1PROLOGUE Pilot Log - Approved For Leave (4 day pass) "Meditative Isolation", Day One, Session One
"Lights on."
Dandelion seeds danced like drunken housewives along his nightstand; in his fervor to reach his alarm clock, Pilot 993-636-78348 had struck his flower pot, jarring the feeble plants from their place with a hard backhand. A last-minute scramble to keep the ceramic pot standing ensured it would be in one piece the next morning, but his hand felt like an anvil'd been dropped on it. A voice at the back of his mind murmured something about arthritis, aching joints, and faded back into the past. He'd be fine with some ice.
The lights flickered for a moment, as the room's energy consumption regulators calculated how many hours of life his linear fluorescents had left. Nursing the bad hand, he slid bare feet into cotton slippers and rose from his bed, comfortable enough in his tank and shorts. He didn't wait for that cheap synth girl to tell him his bulbs were dying out.
Alone in the kitchenette, he collected two cans from a cabinet over the sink- dinner tonight would be special. Pulling the ring on his self-heating baked beans and "Colombian" coffee, he flipped the tins and checked his chronometer. In fifteen minutes, he would have his beans. The coffee, he'd take with him; he had a long night ahead of him, and didn't want to waste time once he got on site.
"Radio on."
...
"The key message here, beyond all others in the text, is found in the last phrase of passage five: the elders, trembling with an otherworldly fury, cursed the novice soldier under their breaths, insulted by his arrogance. Instructed..."
"Radio volume up."
"...he cast aside his comrades, and claimed independence of his brethren. Bearing the knowledge of his fate, the elders could give only a single warning: memento mori. These words, and this message, lives on from a time before us, before our wars, our loves, and our pain. Remember your death. Remember that you are mortal."
"Radio off."
Shuffling through the files strewn across a folding table in his meager den, a streak of light blue matte paint caught his eye. He examined the source- a still from field test footage of the DRZ Double Oh Three -and decided at once a change in hue was necessary. There was something he needed to remember to do today before he left...he had to call Johnson and have his old squadron send over his development notes from his last assignment so he could finish his report on the new Zando model.
For a moment, he thought about calling her.
"Double Oh Three.."
Only for a moment.
Yesterday's briefing had brought him news of his new squadron- they would be flying test types, the three of them, with an auxiliary pilot sitting in reserve with whatever piece of scrap they could cobble together. Leading them was a familiar face- Geir Raske, a veteran of the Old War practically back from the dead. Though his insight on mobile suit combat and experience certainly made him an asset to any team, there were some doubts as to whether his performance on the field would be up to par, or whether this was all just going to be a publicity stunt gone wrong.
In any case, it seemed the Union was willing to invest quite a large amount of resources to their cause- besides the 003, another unit had been commissioned for Captain Raske's personal use. Some research had enlightened him as far as Geir's career was concerned, and he found it odd that a man whose reputation was earned with a Dolor-type would be commanding the pilot of its latest incarnation instead of flying the machine himself. Certainly not the way he'd have done things, but perhaps the brass figured it a safer bet to put the war ace in a high-speed, super-charged frame.
Waiting on his dinner, he wondered where they'd go. Mid-space? The Colonies? Orbit duty? Maybe Earth..
"Lights off."
He'd wonder about it later- after his evening prayer.
"Meditative Isolation", Day One, Session Two
Is that all?
Is this all?
I don't know.
Day One, Session Three
At the center of his den there was a coffee table- plain white marble supported by four ivory legs as thick as his arms. For today, it would be his altar. Atop the table stood the idol, a vibrant image of holy terror. Etched into a wooden tablet, petrified to last an eternity, he'd received it from Abdullah, his guide, and refused to part with it, even on a mission. The palm-sized tablet reminded him of the nightmare he was preventing- or would be.
"I am your sword. I am your slave. I am life, and through you, death as well. For death is the shadow of life, and light cannot exist without shadow. For every one life taken by my hand, one hundred are spared. For every one drop of blood spilled in your name, you return my strength one thousand fold. One life, one day. So it is, so it has been. That is my blood oath to you, and to my brethren. I shall sate your thirst, lord, and be done with it. The world will not end so long as I live."
Mars, Location Unknown. Rain poured down on the arid Martian landscape, an unusual occurrence for the mostly dry red planet. The perfect atmosphere for the devastation that had seemingly unfolded below the clouds of gray. Tides of water cascaded down upon broken buildings, falling to cool the smoldering remains of Union Zandos and Dolor Armors. Several large, ogre-ish looking flying frames lurched through the rain, cycloptics glowing fiercely against the gloomy backdrop as further flashes of plasma lit up the grim surroundings. From an aerial view, the entire Martian base had been decimated, all but burned to the ground. Above it, however, thick nets of ionized air illuminated the clouds, giving the illusion of a thunderstorm as two fiercely entangled combatants clashed wits. Two very similar frame - one in unpainted gray, the other in a formal white clashed in the sky, beams flitting from all around them as each tried to get an advantage over the other. Higher and higher they climbed into the sky, each move deadlier, more precise and calculated than the last, a step closer to death every second! Cone-shaped familiars cut and thrust through the air, struggling in the Martian gravity, but functional enough to hold their positions. Both sides' remotes clashed, matching shot for shot, loss for loss, filling the air with the thunderous roar of particle guns on automatic. And the pressure! The terrible pressure that felt like the screaming of someone in terrible pain that echoed in the mind, like a superheated dagger being dragged slowly through your forehead, that only increased in volume as the fight became more desperate- Gene Oswell awoke with a gasp at his desk, kicking back hard enough on the hard oak that he careened backwards onto the soft carpet, wheely-chair whirling almost comically away from it's estranged owner, it's squeaking filling the air as the Martian leader lay on his back, breathing hard. His senses began to return. A nightmare...? He hadn't had a nightmare since he was six... And never in that clarity before. A written report on the performance of the DRZ Dolor Mark IV's performance lay above him on the desk. In summary, he had praised it's combat performance and superior maneuverability, but the centerpiece of the project- the neural-familiar system -required further research and fine tuning before it could be implemented into further units. The DRZ-004 would thus be returned to Olympus Mons for disassembly and re-testing. Gene picked himself up, and massaged his temples gently with a groan. His glasses were damaged, again... The clock read 4:21 AM... A briefing was scheduled in a few hours for the troops that had participated in the skirmish... He hadn't even gotten around to setting up a presentation yet. No rest for the wicked, after all. "Pressure of the job must be getting to me, I suppose." He said aloud to no-one in particular, retrieving his chair to sit down at his desk once more. The TV in the corner of his office blared quietly, bathing the area in a lucid blue. The news was talking about something, he couldn't be bothered to care what... A quick flick of the finger turned off the screen, casting his office in darkness. ...Still... The young leader of Mars turned in his chair to look out on Space. His thoughts were humble, fearful, and confused, despite what his public appearance might lead others to believe. Brother, where are you? The Martian attack force had been gathered in the large, semicircular briefing room of the Gregor-class battleship, commonly known as 'space boomerang'. It was not a particularly lavish setup, all the seats facing towards a central platform that was equipped with a laptop for projecting holographic displays. The Patriarch positioned himself on this, smiling benevolently up at the gathered Martian soldiers. "Alright, settle down everyone. Before we begin, does anyone have any questions?" Entering the Conference room just as more and more of the soldiers were-rather pleased that the crew had the same idea of being early-Vice Admiral Norio Otaya, commander of the Gregor-class Intrepid, stepped off to the side of the audience. He preferred to stand, so he could at least have a good view of the personnel attending, but also to aid the Patriarch in what he needed. Silent amidst his fellow uniformed crewmen, Zaqqum sat and waited for the digital prompts, blending like a true chameleon. This had the looks of a presentation heavy on the verbal flourishes the Union's prominent speakers were known for, but the clockwork mind of Lieutenant al-Matin had other issues to deal with. Each second wasted away, bolted down to his seat by dutiful loyalty to the Patriarch, was a second he may have, in another life, used well for the great and glorious cause of the Novo Thuggee. He admired the man's position, as he did Captain Raske's, but respect for individuals oblivious to the universal imbalance was limited and quickly lost as their personal agendas revealed them as pawns in a game too complex for human minds to grasp. The terror of Kali loomed over their heads, but they, like the men they so often led into battle, could no more see joy and hope in death than the men that led before them. Quietly, he sat, nodding every now and then, counting the officer caps in the crowd. Plenty of ambitious young throwaways. Fodder for the Cythereans. He would have almost felt sorry for them, if not for the comforting thought that their death would propel him up the ranks, matching or even besting the respected Captains. Or even if that were denied him, restoring balance to existence and prolonging humanity's time in the final age before Chaos would earn him more prosperity than even the Patriarch in his life to come. All he had to do was wait. Captain Raske was still in his flight uniform, the utilitarian form of the suit being his preferred form of clothing when aboard the ship. Dress uniforms were far to stuffy for his liking, and the simple design of the flight outfit fit the image he projected. He was an officer of some caliber, but he'd no desire to show that fact off. Not around his own men. He let his actions define him, not his outfit. He watched as the ship's captain entered the room. He liked the man, he really did. He was happy to have him as his captain, and to be assigned to his ship. Although the rear admiral technically outranked him, and officially had command over the one-rank below Raske, Geir knew this was but an illusion. The reality was that, if he desired it, Raske could 'pull-rank' in the sense that his status as a member of the Early Birds placed him above Norio on a technicality, if not officially. He took a deep breath, remembering the recent battle. Geir wasn't extremely happy, however. He was quick to accept his leader's invitation, though admittedly not for it's originally intended purpose. Standing up quickly and rigid, he spoke with a clear but determined tone. "I would like to take the chance to apologize and ask for your forgiveness, sir. If I had acted on the intelligence sooner I might have arrived before the Venusians and been able to assist in the recovery effort." "It's not a problem, Captain..." He said airily, brushing off the matter with ease, "Further opportunities will present themselves as time permits... We'll just need to be more vigilant in the future." He smiled, and continued to set up his work at the platform until most of the regulars and curious novices had settled in. The room darkened as he began the debriefing. "Thank you all for coming... Let's begin." At about 0900 hours, while searching for potential sympathizers to our cause, I encountered a new model flying frame." A three-dimensional image of the G-Type Battlewing materialized above the Patriarch, with a live video feed of the Dolor-Four's camera from the battle playing to the side. A general murmur filled the room as he continued. "This new fighter is a completely different kind of Battlewing than the ones we've encountered before - in fact, I'd go so far to say as it's an entirely different kind of weapon all together. The Wing demonstrated, throughout our battle, flexibility and reaction speed unheard of in standard frames. "In summary, it's extremely flexible, powerful, and fast on the ground, capable of closing the gap between itself and the enemy in record time. There's no doubt in my mind that at close range, standard space frames won't stand a chance. "However, these abilities seem to come at a price. The pilot was rendered in pain from attacks that damaged the Battlewing. I'm not sure of the technology that allows this, but it's a critical weakness we shouldn't be afraid to exploit if the need be. "Furthermore, the frame seemed to suffer greatly in terms of performance when exposed to zero-G gravity - it's primary strength is it's maneuverability on the ground. Thus, when possible, engage the enemy outside it's favored terrain. "We also captured some data on a second new enemy model - again, what seems to be a completely new kind of fighter-armor." A three-dimensional image of the Cytherean Flag floated up to replace the G-Type. "Seemingly borrowing design concepts from the new F50 series, this new model sports a lightweight and thinly armored chassis. Despite this, it doesn't seem to be lacking in the armaments department, toting what we believe to be a high-power lightweight linear cannon - a portable rail gun capable of quick bursts of fire. We're not sure if it carries any further armaments, so far. "Due to unusual power readings in the data collected from the suit, it's possible that it runs on a new kind of compact generator - or maybe even a whole new kind of energy source. "Unknown 01 demonstrated a great level of maneuverability in zero-gee, but its design lends more to atmospheric flight. It's a distinct possibility that there are multiple configurations for different environments. "However, the unit's speed and maneuverability comes at a price. It's armor is thin, and even a standard chemical laser or Zando vulcan should prove effective against it... If we can hit it, of course. "If we encounter this type again, I recommend that you work as a team to corner and eliminate the enemy one at a time - the best way to counter their maneuverability is through group tactics and heavy support fire." He stopped for a moment, illuminated by the white glow of the projection before turning to the assembled masses. "...Before I continue with what this means to us, and the outcome of the skirmish, does anyone have any questions?" As soon as the Patriarch had ended the briefing, one of the cadets in the back- Ryan...something -spoke out. "Sir, regarding the first fighter-armor. You claimed that it would be a formidable foe on the ground. But, what if we could take that advantage away? Perhaps prepare a trap for them. Such as pounding Piledriver Bits into the ground to cause severe shockwaves and unbalance it to the ground where our aerial Mobile Suits can subdue it without any fighting involved. "As for the other... more unique suit, assuming that it isn't well protected against EMP shielding, we might be able to disable it with a strong discharge from an EMP weapon. If it doesn't work, we could lure it into the air and fire flak guns at it, and perhaps take out it's vectoring legs and acquired the frame itself. It may be fast, but even I know the fastest armors can't completely dodge a blanket of anti-air fire." Geir grinned and chuckled, not out of disrespect but rather a sort of approving gesture. He liked this fellow, even if he seemed to over-think some of the tactics he'd suggested. But he would learn, no doubt. Speaking up, the Captain replied to the suggestions of the young Lieutenant, who appear perhaps even far younger then he actually was. "I believe the ideas have merit, Lieutenant, but you must remember that while often these tactics may be effective, they require great amounts of coordination and technology that often are not practical for our uses, not to mention that the chaos of battle itself hinders attempts at anything too complex. Still, you're thinking, and that's good." he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he did. He paused only seconds before shifting gears, addressing the Patriarch directly. "Sir, with your permission I'd like to request a reassignment to the stolen G-type F50." From the very second he heard those last few words leave the Captain's mouth, Zaqqum's own question for the Patriarch vanished from his mind, replaced with a whirlwind of possibilities. Raske wanted the Battlewing, then? Interesting. Another notch on the old war horse's belt would practically turn Geir into a saint. Using this F90 to destroy the other, though- it did sound rather appealing. The sight of a Martian Battlewing toppling the Cytherean war machines alone was enough to send a chill through his spine. "Captain Raske makes an interesting proposal." he remarked, rising from his seat among the younger officers, his cap in his left hand. He half-bowed to the Patriarch, turning his focus back to Geir as the gears continued to grind. "Excuse my interruption, but based on the young lord's observations, it seems clear the second sphere citizens are preparing a ground invasion of some sort. Fighter-armors and flying frames geared towards atmospheric combat, particularly the unknown unit, suggest a vanguard of such an invasion. While Mars is equipped to defend against these mobilizations, these fast attack units would surely be able to launch raids on our less-developed Terran interests with the same ease we would be able to repel them. "Perhaps it is time to prepare our own officers to deal with the Battlewing threat on a more personal level, lord- and what better way than with a man who has faced more than one generation of the monster? What better way to ensure his teaching prove accurate than to have him train in the use of these new machines himself? A splendid idea, indeed." ... ... ... "Very well then. Captain Geir, you will be tasked with live fire data acquisition on the new G-Type. We'll hammer out the details later." Gene liked Geir Raske. The man was as straight as an arrow in his convictions, loyal, and an excellent pilot to boot. He had very little to fear, he thought, to put such a man at the helm of their prize. He continued the briefing airily to the assembled, once again bringing their attention to an overhead map of the area that the battle had taken place in. "In the aftermath of the skirmish, we were ultimately unable to capture the Wing. We did, however, acquire much valuable combat data... and we now know that Cytherean forces are amassing to meet us as well across the border. "What this means is that the Cythereans sure aren't going to take our declaration lying down. We must steel ourselves for a difficult battle ahead." The overhead zoomed out, and displayed the territory marks for the two forces in various areas. The Patriarch paused to allow them to digest the information, then continued: "...The information that was discussed here is available on the secure military network - I expect you all to study it and prepare your stratagem accordingly. The first step, after all, is to know your enemy... "At ease - That is all." he concluded, smiling at his troops proudly. The projector clicked off, and light returned to the room, the Patriarch gathering his things as people began to file out of the briefing room. "It's been a tough couple of days - Please make sure to schedule some time to recuperate your strength." He called out as he left towards the large double doors that were the entryway, waving an arm over his shoulder wearily, as if the very business of war had left him exhausted of the subject... leaving the rest of the personnel with the day off.