MSG: In Vain Doth Valour Bleed

Chapter 9 (part 1)

Berchtesgaden, Bayern, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

'It's up to you,' he says. 'You're the only one who can sort this out', he tells me. Assholes leave me to hang in front of a Federal court martial and NOW they call me back! Ingrates, the lot of them! They can coax me into dicking around down here after the fact, but they can't get me reinstated into the service with a clean record because it's not 'politically prudent at this juncture'!

Camael Balke's thoughts raged unchecked as he stomped his way back towards Dorff and the car, boots slogging through the mud and grass, coat drawn tight across his shoulders against the chill air.

The ex-Ranger had not needed to be coerced into coming out here, but he'd waited to give an affirmative to the request until after Balke had admitted that he needed his help to solve the mystery of Non Sequitur and the Salzbergewerk accidents. At first, Balke had chafed at being "assigned" a "chauffer", but Peter Dorff was as determined as he was to find out what was happening, and he had a lot more to lose. Moreover, the Pionier had taken it upon himself to lie to his own family about his whereabouts for the next month or so, and Balke had to admit that was gutsy. Bavarian wives were notoriously vindictive when it came to being smokescreened, and Balke knew that Dorff was risking not only his life on this little adventure, but also the possibility of a great many nights sleeping on a couch with a feather-filled blanket as his only company. That paled in comparison to the heartbreak that Balke knew the poor man was suffering from being separated from his wife and children, but had to give the guy credit for having a spine enough to tackle what could very well be leftover Zeon from the War.

Balke had begun to wish he had a family of his own to use as an excuse to NOT come out here. As much as he wanted to be vindicated in the eyes of his former, chosen profession, he did not appreciate having one of his former colleagues, a Brother from the Order of the Teutonic Knights, dropping in on his smut shop unannounced (especially when he was stark nekkers and coming off a week-long sex and substance orgy). The conversation between the two of them had become quite heated, and Dorff on the speakerphone had been forced to rely on the fact that if pressed, he would chokeslam both Balke and his uninvited guest if they did not start speaking civilly to each other. That was when the Brother informed Balke that the Order had reactivated him in light of the "burgeoning possibility" that Zeon partisans had, under the orders of the imprisoned General von Mellenthin, begun an operation on Terra's surface, under the noses of the Federation and the Titans both.

As it was, he'd spent three days here using all his best information-gathering tricks to try and clear up the picture, or even at least confirm whether or not this was anything but an accident. While people were more than happy to talk to him, there was simply no way to know what happened inside the salt mine until the work crews cleared it out. That was going to take an immensely long time. Balke had to acknowledge that if this disaster was a means of covering some shady tracks, it was good enough to shake even the most determined foxhound.

Who could it be? How many of them are there? He was grudgingly forced to also admit that if the unknown someone was planning to hurt the Federation, now was the perfect time for it. The Kilimanjaro base had fallen to an AEUG/Kalaba strike just a few days ago, and Titans presence on the surface of Earth was lower than ever. The Federation was becoming hard-pressed to find soldiers to defend the planet with, and the Titans were only busy bees in space.

Live Zeon soldiers in nice, peaceful, unprepared Europe. Talk about asking someone to face down his or her bad dreams. It's not f***ing fair.

Balke hissed as he stubbed his toe on a rock, catching himself from tripping. Dorff laughed at him from the car.

"Breaking a leg now will do us no good, Captain," he remarked, his florid face grinning as Balke gave him the finger.

"I'm pretty certain that even down a leg, the result will be the same, Dorff. This place is a disaster area. It'll take them weeks to clear it." Balke slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door angrily. "The only thing I've been able to verify is that the body count may be larger than estimated."

Dorff looked at him as he started the car. "How so?"

Balke pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut in fatigue. "The entire night shift of the mine is missing as well as the day shift. The disaster team thinks they may all be down there."

"But you think not?"

"Thinking's a little hard for me right now, Dorff. How do you keep everything clear in your skull?"

Dorff smiled. "Beer and pretzels, Captain. And not working for quasi-religious Crusaders, of course."

"Remind me to retire again later. Let's get on the road to Bonn. Time to have a talk with that dingleberry Edgrove tomorrow with all the evidence backing my play to get me either institutionalized or incarcerated with von Mellenthin as my cellmate."

"And you claim dreams never come true." Dorff glanced at the chronometer on the dashboard. 1448 hours. Too early for dinner, but they would time it just right if they could reach Bonn in about four hours or so. Traffic would be murder, though, so Dorff figured they'd have to stop along the way.

Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

The cell door's locking mechanism whirred open, and Dietrich von Mellenthin opened his eyes. Without moving anything else, the blue-green orbs flickered over to the door as two guards entered the room. One of them tossed a plastic-wrapped bundle on the bed beside him. It was fairly heavy, and made a satisfying thump when it landed.

"Change," said the guard.

Von Mellenthin moved, fluid as a cat, to his feet. He picked up the parcel and tore open the plastic with his hands, inhaling the scent of the smoke-gray and gold uniform inside. Even after Grissom had had the battered uniform resized, repaired, washed, and pressed, it still retained the smell of the War. For a moment, he was content to simply clutch the uniform to his face, breathing in the past and reliving it in memory that only the olfactory sense could loop back to the consciousness. War and sex, so tangibly different in scent, but the results were so amazingly similar. Only those two human functions elicited such a response from what was the species' worst and least-appreciated sense. Even the smell of food could not tap into the amount of memory buried in the aromas of war and sex. He would have wept if not for the guards.

Then, the green prison uniform he wore suddenly seemed as abhorrent to his flesh now as when he had first donned it almost eight years ago. He stripped quickly, as uncaring about being nude in front of the guards as he would have been in front of a mirror. With a relish he did not bother to try and mask, he began to dress in the only skin he had ever preferred. The guards watched, implacably, as the prisoner became a Major General of Zeon Mobile Infantry again.

"No officer's sidearm?" he queried, a slight smirk on his face widening into a leer as the guards scowled. They had also not brought him his Academy ring, though his other decorations were provided.

He stomped the last immaculately-polished black tanker's style boot onto his foot, adoring the feel of the uniform again with the entirety of his being, brushing the shoulders and arms with his hands, as though he were sweeping away invisible lint. He studied himself in the mirror for a moment before he looked at his guards and smiled in genuine glee. "Game face is on. Let's go."

One of the guards held out a set of manacles. "One last set of bracelets to make this picture complete, General, sir."

Von Mellenthin caught the snide within the 'sir', but chose not to respond as the cuffs clicked into the locked position on his wrists. "After you, gentlemen."

"No, General, after you," said the other guard. "We insist."

"As you wish." Von Mellenthin stepped out of his cell and out onto the walkway. Gen-Pop was lively today, but when he walked out of his cage dressed in the uniform of Zeon, the entire building went eerily silent. The prisoners stared, jaws agape. Von Mellenthin paused and looked down at them, his smile a permanent fixture today.

One of the guards prodded him with a truncheon. "Keep moving, von Mellenthin. The ladies don't want autographs."

"Let's take him down in the cargo elevator," commented the other. "Less conspicuous that way."

Von Mellenthin began walking, towards the area where the access gate to the service elevator was. Then he stopped again, turning his neck to spear the guards with an eye. "You know what? I think we should take the scenic route."

With that, von Mellenthin took a hard left and began walking quickly down the stairs, two at a time, into the general population. The guards lurched, then hurried to catch up.

"NO! Come back here, von Mellenthin!" called one of them as they hurried down the stairs to catch up, but the damage was already done. He was at the bottom before they could reach him, waiting for them.

"Hey, Charlie!" called down one of the other guards, "you need some help with him? You and Hopkins having problems down there?"

"F*** off, Eddie!" sang back 'Charlie', the snide guard, pissed that the prisoner was herding them through the general population just to make a scene. He pointed a finger in von Mellenthin's face. "Try any **** like that again, and you might accidentally fall on a moving bullet. Get it, convict?"

The Zeon general smiled evilly. "Haven't I haunted your kind enough already? Killing me will make you a very popular guy to me, especially when you sleep."

"Stow it and walk, or you'll be late."

As the three of them strolled towards the far door that led to the rest of the complex, von Mellenthin saw that ahead, the former Zeon soldiers had formed two parallel lines alongside the door, and were standing at military attention, awaiting his passing as though he were reviewing them. His already-ubiquitous smile grew even larger when they saluted him as he approached, without even being commanded. To make room for he and the two guards, they took a single step backwards, widening the aisle towards the door, where two other guards awaited them.

With his hands chained, von Mellenthin could not return their salute, so he opted for something a little different instead. As he passed the last two former soldiers, he paused in his walk for a third time, spinning around to face the rest of Gen-Pop and those whom he had already passed. He raised his chained fists in the air above his head, fingers clenched together.

"Sieg Zeon!" he called out, his baritone voice sounding like thunder as it reverberated from the walls.

"Sieg Zeon!!" was the returned reply from the soldiers. "Sieg Zeon!!"

The chant continued, even as the guards began to forcibly lead von Mellenthin out of the doors. Soon, even the nonmilitary prisoners had taken up the hail, until everyone in prison greens was shouting, with fists in the air.

"Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!! Sieg Zeon!!"


"In all honesty," continued Warden Grissom, "I'd expected you to bring more people with you for this."

FNN correspondent Irina Fields smiled, teeth white as pearls. "No, just me, the camera man, and the sound and light people. In all honesty, Warden, if I'd had a clue just how large a space you were going to give us, I would have brought more."

"We try to make our guests more comfortable than our inmates, Ms. Fields. This room used to be an auditorium, but was closed down for reasons unknown. I'd never seen the need to reopen it until this." Grissom had to keep from fidgeting. He was twice divorced, and looking for company, and 'Ms. Fields' was really a 'Ms.' that he would love to tack an 'R' and a '-Grissom' onto. She apparently thought he was something of a prospect, too, considering the amount of times she had smiled at him since her arrival at Mannheim Military Penitentiary. She made him feel like a schoolboy with a crush, and he was reasonably certain he was acting the same way.

Won't matter. Von Mellenthin will behave himself and make me look good, and then she'll know who's running the show here.

She was speaking again. "I want to put the chairs over there, with only about a meter between us. That'll make the camera angles more personal than professional, even if the interview is bland as dirt."

"A meter?" Grissom frowned. "He'll be chained and all, but that seems a little close-"

She hit him with the smile again. "Pretty please, Warden? You already said he'll be chained and I'm sure he won't try anything with you and your guards present." It was common knowledge that Irina Fields got what she wanted when she wanted it. There was not a soul in the news industry that was as relentless, ambitious, or driven as she was. The rumors about her would have made the Marquis de Sade blush and Thomas Torquemada wince at some of the tactics she had resorted to or the things she had done to claw her way to where she was now, the hallowed position of FNN field reporter, just a rung or two down from the main desk at the six o'clock broadcast. The one thing the rumors all did agree upon, however, was that she did deserve to be there, no matter how she happened to make the trip. She was absolutely fearless, totally determined, and got the job done no matter how much dirt or **** she had to crawl through to accomplish it.

What she had not bothered to do, however, was get to know anything about her subject for the evening in advance. Grissom knew that she was under the impression that while von Mellenthin was the only Zeek general captured alive during the War, she presumed he was an older man. Thirty-one (the General had celebrated a birthday in mid-October) was hardly old, and Grissom was a bit apprehensive about von Mellenthin's uncanny ability to get into someone's head and charm them into malleability. In her ignorance, Fields did not recognize the inherent danger she was placing herself in.

Despite his misgivings, Grissom relented to her request. "All right, then, but don't let him kiss you."

Fields's eyes narrowed, then she laughed as she realized he was just joking. "If I can handle those geriatrics in Dakar, then I'm certain that I can handle an old Zeon general, Warden."

Grissom casually took her by the upper arm and drew her a few steps away from her crew. "Ma'am, with all due respect, I don't think you have a clue what it is you're dealing with here. Dietrich von Mellenthin isn't like anything I've ever seen before, and I've seen the best and worst of people in this place. Spacenoids don't view life the way we do, and I don't think they consider us human at all. Von Mellenthin is a lifetime subscriber of Zeon Daikun's ideas of human evolution, and I'd suggest you treat him exactly like what he is."

Fields leaned in so close that Grissom could smell her breath. "And just what is he, Warden?"

"A savage beast in a cage, with no morals or scruples whatsoever that would correspond to a normal value system. Even the shrinks say his superiority complex is so absolute as to be inhuman."

"You're actually worried about all this," Field quipped, then she touched his face. "That's sweet, but I'm a professional. I've seen battles and space, and I know what I'm doing. Being inhuman doesn't mean he is inhuman, and he's going to catapult my career into a higher orbit than Side 6. I busted my ass for two YEARS to get permission to conduct this interview, live, across Earth, and he will behave himself like a gentleman throughout it, or you'll make him pay. But that won't be necessary, because if you did your job properly then he won't have enough will left to do anything but answer what I ask him. I'll make him bark like a dog if I want him to."

She glanced at the clock on the wall. 1655 hours. "Showtime in less than five, Warden Grissom. I think you'd best go attend to our shackled Prince of Darkness while I finish things up here." She patted him on the shoulder as he turned to leave.

"I hope you're right, Ms. Fields. I truly do." Grissom motioned to the guards, who marched out of the room behind him.


The chorus rumbled its way through the prison like an oncoming storm, echoing through the pipes and the walls, and Grissom shivered involuntarily as he saw von Mellenthin approach in his Zeon uniform. "I hear your fan club calling."

Von Mellenthin shrugged. "They see me in this uniform and it gives them something to hope for. My compliments to your tailor for the repair work. I can hardly tell where the damage was."

"Yeah, well, we try to put up with everyone's wishes here. The customer knows best. I didn't know you had the Zeon Cross."

"With Oak Leaves, yes."

Eyes on the medal, Grissom squinted. "No Sword as the addition for exemplary field valor?"

"I might have warranted it, but the War ended before then. No, only one man in my division received the Cross with Leaves and Sword before Metz. The Federation did not allow posthumous Zeon awards ceremonies."

"The 'Killing Star'?" guessed Grissom.

Von Mellenthin blinked. "Yes, that's correct. You know your history well, Warden Grissom. I am impressed. Anyhow, I received the Cross for Berlin, the Leaves for Paris. It was the least the Zavis could have done after giving me an understrength division and telling me to win their stupid war for them."

Grissom snorted. "You're claiming to have a problem with the War?"

"Only the inevitable outcome considering the way it was run. The Zavis acted like Hitler and the OKW/OKH did in World War II, and I was not afraid to tell them so."

"I'll bet. Next you'll be saying you weren't in command at Luxembourg."

Von Mellenthin quirked an eyebrow. "I wasn't. Where's the nice reporter lady?"

"In the auditorium. Remember our deal, von Mellenthin."

"I've not forgotten, Warden Grissom. Shall we proceed?"

Grissom fidgeted. "She'll call when she's ready. Quite the balleater, this one."

Von Mellenthin smiled. "Of course she is."

The door creaked open, and a sound crew guy waved them in.

Heidelberg, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

"'Good afternoon from Central Europe. This is Irina Fields, FNN news, here at Mannheim Military Penitentiary, where in just moments I'll be conducting, live, the only interview ever given to Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin, former Zeon commander of the vaunted 10th Mobile Armored Division during the One-Year War. For those viewers who aren't informed, the 10th Mobile Armored Division was responsible for Operation Lorelei, the conquest of Europe during the Terra invasion, and while they made remarkable gains in their drive towards the Iberian peninsula, they were eventually halted, then turned back, by Federal Forces just prior to Operation Odessa.'" spoke the pretty face on the vidvision screen in Eichbaum's Bar on the Hauptstrasse, managing to get this off to a grand start by mispronouncing his last name, saying 'Mel-in-thin' instead of the proper 'Mel-in-tin'. Every face in the joint tonight was turned towards the screen.

Unlike the non-informed viewers that Ms. Fields was alluding to, everyone in this place knew of the "Hessian Lion" and his merry band of mobile infantry from the War. The dichotomy of Operation Lorelei was still being studied years after the War, but not tonight. This evening, the eyes of scientists, politicians, soldiers, and civilians were on the vidvision screen, to catch a glimpse of something so rare that history books would bear the name for however much eternity there was for the human race.

That something was sole survivor, and everyone wanted to see it. Too bad it was a lie, but even Planck's Constant was not.

Despite the misnomer, the same basic urge held true for Reinhardt von Seydlitz, sitting in a dark corner of the already dimly-lit bar, sipping at a glass of something dark with a foamy head. His gray eyes were riveted on the screen, seeking the face of his foster brother, whom he had not seen since Metz. He needed it more than the beer he was drinking, even if it was just on a screen instead of in person. He would have preferred "in person". As it was, his uniform was underneath a nasty green trenchcoat that did not seem out of place, considering that it had begun to snow outside.

He was taking a risk being here, but seeing as how his appointment was just down the street, he could not help but take a quick tour. He had been to the Palatinate Museum, the ruins of St. Michael's Basilica, the Karlstor dungeon and archway, and the Bismarck Column across the Neckar River. But he'd especially wanted to visit the Heiliggeistkirche, the Holy Ghost Church, which dated back to 1399 Old Calendar. Elisabeth von Hohenzollern was entombed there, and he had wanted to speak to her before Operation Nemesis began, as one Prussian to another. King Ruprecht von zur Baden, dead since 1410, her husband, was also there, and he had asked for pardon in bringing the tools of war into Heidelberg for the first time since 1849.

Irina Fields was speaking still. "'It took FNN two years to convince the Federation Assembly to grant permission to speak with the man who some say was responsible for as much atrocity as Giren Zavi himself during the War. Considering the destruction brought to Luxembourg and Metz, among many other places in Europe, those beliefs may be truer than anyone wants to realize. Nevertheless, we at FNN, and this reporter especially, have been waiting to hear it from the lion's mouth for a long time. Viewers and listeners worldwide, the 'Hessian Lion', Major General Dietrich von Mellenthin.'"

Aside from the clink of glasses and bottles, and the sharp intake of breath from von Seydlitz, the bar was silent as stone as von Mellenthin, in uniform, stepped into the light, big as life and looking every inch the soldier he was, shaking a manacled hand with an apparently surprised Ms. Fields and smiling at the camera with all the flair he could under the circumstances.

Almost overcome with emotion, von Seydlitz had to take a long swallow from the beer glass before it shattered in his fingers.

He looks well. Thank God, he looks well. It has been a long time indeed, brother mine, and I can see you have not lost your propensity for grandstanding.

"Dietrich," he whispered, forcing himself to be quiet when what he wanted to do was shout it at the top of his lungs. In all his life, no one had touched him on more than a basic emotional level except the man on the screen. Even Antares had never been as close to him as von Mellenthin was. With a trembling finger, he pressed a button on a handset in his jacket pocket. It beeped dutifully.

"'It is a pleasure to speak with you today, General von Mellenthin.'"

"'It is a pleasure to be speaking to you, Ms. Fields. Yours is the only face I've not been forced to see here for eight years, and anything new here is a true delight.'"

Ms. Fields blinked. "'We try to accommodate, General.'"

The Zeon grinned. "'Accommodation is also rare here, and almost as beautiful.'"

Von Mellenthin and Ms. Fields were seated now. "'They called you the 'Hessian Lion' during the War, General, yet you seem the perfect gentleman. Why was that?'"

Von Seydlitz finished his beer and checked his watch. 1705 hours. He stood, sparing the vidvision one last glance.

A barmaid saw him stand to leave and angled over towards him. She had been the first to see him come in, and was almost smitten, even though he was older than she by at least ten years (his birthtime had been crossed about eleven hours ago). "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" she asked him, heart beating wildly.

"Not at the moment, no," he replied in the same tone as he had when ordering, turning his ice-gray eyes on her face as he pulled on his smoke gray gloves. He had encountered this phenomenon many times before, and while once he would not have turned down her not-so-subtle advances, his mistress at the moment was Nemesis.

With an almost visible effort, she tore her gaze from him and looked at the tabletop. "What, no tip?" she asked, her job surfacing to the fore of her consciousness for a moment.

Von Seydlitz grinned with his lips, not showing any teeth, as he gently touched her face with a pair of gloved fingers. Then he walked out the door of Eichbaum's, with von Mellenthin's voice in his ears as the cold air swirled about him.

Outside Eichbaum's, in the cab of a heavy-life truck, another beep forced Antares de la Somme's eyes open with the same shock that a cup of cold water would have elicited. "Wha-? Treaty of Ghent, teach!" he exclaimed to the air as he went from dream-state to wakefulness.

Wiping at his sleep-encrusted eyes with his gloved fingers, he reached over and started up the truck with his other hand. Glancing out the window into the snowfall, he saw von Seydlitz's head cross in front of the truck as he made his way to the passenger side door.

The cold air flowing in when von Seydlitz opened the door finished waking de la Somme. "Sheesh, Reinhardt! Were you born in a barn? Shut the frelling door already! It's freakin' cold!"

As the Colonel slammed the heavy door shut, de la Somme quipped, "So, how's your soul doing?"

As a reply, von Seydlitz reached out and grabbed the back of de la Somme's neck with a gloved hand, pulling the smaller man over and embracing him. For a moment, the two sat there with their arms awkwardly about each other, before the older man planted a kiss on his foster brother's head and released him. "My soul is very alive, and now it is time for its vindication. Get rolling."

De la Somme rubbed at the moisture on his cheeks. "Lemme stop my eyes from leaking first, okay?"

"You have ten seconds."

"Gee. Thanks, bro."

Von Seydlitz mashed another button on his handset, wringing another beep from the device. "I am not the one being a weepy little girl."

De la Somme swatted him on the upper arm with the back of his hand. "Leave me alone. We're going already."

The heavy-lift truck began its rumble down the Hauptstrasse, crossing through the Marktplatz that once was a square for burning witches and heretics, and where the bandit Hoesterlipps was publicly executed in 1812.

Von Seydlitz found that historical fact eminently fitting.

Mannheim, Hessen, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

"If I might be allowed to speak candidly," continued von Mellenthin, "my nickname was given to me by the Federal armed forces, I presume as a gesture of respect, or hatred. Either way, you would have to ask them."

Irina Fields was still getting over the shock of seeing this man in the flesh, so very different from her expectations. His youth was one of the larger, yet altogether pleasing, bonuses. That he was younger than she was by about three years helped her treat him as more of an equal than she had originally thought possible. With the older veterans, they tended to be nervous or hesitant about what she might ask. Von Mellenthin exhibited no signs of caring what she asked him, no matter the subject. It was as though he was immune to any form of self-consciousness on the part of how the entire Earth Sphere thought of him or what he said.

It also did not help matters that the man was singularly handsome, and that if things had been different, she could have dated him. Even his voice, with its accent, was catching. Of course, the knot was that he was actually younger than she. Remaining composed despite these thoughts, as any professional should, she continued. "So much has changed since the War, General, both here on Earth and in space. Have you managed to keep up with things since your incarceration?"

"Oh, yes. The warden is very much appreciated for allowing the news to be broadcast to us here, and for letting us know things the media does not choose to report, and we repay his generosity by not allowing baser instincts to rule us. Now, if you're going to ask about current events of this day, I admit I am somewhat behind on the times."

"How do you feel about the continuing conflict between the Federation and the AEUG? Does it seem to be a familiar war to your perception?"

"I would have to answer in the negative, especially when comparing it to the Zeon War of Independence."

She raised an eyebrow to that. "What makes you say that, General?"

"The battle between the AEUG and the Federation is an internal conflict between humans with an idea of who should be running the government. The Zeon War of Independence was fought for an independent space, between two different species. Were it the same type of quarrel, Axis would not have sided with the Titans."

"You can't seriously believe that Spacenoids and Earthenoids are two separate species, General."

Von Mellenthin's smile widened. "I most certainly can, and do. I am no more an Earther than I am a Martian. The Federation has accepted that Spacenoids are different by their creation of a separate system of due process for Earthenoids and Spacenoids. That includes a separate system of law as well, I might add. Their own work to disassemble such a belief structure has instead reinforced it, and the largest example of this is the Titans."

Fields decided that now was the time to change the subject. "Going back to the One-Year War, I understand you actually knew the Zavi family prior to the war. What were they like?"

Von Mellenthin took a deep breath before replying. "Yes, it is true that I and my family had dealings with the Zavis, as did all the representatives of the Bunch colonies of Side 3. You have to understand before I begin that the perspective of the Zavis has been clouded into a sort of one-dimensionality since the War, and that your perceptions of them may be far from the truth, so what I say may be surprising, almost repugnant in fact, to anyone who has become used to thinking of the Zavis as a pack of monsters. From a personal aspect, they were very much like any other family that desires power.

"If I may be allowed to speak frankly of the dead, Archduke Degin seemed to me, even to a boy, as a man who was both attracted to and repelled by politics. He was very desirous of achieving political and social goals for his people, but unable to shake off the shame of the accusations that he had a hand in Zeon Daikun's untimely death. He may well have been guilty, and that guilt blinded him to many things. I hear that he and Admiral Revil were on the brink of an armistice before the end, prior to the Battle of Abowaku."

"That seems to be the truth of it, General. Please continue your fascinating insights." Fields, despite herself, was actually very interested. This man had been privy to things about the Zavis that few had ever been. Besides, von Mellenthin was a natural storyteller.

"The children were seemingly easy to understand, and that made them even more complicated than the Archduke. Garma was very young, younger even than most of the people he commanded, but he had never really wanted to be a soldier. I believe Garma would have been completely happy to have read a book rather than fly his Dopp aerofighter into battle, despite his actions before his death. He was always the quiet and shy boy, who became bowed over by the expectations of others, but considering that he was a Zavi, the same could be said for all of the Archduke's spawn. His becoming a soldier helped him overcome his inherent shyness, but that was really the only good thing that ever came of his being in uniform, for him. He simply did not possess the heart of a true warrior, though he went to the darkness without end like one. Garma represented the future, but he had to die to satisfy the present. I like to think he knew when he went to command the North American division that his life was already at its epilogue.

"Kishiria was the one whom I had the most contact with. It was from her that my unit originated, despite its autonomous functionality. She was cursed with being the ugly duckling that grew up to be an equally ugly adult duck. She gloried in the romance of war, the battles when the good hero vanquished the evil antagonist with the power of love and rescued the maiden, sweeping her off to some sweaty coital escapade somewhere off the pages, to live happily ever after until the marriage ended and the drinking began. This facet permeated everything about her, but she could not look in a mirror and conclude with certainty that she could be the damsel in distress. I once mentioned to her that perhaps she was destined to instead be the good hero instead of the weakling damsel, and if the post-War debriefings are accurate, she realized that before the end on Abowaku. She was very much the dreamer, even more so than Giren, but not so much that she failed to recognize that for every happy ending, something had to suffer.

"Dozul was exactly what he was: a kindhearted man trying to be a tough guy trying to be a kindhearted man. He and I saw little in common with each other, so we took pains to avoid each other except at the business level. Dozul's largest problem was that he possessed a working knowledge of a caregiver, most likely from his mother. I've no doubt that he loved his wife and daughter with the entirety of his being, because that was how he did things. But in his younger days, he hated what he was, and so he affected the gruff arrogance he was more noted publicly for. His size and appearance only served to heighten the illusion. He was the athletic one of the bunch, and seemed to relish contact sports and bruises the way an academic relishes accolades about his or her published work. He was loud, obnoxious, and generally rude, but anyone who truly knew him could see that he cared deeply for everyone around him, and that it scared him that despite his best efforts, he could not protect them all. The assassination of Saslo was his greatest failure, especially since he survived that incident and Saslo did not, which explains a lot about his dismal defense of Solomon. He was unable to distance himself from his men, and that was one of the reasons he and Char Aznable did not get along.

"Saslo was dead before I really got to know him, and it was at his state funeral just before the purges in Side 3 began that I first became acquainted with the Zavis. I was a mere thirteen years of age in 0069, but from what I've gathered from those who knew him, he was singularly uninterested in politics except as a tool. His death was a tragic piece of misfortune that led to more tragic pieces of misfortune. From what I understand, he was more like Garma than any of the others. Imagine what would have been different had it been Giren lying on that bier in 0069."

"Which brings us to Giren himself."

"Yes," nodded von Mellenthin, "the very 'face of the devil', Giren Zavi himself. He's been accused of so many things, from being the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler to the source of volcanoes, herpes, and stillborn births. Would it surprise you to know that Giren was an intellectual by nature? Yes, Giren enjoyed research, the sciences, and understanding the fundamental makeup of the universe around him. He enjoyed operas, dancing, and tending gardens. He loved children, probably because he grew up with so many siblings. He was a fanatical speller, would cheer at football games, and preferred to tune up his own motor vehicle. He also had a passion for flying kites and crossbreeding flowers.

"He was about as normal as anyone, with one psychological exception: he was obsessed with not having anything with authority above himself. He hated his father for being his father, and after the death of Zeon Daikun, he began to set up his chess pieces to place himself at the top of the food chain. He was the ultimate rebel, and would do everything possible to ensure that he was the one calling the shots. But he also knew that he would have to delegate to his siblings for a time during the War, and I am certain his skin crawled with that itch. His nature made him consider his brothers and sister as threats to his own position, just as his father was. You must realize that to a man like Giren, the patricide of Archduke Degin with a Solar Ray was no more troubling to his conscience than you or I stamping on an ant. Who in hell cares about the fate of an ant? And yet, for someone who understood nothing of familial relationships, he was very close to his siblings, and I think that closeness was what drove him over the edge during the War. He also envisioned a very different world for Spacenoids than Zeon Daikun did, and it was because of that vision that billions died in the War. To Giren, the idea of being a superior human fit perfectly with his own psyche, and no amount of logic was going to change his mind about it."

"And yet during the War, you yourself spoke our repeatedly against having the Zavis involved with your people, General. Why did you push for that, when you knew them so well?"

"Because I did know them so well," explained von Mellenthin, tapping a finger to his head. "The Zavis were the very reason that Zeon was defeated, because at their core, even Dozul's, they were not soldiers, but instead politicians. I assure you that if any of them had been soldiers, those mobile suits outside would be Zakus and not GMs." He glanced at Grissom and his guards from the corner of his eye, noticing that they were all wearing skeptical looks on their faces.

"That's an interesting theory, General."

"No theory there, just fact. The Zavis basically remained outside the scope of the Zeon military operations until the third assault drop on Terra and the signing of the Antarctic Treaty. The only exception prior to that point in time was the initial blitz and the colony gassings, which were Giren's idea, and tactically logical I might add. That Operation British failed to strike Jaburo is a fortune of war, but not an irrecoverable dilemma. Before the stalemate, which you will note did not occur under my command, the Zeon armed forces, outnumbered still by thirty to one, accomplished the greatest military campaign in the history of humankind. No terrestrial empire ever conquered that much of the planet. Half of the surface of Terra was under our flag, and that did not change until the Zavis decided to undermine their field generals and make policy themselves. But I would have done things quite a bit differently, had I been given command."

Field flashed her smile again. "Let's discuss that, shall we? What would you have done differently in the War?"

Von Mellenthin waved a hand in her direction and leaned forward. "Let's not talk about that, shall we? The past being the past, it's best not to dwell too deeply into it. I'm no lover of 'what if' scenarios. Instead, let's talk about today. Yes, what I would do today if I had the means by which to do so."

That confused Fields for a moment. "What about today? In what way?"

The blue-green eyes twinkled. "Let us presume, for a moment, that somehow a group of Zeon soldiers did what Colonel Bitter and his men did at Kimbareid in 0083, and managed to hide themselves on Earth from the Federation. As an example, let's use England as their home away from home. . ."

Pfoerzheim, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Central Europe
November 9, 0087

A nudge to the ribs woke Camael Balke from a less-than-peaceful slumber. Grimacing, he cracked open an eyelid. "Why couldn't you be a beautiful blonde, waking me for some sordid adventure, Dorff?"

"If beautiful blondes are what you're looking for, Captain, there's one talking on the radio right now who might tickle your fancy," quipped the ex-Ranger as he turned up the dial on the radio broadcast of von Mellenthin's interview.

"'. . .the first thing I would do, after acquiring such weapons as I would need for this task, is wait until my opposition was suitably distracted, in a very similar fashion to what the Federation currently is today. In other words, wait for a proper moment to strike with the utmost power, and in such a way that retaliation was long in coming. . .'"

Balke's lips peeled back from his teeth in hate. "Have you been listening to this asshole the entire time?"

"Yes, Captain. He's extremely articulate, and quite the storyteller. He went through a 'Life and Times of the Zavis' segment that almost made me run off the Autobahn, it was so compelling."

"Remember that word compel," snorted Balke as he sat up and began to seriously listen.

Lyons, Rhone-Alpes, Western Europe
November 9, 0087

"'. . .next step is to discover a weakness, a chink in the armor, some horrid conspiratorial sword of Damocles to hold over someone's head, because you know that on the open field of battle there would be no way to win in a pitched battle. Let us say, for example, that these freedom-fighting Zeon partisans uncovered some startling truth that would bring shame to the Federation, like that they were seeding food shipments to the Sides with half of a lethal poison, which would remain inert until the other half was introduced into the food supply, like in the event of another Spacenoid uprising. . .'"

That's a hell of an idea. I'll have to submit it to Colonel Ohm in the morning. Major Golan Tizard's concentration was diverted slightly by the move on the screen, a rather rambunctious attack on his flawless-thus-far Pirc defense by a black knight/bishop combination. Sajer's getting impatient. I'll have to stamp out his knight as a lesson.

The Zeon general was definitely aware of the aspects of the game. Tizard wondered what it would have been like to have faced the 'Hessian Lion' on the field, but that had not been in his theater of operations during the War. He shifted a pawn a space forward, effectively trapping the unsuspecting black knight.