Gundam Turn Alpha

[Simpli]

"No one laughs like no one!"

"Solidarity means fearlessness!"
​

"Fraternity not Frags!"
​

"Pacifism is Treason on Humanity!"

Senior-Professor Clarice Padilha closed the window with a resounding clack, the armoured glass keeping the noise out just as well as bullets, as she turned towards the small circle that had come together in her office today, taking her seat at the small table in the corner, moving a stack of books and excavation reports aside, giving her friend Henry a tight smile and offering to pour another cup of tea, which he accepted gladly. As the third person in this small meeting, Alana Neves, Senior Professor and Minister of Health, was eying the various reports curiously - reaching over to snatch a small slip of paper out of the gathering basket:

"Reports from the Cradle Archive? Seems like they have gotten a few more movies and pieces of literature released for examination by the department back home. And this…", glancing at another report half covered by an empty stack of coffee cups, she laughed "Kenya? I heard our people came too late for the great excitement that seems to have torn through that particular. Still less interesting than what your people have found in the jungle to be honest - but no less explosive so far."

Snatching the paper away from her old friend, Clarice felt as if they regressed to their student days in moments like this, sighing softly as she gestured towards the window: "Sorry about that. On good days the view of the park is worth it, even with the trenches still running through it. But what rumours have made their way here from the battles in Siberia has the movements on edge - some think victory is imminent - once again - others are talking about the war having escalated further with more mondists, both on Earth and Space, joining the battles."

"Watanabe would say that public opinion is the weak link of all republican war effort."

"...and Oliviero would point out that humans are hardly quantifiable but the backbone of any Republican movement.", Clarice fired back easily at Henry's interjection, the three of them smiling a little as they thought about their absent colleagues before sobering up again, Clarice speaking up into the sudden silence:

"The reports we have gotten so far are worrying - the Expeditionary force has been in full retreat and the naval battle has seen no clear victory despite the Federations vaunted naval tradition. Development has not kept up with demands I fear, what we can start building isn't going to arrive in numbers necessary to pull out weight. And that's only the mechanical and logistical part."

Unable and unwilling to hide his small grimace in this close circle Henry tapped against the armrests of the chair, shaking his head lightly "I think it's clear that production alone isn't going to win this war - we have seen how other powers have found bunkers with hundreds of mobile suits - and many of these powers are hostile to us and are continued to feed them into this war against liberty and humanity. I fear war has become even less of a science - and more of an art of trying to hold on as Ace after Ace is pulled out of deep sleeves. At least for those of us on Earth."

Nodding along Clarice pulled out another report, this one directly from space, courtesy of the UFI Laserlink system: "Find numbers continue to fluctuate wildly across known space, some digs find singular pieces, others find whole armies ready to start waging the war that is, as opposed to the one that had already happened. Still, what remains clear is that the lucky finds continue to dominate our headlines and thus also the battlefield. The Siberian Bears are only the longest lasting example of this."

"But they haven't stopped the CSR from driving the dagger straight into their chest."

"...but they have trashed our expeditionary force by all accounts. Losses we can only recuperate now by producing more, finding more and continuing to keep our home forces at a level that could withstand a new war with Jaburo but would be just as pressured by a full mondist invasion again.", Alana remarked, and the public was going to be hard pressed to see their dead as a worthwhile prize for this, even if it should be true. For months now the Siberians had by all accounts been hanging on by the rope - now that the other mondists and their spacian backers had committed fully, it was up in the air how things were going to fall - even with the rebellion in Mongolia.

"Still, this isn't the reason we have come together. Even if it is another reason to talk about it. How bad is it looking in your ministry Alana?", Henry asked with some trepidation. His colleague folded her hands together and nodded:

"The demography is looking worrying. I would say our saving grace at this point has been, and I see the irony in it, the rapid mondist occupation of our territory in the first year of this war. While they invaded swiftly, they did either plan to keep a light hand or were surprised by their own speed and as such we saw little loss of lives, especially compared to what we have seen in actual mondist territories. As such we could recoup many of our losses in the armed forces from these untapped manpower reserves when we started the Korean Expedition. While this force was built around a core of veterans, many were volunteers who felt like they had 'missed' the chance to fight for their ideals. So far our losses have mainly been in the second group too and as such the demographic losses in turn have spread out across the territories."

No one wanted to be glad about this, but it was as it was and even now many families hung out little tricolores in their windows to show the loss of a son, or even a daughter, in service to the cause of human liberty and the republic. When Alana continued to mood was somber still and she moved in firmly:

"What we are facing though is a loss of young men and women, especially among the more educated and politically active parts of our population. If the war continues at this intensity and presuming a pre-Seraphim technological level of development,we would find ourselves facing a population growth too slow to keep up with our neighbours and thus even more outnumbered should CanMex decide on another invasion with new patsies."

"Of course the prevalence of spacian technology changes this, doesn't it? My expeditions have faced nearly no losses because of strange illnesses or weakened wild variants of bioweapons since the vaccine and the geneclinics have allowed us to reactivate retired archaeologists and workers who had merely suffered from bodies unable to keep up with their minds anymore.", Clarice threw in and Alana nodded, continuing:

"Yes. In Peacetime the recent medical advances mean that death by illnesses, critical but not fatal accidents and even old age are going to be nearly unknown. The only
'Weakness' remaining would be how the mind copes with age and that is something the Thorakitai-project is working on. While this paints an interesting picture for the future, something I would love to talk about with some Spacian experts, we are looking at the continued short term issue of our own wartime manpower needs."

Tapping lightly against the table, Henry nodded "So far conscription, volunteers and formerly hostile soldiers who have seen the yoke of mondism for what it is, have gotten us through this war. But you are right, as our losses mount, if we continue to engage in such high intensity conflicts, Watanabe and his call to weaponize the Threptoi projects will gain more sway among the assembly.", raising his hands upon seeing the stormy impression on Alanas face, he quickly moved to appease her:

"Not that he has any chance of succeeding so far. The respect for the Seraphim, all of the ones that are our friends, is strong and for all their fondness for us - in their own mercenary way - Masada is more of a cautionary tale in this with their near-mondist social order. We will begin producing the new Hoplites as soon as possible and that will hopefully appease his faction for now."

"It is worrying that we are talking of factions again. Half a year ago things seemed much more united…"

"...and we still are, if not in our approaches then in our aims.", Henry said, ever the mediator, even as Clarice sighed lightly and Alana glared at the window. Giving a little smile, he held out his hand and tapped his thumb and index finger together, before running through a complicated little series of signs that made his friends smile with fond, and slightly thrilling memories of their youth: when the Republic was young, the mondists were waiting at every corner and their armed student guard saw itself as the only saviours of the republic on the streets themselves:

"At any cost" , he began, for the others to add with conspiratory smiles of decades past: "Humanity Liberated."​

 

[Hollewanderer]

My fellow Spacians.

When looking at what has been happening for the last year, I think we must ask ourselves this question: what is a Spacian? What does it mean to be a Spacian?

And to understand this, we have to look at our history, fragmentary as it may be.

Humanity's expansion into space was always accompanied by both light and darkness. The idealists and the pioneers stood alongside the desperate and the forcibly deported, as Earth Federation saw it as a simple solution to the considerable difficulties of the colonisation of space. Those people grappled with an environment that does not tolerate failure, health problems, unreasonable quotas from Earth and having to impoverish themselves to buy the air and water that they desperately needed. Even those at first full of hopes and dreams faced that sort of brutal treatment from an uncaring distant government.

Back then, to be a Spacian was to be miserable.

In time, the Space Independence Alliance was formed in response to it; the first attempt to reclaim Spacian pride and dignity as human beings. But it too was rotten from the inside, all too willing to use force on their fellow Spacians in their war against the Federation, all too willing to split Spacians into the right and wrong sorts. To fight tyranny, it became a tyranny, and even though it was cut down in a cataclysmic battle around Jupiter, it planted dreadful seeds for the future.

You've heard of them. The Twisted Tree. The architects of the Cataclysm, and its man's inhumanity to man.

What was the difference between Earth and Spacian Federations? Was there even any? Frankly, we do not know. Too much has been lost about the period, and the survivors were in no shape to be writing history books.

But we know what they shared: they both viewed people as things.

What separates the Cataclysm from other wars is that humans stopped being just participants of the war, but became nothing more than fodder and components for nightmarish psychic machinery and self-replicating armies. Processing units, not pilots. Countless fused brains used to create seemingly miraculous technology and superweapons.

And all it took was the death of human dignity.

We have lost our memories, minds blasted by a psychic wave claimed necessary to save us from the consequences of it all, just as no doubt killing the deep mantle Cradle bases one by one, former allies of the Seraphim in the war, was also necessary. We have lost our culture, our history, sometimes we have even forgotten our family members – or that we even had family members at all. Faces and names of the dead, forever lost. It was perhaps the most effective genocide in human history.

Perhaps the greatest sin of the Seraphim is that they took from us our ability to mourn.

They say that it gave us a chance to start anew, not weighted down by the past, but that's a false gift. We can only build a new future on a firm foundation, on understanding of history so that we may not repeat past mistakes. To avoid the next Cataclysm, we must understand why it happened, and how.

This is the first thing that we must do. We must reclaim our history, however painful.

And what of Earth? As we speak, war rages all across the planet, re-contact between long-lost siblings not a cause for joy but a match that started a great fire. Some of the first things that were done, within weeks of first meetings, were contracts for construction of weapon factories. Who knows how many millions died within that first year, enabled by reckless war profiteering?

Already, we see supranational unions forming, nations stripping others of independence or enthusiastically letting it be stripped from them to join larger and larger structures, some of the planet's greatest powers loudly proclaiming that they will fight until the last of their ideological opponents is impaled on a pike – Earth coalescing back into the old Federation, at gunpoint if necessary. Perhaps under different name for now, but sooner or later it will turn out the same – all the talk about democratic ideals did not stop the original from turning into an uncaring, intolerant oligarchy.

Likewise, Spacians, as people forcibly stripped of culture, proven all too fascinated by Earth's thousand-year history, adapting political ideologies and cultural elements wildly out of context like sponges soaking up water. A single speech got tens of thousands to march and kill for an Earthian nation, styling themselves as fearsome steppe warriors when barely a year ago they'd be hard-pressed to describe the difference between steppe and steak.

And, of course, we all know what's happening on Luna as we speak, the great rifts formed by its people uncritically absorbing Earthian politics like sponges.

This was the goal: a mass of flash-programmed clones, stripped of culture, history, philosophy and ideology, left all too vulnerable to being "guided" by the smiling fake angels, with the unspoken implication that if we stray too much from their plan for humanity, they can just keep pressing the reset button until they get what they want.

Allow me to say something controversial – I do not think that the Space Independence Alliance was wrong at heart. However much it strayed, whatever evils it ended up giving birth to, it was a response to genuine injustice – a cry for help from billions of Spacians that were being trampled underfoot. It was desperation that gave rise to them, and it was desperation that kept bringing shadows of it back, people denied everything clinging to their one scream of defiance. We still have records of those names, even if we lost the details and the context.

"Neo-Jove".

Which is why I say that we should reclaim its cause once more! Purified of its sins and hatreds, taught by its mistakes!

We must have our own culture, our own worth and our own independence! We must fully develop our own agriculture, industry and technology, so that we can stand as truly independent nations, not some prizes to be won by cynical politicians or unaccountable conspiracies, led around by carrots to fight and die for causes that are not our own!

We must work together, not as masters and subjects but as friends, lifting each other up, so that we can all reach so much higher. Once we achieve true food and resource independence, we will never be forced to rely on Earth to maintain our lives, with all its wars and hatreds that they want to keep fueling with Spacian technology.

We are taken for granted. Someone who will always come running when called, but can otherwise be safely disregarded.

This is the second thing that we must do. We must work together and forge our own identity, rather than keep being treated as clay to be molded.

And finally, we must reject the practice of flash-cloning and everything surrounding it. A clone is, strictly speaking, not any lesser a human than a natural-born person – unless they were made so. But the current paradigm introduced by the Seraphim, of mass flash-cloning of usually exclusively women, progressively displacing everyone and everything else, is toxic to the very foundations of humanity itself. By this point, some of the so-called "angel" groups would gladly pretend that men don't even exist.

Mass cloning, and especially flash-cloning, represents industrialisation of basic humanity. A human being becomes something you can produce by the thousands – by the millions – fully grown, armed with all the knowledge considered necessary, and put into the machines as faithful gears that know nothing but what their masters want. If something is considered unnecessary, just remove it! You have the technology, after all. Concepts like "family" or even "parents" become just unnecessary crutches – after all, the word "colony" originally was used to refer to homes of insects!

This is the same mentality that led to the Cataclysm and its horrors. It is fundamental erosion of human dignity, because no matter what the Seraphim claim, when the governments stare in the face of a crisis, they will inevitably use the abilities that they have that were previously claimed to be too immoral for anyone to consider. We can already see it in Siberia on Earth. We will no doubt keep seeing it elsewhere.

We must focus on its opposite – the self, the individual, to carefully cultivate ourselves and our peers into better people that will be able to build a better future, rather than rootless clone legions considered disposable by their own creators and grown and discarded at will, with all the technical and military knowledge, expanded as desired as if the population number was a goal in itself, rather than what that population number represents.

It does not matter how you were born. But it does matter what you do with it, and whether you reclaim your dignity or allow distant overseers to treat you with all the respects granted to a self-replicating autoweapon swarm.

This is the third thing that we must do.

And finally, we must understand psychic phenomena better, a carefully restricted technology – not so that we can use them as weapons, but so we can create countermeasures that will safeguard human dignity and humanity itself from the ravages of another Cataclysm.

Right now, were any of the ancient conspiracies or surviving ancient weapons unleash their power on the Spacians of the Earth Sphere, we would have no recourse. All we could do is cry out in anguish as we die and hope that the angels would save us. A despicable dependency.

Ancient records speak of the first, natural-born psychics being commonly ground up by weapon research programs, of nations and non-governmental organisations both, everyone all too eager to just use them as another weapon system. We can see this in the example of Harry Nimitz, soul quite literally engraved into psychic-enabled machinery to kill enemies of the Earth Federation, now resurrected to speak about the terrors of it. And his demise came long before the Cataclysm!

Already, even as we speak, the rumours of freshly-started national psychic weapon programs keep surfacing, Earth and Space, the first instinct being not to understand others, but to gain ability to kill them more efficiently. How long until we see another Apocalypse Machine built or reactivated, then, dooming tens, hundreds of thousands at a time?

This is the fourth thing that we must do. We must ensure that the psychic savagery unleashed upon all of humanity during the Cataclysm will never succeed again, by whatever means necessary.

These are the pillars upon which we must build a future for Spacians – in Earth Sphere, and perhaps, if they want, beyond.

I already mentioned what it once meant to be Spacian. We must reshape it.

We must build the future in which to be a Spacian means to be your own people, with your own pride, dignity, culture and independence, to work together with others because you want to rise higher together and not because you're blackmailed to do so with the basic necessities of survival. To respect others, and be respected in return. To never be considered nothing more than a useful, easily manufactured and replaced tool to extract resources, make mobile suits, and then die.

It is to build relationships based on consent and friendship, not manufacture and imposition.

Each of you is like a star in the sky – great in number, but each unique, beautiful, worth of recognition.

This is why what we pursue is called constellarism.

-1002, speech "On Constellarism"

 

[Princess_Hex]

Rebirth​

We pull mobile suits from the ground for many reasons: to wage war, to protect us, to rediscover our past. Yet all too often we forget that these were things owned by people, machines cared for by organisations staffed with humans much like ourselves. Their pilots had lives and connection to their mobile suits, and they represented things greater than themselves.

A mobile suit is more than a machine.

Many of those stories, tragically, are lost forever. That means it is so much more important to treasure the times when we find remnants of them.

Or, indeed, when we find people who can share those stories in person.

Forty-Four women, members of an old organisation based within the nation that controlled what is today the Russian fallow zone. Soldiers of Afro-Eurasia who were clones and trained to be counter parts of the Seraphim for the people of earth.

When they were unearthed they were caught between worlds. Enemies of many and with their allies gone there was no place they could have called home.

Thankfully the Nephilim have experience with finding women from the past who emerge into the future to find a world utterly unchanged. So we were able to bring them into our embrace, help them adapt to the future, and give them a choice.

As a result, it is our pleasure to announce their rebirth to the world. Under our wings they will grow so they can once more operate as they once did, but with renewed purpose. One more weapon against those who would misuse psychic weaponry and weapons of mass destruction to stamp down on the spirit of mankind.

The Archai will guide us once again.

 

[BiopunkOtrera]

With all credit to @ArvisPresley
MT. EREBUS, ANTARCTICA
CRADLE PRIME

The deafening noise of blaring claxons, alarms bathing the normally pure white hallway with a red glow, was a soothing sound for T-0715. It reminded him of the primordial memories implanted deep within his psyche. The running, the screaming, the heat, the rush to escape, to live.

But most of all. It reminded him of his Lady. Lady Hermes.

He squeezes on the trigger on his blaster rifle as the other Perfectly Optimized Soldiers unleash their own volleys on the defenders across the hallway. Grabbing a grenade from his vest, he throws at the adhoc barricade, already halfway running towards it by the time it explodes, throwing the barricade and its defenders, bodies torn by shrapnel.

He and his squadron burst through the smoke, wasting no time in pulling out the stasis bags they'd been provided with. The blast had knocked them unconscious, the shrapnel would cause them to bleed out if left unattended.

'Unacceptable.' His Hermes' voice rings in his ears.

Siblings shouldn't fight, Lady Hermes told him. Not as one as close as the two Cradles, divided only by the naivete of the other. They can learn the error of their ways in time. As long as they lived at least.

Briefly he looks at his squadron as they begin to shove the unconscious Cradle personnel into the Stasis bags. Identical faces, hard faced and red haired, stared back at him as if they were mirrors.

Some of the bodies they were carefully placing in bags had faces twisted in rictuses of hate.
One of them, forcing themselves through the pain, tried to grab a weapon. He did not hesitate to litter them with blasts from his weapon. As he stared at the smoking, hole ridden corpse, we felt only confusion.

He did not understand. Why cling to their naivety? Why oppose the reunion of Black and White.

'You don't understand do you?' His fist clenched. He will. In time.

If he is to become more, he must understand. If his iron body, the A-Minor Princeps, is to become a proper instrument of the New World as His Lady says, then he must understand not just this, not just Cradle, but Man as a Whole.

If he is to become the Prince his Lady seeks and creates over and over, her Trismagistis, he must understand.

"Head to the lower sectors, Squadrons 12 and 25 require reinforcements." The transceiver roars to live, the voice of operational command putting the strange thoughts out of his head for now. The mission is not yet complete.

---

UNDERWATER MOBILE FORTRESS "AGARTHA"
10 MILES OFF THE SHORE OF ANTARCTICA

"So are they sending us out or not?" Maya whines next to her and any concentration Bea had is gone.

Bea takes a deep breath, mustering up all the patience she'd use to deal with the long parade of Eva's would-be suitors, and responds.

"If they send us out now then the operation has already escalated. All of this has to take place under the noses of the entire world. Especially the Spacians in Antarctica." From what Doran had told her, this operation has been in the works since last year.

Any organization larger than two people has its factions, its internal arguments and its dissenters. The Cradle has always been a creature of the old Earth Federation, it has its view, its vision of the world even if interpreted under the guise of the plant's preservation.

The men and women of Cradle, both Black and White, had walked through the same circles, the same networks, the same academies, institutions and more. Connections like that can never be forgotten.

And through those connections, Black Cradle will wear the skin of White Cradle to walk openly in the light.

"Sure, some will always hate us for doing what needed to be done." Doran had said while shrugging. "But just as many will look outside and see half the planet living like it's the 19th century, cholera and smallpox rampant, and ask themselves—"

"What if the Old Man had been right?"

"I thought you wanted to fight the Seraphim, not just brood in your cockpit?" Maya rebuts, interrupting her, again.

"Yes, but that's not the point. We're here in case Please listen to what few briefings they give us." Bea glares at the grinning woman seated in the cockpit across from her. Their two suits, the Princess of Breath and the Empress, facing each other in the Submarine Carrier's hangar.

"What use does a Sun Empress have for those? I already know what needs to be done, I'm not a Filipino rat that has to be spoon fed to learn." Maya grins with all the arrogance of a woman bred for it, as she calls on the name of the royal title of the old Pacific Empire. Bitch, you're not even the primary heir to your stupid emigre family.

"Maybe if you'd listen more you'd actually beat me without relying on that monstrosity." Bruising the little brat's ego is far too easy. There's no sport in it. But it does wipe that smug grin off Maya's face, replacing it with a nasty scowl.

That suit is wasted on that Indonesian brat. If she wasn't attached to the Princess—

"Princess. Empress. Head to the Command Deck. There's a situation." Dorans voice echoes through the hangar, causing the both of them to straighten up. With that both of them put their masks back on, hiding the venom back into their tongues.

Her mask is one of professionalism and cold apathy at the world around her. Maya's is one of affable politeness, the ideal fairy tale Princess. But she's no Eva, Bea saw through it the moment they met.

Rappelling down their cockpits through the mechanical ladders set up near them, the two of them led by Doran deeper through the metallic hallways of the vast mobile fortress. The sounds of their boots, heels in Maya's case, being the only sounds accompanying them.

Led through a series of heavy mechanical doors, they arrive at the heart of one of Black Cradle's three mobile fortresses currently stalking the waters near Antarctica. Within were dozens of Black Cradle personnel managing, communicating and guiding the soldiers supporting the putschists within Mt. Erebus.

At the head of them was Victoria Zola, angrily shouting at one of the communicators at something or another. Seated in a sort of throne in the middle of the command deck was the Old Man himself. Everyone she's ever pried or asked only calls him that. There was a contemplative look on his aged face as he tapped his fingers on an ornate, rich mahogany cane.

All of them, even Bea, were dressed in the khaki brown soldier and officers uniforms of the old Earth Federation. The only thing distinguishing them from the museum pieces and pictures were the black armbands they wore. It was a strange change of pace from the typical black and red that they typically wore.

Walking towards the front of where the Old Man was sitting, Doran bowed, with Bea and Maya following suit.

"Good, you two are here. There'd be no need to repeat it then. Hermes, proceed." The Old Man says motioning to Zola, who bows in return.

"According to T-0715's Squadron the remaining resisting personnel had holed up in the lower sectors near the server room. They'd been unable to advance due to a threat from the Surgeon General that he'd leak all of our compromised Cradle locations to the Seraphim if we did not withdraw along with Lavr's. We believe he might've taken control after the leadership was liquidated." Bea's eyes widened in shock.

This wasn't the only Cradle Base that forces had been sent to take over. The majority of the work had been done by internal putschists. One by one, swiftly and silently over the course of the past three months, with the putschists helping them maintain cover.

Only a handful aside from Mt. Erebus remained. According to Doran it would've been saved for last but the time table had been moved up. Something about how someone fucked up during the Cradle Secundus takeover that had tipped off Cradle Prime that something was amiss.

"Take stock first. Have Lavr delay negotiations, see if they won't budge. They must've seen something like this coming then. From there, guesswork will tell you which ones are mostly to have reunited with their siblings. Djibril's mistake is costing us." Bea sees the shadow of a smile on Doran's face at the mention of his fellow Olympian earning the Old Man's ire.

She sees Zola purse her lips before responding.

"We'd secured the two Quasi-Calamities, the two E-Majors that'd been assigned as part of the Erebus garrison, the last twenty of the remaining E-Types that were still unaccounted for, the about two hundred more Mass Productions contained in the facility and about a hundred personnel and staff but…" Zola trailed off, leaving the implication in the air.

The Old Man put his hand on his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, motioning for Doran to seemingly speak in his stead.

"So no fucking A-Types? Not even the Old War relics?" Doran had a livid look on his face, his skin already stretched out over the machinery beneath, tightening further.

"It seemed that those who had suspected something had secured the suits and absconded with them in the Submarine pens. After that idiot Lavr has finally admitted his initial coup failed to secure them." Bea was fascinated at the interpersonal drama and dynamics of the thousand year old organization. There's familiarity in the way they hatefully talked to and about each other.

"Fucking WHAT!? Send the Shambala now! There's only so many places they can—" Doran is interrupted by a deep, chilling laughter.

Behind them on his throne the Old Man was laughing. It's a laugh that can almost send a chill down Bea's spine.

And as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

"They're headed to Torrington. It is blindingly obvious. Those fools, living in the shadow of the Spacians first rape of our world and yet rejecting the truth and still clinging to their naivete." Bea gave a glance towards Maya, making sure she isn't dozing off. For once she isn't, though she can tell she's biting her tongue from saying something stupid.

"Have all squadrons withdraw to the Penglai, bring what they've taken with them. We can liquidate Lavr for his failure later. Have one of his own do it. Promote them in his place if they do. Tell the cowards that we're pulling out, but if they leak it, threaten that we're sending the Empress and Princess to kill them. I can almost respect it to be frank." A cruel, almost manic, grin appears on the Old Mans before banishing. Despite the apprehension clear on Zola's face, she complies immediately.

"It would be an honor to be deployed and punish these knaves." Maya curtsies as she bows, excitement clear on her face.

"No need. They can live. Those submarines will have already leaked it anyways, and if they don't Torrington surely will. Have the ones still preparing go to ground. The other ones will be on guard for further action from us, have them denounce us publicly if needed." She does her best to give Maya her best 'Shut the fuck up look', but either she's ignoring Bea or she doesn't care.

Eva had almost caused her to forget how exhausting dealing with Nobility is.

"Empress is a needy one, My Lord. If her birthright isn't sated soon then she'll be a problem." Bea closes her eyes as Maya openly whines to the Old Man. Both Doran and Zola glare at the Indonesian royal, who seems to preen at the hateful glares she's getting.

"Murata tells me that his Tri-Stars are nearing the Tomb. I doubt it. But the two Quasi-Calamity cores will serve as adequate stopgaps for the Empress and Princeps." The Old Man looks at Maya with no small amount of amusement. It's almost condescending if not for the almost uncharacteristic softening of his face. He almost looks grandfatherly.

It's more terrifying than when he scowls.

"We've wasted enough time here. While I would've wanted to hold my speech at Erebus, it seems Secundus will suffice. Have the Agartha set course to it at once. Penglai will transfer what we've taken to secure sites. Contact Hera and tell her I want all the Cradle's we've taken from the fools evacuated and emptied out by the end of the week." And like that, the softness vanishes, the cold calculating look returns.

As Doran barks orders to the bridge crew, Bea remains silent.

She watches the Old Man lean back on his throne, the Earth Federation cap on him looking out of place. Stiff hands tap, tap, tapping on the cane. Now that she has a closer look, she can tell his skin is loose and strange beyond just the way old people typically are. Like he's something wearing human skin.

 

[Nerdorama]

Late May

The seas were calm now, briefly. Mondist ships, flying the flags of CanMexico and Siberia and sporting the hull scorches of a dozen running battles, arranged themselves in concentric half-rings in the Sea of Japan, all centered around the city of Busan. Screening ships, then battleships, then a final ring of CanMexican mobile suit carriers before dissolving into the looser reconnaisance and blocking ships watching for a return of the UFI and remaining Republican navies. F-Types, Corsairs, and Cult jet fighters spun patrols like the outer edges of a hurricane, but the guns of the big ships were silent. Waiting. Bobbing in the water like orcas resting before going on the hunt.

Perched on one of these whales was a black raptor, an osprey made of darkness and beam guns and oversized verniers, the A-Minor High Mobility-Type "Harrow", currently at rest with its cockpit open and occupied by the incongruous cream and pink frills adorning its pilot. Princess Catarina - Secretary, Admiral, now official ace pilot - was still riding the adrenaline high of the previous week, fighting and beating the worst of the worst of the greatest threat to her nation on the high seas, drowning fleeing troops by the hundreds with beam and torpedo, carving through T-Types and K-Types and her signals officers knew what else alongside her Paladins in a campaign of pure rage, venting her frustrations at the course of the war just as surely as she was closing the jaws of a trap around the Federation and Amazonian expeditionary forces. It was a nearly perfect campaign. Nearly. But, as she'd expected, they had to ruin it again. One more last-ditch defense, one more damned exclusion zone around a city that should have fallen to her days ago. One more barrier she couldn't push through even with all her anger and wounded pride...not yet, anyway.

The communications network she'd had the signals officers rig up was probably unnecessary. The jury-rigged laser comms, faster than semaphores and far more resistant to M-particles than radio, were gradually becoming standard on her ships as they copied the Siberians' innovations. The massive boom speakers rigged up on the Bostonia, the nearest destroyer to the Busan harbor, however, were something she'd demanded in a fit of pique, so she could properly vent her frustrations at Busan's "defenders" - the latest in the series of foreigners who'd invaded it.

"COWAAAAARDS! ASSASSINS! COME OUT AND FIGHT ME LIKE WOMEN!" she demanded into her microphone and heard, seconds later, the distorted and massively amplified echo as the taunt reached out in the unlikely hope that the Seraphim were paying attention. "NOT SO TOUGH WHEN IT'S NOT A LONE GIRL AAAAAAARE YOOOOOU?"

She'd originally planned this elaborate taunting measure to directly challenge Domina Gunn for the honor of her dead subordinates still being picked over by crabs off the Cabo Maguarinho, and for that of Evangelista Casvah Jaburo, the beginning and ending of the Amazon War brought about by a single bastard of a woman and her gaggle of psychic amplifiers. She hadn't shown up, however, not even bothering to try and play heroine against the greatest and most vicious naval assault since the Calamity even as her lesser copies intervened in her stead. Coward. She'd gut her. She'd open her up pelvis to throat with her saber. Can't block that with psychic powers.

"LITTLE PAPER DOLL SOLDIERS! HONORLESS DREEEEEEEGS! PUT UP OR SURRENDER BEFORE ALL YOUR FRIENDS STAAAARVE!"

As it was, however, she'd settled for hurling verbal abuse hours a day from the deck of the Queen Margarete II toward the remaining expeditionary forces holed up in Busan. Even though she justified herself with a strategy of psychological warfare, her direct subordinates were getting a little uncomfortable with the Admiral in theater command doing this, the flagship's Captain Knox more or less resolving to ignore the royalty sitting on his deck and using it as an excuse to save fuel for his CAG patrols, while the rest of the fleet fell back on their standing orders to lock tight the blockade around the besieged city, completing the ring formed on land by the Royal Mobile Suit Corps, Army of the Lakes, and Siberia's eastern banners and elite mobile suits.

Circling the outer edges of this ring, and shortly diverting Catarina's attention from her diatribe with the chop-chop-chop of its rotors, was a single helicopter. An attaché to the new carriers, it was a simple toy compared to the advanced quad-rotor war-fliers unearthed in pre-Cataclysm air bases, but it served its purpose for spotting and reconnaisance or, in this case, transporting a VIP around the edges of the combat zone. Catarina found herself, reluctantly, obliged to drop her microphone and descend from the Harrow's cockpit to meet General Sir Charles Gutierrez, her counterpart on land for the operation that had brought the Holy League so much glory.

"Gutierrez," she said pre-emptively, princess dress rustling in the deck breeze in contrast to the uniforms around and before her. "Good of you to join us. I'm getting bored out here and would like to finish crushing these rabble."

"Admiral Tronto-Mexia," Gutierrez began stiffly, emphasizing the military form of address rather than her royal title. "I would remind you that I am not in your chain of command. You may have operational authority but I, and the Royal Mobile Suit Corps, report to His Highness Prince Oscar in his capacity as Secretary for War. We've received no orders to advance, and in my judgement as overall field commander for the land forces, we have achieved the objectives of Operation Cortez II and are not in a position yet to risk urban combat against qualitatively superior mobile suits."

Catarina snarled audibly at that, but Gutierrez didn't so much as blink. "Oscar can shut up and concern himself with propagating with that runway model calling herself a princess. Just tell Orentes to send the Bears in, start dropping high-rises on their heads. The Siberians melt them, I shell them, we'll kill them together. It'll be fun."

Gutierrez looked down at her. That should only be possible physically, but he managed to avoid the fear of death that came from speaking impertinently to a member of the royal family very well for someone who was, in Catarina's highly technical opinion, an upjumped pig-farmer. "We're still recovering mobile suits from all across the peninsula from that drop operation you came up with, Admiral. Our supply lines are in shambles thanks to the Siberians' enthusiasm during the initial invasion, and more importantly..."

Here Gutierrez leaned in. Catarina flinched and put her hand on the hilt of her sword, but he stopped and held his hands behind his back, muttering so that confidential information could not be overheard. "Tsar Georgiy IV fell deathly ill on the way back from His Highness's wedding. The Caspians are at the gates of Irkutsk, and the Chinese are invading Mongolia as we speak. His Divine Majesty congratulates you on winning this battle, but insists we hold our advance and form a siege line for ceasefire talks, lest we lose him the war."

Catarina's grip on her sword didn't loosen. "How dare you speak for my father--"

"I have orders, Admiral, directly signed by His Divine Majesty and endorsed by Prince Oscar and Prince Javier," Gutierrez said, straightening up and stepping, just slightly, out of her reach. "Yours were delivered under seal as well; my attaché is delivering the case to your stateroom as we speak. I simply wanted to inform you in person so that you could perhaps...save some energy."

He looked askance at the Harrow, at the microphone, at the sophisticated laser comms array that she'd been using to throw a tantrum in the direction of Busan. "You've achieved, at cost, the greatest victory we've yet seen in this war. You'll already be remembered as one of the finest heroes and commanders the Royal Navy has seen since its inception. There's no need to throw it away on pettiness."

"I could kill you where you stand and no one would bat an eye," Catarina growled. "I could open fire myself and end this before I ever laid eyes on any orders."

"Yes," Gutierrez replied. "But you're not going to. Because you want to win. You want to be smarter than all those officers you sacked after Belém. And most importantly, you don't want to disappoint your father."

Catarina stood there, shaking with rage, unmoving.

"If you'll excuse me, Admiral," Gutierrez said, walking back toward the helicopter.

Catarina waited until he was off the ship to make another move. She would need to read Father's orders, of course, but...

"Get my mobile suit below decks," she snapped at one of the deck attendants who'd been trying not to gawk, who quickly scrambled into a salute. "And someone get me a sparring dummy. I need to practice my fencing."

 

[Etranger]

If At First...​

Torrington Base, Australia

LEARNING COMPUTER activated. Searching database...

EARTH FEDERAL FORCES data found. Unit identified: MOBILE SUIT, A-TYPE, designation TŌHŌFUHAI.

ERROR. Capabilities do not match data on file. Recalculating...

Structural changes observed. No pilot life sign. Contamination detected. Recalculating...

CATACLYSM MACHINE identified. Codename: KING OF BONES. Isolating CALAMITY FACTOR...

---

Lieutenant Maria Rosanegra, United Federal Mobile Suit Corps, sighed heavily as she lay on the Core Fighter's open hatch. Inside the cockpit, Turn Alpha was running its systems at full blast, monitors flickering kaleidoscopically as it tried to absorb and adapt to the prior battle. This was how it coped with losing.

For her part, Maria was doing a little moping. She'd been thrilled to finally take a Cataclysm Machine on head-to-head, but the result had been less than conclusive. Hardly the kind of performance the UFI wanted out of its Maiden of Revolution, she was sure, no matter how much people tried to cheer her up. She was supposed to be fearless, capable... perfect. Like her predecessor. Instead, even with help, she couldn't secure the victory.

"Hey, pilot. Sleeping on the job?"

Maria bolted upright, frantically looking around. After a moment, her eyes fixed on a figure far below her, standing on the hangar floor.

The individual in question was a dark-skinned woman, maybe early 30s, clad in a standard UFMSC normal suit with captain's bars. Though she wore professional garb, her short-cropped pink and blue hair and silver nose ring were definitely not regulation.

The older woman took one last drag of her cigarette, then pinched it out between gloved fingers and tucked it behind her ear. "Mind if I join you?"

Nodding, Maria shifted into a sitting position, adjusting her own rumpled pilot suit and fixing her hair. "Of course, ma'am!"

A short while later, having ridden the lift up to the Core Fighter, the captain took a seat next to Maria on the hatch, extending a hand to shake. "Suraya Musa. Pleasure."

"Maria Rosanegra. The pleasure is mine, ma'am."

Suraya snorted indelicately. "No formality needed. Suri's fine. We're both Gundam pilots here."

A distinct 'hmph' noise emanated from within the cockpit, audible over the sounds of mechanical whirring.

The older pilot raised a studded eyebrow. "I heard your machine did that. Hey, you bucket of bolts, don't look down on my Heartshape like that. I distinctly recall covering your over-tuned hide from all those autoweapons a few days back."

The hum from within the cockpit pauses thoughtfully for a moment, then resumes without further comment.

Maria flushed slightly, taking a deep breath to avoid a stammer as she replied. "Sorry about that. Alpha is very... itself. You're the pilot of the A-Minor? The, uh, Assault Shroud?"

Suri grinned and leaned back, resting her weight on her palms. "That's right. My baby girl. We call her Heartshape, after an ancient love ballad. I like to bring the music with me."

"Oh, sure, the music... because you're... you're Suri Musa! THE Suri Musa! Of Steeltide!"

Steeltide, for our uncultured and/or Spacian readers, was one of the most famous and thrashingest I-Rock bands in East Asia, known for its radical lyrics and hardcore fans. All of its members were dedicated Republican patriots and first-wave military reservists.

Suri nodded slowly. "That's right. You listen to our stuff?"

"Oh, I mean, from time to time. It's not-- I mean, I'm not... really I'm more into classical music..."

"Sure, sure. Love from the Blue Star, right?"

Maria went bright red, clearly indicating a critical hit. "Well..."

The grin widened. "It's okay. We're not for everyone. I sure won't accuse the Maiden of not carrying the Revolution in her heart."

"Th-thanks... That's me... the Maiden..."

Suri watched her for a moment, then nodded sympathetically. "I get it. That was a bad beat, for all they call it a draw. Feels like you should have won. Unfinished business."

Maria let out a deep sigh she hadn't known she was holding in. "Everyone says I did great. I don't feel great."

"Then don't feel great. Get pissed. Buckle down, come back stronger, then get even. Finish what you started."

Maria was briefly startled by the candor -- by someone finally putting a voice to her own doubts -- but quickly recovered in the face of the advice. It felt good. Felt right.

"Yeah. That's what I'll do. Hey, Alpha, how's that combat data coming?"

"Final compilation is at 87%. Estimated time to completion: four minutes, thirty-seven seconds."

Suri clapped the other pilot on the shoulder, then rose to her feet as Maria did the same. "That's the spirit. And hey, I'll be on your wing next time, so don't sweat it. We'll get him together."

Maria grinned a bit herself. "Not if I get him by myself first."

The captain rolled her eyes, muttering in Malay. "Rookies. From crushed to overconfident in seconds. See you around, kid."

As the sound of Suri's boots ringing against the metal floor faded into the distance, Maria settled into her pilot seat, putting her helmet on over her head. "All right, Alpha, what's the news?"

"Calamity Factor isolated. Points of susceptibility identified. Necessary adjustments logged. Combat simulation ready."

"Begin simulation."

 

[FantasticMsFox]

Collected remarks of Greta Amyrin, Philosipher of Eden-511 in A Response to On Constellarism

"It is to build relationships based on consent and friendship, not manufacture and imposition." These make up some of the closing words of my counterpart in ZOLON. I open these remarks by invoking them because I find it curious that they mark themselves out in opposition to the manufacture and imposition of identity while simultaneously engaging in those same behaviors.

The beginning of their inaugural publication aims to establish their personal definition of Spacian, a definition that fits all of Spacia. The idealogues of ZOLON claim that what defined Spacians in the time before Cataclysm was their misery. In doing so, my counterpart in ZOLON erases the multifaceted nature of Spacian culture, before emphasizing the necessity of embracing a unique set of Spacian identities, identities they claim do not exist. They support the adoption of identities of the past, seemingly ignorant of the cultures that span the Earthian sphere now.

The biologists of Jenus, the Melindists of Anlscar, and the Republicans of Luna, are but a few of the unique and beautiful variations on the spirit of humanity that populate space today, The speaker does not seem to recognize the mosaic of humanity that basks in the light of Sol before them as they state that "We must have our own culture, our own worth and our own independence!" Spacians already possess all of these things, yet my counterpart from ZOLON denies their existence.

We of Eden understand what it is to lose our past. Not precisely in the same manner as all Spacians, but that is the case for all of us who reside in the orbits of this great system. Cataclysm and its end killed countless dreams and hopes that our forebearers held in their hearts. We can never get them back in the manner they once existed, that is a fact. But whereas the speaker from ZOLON says we must try to reconstruct the past, I argue that the dreams we hold today must not be replaced by the past. Who we are today was never going to be recognizable to our ancestors of the time of Calamity, regardless of the destruction, and attempting to turn back the clock does no service to the dead or the living.

Moving on from my critique of their core thesis, I will now far more directly attack their arguments relating to cloning. Simply put, I and my people are clones, so when the speaker argues, "...we must reject the practice of flash-cloning and everything surrounding it.", my reaction is one of anger. Mass cloning is not "... industrialization of basic humanity..." , "...the same mentality that led to the Cataclysm and its horrors." or a "...fundamental erosion of human dignity." What cloning and clones are is not something for some other group to define for their own purposes, it is our's to control.

To be a clone of Eden-511 is to be as direct an inheritor of our order's purpose and ideals as is possible, physically born by the collective efforts of my people, an individual connected to the group perfectly. The community and sisterhood of Eden does not erase my individuality, it enables it. Eden is the space where I can truly exist as myself alongside my sisters in a space of shared understanding and the light of Sol.
All these statements are a clear attempt to erode the humanity of clones and our own histories even as they dress their statements as anything but the same. I will not grant these statements any more time in the light of Sol simply because I believe their character speaks for themselves.

I will close out this section of commentary not with an analysis of the speaker's treatment of psychics, poor as it is, but with a simple identification of hypocrisy.

The speaker directly states "Some of the first things that were done, within weeks of first meetings, were contracts for construction of weapon factories. Who knows how many millions died within that first year, enabled by reckless war profiteering?" My counterpart in ZOLON appears to have forgotten the ZOFIA agreement, where ZOLON explicitly backed the expansion of Earthian armament production. It is conceivable the speaker is also in opposition to the actions of their government of course, but in less than academic language, I sincerely doubt it.

What I take away the most from On Constellarism is that in its attempt to construct a new idea of Spcacian culture, it ignores that Spacian cultures not only already exist, but that they are dynamic and worthy of celebration in and of themselves. They do not emptily mirror Earthian customs, and while Earthia influences Spacia, the inverse is also true. We are all a shared Humanity, and by attempting to cleanly divide Spacian culture from Earthian, it echos the rhetoric that paved the road to the Cataclysm. It was in the Cataclysm that the divide between "earthnoid" and "spacenoid" was most pronounced, and the sins of that conflict continue to haunt us all, we must learn from those sins if we are to see the worlds we share grow for the better.

 

[Etranger]

Accessing United Federation database...

Database location identified: MEAD Strategic Research Institute, Manila

Firewall detected. Please enter [TOP SECRET/SS+] clearance.

Processing...

Clearance accepted. Welcome, Director.

Accessing Project Raitaro...

---

PROJECT RAITARO​

To: Joint Staff Command, United Federation of Islands
CC: Office of the President; Office of the Chief Speaker; Chair, Committee for National Defense

The PMF-A01, or "Model A," is the first modern Earthian-designed and -built mass-production Mobile Suit. While it incorporates numerous technologies and innovations from both legacy Earthian and modern Spacian Mobile Suits, its principal inspiration and the source of its innovative technology is the Type Alpha, our flagship A-Type Mobile Suit.

The Model A, the Federation's new mainstay Mobile Suit​

Though United Federation technology is not yet up to the standards of our ancestors at their peak, we have benefited extensively from collaboration with both the Seraphim and our allies and partners from Space Island Applegate. Their contributions cannot be understated.

Nevertheless, the Model A is a versatile and practical design capable of using nearly any standardized components for its upkeep and maintenance, and thus can be assembled using purely Earthian Mobile Suit facilities. Specialized Model A factories using modern technology are already in development and should allow increasing freedom from dependence on salvage.

The primary innovation brought over from the Turn Alpha into the Model A is the I-Field Beam Drive, a miniaturized I-Field generator that is capable of seamlessly moving solid matter with incredible precision. While we are unable to replicate the Turn Alpha's single IFBD or the still-unidentified source of its power, we have been able to achieve this phenomenon on a reduced scale using multiple lesser drives and a high-output fusion reactor. The result is a substantial decrease in the weight and number of mechanical internals required by the Model A, giving it much more usable space within the frame.

Furthermore, when combined with a dedicated I-Field propulsion unit, the quasi-IFBDs our lab has developed allows the Model A an impressive amount of agility and maneuverability without dependence on chemical thrusters. Our test pilots have shown an almost human-like flexibility in their machines, a kind of movement labeled by some veterans as "uncanny."

Secondarily, with the permission of the Turn Alpha, we have scanned its operating system and developed a 'learning computer' of our own that utilizes elements of both that rather unique machine and the Merge System found within the Singapore Redoubt. This 'biosensor,' as we have dubbed it, reads the pilot's engrams and intentions, learns from their actions, and then develops its own supplementary assistance accordingly. While first-deployment Model A pilots report slightly above-average performance, their learning rate is noticeably improved over pilots of other units without the biosensor.

Efforts to replicate the Turn Alpha's nano-repair suite are, following the events in Australia, on indefinite hold. Please see my other reports for the relevant information.

At the request of the Joint Staff, we have refrained from loading the Model A down with internal weapons systems or other 'bells and whistles,' as the President insists on referring to them. Instead, the freed-up space and power output has been left as-is, which should allow the Model A to serve as the base chassis for later specialized units.

Instead, we have restricted ourselves to a beam rifle, a heavy bazooka, two beam sabers, and a single head vulcan, as well as an optional shield. We have also, at the insistence of our colleagues at Project Thunderstruck, programmed in controls and built mounting brackets for their so-called "Gundam Hammer" design, should the Joint Staff wish to include this idiosyncratic weapon of the Type Alpha's. It should position satisfactorily on the unit's lower back.

In conclusion, we believe that the Model A will absolutely fulfill the requirements of the Millennium Fighter program in full and request scheduling for final tests and approvals.

Yours respectfully,
Profesora Louisa Katsura
and the team of Project Raitaro

 

[Theaxofwar]

"Father, why did you send our fleet out so close to the Caspians?"

Even here, in the private wing of the Eskender Palace, Gigi's father was dressed in fine, traditional garb. The robe was purest white, yet covered in so much golden embroidery it seemed to shine like the sun. On anyone else it would have looked gaudy at best, but Salomon X wore the heavy robe with all the dignity of a saint.

Gigi had learned how to wear a costume like she belonged in it from her father. She missed the days when he had been willing to dispense with the acting when they had been alone, though.

The Emperor of Ethiopia stroked his beard like a wisened sage. "They did not enter the Caspians' waters, did they? If our navy wishes to run drills in open waters, it is their right to do so."

"I am not a child anymore, father." Gigi's fingers scrunched the fabric of her dress as she spoke. "You don't need to lie to hide the horrors of the world from me."

He paused, still as the statue of him that could be found in Addis Ababa's main square. Then, Gigi watched the emperor's careful mask fall away. His body settled into the chair he had been sitting upon like a throne, yet doing so only seemed to magnify the appearance of some incredible weight upon his shoulders.

There was not a speck of aged wisdom in his voice when he finally spoke again. "Why did you allow the Royal Republic to push us out of Kilimanjaro?"

Gigi rocked from the sudden non sequitur. She wished she had a microphone in her hand, something to fiddle with to buy her time to respond. Failing that, she took a deep breath before responding.

"We had no legitimate claim to it. They agreed to share everything they found—"

The slight downward turn of his lips silenced her as effectively as if he had slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. "But they found nothing. They didn't even look. Instead it's all going to the damn Republicans. It would have been even worse if not for whatever Twisted Tree was seeking to accomplish there."

Her throat was as dry as if she had sung a two hour set with no breaks. "Father, I—"

Once more, he cut her off. "I don't want to hear excuses, Gigi. You're a smart woman, but naive. You sing about peace and love, but did not Jesus say, 'I have not come to bring peace, but a sword?' We are the only kingdom of God in a pagan sea, and even our allies will turn on us before the end."

There was a hardness in her father's eyes Gigi had never seen before. She knew he had done bloody work during the rebellion, and more during his ascension to the seat of Emperor and declaration of the New Ethiopian Empire, but he had never shown her that side of himself. He had always been loving and encouraging, dispensing wisdom and supporting her in her dreams of becoming a musician. This angry, paranoid man was not one Gigi knew.

She had to bring her father back. "I know that there is evil in this world, but there is good, too. Is it not our job as royalty to spread good, just as it is to strike down evil? There is so much good to be done. Our people know peace and prosperity. Diseases that once killed millions may be eradicated altogether. We have reached the stars themselves. Imagine how much further we could go!"

Overcome with passion Gigi stood from her chair, arms outstretched as if to embrace the whole world. "I sing about peace and love because that is what you taught me. You helped build the Holy League and ensured our relations with Yammacin and the Noble Republic stayed strong. We can't turn on our allies for naked opportunism or reject them when they struggle or fail. We must love our neighbors as ourselves! We need to stand by our friends, always!"

She stood there, arms hanging in the air as her impromptu speech petered out. She felt suddenly ridiculous before her father's judging stare, a child playacting at worldly knowledge.

Then, his slight frown shifted up into a smile. Salomon's back straightened, and that heavy weight seemed to leave his shoulders. Her father, the wise philosopher emperor, responded. "That is why our navy sailed near the Caspian's Waters. Though I have no desire to plunge our people into war, I could not stand by and do nothing while my ally suffered. God knows I only wish I could do more."

Gigi suddenly understood how a guitar felt when it had been played. Still, she couldn't bring herself to be angry. That hard-edged man had just been another act, not her father.

She swept forward, pulling him into an embrace. "Thank you for explaining."

Pulling back, she continued, "And please, let me stay on the Kilimanjaro situation. I want to prove I can handle it."

Her father gave a kindly nod, "Very well. Show me how far your love can go, Gigi."

"Thank you!"

So excited by her father's allowance, Gigi didn't see the way his smile fell away from his face as she rushed from the room.