed. One did not treat 180-proof Austrian black rum like a shooter.

The Colonel slid into a sitting position on the desktop, which put his eyes roughly even with the standing de la Somme's. "You have done magnificently, Antares. Beyond my wildest expectations, in fact. Even Generalmajor von Mellenthin would be pleased to speechlessness by your accomplishment. This was not an easy mission for you to perform, by any stretch of the imagination, and I know it."

De la Somme smiled. "Then why give me the silent treatment, and the death stare on top of it?"

"I had almost forgotten what you looked like. I was refreshing my memory." Von Seydlitz sipped again, masking a grin of his own at having made his younger foster brother squirm so effectively.

"You're so full of shit, Reinhardt," shot back de la Somme, his smile getting even bigger.

And with that, it was back to normalcy between them.

"What you have brought to Earth is enough to equip this entire company with what we'll need to make Nemesis complete. The mobile suits are incredible, so far advanced beyond anything we had in the War. The Federation will never suspect that we have come so far in our capabilities. This Division owes you a debt of gratitude, Antares. You have given us the chance at legacy once again."

De la Somme actually blushed. "It wasn't all that, Reinhardt. I even got the colors right, though."

"These suits will give the Division life again, and we will use them to their fullest. It does help that the colors are correct. I trust there were no difficulties with the paint schemes everyone wanted?"

"Not a one. I threw so much gold at them that they could squeeze any colors in the spectrum they wanted to out of the bars, if I asked them."

Von Seydlitz's face looked a bit grim. "The last mission before going home, possibly forever. After this, then what? Will we be content to be retirees, or is this just the prelude to a larger conflict?"

"I'd like the latter, thanks. Axis approaches by the day, bringing their own suits and production factories, not to mention the last of the Zavis, back to the Earth Sphere. It'll be a war totally different from the other one. All we've gotta do is show up for the curtain call."

"We can do that on Side 3. The 10th Panzerkaempfer Division will leave Earth as an intact fighting force. Axis will take us by virtue of our value, or they will regret their shortsightedness. Only we know what the Federation can do now, and what the Titans can do. Our intelligence is inestimable, and our reputation unblemished. They will see what we can do with Nemesis, and that will persuade them."

De la Somme finished his rum, his smile still plastered across his face. "Besides, who'd turn up their noses at the most ass-kickingest Zeon unit in the One-Year War?"

"The conquerors of Minsk—"

"Warsaw---"

"Berlin---"

"Prague---"

"Zurich---"

"And Paris---"

They finished together. "---ALL IN SIX WEEKS!"

Even von Seydlitz laughed, as the office filled with the sound of their merriment, the memories shared as easily as the rum. De la Somme wiped at his face with his hands, trying to stop laughing but having a hard time of it. He knew von Seydlitz would never have laughed in front of anyone else, except Dietrich von Mellenthin, and it warmed his heart to know that had never changed.

His laughter trickling away, von Seydlitz began to sober after the release. "So, Antares: how is Father?"

That single question moved across de la Somme's face like the very hand of God itself, replacing mirth with pain, and joy with anguish. Never able to conceal an emotion in his life for more than ten seconds, Antares de la Somme burst into tears. A childlike instinct took over as he stepped forward, dropping the glass to the floor to shatter. He wrapped both his arms around von Seydlitz and buried his face into his older foster brother's shirt, weeping uncontrollably.

It never failed to shock von Seydlitz when this happened, no matter how many times he'd seen it. His own arms came up to enfold de la Somme in an embrace, of an accord all their own, defying the upright and sober Prussian's emotional control as a memory slashed its way into his consciousness from so long ago. . .

The oily stink of the burning vehicles was mixed with the smell of cooking flesh, a scent not unlike burning pork. Eight-year old Reinhardt von Seydlitz sat on the curb of the sidewalk at the corner of Roemerstrasse and Sankt Goar's Weg on New Koenigsberg. He held tightly to the trembling form clutched in the embrace of his left arm, as the small child, who could have been no more than four years old, wept as though the universe was collapsing upon him. The boy had both hands clutching at von Seydlitz's back so hard it was as though the child wanted to pierce his ribcage with his fingers, and the tightness of his embrace was almost uncomfortable. But what made this tableau of carnage that much more terrible was that this child was not merely sobbing: he was crying so hard he was SCREAMING into von Seydlitz's shirt, the reverberations threatening to overwhelm the mask of inscrutability that the older boy had long since built into his face. He could feel the depths of this child's loss in his own soul, for it was a familiar sound to him, and he hated the fact that he'd forgotten it himself.

Von Seydlitz's right arm was not wrapped around the wailing boy, but was extended up and outright, his fingers touching the wrist of the standing ten-year old Dietrich von Mellenthin. The older boy, already showing signs of the physical strength he would be renowned for later in life, was trembling himself from a palpable rage, as he glared with hate-filled eyes at the older man before him, wishing he could be released to tear him apart with his bare hands.

Von Seydlitz knew that it was the older man who had caused all of this, some Federation bigwig diplomat with immunity, out drinking and driving during the DAY, when traffic was heaviest and he was bound to kill someone. Today must have been a banner day, because he'd managed to kill two in one hit, when his government-issue car smashed headlong into a sedan with three passengers in it. The two older passengers had died shrieking, as they burned to death while trapped in the front seat with broken arms and legs. Their young son, stunned by the impact, nearly burned himself, and would have if not for von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. All three of them stank of the smoke, their faces and arms and clothes blackened by the soot and oil, von Mellenthin's knuckles bleeding from when he'd punched out the window to allow the skinnier von Seydlitz to slide into the wreck, lithe as a snake, to get the boy out before the two vehicles were completely consumed in the blaze. There had been no time to save the other two, and their cries echoed still in von Seydlitz's mind.

The drunk had walked out of his car on his own, and was now claiming diplomatic immunity against any prosecution from New Koenigsberg. The Polizei had twin looks of disgust, as did the Feuerwehrmaenner and the Sanitaeter present, but all of them put together could not match the look of absolute fury on the face of von Mellenthin. Von Seydlitz, from his position, could only see the lower left side of his older foster brother's face, but it was enough to know that von Mellenthin would gladly have wrapped his powerful hands around this man's neck and squeezed until he'd crushed the diplomat's spine. Only von Seydlitz's touch on his wrist held him back from doing exactly that.

That had been their first meeting with Antares de la Somme, who was in his arms now, as he had been then. As much as de la Somme could drive him to near-madness, he was still his brother. Von Seydlitz kissed him on the head, and then rested his chin atop de la Somme's skull. "Tell me, Antares."

With monumental effort, the ace managed to bring his tears down to a low sniffling. "He-he's dead, Reinhardt. Your father's dead."

For the second time, thought von Seydlitz, trying to find some form of emotion to reflect this but unable to find one. He could not cry himself. He had forgotten how after the One-Year War. He would have to find the time to discover it once more later.

He barely remembered his birth father. Maxim von Seydlitz and his wife had died in an airlock malfunction while doing an inspection of the Colony Corporation tunnels on New Koenigsberg, when von Seydlitz was six years old. That year, because he was the last scion of a House, it was decided that he would be adopted into one of the other Houses to be raised, his fosterhood preserving his own name until the line could be propagated and continued on its own.

That was when Gerrold von Mellenthin had been impressed upon by his own son, Dietrich, to adopt the orphaned von Seydlitz. Politically, it was an astute move, merging the bloodlines of Hessen and Brandenburg-Preussen in the Council of Electors. Rising to the challenge, the elder von Mellenthin had lobbied the Council to allow the fostering. It was granted, and Gerrold von Mellenthin had become von Seydlitz's new father.

He could remember the bearlike man, always gruff and earnest with his family, shaking his small hand within his larger one as the formal greeting of a new father to a new son, albeit one so vastly different from his own blood it was like letting an alien into his home. But he, and his wife Ingrid, had never shown von Seydlitz anything but love and welcome, as if he were their own child. It was precisely what needed to be done, and von Seydlitz had called them Father and Mother in return, and used first names with von Mellenthin instead of the traditional last name.

He thought it would be a harder blow than this to take. Perhaps later, it would be.

"Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out." He rubbed a hand on de la Somme's back, awkward as always in this kind of situation.

De la Somme's voice was deadly calm now, but he did not move out of von Seydlitz's embrace as he spoke. When he'd finished, he finally moved away, grinding the heels of his hands over his eyes.

"I guess I'm still the crybaby, aren't I?"

Von Seydlitz forced a smile. "I am used to it, Antares. Thank you for being so forthcoming, and not trying to do something stupid like hide this."

"No problem, really," replied the ace pilot, rubbing off the last of his tears and trying to place a grin back on his lips. They'd been through so much misery together that it was amazing it even affected them anymore.

Von Seydlitz rose, placing both his hands on de la Somme's shoulders. "Go get some rest. Tomorrow night, we begin using the simulators to learn how to pilot these wonderful mobile suits you have acquired for us. We have much to make many people pay dearly for, and not much time to do it in."

"Yes, Oberst," was the reply, sounding just on the bright side of miserable. "Who do I get first?"

"Ask Stabsfeldwebel Ogun. I am not making the schedule."

"Heh," chuckled de la Somme, his color beginning to return to normal along with his mood. "That bastard's probably put me up against you first."

Sergeant Major Inaba Ogun was one of de la Somme's 15th 'Tyrant Tornadoes' men, and as the senior surviving NCO of the 10th Panzerkaempfer, he had harbored an intense case of hurt feelings that de la Somme had not taken him into space with him. This would be a quaint vengeance; de la Somme had to admit that going up against von Seydlitz first after eight years without piloting a mobile suit would be a challenge for even his own abilities.

Especially a new type of suit, whose capabilities were known on paper but not on a personal level. But, that was the breaks.

I'm gonna kick your ass, Reinhardt, baby, he thought smugly, amber eyes (slightly reddened) meeting the gray eyes of von Seydlitz.

You and what army, Kommandant? was what the return look replied.

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
May 2, 0087

"There's not a goddamned thing up here except freighter hash, sir!" yelled the Sergeant over the rotor wash noise to the Lieutenant commanding the search-and-rescue mission.

"I'm inclined to agree, Sergeant," replied the officer, staring out the open door of the HV-22D Osprey IV STO/VL heli-plane, a pair of binoculars in his gloved hands. The crash site was a blackened smear on the side of the mountain. If one looked closely, one could almost make out which pieces of debris were the freighter's and which were the mountain's. "Any sign of the cargo section?"

"Negative! He must've jettisoned it during the descent!"

"Well, there's not much to it, then. If anything survived, the locals might find it in a few months or so. It's pretty desolate up here, and I don't think we should risk trying to land this brute on that hill."

The Sergeant thought that was the best idea he'd heard all day. The Osprey IV was a nimble beast, but not particularly light or economical, and this mountain was not anyone's idea of a plateau. "Shall we try to sweep the forest below, sir?"

"I'm not inclined to report that as being necessary. The pilot's section and the majority of the superstructure are here, and it's obvious that nothing could have survived. Send word to Bonn that this isn't even worth a salvage operation."

"Understood, sir."

With a quick pivot and a burst of speed, the HV-22D converted to its airplane mode and flew away, leaving behind any hope of ever discovering the truth of the "crash".

Operation Nemesis had been birthed by the 10th Panzerkaempfer. It would be the Federation that would allow it to mature.