Disclaimer

Macross is owned by or licensed to lots of people - Tatsunoko Studios, Harmony Gold, Studio Nue, Streamline Video...note that none of them are me.

The same can be said of Ranma 1/2 - Rumiko Takahashi, Kitty, Shonen Sunday Comics, Viz Video. Not me.

I didn't create any of them, and I certainly do not own them. Any use of them in this story is meant as nothing more than tribute. Please don't sue me.


Wednesday's Child

Thirty-Four: ...Jokers To The Right

March 30th, 2012

Ranma pulled the throttle back, and spun the collar on the throttle lever that had replaced the individual configuration controls. The YF-4 pitched nose down, the engine nacelles swinging down to balance its position, and he fired the LASER cannons mounted in the GERWALK-Mode fighter's wrists at the targets.

"Ten for ten, and resuming forward flight."

He jammed the throttle forward again, and the jet slid back into forward movement, nosing up again. In three seconds, speed was above a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, and the fighter reconfigured automatically back to Jet Mode.

"The auto-reconfiguration buggered up the attack run, Misa." He scowled at his instruments. "If this bird drops below stall speed, it shifts, even if I try to override."

"Clarion, Tower. Noted." Misa hadn't complained about his somewhat more relaxed radio protocol, but she wasn't partaking of it either. Every message she sent was as crisp as the days of the Space War and Gunsight One. "But McCain insists that we not disable that safety feature with the prototype. And it is their bird."

"Yeah, well, if they want very-low-alpha targeting data in Jet Mode, they better make sure the bird stays in Jet Mode."

"Clarion, come left to one eight three and increase speed to—Wait one." Misa's voice cut off. Ranma scowled, but didn't joggle her elbow; Misa wouldn't tell him what was going on until she had a free minute to do so, and even then, it might be outside his classification pigeonhole.

Sure is takin' her a long time to deal with, though.

Finally, she clicked back onto the line. "Clarion, Tower. We have reports of a Malcontent attack—"

Oh, great.

"Come left to one eight zero, and activate ALS."

Ranma blinked. The ALS was the automatic landing system. Even though he could understand why he was being ordered back to base—the YF-4 was still a prototype, not yet certified for combat—why order the use of the ALS? He could land this bird on a dime, and call heads or tails by how the Lightning's foot was sitting on the tarmac.

But he had his orders, and it didn't harm him any to follow them. "Roger, Tower. ALS active, coming to one eight zero."

He glanced through the canopy over to the left as he banked the fighter, saw two Valkyries taxiing for takeoff. That might explain it, ALS is semi-active, and would let Tower track me that much more easily during a scramble...

He frowned. The Valkyries were taking off under roll-out, which they'd only do if they were so heavy on fuel that vertical wasn't an option...but they weren't overthrusting, which was a good sign that they had to conserve whatever fuel they had. So they were probably on a long trip, and...He shook his head momentarily, and popped open his nav computer. A quick set of calculations gave him the numbers he was looking for.

"Tower, Clarion. Where are those Valks going?"

"Clarion, Tower. You don't need to know."

"Misa, you're sendin' them almost forty-five hundred kilometers. Gotta be at least four thousand, but I'm bettin' it's near the edge of their range. Might be further if you've got tanker support up for them."

There was a brief silence from the other end, then Misa's voice came back on. "Clarion, please confirm encryption six echo alpha two."

Ranma punched the code into his commo board, and waited while the computer performed a simple checksum. "My encryption key reads five five charlie delta."

"Confirmed, Clarion. Ranma, the report of Malcontent activity comes from a former U. N. Air Base at North Bay, in what used to be Ontario. Flight time at optimum engine power is five and a half hours."

Ranma was already punching nav data into his navigational computer. "Tower, I can make that run in three hours."

"Three hours or five, Ranma, it won't make a difference if they're currently under attack."

"Are they?"

"No, but—"

"Those Valks, and any others you're sendin' out that way, will need turnaround time if they're goin' out for preventative measures, or cleanup duty. At least I can get a two hour march on 'em by gettin' there first, and then I can cover them while they refuel."

"Ranma, that airplane isn't certified yet. Technically, it doesn't even belong to us; it's still Stonewell-Bellcom property."

"Well, ask him to clear it for us." Ranma smirked. "We need to test the bird's long-range interdict and patrol capability."

Misa heaved a long-suffering and overly theatrical sigh. "Clarion, Tower. Come to one two five and stand by for burn data."


Salinas nodded. "They're sending out a pair of Valkyries."

"Any ideas which ones?"

"Didn't catch squadron names or pilot names, just call sign...and that could be anything," admitted Salinas.

Max nodded, then frowned. "Just two?"

"The North Bay site doesn't have any combat robots on station," said Salinas. "Too far to ship Destroids, except for Defenders and Spartans. You can't walk a Tomahawk across four thousand kilometers of bog. And they don't have a lot of Valkyries to go around."

"Well, do you think we should intervene?"

Salinas frowned. "This ain't exactly in our mandate, Max. We're supposed to be helping civilians, not the military. And this is our debut fight."

"We're supposed to be fighting the Malcontents," said Max. "I don't think it matters who's getting attacked. And that base can't exactly defend itself. Look." He touched some controls, showed the flight path he expected a pair of Valkyries to follow. "It's going to take them five hours to get there—five whole hours. We can hit the place in two hours and ten minutes from take-off—call it two and a half, with warm-up. Right now, the Malcontents have the defending forces buttoned up, but it's only a matter of time before whoever's leading those goons either finds what he's looking for, or runs out of patience."

"We could arrive in two and a half hours, find the bad guys scattered to hell and gone, and have revealed ourself for no end," countered Salinas.

"Revealed ourselves as what?" Max tapped the display. "Look, here and here. Their radar transmitters have been taken out. We do a look-see from two klicks up, and if we spot Zentraedi thermal signatures, we engage. Otherwise, we bug out, nobody can get eyes on us, much less paint us with radar."

Salinas nodded. "Well, I put you in charge of the air wing. It's your call."

"Yes, Sir." Max snapped to attention and saluted. "Vigilantes will deploy."


"North Bay reported a Malcontent attack, but informed us that they were able to contain it," said Misa. "Ten minutes later, they were back on the air, telling us that the enemy had overrun their defenses, but were not advancing further. They appear to be searching the base for something."

"They might think there's a recloning chamber there," said Ranma. "Is there?"

"No, but there are some primary cloning chambers," said Misa. "They were damaged, and were sent to North Bay for examination."

"Why send 'em halfway across the planet?" grumbled Ranma.

"It's not halfway across the planet; more like a sixth of the way." Misa's tone was one of admonishment. "And you know the answer to the question already."

"Politics," grumbled Ranma.

"You know it," said Misa sweetly. Then, in a more businesslike tone: "Say state, Clarion."

"Clarion, one Yankee Foxtrot Four Alpha. One GU-11, four blue Diamondbacks." The missiles were carried attached conformally to the fuselage. He could not reconfigure to Soldier Mode before using or jettisoning them, which was the only reason he was carrying them; the computer had refused to switch to Soldier Mode while they were attached.

Unfortunately, they were "blue", or exercise, rounds, which meant that they were worthless in combat. But the fighter flew a bit faster with them attached, so he didn't jettison them. His gun pod, at least, had live rounds, and the LASER cannons worked fine.

"You're underarmed to break this siege, Clarion. Reports indicate twenty-six Regult-type pods of one sort or another, plus at least one Glaug."

"Hopefully, I can rattle 'em." Ranma frowned. "That Glaug...is it Kamjin's?"

"Unknown, Clarion."


"Okay, Vigilantes." Max ran a final check of his board. "Coming up on the limits of their radar range. Remember, once they detect us, I want us to go for maximum frightfulness."

"Roger that, Max."

"Tallyho," yelled Vigilante Three. "I have IR contacts—Regults and a Glaug."

Max grinned. "All Vigilates, elements break and attack."

The six aircraft split into three groups of two, and dove into the city.


Ranma's autopilot pinged, and he altered his course slightly and nosed the big fighter down. Below him, the North Bay military base was still little more than a dot on the horizon. He activated the long-range visual camera, and scowled.

He switched on his satellite radio. "Macross, Clarion. I have eyes on North Bay, and there appears to be Valkyries already present. At least four, probably more."

"Clarion, Macross. We have no indications of Valkyries in the area. The birds we dispatched are still two hours out. Can you send me your video feed?"

"Sure." He patched the video feed into the satellite system. Then waited about thirty seconds, before Misa's voice came back on.

"Clarion, Macross. We've confirmed, no other Valkyries should be present. And the markings on those Valkyries aren't ours."

Ranma's scowl deepened. "Has the Valkyrie been sold to anyone but the U. N. Spacy?"

"Not to the best of our knowledge, Clarion; it hasn't been completely declassified, or licensed for ownership for anyone but us. I think we need to assume that they're illegally owned birds."

"Probably salvaged during the Reconstruction," muttered Ranma.

"Are they winning?"

"So far," admitted Ranma. "They seem to—wait. That's not a Valkyrie." He kept the camera trained on the odd man out. It looked a lot like the Lightning he was riding, but considerably smaller. The engine nacelles looked wrong, as well; they were half the size, and seemed to have some sort of gun pod attached, rather than the integral cannon his own bird carried.

"Confirmed, Clarion. That's a VF-X-2 Icarus. They built three of them, but the project was scrapped before Project FIREBIRD was complete."

"It's the original THUNDERBIRD," said Ranma quietly. He reconfigured to GERWALK and dropped towards the city.

The raiding force was running, now, being pursued by the assorted variable fighters, and Ranma dropped in behind the Icarus. When it made no hostile movement towards him, he increased his throttles and pulled in alongside him.

The Icarus' pilot glanced over at him, and his commo system pinged at him. He touched a stud on the throttle, and his left-side MFD switched to display a familiar face.

"Max!"

"Good afternoon, Commander Saotome." Max tossed him a mock salute. "Just taking care of a little problem that you lot can't handle."

"I can't say I object to your goals," said Ranma, "but your methods are, unfortunately, illegal. Where did you get these birds?"

"We found them," replied Max. "And we fixed them up. You like my ride?"

"Max, I understand your frustration with the Malcontent issue," said Ranma. "But this isn't the way to handle it."

"It seems to me, Commander, that this is the only way to handle it." Max glanced to the side, then looked back up. "At any rate, this bunch are on the run, and I think we can break it off here. Don't try to follow us, Commander. We've got you seriously outnumbered, and I can see that your weapons are exercise rounds. With your cannon alone, you won't last long."

Glumly, Ranma had to agree with Max's assessment. He pulled back gently on the stick, bringing the Lightning off the deck.

"Max, you know that the U. N. Spacy can't let you do this. They will find you, and they will stop you. If you can bring your bunch back into the fold, maybe we can work something out. Lord knows we could use the extra birds—"

"As long as the U. N. Spacy persists in allowing the Malcontents to run amok, we can't work with them." Max shook his head. "We'll be taking the fight directly to the Malcontents, not merely waiting for them to act before responding."

"Looks like you were responding today, Max."

"Don't you think we could have wiped out this entire force? We're letting some get away, hoping they'll lead us right back to their base."

Ranma sighed, and aimed his jet towards the base. His tanks were nearly empty, and he'd need to refuel before returning to Macross City.


Four hours later, he was being debriefed by Misa and Admiral Global. Nabiki was off to the side, flipping through papers.

"The hell of it is, I can understand his viewpoint," said Ranma. "It's basic to every tactical scenario. The side that is forced to respond, rather than initiate, is going to lose."

Nabiki nodded. "It's the same in chess, too. Never make a purely defensive move."

"But that's what we're doing with the Malcontents," said Ranma. "If they've got some kind of organized center, we need to be smashing it, not just responding to them if and when it happens."

"Unfortunately," said Misa, "The U. N. Spacy's charter clearly states that we can only carry out offensive missions within areas strictly under U. N. control. If we want to operate anywhere else, we need permission from the host government."

"If Kamjin and his gang of pirates have a central base, it's probably nowhere that there's any functioning government," said Ranma. "Wouldn't that count as U. N. territory?"

"And you said you didn't understand politics," said Nabiki. She grinned, then touched her remote. A map appeared on the display screen. "The bunch that Max and company were chasing were proceeding along two-eight-five, which puts them somewhere in Ontario, Manitoba or Saskatchewan. Unfortunately, this is area controlled by the Dominion of Canada.

"Fortunately for us," she continued, "Alaska was part of the United States, and when Washington was flattened from orbit, power devolved to the individual states. They have a responsibility to elect a new President, but until this happens—and you'll note that most of them are still too disorganized to put together elections—power remains in the hands of the state Governors.

"Canada's Constitution actually allows for the decapitation of their government. The current Prime Minister is a Member of Parliament for the Yukon Territory; he's the head of the territorial party. Since the national parties were all wiped out, and his party holds the majority in what's left of their Parliament, he was automatically elevated to Prime Minister, and he's already selected his new Governor-General. For all the good that's worth," she said wryly, "as the Royals were just as decapitated. King William hasn't even returned to Great Britain for coronation yet."

"Let me guess," said Ranma. "Canada won't let us operate within their borders."

"Prime Minister Facciol has refused to allow us to carry out a strike unless he is convinced we have the right target," said Nabiki. "However, this band is probably not Kamjin's gang."

There was a brief silence, then Admiral Global shifted in his seat. "Thank you for the lesson in international politics, Colonel Tendo. What can we do about these vigilates?"

"We managed to track them via satellite," said Nabiki. "They followed the Malcontents back to their base of operations, and wrecked the joint. They then turned due south, but we lost satellite coverage on them before they reached their destination."

"So we don't even know where they're based out of," said Ranma disgustedly. "This sucks."

"I didn't say that." Nabiki grinned tightly. "There's an old storage and repair facility in Florida. They had, among other things, all three of the VF-X-2 prototypes."

"Max will be clever enough to have moved from that facility," said Misa.

"Probably," admitted Nabiki. "But we should still check it out. They might have left information behind, showing where they were going next."

Ranma stood. "I can check it out. Just give me a team and a bird, and I—"

Misa shook her head. "No, Ranma. You can't. You're off the combat roster."

His jaw gaped. "Why am I off the roster?"

"Because you're not officially assigned to a combat squadron," said Misa. "You're a test pilot now."

"You don't have anyone else that can take down Max," countered Ranma.

"Like Misa said," butted in Nabiki, "he won't be there." She shook her head sadly. "Trust me, Ranma, I know how much this bothers you, but Misa's right. We can't send you out on this mission."

Ranma ground his teeth, then snapped to attention. "Then I request transfer to a combat squadron."

Misa nodded. "Your request is noted. Hopefully, by the time we have Max pinned down, we can send you out after him."


He stormed out of the HQ building, fists balled and a scowl etched on his face.

"Ranma?"

He blinked, and glanced over to see Claudia, who was looking at him with some concern.

"Oh, hi, Claudia." He waved half-heartedly.

"Something the matter?"

He didn't know if the issue with Max was outside of her classification compartment. "Yeah. There's a combat mission coming up that I want to be a part of, but I can't. Because I'm not in a squadron."

"The thing with Max?"

Okay, if she knew about it, she probably was cleared into it. "I can understand where he's comin' from, but he's goin' about dealin' with it the wrong way."

"I can tell you're really worked up about it," said Claudia. "Your Basic is slipping."

"Sorry." He grinned sheepishly. "I tend to fall back into bad habits when I'm mad."

"Why don't we head down to Variation, and have a cup of tea?"

He frowned. "I'd love to, Claudia, but Variation is a bit too open for this discussion. There's classified elements, that I don't want to discuss in an open forum like that."

"Then why don't we go to my place." She winked. "I promise we won't be seen by Misa, Milia, or Minmay."

"Or my Mom," grumbled Ranma, "or she'll try hooking you up with me as well."


"I enjoy test-piloting," said Ranma. "And I know it's important, since every problem we catch at this stage means one less problem to worry about when the bird is finally deployed. Plus, we need to know exactly what the airplane is capable of before it's deployed, so our pilots know how to handle it properly."

"But you'd rather be flying combat?" asked Claudia.

"At the moment, yeah," said Ranma. "Plus, I haven't gotten a promotion since the war ended."

"We're more or less on a peacetime footing," said Claudia. "Promotions were more rapid during the war, because we had to promote to fill holes in the TO and E caused by casualties." She looked down at her tea. "Like Hikaru, to replace Roy."

"I was in hack when he was promoted," said Ranma. "Or I would have had that slot."

She looked up, an odd smile on her face. "Actually, Ranma, you wouldn't have. Oh, you were considered for it, and they disregarded the fact that you were in hack at the time, but they chose Hikaru because he has fewer black marks on his record."

Ranma blinked.

"You've got a bad habit of going off the reservation," said Claudia. "Hikaru never has. Oh, he's got a smart mouth on him, and he's green as grass—he's only been a soldier for three years now, whereas you signed up back in ninety-five. Hell, you basically formulated variable fighter doctrine right from the start, during PAINTED GLOVE. Plus, you'd been through the Anti-Unification War, you led the first mission into Macross...so yes, on the basis of your qualifications, you should have had the slot.

"But your qualifications aren't the only thing they look at," she continued. "That little stunt with Shelter Seventeen was brought up. I tried to cover for you, but the Captain saw right through it."

"I remember," he said. "He brought it up at my board when I screened for Squadron Lieutenant."

"And before that, there was the incident on South Ataria Island, when you convinced your Lieutenant to let you go in alone. Not exactly the Army way. Your various pieces of mail to Misa, before she came to South Ataria. Every time they had to censor something, a note was made in your file. The way you slapped down Misa, during the Cat's Eye incident. She didn't file a complaint, but all radio traffic was recorded, and a note was made. Bringing back Ling Kaifunn—"

"Knew that was a mistake," he muttered.

"All of it added up," said Claudia. "And going berserk on Milia, after she shot down Roy...it was the final nail in the coffin. For that matter, slapping around Kaifunn didn't help your record. Nor did your beating up Milia, when you caught her aboard Macross. I'm really sorry to say this, Ranma, but test pilot is the only place left where you have a prayer of a promotion. You're one of our best fighters, Ranma, but as a soldier, you're not very good."

"I nearly got kicked out of Basic," he said. "I kinda figured then that I wasn't the best fit for the Army. But it was all I could do."

Claudia nodded. "I can understand that."

He paused to sip his tea. "And I don't really care about promotions. I enjoyed training up the newbies. Training was the focus of my early education. I was taught, right from the time I could walk, to be a martial arts instructor."

Claudia frowned. "And what does that have to do with promotions?"

"You gotta be a Commander to be put in charge of a cadre unit," said Ranma. "I've got the rank, but they've never given me a cadre squadron."

"And you think you'd enjoy that job?"

"The third Flight of the Jolly Rogers was essentially a cadre unit," said Ranma. "Like I said, I enjoyed that work. But unless the Fireflies have an opening for a new Commander, I won't get it. The next option is a Commandant of one of the three training schools, but you need Colonel rank for that. And I seriously doubt I'm gonna reach Colonel rank."

"Plus, there's less hands-on work in that job," said Claudia. "You spend more time shuffling paper than you do in the cockpit."

He made a face. "I hate paperwork."

She laughed. "Then it's a wonder that you made officer at all!"

Her face turned a bit more serious. "Now, how are you and Milia working out?"

"You just live to play matchmaker, don't you?"

"Of course," she said sweetly.

"Well, we're not really serious. Milia wants to explore dating, and she said that she feels safer exploring with me."

Claudia raised an eyebrow. "She said that?"

"I'm paraphrasing," said Ranma. "But it's essentially what she said."

"Still, it sounds like a very familiar story," said Claudia. "About like what the situation between—"

She was cut off by the beeping of her comm. She looked disgusted, then set down her tea. "That's the base code. Why would they—"

She was cut off again, this time by the alert sirens. Ranma cursed under his breath, set down his tea, and hopped to his feet.

"They're playin' our song, Claudia. Time to go earn our princely salaries."


Misa was in the officer's mess when the alert came in. It took her all of three minutes to reach the command center.

"Status?" She still held a half-eaten tuna fish sandwich in one hand.

"Zentraedi force in battalion strength attacking, Ma'am." Shammy glanced at her ready board. "Skull is engaging them in the city, and we're moving up Fourth Cavalry to support them."

"Against a full battalion, they're going to be outclassed," mused Misa. She glanced over to Vanessa. "Who else can we get in there?"

"Nobody," admitted Vanessa. "We're stretched out all over the place. Only the Skull is based out of Macross City anymore."

Damn, I should have known this was going to happen!

"Commander Saotome on three, Colonel."

She nodded, and checked her headset. "Go ahead."

"Misa, it's Ranma. If you can arrange a ride for me—"

"We just don't have the birds right now," she said. The anger she felt was coming out in her voice, and she hoped desperately that he didn't feel it was directed at him. "What Destroids are you current on?"

"Destroids?" He paused. "I was trained in Spartan and Tomahawk operations, but I'm not technically current on any of them. What about my Queaddlun-Rau?"

"Not properly assigned yet, and since it is a Zentraedi robot, I can't just snap my fingers and clear it for you." She glanced at Vanessa's board. "Fourth Cav has three spare Tomahawks and a spare Spartan. Part of their unassigned pool. Report to Depot Six and log yourself in."

"Can you send me a gunner for the Tomahawk?"

"Fourth Cav might have one to spare. If not, I'll see what I can scratch up. Hayase, clear."

She waved at Vanessa, who closed off the channel before Ranma could say anything else. "Chief Kabriov. Do we have any idea who these jokers are?"

"I'm afraid we do, Ma'am." Kim thumbed a control, and an image appeared on the screen. A white and red Glaug.

"Kamjin."

She bit her lip, then turned back to Shammy. "Any luck finding a gunner for Commander Saotome?"

"No," said Shammy. "But we got him cleared into a Tomahawk. Fourth's reserve Spartan is down for maintenance."

"Damn. He could solo in a Spartan." She scowled again, then said, "Well, we've broken one reg so far, putting him in a Destroid. Let's break another. Get Diplomatic on the comm."


Like over half the fighter pilots in the U. N. Spacy, Ranma had very little direct history with the massive ground-pounding units of the Cavalry forces. The Destroids were earlier combat robots, introduced a year before the Variable Fighters, and lacked the mobility to properly counter the Zentraedi. However, their armour was the next best thing to indestructible, and they carried more firepower than a wing of Valkyries.

He snapped the heavy breast-and-back armour plate in place, then swung his arms about to make sure they were not too badly impeded. Then glanced to where the ready teams were prepping the Destroids.

Charlie Platoon was the only unit not yet deployed. Like the Marines that he'd served in so long ago, each Platoon was formed of six Destroids, each performing one vital role. The three Spartans were the front-line combatants, and carried a mix of hand-held weaponry. Two of them carried GU-11 cannons, and one carried a 966-PFG autocannon in a dual-grip configuration, like an oversized squad assault weapon.

The Tomahawks were the heavy hitters, armed with long-range particle beam cannons, and a host of shorter-ranged missiles, cannons, lasers, flamethrowers, grenade launchers, you name it. They were painted in guns. They were also the most heavily armoured of the Destroids on the line; only the Monster had more armour, and there were none of those present.

The sixth Destroid in the platoon was a Defender, a purpose-built anti-aircraft robot. Four of the air-cooled 966-type autocannons, two each per arm, with variable-time fuses, could set up a massive flak barrage, and the huge radar boom mounted over the cockpit allowed the robot to pick up—and then pick off—enemy aircraft at twelve kilometers range. Against the overly mobile and exceedingly flimsy Regult, the Defenders had performed remarkably well.

There was a seventh Destroid present, another Tomahawk, which lacked a Platoon badge. Fuelers were pulling hoses from ports, and ordies were loading boxes of shells into the chest-mounted autocannon.

"Excuse me, Sir."

He turned, to see a Sergeant in Cavalry colours. The man snapped off a salute, and he returned it.

"Sergeant Qing, Sir, Fourth Cav Charlie. They told us you'd be joinin' us." He hesitated, then asked, "Will you be taking over the Platoon?"

Ranma shook his head. "No, Sergeant. I'm not Cav, and I won't be able to co-ordinate with the rest of the Fourth."

"Yes, Sir." The relief in Qing's face was obvious, and Ranma fought to avoid chuckling.

"On the other hand, they told me that you might be able to scratch up a spare gunner for me."

Qing sighed. "I hate to let you down, Sir, but—"

"But you don't have the men to spare."

"We're a short company," said Qing. "Only three Platoons, instead of the regulation six, until they give us enough replacement rides to fill us out. So our people end up getting poached—and they always take our best."

"I dunno about that, Sergeant. You're still here." Nothing like an ego boost. "Okay, HQ told me they'd try to get someone out to help me. If they can't..." He shrugged. "I've sat out battles before."

"But you never liked to, right, Sir?" A horn sounded behind them, and Qing hastily saluted again. "Gotta run, Sir."

"Go get 'em, Sarge."

He turned and walked towards the waiting Tomahawk. The service gantry was in place at the cockpit, and he quickly climbed the ladder. But he didn't get in yet; the gunner sat in the forward seat, and had to get in first.

That wasn't terribly well thought out...maybe they had to do it for some other design reason.

A Corporal was finishing the electronics check, down in the pilot's chair, and he snapped his portable terminal shut and climbed out. "All ready for you, Sir."

"Except for the lack of a gunner," he said.

"Maybe that's him there?"

Ranma followed the Corporal's finger, and saw another battle-armoured form running towards the Destroid. His eyes narrowed. "That's not a him, Corp. It's a her."

"Try not to get too distracted, Sir." The Corporal grinned. Ranma snorted.

"As if. Oh, yeah, you guys don't know me, do ya?"

"You came within a whisker of winning Miss Macross, Sir. And I voted for you."

"I guess you do." He watched as the gunner climbed up the service gantry, and his frown deepened. "I think I know her. Her movements are familiar."

She stopped, and pulled off her helmet. Her long green hair was pinned up, in deference to the armour, and she snapped off the Zentraedi salute.

"Reporting for duty, Sir."

"Milia, what the hell are you doing here?" He laughed. "Did Misa actually break a regulation? You're not even part of the Spacy!"

"Technically, Diplomatic Corps is part of the U. N. Spacy," said Milia. "And I am still a warrior."

"Yeah, but you can't be checked out on a Tomahawk."

"As a pilot, I could not possibly handle it," admitted Milia. "But as a gunner...you will merely have to familiarize me with the systems."

"I can handle that," he said. "Okay, get down and into the front seat."

She saluted again, then donned her helmet and crawled in. The Corporal watched her, then turned to Ranma.

"Sir, ain't she a Zentraedi?"

"Yes, Corporal, she is."

"And we're gonna put her in a Tomahawk?"

Ranma turned to face him directly. "Corporal, she defected. That means she's on our side now. Plus, I know her very well; I've been training her for two years. So I think we can trust her. Plus, she tried to kill me the first time we met."

"And for that, you think you can trust her?"

"No," said Ranma. "I trust her for other reasons. But if I trust her, and she tried to kill me, don't you think you can trust her, when she's never tried to harm you in the past?"

"I guess so," said the Corporal, but his voice betrayed him. Ranma sighed.

"Never mind. Starting up."

He jumped into the cockpit and began the start-up sequence. The massive MT828 reactor started to growl, and indicator lights came up red, then shifted to green as systems checked out. He snapped his feet into the leg actuators, the clips on the pedals connecting to the sockets in his armour.

Milia was looking over the targeting system. "The range-finding radar and weapons interlink are similar to those on a Queaddlun-Rau."

"Considering that we captured one well before this machine was designed, I ain't surprised," said Ranma. "But a Queaddlun-Rau has only four guns. This thing has twelve."

She grabbed the dual joysticks, and checked the movement ranges and targeting reticle. "The targeting ring matches those on the Valkyrie! training simulation. I think I can handle this system without instruction."

"Your visual systems are controlled from that panel by your left knee. Telescopics on the top half, IR on the lower half. The thumb wheel on the left stick controls the zoom function."

"Noted."

The service gantry was being retracted, and Ranma reached up and pulled the hatch lever. The hatch slid into place, sealing the Tomahawk, and he finished his roll-out check. Atmosphere pressure good; reactor mass full; reactor pressure nominal; jump jet fuel full. "Okay, Milia. We're ready to move out."

He checked to ensure his departure path was clear, then pushed the throttle forward. The Tomahawk shifted gears, the leg drivetrain engaging, and started marching towards the exit.