I have a message from another time... Eyrie Productions, Unlimited and Bacon Comics Group present UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES FUTURE IMPERFECT ROGUE SQUADRON Vol. 1 No. 5 "Crucible" scripted by Benjamin D. Hutchins pencils & inks by your visual cortex Bacon Comics chief: Derek Bacon (c) 2011 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited FRIDAY, JULY 9, 2410 CHERYL A. ZUKOWSKY FLIGHT TEST CENTER MUROC III, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES Guld Goa Bowman was returning to his room in the visiting officers' quarters from the Coke machine at the end of the hall when he heard voices coming from around the corner up ahead. Recognizing them, he halted just short of the corner, peeked around, then jerked his head back. As he had feared, the speakers were Isamu Dyson and Kozue Kaoru, apparently just getting in from Pancho's. Well, he assumed they'd gone to Pancho's. Guld couldn't envision Dyson taking a woman anywhere classier or more expensive for dinner, and besides, this was Muroc III. "Well, thank you for a lovely time, Lieutenant Dyson," Kozue said. "In the interest of interservice cooperation, I may try to teach you a dance other than the Funky Chicken someday." "I was not doing the Funky Chicken!" Dyson protested. "You may not know it by that name on your planet, but I assure you, that's what it was," Kozue replied airily. "Anyway. Thank you and good night. We've both got a lot to do tomorrow." "No kiss?" Dyson asked. "It's funny, but I have a slight hearing problem," Kozue said conversationally. "Whenever someone says that, I hear, 'No punch?'" "Tch, you're a tough broad," Dyson said, his tone petulant. Then he added cheerfully, "I like you." "God, what Olde Englishe vocab file did you get 'broad' from?" Kozue asked. "Good night, Isamu. And hey - good luck tomorrow. But not too good." "And the very same to you, Lieutenant Kaoru. G'night." Guld heard Dyson approaching, looked around, then ducked into a broom closet. Leaning against the inside of the door, breathing hard and trying not to make noise doing it, he listened to the other pilot walk off down the hall, open a door, close it again. The Zentraedi pilot's fists were clenched, his teeth gritted, as he fought down a surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. The storm passed within a few moments, and when it did, Guld slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees up, head in hands, panting. Why does Dyson have this effect on me? he wondered. It was years ago that all that happened. I spent years putting it behind me... and now the sight - hell, just hearing him... sets me off again. The internal question was mostly rhetorical, though. Guld knew what the problem was. It wasn't just seeing Dyson again. That had made him -angry-, sure, but not furiously, almost uncontrollably angry. It was the idea of Dyson with a woman, even one like Kaoru, that filled Guld with rage. It brought everything back, all the things he had struggled so hard to bury, to forget. With an effort, Guld pulled himself together, got to his feet, picked up his can of Coke, and went back into the hall. Kaoru's door was shut, a strip of light showing underneath it. For a second he considered knocking, asking if she was all right, then instantly discarded the idea. She'd sounded fine, had the situation well in hand, and anyway, she'd just laugh in his face if he, of all people, came knocking on the door to express concern. Clenching his fist, he turned away from the door with a growl. Why did these people affect him this way? Why couldn't he just... -ignore- them? They weren't important. They were just a couple of idiots who'd gotten in his way a time or two. All that mattered was the YF-21. Proving that the YF-21 was the greatest fighter ever built. Demonstrating that he was its master. That was all. He came back from that little fugue to see the Colonial technician who'd stayed behind with Kaoru giving him a puzzled look. "Are you okay, Major Bowman?" she asked. "Er... " Guld cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." "Did you want to see Lt. Kaoru for something?" the technician asked. "I'm not sure if she's back from her date yet, but she wanted to be in by 2030." Guld shook his head. "No. I was just getting a soda." He held up the Coke can as if to illustrate the point, wondering why he was explaining himself like a schoolboy to an enlisted technician. "Er... good night, Specialist." The Colonial tech saluted. "Good night, Major." "I see you're back," Cally said as she entered the room to find Kozue back at the desk, poring over the Valkyrie flight manual. "How was your date?" "Not bad," Kozue admitted. "Dyson can't dance, and he's only about a third as witty as he thinks he is, but he's decent company once you get past his third-grade mentality. And he didn't put up a fuss about getting me back here on time." "Well, that's good." Cally unlaced her boots, pulled them off and stood them in the corner, then stripped off her coverall, hung it up on the hook on the back of the door, and climbed up to the top bunk in her skivvies. "I just saw Major Bowman standing around in the hall," she said. "He looked kind of weird." "What else is new," Kozue said, still reading. "No, I mean, -lost- or something. Like he wanted to do something but couldn't remember what it was. He said something about going for a soda, but he already had a can of Coke with a great big -dent- in it. What's -that- about?" Kozue shrugged. "Who can tell with Guld?" she asked rhetorically. "Maybe he's sniffing spice. How's your investigation coming?" "I'm not sure," Cally admitted with a sigh. "I kind of hit the wall about half an hour ago. The displays just stopped making sense. I'm going to get a few hours of sleep and go at it again." Kozue nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I'm gonna rack out myself at the end of this chapter and finish the rest before the pilots' meeting in the morning." Cally switched off the overhead light and crawled under the covers, turning to face the wall. "'Night, Lieutenant." "'Night, Cally," Kozue replied. SATURDAY, JULY 10, 2410 "All right, kids," said Major General Cheryl Zukowsky from behind her desk. "All the excitement we've had over the last couple of days has thrown our schedule off a little bit, but we still have a starfighter evaluation to finish here, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. We're going to do the remaining practical pieces of the competition -today-, boys and girls. That means the single work this morning and the free-for-all after lunch." The diminutive general put her hands on her desk, leaned forward slightly, and asked with a little smile, "Everybody okay with that?" Isamu Dyson stopped flipping a pen over his knuckles, stuck it in his sleeve pocket, and said with a lazy grin, "Works for me, ma'am." Guld Bowman nodded. "I'd just as soon get it all done in one." "I get the distinct feeling I'm being hazed," Kozue said wryly, "but what the hell. Let's do it." The morning was hard work, harder than any Kozue had done since passing her Warrior qualification, but it was also a blast. She didn't have time, energy, or mental bandwidth to spare wondering how the other contestants were doing; she focused everything she had on doing the best job she could do, and let the chips otherwise fall where they might. Back at Hangar 12, in constant contact over the Stonewell Bellcom private comm channel, Maximilian Sterling and his crew chief Joe Frampton noted with approval that she never once asked how the others were doing. Meanwhile, in Hangar 5, Cally kept working on what little remained of N2907C's computer systems. When she'd sacked out the night before, she had thought a pattern was starting to develop, and now, after a night's rest, she was sure of it. There was something in the tangled mess that Vyrna Wills had made of the Viper's control software that seemed familiar - and, she saw as she took a break from staring at the data and read the MPs' report on Wills's interrogation, something familiar in the way the engineer was acting, too. The psychological evaluator who had examined Wills at General Zukowsky's request had reported that the General Galaxy engineer appeared to be suffering from a form of incipient mental illness, a kind of paranoid dissociation from reality. But Wills had been examined by a General Galaxy company psychiatrist just six months before, when she was chosen to take over the YF-21's software team, and received a clean bill of health. Who goes crazy that fast? Cally wondered, and then blinked and stared into the corner of the hangar as everything fell together in her head. She turned to her computer and stabbed at the keys, rearranging the fragmented data, testing her theory. Sure enough, once she knew which way to push it, the pattern emerged, clear as day. The Viper's ejection seat control system - and, it could reasonably be extrapolated, its flight dynamics computer - had been monkey-wrenched using a very specific programming trick, one that would have been foreign to most of the galaxy's computer scientists. Cally only recognized it because of the vast amount of information, relevant and probably not, that she'd lately been shoving into her head as she prepared to take the Certified Master Technician exam. It all made sense now. The technique Wills had used to sabotage Kozue's Viper suggested a clear cause for her psychological condition. Cally was certain of it - but being certain and being able to prove it were two different things. She needed -evidence-, and with N2907C a pile of charred slag, there was only one place on Muroc III where she stood any chance of finding it. Rising from her seat, she clapped the laptop shut, tucked it under her arm, and went outside to collect the two WDF military police who were on guard outside. A few minutes later, she walked into the hangar assigned to General Galaxy with the pair of armored MPs two paces behind her. Labcoated technicians looked up from their work, puzzled, as the Colonial technician walked up to Gerry Markham, who stood by the console of the computer unit to which the YF-21 was connected whenever it was in the hangar. "This is a restricted area," Markham said, but before he could get any more of his objection out, Cally cut him off. "I need to see the operating specifications and source documents for the YF-21's control system right now," she said. Markham blinked. "What? Don't be stupid. That's General Galaxy proprietary information." Scowling, he added dismissively, "Get out of here before I have you thrown out." "Listen," Cally told him, not coming any closer, but fixing him with a hard stare. "I'm investigating the crash of N2907C at the personal instruction of Rear Admiral William Adama. Now you will give me the information I need or I'll ask the engineer who replaces you when you go to the stockade." Markham went red in the face. "I don't care what any admiral in your pisspot navy wants, Colonial. That information is company confidential and you can't have it." With an air of finality, he started to turn back to his console. "Now I believe I told you to leave." "Sergeant Becker!" Cally snapped. "Ma'am," said the MP on her right. "This man is obstructing my investigation." Instantly Becker drew his Gallant-H90 sidearm, leveling it at Markham's chest while his colleague moved up from Cally's left to provide support. "Move away from the console and put your hands on your head, sir," Becker commanded the engineer. "Slowly. Do it now." Markham's eyebrows flew up. "What the - ?! This is outrageous! I'll do no such - " "-Now-, sir," Becker said, making the tiniest of gestures with the muzzle of his H90. Markham looked like he might keep protesting, until he looked from Becker to the other MP and saw that he was just as serious. Throwing up his hands, the engineer snarled, "Fine! Have it your way. But there -will- be consequences for this. General Galaxy is a well-regarded WDF contractor. You can't treat us this way." "If I had time to go through proper channels, I would," Cally told him, stepping around him to the console. "For what it's worth, I don't intend to let your competitors get a look at any of this data. I only need it for my investigation." Markham folded his arms and glowered. "Believe me, Specialist, the consequences I've already mentioned will be nothing compared to what will happen if that information finds its way to Shinsei or Stonewell." Cally let him grumble. She didn't care about corporate politics or trade secrets; she just wanted to know if the sinking suspicion she was developing was founded. When lunchtime came, Kozue climbed gratefully from the cockpit of SERAPH BLUE and stood, helmet in hand, watching as Frampton and his crew went to work. The techs surrounded the Valkyrie, pulling off access panels and plugging in diagnostic equipment. "How'd she handle?" Max asked. "Great," Kozue said. "I could've done better in the battroid assault course, I think," she admitted. "I didn't get much time at all on battroid mode before I had to leave AVT, and the VX doesn't handle much like a Valkyrie. I don't think I lost many points, but it wasn't as smooth a performance as it could've been. Everything else went really well. I don't know how the others did, but based on my own performance, I think we should still be in the hunt." Max nodded. "Good job," he said, smiling. "Hit the showers and get some lunch. We'll have her prepped for the next phase when you get back. Launch time is 1330." Kozue looked at her flightsuit's wrist chron. "Plenty of time," she said. "Care to join me?" Max gave her a mildly bemused look, and after a moment she felt her face burning with a furious blush. "Uh, for lunch," she said quickly. "Not... the other thing." Max kept giving her the look for a moment more, then let her off the hook and smiled. "No, I think I'd better stay here and help Joe prep the bird," he said. "There are a couple of things I always like to do to a Valkyrie before a fight. Maybe I'm just superstitious, but they've always brought me and Miria home." Kozue didn't miss the subtle way in which Max leaned very slightly on his wife's name, but she didn't need the reminder. She was already kicking herself for her little Freudian slip. "Okay, well... see you after lunch, then," she said. She looked around, then handed him her helmet, just a little awkwardly. He accepted it with a smile, and she turned and went to the hangar's little locker room to shower and change. She didn't feel like putting on her full Colonial Warrior duty kit, and she was technically detached from her squadron anyway, so she put on a Stonewell tech coverall and her boots and went down to the admin building for lunch. Guld and Dyson were in the officers' mess when she arrived, sitting at opposite ends of the room and not looking at each other. Guld was alone, making notes on a clipboard; Dyson had a couple of the Shinsei techs with him, including the blonde Kozue had seen him with the afternoon before. "Hey, Lieutenant Kaoru," Dyson said, raising a hand. "C'mon over and sit with us." Kozue accepted a tray with the day's offering (burger and fries, just like back at Ohtori Academy) from one of the cooks, grabbed a Coke out of the ice bucket, and headed over. "Are you sure I'm welcome?" she asked wryly, but the blonde just smiled. "Sure, have a seat. I'm Lucy MacMillan," she said, holding out a hand for Kozue to shake. "I know Isamu can't help being Isamu," she said cheerfully. "Besides, you're a Colonial Warrior, right? So when this is all over, you'll go back to your battlestar and he'll probably never see you again." Kozue snorted, grinning. "How very practical-minded of you," she said. Lucy shrugged. "I'm an engineer," she said. Dyson frowned. "I don't like women who treat me like a variable in a computer program." "Well, you have nothing to worry about, then," Lucy reassured him. "You're anything but variable." Dyson winced theatrically. "Ow!" Kozue chuckled. "I see you've got him figured out." "Compared to the laminar flow dynamics of a Veritech airfoil? He was easy," Lucy replied impishly. "So how you think you did?" Dyson asked Kozue as she started on her burger. She shrugged. "Mmn," she replied, then chewed, swallowed, and added, "Best I could. You?" "Not too bad. Could've done better on the battroid assault course," Dyson said frankly. "Whoever designed that -water obstacle- is a -bastard-." "Pretty sure that was General Currier. It's supposed to simulate something the Eight-Balls had to deal with back in the day." Dyson snorted. "Yeah, that figures. She's a real ballbuster. They don't call her Terror for nothing." He blinked, looking at the stare Lucy was giving him and the barely-contained laughter on Kozue's face, then sagged. "She's standing right behind me, isn't she." General Patricia Currier slid her tray onto the table next to Dyson's, stepped over the bench seat, and sat down, smirking slightly. "Don't worry, Lieutenant," she said to Kozue. "Dyson saying nice things about me won't affect his fighter's score." Guld got up abruptly and left the room without a word. "I see he's just as warm and personable as ever," Dyson observed. "He might be better if certain lieutenants didn't go out of their way to antagonize him," Terror observed. "Hey, no, what'd you hear?" Dyson protested. "I swear, I've made a point of staying out of his way this time." Terror raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Hm. Well, in that case, I don't know. Maybe it's just the pressure of the competition. I hear the General Galaxy people have been leaning on him pretty hard to sell us their aircraft." "How's he doing?" Dyson asked with a sly grin. "Wouldn't you like to know," Terror replied, matching it. Dyson shrugged. "No harm in trying." Kozue returned to Hangar 12 at 1300, feeling uncommonly nervous. Well, no... "nervous" wasn't really the right word. Keyed up, perhaps. A little bit twitchy. Not at all like the glacial, clear-headed cool she'd felt going into the morning sessions. She knew why, of course. That had been the opening act, the warmup. This was the real deal. The lasers would be ramped down to signaling power, the gun pods and missiles would be armed with magnetic paint rather than steel and high explosives, but all the same, this was the main event. She'd be going up against two of the galaxy's most advanced aerospacecraft, meticulously prepared by the best technicians their manufacturers had, flown by a pair of top-drawer test pilots, in a single frenzied three-way mock combat for all the marbles. She was going to be in the next best thing to an honest-to-God life-or-death fight with Guld Goa Bowman. The reckoning she'd wanted since the day he humiliated her in front of the other cadets and drove her out of Accelerated Veritech Training, that she'd planned for since Wedge Antilles recruited her into Rogue Squadron, was at hand. The Stonewell crew had cleaned and freshened her flightsuit while she was at lunch. Putting it back on was like putting on a brand new one, even though she'd worked and sweated in it all morning. Laid out on the table in the middle of the locker room were extra components, gleaming and new - the hard composite parts that converted the standard WDF Valkyrie flightsuit into a CVR emergency dive armor system. While she was gone, Max had added the modular chin bar and face shield to her helmet as well. Valkyrie pilots traditionally wore their armor only when being launched into imminent combat - unlike Legios pilots, who wore it whenever they flew. The reason for this was lost somewhere in the misty prehistory of the early Wedge Defense Force; Kozue supposed Max knew, but she had no idea. She put it on slowly, getting used to the feeling of the hard but well-articulated protective shell, then picked up her helmet and walked out to the aircraft. VF-1S-82 2410-001, codename SERAPH BLUE, stood ready, her royal blue armor glinting like polished glass under the hangar's overhead lights. Joe Frampton and his team had not just checked over and prepped the fighter for combat; in the 90 minutes provided, they'd made SERAPH BLUE look like she was ready for her press roll-out. Even the missiles hanging from the hardpoints and the GU-11 gunpod slung under the centerline shone like showroom demonstration models. As Kozue approached, all the technicians and armorers gathered near the nose of the fighter. Max Sterling appeared from behind them, and to Kozue's surprise, he had changed his clothes too; he was wearing a Wedge Defense Force Tactical Corps uniform, the old-fashioned kind with the red-chevroned blue trousers and white jacket with striped half-cape over the shoulders. In that museum piece of an outfit, with his hair let loose from his usual ponytail, he looked even younger than usual - as he must have done when, as a freshly trained founding Wedge Rat, he took to the sky for the first time against GENOM. Kozue blinked, swallowed the lump in her throat, made sure her helmet was tucked under her left arm at the proper angle, stopped precisely in front of him, and saluted. "Lieutenant Kozue Kaoru," she said. "Ready for action." Max returned the salute with all the brisk formality he usually didn't bother with. Then, to her surprise, he gestured to the technicians to gather around. "Back in Eight-Ball Squadron," he explained, "we had a tradition. Before every new squadron member's first combat sortie, we'd all get together in the Corner Pocket after briefing and have a little prayer service." Kozue's eyebrows went up a little at this. She knew the man who was the squadron's leader in those days - knew him pretty well, she liked to think - and he was anything but the prayer-service type. Still, it was Max asking, so she set her helmet down on the floor and added her hands to the pile as all the techs gathered around. Max put his hands on top of hers, bowed his head, and intoned solemnly, "Let us pray. Lord, guide this pilot and her craft as they face this their moment of trial. Be with Lieutenant Kozue Kaoru as she flies into battle against her enemies; be her sword against their armor and her shield against their attacks." He paused, as if having forgotten what to say next, then nodded an "oh right, yeah" nod to himself and added, "And please, O Lord, we beseech Thee, don't let her fuck up. Amen." "AMEN," the Stonewell and WDF crewmen chorused, breaking the pile of hands apart like a sports team leaving the huddle. Kozue laughed, the tension totally dissipated, and climbed up the Valkyrie's boarding ladder, vaulting into the seat like a veteran. Frampton rolled over the staircase anyway, but it was Max who ascended the stairs to personally strap her in and help her on with her helmet. "Neither of these guys is going to hold back," he told her. "Guld will come at you with everything he's got, for obvious reasons; but so will Dyson, because in his juvenile mind, he'll still be trying to impress you." Kozue grinned. "Like I told Guld back at Pancho's - I'd be insulted if they didn't." She held up her right hand. Max finished snugging her harness, thumped her helmet, then grabbed the hand in an armwrestler's clasp. "Go get 'em, Duelist!" he said. /* Harold Faltermeyer & Steve Stevens "Top Gun Anthem" _Top Gun_ (1986) */ Kozue powered up the Valkyrie, smiling like she always did as the fusion turbines growled to life. Guided by Frampton, she taxied the fighter out of the hangar, admiring the way the polished blue armor glinted as the ship emerged from the building's shadow into the blazing sunlight. Looking left and right, she could see the shining white YF-19 and the midnight-blue/black YF-21 emerging from their hangars as well. Dyson gave her a thumbs-up, which she returned. Guld couldn't be seen; the near-opaque canopy of his fighter was already closed. Kozue's comm system crackled to life on the base control band with the voice of General Currier herself. "All right, lady and gentlemen, listen up. This is the part you've all been waiting for: the free-for-all. The three of you will make catapult launches, simulating the standard operating regime aboard WDF carriers, and rendezvous with Sky-Eye One over the primary gunnery range. Once there, you'll be given vectors to follow. When you reach your positions, you'll hear me tell you 'weapons free'. "As of that moment, there's only one rule: kill or be killed. Standard mock engagement rules apply. Your flight computers have been configured to simulate damage based on paint coverage you pick up from enemy weapons. The last Veritech standing is the winner. And one more thing: Right now, your scores are damn near equal. Which means that whoever wins the free-for-all goes home with the contract... and whoever doesn't just goes home. "Good luck, pilots. Kaoru, your bird has the lowest type number, so you launch first." Kozue thumbed her push-to-talk. "Roger that, General." A cat launch! That was worth bonus points right there. Kozue hadn't done a WDF-style cat launch since her brief stint in AVT, and it had been one of her favorite parts of the program. Getting blasted into space through a Viper launch tube was a similar experience, but she found she missed the spacesuited deckhands who were always a fixture in WDF carrier environments - and now here they were, looking a little out of place in the desert sun, but what the hell, as they guided her toward the catapult at the end of the runway. Kozue moved into position, felt the faint bump out ahead of her as the catapult slider nudged against her Valkyrie's nosewheel - her cue to close the canopy. The catapult officer, brilliantly visible in his reflec-taped chartreuse yellow CVR-3, gave her the hand sign for full power. She glanced in her rearview mirror, confirmed that the blast shields had come up behind her, then throttled SERAPH BLUE up to 100 percent thrust, feeling the airframe quiver as if with anticipation. The cat officer gave her the sign for burner; she thumbed the afterburners in, felt the Valkyrie lurch and shiver, saw the clouds of steam boil up behind as the water sprayers kicked in to keep her fusion blast from melting the blast shields. The cat officer made one final head check to make sure everything was good to go, then saluted - the "all-clear". Kozue gave him her crispest salute in return. He pivoted, dropped to one knee, and snapped his right hand forward, ducking his head automatically to clear the Valkyrie's wing, and SERAPH BLUE was off like a blast from a Reflex cannon. Kozue was wheels-up in seconds, supersonic in a few more, rolling out to the south, heading for her rendezvous with Sky-Eye One. Within seconds, the YF-19 formed up on her right wing. Moments after that, the YF-21 glided eerily up on the left. Dyson, his grin visible across the short distance separating their aircraft, snapped off a salute. Terror's voice split them up as soon as they made contact with the Astrofortress, sending the three fighters streaking off to different corners of the primary range, moving them around a few times with private transmissions so the others couldn't predict where they would come from, then vectoring them into the center. It took about ten minutes to get them all into position and headed in the right directions. Then Terror addressed them all on the common tactical band again: "All contestants: weapons free. I say again, -weapons free.-" Kozue grinned fiercely, all reservation swept away. -Showtime!- /* Rollins Band "What's the Matter Man" _Nice_ (2001) */ Kozue made sure her target tracking system was in optical mode as she streaked toward the center of the combat area, scanning the skies outside the cockpit with her eyes and the Valkyrie's all-condition camera. She knew she wasn't going to pick Guld up any other way, not with the YF-21's Shadow generator blanking its profile from her active sensors. On the plus side, that black paint scheme might be just the thing for space, but it would make the Sturmvogel stick out like a sore thumb out here in the brilliant desert sky. She got so caught up in that she nearly forgot all about Dyson, a mistake which the YF-19's pilot was quick to bring to her attention as he suddenly dove out of the sun with his fighter's engines firewalled and launched a spread of missiles. Cursing, Kozue went wide open herself, pushing SERAPH BLUE as hard as it could go in an atmosphere, and dumped a couple of decoy pods. These fell away from the Valkyrie, then popped into a spray of flares, anti-radar chaff, and short-duration subspace jammers. Some of Dyson's mini-missiles went for the flares, others got confused by the sensor jamming and spiraled away. A dozen stayed on her tail. Pulling up sharply, she dropped the Valkyrie into GERWALK mode and locked onto them as they sped by, unable to turn sharply enough to engage the decelerating VF-1. Most were destroyed by a spray of fire from the Valkyrie's sensor turret lasers. As the handful of survivors completed their turns and started homing in, Kozue pulled her ship inverted, switched back to fighter mode, and opened the throttles, diving toward the desert at full speed. The missiles tried to pursue, but ran out of fuel and auto-detonated before they could catch up with the speeding Valkyrie. Kozue throttled back a little, rolling upright to port and pulling out of her dive, and spotted Dyson burning through a long, looping turn, trying to get behind her. At the same time, the Valkyrie's camera picked out the black shape of the YF-21 coming up from below, lining her up for a missile pass. "Oh ho, so that's the way it is, eh, boys?" she remarked on the tactical net. "Gang up on the girl? Well, that's fine, Guld. If you wanna share the glory with your old buddy Dyson, I totally understand." Neither of them acknowledged her transmission - but an instant later, the YF-21 suddenly broke off its attack run, lit its afterburners, and went after the YF-19. Man, that guy is like a wind-up toy, Kozue thought as she pushed SERAPH BLUE into a split-S and joined that chase. "That was so unfair," Dyson complained on Sideband 1. "Psy-ops is a valid tactical maneuver," Kozue replied, unruffled. "Look it up." Back at base, another Valkyrie entered the pattern, landed, and cruised to Hangar 12. Normally a good number of people on the base would have noticed this - the aircraft was bright red, after all, and handled with a certain assurance rarely seen even among the top-gun test pilots of Muroc III - but right now, almost everyone was inside, glued to holosets, watching the live feed of the free-for-all from Sky-Eye One. Miria Fallyna Sterling taxied her VF-1J to Hangar 12, shut down, dismounted, and entered the hangar, expecting to find Frampton and his crew gathered around a display unit. She wasn't disappointed in this - but she was a little surprised to find her husband with them, since as far as she knew he was flying SERAPH BLUE. "Maximilian!" she declared, blinking. "What are you doing here?" Max grinned. "Hello, Miria," he said. "Have a seat, the show's just getting good." Miria went to the folding chair next to him and settled into it, perching her helmet on her knee. "If you are here," she wondered, "who's flying the prototype?" Max's grin widened slightly. "Kaoru," he said. Miria blinked again. "... Why?" "Well, that's kind of a long story... " Max began. The advantages and disadvantages each fighter had in this contest quickly became apparent. They were about evenly matched, overall, but each had strengths and weaknesses. Kozue was the best instinctive pilot of the three, sometimes avoiding attacks or outfoxing missiles with maneuvers that seemed to rely on a situational awareness no normal human could have, and her Valkyrie had the best sensors - especially its optics - and quickest mode transitions. Ranged against her was a ship with blazing speed, even faster than her own craft, and flown by the craziest damn pilot she'd ever seen; and a machine with astonishing precision and reaction speed, its movements unnatural somehow, disquieting. Of the two, she ranked the YF-21 the greater challenge, not because she thought Guld was the better of the two opposing pilots, but because the thing didn't move as if it were controlled by a living intelligence in the first place. Dyson flew like he was out of his mind, but he was at least human. Seeing the way the YF-21 responded to him, she wasn't sure -what- Guld was any more. Back at Zukowsky Field, there was one person who wasn't glued to a holoset watching the Sky-Eye feed: Cally Henderson was still at her computer in Hangar 5, digging through the data she'd wrangled out of the General Galaxy engineers. She -wanted- to watch Kozue fight, but she couldn't drop the thread she'd picked up now. The investigation had a momentum of its own - a pattern was emerging, taking shape with ever-increasing speed as she delved deeper into the YF-21's control system... ... and then, with a sensation almost like a mental "pop", the picture came together all at once, transmuting the suspicion that had been growing within Cally for hours into horrified certainty. "-Damn!-" she spat. Grabbing up her laptop, she bolted out of the hangar and ran for the administration building as fast as she could. Like everyone else, General Zukowsky was watching the fight, in her case on the big screen in the situation room with General Currier. Since Cally checked her office first, it took a few minutes to find her, and the Colonial tech was slightly out of breath as she barged into the room and said without preamble, "You have to stop the test." Zukowsky blinked. "Uh... why?" "I know what made Wills go insane. It's the YF-21." "What? Explain." "The control system the YF-21 uses is multitronic," Cally told her. Zukowsky's eyes widened. "Are you sure?" "It's right there in the operational spec," Cally replied. "They buried it pretty deep, but if you know what you're looking for, it's like a neon sign. The reactive/adaptive assist module in the YF-21's neural control system is based on the old Daystrom multitronic command codes. Over time, it'll warp the neural patterns of anyone who connects to the system." "You think test exposure caused Wills's breakdown?" asked Terror. Cally nodded. "Her behavior fits Daystrom's pattern. Paranoia, dissociation... eventually, homicidal disregard for people she views as her enemies." Zukowsky's eyes flicked to the monitor, where the black General Galaxy prototype was engaged in a furious dogfight with SERAPH BLUE while the YF-19 jockeyed for firing position on either one. "If that's true, then the way Guld's pushing the system to the limit right now... " "... Means the system is pushing his -mind- to the limit in return," Cally replied, nodding. "How sure are you of this?" Terror asked seriously. "As sure as I'm standing here," Cally replied flatly. Indicating her laptop, she added, "My evidence will stand up in a court- martial if need be." Terror and Dot-Z looked at each other for a moment. Then Zukowsky sighed, muttering, "It's just one fucking thing after another with this trial," and punched a key on the situation room's table commset. "This is General Zukowsky," she announced. "Abort the test. I repeat, abort the test. All test aircraft return to - " Before she could finish the command, a siren sounded. The voice of the Zukowsky Field comm operator rang over the PA system: "Attention. Attention. Zukowsky ATC is under attack. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is -not- a drill. All pilots designated for base defense report to your aircraft. Test aircraft return to the field immediately." Dot-Z stared at the overhead speaker for a moment, then hit another key. "This is Zukowsky," she said. "Who the hell's attacking us?" "Waiting on positive ID now, General," Lt. Ohlendorffer replied. "Hostiles are deorbiting from a mothership that just defolded in high orbit. Configuration looks similar to a Cylon basestar, but if it is, it's a new model." "-Damn,-" Dot-Z snapped. "They must be after the prototypes. How many small craft inbound?" "Not sure yet," Ohlendorffer replied. "Preliminary scans indicate maybe a hundred, maybe more. ETA approximately 10 minutes." "I'm going to go fire up my Valkyrie," Terror said. "I'll be more help in the air." "Good. Go. I'll see if I can interest some of the exhibitors in helping to protect the field." Max Sterling's face appeared on one of the situation center's subscreens. "Stonewell Bellcom's chase aircraft are available for field defense, General," he announced. "I'll take you up on that, General," Dot-Z told him. "What about the prototypes?" "We need to get the YF-21 on the ground -now-," Cally urged. Zukowsky nodded. "The Cylons are after all three, most likely. We should put them all under security lockdown. And send MPs to arrest everyone in the General Galaxy hangar. I don't know exactly who's responsible for their part of the mess, but whoever it is will sit out this fight in the brig. We'll figure it out afterward." That was the plan, anyway, but as the poet said, the best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley, and this was no exception. By the time the three test aircraft reached the field, three things were very clear to everyone watching on the ground: 1) The attackers were, in fact, Cylon fighters, of both the types Kozue had previously seen in the attack on the Galactica; 2) There were a lot more of them than the field defense force could handle on their own; and 3) Sidelining what were arguably the field's top three fighters would be silly. No one really made a conscious decision to defy General Zukowsky, and she didn't officially rescind her order, but all the same, the prototypes did -not- go into security lockdown... and the General Galaxy crew didn't get arrested until after they finished refitting the YF-21 for combat. Joe Frampton and his team swarmed around SERAPH BLUE, pulling pins and dismounting paint missiles with a speed and deftness that would have impressed Kozue very much if she hadn't been in such a hurry. Opening her canopy and leaning out over the side, she yelled to Frampton, "Get that -game software- the hell out of my aircraft, Chief!" Frampton gave one of the hurrying armorers a supportive slap on the shoulder, turned, opened up the computer access panel on the underside of the nose, reached in, and yanked the isochip containing the damage sim patch out of the battle computer. "It's dumped!" he hollered, slamming the panel. "New gunpod will be in place in 20 seconds!" "Good deal!" Kozue replied. Wish we had time to put on the FASTpacks, she thought, but she didn't say it out loud; they didn't, and pointing it out would only frustrate Frampton more. As the armorers worked furiously, she watched the VF-2s taxi past, already missiled up and ready to go. With a thrill of half-surprise, she saw that Max Sterling was piloting the lead one, his blue Valkyrie helmet unmistakable. The other two had pilots she didn't recognize aboard - and then they were joined by a fourth aircraft, a brilliant scarlet VF-1J piloted by a woman with a matching helmet and flightsuit, a tassel of deep green hair draped down one side of her neck. That must be Miria, Kozue thought absently, feeling momentarily detached from the frantic reality all around her. Damn, she's gorgeous. No wonder he's not shopping. She was jolted from her reverie (and this unworthy thought) as Frampton came halfway up the boarding ladder, chinned himself on the cockpit coaming, and said, "You're all set, Lieutenant! Good hunting!" "Thanks, Chief!" Kozue replied, instantly back to business. Frampton dropped away and smacked the ladder up into place, and the techs scattered as Kozue opened the throttles and guided SERAPH BLUE back out of the hangar. The sky overhead was full of arching contrails, swarms of missiles, fireballs, puffs of black smoke. Kozue ignored the runway, pointed the Valkyrie at the nearest open stretch of desert, and opened the throttles. SERAPH BLUE sprang from the ground as if eager to get in on the fight. "The prototypes are joining the fight, General," Ohlendorffer reported. Then, after a slight pause, he added, "All three of them." Zukowsky chewed at her thumbnail for a moment, then nodded. "Very well." Cally blinked. "General, we have to get Guld down," she said. "Every second he uses that system in battle - " "Guld Bowman wouldn't fly an aircraft he didn't understand," Zukowsky told her. "He must know how that system works, which means he's accepted the risk. Normally I'd override him, but right now this base needs every capable pilot in the air, and like him or not, Guld is one of the most capable pilots we have." "But - " "He's a big boy. He knew the risks when he signed up," the general said. "If he survives this fight, he'll never fly that prototype again... but if he doesn't have a field to come back to, it won't matter anyway." The aerial forces that rose to defend Zukowsky FTC were a mixed bag, but that worked to their advantage. The Cylons, with their mission plan set well in advance and overseen by their machine minds, were a bit taken aback to find themselves opposed by such an ill-assorted collection of small craft. Besides the three prototypes and Stonewell Bellcom's small force of Block II VF-2s, the Cylon attackers found themselves confronted with two earlier-model VF-1s, a squadron of VF-11s, and... well, Cylon intelligences weren't much for keeping up with periodicals, but if they were, they might have likened it to a live demonstration of the last year's worth of Aviation Week & Space Technology's "Fighters In Development" feature. For the pilots of the three Veritech prototypes weren't the only test pilots on the base to strap on their experimental gear and take to the skies. The Wedge Defense Force 17th Technical Test Squadron's pilots were all combat-experienced, highly trained professionals accustomed to flying the hottest, and sometimes the most unpredictable, machinery around, and they were for damn sure not going to just sit around in a bunker and watch this fight on TV - and neither was General Wilhuff Tarkin of the GENOM Military Arm. So it was that, as she streaked at full burner toward a stratospheric intercept, Kozue saw all manner of strange and unfamiliar icons blink onto her tactical display. The sky was just beginning to take on the deep new-jeans blue of the tropopause as three unexpected craft pulled into formation with her and the other two VT prototypes. One was that new Jedi fighter Starbuck had been so interested in on Day One - not with a Jedi at the controls, but Tarkin, sublimely indifferent to his earlier claim that the ship required a superhuman pilot to be effective. Another was an SF-8Z Super Crusader, one of the WDF's red-hot retro-styled fixed-config starfighters. Kozue could see by the stubby pair of finlets below its horizontal tail that it was one of - perhaps the only one of - the upcoming Double Zulu improved models. The third was another retro job, but one she had never seen in person before: one of New Avalon Aerospace's new F-86 Cosmo Sabres, which were still in acceptance testing. "You guys weren't going to hog the first engagement without us, were you?" asked an unfamiliar voice on the tactical band. Dyson's voice replied with undisguised delight, "Hot Dog Cooper. I will be God-damned. When did you get here?" "Been here all along, Rodeo Clown," the first voice declared. "I just didn't want to cramp your style," and Kozue realized with a thrill that the speaker could be none other than Leroy G. Cooper - Mercury astronaut, WDF Project Hero participant, and one of her personal idols since she'd started studying the history of aviation. "Now I know they'd never get you to fly that Navy retread," Dyson remarked. "So who's in the Double Zulu?" "Aw, you know old Highball," Cooper replied. "He'd fly a simulator into combat if he could get it to take off." They didn't have time for banter after that. The Cylons saw to that. /* Motörhead "Ace of Spades" _Ace of Spades_ (1981) */ The battle that ensued was essentially -two- battles. While the 17th and the experimental Veritechs labored to keep the Cylons' fighters from achieving air superiority over Zukowsky Field, so that they wouldn't be able to launch a surface assault force, the battlestar Aurora and her fighter wings took the fight to the Cylon basestar. Kozue would have liked to keep at least one ear tuned to the Colonial comm band, to monitor how her squadron fared, but she was far too busy with the business at hand. For the moment, she had to forget she was officially a member of Viper Squadron VX-1 and devote her full attention to the job of flying SERAPH BLUE like she'd never flown any fighter before. Many things were established in the next half-hour. Principal among them was the fact that all three of the Veritech prototypes were damned fine aerospacecraft. From the edge of space right down to the deck and most of the way back up again, the pilots of the YF-19, YF-21, and VF-1S-82 pulled out all the stops and showed the Cylons that they had picked the -wrong- flight test to interrupt. All three were spectacular performers, and between them they spearheaded a counterattack that devastated the Cylon raiders - but there were those, like Max and Miria Sterling and the pilots of the 17th, in a position to notice that one was emerging as the first among equals. In between the Sturmvogel's eerie, near-silent, almost unnatural precision and the Excalibur's astonishing speed and agility, the Mark 82 Valkyrie displayed the perfect balance of maneuverability, versatility, survivability, and firepower that had made the VF-1 the galaxy's finest Veritech fighter since the invention of the concept. In Kozue Kaoru's hands, SERAPH BLUE made it plain to anyone who had the mental bandwidth to notice that all other full-sized Veritech aerospace superiority fighters, including these two latest contenders, were still just chasing the Valkyrie. Stonewell Bellcom's engineers had raised the bar yet again, and now the borrowed Colonial pilot was ably demonstrating just how high it was. Kozue had no idea she was putting on a clinic, of course; she was far too busy staying alive and making sure the bad guys didn't. That was, Jolly had stressed during training, something like the Colonial Warrior's main job, when you got right down to it. Hugely outnumbered, she applied a trick she had learned from Jackie Chan, her pal in the Experts of Justice, and didn't think about how many there were. She kept her mind loose, taking on targets as the presented the best opportunity and not getting hopelessly locked on any single one, but - and this was the important part - she only paid full attention to one of them at a time. She kept track of the myriad factors a working fighter pilot had to contend with, engine status, weapon temperatures, ammunition levels, all the while calculating firing arcs, managing energy, staying ahead of the aircraft and the enemy. Never be quite where they expect you. Always keep a little something in reserve. Stay on target but don't get tunnel vision. And always, always keep moving. And then... ... the sky was empty. "All craft, this is Zukowsky Control," came the broadcast from below. "Airspace is secure. The surviving Cylons are bugging out. Good work, everybody. All craft return to base." A moment later, General Zukowsky's own voice came over the air: "Priority landing clearance to the YF-21. Major Bowman, I want that prototype on the ground NOW. Acknowledge." Silence. Kozue's palms itched. Guld was a jerk, but he was, above everything else, a -professional- jerk. Ignoring a direct order from a superior officer wasn't his style. But there was the YF-21, maybe a thousand feet above her and a mile and a half ahead, not turning for home and not acknowledging Zukowsky's transmission... ... and sliding rather ominously into position behind Isamu Dyson's YF-19. "Rodeo, check six!" Kozue cried. "What?" Dyson replied. "What the - Guld, what the hell are you do - " A pair of air-to-air missiles made it abundantly clear what the hell Guld was doing, and Dyson, caught utterly flat-footed at point- blank range, had no chance to evade them. The Excalibur's last act was to prove how well it was built by NOT just blowing into a million pieces and taking Isamu Dyson with it. Instead, though rather more than 50% of it blossomed instantly into a comet tail of fire and smoke, its cockpit module remained intact long enough for the shocked pilot to be catapulted to safety by his fighter's automatic ejection system. Several overlapping streams of startled chatter erupted on the com, but Kozue tuned them all out. She had neither the time nor the inclination to listen to everyone else in the vicinity of Zukowsky Field reacting to Guld's sudden, senseless act of fratricide... ... because the YF-21 was turning toward her, with the unmistakable implication that she was next. Kozue glanced at her radar. The fight had carried the three Veritechs far from the field, out over the gunnery test range. The Sterlings and the 17th had already turned for home; they might be able to get a piece of this action, but not right away. For the time being, she was on her own. Out of the blue and for no reason she could discern, her long- anticipated showdown with Guld Goa Bowman had become 100% for real. OK. If that was the way he wanted to play it. /* The Beastie Boys "Sabotage" _Ill Communication_ (1994) */ The YF-21 Sturmvogel was faster than any Valkyrie, even SERAPH BLUE. It reacted with the speed of thought. At the end of a long fight in which its computer-assisted combat systems had practiced machine- precise weapon economy, it had more ammunition left in the shop. And its Shadow system rendered it impossible for SERAPH BLUE's targeting system to get a positive lock. On paper, even the more versatile advanced VF-1 prototype shouldn't have been a match for it in a straight-up head-to-head dogfight. On the other hand, on paper, SERAPH BLUE didn't have Kozue Kaoru flying it. Almost immediately she abandoned the use of her instruments, except the Valkyrie's all-aspect camera, and relied on the Mark I eyeball and her razor-sharp personal edge to keep her ahead of the YF-21's efforts to kill her. For all that he had his brain plugged directly into his fighter's control systems, Guld still flew predictably. He had ways he liked to do things, ways so ingrained that they were printed in his very neural pathways. He might be flying by direct thought control, but he still wasn't flying on -instinct-, because Guld didn't fly that way. Kozue didn't fly any -other- way, which was why - as Max Sterling had so discerningly pointed out - Guld had been against her from the moment he became responsible for her training. It wasn't even jealousy, per se; it ran deeper than that. It was more like Guld regarded her talent, and her reliance on it, as a form of cheating. It offended his sensibilities on some entirely unconscious level. Unconscious, but subject to the effects of the YF-21's flawed neural controls, all the same. "Kozue, this is Cally, come in." "LITTLE busy right now." "This is important," Cally's voice came back, clipped and cool as she almost never was when speaking in person. "The YF-21's cybernetic control system is multitronic. Repeat, MULTITRONIC. Acknowledge." Kozue's eyes widened behind her tinted visor, and her acknowledgement took the somewhat non-standard form of a blurted, "Oh, sprock." Multitronic! What maniac thought -that- was a good idea?! She'd read Gryphon's memoir, the one about the last 50 years of his original WDF career that he'd only been able to write after his exile. She knew about the X-9 Ghost incident. An AI-controlled experimental fighter, based on cyberneticist Richard Daystrom's multitronic principle, had shot up the Prometheus and killed several WDF fighter pilots before Gryphon and the other Eight-Balls managed to destroy it. It turned out Daystrom was mentally ill, and the multitronic systems, based on his neural patterns, had carried the flaw along. She didn't need Cally to spell out the rest of her deductions; in a moment of brain-racing clarity it all snapped into place. The question was, what to do about it? She had absolutely zero problem at all with the idea of blowing Guld away if he was seriously trying to kill her; but if he'd been driven to it by a defect in his neural control system, that was a different story. She'd probably still be justified, still walk away from the inevitable court-martial. After all, the man -was- at the controls of a fighter that was shooting at her. But she'd never feel right about it. Not after the history they had. A burst of cannon fire flashed past SERAPH BLUE's starboard vertical stabilizer; Kozue kicked left rudder without thinking about it, then snapped into a split-S, and foiled Guld's next attempt at a gunnery pass with an unexpected (and painful) rollout before reaching the logical end of the maneuver. In most Valkyries she'd probably have lost her empennage trying that stunt, but she didn't even consider that. She had developed that much of an instinctive rapport with the machine during the battle against the Cylons, and besides, she was busy making a decision. She reached to the comm panel, flicked it to another band, and said, "Hey, Guld. Listen up." She heard nothing in reply but the sound of labored but steady and measured breathing, like someone doing strenuous yoga. "Here's something for you to think about," Kozue went on, confounding a missile with another trip to the ragged edge of SERAPH BLUE's performance envelope and a couple of flares. "Say you do kill me. Then what?" "What the hell are you doing, Kaoru?!" someone - one of the 17th's pilots, she thought, maybe Highball Jordan - said in her other ear. She ignored him and continued, "I mean, do you seriously think anyone's going to believe that you were the better pilot?" No response, but Guld's harsh breathing accelerated. Kozue smirked, knowing it would get into her voice, and went on, "Your bird's fully instrumented for flight test, bud. It's gonna be -obvious- you were just lettin' the -computer- do the work." Guld's reply was a guttural sound somewhere between a grunt and a moan, combining fury and a sort of... dismay? The YF-21 almost seemed to hesitate, the morphic panels on its wings flexing fitfully; then it recovered, throttling up, and cut the inner axis of SERAPH BLUE's turn. This was the first fully unexpected thing Guld had done so far, and under the circumstances Kozue took it as a paradoxically good sign, even if it -did- lead to a most inconvenient moment. She avoided taking a direct missile hit by a lightning switch to GERWALK mode and a full-on thrust reversal, but the proximity warhead detonated within a hundred yards. SERAPH BLUE's deflector charge was still fairly strong, and the shields were well able to prevent shrapnel damage, but the portside engine ingested the fireball gases. This did no particular harm, but it did cause the turbine to stall. "Crap," Kozue muttered as the Valkyrie began to fall. Guld was still making that gritted-teeth noise as the YF-21 nosed over to pursue. Kozue thumbed the restart button, got a warning light in response - the engine's RPM hadn't coasted down far enough for a relight to be safe. She made a mental note to mention that to the engineers. Bit of a liability in a situation like this. "I mean, sure, if that's how you wanna go down in history," she said, "more power to you, I guess. But it's -cheap.- And anybody in our world, anybody who matters? They're gonna -know- that." "RRRNNNGGGHHH," Guld replied. The YF-21's exhausts flared blue as the ship went into full burner to pursue her toward the deck - and then the black fighter abruptly pulled out of the dive and disengaged. Kozue got a relight, felt SERAPH BLUE immediately return to full controllability, spread her wings to minimum sweep and recovered with 10,000 feet to spare. The YF-21 was a mile or so above, circling back to the south, as if Guld couldn't quite decide where he was heading. "Omega 1," Guld said, sounding weary and strained. "Request return vec - " "Error," an electronic voice interrupted him. "Operator signal lost. Mission incomplete. Switching to automatic." " - What? Override!" Guld snapped. "Operator authAAAARGH - " His cry of pain was cut off by a burst of static before the channel went dead. A moment later, Kozue saw the Sturmvogel's opaque canopy fragment as embedded charges fired, clearing it out of the way for the ejection seat. This followed a moment later, blasting Guld clear... ... and the YF-21, its empty cockpit trailing wisps of smoke, turned back toward Kozue. "... OK, that I did not expect," she mused. Without the programmed constraints the YF-21 had to observe in order to keep from killing its soft, squishy organic pilot, the prototype was even faster, its reactions even more unnaturally violent- but-precise. Its rudimentary automatic intelligence seethed with a weird synthetic duplicate of Guld Bowman's psychological issues, refracted through a warped digital analog of Richard Daystrom's paranoid sociopathic tendencies. Inasmuch as it could "know" anything, apart from purely telemetric matters like course, speed, and weapons status, it knew only that it wanted the pilot of the blue VF-1 dead. The advanced aerospacecraft's every circuit and servo was dedicated to that one overriding purpose, and without Guld aboard it had nothing at all to moderate it. Kozue barely avoided another spread of missiles - how many did the goddamned thing carry, anyway? - and gritted her teeth as SERAPH BLUE's shields shed most, but not all, of a cannon burst. Pockmarks appeared in the port wing, nothing critical, but the beginning of a trend she couldn't afford to let continue. Professional pride or not, she had to admit - as Gryphon had against the X-9 - that without a pilot on board, this thing could easily edge her in the sheer violence of the maneuvers it could perform. If she just tried to outfly it, as she had against Guld, she would lose and she would die. Think, Kozue, she told herself, nearly redding out as she drove her protesting Valkyrie through a negative-G pushover that barely got her canopy out of the YF-21's cannon sights in time. What have you got that this thing hasn't? It's faster than you. It's got more ammo. It probably knows every maneuver every pilot has ever bothered to program into a simulator or holotape. It doesn't feel pain or fear, and it's never going to quit... ... hmm. Let's test that, shall we? Faking to port, Kozue gave the YF-21 a missile to evade - one of her last two - and then pointed SERAPH BLUE's nose skyward and opened the throttles all the way. The Mark 82 was the first Valkyrie capable of escaping from Standard gravity with only the thrust of its main engines. Prior models had needed a set of dorsal boosters - the most visually distinct feature of the so-called "Super Valkyrie" pack - or a special single-stage-to- orbit rocket sled to accomplish this feat. Of course, the Sturmvogel could do this too; it was one of the basic requirements of the next- generation Veritech specification all three of these prototypes had been built to compete under. Even with the head-start her missile attack had given her, there was no way Kozue could outrun the YF-21 in space either, nor were her prospects for outfighting it any better in vacuum. That was all right, though. She wasn't planning to try and fight it in vacuum. "Hang on, bunkie, we're a-comin'," Starbuck's voice declared on the Rogue Squadron band. Kozue checked her scope. They were indeed - the full complement of the squadron, less herself, appeared to be making for an orbital rendezvous at best speed, with the Aurora herself chugging in at full throttle behind them. They weren't going to arrive in anything like enough time, though, even with their Vipers firewalled. That was fine too. -If- the YF-21 played its part. A shuddering crash from somewhere aft made it plain that it was. Kozue flicked her ship to port, then starboard, maneuvering at random to try, as best she could, to evade the YF-21's fire as it chased her into the stratosphere. The sky turned indigo, sliding toward black, the stars beginning to wink into view. Off to starboard, an unhelpful distance away, she could see the light of Muroc flashing from the Aurora's armor, the Vipers of Rogue Squadron far too small to see at this distance. Her warning system wailed at her as the YF-21 achieved missile lock. Her HUD altimeter went blank; they were above Muroc III's Karman line. Time for phase 2. Kozue winged over and dove for home. SERAPH BLUE and the YF-21 flashed past each other almost belly- to-belly, avoiding a collision by inches at speeds that would have been hypersonic if they hadn't technically been in space. The sudden target convergence completely flummoxed the Sturmvogel's missile lock. Without an instant's hesitation, the black fighter reversed course as well and followed the VF-1 back into the atmosphere. This was, Kozue knew, a dicey maneuver without full deflectors. According to the specs she had absorbed before the test began, SERAPH BLUE's armor should be able to withstand the heat and shock of atmospheric entry by itself, but the docs recommended at least 50% shielding as a safety margin. She had - glance at relevant indicator - 34%, and some armor damage to her port wing and starboard ruddervator. Things might get a bit warm before she was through the ionization layer. On the other hand, she wasn't hurtling through the friction zone with no cockpit canopy. Telemetry for SERAPH BLUE and the YF-21 flatlined at almost the same moment. Moments later, and for the second time in a week, Cally Henderson rode a borrowed Cyclone across the Muroc III desert with one of Zukowsky Field's recovery hovertrucks in pursuit and a column of black smoke rising on the horizon. /* Hans Zimmer "Show Me Your Firetruck" _Backdraft_ (1991) */ Please don't be dead, she thought, hunching lower over the handlebars and urging more speed from her Cyclone. Miria Sterling's red Valkyrie streaked past overhead, in formation with one of the Bellcom VF-2s; they disappeared over the horizon, then reappeared a few moments later and headed back toward them at a more leisurely pace. "Recovery, this is Victory 1," came Max Sterling's laid-back voice. "Follow me." They followed, and what they saw a half-hour later made Cally sit up straighter on her Cyclone and laugh with relief. A mile or so distant, SERAPH BLUE lay on the desert floor, listing slightly to starboard and resting at a slight nose-up angle, with a frozen bow wave of upturned earth under her pointed prow, but substantially intact apart from the sheared-off stub of her starboard tail fin and some visible warping of her port wing. The canopy stood open. Much nearer, Kozue Kaoru walked toward them, her helmet under her arm, a panel of bright-orange parachute synsilk arranged on her head in a sort of improvised keffiyeh. Alongside her, his arm over her shoulders for support and the metal struts of an improvised lower-leg splint glinting in the sun, limped Guld Bowman. Barely visible on the far horizon, what remained of the YF-21 boiled angrily into the clear blue sky. Kozue looked up as Cally pulled to a halt, the hovertruck grounding behind her. "About time you guys showed up," she said with a grin. /* Jerry Lee Lewis "Great Balls of Fire" Sun Records 281 (1957) */ "OK, OK, settle down! HEY!" General Zukowsky busted out another of those earsplitting whistles, the only weapon in her arsenal that could possibly cut through the tumult of this evening at Pancho's. "Thank you," she said dryly as everyone turned to face the stage. "Got a couple of quick announcements to make, and then we can all get back to business. First, the contest. After much deliberation, Terror and I decided to go with the Dash-82, on account of it was the only one to SURVIVE THE FLYOFF." That drew a roughly even mix of applause and catcalls. "Second, we've cut a deal with General Galaxy where they don't bill us for their prototype and we don't throw them all in Takron-Galtos for using multitronic technology." More catcalls than cheers greeted that one. "And finally! As a personal thank-you for saving what is, after all, my very own airbase - got my name on it and everything - tonight the drinks are on me!" That, on the other hand, got 100% cheers. Somebody plugged the jukebox back in, Jerry Lee resumed pounding his piano, and the party resumed as if the official business had never intruded. "... so Redback says to the MP, 'Well, how do you think my pants got this way in the FIRST PLACE?'" Starbuck finished, and the pilots of the 17th laughed as if the joke hadn't been interrupted. "Life of the party," Boomer observed to her wingmate as Gordo Cooper picked up the war-story token and started in on a tale from the mythic days of Project Mercury that involved Wally Schirra and urine samples. "You know it," Starbuck replied. "Just so you're warned in advance? I am -totally- bagging Jordan tonight." Boomer snorted. "Yaright." "OK, don't believe me. I know the signs," Starbuck assured her sagely. Then she looked around. "Grife, what's keeping Kaoru? This is supposed to be -her party.-" Boomer shrugged. "Hell if I know. Maybe she managed to get thrown in the stockade before she even got here." As it happened, Kozue -was- in the stockade, but not as a guest. "What are you doing here, Kaoru?" Guld Bowman asked from the bench/bunk in his cell. "Come to gloat?" "As a matter of fact, no," Kozue replied. "I came to let you know that they'll probably let you out of here tomorrow." Guld looked up, meeting her eyes, his expression quizzical. "How do you figure?" he said. "Cally's data pretty conclusively proves that the YF-21's control system was unsafe. General Z's not even going to recommend a court-martial. They're just letting you cool your heels in here 'til they can get a qualified neuropsych on-planet to check you out in the morning." She shrugged. "I figured it might help you sleep." Guld grunted. "Surprised you give a damn." "Yeah, so am I," Kozue admitted, which made him give her a startled glance. "I mean, I don't know why I ought to. It's not like you weren't a grade-A jerkwad to me -before- you had a flaky computer system messing with your brain. But... what happened today wasn't your fault. And I know what it's like to have a day like that. Nobody deserves to be left hanging after an experience like that... not even you." She folded her arms, leaning against the frame of his cell's force door. "Besides, I've got a soft spot for congenital assholes." Guld actually laughed at that; then he got up and limped to the door, standing and regarding her through the faint blue haze of the forcefield. For a second, she thought he was going to come out with some hardass bullshit like "I still don't like you," or some such, but instead he gazed silently at her for a moment and then shocked her right to the core... ... by coming to attention and saluting her. "Whatever else happened today, Kaoru," he said gravely, "I'm aware that you probably saved my ass... and maybe even my career. I won't forget that." Then he turned away, limped back to his bunk, sat down, and said, "Now get out of my face. I have a lot of thinking to do." Kozue gazed at him for a moment, then smiled slightly. "Yeah," she said, "I bet you do. See you around, space caveman." Kozue walked into Pancho's just as a band started playing "I Think I Like It". She had just enough time to think, Wow, they sound just like the Art of Noise, before she looked up at the stage and saw that they -were- the Art of Noise. "Surprise!" Starbuck declared, hooking an arm around her neck and supplying her with a beer in more or less the same movement. "Look who I found!" "Excuse me?" Boomer interjected. "Who found?" "Well, OK, it was kind of a team effort," Starbuck allowed. Up on stage, Kozue's brother Miki spotted her at the back and grinned, too busy wielding his blue-and-white Rickenbacker to give her any other sign. The pilots of Rogue Squadron and the 17th, the Rogues' tech crew and the YF-19 team, Isamu Dyson and the Sterlings, some of the exhibitors - even Death Star Tarkin! - surrounded her at the bar, toasting her as the heroine of the hour. "Y'know, since about 1950 people have been askin' me, Gordo, now who's the best pilot you ever saw?" Cooper observed; then he grinned, raised his beer, and said as his fellow pilots hooted and elbowed each other, "I'm lookin' at her." Kozue didn't really believe him; she figured he was just being nice to the new kid, putting on the charm. But she'd take it anyway. She grinned back and clinked her mug against his. "Flattery will get you anywhere, Hot Dog," she said, and the party rolled on all night long. /* Hans Zimmer "Fighting 17th" _Backdraft_ (1991) */ Eyrie Productions, Unlimited and Bacon Comics Group presented UNDOCUMENTED FEATURES FUTURE IMPERFECT ROGUE SQUADRON "Crucible" written by Benjamin D. Hutchins with notion wranglin' and concept control by the Usual Suspects Bacon Comics chief Derek Bacon (Lightnin) with much owed to lots of people ROGUE SQUADRON Vol. 1 No. 5 BACON COMICS GROUP 2410 E P U (colour) 2011