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!

7. Chapter 6

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 6

Kehlsteinberge, Bayern, Central Europe
August 29, 0087

Camael Balke squinted his dust-brown eyes at the black smear on the side of the mountain's face. Then he looked down at his feet, measuring by sight that he was, indeed, standing in the center of a very large depression in the earth, again. Then he looked up again, verifying for the fifth time that his eyes were not playing tricks on him. After that, he twisted until he faced the tire tracks that led away from the region of the depression and into the forest, following what was left of them with his eyes.

Dorff was right. Something happened here, and it may have been exactly what his instincts were telling him.

He'd been up here for almost a week now, trying to piece together what had happened. He had pored over every piece of information he could gather on the accident, and come to the conclusion that with the exception of what he was standing in and the heavy-lift vehicle tracks leading away from it, it was an accident. Balke, having once been a very reputable intelligence officer a thousand years ago or so, deduced otherwise.

It could be something else, though. Smugglers, perhaps, though I can't imagine why they'd go through the trouble of all this when they could have just as easily paid off Gibraltar Starport's customs people. That it's smugglers running guns or some kind of zero-G designer drug makes more sense to Occam's Razor than some kind of pro-Zeon resistance element, Dorff's instincts notwithstanding.

He sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving the fading tracks in the earth. It was times like this that he wished he were someone different entirely. The long-dead Captain Camael Balke was meant for better things than what the wretched man he had become since the War was now. This divot in the Earth's surface was a lot of nothing for a second chance at a future to ride on. If the freighter had been running drugs or some such contraband, it would not even raise the eyebrows of the Federation; which meant that no one, not even that simpering windbag Edgrove, would be obliged to listen to a washed-up intelligence officer from a disgraced unit, doomed to live out his days peddling smut to the depraved, the lonely, the adventurous, and the forsaken. The Camael Balke that stood here in Upper Bavaria had other plans than to remain dead for much longer.

Listen to me. I'm almost praying it's the Zeon again, just so I can feed off them to climb the ladder again. How far have I fallen?

The trees were beginning to turn, and that meant winter was coming. In just a month or so, snow would obliterate the remains of the tracks, the depression, and the black stain of the bulk freighter's impact. If anything did come out of this, whoever was responsible was being extraordinarily patient. That was the problem. After seeing this place for the second time, Balke had risked a phone call to an old friend who was still part of the Federal Forces in Europe. It had not gone nearly as well as hoped.

"Look, I would love to help you, Camael, if only because you taught me everything I know about Intel, but I can't turn over official Federation records to a civilian. You KNOW that."

"If I taught you everything you know, you must have slept through the lesson on "Using All Available Sources to See the Big Picture". I'm not asking for the technical schematics to a fucking Hizack, Braxton. I just want to know how deep you guys checked that bulk freighter crash—"

"I heard you the first time! Search and Rescue came back and—"

"You used THOSE slackers to run your numbers??"

"For God's sake, will you please just shut the hell up? I'm trying to tell you what you want to know, and you're the one doing the talking! I'm not even supposed to acknowledge that you exist anymore, much less give you information, so do me the favor of keeping your stupid trap shut! I DO happen to outrank you now, even if you WERE active duty again, and you are NOT by far on active fucking duty, so zip the lip and use your ears for once! Edgrove wanted to send a full detail out there, but was overruled by that Titans cocksucker Sajer, so he pulled a reg and sent what he could. When SAR got there, there wasn't enough left of that freighter to sprinkle on a pizza. NOTHING could have survived the crash."

"Something did survive, Brak. Thank the Titans for me when whatever it is bubbles to the surface of the shithole they've turned the Federation into."

"You have any proof of that, Camael?"

"NO, Braxton, I don't have any proof! That's what I'm trying to find! I didn't call you for the flowery conversation, and if you'd stop making excuses for that dickless wonder Edgrove, maybe we could put our brains together and figure out why there's a dent in the ground from something that came off that damn ship!"

"You haven't changed a bit, have you? You're still the obsessed fanatic you were when they kicked you out! If you'd listen to reason and reality for a change, you'd come to find out that the Zeon are DONE! They fought their war and LOST! There's no conspiracy, no resistance, just the AEUG, the Titans, and the Federation, and despite Jaburo, the Titans run this show! Edgrove does his damnedest to keep them off our case, so why don't you cut the man a little slack? He WAS at Metz, remember?"

"And we were at Bayreuth, and Paris, and a million other places that he WASN'T! He got to see the bastards while they were on the ropes; WE saw them at their best! You have GOT to send some people to check Obersalzburg and Upper Bavaria NOW, before it's too late! Winter's coming, Brak, and so's Axis—"

"I'm hanging up, Camael. For your own sake, check into a nuthouse or get married or something. I put those demons behind me a long time ago, like I did the War. Von Mellenthin's in his cage, and all's right with the world. Goodbye."

So much for cooperative friendships, he thought angrily. He couldn't believe someone who had seen what the Zeon were capable of firsthand would so casually not give a damn, no matter how remote the possibility. The fact that there was even a remote chance should have been enough to stir up a few hornets at least. Anyone with half a brain knew that Axis was on its way back to the Earth Sphere, bringing God knew what with them and probably another war on top of THAT. Starting to make me wish the Kalaba didn't turn me down . . .

He walked alongside the tracks and away from the landing site, still musing to himself. There was another tack he could try, but it would require him to do something he did not want to do. He absently rubbed the tattoo on the palm of his right hand as he walked, out of anxiety as much as anything else.
He had a petition to fill out, and hope that the approval arrived in time, if at all.

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
August 30, 0087

The darkness was almost enough to soothe, but not quite. The mines were utterly silent, but that just made it easier to hear the memories. Reinhardt von Seydlitz sat alone in the office, instead of at home where he should have been. Even the tactical center was empty now, devoid of other lifeforms. No stimulus, just silence, and von Seydlitz. The violin sat in its open case beside him, but even it could not reach him now, and he found no comfort in its notes tonight. After pondering what the problem was for over an hour, he had come to the conclusion that he was suffering from a condition known as the "heebie-jeebies". Rather than seek an external cure for the condition, he opted to hunt for an internal one.

It was moments like these that he could believe that if one listened hard enough, one could hear their very genes speak to them. The hereditary memories buried amidst the chromosomes that comprised a being finally able to allow their voices to be heard before the physical memory of the present. It was fashion given form, a vindication of everything he had been brought up to know was right with the way things really were. It was the foundation, the very reason for his existence, along with the reason for the existence of the Ordnung itself.

Contemplation was another effect of the lack of outside stimulus. Nemesis was so close now, the grandest campaign ever attempted by so few. Even Delaz's Stardust would pale in comparison to what Nemesis would achieve once it was completed. A final chance at greater glory, serving a purpose that he supposed he had been born for.

He pondered blood again. His own, like so many others, he could trace back further than the 19th Century, Old Calendar reckoning; a product of a hundred generations of soldiers, warfare, and destruction. He could almost hear the voice of his famous ancestor, Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz, Hero of Rossbach and Captain of the Rochow Cuirassiers, who fought for Frederick the Great in 1758. He almost heard Walter von Seydlitz-Kurzbach's voice, a Major General of Artillery and commander of the 51st Corps under von Paulus's Sixth Army at Stalingrad in 1943. He almost heard another Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz, Captain of the 4th Co., 2nd Panzer Battalion, in 2008, whose Leopard II tank smote the command tank of the last invaders of Germania before being destroyed itself (but not until after he had progenated, a fact for which his long-time successor was most appreciative), driving them from German soil until the coming of the Zeon. So much was in blood, and there were many more examples than those, but so few ever realized how much everything relied on genes. But he knew.

De la Somme was on his way back from the little errand von Seydlitz had dispatched him on. He knew his foster brother would succeed where others would miss it entirely. That was one of the reasons why he had been sent instead of someone else. Von Seydlitz knew that whatever long-forgotten heritage de la Somme had flowing through his veins, it was something truly extraordinary. He also knew that whatever it was would be sufficient to reveal what von Seydlitz had suspected was being done here, far from the influence of space, or anything else for that matter. This was the most logical location for it. The surest way to keep a secret was to convince the world that they already knew the answer, and the world was convinced that eugenics was something they only did at the Flanagan Institute, creating the artificial NewTypes employed by the Titans to rid the universe of those who would disturb the peace of space.

What folly! As if the Flanagan Institute were the originator of genetic manipulation.

That science was as old as Time itself, and there were others who knew the secrets of the double helix as well, if not better, than they. There were others who were counting on it, in fact.

Another reason he had sent de la Somme was to give the simulator a break. Every single man in this outfit was now fully trained and tested on their mobile suits, and if he was any judge of skill, they were far better now than they were even during the War. He knew part of that was due to a new maturity, one they had not possessed when they had all been idealistic and young. Age can change an outlook the way the tides changed the surface of a shore.

He also knew another part was the superiority of the machines themselves. Even the lowest jump up the technology ladder, the MS-06Fz Zaku II Kai belonging to Anton Dalyev, was leaps and bounds ahead of even the Terra-rigged Zaku II J some had been lucky enough to get before the end of Lorelei. Others, like the tripartite MS-18E Kaempfers that Margul and his goons now possessed, were terrors in their own right, despite their (rather trying) field longevity flaws. The various Gelgoog-types, however, were truly technological brilliance given form. Von Seydlitz often wondered how the War would have gone if the Dom-types were the ones slated for ground combat, and the Gelgoogs were the premier Zeon space suit at the beginning.

Maturity (or lack thereof) notwithstanding, de la Somme, even in the custom Gouf he had fallen in love with, had begun to outstrip everyone, including the simulator program itself. The machine simply could not keep up with his reaction speed, and if truth were told, it was becoming frightening to even watch from the outside. It was an unexplainable phenomenon, that someone could possibly be that fast and not have their own mech simply fall apart from the stress, and Antares was showing no signs of burning out anytime soon. He had sent de la Somme to Heidelberg to give the computers, not to mention everyone else, some time away from him.

Which led to the third reason for de la Somme's departure: Vladimir Margul. Their hatred for each other, something that had been a facet of the 10th Panzerkaempfer since the Dornbirn blitz, had almost simmered over the pot one too many times. Margul was simply not able to cope with the smaller man's ability to get under his skin, and became violent. At the very least, they had kept their fighting as far away from von Seydlitz as they could manage, but if they thought that taking it outside would shield their activities from his gaze, then they were both sorely mistaken.

Nevertheless, it had become a threat to discipline, and von Seydlitz would not tolerate such in his command, any more than he would tolerate it in himself. He knew the reason behind their hate for each other, and also knew that de la Somme would never forgive or forget it, but they were going to cooperate for Nemesis, or von Seydlitz would bury them both in this mine along with everything else for jeopardizing this operation. They could settle their differences once the mission was complete. In fact, since they had decided to bring their own people into the fray along with them, they could ALL settle it after the mission was over.

If they all survived, of course.

Lacerta and Reiter's visit to Weissdrake in Duisberg had gone exactly as expected. There was nothing Karl feared more than the possibility of being left behind because of his condition. Von Seydlitz was not proud of manipulating someone who he'd known since before the War, especially using wounds earned during one of the hardest fights the 10th had faced, but it was necessary. The wait was becoming intolerable now, and everyone was feeling it. Especially me.

Weissdrake had called two nights later to inform him that his latest batch of "motivations" had been successful, and that the third ship would be complete by October 14th, guaranteed. This meant that Nemesis officially "began" on October 31st, when the ships arrived in Regensburg. That was a deadline von Seydlitz had no intention of missing.

Everything else was in place. Roberts claimed the grid at the Teutobergerwald was complete and operational, but there had been no way to test McKenna's theory without a certain necessary component to the experiment that would have drawn too much attention to use. Von Seydlitz could tell from the Marine's voice that he had no doubts about the ability of this experiment, but in his position von Seydlitz had enough doubts for the both of them.

He stood and walked out of the office, shutting and locking the door behind him. In the darkness, he made his way down into the sublevel, where Nemesis lurked, waiting for its curtain call and the show to begin. The burden of it all never felt heavier to von Seydlitz. This was never supposed to have happened. None could doubt that as a tactician he had few equals, even at the height of the War, but Nemesis was built around grand strategy, and that field of endeavor was von Mellenthin's stock in trade. Von Seydlitz wondered how his older foster brother was able to cope with the randomness of it all, the hoping that every piece fell into place at the right time and in the right pattern to achieve that one goal. This higher planning in advance of circumstances only really served to give him a headache, and he had known since the beginning that he was unsuited for strategic initiative combat. He preferred to react as circumstances revealed themselves, not try to make the circumstances fit the action. To him, it was all madness, but Dietrich could make a big picture out of just a few little pieces, and then make that picture fit a frame that anyone else would say was too large.

Eight years now I have done your job, Generalmajor. And my shoulders are not so broad as your own. How did you manage to move underneath the weight of it all?

He made his way down past the tactical center, deeper into the sublevel, to where the Giants stood, feeling every single one of his twenty-eight plus years in his bones, in addition to several hundred years of genetic lineage pressing down on him. It had been a fluke that the von Seydlitz line had been chosen to become the Elector house of Brandenburg-Prussia, when so many others could have, and he had convinced himself that it had been a fluke from the onset. It was his task to prove himself and all others false in that belief. History itself was against him, and he could list so many times when a von Seydlitz had brought victory from disaster, but perished alone and without regard nonetheless. He was determined to right that course, and Nemesis would be the tool he used to accomplish exactly that.

The resurrection of Zeon paled in comparison to the true goal of Nemesis, but both goals would be served by the success. A true all-encompassing plan which would finally decide the fate of all Mankind and answer the question which had plagued it since the beginning of the species' path of evolution.

Who will rule, and who will die?

He stopped in front of the Gouf Custom that belonged to him, dimly illuminated by the sparse safety lights strung throughout the mines. It was inactive, as were the other eighteen suits that stood in formation before it, as if deferring to the suit piloted by their commander. He stared up at its squat "face", regarding it, then reached out a hand and touched its green-brown-gray "panzer" camouflage paint scheme. Had anyone else been there to watch this moment, they would have been shocked to see the accumulated stress of nearly a decade of war slide from his shoulders, and his posture, already ramrod straight, stiffen further into something truly awesome to behold.

I will rule with eye and claw—as the hawk among lesser birds.

Unable to stifle a very unorthodox grin, he scrambled up the camouflaged leg and up into the pilot's cockpit of the mobile suit. The hatch popped open when he tapped in his keycode, and he threw himself into the seat, flicking the main power switch to ON as he settled himself comfortably inside. The red mono-eye flared to life, gazing upon the other eighteen suits as though inspecting them. They remained silent, the guises of the perfect machines of war unassailable in their statuesque design. Fine examples of the epitome of armored warfare in the age of Minovsky physics, their paint schemes identical to his own Gouf Custom in every way except personal sigil and unit insignia. It was one thing to have outlandish paint schemes in a simulator, but only a child would disregard logic and smear bright colors all over their machine to make some sort of disgusting individualistic statement. And only a fool would paint their suit in primary colors, the way the Federation did. No, the 10th Panzerkaempfer Division was a unit of soldiers and warriors, and as such their suits would reflect this psychology to whomever laid their eyes upon the majesty of it. Anything else was for amateurs.

He stretched his legs over the pilot's console, his boots sticking out of the cockpit as he settled in, inhaling the smell of a new mobile suit, unable to stop smiling as he closed his eyes.

'Black Eagle' von Seydlitz is not finished by far, and neither is this company. Nemesis will bring an end to all this foolishness, and not the Federation, the Titans, or the AEUG will stop it once it hits. Two months, and the world will quail in terror at the power of Zeon and the wrath of their rightful lords. They will learn that the price of sedition is fear and death, just the way it has always been.

What gods have built, let no man put asunder.

So intent was the surety of those thoughts, Reinhardt von Seydlitz did not realize it when he fell into the deepest sleep he had in eight years.

And Time passed, an uncomfortable interlude before the final joyous crescendo that would announce the death knell of the Federation itself.

Duisberg, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
October 12, 0087

"Let's MOVE, people!! Time is running out!" bellowed Karl Weissdrake at the dockworkers, just finishing the final checks on the three barges that were arrayed in the harbor before him. The wind was getting colder as winter began to make its presence felt, and he ignored the flapping of his gray trench coat around his legs as he strode from ship to ship, his presence inspiring a higher sense of motive to the union slobs who had dawdled their way along for months on HIS bill. "These ships have to be in Regensburg in two weeks, and I'll see you and all you know damned before I'm any later than I already am! Do I have to whip you swine before I see any results here?"

Now that the final refit was complete, his desire to leave this city was a heat within him, one that rivaled the heat that had disfigured him. He knew the union workers despised him after the little demonstration he had given them some time ago as a means of motivation. They accused him of so many different things, but also knew they brushed it off as being a byproduct of the War, when so many things had changed for so many people. Frankly, Weissdrake did not care what they thought as long as they obeyed.

Convincing Reiter to assign minimum crews to the ships for the voyage to Regensburg had been child's play. Most intra-river shipping was automated now, with just a handful of people necessary to maintain certain functions a computer could not. Each ship would have three people aboard for the journey to Regensburg, which suited Weissdrake just fine. He would have preferred to have sailed down with the ships, just to make things simpler upon arrival, but he had orders to return to Berchtesgaden the same day the ships set sail. Everyone else had gotten used to their new mobile suits, except for himself, and von Seydlitz wanted him as ready as the rest of them. There were only fourteen days to get him trained in the simulator, but for him that was adequate time to become acquainted with the MS-14S Command Gelgoog that de la Somme had managed to wheedle from somewhere. Weissdrake had kept up with such things, and wondered exactly which member of the Zeon Ace Corps had relinquished this particular suit back to Zeonic before the end of the War. He supposed it may have been Anavel Gato's old suit, but that was a stretch of the imagination considering that Delaz had never wasted anything in his life. In the end, it was irrelevant. The Command Gelgoog was his now, and he was looking forward to meeting it. Von Seydlitz had called the suit "lavish" when they had discussed it over the telephone, and he was not one for baseless compliments.

As for the nine sailors. . .better that he did not know what von Seydlitz had planned for them. Weissdrake acknowledged that while he was the one wearing the monster's face, but was under no doubts that the heart of the demon beat its tattoo in Reinhardt von Seydlitz's breast.

Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe
October 19, 0087

It was like watching a caged lion. You knew you were safe on your side of the bars, and it may seem docile while you stare at it, but it would not hesitate to savage you if it got the opportunity. I thought this place was supposed to break him, not nurture him.

On his side of the Lexan glass partition, Camael Balke stared long and hard at the man in the green prison uniform, who eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. His petition to visit von Mellenthin had come through with some difficulty, but was otherwise granted. He had known that the Zeon General had been forbidden visitors, but Balke was no normal civilian, and his argument that he had the right to face this man was most compelling, considering his past position. Then again, almost any bureaucracy tends to cave in when you threaten to sic a special interest group on them, even if it's a bluff. But they had had no reason to believe otherwise, and the former intelligence officer for the Federal 4th Cavalry Brigade, stationed at Bayreuth before the War, was granted access to see the man who had destroyed not only his brigade, but his life.

Chalk it up to pity, he snarled silently to himself, they know what you've been doing these past eight years, you stupid disgrace of a soldier.

Von Mellenthin, on the other hand, had no idea who this man was, but he had been imprisoned under the VERY distinct impression that no one living would ever personally see him again as long as he remained in these walls. Whomever this man before him was, he apparently had some pull with the Federation, though he did not rule out the Titans as being the cause of this. However, judging from the man's attire and general distaste for even seeing him, von Mellenthin could similarly guess that this stranger had no affiliation with the Titans whatsoever, which left very few conclusions as to what he was doing here. As no words had yet been exchanged, von Mellenthin decided to take the initiative before the five minutes were spent in a staring contest.

Balke visibly flinched when the deceptively soft baritone penetrated the glass. "I will presume from your attire that you are some sort of disgruntled veteran. If you intend to shoot me through the glass, might I recommend a larger pistol, with explosive-tipped rounds?"

"No, I have no intention of killing you, or even trying, Zeon," spat Balke, leaning forward. "I'm here to ask you a few questions and leave, that's all."

Von Mellenthin smiled. "I find myself a captive audience, Mr. Whoever-You-Are. I also find myself at a disadvantage, due to your knowing my name and I not knowing yours. Give me your name and I will answer your questions without outright lying to you."

"You know my name, just not my face," responded the former intelligence officer, "but let's not dance on the formalities. Before I begin, I want to make absolutely certain that we understand each other completely." With that, Balke reached his right hand out and held the palm facing von Mellenthin, displaying his tattoo.

The smile on von Mellenthin's face vanished like a puff of smoke in a harsh wind, and an expression of fury warred with one of disgust across his features. When he had finally regained a semblance of control, he settled back and maneuvered his chained hands to rest behind his head, fingers crossed. "You're right. I do know your name, Hauptmann Camael Balke, Federation Armed Forces, serial number 5457893. I trust you're enjoying civilian life now that your little vendetta against us is over with?"

"It's nice to be remembered, even if it is by a fascist."

"Everyone needs a fan club, even dishonored civilian soldiers. So tell me, does seeing me in this place wash the taste of your cowardice from your lips, or does the defeat still linger, having been chased across Europe by your betters?"

"NO!" snapped Balke, slamming a fist into the glass. "I ask the question, exile, not you! You're NOT getting inside my head!"

Von Mellenthin's smile returned, but it was one of cruelty, not friendliness. "Then ask and get out of my sight, animal. I hold no love for your ilk."

"Fine. That's fine by me," Balke sat back in his seat, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had known this would be hard, but not like this. Von Mellenthin not only had an aura of authority about him, he radiated it, and it was taking all of Balke's willpower to resist this Zeon freak's charisma. Even the insults felt right to him. "I want to know about the freighter crash from back in May."

"What about it? Accidents happen, even to Lunarian ore shipments."

"Did you do it?"

"From in here? That's a joke, right?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Balke snorted.

"What do you think happened?" asked von Mellenthin earnestly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"I think there's a group of Zeon out there, probably yours, who managed to get themselves some bad things to play with."

Von Mellenthin's eyebrow rose, and a smirk formed on his lips. "'My' Zeon are all dead. Even your heavily-revisionist history books say so. With the exception of myself, all of my men perished at Metz."

"That remains to be seen."

"Calling your own nation's publishing lies now? You have fallen out of grace, haven't you?"

"Stop fucking around."

"Surely you have better things to do that spend time witch-hunting the dead. If you manage to find any of 'my' Zeon, tell them to write me. I don't get a lot of mail in this place, and a few of them could even cook."

"So you deny that anything came off of that ship before it crashed?"

"Deny it? I'm positively certain that nothing came off of that ship but death. Satisfied?" snapped von Mellenthin, getting irritated.

Balke sighed. "So this isn't some scheme of yours after all?"

Von Mellenthin laughed. "You give me too much credit, Hauptmann. From this place, I find myself lucky I get to play the piano, much less plot violent coup de main. With what am I supposed to wage a military strategy? Packs of cigarettes? Some chewing gum? An anthem or two to raise the savage spirits of the people here to rise up and murder the guards? In case you missed what's standing outside, there is a Titans platoon of mobile infantry, heavily armed and waiting for the chance to use the contents of those pretty tanker trucks on all of us here. If you're hunting for conspiracies instead of your masters, OldType, I suggest you pay closer attention to the Federation, and not to me."

"Pretty speech, but I don't buy it. I know your kind, Zeon, and your egos rise to the surface eventually. You won't be able to resist bragging to someone about how you duped the Federation into thinking you weren't dangerous while your leftovers blow up more schoolbuses full of children."

That one hit home. Von Mellenthin slammed his boots down and propelled himself forward, coming to a halt just before the end of his nose touched the glass. There was murder in his eyes, and Balke had no doubts what would have happened if the glass had not been there.

"There are no 'leftovers', Federation scum!", he hissed, teeth clenched together. "All my people DIED at Metz, and I had to WATCH! Your friends with the 9th Army, that fat fool Derrick and the rest of his moron staff, gave them no place to go, and they took the only option left to them! I was THERE, Schweinehund, and part of me died there, too, along with Juergen Gyar and the last EIGHT of my division! This place will kill what is left of me, and then you'll be able to sleep better at night knowing the last murder of a free man is done with! Rest easy behind your Titans, pig, and I hope Hell gluts itself on YOUR flesh and the flesh of every Federation citizen for what you did to my people!"

Balke was on his feet as well, staring into the taller man's eyes with anger of his own. "What came off of that ship, liar? What have you planned this time? Was Delaz not good enough a revenge for you? How many people have to die before you finally surrender?"

"ALL OF YOU!!" shrieked von Mellenthin, his breath steaming the glass in front of his face. "All of you MUST die, for daring to defy your genetic superiors, for daring to lie to a people about their freedom, for daring to impose your disgusting will upon us, for daring to judge the darkness without end with the same scale as you judge the dust you live on, for daring to deny that NO MEN are created equal, and for DARING to commit mass murder in the name of peace when you should tear apart the Titans for what they've done! There will BE NO PEACE, NO SURRENDER, AND NO MERCY FOR THE FEDERATION!! NEVER!!"

By this point, the guards had come in, and were trying to drag von Mellenthin away from the glass. Balke was being told to leave by someone, but he hardly heard them, so intent was he in feeling the impact of von Mellenthin's words. The Zeon General was still screaming his rage at Balke as they forced him back through the doorway, and the final ravings stayed in his mind even as he turned to go.

"Space will be free, even if this entire PLANET has to die! Space WILL BE FREE, Teutonic Knight, and all you know will be as DUST!!"

He rubbed the Teutonic Cross, symbol of an Order older than the Federation itself, tattooed on his right hand as he left the building, his questions unanswered.

Within the halls of the prison, once out of sight of Balke, von Mellenthin ceased his struggles against the guards, clapped his hands once, and laughed aloud. His entire demeanor changed, and his exhortations echoed through the hallways and all through the levels and the air vents, letting all who heard it for what it was know that as in all things, he was supreme.

Stumble until you crawl, Teuton, and maybe you will see, but until then, sleep well at night while you still can.

Even after he stopped laughing, he could not suppress the grin on his face. While you still can. . .