Hey, peeps~! Here's the next chapter of The Phoenix Rising. Now, things are about to heat up! :) Terminal, Eurasia, Scandinavia, and the Resistance are gonna really let the Atlantians have it this arc. But of course, there's always time needed to build up to it... ;3
Review replies:
- Spiceracksargent001: Yep. :) The battle at 'kiddie kamp' will be a surprise for everyone. :) I always love your reviews. :)
- KentLinuxStadfelt: Oh, it will. :) But they do need to test it first. And what better way than to use it on the 'Super Extended' LOGOs was working on? :)
- operation meteor: Don't worry. ;) There will be more leadups as well as intelligence stuff happening here. ;) And of course, the 1776th won't be forgotten either. ;)
- CT7567Rules: Okay. No need to apologize. I understand your passion. ;) So trust me, there will be two instances of the Cosmic Nazis getting their butts kicked big time~! ;3
(A small light is shown flickering before it flares across the screen, fading to show the Strike Dagger S, Spray sitting on its shoulder, his trench coat fluttering in the breeze)
START MIKAKUNIN HIKOUSEN BY TAKAYOSHI TANIMOTO
(The camera pivots to show the mobile suit outside the main base of the resistance on Earth in Denver, the door open to show the interior of the warehouse with several shapes before the cylinders)
Oh yeah! Be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The camera zooms in on them to show President Eisenhower, Dr. Keith Martinez, Dr. Klaus Brand, Warren Thompson, and Marcus Wolcott with Turbine behind the warehouse itself)
Pass the orbit beyond the sky (The camera pivots away from them and out to show the resistance forces mobilizing to attack a camp in the desert, guards arming their rifles)
I can't hold back this rushing speed (The leading machine speeds in front, showing a NEMO armed with a clay bazooka, its pilot being shown to be a woman, her hazel eyes hard as she aims the gun and fires at a Destroy)
A familiar town becomes a diorama (The Destroy is hit by the explosive round, the flames engulfing the camera before it fades to show the camp in ruins)
Burst through the unclear skies (The camera pivots away to show another explosion as a Murasame blasts past, bearing an unfamiliar emblem)
Blow away your worries and discontent (The camera zooms in on the wolf head emblem before it starts to flutter as a flag, panning down to show the leader of Sicario, Arnold Franken, on the screen)
Who needs a journey that's by the book? (The commander of the mercenaries waves his hand and three mobile suits blast overhead, their pilots shown with their emblems behind them)
Even if you're lost or trembling, raise the altitude (The three engage a number of shadowy mobile suits before a beam engulfs the camera before fading to show Stella being held by Shinn in her agony)
Oh yeah! Show off, mess up, and stand back up (The boy is glaring as images of the Extended march past him, his eyes hidden in shadow before he looks up, his eyes in SEED Mode)
I'll watch the unknown horizon with you (The camera pans away to show the captain of the Archangel and Heero standing beside one another, their hands entwining)
Now be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The two look at one another before a mobile suit flies past, panning up to show the Strike Dagger with a new Striker Pack resembling phoenix wings)
Use the sun that lights tomorrow as a guide (A dark shadow looms behind the machine, its hand grasping for the image of the Earth as a ship is shown flying away, its name glinting in the light)
Fly off to the glorious world of freedom! (The image shows the resistance ship and their allies facing down the dark shadow, Djibril's face behind it as he looms over them)
GUNDAM WING: THE PHOENIX RISING
Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall
- Steven Jackson 'Spray' Krane
CHAPTER XXIV: Revolutionary Storm I
December 9th, CE 0073
Trinity, Atlantic Ocean
The Trinity's massive engines roared deep within her hull, sending the immense power of the refitted nuclear reactor to the propeller shafts.
It was perhaps one of the smartest moves, the captain mused, as the ship continued on the planned route to England.
The massive carrier was, like the mercenary company's flagship, heavily modified from a standard Spengler-class carrier. But unlike the original which had been modified to resemble the Gerald R. Ford-class carriers of the former United States, this one was altered to resemble that of the old United Kingdom's Queen Elizabeth-class aircraft carriers. The navigation bridge and flying control, or flyco, center were not in one bridge structure, but were instead split between two structures. A number of factors had reasoned into this decision, not mostly due to the need for allowing for better spacing of the funnels. But in reality, there was a more sound military decision. If one superstructure was taken out, then the other one could be used to control the ship. The deck was at a slope on one side, angling up at a 12.5 degree angle to allow the Murasames stowed aboard her to take off. The other half of the deck was completely flat, allowing for some mobile suits to deploy from there using a catapult system should the need arise.
Named the Trinity in honor of the former Big Three countries during World War II, the ship was the base off which Assassin Team of Sicario operated. Normally it was where Arnold worked from, but seeing as how he had chosen to be stationed aboard the Tarawa for a while, that meant Assassin Team was sidelined for the time being.
And personally, he knew how the other three members of the team felt. He shot a glance to them as they stood in his office.
Felicia Angel was the second in command of the team, and a woman who was a no-nonsense pilot. A Coordinator who had once served in the Atlantian Reich's air force, she was forced to flee the country when LOGOs started to stamp out any possible hidden Coordinators in the ranks. She joined up with Arnold before the war even broke out, and it was rumored the two were even lovers. But if they were, they either kept their relationship secret, or people just didn't give a damn. She was just a bit shorter than Arnold was, with stunning green hair and brilliant magenta eyes, a color combination that had drawn Arnold to her as well as her incredible skill as a pilot.
Off to her side was Trent Gray, a former mobile armor who had selected to join Sicario when his older Natural brother had become brainwashed by Blue Cosmos propaganda. While not having a real military background, his ability to think quickly and his uncanny natural talent with machinery earned him a position as one of Assassin Team's best pilots. It was even rumored he possessed a spatial awareness that allowed him to 'read' machines to a degree that most could not. When he flew his Murasame, it was like he wasn't even human, but instead possessing the mecha itself. The way he moved it was too fluid, almost organic, a synergy that no one else could surpass. He was a bit paunchy, but he had a muscular frame underneath that fat. His hair was a dark shade of brown and he had playful green eyes that could turn serious if the situation went downhill.
The final member of Assassin Team was a female Natural named Leena Toros, a hotheaded redhead from Texas. She had pinkish-red hair, and her eyes were a reddish brown color. She was a former soldier as well, having served in the Air Force for a number of years before she was forced to flee when her husband informed her of increasing misogyny amongst the troops. The two fled to Spain where they met up with Arnold, and both went on to become top members of Sicario's Assassin Team. Leena's husband was a mechanic who worked on maintaining the team's Murasames, earning him respect for his skills. Unlike the rest of her companions, she was one to rely more on overwhelming firepower, laying down rates of suppressing fire that most others would see as wasting ammunition. But it fit with Assassin Team's style, as seeing a sheer wall of bullets or beams was enough to force most other mercs to back off. Hell, Leena didn't doubt for a moment it would work on even Atlantian Reich thugs.
"So the boss is calling us down to England, is that right?" Felicia asked, folding her arms.
The captain, Hugh Strange, nodded.
"That would be correct," he told her. "The Atlantians are preparing to deploy a mercenary team of their own down there."
"Hm." Trent grunted. "Sounds like the rumors were true then. They got us in bed with a resistance force," he rumbled.
Captain Strange adjusted his uniform's cap and sat down at his desk, tenting his fingers thoughtfully.
A former psychiatrist by trade, the captain of the Trinity had worked for the military for close to a decade in dealing with battlefield trauma. But once LOGOs had started to remove those of his field from their ranks, he packed up his things and left, heading to Spain to spend some time with his wife's mother before figuring out his next move. It was there he met Arnold and was offered a position as a captain for one of the ships he had recently purchased using the money he had squirreled away over his career in the military. The other man had accepted, and he had proven himself to be quite the commanding officer during his time with Sicario.
A cool and calculating man, he was savvy enough to read his opponents on the battlefield and then he, in a risky endeavor, oftentimes taunted the pilots his own pilots fought against, earning a reputation for playing with his enemies' thoughts. It was actually against the code of Sicario to taunt one's enemies, but Arnold was willing to let it slide because of the advantage it gave them, especially when dealing with Nazi thugs. Hugh also found it quite exciting to pick through their twisted ideology and use it against them.
Hugh was in his late sixties, with thinning ginger hair and cunning gray eyes that were hidden behind his reflective glasses. He had a bit of a paunch on him, but his body was far from flabby. But unlike Trent, his body was more rotund in the waist, a mark of all the good food he had eaten prior to his leaving the service. He studied the top of his desk thoughtfully, a hum coming from his thick brown mustache.
Leena crossed her arms as she leaned against the wall. "What can you tell us about the resistance?" she asked.
"Unfortunately the commander declined to delve into detail with the particulars," Hugh explained. "But he did say that the resistance has the numbers and wherewithal to keep us informed of what the enemy may be planning."
"No size numbers, no nothing?" Leena wondered.
"No. And I can understand where he is coming from, given who we are up against now these days." Hugh's eyes hardened. "That is why we must be prepared for any possible enemy counterattacks."
"Tell me he at least informed us of who we're facing," Felicia remarked.
"Oh, he did," Hugh told her. "It is none other than Master Goose Militia."
Trent scowled. "Them, eh?" he rumbled. "Nothing like getting in bed with fellow fascists."
Hugh gave a grim smile. "It does make sense that birds of a feather flock together," he reminded them.
The three pilots didn't even reply to his comment.
Felicia finally looked out the window of the captain's office. "With what's happening, I can't blame the boss for wanting to ask us to help."
The former psychiatrist nodded. "And that brings me to the reason for the request for our assistance."
"About time," Leena remarked.
Hugh got up from his desk, approaching the trio. "So here's what is happening." He pressed a button on his chair and the monitor built into the ceiling slid down, the lights dimming as shades slid down over the windows.
The monitor lit up, a map appearing on the display as the three pilots took their seats.
He stepped closer to the monitor and drew out a pen from his shirt pocket. He pressed the end and a pointer laser lanced out, hitting the screen. "As you can see from the map, we are currently en route to the former country of Great Britain. There, we will be rendezvousing with the Tarawa and the Zoltan off the coast, not too far from Devonport. The Tarawa will be the one to engage Master Goose Militia's von Schweppe team. Our team, combined with that of the Zoltan, will be engaging harassing attacks on Atlantian forces to ensure that they do not send reinforcements to assist Master Goose in their operations."
His eyes narrowed as he shifted the laser across the screen. A few images of Atlantian naval ships appeared off to the bottom right hand corner of the map. "I have good reason to suspect that they will be aiming to send some heavy hitters of their own to provide cover." He moved the laser as three new ships, all bearing the mark of Sicario above them, moved into view. "Our goal will be to disrupt that by taking them out. Or barring that, by preventing their machines from leaving this air space."
"What if they manage to get past us?" Trent asked.
"That... we cannot afford," Hugh admitted. "Master Goose's Schweppe team cannot be allowed to get reinforcements, as that would allow them to branch out and spread out to the other sectors which Terminal will be hitting. They, as you know from Hitman Team's reports, have that tendency."
"So in other words, we hit them hard and make sure they can't meet up," Leena stated. "That's easy enough." She cracked her knuckles in anticipation.
The man nodded. "At least at first glance."
"Right. I remember that..." Trent growled. His eyes hardened as he clenched his fists on his arms.
"So what kind of machines will we be dealing with?" Felicia inquired.
"The machines used by the Atlantians will be of a new model, but nothing we can't handle," Hugh stated. "I don't have much in the way of information on it, but we do have a code name for it: Black Knight."
That got Trent. "The Black Knight? Oh boy..."
"I take it you have something to share, Trent?" Hugh asked.
He gave a nod. "Yeah. Before I defected, there was a series of rumors swirling around about adopting a new type of machine for combat against the Coordinators. But it was seen as too costly and expensive, as the Atlantians didn't even have the tech to make it as efficient as they wanted. And it was code-named Black Knight."
"Hmm... It seems to me then that they may have managed to make a few prototype suits..." Felicia muttered.
"We don't know for sure," Hugh told them. "But we do have to be careful. So, our best bet is to keep these new machines at bay. No holding back."
"Yes, sir!" the three said with a crisp salute.
Hugh nodded and allowed the three pilots to file out.
Once he was alone in his office, he leaned back in his chair, studying the windows before him.
The outside world was already indicative of winter approaching rapidly. Snow was starting to swirl around the ship as the Trinity made her way towards England's coast. Ice was building on the glass windows, and he had to narrow his eyes to even see through the thick fog.
For some reason, he was getting a foreboding feeling in his gut, and he didn't like it one bit. He pursed his lips as he grasped a nearby map and sprawled it out on his desk, examining the seas around England.
He wanted to be sure he knew where the enemy was coming from.
This time, he was not about to allow LOGOs to outwit him.
. . .
Satellite City, Mexico
Atlantian Reich
Keith walked down the halls of the jail, his destination clear.
He could already see the far end cell, the figure of Dr. Guo Sung slumped on the hard slab of metal that acted as a cot. He was not being given any of the luxuries that other prisoners got. He was being given the worst possible but still humane treatment.
In truth, Keith felt like he didn't deserve it.
But he had his orders.
And truthfully, he was looking forward to obtaining the information he had hidden away in his brain. He was also looking forward to the process of getting it.
Keith was eager to begin the interrogation.
He approached the cell and came to a stop, rapping on the metal bars with a piece of pipe.
Dr. Sung looked up, his eyes haggard and glazed. "Ah. So you return to gloat."
"No." Keith shook his head. "I'm not here to gloat." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm here for something else... and you know what it is."
"Oh? Do I?" Dr. Sung asked, putting on a confused face.
"Don't play dumb," the computer whiz snarled. "You're a genius. Surely you can figure it out. You have what I want. And I want to know why."
Dr. Sung's eyes brightened a bit in realization and a sinister smirk curled his lips. "Ah... now I get it. You want to know why?"
Keith nodded. "Yes." His fists clenched. "Why do it? Why do that to children?!" he snarled.
The former neurologist chuckled darkly. "Why? It's so simple. Children. Far too easy to manipulate and mold. It's like clay. You can take an adult and mold them into a soldier, but they are still an adult, meaning their personalities and minds are set once they reach adulthood. You can train them. You can even try to alter their memories. But their brains are far more wired to accept reality instead of the innate flexibility of children's brains. Their brains are not as wired, so there is more room to mold their minds into what you see fit." His smirk turned into a grin, and the way he tilted his head to the left made him look insane. "Is it not simple to grasp, Dr. Martinez?"
"But why?!" Keith repeated. "Why children?!"
"It's just as I told you," Dr. Sun reiterated. "As for the why... well... what better way than to take dregs of society and turn them into useful tools?" His gaze took on a more crazed glint and Keith shuddered as he realized how much this man had dipped into the depths of madness. "Our society is tainted and needs to be cleansed of the filth that inhabits it. And what better way than to take those dregs and turn them into tools to use against our hated enemy?"
"You... How depraved can you be?!" Keith shouted, staggering back. "Have you no humanity left?!"
Dr. Sung cackled as he stood up, slouching as he made his way to the cell door, grasping the bars and leering right at Keith. "What of it? Have you not stooped to lows to try and defeat us?"
"That's not the point!" Keith argued. "I just wanted to know what made you decide to turn children into goddamn weapons of war!"
"Ah. But it is the point," the other man insisted. "To defeat the Coordinators, we have to resort to any method possible. There are two methods at work here. But which one is better?" He nodded to Keith. "One of technology. One of biology. My field is in biology. Your mentor is in technology. We both were given the means and funds needed to create the perfect method to defeat the Coordinator race."
"And you chose to go the sick route!" Keith spat, his eyes narrowing.
"But is it really?" Dr. Sung purred. "There is nothing better than the human brain to beat a Coordinator. And yet Rear Admiral Xen insists it falls to computers to beat them. I wonder which of us is right..."
"That still doesn't make it right!" Keith snapped. "The very fact you chose to experiment on children, give them false memories, completely strip them of their very humanity and identity, get them addicted to goddamn drugs...! You are a lot worse than Hitler ever was!" He gritted his teeth. "I have half a mind to go in there and give you a piece of my mind, honestly!"
"Then why don't you?" Dr. Sung asked. "Because I can see it in your eyes..." He sneered menacingly. "You seek to indulge in the darkness in your very soul. You seek to do to me what I did to them. And you know you want to. It is in humanity's very nature after all..."
Keith did feel like he wanted to. He wanted nothing more to go in there and rip off the mad scientist's hair and make him eat it. But if he did, then he would be no better than them. And President Eisenhower's words were practically imprinted in his brain at this point.
"To show we are better, we must remain above them."
He stepped back, glaring at the mad doctor.
"No," he said. "I won't fall for it. I know what you're trying to do." His eyes narrowed. "I know you want me to delve into the sadistic butchery you performed. This way you can convince me of the righteousness of your cause and use me for your own whim."
The doctor gave a mirthless chuckle. "Ah. It seems you are not stupid," he mused. "You saw right through me."
"If one is aware of being manipulated, then they can avoid it," Keith countered. "And I've seen enough of your procedures and lectures to get an idea of how you work."
"All the more pitiful given how easy it was to twist your country's own pride against yourselves..." Dr. Sung whispered.
"That was a long time ago," Keith told him. "We're a lot wiser now. Far stronger. And we are not about to let it happen again."
The two men stared at one another for a few minutes before Guo tilted his head to the right this time. "Tell me something, Dr. Martinez. What do you think of when you hear the words 'genetic purity'?" he asked.
Keith tensed a bit as he narrowed his eyes. "What of it?" he growled. "What's your game here, Sung?"
But the man only shook his head. "There's no game, Doctor," he said. "I'm just curious as to what you think of when you hear those words."
"I think of how stupid it is!" the AI expert shot back. "There is no genetic purity!"
Here Dr. Sung's lips curled into a grin. "Ah, of course you would say that. But tell me. When you hear those words, what do you think of in regards to the ideology of Blue Cosmos?"
"What are you saying?" Keith hissed, tensing his shoulders.
"I mean, don't you find it ironic that they often use the words 'for the preservation of our pure and blue world' or something along those lines?" the former scientist inquired as he let go of the bars. Keith was wise to stay away, but he did step forward two times before stopping.
Dr. Sung backed up and sat back on his metal cot. "Because if one thinks about it, what does that mean for us humans?" he wondered aloud, gazing down at his hands.
"What are you getting at here?" Keith queried.
"Dr. Martinez, think of it in terms of a computer, if you will," the Atlanian stated. "There is a bug in the program. But you cannot find it. You search and search, but there is nothing. So you decide to do a full system reinstallation. The bug is removed." He looked up, that smirk still upon his lips. "Blue Cosmos' ideology is something many have been pondering for years now. But they've never gotten to the bottom of it."
Keith was not liking where this was going. To be on the safe side, his hand slid under his lab coat and grasped the M1911 pistol in its holster, his fingers curling around the grip and trigger reassuringly. He slowly pulled it out, but didn't raise it. "So what you're trying to tell me is that Blue Cosmos is sick in the head," he deduced.
"Oh, how close you are, but so far as well," Dr. Sung admitted, still grinning in a sinister way.
The computer expert was not about to let him continue with his head games. He raised the pistol and pointed it directly at Dr. Sung. "Stop it with the head games and tell me what you know!" he barked.
"Oh, resorting to intimidation now?" Dr. Sung asked. "How unsightly. Whatever happened to your holier than thou attitude?"
"There's some exceptions to the rule," Keith admitted. "And this is one such time. Now, spill! What is it about Blue Cosmos' ideology that relates to computers?!"
The deranged neurologist cackled. "Oh, my boy... you are so close to it... but so far as well." He leered at Keith, making the younger scientist grit his teeth as he tightened his grip on the pistol. "The truth is that Blue Cosmos' ideology is self defeating. Take of it what you will, but do give my words some serious thought. I may have no regrets for my actions, but I do not wish to see humanity die, now do I?"
Keith's eyes went wide at those last words.
"What...?" He slowly started to lower his pistol.
"Oh? Do you see what I mean now?" Dr. Sung asked.
Keith narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he brought the gun back up to chest height. "No!"
"Think about it, Doctor," the Atlantian continued. "You argue genetic purity is impossible. And it very may well be." He turned his gaze to look at his reflection in the mirror over the sink. "Blue Cosmos wants to purify the world of Coordinators. But... what does it mean for us humans? The truth of the matter is, it is impossible to test every single human on Earth, the Moon, and PLANTs to see if one is a Coordinator or not."
He stayed in his seat as he twisted his gaze to look at Keith once more. "And if one takes that into account, then their ideology is self-defeating."
The younger man stayed put as he kept his gun aimed, his eyes narrowed. "So?"
"It's quite simple. Remember the example I gave you?" Dr. Sung remarked. "Think of it through that lens, if you will. You're smart. Figure it out."
He turned his head back down to gaze at his clenched hands and refused to speak anymore.
Keith was very tempted to barge in and grab the man, demanding answers. But he wisely refrained, instead holstering his pistol in his anger and turning before storming out of the cell block.
His mind was already trying to figure out the meaning behind the neurologist's cryptic words, as well as the revelation he didn't want to see humanity die. Did he mean that he didn't want to see humanity die like the situation that almost resulted in humanity's extinction in the First Bloody Valentine War?
While that did seem plausible, it didn't make any sense as to why he had said Blue Cosmos' ideology was self-defeating. And what was with the computer example?
He needed time to think on this.
And he was going to get the answer out of that man sooner or later.
He meant it.
. . .
Norfolk Naval Base
December 9th, CE 0073
The base was dead silent as he narrowed his eyes.
To say that this was a big mission was an understatement. This was his first mission with the resistance, and it was just as well, seeing as how he and his sister had recently been recruited not even three months ago.
The young man in question was not from around this part of Norfolk, having recently moved to the city around six months ago.
Robert "Rob" Jackson adjusted his coat as he ventured through the city streets, making his way to the perimeter of the naval base. It helped he worked at a local garage that did maintenance on some of the vehicles there, and it showed as his hands were often covered in oil or calloused from the constant work he did. Right now though, he wore thick gloves to cover his hands and his heavy coat acted as a shield against the harsh winter winds.
This close to the ocean, there was going to be some very intense snow, and he was not looking forward to it.
The young Coordinator had just turned twenty less than a year ago, and he was inching close to his twenty-first birthday, something he wanted to live to see, if not for himself, then for his eighteen year old sister. He had sharp eyes that were a deep brown, so deep it bordered on pure onyx. His hair was a shade darker, making it a legitimate shade of black. He had a slim, but lean build and he had a small amount of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He shrugged his coat closer to his shoulders and approached the base's gates.
The guard there looked at him critically as the young man reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID card, forged by the resistance's cell in this area.
It had almost all of his information on it, with only the genetic typing on it being false.
The guard grunted before he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "The car's inside," he said. "You need help with it?"
Rob shook his head. "No. I got it."
"Okay. The adjunct will be pleased once it's fixed. Damn rats keep getting to it." The guard waved him through.
Rob held his breath once he was past the gate.
The young man let out a sigh once he was out of sight as he reflected back on his journey to this time and place.
Born and raised around Denver, Robert Jackson was the child of a Natural man and a Coordinator woman. So he was considered half and half by many of his peers. As such, he inherited his father's black hair and deep brown eyes, but their mother's physical enhancements, which were usually not that easy to hide. But he managed. The only issue was his sister. She was a standout with bright silver hair and silver eyes, a sure sign she was a Coordinator. She got their mother's hair and eye color, which was something that they got targeted for.
His entire family had long served in the American military since the Civil War, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and such, serving proudly in the US 1st infantry Division, The Big Red One. He was always proud of his family for having served for so long and with great pride. But when the attacks began, his father retired from the Army and set up shop in Denver, managing a small mechanic's shop for income while his wife worked from the house as a financial advisor.
By the time he was 10, Blue Cosmos targeted his family because of the genetics of him, his sister, and his mother. His father fought off the terrorists but was killed when SWAT officers who were part of Blue Cosmos ambushed and killed both his parents and would have killed him as well had it not been for an off-duty Colorado National Guardsmen who faked both Roberts death and his sister, Alyssa Jackson.
Seeing his parents killed in front of him, he was consumed by vengeance and vowed to protect his sister at any costs, as long as he didn't become the very thing he hated, something that was overheard by the late Admiral Halberton. Halberton, who had been down on the ground for a meeting with one of his ship captains, happened to be in Denver for lunch that day, and he heard everything.
It just so happened that he met one of the soon-to-be agents of the resistance as well, which was starting to slowly gain traction at the time. He had passed on a top secret message to them, instructing that what was within be built for the use of this young man when the time came. The First Bloody Valentine War saw Rob and his sister go underground as best as they could, with Alyssa dyeing her hair a burgundy red to hide its true color and her eyes she covered in green contacts to disguise herself even further. Rob was fortunate in that he was more like a Natural in physical appearance than her.
Rob was able to, against all odds, take several college courses and gain certification in the trades upon graduation. Now as a certified mechanic, he and his sister left Denver and took up residence in Norfolk due to wanting to move away from obvious anti-Coordinator sentiment. With their location now outside of the city itself, Robert and Alyssa lived in secret, hiding their Coordinator traits and abilities. Robert helped out at a local garage while his sister worked at a café. Hearing tales of the Demon Lord of Avalon and the power of Wing Zero's fearsome weapon, he hoped to fight like Heero Yuy himself.
He got his chance to join when he met one of the resistance moles as their car was undergoing repairs. The man happened to be a key observer and was quick to pick up that Rob was a Coordinator, due to his knack with machines. He was quick to assure the young man he was not going to harm him, and instead took him aside and explained that it was lucky he had managed to remain free and living a normal life with mandatory genetic testing going around. He then proceeded to explain more about who he was and whom he worked for. Rob was immediately intrigued by this man's tale, and so he called his sister down so she could also be informed.
The two were then told the whole truth, and at once, Rob remembered a previous incident that he still refused to talk about, and he immediately signed up.
However, their recruiter told them that in order to be full members, there was a mission that needed to be carried out. As to what, however, that remained to be seen.
At least until now.
'I'm not sure if I can do this...' Rob thought to himself. 'Being asked to remove the Commandant from this base? How the hell am I supposed to do that?!'
He gripped the M1911 pistol he carried under his coat, having been issued the firearm by the local cell commander. It had been a full two weeks since he had passed the resistance's firearms certification exam, which allowed him to carry his gun on his person as long as it was concealed.
His ability to shoot with a pistol was not that stellar, but with the M4 carbine... now that was a different beast. He had demonstrated an aptitude with that gun that left many speechless, which made it his signature firearm in battle. However, due to the need for secrecy, he kept his M4 at home instead.
The young man took in a deep breath and let it out, calming himself down by focusing on the tales of his Apache Indian ancestors his father had told him as a child. He could almost feel their collective wisdom as he relaxed, letting himself fall into the role assigned to him by the resistance. He opened his eyes and made his way down the street with renewed confidence.
As he did so, he spied a few members of the base staff. One of them held up a hand and made a sign he recognized immediately.
He nodded subtly.
He waved as the man walked over.
The two men nodded. "Good to see you, Rob," he said, making conversation.
"Yeah. The adjunct called me in for his car's repairs, Hank," the young Coordinator explained.
"Ah. Right. That rat infestation." The man had to give a wince at that.
In truth, there were no rats. It was a clever ploy established by the resistance using small tools to make it seem like there were real rats. The moles on the base were trained in using them effectively, and it was perhaps the only reason why no one else had chosen to come here. The stated size of the rat infestation was enough to deter any other men from taking over.
"I'm just glad he's getting his car fixed," Hank Dalston stated. "He's been a real a-hole in his attitude."
Rob just gave a nod. "Yeah. Tell me about it. He really acted like it over the phone."
They continued walking for a few more minutes before they stopped and Hank lowered his voice. "Glad to see you though," he muttered. "Command was serious then?"
Rob was silent as he gulped. He nodded once.
"Good. We need to discover just how good his security is," the mole stated. "That's your job."
"So I'm not going to be the one to come up with the removal scheme?" Rob asked, relief flooding his body.
Hank shook his head. "No. That's up to the rest of us. Your job is to get an idea of his security. Then, if we need your help, we'll call you in. But until then, remain on standby."
Rob gave a relieved smile as he sighed. "Right."
Now that he knew what his task was, he felt a lot better, and it felt like he could complete his mission with ease.
Of course, he had no idea just how tricky it was going to really be...
Especially considering who the man in charge really was.
To hear he was the father of Captain Murrue Ramius was one thing. But to hear he had actively disowned his own daughter and ordered her to die because she was doing what was right?
Rob felt nothing but disgust for the man's utter callousness about her. If it had been him... he'd have marched back home, stormed in, and decked the man right across the face for his utter loathing for her.
The memories of his first kill surfaced in his head and he had to ruthlessly shove them aside. He didn't want to make a move that could cost the resistance their chance at getting Commandant Ramius away from the base here. He took in a breath and sighed, clearing his mind and taking strength from his ancestors.
He had a mission to complete.
. . .
Earth Orbit
1776th Battle Group
Judgment Station, L4 Coalition Borders
The five ships drifted closer to the station, each of them now attuned to the resistance ID tags.
After the removal and execution of four of the five adjuncts and Krantz' retreat from the ships, Steven 'Spray' Krane took full control of the fleet, and after some intense interrogations, rooted out the fanatics amongst the crew. Thankfully their numbers were few, but they were devout to the cause of Blue Cosmos. It also turned out that the majority of the crews were not indoctrinated as he had feared. Most of them were young, a few veterans sprinkled in. The adjuncts, he had learned, had kept everyone in line through fear and threat of execution if they did not follow the ideology of Blue Cosmos.
Once the main five had been removed from play, the crews had actually split into two groups, leading to those fanatics being rounded up and locked in their rooms for the duration of the trip to the L4 colonies. Most of the men aboard had started to complain about the lack of competent women amongst them, which was a hint to Spray that not all were in the same mindset as the so-called High Command.
It also helped that half of the medical personnel also chose to defect, leaving only half who were loyal to Blue Cosmos/LOGOs as well. The good news was that these people were willing to help the Extended on board their fleet. It was a stark contrast to how the scientists treated them, but now that they had those three men locked up as well, it was a godsend to Spray. Now he didn't have to deal with them.
As the ships approached the station, he stood on the bridge of the Washington, his eyes narrowed as he studied the huge colony.
Based out of an old O'Neil cylinder, Judgment Station certainly lived up to its name.
After the disastrous battle at Nova in CE 0070, the resistance had seized the chance to establish a presence in space for if things went south. It had taken three years to get the necessary supplies and personnel up to orbit, but it had proven to be worth it. The colony itself was almost fully repaired and functional, although some of the exterior debris was left to float around and some components, mostly some old abandoned segments, were left alone to make it seem like the place was completely desolate and lifeless. Already he could see some ships traversing between the main colony and the smaller ones further away.
This was Judgment Station, the resistance headquarters for their burgeoning space force.
And it was a fitting name, given the fact that Project: Shumatsu was being constructed here.
"Sir?" Spray turned as he heard Scotty approaching. "Is this where we're heading?"
"It is," Spray admitted as he turned back to look out the window. "This... is Judgment Station. The headquarters for our space forces."
"How long has this even been here?" the former adjunct asked.
"Since CE 0070," the commander stated, his eyes narrowing.
"But it looks like it's been around longer than that!" Scotty protested.
"Well, then we did a good job in setting it up," Spray remarked with a wry grin. His grin then faded as he watched the station getting closer. "The real trick was getting supplies and personnel up here over the last three years. But... thanks to our logistical network piggybacking off that of LOGOs, we were able to do it."
"And all without being sniffed out?" Scotty was impressed.
The rebel commander gave a nod. "Yep. The one good thing that we did was secure the technical communications industrial complex's assets due to offering them better wages than what they're getting."
Scotty fell silent at that.
"That... That bad...?" he whispered, eyes widening at the realization.
Spray was silent as he nodded.
"My God..." Scotty slumped back in a chair behind the rebel. "How long has that been going on?"
"Since the beginning of the wars," Spray stated. "And it's only gotten worse. They're close to indentured servants at this point."
"And the higher-ups just let this go?!" Scotty was now enraged. How could anyone do that to their employees and sleep soundly at night?!
"They only care for their sick dream," the rebel replied. "They could care less about other people, least of all those who work to ensure that dream comes about. If they even had half the humanity the President has... then maybe we wouldn't be in this predicament."
Scotty had no words for that.
The rest of the trip was filled with nothing but silence, broken only by the routine sounds of shipboard activity.
Spray watched with a serious look on his face as the docking bays of Judgment Station finally came into view. The bridge communications officer turned in his seat. "Sir, we're getting a hail from the station docks!"
"Patch it through." Spray nodded.
The man nodded and pressed the command into his station. The main screen flickered into existence as static filled it before fading.
The face of one of the dock controllers came up and the woman stared for a moment before speaking. "This is Judgment Station Dock Control. State the name and identification codes of your ships," she ordered.
Spray reached into his pocket and pulled out a single paper eagle feather he had made sometime back after his mission's success. "Would this be enough?" he asked, earning a confused look from Scotty.
The woman, for her part, was surprised. Her eyes widened as she saw the feather.
The Eagle Feather.
"Commander Krane!" she exclaimed. "We were expecting you."
"Good." Spray pocketed the feather. "Mission is a success. The fleet is now under my command."
"Good timing. Docking bay four is open for you," the woman said. "We'll begin resupply as soon as possible, as well as crew transfers. Also, I take it you have Extended aboard?"
"Yes." Spray's eyes hardened. "We do. Three. They need treatment."
"Already aware of that," the controller stated. "We got word from Surface Command. They've got the lab. The one where it all began."
Spray's eyes widened at that. "They took the main lab?!" he blurted.
Scotty was baffled as he looked between the two.
"Yes. You'll be given a full debrief once you get into the colony," the woman said.
"All right. I really want to know how that happened," Spray admitted with a small smirk.
"Very well. But first, the President wants to give you your next mission," the controller stated.
Spray snapped off a crisp salute in response. "Right!"
The woman nodded before the COMM went dark. Spray took his seat back at the captain's chair and he settled in for docking procedure.
The five ships slowly made their way into the massive docking bay, each of them moving to a designated dock as the huge bay doors slid shut behind them. The crews were deployed to moor the ships to their docks before the hatches and doorways slid open, ramps extending from the docks to the entryways of the ships.
The crews took the chance to exit, filing out in rows. The fanatics were left in the brigs, only to be dragged out by armed military personnel of the resistance, usually kicking and screaming the whole way. A number of attempts to assault the women of the team were thwarted by drugging the perpetrators and hauling them out trussed up using zip ties. With the fanatical members of the crews now in custody, the men were split right down the middle, with half going off to work aboard the station's defenses while the other half were reorganized according to their skillsets and not their political connections.
Within twelve hours, the ships had been properly crewed and reorganized to make them more effective as a unit. The men and women of the newly reinstated 1776th Battle Group were more than eager to get to know one another and work as a team. Already Spray could sense a change in the morale of the unit. No longer were they united in their fear of the political adjuncts. They were happier, livelier, and possessing a sense of ease, so to speak.
That made Spray smile as he leaned against the wall of the station's command center observation deck as he overlooked the main park for the colony.
"Commander."
The rebel pilot turned as he heard the voice of the station's overseer.
Corporal Maxus Le Grange sat at his desk, arms tented in front of him.
"Sorry," Spray muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just observing the fleet's members a bit."
"That's to be expected, given what you just saved them from," the corporal admitted. "But that's not why I called you here."
"Right. The controller at the docks said that the President had a new mission for me," Spray remarked.
Maxus gave a nod. "Yes, she does. But first, I would like to hear a full report on your mission and how you succeeded in taking out most of the adjuncts."
Spray nodded and proceeded to tell him everything.
He outlined his plans and the results of each, including his failed attempt to take out Krantz. He detailed the battle that took place and the discovery of who had really been behind the Reconstruction War and the twisting of American ideals into those of Nazi Germany. He even told of Krantz's evolution into a Newtype, which surprised him.
When he was finished, Maxus leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "I see..." he mused.
Then he looked up. "This poses a real problem. As I recall, you were supposed to eliminate Krantz. But if he escaped and evolved into a Newtype, then there is a good chance he will come after you. And he won't stop until you're dead," he stated. "So this puts a wrench into our plans."
"It's not a major one, is it?" Spray asked worriedly.
"Only if he gets to you," Maxus told him seriously. "So we're going to be outfitting your machine with a new prototype Striker Pack that was developed here at Judgment Station."
"A new Striker Pack?" Spray blinked his eyes. "What kind is it?"
"You'll see for yourself later on," Maxus explained. "But for now, you are to take a few days' vacation and rest. This will also give the crews more time to integrate and learn from one another. You can also inspect the new Striker Pack during that time and see if it fits to your standards. In a few days you report back here for your orders."
"Yes, sir!" Spray gave a salute before turning and walking out the door, leaving Maxus to ponder the next moves he had to make.
. . .
December 10th, CE 0073
Canadian Resistance Base
Dr. Brand was half asleep when his phone rang.
He slowly stirred, his vision blurry as he opened his eyes. "For ze love of..." he muttered, reaching for the blaring device.
He groped for the phone and grabbed it, activating it and bringing it close to his ear. "Vhat...?" he asked around a yawn.
"Dr. Brand."
The voice of the President was enough to snap him to full alertness. His eyes flew wide open and he was out of bed in mere seconds.
"Madame President?!" he blurted.
"At ease. I know it's late, but we have confirmation that our mole has done his job," she told him. "All of the political adjuncts, save for one, are dead, and his second-in-command is MIA."
"Zen his mission was a success," Dr. Brand mused.
"Yes. And that means that you now have clearance to launch," Eisenhower replied. "The only issue is that we have to keep them focused on what we're going to be stirring up in the next few days. And that will be your chance to get the ship, and its machine, into orbit."
"Vhat are you planning?" the old scientist asked.
"I can't delve into detail lest our enemies find out," the President cautioned. "But what I can say is that it will make the old Halifax Disaster look like a pop gun."
"Vait... Look like a pop gun...?" Dr. Brand felt the blood drain from his face at the mere implications. "Does zat mean vhat I zink it means...?" he whispered.
The very idea that she even indicated such an explosion of great magnitude was enough to make him worry that she had somehow procured a nuclear bomb, which was something they were not supposed to do. In fact, it had been stressed repeatedly to avoid descending into the same type of barbarism as their hated enemies. There was no getting around it. The resistance ethos was ingrained in them to be better than their lowers.
Historically it was easier to descend to the same levels as the enemy one fought against. Examples from history, he knew, included the Second World War and the War in Ukraine. It was much harder to remain above such base desires and instincts. Only those who had inhumane willpower were able to resist such things. And Eisenhower's will was so strong it even expanded to the resistance's members.
But now... to even think of her descending to those same levels made him wonder what the future held for their movement.
The President's voice, when it filtered through next, was filled with steel.
"No nuclear weapons are involved," she said, making him wonder what other weapon she had procured. "By and large, there shouldn't be even one nuke used in any of our ops unless there is no choice."
"Zen how do you explain vhat you just said?" the scientist demanded as he proceeded to get ready for the day.
"I already informed you I can't delve into detail," Eisenhower repeated. "But I can say that this explosion will rattle the Atlantian nobility."
The implications still made him shiver.
"So I want you to get the ship ready for launch in two days," she ordered.
"Ma'am, ve have been prepared for zat since day one," Klaus admitted as he slid a shirt on. "Ve can be ready vithin two hours if needed."
"Not that soon," Eisenhower cautioned. "We need this to coincide with Operation: Merlin. That's the name we've given the op."
"Und zat vill keep zeir eyes avay from us, ja?" Dr. Brand asked.
"It will. So be prepared to launch in two days," she reiterated.
The man in charge of Project: Shūmatsu nodded. "Yes, ma'am!"
The line closed and Klaus proceeded to finish getting dressed.
He had a meeting to assemble.
Within the next few hours, he had called the entire lead engineering team down to his office.
He quickly laid out the scope of the mission and how it had gone down for the mole, leading to a number of people gaping in shock at the success of the mole in orbit. When he was finished, one of the engineers looked over at him. "So then we are preparing to launch the ship within two days, am I right?" he deduced.
Klaus nodded grimly. "Yes. Und ve have to make sure it coincides vith ze operation in England. Zis vay zey cannot track ze ship und shoot it down."
The man pursed his lips as he folded his arms. "I see... But there is still the matter of actually making sure the machine and the third phase lock in together. We need to synchronize them or else it won't work."
"Zat can be done at Judgment Station," Klaus stated as he leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. "Ze issue here is getting zat machine und ship into orbit, Jack."
"I understand." The man in question, one Jack Eventide, was dead serious as he spoke. "But we have to run tests..."
"Zat vill be done at a later date," the nuclear physicist stated, his eyes narrowing. "Right now, ve need to get zis ship into orbit, ASAP."
Laura sighed. "That is the objective, but what Jack is trying to say is we need to at least run a test on the machine before we send it into orbit," she clarified. "If it works as intended, we'll be ready. And that's only if the mole loses his current machine."
Dr. Brand pursed his lips as he pondered this.
He did know the mole had his own machine, one that had been modified over the course of the wars to suit the man's fighting style. But this new machine, while it was tuned to match him, it was not tuned fully. So they'd have to analyze the man's combat data and make the necessary adjustments once at Judgment Station. He did see that there was a delay in getting it to him, but that also meant they could install one final component before delivering it to him.
"Zen... you have it?" he asked, looking to another woman who sat off to the side. She opened her eyes, revealing one to he a brilliant blue and the other to be a piercing gold.
Zelda Leighton nodded. "I do," she said, her voice holding a distinct Quebecoi accent to it.
Zelda was one of a few slum survivors who had escaped several months before the initial breakout of the Quebec Revolt, which was still going strong. After she had left the slums, she made her way down to Toronto where she was picked up by some resistance fighters who cared for her and gave her much needed food to allow her to have a much better chance at fighting the diseases she had been struck with due to lack of proper nutrition. After several months, she had fully recovered from the diseases and was now on the mend. She still lacked proper muscle tone, but a good workout routine was helping her to recover that lost muscle.
As a former schoolteacher, she had striven to increase education in the slums, but the guards and overseer had refused. So she decided to escape and find someone who could help her take down the guards and open up the slums' children to proper and decent education, not the second-grader level that most people were stuck with.
Now as a resistance asset, she had been the one to deliver the recently delivered NWCOMM to the base for installation into the new machine.
She reached into her coat pocket and took it out.
The device in question flashed in the light of the office and Dr. Brand took it.
"So zis is ze NWCOMM..." he mused, turning it over in his hand. "I vas expecting somezing a bit different, honestly."
He set it down and looked to the team before him. "Are ve all in agreement to launch ze ship in two days?"
Everyone didn't even have to answer. They all nodded.
Dr. Brand nodded as well. "Good. Zen zis meeting is dismissed."
. . .
Judgment Station
Earth Orbit
Spray stood in the main hangar bay, his eyes locked onto the Strike Dagger S as the technicians finished equipping its new Striker Pack.
He had to admit, Warren Thompson was a genius when it came to mobile suits. Especially in their functionality.
But when it came down to the design, he had some issues with how they looked.
Yet in terms of weapons packs and augmentations, that was where he truly excelled. Such as with the new weapon he had been hearing rumors about.
He let his gaze roam over the Striker Pack, taking in the wing-like emitters on its back and the way they were folded in.
The entire Striker Pack was a far cry from the ones he had seen in use during the wars. This unit was completely original in its design. The flight pack was akin to that used by the Freedom, but instead of its thrusters being arranged vertically, they were lined up horizontally along the bottom of the unit, and were angled to allow them to move and pivot. The wings, on the other hand, were a much different story.
In folded configuration, they appeared to resemble slabs of metal that had circular joints at the top. But when opened, they took on a sort of 'feathered' appearance, and within the wings were emitters that had been derived from another machine that Warren Thompson had had input on before his second defection. What that machine was, he refused to say, but he did state that the propulsion and unit system were of his design and no one else's, which made Spray wonder if someone had stolen his initial idea.
The emitters, when the wings were opened, were supposed to grant his Dagger S a significant increase in agility and mobility, but at the cost of its endurance. Spray had to admit that even with the external battery packs mounted to the frame of his machine, it would be pushing it. So extra packs had been installed on the Striker Pack itself to increase its operational time from a mere few seconds to a full two minutes, and that was pushing it with the limits of their tech.
The technicians finally finished the installation and pushed off the catwalk, allowing the chief of maintenance to wave an arm. "Good work!" she called.
She then turned to look at the rebel pilot. "Ah! Commander Krane! I was about to call you down here."
"Well, good thing I happened to be in the area," he joked as he turned his gaze to her with a small smirk. "Did it go well with the installation?"
She nodded. "Yep. It sure did. The good news is that your machine, despite being beaten by the enemy, held up so only some minor to moderate repairs were needed. The Aile Striker EX was totaled, though. There was nothing that could be salvaged from it. I'm sorry."
Spray shook his head. "Don't worry about it. It served its purpose, although I wish I could've taken out Krantz during that time, Wendy."
Chief Mechanic Wendy Dobson nodded. "Yeah. That man needs to be taken out."
At the age of thirty eight, Wendy Dobson was not much of a looker, being rather average in height, weight, and even appearance. She had mousey red hair and deep brown eyes that looked rather dull under the artificial lighting, although Spray knew they twinkled with good humor on more than one occasion. She wasn't too muscular or flabby, but seemed to be the right weight and fitness for her age group. Her uniform was also rather plain, with a mechanic's jumpsuit that was stained with grease and oil. Her hands were covered in thick gloves, but Spray knew they were strongly calloused from her job here as a mobile suit mechanic.
What really set her apart though from the others was her keen organizational skills. She was perhaps the best organizer in the entire base, keeping a meticulous log of where what parts were and what tools went where. Wendy always kept a binder filled with charts and labels of the parts, their quantity, and what suits they went to, etc. Her staff oftentimes called her a harsh drill master, but that was primarily because of the way she kept things so organized. Wendy chalked it up to her father who had run a chain of successful mechanic's shops before he retired due to old age. Wendy, however, had not been allowed to take it over due to the new laws forbidding women from being in masculine jobs, despite being the one chosen to run it after his retirement. Instead, it had gone to her younger, more incompetent brother who was now running the business into the ground.
During a routine trip to the store, one of the police said to her she was going to have kids and leered at her, she promptly slugged the man with a wrench before fleeing before he could even have his way with her. She managed to hijack his cruiser and escape to Florida where she stowed away aboard a ship bound for space. It was due to sheer luck the ship was en route to the L4 Coalition at the time. After docking at Judgment Station, she was promptly arrested and taken to the commander before she explained her story and of her skills. When he saw her skills, she was put into the mechanics department as its head, stating that having someone with her organizational skills would be an asset. And he had been right on the matter.
"Still, the fact you held your own even in an older model machine shows how good you are," she noted. "And this new Striker Pack should give you somewhat more of an edge over him."
"What's the name of it?" Spray asked as he looked back to his machine.
"The Phoenix Striker," came a familiar voice.
The two turned as Warren approached them. His eyes were hard as he gazed at the Strike Dagger S.
"The Phoenix Striker?" Spray blinked in confusion.
"Yes. A Striker Pack of my own design," the Coordinator said. "As you are well aware."
"I remember," the rebel remarked.
"Good." His eyes narrowed a bit. "This Striker Pack is one of the most advanced I could make given the limited resources at my disposal. But it will serve its purpose."
"And I'm sorry we can't provide you the necessary resources to go further," Wendy stated.
"It is of no concern to me at the moment," Warren admitted. "Actually, I will be honest and admit that I genuinely find enjoyment in making do with limited resources." A wry smirk crossed his lips. "A chance to test my MacGyvering skills, so to speak."
"Never pegged you to be one to do something like that," the chief mechanic remarked with a smile.
"Sometimes one has to make do with what one has at one's disposal," the former mobile suit designer quoted. "It can be a challenge, but if done right... then there are no limits."
Wendy knew just how true that was from a theoretical standpoint, but from a practical standpoint, one had to have knowledge of many fields or a few specific ones that could tie together to make it happen. And yet the resistance was clearly MacGyvering a lot of things and making it work.
"So, what can this pack do?" Spray asked him.
"It will, as I have stated, increase your machine's mobility in space," Warren explained. "The issue is how much energy it uses. You only have two, maybe more, minutes before your mobile suit's energy reserves dip into the yellow, maybe red, zone." He crossed his arms. "It all depends on how you use it."
"So used in short bursts, I should have a chance, right?" Spray deduced.
"Correct." Warren nodded. "But it will depend, again, on you. So do not overuse it."
"I won't," Spray said, his eyes taking on a serious glint. "But I am wondering something."
"Hm?" Warren looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "What?"
"I can take a guess that this is classified, but what's that over there?" Spray asked, pointing to the huge covered object not too far off.
"That is a top secret project," Warren explained. "I'm not cleared to reveal anything. But what I can say is that it will turn the tide of the battle against LOGOs... as well as secure a chance for L4 to attain sovereignty as their own country... and justice for Seigel Clyne." His green eyes narrowed as he said this last bit.
"Wait. Justice for Seigel Clyne?" Spray was confused.
The Coordinator nodded. "Yes. Those who outed Clyne as the leader of the resistance in the PLANTs were never brought to justice and instead were allowed to continue their lives and careers. That right there is a gross misuse of power and a complete dereliction of duty to serve the people."
Spray could understand the man's sentiment. He folded his own arms and leaned against the gantry. "Trust me, I know how you feel. A lot of my friends were in the same boat. Especially with LOGOs keeping the perpetrators of certain crimes out of prison. It's just crazy. This isn't justice. It's downright oppression."
"A police state in name, and a new feudal monarchy in purpose!" Wendy spat.
The former pirate scowled. "This is not right by any means. What makes LOGOs think they can get away with it, is beyond me."
"We'll never know the answers until we actually win," Spray remarked. "And I hope we can actually get them from one of the LOGOs leaders... not the mole we acquired in their ranks."
"Hmm." Warren closed his eyes in thought. "If we do... then what will happen?"
Here Spray hesitated, looking down at his feet. "Honestly? I'm... not sure," he admitted. "I mean... I just hope cool heads prevail and allow us to get the answers we seek. If not... then we risk the same thing happening again."
"Ah. The old adage 'those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it'," Warren recited. "Never truer words than now."
The three fell silent as they gazed on the Strike Dagger S.
And for once, Spray hoped that someone would get them the answers they sought.
. . .
New York Resistance Base
Brian Greenwell adjusted his headset as his hands flew over the keyboard for his personal machine, the Beast.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the screen intently, watching for the dedicated lines of code that indicated firewalls.
It had been close to a full twenty-four hours since he had started working on trying to track down information pertaining to the bombing of Copernicus City on the moon. Project: Artemis was a very fitting name for this, he mused. After all, Artemis was, according to mythology, the goddess of the moon and the hunt, right? And he was hunting down answers as to the truth.
So he was not about to overlook her favor as he muttered a small prayer to Artemis as he worked.
So far he had not found anything of value, but any lead was a possibility. And if he struck out, then he had a number of other leads to follow up on.
His fingers danced over the keys as he typed, this time spotting the coding of a firewall.
"Oh boy... this one is a doozy. Let's see... what level are you, you little bugger?" He glanced briefly to the list of firewall levels he had created and laminated a few months ago. The strength of the firewall determined the number that each level had. Level One was the hardest to break, requiring upwards of one whole day to breach, thereby giving it the rank of Level One. Level Two required half a day, Three eight hours, Four just six hours, etc.
And this one appeared to be a Level One.
"Ooh crap... This is gonna take an entire day..." he mused as he adjusted his weight and started to go to work. "And I'm gonna really need some sleep after this one."
He settled in and started to work.
Off to the side, he could see Darrien eyeing him critically.
"What?" he asked.
"You found something big, right?" the former rail worker noted.
"Level One firewall. It's going to take a day to breach," Brian admitted. "This means something big could be behind here, or it could be a trick like the last few were."
"I dunno. I seem to remember that last Level One led you to Azrael's finances," the big Coordinator remarked.
"Lucky on my part. I just happened to find an old payment transfer and backtracked it to his accounts," Brian stated.
Darrien didn't even comment as he pulled out a fried chicken wing and handed it to him. "Here. You may need some strength."
Brian just took the food and started to chow down as one hand remained on the keyboard, moving swiftly as he studied the firewall coding. "Things always have a back door, but sometimes it's damn hard to find them," he mused.
Darrien just narrowed his eyes. "I hope you find something big in this one," he admitted. "The sooner we know just what happened up there, the better."
"Yeah. I never really bought into the whole idea that a single bomb could cause such damage to the dome itself and whatnot." Brian looked up for a moment. "I mean, there's so much wrong with that theory and statement." He set the wing down and held up his greasy hand, raising a finger. "First, where was the footage of the dome's interior? That right there should have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong." A second finger went up. "Second, where were the casualty lists? If a bomb went off and caused as much damage as they claim, then there would have been more casualties than were projected. That's a second red flag right there." A third finger uncurled. "Third, where were the people doing the investigation? Who was doing it? What did they find? That kind of stuff. That alone is something that made me doubt the whole thing." A fourth finger inched into the air. "And finally, where did the bomb explode? That was never stated. And that, especially when coupled with the fact that the dome, according to satellite footage, was completely intact, contradicted their statements."
He lowered his hand and wiped it on his pants.
"So there's a lot we need to get the answers to," he finished.
"Yeah. And a short amount of time to do it in," Darrien stated.
Brian nodded as he turned back to his computer. "I'll see if I can crank the Beast into overdrive. But I'll need some real cool air to stop the overheating."
"I'll get our techs on that," the Coordinator remarked.
"Thanks." Brian kept his gaze on the screen. 'Okay, Djibril, you big baby... Let's see what you got hiding in these firewalls...'