Chapter One: Zion
The planet of Zion is a clear-cut example of what will eventually happen to Earth if no one intervenes. It is a capitalistic planet. The people care not about the poor or their planet but rather, they care more about their own inventions and revel in their own 'greatness.' Destruction to their own planet was catastrophic until science stepped in to alter the course of history. The damage, however, was never really repaired. Despite that the scientists were doing this for a greatest good, bigots of every race tried to stop them from accomplishing their goal. Perhaps these bigots wanted the planet to move along toward its own destruction in its own fashion.
It is not that people want their world to be destroyed, rather, they just act indifferent about it. It is the worst way to view a planet. While the trees coughed in the carbon-monoxide infested atmosphere, man's mind was busy thinking of ways to steal from the poor. While the fish struggled to survive the constant red tide, mankind wondered if the price of fish would bottom out.
So here we are, on Zion, where a man does not have to work hard for a dollar. A man does not have to work hard to earn a living. Yet the poor on this planet die at the rate of a hundred souls a day. Darwinism thrives. 'Survival of the fittest' at its worst.
The Supreme Commander of this world was a dictator, despite what anyone said about him. He rose to power through elections and then grasped the position, held it, until no one dared vote for anyone out of fear for their very lives. It is generally noted that the fancier the name, the less important they are. 'Chief Executive Officer," is another one. Important people have small titles. 'Editor.'
His name was Oppen and he was as ugly as a man could come. He stood some six feet tall and weighed in at nearly two hundred and fifty pounds. He stood tall but his body swayed gently under his massive frame. His bloated face was covered with pimples and other diseases that never went away. He sat down in his chair, his mouth wide open. The report that he received fell to the floor. The report had been about Wareham.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded. Commander Britea Sultane shook a little. Britea's voice was wary despite that he was taller than his Commander and more broader across the shoulders. Britea was Oppen's most trusted subordinate, but at times like this that relationship could very well go out the window.
"No, sir," was all that Britea was able to manage. Oppen stared at Britea.
"How, then, did that blasted Prince get a hold of such a weapon?"
"Sir, the wreckage appears to have been caused by a battlecruiser." Oppen dismissed that with a wave of his hand.
"Bah! Our spies report a new type of suit in the area. They must have gotten the suit from Earth." Despite that Earth had its own troubles, the planet of Zion was not completely in the dark about what was going on in that sector. Giant robots were being constructed at a heavy pace and Oppen wondered what Earth was going to do with them all after Mars fell-if Mars fell. Oppen shook with dread of the thought of Mars and Earth uniting forces to destroy him. The result would be devastating.
"It does seem very likely that they did get the suit from Earth, sir." Oppen rose and looked at a map of the area around Earth.
"Recon continues to come in about their changes in position but why doesn't that put me at ease?"
"Sir?" asked Britea.
"The Earthen Forces are on the move too much, Britea. Do you have any idea what is happening there?"
"War," replied Britea. "I know that much."
"Yes, war is in the air. Each side does nothing but build up their colossal armies and wait. When that war is over, and the Prince requests help again, well..."
"Are you suggesting, sir, that Prince Zar already went to Earth?"
"He must have, unless he sent someone else there to do the job. I doubt that severely, and believe that Zar has some kind of plan in effect with the President." Oppen paced back and forth.
"We need to get Earth out of the picture, or else, when or if Mars falls, we will be up to our necks in hot water."
"So we must make sure that Mars wins?" asked Britea, tacking on the 'sir' a few seconds late. Oppen merely smiled, for he knew that his subordinate meant no disrespect by that.
"That is exactly it," replied Oppen. "Earth has to fall, or else the integrity of our operations will be at stake. And if Zion's Fleets fall, then Zion falls as well."
"What a fall that will be," Britea muttered.
"Agreed," replied Oppen. Britea tensed, not realizing that he had been heard. He then slammed his fist down onto his desk.
"Simply because I am Supreme Commander President does not mean that I know what to do in a situation like this." He sat down and sighed. Britea was in shock. For anyone else to have said what President Oppen had just said about himself would have brought a short execution with a death notice. All ends well on Zion.
"I disagree," Britea replied, feeling that he had to say something. But Oppen simply smiled.
"Of course you do, Britea. But I know myself better than anyone. And back to this: Earth itself represents a threat to us with its suits, but how many do we know that they have?"
"Unknown," replied Britea. Those agents who had tried to bring that information to Oppen had never returned or even replied. Britea added, "dozens, probably."
"Dozens, likely," Oppen corrected. He sighed. "We must take out the threat of the suits before Mars falls. If we can. I learned this a long time ago, Britea: never rely too much on one type of technology."
"I understand what happened to Babylon," replied Britea. Indeed, Babylon had gone up like a torch. She still burned in the skies like a primordial fireball, a large planet that had had one atomic war too many.
"Exactly. Things you own end up owning or destroying you."
"I agree with that philosophy, sir," Britea replied. "What are your orders?"
"I will put you in command of the forces going to Mars." Britea was stunned.
"Huh?" he asked.
"Don't give me that look; I think you think I'm nuts or something." In actuality, that was exactly what Britea was thinking. He dared not say this lest he wanted to be executed.
"Of course not, sir," replied Britea, "I was just surprised, that's all. What will I be taking with me?" Oppen searched for a file on his desk and found it.
"You will be taking a few Lancer-class frigates and a squadron of battlecruisers."
"I don't know, sir, I've never been in command of a Fleet like that before."
"I know. We're also sending with you a fighting carrier, for a new prototype of fighter that we've been testing. Similar to the giant suits of Earth, these fighters have arms, no legs, but enough firepower to wipe out an entire squadron."
"You believe this will be enough?" asked Britea.
"I hope so, Oppen."
"What will happen if I fail?" asked Britea. Oppen tensed. Would that bring about the man's execution? He hoped not. Britea tensed with Oppen's silent reply. Finally, Oppen spoke.
"Don't think about failure. Think about nothing more than the destruction of the entire Earthen Fleet."
"I'm destroying their entire Fleet?" asked Britea.
"Yes, Britea, or as close to that end result as possible."
Britea left Oppen's office with mixed feelings. His carreer was about to go to hell in a handcart and there was nothing that he could do about it. Not a blessed thing. He could resign, or at least try, but that would mean execution. He could go on with the mission, but unless he succeeded, he was as good as dead.
Silently, however, he wondered If Oppen saw something in him that he had never seen before. Some kind of unseen strength, perhaps? Britea found himself standing near a porthole and staring out at his ships. They were a motley assortment. He did not like their limited capabilities and he certainly would feel no love for the crew. Gulping down his fear, he walked to the hangar to take a fighter toward these ships.
Less than three hours later, Britea took the ragtag band of ships in to Hyperspace, their noses pointed toward the direction of Earth.
Chapter Two: The Prince of Wareham
Commander Zar sat in his room, pondering what to do next. His mind raced while he thought and he struggled to get his wandering imagination under control. Despite his weakness for daydreaming, the men under his command liked him because he always planned ahead. He always thought rationally.
"It's been a single week," he muttered. Indeed, it had been one week since he had flown the mighty Kelvin into combat and emerged victorious. Several starcruisers were coming in from a new alliance. This race was called Tark. The planet had too many starships and was eager to help. Despite that now Wareham had plenty of starships, he had no men to get them under way. Plus, he still had to find pilots for the mechanized units.
His obvious choice for a pilot, for now, anyway, was Commander Kilgore. Kilgore had had a seven-battle history and now flew stunts instead of shooting down other pilots. Yes, he would be a mecha pilot, if he could find and bring him in. The two went back a long way, so far back that even Zar could not remember, but with the war and all, he had not seen the man in a number of years. Losing touch, the term was. It was the single greatest disaster for old friendships.
"Gar," Zar said, once he had walked out of the throne room. "I wish for you to contact Commander Kilgore for me at once." Gar raised an eyebrow.
"Kilgore? I thought he was a stunt pilot now. He does acrobats for thrills."
"Yes, I know what he does now," replied Zar. "We need him to pilot a suit."
"Will we be able to convince him to help us?" Gar asked.
"Don't worry about that. I should be able to convince him to join our cause." Gar left the room, his thunderous footsteps trailing behind him. At last, Zar turned to his father.
"Zar," his father asked, "will this plan of yours succeed?" Zar sighed, sadly. The face that he put on for those who were loyal to him greatly contrasted to the face that he showed his father. Rept, his name was, and he was the King of Wareham. He left such matters of the Fleet to his son, and despite that, he was growing concerned that such matters were growing out of proportion.
"We have no real choice now," he told the ailing ruler, "we're running out of time and even fewer options."
"Agreed," replied Zar's father.
"I just hope that Kilgore will arrive soon."
"I remember that boy a long time ago. Will he be willing to help you?" Zar faltered in his reply. It had been a long time. No doubt Kilgore would remember who Zar was, but perhaps the years had also distanced the loyalty between the two friends.
But later that evening, after supper, Kilgore walked into the room, wearing his military uniform. Zar stopped dead in his tracks. How did Kilgore figure it out?"
"Commander Kilgore, reporting for duty, sir." Zar turned to Gar with a mixture of annoyance and shock.
"You told him." Zar stated this bluntly and Gar began to act like a fish flopping on a line.
"I had to. He-"
"No, Zar," Kilgore said. Zar turned to his old friend. "He told me because I told him that I would space him if he did not." Zar smiled.
"So you do know about the Kelvin?" Kilgore raised an eyebrow.
"If the Kelvin is that giant robot, yes, I know about it. If you wish for me to pilot it, it may take me a week or more."
"You have three days," replied Zar. Kilgore's mouth dropped.
"Three... Three days?" he asked. He was about to say more but Zar hushed the man with a wave of his hand.
"We need you, Kilgore. We really do." Kilgore looked at Zar. He knew that the man was right.
"I'm your man, then," came the reply.
Kilgore strapped himself into the seat of the Kelvin and looked at the controls. He blinked. There were only three main buttons. He could not find any others. Screens came to life on the walls, giving him an excellent view of the outside. Despite that, Kilgore was uneasy.
"There aren't very many controls here," he said, "how-"
"Put the helmet on," Zar called through the speaker. He was in the second Kelvin suit, a few meters away. Kilgore complied, too confused to protest, and soon, he could move his mecha around.
"Easy peasy," he said out loud.
"Hold your tongue," replied Zar. He was growing irritated. Yes, this was the same Kilgore, the same trigger-happy man who was so cocky behind the joystick.
"Oh, quiet," replied Zar, "you haven't done much yet, that's for sure."
"Oh, quiet," Kilgore mocked, "how much harder can this be?" Zar sighed and began to explain.
"You have to order your computer to fire and you have to visualize yourself turning, for there are no real controls." This got a reply from Kilgore.
"What?" he protested," that's like flying blind!" Zar was still as cool as a cucumber.
"Some would say that. I don't, however. This is you in command of the robot. If everything were automated, you would not be in control of the Kelvin, would you?" Kilgore admitted that Zar was right.
"Now, I want you to picture your machine walking forward. This is the only way that you can do this, Kilgore, so you have to relax and do exactly as I tell you."
"Sheesh," Kilgore said, "these things can be a pain..." He began to visualize his mecha walking, slowly. He did not push his mind too far, for he was not entirely ready to trust this machine yet. He closed his eyes and then felt the bump as the mecha lifted its left leg and placed it down a few feet in front of itself. The process repeated itself for the right leg. The mecha was walking. Kilgore, still concentrating on keeping the mecha at a walk, visualized it turning slowly. And indeed, as Kilgore opened his eyes, he saw the mecha turn slowly, away from the palace.
"This isn't too bad," he said as he brought the machine to a halt. Zar smiled and then blushed. Kilgore's voice was as sharp and clear as it had been in the throne room and Zar kept forgetting that Kilgore could not see him.
"Once you get the hang of it," Zar said, "you should be able to fly the mecha without any problems."
"Does this thing fly in space?" asked Kilgore. "It looks like it could."
"It doesn't exactly fly. Your boosters kick in and push you around. On the ground, you have to walk." Kilgore sighed.
"What I meant was can this thing boost into orbit?" Zar shook his head, and once again blushed as he forgot where he was. He, much like Kilgore, would have to get the hang of this as well.
"No," replied Zar, "you'd need at least three boosters for that. When I attacked the Zion's ship in orbit, I had to have a small shuttle ferry me up to space. I couldn't launch right from the ground; it would have taken up too much fuel. Besides, these things are fast in space but slow on the ground. You'd rather be in space than be stuck on the ground."
"Are you saying that this is primarily a space weapon?"
"I suppose you could say that, yes. I think of it that way. It is important, though, to train on the ground as well, for there may be battles on the ground as well as in space." There was suddenly the beeping of a call coming in on Zar's screen.
"Hold on, Kilgore, I think my father wishes to talk to me." Kilgore grunted in affirmation. Zar quickly pressed the button on the screen. His father appeared.
"What may I do for you?" Zar asked.
"You must get to Earth. The planet is under attack."
"By Mars?" asked Zar.
"No, by Zion. An entire Fleet has appeared in their skies and are beginning to attack."
"They've requested our help?"
"They've lost half of their suits. They won't hold out much longer. Bring Kilgore into combat." Zar really hesitated here. Could he bring Kilgore? Would Kilgore make it? Zar concluded that there was no easy answer, and only one real way to find out about the outcome.
"Yes, father, I will bring Kilgore with me to Earth."
A few seconds later, Kilgore heard from Zar.
"We have a problem." Zar's voice was so sullen that it made Kilgore uneasy.
"What is it?" he asked. Zar wondered how to tell Kilgore, and then simply laid everything on the ground for Kilgore to see.
"I'm going to have to take you into combat." Surprisingly, Kilgore was calm. In a sense, Kilgore had been expecting this. He knew he would have to learn to fly this beast the hard way, and the only hard way to learn would be piloting it under actual combat positions.
"But I don't have much experience," Kilgore replied.
"I know. And the first time I flew this craft, I didn't, either. You're going to have to trust me, Kilgore." Kilgore nodded gently. It all boiled down to this. He realized that Zar trusted him enough to help him and that if Kilgore valued his own friendship with Zar as much as Zar valued Kilgore, well, there was no way that he could no go into combat.
"I will go with you," he said. Zar smiled.
"Thank you," he said. Kilgore sighed.
"Where are we headed? Is there another ship in space?"
"Nothing so easy, I'm afraid," replied Zar. "Earth is under attack." Kilgore sat back in his seat and tried to relax.
Chapter Three: Trial By Fire
Earth was definitely under attack. Well, not the planet directly, but rather, the ships themselves that orbited the planet. One of Britea's Lancer-class frigates engaged a heavy destroyer patrolling the area in what was the first attack by the Republic against the Federation of Earth.
The frigate opened fire at point blank, nearly scraping the hull of the destroyer. The destroyer retaliated with a barrage of missiles that took out the conning tower on the frigate. Blind and plummeting toward the planet, the frigate unleashed one final barrage that sent the destroyer following the frigate into the atmosphere.
There were three squadrons of fighters out now, to engage against the mecha. These pilots had had enough training to know the full capabilities of their craft, while Zar and Kilgore did not. A single Dominion suit stood still, taking fire into its body as it fired relentlessly against its attackers. Three fighters, diving in to attack the suit, were vaporized in an instant. Another fighter, the pilot obviously suicidal, slammed into the middle of the mecha. Both craft were subsequently destroyed.
The President, upon watching the Lancer-class frigate plunge into the atmosphere, immediately radioed Wareham of the disaster. These ships were certainly not from Mars. They were from the Republic of Zion. Could they have allied themselves with Mars? Impossible, for there were no Mars ships to be seen in the area. About fifteen minutes after the initial transmission, a reply came through Hyperspace that two Kelvin suits were on their way. At least there was more than one pilot now. The President of Earth assumed that one was Zar himself. And he was right.
"Thank God," he muttered.
The alliance between the Tark and the Warehamians resulted in several carriers arriving into Earth's system. On board one of the ships, two large suits shot out of the hangar as if being launched on catapults.
"Kilgore, stay by my side," ordered Zar, "don't go wandering off somewhere. I don't want you getting spaced." Kilgore nodded.
"Thanks for the warning," the man replied as he opened fire with a missile at an oncoming fighter force. Several fighters blossomed outward in primordial fireballs as the missiles overtook them. Sometimes the blast overtook other fighters as well, and sometimes not.
A fighter locked onto Kilgore's tail even as he was firing and began to give Kilgore a barrage that he could not take for very long.
"Help, Zar!" Kilgore cried as he found that the enemy pilot matched his every move, slowing down, speeding up. He could not shake the bandit off his tail.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Zar opened fire. The enemy fighter puffed out in a fireball and the dead pilot, in his afterlife, muttered 'what happened?'
Kilgore breathed a sigh of relief that was as thankful as the thanks that he said out loud. Zar's mecha appeared alongside Kilgore, and Kilgore was thankful that Zar had not gone too far from his mecha.
"Now be careful," Zar chided, "I told you that I did not want to have to baby-sit you."
"I know, I know," Kilgore replied. He was certainly not in the mood for the lecture. "Let's blow the crap out of something big."
"No!" Zar cried before Kilgore could go zooming off toward his own destruction again, "the big craft are for the big ships to take care of. They're too numerous to destroy." Kilgore whined.
"But you destroyed one yourself!"
"One, yes. But that was one, not a whole Fleet." Kilgore sighed.
"So all we do is take out the fighters?"
"Correct, Kilgore. You used to be a pilot. What happened?"
"I've been out of touch for quite some time. Sorry."
"Apology accepted and heads up!" Kilgore looked up just in time. He swerved his mecha out of the way just before three lasers passed by the spot where he had once been.
"Whew!" he muttered as he wiped the sweat from his forehead," thanks, Zar, once again!"
"You should go back, Kilgore," replied Zar as he opened fire on a fighter, "you can't do much here." Kilgore, insulted, suddenly felt waves of anger overtake him.
"So you're saying I'm useless, eh?" he demanded. He opened fire with a barrage of missiles. The missiles honed in on the second turret of a frigate. The resulting explosion consumed much of the turret and the one right next to it.
"How was that?" Kilgore demanded. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and forehead again. Combat or no combat, piloting this thing took a lot of skill.
"Not bad," Zar replied. He was certainly impressed but did not wish to show it because it would have ruined their friendship.
"Not bad?" Kilgore cried, "not bad?" He opened fire upon a fighter beginning to fire at a Dominion suit. Unfortunately, the fighter had already loosed a missile, and when the fighter turned into a ball of flame, so did the Dominion.
The battleships were doing all right. Most of the heavy frigates had been utterly decimated and the flagship had taken massive damage amidships.
Commander Britea sat in his chair with his eyes filled with tears. He tried to figure out what went wrong. Of course! It had to have been Oppen! It had to be! He knew that Britea would fail and that that was why he sent him out here! But the million-dollar question was obvious: why did Oppen hate him so much to have an entire Fleet wasted?
His ship took another hit amidships. People raced around on the Bridge, taking Britea for a piece of the furniture and not noticing him at all. So when he said to bring the forces on home, everyone did a double-take.
"Say what, sir?" someone asked.
"We've had it, boys. We go home now."
"But we-"
"Private!" screamed Britea. "Take us home! Now!" The man stood there for a second, wondering what to do or say. The obvious thing to do would be to tell Britea that he, a lowly Private, was not part of engineering. The other would be to comply with Britea's demands. He did the latter, rushing to the microphone. The ship took another hit amidships. Britea wondered just how long it would be before his ship was completely destroyed.
But less than five minutes later, the ships under his command vanished into the fourth dimension of Hyperspace.
The President stared out at the screen. The ships were at last leaving, that much was a good sign. And the casualties to his side had been normal for a battle. Three of the larger ships under the First Fleet were gone and a few frigates were damaged.
Zar's personal craft landed on the palace lawn. The President watched the craft land with trust. Zar approached the man.
"Greetings," Zar said with a smile.
"Don't give me that," the President said, "you saved us all, Zar. You saved us from impending destruction."
"I did not. I simply went after the fighters. It was your ships that did the most damage to the enemy."
"The only hero I hate is the type that refuses to acknowledge himself." Zar was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.
"You would have done the same thing if you had been in my shoes."
"I only pray that you are right, Zar."
Despite misgivings, Zar decided to stay for the honor ceremonies. He clapped when the others clapped, not fully understanding why he was there.
"And our final hero today that we must honor," said the President, "despite his attitude toward his actions, I feel that he deserves this." He held up a Medal of Honor. "Let us honor Prince Zar, or Wareham."
The only person that least knew what had happened during those moments was Zar himself. He remembered none of it. He simply went to the podium, received his medal, and without any speech, he went back to his seat.
Kilgore received one as well and dinner was served.
"Isn't it customary to do this after dinner?" Kilgore asked. Zar grunted.
"Kilgore, no complaints."
"I think my uniform has wilted."
"Give me a break," Zar replied and he sat back in his seat.
The rest of the dinner went uneventfully and despite that Zar felt uneasy, he stayed for quite some time afterwards, chatting with various pilots.
He should have gone home.