Colonel Argent stepped into a room of gloom. His pilots sat or lay around their barracks lounge saying nothing, staring at nothing. They didn't even notice his presence until Captain Rancher called them to attention.

They snapped to their feet, rigid, looking ashamed to have been caught in their present state.

"At ease," Argent said gently. He walked into their midst, reading their faces, seeing the frustration, the sense of failure, maybe even betrayal. Their determination wasn't gone, but it was diminished and directionless now.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourselves," he said, trying to speak to them like a father. "What happened wasn't your fault, you're just another group stuck in the middle, set up." He got the impression he wasn't telling them anything they didn't already know.

"It's not over," he said more forcefully. "The committee is meeting now and they won't be making a final decision for at least a week, maybe longer. There's still time to turn things around, so how about you all stop moping and start remembering you're the 13th? You have a problem, what are you going to do to fix it?"

2Lt. Shackler boldly spoke up. "Sir, the problem is an engineering one. The high risk of fuel leaks means we can't move the legs to make the most of our manoeuvrability, and because we're copying so much from the Zaku, the control system kind of depends on it."

Argent stepped up to him and looked him in the eye. The younger officer anxiously came to a position of attention again as he did so.

"As I recall, the last mobile suit you were all piloting had more than that for engineering problems, and you took those into combat. This should feel like dance recital by comparison."

Shackler swallowed. "Yes, Sir, but the Gundams let us push it as far as we could. We can't override the governors on the GMs the same way."

"And even if we could, they wouldn't let us," 2Lt. Stopper piped in. "They don't want to risk losing even one of the mobile suit prototypes just because of how pressured they've been to deliver and how desperately we need every mobile suit we can get. They were afraid that the loss of just one mobile suit in testing or getting severely damaged could get the program axed. That's one of the reasons development's been so slow, I think."

Argent thought that rather ridiculous. Prototypes were lost in testing all the time. Obviously, he didn't want to lose pilots, but he could care less about the fate of a prototype if it meant getting a deadlier weapon into the hands of their troops. But he didn't like what he was hearing from his people, this was not the unit that struck fear in the heart of the enemy.

"I'm hearing a lot of excuses," he growled, pacing around the room, glaring at each and every one of them. "A lot of timidity and caution. Last I checked, the enemy called you the White Devils, not the White Chickens."

That remark cut deep, he could see it on their faces, the darkening of their mantles. Good, anger would motivate them.

"You weren't all chosen because you were good little boys and girls, you were chosen because you were the best, the ideal candidates to learn how to operate a mobile suit and give the enemy a taste of their own medicine. Are you all going to sulk like toddlers just because you had to swallow a little bitter pill of your own?"

They winced, shame penetrating their natural colours. Hopefully, that would check their egos in a more productive way.

Argent walked to where Red Team was roughly collected and looked into Lt. Sansea's eyes.

"Lieutenant, how's my Zaku team shaping up?"

"We've been training hard, Sir, and everyone's up to speed. It was a squadron effort, Sir."

Argent hid a smile. Solidarity, unity, loyalty. Good signs that the squadron's esprit de corps hadn't waned.

"Now that sounds more like the 13th I know," he said, looking back at them. "One way or another, there's going to be another chance to show what the mobile suits can do and when that happens you'd better be ready because there will be no excuses, clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" The whole room reverberated with their unified answer. A portion of their former pride and determination had been restored. It still needed some work, but they only needed an outlet. He hoped Captain Skelper would be able to give them one.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The room was warm with the presence of so many bodies. There were hardly enough seats around the enormous oval table that dominated the room's centre. At least cool drinks were being provided instead of warm tea or coffee. Skelper would take what comfort he could get.

The members of the Military Procurement Oversight Committee were situated at one end of the table with its chairman, Councillor Greyfall. The rest of the table was filled by proponents of the other two competing programs and Admiral Blackhill, who was there partially as a courtesy but also as a neutral party for the benefit of the Committee.

"As I was saying," Rear-Admiral Gibbs continued, "the cost of the Heavy Fighter Program and the Warship Anti-MS Upgrade Program combined would cost about the same as the mobile suit program by itself, and the fleet would hardly have to change any of its existing practices or logistics. The same can't be said for the mobile suits, which would need a whole new logistics and support chain. On top of all that, we've come further in a much shorter time. We can proceed to mass production as soon as we have a facility ready to build them."

The committee members stared down at the their data pads, scrolling through them as they processed Gibbs' argument.

Greyfall looked up from his and addressed Gibbs the way one might when someone entered a room and interrupted their reading. "These reports say that you have tested the heavy fighters in actual combat. Could you elaborate?"

"Of course, Sir. Obviously, we couldn't risk such prototypes in regular front-line combat, given how strapped we are for resources, but we were able to conduct raids on isolated targets, though even those were guarded by mobile suit units. While there were a few teething problems at the start, we still avoided losses and those issues have been ironed out now."

"I'm pleased to hear that." Greyfall turned his attention to Vice-Admiral Horn. "And what about you, Admiral? Do you feel satisfied with your demonstration?"

"I do, Sir. The new ships are more expensive than the existing ones, that's true, but we aren't talking about fitting the majority of the fleet with these new configurations. If we combine our program with the heavy fighters, we won't have to. The ability for warships to hold onto a position in space working in tandem with fast, powerful craft has always proven the most ideal combination for space combat. Even the Collective understands that or they wouldn't have armed their own ships so well."

"I see. And have your ships proven themselves in combat as well?"

Horn's mantle muted slightly. "Unfortunately, Sir, there is a lot more risk sending out an entire warship into battle for testing than smaller craft. There is a lot more investment into those ships and there are far more crew to worry about. Even that is just scraping the surface risk factors involved."

Greyfall betrayed no change in expression to the admiral's answer. He might as well have been quoting the weather forecast to him.

Finally, Greyfall turned his attention to him. "And, Captain Skelper, how do you feel about your demonstration?"

Skelper's hands tightened and he desperately tried to keep his body from becoming too tense even has his heart cycles sped up. He needed to tread carefully. The Mobile Suit Program was on the thinnest ice and he was lower ranked than the rest.

Exhaling slowly, he said, "not entirely satisfied, Councillor. We weren't able to show the full potential of the mobile suits."

Gibbs scoffed and took a sip of his drink. Horn just rolled his eyes at what he obviously thought was a pitiful excuse. Greyfall leaned back slightly in his chair and skewered Skelper with a piercing stare.

"I am somewhat gratified to hear that, Captain. We had rather high expectations given the reports the Minister of Defence received about their performance in East Orica."

Skelper resisted the urge to bite his lip. "Those were different machines, Councillor, optimized for operations on Terra. The machines we're working on now are machines optimized for space combat, thus much more complicated. The plan is to combine as many positive aspects of both designs into the mass production model while minimizing the negative. This is necessary because our limited resources only allow us to produce one additional model in sufficient quantity to satisfy demand. The Marines have theirs but its optimized for their needs. It doesn't necessarily fulfill the requirements of the Army and CSF."

Greyfall considered him. Skelper imagined his eyes scanning him up and down, searching for any cracks in his facade that might betray a lie. "Then why was the demonstration you gave so disappointing?"

Skelper clenched his hands together tighter. "Because every prototype is precious, Councillor. We have set enough resources aside only for fifty of these particular models in order to get the factory warmed up for producing the mass production models and for training pilots, not just for testing. Given all the pressure the program is under, we don't feel we can afford to lose one until we begin combat testing. Because of that we've had to limit how far our pilots can push the machines."

"In other words," Horn interrupted, "they're so fragile you can't even take them into combat."

Skelper did his best not to glare at the admiral who had just finished explaining why he couldn't take his own ships into combat; he had to remain in control. Someone like Greyfall wouldn't be impressed by any childish squabbling, only facts, and Skelper had found a fair few that would bring their rivals down a few pegs.

"Just a couple of issues that have been giving us trouble, only because we don't have access to some of the more advanced computers and design tools the engineers are used to. And they're no more fragile than the heavy fighters, which use many of the same components."

Gibbs stiffened and Greyfalls' eyes swivelled in his direction, as did those of the other committee members.

"Is that so, Admiral?"

Gibbs sucked down a gulp of his drink, displaying uncertainty. "I don't know where the design team got all their parts, Sir. I imagine they were trying to cut costs and design time by taking what they could find on the shelf."

"Costs that were paid by the mobile suit, program," Skelper went on. "So, you see, Councillors, the slogan that their program is cheaper than ours is deceptive, because they don't include the development costs that went into all those parts, which were originally developed for use in mobile suits."

"They're better applied in the heavy fighters," Gibbs said more forcefully. "The point is that our fighters work now, whereas we have no idea when the mobile suits program will get off its ass and actually make a weapon we can use, meanwhile, our brave pilots are fighting and dying by the score!"

Greyfall eyed the admiral carefully then turned his attention back to Skelper. "Well, Captain? What does your timetable look like?"

Skelper grit his beak and didn't allow himself to swallow. "Our most pessimistic estimates are two months for mass production to begin, but that doesn't include the fifty units we're already in the process of building. At the moment, we have nine mobile suits ready, almost ten."

"Ready?" Horn turned red. "You just said the pilots can barely fly the damn things without breaking them. From what you've said, they'd be better off flying the heavy fighters."

"They would disagree, Sir."

"Well they would, wouldn't they," Gibbs huffed. "The heavy fighter has the endorsement of the CSF's best ace, and the whole squadron is made up of elite pilots. I have heard of no such endorsements for the Mobile Suit Program."

Skelper suppressed a smile. "I'm glad you brought that up, Sir. Because our program has proven that even rookie pilots can operate a mobile suit in less than two months, whereas the heavy fighters have only been flown by elite pilots. If it takes such a pilot to fly them, then they're hardly suitable for mass production."

"Gentlemen," Greyfall interjected himself, snipping the building argument in the bud. He rubbed his mantle and looked at Admiral Blackhill. "Admiral, is there a way you can wash the window for us a little here? What are your observations?"

Skelper wished he were capable of looking as casual as Blackhill did at that moment. Being put on that spot like that, asked to weigh in on such a critical issue with so much pressure on the outcome, he might have ended up a stammering mess.

"Well, Councillor, I'll be honest, I wasn't impressed by any of the demonstrations. The mobile suits didn't show even a fraction of their capabilities, based on what Captain Skelper has said, and the other two programs just blew up a bunch of very expensive drone targets which could barely respond in a minovsky particle environment. A lot of flash but frankly little substance."

Gibbs and Horn glared daggers at him but Blackhill didn't look bothered, his eyes fixated on Greyfall.

"I see," the councillor murmured, giving the other two admirals a look of annoyance. "Then would you care to make a suggestion as to how the committee can come to an informed decision?"

"I would, Councillor. I've always favoured the simple solution myself, even if it can be a bit messy, but I see only one way for everyone to put their money where their mouths are and prove the validity of their philosophies: you pit them against each other, not in a series of mock demonstrations, but in combat."

Everyone at the table went rigid and Skelper felt a mild panic. Pit the mobile suits in a combat exercise against the other two? They'd be outnumbered two to one just with the heavy fighters, never mind the additional threat of the warships!

As the protests piled up within him, Greyfall said, "interesting. How long would this take?"

"No more than a few days, Councillor, so the committee would be able to see the results personally and ask questions before you have to leave and make a decision. I'll make the arrangements myself. As a neutral party, I don't have a particular stake in any of the programs involved that would get in the way."

"I think that's a great idea." Gibbs leaned back in his chair, oozing confidence. "We can settle it all quickly."

Horn likewise approved. "It would be an excellent way to prove the capabilities of our new ships."

Skelper was the only one to protest. "But Admiral Blackhill, we only have a handful of mobile suits. How will you balance the scenario?"

Blackhill pulsed grey. "I'm sure we can manage something, Captain; however, I think you're going to have to accept that you're the underdog in this. The mobile suits have a lot to prove and it's time you did it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Rauld tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut even as his hearts hammered in his chest. His Ball floated a short distance from their mother ship, which wasn't a powerful cruiser, but a support ship, far from any help.

If any enemy ships spotted them, they were dead; if any mobile suits found them, they were dead, if Biter finally exploded, as he'd been threatening to for the past few weeks, they were probably dead.

And why were they there? Not to defend anything special, not to attack a key target, but to investigate a common shipwreck, of which there were countless since the war. What made this one so special that it was worth being all the way out there? Trick question: it wasn't. This was Lieutenant Sealer's way of keeping him and the rest of Dogger Flight out of sight and mind. He'd probably consider their death a bonus, a thorn out of his side.

"Dogger Flight, you ready?" The impatient controller asked them.

"Dogger Flight ready," Rauld replied, trying to hide his anxieties. He didn't want anyone else to know how afraid he really was.

"Proceed to the derelict and check for signs of life."

"Acknowledged."

Rauld led the way, the others following. Mouse stayed with Sunni, keeping her from lagging behind.

"At least this is something Balls are actually good it," Tank said.

"Well it's not what we should be doing," Biter snapped. "We should be sticking it to the damn Octos, not admiring their handiwork."

While Rauld wouldn't have said it like that, he partially agreed with his sentiment. It really felt like all they were doing was seeing how nice a job the Octarians had done blowing up one of their ships. Any survivors of the attack would have been dead or captured by now.

The derelict loomed closer. It was surprisingly intact for a ship that had been "sunk". The forward section was virtually gone but it was pretty clear from the rest of the ship that it was a Columbus-class freighter.

Rauld reported to the mother ship. "Dogger Flight to Rumrunner, confirmed, the ship is Columbus-class. Bridge and forward section are gone but the cargo hulls look intact. No signs yet of further damage."

"Acknowledged, Dogger Flight . Let us know when you find the registration number."

"Acknowledged."

As they drew close to the hulking freighter, Rauld switched on his external lights, illuminating the hull. Aside from some dents though, he didn't see any additional damage on the exterior.

"Mouse, take Sunni and search aft. "Tank, search the ventral side. Biter, stick with me and we'll search the dorsal hull."

The others moved and Rauld led the way up to the dorsal hull. There was more signs of damage here, with several of the external storage tanks ruptured, and some of the hull plates were buckled or missing.

Biter shifted closer to some of the intact tanks. "They've been drained," he said.

Rauld looked at him, surprised for him to suddenly show interest. "How can you tell?"

He scoffed. "It's obvious. The pipes have been cleanly separated and the tanks are empty with no sign of damage. This thing's been picked at already. I bet the cargo's gone too."

"You think it's pirates?"

"Probably, but does it actually matter who blew it up?"

Rauld honestly wasn't sure but somebody seemed to think so. "We'll leave that for someone else to worry about. Any more signs of battle damage?"

"If they blew up the bridge, why bother wasting more ammo?"

A fair point. He saw Sunni and Mouse approaching them.

"The engines are gone," Mouse reported. "Not destroyed, they're just not there anymore, like they've been salvaged."

Strange. He knew pirates salvaged ships but rarely had he heard of instances where they stripped ships as large as this so close to Terra. Pirates were the enemy of both sides.

"Did you find any registration markings?"

"No, the hull plates were gone where they would have been."

"Here too," Biter reported. "Definitely pirates. The Collie's wouldn't have bothered. Woulda' taken the transponder too."

Rauld sighed. Without the registration, they couldn't positively identify the ship, not easily anyway and probably not within a reasonable time span. He was about to contact the Rumrunner and report but he hesitated.

His brother and father wouldn't have simply given up like that, wouldn't have just said there was nothing they could do and leave it for someone else, they would have tried to figure it out, would have tried to get results and results were what really mattered.

"What else can we use to identify the ship?" He asked. "Do you think there might be something inside the ship that might tell us?"

"You want us to go inside this thing?" Tank asked incredulously.

"We came all the way out here already, I don't want to come back empty handed."

"And give Sealer another excuse to ink on us," Biter added caustically.

There is that, Rauld agreed. "Mouse, take Sunni and Biter to check the cargo holds. I'll take Tank inside the ship and see if we can find a builder's plaque or something."

For once, Biter didn't gripe, rushing on ahead to the port side cargo hold with Sunni and Mouse trailing.

Rauld took Tank forward to the wreckage where the bridge and forward section had once been. The exterior of the ship had been peeled back all the way to the mess hall. He noted that a lot of the exposed bits of metal appeared melted. An energy weapon? How had pirates managed to get their hands on that? Or was it only supposed to look like pirates had done it?

Extra vehicular activities were dangerous in general, doubly so in a thin-skinned pilot suit, but Rauld saw no other way of adequately investigating the ship. So, once he and Tank were close to the opening, he stopped, forwarded his radio to his suit comm and opened the hatch.

Cautiously, he floated out and grasped a piece of metal that was still attached to the ship. Tank managed to squeeze out of her own cockpit and landed gracefully on the warped deck. Explosive decompression must have been the main culprit of the mess hall's destruction, but he still saw signs of melting here and there.

"Let's head aft into the habitation block," he said. "Maybe we'll find something there."

The door heading aft was partially closed and it took their combined strength to get it open. The corridor beyond though looked largely intact. Small chunks of ice floated aimlessly in the corridor along with other tiny bits of debris, but there wasn't any sign of obvious damage.

The habitation block was also intact, though here they saw signs of battle, bullet holes riddling some of the sleeping capsules and clumps of blood frozen to their insides.

"They were definitely boarded," Rauld mused, peeking inside one of the holed capsules and finding the walls ice coated with the unfortunate occupant's blood, but there was no body.

"Whoever they were, took everything that wasn't bolted down," Tank observed as she checked one of the undamaged pods. "The bedding, personal effects, everything's gone."

Rauld nodded and examined the exterior of one of the capsules. In emergencies, they could act as survival pods, with their own power and life support system. They weren't as good as proper lifeboats, but they had saved a lot of lives over the decades since they'd become mandatory.

He checked the pods' individual numbers. Maybe they could be used to identify the ship they were attached to. That hope was faint though, considering how many databases had been fried by the minovsky effect since the war started.

"Let's try and find the captain's quarters," he said. "It's probably just as ransacked but maybe we'll find a clue."

The captain's quarters was its own separate room in the habitation block. The door was still open, and just like the main bunk room, the captain's quarters had been stripped of everything valuable. His office computer was gone, the bunk had been stripped, and any personal items taken. No hope of identifying someone then, and the captain had probably been on the bridge when it had been hit.

Rauld was about to suggest they go check the engineering section when Tank suddenly grabbed something.

"What is it?" He asked.

She showed it to him. It was only a fragment of the original object, but Rauld realized immediately what it was: a piece of a porcelain mug, and written on it was the word, "Wayward", with the ship's ID markings underneath.

"Captain's mug?"

"That'd be my guess, Sir."

"Good enough for me; let's get out of here." She didn't argue, and hurried with him back to their Balls. Rauld was feeling quite pleased with himself so he didn't mind too much when Biter demanded what had been taking them so long when he strapped himself back into this cockpit.

"Dogger Flight to Rumrunner, we managed to find a clue the ship's ID."

"Rumrunner here. What took so long?"

"They stripped the ID markings from the hull but we found the captain's mug."

"A mug?" Rauld could imagine the comms officer sighing. "Fine, if that's all there is. Give me the numbers."

"Alright, the ship's name is Wayward." Then he gave her the ID number. As he waited for further instructions, he asked Mouse if they had found anything.

"Everything's gone from the cargo bays," she said. "Looks like they blew the doors off but we didn't see anything else."

A moment later, the controller replied in a wary voice, "any idea what took her out, Dogger Flight?"

Rauld replied. "Nothing obvious but they were definitely boarded. Bullet holes all over the habitation deck. They slaughtered the survivors in their seeping pods. Also looks like a single blast took out the forward section and bridge, and a lot of it looks melted. They ran off with the ship's consumables too."

There was another long pause before the comms officer spoke again. "Dogger flight, take defensive positions around the ship. We'll be towing what's left back with us."

Rauld felt a sudden chilling in his ink sac. "Acknowledged, Rumrunner."

Over flight comms, Biter asked, "what the hell do they want to take this heap back for?"

"I don't know," Rauld said irritably. "But it must be important if they want to go to that much trouble. Let's just help as best we can. The sooner this gets done, the sooner we get out of here." And hopefully, further away from whatever was responsible for destroying Wayward.

Author's Notes:

I guess you could say that the 13th has been humbled a little bit. Their accomplishments don't seem to count for much up in space, but they still have a chance to prove the worth of the mobile suit. Think they have a chance? What do you think of Admiral Blackhill's suggestion? How would you come to a decision if you were in Councilor Greyfall's place?

We get to see Dogger Flight once again, doing something that the Ball is actually good at. What do you think will come of their find?