Liars and Dreamers
by Presley H. Cannady and others
ROBOTECH IV- The Odysseus Epic
Act One: Superdimensional Starforce Orion
______________________________
Copyright 1997 Presley H. Cannady
Copyright 1997 Anime/Manga Development Group
Copyright 1985 Harmony Gold
Copyright 1982 Tatsunoko Productions
Copyright 1982 Studio Nue
This story is not to be bought or sold, in whole or in part.
The electronic publication of this novel is intended for free
access, and does not intend to infringe on the rights of
Harmony Gold USA. The author has not accepted and will not
accept any remuneration for this work. This book embodies a
plethora of writing philosophies and events derived from the
original series and mutually "sanctioned" source material, the
Robotech RPG, and the McKinney Novels. The author expresses no
interest in the canonical value of this work.
Fourth Edition 1997
____________________________________________________________
Episode Two
"Rising Challenges"
Robotech IV - The Odysseus Epic
Act I: Superdimensional Starforce Orion
by Presley H. Cannady (cannady@magiccarpet.com)
and Lou Barnes (lbj@magiccarpet.com)
_______________________________
Chapter Three
Rising Challenges
To serve and to protect, our mission is to defend the
Confederation unto even the greatest of sacrifices. To carry
the war out to the enemy, engage, and defeat. To serve the
greater good and to act as a beacon of hope to those who charge
us with their defense. To prosecute, execute and abide by the
word of the Confederation and the Power of the Cosmos.
-Tactical Space Corps charter introduction, Paragraph 1, Line
3, 2090 revised edition.
* * *
THE RESPLENDENT EQUATORIAL TOWER, ONE OF THE GREATEST
ENGINEERING ACCOMplishments in Confederation history, stretched
outward into Mars's geosynch. Her golden-white, spyre-like
structure followed the suit of her predecessors: the Panama and
Cairo Towers. Now, some seventy years after laying of the
first two towers' orbital foundations, twelve others existed on
the Confederation's most populous and industrial planets.
Farther out, a solitary gem of an engineering feat crossed
orbits with the two, humble Martian moons; Starbase 06
monitored cislunar space, directing civilian and military
traffic through Earth's second most heavily populated
planetary-space.
Erected from the ashes of a base thrice ravished, the
Defense Forces Academy, Mars Campus, reared the best and the
brightest of (primarily) the Robotech Space Force's cadre; with
almost no exceptions; save the Earth-based Command Academy and
the National Defense University. The Mars Defense Forces
Academy mission primarily focused on initiating young officer
candidates into the RSF Spacy and Marine Corps. Nevertheless,
the Campus provided advanced tutelage for Spacy and Marine
officers on their way to flag rank. Today, the Academy's
faculty, staff, and directors gathered to commemorate their
honored task. In the field stretching in front the Academy's
Gloval Ampitheater, a cadre of midshipmen stood in perfectly
straight lines. On the stage, honored guests and the Academy's
directors looked upon their students with pride; one matched
only by that of a child's parent.
"All of you," an elderly man gripped the edges of the
podium, his gaze racing through the crowd as his age seemed to
contradict the fervor of his charismatic voice, "have excelled
beyond the expectations of your instructors, your peers,
and--most importantly--yourselves; revealing to your
instructors and your peers that you are ready to assume a life
of service. Each and every midshipman that has passed through
this Academy has wedded himself to the protocol and conduct
becoming an officer; a bond each one of you has committed
yourself to. It is a commitment of character ad virtue that
will follow you throughout your career, as well as permeate
into every facet of your life. An officers mind, body, and and
conscience works together for the good of the group, yet they
serve to enhance his individual character. On this day, I must
say that I am exceptionally proud of the class of '73. This
day, I put this charge to you; that each and every one of you
will receive your commissions and assignments and demonstrate
the utmost respect for the responsibility you will command, the
honor bestowed upon you, and the protocol to which you have
assumed."
The master of ceremonies, the Deputy Commandant of the
Academy, paused momentarily, gathering his thoughts carefully
and considering the foursquare rank of cadre lined up to the
edge of the stage. He had enrobed himself in dress ensemble of
the Spacy, a marvelously decorated grey overcoat; a large, an
oversized cap; and dress black-and-whites featuring the heavily
braided shoulderboards and sleeves of a three-star admiral.
The deputy commandant's spruce mien mirrored his pleasure of
having the honored privilege to preside over the Academy's
annual commissioning ceremony. By the conclusion of this
special mid-May forenoon, twelve hundred Spacy and Marine Corps
track midshipmen would leave these grounds as the freshest of
the Defense Forces officer's corps, thoroughly prepared over
the past four years to assume their duties with readiness and
enthusiasm. The Army-Armored Corps and the Aerospace Force
would complete their terms in August and September,
respectively, and he gladly left the mastership of those
ceremonies to his superior, Commandant General Yhu-vle'khoraa.
"For twenty years, I've watched thousands of midshipmen
lining this very field, proud to know that they were leaving
their cadre pips behind and as officers in the Defense
Forces--as leaders of men. Each and every time, I've been at a
loss of words to fully demonstrate my high regard for the
achievements of my midshipmen. Still, it would be nothing
short of patronizing for me to stand here and drone on about
the accomplishments of this graduating class--they are well
aware of how proud I am of them. Instead, I make use of this
time to remind this Academy's graduates of the task they have
yet to complete.
"Many sitting here today decided early to follow a calling
into service--a truth that is all the more material in times of
war and conflict. At no time is the need for dedicated
soldiers greater than in the heat of combat, and at no time is
the answer to the call more forthcoming. Just over thirty
years ago, our esteemed Commander of the Robotech Space Forces
entered the Talus IV Spacy Academy, answering the call for the
brightest and the best to lend their service in the name of
liberty, commitment, and responsibility. Responsibility to the
state, responsibility to their fellow citizens and their loved
ones, and responsibility to themselves.
"Thirty years ago, devastation claimed the site of this
very colony dome--a grim testament to the reality of war.
Here, citizens of the Confederation--Terran, Mutan, Talusian,
Eridani; from all walks of life and from all races--responded
to this world's need for a vigilant defense and fought
vigorously to uphold not only their liberty against a foreign
adversary, but also to preserve their right--and the rights of
their families, loved ones, and fellow citizens--to live
fulfilling lives beyond the threat of war. Enlisted and
commissioned--few older and many more younger than
yourselves--both made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure that the
people who now inhabit the outlying cities, and the people
throughout the Core Worlds of the Confederation, would once
again be free of the tyranny of foreign invasion. The
Occupation and the War, long since past, forged a new era in
the history of the warfare and the spirit of the officer.
Service, defined and exemplified by the blood of these heroes,
demanded and received the sacrifice of countless individuals
throughout history--compelled to execute their duties in the
name of a cause higher than themselves.
"That call, for whatever cost, is now laid upon you." The
admiral paused, raising his hand to muffle a gentle cough. His
eyes betrayed a fire that defied his age, and the words within
his throat consumed him. Gripping the edges of the podium, he
continued with an edge of thunder highlighting the clarity of
his voice. "Your pledge--your Oath to the Power of the Cosmos
and the People of the Confederation--stands as your badge of
honor. The insignia set on your shoulderboards represents the
burden of your duty." Emphasizing his point, the admiral ran a
finger across the four-stars that rested there on his
uniform.
Then, pointing to one of the graduating midshipmen in the
first row, the admiral asked, "What do the bands about our
sleeves represent? Besides, obviously, one's rank."
The crowd responded in humored moderation as the midshipman
replied with fierce confidence and without a moment's
hesitation, "The shackle of our Oath."
"Very good," the admiral commended the responding
midshipman warmly, his wizened contours rising sharply into a
broad, friendly smile. "A good answer...well, a textbook
answer at least. Nevertheless, you're right. 'The Shackle of
Our Oath.' Doesn't sound terribly reinforcing, eh? A
burden--that's exactly what an oath is; especially the one this
class must take today. However, this oath is so much more than
a chore, because it is an oath that every graduating midshipman
and cadet makes of his or her own free will. There are always
those who falter in their charge, but many more live up to and
beyond the expectations of those they serve and protect. 'To
the last!' Colonel Metzinger cried out those very words at the
Battle of Eden--leading his torn and shattered Ninety-Fourth
Marine Expeditionary Unit to its impending doom--to the death
that awaited them on Star Hill. 'To the last--a most grave
sentiment if I've ever heard one, yet this Marine willingly,
knowingly, and gladly sacrificed his command and his life under
the compulsion of his Oath. When no other avenue of advantage
presented itself, Colonel Metzinger threw himself and his
comrades into the Pit of Death; determined to succeed no matter
what the cost. No hesitation--nothing but enthusiasm.
"Your mentors and counsel--the men and women who took it
upon themselves to instruct you in the ways of an Officer in
service to the Confederation--at one point or another suffered
through the same longwinded, rambling speeches," the Commandant
paused momentarily, permiting a brief wave of laughter that
served to break the monotony of his solemn message. "Many of
them graduated from Mars Campus, lined up in the exact same
formations I see before me. Every last one of them took the
Oath you are about to take and every single one of them lived
up to it. Not simply to its limit, but above and beyond the
expectations levied on their shoulders.
"For example, Captain MacIntyre--many of you may 'remember
your freshman dean with a few...reservations--lost his arm
during the Grallo Uprising fifteen years ago. Mr. Ullra'y?
Before he retired, he led the Fifth Marine Brigade, Second
MCF--as a first lieutenant--at Four's Run; yes, during CCW-3.
He may not look like it, but he's forty-five years years older
than myself; I'd dare say that the universes' sanity has
favored the youth." His grin broadened in an almost fatherly
manner as he continued.
"What about my vice? Twenty years ago, the 'currently'
retired Lieutenant General Henry Muldoon--not Colonel of the MC
Muldoon, as he'd have some of us believe--served on Supreme
Admiral Mashikawa's intelligence briefing staff. Five years
later, he was the first Marine Corps general officer to serve
as the Chairman of the UPDC. I had no idea until just before
he joined up with us--I doubt even any of your instructors
remembers who dealt with the politicians back then."
Off to the side, Mr. Muldoon chortled quietly to himself.
Truth of the matter was that his appointment had been fairly
brief--lasting less than three months. The current
administration at the time found itself lacking a Chairman
after Mashikawa's abrupt resignation, leaving the politicos
with little choice but to appoint a no-name to the position
until a permanent replacement could be found. Muldoon, far
from notoriety amongst the Joint Chiefs, rose from the staff's
senior intelligence officer to the Confederation's top military
post in a single night; thus the distinction Mr. Muldoon is so
noted for. The point the deputy commandant had made an
impression on the graduating forms; many had often taken their
disabled and many-times soft-spoken instructors to be just
that, instructors. For Kyoko, it seemed difficult to imagine
Captain MacIntyre trading fire with Grall-Callusi on Grallo, or
Mr. Ullra'y charging up Fourth Run with little more than a
battle-suit and a high-powered plasma rifle.
"Each and everyone of you must reconcile your attitudes and
beliefs with the charge that this Academy has put to you," his
voice dropped to a far more sober tone. "Realize that you step
out into a world where rules and protocol mean everything.
Ironically, they simultaneously meaning nothing. This paradox,
at this point in your careers, many of you will find baffling
and totally contradictory. Most of you may leave the
service--barring a war--never realizing the import behind that
truth; the perfect illustration of ignorance lies in the
popular misconception that we graduate brainwashed,
collective-thinking yes-men. The function of this campus, and
these instructors and faculty members, is not to instill
ideology and impose a universal thought. Instead, the Academy
cultivates the already fervant impetus of an individual
compelled into service. As an officer, seasoned and
unseasoned, a man willingly accepts the risk that accompanies
their Oath without question. Both the veteran and the
inexperienced embrace the Oath out of genuine appreciation for
their country and their society. Thank you, Gentlemen."
The reverberating applause resurged, attacking the
acoustically-correct sound stage and amplifying across the
length of the field. The rows of midshipmen remained
stalwartly fixed, and their eyes remained fixed on the podium;
behind which the Deputy Commandant still wielded the authority
of the introductory speaker.
"With that, gentleman, I must announce a revolutionary
change in the ceremony format. It is my honored privilege to
be the first to public relay this exciting news, to both
friends, comrades, and graduating midshipmen.
"This graduating class will be the first of many Defense
Forces Academy graduates to receive their commissions and
assignments concurrently, Additionally, over the past four
years, the progress of the Class of '73 has earned the notice
of the TSC--The Second Strategical Veritech Squadron of the
First Tactical Space Corps has specifically taken up the task
of scouting Mars Campus midshipmen to fill vacancies within its
duty rosters exclusively from this campus. The San Pallamos
Academy, Marcus IV, and the Earth campus have yet to even hear
of this program. You, my pride and joy, are the first."
A massive eruption of applaused tore through the graduating
crowd, and an even larger cacophony of cheers and lauding
gestures arose from the spectators that gathered to witness
their friends and loved ones enter into the ranks of the
service elite.
"In honor of this occasion, we have invited a distinguished
keynote speaker to oversee this special commemorative event,"
the admiral beamed brightly, like a proud schoolmaster on the
day before graduation. "Four years ago, this particularly
intelligent and capable officer participated in the defense at
Ishatarani IV, and since then, has become the youngest
Strategical Commander of a TSC composite unit in the entire
history of the Space Forces. I am very pleased to present to
you Brigadier Colonel Noriko Hirota!"
Greeted with ecstatic applause by the crowd brimming over
in the hippodrome's semi-circular rows, and the solemn,
discipline rigidity of the midshipmen before her, Noriko
Hirota, Commander of the 544th Composite Air Wing--attached to
the SVS-2 "Mongols"--and present StratCom for Mongol SVS units
onboard the Farragut and subordinate deployments, stood up from
her seat to the right of Vice Deputy Commandant Ullra'y and
took her place at the podium. Looking out across the sea of
cadet faces, each gazing right back at her, Noriko suddenly
remembered that day she first entered the Earth Aerospace Force
Academy, twelve years ago. Four frightening years as an
Academy subaltern, followed by an equally terrifying rise in
position after the bloody action on Ishtarani, hardened her to
the dark truth of her trade. Still, it had prepared her for
this, despite her apparent discomfort. As an officer, Noriko
was paid and expected to lead, as she had done so in combat and
in drilling. However, leading meant inspiring; nowhere was
that more true than within the relationship between a senior
officer and her subordinate officers. Those officers would
look to her to model their own command principles and styles
after. Although each would develop their own distinctive
flavor, midshipmen, warrants and enlisted personnel would react
to junior officers in patterns already set in the stone of
military history. "Good" officers succeeded in winning the
confidence and loyalty of those they command, and the "bad"
ones often faced problems not only as commanders, but also as
subordinates. Noriko managed to cut and paste the sugarcoating
the master of ceremonies had laid upon her at her OCS
graduation, and she knew those who realized that glory and
honor were only components of military life were those who
would settle into it realistically. Nowhere was this reality
tested with greater than in the Tactical Space Corps.
In 2078, the United Planetary Senate Armed Forces Oversight
Committee elected to review the Southern Cross Army
cross-branch military structure, which excercised a strict
division of forces based on area of function, rather than
functional mission parameters. For example, both the Cosmic
Units and the Tactical (Armored) Space Corps deployed their own
warships, although the TASC forces had the monopoly on Tristar
light troop cruisers--the largest "carrier" ship in the fleet.
Recognizing the necessity to maintain a distinct separation of
mission tasks within the current military structure (Army,
Aerospace Force, Navy [with Marine Corps] ), the UN
Spacy-dominated UPDC proposed a structure that would provide a
greater deal of flexibility in multiple-branch operating
situations. The consequence were the modern-day Tactical Space
Corps, the most highly maneuvarable fighting structures in
Confederation history.
The overall "corps" included eight division-sized
units--the Tactical Space Corps. Currently, the First, Second,
Fifth, and Eighth TSCs were the only active elements in the
overall structure. The other four were reserved for wartime
activation, and consisted solely of reserve elements from all
four main branches. Each TSC was a division merely in size;
although there were headquarters for the TSCs, they served a
purely administrative function. Instead, individual
operational and logistical units were packed into TSC's
components; namely, the Strategical and Tactical Veritech
Squadrons and their constituent, and tentative, Planetary
Maneuver Battalion--integrated Marine units did not warrant
permanent assignments to the TSCs. Of these two TSC
components, the SVS and the TVS play the most important role.
First, the Unified Task Force Command, the overall
adminstrative structure established by 2079 Premier's Cabinet
Order A4-1033, called for a "strategical components" mission to
serve as a ready-active force to be easily called upon at
immediately cycled into war-readiness. Due to the large nature
of the SVSs, they were spread across entire fleets to both
balance their concentrations and increase their maneuverability
in multiple theaters. Consequently, the SDG served as a second
"hat" to an already incorporated formation to coordinate TSC
operations. Strategic Detachment Groups (SDGs) were
operational and/or support units that numbered up to four per
detachment Wing. A Wing, as one might have derived from the
context, is a division of a Strategical Veritech Squadron under
a StratCom. The First SDW is onboard the dynacruiser UCSS
Patton, which often supports a wide variety of aviation units.
Second SDW--the largest unit yet and Colonel Noriko's
command--ran her lights onboard the UCSS Farragut, counted
within the class of dynacruisers that bore her sister-ship's
name: Patton. The RSS Falat, an Lafeyette-class assault
carrier and the last Mongol Squadron billet, hosted the Third
SDW. Much smaller than the previous two, the RSS Falat's SDW
was the only SVS unit to have a set of predominently Marine
Corps operations groups. Despite the seeming conflict of
missions involved in staffing a Spacy carrier with a completely
Marine aviation unit, the Table of Order and Equipment
seemlessly combined the operational elements of the SDW and the
carrier's onboard support groups. The Third SDW, in short, did
not require its own devoted service units.
The "tactical" modulus of the TSC bureacracy, on the other
hand, suffered restriction to an almost ready-reserve
role--supporting her strategical sister at most and providing
air support for planetary garrisons. During peacetime, the
SVSs normal assumed that role, leaving the TVSs little to do
but to reassign their operational and logistical units back
into their original command structures. On the defensive, the
tactical component would operate off Confederation "Core"
planetary bases, maintaining a reasonable level of readiness
for defensive purposes. The mission resembled that of the old
United States Air National Guard back in the twentieth
century. Tactical Veritech Squadrons made up the entirety of
the inactive TSCs, further relegating their role to defensive
purposes. By definition, a TSC was far less maneuverable than
an SVS in terms of range; TVSs tended to deploy with specific
planetary interests in mind. Only the I Tactical Space Corps
had managed to successfully integrate their TVSs into an
assault supplement to their Strategical Veritech Squadrons.
Needless to say, the SVS primarily assumed assault
missions, which by definition made them immovably linked to
associated carrier battlegroups. Breaking down an SVS
(typically four to a Tactical Space Corps), the entire
comprised of three Spacy groups (three wings each), two
Aerospace Force groups (two wing each), and three Marine Corps
Aerospace Combat Elements (two strike fighter and one
ground-support). Additionally, the SVS maintained its own
Marine infantry and armored units, organized into a single
battalion of roughly three-hundred troops. Sometime ago,
military analysts attempted to theorize what the reapplication
of innovations in the restructuring of infantry organization
would result in if effected on mechanized organizations.
Naturally, the result was less than pleasing. The great deal
of specialization that is required in each field of armored
combat demands singular training; and consequently, the melding
of support and operational units amongst ground-based and
aviating structures proved less than effective. However,
thanks to modern automation, the support groups no longer
vastly outnumbered the operational groups. The Aerospace Force
actually managed to limit its support needs by nearly
seventy-five percent, bringing the ratio of pilots to
technicians in favor of the operating end. However, Spacy
carrier or "land"-based aerospace wing consisted of only
slightly more than two-hundred fifty technicians, although this
was a twenty-two percent reduction in support requirements from
the previous century. Even so, SVSs commanders found that they
could decrease its practical support manpower needs by simply
allocating their Spacy wings to carriers semi-detached to TSC
command. In reality, an SVS-dedicated Spacy aerospace wing
deployed ZERO support personnel, relying solely on their host
carriers abundance.
Unlike support, the administrative structure of a
Strategical Veritech Squadron melded well into the operational
contingent. More often than not, a high-ranking officer within
an SVS would wear several hats. While the Mongol Stategical
Veritech Squadron's administrative matters fell in the
jurisdiction of Rear Admiral Arthur Falkland, who commanded the
SVS-2 Command Center at the Eridani Fleet Base, responsibility
and authority fell supremely on the shoulder's of Colonel
Noriko Hirota. Within an SVS, three command-ranked officers
held the positions Stategical Commanders; archaically known as
Superior Squadron Commanders. Colonel Hirota served as SVS-2
First Stratcom (although she commanded the Second Strategical
Wing), which automatically secured for her the Executive
Operations Director of the SVS-2 seat. The colonel thoroughly
hated staff work, having served as a squadron intelligence
officer during her first stint out of OCS, followed by an
assignment as the 956th Fighter Group's staff communications
officer. Fortunately, there were more than enough staffers at
the Fleet Base and onboard the Farragut to handle most of of
the paper work, leaving Hirota free of the heavy, bureaucratic
chains that that particularly hat entailed. However, her staff
duties as StratCom and as the 544th's Wing Commander (which
included a bantam fourth hat as squadron commander of the 63rd
Strike Fighter Squadron) demanded her attention. However, to
Major Albernathy's and Captain Michello's dismay, heavy paper
work was what executive officers were for. Surely, two very
harried first lieutenants found themselves swamped in the
bureaucratic trappings their higher-ups readily shifted down to
bottom of the command chain, filling out the bulk of forms on
their off-time and flying in pressurized death-traps on-shift.
Such thoughts sparked myriad recollections from Noriko's early
days in the service, flying and signing and burning both ends
of the candle-stick.
Midshipman Commander Kyoko Yatsumi's thoughts, on the other
hand, had never once hovered over the prospect of challenging
paper workload; no properly-bred Mars Campus midshipman would
have ever expected to nail a staff job right after
commissioning. Instead, the excitement of actually seeing a
living combat legend--in the flesh--barely maintained its
arrested form as it swilled about in her breast. Next to her,
a fellow midshipman, sporting a luxurious mane of ruby hair,
jabbed Kyoko with her elbow; taking the opportunity of the
transition in speakers to engage in whispered conversation.
Kyoko acknowledged the gesture, her eyes quickly scouting for
any sign of a Marine making his or her standard rounds of the
formation. As soon as she figured the coast was clear, she
turned to Jenna and whispered sharply, "What?"
"Unlock your knees, Ki-chan," Midshipman Lieutenant
Commander Jenna Tamaka sharply whispered back. "You've been at
parade rest for close to two hours--with your knees locked."
"Eh?" Kyoko muttered. She noted her error and quickly
corrected it. Almost immediately, her left-leg fell asleep.
With a whispered self-rebuke, Kyoko bit her lip and stifled the
wave of discomfort. Relaxing the muscles of her left calf, the
pins-and-needles eventually dissipated. Parade-rest was the
most relaxing standing position order short of "at-ease!"
Prior to arriving here, she would've balked at the notion of
standing through a five-hour program. The oration was already
entering the third hour, and the Colonel's speech was quickly
finally coming to an end. For the purpose of presenting the
graduation certificates, commissioning statements and bars to
an extended brigade of graduating cadre--mostly aviators like
Kyoko herself--the final two hours were reserved to
individually call each graduate by rank. To faciliate such a
massive distribution in a reasonably traditional and
respectable format, the Marine drill instructors had molded
their third and fourth year Spacy and Marine midshipmen into
what could roughly be considered a miniature "square division"
structure. The entire cadre, for processional purposes,
assumed the formational tag of a "division." The arrangement
called for two brigades. Each one was subdivided into a Spacy
and Marine midshipman "battalion"--the RSFMC had considered the
Terran Marines' regimental structure far to...debilitating for
their operational posture. The First Brigade consisted of 576
cadets--unit officers also held senior sub-unit positions, from
the Brigade Commander (automatically picked from the first
battalion's first company CO, for simplicity's sake alone) all
the way down to Platoon Leader (who led First Squad)--either on
a track for Spacy and Marine support units (logistics,
maintenance, engineering, etc.) or on the operational track
(Spacy and Marine aviators, command-track officers, and the
Marine Corps cadre). Finally, the Academy personnel department
divided battalions into companies, specifically segregating
battalions by general military occupational service
categorizations: logistics and support engineering, infantry,
mechanized, intelligence, general operations, staff operations,
and command operations. Nearly a century ago, when the then-UN
Spacy had organized itself primarily around its battle-line,
the most prestigous of any Spacy cadre originated from those
especially selected for the Basic Command Operations Course.
Those junior officers were sent off to fill the battle-line's
vacancies in bridge and Combat Information Center slots.
However, the rise of space carrier warfare and the concept of
front-line "fighter screens" vastly inflated the prominence
that patrician society of combat aviators had always enjoyed.
Today, Second Brigade consisted solely of midshipmen aviators
of support and operational units for carrier operations; the
Mars Campus, by far, produced the greatest percentage of combat
aviators the Spacy and the Marine Corps adopted into their
ranks. Kyoko smiled in the realization that she and her unit
comrades were numbered members of the Robotech Space Forces
most elite combat fraternity.
Still, no matter what probable duty assignments awaited
them, each and every middy had to endure the excruciatingly
lengthy ceremonial process mired in immemorial tradition and
extended to include new innovations Public Relations knew would
pan out well on multivision. While sitting at home watching
demonstration planes race across the holo might constitute
well-spent time, standing for hours on end, trying to keep the
grass from staining one's dress greys while avoiding the
insurmountable urge to fidget, might lead more than a few to
reconsider attending such an event. The cadre division had
arranged itself on a grand, grassy field surrounded by an
colossal amphitheater. Relatives and friends of the graduates
packed the stadium--noticably more comfortable than the middies
below. VIP seating had been siphoned off for visiting
notables; miscellaneous congressmen, Gloval's mayor, the
Atlantian Provincial Governor, and distinguished Defense Forces
officers sat within special booths running up the ampitheater's
median. As the sun slowly crawled over the edge of the dome,
reaching the apogee of its wintery ascent, Kyoko turned her
eyes sky ward. For some time, she had admired the reddish
clouds of the Martian's steadily "blue-ing" atmosphere glide
across the dome's immaterial transparency. Indeed, the near
perfection of the entire setting provided a convenient enough
distraction; Kyoko Yatsumi let her mind drift aimlessly in the
view as the commissioning ceremony attenuated over its
schedule. Somewhere high above, a media drone hovered over the
ceremony, focusing its high-resolution cameras on the
graduation procession below. For close to thirty years, the
Martian RSF commissioning ceremony struck a chord of impeccable
significance amongst the local peoples. As the master of
ceremonies had explained, thirty years ago, men and women--most
not much older and many younger than Kyoko--had bled and died
to ensure that the ideals of freedom and independence so
feverishly revered in merely this single star system would
never perish from the universe. Noble, although grim; Kyoko
couldn't help but feel the pride of following in the footsteps
of her idols throughout military history. However, she had no
desire to end up like Horatio Nelson at Trafalgar, uttering
"thank God, I've done my duty" with her last breath. No, today
was about living in the uniform, not dying in it, although she
had to be careful not to forget what risks and dangers her job
entailed--hazards that duty would demand of her soon enough.
Strangely enough, the formality of the graduation seemed
fleeting, although Kyoko knew exactly how painfully drawn-out
it was. The commissioning ceremony had begun with the initial
pomp of the Academy orchestra, noticably deprived of its
graduating seniors. The orchestra conductor, a
Germanic-Austrian lieutenant colonel who also doubled as the
Campus chaplain, had led the orchestra through the rousing
fanfare of Terran composer Aaron Copland's "Ode to Man,"
followed by several Terran, Salusian and Mutan pieces of
comparable magestic quality. As the time approached for the
graduation packets' distribution, the commissioning panel
arranged themselves to receive each unit's commanding officer.
Colonel Hirota took her place at the low-rank end of the line,
starting with the campus' lowest-ranked faculty member and
ending with the Deputy Commandant. The Marine instructors had
drilled their units with exception fervor, and the cadre's
midshipmen leaders effortlessly directed their fellows--from
brigade down all the way down to squad--to the stage's
receiving ramp. The mere squad leader received the commissions
of his or her respective unit, while perfomring the small and
unofficial ceremony of reception with the commandant.
Platoons, devoid of only their squad leaders and commanding
officers, faced the amphitheater in parade formation; for the
first time, acting without guidance of a leader of any sort.
However, the last company in order of the program--an
aviation unit simply known as "The Fliers"--did not follow this
suit. Noticably different from the other middy formations on
the field, "The Fliers" made up the Academy's most elite aerial
demonstration unit. Unlike the other aviation companies,
Charlie Company, First Battalion of the Second Training
Brigade, entertained both Marine and Spacy pilots--although
Spacy personnel numbered as a two-third majorities in two
platoons. Kyoko and her close friend, Jenna, managed to
include themselves within this remarkably elite outfit by their
junior year. Within five months, Kyoko managed to outmanuever
most of her competition--including Jenna--and easily took
company command. Boot company commanders do not have executive
officers or "staffs" per se, but they did have subordinate
senior "officers." Jenna Tamaka secured the operations officer
position only shortly before Kyoko was bumped up to the company
commander position, and during that time, she and Jenna had
learned to work together and continued to solidify their
superbly close friendship. Leading an outfit like the Fliers
truly spoke of an exceptionally talented individual; over
twenty-years of precedence behind the Fliers position had
ensured its prestigious reputation amongst not only
commissioned alumni of the Martian campus, but also the
Admiralty as well. What made the Fliers so different from
other parade formations was that they were a permanent
"company" structure; ever since its incorporation in the 2120s,
every graduating form since had a "Fliers" constituent in some
form or another--testifying to the profound influence of
carrier and strikecraft warfare on the Defense Forces. all the
other parade units were incorporated merely to make orderly and
feasible the graduation process. For the most part, a Flier's
training greatly exceeded that of an "average" aviator (if one
would ever dare consider ascribing an "average" value to any
combat pilot's instruction and exercises). Ancillery to this,
a Flier entered into the service with a "free reputation"--a
symbol of status that many veterans and military analysts had
sought to eliminate from the service. However, many would
argue in defense of the Fliers, and Kyoko looked to them
instead. No one in the Fliers had achieved their position by
any other means other than through demonstrated ability; there
were no spoon-fed aristocrats under Kyoko's command.
"Company, forward...march!" Kyoko announced harshly, with
enough abrasiveness to cause even Jenna to shudder just a
little bit. As the last of the Second Brigade to approach the
commissioning platform, the Fliers were greeted by the
orchestra with a beautifully backdropped "Ode to Man," by Aaron
Copland. Upon reaching their destination, with the eyes of the
entire alien world upon them, Kyoko barked new parade commands
that effected the company's halt and about face, staying at
attention until Kyoko--with an approving nod from the
commandant--ordered them to parade rest. The Fliers replied
sharply and assumed the position, while Kyoko, Jenna and
Kyoko's third platoon leader, a young midshipmen--also of
Okinawan descent--named Taika Funokoshi, climbed the steps up
onto the stage. Saluting the commandant and his line of
officers, Kyoko noticed--at the time she accepted the
commandants warm hand--that her tunic greys felt overwhelmingly
loose. Not wrinkled, she frowned as both she and her "staff"
stood at attention--the commissioning panel and the commandant
had taken their seats--staring back out into the amphitheater
and the crowd assembled there. However, she couldn't shake the
feeling that someone close by--and of higher rank--had clearly
noticed her slightly over-tailored uniform. Still, her face
remained stone cold; Kyoko called for that strength that
maintained her composure. At least her white beret, uniform
patches, and unit citations were properly affixed. Just as
Kyoko was about to mutter something under her breath, she
noticed Colonel Noriko Hirota's eyes nonchalantly focused on
her. Within the interim of Kyoko's thoughts, the colonel
returned to the speaker's podium and had resumed directorship
of the ceremony. Ms. Midshipman Yatsumi cursed herself for not
paying attention.
"Midshipman," the brigadier colonel beckoned. "Approach."
Kyoko responded with an "aye, aye, ma'am" and marched
briskly over to the podium.
The Colonel then turned to address the rest of the crowd,
occasionally glancing at the ninety-odd cadets standing prone
in front of and below her. "Responsibility carries a great
deal of stress for all of us; as many of you will find out.
The challenge is very real--I won't lie to you. We--your
future commanding officers and comrades--don't have a clue as
to how you'll react in the real world. Indeed, we're confident
of your abilities and commitments; no officer enters into the
service without some degree of confidence. However,
standards--no matter how noble--have no guaranteed value in the
real world.
"Confidence is something that is neither given nor received
freely--it is earned through hard work and eternal vigilance.
All of you have proven yourselves capable enough to take assume
leadership positions. 'To much is given, much is expected,' an
old Terran phrase goes. You all must realize that no amount of
preparation will absolutely predict your reaction to the
environment each and every one of you is about to be thrown
into. Indeed, your training will help aid you in times of
trials and tribulations. Still, an officer must win the
confidence of his superiors, his peers, and--most
importantly--those underneath him. Impressive record or not,
it's an officers actions that count out there.
"So why did we begin this scouting program?" Colonel Hirota
hit upon her main point. "If we can't be sure that you can
handle the task ahead, then why bother scouting for talent that
we can so easily loose in the stressful environs combat flying
and aviation support entails? Well, for one, no one expects
you to automatically succeed, but we do expect you to do your
damnedest in the interim. Examining not only your records, but
interviewing your instructors and actually shadowing you on
occasion, we assembled those Spacy and Marine aviation-track
midshipmen who demonstrated the greatest aptitude-skill
potential into a single company. Observing how closely they
worked together, some may have noticed that the 'Fliers'
participated in a greater number of field training assignments
than the rest of the class. Did this mean that their classroom
and campus workload had been compromised. Hardly. By taking
on higher and more difficult obligatons, Charlie Company,
Second Brigade, has demonstrated its ability to multitask as
individuals and as a group. This sort of innovative and
resourceful aptitude is exactly what the Mongol Squadron
Command Center is looking for off-hand when selecting future
members of its operational department.
"Company commander," Noriko turned to face Kyoko, whose
instinct was to immediately face her superior officer.
Saluting properly, the colonel continued. "Colors, tout!"
The company color guard drew their flags into ready
positions--the Confederation flag center and at the high
position, with the Martian Colonial Government national flag on
the left and, on the right, the company's emblazon on raised
standard--and followed Midshipman Commander Yatsumi, her ops
officer, and her Flag Commander to the podium. Colonel Hirota
now enjoyed the company of the complete commissioning panel;
she retook her place in line to the master of ceremonies and
the Vice Deputy Commandant. Kyoko repeated the formalities for
their edification, and then called her company to order.
"Colors," Kyoko then turned to Funokoshi. "Present arms!"
Funokoshi complied, repeating the command for the benefit
of the three man color guard; each raised their standard to
waist level. The Confederation flag, center of guard, rose
sharply into the sky.
"Company, by platoon!" Midshipman Yatsumi ordered. Tamaka,
respecting tradition, reiterated the formational injunction
while Funokoshi ordered the flags to stand fast. The assistant
platoon leaders--Tamaka and Funokoshi, along with Kyoko, could
not wear their hats as platoon leaders and also stand as the
honor guard to the commissioning panel--took command, as the
proper breakdown of the chain commenced.
"Platoon, by column!" the squad leaders resounded.
"First Platoon," Kyoko continued, carefully drawing out the
vowels in a powerful, commanding mode "Forward...ad-vance!"
First Platoon's assistant leader relayed the order, while
Second and Third Platoon's assistants bid their troops to stand
fast. Then, First Platoon marched in cadence towards the
podium. Midway, the platoon engaged in a formational
restructuring which collapsed their three-column arrangement to
one column. Each platoon member would receive their first bar,
commissioning papers, and the hand of the commissioning
panel--the simplistic single file arrangement was the most
appropiate configuration.
Kyoko watched as her home platoon received their
commissions, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of joy as
each received their ensign bar and papers by cadet rank. From
this day forward, they were no longer "Mr. Who?"s with
temporary midshipmen and third lieutenant commissions, but
actual officers. Although she hadn't devoted a great deal of
thought to the subject, Kyoko suddenly felt a certain pleasure
with the command post. Not on the basis of its power or her
significance on-campus, but that she felt as if she headed a
family; one that she'd willingly risk her life for. Could it
be that some sort of certainty had crept into her life after so
long? Was this how Dad or Uncle Hikaru felt? Was there
anything beyond this?
The questions remained unanswered as reality beckoned her.
More alert than usual, Kyoko quickly reformed her company as
the third platoon debarked the stage. "Platoon and squad
leaders. De-tach!"
Forming a small rank of their own, the assistant platoon
leaders and the squad leaders quickly re-took the stage. Like
Kyoko, they had only overseen the reception of commissions by
the men underneath them. Also, while the commissions and the
Oath were dispensed with --en masse, the company command
section warranted individual recognition--as did every other
company. Now, Kyoko and her "staff" would act as witnesses as
their junior squad leaders received their well-deserved reward.
"Midshipman Marcus Finnigan," Colonel Hirota read from a
prepared list to the master of ceremonies. The Vice Deputy held
the graduation packets while a chief steward passed a case
holding a single ensigns' to the Deputy Commandent. "Team
Leader, Third Squad, Third Platoon. Receive now this
commission and this Oath. Raise your right hand and repeat
after me."
"I solemnly swear to execute the duties so levied..." the
Oath continued for an additional half-a-minute, and Midshipman
2nd Captain (Marine-track) Finnigan repeated it exactly--with
proper emphasis and feeling. Kyoko grinned broadly; Finnigan,
a trickster at heart, truly loved the Confederation. Beowulf,
his homeworld--roughly three-hundred astrogational lightyears
towards Orion, held the patriotic spirit in high esteem--most
Periphery Worlds did. With the completion of the Oath,
Finnigan received his bars, his commissioning papers, and--as
all members of the Fliers received--an assignment packet.
"Congratulations, 2nd Lieutenant Finnigan," the master of
ceremonies shook his hand. "Your assignmient is to the Mongol
Strategical Veritech Squadron: Strategic Detachment Group
Three-Two, Strategic Wing Three--RSS Falat, Assault Carrier
Division 352."
The ceremony continued without a hitch. Kyoko, Jenna, and
Funokoshi watched as their comrades proceeded. Third Platoon:
Marcus Finnigan, Akira Nakayama, and Ltha'rvvemm (the assistant
platoon leader, as the senior unit officer, took the rear).
Second Platoon: Rachel Cortez, Magul Ran'Refrak, and Iu
Somn--Jenna's eyes sparkled as the tall, ebony-toned,
remarkably human-like Mutan reverently took his Oath. Kyoko
noticed it for a moment, but let it pass as the panel beckoned
the Fliers' first platoon forward; Huang Xiaoyu, Rob Crawford,
and James Orenthal Winston Maxwell III approached
center-stage. Midshipman Lieutenant Commander Maxwell had
joined the Fliers in the September of their senior year, and he
rapidly rose amongst the company to first assistant platoon
leader when Jenna assumed the company operations post and
command of the second platoon. The rarely mentioned
circumstances behind the departure of the original second
platoon leader; the incident had been an unsightly aberration
on an otherwise spotless operating, conduct, and academic
record.
The color guard retreated, permiting the company's back-up
to take its place. The company Sergeant-at-Arms, Midshipman
Lieutenant Nguyen Ziem Vho, led his primary color bearers to
the commissioning panel. Each received the standard fare, as
well as an embroidered sash, marking their ceremonial, yet
essential, post as the guard of the Confederation's colors.
Finally, it was time for Kyoko and her staff to receive
their commissions. Then, just as Kyoko decided to approach the
panel, the master of ceremonies turned from them, facing the
crowd once more. Quickly recongnizing the rehearsed que, Kyoko
halted herself without even a discernable jerk; cleverly
disguising her hasty maneuver as a stance adjustment.
"Leadership, above all, is the mark of an officer," the
deputy commandant poised briefly between words, emphasizing the
point with an elaborate jab of the index finger. "The skills
you have learned here during your four-years of study will
hardly amount to the skill you'll pick up on the job--our
primary job isn't to teach you everything about the field
you'll be going into. We can't do that, because it would be
criminal to say that the real world patterns itself after your
life in the Academy.
"When you arrived here, you all had already demonstrated a
surprising degree of leadership potential, and our job was to
first and foremost develop that potential to its fullest. All
of you have shown the ability to work extremely well as a
team--either as a leader or a subordinate; however, a select
few noticably astonished the faculty with their ease and
ability for command.
"Company commanders and staff, applaud yourselves. During
your junior and senior years at the Academy, the falculty and
Commandant's Office has taken heed of your exceptional skills.
Thoughout my service at the Academy, both as a member of the
teaching faculty and at the adminstrative level, I have always
looked to your unit leaders to examine the standard we measure
an officer's ability and character by. I'm quite sure the
Commandant would agree with me that this years company
commanders have managed to raise those standards for all of
us--student and faculty--as they have done so in the past.
"Midshipman Commander," the speaker's tenderly aged eyes
settled on Kyoko, radiating a depth pride only another seasoned
officer could recognize. Instead, the midshipman commander saw
the reserved, fearful visage of the Right Hand of the
Commandant--up close and with greater detail than ever before.
Kyoko retained her composure, and drew the corner of her lips
up into a wan smile. "You may present your staff."
"Midshipman 1st Captain Funokoshi, approach and salute!"
The third platoon commander smartly stepped out of line,
passed Jenna and Kyoko, and took his place before the honor
panel. Noriko issued the call for commission and the Oath, and
then bestowed upon him the single gold bar of a permenantly
commissioned officer--a second lieutenant, RSF-Marine Corps.
Funokoshi's face brightened; he could hardly contained the
broad smile that crept into every recited word of the Oath.
"Your assignment is the Mongol Strategical Veritech Squadron:
Strategical Detachment Group One-Four, Strategic Detachment
Wing One--UCSS Patton."
Funokoshi received his honor with dignity before stepping
back into line. At Kyoko's prompt, Jenna approached the
table. The honors were quite the same, and Kyoko watched
nervously as her "exec" accepted her commission. She could
only imagine how Midshipman Tamaka might be feeling; however,
her own anxieties quickly brought her thoughts back into
perspective. "Congratulations, Ensign (first class) Tamaka.
Your assignment is the Mongol Strategical Veritech Squadron:
Strategical Detachment Group Two-One, Strategic Detachment Wing
Two--UCSS Farragut, Dynacruiser Battlegroup Two."
Jenna sucked in a deep breath, loud enough for even Kyoko
to her from eight meters away. Colonel Hirota examined the
midshipman lieutenant commander carefully, recognizing the same
youthful enthusiasm she had felt when she first received orders
to report to the Mongol Squadron's processing station.
As Charlie Company's operations officer retook her place in
the staff line, Kyoko waited for the Deputy Commandant to
beckon her forward. The time had come, and she quickly masked
anything that might betray her mounting anxiety. Summoning all
her will-power, Kyoko continued to look unflinchingly forward,
refusing to bend to her apprehension. After a few silent
moments, the Deputy Commandant beckoned Colonel Hirota back to
the podium. Kyoko sighed as the moment of truth suffered yet
another uncalculated delay, although she couldn't tell whether
she was relieved or whether her trepidation had simply taken
its toll on her constitution. Nevertheless, she remained rigid
as the three-person formation stood at parade rest.
"A commission" Hirota began, "more than any other honor the
United Planetary Confederation can bestow on a serviceman, is
probably the greatest and most rewarding esteem the armed
forces can offer. Unlike honors of distinguished service,
which commerorate an instance or a series of instances of
sterling conduct and performance by their recipients, a
commission into the family of officers symbolizes the
Confederation's utmost trust and confidence in your
abilities--in leadership, in performance, and in spirit.
Unlike a medal, a commission is an immaterial recognition, as
the shoulder-board pips and sleeve stripes mean nothing more
than to indicate your current pay-grade. Instead, a commission
is both the informal and the formal symbol of a unique and
respected individual--one who has come to the attention of
another officer and has demonstrated his or her value in
service. The esteemed Master of Ceremonies earlier noted the
importance of responsiblity. I will tell you know, the level
of responsibility an officer receives is his or her
commission. The ability of an officer to handle that
responsibility both intelligently and appropiately serves to
confirm that distinction."
"We do not expect uncompromising perfection," Hirota
continued, clearing her throat while averting her eyes to lock
with Kyoko's. "Perfection is something that we strive for, but
we cannot achieve. Perfection in ability--if such a utopic
fantasy could be reached--is merely an idealistic goal of the
delusional. An officer's ability is predetermined by his
aptitude, and demanding a certain standard beyond what is
humanly possible is unrealistic. There is no measuring rod
generalized enough to determine the ability of an officer or a
rating. Instead, we demand the best possible effort from each
and everyone of you. The service does judge the merit of a
soldier in the way he conducts himself and performs in order to
succeed. Some may find themselves unable to meet such a
requirement, for it is a standard that you have to learn to set
for yourself. Your instructors--both in the class-room and out
on the field--can only give you the tools and encouragement to
reach your maximum potential.
"We cannot police you, nor can we tolerate aberration from
what is expected of your character. However, we can determine
the level of competence and character that a commission
warrants on an individual level. Each of you has demonstrated
an ability to exceed that level, but a few tend to stand out
more than the rest.
"I'm a mustang, which means I received my commission while
in the service. As a former enlisted rating, I served in three
combat situations--two of them resulted in brevets to officer
grades. I know that I have lived up to what is expected me,
and I have exceeded the standard set before me. I realize
where my place is, and I understand and embrace the
responsibilities given to me. Likewise, as you have received
your commissions, this class will do the same. All of you will
strive for your service, and each and everyone of you has
already demonstrated the aptitude to do so."
"I'm more than certain," Hirota concluded, "that Midshipman
Commander Kyoko Yatsumi has demonstrated her particularly
astonishing capabilities in all the noble areas discussed here
today. For that reason, I personally congratulate her on her
receipt of this commission. Midshipman, approach!"
Jenna Tamaka and Funokoshi snapped to attention with their
company commander, who--after a moment's wait--approached the
honor panel with a nervous determination that only made her
look even more severe. Saluting the Colonel and the honor
panel, Kyoko abided her time as the commissioning papers and
rank pips made their way to the center. A few moments passed
before the master of ceremonies and the colonel broke from the
honor formation.
"Midshipman Commander Kyoko Yatsumi," Colonel Hirota raised
the pips' casing to Kyoko's breast. Instinctively, Kyoko's
left hand found its way to the velvet-covered box and gripped
it tightly. "Commander, Charlie Company. Receive now this
commission and Oath. Raise your right hand and repeat after
me."
"I solemnly swear the duties so levied upon me, to serve
and to protect, and to receive the mission to defend the
Confederation unto even the greatest of sacrifices. To carry
the battle to the enemy; to engage, and defeat the foes of the
Confederation. To serve the greater good and to act as a
beacon of hope to those who charge us with their defense. To
abide by the Constitution and the lawful government of the
United Planetary Confederation. To respect and uphold the
rights of her citizens and the defend her glory, honor, and
right to sovereignty. To prosecute, execute and abide by the
word of the Confederation and the Power of the Cosmos. At no
time shall I deviate from this call during the term of my
commission, nay my life. I swear this before the
Confederation, the Power, and the Entirety of the Cosmos, so
help me God..."
"Midshipman Commander Kyoko Yatsumi," Colonel Hirota
smiled. "Congratulations. Receive now the rank of lieutenant
junior grade, the UPC Robotech Space Forces Spacy.
Congratulations, Lieutenant Yatsumi. Your assignment is the
Mongol Strategical Veritech Squadron: Strategical Detachment
Group Two-One, Strategic Detachment Wing Two--UCSS Farragut,
Dynacruiser Battlegroup Two."
The formation, the crowd, and a billion people present
through multivids, televisions and hyperwave commlinks erupted
into a furious applause. Nonetheless, the clamor of ecstatic
pride welling up from her peers--and an entire world--paled in
comparison to the roar of joy that surged through Kyoko's
heart.
For the first time in eight years, she experience a wave
of completion. The warm feeling enveloped her entire body,
carrying her away in a mixture of sweet bliss and bitter
regret. Kyoko realized she had quite aways to go, but she knew
that somehow...she'd make it.
* * *
The next four days seemed to breeze by with extrordinary
dispatch. Before long, all newly commissioned officers had
vacated the Mars Campus, leaving the field below the Gloval
Ampitheater a forsaken, verdant plot. Penetrating the
electrostatic "curing" dome that surrounded the entire colony,
the Martian winds gently swept into the semicircular bailiwick,
racing against the blades of transplanted grass as the properly
trimmed acreage took on the drifting characteristics of an
emerald sea. Only the slow hum of the robotic mowers, trimming
the field every third weekend of the local month, disturbed the
natural whisper of the Martian zephyr; gently, its soft voice
murmuring inside Kyoko's ear. A sensation of nostalgic
melancholy coursed through her; for the past four years, Mars
Campus had not only been Kyoko's place of tutelage, but her
home as well. No longer did she wear the deep grays and blues
of an undergraduate midshipman. Instead, Kyoko donned the
black and scarlet colors of the RSF Spacy's Aerospace Command.
On the stiffened collar of the single-piece, jumpsuit uniform,
the single gold bar of a commissioned lieutenant (JG) replaced
the midshipmen arrangement of three circular pips atop four
gold bars--the former configuration denoting Kyoko's midshipmen
rank and the latter indicating her campus form. Additionally,
a single, broken gold band decorated the sleeve just above her
rest.
She ran her index finger over her duty uniform's rank pin,
admiring perfectly smooth texture as the late-afternoon sun
glistened off the gold sheen. Her hair waved about in the
wind, like brownish amber wheat on a brisk day. Kyoko
tightened her collar; the suit's fabric recovering and
redistributing her body heat evenly--not even the most frigid
of the Kamatchka's winter storms could bother her.
Slowly, she made her way towards the stadium, standing
amidst the lonely, pastoral scene with the severe solemness of
a stalwart sentry. Climbing the marble-crete ascent, the sheer
immensity of Gloval's daunting form climbed up into the
heavens, casting its long shadow across the assembly field as
its towering circumfrence extended its adamantine reach into
the skies, heralding the sun's daily banishment. As her
ascension progressed, her hair billowed with greater intensity
as the wind's ferocity increased. With the comfort fields
down, she was now experiencing Mars the way it was--the way it
had been and always would be. A ferocious, seething brothel of
atmospheric activity that belayed its once thin atmosphere.
Even now, the currents of the terraformed air mass weighed more
heavily on the shoulders of Mars' inhabitants than did the
mighty gales that once tormented their Earth-bound forebears.
Nevertheless, Kyoko stood against the blow, and upon reaching
the peak of the stadium's ascent, she looked back down towards
the field and the rostrum. The stadium's horse-shoe structure
embraced an area roughly a square kilometer in acreage, yet
even its seventy meter ascent failed to dissuade Mars's potent
drafts. With rhythmic, peristaltic intent, they swept over the
field, and Kyoko found herself appreciating the resemblance to
a Terran ocean (Mars had none) on a windy day. Waves snaked
their way across the lime sea of turf, their crests breaking
against the rostrum and the stadium's encircling protrusions.
The rostrum, like the stadium and the field, lay barren and
still; and Kyoko could only hear the voices calling from her
memory. Only in her mind's eye could she picture the hundreds
of rows filled with nearly two hundred thousand people. Her
vivid imagination and memories materialized the graduating
ceremony before her eyes; the midshipmen lined up in their
picture-perfect formations. First Brigade, Second Brigade, by
battalions, companies form, platoon HALT!!! Her eyes darted
excitably as her fictional ceremony proceeded--the hours
passing by in seconds as Kyoko's mind processed these images at
a lightning speed pace.
She closed her eyes, indulging herself in a brief moment of
reflection. On the words spoken by Colonel Hirota--on
responsibility. On the honor and diligence the Commandant had
demanded of them. On Mr. Muldoon and Captain MacIntyre and
Colonel Metzinger. On Commander Mervais, Gunnery Sergeant
Farrero, Military History and Philosophies and Pee-Tee. On the
drills, the execises, the classes, the camaraderie. On Charlie
Company, flying, and Jenna and Funokoshi. On Aunt Kazumi,
Uncle Hikaru and Aunt Linna, and herself. Kyoko's mind reached
back, pulling every significant encounter and event in her
life. Her fourth-form final field assignment to the Theodore
Roosevelt came to mind, as did the first day she set foot off
the skimmer and walked onto Mars Campus. Kyoko recollected the
day she had first stepped into the guidance office, and she
fondly remembered her first meeting with Chief Petty Officer
Haruko Izo. She remembered adjusting to her new life on Earth,
to her new family, and seventy-five years of lost history.
Most of all, Kyoko remembered the sunset.
A long way, yet, she reminded herself as a tear washed
across her cheek. The winds, ceaselessly attacking her
elevation, quickly wiped it from her face, leaving her with
nothing more than a small frigid point against her jowl.
A long way, Kyoko repeated the thought. Then, reaching to
the utility pack hanging against her left thigh, she withdrew a
small, black-cased discette. Her right hand reached for the
stadium's summit banister as her left manipulated the discette
into view. As Kyoko carefully scrutinized the black-casing,
she could only barely make out the label--worn from years of
bitterly frequent use: EARTH'S SUNRISE/SET'S A01.
She turned her head back to the descending sun, her gaze
firmly fixed on the orange-yellowish sky-blossom as its face
flickered from the distortion of the atmospheric field. Only
on the clear, wind-swept days like this could one hope to see
the sun out of its scarlet-hue character. More often than
not, the arid wastes beyond the atmospheric domes would cycle
the sun's natural lemon countenance into a dusty, red-tinted
facade. However, today the winds were blowing from the highest
echelon's of Mars' thicker, incomplete atmosphere. The sinking
of air masses beyond the dome would drive the sandstorms to the
south, leaving Sol to radiate its brilliance decontaminated by
Martian blemishes.
Kyoko willingly allowed the warmth eminating from Mars's
stellar host to dance across her face, and her eyes closed in
one last retrospective moment. Holding the discette in one
hand, she recalled the faces of her parents. In a corner of
her mind, she could still feel their warmth, their care, and
their love. Hirotsugu and Catherine Yatsumi crossed the realms
of space and time to touch their daughter; despite all Kyoko
felt that she need to say--need to hear from them--the only
thing she could discern from their ethereal whispering was...
Let go.
With her eyes still closed, Kyoko drew back her left hand
as she palpated the discette between her thumb and index
finger. Her right hand firmly attached to the banister, Kyoko
hurtled her left arm back towards her fore, snapping it forward
as far as it would go before releasing her shivering grasp.
The vigor of the Martian zephyrs increased to near
gale-force, and Kyoko struggled to maintain her balance.
Rapidly opening her eyes, the setting sun began to dip over the
horizon, as the discette flew away--spiraling upward against
the artificially generated one-gee gravity--and into the
surrounding pastures. A rush of excitement raced through her
veins her fair flailed more wildly than ever. Her violent act,
spontaneous and refreshing, astonished and startled Kyoko
almost as much relieved her; and before the disette began its
downward arc, it had already disappeared from her view. Not
that it mattered. Kyoko's eyes were locked onto Sol, as its
formed rescinded its saffron quality in favor of Mars' damnable
default tint. Slowly but surely, it disappeared below the
horizon, spreading its radiance in varying hues of scarlet and
ruby as the Martian sky transitioned into night. A long way to
go...
Kyoko's gaze remained fixed on the horizon as the winds
abruptly ceased.
* * *
Willard Spaceport lacked the hustle and bustle of most civilian
terminals, yet it was nevertheless filled to capacity and
operating accordingly. The spaceport, after all, was
thoroughly military, and it's efficiency spoke well of its
operating and command staff. The well-disciplined, newly
commissioned officer corps of the United Planetary Defense
Forces filed smartly into lines, awaiting the transatmospheric
shuttles that would loft them into orbit. Some would only
suffer that short journey; their assignments awaited them on
Starbase 06 or onboard vessels homeported in Martian orbit.
Others, however, would have to endure long interplanetary--even
interstellar--cutter rides to reach their destinations.
Lieutenant (JG) Kyoko Yatsumi held her duty assignment
orders close to her chest as their transatmospheric shuttle
maneuvered into a taxi lane. Jenna Tamaka, sitting on the
aisle sit adjacent to her, was thoroughly engaged in a
novel-pad she had picked up from the Spaceport's PX before
hopping the shuttle boarding ramp. Unlike the space-planes
Kyoko had known as a child--in a life far in the past--the new
ground-to-orbit shuttles were actually scaled-down cutters
mounting a small gravity drive. While its grav-stress output
fell well into the fractional range of the gravity distortion
drives mounted on larger tin-cans and fleet ships, the
personnel cutter could effectively sustain an acceleration of
close to twenty gees. Additionally, the PS-104 Griffin-class
personnel carriers lacked the acceleration cushions associated
with the previous era's HOTOL birds. Instead, ergonamic,
first-class style seating replaced the uncomfortable seats, as
Kyoko and her comrades would not require the protections
against multiple gee-forces a HOTOL's reaction drives exerted.
The successful miniaturization of gravity drives, with their
inherent inertial compensation, eliminated the need for such
precautions. Without looking out the window, Kyoko would never
be able to discern the stupendous velocity shifts.
The ride took less than half-an-hour; the shuttle's crew
disengaged the grav-drive and switched to reaction thrusters to
maneuver their final interception course for Starbase 06's
orbit. The minor course adjustments turned the cutter thirty
degree to its port, keeping its nose in lead of the starbase's
receiving terminal. Finally, after seven more minutes of
maneuvering, the shuttle commander fired his thrusters for a
two-second, two-gee burn into the starbase's gaping receptical.
The transition between transatmospheric shuttle and their
outbound flight proved equally as efficient as the dirt-side
operation. Kyoko and her companions hustled to Charlie Dock,
located five-kilometers down from the orbital receiving
receptical. As they raced through the receiving umbilical,
Kyoko paused to stare at the shuttlebay's massive interior. A
brief memory flashed through her mind, but she dismissed it and
smartly made her way onto Shuttle Whiskey-Victor One-Three-One.
Kyoko and Jenna's shuttle, affixed with a much more
powerful gravity drive than their ground-to-orbit shuttle, took
off for the the Oort Cloud, the birthing place of Sol's comets
light-hours beyond Pluto's orbit. A local Gateway just outside
Martian orbit would deposit the shuttle some hundred-million
miles within the orbit of Uranus, permiting it to make the rest
of the twenty-nine hour journey to the solar system's fringe
under grav-impeller only. Proceeding to Hyper Lane
Tango-Sierra One-One-Niner, lying just outside Sol's natural
hyperspace gravitional limit, they would coast along the
gravity wave until it droppd the shuttle off at the
Alpha-One-Bravo Deposit Point--just within three light-minutes
of the Farragut's deep-space holding position.
"My God, look at it!" Jenna exclaimed, twelve hours later.
Only three hours ago, the shuttle had finally exited the
mysterious realm Gateways and fold drives crafted their
short-cuts through--hyperspace. The distortion imparted by the
warping of space-time seemed unnecessarily disconcerting,
although Jenna and Kyoko both had grown detached to the
experience during their terms at the Academy. At the moment,
the shuttle crew had finalized their approach solutions through
the Uranus lunar system, hoping to gain a little momentum from
it's path across the planet's orbital locality before bringing
up the impeller drive. Consequently, they had come close
enough to the planet to get a decent look at it; Uranus'
blue-green facade was large enough to spot against the starry
backdrop. Jenna's eyes relished the view with all the awe of a
small school-child, leaving Kyoko somewhat amused.
"It's beautiful," Kyoko commented softly. For the first two
hours of the trip, she tried to sleep soundly enough as to
dodge her reasonable fear of shuttle flights. The
aircraft-like vehicle had several times engaged in rather
"disturbing manuevers" as it aligned itself for the Uranus
flyby. Kyoko wondered silently if she could get away with
clobbering a wise-ass pilot who had it coming to him.
Jenna, on the other hand, apparently enjoyed the shuttle
flight; her excitement barely diminished by the excruciatingly
dull flight. Kyoko considered her friend and Academy roommate
with tender affection. Through four forms at the Academy, they
had been the closest of friends and confidants, and through
their hard work and cooperative effort, they had excelled in
all aspects of campus life. Even today, the lieutenant fondly
remembered that first, clumsy day she met Jenna; they literally
had run into each other that August morning, four years ago.
Kyoko had never visited Mars before leaving home for the
Academy, and the splendor of the Mars Campus had thoroughly
absorbed her attention. The sweet, strange fragrances flowing
out from gardens, the engaging melodies of emanating from the
nearby avaries, and midshipmen from every class walking about;
their uniforms bespeaking the respect and responsibilities they
had earned. Completely enraptured, Kyoko stumbled right into
the path of a timid and quiet Jenna Tamaka. Kyoko had just
completed her registration on the shuttle ride down; however,
Jenna's situation demanded she visit the registration office in
person. Surprisingly, Jenna Tamaka had never owned a personal
computer, or even a datapad, and her registration material came
in paper, hardcopy format. The inked and penciled, unstapled
documents flew from her hands, carried by a deviously
mischievous breeze towards garden's center. The duplicious
wind deposited each page into a sculpted fountain standing in
the center of the garden. Kyoko, after picking herself up,
stared in shock as Jenna's papers floated away towards their
sodden destiny; looking at the briefly startled redhead, she
observed distressingly as Jenna's brow shifted from its placid
smoothness into an irrated furrow.
Both immediately waded awkwardly through the dense foliage
to meet at the garden's core, and upon reaching the fountain,
Kyoko managed to trip and fally bodily into three-foot basin.
Parting the drenched locks of hair from before her eyes, she
looked up to see Jenna's annoyed expression remold itself into
a smile. Now, it was Kyoko's turn to frown, and she shrugged
off the drenched feeling and the redheaded stranger's smug
facial as they both went to work gathering the pages.
Fortunately, August featured a number of days with
uninterrupted sunlight, and Jenna's registration materials were
soon dry enough to submit. Kyoko accompanied her new
acquaintence back to the desk to make sure Jenna's processing
went smoothly. The registration officer had been so impressed
with the story these two, bumbling pre-froshes had divulged
that he immediately signed them up as roommates. The
suddenness of the arrangement, combined with their awkward
encounter, was more than enough to keep them respectfully quiet
for the first week. After awhile, however, Jenna came around
first, formally introducing herself and then--nine hours
later--bothering to ask Kyoko her name. Despite the gauche
start, their relationship blossomed without a hitch; for the
most part, they were inseparable. As roommates, they often
pulled various duties together--from mess duty to field
training--and as time passed, their friendship solidified.
Sure, all companions endure the strains of frienship. The
first time Kyoko initiated a relationship with a male
classmate, Jenna quickly usurped his attention; an incident
that left a month-long rift in their relationship at the end of
their first-form. Similarly, Kyoko had put Jenna on report for
three consecutive absences at the standard oh-four-thirty
roll-call, and Midshipman Tamaka had accrued quite a few
reprimends during her second form. Fortunately, by mid-year of
the 2170-71 school term, their relationship had stood against
time and trial enough to suffer most anything. When things
turned sour, Kyoko could always rely on Jenna's confidence and
caring. In their junior year, Kyoko's nine-month affair with a
fellow midshipman--the first love she had ever given herself
to--burned to the ground, Jenna had stayed awake with her night
after night as she cried terribly, drenching her bunk in a
depression that lasted for weeks. No one in the Academy had
ever heard of her accident, and Kyoko found that she could only
trust Jenna with that secret. Only Jenna knew of the terrible
nightmares; during her first year, Jenna had awaken her more
times than Kyoko dared count from those distressing dreams.
Kyoko's eyes narrowed. Despite her intimacy with Jenna,
she had never known her redheaded companion--who often stared
at the setting sun of wistful, contemplative consideration--to
reciprocate Kyoko's confidence. Of course, they both relied on
each other's strengths and consoled one another's weaknesses.
Still, Kyoko couldn't help but feel that Jenna held something
back. She dared not ascribe any concreteness to that feeling,
but Kyoko swore she could see an unlocked, repressed pain
behind Jenna's hazel, tiger-like eyes. Her gaze shifted from
the viewport--the face of Uranus slowly disappearing from
view--to her friend. Even now, despite Jenna's carefree and
jovial character, Kyoko felt a solemn, despondent wall
separating them.
There's such a thing as getting too introspective, girl.
Kyoko slowly turned back to the viewport, silently considering
the diamond-studded blackness as the shuttle proceeded on
course.
Hours following the shuttle's transit across Uranus' orbit,
it translated into the TS-119 hyper lane. At the time being,
they were proceding at practically twice the speed of light
towards a debarking point in Sol's distant cometary cloud.
Hyper lane's, gradients of concentrated gravitational force
left behind after some catastrophic collapse of matter, proved
to be the most efficient method of deep-space travel between
local star systems. Consequently, the necessity of mounting
fold-drives found itself limited to military vessels and large
commercial ships. Gateways were to expensive to produce en
masse, yet the naturally occurring gravity streams beyond a
star's HGL allowed vessels to "sail" at practical speeds up to
about two thousand times the speed of light. Rarer, yet far
more potent, were the Rapids--gravitational gradiants with
awesome depths and hyperspatial sheer. These were the
wormholes and blackholes that scientists from hundreds of
space-faring civilizations postulated about, and their
"apparent" transit velocities often exceeded twenty-thousand
cee.
The barely audible hum of the shuttle's impeller steadily
increased as the shuttle approached the translation point.
While Kyoko couldn't see it, the tell-tale signs of a gravity
wave lay only five million kilometers--and ten minutes--from
their current positions; the pin-prick background of the
vacuum's expanse drastically redshifted in the hyper lane's
wake; not like the Rapids, whose gravitational force was strong
enough to translate light passing through their depths right
out of normal space. While hyper lanes--or more accurately,
their force gradients--existed within the realm of hyperspace
(where gravitational accelerations "instantenously" translate
past the causality barrier), a gravity wave's force eminated
from normal space. If one considered a hyper lane's "path" in
2D/3D terms--a geodesic on a sphere--one would notice that the
severity of deformation as the displacement between the
geodesic's beginning and ending points closed was considerably
less substantial than that affected by a geodesic representing
a wormhole or blackhole. Light, in laymen's terms, suffered
only the diffraction a hyper lane's gravity inflicted, rather
than disappear all together...
...as the shuttle was about to.
"Translation point in T-minus four minutes," the pilot's
voice screeched over the shuttle's intercom. Kyoko glanced at
the squawking speakers, irritated that not even centuries of
high fidelity audio technological development had seen fit to
fix the shuttle's internal PA "squawk" problem. In any case,
the procedure for translations differed not from that of a
Gateway jump. In fact, the only difference between hyper lane
translations and Gateway jumps lay in the fact that hyper
lane's didn't require the extensive, power-consuming octagonal
structure to generate a gravitational, four-dimensional
geodesic. Hyper lane's naturally existed, and that meant no
artificially produced work went into "maintaining" that lane.
Likewise, gravity waves tended to have deeper acceleration
gradients as one progressed up the hyperspace "velocity"
bands. A shuttle could "accelerate" T-80, over two-thousand
five-hundred cee, while operating warpfold impellers within a
low-power threshold sump just barely above T-01. Kyoko could
easily do the math in her head, and the results were always
astonishing. Nevertheless, "hyperspace acceleration" and
"Tanhausser Stress Factors" tended to tax her. After all, she
had absolute faith that TS-119 would deliver the shuttle to
wherever it was headed in good time.
At T-minus one minute, the traffic control computers buried
within the marker beacon drifting just "atop" the hyper lane's
perimeter cycled from standby to active. The glowing artifice
sent comm pulses of navigational data hurling towards the
shuttle, while it simultaneous accepted hyperstate beams
ferrying pilot's filed flight plan across the vacuum. The
formalities completed, the gravity impeller brought the
shuttle's acceleration down to less than fifty gees.
Currently, their final velocity before translation would be
roughly point-zero-zero-two; low enough for the warpfold
impeller to take over. Kyoko's ears perked as they recognized
the distinctive whine of the hyper-drive's field emitters
coming on-line. Unlike normal impeller fields, hyper-drives
produced gravity fields stronger that of the most massive
supergiant star. As the whine shrilled beyond her auditory
perception, Kyoko tensed as the warpfold drive's field strength
approached the critical causal gravitational asymptope--a
theoretical limit commonly known as a sitrum. As the
electromagnetic pulses of the warpfold drive attacked the
inherent zero point energy flucuations inherent in the vacuum,
they produced a resonance effect that manifested itself as a
peristaltic gravitational field known as the "Yillian Effect."
Steadily, the intertial constant of the shuttle's "inertia-mass
ratio" approached zero, and the local gravitational field
strength advanced beyond that of even a neutron star. Any
moment now, Kyoko whispered inwardly in anxious anticipation.
Beyond Kyoko's viewport, the diminutive points of light
representing stars violently redshifted, stretching themselves
across her field of view and contorting into streams of pastel,
fluorescent radiance. The mounting stress on each of the
impeller's fields increased the local gravity; the warping
effect attacked her vision. Both before and after her
cyrogenic exile, Kyoko had apperceived the bizarre experience
of a hyperspace jump. As many people would willingly testify,
the human mind never quite adjusted to the displacement in
space and time, for although the transition was thorough and
absolute straight through the quantum level, the artificial
character of it all produced an feeling of utter alien
quality. She knew she could never wholly adjust to it, yet it
didn't disturb her as much as it had when she was young. Kyoko
still tended to tense up in the moments before the fold, yet
she refused to give in to her desire to dart her eyes about in
impatient anxiety. Instead, her hands firmly gripped the
termini of her chair's armrests. Looking down--after she had
promised herself to close her eyes--at Jenna's hands, she could
see they were equally tense. Maybe people naturally reacted
that way; as if a frigid touch slid down the length of their
spines. No, Kyoko paused. It was far more subtle. She
finally convinced her eyelids to close completely, waiting for
that final, critical moment.
No hyperspace geodesic ever exhibited an exact sitrum of
gravitational field stress. The translation "point," aside
from its normal space Cartesian denotation, refered to a
mathematical limit--an abstract, artificial concept--used to
describe a situation that in itself could not be mathematically
defined. While algebraically, the asymptopic property of a
whole sitrum unit (either as a single unit or a multiple of the
"value") could only be approached to a point of infinite
irrationality, the line in fact could be graphed. "Y equals
constant," where that constant was the sitrum, thereby also
existed as a physical reality--the causality limit. Nothing
approached that limit, save the massless radiation whose only
physical ideal manifested itself in the form of light.
Therefor, one couldn't consider the prospect of warpfold
translation as physically "surpassing" lightspeed--although
practical considerations made this comparison useful in some
cases. Instead, somewhere in the realm of rationality where
the translation from normal space to hyperspace existed, a
vessel would be catapaulted into hyperspace without ever
reaching or surpassing--for the lack of a better term--the
speed of light. Theoretical physicists knew that it could be
done, and that such things occur frequently thoughout nature.
"A property of gravity," Kyoko knew as the popular
classification for the "translation point;" that point where
gravitational acceleration in respect to causality achieves
simultaneity for an instantaneous period of time.
Nevertheless, the mathematics proved that such a point could
not exist--not within the realm of mathematics
three-dimensional beings could understand. So while theories
and even mathematics in higher dimensions had demonstrated and
taught various modes of thought on the natural mechanism of the
hyperspace interface with normal space, no one could ever truly
understand or comprehend it. If the Albert Einsteins and
K'hanhaki's and Nikolevs of today couldn't possibly "picture"
such perfect precision, Kyoko doubted she'd fare any better.
Kyoko, like the rest of humanity found herself blissfully and
unconcerned with her imaginative limitation to the inaccurate,
imprecise world of intervals.
Finally, the stress of the drive's gravity fields finally
reached their critical point.
The translation into hyperspace, from an internal
perspective, passed without so much as a whisper. Instantly,
the distortion dissipated and reality assumed its assertive
hold on the passengers. On the outside, the gravity fields
contorted the shuttle's shape from an external observers point
of view, as the fields had dones so to the stars--from an
internal passenger's perspective. In any event, the shuttle
simply "ceased" to be as the entirety of its mass "fell" into
the hyperspace "groove" of TS-119's gravity wave.
"Translation complete," the screeching voice returned to
the passenger cabin speakers. "Sit back and relax; we'll be
coming up on the Farragut in roughly two hours."
Kyoko heeded the pilot's advice, and coaxed herself into a
restful nap--it felt far too brief even warrant the tag "nap"
when her datapad sounded its soft reveille. From Kyoko's point
of view, the autochime of her datapad's internal clock seemed
to ring at almost the same time she finally succumbed to her
slumbering weariness. Looking at her wrist chronometer, she
could clearly see that two hours (subjective) had indeed passed
since translation. Further confirmation came from a quick
glance out the viewport. Since departing the gravity stream,
the stars had reverted to their invariable, incandescent
ambience, an immutable arrangement of celestial gems spread
across the painfully back offing. Despite the heaven's
abundance of these deceptively miniscule jewels of atomic fire
and superheated gases, the pocket of space Hyper Lane
Tango-Sierra-One-One-Niner had deposited them into seemed
absolutely empty. In the lonesome depths of deep space, the
human mind struggled to ascertain Cartesian vectors in
desparate capriciousness; absolutely emptiness meant just
that--the interstellar void provided no manifestation of
visible matter one could fixate one's frame of reference on. A
computer could easily focus on one of the billions and billions
of stellar specks surrounding them, but a human
being--overwhelmed by numbers greater than seven--might
experience a wave of vertigo, his or her mind trying to
arbitrarily formulate concepts of up and down, right and left.
Kyoko sighed away the ho-hum of it all and proceeded to
thumb the down arrow on her datapad's touch screen, accessing
the forward-aspect camera's. The few stars visible through the
snowy resolution moved towards the right of her screen; the
inertial dampening effect of a gravity impeller--naturally
imposed on the matter within the its field envelope--would
diminish any sense of directional acceleration. Nevertheless,
the shuttle was banking and turning towards the port, and very
soon now...
The United Confederation Starship David H.
Farragut--Dynacruiser, Naval Starship Designation
One-Seven-One-Eight--lay suspended against the blackness barely
five-hundred thousand kilometers from the depositing hyper lane
terminus, and within a ten-thousand kilometer radius bubble, a
total of twenty capital ships and thirty lighter vessels
constituted Dynacruiser Battlegroup Two. Within a few minutes,
the shuttle had adjusted its forward vector for a run alongside
the colossal vessel's hull. As the shuttle slowed to a decent
approach velocity and closed the distance to under a hundred
kilometers, everyone in the passenger cabin crowded the
port-side viewports, anxious to get a glimpse at their new
home. Three Spacy fighters, arranged in a flight proceeding
outward along a parallel vector, raced past them at barely two
kilometer's distance--to far for anyone to see but close enough
to set off the general proximity alert klaxons in the passenger
cabin. Undeterred by the alarm, the raw Academy graduates
continued to push and shove for access to a viewport, waiting
patiently as the Spacy's pride and joy slid into view.
An engineering ensign squeaked in puerile excitement as the
arrow-shaped form of the colossal, off-white vessel appeared in
the first viewport. The shuttle had slowed to a respectable
two-hundred meters per second within ten kilometer's of the
Farragut--close enough for the thirty-six kilometer dynacruiser
to dominate the entire port viewing field.
"Jeezus!" Jenna exclaimed. "I...I never thought--damn!
It's so goddamned huge!"
Kyoko concurred quietly, settling for an assenting
inclination of the brow to complement Jenna's explicit
excitement. Nevertheless, the lieutenant's awe seemed as
genuine as her friend's. Kyoko felt equally insignificant as
she espied the space-faring behemoth slowly floating across her
viewport. The shuttle cut its gravitics as they entered into
range of the dynacruiser's mooring range; the traffic control
tractor beams running alongside the Farragut's starboard
expanse brought the small spaceship within the crease
separating the upper and lower carapaces. Within that boxy,
prismic trough--some two hundred meters top to bottom and
piercing another two-hundred meters into the hull--thousands of
illuminated windows and viewports stared back at the swan-like
shuttlecraft, testifying to the ship's raw immensity.
The era of the dynacruiser succeeded that of the earlier
superdreadnoughts and monitors sixty years ago. Informally
labelled "supermonitors," Patton and Phoenix-class
superdreadnoughts outmassed their Triumphant and Capital-class
antecedents seven times over. The largest non-dynacruiser
measured some nine-kilometers beam length. The Phoenix-class,
the first of the new dynacruiser era, consisted of vessels
which ranged from fourteen to seventeen kilometers beam
length. The Farragut mounted five times more missile tubes and
magazines than any Triumphant superdreadnought, and her
tactical energy and particle armaments outgunned the total
weapon systems of an entire battlecruiser division. The reflex
cannon a Patton-class dynacruiser mounted exceeded the
destructive power of an Excalibur-class monitor by forty-two
percent, and her tremendous cubage proved more than adequate to
support an equivalent small-craft strength of two carrier task
forces--all within a single hull! Kyoko watched in utter
admiration the shuttle slipped by the Farragut's aft launch
bays. Here, the elite crews of the best Marine, AF, and Spacy
aviations units worked to maintain and deploy the dynacruiser's
most versatile weapon--the Veritech multi-role strike-craft.
Even now, drill BARCAP flights were returning to base, only to
be followed by a fresh gaggle of Valkyries, Khybers, and
Tymanechs. Eventually, following in military tradition, two
escort fighters--VAF-13 Super Alphas--lined up alongside them,
keeping a wakeful vigil as the shuttle made its final approach.
Kyoko's eyes darted to an dilating point of light the
shuttle steadily advanced towards. Within a minute, the light
shifted into a discernable rectangular shape--a box-like
indentation in the hull. The shuttle bay, despite its
diminutive proportion to the rest of the dynacruiser, still
dwarfed the personnel transport; it could support tens of
similarly-sized shuttlecraft without putting a dent in its
berthing capacity. What's more, the Farragut boasted nearly
one hundred other shuttle-bays, mostly arranged within the
wrapping, center-line indentation, of similar volume. While
most furnished smaller craft in larger numbers--like personnel
shuttlepods and extravehicular craft--they still launched and
received longer-range transport shuttles, like the Griffin
personnel carriers. Kyoko's shuttle would dock at the
Delta-Tango Oh-Three-Three bay, located towards the
dynacruiser's forward, starboard bulge. The center-line
impression at that point extended five-hundred meters inward.
The exposed inner sanctum of the Farragut's double hull was
rectangular in shape, and the indentation continued to conform
to its straight, angular cuts despite the main hulls'
sweepingly curvacous tendencies.
As the shuttle made its final approach, the mooring
tractors directly above DT-033's gaping mouth latched onto the
avian fuselage. The small lapse in gravitational influence
induced a barely discernable jerk. Lieutenant Kyoko Yatsumi
allowed her mind to mill about in unfettered admiration of the
Farragut's attractive lines, replaying the shuttle's advance
from memory as the Griffin surrendered itself to the UCSS
Farragut's traffic control. Relieving herself of the drowning
imensity of the view, she settled back into her reclined seat
and opened up her datapad's main menu. Provided on her screen
were several options, ranging from tech specs on the ship to
abstract stats of its crew. Touching the
The Farragut's operational parameters over the past seven
years permited three direct tours of the Sol System. As per
tradition, the Mongol SVS detachment onboard threw a welcoming
reception for incoming Earth and Mars Academy graduates. Some,
like Kyoko and Jenna, were newly commissioned officers--fresh
from the Atlantis and Annapolis; donning the single stripe of
an Ensign--in Kyoko's case, the two ring diminutive of a
Lieutenant (JG). Others were seasoned veterans, recently
graduated from the Advance Tactical Command School in Norfolk,
Virginia. Two broad, golden rings, followed by a single thin
one, decorated the left sleeve of their duty jackets and
long-sleeved uniforms. The rank bands indicated the elite,
mid-grade ATCS graduates as Lieutenant Commanders in the Spacy,
and their tunics, both collarless and turtleneck affairs,
featured shoulderboards that followed the suit. Aviators who
graduated National Defense University schools, consequently
bearing the three stripes of a Commander or the four stripes of
a Captain of the Spacy--or, in the case of Marine Corps
personnel, the silver leaf of a Lieutenant Colonel or silver
eagle of a full-bird, went on to command entire wing
detachments. From these select officers, and the senior grade
ranks of Commodore (lower-half) and Brigadier Colonel, the
Tactical Space Corps selected StratComs for their SVSs and
TVSs. The Mongol SVS's StratCom, Noriko Hirota, seventh of
four-hundred and thirty in the Air Force Command and Staff
College, and her collar featured the Golden Eagle--with bay
leaves--of a Brigadier Colonel. Rumour had it that she was on
the list for flag rank. After all, she had made senior grade
in twelve years--a incredible achievement in and of itself. Of
course, nearly ten more years would have to pass before anyone
thought about sending her the paperwork to apply to the General
Command College on Kent, in the Alpha Centauri system. Even
then, barring a war, she'd be in her mid-forties before the
kick to Brigadier General came through.
For the most part, however, the Farragut's primary
commissioned embarking roster typically exhibited a vast
majority of junior officers, like Kyoko Yatsumi. Upon
debarking the shuttle, Kyoko and her youthful companions
learned they were to enjoy a twenty-four hour reprieve from
duty as the shipboard personnel department registered them for
quartering assignments--officers enjoyed individual
accommodations within the Farragut's berthing sector--and
prepared their specific duty allotments. A Marine-driven air
jeep met them at the entrance to the bay terminal, taking
Kyoko, Jenna, and several other newly-commissioned officers to
the aviator's barracks. The Bravo-Charlie Nine officers
billet's external facade seemed deceptively small compared to
the commodious interior, and--as Kyoko suspected--her quarters
were equitably spacious. The sheer amount of cubage aboard the
Farragut afforded its officers the comfort of spacious room
assignments, although no one could honestly compare two hundred
twenty-five cubic meters of living space to even single's
apartment. Nevertheless, the relatively capacious berth came
with its own wardroom, shower, and even a small kitchen area,
despite the fact that officers tended to patron their mess
halls as frequently as the enlisted file. Kyoko didn't
complain though--single's quarters didn't come nearly as close
to "roughing it" as the Academy two-man berths were. Marines,
naturally, had it worse, and Kyoko wouldn't be surprised of if
some of her jarhead acquaintenced found a new supply of
ammunition to wage their ideological war against Spacy's
spoiling affluence.
The welcoming reception began at 1830h--with room
inspection at 1720h, leaving Kyoko with little more than two
hours of personal time. Thanks to the alphabetic contiguity of
their last names, Jenna occupied quarters only five doors down,
and both of the recenlty jumped-up cadets assisted each other
in unpacking and setting up their wardrobes. Selecting the
appropiate dress uniform configuration for this formal event,
Kyoko set her choice--the Spacy dress-whites with the red,
imbedded sash representing Aviation--flat on the bed and headed
towards the bathroom, fully intending indulge herself with a
brief shower while her leisure time permitted it.
The shower stall itself provided a medley of options,
ranging from ultra-sonic to infrared radiation baths, while
still offering a hot-water option for leisure's sake. Breaking
out a bar of soap and retrieving a washcloth and towel from
amongst several personal effects, Kyoko touched the embedded
panel's "wet shower" option key as she slid smoothly out of her
duty suit. By the twenty-second century, thank God, plumbing
had reached a Golden Age in efficiency. Warm water,
appropiately and automatically heated to a comfortable
temperature, sprayed against her nakedness, while Kyoko worked
up a thick lather on her taut, healthy skin. Hours of drilling
and PT with Marine Corps staff and gunnery sergeants had
whipped her into shape, and those areas of her body that had
once been delicately soft had since firmed to an equally
attractive, exotic resolution. Although the Martian weather
was on average colder than that on Earth, her once pale
complexion (surprising for someone raised on Okinawa) had
matured into a creamy tan, accentuating the vivacious tension
of her skin as beads of warm water raced across her flesh. The
foamy lather hugged her body before washing away with a river
of cleansing drainage; the washcloth lovingly reapplied the
frothy spume as its abrasive texture massaged her skin.
Kyoko maneuvered her soapy washcloth into her cleavage, her
right hand working autonomously of her mind as she let herself
drift into deep contemplation. It seemed like ages since she
had last enjoyed a hot water shower, and the experience brought
on a wave of pleasure as a warm mist fogged the shower's
transparency. Of course, not even a hot-water shower could
compare to a sauna bath--the last time Kyoko had enjoyed one of
those was in the last week before she departed for the Mars
Academy. Still, Kyoko saw no reason to complain; four years of
ultra-sonic wash-downs had instilled an appreciation for a
luxury civvies took for granted. No more gang showers like at
the Academy, and no room-mates. The latter reality of middy
life didn't both Kyoko so much. After all, her best friend had
roomed with her for four years. Still, the privacy added to
the healthy feel of her new surroundings.
Turning off the tap after the frillish one and a half
minute bath, Lieutenant Yatsumi withdrew her towel from the bar
mounted on the bathroom's western wall. She'd have plenty of
time to allow her rich mane of hair to dry out, leaving the
wall-embedded hair dryer alone. After thoroughly drying
herself, Kyoko rubbed away the fog from the shower mirror,
looking at her reflection as it stared right back at her. The
image seemed nothing like the teenaged uncertainty she once
knew, and the able, disciplined physique of an Officer of the
Robotech Space Forces replaced whatever awkwardness had existed
a little less than four years ago. Her flat-lined lips curled
into a grin, impressed by the smooth musculature as she wrapped
the towel about her torso. Quitting the bathroom, Kyoko
slipped into her undergarments, wrapped her soaked hair within
the towel, and strolled over to her bed. Holding up the hanger
her dress uniform clung to, Kyoko carried it over to her
wardrobe's floor to ceiling mirror and held it against her
body. The skirt, she noticed a few moments later as she
snapped it into place, hung a bit too loosely against her hip;
no doubt she'd have take the issue up with the barracks' duty
quartermaster within the next few days. Otherwise, it dropped
comfortably to just above her knee caps. Her tunic, a grey
turtleneck with a scarlet band running from shoulder to
shoulder, went on next. This time, it seemed to snug a bit to
tightly, and Kyoko drew her lips into a half-smile as she
noticed the rigid emphasis the tunic gave her bosum.
Fortunately, the next element of the uniform consisted of the
red-sashed jacket, which fit comfortably over the inordinately
tight tunic and soft-pedaled her chest's conspicuity.
Examining herself in the full-sized speculum, Kyoko nodded
smartly at the uniform's general appearance. Freshly pressed
from the barracks' laundry, the dress whites configuration
looked positively dashing; far more exciting and fashionable
than the grey jumpsuits midshipmen were used to. Of course,
the yellow towel bun about her head made the whole affair look
rather ridiculous, but in a few minutes, it would be dry enough
for her to style fittingly. Glancing over at the chronometer,
Kyoko realized she had more than an hour and a half left before
room inspection. Kyoko picked her duffle bag off the bed,
smoothing the sheets out and tucking the covers to a Grade "A"
tautness. After completing the unpacking ritual, Kyoko gently
unwrapped her towel turban; racing her fingers through strands
of slick, steeped hair. She spent the next few minutes
sculpting into a rich brown bun while letting two chestnut
locks hang in front of her left and right ears.
Peering out the barracks' window at Farragut City's
skyline--towering above the miniature metripolis located within
the Farragut's massive berth. The Mongol SVS detachment had
planned to hold their soirée at the "aviator's" O-Club in the
Lower District--the only off-base military recreational
establishment in the city. The peculiarity of the club's
situation forced the SVS to forego protocol and open it up to
not only ratings as well, but also to the Farragut's crew and
even civilians. The O-Club, unsurprisingly, had gone over to
the private sector years ago, even before Admiral Thomas Satie
hoisted his flag here. It was the only place in the
battlegroup where a rating (albeit a senior one) and the Old
Man himself could sit down and chat with the StratCom and her
most junior yeoman; "Sierra Nevada" had a reputation that
permeated the entirety of First Fleet.
Well, she'd learn soon enough whether or not the O-Club
lived up to all the stories she had run across over the years.
In the meantime, even the officer's barracks seemed expansive
and interesting enough to warrant a certain degree of
exploration.
With one last swipe of the comb, Kyoko returned to the
bathroom to give her reflection one last admiring glance before
strolling out the door.
* * *
The Sierra Nevada's banquet hall seemed all in all far to
extravagent for even a Shakura Compact's VIP liner, let alone
the unofficial "O-Club away from O-Club" onboard one of the
Confederation's most powerful warships. Disconcerting as it
was, Kyoko nevertheless swallowed the intimidating view and
called upon the instilled discipline to freeze the lines of her
visage into an image of cool confidence. Accompanying her was
her friend, Jenna, and several others from Officer's Barracks
BC 9. For the most part, veryone was an aviator, although
Kyoko could easily spot the dress blues and blacks of a half
dozen Marines, tending to coalesce in some distant
corner--where their joking gibes about Spacy "prissiness"
wouldn't fall upon unwelcome ears. Of course, if some
vacuum-jock happened to catch a snippet...well, far be it for
any Marine to lie.
Attacking the crowd with her body bladed against the mob,
Kyoko--Jenna in tow--managed to politely maneuver herself
towards the doubles' tables on the west end of the club.
Overhead, a holographic chandelier rotated as light "refracted"
through its prismic, immaterial crystals.; it sort of reminded
Kyoko of some particularly unpleasant experience back home.
Fortunately, this time there were no baseball bats about to
smash the glittering bows--if they were real, that is--into
enervatingly tiny shards that even the auto-vac had a hard time
picking up.
"There he is, Ki," Jenna whispered into her ear before
pushing on ahead. "Hey, Iu! Over here!"
Her voice barely surmounted the whispering bustle of the
reception, although the target of her voice had no reason not
to hear her. A solitary second lieutenant, with the
distinguishing auricle features indicative of the Mutan, looked
away from his current conversation to see Jenna and Kyoko
approach as rapidly as possible. His grin broadened, revealing
a sparkling set of human-like teeth that contrasted with his
dark complexion. For all intensive purposes, Mutans were
humanoid; they were even held to the absurd chromosonal
comformity that seemed to defy all biological sense. When
Terrans were first preparing to leave the womb of their world
for the unexplored heavens, the concept of a "humanoid" alien
seemed utterly ridiculous at best; the conditions that led to
the development of Terran sentience had specifically chosen the
"humanoid" form over a period of tens of millions of
years--combined with the billions of years of evolutionary
preparation leading up to it. Nevertheless, while Terrans
could point to their molecular relationship to their birth
world, the Mutan and the Eridani and at least thirty other
"humanoid" races could do the same. It might not have been so
ridiculous to assume that maybe the bipedal form was simply
favored on certain worlds orbiting G-class stars (even though
the Mutan now inhabited the sole living planet of a dying red
dwarf, they had somehow emigrated over a million years ago from
Tau Ceti). However, as the members of the Confederation were
quick to discover, most of the humanoid species were capable of
reproducing viable offspring. Now even on Terra, with a
human's closest primate relative--the ape--such an absurdity
violated every biological law forbidding interspecial
reproduction. Even animals that had the same chromosone count
could only produce infertiles--mules, ligers, et cetera.
Nevertheless, nearly three percent of the Confederation's
humanoid population had inter-breeded and produced viable
mixes; even though clear lines between humanoid species
existed.
Surely, Kyoko thought, Earth had come across stranger
things, including evidence of some especially ancient race that
may have swept through the galaxy, with clearly nothing better
to do than alter the genetic structures of sentient lifeforms
and play some cosmic, sexual game on the younger races.
Clearly, genetic manipulation of that magnitude must have taken
time, from hundreds of millenia to hundreds of aeons, the fact
remained that a human woman could give birth to a half-Mutan
child. Well, whatever Maker wills...
The thing Kyoko simply couldn't except is the idea of any
humanoid species having two spinal chords. Known for their
biological redundancy, the Mutan had internal systems similar
to those of human beings--puliminary, nervous, excretory,
etc.--and corresponding organs. However, Mutan genetics
induced rapid cell division during the early development stage
of an embryo, and a number of otherwise human organs enjoyed
the company of an auxillary counterpart--except for the spinal
chord. In that case, both were fully committed to the Mutan
central nervous system. While both transmited motor impulses
from the brain to various portions of the body, and pumped
sensory messages right back up the chain, the right one
functioned as the Mutan's "empathy" mechanism. There was no
standard biological model for it, and even non-Mutan scientists
who took it upon themselves to study Mutan physiology found
themselves in want of a way to explain it. Unlike normal
telepathic centers in species exhibiting similar extrasensory
talents, the Mutan's empathic ability seemed abnormally weak in
comparison to the sheer amount of biomass allotted to it. Most
telepathic species exhibited an ESP center within what could be
considered a brain (particularly difficult to identify in
certain cetacean species). Mutan, on the other hand, had a
long line of "black matter" sandwiched within the internal
white matter of their spinal chord. Even more seemingly
precarious was the fact that the chords were completely devoid
of the protection of a spinal chord (or two, in this case). A
single vertebrae column extended from the neck to the hip, but
both within and without exhibited only a respectful degree of
musculature. At the base of the neck, however, a flexible
layer of calcite film that extended on each side of the
vertebrae's upper terminus coated each spinal chord. Not only
did the film grant each neural branch a firmness unparallelled
by any human species, but it also facilitated the conduction of
transmissions between neurons, naturally secreting a calcite
fluid that eager filled the synapses between dendrite and axon.
From what Kyoko knew, the cross-species differention was
the result of an entirely different genetic structure, but
rather the exploitation of unused genetic material at the end
of a gene chain. What was vestigal nonsense code at the end of
her DNA suddenly made sense in Iu Somn's. Conflicting data, of
course, lead to arguments of dominance. In the case of
human-Mutan breeding, the nonsense code of human DNA prevailed,
although the Mutan genetic structure won out with the calcite
spinal chord film, a dark skin complexion, and
reverse-articulated, sharply-defined auricle structures.
Which, Kyoko admited, only served to enhance Iu's
exotically handsome features. Refraining herself, she watched
with maternally reserved humor as Jenna bounded to her Marine
friend's side with all the reservation of a giddy school-girl.
Iu Somn's sharp, pleasingly alien features didn't seem to fit
the jarhead dress uniform he donned; a cross between the dress
uniforms sported by New Britain's Royal Marines and the Corps'
classic Terran predecessors. What he lacked in broad frame,
his body made up for in a unique, attractive slenderness that
very few men carried about adeptly. The frame that spoke of
lanky clumsiness actually disguised a lithe, muscular figure
with a incredible coil of strength; Somn was capable of tearing
some of the most dangerous game with his bare hands. Even with
his hair shaved to skin, Kyoko imagined Lieutenant Iu with a
full head of long, straightened black hair; like the dresoiti
priests (similar to Hinduism's avatars) that dominated
offworlder's preconcieved images of the bi-spinal humanoids.
Shaking of a cold feeling tha suddenly made its way up the
sensation chain, she allowed herself another brief sip of her
glass of champagne before rejoining her company.
"...and single's quarters!" Jenna exclaimed, easily
slipping into a lively communion with a readily conversant
Somn.
"Well," Somn smiled as he feigned a sigh. "Looks like the
Spacy wastes no time in spoiling its greenest upstarts. Well,
I guess our berths make up for individual space in company."
Marine Country quartered its officers three-man cubes that were
about twice the size of a Spacy officer's single, although some
of the higher-up aviators managed to pull a double-bunk room
assignment. Even Major Abernathy, the Exec to the StratCom,
shared a room--his current quarters' rotation sacked him with
an understandably nervous second lieutenant fresh out of the
Academy. Somn managed to pull room assignment with the
VFMC-910's supply officer, a pimply faced first lieutenant
whose boyish looks disguised a commanding, confident voice and
personality. First Lieutenant Weiss was wandering about
somewhere, and Somn had lost track of him some time earlier;
Jenna's company was as good--even better, in fact--than his.
Laughing softly, Jenna playfully batted Somn's wiry arm.
"That's because the Spacy knows natural talent when they see
it; the Corps still have to beat their guys into shape."
"Really, I was quite sure the Spacy lowered the bar for
your convenience especially, Jen-chan. At least the Corps
makes sure whoever sits in the cockpit's is at least qualified
to drive stick."
"You rat!" Jenna giggled and swatted Somn's arm again as
Kyoko approvingly looked on. As for herself, Kyoko hated
giggling--the way her rich, alto voice suddenly went soprano
always managed to draw an embarrassing amount of attention to
herself.
"Just telling it like it is," Somn braced himself for
another one of Jenna's playful whacks. By the end of the
night, Kyoko suspected, Somn would have a good enough reason to
soak in a hot bath--that is, if Marines had seen fit to install
a hot-water shower in their barracks (which, most likely, they
hadn't).
"So, have you guys taken a tour of the ship?" Kyoko thought
to ask. "Maybe, the city?"
"I don't expect to see much of the city anytime soon,"
Jenna replied. "But I flew over to CIC today; to take a look
at the preliminary duty roster. Nothing yet, of course; nobody
up there seemed to eager to disturb our little furlough. I
didn't press them, either."
"We have a pretty good idea what's happening back in Marine
Country," Lieutenant Iu interjected, his visage reverting to a
naturally expressionless facial cast. "The Major stopped by to
speak to us, and it looks like I'm headed for the Nine-Ten."
VFMC-910, the aerospace combat element of the 23rd Marine
Expeditionary Unit (which made up the Mongol's Planetary
Maneuver Battalion) and the second Third MAW strike-fighter
detachment to the SVS-1. The VFMC-910's commander, Major Laura
Keats, was due to replace the ACE Group's CO, Lieutenant
Colonel Althea Washington, within the next few months; that
left Captain Hubert Hughes with the honor of commanding the
VF/A-5 Solstice squadron. Since Somn had known Captain Hughes
since he was a first-form midshipmen and Hughes was a senior at
the Mars Academy, Jenna suspected he'd fit in quite well with
the former Flier.
"Oh!" Jenna suddenly perked up excitedly, as if she had
just remembered something. "Somn, have you told Kyoko about
the good news?"
"Sorry," he nodded in Kyoko's direction, who had taken care
to raise an eyebrow in exaggerated interest. "It came through
last week--my application to the Advanced Tactical Strike and
Strike Planning School. I'll be detached to the Goethe for the
next month or so--with three others from the Nine Ten. We'll
be working with the 53rd Tactical Fighter Group. I can shuttle
back and forth whenever time and privilege permits, though."
The ATSSP School, Kyoko knew, was the most advanced strike
combat aviation course offered within the Robotech Space
Forces. The Interfederation Force was rumored to have
developed a superior program, but Kyoko highly doubted it. The
planetary assault carrier Goethe ferried the 792nd Tactical
Strike Fighter Wing, and from her decks flew the heavy birds of
the Aerospace Force, like the SF/A-19 Lancet space fighter and
the VF/A-10 Thunderchief Veritech. All Spacy and Marine strike
combat pilots trained with Aerospace Force units in order to
get a better feel of anti-installation fighter and mecha
operations; if Somn pulled through ATSSP, he'd be on a fast
track to commanding his own attack fighter squadron; probably
holding a position on the short list for a command billet in
less than ten years. Kyoko had applied to a similar school
for naval aviators, although her reply wasn't due back for
another six months. In the meantime, her jumped-grade of
Lieutenant (JG) would more than likely entail enough duties to
keep her thoroughly occupied.
"How sadistically coy of you, Somn." Jenna tapped a finger
on the Marine lieutenant's chest. "I'm sure not less than half
our class would've thought otherwise--especially after
qualifying on that Khyber practical..."
Kyoko carefully detached herself from her best friend's
company as Jenna and Somn's conversation steadily weaned her to
a point of general discomfort. Instead, she found herself
slowly drifting through the crowd towards the table hosting the
appetizer spread. Briefly admiring the tasty delicacies
catered by several different ethnic kitchens on every end of
Farragut's internal colony, she turned her attention to the
podium seating reserved for the receptions honored guests: the
Admiral and his staff. Lieutenant Yatsumi had heard only
snippets of Rear Admiral Thomas A. Satie's exploits; although
she suspected the flag officer managed to attain certain degree
of celebrity. After all, despite his relatively junior rank
amongst the Admiralty, Thomas Satie had inherited not only a
dynacruiser battlegroup, but Dyancruiser Battlegroup 2--the
last person to billet the group had been a Vice Admiral, a
precedent set by none other than former UPDC Chairman Hideyoshi
Mashikawa, Fleet Admiral (ret.) and fondly remembered as the
"Old Man of the Spacy." It was common knowledge that Satie had
served under Mashikawa--arguably the best battle-line commander
the Confederation had ever brought to bear; a fact that laid to
rest any fear of inadequacy. Admiral Satie was a man who never
did anything by halves, and the little Kyoko had heard of the
admiral went a long way in forming a favorable impression about
him.
Finally, the bells chimed. From out of a rear recepticle
appeared a fleet of well-dressed stewards and staff officers,
followed by two armsmen flanking a deceptively diminutive man.
Kyoko felt a small wave of disappointment sweep across her
body; she had always pictured admirals as towering, Cyclopian
giants whose very appearance struck the fear out of any junior
grade officer. Nevertheless, even Admiral Satie's
five-foot-five frame carried a revered presence that permeated
the souls and minds of those serving underneath him. It was
almost as if he had worn a cloak weaved of his own reputation,
sparkling under an aura of pure mien; Kyoko rebuked herself for
her unfounded preconceptions as well as her brief
disillusionment. Admiral Satie might not look like much, but
his propinquity alone demanded a feeling of almost reverent awe
from anyone about him.
Everyone, Kyoko included, quickly took to their assigned
places. The admiral looked on with an almost expressionless
face--although his eyes betrayed a passionate intensity that
disquieted the young lieutenant. He watched with disciplined
reservation as his aviators lined up along the rows of tables
towards Sierra Nevada's eastern end. Kyoko's skirting gaze
suddenly rested upon Brigadier Colonel Hirota, who approached
the rostrum setting with an incredible elegance in her gait.
The admiral's attention turned to his senior aerospace division
officer, flanked by the Mongol's most senior air group
commanders. For a moment, Kyoko felt a bit of relief as the
admiral's expression melted into something a bit more affable
as he greeted Colonel Hirota. Within the space of half a
minute, the entirety of the StratWing One's officer corps and a
few guests from the Goethe's aviator complement were all
waiting to be seated. The Admiral led the SVS-2 StratCom
around the honored guest table on the stage, offering her the
seat immediately to his right. Another man, whom Kyoko
recognized as the Admiral's chief of staff--"Commodore" Rudolph
Casimer, whispered a few words in Admiral Satie's left ear.
With an affirmative nod, his hand suddenly conjured up a small,
brass mallet; with which he struck a golden bell of similar
metallic quality. With that, StratWing One took their seats.
"Mr. President?" The flag captain, normally the
"vice-president" of a formal dinner function involving the flag
staff, had taken the role of the table majordomo; her job was
to command the activity of the stewards and to pass on official
instructions to the mess staff from the admiral. At this
point, Captain Marie Saint-Bordeaux was to cue the dinner
president to dispense with the grace.
"Thank you, Vice," Admiral Satie responded. From her table
at the far-end of the club, Kyoko peered over the heads of the
nearly two-hundred others that separated her from the main
platform. Jenna and Somn did the same, following Kyoko's gaze
to the rising admiral. Captain Saint-Bordeaux tapped the bell
again with the brass mallet, and StratWing One arose with such
solid coordination that would draw out even a Marine DI's
envy. With a commanding nod from their flag captain, each and
every aviator bowed their head in a moment of respect. Some
thought of losted love ones who had followed this same route,
ate at this same table, and had bowed their heads for those
that they had lost in their time. Others, like Kyoko, thought
of their losses in general. Her parents, her brother, and--in
a sense--her sister. As Thomas Satie's basso-voce inflection
rumbled out a stirring, moving prayer that appealed to all
denominations, Kyoko felt as if she could almost feel her
departed family calling to her. She didn't shake--not
anymore. Coursing through those veins, leading to the same
heart that ached at her loss, was the discipline of a Spacy
officer. She had always been strong, and now that strength had
added a measure of control to her bearing. As deep and moving
as the admiral's grace was, she did not falter even once; her
hands firmly gripped together behind her, and her face
unflinchlingly expressionless as her deep, blue-green eyes
remained firmly, yet comfortably, shut. Let go.
Anyone who managed to look upon seat D-39 that evening
would have never guessed how distressing those two simple words
could be.
* * *
"The Old Town," Washington D.C., Earth
Jason Kainu decided he wanted to visit the West Potomac Park
the first thing when he landed on Earth. His rust-blond and
rarely-groomed hair fluttered in the wind, a small scar running
down the left-side of his cheek. The few, yet impressive,
towering styluses of the New Washington skyline contrasted with
the heavenly azure overhead, thanks to the special weather
inhibitors that circumvented fronts with a whopping
twenty-eight percent effectiveness. A third year midshipman at
the Mars Defense Forces Academy, Jason was the first of his
immediate clan to take up a military career; his family had
long since returned and resettled on Earth's North America
continent after a recent continent-wide dustbowl forced a
number of the Gershwin's Planet farmers off their world.
Washington, District of Columbia--maps dated two centuries
back referred to it as the capital of the twentieth century
superpower, the United States--had endured several Zentraedi
kiloton-range particle beams tearing their way through the
city's center; from Ellipse all the way across the Mall,
parallel to to what was once Pennsylvania Avenue, during the
final seconds of the First Robotech War. The Washington
Monument, the Capitol Building, the White House, various
department buildings, and thousands of national relics and
sculpted testimonies of American political and social history
were incinerated by the particle-beam assault outright, and the
resultant shockwave leveled much of the territory beyond the
Beltway's periphery. Only the outlying ghettos and slums, from
Alexandria to West D.C., had survived; Washington's underground
culture quickly resurfaced to mar the sterling white image
built on the shadow of dehumanization and immorality. East
Coast cities that fared worse produced a never ending stream of
refugees, searching for intact food supply lines to survive off
of. By the thousands, they marched into the old capital,
magnifying the desperation of the population already doomed
within Washington's city limits. After forty years, the city's
demographic character had dwindled to less than twenty percent
its pre-war population, and before 2060, Washington had become,
in a dark twist of fate, the spectacular paradigm to one of its
most striking symbols.
The memorial graveyard.
Arlington Cemetery, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and a
few moments had managed survived the Rain. Those who had
weathered the attack roamed aimlessly about that dead field, as
if graves and tombs were the only things to which the
Washingtonians could cling to. A century and a half later, a
recognized federal government now held a district office in one
of the most revitalized Terran land units--the Central-East
Atlantic Coastline Sector. Much of the exterior had been
converted back into much needed farmland, although urban
reclamation following 2145 was on the rise again. However,
Washington was not most famous for its 20th century relics or
graveyards that had long lost meaning. Instead, it was a
single monument that remained of dire importance to all
humanity.
The monument once called the Vietnam Wall.
The original wall had fallen during the Rain, the casualty
of the indiscriminate Zentraedi attack. Only twenty years
later, when the Eastern American Federation pleaded to the
then-intact United Earth Government for funds to restore their
broken cities, did the shameless, proud Americans reconstruct
their monuments; refusing to bow down to the obscure depths of
the oblivion by any stretch. The Mall was hopelessly ravaged,
and would remain so for the next seventy years. Instead, an
exact replica was constructed in Arlington, where the graves
and tombs of America's defenders--great and small--lay in
peaceful reverie; oblivious to their vanquished companions
across the Potomac. As the interstellar wars drew on, the
Washingtonians devoted more and more time to constructing their
momuments to human suffering, and so they decided to extend the
wall. Within ten years, the names of every recorded American
service casualty had made it to the crystalline, coal-black
slab. Within fifteen years, the wall ran along the Potomac for
nearly a mile, bearing the names of every recorded Terran
service casualty of war.
By the beginning of the twenty-second century, it stretched
for nearly fifty kilometers in either direction; its
reflective, obsidian black surface bore the names of hundreds
of millions who had died in the service of Terra's defense over
the past several hundred years. In an age where computerized
text had long since replaced paper as a staple lithographical
surface, this physical testament to humanity defied both
critics of its anachronism and the bitter harshness of the
elements. Today, the wall bore a name that would serve to
memoralize all beings who died in the service of their
interstellar nation; "the wall" had evolved into the most
visible man-made monument, stretching for nearly two-hundred
kilometers through what was once Maryland and Virginia and
reaching three-hundred meters into the sky--the entire district
of Arlington a cul-de-sac in its interior. Hundreds of smaller
walls ran along side it, and the sheer scale of the project had
demanded a public transportation system devoted to delivering
tourists and pilgrims alike to each and every section of the
wall. Vibrantly majestic, the entire western skyline fell
under the shadow Earth's gift to the Confederation cast over
the city.
So the Sentinels Wall lived on, brilliant and magnificent;
erected about a city which learned the value of its momuments
as its dearest treasures through the most excruiatingly painful
lessons conceivable.
"Looking for someone?"
Jason wasn't expecting to meet anyone today, but the voice
sounded pretty familiar. He turned to see a recent graduate of
the Mars Defense Forces Academy--Liani Saba, Ensign,
RSF-Spacy--hovering only a few meters from his position on a
special people-tram. Jason admired her briefly, the Thelu--or
Julians, as the Terrans called them--were one of the most
expressive and affable representatives of the humanoid strain;
yet even Midshipman Kainu's broad grin stiffened when he
observed the wan smile with which Liani responded.
"No one in particular, sir." Jason paused before answering,
carefully observing the conduct protocols of a Spacy officer.
Then, it immediately dawned upon him that Liani wasn't in
uniform, and neither was he. Shaking his head in
self-reproach, he turned his gaze back to the Thelu officer.
"What are you doing here?"
"What you're not," Liani replied, her voice slightly
betraying a detached enthusiasm. "I've got fifteen of my
extended family listed here."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"No problem. This is the first time I've been planetside
on Earth," Liani--a member of the homo sapien race that had
naturally arisen on Jule's World, straightened the cuff of her
civilian uniform, "and I don't really know many of them. I'd
just thought I'd check the wall in person. And you?"
"Second time," he replied. "But my family came back here
after I went to the Academy."
"So you frequently visit them on holiday?"
"Yeah, though the first time was in an orbital hotel. Last
time I came down the well, I didn't really get to see them that
much. Didn't get to see much of anything--after all, it was
only for two weeks."
Liani stood up. At six-foot-five, she beat Jason by almost
seven inches. Well built, the only thing radically unhuman
about her was the touch of green in her skin color. Red-auburn
hair gently floated as the wind began to pick up, a cooling
breeze allowed by the weather inhibitors to calm the humid
climatics that were beginning to arise.
"Well," Liani mused, "I assume I'll fare better. I'll be
on-planet for the next two months.
"Your whole leave?"
"Why not? This is what the Confederation is all
about--Earth. One of the nation's most beautiful paradises,
and it made a full recovery from near destruction."
Jason nodded. The fact was Earth was such a paradise
because it was one of the least populated industrial Core
Worlds in the Confederation, no more than a billion and a half
resided on her continential and archipelago chains. Although
the Terran population had revived after the 2060s like a family
of rabbits, only a quarter of them lived on their homeworld.
That number was dropping each year as more and more native
Terrans began to move offworld. Although dust bowls on farming
colonies in the Local Group were beginning to see and deflux of
Earth emigrees, the fact of the matter was Earth was slowly
becoming a multi-cultural mecca for all Confederation races.
"Besides, I'll be working at least two and a half of those
months on either one of the Earth-side wet navy ships, or
topside orbital units. I have plenty of time before the
Connecticut gets here."
Jason nodded to demonstrate that he understood.
"How long will you be staying?" Liani decided to ask.
"Only for two weeks. I'm almost through with the first
one."
"Going to see your family?"
"First I'm going to hop a transway to London, then to
Bangkok. I'll hit home in five days, I reckon."
"Cutting it close, Jason."
"Well, I'll be on standby at Earthdock for a while,
probably, and I ship out early for my midshipmen field session
in August." He displayed his ensign midshipman (equivalent to
the training temporary third lieutenant rank); he refused to
leave them unattended.
"Where too?"
"A destroyer--the Los Angeles," Jason answered. "I'll be
spending the rest of the year in space; Tital-system patrol."
Liani oh'd, or something that sounded like an oh, and then
turned to face the wall.
"Listen, I know you're not looking for anyone in
particular, but...do you have any friends or relatives on the
wall?"
"Me?" Jason pointed at his chest. "Nadda. My family's
been colonial farming since the 21st century--first on Mars and
then on Gershwin's Planet. We're probably the only norte
americanos on either world." Terran language, and
Confederation standard, involved a complex yet relatively
easy-to-handle collection of neo-Spanish, English (both had
combined in the Southlands to form Spanglish), Japanese, and
Centauran vocabulary (the latter two usually in idiomatic
phrases rather than general grammatical structure). "Are you
looking for anyone in particular, Liani?"
"Well, actually yes," she hesitated. "My uncle was
killed--presumed missing in action or whatever--during a
mission two years ago. He was a Marine."
"Oh, I'm sorry," He remembered the Jarao and Rubian
incidents that had incited vicious anti-Corron and anti-Treaty
riots on the Farreach stations and throughout the
Confederation. The Defense Forces and the Confederation
supreme legislature, of course, had done nothing in the way of
retaliation. Jason wasn't the only one to feel animosity
towards the appeasement policy. "I didn't mean to pry."
"It's okay, and it's not exactly prying. I promised myself
the first opportunity I got to hit Earth, I'd come straight
here."
Jason cleared his throat. Although his family had remained
strictly non-affiliated with military service for four-hundred
years, he couldn't say that none were victims of war. His
great-great-grandfather fought the Invid as an irregular during
the Third Robotech/Second Invid War, and died only months
before the Regis was finally forced offworld. However, due to
his non-military status, when the wall was first erected in
2068, the Kainu family was unable to petition for his name.
Two years ago, the ban was overturned due to a completely
separate incident, and the Kainus were one of the first
families to apply and qualify. However, the etching had been
delayed when the federal appeal was filed. The newsmedia
estimated two weeks before the government monument commissions
finally gave up under the political pressure.
During the First and Second Corron Wars, enemy cruisers had
attacked Mars openly, folding over the hundreds of lightyears
past the war-wracked fronts of the then UN Spacy forces and
laying waste to the cultivated farmlands under the terra-formed
biodomes. Almost a third of his family at the time died in the
initial strikes. Fortunately, his family line remained rather
uneventful following the 2078-84 wars, and moving to Jule's
World, deep within the Keller Federation and hundreds of
parsecs from Earth and the Giovanni Stretch. Jason was the
first member of his family to join the armed force in four
generations.
"Did you find his name? They should've etched it in by
now."
"Not yet..." Liani kept searching. "Here it is. Jonathon
Giraldi Sr., 2143-2171; 23rd Marine Expeditionary Unit, Third
Marine Space Expeditionary Force."
"A shock trooper?"
"Not really. He wasn't special forces or anything--at
least he wasn't before his last op; but no one's telling us
anything about how he died. They're saying it was a Chorymi
raid; strafed his troop transport on the way to Rubia."
"Senior?"
"Yeah. My second cousin, Janice, was six-months pregnant
before he left. I guess the DeForce cared enough to find that
out. John Junior's almost two, now."
Jason Kainu nodded gently. Bunching his hands in his
jacket pockets as a cool breeze swept across the fields, he
watched Liani's pasty smile finally fade into oblivion as her
eyes steadily traced the engraved name; wondering scornfully
what force in the universe would delight itself in tearing a
father out of the life of his unborn child.
The brisk wind responded in its cessation.
* * *