Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
I love being the Man! exulted recently-reinstated Captain Camael Balke as his grin swept across the room. He was back in his universe now, and his list of conditions had been more than met. Edgrove had not liked it one bit, but that was his problem. He wanted a fix to his sucking chest wound, and Balke was the staplegun to do the job. Even the fatigue, from the drive to Bonn and the lateness of the hour, had been washed away by the fact that he could wear the uniform again, once he had acquired a new one. It hadn't taken a lot of negotiation, not when Balke was looking down on Edgrove from a great height.
His reinstatement had complications, of course. Even in his position, Edgrove lacked the power to completely clear his name and get him back on the payroll at his full rank, but being deputized and granted "temporary authority as though invested with a captaincy" was good enough to work with. He'd even managed to secure certain regulatory immunities and conditions that any ordinary Federation Captain would have shot his own mother for. For certain, the protests had been loud and adamant about most of his "requests", and even Cramer, who flaunted regulations whenever it suited him and he thought he could get away with it, had looked as though he were going to pop like a balloon on a bed of nails.
Fuck 'em. If they're desperate enough to beg me for help, then they can handle a few bad words, a bowl of insubordination, and a extra large glass of 'I Told You Sos' with their Happy Meal, by God!
"Captain, the floor is yours," spoke Edgrove, managing to choke out Balke's reestablished rank without spitting, and the assembled sat down and went silent. Balke had chased most of the lower staff out, and with the exception of Dorff, who was standing off in a corner, the lowest-ranking person in the room was the historian. The audience was down to about a dozen people, total. The ex-Ranger was eminently amused that he, a former Corporal, was being treated like Balke's aide. It also helped that he was the largest man in the room.
"Okay, people," Balke said, the audience unable to affect his nerves, "background info, so get your pens and pencils and pay attention. Your enemy is on the screen, and has those two faces, so keep them in mind. What I'm going to tell you comes from sources outside the loop, but it's all clean. Some of it's even classified by Federal mandate, but I think we can all be discreet, can't we? Your historian's got a lot of facts, but can't tell you anything about the nature of the enemy. I can. Make sure Captain Assclown stays awake for this, or he'll just keep right on thinking that this is just another episode of 'Krauts From Space' and probably get killed, and that would be a damn shame and a total sin at his bright and early age."
Balke's back was turned, but he could feel Sajer's eyes on him, and sense the uplifted middle finger as well. Fuck him, too. He'll thank me later when he lives to savage humanity with his horrible gene pool.
"I think the Professor there left off doing background data. Fine. I'd start there, but that's not going back far enough. Everything centers on the past with these guys. Get one thing through your gray matter, folks: these two are NOT your typical Zeon. They're Zeeks, but not like the other Zeeks. They don't even share a common background with most of Side 3's other denizens, so don't assume anything or take shit for granted, because they'll know you are and skullfuck you with your own stupidity. That's not an insult, it's just a simple fact of what they will do. I got skullfucked by them so bad during the War that I've got two glass eyes and well-lubed sinuses. That was a joke, feel free to laugh.
"By and large, the residents of New Koenigsberg Bunch are Germans. Reason being is that it was a bunch, no pun intended, of Germans that got together about a hundred years ago or so and leased-to-own a cylinder from Colony Corporation on Side 3. Reason for that is because they needed a place to go, because they'd just been politically exiled from Earth. Reason for that is because they tried to establish a form of government that was counter to what those under a republic would desire. I'm talking about a combination of imperialism, oligarchism, and feudalism, the same setup that the old Holy Roman Empire was run under. Differences were, there was nothing holy or Roman about this one.
"Imagine for a moment, the idea of an elected Emperor. Sounds nice, yeah? No committees, no partisan backbiting, no shady campaigns and cheap promises for votes, no political dominance through purely military or economic means. A common man's dream government, where one guy calls the shots, but that guy gets picked by the people, and what the people want, they get, right? Fucking wrong. What these guys tried to build was a feudal electorate patterned off of the Pfalzgraf, the Elector-Princes of the old German tradition. The Emperor, while not a true hereditary power, gets put into position by the Elector-Princes, and rules the whole show for life. When he croaks, the Elector-Princes get together and vote in another one of their number, usually after some form of trial. The Elector-Princedoms are hereditary positions, whose powers are granted to them by the Emperor, so the only way to get rid of them is by killing off the current family and replacing it, or having the Emperor get pissed off, strip them of their land and title, and give it to another House.
"These dirtbags liked the idea so much that they decided to resurrect the whole concept and force-feed it down Germany's throat, but they actually tried it legally. This was back when the first space colonies started to spin, and the undesirables were being forcibly relocated. Fifteen families, one for each German state after the 1990 Old Calendar reunification, each rose to some sort of social dominance over their respective territories and decided to elect an Emperor under the old tradition of Taiding. This would legitimize what they'd done in the eyes of the people, who would then be obliged to swear fealty to the Princes and thus, subsequently, to the Emperor. Germans get off on traditions, and this one has never been far from the surface, even today."
He paused and glanced around. The faces around him bore looks of confusion. I adore a captive audience. "Germans are funny people. You ask one to define what a German is and they can't do it, but they all share one trait in common and that is a desire to be ruled. Germans without strong leadership get funny ideas, and then start looking to kill Frenchies, Slavs, and Poles to better their own gains. These fifteen families of throwbacks managed to convince a sizeable portion of the population of Central Europe that as leadership went, the Federation wasn't cutting it. So they rose up and tried to vote out the politicians who were also Federation supporters, so that they could take power, call for a Germany-wide election on whether or not to accept Federation control anymore, kick the Charter out, and then rule with an iron fist for the next five hundred years or so.
"Their plan was opposed by the elected Federation-phile politicians, and also by the Roman Catholic Church. The conspirators had tried to get the nod from the Church to make their future Emperor's rule legit, the way it used to be done. I don't think the Cardinals and the Holy See had ever moved that fast to block a succession in a thousand years. But they couldn't act on their own volition, not with a separation of church and state in effect. So they reestablished an old chivalric order based on the Teutonic Knights of the Templar tradition. These agents then took up the sword of reason and began shutting doors in the faces of the Fifteen. They, and the Church, saw the Taiding for what it really was, and rallied their people against a tyranny that wore the face of a comrade. The Fifteen appealed to the German in their supporters; the Church appealed to the soul of the people, using their Knights as their field agents, capable of actions that their priests and laity were forbidden to use. The Church won, and the Fifteen failed. Halle-fucking-luia.
"They were due to be tried for treason, but they were more farsighted than the Federation was at the time. Each of these fifteen families, and their supporters, were economically powerful, and held a lot of stock in the infrastructure of Europe. When it was apparent they weren't going to wheedle their way into anywhere but a stockade, they tried to kill off the opposition party. When that plan went balls-up, they up and liquidated all their holdings, and managed to lease a colony in space. They then packed up and left Earth for Side 3, the furthest place from Earth they could get to and still be in the Sphere, set up shop in their brand new cylinder, and got back into business. They named their Bunch 'New Koenigsberg', and the Fifteen, as the Elector-Princes, became the administrators for the colony.
"Now, even though their basic pattern was taken from the Holy Roman Empire, there was a dark side to this system. The Fifteen are strict eugenic Nietzscheans, and the Church saw that and put a stop to it while they still could. What I mean is that these assholes were out to raise an Emperor who was a superhuman, one that was born to a power that was tangible, physical, and spiritual, the way no previous tyrant had ever been. Where others had divine mandate, they would have genetic supremacy, which was a lot easier to prove and act with than the idea that your throne was given to you by God. But in order to make certain that their Emperor was who he needed to be, they ALL had to be superhuman, so that whomever was elected by the Princes would be one of them, and therefore perfect for the job. Using selective breeding and highly illegal genetic experimentation, they began their quest to build the better monkey. That got them in trouble here on Earth, but my gut tells me they didn't give up their ways, and the fruits of their labors are ripe."
Balke pointed at the screen, eyes on the audience, who sat silent and stunned. "After three generations of doing who knows what with DNA strands, I give you their latest models for the New World Order: Dietrich von Mellenthin and Reinhardt von Seydlitz. Each from one of the Fifteen Houses of the Electors, each superior than their forebears. Raised into a social system that abhors decency and equality, and exists on a level of oppression the likes of which no society has ever before seen, one where there is a very real and very defined caste system based on eugenics. If the shady kind of reports I got to sift through are all true, their chromosome fiddling, plus being in the hardy environment of space, have produced some rather unique . . .mutations in the way they look at life, the universe, and everything."
Cramer perked up. "What kinda 'mutations'? They got two peckers or something?"
"No, but that would be pretty cool though, wouldn't it?" Balke's tone was almost wistful. "I'm not sure what they can do that's any different than what you or I. . .well, at least I can do. All I know is that if the rumors are true, these assholes have more tweaks and additions to their DNA than a Volkswagen Beetle in a ricer meet. Expect anything and everything from them, just in case.
"Now, the present. Side 3, of course, home of Zeon Zum Daikun's NewType theory. That's not a coincidence, by the way. Played right along with the scheme, at least to the observer, even after the Zavis took power and Giren proclaimed his own NewType theory. It was obvious that there was going to be a war between Earth and Space, it was only a matter of when. In that light, as the historian probably mentioned, they drastically altered their education system and began preliminary military training at a very early age. This system is still in place under the Republic of Zeon, by the way."
"Excuse me," interjected Edgrove, who had managed to still the voice in his own head that prompted him to dwell on the ramifications of what Balke was saying, "but something doesn't make sense in all of this, not that much of this really does make sense, mind you. You say that they're after conquest, rulership, a system of—of domination, but neither of them have exhibited any signs other than sociopathy. Why commit themselves to mass-murder and genocide when they're supposed to be enslaving Earthenoids?"
Balke wagged a finger at Edgrove, but smiled. "Good question, Lu---Colonel, sir," he caught the slip before he could finish it. "Remember, Giren Zavi was the genocidal one. The New Koenigsbergers aren't like that, and that's one of the reasons I think Nemesis is a smoke job. The blotter acid in the punch bowl, I guess you could say. But the desire to not mass-execute all of Earth doesn't mean they don't have the will to do it. This is bigger than that. To them, it's not just a body count that matters, but who's running the show when the curtain lifts. Von Mellenthin's a power nut, and he did everything he could during the War to make it so that as few people as possible were higher than he was on the chain of command. Von Seydlitz's demand that the Federation get the hell out of Germany runs along a similar line."
He punched a button on the keypad, and put up a highlighted section of the transcript of von Mellenthin's war crimes trial in 0080 on the screen. "Here, this is what von Mellenthin said when one of the tribunal judges accused him of being a traitor. He said, 'I and my species fight to free ourselves from a regime that cannot understand our motives or accept our goals. That makes me a patriot, not a traitor. You all serve that regime with a devotion as blind as any who labor under a system they cannot control or understand, and you enforce its will on all humanity, on Earth and in Space. What does that make you all?'"
Sajer's lips curled into a sneer. "'Patriot'? I can't believe he'd sing that old tune! What a fool!"
Balke nodded in agreement. "Yeah, that's what the tribunal said, too. They told him to justify every atrocity committed before and after the Antarctic Treaty by the Zeon, if he really thought that way. Know what he said? He said, 'I don't have to justify myself to inferiors, any more than you justify yourselves to your pets. Space is the home of the ultimate expression of Humanity, and that responsibility is far greater than enduring the hue and cry over the removal of hordes of those who are lessers, especially ones who were sent into space because they were scum that even you rid yourselves of because they took up too much living room on your planet of the perfect.' Getting the picture now, Assclown? They're not just in it to bring down the Federation: they're here to conquer, subjugate, break the rest of humanity to their yoke, and prove that only they are capable of ruling us they way every ruler has meant to. The kids are going to do what their Dads couldn't, and that's being the masters of the destiny of the species."
Balke's eyes bored into Sajer's. "And the worst part about all of this is, we're giving them all the reason in the universe to hate us more than we hate them. Every action the Federation has taken in space has threatened their ideals, their philosophy, and their way of thinking, and for that they want to see us crawl like bugs under their jackboots. They think we've put them in a corner and will destroy them for what they believe, because thanks to the Titans, that's exactly what we do!
"But I digress, sorry." He turned to the historian, who had been furiously scribbling with the speed of the practiced dictation user. "You said they've known each other since they were six. You're wrong. They've known each other since infancy. Von Seydlitz commanded a battalion in the 10th, and he conquered Prague with that battalion. Peas in a pod, these two are."
He clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing, but did not stop talking. "I didn't find out until after the War that they put their fifteen into positions of power in the Zeon military. But the War was far worse than they had expected, mostly because the Zavis fucked up, and their little perfect soldiers mostly forgot that they'd be commanded by dickheads that were less capable than they themselves were, and twelve of them died. I think the thirteenth one turned up on the KIA list after Stardust. Von Seydlitz was supposedly the fourteenth. Even so, they cost us dearly, especially here in Europe, where the supposedly autonomous 10th Panzerkaempfer was put under orders time and time again by the Zavis to do things no right-minded general would do, and then had to pay the price for it. It's what happens when politicians run wars, and I thank God for the Zavis every day for that. But we didn't finish them off."
"So what's the problem?" asked the historian, speaking up for the first time since Balke took the floor. "History shows that tyrannical reigns rarely last more than two or three generations before collapsing, especially those patterned on military power or supremacist ideals."
"Yeah, it does, so let me scare the piss out of you a little bit more, just in case some of your trousers are as dry as Captain Assclown's." Balke's voice quieted to a conspiratorial whisper. "They most likely already know that. If there's one thing the Fifteen have always paid attention to, it's history. They know why military societies fall apart, and have inoculated themselves against it. Sociological lesson time: military civilizations hasten their demise without a constant state of warfare because they have no culture beyond conquests to maintain themselves with. This occurs because everyone's too busy practicing the martial arts as opposed to painting, or imagining, or writing good literature, or studying the way the world works, or any other number of the arts and sciences that provide for a thriving culture. Their leaders tend to be no different, just successful generals or guys with the most coups counted or the biggest and most magical sword they swiped from some skank in a lake. How can a society thrive if their lord is nothing more than a two-bit thug with a body count?
"Lemme tell you a little something about Herr von Mellenthin: he is a soldier, but he's also more than that. He tells stories. He plays the piano, and has even composed a few concertos in his day. He can draw decently, and likes critiquing art because he knows the nuances. He reads, insatiably. He's a philosopher, too, capable of understanding all forms and fashions of other philosophies, and all their weaknesses. He is a learned man, and probably possesses more raw knowledge than half the people in this room, combined. He knows the value of martial prowess, and also of social consciousness. What does that tell you about their motives?"
He glared at Edgrove as he paused in his tirade, breathing heavily. "It was never cowardice that made me and my people run during the War, Colonel. I knew what was commanding the 10th Panzerkaempfer the moment they took Minsk, and that we weren't ready for them. Knowing my opponent was part of my job, and the 10th had TWO of these wanna-be gods in its ranks, among other terrible things, like the eight or so aces that came out of their muster. I watched my brigade walk into a trap on their own turf, and we barely got out as it was. Even after it all, whoever took a stand against them died, and we survived only because of the timing of the amphibious landings before Operation Odessa. Had you and the rest of the Federal Forces been a week later in coming, I'd be dead.
"But we've got them by the nutsack now. As long as we have von Mellenthin in jail, we know what they're after. All we have to do is make them come and get him, and they're owned. They won't move without their tin god." Satisfied, Balke sat down and clasped his hands behind his head. He wondered why the room was so silent, though, and his eyes narrowed as he swept them across the faces arrayed before him. "What?" he asked, hesitantly.
"We don't have him, Captain," said Edgrove gravely.
Balke did not know how he made it to his feet again. "Eh? Don't shit me! He's dead?"
"Not. . .exactly. They broke him out already. The Titans lost four suits, along with their pilots. We lost everybody, including most of the other prisoners and FNN reporter Irina Fields."
"This can't be happening," moaned Balke, rubbing a hand across his astonished face. "This isn't fucking fair!"
"God forbid that," muttered Sajer from his seat.
Balke's eyes found Sajer's in the room. "You're a funny guy, Assclown. I'm willing to bet you think the Titans can beat these Zeeks at their own game."
"Titans don't play games, Captain."
"Guess what? I agree with you." Balke looked at Edgrove. "I know it's like lancing one of your own hemorrhoids, but I agree with Captain Assclown there. Send the Titans after them and smash them with sheer numbers. No offense, Cramer, but your people will get raped if they go after these guys."
"Nah, no offense," Cramer did not look amused. "I love when REMFs tell me that me and mine're gonna get assfucked before the wedding starts. Gets me all hot 'n bothered."
"It's not about you, buttercup, it's about them. When we had von Mellenthin, we had a card to play. Now we don't, and dollars to donuts says they've got a plan."
"It's too late, Balke," said Edgrove. "The 103rd is already deploying at Magdeburg."
Balke's eyes narrowed again. "Why the fuck are they going to Magdeburg?"
"Because the 10th is going to Berlin. We're going to cut them off at the Elbe River. Von Seydlitz said so."
"When the hell did he say that? And what does it have to do with Magdeburg?"
"When he called us directly, before you arrived. Composite analysis of the 10th's pattern of operations during the War suggests they'll stick to mountains and forests. The only mountain range en route to Berlin before they hit the open field is the Harz range. The nearest crossing for the Elbe is Magdeburg, since we're going to blow the bridge at Dessau. If they don't take the Magdeburg crossing, the next one rated for the weight of mobile suits is over a hundred kilometers away, on open terrain. With the Elbe swollen from the snows, they can't risk jumping it with their suits unless they all have Gelgoogs, so they have to find a crossing capable of handling the weight. Zakus and Doms can't make the distance on thrusters in gravity."
Balke found a chair and sat down, shaking his head. "No! This is bullshit! I'm sorry, no, I don't mean the plan, Colonel; that makes a lot of sense. But why Berlin? That makes no goddamn sense whatsoever! Play that call over for me, if there's a copy."
The transmissions were replayed for the sake of those who had not been there to see it the first time. It was Cramer's first time seeing that conversation as well, and when it was over he was nodding to himself. "Yep, that there's a plus-perfect, Grade-A son of a bitch. Me and my people'll enjoy horsekicking his ass back to the Moon."
Balke was lost in thought. Nemesis made no sense, any more than a move to Berlin. Von Seydlitz would never enter Berlin as a conqueror, because it would be hateful to himself, and von Mellenthin would never force him to do so. Something was missing, and he was hellbound to find out what.
He lit a cigarette, then sat back, rubbing his forehead with two fingers. "This is fucking nuts. It's stupid."
"Seems pretty straightforward to me, Captain," murmured Edgrove, waving a hand to clear the smoke away.
"Okay, we think they're going to Berlin, we think they've got this germ or whatever the fuck it is. We know they won't use it until they get to Berlin if we don't vacate all of Germany and turn over control to them, and we know they have mobile suits, armed and operational. We also," he stood now, punching a wall with each word, "fucking well know that they broke von Mellenthin out of Mannheim. That's bad, by the way."
"We got that," said Cramer.
"Why is that bad, exactly?" asked Sajer. "He's just a man."
Balke shot him a withering glare. "You haven't listened to a thing I've said, have you? Zeon Daikun was 'just a man'. Char Aznable was 'just a man'. Anavel Gato was 'just a man'. Aiguille Delaz was 'just a man'. The leaders of the AEUG are 'just men'. Dietrich von Mellenthin is not 'just a man'!! He'll wipe his ass with your face like toilet paper, then shoot you in the liver for the kicks of watching you die, just because you're an Earthenoid, and a Titan! And he'll do it with the same scruples he uses when faced with choosing bacon or sausage at a fucking breakfast buffet, because you're an inferior and are only worth about that much hassle! I've talked to von Mellenthin, and I've looked him in his eyes, and whatever lives behind them looked at me like I was a fucking bug, something he'd step on and not even notice!
"It also means that von Seydlitz isn't running the operation anymore. His monstrous master is. Which brings me to how they managed to get our skirts up around our asses and our panties pulled down without us even noticing."
Balke rifled through the file folder he'd carried in until he found what he was looking for. "This is mostly guesswork, since all the proof in the world is buried under a mountain, but bear with me. April 30, this year, the Granada-registered bulk freighter Non Sequitur collides with a hunk of post-War orbiting debris and takes a header into a mountain in the Alps. This is true. Reports indicate that the pilot, who was in contact with London Control, and the cargo of Lunarian ore it was carrying went splat on said mountain with no survivors. I don't think that was the case at all. I think that maybe the pilot and definitely the real cargo survived the crash, and we're seeing it in the form of von Seydlitz's mobile suits. Evidence here," he waved a glossy photo of a patch of concaved earth, "practically screams that something big and heavy landed while that freighter vaporized on the mountain. Search and Rescue failed to confirm when they checked the area. Boo-boo, big time."
"We got that already. Move along," said Edgrove, his head beginning to hurt. This was more like something out of a demented science fiction writer's dream than reality.
"Mobile suits, and probably this Nemesis critter, were the cargo. Now, two weeks ago there was an explosion in a salt mine less than twenty kilometers away from the crash site. It was that explosion that led me to Berchtesgaden, by the way. Rewind to the War, where the 10th had plenty of time to scope out the Berchtesgaden area when they were cruising the Alps making idiots out of all of us by simply going around everything. Bear in mind that this was the same op that netted them Zurich, which I'll get back to in a minute.
"Somehow, just before the final push into Metz proper and the call to 'Mistwraith' Gyar to surrender, von Seydlitz and an unknown amount of his people managed to get out before the Big Bang. Considering that no one bothered to confirm their destruction, they probably used forests and mountains, which meant they used the Alps again. This time, they stayed there, set up shop in Berchtesgaden, and infiltrated. I've got testimony from half the population of Berchtesgaden saying that just before the War's end, a group of strangers moved into town and got jobs working in the salt mine. They had papers and IDs that said they were from various places on Earth, not space, and people said they knew in advance that a group of people would be showing up to help keep the local economy going. Here's the cute part: one of them played the violin, very well."
Leaning over, he slapped another button and popped up a picture of von Seydlitz. "Our man 'Black Eagle' here used to be a violin player. Second chair in a full orchestra kind of violin player. The physical description matches this dick to a tee."
Balke stood to his full height. "With a lot of digging, I found an oblique reference from a field report given by a fighter pilot for the 9th Army during the Metz operation, several days before the reactor kamikaze trick, and just a few before the capture of von Mellenthin. This report stated that he, and two of his fellow flight, attempted to pursue a heavily-damaged Gau bomber/carrier that managed to slip past their aerial screen and elude destruction. Permission was denied to continue pursuit on the order of senior Aerospace Forces commander, one Colonel Daniel Brown. That Gau was later discovered near Freiberg, but there was no sign of cargo or crew. This means, at least to this old detective, that someone got out of Metz earlier, before von Mellenthin was even caught, and went to Freiberg to get something. Then, they kept going. What the Freiberg pickup was probably came out of Zurich, and it was probably hard currency of some type that was universally acceptable, like gold or diamonds or something they could barter with. Once they got to Berchtesgaden, they started setting up the picnic and waited for the rest of them to arrive. Von Seydlitz and his escapees show up a month later or so, and that's that.
"So they're alive, on Earth, well-hidden, and all nice and secure working in a salt mine under a mountain, while von Mellenthin makes a spectacle out of his trial and keeps everyone in the dark about whether or not anyone got out of Metz. All the while, the survivors plan out this whole thing. I'd call it diabolical if it wasn't so personally embarrassing."
Cramer's eyebrow rose a fraction. "What makes it your personal bitch, Balke? Think you're God's gift to the Federation or something? You some kinda psychic on top of being a fuckup?"
"Because I knew better than to trust the 'Ghosts' to stay dead, and instead of snooping around and doing anything about it, I've been fulfilling my karmic destiny by selling cheap porn to people just like you, Cramer. That's why it's my fucking personal bitch, also just like you, Cramer."
Edgrove rapped his knuckles on the desktop. "Enough with the hostility, gentlemen. That goes for all of you. Us fighting with each other only helps them. Balke, continue."
"Yes, sir. Now, I was going to start chomping on where they got the mobile suits, not to mention raiding New Koenigsberg for what I suspect are nasty things, but I'm not a Titan, and that means I can't tap anyone in space to funnel info to my desk. I tried to get people into New Koenigsberg after the War, before Stardust, but couldn't manage to get someone on the inside who got deep enough to find out what the hell they're up to. The people I did get there sent me nothing more than a lot of hoodoo reports about them raising their kids in a warlike environment, but nothing about their research or what they've been doing politically. That means that everything we see is what we know, and that's not good enough to figure out what they're really after. I was wondering if you could help me with that. . .Captain Sajer."
Sajer, who had been wrapped in his own thoughts, blinked when he realized he was being spoken to. "Hmm?"
"You, Titan. Me, Clueless. Can you get some people to do some snooping in space for me, or can't you?"
"Fuck you."
"Mmm, contempt. Makes me feel all lovey and gooey. But I've got a better idea than a grudgefuck. Colonel, sir," smiled Balke like a cherub, "could you say the magic words to charm Our Lil'est Fascist into doing me a favor?"
Edgrove actually grinned at Sajer, wearing the same smile Balke did. "That's an order, Captain." He could still do that, since this was a terrestrial problem and not a supraorbital one.
Sajer groaned, glaring at Balke with almost tangible loathing. "Fine, goddammit!"
"Thank you, sugarplum. It's easy, even for you Cro-Mag thinktanks. I'll get you a list, check it twice, and then you'll find out who's naughty or nice and tell me. In the Intel biz, we call that 'Application of Foreign Usable Resources'. It's like bribing a crooked cop for services, only not."
"When this is over, Balke . . ." Sajer's voice spoke volumes of murder.
"Yes, dear, I'll fix what ails you after the big game. Colonel, have you already got people checking for the delivery devices for this Nemesis shit?"
"Yes." Edgrove looked like he could use a stiff drink.
Balke was inclined to agree with him. "Okay, good. I doubt they'll find anything, though. I think we're being played, but I can't prove that, and it's best we don't take chances anyway. That gives us time, which only works for us. Why they'd be going to Berlin, I don't know, but if that's where they're going, then . . . where are they now?"
"They disappeared from Heidelberg just after the last transmission. Last report had them moving northbound on the Autobahn."
"Yeah, I almost forgot. We also know that they've got eight NewType candidates hostage, ages six to eight. Fuck you for that, by the way, Colonel."
Edgrove rolled his eyes skyward.
Balke's face took on a look of concern, then he tapped on the keypad in front of the historian, playing back the copy of the last von Seydlitz transmission. He paused it at the last moment, looking at the other face that had been on the screen. "Who is that, I wonder? Do me a favor and find out before daylight, Twitchy. He's got Commander's rank, so he was probably a battalion CO. I want to know how many we're dealing with, and who."
"Why's that important? Expecting one of them to pop von Mellenthin in the back before you can?" Despite the snideness in the comment, Sajer's point was taken.
"No, I just want to know how many nightmares got out of Metz. We can't rely on someone on the inside getting rid of our problems. People love a winner, and von Mellenthin delivers, so they'll stay loyal as long as it works, and to hell with what the future brings. Right now, they'll follow him to the end of the world and jump right off if he does. They may not be New Koenigsbergers, but they are Zeon, and they're banking on von Mellenthin being the next Giren Zavi, only without the hole in his brainpan. Don't forget that they're all in this together."
Balke lit a cigarette, drew in a lungful of smoke, then exhaled heavily. "Right. I'm going to get some shut-eye. This whole Nemesis thing is completely dumb, and I can't make sense of it while conscious and sober. I'll assume intelligence on Heidelberg and Lammersdorf will be here sometime between now and sunrise, and I'll take it up then. I'd suggest you all get some 'Z's, too, because when they do what they're really going to do, we may not get the chance again."
"I don't think I'm sleeping tonight," said Cramer, who was seriously contemplating catching a chopper to Magdeburg to join his company. "Think I'm gonna get my folks loaded and wired to make their bag limit. We got room on the roof for some Zeek skins to salt and stretch."
Balke smirked. "Make sure your people can hit like men and not mice, Cramer. I'd hate to think of your hotshots having to break a nail doing their jobs."
"You know," Cramer looked Balke in the eyes, "I hope that sad sack of shit wants a fight. I'm gonna enjoy handing his head to you just so you know that there ain't a monster under your bed for your Mommy to save your paper-pushing ass from!"
"I'll take that bet, hayseed." That was Sajer, who hadn't moved from his seat. After his proclamation, he looked at Edgrove, whose eyes smouldered with distaste. "Better put your money down, Colonel. Your boy's going to get his ass passed to him with both hands, and then you'll see why the Titans are necessary."
Balke was not smiling, but he did not look away from Cramer. "That's about the same odds as von Seydlitz smacking von Mellenthin in the face. Fucking insane to even think it. Never in a million, billion years."
Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
To von Mellenthin's credit, even though the blow felt like he'd just been whacked in the head with an I-beam girder (both from the power behind the punch and because of who it was coming from), he did not fall down. He did, however, stagger about a step and a half backwards, stunned. That was enough for von Seydlitz to grab him, slug him two more times, then slam him painfully onto the field table, spine bent as the taller Colonel bowed him backwards over the surface, hands gripping the T-shirt like talons. It was a brutal attack, one not at all suited to someone who was trained to kill with his hands, just one prompted by anger.
"Miss me, did you!? And whose fault is that, exactly!?" Von Seydlitz backhanded von Mellenthin across the face so hard his head bounced off the tabletop. "You selfish, manipulating, COWARD!!"
Von Mellenthin blinked, trying to clear his vision, and von Seydlitz punched him again to keep him dazed.
"Eight years!" spat von Seydlitz, eyes ablaze with rage. "EIGHT! I have done your work for you, Dietrich, even when it was NOT necessary for me to do so! Damn you for this! Damn you for ordering me out of Metz! Damn you for placing this burden on me, knowing that I would enjoy it! Damn you for counting on Axis, those traitor bastards! We could have saved you at Metz, saved you from those beasts putting you in a cage!"
Von Seydlitz's fingers twisted, tightening in the coarse fabric like a vise, as he picked von Mellenthin up and slammed him back down onto the tabletop. "Release me! Take this from me, knowing that I could have saved you and did nothing!"
He punctuated the 'nothing' with another right hook across von Mellenthin's cheek. Then, as von Seydlitz drew back to hit him again, the General wrapped his left hand around the wrist of the hand that held him and squeezed.
Hissing as the bones in his forearm began to grind together, von Seydlitz felt his grip loosening on the older man. He glanced down, and ice water filled his veins.
Von Mellenthin's eyes looked back at him, promising nothing but pain. Despite his temper boiling over, within him, he'd realized that von Seydlitz was not out to damage him, merely to hurt him. He made it a point to do the same, only worse.
Though shorter, von Mellenthin was stronger. He bent forward suddenly, throwing von Seydlitz off balance enough for von Mellenthin to get his feet under him. Then, he began to push. Von Seydlitz's fist lashed forward, only to be grabbed by von Mellenthin's right hand in an unbreakable grip and halted in mid-flight. Slowly, inexorably, the taller von Seydlitz began to lose ground, and he threw all his weight and strength down, trying to keep the General pinned to the table.
Von Mellenthin's face was a demon's mask of blood and wrath. His temper had awoken, and his teeth were bared in an animal-like snarl of fury. Von Seydlitz was strong, so very strong, stronger now than when they had been younger, but not strong enough. Though the younger man put everything he had into it, von Mellenthin simply bore him down, his anger greater and lending him insane power in this struggle.
"How dare you?" the baritone voice of the General grated out, a cross between a growl and a roar. "How dare you test me!"
Von Mellenthin was almost completely erect now, and von Seydlitz found himself bending backwards. With unreal speed, von Mellenthin's hand loosened its grip on his wrist and closed around his neck. Von Seydlitz's hands clutched at the forearm of the hand that dug into his windpipe, clawing with everything he had. If von Mellenthin had been anyone else, the force behind von Seydlitz's fingers would have left broken bones and serious muscle and nerve damage. But von Mellenthin was made of the same stuff that he was, a gene-augmented being of heightened strength, inhuman reflexes, and tougher bones than that. Their fingers could, at times, even rend metal, and except as a concept with an ambiguous name, neither of them knew the meaning of 'mercy'. This was not going to be a fight between two trained soldiers: this was going to be a slobberknocker that could very well kill one of them.
"Why do you force me to prove my physical superiority to you? I trusted you, ingrate vassal! Only YOU could have pulled this off and succeeded where all others would fail!" Von Mellenthin even sounded like a monster, to match the expression on his rage-filled face. "You DARE betray me, after I promised you a portion of everything I have? I name you CRAVEN!"
With a blow that folded von Seydlitz in half, von Mellenthin buried his hammerlike fist into his brother's abdomen. Already gasping for what little breath he could inhale around the unyielding fingers von Mellenthin had around his neck, what little he had been able to breathe came whooshing out in a rush. Pain burst in his gut, like an organ had simply exploded. The hit that slammed into the side of his face made stars collapse in his skull.
And still he did not surrender. Raising his arms, he brought them both down on the elbow junction on the arm that von Mellenthin was using to close off his windpipe. That failed as well. In desperation, he stabbed his fingers into von Mellenthin's own trachea. The hand released his neck, and he brought an elbow across von Mellenthin's face with all the force he could muster. That bought him just enough time and room to drive a booted foot onto one of von Mellenthin's bare feet, then kick him in the stomach. The General fell down this time, but only for about half a second. Prison living had not slowed von Mellenthin a bit, and he was on his feet and moving in an instant.
Von Seydlitz did the only thing he could do, and that was counter-charge. They came together with all the subtlety of a train wreck. If anyone else had been there to see it, it would have terrified them, even if they had known them. After several minutes of ducking, dodging, weaving, grappling, and thunderous clouts to the head, neck, and whatever else they could hit that would have pulverized lesser men, the fight finally went out of von Seydlitz when von Mellenthin picked him up, lifted him over his head by a shoulder and thigh, and smashed him onto the unyielding surface of the ground. The General then began to batter him with one of the folding chairs until the younger man finally gave up trying to claw his way up von Mellenthin's leg to reach something he could hurt.
Tossing the chair aside, von Mellenthin took hold of von Seydlitz, a hand on his neck and the other with fingers curled like claws, ready to tear von Seydlitz's throat out, knees clamping von Seydlitz's arms down. The Colonel was covered in blood and trying to cough his way back into something resembling a regular breathing pattern. The older of the two was not looking terribly much better, and was gasping for breath also, arms trembling from the strain, lacerations on his exposed skin, welts rising, and a few things that looked like they were trying to become bruises swelling just under his flesh. But the rage had run its course. Exhaustion wracked them both, and when it was apparent that von Seydlitz was not going to continue this fight any longer, von Mellenthin took the weight from his arms and knelt down slowly, until he was down on both knees, looking at the bloodied form of his brother.
"You," he choked out after clearing his throat, "you never did . . .know when to stop . . . Reinhardt. . .stupid Prussian genes . . ."
The younger man blinked a few times, then slowly raised a hand to wipe blood out of an eye, smearing it. "Never . . .learned . . .how . . . Surrender was always . . . a Hessian trait . . ."
For a time, they simply remained that way, catching their breaths, feeling the colder air outside seep into the tent despite the space heater (which had tipped over during their struggle along with nearly everything else in the huge tent), its chilling fingers soothing reddened flesh. The blood of their wounds was clotting now with frightening speed, sealing the lacerations shut. Another gift to the superior species from the genemasters of New Koenigsberg to their chosen dominarchs. Only the best for those who would rule.
It began with a quiet laugh that was barely distinguishable from a cough. Then, it swept over von Mellenthin like a tidal wave, and he was laughing as though he would never stop. After a moment, von Seydlitz managed a smile, then also began to laugh as the tension bled away, tears streaming down both their faces, adding more liquid to the blood that was already dried.
Ribs hurting from laughing so hard, von Mellenthin sat down completely. "Listen to us, like two boys roughhousing in a backyard rather than two grown men who nearly killed each other in a paroxysm of ire."
"If I had remembered how hard you hit, I might have managed to talk myself out of it beforehand."
"It's been a long time, Reinhardt. What, fifteen years since the last time you and I fought? The Field of May, at the Taiding, just before the War?"
"That one was not much of a fight. Your first hit pretty well grounded me."
Von Mellenthin waved a hand. "It wasn't that easy. I had to club you unconscious to get you to stop. This time I didn't."
"I am not getting any younger."
"Or any less stubborn. Lose any teeth this time around?"
Gingerly, von Seydlitz probed his mouth with his tongue. "No. You?"
"Nope." Von Mellenthin visibly sobered. "We should be ashamed."
Von Seydlitz shook his head, wiping tears as he did so. "No. I have spent eight years living in a shame I could not bring myself to leave behind. I hated you for ordering me away. I hated you for saddling this burden on me. I almost lost them, Dietrich. In 0083, they nearly left to go fight with Delaz in Stardust. It happened again when Axis betrayed us. Then there was all the years of the Titans, and the hiding and waiting, and when I sent Antares away, I felt . . .alone again. I had not felt that way since I was six, and it almost broke me, and that made me hate you even more, and I hated myself for hating you."
"I knew that you would," said von Mellenthin sheepishly, "just not to that extent. There was nothing to be done about it, though. You couldn't have beaten their numbers, and I would rather have had you live in shame and continue to live than to martyr yourself to rescue me. Better the chance that the Feddies would be weak and not kill me, though they should have. The Race demanded more of its sons yet."
"Damn the Race!" snarled von Seydlitz, sitting up. "My duty was to Father, and to you! The Race could see to itself!"
Von Mellenthin looked him in the face. "Without at least one of us? The others are dead, Reinhardt. Killed in useless battles against overwhelming odds, all for a higher ideal called Zeon! Noble as it was, it was still useless to try, not when we were betrayed at every level by people who thought they knew war and its science. Axis is just a repeat of history, but there's only one condition to treason that isn't eventually lethal, and that's if you win. I have a plan to deal with Axis, too, or do you doubt that as well?"
For a moment, von Seydlitz was silent. "How did you find out about the others?"
Quietly, von Mellenthin replied, "Certain particularly cruel jailors with even crueler senses of humor. They enjoyed telling me about the confirmed Zeon dead, as though each one of them was a close associate of mine. They read me name after name after name, hoping for a reaction. I saved my grief for my solitude. The last one they told me about from the War was Wallenstein, who died when his Musai was expended at Abowaku. The one who survived to fight in Stardust was Hardenberg, and he died at the hands of one of Cima Garahou's passel of traitors."
"Stefan and Markus. . ." whispered von Seydlitz. He deduced that the others had met their ends throughout the War, in various ways. "Some ruling Electorate."
"The next generation is probably being educated now, and probably superior to both of us old-gens. There will be others."
"Was it supposed to happen this way? Twice now, the superiors beaten by these. . .cattle?"
"Probably not, but as long as New Koenigsberg lives, we will live. Yes, we're the last now of our generation of the Princes, you and I. I somehow knew we would be. Our brethren didn't tend to play well with others. We at least had each other." Von Mellenthin's face went grim. "I'm sorry, Reinhardt, for leaving you for so long. At least I wasn't on vacation, though. Nothing like a Federation prison to remind you of what you're missing."
"I am sorry I hit you. I was being selfish, thinking my problems were the worst one could suffer."
"I won't hold it against you. You were just being Reinhardt, like always. You never change. The only constant thing in a fickle universe that hates us for what we are: better than everything else it's managed to produce."
Von Seydlitz nodded as von Mellenthin stood up unsteadily, then straightened.
"But the last name they used to drive a nail through my flesh was Father's," von Mellenthin's teeth were clenched, and his face was dark.
"I knew before you did. Antares told me." His voice got quieter. "I dreaded having to tell you. I suppose I have to thank the late Ms. Fields for bearing the brunt of your displeasure."
"How did he die?"
"How did she die?"
"I asked you first."
Von Seydlitz drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, ignoring the pain of his aching bones and muscles. "The same way most Spacenoids do these days: the Titans. According to Antares, they had him assassinated for speaking against the Federation for having you locked away, and the Republic for not taking up the standard to free its sons from illegal imprisonment. The Titans killed him during a protest rally on Talos Bunch, when he was there speaking. They did not use gas, like they have with other colonies, and they have never set their feet on New Koenigsberg because we have given them no reason to directly. The other Houses have kept to their own, and not gotten involved. Prudent, if might I say so. The Titans could destroy everything we have worked for during the last hundred years. If they ever got wind of the extent of our genetic tampering, they would gas the entire colony, then incinerate the cylinder just to make certain."
"So he wasn't even at home when he died."
"Correct," von Seydlitz continued formally, as though to distance himself from his own words. "Mother . . .did not take it well at all. She went mad, Dietrich. When Antares went to see her, she cursed him for being the only one to return, as the bastard child. It . . .hurt him badly."
"I can imagine. Antares was never one of her favorite people, and I don't think she ever understood why you insisted that he live with us, even against Father's arguments about him living with his sons, who were ruling class. I didn't understand for a long time, either."
Von Seydlitz smiled. "We all need our secrets."
"You would make me wonder, wouldn't you?"
"Was I wrong?" With almost audible slowness, von Seydlitz began to rise, only to finish with his head bowed low, one knee on the floor, the other bent in front of him, fist braced on the ground. "I have both doubted and harmed you, and beg forgiveness . . .my Emperor."
Von Mellenthin felt a surge of power course through his veins, as he had so long ago, when there had been fourteen kneeling before him, along with the entire population of the New Koenigsberg colony. Kneeling at the feet of their Emperor, the Chosen One, victorious over his genetic equals on the Field of May. He reached out a hand and placed it on von Seydlitz's head.
"Ungluecklich das Land, das keine Helden hat." intoned von Seydlitz, as though on cue: 'Unhappy the land that has no heroes.'
Von Mellenthin responded, "Nein, ungluecklich das Land, das Helden noetig hat." The traditional response, its originator long forgotten: 'No, unhappy the land that needs heroes.'
The General continued. "Will you die for blood?"
"It is by my blood that life or death is mine to judge."
"Will you die for honor?"
"It is by my honor that I myself am judged."
"What is the purpose for your life?"
"Power."
"What is the question of Power?"
"Who will live, and who will die."
"Do you have Power?"
"In the presence of the One who is Power, I do not."
"Will you swear upon your blood and honor to uphold the Call of Power, to rule your lands with its mandate, and to enforce the Will of the Emperor upon all Humanity?"
"I do and shall, unto death and beyond."
The final piece. "Rise, Graf von Seydlitz, and know that your Emperor is pleased with you." He reached a hand down to his brother.
Von Seydlitz raised his head and looked at the hand, fingers reddened with his blood, his own flesh beneath the nails, and made no move to take it.
Von Mellenthin felt anger welling in him again. "What?" he snapped. "You'll bend the knee, but my hand is no longer good enough for you, after eight years of being in a Federation prison with the scum of Terra?"
"No, just wash your hands first. I would hate to get germs on me." Von Seydlitz could not resist teasing him.
"Gyah! Squeamish, too?" von Mellenthin snorted. Then his baritone voice softened. "Still friends?"
Von Seydlitz took the hand in his own, grip firm, his cold gray eyes actually softening in a rare show of warmth that he would never allow another person to ever see. "Always, and more than that."
The older of them hauled the younger to his feet with the one hand, then wrapped his arms around him like he would never let go again. For once, von Seydlitz did not mind, and hugged von Mellenthin back with all his strength.
"You always were my best soldier, Reinhardt. I'm proud of you for holding to the plan and doing what you knew was best," whispered von Mellenthin fiercely. "Please just keep trusting me, even when everyone else won't."
Von Seydlitz could only nod, his voice unable to work around the lump in his throat.
They remained that way for a long time, and they were still locked in their embrace when the tent flap opened. Antares de la Somme, face like stone instead of his usual smirk, sort of hop-skipped into the confines of the tent, stomping the snow off of his boots even as his brothers broke apart and glared at him for the interruption.
"Beautiful Kodak moment there, guys, but you're blocking the door," He looked at the state the two of them were in, and then looked around at the disaster area they'd turned the interior into. He maneuvered around the two taller men without a word, picked up the folding chair that von Mellenthin had battered von Seydlitz into submission with, popped it open and sat down on it, staring balefully at his older brothers, who stared back with identical looks of bemusement at him.
"I guess my timing is pretty bad," continued de la Somme. "Would you like me to leave you two alone for a while longer? From the sounds of it outside, you might not be done yet, and I'd hate to think of your honeymoon as being unfulfilled."
They stared back at their younger brother in shock. De la Somme was completely straight-faced, with no sign of an emotion evident, even in his eyes.
"I can have a sign made outside, so folks'll know what's going down. We can wait and all that." He scratched his head. "It can be like 'Ozzie and Harriet', only with big guns. You can both move into a nice little two-story with a white picket fence, perfectly trimmed hedges, little garden gnomes, a dog and a cat that never fight. You know how it goes."
De la Somme could have sprouted horns and a tail, then stuck out a two-foot long tongue and licked his own forehead, and not gotten a more stunned reaction from his flabbergasted audience. "Only thing I can't figure out is which one of you is Ozzie and which one's Harriet? You might have to share pants, and the both of you are the end-all, be-all of sharing, aren't you?"
Von Seydlitz recovered first. "I am not catching the 'Ozzie and Harriet' reference, but I think we are being casually mocked."
De la Somme remained deadpan. "I've got it. Reinhardt gets to be Harriet, just because he's the sensitive one."
Von Mellenthin smirked. "Yes, I think we are being mocked. What should we do about it? We've got a duty as the elders to punish this wastrel."
"'Wastrel'? Only bitches and geeks know what 'wastrel' means," huffed de la Somme. The mask was beginning to crack.
Von Seydlitz's eyes gleamed with malice. "I have always found that kicking his ass is suitable punishment."
"That sounds violent," remarked the unnaturally-calm ace pilot. "I deplore violence, especially against orphans and other respectable entities."
Nonplussed, von Mellenthin stared at him. "I hear orphans squeak when you stomp on them."
"I have always wanted to hear one squeak," von Seydlitz said. "Which of us should stomp on him?"
"We'll have to decide in the manner of our forebears. It's tradition."
De la Somme yawned. "You're both so boring. I've felt more threatened by a bowl of cafeteria porridge than by you lamers."
Von Mellenthin stretched out a hand, palm up. "You count."
Von Seydlitz grinned, then held out one of his own. "Ready? One---two---three!"
Each of them clapped their open palms with their free hands in succession, three times. "Brunnen! Papier! Schere!" they yelled in unison. At the third smack, their hands paused. Von Mellenthin's was a fist, with an open hole in the center. Von Seydlitz's was holding two fingers outstretched.
The General smiled. "I win. Well beats scissors."
If he were capable, von Seydlitz would have pouted. "You always win at Well, Paper, Scissors."
"That's because you always play scissors. Block the door."
Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
The eight members of the Commonality met, as they usually did, while their physical forms slept.
"This is an unforeseen event. The three are mending their rifts faster than anticipated," commented one of the Commonality.
"It should not have been a surprise. Their past is long together," mentioned another. It was becoming more and more difficult for the eight to see the Pattern, and this was intolerable to them.
"Do we dare risk intervention? Their minds are weaker than our own."
"Negative," spoke the oldest of their kind, and the most respected. "The Mellenthin-entity and the Seydlitz-entity are close enough to us that they would detect our intrusion into their consciousness. Our physical forms, even if fully developed, would still be no match for theirs, and even yet their Wills are enough to defend themselves from even the Commonality combined. The Antares-entity must be our intermediary, for he is most like us in fashion."
"The Lalah-entity warned us of beings like they," shuddered one of the others. "Hateful creations."
"And yet well-suited to their purpose. The human norms have progressed far with their ability to mold the stuff of life. It is only by luck that these are not yet as we are."
"But what of the data of our own Becoming? They possess it now. They can make others like us fashioned as they are!"
"I have no doubts that the Mellenthin-entity seeks to rule all of Man, and that he would use this data to accomplish that means. It is imperative that we prevent this before they take their newfound knowledge to those that made them."
"I concur. But I detect that the Antares-entity may yet exert some influence over the Mellenthin-entity. It is the Seydlitz-entity who worries me most. He seeks our destructions. He recognizes the danger in allowing us to mature."
"Perhaps destruction is not such a horrid fate," mused one of the others. "We could be one with the Lalah-entity then, as foreseen."
Some of the others murmured agreement, but the oldest of them spoke above them. "I have not yet completed what I have set out to see. It is apparent that by whatever means necessary, the species is progressing itself towards the next stage in consciousness, where the Lalah-entity and ourselves will exist as one. We must remain for a time longer. Our near-brethren waste their potential in this futile war over transience. All may yet perish, before this is over. All I do know is that something must be left when they pass. We cannot allow the Mellenthin-entity to murder the world, and then place beings like us in power over the normals. That is not the way of things to come."
"But we cannot oppose them! Their physical superiority cannot be matched by even the machine-Awakened, and their minds, while silent to each other, are still possessing of formidible defenses, enough that even the Lalah-entity could not have risked brushing them with the barest flicker of her being without being detected, even when she existed on this level of being. The Seydlitz-entity even threatened you with harm for trying to see his thoughts, and the memory of his reaction still leaves me cold." The Commonality extended itself to its miserable member, seeking to give it some solace.
The oldest nodded. "We cannot oppose them, no. But the normals can."
"Who? The normals that fall under the sway of the Mellenthin-entity are devoted to him, and would not dare threaten him. The normal called Margul seeks the death of the Antares-entity, but that would not rid the threat the Mellenthin-entity represents."
"Acknowledged, but there are other normals out there, who vastly outnumber the Mellenthin-entity and his people. We must place our faith in them, for they will all suffer if the Mellenthin-entity succeeds where the others failed."
"At least there are but two," commented one of the Commonality. "Imagine if the Fifteen had been here together."
"Yes, thank goodness for that blessing. There are only two to contend with, and the Antares-entity who is clothed in the blood of his victims."
One of the others postulated an idea. "Is there the chance of bringing another of the potentials into combat with them?"
"They are too far away to be of use. The timing that the Seydlitz-entity chose to free the Mellenthin-entity was perfectly advantageous for only themselves. We will have to wait, and watch, and survive, until the Pattern reveals itself again."
"The Lalah-entity said that we place ourselves in too great a danger by remaining near them. The Commonality dares too much. In the presence of these, they interfere with the Pattern and our ability to read it. They would dissolve it into static if they could but see it. As it is, their interference is damaging enough. They should never have come into being. Now we are all at risk."
"We assumed that risk when we Awoke. Even the norms would have us kill our own, the Seydlitz-entity said so. With whoever has us, we will be tools. With whoever has the data from the Institute, they will create more of us. Is it our destiny to be weapons?"
The rest of the Commonality murmured about that question. "It is known that some of us shall be. Our creators in the Institute alluded that our purpose was to fight the Titans and the machine-Awakened. It may be that none alive today will survive to see Man ascend. But better destruction than have the Mellenthin-entity as lord of all. Perhaps that is part of his foul plan, as well?"
"The Mellenthin-entity would say it was. But there may yet be another way for us to be free, but that too is the Mellenthin-entity's purview. Like it or not, we are at his mercy, inasmuch as anything can be. Our fates are his to control, for now."
At the words of their oldest, the Commonality grew silent, considering the possibilities. There were few options that did not spell death, or worse.
"Too soon," whispered the oldest of them. "It is all too soon. But they are not us yet, and with the normals' help, they never will be."
Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087
The halls of Federation HQ were eerily silent, broken only by the bootheels of Titans Captain Garrett Sajer as he stomped his way up and down the hallways of the labyrinth that was the building, trying to work himself into enough fatigue to sleep. He was too wired to do so of his own volition, and he was not the kind of man to rely on sleeping pills to force unconsciousness upon himself. Besides, he was alone here now, with the exception of the on-duty guards, so he could travel the hallways at will if he wanted to.
Balke, you shit. I'll enjoy tearing you apart once the Zeon are dead. No one humiliates me like that and gets away with it. Your days are numbered now, so I hope you spend them well. It was no wonder he wasn't tired. He was too pissed off to sleep! And it was 0440 hours! And this was all Balke's fault!
Grinding his teeth in hate, he marched past the conference room where they had all spent far too many hours over the last twenty-four. A voice from inside of it made him halt and listen. When he heard it again, he reached for the door handles.
Inside, Camael Balke laid a standard Federation-issue blanket, dust-colored with "EFSF – European Command" emblazoned in white, over the sleeping form of Dorff, who was snoring in a chair in the back. The Captain smiled once, wondering how anyone could sleep through this entire freakish nightmare. He walked back down the steps to his little work area, littered with field reports and glossy still shots that were fresh off of the fax from Heidelberg and Lammersdorf. A few were even from Mannheim. He had been at work with a gold felt pen, circling this, scribbling that, all over the photos. The historian was still trying to identify the second face that had been in von Seydlitz's transmission. In the meantime, Balke himself was reviewing the transmissions, line at a time, looking for something, anything that would help him figure out what the hell the bastards were up to.
A fifth of Bacardi was sitting on the table near a makeshift ashtray. The bottle, unlike the ashtray, was mostly empty. Also unlike the ashtray, the bottle had the remnants of friends strewn across several other desktops, and on the horseshoe table. It was testament to Balke's ability to control his functions despite copious amounts of ruinous alcohol that he was even able to walk, much less continue with his analysis of the transmissions, but even after hours of steadily abusing his physiology, he was still here. The Church raised a hardy drunk.
The doors opened, admitting Sajer into the room. Balke waved him over, after taking a long swig of the Bacardi. "You're up late, Sajer."
"I could say the same of you," Sajer actually sauntered towards Balke, glancing at the pictures as he passed them. "You're sloshed, Feddie."
"Naw, just getting warmed up. I said I couldn't make sense of this clusterfuck conscious and sober. I'm taking care of that 'sober' part. What brings you by?"
"Heard a noise in here. Figured it was you."
"Yeah, it's just me. You must've followed Mr. 'Black Eagle's siren song. I've put Dorff asleep with my harebrained reasonings. You up to staying to chat a while?" It was the best truce offer Balke could manage to admit he needed to make. As much as he despised the Titans, he needed Sajer to do what needed to be done.
Sajer almost laughed. "That I'm even having this conversation with you is nothing more than pity, Balke. I couldn't give two shits and a fuck about what the hell you're up to. In fact, I was thinking about kicking your ass before I walked in here."
Balke belched, then hiccuped. "You don't want to try that right now. I'd hate for everyone to know you got beat down by a drunk, much less stink up that pretty little uniform of yours when I perform the amazing feat called the 'technicolored yawn' right on your tunic. Just have a seat and talk with me for a bit. You've got nothing better to do than listen, anyway."
Not amused, Sajer sat, deciding to leave the fight for another time, despite the opportunity that had presented itself.
Balke tapped a button on the remote he was holding, and von Seydlitz's voice thundered through the room: "tell your weaklings and cowards to meet us in the place where one empire ended and another began."
The screen paused at the press of another button. "What do you make of that little statement, Sajer?"
The Titan tapped a finger against his nose. "No clue. I think he's a fucking psycho."
"Let's not give him that kind of leeway. It'd be easy to say he's a nutcase, but unfortunately he's not. I dunno, something about that sentence is bugging the hell out of me, and I'm probably going to have to drop acid to figure out why."
Sajer rolled his eyes slyly. "So what you're saying is that you've been here mulling over that one stupid, nonsensical sentence. You're a waste of time, Balke. They should have left you wherever they'd put you."
"Like I haven't heard that tune before," Balke said, not even getting offended. He was way too drunk to care. "Check these out. This batch came from Heidelberg. So far, we've got three Kaempfer-types, a pair of Gelgoog-types, a pair of Zaku-types. Then there's the three Dom-types that hit Mannheim and punked your people." Balke reached over to another desk and slapped a piece of paper off of its surface, setting it down on top of the photos. "From Lammersdorf, one of the few survivors of the platoon that was stationed there. According to her, there were three Gelgoog-types there, too. That makes thirteen suits, not nine."
"Your point?"
"Their numbers are bigger than we thought. Better than company strength already, and the report from Heidelberg says they had a big truck with them."
Sajer looked confused. "And?"
Balke exhaled with a sigh. "It means Cramer's people will have more of a fight than they're counting on, if they fight at all."
"'At all'?"
"I'm not convinced they're going to Berlin yet, much less Magdeburg. If they were going to Berlin, why go north from Heidelberg? Why not catch the eastbound towards Nuremberg, then hitch up to Leipzig?"
Sajer glanced at the map. "Less cover? The Odenwald ends at Heilbronn. After they get done crossing the Frankenhoehe range, they're in the open between Ansbach and Bayreuth until they hit the Frankenwald. That's a big piece of Lower Bavaria."
"Good thinking, but I doubt they'd care. So we get to spy on them for a while before they vanish again, big fucking whoop. They shot down a news copter with that Zaku Cannon near Lorsch, so it's obvious they don't want to be watched too closely, but they left the others alone."
"Okay," Sajer was actually getting into this, "so they went north. That gives them the Odenwald-Spessart-Rhon ranges to play in until they hit the Thuringerwald. Same deal. It's easier than Connect-the-Dots."
"Maybe," Balke sounded skeptical. "This is, of course, if they are going to Berlin."
Sajer was looking at the photos again. "Why'd you circle all these unit insignia?"
Balke smiled. "You ever go to a high school reunion?" When Sajer shook his head, Balke leaned back. "You go there thinking people change after a lot of time, and you especially go to see who used to make your life a shithole when you went. You know, the football hero jocks who liked flushing your head in a toilet, or the tough guy bikers who used to shove your head into a locker door just cause you were in the way, or the rich kid assholes that could charm or buy their way out of first-degree murders and felony rape charges. Those dicks. Anyway, you go there thinking that maybe because you're bigger and badder now than when you were back then, maybe they'd be feeling a little guilty because it's like 'Wow, look at you now!' and all that noise. But then you see them, and aside from the fact that they're all older, they all still look the same to the mind's eye, and they're still the same assholes they used to be."
Balke jabbed a finger at the photos. "These guys are just like all the pricks from the high school reunion. Still the same assholes, and they look the same, too. They're all marked with the gold eagle on the Zeon symbol, the unit patch for the 10th Panzerkaempfer. Okay, now let's look at the unit heraldry. The two Zakus are sporting the black eagle with the rifle and axe of the 358th Light Assault, von Seydlitz's old battalion. The Kaempfers are wearing the horned devil of the 2nd Shock Battalion. The pissed-off rhino on the Heidelberg Gelgoogs is the 22nd Marine's flair. The Doms that did the Mannheim job were a mixed bag, a 22nd Marine and then two of the little angry-eyed wind funnels that were the hallmark of the 15th Fast Attack. The Lammersdorf Gelgoogs didn't get pictures taken."
"Sounds like they're your old pals. You knew that already."
"What I didn't know was this," Balke tapped a finger on a photo, showing a Kaempfer. "Check that one out."
"It's got a third mark. What the hell is it?"
"That's a skinned man, screaming. That's an ace's mark, like Char Aznable's golden clef, or Shin Matsunaga's white wolf's head. That one's for Commander Vladimir Margul, Battalion CO of the 2nd Shock, called the 'Grimravers'."
"'Demon' Margul? I thought he was—"
"--Dead, yeah. Looks like he's not. Between him, von Seydlitz, and von Mellenthin, that's three aces in their gang. THREE."
Even Sajer wasn't dumb enough to not shiver at the thought. He'd heard the stories of aces like Norris Packard and Anavel Gato, and what one determined ace could do to a group of greens and even veterans. "'Demon' Margul. Unbe-fucking-lievable. The guy who murdered a bus full of kids in Dornbirn, at the Rhine crossing."
Balke was impressed. "You've been studying?"
Sajer actually smirked. "'Know your enemy' and all that horseshit. Major Tizard put me up to it."
"He the Titans bigwig here?"
"Yeah."
Balke finished the bottle of Bacardi in one last, long pull. "I hope he's top-notch. I don't think we're getting any more help from the Federation."
Sajer looked insulted. "Of course he's good! That's why he's a Titan, and a Major at that!"
"Just cause it's got tits doesn't means you want to snuggle with it."
"What the shit is that supposed to mean?"
Balke held his hands up. "I'm just hoping he's as good as he has to be. I'm not like Colonel Edgrove, Sajer. I know we're going to need the Titans for this job. I think Cramer's going to lose, hardcore, and then we'll have to call you guys in to do this. I hope that brigade is enough."
Sajer crossed his arms. "Between the GMs and the Hizacks, we'll fucking murder them."
"Let me get something off my chest here, Sajer. You know why Edgrove's kinda wishy-washy about these guys? Because he was at Metz, but you knew that already. You ever study what a beat-up brigade of Zeeks did to the 9th Army, before the last push? They sucked the bulk of six divisions into that rattrap and butchered them. The final assault on the city was done by a mixed unit of the leftovers of those six divisions that they folded into each other to make other divisions. Remember that, when you fight them."
"We're Titans, not Federal regulars. We won't lose."
"Figured you'd say something like that. Oh, well, I was hoping that maybe in Android School, they taught you stuff about how to survive, not die screaming for your mother."
Sajer actually leaned forward. "Only how to kill bitches like you, Balke."
Balke pouted. "And here we were getting along so well."
The Titan stood. "It's not going to matter a bit when we get these Spacenoid scum, Balke. They're owned and don't know it yet, and it doesn't matter what the hell they are, gene-freaks or not!"
"That's as good an epitaph as any. I'll try and spell your name right when I'm having the headstone carved."
Sajer waved a hand in the air, like a slap. "Forget it. I'm leaving you here with your half-assed obsessions and your drunken delusions. Try not to slip into a coma and miss the war, Captain."
"Try not to slip a dick between your lips and forget to charge, Captain. And don't forget to have your people track down that freighter registry and scope out the mobile suit companies, especially Anaheim!"
Sajer slammed the doors behind him.
"You wanna know what the shitty thing about all this is?" asked Balke to the air of the room. "I still don't know how the bastards got to Heidelberg in the first place."