MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 11 (part 2)

Bonn, Nordrhein-Westfalen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

The hour was late, but the lights were still on. The horseshoe-shaped table was full, and the C&C was full. Calls had been made, and some preliminary orders given, but the grand plan for how to deal with Nemesis was still in the planning stages. If a plan could be made at all from what little they really did know. Reports were trickling in from Heidelberg, from Lammersdorf, and from Mannheim. Pictures and video were still being collected. The dead were still being identified. With all that and the shadow of a bioweapon over them, it was no wonder everyone looked like they were going to collapse. Soldiers relied on information to do their duty, and the hardest part of being a soldier was waiting for that information to be provided.

The faces around the table were grave, in stark contrast to the face that occupied the center of attention in the room, standing in the midst of his superiors with his khaki and black uniform pressed and swagger stick oiled and polished to perfection. Edgrove, for one, grudgingly admitted that even if he was a prima donna, the man within the horseshoe at least helped bolster his own morale. Things had been on a down for hours now, despite the liters of coffee and the flasks of "reinforcement" consumed. There was just too much stress with all the unknowns they were working with.

"So," began Captain Herschel Invictus Cramer, tapping the end of the swagger stick on his cavalry boots (which were complete with spurs), "I'm gonna go out on a limb and presume, gentlemen and ladies, that we've got ourselves a raccoon in the yard, and me and my dogs've gotta tree him right quick, am I right?" The conference call had not been good enough an option for Cramer, who had hopped a ride on an outgoing shuttle to Bonn from Kassel to be here in person.

"More like a rabid badger than a raccoon, Captain," replied Edgrove. "Did you see the von Mellenthin interview this evening?"

Cramer actually snorted. "'Course I did, sir. Has that got anything to do with all this hubbub?"

"It has everything to do with all this 'hubbub'. What's your analysis of the von Seydlitz announcement, and his demands."

"Who?" Cramer's face twisted in confusion, a very similar expression to the one Edgrove was beginning to wear.

The Colonel blinked. "The announcement? The one they interrupted the interview with?"

"Oh, THAT one! Yeah, that was a doozy, wasn't it? Terrible about that fire and all that. Nothin' worse than some punk with no manners and a bad moustache making a public nuisance of himself."

Now Edgrove was not alone in his confusion. "Captain, von Seydlitz doesn't have a moustache."

Cramer blinked this time. "He don't?"

"No. You didn't watch the interview, did you?"

The blond moustache on Cramer's own face twitched. "Um, no, sir, I was . . . otherwise occupied."

Edgrove blinked. "Doing what, exactly, Captain?" This was unexpected.

"Football was on, sir. . .and a who as well, sir."

The room was silent for a moment, with the exception of Titans Captain Sajer's amused chuckle. Edgrove cleared his throat, mind reeling with but one thought: THIS is who we're counting on to beat the Zeeks at their own game?

"Yes, well, that's all well and good. You've been summoned here, Captain, to be briefed on a development that has taken place here in Central Europe, one of dire importance that endangers not only Europe, but the entire Federation as well."

Cramer's eyes actually gleamed. Everyone in the room knew that the Captain was a glory hound, who fancied himself the reincarnation of George S. Patton and J.E.B. Stuart, combined. He even affected certain peculiarities to match his ideal military personality, like the swagger stick, the spurs and boots, several rings on his fingers, a permanent scowl on his face, and a pistol constantly with him wherever he was. He was also a stickler for the dress code (minus his own exceptions, of course), a tyrant to his subordinates, and ran his company like a Roman legion. The standard for the 103rd Mobile Infantry Company was a Roman eagle, in fact, with the numerals CIII and the words Letum ubique: "Death Surrounds", emblazoned underneath it. His mobile suits even had golden torsos, as though they were wearing centurions' breastplates. The only thing they were missing were red capes.

A veteran of the War, Cramer had been a cavalry officer before switching to mobile suits, which he treated exactly like his old attack helicopter unit. He'd fought the Zeon in Africa, managing to survive despite two GMs shot out from under him during the course of the campaign. He was imbued with enough luck to have been present for the last battles of the reclamation of the continent, and someone thought that because of that, he was command material. While he did possess some talent for armored combat, especially in the open field where maneuvers were not only sound, but also necessary, he was not a well-rounded commander, and everyone knew it except for Cramer. In spite of his idol worship of Patton, Cramer hated intelligence reports, loathed dealing with logistics, and refused to consider history as being rife with possibilities for modern tactics. Despite all that, he was the Federation's biggest gun in Europe, besides the Titans, to use against the 10th Panzerkaempfer, and therefore useful. Besides, he adored combat against another armored force as much as he adored coaching football to the games on the vidvision. He was also utterly fearless and refused to admit defeat, ever.

"Well, Herschel, it goes something like this. At 1800 hours this evening, FNN began its much-hyped live interview with the imprisoned Zeon Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin . . ." the next fifteen minutes were taken up getting the rest of the story told.

When the assembled had finished, Cramer whistled. "I thought these rats'd been dead for a while."

"So did we all," admitted Edgrove.

"Now they're back," Cramer started pacing, eyes cast downward, chewing on his moustache as he spoke, "and snuck up on us with a sack of **** to hit us with. These ain't your typical Zeeks, are they?"

Edgrove motioned to a mousy-looking man who had been hiding in the shadows. He was the lowest-rank officer in the room, a Second Lieutenant. He was also the official historian, and the archivist. He shuffled forward, looking like an old man as he clutched files and folders to himself. After some fumbling, the little man settled himself near a computer terminal and activated the main screen in the room. A face appeared on the screen, young and obviously something that had been dredged from a school file. The man glanced at Edgrove.

"Proceed," said the Colonel, tempering it with a smile. Historians rarely got out of the archives, and usually did not relish being in front of an audience that all outranked them. The man's nervousness was justified.

Despite his appearance, the voice that came out of the throat of the historian was strong, albeit unconfident. "Sirs, the face on the screen is Dietrich von Mellenthin. Born on October 14, 0056, New Koenigsberg, Side 3. Only son of one of the administrators of the colony. In keeping with the social structure of New Koenigsberg, he began basic military training at age six."

"WHAT??" snapped Cramer, whirling around. "That's CRAZY!"

"Let him talk, Captain," said Edgrove before the historian could answer.

"Ahem," continued the small man, and the picture on the screen changed to a very young von Mellenthin, "he attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, New Koenigsberg, from 0063 until 0067. Graduated top of his class."

The picture shifted again, this time to an older von Mellenthin, wearing the dark green uniform of a cadet. "Was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy in 0068, one of the youngest ever to attend. Graduated with honors in 0070, three years ahead of schedule, specializing in grand strategy and armored warfare. Was transferred to Granada in 0075 into the mobile suit training battalion. Please bear in mind that he is now age eighteen, and holds the rank of First Lieutenant."

Again the picture shifted. In this one, von Mellenthin was conferring with what appeared to be engineers, the legs of an MS-05 Zaku behind him. He was smiling, as though he were joking around with those around him. Another picture showed him at a table console, surrounded by other mobile suit trainees, pointing at something on the screen below them with a stylus. It looked like a maneuvers diagram.

"Jesus, he's so young," remarked Cramer, almost unconsciously, voice contemptuous. This was a truly alien concept to him, who was a Captain and nearing forty years of age. "No wonder he got his ass whupped. Stupid-ass Zeeks thinking kids'll win their damn wars for 'em. Barbarians, all of 'em."

"After graduating from mobile suit training in 0076, he was promoted to Captain, which is what he should have been during the War, except that something happened between 0076 and 0079, and Captain von Mellenthin became Colonel von Mellenthin, commanding the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade, Mobile Assault Corps, under Major General Kishiria Zavi. However, for as-yet-unknown reasons, the 10th Mobile Armored Brigade was listed as an 'autonomous' unit, not underneath the control of the Earth Attack Force or the Mobile Assault Force command structure. The 10th Brigade, dubbed 'Panzerkaempfer' by von Mellenthin himself, was combat-dropped into the Belarus region in the second drop of Operation British, March 11, 0079. Their mission was to spearhead Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Europe."

The screen transformed again. Von Mellenthin, conferring with his Battalion Commanders, somewhere on the Russian steppes. A city was behind them, relatively intact.

"Before you ask, that city in the background is the then-recently captured Minsk, March 13, 0079. The first thing the 10th Brigade did when they landed was the impossible, and that was take mobile suits across the Pinsk marshes in a day and catch Minsk by surprise. Its conquest was . . .routine. Seven days later, they were in Warsaw, Poland. The day after that, Lodz and Poznan fell. Two days after the fall of Warsaw, both Berlin and Prague were taken in a simultaneous blitz." The picture on the screen was taken in front of the Brandenburg Gate, with two lines of Zaku IIs, each saluting, lining the street. Their pilots were on their open hatches, also saluting. Another Zaku stood before the gate, receiving the salute as it marched through it. A close-up photo within the frame of the first picture revealed that it was von Mellenthin, making the conqueror's march through the Gate as though it were the Arc 'd Triomphe in Paris itself. There were Magella attack tanks arrayed below and to the fore of the Zakus, along with infantry, all saluting. The photographer was on the ball with that shot. In black and white, it was reminiscent of shots from 1939, during Nazi Germany military parades.

"After the capture of Berlin, the 10th was upgraded to an understrength division, with two brigades, which was the largest the unit ever became during the War. The rest is common history, sirs, that I will not tire you with, but suffice to say that the 10th outran its own tenuous supply line, then was halted, cut off from the Zeon 14th Terrestrial Mobile Division, and pushed back during Operation Odessa. It is this picture however . . ."

The screen changed to one that was obviously taken in Paris. Von Mellenthin was in a group of people in Zeon field uniforms, gray and gold, in the center of the picture. The others were arrayed around him in lines, and the Eiffel Tower stood behind them, slightly damaged by what might have been a missile hit. One of the other people in the picture had his face circled in white.

". . .Which leads us to the second player . . ."

The picture shifted to a completely different face. Where von Mellenthin's pictures, even the formal ones, conveyed almost pleasantness, this face was harsh, angular, and impassive. " . . .Reinhardt von Seydlitz. Born November 9, 0057, New Koenigsberg, Side 3, the only son of another colony administrator. His parents were killed in an accidental Colony Corporation tunnel venting in 0063, and he was then fostered with the von Mellenthin family as a semi-formal adoptee. He attended Gross-Lichterfelde Academy, Side 3, from 0064 to 0068. A year behind his foster brother, Dietrich von Mellenthin, he was accepted into the Side 3 Military Academy, graduating in 0072, fifth in his class overall, but specialized in field tactics and armored warfare. He, too, was transferred to Granada in 0075, for mobile suit training, as a Second Lieutenant. He was seventeen years of age in that photo."

"Did they ALL start their training so young?" asked Sajer, who was paying uncharacteristically avid attention to detail in this briefing.

"No, sir, it appears to be something unique to New Koenigsberg. No other Bunch on Side 3 has this method of education."

"It's downright creepy," said Cramer, "makin' kids into killers. Animals."

"It's not a new idea, sir, " said the historian, knowing he was in his element now. "Siera Leone used to employ children in their army at age seven, back in the 20th Century."

There were fewer pictures of von Seydlitz, and often what was available was in the background of other screenshots. He apparently was not a fan of cameras, but had been caught in a few nonetheless. He was not particularly photogenic, and he never seemed to smile, except in the scattering of pictures where he was caught with von Mellenthin, and he almost seemed human.

"Aren't they the fiddlesticks couple?" grunted Sajer.

"****," said Cramer, "you've been in each other's pockets since you were six years old, goin' though all that mess, you'd wanna find someone to be close to, too. You think they're . . .you know . . .like that and all?"

"If you mean homosexual, there's no evidence of it," commented Edgrove. "We combed through their history pretty well during the War, and it seems our man von Seydlitz isn't comfortable with affection of any sort, so I'd say 'no' to that theory."

"I concur, sir," said the historian, whose confidence had been growing as he'd gotten into the rhythm of the briefing. "From what we've gathered, their relationship was brotherly at best, but in actuality, it more resembled something almost---medieval. Like a baron and his trusted knight confidant. We don't have anything like it in our society today that could be used as a metaphor."

"This is too fiddlesticks weird for me. Damn Spacenoid social mores. Can't tell anything from it." Sajer huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

"So lemme get this straight," queried Cramer, "these two have been in the thick of it together since they were six, and this whole Nemesis thing is probably all their idea, too?"

Before the historian could answer, a voice boomed out from down the hallway. "They've known each other longer than that!!"

With a purpose in his step and a Crusade in his eyes, Camael Balke turned the corner and entered the room, a file folder at least eleven inches thick under his arm.

The room was on its feet in a second, except for Cramer, who had been standing. Edgrove's eyes were bugged out of his head, and a vein throbbed in his temple. "How in hell did YOU get in here!?!" he demanded, raging.

Balke smiled, tossing the file folder in front of the historian with a thud that only reams of paper can make when hitting a desktop. He gestured behind him with a thumb. "Your guard outside poked an ex-Ranger friend of mine in the chest with a finger one too many times. I think he's being rigged to an explosive device right now, one probably linked to his walkie-talkie, so I don't recommend calling for him. How're they hanging, Luke? The other one finally drop since your last promotion?"

Edgrove's nostrils flared. "Don't fiddlesticks call me that, you diseased little ****! Why the hell are you here, Balke?"

The ex-Captain stepped around Cramer, who had interposed himself between Balke and the rest of the room, as though the cavalryman were a chair or a pillar. "Well, I was listening to FNN on the radio while I was driving up here to motivate you into checking out the salt mine explosion at Berchtesgaden, but it seems the snakes got out of the sack and bit you in the ass cheek before I could warn you."

Sajer glared down at Balke. "And who the **** do you think you are, coming here to warn us?"

Balke glanced up at the young Titan, as if noticing him for the first time, then looked at Edgrove. "Who's the alphabet, Luke?"

'Alphabet' was a derogatory name for the initials FNG, or 'fiddlesticks New Guy'. Sajer flared red, knowing full well what it meant. "My name is Titans Captain Garrett Sajer, civilian!"

Balke frowned. "Nah, that's too long. Is it okay if I call you 'Captain Assclown' for short?"

The Titan made like he was going to fling himself across the horseshoe table, and two or three Federation officers restrained him. Balke grinned sardonically. He had ten years and a lot more nasty on this kid in black and red. Like Cramer, Balke was nearing forty with each successive breath, but had managed to keep in decent enough shape despite the booze, drugs, and prostitutes.

"If these fiddlesticks are what you've got for advisors, Luke, my man, it's no wonder you've got problems."

"You didn't answer my question, discharge. What the fiddlesticks are you doing here?" If he hadn't been out of shape, Edgrove was considering kicking Balke's ass himself. The man was a disgrace, and had been since he'd violated orders during the War.

After the Zeon blitz on Bayreuth, every combat officer of the 4th Cavalry Brigade had managed to get killed in action. Balke, a G-2 officer from one of the Recon companies of the brigade, had assumed overall command of the remnants, and then proceeded to flee with what was left of his troops across all of Germania, then all of France, and had not stopped to fight until he had reached the Pyrenees Mountains that divided the Iberian peninsula from the rest of Europe, in defiance of every order Jaburo had sent him. He had even tried to convince the 4th Armored Division to abandon Luxembourg, against orders, and follow he and his troops to the butt-end of France and not engage the 10th Panzerkaempfer. Nor did he obey the order to assist in the defense of Paris. Instead, he and his surviving people crossed the Garonne River and spent a month destroying every bridge and mining every ford they could find, then set up a static defense on the far bank and waited for the 10th Panzerkaempfer to arrive. After the 10th had been pushed back and locked down in Metz, the Federation had court-martialed Balke for cowardice and dereliction of duty, as well as violation of direct orders during time of war. Thanks to the testimony of his surviving men, he had avoided imprisonment (and guilty verdicts) on the cowardice and dereliction charges, but was dishonorably discharged from the service for refusal to obey orders during time of war.

Edgrove had testified against Balke during the court martial. When the 9th Army had landed at Cherbourg, Edgrove had been tasked with bringing the survivors of the 4th Cavalry under Derrick's command. On the radio, in full volume, Balke had not only refused the order, but had basically informed Edgrove that he could take the paper the order was on and shove it so far up his own ass that he could taste it, and that Jaburo was invited to watch.

Balke had maintained for years that the 10th Panzerkaempfer had not been destroyed at Metz, and that von Mellenthin should have been executed. He had also argued that every action he took during the War was the correct one in the face of a superior enemy combat force, and that the people in Jaburo had no right to judge his on-field initiative when they lacked the information to adequately give orders under the circumstances. That argument had, of course, flown like a lead balloon.

And now here he was, being vindicated one raving point at a time. Edgrove had no desire or time to admit that they'd been wrong in judging Balke. He also hated the man's irreverence, holier-than-thou attitude, and rampant hedonism. Every filthy habit that Edgrove had despised throughout his entire military career were staples of life to a man like Camael Balke, who smoked, drank, chased loose women, hit on female officers in direct violation of regulations, flaunted his authority, defied the authority of his superiors, and talked like a common street ruffian. On the other hand, he hated Titans with a passion he reserved only for hating the 10th Panzerkaempfer, and he had fought this devil before, to the tune of it costing him most of his troops at the Garonne River. If he were only controllable . . .

"Saving your fat ass, last I checked," was Balke's reply, as he lit a cigarette with an antique Zippo Playboy bunny lighter. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he slid a glance out the corner of his eye at Cramer.

"'Scuse me, son, but this ain't a smokin' area."

Balke looked Cramer up and down, and a grin swept across his face. "Well, aren't you pretty, sweetheart? Herschel Cramer, I presume? Camael Balke, a pleasure. I'd shake your hand, but I don't hear it when girls talk."

He flicked ash off of his cigarette in Sajer's general direction. "Or when assholes talk, for that matter."

Sajer looked like he was going to spontaneously combust, and only the hands holding him kept him from chucking a chair at Balke.

Cramer's eyes burned, but he was forced to blink when Balke exhaled into his face, then shook the hand off of his shoulder. Technically, had he his rank, Balke was Cramer's superior by seniority.

"Your sweet little chickies like Cramer here, not to mention 'Captain Assclown', haven't got a clue about what these Zeeks will do to them, and to you, do they, Luke? And Twitchy the Wonder Bank of Knowledge over there," he said, pointing at the historian, "is running on bad data, data that you're eating up like burritos with sides of snatch juice, then wondering why you've got a case of the runs."

The atmosphere of the room chilled, and he blew out a lungful of smoke. "No offense to the diarrhetics out there, of course."

Edgrove smashed a fist into the table. "All right," he said quietly, through clenched teeth, "what do you know, and make it good, or by God I will have you shot in the square like a dog!"

Balke smiled. "I've got a few bits of this and that on these Space Nazis, but there's some things I want from you cockmongers first, and if any of you've got at least enough brains in your assholes to think about sitting down and listening, you won't tell me 'no'."

Rhein River (near Mainz), Rheinland-Pfalz, Central Europe
November 10, 0087

Nighttime on the Rhine River, ever the most popular time for clandestine social rendezvous for romantic liasions. What would ordinarily be a time of whispers in the dark, the murmurs of love, and the moody yet subtle procedures of courtship, both traditional and radical, all while dimly illuminated by the lights of not-too distant Wiesbaden and the much nearer state capitol of Mainz, was almost as still as a tomb. The declaration of the 10th Panzerkaempfer had stunned Europe, but nowhere more so than Germania itself, and its night life was affected all the same. Instead of couples, who sought a queer form of solitude meant for two on the banks of the great river, there was no sign. Only the truly daring thought the whole thing a hoax, and found more challenge in convincing their paramours to come out of their homes and join them than in combatting whatever fear they may have had of Nemesis. It was mostly the young out tonight, those who had little memory (or care) of the War and what it entailed.

No, despite the hate-filled words and the caustic demands of a person whose name few knew and whose past few cared enough about, and despite the cold of the air outside, this was the time for the heart. At the very least, the coffee shops and bars were still going, and business was brisk even so, as those who were afraid but still able to venture from home and hearth sought the company of others, feeling secure in groups. The topics of conversation ranged wildly, but few were willing to ponder the meaning of a Germany without the Federation. Few were prepared to debate its impact just yet. Besides, spoke the coffee shop philosophers and the tavern politicians, it was one thing to say that Germany was its own nation again, under the sway of its Spacenoid cousins; it was another thing to be such.

For those who did find solace in companionship but did not indulge in coffee or alcohol, there was still the river. To walk hand-in-hand with another soul was comfort enough, even in the chill of the air. Whatever the ebb and tide of the future, the river always flowed, changing but eternal all the same. And despite the lack of other traffic in the wake of Reinhardt von Seydlitz's words to the world, there were still boats. Those not enmeshed in the eyes of their would-be mates may have even noticed that there were three massive barges plying the river now, and paid them no mind further.

But none noticed the intermittent flare of a red mono-eye from beneath each barge, as their 'passengers' took a look at the riverbanks even as they continued on their way.

"Entering the Middle Rhine region. Slow to ten knots," ordered Wolfram La Vesta from his MSM-03C Hygogg. He, and the boat he was towing under the power of the amphibious mobile suit's thrusters, was in the lead of their little flotilla. "Prepare to divert to one-zero-five to skirt the Rettberg island."

The two MSM-07E Z'Gok Es behind him confirmed, and he took another quick peek around with the main sensor of the Hygogg. Traffic was pretty light around here, a fact for which he was eminently grateful. The Middle Rhine was the most romanticized portion of the whole river, an area that ran from "Golden Mainz" to Koeln in the north, a distance of 190 km length. Caution for the next 155 km was vitally important to them. In an odd twist of fate, La Vesta knew they would actually have an easier time of hiding their mobile suits during the day, when the waters of the Rhine would darken the shadows of the barges above them, clutched forcefully in the fingers of his Hygogg and the brutal claws of the Z'Gok Es. At night, the main camera illuminated the mono-eye in garish red light, which anyone paying even half-attention would notice immediately. That thought made La Vesta sweat.

Especially since not only was this the most romantic piece of this meandering river, it was also the most populated piece. Every three kilometers or so was another village, or town, or outright city, all of whose citizens were attracted to the waters like drunks to a beer tap. The cold helped with that, thankfully. While the Rhine would not freeze, its proximity would drop the mean temperature by another few degrees, which made it uncomfortable even to people who had lived here their whole lives.

Even without the main camera, the sonar system of the suits was enough to allow for relatively easy navigation, and the water allowed for communication using hydrophones instead of the radio.

"Hey, Sarge," piped up Nestor Hemphill, who was acting as a tour guide, using a Berlitz book as a reference for each place they passed, "did you know that the parliament building for Mainz used to be a Teutonic Knight commendam?" Hemphill pronounced it "Mains" instead of the proper "Mine-tz".

"No, Private, I didn't."

"We'll be coming up on Ingelsheim in a few klicks, sir. Charlemagne used to have his Imperial Palace there. There's still ruins."

"Who gives a ****, Hemphill?" remarked Vito Taglienti offhandedly.

"This is cool as hell, man!"

"Only if you're a fiddlesticks nerd or something."

La Vesta overrode them both. "Cut it out, toads. Save the bickering for the first target, okay? Nestor, keep pointing stuff out. Vito, pay attention or you'll end up like some Philistine."

"Yes, sir," muttered Taglienti around his chewing gum.

"Hey," Hemphill had found something else in his book, "we're gonna see CASTLES soon!!"

"What the fiddlesticks IS this, Sarge? Disneyworld?" Taglienti could not have been more derisive if he tried.

La Vesta sighed. This was going to be a long, long trip.

Taunus Mountains, Hessen, Central Europe
November 10, 0087

It had been a nightmare maneuvering the heavy-lift vehicle off of the Autobahn and into the forest that lay at the foothills of the Taunus Gebirge range, but de la Somme had refused to admit defeat. Teeth displayed in an impressive grimace of both aggravation and elation, the ace had taken the huge truck into the trees at speed, only slowing when he had to avoid a tree that was too big to plow through. Von Seydlitz had simply let him drive, and kept his opinion of the destruction to himself.

The suits, of course, had no difficulty moving whatsoever, their pilots more than familiar with the intricacies of in-forest handling. They fanned out, making certain that they had no followers before they melted into the trees. The helicopters had finally given up, and more were due to arrive soon, but they would find nothing when they got here. No Polizei had been brave enough to give chase on the Autobahn, and no one else in Hessia would be dumb enough to try and follow heavily-armed Zeon suits into the darkness that beckoned within the hills and hollows.

After several hours of skilled piloting under IR lights, they had finally arrived at the staging area. The two Dom Tropens, deactivated without their pilots, looked like sentinels in front of a collection of large tents, kneeling on one massive knee each, heads bowed low. There was no immediate sign of McKenna's Dom, but it was undoubtedly around somewhere. Weissdrake and his Gelgoogs were due to arrive in half an hour, barring unforeseen developments en route. Von Seydlitz opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out, carrying his map case with him. They were deep into the forest and mountains now, where only the creatures still lived.

"Get your wards out of the cargo area, have them cleaned and fed, then put them to bed under guard. After that, get your suit off of the vehicle and place it somewhere suitable for the evening. Once that is done with, come find us in the command tent."

"Gotcha, Colonel," answered de la Somme, glad enough to see his two people and their Dom Tropens intact that he pushed his own misgivings aside. "If you piss him off, I get to watch, okay?"

Von Seydlitz slammed the door shut without replying and started walking towards the center tent. It was so quiet here, far away from the big cities and so deep in the wilderness that a man could hear his own heartbeat as the loudest sound available to pick up on. In the middle of winter, most of the animals were hibernating, or had gone to warmer climes. The insects were silent, and only the occasional call of a nocturnal bird broke the silence. The occasional whine from a mobile suit was almost an unacceptable intrusion into the hushed ambience. He was keenly aware that every footstep he took crunched icy snow and dead leaves under his heel, audible for what seemed like miles. The voices of the men, getting boisterous in their own shelters and moving about in the woods, were not enough to dim the thunder of his own footfalls, even when de la Somme whistled for his men to help him with the eight children.

The temporary shelter was old, dating back to the War, but still in good condition from storage. Whatever holes had been in it were sewn shut with what looked like fishing wire. A light from a gas lantern was on inside. A crude wooden sign had been tacked onto the door with the insignia of a Zeon Major General embossed on it.

With every step he took towards that tent, he became more and more aware of how quiet everything was, but that the sound in his head was becoming very loud. It began as a whispering sensation, one that first touched his skin underneath the uniform and the greatcoat, making him shiver involuntarily. The whisper then changed, becoming louder and louder, until it was threatening to become a roar in his own mind, and the shivering became a trembling. By the time he was three steps from the tent, his teeth had clenched as tight as they could, the rushing in his head sounded like an ocean's tide slamming into a cliffside, and he was having to suck in his breath to control the trembling, which was just on the quiet side of spasms, and blink around the red that had begun to cloud his vision.

And as soon as it began, he identified the sensation, and the symptoms ceased. All except for the rushing in his head, and the redness in his sight. He knew this feeling, though it had never before been this strong that he could remember.

It was a feeling such that with it he felt he could simply sweep his arm across his vision and blow the forest and everything in it away. A feeling so intense it was hot, and suddenly the layers of uniform and coat seemed intolerably stifling. This was not a normal state for him, with the quickening of the blood and the adrenalin in his veins that made the world seem slow and himself seem so very, very fast, like a bolt of lightning to shatter that which offended him. A feeling so palpable, so immediate, that it brought hot tears into his eyes, and he rubbed at his eyes furiously to erase them and every trace of their presence. Tears had always been shameful to him, even if he faulted no one else for theirs.

Taking in a very deep breath, he managed to calm himself to the point where he was confident that he could speak without his teeth chattering. Then he knocked twice, paused, knocked twice again, paused again, then four times in quick succession, tap-tap---tap-tap---taptaptaptap, on the wooden sign, using the map case as a knocker. Then he went inside, without being bidden.

As was his right.

A space heater whirred in the far end of the tent, making the interior of the heavy fabric several dozen degrees warmer than the outside (about 75 F, if von Seydlitz was right). Sitting in the middle was a field table and two foldling chairs, a pair of standard issue military cots on the left side, perpendicular to each other. In one of the folding chairs sat Dietrich von Mellenthin, attired in a grayish-green T-shirt and his uniform trousers. His feet were bare, and he had them crossed on the tabletop. A field manual for a mobile suit was in his hands, and it was obvious that he had been intently reading it before the interruption, but with a measured slowness that von Seydlitz knew was deliberate, he took his eyes off of the pages and placed his gaze firmly on the face of his subordinate.

"Guten Abend, Reinhardt." And the blue eyes did not blink, even as a smile formed on the older yet too-familiar face like the sun's rise after a long rain.

"Guten Abend, Herr General," replied the gray eyes to the blue, but there was no smile on that face. Von Seydlitz placed the map case on the ground to the right of the tent door, then removed his gloves, stuffing them into the pockets of the greatcoat before removing that, as well. He tossed it on one of the cots, its weight leaving his mind even as it left his hand.

Von Mellenthin removed his feet from the table, planting them on the floor of the tent, putting the manual on the table as he stood to his 5'11" height, 9 cm shorter than von Seydlitz. "I see Antares failed in his mission. He never did manage to teach you to smile."

"You always did task him with the impossible, Generalmajor."

Von Mellenthin laughed quietly, but his eyebrows scrunched up over the bridge of his nose in the same way that von Seydlitz's would when something odd would come into question. "There were a few such impossibles he was good for back then. You were good for the rest of them."

He wondered why it was that von Seydlitz was keeping a distance between them, even after eight years apart. They were less than three meters from each other, but von Mellenthin felt that the remaining distance was more like three astronomical units. That was too much, and he took two steps towards his subordinate, who was removing the gray-and-gold uniform overjacket and not looking at him.

Von Seydlitz was quite aware of the narrowing proximity of his brother, and each step closer felt like a stab to the heart. His head felt light, and the rushing sound was still there, and he felt as though he were going to pass out, but he looked at his hands and they were steady. Then, von Mellenthin said the words that he rejoiced and despaired at having to hear:

"I missed you, Reinhardt. More than you can ever know."

But von Seydlitz did not miss. With a snarl of rage, prompted by a voice amidst the roar in his head that screamed "Do It NOW!!", he turned, drew back, swung his right fist around, and punched von Mellenthin in the face with every ounce of bitterness and ire that eight years could muster.