Since its been over a month, and it seemed like no one payed any attention to
it the first time, here is a repost of Chapter five for Tales of the
Wanderer, book 2, chapter 5.
--
Starrngr -- Ranger HQ
HTTP://home.talkcity.com/TheSanitarium/Da_Muck/
"You wear a Hawaiian shirt and bring your music on a RUN? No wonder they
call you Howling Mad..." -- Doc' (As Rabid).
-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: totw2_5f.txt
Even though these things give you about as much legal coverage
as a G-string on a stripper, I am going to include it anyways.
Most of the characters in this story are the property of Harmony
Gold, and a whole lot of other companies who's names escape me at the
moment, and are used without their permission. However, since this
is a not for profit undertaking, I dont think its neccecary to worry
about it. At any rate, I'm so broke suing would be a waste of time.
The few original charecters in here are mine, so please ask before
using them in a fic of your own.
Comments and Criticisms welcome: E-Mail Starrngr@aol.com.
Flames will be promptly filed in file 13 and ignored. Previous
parts of this story can be found at: Ranger HQ:
HTTP://home.talkcity.com/TheSanitarium/Da_Muck/Libr/wndr/
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Tales of the Wanderer: Book 2: Wandering Ace Chapter 5: Acceptance
There was something of a timeless nature to life in Macross
City. Every day, sunrise and sunset occurred at the same time, though
there was no 'sun' in the EVE sky. Day and night, the temperature
was a comfortable 75 degrees, and even the massive amounts of air
that were circulated through the city were not enough to generate
a detectable breeze unless one was near an air vent. Shops tended
to be open seven days a week, with one day blending into the next so
that one needed to look at a calendar to remember the day or date.
Nor was there much need to do even that in the insulated community
of refugees tucked safely in the belly of the SDF-1... Most of the
people who needed to keep track of things like that were crewmembers
anyway.
Elsa Bibat (1) was one of the latter, since as "The Wanderer's"
keeper she had to remember when he was supposed to appear at various
debriefings. The Wanderer himself, as he had been dubbed by Dr.
Lang, had adopted a calendar of 3 days, consisting of just Yesterday,
Today, and Tomorrow, so Elsa wound up acting as much as an
appointment secretary as guide and observer. Her years as a rebel
to the Huk government, which had controlled the Philippine islands
through a campaign of terror during the years of the Global Civil
Wars, served her in good stead, allowing her to keep the schedule
in her head and getting the wanderer to the right place and time
without making it appear he had to be lead. Elsa, on the other hand,
was very much a creature of habit and precise schedules; it had been
a handy distraction during those years, as Huk informants were often
dulled into inattention, neutralizing them. As a Corpsman, her
precision allowed her to perform her tasks in an efficient manner,
without overlooking vital information.
All of which explained why she was letting herself into the
Wanderer's quarters at exactly 08:00, even though she knew that he
wouldn't be up. The Wanderer had been extensively debriefed,
and only Dr. Lang continued to show any interest in him; however,
for the last few days Lang and the entire engineering department
had been putting the finishing touches on the implementation
of some of Lang's research. With no debriefings to attend, the
Wanderer had taken to sleeping in; as expected the lights were off
and the drapes drawn. Elsa helped herself to a cup of coffee from
the coffeemaker which had automatically turned itself on five minutes
ago, then opened the drapes to let the EVE generated light in before
settling down to wait. A few minutes after 09:00, her patience
was rewarded by the faint sound of activity from the single bedroom
of the apartment, followed by the momentary appearance of her charge.
His red hair was impossibly disheveled, and he was dressed in a ratty
maroon robe over equally ratty pajamas, topped off with heavy beard
stubble. To Elsa's trained eyes, it was very clear that the Wanderer
was not much of a morning person; he showed no sign that he even knew
she was there as he shambled over to the coffeepot and pored himself
his first cup of coffee, then shambled back into the bedroom. She
continued doodling and she turned over something he had said in
passing the morning before. He had noticed her sketches, and had
asked her if she had ever considered drawing manga.
Elsa liked drawing, but it wasn't the center of her universe,
really. Even before joining the rebellion, she had been studying
medicine. Her time as a rebel showed her that being the first on the
scene and rendering emergency aid was more to her liking than working
in a hospital. Besides, who would possibly want to read a manga
about a boy who turned into a girl when splashed with water?
Eager to be about whatever it was for the day, she put away her
sketchpad as the sound of the shower stopped, and headed into the
kitchen. By the time the Wanderer emerged, clean, shaven, and
dressed, there was food sitting on the small table out on the
balcony. "Morning, Elsa," he said with a yawn, finally noticing
her presence as he poured himself a second cup of coffee. "What's
on the schedule for today?"
Elsa found herself counting backwards from ten in Latin before
she could resist the urge to hit him over the head with something
heavy. The Wanderer was as least as intelligent as she was, yet he
insisted on behaving like some burned out beach bum that couldn't
even remember what day it was! "Why actually, I have no idea," she
replied, deciding that two could play this game.
"Hmm." Elsa winced, she knew what was coming next, and she
still didn't appreciate it. Undaunted, the Wanderer continued
his delivery, slipping into a deep bass; "Pinky, are you pondering
what I am pondering?"
Elsa refused to rise to the bait; "Why no, *sir*. I'm not a
mind reader." Micheal, noting that the sir was meant as a slur, hung
his head sheepishly and retreated out to the balcony. It took
another count back from ten before she was composed enough to follow
him. He was playing with his food, staring listlessly out at the EVE
sky overhead. "Is something bothering you?" she finally found
herself asking after he picked up the plate of food, un-eaten,
and dumped it down the reclamation chute.
"Cabin Fever," was the grunted reply, catching Elsa by surprise.
"Why? You're free to move about the city, as long as I go with
you..."
"Not out there," Micheal replied, pointing out at the city. "Up
there," he elaborated, pointing up at the EVE sky. "I'm feeling
penned in here on the ground, but Command would have a cow if I took
to the air here in town, let alone if I asked for a ride in a VT."
Elsa grinned at that. For all of the irritating things about
her 'charge', there was something about him that kept her from being
mad at him for long, and at the moment his little boy act had managed
to stir the maternal in her soul. "Perceptive as usual, Muck," she
noted, closing the sliding glass door to the balcony as she collected
her purse from the table. "However, I have an idea..."
* * * * * * * * *
Blinko Imperiale, owner and manager of the Close Encounters
arcade, looked out across his domain with pride before turning back
to Frankie, his assistant manager. "What did I tell you, Frankie?
It's all about location. With all the RDF types that come in along
with the kids, we've made enough to pay off our startup costs in half
the time. And that's with buying the machines instead of leasing
them the way everyone else has. By the time we get off this hunk of
metal we'll be able to retire in STYLE, man!" From his expression,
Frankie clearly had some doubts, but choose to remain silent. He was
assisted in this by the arrival of additional parties who changed
the course of the conversation.
"There he is... Hey Blinko, do you still have that Strike
Commander machine around here somewhere?" a familiar voice injected
into the conversation.
"Yo, Elsa," Blinko replied, changing topics without missing
a beat. "Whadda want with that relic, anyway?" The machine in
question was one of Blinko's first purchases from the game machine
firm founded by Elsa's family after the SDF-1's miss-jump. As a test
bed for later designs, Elsa's brother had converted an old computer
game into an arcade version. The basic machine had been a reasonable
success, but the full motion version had sold only one unit... to
Blinko. After Bibat Games next release, however, Strike Commander
had become yesterday's news. In fact, Blinko's full motion copy was
the only Strike Commander machine that hadn't been scrapped or
converted to the more popular 'Veritechs!'.
"My friend here wants to play it," Elsa replied in a frosty
tone that screamed 'DUH' to Micheal, standing a half pace behind
her.
"No problem, Elsa. I take it this is the friend in question?"
Blinko gave Micheal a quick glance that clearly approved his loud
Hawaiian print shirt.
"Yes. Blinko, this is Muck. Muck, Blinko, the owner," Elsa
replied. Blinko raised an eyebrow as Muck shook hands but otherwise
remained rather subdued.
"No problem. Frankie will plug it in for ya. I was just on my
way to lunch, Elsa... Could I interest you in joining me?"
"Blinko, what part of the word no don't you understand?"
"Elsa, if I listened to everyone who told me no, I wouldn't
be where I am today!"
* * * * * * * * *
"Ah, now *THIS* is my idea of a lunch!" Micheal chortled
around a mouthful of steak and mushrooms. Elsa couldn't help but
shake her head at his manners, but grinned herself in-between
bites of her Chinese chicken salad.
"Actually, what got me was the expression on Blinko's face when
he walked in from lunch just as Frankie was handing you your prize.
He's had that voucher for lunch for two here for months and no one
had won it yet. And on a Strike Commander machine in campaign
mode to boot!" she admitted. Micheal gave her an incredulous
look, forcing her to explain. "Ok. Here's the deal. My brother
made the machine, but it's not that popular anymore, both because
it was low scoring, and because everyone has Veritech fever. Plus,
in Campaign mode, you only get points if you complete the mission
successfully."
Micheal still had an expression of disbelief on his face as he
replied. "But the machine wasn't that hard... at least not to me
anyway."
"True, but most people prefer the interactive 'dog-fight'
mode, because they get points per kill, not per mission. And
everyone really loves the Veritech machine, because they know that's
what out there keeping the enemy away from us."
Micheal popped another bite of steak into his mouth and chewed
thoughtfully before replying. "So, In the space of two hours, I
cleaned him out on what was possibly the most difficult machine
in the place... Hard enough that no one else plays it anymore,
at any rate. No wonder he was so glad to see us go."
"Well, you anyway. He's been trying to get me to go out with
him since I first met him."
"But he's not your type." Micheal's tone made it clear that it
was a statement, not a question.
"Nope. I prefer someone a bit more quiet and self-assured
in a man. Like Lt. Sterling there..." Elsa noted, indicating
the trio of pilots who had just walked into the steak house and sat
down. The soft tinkling of a fork that was dropped a short distance
caught her attention, and she looked at Micheal, who was now just
sitting there with his eyes closed and a look of pain on his face.
"Are you all right?" she asked, leaning close and whispering
into Micheal's ear.
Micheal leaned back and took a deep breath before opening his
eyes again. "Yes. I'm just suddenly not hungry anymore. Have them
pack the rest of this to go, please?" he asked, then stood and
deliberately walked from the restaurant without saying another word.
He was already in the jeep Elsa had been issued with the engine
running by the time that she emerged carrying the two to-go boxes.
Once she was in, he peeled out with a short protest from the tires
as he whipped the jeep through a U-turn and started back to the
apartment he had been assigned.
"What is going on here, Muck?" Elsa demanded, trying to get her
seat belt fastened without loosing the food boxes or being thrown
from the jeep.
"Be glad you don't know the future, Elsa. All heck is about
to break loose," Micheal replied ominously.
"Ah. More of your 'I know what is going to happen to us'
claims, Muck?"
"It's the truth, Elsa. The SDF-1 is going to be coming under
attack shortly. Before its over, though, several thousand civilians
and one Flight Corporal Ben Dixon, the pilot back there in the
uniform with yellow trim, will be dead." Elsa remained quiet after
that, but carried an expression of disbelief on her face the rest of
the way back to the apartment. One that turned to shock when she
heard the alert sirens go off just as Micheal put the leftovers
in his refrigerator.
* * * * * * * * *
Captain Henry Gloval stared out the viewport that formed the
back wall of his office and smoked, trying to make sense out of the
most recent turn of events. He wasn't certain which disturbed
him more; the high casualty reports from the Ontario sector, or that
aside from warning him, this visitor of theirs hadn't tried to stop
it. Why hadn't he was the question that nagged most at Gloval.
Was it because he wanted to prove what he was talking about? Or had
it been some sort of triple or quadruple think to set Gloval up? And
both of those didn't preclude the possibility that this wanderer
hadn't done anything because he couldn't; but was that because for
all his knowledge, even this wanderer couldn't change what was in
their future, or just that Gloval hadn't listened? What else did
this person have up his sleeve?
The admittance chime of his door moved his thoughts from the
esoteric to immediate concerns. "Enter," he commanded, and the door
slid open to admit Cmdr. Hayes and Grant. As they took seats, Gloval
indicated the stack of reports on his desk with his pipe. "Have you
familiarized yourselves with the most recent reports on our visitor?"
"Yes, sir," came the response in stereo.
"And?"
Lisa and Claudia exchanged a glance, then Lisa took the lead.
"Sir, I believe we have no choice but to accept what he has told us
at face value. He knows things there is no way anyone would know
about me... about the SDF-1 in General, and certain crew members
in specific sir."
Claudia then stepped in. "In the long run, what we believe
doesn't really matter, sir. Once Ontario sector rescinded its offer,
we have no way of putting him off the ship even if we wanted to. Our
only decision has to be if we trust him, or confine him to the brig
until this is over one way or another."
Lisa took the next part. "Also, from Petty Officer Bibat's
reports, he has not tried to pry for information, nor to engage in
any sort of activity that could possibly be considered espionage.
We both feel that Col. Maistroff's assertions are invalid and a knee
jerk response. We both feel that believing him is no riskier a
proposition than promoting Lt. Hunter to the CAG (2) slot."
Gloval grimaced at that. The decision to promote said Lt. had
been another heated debate, since there were several squadron CO's
with more seniority. None of them, however, had Lt. Hunter's
combination of piloting skill and raw leadership ability. "But what
do you think we should DO with him?" he prodded.
"He's not a member of our military, sir. We suggest asking
him what he wants to do."
* * * * * * * * *
Gloval looked across his desk at the wanderer and deliberately
drew a few more drags from his pipe before speaking. Micheal was
dressed casually, in a loud Hawaiian print shirt and jeans, but sat
patiently and respectfully. In a way, Gloval wished Micheal had been
much more arrogant about being right, as it would have made Gloval's
decision much easier.
Finally, Gloval put his pipe down. "Mr. Thunders. I understand
you have been talking to Dr. Lang about your vehicle?"
"Yes, Captain. Unfortunately, I believe that I have no way of
replacing two critical components at this time."
Gloval simply nodded his head at that. "And you wish to remain
aboard." He made it a statement rather than a question.
"Actually, Captain, neither you nor I have a choice in the
matter. As soon as you finish loading supplies, you are going to be
ordered back out into space, with the citizenry of Macross still
aboard, in hopes of distracting the Zentraedi fleet's attention
away from Earth. No one is going to be allowed off the SDF-1 until
the war is over."
"A war which your advice will help us win?" Gloval asked.
Micheal blinked for a moment before replying. "Seeing as how no
one believes me, I rather doubt it. And to be honest, I can't blame
you for that. Seriously, Captain, even if I offered to tell you what
to do from now till the war is over, would you believe me?"
"Do you honestly expect me to risk the lives of Sixty thousand
civilians on the word of someone who claims this is all a Saturday
morning cartoon?" Gloval retorted.
"No sir. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I could change things
if I tried. Hell, I'm not even certain I *SHOULD* try." Micheal
admitted.
Gloval nodded at that. "Very well. Now that that is out of the
way, You are right in and of the fact that everyone aboard this ship
is remaining so for the foreseeable future. Given that, what did you
intend to do?"
Micheal met his gaze with an earnest look. "Sir, ever since
I was a child, I've always wanted to fly a Veritech."
Gloval met his gaze with a look of shock. "Do you realize
how preposterous that sounds?" Micheal nodded his head in response.
"Then what makes you think I would allow you into a Veritech?"
"I was one of the best pilots in my home fica, Captain. And I
know that the SDF-1 always needed pilots. But I'm not asking you to
take my word for it. All I'm asking for is for a chance to prove
it to you."
Gloval picked up his pipe and knocked the ashes from the bowl.
"Very well then. I'll give you your chance..."
* * * * * * * * *
"I tell ya, Max. If I had totally realized that they were
giving me the wing instead of just Roy's plane, I might have turned
them down." The new CAG of the SDF-1 was, as usual, feeling unsure
of himself. With the recent loss of both his 'big brother' as well
as Ben Dixon, Lt. Hunter was uncertain about his command abilities.
His audience of one, Lt. Sterling, just smiled his shy smile and
adjusted his glasses.
"I dunno, Skipper. But I do know that Gloval wouldn't have
given you the job if he didn't think you could handle it. Besides,
like a certain squadron commander pointed out to me not long ago...
You never turn down a promotion. If you do, The Powers That Be will
never offer you another one." The two officers had been spending
more time in meetings than any pilot ever wanted too, all with the
single purpose of briefing Rick on the present status of the air
wing. They were taking a shortcut through the Pilot Candidate
section on their way from one meeting to another when they heard the
groans of a bunch of cadets through a half open briefing room door.
A glance inside told the tale clearly enough; the cadets were
participating in a simulated squadron sized operation. As usual,
the squadron was getting a massive dose of humility in the process
as well. Half a dozen cadets had already been 'killed out' of the
mission, and from the looks of the 'god' screen in the briefing
room the lone attacker had just gotten two more as well. Max just
shook his head at that; it was common occurrence early on in
training. Beside him, Rick narrowed his eyes for a moment at the
representation of the lone attacker, then whispered quietly to Max.
"Isn't that the battle-suit you fought to a standstill inside
the ship?" Max gave the attacker a second look before nodding in
agreement. Before he could ask what was on Rick's mind, Rick had
grabbed him by the elbow and all but dragged him to the simulator
control room next door.
Inside the control room were the two people Rick had expected
to see, namely Staff Sargent Hutchinson and Lt. 'Skip' Tyler. Lt.
Tyler had lost most of his right leg during the initial encounter
with the Zentraedi; now grounded, he was in charge of the simulator
complex. "Hey, Skip... who's your ringer this time?" Rick asked.
Lt. Tyler and SSGT Hutchinson had a long history of tapping current
pilots to fly missions against the cadets; Rick still recalled
the time Roy had taken a lone officer's battle-pod and cleaned Cadet
Hunter's squadron's collective clocks.
"Howdy, CAG. What tipped ya off?" SSG Hutchinson asked in his
backwoods Maine drawl.
"Your 'aggressor' is flying like a VT in fighter mode," Rick
replied as the last two Cadets fell to the 'aggressors' weapons.
"Would you believe a potential candidate?" Skip asked as SSGT
Hutchinson ordered the 'aggressor' to proceed to a set of
co-ordinates and hold for instructions.
"You have GOT to be kidding me!" Rick replied in astonishment.
"No fooling, CAG. Word from on high came down to run this joker
through a flight aptitude screening. He tore through the canned
missions like white on rice, so Ben and I set up one of our infamous
cross-links. He saw battle-pods; they saw that new model that Lt.
Sterling faced a couple of weeks ago."
Rick grinned at the two simulator operators. "What do you say
we give him a real challenge then?"
SSGT Hutchinson grinned right back at Rick. "If'n ya'll strap
into numbers one and two, we'll run him through a simulated trap and
shoot while you two get spun up..."
* * * * * * * * *
"YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!" Col. Maistroff exploded. "You're
actually going to allow that... that THING in the cockpit of a
fighter? What's next? The enemy decides to defect because of
Minmei's songs?"
"That will be ALL, COLONEL!" Gloval thundered, rising to his
feet and smacking a fist on his desk. "I did not ask for opinions,
I am informing everyone of what has been decided. One more word out
of you on this subject and you will find yourself a guest in your own
brig!"
Shaken (but still quite stirred up ^_^), Maistroff sat back down
and remained silent. Gloval ignored him and returned his attention
to the other senior officers. "In this case, the risks outweigh
the benefits. There are currently only two active duty pilots who
outperformed our visitor in the simulators, Lt.'s Hunter and
Sterling. Given our constant need for pilots, it would be against
our best interests not to put this man in the air. In addition,
there are certain benefits to having him enlist as well."
"Such as being able to order him to 'Keep his big mouth shut'
sir?" Claudia observed.
"Exactly. In addition, we don't have to come up with an
explanation why Macross' population has again increased by one."
+++++
(1) Once again, Elsa appears courtesy of herself...
(2) CAG: Commander Air Group. The person responsible for the
operations of all embarked aircraft.