Style C&C desired.
-The Reverend Prez
* * *
Memories
by Presley H. Cannady and members of the Anime
Manga Development Group
ROBOTECH Prelude --The Iliad Epic
Act I- Past and Present
___________________________________________________________
The New Era Sagas and all therein are copyright 1995@ Presley H. Cannady.
All rights reserved. Any profit-intended publication of this novel without
authorization of the author or current copyright holders is strictly
prohibited.
Copyright 1995@ 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 is a
combination of events from the series and source material, the RPG and
events of the McKinney Novels. Its canonical value is uncertain and is
completely of my universe design.
____________________________________________________________
Prologue One
"ETA IN 18 MINUTES, SIR," THE AIDE, WHO SEEMED TO BE CRIMINALLY CLOSE TO
EIGH-teen, placed a steaming cup of Harrisburg creme and coffee onto the
small platform before him. Guerta sniffled slightly before taking his first
sip. The shuttle--a gull-winged dive Horizont-class assault ship--belonged
to his first assignment, a new Cheranko-class capital cruiser commissioned
only two months ago. The Jovian moons slipped by rapidly as the pulse
engines hurtled the vessel along a pre-arrange path cutting across entire
orbits of each of Jupiter's loyal inner giants. To the "east," Ganymede
station rose over its namesake's horizon. It measured some seventy-four
kilometers in length; an asteroid, an outbound Ganymede-subsystem rock
designated "Gordon-331," provided the bulk of the materials for the
station's construction. As the Horizont nimbly slipped through Ganymede's
orbit, the vista receded as quickly as the planetoid before him; within
half-an-hour, Ganymede station was a speck against the back-drop of the
greyish moon-world. From the bridge, the captain watched from the guest
officer's station as a veteran chief petty officer guided the carrier
according to the instructions of the shuttle skippers--a lieutenent not that
much younger than Guerta. With vain unassumingness, the skipper would
occasionally glance in his direction, as if looking for some sort of
expression of approval. The senior officer, who remembered the perturbation
he felt as a junior officer eight years ago, had already recognized the
shuttle skipper's raw talent. No particularly difficulty accompanied such
an observation, considering both the Horizont skipper's and the warship
captain's ranks were quite unnatural in respect to their ages. Therefor,
each time she glanced back, the captain would nod his head in a silent
gesture of satisfaction, and sip from his coffee; he neither commented nor
hinted his opinions. He need not to critique her flying technique; instead,
the captain concentrated on assessing the growth of her command capabilities
in his mind. The results pleased him. Still, that didn't make the ride
terribly enjoyable--to the new skipper of a capital-class carrier-cruiser,
the bigger the better. Light ships always disgusted him. After all, the
captain had lived the dream of serving with the space-going frigate force of
the United Nations Spacy; starting out in the MIYY--the Karest IV Marine and
Aerospace Militia.
Captain Manuel Figuerra Guerta, UNS, glanced steadily at the main
viewscreen as the small Horizont-II personal shuttle ascended from Ganymede,
the massive discus of Jupiter, the motherplanet, increasing in size as the
made their way to a flotilla of glimmering lights some few hundred thousand
miles above the termination of the gas-giant's atmosphere.
"...some hull ionization," Guerta's ears perked up at the sound of that.
A relatively inexperienced commanding officer in the United Nations Spacy.
Flights aboard these aging transports proved enough to put him in a general
state o unease. He tentavively placed his coffee down and fixed his eyes on
the view-grid. They passed through the first fleet, two DTTS-15 Horizont I
assault shuttles formed up on their tail, like massive whales surrounding
the awestrucked observer. As quickly as they appeared, they subceded to the
first division, heading for the older Excalibur-class Macross Cannons
allotted to the mission force. He gingerly touched the black console lit
with various computer generated console arrangements, opening a comm channel
directly linked to his new assignment. "Millie? Are you there?"
A slight pause--and a stifled giggle--came online first, and then the
soothing, reassuring voice of Ensign Mildred Lefler came online. "Uh...yes,
sir. Please try and enjoy the ride. We'll at least try to get you here in
one piece."
"Keep an open channel with Ganymede Personnel," he dismissed the
friendly sarcasm,"and be prepared to send condolences to my family. By the
time--if I live through this--I'm onboard, everyone else should be ready for
the jump."
"Aye, sir," Millie replied. "Colonel North is supervising the final
transfers for the 36th from the Sloth and the Willow. Commander Keets wants
you to know that White Ox and Necromancer squadrons are onboard and prepped.
We'll see you aboard, sir. Daedalus out."
Captain Guerta watched as the screen went blank, recalling the defense
layout plans for his vessel. The Daedalus would not only ferry her own
defense squadrons--seven squadrons which made up the 197th UN Spacy Carrier
Air Wing--but a mixture of Aerospace Force and Marine aviators under a
unified command. Colonel North was the commander that force, which was
designated as the 36th Composite Aerospace Wing--detached from the 145th
Tactical Space Corps. Composite Aerospace Wings were usually smaller than
their pure-breed counterparts, and the mission of the Co-AW had evolved from
a balance of different units within a military branch to cross-outfit
composites. Four squadrons, often segregated by branch affiliation, were
representative of the three main aviation branches and the air power
capabilities of the UN Army. In the Daedalus' case, they would not be
ferrying Army troops--although ninety-eight Marine Corps Cyclone riders were
included for the long voyage.
Like her distant ancestor, some fifty years ago, the Daedalus was about
to embark on a mission of peace while, at the same time, being armed to the
teeth. Like a small insect skimming the surface of eternity, the shuttle
found its way home, a small patch of light against the magnificent half-face
of Jupiter.
* * *
The elongated, arrow-shaped fold-inducing pylons of the Daedalus calmed once
the their test warm-up completed its last cycle, setting the graceful,
elongated vessel adrift at the mercy of Jupiter's gravitational pull. The
forward hull was arrow shaped, streamlined to the forces which hyperspace
inflicted in such vessels. The starship hung in dead orbit around the
behemoth of the solar system.
"This is Ganymede Seven Eight to Daedalus," the conn tower over a
hundred thousand miles away linked to the Daedalus through its
communications system. "Full authorization for departure is granted.
Prepare for immediate departure." It was a message that the twenty warships
alotted to this wave of the fleet were all receiving.
Several older-generation Valkyrie VF-1Ss raced by the medium-sized REF
ship, followed by the younger VF/A-2Y Vindicators and their VF-3 Solstice
cousins. The vessel was a late entree into the Robotech Expeditionary
Fleet. Commissioned eleven years ago in 2066, it symbolized the new mission
of the Fleet, exploration. The Daedalus measured nine-hundred meters total
length, a thirty-three percent increase from the standard SDF-10 Cheranko
class beam length. The first line of the SFC-91000 Janeway series, the
Daedalus featured a variety of improvements, such as the RRC's
fresh-off-the-line dual-Reflex engine arrangement, capable of supplying
power to the warpfold manifests as well as siphoning off more than enough to
run other systems. Still, the unique design of the Daedalus lay in its
externally unorthodox design principles. The fold drive was manifested in
four massive pylons, which resembled (and in a way, acted) like sails on an
old wind-powered vessel of one of Earth's ancient wet-navies. Alongside the
forward hull, streamlined bulges indicated a modification--this additional
hangerspace held two of the three Horizont assault shuttles--in collapsed
storage--that the Daedalus served as the mothership for.
Her destination was the Fourth Quadrant, and ultimately Tirol. It was
over ten years ago that the Great Severence Catastrophe separated Earth and
Tirol irreversibly for the forseable future. The mechanism and the actual
definition of the event and its aftermath were still mysterious by the
esoteric group of physicists who studied it. The phenomena that had quite
literally ripped hyperspace apart halted any stable folds of the higher
slipspace (spacefold) velocities (above 70,000 times the speed of light
practically) throughout the First Quadrant. With no contact possible
between the Sentinel worlds, the majority of the population of Earth had
fallen into a year of panic. That was 2060. By 2076, Earth colonies were
pumping out vessels using superluminal drives developed from non-Robotech
Terran sciences. Matter-antimatter, fusion, and Sekiton/Sekitan/
Sekra-powered drives could be used to traverse the great quadrants to reach
Tirol, but it would be more than a century journey to reach that promise
land at a maintainable superluminal velocity. With more startling reports
developing surrounding temporal differentials and loops plaguing the center
of the galaxy, transgalactic voyages seemed almost alien in the new
space-faring age.
However, in early 2066, Dr. Reidt offered a theory stating that it was
possible that these Quadrants, grouped together in the massive and forboding
Gamma Quadrant, might be healing on the hyperspace range to allow for the
protoculture slipspace fold. It had come time to test that theory. With
new designs on the reflex furnaces of the new SDF-10 and SDF-11 classes,
they stood poised to launch once again the original charter of the SDF-3 and
the First Robotech Expeditionary Force: to recieve Tirol in the name of
humanity and peace.
The remaining protoculture on Earth was gathered together in a last
ditch effort to re-contact Tirol. To the Daedalus, a small but formidable
light cruiser, went the honor of serving in the reincarnation of the
Robotech Expdeditionary force. The Second Robotech Expeditionary Fleet stood
poised on the brink of history. Forty years had passed since the Mars
Veritech Fleet returned from Tirolspace. After the Invid occupation was
lifted, those forces and fleets had returned to space to search for the
SDF-3. With the REF abandoned by their flagship, they spent ten years
roaming the Galaxy. Finally, the flagship returned, and Earth had left an
age of terror, war, and destruction supposedly behind it.
It was not to be.
His name was First Lieutenent Akuza Patton, United National Spacy
Aerospace Force, and he wore a glossy black uniform with red emblazoned
shoulders and a wide, decorated double-lapel. His collar was a turtleneck
like process that branced off near the Adam's apple. Reservedly, he removed
his personals from the luggage just recently furnished to his room.
Akuza had grown up during this time of chaos. Sixteen years ago, Tirol
and Earth had lost contact completely with each other; two of many victims
of a strange and debilitating event that was known throughout the Quadrant
as the Severance. When he was four years old, he watched as the nebulaic
ripples of the Severance flushed through the night sky, light exceeding even
the speed it was limited to, and the consqeuences as devastating as the
beauty of the tragedy. The more practical limitations imposed by the new
galaxy were a variety of new time slips and anamolies that virtually cut the
Galaxy in half. Space travel nearly suffered a swift death at the hands of
fate, and humanity was forced to return to the stars with lower-end fold
drives--ones that wouldn't misfold into the temporal-spatial vortex
hyperspace's upper regions had become. These drives--first powered by
reserves of protoculture generators and cells before they were herded
away--now ran on fusion and matter-antimatter engines, both with power
yields greater but more difficult to maintain than the seed-reaction of the
protoculture process. Langleyes fusion, the closest mankind had come to
developing the reflexive fusion process inherent in the protoculture
process, still remained years behind development.
However, humanity managed to survive and pool together, becoming
stronger than it had ever been--maybe wiser as well...
"This is goodbye," he removed a small holograph of his wife and their
newborn son he would be leaving behind. However, for the past five years,
he had debated with himself on this decision, and had already chosen his
course of action. Out there, his family, his own family was lost, waiting
for him. His father, passed away before he turned forty, had failed to make
amends with Akuza's grandmother, who abandoned him in the care of the Patton
family while fleeing a war that would send most of them to internment camps
under the Invid occupation. Growing up in the healing ghettos of Tokyo's
Sumida-ku, the home of the Patton family following the end of the first
United Earth Government, his grandfather--the actually an uncle who adopted
Michael Sterling, Akuza's father--had met married into a wealthy Ohta-ku
family; that particularly ward served as a sort of underwater seaport for
the subterranean colony. Virtually founded by the ex-yakuza Shimada family,
the Japanese culture and society survived both the Second and Third Robotech
wars. His adoptive grandfather died as a member of a Manchurian resistence
force that was decimated during the early years of the Invid occupation.
The Patton family was quickly absorbed into the large Tokyo-ken clan of
Akuza's grandfather's wife. It wasn't until Michael Sterling Patton and his
young wife, a member of another powerful family, the Shinburu clan, migrated
to the North America California coast that he reunited with his Northland
Patton relatives. Five years later, Akuza was born.
As he turned to see what would be Earth's position in its present orbit,
he found himself longing to be at home in the newly rebuilt Tokyo, with his
family on a nice, safe assignment. However, as he finished packing away his
belongings, he realized he was lying to himself.
* * *
In 2063, it was General Aragorn Sagan who governed over the world below from
this historic office. The desk was fashioned of something that resembled
polished balsam wood, but was of far sturdier Centauran stock. General
Sagan received it as a gift from the Planetary Premier of that period. Both
had died only a few years ago; in the same year, ironically. Both had also
tried to gain some measure of absolute power over the Council that
supposedly censured them. Sagan founded the Global Astro-Police Forces in
the early 2060s, an emergency response to the ensuing chaos the Severance
had inflicted on Earth and her newborn colonies. Generally considered by
most historians and political analysts to have been the most powerful man in
Earthspace and a planetary despot before his premature death, Sagan actually
brought Earth to a stable development point for a trade off of just three
years (although many areas of the planet still haven't recovered to this
day). Since then, the Allied-Earth Federation had evolved three times
before becoming the United Planetary Confederation, a cooperative government
of seven worlds including Earth and her colonies.
Of course, UN Spacy retained its military hold over Confederation
policy; a position of power often criticized but rarely challenged.
Lieutenent General Marie Crystal-Phillips, sixty-nine years old this
July, shut off the hologram as Jupiter faded into her viewport. Her
astonishing radiance was evident, the result of that last spacefold which
had resulted in her age being preserved for several years in hyperspace, and
cellular rejuvanation gave that added feel of returned youth. While she was
in fact nearing seventy, she seemed little over forty or fifty. The only
indication of her increasing age was the small streak of grey that had come
in with slight conspicuousity in her scruffed, pitch-black mane. Life had
been slightly harder on her husband, Major General (ret) Sean Phillips, now
a senatorial general to the UPDC, which answered to the council without fear
of censure. Commander of the Southern Cross Calvary Corps, she had been a
major driving force behind the commission and reality of the Second REF.
Ganymede Station, a small orbital facility similar to the one constructed
from the remains of Dolza's superfortress, the Little Luna factory
satellite, and the skeleton of the formerly operational Liberty and the
debris of New Frontier,, provided an astonishing view of Earth's first
Jovian colonization effort. To be accurate, it was a Martian establishment;
Mars had achieved autonomy as early as 2064 for their support of the AEF
during the Three-Year chaos.
As she entered the hanger bay, she found herself emersed in the daily
drudgery of ground-crew life. Carefully manuevering pass the non-attentive
personnel towards the bay area, she finally found herself saluted by three
security lieutenents and their commander.
"Commodore," she extended her hand to the former Black Lion squadron
pilot and a comrade of the General. Commodore Sakir Bhutto, now in his
early seventies, smiled and accepted it graciously, returning a salute
afterwards. "So, you really do know how to show a lady around, don't you?"
"Can't hold a candle to Sean, no doubt," Sakir replied in a mixture of
Northeast American and Neasian East Indian accentre. "All higher class
capital ships are being outfitted with these."
The Horizont III SDTTS-1 was of the same lines of those developed during
the First Invid War. This particular one, the Darkstar, was pitch-black,
with a double red/white line stretching across its beamlength. Though
unarmed and unaccessorized at this time, it was a miniature starship,
capable of fold operations, unlike its predescessor.
"Shall we?" the Commodore beckoned, leading Crystal-Phillips
hand-in-hand up the red-carpetted loading ramp.
Prologue Two
Following the event that would become known as the Great Severance, an REF
upstart by the name of Aragorn Sagan, along with several Australian based
xenophobes successfully established relations with the evacuated Allied
Earth Federation, the tentative governing body established by the Pluto
Veritech Fleet [see notes in section "End of the Circle"]. Rising to the
rank of general, the establishment of the Global Astro-Police Forces
restarted the cycle of factionalism and politco-militarianism.
-The Biographical History of the Robotech Wars--"Sagan," published May
2104, Encyclopedia Artinia Inc., biographical released by the United
Defense Council report archives
* * *
New York, Earth Febuary 18th, 1985
TWENTY-YEAR OLD JANE FOKKER SUMTER IMPATIENTLY LINGERED IN WAITING ROOM for
her ass of a brother to show up, but soon realized that casual punctuality
was not one of his most practiced traits. Uncle Gerald, the name she had so
often called her father's best friend, and Aunt Gloria would soon be the
proud parents.
Jane had come to live in New York two years ago, a frightened
high-school graduate on a partial scholarship to New York University. From
grade nine up she established herself as an honor student of North Depshire
High School, particpating in mostly soccer sports, newspaper and student
senate, and an office runner for Mr. Zimmermann, her high-school assistant
principle and administrator of the junior class. Maintaining above an 88
average for all four years, the grant for NYU completely erased any thoughts
of her entering the Canadian Armed Forces like her father and mother. Jane
was very big on physical fitness. She had a desirable figure. Her ample
bosum was disguised under the layers of clothing that included a loose
blouse, a kashmir sweater, and a double-lined drab-grey overcoat that
screamed Mannhattan exec-style. Her hair was ashen-blonde, as was the case
with most of the members of her family.
New York disgusted her, the city that was--she had been raised in a
rural Canadian town in northern Alberta. While blizzards that were striking
the city that year reminded her of a typical Canadian winter, and she was
surprised to see these "southerners" faring pretty well against the frigid
winds, the filthiness of the public transportation (namely, subways) and the
constant skyline disillusioned her. Manhattan was daunting and intimidating
enough, but the less kept up areas in Kings and Queens County isolated her
to the island.
1985 was a blizzard year, the winter months hammering long into March
and the snow lingering into mid-April. The extended Artic cold front swept
across Alberta, skimming Chicago slamming the Ontario-Quebec-New York region
hardest. Not even the temperacy of the Atlantic Ocean, which New York
opened to via direct landmass at the tip of New York City, and one strait,
could have mitigated the snow storm that burrowed into the Northeast United
States. Snow plows from all five borough divisions of the Sanitation and
Transportation departments were busy clearing the streets and avenues of
Manhattan and Staten Island, with secondary units already cleaning up the
millions of highways and byways of Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Some of
the natives of the latter three considered it racial and economic
bias--Manhattan, a predominantly Caucasian neighborhood and the business
sector of the city often took precedence over her poorly developed sisters;
and Staten Island, fast becoming a more Caucasian residential area and
ultimately an extension of Manhattan herself. Harlem and Chinatown were one
of the few underdeveloped ghettos in the area. The difference between the
upperclass of the city and the lower-income residents in other bourough
seemed only to solidify this point of view.
Already, it had been an hour since Gloria had gone into labor, and Ron
would soon be to late for the fireworks. Impatiently, she tapped on her
purse as she kept glancing back and forth from its maroon leather surface to
the clock on the waiting lounge's east wall.
"You waiting too?" a faintly Brooklyn accent surfaced.
"Huh?"
"I assume your not havin' a kid today," a jovial old Italian woman
smiled up at her. "So you probably are a friend of the lucky mother, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Jane replied, unsure whether or not she really wanted to
talk to someone right now.
"My daughter's having her boy today, and I'm still waiting for Ed to
show up with the damn camcorder. What about you?"
"I'm waiting for my brother. Say, this is a military hospital. Are you-"
"No, no!" the elderly woman laughed. "My daughter, she's a chief petty
officer in the Navy--I think Enterprise. She got herself married in only
one year, and now she's making her old mother a grandmother. You have a
sister or something?"
"A family friend," she replied. "Their first kid in fifteen years of
marriage."
"Wow," the lady breathed in. "Maybe you should try calling to see if
that brother of yours has left wherever the hell he is. Are you new here?"
"Where?"
"The city, of course!"
"Yeah. We're from Canada."
"Really? Cold up there at this time of year. I have some relatives
around Toronto. How's about you?"
"Montreal."
"Ahhh. Your Quebecian, aren't you?"
"My father's from Vancouver, and my mom's from Germany," Jane replied,
somewhat exhasperated. Standing up, she stretched out slightly. "I think I
will take you up on that."
"On what?"
"Calling my brother, Ron."
"Oh yes," the lady waved goodbye. "You do that now."
* * *
Jane stepped out of the lounge and found her way to the phone area.
Unfortunately, Nynex--recently broken away from the AT&T monopoly--was
installing new lines throughout the hospital's systems. Pulling on her grey
New Yorker overcoat, she stepped out onto the rainy streets. It was one of
those days. The snow that had recently stopped only two hours
ago--noontime--was beginning to start back up. The visibility was low and
the slush was hard to walk through. It wasn't something that could remedied
by the Burrough Department of Transportation. Potholes were already a major
winter problem, and she often wondered how the City Council could fail to
appropriate enough money to fill in those death traps. She was wearing
heels, so she'd have to take extra care when crossing 68th Street.
* * *
Craig Parker had been working for most of his life. Hamway Transports Inc.,
for sixteen years, sent him across country to deal with the most difficult
stretches of road imaginable. He was nearing his sixteen hour limit, and
he'd pull up to a garage off the Hudson River Drive for the next turn
around. As he pulled onto 68th street from Second Avenue, he eased on the
brakes and shifted to low-gear, avoiding the incredibly soaked potholes of
the yet-to-be renovated avenues. The eighteen wheeler then picked up speed
and headed west for the Hudson River Drive.
Taking a bite out of the sandwich he had packed along with him since
Albany, he noticed that the light was shifting carefully from red to yellow.
* * *
Jane's colors seemed to match perfectly with the color schemes this grey and
drudgy day. The light on the corner of 68th Street and 2nd Avenue was
beginning to change. Already, people were jumping the WALK/DON'T WALK signs
and crossing the wide avenues, avoiding the sleetly sections of the highways
and trying to beat the traffic. When the light hit yellow, Jane took the
initiative to cross over to the phone booths on the other side. She
wondered if she had given too much information about herself in the lounge.
Jane since was Canadian, as consequence, many of the rumors of city life
were negative.
Particularly American cities.
Dammit, Ron, she snarled to herself. You've got ten minutes.
* * *
February was a terrible month in New York City for weather, noted for
outstanding incidents of hydroplaning and ice. Craig Parker slowed down his
vehicle as he eased to a halt. Suddenly, his trailer-wheels found
themselves gliding over ice, and his rig began to skid. Instinctively he
brought up the speed, trying to bring the rig back under control. His
forward wheels subsequently found a patch of water-covered ice, and hell
began to break loose.
* * *
Jane ignored the fury of the car horns as she raced across the street.
Unfortunately, the red high-heels she wore were inadequate to the slippery
surface, and more often than not, she was struggling to retain balance.
Then she saw it. A red tractor-trailor was skidding violently down
68th. She hurriedly attempted to get out of the way, as the blowhorns
sounded warning and the driver attempting to bring his vehicle to a halt.
She slipped again, this time, scrambling onto the ground. Desperately, she
scurried towards the other side of the street. But the truck soon overcame
her, and her last thoughts turned to blackness.
* * *
Craig Parker nearly fainted when he saw faint splotches of blood fly onto
his foward window. The tractor came to a halt in the center of the
intersection, and despite the rumbling and ricketing of the old rig, he
could still almost hear and feel the sickening crushing of bone. Without
hesitation, he jumped out of the cab and hurried back along his path,
desparately searching for something. Something alive, something to save...
* * *
Ten-year old Roy Fokker, the youngest son of Ron Sr. and Celeste Fokker,
held the hand of Ron Jr. as they stood in the downpour. In his left hand
was a small diecast Transformer Jetfire, and the rain slicked his blond mane
despite the dark-green umbrella. He watched with utter confusion as his
older brother, Ron stared aimlessly into the street. He had been an hour
later than planned picking Roy up from the babysitter during his and Jane's
visit to his commanding officer's wife's first child-birth, and would've
been only ten minutes late to the hospital.
Ten minutes... Ron kept muttering as he looked onto the intersection,
the rig, and eventually the New York skyline. He understood, though it took
sometime, as a lone tear flittered down his rose cheek.
After awhile, Gerald Hayes came out of the hospital, his joy from the
birth of his own Lisa Eleanor Hayes dashed by the tragedy that had taken
place only fifty feet from the hospital entrance. Taking hold of Ron, weak
with grief, the drama disappated to the unrelenting impassiveness of the
urban jungle...
* * *
Minato-ku, Tokyo, Japan March 15, 1979
Rain poured over the dark night of the near-ended winter over Tokyo.
Thunderstorms of mixed ice and rain flailed down on the towering skyscrapers
of Tokyo, untouched yet by the fury of the Rain of Fire. It would be nearly
twenty years before the amazing techno-wonder of the world fell prey to the
the ruthless barbarianism that would claim billions of lives. It was a year
of change. In the Middle East, rumors of peace talks between the Zionist
state of Israel and one of its mortal enemies, Egypt, were now spoken with
confidence, despite the Carter Administration's continuing failure to bring
the two negotiating parties together. Anwar Sadat, Egypt's current
president, and his Israeli counterpart, Menachim Begin, however, seemed to
be on the verge of disproving thirty years of political constancy as solid
as the pyramids or the Western Wall. On the other hand, Iran's
dictatorship--a puppet to the Western world for nearly forty years--had
fallen to the hands of fundamentally driven people, faithful to the ways of
their Qu'ran and now continuing to export their revolution through any means
possible. The Ayatollah Khomeini had become America's most diffident
problem to date, in a time where the nation was coming to terms with a
disturbing episode in Southeast Asia--only six years ago.
It was this most recent, irksome turn of events that drew Lieutenent
General Raizo Yakazi attention as his personal limousine navigated the
crowded rainy streets of Ginza, passing by seemingly craven and common
looking huts that signified the extreme low end of the Japanese business
empire. Restaurants, street side markets, and old cafes from the post-Meiji
error had carried over into the modern world. He looked with disgust as
several Yokota-stationed American Marines, half an Expeditionary Unit's
worth, sampled Tokyo's permiscuous redlight district. His car suddenly came
to a halt.
"Turn here," he finally said, repeating the phrase over in his mind as
his driver . The limo slowly pulled into the left turning lane, heading
towards the outskirts of the-
It was then where he saw it. A red car, bright red. An American Shelby
Cobra. The blinding headlights wailed into Yakazi's eyes as he stared in
horror as the sports coup began to lose its footing on the wet, icy pavement.
A collision was nearly inevitable.
The screeching had begun to rise as the car skidded into the
intersection, winging another vehicle barely and heading straight for the
limo, when it finally happened.
Yakazi could have sworn the the lights grew ten times brighter as he
uttered his final prayers for his spirit's passage into Kannon's heaven
subconsciously. Hypnotized by the headlights, he simply stared as his doom
rushed up on him.
However, his driver managed to shake loose of the disillusionment, and
slammed hard on the gas pedal. The limo itself screeched into a nearby
lightpole at high speed, crushing the safety zones of the forward cowl.
Yakazi howled as his hand felt as if it were thrown against a wall of
needles, and was subsequently thrown against the front seats just as his
rear-guard airbag deployed. He stayed there for ten minutes, shocked and
unsure. Carefully, he pulled himself up, surveying the front seat.
The impact had been too fast for the driver, who now lay dead on the
steering wheel, his neck snapped by the sudden whiplash and his articulate
skull crushed on the nearly metallic steering column. Yakazi stared into
the bloodshot eyes as he saw the frozen winds of fear locked in his driver's
eyes, shut forever by the instancy of his death. The general immediately
felt his stomach lurch as he struggled out of the car.
The sports coupe, driven by a British diplomat's son, had been less
fortunate. Flames drew like swords of fire from the charred remains of the
peeling paint job. The diplomat would receive compensation and apologies
for his son's death, Yakazi was sure of that.
And Hirotsugu would remain a faceless stain on the limousine's
dashboard, a faceless stain on Yakazi's personal honor. One he would
dedicate the rest of his life in a pursuit to remove as a million horrifying
images flooded into his mind.
* * *
The Lounge, San Fransisco, September 25, 1998
The Yakazi building, named after Japan's current commander-in-chief of the
Western Army, stretched two-hundred and eighty stories upward, and occupied
the equivalent of five city blocks. Constructed by Nakoto-Mishima Heavy
Industries, Japan's first heavy-weapon-technology manufacturer, it served
also as an office building to half-a-dozen other keiretsu-affiliated
organizations. Of course, Alltech's Hijisan-Moyamoto branch presented
enough clout to reserved thirty-five floors. When Nakato began construction
in late 1996, all that had been there was a small plot of land that both
General Raizo Yakazi and his American counterpart, the late General Dwight
D. Eisenhower McPhillips--former CINCFORSCOM and vice-chairman of the Joint
Chief's of Staff--first shook hands as a symbolic agreement back in 1988, a
short time ago. That agreement led to a resolution that all Pacific-rim
military excercises would be conducted with the participation of both
nations' forces. McPhillips died a year later in a fatal car accident, and
Yakazi spent most of his time patronizing a special technological institute
near Osaka. The diplomatic liaison officer was privy to that, as was anyone
who had the reason to ask. The Central Intelligence Agency--who often
provided the State Department with tidbits of information that served as
leverage during various negotiations--had never engaged in an intelligence
operation against Japan. A friendly nation in this day and age, the CIA was
non-existent at a time when that status had been otherwise.
The federal government of the United States of America oftened shied
upon promoting private industry with tax-dollars; this particularly included
purchasing land from private interests--foreign private interests--for any
use. However, it was accepted that embessies were an exception to this
rule, as they required a purchase of land from the home company and a fee
for maintenence. These were paid by tax-dollars, although the host country
often contributed to the embassy's cause (afterall, the invitation for the
construction of an American embassy in any country usually meant that
country had reason for America to take interest). Japan immediately
recognized a two-fold benefit from this arrangement. Considering that
Japan's federal government was largely controlled by an influencial elitist
class of industrialists, the zaibatsu, Diet parlimentarians respresenting
Nakato and her keiretsu's interests discovered that by allotting a portion
of the Yakazi project to serve as a closer-to-home circuit to the Washington
US-Japan Embassy, they could save on both construction expenses and also
exploit the security precautions that would be provided in the form of
Japanese servicemen and US Marines. Nakato would show her appreciation by
not only allotting the sixty-floors for diplomatic purposes, but also for
subsidizing all advance security technological endevours made by the
American government to further establish a safe haven within the skyscraper.
In tandem with the Japanese security systems, the Yakazi building was as
safe from terrorism and crime as any small military base could be. Nakato
further enticed the American government by providing enough federal space to
host several embessial extensions at the same time. With still a lot more
space, the federal government began to violate its own unwritten policy and
open extensions and home offices to various West Coast departments. Even
the state government dipped into the office potential the Yakazi building
offered.
The Lounge was actually on the fifth floor, one of five floors with
informal names such as the Lobby, the Boardroom, and the Security Deck.
Considering the Yakazi building and its surrounding complexes occupied
ten-times the square meterage of both World Trade Center Towers--most of
that space with smaller "towerettes" required by zoning laws--the Lounge
itself was nearly half a kilometer in length and width. Along the edges of
the floor were wall-to-ceiling windows made of transparent aluminum. With
so much extraneous space, the Federal Bureau of Investigations was able to
move their San Fransisco office on the Lounge floor of the Japanese
wonder-structure. Of course, the Special Agent in Charge, a known
Klukker--former Grand Wizard of a Denver suberb during his assignment to
that city's office--with a severe distaste for anything Asian; as well as
the Nakato Foundation, protested supporting a police force within the Yakazi
building. The former threatened to hold the government on charges of
violating a purported policy of non-collaboration with foreign businesses;
those charges never found their way to a prosecutor, let alone a courtroom.
The latter, however, attempted to pressure the American government with
threats of eviction. Since the lower sixty-floors were deemed to by
Japanese-United States federal property, the zaibatsu would have to make use
of their government and American contacts to pull it off. However, Japan's
current Prime Minister, Hicharo Seki, came to power in 1992 at the time of
the dispute. A strong leader, he managed to limit zaibatsu control over
parlimentary issues, and threatened to levy emergency anti-trust resolutions
to further rift the keiretsu from government precedings. Any other man may
have fallen from power in disgrace, but Seki had served as his nation's
ambassador to America for twenty-eight years; a record unprecedented in
fifty years. The second reason for his retaining of power was a sweep of
Liberal Party representatives already thirsting for the blood of the
zaibatsu. Seki managed to normalize relations between the two parties, and
was often credited for sparing the Japanese monopolist-economy's life. The
zaibatsu could not so easily topple such a man.
The Lounge was technically an informal meeting place--hosting parties
for various occassions and guests by various hosts. However, more and more
it became an actual center of diplomatic activity. The lax demeanor of the
Lounge provided for a more comfortable environment. However, the diplomatic
liaison on call today still felt uneasy.
Junior Diplomatic Liaison Remie Farrell wished to heaven that her
partner Anne were here instead of herself. A junior member of the
Department of the State, she was an apprentice under Deputy Assistant
Secretary of State Jill McIntyre, who in turn learned from ex-Secretary of
State Warren Christopher during the Clinton Administration. The new
President had inherited nearly ninety percent of the State Department, one
he recognized to be far more adept at foreign policy than any replacement he
could think of.
"Ohayo gozaimasu, Nagura-san," Farrell greeted with feigned cheer. She
could have never known that her acquaintence trained under the Japanese
ambassador; Soji Nakamura often served as a public and internal relations
consultant to the various keiritsu and invidual conglomerations within the
Japanese politico-business structure. She unbuttoned her heavy overcoat,
soaked from the downpour both she and her counterpart just escaped from.
"Hajimete o-me ni kakarimasu."
"Good morning to you as well, Ms. Farrell," the young man responded in
turn, with surprisingly articulate English. Seiji Nagura was a radically
thinking senior partner of the H-M group, a member of a growing order of
businessmen that furthered to seek the cutting of the American industrial
red tape. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest trustee of OTEC, called
Alltech for phonication. The company recently executed a merger alliance
with American chief stockholders represented by TXI Encom's Wall street
firms. The American technological corporation, owned solely by
multi-billionaire former US Airforce commander Presley H. Cannady I, was the
chief distrubuter of the Nexus computer; a system which Alltech produced
through its Hijisan-Moyamata branch. His presence seemed to demand respect,
despite the four inch difference in height--in favor of Farrell. "It is a
pleasure to meet you."
They shook hands immediately, exchanging business cards in the
traditional fashion. "We've talked with your Ambassador last night," He
refered to a conversation with the American Embassy in Tokyo. "He
delightfully informed me that you were a rising star on the diplomatic
publicist team. My own publicist looks forward to working with you."
Unlike her collegue, Anne Therese, Farrell was more cool to small talk,
and engaged in it often. "Yes, I believe that would be a stimulating
experience. So, Mr. Nagura, how may we help you?"
Nagura smoothed his and took his seat with furtive silence. "In
overview, my corporate division, Hijisan-Moyamata has been a rather involved
with TXI-Encom with the Alltech-Encom weapons stock merger. Of course, I
assume you've already been briefed on that part. I realize that our country
has been currently in talks with emergency trade reforms with our
government, but the fact is is that both of our are members of a mutual
defense treaty. Therefore, we've come up with a proposition for your
congressional foreign commerce committee; hopefully it will be considered
seriously."
Seiji smiled subtlely. The fact remained that the Japanese had been
lobbying the House Commerce Commitee--consisting of R-Arkansas, RF-Dakota,
D-New Mexico, and D-Wyoming--for the past three years, and several
economical powerbases had been established in those states by Mitsubishi,
Nakamoto, Seida, Seiko, Sony, Toshiba, and Honda; very different industries
with very similar goals.
Farrell listened as he explained the overwhelming threat the Sino-North
Korean's first true coalition, the Neo-Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere Alliance,
presented to both JSDF and American defense forces. The liaison wasn't well
versed in military matters; her partner, Anne, once again superceded her in
that area of expertise. However, the Ambassador had specifically asked for
the Diplomatic attachee unit in this case, and she was the only one
currently available. Of course, she would handle the matter carefully,
bring it up promptly to Walter Immensinet, the American collegue of
often-mobile Ambassador Nakamura, and allow the scene to take its course.
Whatever course that may be.
* * *
The Pentagon, AJ-6 of the Naval Department
The decorated general passed the guard at attention into Block-991 without
so much as a hesitation in his gaite. As a supervisor of Top Secret
Aviation Projects, he was one of eighteen people cleared even into the lower
block levels. Shadows cleverly and deceivingly masked the Pentagon's
specialized security scanners and sensor arrays, spread throughout Alpha
Block. The hall ways of Block-991 were on Level V, one of Washington's new
and improved warrooms.
Level VI, one of fifteen "levels" that climaxed at the fifth rank, was
actually on level with Five, the situation room. A subset of Level V, Six
contained most of the computers that brought information directly to the
various screens and "pretty" displays that cluttered her host. A direct
outlet to Level VII, the power management floor, kept Six up and running 24
hours a day, 7 days a week. Fourteen hundred modems and communications
datalines ran internally through the Pentagon from Level VI and out to
various command posts through Washington, the United States and the whole
world. Alpha Block of Level VI was a highly secured station of
direct-access terminals; they were primarily used to view incredibly
sensitive material free from standard Level V duty officers and personnel
(if MOST-CONFIDENTIAL-classified personnel could be considered such).
Major General Tomson, Alfred G., had served in Cambodia in one of the
first Special Operations and Observation Groups about four months after
Nixon had approved of bombing runs inside that country. He had earned to
the rank colonel with the gruesome, brutal massacre of his unit. An only
survivor, the experience was a scar he never fully recovered from. Tomson
was later promoted to the generalcy, after serving as a tactical supervisor
to the commander-in-chief of the US forces in charge of evacuating the
American military presence from Vietnam. Tomson finally received a
tolerable desk job at the Pentagon in '85, after nearly twenty years on the
active and semi-active docket. The department he was assigned to turned out
to be the J-2 section before and during Walt Kent's stint as head. Tomson
had managed to forge a working relationship with the former Vice-Chairman of
the Joint Chiefs of Staff--General McPhillips, although the Vice would often
comment on the Tomson's personal life as "a few degrees short of absolute
zero." Kent was the connection Tomson had managed to manipulate to gain
clearance to almost all of the United States Armed Forces' most sensitive
intelligence, technology and information.
The briefcase was not actually his atache case he normally carried about
with him. It was a high-powered Nexus Laptop, containing a built-in wormer.
He passed into the computer room, dark and foreboding. He ignored turning
on the lights, and sat at the Sysop's terminal. Entering in his palm scan
and personal access code, the computer registered him positive. He quickly
flipped open the briefcase and connected the laptop to the nearest SCSI port.
All right, the general thought. His face did not change when the
screeching of an active modem emitted from the PC speaker.
"Damn it," Tomson said. Five minutes had passed, and the connection
finally solidified. After three minutes of verification and cross
verification, they finally determined that he was who he said he was.
"Access file Delta-Q," Tomson typed in. Delta-Que was Priority Lambda,
which required a complex string of codes from the surrogate computer. He
quickly selected the icon named Stealthentrap. This better work.
The hard drive whirled, its memory searching through a million
passwords. Got it! he nearly yelled out. The file pored into the portable
wormer of he had jacked into his laptop. Legally, he was just downloading
information he was cleared for. He justified that the eighteen million in
cash would supplement for the immorality and treachery of the rest of his task.
* * *
* * *
+-----------------+-<The Badass Reverend of Funk Prez>---+
| Presley H. | Political Science / Computer Science |
| Cannady II | and Electrical Engineering Undergrad |
|<revprez@mit.edu>| at the Mass. Institute of Technology |
+-----------------+-<Anime Manga Development Group>------+
+-------<http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/1731/index.html>-+
|_|"The art of war is of vital importance to the state"|_|