Liars and Dreamers
by Presley H. Cannady and others
ROBOTECH IV- The Odysseus Epic
Act One: Superdimensional Starforce Orion
______________________________
Copyright 1997 Presley H. Cannady
Copyright 1997 Anime/Manga Development Group
Copyright 1985 Harmony Gold
Copyright 1982 Tatsunoko Productions
Copyright 1982 Studio Nue
This story is not to be bought or sold, in whole or in part.
The electronic publication of this novel is intended for free
access, and does not intend to infringe on the rights of
Harmony Gold USA. The author has not accepted and will not
accept any remuneration for this work. This book embodies a
plethora of writing philosophies and events derived from the
original series and mutually "sanctioned" source material, the
Robotech RPG, and the McKinney Novels. The author expresses no
interest in the canonical value of this work.
Fourth Edition 1997
____________________________________________________________
Episode One
"Mornings and Dawns of Sorrow"
Robotech IV - The Odysseus Epic
Act I: Superdimensional Starforce Orion
by Presley H. Cannady (cannady@magiccarpet.com)
and Lou Barnes (lbj@magiccarpet.com)
_______________________________
Chapter One
Ace One
Determining the political and economical value of the Giovanni
Quadrants requires a comprehensive look into the Corron
Empire's pattern of expansion right before contact with the
Confederation. To paraphrase, astrography plays an important
role in the matter. With the addition of the Manchuria Chain
of gravity waves (naturally occuring folds in space-time often
used to facilitate hyperspace travel) along the Giovanni
stretch to the Empire's northernmost (galactic discus-relative)
frontier, strikes an angular, obtuse wedge into the
Confederation's border. Although to large to form a defensive
cul-de-sac--with thousands of star-systems to move in between,
and an undetermined number of "unexplored" and unexploited
grav-eddied--the strategical defensive situation for the
Confederation presented a most acetous problem. Combined with
the raw industrial productivity of the Jarao and Tital
sectors--each possessing at least three naturally inhabited
star-systems with populations in the tens of billions--the
Empire clearly could not simply consider the Confederation as
an inevitable block to its expansion. Indeed, the
Confederation proved to be an obstacle to expansion more than a
well of unconquered wealth; centuries of expansion had taught
the Hwi-zhemal'orra (The [Corron] Imperial Interstellar Army)
the value of the multi-system star-nation that the
Confederation's astrographical bulk protected.
-Excerpted from "The Giovanni Stretch," Article 831 in the
Revised Articles of the Robotech Wars, Chapter XVII, pg 782.
circa ET 2166 (ASG).
* * *
75 years later...Meteorlogical Orbital Control Center Padorin
922, 44 Magyar Pasori II, May 12, 2165
"PREMIER HUANG HAN ZHEN OF THE CHINESE-TERRAN COLONIAL ARM
--Rigel--passionately attacked the Defense Force's
inability to quell the latest wave of Chorymi raids against
Periphery colonies. While widely suspected of sponsering
piracy and terrorism, the Corron imperial government has
adopted a policy of official denial to this incursion and
several others. Diplomatic missions in the neutral Druse Star
Kingdom have proved utterly fruitless, as both Confederation
and Imperial delegates censure each other for violations of the
Treaty of 2150; the Corron Empire cites the legalizing
independent merchant marine units within its borders as a
precedent. Confederation analysts of the Corron political
history corroborate the Empire's claim, considering a twenty
millenia precedent a strong enough reason for the Empire's
alleged disinterest with Chorymi activities. The Confederation
and the Keller Federation each of lodged official protests at
the Druse Embassy, although non-aligned star-nations have
abstained from the matter. Whether or not the Empire's
precedent translates into a viable exemption to international
law remains to be seen.
"Despite the Administration's political reservations,
Premier Huang demanded the UPDF take 'unequivocal action' to
'ensure both the economic and civil security' of the Jarao,
Rubia, and Betelegeuse cluster-sectors. Brigadier General
Ig'hranaa, DeForce Director of Public Relations, declined to
comment; refusing to elaborate further on the status of the
special envoy to the Druse System and on potential steps the
DeForce may take to rectify this problem.
"Amidst the accusations of complacency, Chief of Naval
Operations Admiral Alfred Rensselaer approved the delivery of a
Spacy task force to bolster patrol patterns within the Giovanni
Stretch. Still, several of the most noted members of the
military analyst community--Dr. Ryan Goldhen, professor of
naval and space-naval history at the Naval Command College
Newport News Campus, chief among them--criticize the proposed
defensive posture as a 'fallacious show to win back public
confidence.' Closing the issue, President Harcourt defended
Admiral Rensselaer's decision, declaring the reassignment of
Task Force 152 as an honest effort to maintain the peace and
security of the Buffer Zone. Despite the feuding between the
administration and its critics, Task Force 152 will arrive on
the scene within the next three weeks. The current deployment
estimate includes the two carriers--naval vessels supporting
smaller strikeships--and four squadrons of battle-line ships.
Eye on Five's Sung Ji Park will feature military correspondant
Dr. Ryan Kiekgard, who will discuss possible escalations in the
DeForce's alert status as well as long-term effects of these
continuing raids. Kate?"
"Thank you, Ri-lyen. In other news, the approval of the
site for the New Edward's Aerospace Force base, located in
Athens Desert, New Eden, has provoked protests from the United
Terran-Zentraedi Church of Christ's Unrepentent Love, along
side several primarily Earth-based anti-armament groups..."
"Shut that damned thing off!" Chief Petty Officer Ishi
Karano, Spacy National Guard, nearly spilled his coffee across
the already fritzy console. Wiping the few stray splotches off
his terminal station, Ishi switched off the multivision and
whirled back to his monitor. The lieutenant, in her typically
unpleasant manner, stomped onto the control deck, pausing for a
moment to give the main viewscreen a single, disgusted glare.
Outside, the dark, inauspicious spectacle of one of the most
cluttered orbital rest areas in the interstellar space-lanes
reflected the mood of the station's callow commanding officer.
Karano, totally used to his grumpy CO's negativity ritual,
looked down at his console. The obsidian black
surface--puncuated only self-illuminated touch-keys--replied
with a tinted reflection of the chief petty officer's
bewhiskered facade. Definitely need to pick up some more beard
suppressor, he thought quietly as his hand reached to graze
against an irritated patch of facial hair..
CPO Ishi Karano, quickly approaching his sixteenth year in
the service, had a little under seven months left on Pasori
Station. At the age thirty-six, Ishi could look forward to
retiring on a master chief petty officer's pension. Still, he
didn't quite feel old enough to take his place amongst the
Confederation's "comfortably" retired population. His
sculpted, Asiatic features suffered temperament only by his
pale complexion, and his shoulders relaxed into a taut isoceles
triangle. Once bordering on lankiness, Karano's physique had
drastically improved during his time in service. Before
arriving on station a year ago, the petty officer had taught
basic seamanship on Belmont, a lunar-world orbiting LTT 4332's
second gas-giant some thirty lightyears from Earth. The gravity
well's depth on Belmont ranked somewhere in the upper tenth
percentile of human tolerance levels. For quantity's sake,
that came out to approximately one-point-four-four gees.
Karano, an acting PO 1/c back then, managed to survive three
months of vigorous high-gee training onboard an orbital gravity
acclimation facility--uniformly accelerating its torque from
one gee to Belmont's gravity--until the doctors pronounce
Karano fit to go planetside. One of the most miserable,
uninhabitable worlds within the human tolerance range, the
torrent weather and the bitterly agitated seas of the aquarian
world--eighty-seven percent water--appealed to the Academy
leadership (for some strange reason known only to the
nostalgics in Command). After all, the natural, chaotic
elements of Belmont's furious weather system proved more than
adequate as a test of the mettle of the Spacy's servicemen and
women. CPO Karano, to this day, wondered what had ever
implanted in Command's perpetually mysterious mind that he of
all people was fit to teach the lucky pupils of the Spacy's
most rigorous wet-navy training asset.
He watched as the lieutenant sat down at the console
immediately to the left of his. The watch officer's chair
traditionally lay in the center of the room, but the lieutenant
frequently complained about the small size of the visual
construct in her armrest. So, with no argument, nor concern,
from anyone else, she sat at the superfluous forward station;
configured to support her privileged command console.
Considering that Meteorlogical Orbital Control Center predated
its senior officer by close to fifty years, and that the
station's computer and network hardware was an unholy collusion
of "ancient technology" and modern-day electronics, Karano had
to physically rewire the console himself. Doing his job was
hard enough, and a hard ass (and save ass) lieutenant only
seemed to burden the load. The same forces that rendered the
local space a confusing maze of space trash also brought Karano
and his senior officer together in a sort of paradoxical,
feud/camaraderie that explored the many paradoxes in
relationships. God help poor Ishi if the lieutenant started
shoving uniform protocol down his throat
Fortunately, the atmosphere onboard at Pasori Station made
it a bit easier to relax the formalities, regardless severity
and seriousness in which the Confederation considered its
border with the Corron Empire. The Spacy's National Guard
detachment to this sector, which conducted operations on the
authority of the RSF Frontier Command, maintained a constant
watch across the six-hundred lightyear stretch of the Buffer
Zone. Within the twenty-lightyear radial sweep lay about
two-hundred thousand stars, most of which were too small to
attract a great deal of attention. Still, others managed to
located themselves within the paths of gravity waves,
interstellar gravitational rifts often used often used to
facilitate hyperspace travel. Consequently, these stellar
bodies warranted at least navigational buoys and communications
relays within their outer systems. Some stars actually
possessed formidable planetary systems--ones with real
industrial or colonization potential. As Confederation
real-estate assets bordering a hostile star-nation, these
actually managed to draw actual warship pickets. For some
God-forsaken reason, 44 Pasori managed to cling onto the
"Spacy's Most Desirable Border Systems" list. Funny thing was
that the Corron Empire had absolutely no interest with the
Pasori system, for reasons to overwhelming to discuss
comprehensively. During CCW-4, Pasori had been on of the
stellar assets that the Confederation secured outrightly,
simply by dominating the gravity waves that happened to lead
into it.
The blue-skinned bastards could take the entire sector
back, for all Karano cared. Of course, he doubted Spacy
Command would care for the strategical opinions of an
nigh-senior rating wiltering at the hind end of the patrol
line. The chief docksman--the Spacy's shorthand for a sensor
specialist--had witnessed more than enough bloodshed to
conclude that he didn't--nor wanted to--undestand how the
Empire thought. Even more so, Karano had resolved to never
again ponder the Spacy's thinking as well. Personally, Karano
felt that the Empire was as irrelevant as the "ancient" Invid,
the parasitic alien race that had ravaged Sol's third planet
over a hundred twenty years ago. Of course, nearly a century
and a half of history insulated him from that threat, while the
Corron Empire and the full force of the Hwi-zhemal'orra--known
to the DeForce as the Corron Imperial Interstellar Army--just
might lay poised to lash out with only fifteen lightyears of
vacuum between them and Pasori's remote corner of the galaxy.
If knowing that wasn't reason enough to worry, Karano found it
easy to shift himself into an entirely irrate mood by just
looking at the nearest meteorological display. Frowning at his
console, he noted the inevitable arrival of a small, immaterial
storm of ionic flux activity brewing in a lower orbit. Sooner
or later, it would translate upward into the high orbitals and
cause a whole mess of "visibility" problems. When one
considered that a key job of an MOCC crewman was to keep an eye
out on cislunar and orbital traffic, Karano found an excuse to
gripe every time the proverbial shit hit the cosmic fan. The
proverbial shit, of course, manifested itself as the
all-to-tangible, particle and micrometeoritic shit cluttering
the "emptiness" just beyond the nearest viewport.
Karano often wondered why the Spacy needed to park their
oversized flatbeds here at all. Unfortunately, such was life.
Spacy Command didn't feel any obligation to explain itself to a
mere CPO, nor did it prostrate to the upset concerns of a
mid-rating enlisted man. After all, on paper, the explanation
read perfectly (don't they always?), and Karano found himself
nodding in bitter agreement. It basically boiled down to
traffic conditions.
Sometime ago, the subsector of space the 44 Magyar Pasori
System occupied experienced a massive event that riddled the
space-time continuum interface in this locality with millions
of stress-lines--electromagnetic fountains and gravity stress
pockets littered both star-systems and interstellar nothingness
with some of the worse gravity interference ever experienced by
mankind. Pasori-space--in terms of the National Spacelane
Transportation Bureau's Transit Condition Scale--ranked well
within the S-Negative echelon. On a range from Alpha to
Sierra, in descending favorability towards sensor visibility
and acceleration and velocity limits, the Sierra-type
denotation was reserved for space suffering heavy gravitational
flux activity--which consequently indicated abnormally
prevalent concentration of micrometeorites, ionic activity in
planetary orbits, and magnetic fluxes translating outward from
the stars. S-negative, naturally, meant "as shitty as it
gets." In such a blizzard of natural activity, electromagnetic
flares eminated forth from their host stars and resonated
within the magnetic fields of dense, rocky planets; resounding
the solar radiation over the entire cubic volume of the
system. Furthermore, the Pasori system on the fringe of a
semi-nebulaic sub-sector. Hundreds of millions of years
absent, Targus had left enough residual "film" around the
Pasori system to keep surveyors dogged with work for years.
Here, gravitational force "bled" from deep, gravity maelstroms
lightyears long--in normal-space--and the level of
electromagnetic and gravitational "choppiness" increased by an
appreciable factor of fifty-three percent above prefered
navigational conditions. This greatly affected the performance
of pulse drives, a hybrid of reaction and gravitic drive
technologies. This special, semi-reaction engine employed what
the blueprints called a gravitational energizer--shortened to
"gravitizer." The gravitizer worked to increase the potential
energy--and consequently the momentum factor--of standard
exhaust by "merely" altering the local gravitational constant
around the exhaust stream. While pure gravity impellers were
rather commonplace in this day and age, small, hyper-capable
vessels were greatly inhibited by how much mass they could
devote to a sublight drive. For vessels massing more than
five-hundred thousands metric tonnes, a gravity drive was a
necessary sublight reality. No reaction-mass drive, whether
pulse or standard, could ever hope to accelerate a vessel that
size and conserve fuel for maneuvering and deceleration.
Gravity drives, for the most part, were still a viable option
for smaller vessels. Shuttles, for example, and even military
strike craft could mount a special external gravity impellers.
Nevertheless, vessels located within the 4000-200,000 metric
ton range found that external impellers were unable to generate
a deep enough gravitation cone for the ship to "fall into."
Also, internal impellers consumed for more cubage than
merchants operating this mid-range vessels were willing to
sacrifice. Fleet merchant freighters and superhaulers mounting
true gravity drives were too expensive to operate as
frequently, and the light freighter was priced just right on
the open market. The merchant marine and the freight business
demanded an alternative to the mass-consuming sublight
impeller. Introduced in the late twenty-first century, the
pulse engine provided a mass-conscious alternative to the
gravity impeller that appealed large number of private
investors. The penalty: a decisively inferior level of
performance as compared to vessels of equal mass mounting pure
gravity drives. The pulse drive permitted accelerations up to
one-hundred and thirty-five gees, which merchies found more
than acceptable for interplanetary traffic. Furthermore,
vessels capable of employing the augmentation effectively
carried enough reaction-mass in less than twenty-three percent
of the space necessary to mount a gravity impeller. That meant
class-for-class--within the mid-range mass category--the pulse
drive's mass efficiency far outweighed its perfomance
deficiency. A Cortege-class light freighter, while limited to
forty-two percent the acceleration ability and thirty-eight
percent the sublight operational range of the equally massive
Dart-class corvette, maintained a minimum usable space
advantage of sixty-percent! Mounting a kingspin generator to
execute a hyperspace fold, the raw, usable cubage of a Cortege
light freighter still exceeded that of the Dart corvette by
forty-seven percent.
Unfortunately, pulse drive performance heavily depended on
"climate" conditions of the space in which it operated.
Noticable deficiencies in performance occurred primarily in a
milieu heavily influenced by non-uniform, gravitational stress
lines. Stress lines resulted from the collapse of stellar
masses over period of billions of years. These frequently
occured around star systems nearing the end of their lifetimes;
also in interstellar space, where already faded stellar mass
cursed the interstellar void with invisible, potent
gravitational legacies. These pockets viciously attacked the
grav-shifted particles expelled from the pulse engine's exhaust
system. After all, the pulse drive augmentation worked by
"convincing" matter, at the subatomic level, to "fall" towards
a gravity well that simply did not exist. When small pockets
of existing gravity stress lines--not unlike elusive,
rain-filled potholes on a dirt-side highway--littered space
with annoying frequency; running across these stress lines had
an effect not unlike that of a speed bump. Pulse engine
performance suffered a drastic thirty to forty percent drop,
and vessels deliberately maintained a minimum power setting on
the gravitizer. The cost was extremely high, for most pulse
drive vessels derived more than half their total potential
delta-v during the exhaust's grav-shift phase. Additionally,
pulse drives actually tended to agitate naturally accurring
waves, which--for the most part--flourished in higher planetary
orbitals; most merchant traffic took place in those orbital
shells. Furthermore, modern merchant fleets employed the new
ion-pulse drive. Plasma, charged, conductive particles,
readily submitted to "gravitization" within the pulse drives
grav-shift coils, and the business world had been delighted to
refit their light merchent freighters and passenger liners with
modified, plasma-carrying reaction-mass tanks. Nevertheless,
the flip-side was that ions tended to snag violently against
external gravity stress lines. Combined with the fact that
pulse-drives provided no natural gravitational field beyond of
the exhaust outlet, a Cortege-class light freighter could
easily find itself rendered into its component particles if
operating with its gravitizer's power settings too high;
indeed, a body could irradiate itself out of existence if a
gravitizer consumed more than three megawatts of power. The
few light merchant freighters and liners unlucky enough to find
their routes carrying them through this system
Despite pulse drive deficiency, vessels mounting a gravity
impeller fared much better. In fact, the newest generation of
Confederation drives--purely gravitic--generally thrived in
S-Negative space. A vessel fully immersed within the cone of
gravity produced by these "reactionless" drives did not undergo
the same grav-phase shifts that exhaust departed from a pulse
engine's gravitizer suffered. Likewise, the field wake of the
impeller's activity extended around a ship, breaking external
gravity stresses much like the armored bow of a wet-navy vessel
traversing a tormentuous sea. Instead, the impeller
field--when represented on an isobar field map, resembled a
cone of gravitational force--remained consistent and uniform
within its berth. The related advantage S-Negative space
provided for actually augmented the potential of a vessel's
impeller field. An S-Negative mark often indicated space
possessing a massive junction of intense, interstellar gravity
waves, or simply "hyper-lanes." Such tighly-woven
gravitational fields could either render a body to its
subatomic components--if approached without proper protection
and equipment--or assist a body directly into hyperspace. By
"sailing" into a hyper-lane, vessels could actually translate
into hyperspace the taxing power requirements to make the jump
independently. While in hyper, the gravity impeller acted as a
sail, harnessing the hyper-lane's gravitational force as if it
were wind billow against a clipper's canvas. Additionally, the
impellers could actually siphon off the energy from the forces
exerted by the hyper-lane; during a transit, a vessel could use
the gravity wave's force as an external power source. For that
reason only, the rare S-Negative label carried a reasonable
measure of respect amongst astrogators. Systems worthy of the
denotation often lay at the intersection of the most powerful
hyper-lanes--one's ships could transit through upward
twenty-thousand times the speed of light (practical).
Although these conditions were prevalent, they were by no
means absolute. Pasori, for example, possessed an arrangement
of grav-waves made it a dead-end for half a dozen space-lanes.
To understand exactly how this works, one most consider exactly
what hyper-lane "looks" like from a normal-space perspective.
The sphere model, the analogy most familiar to CPO Karano,
adequately explained the normal-space/hyperspace relationship.
An observer limited to existence on the surface of a sphere
would perceive his environment in only two dimensions. If he
were to take the least-time route between point A and point B
on this ideally smooth surface, the "flatlander" then travelled
what he perceived to be a straight line. While the observer's
analysis of his displacement is correct from his frame of
reference, it is quite evident--in the third dimension--that
the Flatworld concept of a straight line actually resembles
that of a curved path, which mathematicians call a geodesic.
By warping a geodesic into what a Three-Dee Worlder might
recognize as a "straight line," points at a great distance on
Flatworld tended to converge--albeit from a Flatworlder's frame
of reference. Where a straight, three dimensional tunnel
exists, a Flatworld observer would witness two points in his
universe coexisting at the same point of space. Gravitational
waves followed this suit, except their "geodesic" warp occurred
in a higher dimension than that humans could comprehend.
Points on a three-dimensional graph would tend to "move"
towards each other, in respect to a three-dimensional observer;
not only through four-dimensional space, but also through the
dimension of time. At one point, where the geodesic would
finally form a "straight line" in a higher dimension, the two
points--in respect to a three-dee observer--would actually
coinhabit the same coordinate position, to the infinite decimal
place, at exactly the same point in time. Once the geodesic
returns to its natural state, the points assume their original
places in space-time; except that what ever passed through the
"convergent position" no longer exists at the first point.
Instead, it returns with the second point to that coordinate in
space-time. The notion of the geodesic, manifested by the
stress applied by force of gravity on space-time, inspired
astrophysicists throughout history to pursue gravitational
physics to its ultimate end. After all, humanity had entered
a golden era in the study of gravitics; a period of time where
intelligent species were applying and developing the sciences
of gravitational force and its associated field of action.
In nature, grav-wave geodesics did not curve towards
coexistence, although they apparently "closed the gap" between
distant points in space-time. The convergent position was an
ideal notion, the gravitic sciences answer to relativity's
simultaniety question. In actuality, hyper-lanes resembled
arched tunnels when perceived in the 2D/3D analogy.
Wormholes, a family of powerful, naturally occuring hyper-lanes
that included the fatally revered black hole, approached the
geodesic mathematical limit with even greater persistence.
Astrophysicists agreed that these space-time "creases" often
came within a decimal point and a billion zeros of the
hyperspace asymptote. Simultaneity, nevertheless, was an ideal
property, and only ignorant absurdity surrounded the notion of
instantaneous travel.
These hyper-lanes often criss-crossed and intersected with
normal space a certain distance away from a stellar body.
Dependent on a star system's total mass, this line--a
"hyperspace gravity limit"--could flutter between ten and ten
hundred astronomical units in radius from the host star. More
often than not, a star within the older half of the main
sequence classification would possess at least one or two "exit
ramps" for a hyper-lane. Heavier stars, such as giants and
supergiants, often boasted tens, hundreds, and even thousands
of powerful hyper-lanes, all spreading out in a geodesic
fashion towards other star systems. Older stars also possessed
an appreciable number gravity wave termini, and those
hyper-lanes were most often the easiest and the gentlest to
translate into. However, the fact remained that there was no
guarantee that all stars fitting the criteria would possess
such natural advantages; although the probability of a white
dwarf existing without a usable hyperspace terminus was
astonishingly low.
Unsurprisingly, Pasori ended up with the short-end of the
stick again. While vessels transiting within grav-waves could
exit safely beyond Pasori's hyper-gravitational limit, the
reverse was not true; thanks to Pasori's unusually high gravity
flucuations levels. Single transits for lighter ships, maybe.
Still, no one felt the gall to risk the potential resonance
that might arise from transiting entire flotillas of capital
warships en masse. Instead, ships jumped into hyperspace in
the inner-system; the forces exerted by their hyper-drives did
not significantly irritate the gravity pockets. However,
larger vessels found their hyperspace practical velocities
limited to alpha level translations. Hyperspace was "composed"
of gradient "velocity states," often refered to as levels or
bands. The graduating bands were mathematical approximations,
of course; measuring the translation level in estimated
intervals rather than in an exact, instantaneous sense.
Translating from one band to another required an increase in
fold generator output, and as the Kingspin began to rapidly
deploy hyperspace gravity fields about a ship, the resonance
would steadily increase as the geodesic effect stumbled across
Pasori's various grav-stress lines. Consequently, a vessel
translating into hyperspace's alpha band had to maintain a
practical velocity that didn't exceed 150c, an agonizingly slow
speed limit that reached out into the sector with a radius of
one-point-four-one lightyears. A merchant ship could approach
Earth in hyperspace travelling at a safe maximum "speed" of
two-thousand cee (any significant, stellar gravitational
presence demands a reduction in superluminal "velocity"). The
trip would normally take no more than five hours once the
merchie crossed the HG limit. In Pasori-space, such a jaunt
would require at least two days--from HGL to Pasori II. While
vessels could make use of the hyper-lanes traveling towards the
Pasori system with no significant change in travel time, travel
to the nearest available hyperlane--via fold drives--would
require a fifty-percent extension in a merchies schedule. For
that reason, the only civilian ships that travelled out into
this backwater system were either medical supply vessels or
mail packets.
Karano frowned at that thought. Mail packets usually
operated in areas uncovered by the Confederation's extensive
hyperstate communications network; the sheer expanse of the
commo setup had eliminated the need for couriers sevent-three
percent of the Confederation's star systems. However,
hyperstate gravity pulses couldn't cut through the Pasori
sector's gravitational and magnetic interference. That ancient
rift which had ripped across Pasori-space had forced this
system to accept the reality of couriers for long-range
communications. In fact, the cost of gravitics sensor and
commo network set up just within Pasori II's orbital space
could easily set up a public hyperstate communications system
linking all colonies in the Sol system. While an inexpensive,
inelaborate hyper-comm net had been deployed in the inner
system, lightspeed commlinks and individual gravitic sensor
stations remained the standard.
Chief Karano, sometime during his time at the petty officer
school, managed to pick up that magnetic stars simply had to be
in possession of a significant number of rocky planets, left
over from the days when the system had shown brightly as a
yellow star and then burgeoned into a red giant. By simple
definition, these rocky planets were often mineral and metal
rich, as well as numerous. Some stars, like the Theta Cassini
white dwarf in the Jarao Supersector, held onto over ten or
twelve rocky planets. Pasori, on the other hand, had three.
Pasori II, the unnaturally large one, had five moons of its
own, each metallically and chemically deficient. None of the
worthless rocks slowly circling 44 Magyar Pasori boasted any
metal richer than iron, which existed in useless abundance.
Pasori did, however, possess a sizable number of Class-Nine
Small Celestial Bodies, otherwise known as asteroids. Even so,
the asteroids were no more valuable than the planets
themselves; the proved to be far greater nuissance to traffic
than a source of industrial wealth. Twenty-seven percent of
the non-stellar mass had been consumed by the asteroid
population long ago, forming an asteroid field that encompassed
an entire orbital shell seventeen AUs thick. In fact, over the
past six-hundred million years--since 45 Magyar Pasori's last,
trivial spurt--the interstellar nebulaic cloud continued to
establish its dominance over the middle-system. The belt
turned massive, interplanetary voids into breeding ground for
these enormous space-going rocks. The dust cloud--if one could
call mineral-poor, five-hundred meter wide rocks "dust"--gave
birth to newer mineral-poor, five-hundred meter wide "dust
particles," which in turn assumed radically elliptical orbits
around the magnetic star. Within four hundred million years,
the number of near-planet asteroids had increased dangerously.
Planets represented huge natural "landmarks" that spacelanes
used as translating points in hyperspace operations, and all to
often, a vessel would find itself defolding in the path (or
even inside!) one of those enormous, space-going rocks. One
Terran explorer commented on the harrowing situation, "This
shithole just craps boulders!"
But that's where Ishi came in. The courageous and bold
Chief Karano. The Custodial Knight of the Order of the Cosmic
Mop; called upon to execute the noble task of rendering
accursed, baneful meteoroids into "inert," micrometeoritic
dust. From his mighty throne in this orbiting fortress, he
commanded an army of semi-autonomous laser and grav-beam
arrays--assembled collectively into independent "Range Firing
Units." With these tools at hand, Karano quickly discovered
that this occupation was far easier--if no less tedious--than
he initially suspected. The grav-beam and laser installations
were strategically situated out in the space between Pasori's
third and fourth lunar orbits. Controlled by five other
independently orbiting sub-stations, all slaved to the MOCC's
primary computer, they rarely left anything for him to clean
up. Furthermore, four of the five RFU platforms were arranged
equidistant quarter-month positions; there was little chance
anything natural and undesirable getting through. The fifth
installation stood a lonely watch on an extended orbit shared
by Pasori II's fourth moon, ensuring that no form of
potentially hazardous space debris would enter cislunar space
undetected.
The station's CO had the fourth RFU stats on her screen.
As Karano peered over at the lieutenant console for a moment,
the officer responded with a conciliatory a-hem; the CPO faced
forward once again and cross his arms over his chest.
"So, what the hell was that all about, Skip?" Karano asked
innocently, his fingers coiled together as he reclined in his
seat. "I mean, it was just the news."
"Just stay alert," Lieutenant "Sparky" Tobalt replied, her
eyes firmly locked on her console's display. It had taken
awhile, but the senior rating learned early on that their was
little sense in engaging in a protocol debate with an
officer--especially Lieutenant Tobalt. Despite Janeen "Sparky"
Tobalt--yet attactive--frame, and her pair of delightfully
freckled dimples, she could be a real firebrand at times. In
fact, that quality seemed to add to her pleasing features,
and--in Karano's farthest thoughts--the lieutenant attitude
seemed to indicate she might be quite a handful in bed. "Watch
the multivid on your own time."
He simply shrugged as the lieutenant scrolled down RFU-4's
self-diagnostic report. He completed the same query not more
than five minutes before the Lieutenant stormed onto the
bridge. Of course, he understood that Janeen--the
Lieutenant--always double-checked his work; more out of boredom
than distrust. Of course, the skipper wasn't about to admit
that.
"Damn it, Chief." The lieutenant shifted her display as so
to scroll back the last ten minutes of RFU-4's diagnostic
reports. "I can't go on a break without being afraid you'll
miss some goddamn meteoroid heading right towards us. You're
one unfocused mother--"
"Sorry, lieutenant," Ishi swiftly interjected.
"Sparky."
"Yeah. Sorry, Sparky," Chief PO Karano replied. Sparky
was by all means too impetuous for an station watch officer,
let alone the Pasori system's permanent senior officer. Those
lucky enough to draw Pasori station as a first assignment
normally were selected from the most spineless pool of ratings
and officers DeForce had to offer. At twenty-eight, Lieutenant
Sparky Tobalt was the youngest and most openly craven CO in
Pasori MOCC's rather ordinary history--an honor she readily
dismissed in conversations amongst her peers. Her first field
assignment as a midshipman out of Point Majestic Academy had
been onboard a similar MOCC in over Odin II; she quickly found
herself right at home onboard Pasori MOCC. "Do just enough"
paraphrased her motto adequately; she had rarely deviated
throughout her career, as exemplified by her exceptionally
mediocre rank of one-thirty seven (in a class three-hundred and
fifteen), graduating from Point Majestic's station CO school.
Earning the command of meteorlogical post wasn't a particularly
difficult tas, if that's what one wanted. However, Sparky had
to wait four years as a lieutenant (junior grade) for some
rather obstinate, and probably just as craven, CO to vacate a
station's command for some permanent, austere reason--death,
for example. Foruntately, inasmuch as MOCC command wasn't the
most sought after job in the Spacy, maneuvering into the slot
involved virtually no work at all. Besides, Sparky learned
early on that the life of a Spacy battle-line officer could get
downright hazardous, if she didn't make the right moves. Those
"right moves" violated her principle of "doing just enough,"
and Sparky wanted to defer the grisly alternative for quite
some time. So, if the DeForce was willing to shell out thirty
hyaku-nuyen (about $2800 Confederation credits/North American
dollars) a month to have her sit around all day and blast rocks
out of the sky, that suited her just fine. Pasori MOCC was
just as good an assignment as any, so long as she got her
monthly pay.
"So, what happened?" Sparky paused at the end of the
datafeed and closed the diagnostic window. Her console screen
went blank as she turned her head to face Karano.
"Heh?" The CPO blinked twice. Sparky's taciturn expression
caught him off guard. Ordinarily, he could read her like a
billboard poster. Such passivity in her facial expressions
simply didn't register with him.
Sparky turned back to her monitor for a moment, frowned,
and then reassumed her deadpan expression. "What were they
talking about...on the news."
"Oh," Karano sighed. "Didn't you hear?"
The CPO's brow furrowed as Sparky shook her head
dumbfoundedly.
"The Periphery colonies still up in arms about about these
latest incursions." The lieutenant's eyes widened, and not even
the time gap between Jarao and Pasori could possibly lessen the
shock. Hyperstate communications, although instantaneous, were
still limited in the sense that the media could never
conceivably be everywhere in the Confederation immediately. A
modern telecommunication news organization--the media service
had long since separated from video entertainment--worked (an
effectively managed) thousands of smaller news agencies simply
to facilitate the lack of manpower. No organization could
supervise the millions of professionals and billions of other
workers employed by the media industry. Even so, system or
even planetary-scale news coverage was the stuff that headaches
were made of. Distributing to the nearbly systems required
endless maintenance of contracts and relations with sister or
competing media agencies. Territorial stakes were high, and
most small-system news agencies relayed on gravity waves and
courier drones to transmit messages across the vastness of
space--light-speed transcievers still the maxim in
communications technology. Consequently, sometimes breaking
news took days--even weeks and months--to spread throughout the
Confederation. In this case, the news had taken roughly
fifteen hours; the hyperstate network in this region was fifth
generation and public access. Still, a full five-sevenths of
the Confederation--outside of the major system-clusters and
colonial branches--lived with either tenuous hypertate/gravitic
communications, or with none at all.
On a positive note, the "necessity" of on-the-scene news
reporters had increased the focus on local news franchises.
For the first two months of the Katherinian conflict with the
cetacean d'N'ra and for nearly the first half of the civil war
that ensued, T,l,vision Cinq--one of Katherine's outmoded
broadcasting conglomerates--covered the escalating situation
with an exclusivity soon envied by the Confederation's major
news broadcasters. Much of Cinq's news was over five-weeks old
by the time it reached the nearest major hyperstate com-route;
the Martha Sector's communications were limited to military
com-nets and light-speed communications. Ergo, the only way
news made its way outsystem was embedded in the computer
memories of courier drones sent out to navigate grav-waves by
remote. Still, by the time nation-wide "paper" and "televised"
news coverage arrived on scene--like the Washington Post or the
Karbarran New Network--T,l,vision Cinq had elevated itself into
the international scope. Faces such as Jacques Gersault and
Samantha Purpleton achieved household fame as the UPC's
excitement-starved populace tuned into the violently dramatic
events that plagued the Martha sectors
Today, the focus of the news people lay hundreds of
lightyears from that internecine hellhole.
"That," Karano continued, "combined with last week's raid
on Jarao V--"
"Wait, did you say Jarao?" Sparky interrupted him, her
reticent expression immediately shifted to one of intemperate
suprise.
"Yep." Karano slowly sipped the last bit of his coffee.
"Seems that a Chorymi raiding part--they said five
Jackrabbits--went hit and run on the Marine training
installation there. Jumped a Marine fighter squadron training
there and battered the hell out of two Garfish DGs." Of
course, Karano was citing from the official communiques which
had arrived on station hours earlier. Sparky clearly hadn't
read through the off-station reports yet.
"My God." The lieutenant drew in a sharp breath.
"How...how many?"
"Twenty-five or thirty Marine aviators," Karano answered;
his tone had dropped noticably. "Five are unaccounted for; but
no one made it back. They were jumped before they hit vacuum."
"Oh god," Sparky gasped. "That's only..." she drifted off,
her gaze subconsciously shifting to the vacuum outside.
"Real close," Karano summarized their mutual thoughts,
although his tone dripped with a despicable, nonchalant
monotony. "Too close..."
"Damn it, Ishi! We're talking about at least thirty dead
people, and we both know that Jarao's got a big red X marked
through it on their star-charts. What's Command waiting for?
It just doesn't make any sense."
"No, sir." Karano looked back at his console--RFU-3's
diagnostic was complete and the datafeed was already en-route
to his station. He took the opportunity to relax a bit,
reclining back into his chair. "It really doesn't. God knows
that the Periphery knows what's going on here; and they know
that the government isn't really doing anything about. Still,
you got to look at it this way--look who's making the
decisions.
"Core Worlders, non-Terrans, and domestic socialists
currently have a foothold in the House and Senate--the
Democratic Unificationists dominated both the 24th and the 23rd
Congressional Sessions. Considering the swelling
anti-"militarist" movements on Eridani II and Mutanak, I'm
surprised that they're doing anything at all--forgot to tell
you, Admiral Rensselaer did dispatch a task force; although it
won't be here until next month. Even so, maintaining the
active fleet is a big enough cost as it is, and so long as the
politicos pay lip service to the problem in Druse, then
nobody's whose voting for them will give a damn. That's the
simple way of putting it. Don't forget, while humans are ready
to remember what the Empire did on Earth back then, the rest of
the Confederation isn't willing to risk paying the price we did
in CCW-4. So what if a few incidents occur out in the
Periphery--the voting population out here is too thin and too
powerless to threaten the Core's interests."
"I know the Confederation isn't perfect, but you'd think
she'd take care of her own." Born on Earth, Sparky had never
really known how the anti-Core sentiment of the
Periphery--amongst Terrans and non-Terrans alike--until she
arrived at the Pasori MOCC station. Ishi Karano grew up on
Rigel IV, and he knew exactly how the Huang political machine
used the festering internal rivalry to win election after
election. The past eight years had seen the worst of it,
although Karano doubted that this year's elections would change
the current precedent.
"Remember when I had to defend my M.A. in political
science?" Karano continued. His degree was courtesy of the the
Continued Education Fund; mandated by the Burn Bill, it
provided enlisted ratings with a college education. If Ishi
Karano had been eight years younger, his graduate-level
education might have qualified him for a dozen OCS schools.
However, four years in the E-6 grade--and sitting on the verge
of retirement--closed off that avenue. Besides, CPO Karano was
hardly interested in assuming any more responsibility that his
current rating demanded of him. "My thesis analyzed the
tripartite relationship between the state, foreign policy, and
the masses. In the long run, though, avoiding war at the
expense of some of its 'insignificant' colonial holdings seems
quite acceptable to the Core. Examine the domestic stance the
Core takes against the Periphery. After fifty-plus years of
secondary membership, the entire Rubian sector remains
essentially a protectorate--no voting citizens, no voting
delegates. Not even Confederation colonials hold any national
suffrage, and they're doubly forbidden in participating in the
Rubian political process. Hell, you still need a passport to
move in and out of the sector. Its almost as if the Periphery
represents some sort expendable, foreign real-estate they can
cast to the fore as an territorial shield against the Empire.
To be honest, I'm not sure I'd like to see what would happen
out here if the shit hits the fan." Civil war sounded a bit
extreme, yet Sparky had to nod in agreement. If current trends
continued, in either passivity or ardent fervor, the Core
risked alienating the Periphery completely; clearly, the
Periphery state governments were unhappy with the Core's
inability to differentiate between them and the Buffer Zone.
"So. You're saying the government's ready to let thousands
die--"
"Millions."
"Damn it," Sparky swore in surmounting anger. "What the
hell is Command doing. They sit back and do nothing? I don't
buy it."
"Didn't say that. We simply wait until the government
thinks we have something worth fighting for. Don't forget,
almost every keyworld has gone through a nuclear war of some
sort; ours was wiped three times, and occupied during the
fourth major incursion. Wars have earned a rightful stigmatism
since the 21st century, Sparky. Even when we watch the lunar
parades and shit like that, all we're seeing is the side that
covers up our true feelings on the subject."
Sparky acknowledged with a nod, then broke the conversation
and returned to her screen. Looking at his empty mug, Karano
said, "Hey, cap'n. Can I run down to the mess hall real quick
and get a refill."
"Go ahead, Chief," she waived him by. "Sorry about--"
Suddenly, the world about them exploded into a frenzy of
alert klaxons, quickly cutting Sparky off as the bridge crew
frantically responded. Without so much as a warning, the
station's internal alarm had suddenly blasted; the blaring
blast sounded the rare five-key alert through the metallic
floors.
"What the hell," Ishi Karano, not even halfway out of his
chair, plopped back down and hurriedly looked over his console.
The klaxons ceased, and the main screen lit up, priority
Golf.
"Passive contact," a docksman manning a rear station cried
out. "Bearing three-three-four mark two-zero-zero. Range,
five-three-five thousand kilometers. Approach range-vector is
seven minutes out of lunar orbit at projected terminal
velocity, heading towards orbital approach at five degrees off
tangental! I can't get a fix on its acceleration yet, the
oblique is to narrow. Whatever it is, it's real small, but
it's definitely on approach. At that speed, it should hit the
atmosphere at close to...er...oh shit! Eight-seven ee-ess!"
That meant by the time it crossed passed the orbit of Pasori
II's closest moon, it's orbital speed would be eighty-seven
times the local planetary-lunar escape velocity. The resultant
impact would be quite...spectacular.
"How the hell did it slip by OutSys?!" Sparky demanded.
"What's the ETA? Somebody, get the damned actives on-line!"
"One hour, twenty minutes, estimate--that's all I can get
out of passive," Karano began to datalink his terminal to the
lunar-side computers, which in turn were receiving constant
data from various satellites throughout the planetary system.
"Got it! She's on active hyper-sensor. Lidars standing by.
I've figured approach, coming in on zero-three-four mark off
Approach Delta-Foxtrot. It's...it's decelerating--on its own!
Velocity will drop to negative point-two-zero Groucho in thirty
minutes!" Karano meant that meant that it would soon drop below
the fifty kps limit--the local escape velocity. There was some
time before the object traversed the distince between its
current position and Pasori II's lunar orbital shell. However,
no shuttle or probe could intercept and retrieve something
moving that quickly. They'd have to move fast.
"We don't have all fuckin' day!" Sparky's eyes deviated
from her monitor. "Bobby! Wilkes!" She looked down stomped on
the grated floor that separated the First and Second
Meteorlogical Laser Control Center Levels. "Wake up down
there!"
"Aye, aye, Skip!" the chocolate-brown face of a sensor dock
rating peered through the grated floor. "Small-mass object on
course for approximate intersection at Mark IV Delta; currently
bearing one-oh-fiver mark fifteen.
Romeo-Foxtrot-Uniform-Fiver, Four, and Three on-line, targeting
solution ready. Estimated final velocity,
point-zero-zero-zero-niner ee-ess. Decelerating tractors on
standby."
"Mark India-Victor-Five--approach vector Nine-Zulu-Delta
approximate confirmed," the code referred to the planet the
fifth and last station, their station, orbited. Ishi carefully
manipulated the heat-sesitive scanners, then switched through
various EM and TEM scans.
"Damn! Hyper-grav residue levels at point.eight!" A
starship at maximum warp only leveled off at a fraction of that
level. "That thing is about six meters in length, major heat
distortion--man, that thing's got to be man-made. Wilkes!
Filter it! I want the decel tractors on-line now. Keep RFUs
on-line, but get ready to cycle them down to stand-by on my
command!"
"Aye, aye, Skip!" the technician shouted back up. Sparky
loaded up the computer data. Ishi looked over at her for a
brief moment, and then did a double-take. Man-made? he scoffed
inwardly. Hardly. Even if it was rare for a rock to make such
a direct, speedy approach like that, claiming it had to be
man-made was just jumping to conclusions. After all, inbounds
like this were rare, but not unheard of.
"Computer, identify," Ishi ordered outloud, invoking the
computer's voice recognition software while his fingers went
rapid-fire to refine the inbound's projected flight path.
"Working," the unfittingly dulcet reply came back. In a
few seconds, a detailed sensor report came back.
"Hyper-grav residue my ass," Wilkes shouted through the
metal grating. "It's emitting some sort of hyperstate
transponder signal! ID'ing as a Markham Class...er...Class
Baker." Ishi stammered slightly--confusedly, until Sparky's
voice brought him back to rapt attention.
"Point-eight grav-residue?" Sparky briefly point out.
"That doesn't make a hell of a alot of sense for something that
size, especially when its moving at sublight."
Sparky was right after all, Ishi commended her silently
befoer double-checking his current figures. That meant that
the pod had traveled in hyper somewhere in the outer solar
system--for God knows how long. Eventually, local
gravitational pockets, producing the superluminal equivalent to
friction, had managed to naturally coerce it back into normal
space. There was no other explanation, but Ishi still found it
to be a bit incredulous. Much to his surprise, RFU Station
One's and Three's artificially intelligent computers had
already confirmed their suspcions. Consequently, the
autonomous RFU's had initiated the "hypermagnetic web"
strategy. Standard operating procedure demanded that Station
Five, the command base, would be equipped with the most
powerful force-beam--a Mark XIa hyper-pulsar array. That first
blast should be enough to knock off a considerable amount of
mass, or change the course of the incoming asteroid. However,
this was not necessarily the case all the time. In fact, a
great deal of meteoric material managed to evade the strength
of Station Five's pulsars. So, when a really nasty rock
managed to dodge into the planetary system, the next four
stations would take turns whittling it down to a manageable
size--the number of satellites on the job dependent on station
positioning. Finally, Station One could launch missiles--if
necessary--at the remainder, completely neutralizing the deadly
object. When a REALLY fast moving object (at a signifigant
percentage of sublight) barrells into planetary system, the
tractors on all stations are set on high and wide spread. By
the time it reached Station One, it will have either slowed
enough to effect neuralization or it had already been rendered
harmless. Anything moving supralight--well, that was the
Interplanetary Meteorological Office's jurisdiction. If such
an object fell into Pasori II's court, there was nothing Sparky
and the MLCC could do; so, the crew prefered not to think about
it. Right now, Sparky realized, they had enough time to easily
gather a firing solution and let off an intercept torpedo, or a
pulsar beam once the object came into range.
However, destroying an escape pod was never an option.
The hypermagnetic web would employ the use of the pulsar
emitters of all stations as "gravitational tractor-beams."
Special continuum distortion devices were installed alongside
the directed energy and particle-beam systems dedicated to
slowing and destroying incoming meteoroids.
The gravity "beams" would literally "fold" subatomic
particles into a superluminal state, striking the pod with a
wave of gravitational force and coercing the object in question
to managable velocities. Once they slowed the object down to
about nine kilometers per second, local tractors could then
kick in as it passed close to the installations, slowing and
manipulating its speed and course, respectively, until it could
be halted and brought onboard the primary station.
By the time the tractors released, the pod was passing
through the second RFU echelon, moving past RFU-Four and
towards RFU-Three.
"Passing into standard approach lane at
point-zero-zero-nine-zero rads attitude," one of the
non-commisioned techs from below shouted up. "It's still
flying to quick to sweep into a direct orbital approach. The
momentum she'll pick up on the swing back up might throw her
back up into Wild Child." That meant, while Pasori II had just
earned itself a new satellite, the current velocity--to close
to escape velocity for comfort--would swing the escape pod into
a radically elliptical orbit. With that asteroid death trap
surrounding the planetary system...Sparky didn't feel like
thinking about it
The tech manning the station to Karano's rear suddenly
dropped his jaw, "Well I'll be a Chorymi Tristar, it just fired
its attitude adjusters. Proceeding on a direct course right
for us!"
"Station Four's images are coming through," Kanaro keyed in
the video to the viewscreen.
"Station Three reports two-thousand percent deceleration
rate. Uncertainty plus or minus zero-point-zero-eight," That
generally meant it was now going slow enough to assume a stable
orbit. Still, it would be easier to catch a bullet with one's
teeth.
"God almighty, look at that!" Sparky pointed at the image
of the escape pod. A distinct glow eminated from its
ultra-violet outline, almost as if it had--"Geez! It must've
been out there for months at least! Look at that hull
ionization!"
"Yeah," Kanaro agreed to. "I can't see in any registration
marks. Still, it looks safe enough."
"Station Two finishing its web quota. It's up to us now."
The pod drew into the view of Station II's visual sensors.
Repeated scans of different information channels brushed across
it. Many showed a non-incandescent glow that seemed to dim
much of the rest-
Sparky stared at the pod, as a flash of recognisance
flashed in her eye. "My god, it's actually bleeding off its
own grav-residue."
Kanaro studied his own readings, before bolting upright in
astonishment. "Lifesigns! Vague, but the cyro-chambers there
are still running!"
"I can't get a good reading off it," Sparky complained.
"What do you see?"
"Definite biosigns at level three strength. Whatever's
alive on that thing, its frozen solid."
"It could be--" Sparky was about to comment when a shout
came up from the number two level.
"Hey, cap'!" Wilkes called up. "If you give me a minute, I
can clean that thing off."
"How?" Sparky smiled questioningly.
"Station II's laser array is still in range. I just need
them to tweak some code and we can use it to 'sweep' the
ion-rads away," Wilkes replied. "After that, you can draw it
in without worrying about contamination. Either way, its too
hot to let it get close to the station's hull."
"All right, Bobby," Sparky looked down at the dark-skinned
sergeant. "Get on it. I want Bay Three's mooring tractor
ready in three minutes. "Let's get to work people."
Within a few minutes, Station II's laser array had
completely swept the pod clean of radioactivity. "Four-to-four
clear."
"Entering local space," Kanaro announced. "Approach base
oh-zero-zero mark 13 delta. Its slowed to thirty-eight
kilos-per-sec."
"My tractors ready!" Bobby flipped on his tractor control.
Outside, the tractor array began to power up. "Targetting!"
Three-hundred gausses of stress allowed the hyper-particle
beam to gently latched onto the surface of the pod. Station
One hung in its Lagrange Orbiting Point, carefully drawing it
closer. "C'mon baby, right into the pipe," Sparky breathed,
feeling like one of the Apollo pilots who had the anticipated
the privilage of docking with the 20th century American space
station--Skylab; before it came plummeting down to earth. For
a brief moment, Sparky's spirits descended into her stomach.
"Just a little more." She counted away the final seconds of
approach in silent prayer. Just a little more...a little
more...there!
Sparky was already moving. Throwing on her headset, she
once again shifted into her harsh, authoritative persona.
"Medivac!" she barked. "Two teams to Cargo Bay three!
Now!"
The screen instinctively refocused to its cargobay
cameras. As the surrogate doors slid open, the tiny ship
floated in, the blue wave warmly guiding it to its resting
place. Finally, Kanaro and Sparky could see the-
Sparky's mouth dropped open as she glanced at their prize.
It was about six meters in length, and three meters in height.
Typical escape pod, except for its A-class registry.
"Ma'am," Kanaro's pitch heightened. "Alphabetically
classified pods haven't been used in thirty years."
* * *
"C'mon, candyasses! Move!" the lead medivac officer, a master
chief, barrelled his teams into the stations small cargobay.
They donned protective gear--not actually sure of the
radioactive safety that the pod provided. "Three units there!
Move it!" The harshness intoned in the manner the lieutenant
barked out his orders was frightening, but not as much as the
situation the medivacs were faced with. Two meditechs had
already begun applying power to the entry systems. "Hatch is
blown!" they shouted back as the door fired itself off its
ledges. The error had been a voltage overload. This mother
was old!
"Three static lifesigns, induced coma," the first meditech
entered the pod, careful not to cram the interior to the point
where the lives of the cyro-frozen passengers would be
endangered. "REM levels at minimum. They're starting to pull
out. Can someone pull the medical files out of the computer?"
"On it," another meditech began. The escape pod had
downloaded the necessary files of its passengers right before
departure, as had been procedure for the past century and a
half. "Two juveniles, one adult. Life signs are nominal on
the juveniles."
"I'm bringing them outta hypersleep!" the first meditech
injected all three with a quantity of a hypochornadicin, each
once again entering into a stable, but drastically retarded,
REM hibernative state.
He was drowned out as the medivac team opened the cyro
drawers carefully. "Preparing DF procedure. Helium and oxygen
levels decreasing. Applying carbonite filter."
"Damn!" someone shouted. "This one's gone comotosis!
Fuck, it froze him over before he went into hypersleep!"
For the first time, they actually smelled the stench that
had filled the air of the escape pod--filtering through their
breathing masks with an awesome intensity. "Ventilate!"
Someone managed to get to the forward console. The
emergency hatches blasted away as their bolts explosively
discharged. Fortunately, no one was in the way. As the tech
crews finally opened the utility ports on the pod's outer hull,
plugging it into the station's internal power supply, the
escape pod's systems finally switched over from microfusion
battery supply, nearly spent after what seemed to be decades of
absolute dedication to the cyrobeds.
"He's undergone pre-termination rigor mortis. My god, his
legs are dead!"
They immediatly hoisted him outside, his legs still encased
in helium-ice. It seemed to sizzle as it was exposed to the
open-atmosphere of the station. "Juvenile-A, Kyoko Yatsumi,"
the computer-jack readout. "She's twelve, bio. Still can't
access the med-files--where the hell's the jacker?"
He paused a second, familiarizing himself with the small
biomonitor's toggling options. "Wait, I got something. Linna
Yatsumi, sixteen bio."
"Hypersleep aging ratio?"
"I need the goddamned personal files for it!" The meditech
angrily rapped his fingers against the toggle dash. "I'm
working on it. This system hasn't been used in thirty-got it!"
The jacker arrived momentarily. Plugging in his equipment,
he quickly called up the biomonitoring computer's database.
"Here ya' go. Kyoko Yatsumi, eight-years old; Linna Yatsumi,
twelve; David Yatsumi, nineteen."
"Used to be," another remarked coldly. It had already been
determined that he would not live much longer. Half of his
body was already dead, and the other half would soon join it.
"Two live ones, though." The chief medic tapped in a
command on the first cyro drawer's computer deck, standing back
to let the biobed slide out into the open. The chilled,
transparent canopy glistened in the pod's internal
illumination, and through the blue tinge and foggy cyro-ice, he
could see the preserved countenance of a young, innocent girl.
He carefully gauged the withdrawal process, and scooped the
hibernating child into her hands. "Kyoko Yatsumi, age
twelve...all right, get her over to Medical immediately!"
"Come on, let's move her out!" Kyoko vital signs were the
strongest of the three; strong enough for the medivac time to
move her out immediately. However, the medivac leader
hesitated appropiately with Linna; she could wait until a
properly-equiped trauma team made its way to Bay Three.
The assistant she waved down took the child, and immediatly
left the bay. "Are you sure we need to leave this one?"
"We want to be very careful with her withdrawal.
Unfortunately, we can't do that until the stasis team gets
here."
With that, the senior medic glared down impatiently at his
second. "Why don't you go and see what's holding them up?"
The medic rating stiffened, announced a hearty "aye, aye,
chief," and disappeared from the pod. The master chief petty
officer and a two other specialists huddled around Linna
Yatsumi's frigid biobed, watching in awe at the very
preservation of youthful beauty...
...and as the inhumanly deep cold stole away the last
vestige of innocence from her dormant anima, all they could do
was wait.
* * *
Ophromatos Saidel Orbital Military Hospital, 15 Sagittae A
"Ophramatos," May 28, 2173
"Five weeks?!" Ina Konora exclaimed. "Five weeks to transfer a
neuro-tram?" With dark irony, she drew a long breath of her
cigarrette, which her intern so strongly refered to as a
"cancer-stick," as she glowered at the three bio-beds that were
primarily sustaining her newest patients. From the lobby of
Rigel's ER ward, the relatively quiet night allowed her for a
brief view of Ophromatos, the timelocked fifth moon of a red
gas-giant, Ophrodia. The Ophromatos Orbital Hospital had
originally been a public medical facility for the colonists
below. However, due to Rigel's proximity to the Corron border,
it had been converted, like many other orbital facilities
within the Periphery, into a DeForce military
installation--without much compensation to her previous
charges.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the intern replied. "The study of
neuro-traumatics of durational hibernation is stll a rather
neglected field in physiology. Physiological reprecussions are
rarely this...farreaching, and the availability of necessary
specialists is accordingly infrequent. A psyche-consult might
be in order, though; after all, we don't know the extent of the
damage done--it might not be all that bad."
"I don't need a damn shrink!" Dr. Konora huffed, and stared
angrily out her office window at the sandy gold world below. A
medical doctor of twenty years, Ina Konora--age 43--had long
left the line of great cyber-engineers, founded by her
forefather Raizo Konora. Three years residency with this
hospital, and she was still frustrated with the methods of
bureacracy this hell-hole employed. Frustration with red-tape,
unfortunately, was a family legacy she wasn't bound to discard
as easily as others. The Konora clan included a rather
impatient lot. "I don't care. Do what you have to do, but I
want that transfer time cut in half!"
"We're trying to cut it down to three weeks," the intern
tried to gain her acquiece. "Personnel is working hard on
this--"
"These people have been in hibernation for seventy-five
years!" Konora turned from the starfield. "You just can't fit
their revival time around a schedule. You tell Personnel to
get off their collective asses and start doing their fucking
jobs! What the hell ever happened to the grand 'military
alacrity' I've heard so much about?"
"Doctor, there's nothing we can do. We'll just have to
wait"
She was right, Konora told herself. The intern had tried,
but the government had stepped in, placing her patients on a
lower priority. At the center of an entire Confederation, and
she couldn't get a damned specialist in a decent amount of
time.
"Let's take a look," Konora huffed.
The walk to D-wing wasn't that long. The hospital appeared
smaller than even the Pasori MOCC's sickbay, and they probably
didn't have half the staffing problems Ophromatos suffered.
The Periphery, by its mere proximity to a hostile, interstellar
empire, drew most of Spacy Medical's human resources onboard
the large-scale pickets out there. Ophramatos, "safely"
basking in the warm, Sol-like radiance of 15 Sagittae A--a
yellow, G1 star fifty-four lightyears from Earth--drew no
particular attention from Command. No, only a full-scale
invasion could scare the fleet back to the Core Worlds, and the
Saggitae System station had to deal with Spacy Medical's short
straw.
"The male?"
"David Yatsumi? Death at two-thirty-seven this morning,"
the intern yawned out, not really understanding the
insensitivity of her remark. Konora spared her a dirty look.
"Surgeon Lieutenant Gigliciatto made the call, ma'am."
She muttered under her breath. A little more time,
maybe--better facilities to deal with this unique case. We
could have saved him, but for what? The paralysis of half of
his body, and his mind had withered into an involuntary
nothingness. The medical term for that state was "partial
death," a condition as feared as a real deal itself. He'd be
nothing more than a living corpse, condemned to an intensive
care unit for the rest of his natural life--which, at best,
would've lasted three or four more months. What parts of his
body continued to function did so at an astoundingly low rate,
and the improper hypersleep conditions had not shielded him
fully from the radiation and grav-pockets the escape pod had
encountered during its seventy-five year tromp at the edge of
the Pasori system. The cancer that ate at the remaing vestiges
of his lifeforce finally succeeded in consuming him, at 0237h
this morning.
"Comotosis had fully set in," she lifted an autopsy report;
Konora had yet to hear the details of David's cyrogenic
mishap. "The helium freezing attacked his optical cavities
almost immediately, completely freezing his left lobe. The
rest just gave out. He wanted to die, ma'am. Only fair to let
the other half go."
But it wasn't fair. He had saved the life of his sisters,
only to have fate cheat him through a technical malfunction.
It was clear they would never really know the full story of
what had happened, at least not for some time.
* * *
They say that warping space has some sort of biological
"preservation" effect. Those who've traveled constantly on
warp-equipped vessels have often found their cells rejuvenated,
their longetivity increased sometimes twenty to forty years
beyond the already improving human lifespan. Somewhere, in
that framework of tachyons and super-gravity, the secret of
eternal youth lay wrapped up in the hyperstate quantum-level
particles favored by time, rather than space.
Voices.
Kyoko eyes opened to gaze upon blinding, immaculate
radiance. Her eyes...no, they were still shut. No, she looked
upon the universe as her essence perceived. She felt alone, as
if the universe had arrived on the door-step of its abeyance.
The monotony of it all disheartened her; then, all of a sudden,
vague silohuettes began to punctuate the brilliance,
She tried to speak, yet her as her muscles strained to form
the words, her voice fell prostrate to the tsunami of silence
which enveloped her.
The white light...
She stared into it before shielding her eyes.
Light. Death light. She had returned to that fatal
moment...the shuttle, the red shuttle and the lateral white
stripe. Her family...dear god, her family!
A shadow darkened the light, and another...
?!?
Daddy! Her screams cries out in agonizing despair.
Nothing. Nothing but a whisper--the one sound that defied the
smothering silence...
whisper...
DADDY!!! she screams a second time. Nothing, or something.
whisper....
"DADDY!!!" she screams a third time...
...and for the first time in ages, her eyes opened; the
fire within them radiated unimaginable terror. The tortuous
nightmare that had plagued her soul tore out of her through the
momentum of her sheer panic. A blood-curdling scream ripped
from her trembling lips, drawing the attention of the two
figures standing behind the distant transparency. For the
first time in seventy-five years, the hellish nightmare gorged
itself on the total, animate fear inhabiting all of living
reality...
* * *
Earth...
Hikaru Yatsumi, ninety-five and greying, appeared far more
wizened and feeble than he had any right to be. In an age
where the human lifespan peaked at the century mark and
diminished after two, the elderly gentleman found his bones
unjustifiably aching and his once youthful, vibrant skin now
calloused and mellow. Still, his stature radiated confidence
and health, and despite the wrinkles criss-crossing about his
face, his senses of vision and hearing were just as acute as
they had been forty years ago.
His wrist chronometer chimed four o'lock the afternoon,
station-time, as he looked up to see the debarking rush of
space-liner passengers racing for their scheduled planetary
shuttles--pushing and shoving each other along with way. The
old man smiled inwardly, remembering a time when he had thought
that life was too short to let a moment pass by in wasteful
idleness; businessmen and tourists alike doomed endless cycle
of haste and rush which only time would prove its futility.
Then, emerging from the faceless deluge of the mob, four
silohuettes materialized before him. As they approached, the
elderly man rose slowly to his feet, he recognized the two
Marine sentries the Personnel Department told him he'd be
waiting for. Within their company, two small, slightly
frightened, and thoroughly bewildered young girls huddled
closely to the shorter of the sentries. Hikaru's eyes searched
their faces--he suddenly felt as if he were torn between relief
and distress.
Seventy five years, Hiro. Seventy-five years.
"Um, Mister Hikaru Yatsumi?"
"Yes, Corporal," Mr. Yatsumi answered softly. Then, he
forced himself down onto one knee to get a better look at his
nieces.
"Well, well now. What do we have here?" Inspecting at the
children's quizzical expressions, Hikaru Yatsumi permited a
broad grin to spread across his sapless physiognomy. Kyoko
grinned right back, her eyes glistening as she looked past the
aged features to find her uncle, hiding delightfully in the
shell of an old man. Looking on, the corporal nodded
approvingly,
"Go on, child," the soldier nudged Linna forward sixteen
year-old Linna, yet she expressed absolutely no interest in
introductory formalities. As Hikaru's eye migrated from Kyoko
to her older sister, his grin faded as he gazed into the cold,
listless eyes of his brother's oldest daughter. For a moment,
he seemed to lose himself in that emptiness, and the
emotionless gaze Linna returned tore at his heart--nearly
immobilizing him as he peered desparately for
something...alive. Only the strong clasp of Kyoko's hand on
his brought him back, and the helpless sensation that had
flushed across his entire being dissipated into the greys and
whites of a bustling shuttle terminal.
The taller Marine, a buck-sergeant, smiled broadly at the
kids' new guardian, extending his hand in a friendly gesture.
"Good luck, sir. The young one's quite a handful."
Mr. Yatsumi accepted the Marine's hand graciously. As they
made their way back towards the military bloc, he stooped down
to Linna and Kyoko's height to introduce himself. "I hope you
remember me. I'm your uncle, Hikaru."
Twelve year-old Kyoko scrudged her nose in wry
recognition. Some things seemed to never change, as Uncle
Hikaru had always looked old to her. Nonetheless, a lot of
other things had changed, moreso within her than out in the
world.
* * *
It seemed like little or no time had passed since that fateful
day that Kyoko stepped once again onto solid ground; the
shuttle ride down the well enraptured her attention as the
tangible form of the North American Pacific coast drew closer.
As her face pressed against the shuttle's viewport, a smile
progressively unfurled over her soft, youthful expression. Her
return to the loving fold of her family gave her a warm sense
of security. Kyoko could turn to that comforting feeling
whenever confronted with the disheartening reminiscence of a
life long since departed, and she relied heavily on her
family's caring love to help lighten the burden adjusting to
the new life she now faced.
The first year had been an enormous culture shock for
Linna, as far as Uncle Hikaro and Aunt Kazumi could tell.
Unlike most children of their age, most of the school year of
2165-66 was spent in a local rehabilitation center. The task
of merely understanding their present environment, the social
mannerisms of the 22nd century, and the seventy-five years of
history that had slipped past them during their hyper-sleep was
enough to preoccupy a large portion of their time. Kyoko
adjusted faster than her sister, whose rapid mental and
emotional maturity--the adolescence forced upon her--wreaked
havoc gradually on her mental health. Three times during the
first five months, Linna suffered from a nervous breakdown; as
well as suffering from fourteen instances of convulsions and
violent fits. At one point, Linna was given tests for autism
or some other trauma-related mental deficiency, and Kyoko was
left alone as her sister was shipped off Okinawa and sent to an
intensive rehabilitation unit on the coast of San Fransisco.
So, for five months, Kyoko learned to play with the rest of
her "classmates," largely children orphaned at birth, severely
deformed or physically disabled, or--as some rumors had
it--were victims of extensively long hyper-sleeps, like Kyoko
herself. Her mind quickened and hardened, her pre-adolescence
lending to her ability to quickly adjust to the new world. The
last eight months of her term at the Saint-Just Rehabilitation
Center focused on bringing her up to a high-school freshman
education level (children now graduated from highschool at ages
ranging from 16 to 20, depending on the territorial educational
system).
Finally, in the late fall of 2166, Uncle Hikaru and Aunt
Kazumi took her home. Not to their Okinawan estate--they kept
that as a summer home for the time being--but to a San
Fransisco residence. Linna finally begun to adjust somewhat to
her surroundings, slowly drawing out of her extended,
traumatizing culture shock. Uncle Hikaru thought it best to
move near the rehab unit until Linna was ready to return home.
By that time, she was already demonstrating budding genius
intelligence, and had a knack for discourse on academic and
intellectual subjects. Unfortunately, her new found talents
failed her in the way of socialization and frienship; the first
years of her life Earth resembled that of an autistic child,
cut off by an incorporeal barrier erected by her apparent
inability to cope with human relationships. Kyoko, on the
other hand, acclimated easily to a social lifestyle of
fraternization and youthful friendships; more often than not,
Aunt Kazumi could look in from the kitchen and catch Linna
staring wonderously as Kyoko and her friends chatted about the
multi-vid. The discourse between Kyoko and her friends, Aunt
Kazumi suspected, would've only bored Linna--the irreverently
inconsequential banter that it was. Still, the consideration
Linna offered Kyoko and her companions didn't simply boil down
condescending dismissal--at least not all of the time.
Instead, Kazumi could've sworn she saw a wistful, longing gaze
eminate from the elder sister. It was almost as if Linna was
trying to learn how to make friends. Sometimes she'd interject
something into one of Kyoko's conversations; but her comments
often fell within the realm of curt, placid, and off-topic.
Consequently, Kyoko's friends often payed Linna little
attention, and sometimes made pointed remarks--for which Kyoko
thoroughly scolded them for. To Kazumi's bewilderment, Linna
simply returned to her introvert state, demonstrating neither
contempt or offense in response; that stage of her life hadn't
yet set in.
Although Kyoko's life is the centerpoint of this volumed
account, it seems that Linna's final "maturation" would set the
mold into which Kyoko's seemingly opposing lifestyle would be
forged in. Linna's self-isolation would continue until half
way through her junior year in high-school. At some
point--Uncle Hikaru could never figure out just when--Linna
suddenly sparked into the outgoing and charismatic idol that
Kyoko once knew and adored. Only, this time, it wasn't a
Student Senate or a Student-Faculty Function Committee. It was
political activism--a sort that Uncle Hikaru most certainly did
not approve of. First, Linna began to make many new
girl-friends, usually with the inner-city children on the
South-western end of the city and as far as Los Angeles. A
large part of her time was spent with her boyfriend(s) out of
San Diego; her physical maturity's disparity with her emotional
maturity had been suspected to have been exploited by one of
Linna's therapists. However, Linna had always vehemently
denied engaging in any romantic relationship. Whether or not
it was true, Linna's opinion no longer really mattered; Uncle
Hikaru had already noted that Kyoko's sister had developed an
acute habit for lying.
Most of Linna's new friends were rebellious youths;
probably they were responsible for sparking Linna's interests
in joining several...controversial activist groups during her
senior year. Kyoko watched as the brief spark of happiness and
friendliness her seemingly autistic sister had demonstrated
during her "coming out" phase dissipate into a rebellious,
antagonistic nihilism. More and more often, Linna and Uncle
Hikaru would fight on various things--particularly the military
and aliens.
Linna hated aliens. Kyoko--twelve (chronologically) at the
time--found it far easier to associate with the Centauran and
Elcop children who coincided with humans in San Fransisco's old
"Little Tokyo" cultural district than Linna ever had. When her
older sister was at Mercy Child Rehabilitation and Relocation,
there were no friends to speak of per se--although a large
number of alien psycho-therapists indifferently monitored the
young Yatsumi's progress. Slowly and with mounting anger,
Linna's nine months at Mercy CRR developed an acute hatred for
her alien "babysitters." Her angry scowls at Kyoko's alien
playmates was an early indication, but the Yatsumi family would
remain in the dark about the whole issue until Linna's senior
year.
She had left home for that period of time. After
succeeding in gaining her school district's nomination for the
2167 Lunar University Experience Program, Linna undisputingly
packed up her room--along with plastic bags filled with
pamphlets from such organizations as Humanity Now!, REPEL, The
Terran Front, and even the Furies--an anti-Alien propoganda
faction out of Western Europe. Her primary studies of
expertise--humanities like history and psychology--basically
turned her off from open hate groups such as the North-American
Ku Klux Klan and Knights of the Aryan Guard. However, her
intellectual naivet, made her fall victim to groups who were
able to rationalize their own contrived agenda with ridiculous
pseudo-politics and koanish psycho-babble--at least as far as
Uncle Hikaru was concerned. Having worked with non-humans for
most of his life--particularly Zentraedi--Uncle Hikaru was far
more offended with Linna's distaste for the military. Having
served a career as an officer for close to ten years, Hikaru
had earned a great respect for the two great realities of the
Confederation--multiculturalism and war. To imagine that he
failed to instill such values in his brother's oldest daughter
had virtually broken him inside.
So, he shifted his focus--at least after Linna had given up
on reconciling their relationship--onto his and Kyoko's
association. Kyoko differed from her sister in that she
absolutely adored outer space. Not "adored" in the sense of an
acute fondness--Kyoko's veneration for the vacuum rivaled most
love affairs. By fourteen, she had completed three
senior-rated courses in physics, chemistry, and astrophysics,
passing the Confed Regents examinations with 95%+ marks all
three times. Her ferocious love for vast emptiness of space
seemed to defy all human logic and reasoning; even at the age
of fourteen, Kyoko was simply immobilized as she watched the
sun rise over the North American Midwest--from two-hundred and
eighty miles above the surface, that is.
Naturally, her curiousity peaked every time the Defense
Force recruiters showed up. That's not to say that originally,
combat piloting had been on her mind, but the military was the
way to go--if you had what it took--if you wanted to fly the
fastest and the best space-craft in the Confederation. Back
during her freshman year, Kyoko had toyed with the idea of
running away from home and shipping out on a freighter--a short
lived fantasy at best. At one point, she tried to enroll in
the Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps hosted at a nearby
high-school in San Fransisco. However, the family moved back
to Hasake when she was fifteen, but the local school district
struck down a Junior ROTC program proposal years ago. Despite
Kyoko's persistance, Aunt Kazumi had strong opinions regarding
her adopted daughter's propensity towards military service.
Like Hikaru, Kazumi was a veteran. However, unlike Hikaru,
Kazumi had actually weathered combat; a field nurse on
detachment to a beseiged planetary during the final days of the
Third Corron-Confederation War. That one bloody encounter hade
jaded her towards military service for life. Retiring as a
first sergeant after nine years of conscripted nursing, Kazumi
dedicated a lot of her early life--before meeting and marrying
Hikaru--to anti-military activism. Maybe that's why, Kyoko
would later assume, Kazumi was able to enjoy a far stronger and
closer relationship with Linna than either she or Uncle
Hikaru. Still, it was Linna who finally came to the decision
to express a distaste for all things military; one that
stretched far beyond her aunt's concern into outright hatred
for the institution. It hardly seemed likely that she'd
deviate from her viewpoint by sophmore year in college, and
Hikaru had grown to weary to debate the issue. After all, he
knew that sometime in their lives, both girls would have to
decide how they would live their lives--moving on from a life
that had wholly disappeared in this day and age.
As for Kyoko, it would be nearly all the way through her
junior year when she finally made her decision.
It was a Monday, late in May of 2168. With the conclusion
of the spring break, classes would continue until early
July--after which Kyoko would return to North America to spend
a summer with her sister. The letter had come in the mail
yesterday. Linna was attending New Bard University for her
graduate studies (she succeeded in winning her bachelors degree
in just four semesters!); she had arranged for her sister to
stay with her for a few weeks to free Aunt Kazumi and Uncle
Hikaru for a visit to some relatives on rural Mars. As the
spring month drew to a close, Kyoko seemed far more anxious.
Her guardians assumed she was eager to see her sister and, time
allowing, visit her childhood friends in San Fransisco. Still,
Kyoko knew deep down inside that wasn't the case. As she sat
down for lunch that day in the courtyard--alone this time--she
emersed herself in the fullness of the thoughts that circulated
through her mind.
Her troubles started the Friday of last week. A party was
being held that evening by her current boyfriend, a farmer's
son who lived about ten minutes by air-car to the south of the
school, and the following Saturday she was going on a weekend
trip to the Macross Island Memorial; located onbard a
well-preserved Prometheus-class aircraft carrier that marked
the part of the Pacific Ocean that Macross Island used to
occupy. However, her mind had drifted away from thoughts about
her upcoming plans. It was an earlier discussion she had had
with one of the recruiters--a Spacy petty officer--that
currently preoccupied her thoughts. They arrived earlier that
week, setting up for the pre-summer recruiting campaign.
"Come on in." Kyoko had passed by the guidance office when
they were just setting up. The office had kindly installed a
nice, visible little cubicle for each recruiter and their
materials. The compartments were about the size of a
closet-office, with a small desk and a few chairs around it.
The Spacy cubicle was roomier than the others, which probably
drew some murmuring from the other service-branch recruiters
just down the hall. However, Kyoko wondered why the recruiter
needed so much space in the first place. Fewer and fewer
students frequented the service offices around the summer time,
and her high-school wasn't exactly known for producing
military-grade material. Of course, there were the occasional
die-hard otaku who stopped in to argue logistics and
schematical mumbo-jumbo. Sometimes, a "normal" person--one who
was interested more in the higher education benefits the
military offered rather than military service itself--might
peruse through the brochures. The popularity of Burn Bill
amongst high-school junior and senior forms all over Terra
increased with the DeForce Public Relation Office's new
advertising campaign. Then there was Kyoko--curiousity simply
got the best of her. As far as Kyoko could tell, no one else
had visited the Spacy cubicle at all; all if its literature was
still neatly stacked in their holders, and the chairs were
still neatly arranged around desk. "Take a seat. What's your
name?"
Kyoko hesitated before answering. As if she hadn't noticed
the student's taciturn expression, the petty officer handed her
a blank information card and something solid to write on.
Using her own fountain pen, Kyoko looked it over, making sure
she didn't have to sign anything obligatory. Just check the
box for a free subscription to some DeForce brochures--nothing
terribly important. Kyoko knew that some of her friends who
had graduated the year before had filled out such cards,
simplying playing with the idea of actually signing up. Those
that actually acted on their morbid curiourity were sent to
Basic. Only one person Kyoko knew had entered a DeForce
Academy.
The non-com took Kyoko's card, looked it over, and then
filed it into her portable scanner. The optical reader
immediately transcribed the information into digital format and
stored it for recall's sake. Finally, after checking a few
things on her lap-top computer screen, the non-com turned
towards Kyoko, hoisted both elbows onto the table, and
carefully examined the high-school student before her. A long,
drawn-out moment passed in silence. Then, with a loud ahem,
the PO 1/c commenced with her presentation.
"As you probably know, we're the space-ship end of things.
Of course, the Marines, Army and Aerospace Force have their own
very teensy-weensy ships--all piloted by us, of course. We, on
the other hand, get the big boys. As you may already know, our
mission is partly to shuffle these guys from place to
place--space is one big vacuum, after all. But that's just not
all we do. The Spacy's primary mission is controlling the
skies above the skies--orbit, that is, interplanetary space,
and deepspace--namely the gravity space-routes. When you look
up at night, the Spacy is watching over
you...yaddy-yaddy-ya-ya.
"Now that all that's out of the way, let me ask you. Why
are you interested in us?"
The question caught Kyoko off guard. First off, Kyoko
didn't think she had expressed any interest beyond sitting down
to talk with the recruiter--one that had beckoned her to do so
in the first place. Secondly, she expected a far longer
explication of the service's mission, not some mockingly
pointed parody of a Spacy recruiting commercial. Apparently,
this recruiter didn't like to wade through the bullshit.
Before Kyoko could answer, the rating was already
speaking. "I get a lot of kids in here nowadays asking me
about the Gregori-Markhov Education Order--that's the Burn Bill
to you. Most of 'em are nice kids--good grades, but not
big-scholarship material--who need a solid source of financial
aid if they want to go off to study. But they're only thinking
about the benefits--ancillary stuff. Not one--at least not
since I've started this--has ever considered what being a
soldier is like. Still, I get others who are looking for
something to do for two years and have really no idea what
they're signing up for. Then, we have those
military-obsessed...er...damn. It's been a long time since
I've spoken a word of Japanese."
"Otaku, ma'am," Kyoko offered. The non-com nodded
approvingly.
"Yes, well they seem to have some borish fixation on war,
but not one's considering actually signing up. Truth is
they're bright young men and women--we could always use their
already honed minds.
"Now, I'm not asking you to answer that question right now,
but let me give you a little idea of what you'd go through if
you'd ever signed up. Let's say you enter the service at an
enlisted rating. First, nine weeks of boot-camp. That is,
you'll be sent to Port Merrymouth for two-and-a-half months for
some of the most vigorous, mind-hazing physical and mental
toughening there is. Have you ever been to a boot camp?"
"No, ma'am," Kyoko replied. Of course, she remembered her
uncle's and aunt's stories; ones that almost gave her
nightmares only a few years ago.
"It's no day camp, and don't think for a minute that the
Spacy is catering to soft, pot-bellied waffles. It's
disgusting how many applications come across my desk from kids
who want to go into the service and not do anything--they get
the impression that the only thing they'll ever have to do is
ride on a space-boat for two years and then take home the
bacon. Miss, the Spacy does NOT work that way.
"Let me put it this way. Let's say someone not unlike
yourself--we'll call her Jane--decides that she definitely
wants to go into the service. Not only that, she wants to make
it as well. First, Port Merrymouth. Once checked in, she has
one hour to square away any communications with her family
before she'll spend the next three weeks completely isolated
from the outside world. No newspapers, no television, no
multi-vid, nothing whatsoever. She'll be expected to learn to
fall into formation. That is, into straight lines organized
into small groups we call squads, which are stacked onto each
other to organize into boot platoons, and likewise to form
boot companies. Furthermore, she'll be handled by
Marines--hardcore badasses each and every one of 'em--for the
first two weeks of her training. Reveille is at 0430h--four
thirty in the morning--and she will be in formation for
physical fitness with no excuses--and I mean NO excuses--within
five minutes of reveille. Realistically, you better be in line
when the horn goes up; and woe betide the recruit that misses
the horn. Ten mile runs every morning and right after lunch.
In between, she'll handle tight formation training for
hours-on-end under the beating sun burning overhead. Most of
the time, Jane will be eating MREs, the most goddamned-foolish
invention to come along since soap-on-a-rope. Yes, sir,
nothing like half-cooked spam and soggy beans to hit the spot.
When she does get to eat inside, her meal is over as soon as
her drill instructor stands up. It won't take him more than
one-and-a-half to two minutes to wolf down a balanced meal, and
whether she likes it or not, it won't take her more than that
either. After Jane's afternoon P.T., she'll head back to the
barracks for a forty-five minute personal period. That's, of
course, if she doesn't screw up and spark the D.I.; if so,
she'll end up jogging around the base (the smallest at least
ten miles in circumfrence) for three hours every Sunday. Those
forty-five minutes will not be 'goof-off' time or 'socializing
time.' Jane will write home to her parents; its not only
encouraged, but the first day it's required if you want to eat
dinner. And you will eat dinner.
"That's just the first week, in the best case scenario.
Each week, it gets harder and harder--deliberately and
purposefully, and I haven't even gone into how you'll be
treated. It seems that most kids lose a handle on military
service because they can't adjust from their Joe Civvy
lifestyle. And, once you're in, you sweat it out or die
trying. There's no resignation other than discharge--and then,
you'll either go out as a convicted felon, a cripple, or dead.
There is no "safety honorable discharge" or "good conduct
discharge" from boot.
"Once the fourth week hits, then Jane will be shipped out
to the Terran Navy. Wet-navy ain't that much different from
Spacy, except it's a whole lot easier to chuck your lunch on a
rolling naval ship. At that point she's a spaceman
training-recruit, the lowest rung on the rating scale. Hell,
the only reason its used is to put Jane in her proper place in
the 'chain of command.' That's not to say Jane actually gets
to do any commanding, or any authority trickles down to
her--the only thing that trickles on Jane will be the
piss-wrath of a spaceman recruit whose gotten a bit big for his
britches. No one gives two cents about what she thinks or how
she feels, and no one'll think twice of dumping a whole can of
shit in her lap and wiping the deck with her pretty little
ass. Not that much different from spaceman recruit, except
that even a spaceman recruit is considered a step higher than
Jane and her fellow maggots. Now get this, if every single
naval officer, non-com, and enlisted man onboard Jane's vessel
suddenly bought the farm--maybe some REALLY big fish comes up
and chews the hell out of everyone from the skipper to Chief
McDougal's snot-nosed machinist third-class, Jane would not
only take command, but she'd be expected to give orders to
everyone underneath her. And that's no one, got it? Not only
will she buy the farm, but someone else on another ship will
probably be running a highly illegal pool that expects her to
buy it--either in full or in part.
"If you think this boot hazing's going to make a pisser out
of your day, the hazing REAL combat throws your way is going to
make a real shithole out of your day.
"The Spacy is not a free ride. It is not a hide-out, a
social club, or a free-ticket to see the universe. You will
see the grey and white barracks of stations and bases, but for
most of the time, you won't see a damn thing other than the
inside of a troop transport or whatever the hell ship you're
assigned to. Service is a big step, and we're not about to
cater to those who can't stand what this shit-hole of a
universe dishes back out. The key word, Ms...er--Yatsumi,
right? Okay. The key word, Ms. Yatsumi, is service. Jane
serves, I serve, and if you can't deal with the idea of
serving--and sacrificing--then you're wasting both yours and my
time.
"So, I'll ask you again. Why are you interested in us?"
Kyoko was perfectly stunned, but managed to squirm herself
out of the trance. She stuttered for a moment, but caught
herself and let the next few seconds pass in silence.
"Well, spit it out."
With that, Kyoko took out her piloting license and handed
it over to the Spacy non-com. Why it had suddenly occurred to
her to do so baffled her completely. Looking back, Kyoko could
never quite figure out what sort of irrational, mental
concoction incited her to such action. True, she toyed around
with the idea of flying combat, but Kyoko dismissed the
fascination as a silly fancy she had entertained as a child.
Still, could it have been simply that all this time...
...had she set off down this road simply because she loved
flying?
So, Kyoko's expression almost exactly mimicked that of the
Spacy petty officer's astonished gaze. After the non-com
examined the license--particularly Kyoko's civvy flight rating
and hour accumulation--she placed it back on the desk and
slowly slid it back over to Kyoko. The high-school student
puzzledly and cautiously leaned over and retrieved the license,
sliding it back into her purse.
"How long have you been flying?"
"Eight years, ma'am."
"VTs?"
"A trainer, a few times when I was thirteen." Her license
specifically noted that she had passed the difficult civilian
Veritech piloting test. News corporations and other shipping
businesses had purchased civilian models of the VA-4
Nightstalker, a tandem-seated attack Veritech. However,
Kyoko's license specifically noted her ability to hand antique
military VTs. Truly astonishing.
The non-com paused momentarily, sifting through her
thoughts. Her gaze remained fixed on Kyoko for sometime before
she actually spoke. During that time, the young pilot felt a
great deal of unease and confusion. The non-com had changed
her demeanor altogether, from the cynical and talkative
recruiter to the analytical, silent officer-type. Was this the
type of mental discipline the military cultivated?
"Would you mind waiting here a second,
Miss...er...Yatsumi?"
"No problem, ma'am."
The petty officer rose to her feet, walked around her desk
and exited the cubicle. Before the door closed, Kyoko could
see a Terran Navy spaceman recruit accompanying the Spacy petty
officer hand off a cellular commlink to the non-com. Swiftly,
Kyoko jerked her head about and held her gaze against the
non-com's empty cubicle desk and seat. Not daring to stand-up,
less she was in some sort of trouble, Kyoko tried to see if she
could read some of the notes the non-com had jotted down on an
old-style paper notepad. Nothing terribly legible, except for
her last name: YATSUMI.
The non-com returned nearly fifteen minutes later; although
Kyoko was way late for her nineth period class, she dared not
leave the cubicle--something was definitely up. With her was a
pastic portfolio, with an official transcript appended to it.
Furthermore, the petty officer was still talking with someone
on the commlink. "So, can I do this? Well, ask him! Wait,
just put him on. Chief, this is Petty Officer First Class
Izo. Did Seaman Miller explain the situ--oh, he did? Well,
I'm looking over her transcript right now. Chief, mind if I
call back in ten minutes. I'll have completed my interview by
then. Yes, chief. Thanks. Izo out."
Kyoko simply sat, thoroughly puzzled, throughout this
entire exchange; clueless to what was happening. As far as she
knew, her piloting license had sparked the recruiter's interest
for some obscure reason. If it was about flying, Kyoko could
forget it. She didn't want to go through Basic knowing that
most enlisted ratings would never--
Then, the sudden realization hit her.
"Kyoko," this time, the non-com spoke softly. "I'm looking
at your transcript here. Do you understand that the Spacy and
the Aerospace Force are co-sponsering two Junior Reserve
Officer Training Corps programs in the Northern State--I think
it's around New Kashigawa or Fumagito--starting this summer?"
"I'm afraid not," Kyoko nodded her head. As transportation
techniques--particularly in the 22nd century--improved over
time, high-school Junior ROTC eventually faded into regional
conglomeration. Often, two or more branches would participate
in honing young, high-school students to be eligible for
military service at the Academies or officer candidate schools,
or ROTC-standing at a university or some other institute of
higher learning.
"Would you be interested?"
"Ma'am?"
"Listen to me, Kyoko," the non-com's tone had changed
completely now. "What I said before, about basic training and
all that. It's not the end of the world, although it's the
damn-closest thing to it you'll ever experience. However,
there's another option besides deck-swabbing space-bee duty for
you, something I hope you'll seriously consider. When you
walked into this room, I knew immediately there was something
about you. At first, I figured maybe you were genuinely
interested in enlisting--not necessarily just one term of
service either. However, when you pulled out that pilot's
license, you gave yourself one hell of a pat on the back."
"I've thoroughly studied your record," Kyoko was slightly
taken back. While the non-com had been absent for sometime,
she hardly considered Petty Officer Izo had the time to have
thoroughly studied anything. However, she decided not to
dispute this; and as Izo continued, the reason became far more
apparant as to why not. "You're an honor student, 3.9
grade-point-average. Global Standardized Test Score in the
97th percentile, and at least three secondary school citations
for excellence.
"If you're serious about entering the service, this ROTC
program is for you. You already fit the academic requirements,
and by looking at you, it seems the physical side wouldn't be
terribly difficult. Understand this, however. ROTC means you
will not be going to Port Merrymouth. No, you'll be spending a
year in Officer Candidate School or four years in a Defense
Force Academy. Why? Because, when you leave those grounds,
I'll have to call you sir and I better have a damn good reason
to do so.
"So, you have three choices, you can either take the
enlistment papers and run with that--if you ever want to fly,
it'll be only after at least seven years of service. During
peace-time, not even half of our men make that threshold. You
can leave now and forget about this whole blasted mess...
"Finally, you could try Junior ROTC. Once you graduate,
you're automatically under consideration for one of the Academy
student cadres, or you will be immediately assigned to the ROTC
unit nearest your chosen institute of higher learning (assuming
that A: you remain in the program, and B: you do go to continue
your education). If you enlist after completing Junior ROTC,
you will have the option to apply one of the positions at an
OCS program after two months. It is possible--and
frequent--for enlisted ratings to be recommended and shuttled
to OCS prior to the that--especially if they have your sort of
merit. However, ROTC-standing will not affect the admissions
for early applicants, nor will it guarantee any preference by
any selection board.
"Still, if you make it, you would be an officer, the
cultivated leader of enlisted rates like myself. I'm sure of
it--you have the standing right now and you already have flight
experience. Currently, we have a real derth in Spacy
pilots--as compared to the Aerospace Force or the Marine
Corps. Do you have any questions?"
The two continued to discuss Kyoko's prospects in the
military, from ground zero and up through the ranks, for the
next thirty minutes. Guidance called her nineth and tenth
period classes, explaining why she was absent and excusing her
from class. This brooked enough time for Kyoko to gather
enough information to ponder upon later on. However, despite
the keen interest in the ROTC program she began to display as
her session with the recruiter drew to a close, there was still
a gnawing feeling holding her back.
That's why, by Monday, she had yet to complete the
registration form. As Kyoko browsed through the contents of
her lunch, sitting under the shade of the slightly deformed
palm tree that dominated the scene on the grassy knoll.
Looking down the hill, she could see some of her classmates
gathering around the common tables just outside of the
cafeteria--probably to play a new fantasy role-playing game or
try-out a newly-released holo-vid adventure. Kyoko smiled in
realization that she had packed on of those personal
holo-visions in her pack, and placed down her sandwich to
remove it. Snapping the headset down into her thick mane of
hair, she popped in a small laser-disc--about twice the size of
a quarter--into the drive-slot. However, it wasn't a video
game, nor was it a movie or a favorite multi-vision show she
recorded.
The label said it all--ROTC: THE PATHWAY TO LEADERSHIP AND
SUCCESS.
Right then, alone and with plenty of time to consider her
thoughts, Kyoko had reached a decision; one that would not only
change her life but eventually the lives of millions of
others. Her journey was finally underway.
The school year of 2167-68 eventually came to a close, and
Kyoko handed in her registration form. Without once consulting
her uncle or aunt, Kyoko went ahead and planned out her senior
year schedule, making sure the science and mathematics courses
she needed were on the list and that several humanities
courses--particularly college-level Confederation
History--would be available to her next year. Finally, she
called up Petty Officer Izo, who--during that last week of
school--was completing her presentations in the Murima school
district, about thirty kilometers south of Hasake. They met in
Kyoko's coastal residence, and Izo personally introduced the
young senior chief petty officer who served as an adjutant to
the Pacifica-East Asian Junior ROTC commandant. A week later,
Kyoko reported to the Okinawa ROTC office in Neo-Fujigiri,
registering for form enrollment in July. By August, she was
participating in the basic training experience that Izo had so
eloquently described. While not nearly as strenuous as Port
Merrymouth Basic, the Junior ROTC experience would build Kyoko
up to the level of fitness and training expected of any
candidate applying for admission to the Academy. Afterwards,
the prepping she had received would serve her well in a far
more physically and psychologically wracking experience than
even Basic could provide--that of the service itself.
Finally, graduation came around--with her uncle and aunt
still in the dark--at the end of June the following year. For
the entire school year of '68-69, Kyoko managed to keep her
military prep training a complete secret; especially from her
sister. It wasn't until the day that Linna left for a summer
session at her university that her younger sister would break
the news.
It was the first Monday in July, during typically humid and
hot time for tropical Okinawa. Kyoko stood in a two-piece
ensamble, waving from the sunbathing deck of the Yatsumi
Okinawan estate. Her hair, a somewhat rusted but lush color
dark brown, had been styled into a bun, with two long tressles
hanging over her temples and immediately prior to her ears; a
style she had cultivated since she first came here. Looking
over the banister, she watched from behind her sunglasses as
twenty-year old Linna Yatsumi looked up and returned the
gesture. A bus had pulled up to the curb and was accepting the
numerous of college students that had returned home for the
holidays. "Summer vacation" for Linna was over, and she would
return to her classes at Bard by the first week in July.
Kyoko shrugged the as thoughts of her recent graduation
flutter in her mind. Rising from her reclined deck-couch,
Kyoko joined her uncle and aunt, Kasumi, on the veranda. As
soon as Linna had hugged her aunt and Kyoko, she stared long
into her uncle's deep, black eyes. Her long black hair had
been cut short, in a rather traditional style thought to have
died out decades ago.
"Goodbye, sir," she said tersely. Linna had always called
him sir, and always with that cold and impassive inflection
that merely sharpened the rebellious edge in her tone. No
matter how much Hikaru tried to make friends with his new
"daughter," she would refuse his friendship and keep to
herself. They coldly shook hands, with Kasumi wearing a rather
worried look on her face. Linna's eyes darkened as she left
for the bus, waving one last time as if to hide the tense
moment she had shared with her uncle. As the bus pulled
silently down the street, Kyoko heard her uncle mutter under
his breath, "Now there goes one rebellious child."
Life had been hard on both of them, Hikaru had always
thought. This was not their time, no more than it was his.
All of their friends and acquaintences were gone...or dead.
Linna had somehow found friends in this new life. However, her
uncle did not approve of them. They were a antagonizing and
nihilistic bunch, protesting anything and everything. Linna
often came home with bags full of propaganda. Maybe that's why
she excelled so in school, Kyoko had thought. Linna had been
so into the world that she took everything she learned and
applied it to her "revolutionary" persona. A philosophy major
in one of the North American Quadrant's most esteemed
universities (which applied to most universities on Earth that
had survived the Robotech holocausts), she had become even more
radical in her views, often marching in protests, despite their
purpose or theme. Always protesting, always living the life of
a rebel.
Would her skills and talents help her then? Kyoko then
pondered of her own future, and the news she would deliver
tonight.
A few hours later, they sat down for dinner. A rain storm
had moved in, so that ate inside tonight.
"Uncle?" Dinner was excellent. While Linna hadn't been
able to stay for her own goodbye party dinner, Kyoko and Hikaru
feasted heartily on Aunt Kasumi's ox-tail stew. The old man
looked up from his naked bowl as Kasumi peered from the kitchen
to the dining room.
"Yes?" Having actually looked up and making eye-contact
made it even more difficult for her. Uncle Hikaru knew that
the tone in which she used his title was the one she used when
she desired something, something that only he could give her.
Both had an idea what it was.
"You know that scholarship confidence application I got
from OJIT three weeks ago?"
"Yes, and we're very proud of you," Hikaru smiled, dipping
into his stew again. "What about it?"
"I know that I've often said I was..uhh..I liked
engineering stuff, right?"
This time Kasumi spoke, taking a seat between her husband
and Kyoko. Hikaru took a swig of his sake, and cleared his
throat. "You have another choice? With your grades, you
probably could get into the Mutan Science Institute, or
even--"
"No uncle," she interrupted him. Silence. Never before
had Hikaru been interrupted by his own niece. Never.
"Kyoko? what is it, dear?" Kasumi looked worriedly. "Don't
you want to go to university?"
"Yes, Aunt Kasumi," she lowered her head, breaking eye
contact. Breathing deeply, she snapped up and removed
something from under her seating pillow.
"Uncle. What I'm trying to say is...." The words
faltered, as she dipped her head again, searching for a better
explanation. How could she break this to them. All those
years they thought she was excelling in the molecular structure
of duranium alloy, when she was in fact--
Sighing heavily, she stood up, much to her guardians'
surprise. She whipped a brochure and thrust it in their faces.
"This is an application for the Mars Defense force
Academy," she announced in one quick splurt. "They sent it for
me after I mailed in my school reports. Uncle, Aunt. I've
been..I was in the Junior ROTC program up at Kashigawa--every
weekend and summers. Not the Bio-Experience program. If I
accept, my midshipman spot is almost guaranteed."
This brought on a silence, one more painful than the
former. She sat down, lowering her head, and only lifting her
eyes to cursorily glance around the room. She remembered that
day, months ago, where she had forged the signature on the
permission slip that she had been too afraid to deliver to her
guardians.
Kasumi looked at her in a way the way she looked at Linna
those times she had talked back to her. The times she had
cursed and spittled on her. Kyoko had always been the favorite
of the of the 87-year old woman. In fact, she had become the
closest thing to a mother that Kyoko could cling to, especially
through her rehibilitation to this new time. The face she wore,
one of shock, and of hurt, stung deeper than any knife. For a
moment, Kyoko considered tearing the application and forgetting
this foolish--
--it wasn't foolish. She knew that. She had wanted to do
this. Aunt Kasumi had expressed her displeasure with the
fleet, as had Hikaru. Kyoko and Kasumi had lost their fathers
to space, and Kasumi couldn't bare to lose the newest
cherishable in her life.
"Uncle, I have always loved to fly--"
"No!" Kasumi cried out, but her voice sounded broken.
"Hikaru! You just can't let her--"
Hikaru lifted his hand, and his wife's plea turned to a
scowl. She looked away from both of them.
Kyoko nervously adjusted her loose tank-top. Her uncle
gazed upon her with such ferocity that she felt she would burst
into flames.
"Flying isn't a really good reason to take such a step,"
Hikaru pointed out, surprisingly calm. It was difficult to
begrudge the elder man, but Kyoko had expected the fierce rage
that she had only seen Linna encounter, and defy. Hikaru had
never yelled at her--he had reprimended her in the times she
got in trouble, but always in a calm, fashionable tone.
Kyoko's face seemed to sink. "Sir," she began
respectively. "I have always wanted to join the Fleet. Every
since I was--"
"A little girl. I do remember," Hikaru intoned. Kyoko
knew why, and old memories came back. "Do you really think
that you can handle this?"
Kasumi glared at him, as if he were trying to slay her in
one cruel blow. "Hikaru. You know what happens out there.
What if a war starts? Why does she have to be part of it?"
Hikaru did not answer, turning his gaze towards his adopted
daughter.
"Ki-chan," he finally spoke up. "What you do, it is not
what we see to be your best interests..."
Kyoko nodded, and held back the tears that were in her
eyes. She wanted this more than the world, more than
anything. It was the only way she could--
"...but, you are now old enough to choose your own path,"
Hikaru finished. It took a few moments for it to set in, and
when it finally had, Kyoko's head snapped up with a wide grin.
She leaped from her table and kissed her uncle on the cheek.
"Oh, thank you!" Hikaru coughed in exaspiration.
"Don't kill your uncle, Ki-chan," Kasumi said impassively.
A few tears rolled down her cheek, and Kyoko's guilt fled back
into her. But then, a grin opened on her aunt's face. "He's
mine. Just be careful out there, all right?"
"I will, mom," she said, emphasizing the last word as she
had not done before. For the first time in her life, she would
choose her own destiny, and her own path in life.
"Come now, child," Hikaru patted her back. "Registration's
due in August. You've got more than enough work cut out for
you..."
* * *
<part one break>
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