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!

21. Chapter 20

This chapter is dedicated to Task Force 2-12 Cav, 2 BCT, 1st Cavalry Division, and the seven who got home before we did.

MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 20

Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 23, 0087

It had been written once in a published travel guide that in Germany, every day was a Festival, and that at any given time of the year, some township or village, Stadt or Staat, somewhere someplace was having a celebration. The scribe of that tome was, in essence, correct, even when not counting the national holidays, but that same guide also failed to take into account that some Fests were not celebrations at all.

They were wakes.

Volkstrauertag dated back to the First World War. Held on the third Sunday of November, right smack in the midst of pre-Lent Fasching season, it was known outside the Germanic region as their "Memorial Day", a remembrance of the 5 million-plus who died during that conflict, to include those in the Holocaust. As wars, both nationalistic and otherwise, came and went, Volkstrauertag became the "Veteran's Day" of Deutschland. In keeping with the German "any excuse to party" modus operandi, they tried to turn what would ordinarily be a somber day into a gala affair that was bitter and sweet.

Location was, of course, a factor; whether it was Fasching, Fasnet, Karneval, or Fosnat, the commemoration was on the same schedule even if the way of venerating it was different. On the lands east of the Elbe River, it was a bleaker affair than anywhere else, the revelry inoculated with just enough lamentation to make it seem a time of sober regret. Germany had a long memory, for both joys and pains, and few places held more pain than the Eastern states. In bars and living rooms and meeting halls and the myriad other places that people gathered, steins of beer and mugs of hot, spiced wine were lifted by veterans of the One-Year War and others who had lost loved ones, and prayers for Hameln were spoken aloud by those who wondered how it could all have come to this and who on Earth was going to do something about it, though who was more to blame depended on what side of the bar one was sitting on.

Hameln, for all its besieged peril, was not east of the Elbe, and so it did what it had always done: throw a wicked bash.

Determined to show no fear in the faces of the 10th Panzerkaempfer's Zeon or the Titans outside, the town had come out in force to commemorate its war dead. It seemed to the Zeon trapped within its border that Hameln simply refused to care that the War had returned to threaten it and everyone inside. Ignoring the combatants utterly, there were very few who chose to stay home for this one. The streets were packed with roving throngs of party-goers, every corner seemed to have another band or theatrical troupe taking advantage of the legend of the Pied Piper, and to the Spacenoids, it was as though the fireworks and noise and the cacophonous din of revelry had simply blanked out the very fact of their existence in their world. A snow flurry had blown in, gently dropping flakes down onto a town that scarcely noticed them amid the painted faces, raucous laughter, and the heat of uninhibited revelry.

Those who had died had done so to ensure that their future generations could indulge in merry-making. The future generations dared not disappoint the expectations of their fallen.

Scintillating bursts of light and color turned the camouflaged skin of the Gelgoog Commander into a speckled vista of multicolored iridescence. Its dormant mono-eye refracted the lights of the exploding fireworks in all directions; those broken flares of light had enough illumination left to refract again from the snow on the rooftops and the icicles that hung from rain gutters and eaves to cast a random "disco ball" effect on the ground beneath and around it. Within the dancing lights stood Commander Karl Weissdrake, immobile as the building he stared at through the steam of his own breath and the binoculars he held to his face.

Unlike the rest of Hameln, this particular location was nearly devoid of human traffic, so his attention was rooted firmly towards the riverside, down the lines of wharfs, to a single dock. His eyes, still affixed to the binoculars, scanned the wharf tirelessly, watching and waiting for the sign he needed to see. Another firecracker bloomed in the air above Hameln, red and orange brilliance, and again the light was reflected down upon and around him in a shower of speckles and dots. His eyes still roved across the pier, seeking his quarry like a hound on a scent. After another sweep, he took his eyes from the binoculars and glanced down at his wrist chrono, noted the time, then returned his gaze to the river. He had been standing here for nearly three hours, but he felt nothing. Not the cold, not the wet, not fatigue. He was a son of New Koenigsberg, inured to such trivial things as physical discomfort. In that respect, aside from Antares de la Somme, the adopted son, and the two Graf, born to rule, he was one of a kind in this unit. None of the others were of the Race, and none of the others had fought the masses of the Untermensch while their flesh melted inside the confines of a burning Zaku.

The Graf had given him and all his people that strength. They lent that strength to those with whom they had fought the War against Terra, besieged Zeon in their cold vacuum. He, in turn, lent that same strength to his own people, his soldiers; Weissdrake knew that the devotion of the Foxe twins to him rivaled the devotion they had to each other. Weissdrake had wondered often if Royce and Bryce had ever disagreed about anything. If they had, then it was never where another soul could see or hear it. Then again, he also presumed that they never needed to argue about anything as an open-air event: they could probably argue by thought alone.

He swept the wharf again, and again, no sign of what he sought was apparent. Von Mellenthin had sent him here personally to watch for the signal. He knew that Weissdrake would wait all night without failure, without falling asleep, and without disobedience, if it were necessary to maintain the vigil that long. Weissdrake would serve, as was his function and his birthright, and therefore he was more trusted than those who would doubt. Someone like Vladimir Margul would question the Why of it; Karl Weissdrake dared not betray his faith by admitting uncertainty.

Besides, he already knew the Why. The Why was the impetus behind the dissention between von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. It was also the reason why Karl Weissdrake kept his faith with two who weren't even from the House that his family was pledged to serve. The Elector-Prince of Saarland had met his doom in North America, but here there were Graf to follow yet, and the Why was all the proof Weissdrake needed to know that his decision to stay was the right one: only a Graf could have conceived of this scheme and made it work in the face of ten times their firepower.

Only a Graf could rule; that was simplicity incarnate, and the unassailable Law all who followed the Ordnung accepted as undeniable fact. Even one such as himself, who had faced the flames, lacked the might to accept the burden of responsibility over all the Volk. Karl Weissdrake was extremely comfortable with that knowledge.

He checked his chrono again. They were now officially late by more than seventy-eight seconds. He could feel the tightness of the scars on his skull as his face stretched into a contemptuous grimace. For the trillionth time since his entry into the Zeon Armed Forces, he lamented that not all of Side 3's citizens were disciplined enough to stick to a simple deadline.

There were benefits to rank, though, and he was about to indulge in one of them. Make me come down there personally, he raged in his mind, and I'll make agony your secondary job specialties, you slow-gene peasants. Just go ahead and piss me off. . . It took some effort to make his temper flare, not after Poitiers and Metz and the long wait to get to this point.

Suddenly, the past no longer mattered, as a single light shone from a window in the roof of a dockyard structure on the riverside. Amid the brilliant orange-gold of another firework detonation, a green light stabbed towards Weissdrake, blinking once, twice, thrice. While he'd been expecting it for hours, Weissdrake still nearly dropped the flashlight as his maimed hand dug it out of his coat pocket. After a hasty curse and a brief struggle, he pointed it towards where the green signal had come from and triggered three purple flashes back, the acknowledgement signal. He shoved the binoculars into his other pocket and sprinted back to his Gelgoog Commander, clambering up to the cockpit with the ease of familiarity a long-time suit driver developed.

His damaged hand moved through the motions of activating the communications suite unconsciously, even as his other hand flicked at the switch that would close the hatch behind him and bring the mobile suit to life. The Gelgoog's interior illuminated in blackout-mode blue, and he settled himself in. He frantically checked his watch and determined that he was within the window for the lowest Minovsky emission level: von Mellenthin would be having his get-together with someone on a very long distance call.

His crippled hand mashed a button, and he spoke simply: "Ready."

Aerzen, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 23, 0087

"There it goes again," called out the corporal on radio watch as the hertz meter spiked again. Three other sets of eyes watched as it jumped, then settled back into the flatline common in Minovsky environments.

"That makes what?" asked Tizard offhandedly, because he already knew the answer. "A half-dozen in an hour, on this hour, every day for the last three days?"

"Sounds about right, sir," replied the head of the Commo shop, the Brigade's communications company. "If the trend is deliberate, then somehow the Zeon are squirting a five-second burst transmission above their umbrella on a planned schedule."

"But with whom are they speaking?" mused Tizard. "There a way to intercept these bursts, correct?"

The Commo chief nodded. "There is, sir, but the problem is tracing the path of the transmission. Depending on the direction of LOS, it might be a little rough to rig a receiver and put it in the path of the signal. If it's someone in orbit, for example, we'd have to have an aerial receiver."

"Air power I can get you."

"Yes, sir, we know, though the receiver would have to remain stable enough to catch the entire burst. A helo asset would be too low-altitude to do any good, plus they'd probably shoot it down with the Gelgoog Cannon while it was stationary. I've requested the use of a high-altitude AeroStat zeppelin from European Command, but with the Kassel mess, getting the use of any Federation assets might take days."

Tizard smiled thinly. "Leave that to me. Smoothing over obstacles is my purview. Continue to log the bursts, and try and determine the direction of transmission. If they're talking with their missing ship, I want to know before we start trying to put balloons over Hameln. We still have time, so long as the cameras take their morning pictures and we can track them inside the town within a reasonable degree of accuracy. Their adherence to their schedule makes this child's play to accomplish, does it not? I need to borrow your long-range whip to Lammersdorf again. I'll be in my office making a call."

"Roger, sir." The Commo chief watched Tizard leave, looking unusually pleased about something. He had been using the long-range Hi-Freq suite fairly often, and the circle of officers subordinate to Tizard had begun speculating as to whom he might be speaking with that required a transmitter strong enough to broadcast beyond the ionosphere.

Kassel, Hessen, Central Europe

November 23, 0087

"If it's any consolation, Lieutenant," said Braxton Bryton with a wink, "I've always been a believer in the expression 'beggars can't be choosers'."

Angela Dyson nodded, lips pursed. It was the answer she'd been expecting, however nebulous and disappointing it was, but it had been she who'd asked the question anyway. "I don't know why this is so hard, sir. I'm a mobile suit pilot, that's a mobile suit. Enemies of the Federation are out there, and I've got a weapon to fight them with."

Bryton shrugged sympathetically. "I'm no suit driver, never have been, and don't see any great appeal about the humongous things. I wish I could relate to your problem, but I can't. I'm not like Captain Balke, who knows people and their motivations and how to read them and react, but are you more frightened of your husband's reaction than of going into a fight? Is that the reason you're having such a time of this?" He shot a glance at her, pulling his eyes off of the GM Command briefly. "Or am I mistaken altogether?"

Dyson snorted, knowing he was right. "I hope that's not some kind of insinuation that I can't perform my job, sir."

"Just checking. Being beaten up has rattled even the most fearless troops before. I've seen it." Bryton's eyes went distant as a memory flickered across his mind. "Oh, have I seen it. . ." he whispered, almost inaudibly over the din of machinery and maintenance techs at work.

Dyson looked at him for a moment, and opted not to press the matter. A curious part of her really wanted to know how deep the connection between the vulgar Balke and the mannered Bryton went. What really happened to them during the War? Why is this so personal for them both? "We've got a code, sir, even though I'm not sure I can explain it. It's a thing between mobile suit pilots and their suits." She sighed and dragged a hand through her hair. Sleep had eluded her all night because of this, and she looked like it. "You just don't take another person's suit. It's. . .wrong."

"Maybe so, but what are your other choices? Lieutenant Dyson hasn't returned your calls, and it's only a matter of time before the Zeon come out from their sanctuary. If they get past the Titans, this suit and you," he pointed at the GM Command, "may be all that we have against whatever Nemesis really is. You could sit the rest of this out, but last I saw of your husband was him getting on a tram to Nijmegen to rally support from the Academy cadre, so he's not sitting anything out. In the end, the choice is yours to---"

They both jumped involuntarily as the cell phone in Dyson's pocket buzzed. She pulled it out, fingers fumbling slightly in haste to answer it. "Dyson. . .no. . .NO!. . .no, sir. . .right here, sir, stand by."

Bryton watched her as she spoke. Instead of the expression of someone who had been expecting a call and finally received it, her face took on a sudden woodenness, then bent into something just on the brighter side of disgust. She almost looked relieved as she handed out the phone for him to take.

"Your husband?" he mouthed in almost a whisper. She shook her head, and he took the phone. "Bryton here."

"Hey, bitch," grated a familiar voice, "it's Daddy. What're you wearing?"

Bryton grimaced. "Camael. Have a fun time in Boppard?"

"Closer to Bingen, actually, and if this was my fucking idea of 'fun', I'd stay at home and jack off with a cheese grater next time and maybe hit Nirvana in comparison. Where're you at?"

"A pre-fab hangar in Kassel. Lieutenant Dyson's having issues with her suit selection. Where are you?"

"On the Autobahn for Aerzen, stuck in holiday traffic. I've got some stuff for us and our Titan pals, but we've gotta hurry. Tell Dyson to get her sweet ass in that suit and get moving, time now. Me 'n Dorff'll meet you there."

"Tizard'll be miffed. He doesn't want us there."

"He can birth llamas for all I give a fuck. He'll cope." Bryton could almost see the cigarette slip up from its package, Balke's lips draw it out, and the tip insert itself into the already-lit lighter's flame before he continued: "With this much dope on the supermonkeys, he'll spend the rest of this campaign on his knees sucking off priests paying this debt. Listen, I'm not spewing this shit over an unsecured line. Just get both your butts to Aerzen and leave Li-zard to me. Where's the other Dyson at?"

Bryton glanced over at Angela, who had wandered over to abuse a tech or two. "No clue. We can't reach him. I'd guess he's still trying to get a suit out of Nijmegen. If he's on his way back here, the traffic might have gotten him, too."

"He's probably Stilwell's bitch now. Look, just get you and Miss Pilot up to Aerzen. This whole thing might be over with by the end of tonight if things go one way, and by the end of the week if things go another."

Bryton grinned wryly. "That's an awfully big assumption based off shaky source information, Camael."

"Trust me, it's goddamn divine."

"That's pretty funny coming from someone who used to tell me that there was nothing sacred unless it was officially confirmed by no less than three reliable sources."

"You sharpshooting me, Signal Boy? Get to Aerzen. Balke out."

"Camael, WAI--!" The phone disconnected before Bryton could finish. He sighed, gazed up at the heavens, and then walked over to the waiting Dyson.

"Fun news?" she asked him.

"It's crunch time now, Lieutenant. We're going back to Aerzen to meet Captain Balke. This puts you in an enviable position."

She gaped at him. "How's that 'enviable', sir?"

"Well, you only have two choices now: ride," he reached over and patted the GM Command's titanium foot, "or drive."

Lunar Elliptic, 385,000 km from Earth

November 23, 0087

"Transmission terminated after last. Standing by for further guidance."

She sat back in her seat, letting tension she did not realize she was feeling drain as her head settled back against the neck-rest. It was a very uncomfortable seat, prone to making parts of her ache now, as it had for last four years that she'd been sitting in it. Splayed before her was a monstrous wooden desk; into its shape was hewn the Zeon Cross, matching the purple-and-gold carpet that spanned the length of the room. When others were absent, she amused herself by placing her boots on the desk's polished surface, knowing that the sacrilege would incense the Old Guard.

It did not matter, not in the reality, but from time to time it reminded her of someone; the clinging to discipline for discipline's sake. An image to maintain, constantly, but Haman Kahn was still young enough to appreciate the rebel for rebellion's sake as well.

Collecting her thoughts was a swift process, even with a month's worth of information to collate into a pattern. Patterns, however, were talents of hers, and as piecemeal as this one was, it was still evident to her consciousness. "Your assessment, Colonel?"

The voice that issued through the speaker was scratchy from distance, but otherwise unblemished. It made for a haunting melody in the darkened room. She liked the darkness when she spoke with those she had sent into the Void. "My assessment remains the same, Lady: he will keep to his end of the bargain if it gets him what he desires, and he won't let anything stop him from fulfilling it."

"As do all men." It was almost spiteful: powerful men had made her what she had become, but powerful men had also disappointed her before. "Is he as dangerous as I've been told he is? Is it dangerous to trust him so far?"

The perversely light-sounding voice gave off a sound that might have been a chuckle, were it not so sinister in scope. "They all are. They've never known any other way to be."

She smiled in spite of herself, knowing the mind behind that laugh almost as well as her own, as well as recognizing that the answer had been a play on her own words. "Then proceed, Colonel. Give the General and his people what they deserve out of their trials, and bring me what belongs to Axis. You are now in command for the duration of this mission. Inform the Captains that I said so."

"As you will." That was why of the throng of powerful men at her disposal, she would trust something of this matter to only this one: a man with a mind as cunning as hers, but whose loyalty to her was unquestionable, his reputation as much a weapon as a salve. She was giving him the might of this small task force, the first Axis had ever sent so deep into the Earth Sphere since 0083. This would act as a test of their treaty with the Titans, and how much leeway their erstwhile allies would give them within their domain. The Colonel would be the one whom the responsibility of command would fall to; she knew he was more than adequate for the task.

The only other person better would have been a woman, but she refused to risk an asset of her caliber for a task that may end badly no matter how things went. That the Colonel already understood that risk and did not care was why he had been placed high in her counsel, along with the Old Guard whom she despised.

"And Colonel?"

"Lady?"

He had been expecting the askance. He knew her so well; she often wished she could say the same about him. Her smile grew cold, though none could see it. "Be discreet. I'm not ready to upset so many careful plans just yet. Bring me what belongs to me, and don't fail."

"Understood, Lady. Sieg Axis."

She had never realized that she had wanted this terrible chair or the ugly desk until she had them. Their aches and discomforts were worth it all. Where else could she exert such control, such power, over such distance, through so many possible outcomes? The toothless Federation, the ridiculous Titans, the upstart AEUG, the eunuch Republic of Zeon. . .and those who worshipped at the altar of the dead Principality of Zeon. The lines were blurring quickly. Steps had to be taken before everything blended into mediocrity.

"Sieg Axis. . .and Neo-Zeon." It was not her usual choice of ending a conversation, but it was appropriate enough to suit the Colonel, and herself. Very little ever remained constant forever; even Abowaku and Solomon, once the guardians of Zeon itself, had become Federation brothels, Pezun a neutral sit-out and a solid metaphor for a future ruled by obsolescence. Axis, eldest of them, was now the sole sibling still capable of performing its purpose.

The hum of the fusion drives was a dull throb in the background; most residents had long since grown so accustomed to it that they were ignorant of it, but she still heard it. Like the heartbeat of an immense beast, its sound reflected the course of life. Haman could no longer remember what life was like before that sound had become the entirety of it. She closed her eyes. "Is this the right thing? Is this really how it has to be?"

There was a rustle as the other figure in the room finally shifted, cloth brushing against cloth lightly as she rose to full stature. "If you intend to return Princess Mineva to her rightful place, you will require men of his nature to fulfill it. You know I disagree with the Colonel's opinion entirely, Haman."

"I trust his judgment. He's never steered me wrong." Her counselor and the Colonel disagreed often, to the point of her own personal amusement.

Even with her eyes closed, she could see the perfect smile of the other in the perfectly-toned reply. "Neither have I."

Haman shivered involuntarily, as she often did when her counselor spoke, but her tone told of discontent, not pleasure. "That I have to choose between you both sickens me."

The figure of her counselor shrugged minutely, evident only in the sound of moving cloth; the grace of the gesture would have those not familiar with her counselor's moods think it something else entirely. "There really is no choice though, is there? The Colonel has his own past to guide his interests. I have no interests except yours, and Princess Mineva's."

"What did the others say?"

"They agree to all our requirements. They are frightened by what they're becoming, but they also understand the concept of self-preservation. The hope you represent is a powerful carrot to dangle before them. They are impressionable still, and they fear him, just as you do."

"I fear no one." Not entirely true, but close enough. She opened her eyes, but did not look directly at the other woman. "I want them. I want what they represent, for us and for Neo-Zeon. The vindication of Zeon Daikun and Degin Zavi and their War, neatly wrapped in seven convenient packages. Even wily old Delaz couldn't have seen this."

She felt a hand reach out and touch her hair, and she nodded her understanding, feeling her counselor's touch transmit through her skin and into her thoughts. The other in the room was wise for her age; barely a decade older than Haman herself was and yet seemed so much more ancient in spite of all appearances to the contrary. She was also one of few Haman could confide in on a level she never could with the rest around her. They did not understand things the way her counselor did; not even the Colonel, with whom she had shared her bed on occasion.

Many did not understand the nineteen year-old Regent of Axis. Char never did, and neither did Jamitov. Char had betrayed her years ago, and Jamitov probably would before too much longer. The Colonel might, if he could not keep his past from closing its jaws around his soul. But her counselor was a different creature entirely. She had brought her into her fold years ago and never found her to have any motive than what she said her motivation was: to bring Zeon back into its place as the true cradle of Humanity. Mineva Zavi was the rightful heir, a true daughter of Zeon, and the key to the ultimate freedom of Space from greedy Terra's grasp; she did not doubt her counselor's belief in this as well.

Her counselor spoke, with warmth she had not heard since the death of her father. "The Colonel will succeed in bringing them all to us. United with them, none can challenge the ascension of Princess Mineva and Neo-Zeon. We will ensure it, in spite of Gremmi's ever-more vocal complaining. How like his father he is after all." A pause, and the other female gave a tsk of disapproval. "At least take your boots off before you put your feet up. It's such a grand desk."

"Once I'm done. I expect one more caller tonight. Handle Gremmi as you see fit, so long as he keeps his mind to himself. I don't want to hear his bleating today." Haman kept the surprise out of her voice at her counselor's praise of the Colonel's reliability; that was rare indeed, since her counselor held the Colonel in something close to contemptuous indifference. She had never seen the need to ask why.

Haman felt her leave the room, almost as soundlessly as during the report, when she had entered. She would see her counselor again tonight; with the Colonel gone, she had plenty of time and no worthy people willing to occupy the space in her sheets. Not that she was going to invite her counselor in, but with Gremmi griping yet again, probably about not being the one commanding this operation, it was a chance for them to talk, woman to woman, and trade secrets. Gremmi was a book worth updating whenever possible, at least as a study of egomania at its finest. Haman thought back to her hazy recollection of Giren and shivered. Gremmi Toto and Giren Zavi may be of the same cloth, but definitely were two different people. It was times like these she wondered yet again how Kishiria had managed to wait all the way until Abowaku to murder Giren. Char had told her that story.

But there were other stories she had never heard. They had something in common, Haman and her counselor; for all their above-the-ordinary talents, neither had ever managed to unlock the Colonel's secrets. He was often a topic of conversation, especially when he was not present. That way was closed to them both, and it was one of the mysteries she always hated but could not avoid picking at, like the itch of a wound that never healed. She knew the Colonel did not care; he seemed to love the attention more than any other man would.

Not all the fun lay on Terra's surface, even if that fun had taken the Colonel away from her for a time. Sweet power, how I love thee. . . Haman ran a thoughtful finger across her lower lip, to stop its sudden trembling as the plans played out in her mind again, and again, and again, all with one final outcome. Fools dealt in ideals; winners bent others to them.

The drives thrummed on, and great Axis stayed its course towards a destiny only rebellion could forge.

Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 23, 0087

The eldest of the Commonality sat back as he finished telling his story to the others. As always, he was so tired after these sessions, so it was a welcome relief when his escort picked him up and carried him the rest of the way to the basement room they were kept in. Not nearly so considerate were his siblings, whose focal energy he tapped to enable the Mellenthin-entity to communicate with those off Terra. Even with the aid of the other six, Erik was a wreck every time, his too-young body struggling to maintain the link and reach the distance without being asleep. Using the subconscious was easier, but talents like these would need honing through conscious practice to be useful for real-world applications.

To be useful for warfare. Minovsky radiation meant nothing to the Commonality.

The Mellenthin-entity's demands were simple and absolute: only Erik could be a direct part of all this, as a representative as well as a leader. He could talk to the others afterwards, never during. It was equally an effort to keep what was being "sent" from the other six as it was to deliver the messages to the one mind they were destined for.

He closed his green eyes as his siblings assimilated what he told them. Their reaction was identical to his when he had been told: stunned amazement.

"It is truth," he repeated softly, too exhausted to shout tonight, in spite of the racket outside. "I do not know what altered his decision, but the plan has changed."

"But this?" burst one of the others. "How can we be certain?"

Erik smiled painfully; he knew the motive, but had been sworn to secrecy so deep it was fathomless. "He has no choice. He will do as he said."

"It has to be a trap," the speaker shook her head in denial. "If it were not, he would not surround all of this with such a shroud."

"Be at peace," Erik responded, fighting to stay conscious. So tired. . . "I have faith in the reason why. Besides, is it not better to hope for a home like that than the alternative? This is an acceptable outcome for all of us, and one that offers the best hope for our futures as much as the Unawakened."

They were silent at that one, and Erik knew they all shared that hope. He sighed. "To go there is to become War. This is a different path, one that gives more than a single option."

"But what about---?" dared one to begin, tears filling in eyes too old for the face that framed them.

In a strength-draining show of rare physical affection, Erik reached out a hand and brushed his fingers against the other boy's face. "Better this way, too, I think." He allowed the others to crowd around him, allowed himself to sink into their warmth. "They will come soon. Do as they say, and trust the rest to Fate, and to me."

He felt sleep claim him, nestled within the minds of his siblings. "Just this once, alone is best. . ."

Hameln, Niedersachsen, Central Europe

November 23, 0087

Von Mellenthin's eyes watched as Royce Foxe led an obviously-drained Erik out of the communications room by a cautious hand, not daring to lift the exhausted child into his arms and risk having his head played with, but the General's own mind was sifting through several dozen things at once, not really concentrating on any given one for more than a nanosecond of focus and then reshuffling. Almost simultaneously, information flowed from pattern to pattern.

The word had come in as he had dictated his final transmission to Axis, and to Haman Kahn. The radio had broken squelch once, and then "Ready." The word he had been waiting for. He had finished dictation, allowed Erik and his crèche-mates to strain their way to reach the distance he required of them to send the message to its intended recipient, and then ended the communication to Haman with the seed of his scheme planted and taking root.

The gists of the two transmissions were by no means identical.

After another few minutes of rumination, allowing the warm feeling of control to permeate his cells, he turned off the communications console with a finger, the time allotment for the reduction of Minovsky particle dispersal now at its limit. The ball was now rolling; it was time for him to make certain it fell into the right hole for Nemesis. He stood to his feet, took his greatcloak from the back of the chair, picked up the heavy black armored map case that held the key to Nemesis, and left the room, ascending the stairs with an ease and grace athletes longed to achieve.

"Spread the word, Herr Oberstabsfeld," he said as he crossed through the main room, heading for the foyer and the main entrance. He had no doubt his voice was audible throughout the entire building. "It's time we left this place. Give them three more hours or so to socialize, and then begin preparations for movement."

He swung open the door without bothering to wait for acknowledgement, letting the cold air slam across him in a great rush, and he donned the liger-skin greatcloak as he stepped down the stairs to the walkway, only setting down the map case long enough to fasten a clasp. He held very little worry about being mugged. The townsfolk had given his Zeon a wide berth since they'd gotten here, and there were very few human norms that would be able to lift the case without struggle in any event. He took a left and kept walking, neither hurrying nor being leisurely about it, boots scrunching the already-packed snow beneath his feet where the salting had not melted it into water. The temperature was not as cold this evening; excellent tidings for a Fest.

Fireworks continued to blaze, as the raucous clamor of the partying had not even begun to abate. It was barely 2330 hours; plenty of time left to revel. He paused occasionally to greet citizens, who looked at him with mixtures of dread and curiosity, allaying their fears with kind words when necessary, or reinforcing them with harsh smiles when they were needlessly rude. Von Mellenthin knew he was not going to endear himself to every local, but no one destined to rule all of Humankind was going to simply let disrespect slide, especially from cattle. As had been the case for most of his life, even the most insolent bravo tended to realign their perception when the subject of their dislike shot them a broad-toothed grin more closely related to a feral predator's than to a civilized human's.

They did not know what it was they reckoned with, not yet by far. Nemesis would change that. The weight of the case in his left hand seemed to increase imperceptibly, as if in response to his thoughts. Senses honed through years of environmental conditioning caught a sense of something, and von Mellenthin glanced behind him, eyes scanning, but could detect nothing. He walked on.

If only it were so simple all the time, he thought morbidly, passing another dance club, pausing to catch a listen to the house DJ's spin. Progressive, maybe a little trance thrown in. Not a bad blend. He was into a harder house sound, himself, a love which dated back to his days as a semi-rebellious raver and clubgoer in New Koenigsberg's racier areas. A full-blown rave would have fit his current mood better than this Fest: genial with a side order of dark menace. He was at least encouraged to note that allowing the Buergermeister to go through with his Volkstrauertag memorial bash was going very smoothly, and thus far no one had tried to harm his people. As he strode, he shot a cursory glance behind him towards the town center, where the largest gatherings were and, undoubtedly, so were most of his soldiers. He figured on a pretty good chance that Margul's Kaempfer or perhaps van Allen's Gelgoog Cannon was down that way, keeping a mono-eye on the partygoers. He presumed the Gelgoog Cannon, as a deterrent against the remnant of the Federation's Cerberus close-in air support attack helicopters. This was one of those holidays Margul would probably prefer to sit out anyway; losing Lacerta and Reiter had quieted him immensely.

If anything, losing Kerr had made Antares even noisier, another marked contrast between the two aces. Von Mellenthin had begun to be quite the recorder of marked contrasts in people. His boots turned his passage rightwards, and after a few more strides, he stepped into the courtyard of the St. Bonificatus Chapel, where his true trial of the night resided.

Though it was not in his nature to show or feel dread, he took the time to pause to gather himself anyway. This was another of his habits from his youth, a preparation ritual of sorts when about to do battle with the person who more often than not had tracked him down and dragged him home before he could get himself into more trouble than even his birth could dig him out of. He spared a glance at the tree in the middle of the yard, dead from winter chill, its growth suspended in a layer of frost and icicles until heat brought it back to wakefulness. It was eminently appropriate.

He cocked his head and listened to the wind, and a wry smile broke onto his face and he exhaled a breath he had held for longer than he had realized. A low lilting sound of a violin was on the air. Is that was he's been doing this whole time? There was a brief flash of anger in von Mellenthin's thoughts, before he remembered that for all intents and purposes, Reinhardt von Seydlitz was without a job as a battalion CO. While he had been the one doing all the talking and negotiating and planning, von Seydlitz had chased the priests out of this old church, planted his Gouf Custom beside Antares', and apparently began haunting the rectory. Typical Reinhardt, so melodramatic.

Von Mellenthin's smile grew larger as the sound of the violin began to increase. He knew the tune. He removed his gloves, cracked his knuckles, and picked up the case again, moving towards doors none had opened in days. He was ready.

He was watched.

The time had come for Father Thaddeus Duhamel of the Holy Catholic Church. It had been a long, long wait for this moment, as it had been a long, long wait for his summoning. He was forty-three years old, but he had spent only the last twenty of those in the service of God and the Church. In truth, the honorific of "Father" was not the correct one, for as versed as he was in Church doctrine and the teachings of Christ the Savior, he was not an anointed priest. The oath he'd sworn was a different one, but the title was suitable if only for the plausible deniability the Church would use if he was captured, killed, or failed his mission and either of those same events occurred in the process.

Thaddeus Duhamel was not even his real name, but he had spent two decades making it his own. His old name was as unimportant as the tremendous string of sins and depravity that he had filled his youth and adulthood with before he had found salvation. When those sins had come due, he knew that it was the Federation and not the Devil that had caught him in its snare, but Duhamel held very little doubt that it had been the Devil that had betrayed him. He had made himself the Devil's toy, and like a child, the Devil had cast him aside when he was of no further use. It had been the Devil who had whispered to him that fateful day in 0067, when he, starving and mad from poverty, had come like a plague through Livorno. It had been the Devil who had told him where he could find sustenance, if he could find the strength to overpower those whom it belonged to. He had done so, after spending three days turning a rake and truncheon into a crude Morgenstern in a frantic fit of desperate creation. After five days and ten dead, the Devil had drunk his fill and left Duhamel to the authorities, who found him in a haybarn, dozing off the remains of his latest kill, who had once owned that haybarn. He was a match for an average citizen caught unawares and unarmed; he was no match for Federation police with shocksticks and Neo-Lexan riot shields.

He had been slated to spend the rest of his days in the Solicciano prison, under Federation guards who would chain him to a wall and leave him begging to die. Instead, inexplicably, he was delivered into the hands of a Catholic Priest, a member of Opus Dei whose name Duhamel never knew. Duhamel had never met anything like this Priest, who had walked into a room with a known and unsecured mass-murderer with no trace of fear or hesitation, and told angry Duhamel to his face that his sins were the sins of a dog and not a man, and that he would personally teach Duhamel what it was to be a man. The Priest had allowed Duhamel to spit on him, smiled, and then bashed Duhamel across the head with an iron cudgel he'd carried in beneath his robes. So began the lessons.

The Preist then took him away, deep into the Alps of Switzerland, and for almost fifteen years Duhamel became someone else. It was not an easy journey for the ex-convicted murderer, and there were many days where he went to sleep with welts and bruises. The Preist was utterly fearless, merciless when in discipline, and refused to give up on Duhamel even after Duhamel had long since given up on himself. After the first few years, the floor was just as comfortable a table to eat from than any other table Duhamel had ever sat. It also made for a convenient bed.

After a decade, the Priest told Duhamel he had finally learned to be a man, and he was allowed to stop living in the dirt. It was then time to learn what it was to be a man of God, to have a purpose for existence. Dogs lived day-to-day, carefree and without any goal save immediate succor and satisfaction; it was a man who set a goal and drove to it no matter how long it took, never ceasing the strive to obtain it. The Priest told him that war was coming, that there was an army of soulless people, like Duhamel had been, that were preparing to return from Space above and destroy all God's children on Earth because they were of the Devil's seed, and that their success meant that dogs would live where men should, and that they mocked the name of God and cursed His works. Only Duhamel and the Church could stop them, for the Federation had lost its way, trusting in guns when Faith was the only viable weapon against evil. The Priest explained that the Church had intervened with the Federation for Duhamel because the Church was going to need strong men of God like Duhamel to survive the Devil's legions.

Duhamel had believed the Priest, and two years later, the Zeon had struck with fire and steel from Space. To his great surprise, the Church did not directly intervene, even as Europe was swept underfoot by the army led by a tyrannical beast whom the Priest, then old and hale, had named Lucifer's son and heir. But things had not gone the way the Priest said they would, and in the end, the Zeon were cast down, the unholy Zavis slain, and the tyrant heir locked away by the Federation.

The Priest had died shortly after the War, but before he left, he told Duhamel that this war had not been the one the Church was supposed to fight, but instead that there would be another. The Priest said that the Church would summon Duhamel when it was time for him to commit to final penance for his days as a dog and a man not of God, when he had spilt the blood of the innocent for greed and feast. Duhamel had remembered that while God forgave and forgot sins, the Church did not so readily and not without exacting its toll on Earth.

This year proved the Priest right, for after twenty years of training the Church summoned Thaddeus Duhamel to Rome to meet with a Cardinal from the Opus Dei prelature. The Cardinal explained that the tyrant heir had escaped captivity, and that he was in command again of a military unit, and that the Federation had been proven powerless to stop them. Duhamel had spent his years in virtual seclusion of worldly affairs and had no knowledge of any of this, but the Church did not lie. The Cardinal knew that the Priest had trained Duhamel for a single purpose. Duhamel's assignment was simple: kill Dietrich von Mellenthin.

The Cardinal had warned him what he was up against, and that the tyrant heir had a brother nearly equally as wicked, who had kept the followers of evil alive and prepared for the return of their master, and a laughing monkey-demon who killed for the pleasure of dispensing death and who followed the tyrant heir and his brother like a thrall. The Cardinal told him if he could kill all three, the Zeon were finished, but so long as von Mellenthin died their power on Earth would be so reduced that with the aid of the Church and God, the Federation would have the strength to thwart the Devil and protect the blessed of the Lamb. It was his duty as a numerary to succeed.

So "Father" Thaddeus Duhamel had gone to Hameln, lair of the tyrant heir, coursed through the armored wall of futility that the Titans had set around the city, and entered unseen into the midst of the citizens to fulfill the price of his salvation. The Church had armed him for his mission with a weapon chosen by the Holy See himself from the armory of the Swiss Guard. The pistol itself was nothing special, just one of dozens of identical pistols, but the bullets within it had been dipped in water from the same font dozens of Popes had blessed throughout the history of the Church. Duhamel, as he stood within the shadows outside St. Bonificatus Church, could feel the spiritual weight of the wrath of Mother Church in the cold steel of the pistol beneath his coat, the bullets screaming for the blood of the tyrant heir who held the people of this fair city hostage.

His decision made, Dietrich von Mellenthin strode the rest of the way across the courtyard. The sound of the violin grew louder, and his mind recognized the tune almost instantly. Brahms, Reinhardt? Concerto for Violin in C Minor. A less-mournful tune, please, brother of mine. This one's so boring. His lips twisted in a bemused scowl at the idea of the Elector-Prince of Brandenburg-Preussen hiding in a church fiddling away at lamentable ditties. Disgusting. He could feel his ever-restless anger building within him the closer he drew to the cathedral, until he was there at the entrance.

With his free hand, von Mellenthin pushed open the doors to the cathedral, the great wooden flaps slamming against their stoppers with low booms that reverberated throughout the great stone building. A blast of cold wind preceded his entry, making the greatcloak whip about as he stormed into the nave of the cathedral to the greeting tune of the violin, which did not break at his intrusion. Von Mellenthin unconsciously stamped snow and mud off his boots as he walked down the aisle between the pews, leaving his mark on the red carpet. He did not slow until he reached the halfway point, and the doors finally closed behind him with another low thump, shutting out the world.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz was perched on the altar at the head of the nave. At some point, he had swept it free of the trappings of religion, all the icons of hated Catholicism that had cast his Folk into Space so long ago lying in a shambles on the floor. He was in his white uniform undershirt, the two topmost buttons undone, the long sleeves pushed up above his elbows, his black-haired head bowed over the violin, long fingers tweaking with the string tensions. After an adjustment, he began to play again. Von Mellenthin slowed further, and then stopped, staring at his foster brother from about eight pews back, as von Seydlitz put the bow to the strings, and Schmeker's Sonata in D Major trilled from the instrument, filling the cathedral. Von Mellenthin remained silent as the other man played, testing the tuning. Unsatisfied, von Seydlitz stopped and began to adjust the strings again.

With a voice full of scorn, even as he felt the telltale tingle of power that occurred whenever there were two or more of the Elector-Princes in the same location, von Mellenthin finally broke the silence. "Have we decided to become the Phantom of the Chapel, Graf von Seydlitz? There is still a War on, in case no one informed you. Why are you hiding in here like a priest?"

Von Seydlitz's ice-gray eyes glanced at von Mellenthin, then turned back to the strings. The bow touched them again, and Biber's "Mystery" Sonata was the answer he gave.

Von Mellenthin's scowl grew deeper, and his eyes smoldered. "Oh, so now we think to use tunes as our speech? Is that the whole of it, Reinhardt? Letting an Earthborn fiddle act as the tongue you've had to bite even as you rebel against me?"

Von Seydlitz switched his music in mid-play, as the mocking sound of Paganini's Caprice for Solo Violin assailed von Mellenthin's ears. The "solo" part was not lost on the Zeon General, fuming in the hot chapel in his greatcloak. Von Mellenthin listened for a moment, letting von Seydlitz savor his little trick, then his scowl became a condescending grin.

"Oh, fear not, little fiddler, I've no intention of forcing you along with a plan you no longer have an interest in, though I thought I'd extend the invitation anyway, since the ship is now ready and we're leaving in a few hours. Don't ever think I'm not overwhelmed with gratitude for all you've done for Nemesis, Reinhardt, even if I'm not going to shed any tears over leaving you behind like a peasant until the Earthers castrate you, since you prefer to embrace cowardice and doubt instead of my plan." Von Mellenthin placed the armored map case on the floor and walked closer, eyes dancing with a daring fire. "You promised me, Reinhardt, remember? You promised me on your knees at the Taunus! You said you would be the one who did not doubt me, and here you are. 'Judas' is too good a name for you, oathbreaker! I'll leave it to the cattle to name you when they find you in here, a crawling, mewling, verminous coward! All told, a fitting enough end to second-best at any rate, wouldn't you say?"

Von Seydlitz's face remained stone-impassive, but the music changed again as he refused to take the bait. To enhance his mockery of von Mellenthin, the violin emitted the unmistakable sound of Beethoven's Piano Sonata "Pathetique".

Von Mellenthin almost saw red, as de la Somme's words repeated themselves in his mind. "He's not going to let you hit him with the hammer this time, Deet. . ." Von Mellenthin unclasped the greatcloak, laying it across the armrest of the second pew, nodding in angry understanding. "Oh, is that so, orphan child? You dare to suggest that just because you and I have a difference in opinion as to what I do with my toys and my people, you have something better in mind?" He could feel his teeth grinding together as he spat out the words. "All I see you doing is rotting in this building, Reinhardt. Congratulations on your productivity, Hinterlader. What have your lonesome ruminations granted to you as prophecy? What has languishing in this pen for sheep shown you the truth of?"

Von Seydlitz shifted his position on the altar, lounging across it like a sacrificial offering, and changed his tune again. More delicate than his previous plays, Handel's Concerto for Organ "Cuckoo and Nightingale" rose up from the violin, another slap to the idea that he needed von Mellenthin for anything.

Von Mellenthin's smile grew a little wider, though the menace in his eyes did not abate. "A challenge, then, to prove my skill is still better than yours, no matter the music you play. I win, you follow. I lose, and I'll let you challenge me for the right to lead." He began unbuttoning the tunic of his uniform, until he was in shirtsleeves as well. He stepped up onto the upraised dais, walked past the altar and von Seydlitz, who twisted to continue to look at him even as von Mellenthin tossed his uniform jacket onto von Seydlitz's outstretched legs as he passed by. Stroking a calloused hand across the wood, von Mellenthin surveyed his weapon for this duel.

With great pipes reaching to the top of the nave, the old organ that once served in the cathedral had been replaced with a more modern model that combined the power of the organ with the precision of the piano, easily interchanging between both with the flick of a switch for maximum versatility. The organ and piano pedals on the bottom were still present as well, a progressive combination of keyboards. Rolling up his sleeves, von Mellenthin reached back with a foot and dragged the wide bench towards the organ, settling himself down even as von Seydlitz continued to play Handel's timeless music.

In mid-note, with no detectable transition, von Mellenthin joined him. The duel had begun.

Von Seydlitz waited a few perfect bars, as the shrill of the violin blended with the powerful throb of the organ into a duet, before changing his attack into something vicious: Adagio for Strings Opus 11 #2, Barber's masterpiece, meant totally for stringed instruments.

Von Mellenthin, knowing von Seydlitz's preference for single overwhelming attacks, countered without a pause, switching to a deeper tone on the organ so as not to tread on the violin, using the low thrum as a background.

Von Seydlitz was obviously not expecting von Mellenthin to allow him to take the lead in the duel. Acknowledging the grudging favor, he changed over to Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5. Von Mellenthin shifted the organ to piano with ease and joined in.

Shooting a blue/green-eyed glance behind his shoulder at the nearly-supine von Seydlitz, he resumed the lead abruptly, Dvorak's Cello Concerto in A Minor thundering from the newly-enabled organ, nearly overpowering the higher tone of the violin in a piece meant for a throatier instrument. Von Seydlitz sat upright suddenly, his fingers flying across the violin's lower strains to compensate. Von Mellenthin wanted to smirk, as he'd managed to tear von Seydlitz from his comfort zone.

Instead of deflecting the music back to the exclusively-string composition, von Seydlitz stood to his feet and launched the deeper tone he had managed to achieve with his violin into a low intro into Schubert's Fantasia "Wanderer", forcing von Mellenthin into the higher ranges to keep up.

Stung, von Mellenthin withdrew into the background of Schubert, then riposted with Ravel's Piano Quartet Opus 47. They were both sweating profusely, the strain of their musical duel beginning to take its toll on them both as the music changed again, and again, and again. They had played together throughout their youth, often joining together for whole symphonies of duets with the keys and strings, learning each other's moods and language through music, but they had always chosen the pieces beforehand. This was impromptu, and each had to anticipate and compensate from both their vast mental libraries, all while maintaining the endurance of continuous play.

Transitioning away from Ravel, von Seydlitz altered their combined sounds into Philip Glass' Metamorphosis I, trying to slow his violin's frenetic tempo as he walked over to von Mellenthin's organ, looming over the other player for a few moments as he watched von Mellenthin's hands fly over the keys with long-remembered grace and power, a true master's mark; he played with his eyes closed, as though he could see the music in his mind.

Von Mellenthin felt a sudden heat at his back, and he opened his eyes, as von Seydlitz's sweat-soaked spine touched his. He could feel the play of bone, tendon, and muscle along the other man's shoulders and back as his arms moved and his playing positions changed. The violinist had sat down on the bench behind him, facing towards the door, leaning his more slender back against the broader one of his foster brother in a very un-Seydlitz show of physical intimacy. Von Mellenthin suddenly knew, without any further shadow of doubt, that it was not hate that had driven von Seydlitz to his doubts about Nemesis, or he never would have allowed the physical contact. Von Seydlitz was the less tactile of the two always, wary of the touches of those he did not trust completely, and that was a very, very short list.

Reinhardt von Seydlitz was afraid for Dietrich von Mellenthin.

Eyes wide with shock at the message the music was speaking to him, von Mellenthin played on, in concert with his pseudo-rebellious brother, and knew he could not break von Seydlitz to his Will and have anything be the same ever again. Von Seydlitz had not broken his word to his Emperor; his Emperor had just stopped listening. Ever-calculating, his mind absorbed this new data, factored it into Nemesis as it stood, and made its decision in less time than three heartbeats took.

The plan shifted to another of his multitude of options. Dietrich von Mellenthin, Major-General of Zeon, Graf von und zu Hessen, future Emperor of Man, yielded.

He changed the music again, allowing von Seydlitz to take the lead, deliberately reducing himself to supporting the violin in Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake: Dance of the Little Swans" ensemble.

Von Seydlitz's tension seemed to bleed out as he put his whole weight against von Mellenthin's back, accepting the lead.

It began as almost a dirge, and then von Mellenthin transitioned it into Mozart's "Requiem: Sanctus", remaining the secondary and keeping the violin as lead, but enabling it so that his piano ran contra to the violin, high when low, and low when high. Coexistence in perfection, the way nothing else could be.

There was no transition, but instead a harmonious simultaneous leap from "Sanctus" to "Dies Irae", the violin and the piano sounding out unified melody to all who dared listen; frantic, unstoppable, and second to none. Fingers flew across keys as the bow licked strings in exact time and exact tone. They ended as a single entity, the last chord of the violin echoing and fading as one with the piano, and suddenly there was silence in the cathedral.

Von Seydlitz's sweating arms dropped the violin and the bow, as he craned his neck backwards until his skull lay on von Mellenthin's shoulder. The elder of the two could detect trembling, relief shaking von Seydlitz's frame, could feel the heart beating throughout the other Elector-Prince, smell the scent that was von Seydlitz, and his hands dropped from the keys of the great organ, his fingers interlacing with von Seydlitz's as they sat together, eyes closing, content.

"Please don't leave me alone, Reinhardt," he whispered. He would never have said those words to anyone else.

"As you will, Dietrich."

Duhamel knew that the brother had taken up residence within the house of God, driving out the priests and desecrating the interior of the great cathedral with unspeakable horrors within. The chanting lilt from the violin Duhamel could hear even a block away, sounding to him like the laments of all the souls these men had killed since they had come to Earth. When the organ joined in, he could not help but shudder in revulsion. That creatures like them could make such music was an affront to all God's works, and he chastised himself for enjoying the sounds. It was a relief when it finally ended, the noise of the Fest downtown and the bursts of fireworks all that broke the silence that descended.

The pistol was incomparably heavy now, so heavy that Duhamel wondered if he had the strength to ease its weight, for his own soul's sake as well as the world's. The snow had begun to fall harder, fat flakes of it cascading from the sky to cover the Earth in white. Duhamel was convinced it was a sign that this was the day the world was cleansed of Dietrich von Mellenthin forever. He only barely stopped himself from executing both of the hellspawn as they played their instruments, but to shed blood in the house of God was just as horrible a sin as what these two had inflicted on countless souls. Duhamel prayed for patience, for the knowledge to know when it was time to pull the trigger and release it all.

As he stood outside, waiting, he was reminded of what the Priest had taught him, a tale from the Holy Book of Daniel. By rote, he began to whisper the passages, the words traveling from his lips in white puffs of condensation.

"'And he shall speak great words against the most High, and shall wear out the saints of the most High, and think to change times and laws; and they shall be given into his hand until a time and times and the dividing of time.

"'But the judgment shall sit, and they shall take away his dominion, to consume and to destroy it in the end.'"

And the pistol no longer had any weight at all.

"That is the biggest pile of cow's shit I have ever heard leave your mouth," accused von Seydlitz with a laugh as he wrestled the top of the altar off its base. The stone weighed a good 150 kilos, but he made it look almost effortless as he set it side-down on the carpet.

"It's true, though," declared von Mellenthin. "I'd already changed the plan before our little contest." He dropped the armored map case into the hollow of the altar base, brushing his hands free of grit after he and von Seydlitz moved the top back in place. "Why else would I be taking this precaution?"

"Save face all you wish, brother, but you and I both know it is just a jape." Von Seydlitz ducked as the shorter man took a swipe at him with a hand. "Let us assume for a moment that this ludicrous fable of yours is true---"

"Yes, just for a moment, let's," remarked von Mellenthin dryly.

"---then if that were the case, you have already changed your negotiations with all the parties involved?"

Von Mellenthin began buttoning his uniform top. "It wasn't until last night that I realized that I could just as easily gain what we need for Nemesis without having to give Haman prospective weapons against us later. I can accomplish the same result using guile, still get what I want, and then seal us from any treachery even as we get handed the keys to Axis itself." He fastened the last button. "There is a copy of the Federation's NewType data in my Zaku's central memory core. The original set and the remainder of our Zurich gold supply is here in Hameln," he patted the altar top, "along with our NewTypes, as part of the contract that we won't just blow the city apart from Space when we renew the War on our terms. The Buergermeister and the Bishop have already agreed to take the children off our hands. They'll handle all the living arrangements and integrate them into a society not wholly inclined to just hand them over to a Federation that took a shit on their wishes about gene-tampering."

"Very well then," if von Seydlitz could smirk, he would have, "you are going to leave the children here, all except one to maintain appearances, elude the Titans, and go through with Nemesis without having to pay for it. Where is the guarantee for even so much as one of those pieces to fall into place perfectly? What makes you so certain that Axis will roll over for you on a whim?"

Von Mellenthin tossed von Seydlitz's uniform top at him, and then a small smile formed on his face, but his eyes were filled with a strange glow that von Seydlitz had seen only once before.

Von Mellenthin spoke only one word, but he could not contain the level of tremulous emotion from his voice, and it almost wavered. "Vala."

There was a pause, as the breath caught in von Seydlitz's throat, and he found he could not reply after all. A tiny shiver, so minute as to be almost unnoticeable, coursed over the other man, and the gray eyes widened into something a mixture of awe. . .and a desire so powerful it was painful to see.

For his part, von Mellenthin did not dare laugh. This was a button even he lacked the courage to push in von Seydlitz, though it had been on his mind lately as just the thing to punish his rebellious Colonel with. Seeing this reaction, however, was enough to convince von Mellenthin that it was probably higher wisdom to leave it as was.

They would always have that between them, the gulf that no amount of love could ever bridge, the living sum of what it meant to rule or be ruled.

Von Seydlitz swallowed, just once, but his voice remained a harsh whisper. "How can you---? How did---?" He clenched a trembling fist. "How much have you not revealed to me, Dietrich? How many secrets are you still keeping from me? Tell me how you know!"

"Come, brother," said von Mellenthin calmly, throwing an arm around von Seydlitz's shoulder, fastening the greatcloak around his neck with his free hand and not answering the questions. "We have a Fest to attend and a ship to catch." He smiled ferally at the still-gaping von Seydlitz. "I told you to leave Axis to me, didn't I? The situation is well in hand, and soon, so shall the Titans be."

Duhamel had chosen his spot on the assumption that his target would not double-back along the route he had taken to get there. The arrogant and self-absorbed never suspected that there would be any danger to them, and so they took no precautions. The tyrant and his brother would finish their little concert, and then Duhamel would kill them both, one at a time, on the street like dogs. The Church had warned him that they were deadly, but Duhamel had already seen that von Mellenthin was unarmed; no sidearm hung at his waist or his shoulder. He, the primary target, would die the death of a helpless victim. The other had not left the church in two days, but no doubt would come running when his brother was cut down. Duhamel would gun him down in mid-stride. The third one he had not seen yet, but Duhamel would find him and kill him, too, and then he could go back with a cleansed soul in the eyes of both God and Church.

The doors opened, and Duhamel whispered another prayer for strength as both of them emerged from the confines of the Church. Both of them at once. Deliver them into my power, oh Lord! The pistol renewed its song for justice, and as the two crunched their way across the courtyard, speaking closely punctuated by almost boyish behavior, including tossing handfuls of snow at each other and shoving at each other. Their human disguises were very real and very convincing, but Duhamel knew them for what they both were. Wolves. Nothing more than ravening wolves.

He had chosen wrongly. They were heading back in the same direction that the tyrant heir had come from. He pondered waiting for a more opportune time, but his decision had been finalized when von Mellenthin had left his den without an escort. This was the day, all the signs had pointed to it. Gritting his teeth, he followed, never taking his eyes from them.

The case. . .he didn't bring out the case! Where is it? Still inside the Church? Why? The image on the screen zoomed closer to the two at the command of the Kaempfer's pilot. True to von Mellenthin's theory, Vladimir Margul had not attended the Fest. He had no desire whatsoever to engage in socializing with these vile Earthenoids, much less his stuck-up colleagues and that thrice-damned de la Somme. He was just as capable of drinking beer inside a mobile suit as he could outside of one, and the suit provided him easier means of spying on his superiors while they had no idea they were even being watched.

Margul had been doing a lot of thinking, both on the run up to this hovel of a township and while they had been besieged here. Never one to go around talking about himself to others, he had retreated away from the rest of the unit, letting them all go about as they pleased, kissing von Mellenthin's ass, but this did not infer that he'd been blind to all that had been happening. He had laughed when he'd found out that the high-and-mighty von Seydlitz had fallen out of favor with his boss. He had watched as de la Somme, the little shit, had spent countless hours repairing the damage to his precious mobile suit, and even more hours trying to keep everyone from going bonkers in this predicament that the 'Lion' had put them all in. For himself, Margul could not see a way out of this. Every watch period, every perimeter patrol, there were Titan mobile suits watching him back. The black-and-red enemy outside waited patiently for them, to finish them off once and for all, more firepower and technology than the entire 10th had fielded during the War, in a unit half its size.

Margul had no intention of being a corpse here. He began to dwell on what he could do to escape the myriad of dilemmas he found himself in.

There were several pieces to the puzzle, he knew. Neither of his superiors, thanks to drizzle-mouth 'Killing Star' and his idiotic ravings about him, trusted Margul with any more information than was absolutely necessary for him to do his job. Never had he been within their confidence. Fact was, he did not want to be their friend, or even their lackey. With the losses of Lacerta and Reiter at Teutobergerwald, he no longer had any use for any of these losers. His upbringing as the son of a Ukrainian deportee on one of Side 3's scummier colonies had taught him that in order to live, one had to care only about oneself. Anyone else was a necessity only as long as they were useful; better to exploit them and sell them out as soon as possible, then move on, just like he had his bitch of an ex-wife. He had moved from one colony to another until the War, dragging the whore with him, scratching out a living as a vagrant until he had been conscripted into the Zeon Armed Forces. Rather than be another faceless meat shield, he had opted to go officer and command rather than be Grafed over by just any fuckwad. He went to war as a commissioned officer, beginning as a company CO in the 2nd Shock Battalion.

He confessed that the life had been good. All the basic amenities were free, and he got to kill with virtual abandon. He excelled at killing; crushing the weak had been a thrill almost as good as sex. His rank rose along with his accolades. In a mobile suit, he was a god, and he had ruled supreme on the battlefield until Bayreuth, and the coming of Antares de la Somme. His situation had ground to a halt after that, and after Dornbirn, it had begun to deteriorate into vanilla-plainness. He was a good killer; de la Somme was a veritable embodiment of slaughter with purpose. To make matters worse, the arrival of the diminutive prick had a strange effect on both von Mellenthin and von Seydlitz. Both had been excellent soldiers and pilots before, but with de la Somme united with them, they had become berserkers of a whole new caliber. With one reversal of roles, Margul had been relegated to second-best, then third, then fourth. . .if not for the disaster at the Garonne River and the later Battle of Poitiers, who knew how many more would have challenged him? Losing half the Division at Paris did not rid him of de la Somme. Losing the rest of the Division at Metz had also failed to slay the 'Killing Star', though it had rid him of several more prospective rivals, including that conniving ratfucker Gyar. He commanded 2nd Shock's remains by that point, but it was an empty rank and he got it by being the highest-ranking survivor of the battalion, not for his skill as a field-grade officer. Vladimir Margul had not been at peace until von Seydlitz sent de la Somme into space with more gold than any one man should have been left to tend.

That was a big piece of what lay at the heart of Margul's discontent. He felt cheated of what was rightfully his. He had been at Zurich when the city was sacked; by rights a good chunk of that gold was his. Instead, von Seydlitz had stolen it from him, from all of them, and given it to de la Somme as a bargaining tool with those Lunarian pimps who had bought out Zeonic and Zimmad corporations and taken over the bulk of mobile suit production. When de la Somme had come back and still had gold left over, Margul finally thought his due had come in. Again, von Seydlitz denied him, and the gold had spent all its time in a certain black armored case that had rarely left the hands of either von Mellenthin or von Seydlitz. Hell, the Colonel had practically given it to von Mellenthin within hours of his return!

So Margul kept his sights on that case whenever he could. Gold could move mountains. Gold had gotten them their mobile suits, their magnetic grid, their plastic white phosphorus grenade smokescreen, and a dead Federation mobile suit company in the space of five minutes. Gold could do anything and everything, including buy clemency for his past crimes from the Titans. Gold could take Vladimir Margul everywhere that spilling blood for some lofty indefinable ideal only a handful of people in Side 3 would even recognize could not.

Gold could even buy him his life. De la Somme thought he was clever, thought he was slick, but Margul knew. Gyar had told him back at Metz, before von Mellenthin's capture, that de la Somme had cut a deal with the General, a small promise that as long as the War went on, he would not butcher Margul like a pig for Dornbirn. The slimy shit had almost gloated over it, using the knowledge to chastise him over some slight. Gyar had always been more noble than he was worth, volunteering to kill himself like some movie hero to save the whole unit's bacon. Gyar had laughed when he told Margul that von Mellenthin had agreed to the deal with no hesitation, so Margul had known for nearly a decade that he was on borrowed time. Margul supposed that made them even, since he had laughed when Gyar had blown himself into a plasma stain. But his greatest problem still lived; he had hoped that de la Somme's skills would have lessened during his time in Space, but he had been hoping in vain. De la Somme was going to come for him someday, and for all his cutesy antics, weird conventions, and fawning over schoolkids, de la Somme was a remorseless murderer. Ironic that with one 120mm round, Margul had been marked for death, but after all the slaughter de la Somme had inflicted on Terra and in Space, he was a veritable hero. To make matters even worse, de la Somme was protected against nearly all forms of attack, even outside of a mobile suit. Margul was even hesitant to try and strangle the little pilot in his sleep, consumed with terror over what von Mellenthin would do to him.

Oh, he knew well von Mellenthin's temper and utter ruthlessness when angered. He knew all von Mellenthin's dark secrets, including the one at Luxembourg that would have gotten the General executed by the Zavis if Kishiria had ever found out what he had done to her pet officer, Brigadier General Atherly. Margul had seen many, many things in his erstwhile life, but he had never seen anything to rival von Mellenthin's unspeakable rage that day. He could still hear the screams and the sounds of tearing if he closed his eyes and thought back to that incident; he had never known flesh could sound like that. He had personally torched the TOC tent afterwards into a pile of ash; there was no way it could have been sterilized after the atrocity von Mellenthin had done with Atherly. The smell was something he rediscovered in his dreams.

As much as he hated to admit it, there were very few times in the last month that he had slept soundly, and if he were the kind of person to dwell on the past as a whole, he had spent every day of the last eight years in the company of people he was genuinely frightened of.

The camera lens zoomed again and focused. It would be so easy to ratchet a shell into the Kaempfer's shotgun and vaporize both of them from six blocks away. They'd never escape the spread at this range, whatever the hell they were. They even seemed happy again. It would be a blessing to kill them both while they were content to be together. But it would not end de la Somme. Always another noose around Margul's neck, especially since Margul had already come to the conclusion that the 'Killing Star's patience with his deal was coming to an end. Gun camera footage was replayable indefinitely, and with as many times as he had watched it, he had convinced himself that de la Somme had tried to kill him at Steinbaum. If Reiter had not gotten in the way, the poor dumb kid from an abusive family who lived only for the thrill of combat with the 2nd Shock, that single 75mm round that de la Somme's Gouf Custom fired in the middle of the fighting would have struck Margul's own thin-skinned suit in the pilot's hatch. He was certain of it. So perfect a shot, in the midst of an impenetrable cloud of superheated smoke, snapping back a single blast without so much as looking. Only de la Somme could do it, and so he had taken the chance. What a horrible 'accident' it would have been to have a stray shot take out 'Demon' Margul on the battlefield, ridding the universe of a 'child-killing brute'. Nice and neat, that; had he not been the intended corpse, Margul would have laughed and clapped at the tidiness of the plan.

De la Somme had fed on Reiter's soul that day instead of his; Margul had no more shields to ward off the next attack, not unless they were painted red and black. Putting a wall of Titans between he and de la Somme, paid for in gold, was his only hope of survival in any kind of future.

Von Mellenthin had gone into that chapel with the case, and come out of there without it. Margul chewed on a thumb thoughtfully as the main camera swung towards the St. Bonificatus Church, letting his superiors go. . .this time.

"I can not believe you let him talk to you like that," remarked von Seydlitz as they walked. "You never let Antares' tantrums move you when we were younger. Do not tell me that was what convinced you to alter your plan, because I will not believe that for an instant. You have never taken Antares' advice before, no matter if he was right or not."

Von Mellenthin sighed. "Ordinarily, I'd agree with that, but then I thought to myself: 'What kind of plan do I have if my best friend doesn't trust it and my bratty little brother sees right through it?' I mean, think about it, if Antares can see the wrinkle in the mix, surely Haman Kahn has."

Von Seydlitz snorted, or came as close to it as he could. "Haman Kahn sees too much at any rate."

"Hence my insurance. I won't be turning over the children to her, not if I can't even convince my brothers that it's a good idea." Von Mellenthin ran a hand over a snow-covered fence rail, brushing it off. "Only the Race deserves to benefit from the Federation's quaint little experiments, no one else."

Von Seydlitz smiled thinly. "No pouting. You can not help that you can be a helpless Kamuff without our guidance."

"Fuck you, Reinhardt." The sounds of the Fest were growing louder as they drew closer. Human traffic was also picking up, though most were giving the Zeon officers a wide berth as they passed.

Von Seydlitz dodged a couple of clowns, laughing and cavorting, who blew confetti at him with a deft spin, keeping up with von Mellenthin's determined stride to escape being made fun of. "It is not your fault. It was the Field that did this to you. Zacken aus der Krone brechen and all that." The colloquialism was one suited for the moment, accusing him of having 'broken something off his crown' to admit the mistake.

"Hoer doch auf, Reinhardt," laughed von Mellenthin, boots stamping through the ice without skidding off the cobblestones the way other people were, "mir auf die Eier zugehen!"

"If you think I am the one busting your balls, wait until I tell Antares he was the one that had you doubting." Von Seydlitz dodged away from another deluge of snow.

"You'll keep your damn mouth shut and like it, Oberst, or I'll yank your tongue out with my Zaku."

As they stepped around the corner, the party unfolded before them. The town center was jam-packed full of people. Throngs and throngs of people too terrified to leave their homes since the coming of the 10th Panzerkaempfer into their lives were out in force now. A stage, obviously a pre-fab set, had been set up at the end of the square, with music more resembling modern electronic trance than anything else. There was a mass of bodies at that stage, moving to the thumping bass of the DJ on stage, lost in the music and the moment, a light show silhouetting some and illuminating others with a strobe-like effect. Both of the Zeon could feel the music through their boots, punctuated by the stamp and howls of the crowd. There were Polizei everywhere, children running pell-mell through the crowds to avoid them, scamming beer wherever they could, probably pick-pocketing to boot. The smell of beer was pervasive, blending with the scents of greasy food, human sweat, smoke. Another barrage of fireworks sailed into the air, detonating above them, adding their multihued illumination to the sea of faces around them. A beer tent was at the far end of the square, probably filled with people and most of the Zeon soldiers.

The noise was incredible, and von Mellenthin grabbed his brother's arm and dragged him closer, subvocalizing into von Seydlitz's ear that they should move towards the tent. The other man nodded in understanding and gestured that he wanted to lead. Von Mellenthin shook his head, insistent, and von Seydlitz relented, following. The crowd swallowed them within it instantly, but they moved through it without obstacle, the force of their Wills opening paths through the multitude as though they could not be touched. Even the heavily-inebriated moved to the side, and the baritone laugh of von Mellenthin broke through even the din of thousands of voices and the clamor of the bands.

Margul lost sight of them when they walked into the crowd, their hotter-than-normal bodies showing only glimpses in the IR spectrum of the mob. No matter. He had his plan now. Shutting the Kaempfer down to Standby mode, he popped open the hatch, wincing as the cold air slapped him across his ruddy face, and he rubbed his hands across his cheeks to warm them, grabbing his jacket as he exited. He zipped down the egress line the way only a veteran pilot could and sprinted to the St. Bonificatus Church's door. He knew von Seydlitz never locked the doors; as amoral a being as he was, he could have cared less if the cathedral was ransacked and burned by Vandals while he was away.

Margul swept into the nave, narrow eyes roaming everywhere. This church was huge, with a thousand possible hiding places for that goddamn case. Desperate, he began moving through the pews, meaty hands sweating in anticipation of finding what he sought, and in dread that he would get caught in the meantime. He left the nave and began tearing through offices, kicking doors apart where he found them locked.

Duhamel nearly panicked when the saw the crowd and no sign of either of his quarry. His eyes darted frantically from face to face in the throng, not recognizing any of them as Zeon, much less those he intended to kill. The noise was a wave, assaulting his senses as he desperately sought his victims. No sign of them lay on the outskirts of the mob, and so he virtually dove into the multitude. How many people in this mess were Zeon generals in cloaks made from dead animals? Duhamel was certain it was only a matter of time before they showed themselves; their kind could not hide in a crowd for long without needing to be the center of all the attention. He struggled onward, seeking, but the crowd resisted his best efforts to move through them quickly.

"P-please!" he pleaded to nearly-deaf ears, even his own. "Please let me by!"

The beer tent was jam-packed. Another stage, a wooden one, had been put up on the far corner of the tent, adjacent to the bar, where a more traditional folk band played drinking songs and humorous anecdotes to a drinking crowd. A miasma of all forms of tobacco smoke inundated the atmosphere of the big canvas tent. The bar had a grill, which sizzled as it fried meat, vegetables, potatoes, peppers, onions; the scents were potent enough to pierce even the smoke.

Von Mellenthin rubbed his hands together in something resembling glee. "Ahhh, this is more like it, Reinhardt! Let's find some space at a table and---," he was cut off in mid-sentence by a raucous laughter on the side of the tent that was furthest from the band. "I think I've found some of our people."

"Your assessment is accurate," Von Seydlitz's sharp eyes saw 10th Panzerkaempfer gray and gold in the midst of the civilians. "Looks like most of them are in here, probably finishing off one last drink before Ogun gives them their movement orders."

Von Mellenthin glanced at his wrist chrono. "Should be another half an hour before then. Grab us some beer and we'll go see what mischief they're up to."

The taller man shook his head. "I will not be indulging tonight, sorry."

The General reached up and patted von Seydlitz's cheek, daring a swat. The expression on his face was almost mournful. "Not up to drinking with me tonight, Reinhardt?"

It was almost imperceptible, but von Mellenthin saw his foster brother's harsh eyes soften briefly, almost in apology. "No. . .no, it is not like that at all, Dietrich." His voice was quiet, enough so von Mellenthin almost had to strain to hear it over the commotion.

The General studied von Seydlitz for a brief moment, then decided now was not the time to ask. "Very well, then. Go tend to whatever it is needs tending, Oberst. Don't be late."

Von Seydlitz glanced back at him once before walking back out the tent door, but made no verbal reply. To von Mellenthin, it looked almost as though he were running away from something.