(Jokers Wild Set 2: Flight Of The Jokers Wild)

This is where the scorecard really changes.

Jokers Wild 1 and its attendant side stories (Those Whom Chance Plays With, Dilemma of Flay Allster) is really the beginning stage of a long-ass nightmare. The Jokers Wild tale is going to be eight arcs long, and six of the eight arcs will include an outright war in them (exceptions being arc 1, which is mostly civilian, and arc five, which is a noncombat-focused arc). Of course, there will be side stories, lots of 'em, of both combat and noncombat nature. I have far too much material for dimension-hopping to call it quits just on the eight-arc main, and this fact is only exasperated by the sheer scale of time involved.

Set 1 of the Jokers Wild (Legend of the Jokers Wild) established the location and the players, such as they are. Set 2 is where the first round of this most dangerous game comes to pass; a great and terrible war looms ahead for everyone, and there will be a lot of blood in the name of the principles involved. Who stands at the end of the shooting match determines the fate of Existence to come; the necessity of time involved dictates that even a small change in this time frame can have massive consequences in the decades, centuries, eons to come. This is the true location where the outcome of Ragnarok is determined, and you will understand why in the coming chapters.

New alliances will be forged, old friendships will be tested, and at the end there will be a form of solution to the never-ending cycle of hatred. I can guarantee this whole thing will not be pretty, but sometimes the worst problems have the nastiest solutions.

-x-x-x-x- DISCLAIMERS -x-x-x-x-

As stated prior, this story contains a lot of characters, units, governments, history that I have created and that I have incorporated from other works. A lot of this is a multi-crossover fanfiction, basically, with elements as far-flung as anime, books, television, video games and board games. I will introduce most of the material as is needed, the rest (and interesting or entertaining facts) will be footnoted in my usual fashion. Thus, when you see (0) it means to check footnote 0 at the bottom of the document for some interesting intel. Seriously, go ahead, scroll down to the bottom of the chapter and check it, there is a footnote 0 at the bottom. I guarantee it. You might even find it useful. Much of the footnotes will be a clarification to something that people might find confusing, like an unfamiliar concept or term. Some of it may be humorous as well.

Note that the primary warship in the story was built using Battletech's rules from Aerotech 2, but is not legal for Battletech / Aerotech play, as it is well over twice too heavy for the maximum weight limit. Specs for the involved units will be included in dribbles in the story and I will do a full TRO section of the various units at the end of the chapters, as there are some that like the conversions from Gundam to Battletech. By the way, if anyone has thus far actually used one of the conversions in an Aerotech 2 game, please message or review with your opinions of the conversion.

Purists take note: I am trying to scale all included elements into a relatively cohesive set of comparisons here, though there are marked disparities in all included elements. They will be obvious, as they should be. When universes collide, the sound they make is loud and very very scary. There is simply no way to get around it, but one can make it (somewhat) logical. This will mean that I WILL have to call Gundam on its engineering problems, and I WILL call Battletech on its engineering problems. There's plenty of FUBAR to go around.

GENERAL DISCLAIMER: I own no rights to any included material from any other stories. I intend no offense in such use.

VIOLENCE WARNING: It is the root of all Gundam, for without violence there is no war. Otherwise, it is called 'negotiations', follow? And even I cannot imagine a 'Gundam' with only negotiating, such would be less entertaining than watching paint dry.

OC WARNING: This story is OC-centric, and not in the typical fashion. Of course the main characters and a lot of the secondary and side characters of SEED, SEED Destiny, and SEED Astray will show up. You have been warned.

BAAAAAD LANGUAGE WARNING: This story revolves around a fleet of misfits and jokers. Expect foul language; they are Navy and Marines, after all. Also expect possible suggestiveness, crazy situations, interpretiveness, analysis, and lots and lots of violence. You have been warned.

DICE WARNING: Events in this story will be controlled by the dice, and are concrete, true-random results provided by number generation services. These results will change events dynamically and/or modify established plans. After all, there is no mistress more cruel than fate.

POLITICAL WARNING: Political concepts and methods may be presented in this story that may conflict with established 'norms'. This is deliberate on the part of the author, to show different and rather sharp viewpoints on these subjects. The views expressed most likely do not match the views of the author, and are also subject to the dice at any time.

ANTI-POLITICAL CORRECTNESS WARNING: AT NO TIME will this story be politically correct. Real life is not politically correct, much less 'nice' in some definitions of the word. If you take issue with this, I recommend finding another read.

ZZZ-END DISCLAIMERS

And thus, onto the story from another corner of Existence...

(Jokers Wild Set 2: Flight Of The Jokers Wild)
(Set 2, Chapter 1: Looking Forward, Looking Back)

(14 July CE 72, 0830 hours Lima (local) time)
(Heavens Base, Iceland, Terra)

"This briefing is now in order," and Admiral William Sutherland activated the tape recorder for the conference room. "The subject of this briefing and conference is the new Mendel class of warship, hull designation Mike-Echo-Charlie-dash-hull number. The contents of this briefing are rated Top Secret – Special Access Only / Need To Know."

"We have personnel looking at the inside of the stripped cargo versions, and our officer on the inside has already reported that he likes the modular construction they used." They were looking pretty hard at one of the ships in use by a Scandinavian freighter firm that held contracts with Mendel and ZAFT to do asteroid mining and transport.

"Modular construction in a naval application," Sutherland shook his head. "Since the Magi first announced their presence to us, they have inverted every piece of military logic we have lived and survived on – and made it all work. Everything is armored, beam weapons are not God-mod arsenal, nukes will be used as counterforce instead of anti-civilian weapons, warships are extremely deadly platforms, the list goes on. It's damn near like they live to break every rule in the book."

"Or maybe we're playing by the wrong rulebook?" A senior Captain said.

"We were here first, it's our rulebook to write," a Commodore replied with a dangerous tone.

"Stay your rebuke, Commodore Gupten," Admiral Sutherland ordered. "This is not a briefing of Blue Cosmos yes-men, and you are not to treat it as such. Yes, this is OUR world, and after a fashion this is our rulebook, but we have to clean out the 'exceptions' appendix first before we can return to the necessary chapters of purifying the human race. Follow?"

"Aye, sir," the chastised Commodore answered immediately.

"We need a definitive naval strategy to take these ships out of action," the Admiral submitted. "We can't use nuclear arms against them in any fashion; the Mjolnr is equipped with a total of four antimatter shells for its massive Rail Guns, with each shell being equivalent to 1 gigaton of explosive force. I don't need to explain to any of you what manner of devastation that will cause to our world." All the officers present in the room nodded grimly. The largest (and most insanely impractical) nuclear weapon ever used had been a 50-megaton weapon that leveled a goodly portion of a Russian (then Soviet) island. The weapon Sutherland mentioned was twenty times more powerful per shot – and the Mjolnr had four shots to use on the planet or any other target deemed necessary.

"If they parked that warhead two kilometers over DC and detonated it, you can start by writing off the entire east coast of North America," Commodore Dale Roux explained coldly. "There won't be an intact piece of glass anywhere in North America, the Appalachian Mountains will be partially flattened and the shockwave will cause a notable tsunami in Europe and Africa. Atmospheric refraction could theoretically cause the shockwave to travel around the world and bust windows as far as India and Afghanistan; nuclear fallout and dust spall will cause radiation problems at least briefly, and we will get to see some honest-to-God global warming when it raises the world atmospheric temperature a degree or two just from pure energy transfer."

"I can think of less pleasant ways to go out, but not many," Commodore Gupten answered calmly. His expression was anything but calm.

"Naval strategy, people," Sutherland ordered. "Let the politicians decide how to deal with Mendel's nuclear fang – if at all."

"Frankly, sir, they have this tiger by the balls," Captain Fedden, on loan to the meeting from the Intelligence services, registered his opinion with almost zero tact. "Sure, these new Garm-class ships are small farts compared to the larger Riga-class missile frigates and the yet-larger Sendai or Flame Eater destroyers, but 'smaller' is still a hollow reed when the only ship we have comparable to it is an Archangel-class ship. Last I checked, Admiral, we don't have very many of those sitting around, and those we have are not crewed to the standard the Magi train. Excepting your ship, Rear Admiral," and he nodded to the one lady in the room.

"I Concur, Admiral," Rear Admiral Natarle Badgiruel replied in a clipped fashion. She had been told her promotion from the Trial of Possession against Mendel was on the bounty of a deceased Mendel warship, but the promotion board had decided that killing one of the famed Angel Team was just as worthy a goal. "The one time I went toe-to-toe with their ships, it did not end well for the Dominion. Size is only part of the equation; each ship they have carries the equivalent of an entire Earth Alliance flotilla's guns, twice that in fighters or Mobile Suits, and at least twice, probably thrice a flotilla's armor and point defense capability. The only advantage we have is the positron weapons on the Archangel-class ships – and good luck surviving long enough to use one. They know about that advantage clearly and are prepared to deal with it."

"Solutions?" Sutherland asked his assembled team.

"Retire the Drake-class ships, quietly," Commodore Gupten said. "Those old ships were good back in the days of challenging and chasing merchant traffic, but nowadays they lack the necessary firepower – even in quantity – to pose any serious threat to existing naval forces."

"Sell the Drake ships to the third-string countries, like Scandinavia or Equatorial?" Captain Fedden opined. "Either way, decommission the whole class, Admiral. The Drake-class ships are good on paper, but all they are nowadays is a death trap to the personnel we assign to them."

"Increase the Nelson-class ship production to counter?" Sutherland asked in follow-up, having taken clear note of the recommendation. "Like the sell idea, by the way, Captain. I'll be making that recommendation today; the other nations are making noise about building their own navies and holdings in space, so that gives them the illusion of a start." What applied to Mendel just as readily applied to the Earth Alliance: the Drake-class ships could present a threat to merchant traffic or under-equipped pirates, but against anything more substantial they would fold. Therefore Mendel and ZAFT would likely not complain about the sales.

"I recommend we step up production of Agamemnon and Archangel-class ships, Admiral," Commodore Badgiruel said. "Agamemnon costs less and has two sets of Gottfried guns, which will put a hurt on any of the Magi ships. It lacks the missile and CIWS capability of the Archangel, but it also costs a lot less than an Archangel and has a smaller crew contingent."

"Mobile Weapons?" Sutherland asked.

"Dagger L is a good start, especially with the new Doppelhorn or the older Launcher or IWSP packs." A 'friend' in Orb had smuggled the revised IWSP schematics out to Blue Cosmos, and from there to the hands of the Earth Alliance. "I keep hearing noise about a new model MS, something called Windam," Captain Fedden said. "Any advantage we can take, the better."

"We will need more," Sutherland said.

"Step up training," Natarle said. "Half of Mendel's advantage is brutal and continual training. The other half is technology. We can reduce their lead by half, which is a start."

"Concur," Commodore Gupten echoed. "We can't match them in tech, not for a decade or two, but training is a gimme. If we increased the training budget by as much as a quarter, we could expect to double our net results per formation."

"Sales from the Drake-class ships should easily cover that," Captain Fedden opined.

"You win," and the Admiral wrote down the suggestion. "Now, let's discuss this Garm-class ship in detail."

-x-x-x-

(16 July C.E. 72, 1630 hours Lima (West Pacific) time)
(Gigafloat Mobile Spaceport, South Pacific)

While Orb rebuilt its nominal space launch capabilities, the Gigafloat Mass Driver had been seconded to the island nations to better facilitate moving materials to and from space. The Mass Driver itself was good for moving certain kinds of cargo, but most of the dirty work was done by the massive Dropships that landed on the Gigafloat as substitute for the now-crowded Onogoro Airport / Spaceport. The Earth Alliance already had its own mass driver, the Victoria Driver was still in working order, and the other two spacefaring players had their own methods of departing the planet. Commercial traffic invariably went the way of the Gigafloat; the Earth Alliance had restricted the use of the one EA mass driver to military traffic, leaving cross-atmospheric retail concerns to fend for themselves.

Of course, with the massive influx of cargo operations to the Gigafloat, so came ways to deal with it. Part of it was an influx of new equipment to deal with it, the remainder was good old Junk Guild ingenuity.

"MOVE IT UP, YA FORKERS! THIS DAMN DROPSIP AIN'T WAITIN' ALL DAY!" The loading foreman shouted.

'Greasy' McPhennel snorted, though only loud enough to be heard by the vehicle technician riding along with him. He decided a little radio humor was in order. "Greasy to all stations declaring bet pool: how long before the foreman's shouting causes the foreman to have an aneurysm? Email your guesses and wagers to the usual location. Remember, no bet, no bucks!"

"Get back to work, 'Greasy'," the Foreman ordered over the same radio channel. The tech he was riding with (and offhand trying to impress) sniggered at the exchange.

Greasy did just as ordered, even though he had not directly canceled the bet pool. It was a bullshit bet to begin with; in the opinion of the freight workers on the Gigafloat, it was impossible for said Foreman to have any manner of lethal health problem on the justification that common mortal hands or problems could not kill evil. Still and all, it was the thought that counted to the 'Forkers' (Forklift Operators) and the moment of brevity in an otherwise breakneck duty shift that truly brought smiles to an otherwise overworked and dour crowd.

His hands maneuvered the massive forklift with gross ease, belying years of practice in moving large objects. In this case, the large object in question was a 20,000-kilo cargo shipping container, the kind usually seen on trains or massive cargo ships. This one was labeled 'Allster Industries', and was probably some manner of low-value appliances headed to Mendel. The Allster Conglomerate was famous for their beam sabers, but really made their money on civilian pursuits, which explained why Mendel had no objection to them shipping material in; everything was inspected at the dock, but at least they had import authorization.

"Geh, damn exos," 'Greasy' complained. The small forklifts were being slowly replaced by the Cargo Exoskeletons being manufactured out of several locations in Orb and Mendel, which changed the dynamic of freight movement around the facility. The exoskeletons were easily more maneuverable than even the smallest forklifts, were a bit more flexible than the forklifts (they could lift any object, not just palletized materials), and each massed considerably less than a standard forklift, but their overland speed was a bit slower than the old forklifts. This meant a waiting line for the travel up the ramp to the Dropship, and it also meant that the large forklifts would not be going out of style until they could be replaced with mass-manufacture Cargomechs, something Mendel was not making noise about.

"They are kinda cute though, and a lot smaller than forklifts for all that they carry the same freight," the Tech admitted. Something about her voice did nothing less than instantly get his attention and hold it.

"Still, they could be just a little bit faster," Greasy finished his complaining. After a trudge that lasted thirty seconds, he was in the clear and could maneuver at proper speed inside the cargo holds of the dropship. He checked the IVIS system set up for the use of the Gigafloat cargo systems and determined that his container was destined for cargo deck three, two levels above himself. Two short ramp trips took him up to the appropriate level.

'Greasy' had a bad habit of declaring the faults of the Magi and Mendel personnel, often times to their faces, which had resulted in a few fist-fights and a lot of people that laughed at him. All things considered, movement and marshaling of cargo was not on that list of faults. Waiting for him was a marshaller with lighted wands and a clear idea where the light cargo containers were going inside the bay. This Dropship came down with a full load of metal from Mendel's salvage operations and manufactured goods from the PLANTs, it would be leaving with a full load of foodstuffs and other manufactured goods. Such was the necessities of life in space, and 'Greasy' McPhennel was all too happy to have the job moving freight. It beat the hell out of being one of the poor Earth Alliance civvies barely scraping by in these days.

Apparently, the same thought occurred to the technician: "Better a job here fixing cargo movers than being in the North American theater trying to find a burger-flipping detail," she admitted as Greasy maneuvered to the signals of the marshaller.

"No shit," 'Greasy' replied. "27 percent unemployment since the war ended. Helluva way to run a railroad."

"What about Mendel?" she asked.

"I'll explain in a moment. Here, pay attention," McPhennel ordered of his trainee. "The marshaller just gave me a stop order, now he's signaling both forks rotate down. So," and he grabbed a pair of handles on the fork control panel and rotated them down slowly. After a moment, the marshaller changed his gestures. "Now he's ordering me to lower the load." a different handle moved the fork assembly up and down, which he accomplished smoothly enough that the container barely jolted. The marshaller gave it a quick location inspection and waved McPhennel off with a salute. "Getting the gist of it?"

"Doesn't seem too hard," she said.

"It'll get easier with practice," 'Greasy' replied.

"Anyway, how is Mendel doing?"

"11.7 percent unemployment as of last week, with a 300 percent unemployment turnover rate per month."

"That's...wait, what? 300 percent turnover? How?" she asked with clear surprise to tone.

"Boom-town economy," 'Greasy' answered after he put the forklift on the ramp headed down to the base level. "Businesses open and close with alarming frequency, merge and sell just as quickly. It's one of their damn good points, they know how to attract brave souls and thrill-seekers as well as the stable businesses. You work for a small outfit one day, you may be looking for a job the next day, and employed again the day after. Their situation is very mobile."

"Could be worse," she admitted.

Neither forklift operator or trainee had any clue the cargo container just left on the third deck had a special cargo inside...

-x-x-x-

(16 July C.E. 72, 1100 UTC)
(Terra (Strip) 3, Commercial Block 2, Mendel II Colony)

New citizens in the newest nation of the Cosmic Era had a bit of a learning curve to their new lands; anyone that believed moving to Mendel was rainbows and lollipops was quickly dissuaded of such an airhead notion within a day of arriving. Mendel was quickly gaining a reputation as a land for the brave and the determined, where those with the will to succeed went far, and those without the will to succeed often gave up and moved elsewhere.

Mendel II, the second colony of the Mendel Cluster, was just the same in all real terms, and a little bit rougher than its predecessor. Unlike Mendel One, the Mendel II colony was significantly larger than the first colony and built in the classic Island 3 fashion – a cylinder five miles wide and about twenty miles long. Mendel III, which was still under repair and refurbishment, was its twin in the O'Neill Tandem these colonies were normally built in. Each of both Mendel II and Mendel III were expected to house no less than 2 million persons, and expected a population of 3.3 million at full capacity.

Star Commander (Specialist) Elisa figured that Mendel II was rapidly approaching 1 million persons, mostly the destitute and the defeated of the Earth Alliance and the USSA, seeking escape from the morass on the planet below. Scandinavia did well to walk away almost unscathed and Equatorial took an economic hit with the end of the war, though both were relatively undamaged by the marauding of the war. With Orb and the USSA rebuilding from their time in Hell, much opportunity rested with the 'minor' players ZAFT and Mendel. That said nations had proved in battle their ability to match or soundly defeat the Earth Alliance was enticement to the common man to seek shelter in such lands, and thus avoid being on the losing side of another war. That Mendel was readily accepting immigrants from any land was ample reason to create the influx of immigrants guaranteed safe by the Magi military presence, especially when Orb could not take refugees and ZAFT would not take refugees.

"Or at least, that's how it is supposed to go," she admitted to one of the new merchants in S3-C2. "The Earth Alliance is playing a hefty game of catch-up with us right now, but with their economy crippled from its own failings we're pretty much safe for at least a year, maybe eighteen months."

"War makes a bad eng'n f'r economic growth?" the merchant asked before he spit a glob of tobacco juice into the spittoon he kept against the wall of his storefront. His accented English was thick enough to the point that Elisa had some small problem understanding him. However, his down-home attitude and clear determination had kept his shop going so far for three weeks, a record on this block of commercial buildings on the III Strip. That most stores folded in three days due to poor planning or market analysis was a writ fact, with how frequently storefronts went up and down in this area.

"Yeah, it's not the best, but an economy can grow on the foundation of war," Elisa admitted. "The Old Six grew on somewhere between six and ten percent military budget on a war footing during the Star Empire Wars, and one to five percent military expenditures during a peacetime footing. The rest of their growth was all civilian, or dual-use industry. Our 'friends' down below are doing something on the lines of seventeen percent mil and forty percent dual-use, and doing so on an already-crippled economy due to high energy prices." Elise's estimate was unstated, but just as readily obvious to a business owner: left alone long enough, the Earth Alliance economies would collapse of their own volition. It was a soft mission-kill according to Magi doctrine, but it rendered them incapable of advancing at the necessary pace to properly challenge the Mendel and ZAFT positions, which was perfectly fine to Elisa.

"It'll come t' bad terms soon 'nuff," the merchant said. "Then we get ter do it 'gain." Despite the accent, which Elise couldn't place anywhere except Georgia (Southern United States) English, his point was inexorable. Elisa didn't find it too terribly incongruent to understand, but it was a bit more than she was used to.

"How much are you askin' for that wall plaque?" Elisa pointed to one that had the inscribed words '.45 is so popular because they don't make a .46'

"Five C-bills," the old merchant said.

Elisa looked the plaque over and nodded. It had been carved out of a heavy-grain wood, probably oak or cherry, and engraved with the saying before it had been expertly stained. It would fetch five C-bills anywhere among the Magi lands, so she figured it was a decent deal. "I'll take—"

"SHIT! Thieves! STOP THEM!" A merchant down the road shouted.

Elisa had a bare two seconds to react, but for an Armor Sniper it was no challenge to make the call and take action. She stepped out in front of the teens in question and slammed the frame of her massive Barrett-Federated M225 Sniper Rifle into the chest of the lead runner. For a running lightweight, striking a 10-kilo rifle being held by a 65-kilo stocky female Marine Armor Sniper was just as bad as running face-first into a utility pole. He struck the rifle with his upper chest and folded under it, slamming to the ground and spinning to his right. His comrade, trailing so close to him as to have no forewarning, slammed into the muzzle brake of the massive weapon and rotated around it to the counter; after two-thirds of a full spin, he lost footing on the road curb and slammed to the ground with a clearly audible sound of breaking bone.

"Ooohhh-wee, girl! You laid dem punks out real good!" the southern-American merchant shouted.

"Holy shit dude, what happened?" the first punk asked, cradling the back of his head where it impacted the concrete ground. Answer enough came when Elisa put the muzzle brake to her 50-caliber rifle to his left cheek. "Oh, fuck!"

"You can keep running, boy, but you'll only die tired," she said with clear mirth to voice. She had no intention of even arming her rifle (it was loaded but not chambered), but there was no way the untrained youth could tell the difference visually. "Now, explain to me why a merchant is shouting 'thieves' and I see you running away from him," she ordered.

" 'Cause he's a lying douchebag and we knew something like this would happen," he said, still somewhat stunned from the impact and fall.

Elisa looked up to the merchant that had approached. "These two?"

"Aye," he replied. "Shoplifting small electronics," and the merchant pulled open the injured punk's coat to reveal a pair of music players still in package.

Elise reached back to her equipment belt and pulled her personal PDA. With a few key presses, she had it unlocked. "Copy your security video to this and to a backup storage system, I'll need it as evidence when these punks go before my Star Colonel." She looked down to the punks in question. "Now, kid, let's make one thing clear: calling a merchant a 'lying douchebag' is only going to add to your list of charges, all the more so since you were actually caught doing what he said you did. Follow?"

"Whatever," the punk said, regaining some of his prior gusto but still staring with fear at the end of her rifle. "I'll get off. Hitting me with that rifle's police brutality."

Elise smiled savagely, then reached around the bottom of her rifle frame with her left hand; her right hand never left the handle, though her trigger finger never went inside the guard or even touched the trigger. With a quick jerk of her hand, the bolt of her weapon went back and was released forward with a clearly audible ratcheting sound; the impact of the bolt slamming into battery caused the muzzle brake to slam harder into his cheek, easily hard enough to leave a hickie. "Even doing that isn't 'police brutality' under Mendel law, boy. I suggest you get used to the thought of getting roughed when you break laws, because we don't have all those pussy lawyers you can count on to coddle your sorry ass on the planet below, clear?"

"Erm, yes ma'am," he squeaked. Prior, there had been doubt in his mind as to whether or not she had a live weapon to use on him, but that doubt was now deader than he would be should she pull the trigger.

"Now, you have two choices, kid. One, you return the merchandise and you pay the owner half fair market price for what you stole, or choice two: you get some time in the brig, you forfeit the merchandise by default, and you go before my Star Colonel to answer for this crime. Your call."

"And if I win in court?" he said snidely.

"You won't," the wronged merchant said. "You lifted those players in clear line to two of my cameras. Your PDA, milady?" the merchant handed the sniper her device.

"Once the Star Colonel sees that, he won't hesitate to hamburger you two," Elisa said. "Might even laugh at you two for the embarrassing way you were caught, too."

The stunned punk grunted. "We'll pay."

"Wise choice. Up slow, help your buddy up to his feet, and hobble over to his place and pay up. Then hobble your buddy two blocks up-spin to the nearest hospital." Elise removed her rifle from his face, allowing him to stand. The defiance in his eyes was not unexpected to the Armor Sniper, but meaningless in the overall picture to her.

She had no idea that his defiance would contribute to coming problems far above her purview.

-x-x-x-

(16 July C.E. 72, 1200 UTC)
(Dropship Sailboat Reborn, in transit to Mendel colony)

"This is how you do it," the old loadmaster showed the new recruit how to enter the data into the appropriate fields. "We need these lists prepped and ready to go, that way the inspection teams are already ready to prioritize what they have to check on the way in."

"Makes sense, we can low-pri a crate full of tomatoes from Orb, at least while we have a cargo container from Cuba on the ship," and the greenhorn scanned the shipping docs associated with the cargo container. With a few rapid things typed into the scan tool, it was confirmed in the ship's manifest and thereafter in the incoming freight database.

"Man, how fast you typed that in, makin' me look bad," and the old-hand loadmaster wagged a finger at the greenhorn in mock scolding.

"Erpps," the greenhorn grunted, never realizing that he might have been showing up an old hand.

"Eh, fuck it though. So long as this deck's done by the time we get to Mendel, I don't care how fast you do it. If you get it all done with time to spare, you know where the crew lounge is."

"Aye, sir," the new hand said, relieved that the veteran loadmaster had been joking all along.

"Now, have at it kid. Scan each shipping unit in, make sure they're all dogged down tight, and just go around the bay systematically. If you find something that has not been secured properly, call the crew lounge to have the crewmern do it. Your job is to verify and organize, not dog these things down. If they can't do their job right the first time, they'll keep doing it until such a time as they do get it right, clear?"

"Aye, sir," Tony replied dutifully.

"Get to it, we have about four hours before we arrive at Mendel. Average for this lot should be...about three hours to check 'em all." Without further word, the new guy was left alone with a scan tool, a radio, a PDA, and 12,000 tons of cargo.

"This is going to be interesting," the new guy said to the aforementioned crate of tomatoes. Tony scanned the data barcode on the label and was rewarded with the fields on his scan tool being automatically populated by the manifest information already loaded into the ship's man databank. True to the signage on the crate, it was a shipping crate full of tomatoes, specifically 350 kilos of them, from Orb, destination ZAFT PLANT Junius Four.

He moved onward in the row of transport containers, scanning first a palette of engine thrust vectoring pipes and hardware (Mendel destination, 3550 kilograms), then a shipping container from Scandinavia with rope and wire (5,000 kilograms of rope, 12,500 kilograms of wire) headed to a distribution facility in Mendel. The loadmaster trainee knew the distribution facility in question, his older brother worked there as a systems engineer for the automated sorting lines.

Further in that row of freight, Tony encountered an unusual box with only a hazard placard on it (Explosives A class) and the manifest tag. Once scanned, it returned a shipping contents of 'Ammunition, 75mm SLAP, Autocannon' from the bill of lading. He shrugged and continued onward, unsure what the SLAP acronym would be for but relatively assured it was legit. Military alphabet soup came in many flavors, and fool was the civilian that tried to decipher it without a reasonable clue as to what it meant, or so he surmised.

"Allster Enterprises...aren't they the civvie branch of the Allster Industrial Conglomerate?" the loadmaster-trainee asked the large shipping container, with no rightful expectation of an answer. Tony scanned the waybill tag on the outside of the container, and was confirmed in his guess: "Toaster oven kits, blender kits, vacuum cleaner kits, 20,000 kilos worth of container and small consumer appliances. Outstanding," he groused.

The trainee stepped past the center of the cargo container, but stopped mid-stride due to a sound. "The hell?" he asked nobody in particular. The sound continued, and after a few seconds it took on a distinct timbre of something metal against metal, and in a definite pattern. He remembered he had heard the pattern before, but not where he had heard it...until he thought back to Saturday cartoons and an old cartoon about a ship lost at sea that put out a radio warning of three short beeps, three long beeps, and three short beeps. "An SOS? What the hell?"

He listened closer to the container from Allster Enterprises as his right hand reached for his radio. It happened again: three short raps, three long raps, three short ones. Definitely not a normal sound to come from a container full of toasters and vacuums. With a quick motion Tony had his radio up to his face and keyed the channel. "Bridge from cargo three, come back," he requested.

"Go for bridge," the Captain requested.

"Cap'n, I have a funny one down here in section seven, row three. Cargo container from Allster Enterprises with what sounds like an SOS being tapped out inside a box on the inside of the container itself. I think we may have stowaways on board," he said.

The radio was silent for a few moments. "Stand your station fast, seaman," the Captain ordered, using the old wet-navy term for an enlisted man. "I have armed personnel headed your way now. ETA 90 seconds."

"Aye aye, Captain," the greenhorn said, then released the mike button on his radio. "This is a helluva start to my career on a dropship," Tony groused to himself.

In less than a minute, he had company in the form of several of the crewmen with shotguns. Tony knew he would eventually go through small arms training and crew-served arms training, and possibly even ship mobile weapons training, but for the present he was going to learn how to manage freight on the ship and how to repair the Sailboat Reborn. Another thirty seconds and he had almost a dozen persons in the vicinity, all were armed with some form of shotgun, sub-machinegun, and one even carried a large Firedrake Support Needler with gyroscopic harness (for stabilization) and AG rail pack to reduce weight.

"Sealed container on north," the senior officer said.

"Locked south, torch the south lock," the Captain ordered. An engine technician used a laser pen torch to cut through the lock shackle in seconds. "Ready for sweep?" the Captain asked. Several heads nodded grimly; everyone knew this could be a very dangerous situation, or it could be a false alarm.

"Tony, you're the doorman for this operation," a twenty-something midshipman ordered of the sixteen-year-old Tony. "When I give the go, you unlatch the door and pull it back, and you stay out of sight of the inside, clear? Don't skylight yourself, don't peek, don't do nothing."

"Yessir," Tony said as he grabbed the handle for the door latch. The midshipman took station behind the other door, then gave Tony a hand signal to open it. Tony immediately yanked up on the handle, twisted it a quarter the way clockwise to unlatch the door and began pulling the door open. Unlike the movies, the door was a heavy monster and it took the bulk of his strength to get it open, but he did as ordered – as was needed – to ensure the job was done right.

The crewman shirked his way between two palettes of vacuum cleaners in boxes to get inside and clear it. "Captain, I'm only about a third way in and I've hit a large metal container inside," the senior crewman said. "Looks like an isolated shipping unit, three meters by three meters." he rapped something on the side of the box, which caused a resounding clang of metal on metal. "It is hollow, and sounds empty."

"Help!" a muffled voice resounded from inside. Whoever had that voice was not that old, in Tony's opinion.

"Palette jacks! Get this container cleared to the steel bulwark! Move it!" The Captain ordered.

Tony stepped up to his own tasking of Loadmaster, realizing that trying to clear the container of contents now would be nothing short of a traffic jam clusterfuck. "You, you, and you! Unsecure the palettes in rows one, two and three along this line," and he indicated the line of palettes immediately adjacent to the door of the container, then indicated three of the midshipmen with lighter weapons. "We can use a cargoframe and a palette jack in this area. I'll be back," Tony said before he jumped over a low box of electronic components and darted off to the central column equipment storage racks.

"Aye, sir," a senior mechanic replied immediately. His wasn't so much trepidation at disobeying orders but a realization that the kid had the best – and fastest – plan for the task.

Tony made it to the Cargoframes speedily and climbed in one without hesitation. It took him thirty seconds to adjust the foot platforms and arm grips, and another thirty seconds to belt in, but once that was accomplished he had no trouble getting it to move intuitively. It wasn't fast, but it was powerful well in excess of his own coordinated strength. He arrived at the rescue spot even before the third palette of goods had been removed from the area to allow easy access to the storage.

"Connolly, get your ass up here to cargo 3 section 7 with a plasma torch, pronto! We have some heavy metal to burn through for a rescue op!" The Captain ordered. "Tony, get those palettes out of there and let the rest hand-jack them away!" The palettes could not be moved by the palette jacks, they were stacked so close to the ceiling that raising the lift section jammed the top of the stack into the ceiling of the container. The powered freight movers would have no such problems – their power could overcome the resistance without issue.

Tony moved the forks into place and rammed them through to the hilt. He was careful to raise the forks only slightly before he began twisting-pulling the stack out. With a slight protest of material against container, the stack came out and he set it aside for the other personnel to palette-jack clear of the area. Tony didn't hesitate in moving in for the second of four palettes, and this one came out just as smooth as the first, though took a little more power to remove – Tony doubted the vacuums on top would be out-of-box usable, but might be repairable.

"Medical team, Captain Satz, stand by for possible casualties or trauma," she barked into her radio. "Two more, Tony, move it!"

"These things only move so fast, Cap'n," Tony replied even as he entered the container proper to remove the next of the last two palettes.

"I'm here, Cap'n," Master Technician Connolly reported as he approached the scene with a plasma welder set. "Who's the bloke?"

"New guy, apparently very adaptable," the Captain answered as Tony set aside palette three.

"Well, he's moving that frame about as fast as expected," the master tech said. "Not bad for a kid with no formal training."

The fourth palette was out of the container and Tony simply walked it out to the maneuver area himself instead of dropping it for the others to deal with. He set the load down as per safety regs, backed off the load, put the forks to the ground, and jumped out of the frame within ten seconds of shutting it down.

"Stand back, kid, we still don't know what's in there," the Captain ordered, with an outstretched hand to prevent Tony from approaching. She had her own arsenal comparative to the others on board, a massive (and antique) AA-12 automatic shotgun with drum feed full of buckshot shells. Connolly was readily visible as he cut into the steel container with a plasma torch, but what was also readily visible was the six crew members with shotguns and sub-machineguns waiting nearby in case the contents of that stowaway box was hostile. Weapon-mounted flashlights substituted for the usual industrial lights that would be used on a repair or rescue project, providing the welder easy lighting for his task.

Cutting enough of a port-hole to access the inside of the box took almost three minutes, during which the sound of a voice could be heard from inside. "Ten seconds!" the master technician shouted as he prepared to cut the final ten centimeters of the box. His cutter was drowned out for a moment by the sounds of shotguns being armed, even the massive AA-12 joined the cacophany, then eerie silence short of the cutter. "Last bit!"

The torch chopped through the last three centimeters of metal, followed by the master tech quickly grabbing the top edge of the severed plate and hauling it away from the contents of the stowaway box. The resounding clang of the metal sheet on the inside of the cargo container gave testimony to how thick and heavy it was, ample proof that whoever was inside wanted to stay inside for a reason.

The sight on the far side of the box was ample to wrench Tony's heart. "A kid?" he asked rhetorically even as the midshipmen began searching the corners of the container.

"Four, captain! Three unconscious, they don't look all that good, one awake!"

"Here," the master technician reached into the room with his welding gloves and picked the exhausted but conscious child out of the container. "Medic! Three more still to come out!"

"Room clear! Three non-coms remaining!" one of the elder crewmen said.

"Pull them outta there! Now! Medics to the front!" Captain Satz ordered. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what were these kids thinking?" she asked as the weapon lights and now flashlights peered into the container.

"Whatever they were thinking, it probably revolved around 'get the hell out of Dodge in a concealed manner', and they almost made it," the master technician said as a young teen lady was stretchered out of the container. Tony followed close, carrying one that was almost his age in a classic fireman's carry. "He really is a kinda versatile whelp. Intend on keepin' him, boss-lady?"

"So far, yeah," the Captain said, then pulled the drum from her AA-12 and ejected the loaded shell. "Carbon dioxide scrubbers, a porta-potty, water, MREs, bedding, these kids planned on a helluva long travel. Wonder what went wrong?"

"These did, Cap'n," one of the engine techs said. "These scrubbers are both shot, they were jury-rigged to run off car batteries. Cooked the controller systems slowly, so they ran for a while but eventually burned out."

The Captain arched her eyebrows. "That's fairly clever. I can also see vents in the top of the box, so that probably helped, along with the vent in the top of the exterior container having been bypassed. Slick planning for the kids, I'll give 'em points on that."

"These kids must've been in transit for two weeks," the loadmaster for Deck 1 opined. "Given the amount of empty water jugs and ration packs, they had a helluva haul."

"What do you think? Call it Midwest US to LA, grab a container ship to the Gigafloat, then loaded on here?" the Captain asked Tony as he inspected the interior of the transit box.

"Sounds reasonable, and I think it's been almost three weeks for them," Tony answered. He climbed into the container, followed close by the captain; both had flashlights to look through the darkness. "These trash bags are compressed, they've got more in them than appears at first glance. This water usage would be appropriate for hot zones for two weeks, or cold zones for three, maybe twenty-five days given their size."

"And they planned on as much as another twenty days, given the rations and water they still had," the Captain estimated by a quick glance over their remaining supplies.

"Toilet would not have made it that long," the master technician said. "It's pretty well full right now."

"Empty water jugs would have done just as well," Tony said. "Awkward to use, though."

"Desperate times, awkward measures," the Captain said. "Damn good ears and damn good reaction, by the way. You made every call on the up and up for this one. Ever consider a career as a dropship crewman?"

"I dunno," Tony replied with clear sarcasm to his 'considering it'. It was clear that with a job like this, he wasn't about to walk away. "This...isn't typical, right?"

"No, this is desperation, plain and simple," the Master technician said as he picked up a loaded and cocked pistol nearby one of the blankets.

"Why would they want to be boxed up and shipped to Mendel like this?" the Captain asked.

It would be a question with a sharp answer...and a lot of repercussions.

-x-x-x-

(16 July C.E. 72, 1400 UTC)
(ZAFT Military facility Armory One)

The exterior of the colony had been built in record time, thanks in no small part to the assistance of Mendel's rapidly-growing Colony Construction Organization. With the exterior done, their work was complete and their attention turned next to the new space graving dock Asgard, where the construction of Jumpships would allow humanity to expand to the stars. With the exterior of the new PLANT built, it was now in the hands of ZAFT to build and prepare the internal facilities, most of which would be military, military-industrial, or support.

Thus, it was time to state the purpose of Armory One and explain to a world why force of arms was needed. Mendel would have no problem with the thought, he rest assured, but other nations would take issue with the new and mostly-military PLANT.

"Fellow citizens of the PLANTs, enlisted and officers of the ZAFT armed forces, residents of space and Earth watching from afar, I welcome you all to the newest colony in space." Chairman Durandal waited for the applause from the spectators to subside before he continued. "Through a combination of ZAFT engineering, Orb resourcefulness, and Mendel spacefaring skill, this PLANT is online fully six months ahead of schedule." Again, he paused for the semi-obligatory clapping. It had not taken him long to become used to the thought of the continual interruptions, but the necessity of them was a bit lower than they showed in his opinion. "Thus, by resolution of the ZAFT supreme council, and in accordance with treaty promises between the Multimage Protectorate of Mendel and the Zodiac Alliance of Freedom Treaty, I hereby commission this PLANT as the industrial and military facility Armory One." The clapping and cheering for his declaration of commission was the loudest yet, and even included whistles and cheers from the ZAFT military personnel as well as the various construction workers listening in.

With the camp cheerleading done, Durandal decided it was now time to begin the process of cementing positions and advancing causes. "A year ago, we had no beliefs of anything outside the earth sphere, excepting those few brave souls who still follow the old religions. We have long known the skies are filled with stars; we have long suspected the existence of parallel entropy in Existence, but we had no proof. More to the point, we had no real intention to move past the cradle of humanity, instead content to limit ourselves to this planet and its nearby neighbors, at least subconsciously if not in writing. No being has dreamed more longingly of escaping the gravity well of Earth than we humans; no human has tried to do so with any more success than the brave souls now living on Mars, but even they have gone to no more effort to explore the heavens than to seek a new residence away from the morass of Terra. We must ask ourselves two questions today, and we must provide two answers if we expect to hand a bright, clear future to our descendants."

The warehouse where he was holding the meeting was deadly quiet in the wake of his initial position. "The first question we must ask ourselves is simple: why would people flee the planet, flee to Mars, in the wake of the supposed wonders of our day and age?" A short stir erupted from the crowd but was quickly silenced of its own accord. "The answer for this question is inherently simple: humanity has built many wonders of technology and society in the hundreds of years since we first took to space, but at our core we are still the same beings who fought by sword and shield in the forests of Europe over flags and principles and land. We are unchanged from the days of trench warfare in World War 1, unchanged from the race riots of the 2020s, unchanged from the Reconstruction War, even unchanged by the near annihilation of the S2 Influenza and the destruction of Junius Seven. We have come so far and yet we have nothing to truly show for 'progress' other than material achievements and a limited release from our planet of birth."

Silence permeated the area, but Durandal knew intrinsically that he had their attention. "The second question is also simple: what is humanity missing, or what is holding back humans, from reaching to the stars that have so long danced in our eyes and flown within our grasp? By all rights, we have more today in most of the fields necessary to construct a working Jumpship than did the first pioneers of the technology, Kearney and Fuchidia. Our computational systems are well in excess of theirs, our material handling and assembly is equal to theirs, and our personal engineering skills far outstrip those visionaries of interstellar travel. Even the best minds of the Earth Alliance can out-vision the scientists of 2030 Terra, that is the measure of our progress in those lines. The only reasonable answer is that we are our own limit."

A harangue of clapping gave him pause, but it was short and Durandal pressed on. "Our limit is entirely inside the confines of our mind: we believe this is our home, we think of the measure of Existence as nothing more than the Earth and the Moon and the few colonies floating around it. With those limits, nobody is willing to put forth effort to walk farther than humanity has done so before. This does not create the future we can rely on to give us a continued existence. When you ask scientists about a controversial topic, ten different scientists may have for you ten different answers. When you ask if Earth will last forever, those same ten scientists will agree on one answer: our planet will not last forever, our race will not last forever unless we leave the cradle of humanity and seek our fortunes elsewhere. The date is not specific, but in a few billion years our star, the Sun, will burn out. With it will go everything we have built, all the lives and memories and hopes of an entire race, doomed to our own temerity."

The silence still echoed throughout the warehouse, and Durandal expected it this time. "It is a simple thing to frame the consideration of a billion years in the thought that it is not our problem. For today, the star which we orbit will do nothing more than shine down upon us; A billion years alone gives the human race fifty million generations to tackle the problem of where else to take residence, thus a reasonable man would say that someone, somewhere, would solve this problem for us. A reasonable man, but an indolent man in the end; one who does nothing more than look to his own hands and no farther would believe that. With such a mindset in use our descendants are left to clean up the mess we have created, a policy which is shown not to be smart policy throughout history. Indolence in such fashion has never solved problems, and in most cases such indolence has caused more problems than taking action. This is not the policy we must take if we expect to survive our own faults. We must stand and take possession of our own future, instead of waiting for outside events to write it for us."

It took a few moments for the message to sink in, and the clapping was slow to begin, but his ovation lasted thirty seconds. "Slightly more than a year ago, we learned in an abrupt fashion that there is more to Existence than we behold, that there are other parties out there. We learned that it is possible to leave the cradle – and it is easier than ever imagined, if one knows what angle to take. We learned that we can build our own fate."

The response was a bit faster, and not all that reserved. "Last year, we entered into treaties to assist Mendel in developing Jumpships for the dual purpose of returning a warning to their homeland and to allow those willing to leave Terra to do so. That task continues apace even as we speak; the first sections of the Asgard Shipyard Station are being assembled as we speak; the outlay of resources is large, especially for small nations such as Orb, Mendel, and ZAFT, but the purpose is beyond mere numbers or resources. The purpose is the prevention of the eventual annihilation of humanity; from this task, we cannot shrink away."

The reaction was immediate and loud. Durandal had to wait fifteen seconds for the cheering to subside before he continued onto the heart of the matter. "This brings me to the necessity of Armory One. We are willing to look past the reach of our hands, as are other groups among the scattered nations. Some are indifferent to the task, following in the usual mantra of decades and centuries past that it is a problem for the future; not their concern. There are parties among a few nations, however, who hold an immeasurable tract of power and the desire to use that power to control the earth sphere. These persons seek to use any means necessary to gain and maintain that power: terrorism, political threats, military posturing, even nuclear warfare and genocide are their tools. They have tried to use nuclear arms against the PLANTs, they fired on Mendel with nuclear arms, and it is assumed that they would just as readily use those weapons on anyone else standing in their way. These parties seek the ultimate power: the control of the entire earth sphere, and the right to declare who lives and who does not have the right to live among humankind."

The silence was somewhat unbecoming of the crowd, Durandal figured. Raging against Blue Cosmos was a favored pastime of both the civilians and the military of ZAFT, but their quiet was also respectful of the named party. "Armory One stands as ZAFT's pledge to Mendel, Copernicus and Orb, that we shall stand to the last against oppression and mass murder that would be visited upon our neighbors and comrades. It stands as gatekeeper to the L4 colonies, the homeland of Mendel and the millions of persons who would seek refuge among the Magi. Armory One stands in defiance of the genocide attempted before, and in defiance of the repeat of nightmares we have already suffered. Armory One will be our outpost in space, from where we will prepare men and materials for the eventual leap to the stars, and for where we will prepare for any eventuality on the planet below."

"The Magi have an old saying, a study in religious duality if one ever seen, that truly marks the spirit of Armory One. It goes as such: 'I pray to the Fates that if I must use my skills of war, that I use them swiftly and effectively, and that I return home thereafter. I then pray to God that I never have to use my skills for war, for the price will be too terrible to behold.' This is the truth that I believe is the spirit of Armory One, and this is the spirit I beseech you all to uphold in coming months and years."

The clapping and cheering marking the end of his speech was the loudest of all, and was echoed by many around the world. Still others shrugged off his speech, themselves unconcerned with the machinations of those in space.

A few fumed at the principle highlighted in the speech, and fumed at being called out by the 'arrogant inhumans' on their tactics and motives. It would be they who vindicated the last stanza of his speech, but not in the way they expected.

-x0x0x-

(16 July C.E. 72, 1600 UTC)
(Dropship Sailboat Reborn, Mendel Civilian Dock area)

The first thing waiting for the Sailboat Reborn was an Ophanim MASH (Mobile Army Surgical Hospital) vehicle. The Captain had radioed ahead that she had four medical evacuations waiting for extraction, all four cases of hypercapnea (carbon dioxide poisoning). One was reported as conscious but clearly disoriented at discovery, three reported unconscious with one regaining consciousness since the discovery of the incident.

"This one doesn't sound all that good, but it could be far worse," the master Medtech for the vehicle declared, looking over the IVIS (1) report of the incoming cases.

"It's nowhere near the usual battlefield trauma we've trained to deal with, but I'll take a couple kids with CO-2 poisoning over a 20mm gunshot wound any bloody day of the week," one of the junior MedTechs said with a clear sigh to tone.

"Seyla, sister," (2) one of the nurses responded.

"Dropship is linking now, thirty seconds to soft-seal," the driver read off the IVIS panel up front and announced on the vehicle intercom. "First things through the dock bridge should be our rescues. Once they are loaded, we move."

"Grouchy bastard, today," the head nurse for the vehicle commented.

"Did he not get enough coffee this morning?" the senior MedTech asked.

"Must not have," the vehicle loadmaster said.

"Oh I got my morning ration of coffee and not a drop more, that's why I'm grouchy. Want I should shove my coffee mug up your butt far enough for your soul to verify it's been used today?" The driver asked with significant frustration to voice.

"Definitely not a good day," the head nurse commented dryly.

"Must be the lack of the good shit," a junior MedTech declared. "The good blends of coffee are all manufactured and sold from areas controlled by those dastardly Earth Alliance asshats. Of course they won't sell to us, so..."

"They wait long enough, coffee deprivation will set us to infighting, which will make their job easier by default. Or we'll get over the coffee addiction, one of the two," the senior MedTech declared coldly.

"Incoming," the loadmaster said as four stretchers were carried their way from the dropship loading tunnel.

"Look alive, people!" the senior MedTech said as he dropped his cigarette and stomped it to snuff the flame.

"Four for you," the lead stretcher-bearer said. "All four are stable, but only two have regained consciousness yet."

"Jesus, must have been some serious exposure," a junior MedTech commented. "We'll do beds 1, 3, 5, and 7 for ease of transport," she directed the four litters to the available mobile-operations wards inside the MASH bay of the Ophanim.

-x-

For Rita Daniels, the movement was surreal almost to the point of a hallucinogen trip. She intellectually knew something was physically wrong with her, but she could not guess what it was in her fogged and disoriented state. She only knew that she wanted to get to Mendel and avoid anything Blue Cosmos; how the world was constantly jolting and spinning was disorienting to her to the point of nausea; a particularly rough jolt upset her past her limit; she turned her head to the side and spewed, for what she guessed was at least the third time since she woke up. She did not know that the personnel she was with had anticipated this and had a bucket waiting for it.

The movement ceased for a few moments as activity continued around her. She could see blurs in the grayed vision she still held, she could hear bare snippets of muted sounds around her but could understand none of what she was hearing. She could feel the stiffness of the bed she was now on, but could determine nothing about it or her environment.

Rita was one of those rare cursed beings in Existence who were sentenced to a life of torment by the sound of running electronics. Since she was young, Rita could easily hear the refresh whine of CRT monitors running, a very-high pitch buzzing sound that most persons could never hear. The sound of an electric vacuum motor gave her headaches, to the point that she had to wear firearm-rated hearing protection when her mother did the Saturday morning housecleaning to prevent the headache. Thus, when the new sound of an electric motor came to her, this one was an instant headache-producing sound as well as loud enough to outstrip any vacuum cleaner she had ever heard. She could tell it was below her, with a few similar motors below her and to the right, but more than that she could not tell.

Her body moved in response to inertial forces, something to which she guessed she was moving inside a vehicle now and a large one at that (easily larger than the school buses she was used to riding in or the family truck). The motion wasn't extremely bad, but for her nausea it wasn't any measure of help. Thankfully, it didn't last more than a few minutes before the vehicle came to a stop and the electric motors shut down, which stopped amplifying her headache and her nausea.

More movement, more voices, and more random noises. She thought she had been removed from one enclosed space to open air, then taken into a large echo chamber of some kind. That did not last long before she was in some kind of a room with a lot of beeping electronics. The movement stopped, started again, then stopped again; this time she could feel she was on a soft surface of some kind, and something touching her face, but other than that she could only guess she was in some kind of electronics room?

-x-

"Hypercarbia," the resident physician assigned to their care read off their charts. "Invidious. How did they come to suffer such on a dropship? I've seen their filtration and recycling systems, the scrubbers on a Guild II can handle upwards of 6,000 people without significant modification."

"They locked themselves in a steel box inside a steel box, with inadequate ventilation and atmospheric scrubbers," the Ophanim crew chief said. "Or, at least it would have been adequate if they had jury-rigged the atmospheric scrubbers correctly. That's the trouble with greenhorn canker mechanics, though: brave enough to try, too green to get it right."

"Erm, can you fly that by me again?" the resident said.

"They were stowaways, they built a secured hide inside a freight container out of one-centimeter steel, loaded it with supplies and sealed themselves in. It would have been enough to get them here, to Mendel, without issue, except for the loss of their atmospheric scrubbers. Thankfully, a trainee loadmaster on the ship heard their SOS and was able to get timely rescue efforts in place." The loadmaster made to light a cigarette, but his lighter was quickly snatched by the resident doctor. "What? Gimme back my lighter, amigo," he requested somewhat archly.

"Only if you put it away," the doctor replied just as archly. "This is a hospital, and these four are on fifty-fifty oxygen. You strike that lighter and this room becomes an open-air pavilion rather explosively."

"Oh, shit! Didn't think about that," he admitted.

"Clearly so," the doc rebuffed him. "Thankfully, the three were just barely past the unconsciousness stage, and the fourth was only disoriented. A day or two in here should bleed out the excess carbon dioxide and they should be uninjured. You can rest assured this story will end with a happy note."

"Damn little of that nowadays," the loadmaster agreed. "Well, anything you need from me?"

"How about you kick that smoking habit?" the doctor said.

"Eh, helps me concentrate," he replied dismissively as a dodge.

"You say so," the resident replied with a tone that clearly said he wasn't buying that line of bullshit.

"They're yours, Doc. Good luck and godspeed." Without another word, the loadmaster was out the door and headed back to his vehicle.

The doctor picked up his voice recorder and switched it on. "16 July CE 72, 1630 hours. GARM medical ward, block 3. Four patients, all early teens, all female, all four suffering differing degrees of Hypercarbia. Blood tests for CO-2 saturation are in the works at this time. Inquiry needed for three being unconscious and one not; what is the differing factor and what was the maximum saturation this could have happened at. Also check for blood acidosis due to built-up carbon dioxide in bloodstream."

-x-x-x-

(17 July CE 72, 0600 Hours Lima)
(Equatorial Union, Equatorial Spaceport)

"Four to the left, suppressing fire!" Captain Tunke ordered of his men. Like the professional soldiers they were, a light machine gun broke off from the main base of fire, swiveled, and took under fire the attempted flanking of his position. Short bursts of 6mm rifle rounds went downrange in two-round and three-round groups, with at least one of the foes crumpling under fire and one other injured; all four dropped to the deck and turned to bring fire on him, but without having gone far enough left they were still shooting up his 'front' and not accomplishing much.

"Frag out!" The unit 'nader shouted after he tossed a grenade in the direction of the enemy. Much to his credit, the grenade landed and detonated almost a half-second after it hit the dirt, and his aim was dead-on in landing among the advancing rebels / terrorists / unidentified aggressors / hairdressers / something-or-other. The Starport Militia had no clue who these aggressors were, but they knew they meant business.

A visual-launch Milan AT missile was fired from down the line, where his main anti-armor platoon was sited for a good field of fire against the enemy center. The missile tracked to the foremost APC (old American M113 APCs, sometimes called 'breadboxes on tracks') and detonated on the front of the machine. The remaining propellant fireballed when aggravated by the shape charge inside the missile, but it did its damage by throwing spall around on the inside of the machine. True to reasonable expectation, the missile blew a five-inch hole in the front armor of the APC and had blown the rear doors open from the pressure wave; anything in between the front and the back had probably been reduced to red paste and bone fragments by the shrapnel inside.

The defensive forces Captain quickly took stock of his own positions, and nodded a reserved approval. His men were professionals, pulled from the Equatorial Aribrone troops to guard the now-critical Starport and facilities against any attack. Their positions, tenchworks and revetments, were in excess of 'by the book', they approached impossible to crack for green troops as these mystery attackers were proving. The enemy was eager and well-motivated, but 'unevenly led' in military parlance, which was code-phrase for their asshat commander should not have the right to command troops in the field. He had announced his attack about forty minutes early with a flare, then marched right into the teeth of the defenses. Captain Tunke figured that was the measure of terrorists: some were smart, most were vicious, most had cunning, but not all were well-enough trained or intelligent enough to do anything more than creatively place bombs for maximum civilian casualties.

"More on the right! Fast movers!" the call came across the radio; before the Captain could even look at the oncoming unit, the sound of jeep engines and heavy machine guns made the matter crystal clear. These were answered by 40mm grenade launchers and heavy machine guns of their own; two of the six jeeps survived their first pass, the other four bought it from rifle hits to the driver or in one case a 40mm grenade to the side of the vehicle shredded the tires and caused it to flip on the side without rubber to support it.

"What the hell is that sound?" the Captain's radio operator asked.

"They stopped!" someone shouted. All the vehicles had stopped in their tracks, with the larger ZSU-23-4 anti-aircraft / anti-personnel self-propelled machine cannon units pointing up into the sky. A few with heavier rifles aimed them at the descending object, a dropship, and opened fire. Less than a third of the infantry were firing into the sky, some even trying to hit the descending dropship with RPG fire, but few of the rockets could have even part of the range necessary to reach it. The large ZSU mobile anti-air guns were easily able to reach up to it, for what it was worth; the Captain saw the distinct telltales of rounds sparking off the side armor of the ship, even as his men continued to take their formation under fire.

"Milan teams! Focus on the ZSU guns! Silence them!" the Captain ordered.

"HOLY SHIT!" A Private shouted as he saw a line of tracers walk across the ground, through a patch of infantry (and sundered them from the impacts), then across the top of one of the four ZSU SPAAG (5) units. Two hits had been seen before the ZSU cooked off from an internal ammo feed strike, with the added visual bonus of seeing the turret go 'jack-in-the-box' in that it went airborne from the ammo explosion and started coming down after about 30 meters of upward travel.

-x-

(Dropship GDS-20992151, in landing pattern above Equatorial Spaceport)

"Say HELLO to my LITTLE FRIEND!" the gunnery officer for the aft-left bays shouted. The 105mm Rotary Autocannons he had been using spun down with a ratcheting sound audible in the bridge even though the cannons were nearly clear across the ship.

"I think they got the message, kiddo," the Captain said to the overeager teen at the station. "Equatorial, Dropship, how close do your boys want their fire support?" Since the enemy (whoever they were) had fired on a dropship, they were considered fair game for the dropship crew and arsenal, and that wasn't even the biggest surprise the ship had in store today.

"As close as you can put it without fragging my men," Captain Tunke answered for the tower. "You are a sight for very sore eyes. Praise be to Allah and Mendel for your helping hand!"

"Gunners, give 'em hell as they appear in your gunsights," the Captain ordered.

His order didn't take long to be implemented. Within two seconds, the ERPPC weapons unleashed a blue-white ion bolt, four bolts into two APCs, with one unit simply stopped dead and one fragged out from some kind of internal explosion.

"Radar detected from a Crotale SAM system, it's weak but inside detection values," the commo officer said. "Look around heading 0-1-0 for it."

"Got it, target is in range of ATM extended range missiles. Launching now," one of the gunnery controllers declared. The Advanced Tactical Missile systems did not echo through the hull, but the monitors showed the two dozen missiles streak out in pairs for the targeted launcher system. Of 24 missiles, 6 missed and 18 hits tore the old Crotale launcher apart.

"Flight level seven, Captain," the helmswoman said.

"At FL 6, we unleash hell," he said as the monitors flared from the beams of Heavy Large Lasers headed down to the ground. All six beams missed a pair of APCs that were still trying to advance on the Equatorial front line, though two seconds later a pair of wire-guided AT missiles found one of the APCs and stopped it cold. "Area suppression weapons," he ordered.

"Still out of range, sir, the Streaks will not lock from up here," the FCO said. "Hold, I have targeting for the Streak-Six packs! Stand by!" After a pair of seconds, the targeting system reported a valid lock. "Firing!" All five packs of missiles unleashed in series, thirty missiles streaked down into the ground ahead of the Equatorial lines and into the oncoming enemy infantry. The dust from the missile blasts obscured most of the result, but the sight of flying arms and a rolling head told that the barrage had some manner of effect on the enemy.

"ATM Medium-range salvo out!" the ATM FCO half-shouted as he loosed a pack of missiles into a different section of the enemy lines. The effect was the same, but spread across a lesser amount of territory and with some missiles that scattered to no effect.

"Flight Level six, Captain," the helmswoman said.

The Captain picked up his growler phone and hit a quick-dial button. "Bay Five from Bridge, unleash hell."

-x-

Captain Tunke watched the dropship open its bay doors on the side facing the battle, a calculated risk for what he expected would be a drop operation. This dropship was scheduled to bring with it the new mercenary formation to protect the Spaceport and adjacent ICF Fusion power plant, though he didn't really care about the mercenaries so much as he loved the fire support given him already by the ship. Anything more than that would be just gravy in this opinion.

The 'gravy' was 'served' after the cargo bay door passed the 80 percent open mark. A strange unit thrusted clear of the door and immediately began sinking; five seconds later, a much larger unit did the same as the first but from the second door followed almost immediately by another 'smaller' unit coming from the first door (smaller relative to the larger unit, but easily larger than even ZAFT's vaunted Mobile Suits). A fourth launched from the second door, this one middle of the road in terms of size amongst the four, and it began its descent to the ground with rocket engine packs on its frame to prevent it splattering on the ground.

"Base of fire right! Keep them suppressed, help is on the way down!" To accentuate his point, another group of missiles slammed into the ground with startling thunder and shockwave, each missile tearing rents in the grounds and most missiles killing one or more of the foe.

"Just a little more! Missiles on the last of the BTR vehicles!" his Lieutenant on the AT platoon ordered.

"Almost got 'em!" a Milan missile went out to another of the ZSU-23-4 Shilka SPAAG, though the fourth of the Shilka put paid to the last squad of the AT platoon with a burst of 23mm HE-T rounds. The Captain looked away from where his personnel were for a moment, shook his head to clear the sight of his men being mulched, then grabbed for an old LAWS to use on the last of the SPAAG and hopefully turn the tide of the battle. He went through the procedure of arming it, first with the trigger cover, then the arming pin, then the sights, and he was ready to fire.

The rocket blew out of the LAWS tube with the sound of several shotgun blasts, just as it always did. The short range to the target (450 meters) lent itself to a very short flight time, and the rocket arrived to the target object intact. On impact, the 87mm rocket glanced off the left side of his turret and spiraled out of control, eventually to land on the ground and sputter there for a minute. Before the Captain could even issue a decent curse for the faulty fuse, his heart stopped when the ZSU swiveled its turret to face his position.

He stared down the four barrels of infantry and aircraft-shredding death for the barest of moments, before a pair of ruby-red lasers struck the top of the machine and blew clear through the bottom of it. It took a fraction of a second, but the confined ammunition inside began to crackle and eventually caused the turret to flip off the old modified tank chassis lazily; without all the ammunition cooking in a group, the turret would not take a flight as had the earlier one. The ammunition continued to cook as the tank's innards burned, sounding something of popcorn cooking and visually looking like fireworks.

The ground shook to the impact of four distinct sets of Omnimech legs striking the ground. The Captain looked back and up to the four machines as each ejected the drop cradles that slowed their descent from the dropship. Four Omnimechs, four sets of guns well in advance of any weapons available to the scratch-up assaulters. The arrival of reinforcements had destroyed the attacker's resolve; without further word, the remaining troops (the scant few that had survived their botched assault) turned and began running in the opposite direction of the Omnimechs.

"Captain, Ace Six reporting, do you want us to chase?" the lead Omnimech Pilot asked.

"Negative," Captain Tunke said. "If you have to, do some target practice on their retreating forms, but do not pursue."

"You heard the man, target practice time," the lead Omnimech Pilot declared. "Let's motivate these asshats to not come back, boys."

The Omnimechs lined up in row, four machines with fresh paint and no battle damage. A poor sod terrorist turned and snapped off a shot with a RPG at the largest of the machines, though the missile passed between its legs and disappeared in a puff in the fusion engine exhaust of the descending dropship. Without any audible command, each of the pilots began singling out the enemy infantry for ministrations, a laser here, a pulse of lasers there, a quad of large and fast-moving missiles from the smallest of the 'mechs rent holes in their already ragged and decimated formation.

The most curious weapon of their arsenal was some form of a ballistic weapon that fired with such velocity that the projectiles glowed white-hot in transit from air resistance. The guns in question fired in bursts of twenty rounds (at a guess – the fire rate was so rapid he could not properly count), and sounded like nothing so much as an old Metalstorm weapon system. Walking a burst of said weapon across a platoon was guaranteed to kill at least two squads of their rank, and almost assuredly took part of a third squad with it; the sheer savagery of it turned his stomach, but his will was tempered by the burning trucks, forklifts, tugs, and baggage cars left in the rebel's wake. Men and women, some teens, all slain because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The fire continued for several more minutes, as every man in their ranks ran hard north and away from the starport. After the enemy was outside engagement range of all but the largest lasers on the 'mechs, Tunke called it. "Omnimechs, cease fire, enemy is thoroughly routed. We have won," he declared in a cold voice.

The cease-fire order only took two seconds to be implemented. After a few moments of the Omnimechs swiveling back and forth in search of more targets, they lowered their machine's arms and appeared to slacken in posture somewhat. "Bit late to say so, but mercenary formation Aces High is reporting for duty, Captain Tunke," the lead pilot said. "Star Commander Fritz Wernke, at your service."

"Extremely good timing, Captain. Welcome to the Equatorial Union," the Captain of the Starport Guard declared.

-x-x-x-

(22 July C.E. 72, 0945 UTC)
(Mendel Administration Building, Floor 10, office of the Century Commander, Mendel Colony)

Century Commander Gerald Lightbringer figured the nerves and semi-panicky reactions of the four kids was a given. After all, the Earth Alliance equivalent to going before the Century Commander was to go before the Vice President of the Atlantic Federation. Only with a lot more power and a lot less procedural restraint, at least in the case of Mendel. Gerald liked having a street reputation that scared people shitless, it made them more cooperative if he had to squeeze someone.

"Please, be seated," Gerald said as he continued reading the medical reports for the four kids. He had read through their personal information already, as well as read through the very thorough debriefs of the dropship personnel, all of whom had reported favorably on the sneakiness and thorough planning of the kids in terms of preparation, stockpiling, and planning involved in this stowaway escapade.

After a few minutes of silent reading, the young natural girl asked the inevitable question: "Sir, are we in trouble?"

"Yes and no," Gerald answered. "I'll explain here in a moment, I want to make sure I've read this thoroughly before we get down to details."

He could sense the trepidation in the four caused by his answer, which he considered a good thing. Even as a valid escape plan, this one had been both supremely risky and supremely daring. Ultimately it was successful, but the chances the kids had taken were massive, and any amount of eventualities could have resulted in four dead bodies instead of four refugee immigrants.

After another two minutes of reading, he set the folder down. "My apologies for the delay, I have been briefed in on your tale but not to this degree," and he waved the folder in their direction. "Now, the first thing I want to ask before we continue: why take such an outlandish method of transport to get here? A passenger train would have been far simpler, and air service from KLAX (3) to ORON (4) to the Gigafloat would have been a helluva lot faster."

"Stealth, sir, and lack of funds," Veruna, the eldest of the three Coordinator sisters said. "We did what we did because we didn't want anyone to know how we were going to get there. We also, erm, had to creatively manipulate the Allster Enterprises systems to secure transport to the shipping port and from there to the Gigafloat, without it looking suspicious to you, Orb, or the Junk Guild."

"Toasters," the Century Commander replied, having already read the manifest of what their stowaway box was supposed to be. "So, you are saying that you converted a shipping container to have a central partition where you hid, stocked it for a two-month journey, then hacked the Allster Enterprises transport system so they thought it was a shipping unit of toaster ovens that needed to come to Mendel?"

"Yes, sir," the fourteen-year-old Coordinator kid said. Gerald remembered her name as Leiley.

"And what about your parents?" he asked.

"Our father and mother helped us prepare the container and stock it. They wanted us out of the Earth Alliance territory. Diane's parents, well..." her sentence trailed off.

Diane, the youngest of the occupants and the only natural among the four, spoke next. "My parents are Blue Cosmos. I'm not, I want no part of Blue Cosmos, I used to get beat for sympathizing with Coordinators, and I don't want any part of it anymore."

"Madre de Dios," Gerald groaned. "Well, if I wanted the easy ones, I'd still be a Star Captain," he griped in a nonhuman language.

"Sir?" Gina asked, wondering what he said.

"Disregard, just an old lament of mine," he said in English. "Now, given that all four of you are over the age of twelve, I am required to inform you that you are considered above the age of majority and therefore are legally responsible to your actions. That being said, by your own admission in these reports and before me, I count; illegal entry, illegal passage on a civilian transport, falsification of civilian transport manifests, hacking of a foreign commercial or industrial entity, hacking of a foreign financial entity, hacking of a foreign transportation network, possession and transport of a firearm in an unsafe manner, and possibly kidnapping, depending on what Diana's parents have to say about it. Now, any of you care to comment on these charges?"

The four looked among each other and shrugged. They knew this was likely to happen. "Sir, if we were given the opportunity to do this again, we would do it again, and again, and again, until we actually made it here in one piece or died trying."

"It was only a matter of time before someone found out we were Coordinators, so we were living on borrowed time, Century Commander," the middle-age Coordinator said. "I thought Mendel was supposed to be the new land of the free and disenfranchised, sir. Or has that changed in the past three weeks?"

"Neg, it is still quite true," Gerald replied with a smile. "I take it the four of you are sticking to your requests for refugee status?"

"Yes!" all four half-shouted in response.

"Very well," Gerald replied evenly. "I hereby issue summary judgment. For the three Daniels children, Rita, Leiley, Veruna, I hereby grant your requests for refugee status and issue authorization for asylum in the Magi Protectorate of Mendel. Veruna, as the eldest of the persons in this party, you are hereby declared faultless of all crimes in pertaining to the exfiltration of a terrorist state except the charge of possession and transportation of a firearm in an unsafe manner. Even given your circumstances, you should have practiced better firearm handling and transport."

"Sir," she replied stoically.

"Diana Trimes, I hereby authorize your request for refugee status under a separate declaration due to the differing circumstances of your refugee request. Additionally, I hereby submit the contents of your diaries and your medical examination records as evidence of the physical abuse inflicted upon your person which has led to your seeking asylum among the Magi." Though the written word could be considered one thing and ultimately could be considered easily falsified, the use of x-rays to catalog her injuries that resulted in fractured bones and the occasional actual broken bone corroborated her tales in writing. If her parents came looking, Gerald, Gerald's commanding officer (Star Admiral Wayne Centara), and eventually (possibly) Division Commander Gerard Caecilius (the uberofficer of all Multimage mobile and naval forces) would use that evidence as plenty of reason not to have her deported back to the Earth Alliance.

"Sir," she replied evenly, tearing up at the thought that she had won her refugee status

"As of right now, the four of you are considered inducted persons into the Magi Protectorate of Mendel. Given that all of you are considered of majority, but of no capable means of income or verification at present, you are hereby transferred to the ward of the GARM Research Facility Civilian Creche until such a time as you are deemed fit for independent citizenship."

"YES!" all four shouted as they realized their nightmare was over and they were now free persons in the Magi territory.

"GARM is a heavily-guarded medical and eugenic research facility. You will be at no risk of being abducted or harmed by hostile persons while in their care, and your placement there will only be as long as it takes you to complete your formal education minimum requirements. After that, you are free to conduct yourselves as you see fit. My personal recommendation: our second colony is online and filling up right now, so I suggest you complete your education verification and grab a transport over there. Someone will have a job for you without question."

"And my offense, sir?" Veruna asked.

"You will have a simple two-part assignment for your lack of experience in handling firearms. First, you are hereby ordered to take the Civilian Small Arms Safety and Training courses available, from pistol to light machine gun and everything in between," Gerald ordered. It was a common 'punishment' for persons who were new to firearms, at least among the Magi. The combined courses would give her a crash course in proper safety and handling of just about every street-common firearm class she was likely to encounter, and would severely reduce her risks of accidents. "The combined courses should take you about 30 hours. Your creche leader will help you schedule the courses, and may even be able to have the courses taught to you there at GARM by one of the Marines."

"Understood, sir," she replied immediately, clearly exhilarated that she was receiving a very light punishment for it.

"Second, I will not release a statement that you are in Mendel as refugees, which should still leave open the question of your whereabouts. As is described in your reports, your actions for preparing the container and hacking the Allster Enterprises networks do not show anything traceable to your parents, so that cannot be used as a lead to track you down. Therefore, you will take a ride on the dropship Forrestal as it does another debris run, and you will put those hacking skills to good use. You are going to hack your parents a route from their homes to the Gigafloat, and we will arrange transport for them up here, where they can establish residence as refugees as well."

"Sir?" she asked, clearly shocked at such an order.

"You have a skillset that Mendel – neg, the Magi as a whole – comes up short on. We have the ability to break comm encryption with ease, but our ability to do classic hacks like you did in execution of your escape is sub-par at best," Gerald admitted, which was not a stunning revelation to anyone. "I am now offering you two things: one, an opportunity to hack your parents a path to freedom for themselves. Two, I would offer you a challenge to see if you can possibly turn those skills to use for the Protectorate. If you can get people clear now, you can get people clear in the future, you can probably get people in, or you can cause all manner of chaos and disruption "

Veruna was silent for a long moment. "I will certainly take up your offer to free my parents. On the other matter, can I defer for now?"

"No rush," Gerald replied smoothly. "You have to pass your minimum education standards before I can officially offer you such a tasking. Just do not speak of such an offer to anyone else, no sense tipping the hat before the fun begins."

"Understood," and she looked down the line to the others in the group. "You heard him, say nothing of this."

"Will do," Diana replied evenly; the others simply nodded their response.

"Diana, because I cannot hide your status behind a classified operation, I am legally required to report your residence and status to your parents. They will know and they may come looking for you. I will include in the report that you were found alone as a stowaway on one of the cargo dropships, to further the ends of rescuing their parents. If they do come looking, I have ways of preventing them from reclaiming you, but realize that it may come down to a shouting match – or worse."

"Understood, sir," Diana said. "Please don't hurt them, but I don't want to go back."

"The Multimage Empire holds honor and principle above all else. It would be a dishonor beyond compare to turn away an abused teen trying to escape a terrorist state."

-x-x-x-

(3 June SL2-12, 1030 hours Terran Standard Time)
(Multimage Reference Dimension 0 (Home Dimension))
(Office of the Empress of the Multimage Star Empire, Multimage Administration Building, Terra 02)
(Two days after the attack on the Mjolnr)

"Okay, okay, okay! I surrender!" The Empress snorted at her subordinate's response to being badgered with inordinate facts to trump his operational desire. "Damn it to hell, Hotaru, what do you expect? They're our guys, and Gerald Lightbringer is an old friend of mine. You want we should give up on them?"

"I did not say that!" Hotaru – officially, Executor-Princess Hotaru Tomoe of the Star League – snapped back at the Magi Division Commander of Commandos. "I did not tell you to abandon hope, nor would I say that. I know exactly where they are."

"Then we go to get them—"

"No, we do not," Hotaru snapped again.

"Stan, stand down," the Empress ordered, finally grown wearied of the arguing between one of her subordinates and her oldest friend. "Hotaru, walk us through this. You are seeing something here that we are not, and all things considered we need to know before we decide what we are doing to solve this problem – if anything, Stan." The last part wasn't so much a decision as it was a warning shot at her direct subordinate.

Unfortunately, if a Master Executor said it would not be done, Empress Atrebas was honor-bound not to do it by way of treaty obligations and dissuaded not to do it by sheer threat. Executors were the elite of wizards and soldiers throughout existence – neutral, impartial (in theory if not in practice), and commanding of power far beyond the wildest dreams of mortal man. Rini Atrebas had little doubt that she would be soundly defeated by the Executor-Princess / Master Executor standing before her desk, if the matter came to blows.

"Aff, Empress Atrebas," Stan ground out through clenched teeth in response to her warning. Rini paid it no heed, since this was less about operational necessity than it was about the propriety of the matter. Stan did tend to get 'worked up' about 'his territory' and in most cases it helped, but in this case it was only delaying the inevitable.

"Okay, I'll be completely up front with this; I know exactly where they are, in time, space, and dimension. When and where the Mjolnr landed has created an echo in Existence so loud that no being attuned to fate can ignore it."

Stan's face went ashen; such changes had happened in the past, but they were of such monumental scale (or such monumental fuck-ups) that a significant amount of Executors were required to clean up the mess. Two such changes were at his hands; that he survived the repercussions of such changes was only on the dint of his old comrade (and former commanding officer) Eric Atrebas saving his arse from the courts martial involved. Executors were not particularly famous for being merciful to those who created such massive problems, Stan reminded himself.

"Okay, what's the big deal?" Rini asked fairly.

"It's where and when that is the big deal," Hotaru replied. "May I use the whiteboard, Rini?"

"Erase what's up there if you need the space," Empress Atrebas replied. She already had all the figures appended to the necessary documents and notes, so the monthly budget figures could go away.

"Okay, let's cut back to basics," Hotaru said, then drew a circle on the whiteboard. "You've all heard this one before, this circle represents the theory of Existence, ergo everything that can be, will be somewhere in this circle."

"Infinite parallels theorem," the silent one of the four persons in the room declared. "Every fourth-grader in the Empire knows that one. So, what's so special about it this time around?" Division Commander Gerard Caecilius asked politely. To him, the ongoing argument was as much entertainment value as it was policy decision.

"The problem is said theory is incomplete," Hotaru replied. "And we've all known it was incomplete for over fifteen millennia this planet's time, and nobody has bothered rectifying the theory."

"Okay, where did we leave off?" Stan asked.

"The circle represents all of the possibilities, but, and I stress the BUT here, the circle of infinite parallels does not account for repeats of those parallels or variances exactly like the existence of cross-dimensional Star Empires."

"No way," Stan replied immediately. "All of that could fit inside the circle, could it not?"

"No, it can't," Hotaru replied diffidently. "Otherwise, you would have encountered a repeat of the Multimage Empire by now."

Stan's mouth flapped open soundlessly for four seconds. "Close that hatch, comrade, or a fly might use your tongue for a landing strip," Gerard commented with some humor.

Before Stan even registered what was said, a fly did enter his mouth, but never made it out before he closed his mouth and swallowed it. "Bleh, typical housefly. Better than grubs but not by much," Stan commented, reminding everyone in the room that he was a survival expert like the bulk of the Commandos. "Okay, on the premise that we haven't encountered another Multimage Empire, you are now saying that the circle is divided further than we typically expect?"

"Yes," Hotaru replied. "It can be represented in many ways, but for our purposes we'll mod it into a cylinder." She drew the outline of a cylinder added onto the circle, then drew a line in the center of the cylinder. "This line represents where we are, one parallel dimension among infinite repeats both horizontally and vertically." She drew two more spokes to encapsulate their location in a small wedge that barely covered 1:30 to 2:30 on a clock, but still on the same plane inside the cylinder. "This wedge represents all of known Existence as far as we know of it – and by 'we' I mean the Executors, not just the Star Empires. The Star League operates clandestine in a territory nine times larger than the six Star Empires combined."

"Ouch," Gerard groused. For all that he kept thinking the Magi were finally getting ahead of the game, they were one-upped by the 'impartial referees' of the Star League. And all this from a mere 1.9 million Executors, hardly the population of a decent city. "Definitely makes me feel small and insignificant in bed."

"Leave the 'in bed' jokes for the fortune cookies, please," Rini requested. Every week, the 'in bed' addendum joke rotated from one Division Commander to the next, and this week it was Gerard's turn.

"Aff, Empress," Division Commander Caecilius replied solemnly.

"Okay, for the sake of cutting straight to the point, the Mjolnr landed here," and Hotaru drew another thin spoke, this one at the '10' position on the clock and significantly below the level of the Magi's home dimension in the vertical axis of the cylinder.

"Okay, no big deal, right?" Stan asked. "Jumping from 2 o'clock to 10 o'clock and slightly 'down' shouldn't be that hard, right?"

"Wrong," Gerard replied. "The farther away from your zero-reference dimension, the greater the equations required to accurately put you in your target zone. Attempt to go far enough out of your way, and the equation becomes so complex that our hardware can't do the job, either from a computational standpoint or a jump modulation standpoint."

"Exactly," Hotaru replied. "Under the best hardware available right now, from right here you can get to 1 o'clock or 3 o'clock on this diagram, sure as hell not to 10 o'clock in one go. And that doesn't even cover the variance of up or down in the cylinder."

"So we're back to square one, then, no way to get to our guys."

"Stan, if you don't knock that shit off, I'll spare the Empress the trouble by shooting you myself," Gerard told him deadpan.

"Okay, okay, you win, I'll hold my tongue. Please continue, Lady Hotaru, I swear I won't interrupt again."

"You'll lose that rede (X) soon enough," Hotaru commented pensively. "Anyway, since we know where they are, it is possible to get to them and rescue them. However, in the long run I don't think we want to rescue them."

"Uh, what?" Gerard asked, this time himself dumbfounded by the apparent callousness she was showing. "We're talking about a Phalanx-class ship, six monitors, thirty-plus Dropships, and about 30,000 personnel. Why would we not want to rescue them, milady?"

"Three reasons." Hotaru held up one finger. "One, they will have integrated themselves into the local populous in such a fashion that fast-extricating them would create a very messy and very bloody power vacuum."

"I'll buy that," Stan said. "Within limits."

"Second," and a second finger came up. "By way of a stable time loop, it is already shown that we specifically did not extract the remaining personnel, though I cannot cover details."

"I'll want to verify that with your husband," Stan grumped, then realized he had indeed broke his oath.

Hotaru drove on with the third finger. "Three, and this is the big one, they are part of the equation of Ragnarok." She held up her hand to silence the immediate protest from both Division Commanders. "Allow me to continue, and you will understand why."

"Fuck this," Stan groused. "If you're content to just stand around doing nothing, I'll go find them and bring 'em home myself." Stan started for the door, but did not make it halfway.

"If you extract them, there will be no victory condition for Ragnarok," Hotaru declared coldly to the back of the Division Commander. "No victory condition means the two hundred thousand years you have lived is completely for naught, Stanythe Agrippa. Do you want to throw that away?"

Put that way, Division Commander Agrippa had no choice but to turn away from the door to the office and return to the discussion circle. "You win."

Hotaru sighed mightily. She disdained taking the hard way with the Magi, but sometimes they needed a little bit of 'sledgehammer' to get the message. "When I began this explanation, I said I knew where they were, in space, dimension and time. Time is the critical factor."

"The stable time loop," Gerard noted. The Executor simply nodded in response.

Hotaru erased part of the agriculture output figures to make room for the next segment. She drew a vertical line that only covered about 40 percent of the board's height, and capped the line off with two beads. "This line represents what I'll refer to as the history of the Multimage – the lower dot represents the birth of your grandfather," and Hotaru nodded to Rini. "The upper dot represents where we stand right now, with the intervening bar being the various histories we have written in various alternate dimensions." She next drew a line slightly above the upper dot. "This bar is the hard stop – the Days of Ragnarok we are fast approaching. Best case that is several months off. Worst case is four years; the longer it is dragged out, the less likely we can achieve any sort of victory condition."

"So you're saying the sooner we die, the better off we all are?" Stan asked. "Starting to sound like a Spartan."

"Unfortunately, he is right," Hotaru shrugged. "I digress. Anyway, in terms of temporal location, the Mjolnr is right here," and Hotaru added a dot down at the bottom edge of the whiteboard, parallel to the original line but as far away from the end line as possible. "The Mjolnr, your friend Gerald Lightbringer, landed sixteen thousand, one hundred and fifty one years before the birth of Eric Atrebas. For them to be parallel to where we stand now, thirty-two thousand, seven hundred seventy four years will have to elapse parallel to this dimension's time." As she said so, she drew a vertical bar up to the end of days line, then capped it off in the same fashion.

"Holy shit, I see now why you say leave 'em in place. It's like doing the history of the Multimage Empire three times: once for what they've lived through already and twice more for the fun of it," Gerard Caecilius said.

"As a gross oversimplification, yes," Hotaru commented.

"Time never matches one-for-one between dimensions," Stan pointed our fairly. "What's the variance?"

Though the exact number was usually counted by way of timing pulses from the HPG Network, everyone in the room knew that Hotaru would already know. Her dominion was time and fate itself; she would have easy access to that information. "The factor is 2.21. For they, seventy-two thousand years will pass before they are parallel to where we stand."

Everyone was silent for nearly a minute. The three Magi looked back and forth among each other, but there was no solace in each other's eyes compared to the sheer cruelty of what Hotaru had just declared. "So, they live the span of the Empire four and a half times plus one for the span they have already brought with them?"

"Yes," Hotaru replied in a clipped fashion.

"Asking them to do that is almost barbaric in and of itself," Empress Rini commented. "Must this be done?"

"Yes," Hotaru replied in the same clipped fashion. "There is no other way. The confluence of events and locations given to us by Fate with this incident is the only viable answer to Ragnarok. I don't like it; with this action I am consigning multiple parallels to a long and very bloody existence, and eventual destruction just the same as us, but there is no other way. Nobody in this room wants to see the whole of Existence, the whole of our lives and histories, annihilated by the coming darkness. Something has to be done, and this is the only workable 'something' on that list."

Gerard had the sum of the day's thoughts: "If something, anything, is to survive the great Cluster at the end of this road, it has to be done," he steeled himself.

Author's Chapter Afterword:

The past is written, and now comes the future.

I'm not one for doing recaps. I wrote the Jokers Wild Set 1 for a reason; it is hard to distill such a lengthy story into something cohesive, short, and poignant. Besides, of all the great sins of SEED and Destiny, the sheer amount of recap episodes is highest on the list. One is acceptable, maybe, especially if it is interspersed with actual plot bits; more than that is just a travesty, and a whole DVD worth of recaps (spread throughout the Destiny series) is pushing it. So, I won't bore you with filler crap; what you read above is the real deal.

The meat of the chapter is the fun part. You see one of four keystones of the oncoming future in play here. Yes, it is a sad thing to say, but the fate of nations turns on such a perverse axis as to be determined by the fates of a bunch of young teen girls. The fates of nations turns on the perversity of internal security measures, all the more so that both security operations shown were perfectly legitimate operations. The fates of nations really can be swayed by a simple speech by one man. This is the perversity of real life, where things can change in an instant of spoken word.

Consider the battle scene shown in this chapter to be nothing more than a sample of what nightmares are to come. I kinda skated on the battle aspects in Set 1, but there will be no dodging some rather massive campaigning, at least if the dice do not compromise my plans this time around. My intention is to hit on every major point of warfare, from infantry action all the way to strategic nuclear war. You will need to watch the side story Dilemma of Flay Allster for some of the included types of battle; not everything can be included in the mainline, after all.

Note that the USSA did not get much in the way of props today; this was deliberate on my part, because the USSA is going to get some mad props in the next chapter. Ed Harrelson has a plan and he's sticking to it, for better or worse. Given the way things usually go in my writing, it will probably end up working for him, but it will be a messy solution to coming problems. I'll leave the 'what' up to your imagination for a day.

The last part I want to cover today is in pertaining to the last section of the chapter. At the end of Set 1, you saw a stinger by which Gerald Lightbringer's sister and an old friend of his went looking through the wreckage of the battle site. Division Commander Agrippa threatened to involve Executor Hotaru Tomoe in the search, and here at the end you see the beginnings of that result. Any of you versed in Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon should easily recognize the name, but as with everything else involved in the Multimage Chronicles the circumstances are different and the outcome is wildly different. Hotaru Tomoe is still somewhat the frail one of the Planetary Princesses, but don't let that fool you: at the point in the story shown here, she is almost 670,000 years old and is both a master wizard beyond all mortal compare and a skilled strategist in manipulating time and circumstances to her own designs. She carries with her at all times two relic weapons, powerful magic armaments of special purpose: her traditional Silence Glaive is known to be the most powerful weapon in existence for defeating defenses, as it can slice just about any other magic armor or any known nonmagical object in existence. Her other weapon is known as the Sword of Ragnarok; it has some combat utility, but its true purpose is to give the user the ability to see both forward in time and backward in time with absolute clarity, and the sword can gauge the effects of changes made on the fly, allowing a savvy and powerful user to manipulate the future as he or she sees fit. With these two weapons, she has worked almost incessantly on providing a solution to the war Ragnarok, and now may be her great chance to finally secure a way out, or so it appears.

More details on how this change will be made shall come in the next few chapters; for each of the next several chapters, there will be a stinger section showing the advancing plot and how it is intended to affect the future. Last time I did Flight, the appearance of first Hotaru and then reinforcements came off as something of a 'giant space flea from nowhere'. Circumstances will be wildly different from last time, trust me on that. The results will be at least as horrific, maybe worse; I've learned a lot in the years since I wrote the original Flight of the Jokers Wild, and I intend on putting it to good use.

And this is the end of the notes. Next chapter, I'll include a section detailing the complex give-and-take of the Star League and specifically the Executors of the Star League – they are high-level power-brokers and shocktroopers that can make or break entire Star Empires if pushed that far, and herein is no different. Keep one thing in mind, however: this scenario is playing out for a reason that is actually contrary to existing Star League policy. More will be explained on that front later.

NEXT UP: The USSA begins its latest round of maneuvering as progress continues in space on the Asgard Shipyard Station. The refugee kids begin settling into their new lives as Blue Cosmos targets a special asset of Mendel...

Review Replies: As this is the first chapter of Set 2 of the Jokers Wild, there are no prior reviews for this chapter. However, there are reviews for Chapter 20 of Set 1 (Legend of the Jokers Wild), so I will post the review here and also drop my reply.

Rickrolled: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Very nice, a few good suprises along with some bad ones but really this chapter has made me look back and see all the stupid things people have died and killed for and i thank you for that. And so i only have to say thank you for provideing much needed reading and i look forward to your stories of the future. And just cause i can,

We're no strangers to love

You know the rules and so do I

A full commitment's what I'm thinking of

You wouldn't get this from any other guy

I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling

Gotta make you understand

Never gonna give you up,

Never gonna let you down,

Never gonna run around and desert you,

Never gonna make you cry,

Never gonna say goodbye,

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Sorry but i had to do that. Don't worry Strata is next :P

REPLY:

Well, it's official, I have been Rick-rolled Much thank you for that :) On a more serious note, it is good to see that my writing awakens someone to considerations and understanding on one of the great moral questions of war. I suggest you read onward, amigo, because I will definitely push the bounds of such an understanding in both directions, in this set and the coming sets of the Jokers Wild.

Frasermage: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Hmm. If it WAS Blue Cosmos remnants who attacked Mjolnir and caused them to jump back in time... this would be weird.

Blue Cosmos after being screwed over by Mendel attempt to destroy the Mjolnir BEFORE they jump back in time... thus causing the damage that forced them to jump back... thus resulting in them being screwed over by Mendel...

Huh, I assume Vhen is going to be used as your viewpoint character for testing new Fighters and other hardware in the next story and showing them off in action?

REPLY: The thought you left about Blue Cosmos Remnants being the harbingers of their own destruction is a bit hilarious on the uptake. Now I have to make sure my version is just as strange, or self-destructive.

You got it. Vhen has a lot of flight time ahead of himself in coming stories.

KnightOwl4183: NOT posting his review for brevity reasons. It's freaking long and rambling.

Where to begin? I am assuming the complaint about foul language is in reference to the druggies? Hard to say, other than the fact that the Druggies had a bit of an overhaul when they were cleaned up.

The thing with the Lohengrins not backfeeding is actually good engineering practice: yes, they might blow up, you are dealing with anitmatter here, but electrical feedback should be prevented by a fail-safe circuit device, also known as a fuse or circuit breaker. Just common engineering sense.

On the Kira/Shinn rant and the Xenosaga/BT crossover ideas, I have no comment. As I explained in forum, not my place to comment on that.

Alex / Takeshi Yamato: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Very fun chapter. :)

I did enjoy Alicia's battle, even though it wasn't much. I certainly hope that she gets more action in Set 2-and I also hope she manages to get a girlfriend soon (at the moment, I'd suggest Emily, the pilot of the Blossom, or possibly Wendy, the Magi survivor of that Trial, but that's up to you).

I also enjoyed the Trial of Possession-the result was unexpected, but still interesting. :)

And the stage is set for Joker's Wild, Set 2. I look forward to seeing how the Magi alter the events of Gundam SEED Destiny.

I look forward to the start of Set 2, as well as the next chapters of MultiMage Chronicles and Archangel's Amazing Adventures, and hope they all come soon. :D

Later! :D

PS: If you'd be willing to spare enough time to read, review, and possibly advertise a story I've posted here named "Mobile Suit Gundam Xenosaga Season 1", I'd really appreciate it. :D

Reply:

If I get a chance to read and review, I shall.

On Alicia, she will definitely get some action in the next set, she'll play a linchpin role in at least one battle and end up on an ace formation – I'll leave those details to your imagination at this time :)

Here is the start of JW2, and I suggest you start fearing the possibilities to come. It will be bloody well past the point of MMC or AAA. Economy of scale and all that.

Necroblade: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Yaay Dearka..I think I said that before :D

I'm glad you changed the Natarle thing, it makes more sense to me this way. You got all of my points so I can't complain :D

I'm glad that you think I'm helping your writing with the critiquing. I have noticed that generally there are less and less grammar issues. The only major things I catch anymore are things you forget and the odd logic point.

Well I can tell that we're in for an interesting ride if nothing else :D

As usual you are right, but I think that Athrun still feels enough for his homeland to still go back. And Athrun's presence is a major plot element for the growth of the Minerva's crew. Especially the pilots. And I do like the Athrun Merylin pairing slightly more than Athrun and Cagalli, so you know what I'm hoping will happen. But whatever happens I trust you to make it interesting. And speaking of relationships I do like the little Kira and Lacus moment you put into the story. Since they never had any drama in the series we didn't really get to see how they intact as a couple.

I was actually in the process of writing a mail to ask if everything was ok since you hadn't sent the chappie back for round 2 when I realised you'd uploaded this :P Well I'll be waiting for the next chapter you send me :D

Reply:

Dearka will get some serious workout in Set 2...as well as get a workout as something of an 'official tech spy' for ZAFT in Mendel. Wait 'till you see those high-level machinations in play :)

There is no think about it, comrade, your corrections and logic arguments are pushing me toward a better grammar and spelling foundation by the chapter. Of course, I'll probably always need a Beta to ensure I don't end up posting some sleep-deprived bullsj1tfest as a chapter, so...

I have my opinion on Athrun's conduct in Destiny when compared to his conduct in SEED. He walked into almost blatant operational manipulation and stayed there for about two-thirds of the series. In my opinion, his feelings for the PLANTs should have compelled him to stand against Durandal's wildly megalomaniacal operations far sooner than he did, because I saw clear hints of not just manipulation but three or four nasty agendas in his conduct even before Angel Down. Quite frankly, the second thing he did right in the series was attempt to flee with Meyrin; the first thing he did right was half-dump Cagalli for knifing him in the back with that arranged marriage bullshit. All that being said, however, both those points come at the cost of what should have been a character derail: I hope the Athrun of Ep 50 SEED is smart enough to see through Durandal's bullshit, because he even saw through his own father's psychosis and confronted him on it.

Sorry for the ranting, this is just one of those IJBM points from Destiny.

Knives91: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Damn impressive, if saddening stuff. Mina bit the bullet huh? Man, at the rate their dropping, Angel squad is going to need new members to replace the lost ones. Though where they will get them is another matter entirely...

An amazing chapter. Keep at it!

Reply:

The Angel Team will be reconstituted, more than once in the course of the entire Jokers Wild epic. Expect it will get bloody quickly, but they are the aces: their duty is to prove themselves the best or die trying.

General MG: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

Did you introduced a Unicorn RX-0 in this chapter? If so, I like see how many you would field. As for Gundam 00's Solar Furnace technology, how are you going to introduce it in your director's cut Gundam Seed Destiny story? As for the whole story, great work.

Reply:

Actually, no, that was not a Unicorn Gundam. Unicorn was / is Alicia Yamato's callsign; the Magi have not encountered any of the UC Gundams post-CCA. Mendel, however, may be unlucky enough to encounter such devices...

On the Gundam 00 tech, I may or may not include it depending on how the later sets of the Jokers Wild progresses, and whether or not it is worth the time. After all, the existing dual-stage fusion reactors have something on the order of hundreds of megawatts or gigawatts of power output, and Gundam traditionally has a problem coming up with a full megawatt for engine power.

EtienneOfTheWestWind: ORIGINAL REVIEW:

It's an interesting stage you've set for the next part...

Reply:

And here stands the opening stanza of the next part. I hope this is ample evidence that the walls are closing in on the contestants, and that someone is going to have to leave the padded room...

The Gripe Sheet:

No standing gripes as of yet. If you see something amiss, shout it out!

Footnotes:

(0): For footnote 0, I was thinking about putting something witty here, but then I realized I could actually do something useful with it. So, I'll explain quickly about where I get the names and information on the Vocaloid / UTAUloid songs that will show up in the story from time to time. Some readers (those that speak Japanese) can get the intel straight from Nicovideo, but we poor English-only speakers have to get the leftovers that have been cross-ported to Youtube. So, there are probably even better songs than the ones I have listed here, but these are the best that I have come across thus far in my YT wanderings. I recommend you do a search as follows: (vocaloid name) (song name) for anything that you want to do further research on that I have mentioned here.

Be warned: the Vocaloids aren't going to be just music in the process of the Jokers Wild. It will be a long time down the road, but the Vocaloids will be taken to their logical conclusion and beyond by this nightmare. Along with a few other parties...

(1): Inter-Vehicle Information System. Originally a United States technology for coordinating formations and sharing intelligence on the fly, the Magi use it for the same purposes as the US did (does IRL) but have added some extra functionality that allows for enhanced telemetry and coordination with all assets on the battlefield up to and including warships in orbit around the planet.

(2): Seyla is an old word absorbed from and carried over to the Magi from the Clans of Kerensky. In practice it is the equivalent of shouting 'Damn Straight' in reverential form.

(3): KLAX is the IATA airport code for Los Angeles International Airport

(4): ORON is the IATA-style airport code that I designated for Onogoro International Airport (Orb)

(5): ZSU-23-4 Self-Propelled Anti-Air Gun. ZSU units were the Soviet answer to NATO's love affair with helicopters, at least until the Apache hit the scene. They are of limited utility against actual aircraft, and by extension dropships and small craft in flight...until you try firing one at an assault dropship, that is.

(X): Rede is a solemn oath taken by a person in the presence of others. A term dating back to the Clans of Kerensky, the Magi have maintained its use over the years.