It was summer 2065, the sky was bright blue and the city was alive. Lieutenant Dana Sterling made her way through the streets of Allegheny City, looking for a friend.
Oh, Bowie wouldn’t turn me away without at least a hello and where ya been. He’s a good kid-oh, here I am thinking we’re back in the Armored Corps. Oh boy... Well, no time to waste!
She turned a corner and realized where she was. She stood a storefront down the street from the classiest cocktail lounge in the whole city-the best in southwest Pennsylvania, as its patrons always said.
Aha! He said it was a pretty neat place-and he didn’t lie!
Dana strolled on in, looking around. The well-decorated interior was an art deco masterpiece. As a matter-of-fact, Dana felt she was back in time. She left the dusty streets behind and plopped herself down at the bar, tossing her cap in front of her.
“Hey, mac, make it a scotch on the rocks and don’t keep me waiting!” she told the bartender. “And start a tab for me, just in case.” The bartender gave a nod and brought her a glass of ice. He poured the scotch over it almost ceremoniously. Another bartender down the row was performing a martini’s mixing-a true purist’s delight: a pitcher of ice, filled with and then emptied of the vermouth, then filled with gin, stirred and poured. And last came the piece de resistance-the ever-present martini olive. The customer thanked the man and began to enjoy his drink.
“Well, neat,” Dana mused, and began to sip her own refreshment.
Then there was a minor commotion over by the stage. Dana craned her neck to see. A curtain drew back to reveal a man in a tuxedo at a beautifully polished jet-black grand piano. He took a bow, and then sat down at the piano. His black skin, thick hair, and ever-youthful features identified him to Dana in a heartbeat.
Yes, this was her stepbrother and best friend, the famous, the fabulous, Bowie Grant! He waved to the assembled crowd, and then began to play a song.
This isn’t like the stuff he used to play, Dana mused. The she listened and realized he’d written the words long ago-it was a satirical little number he called ‘Nervous in the Service’-and it was a favorite to every enlisted rating soldier in the entire city. As Dana listened, Bowie went on:
They give you clothes; they’re free with guns, and training, food and lodgin’
But tell me, what career moves can come from bullet dodgin’?
Dana giggled. It really was funny. She noticed the few other officers relaxing in here didn’t laugh-I guess they just don’t have Bowie’s sense of humor...
Bowie finished the song, and trailed into another Dana recognized-one he had fully written and performed often-he titled this one ‘With Apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan’-and it goes like this:
The generals that let us die, so they could shake a fist!
They’d none of them be missed, you know, they’d none of them be missed!
The politicians who failed the troops, but left no babe un-kissed! They’d none of them be missed, you know, they’d none of them be missed!
The song continued, and finished, so Bowie moved into a third one. Dana guessed that this was what Bowie did on his happy hour-ironically appropriate, coming from a former soldier in a town overflowing with them. And as one would think, many of them feel the same way...
Bowie finished his song and looked around the lounge. Pretty good crowd for happy hour-it hasn’t been so good lately, especially since a lot of people are leaving the city. I hear the SDF-5 is near completion. One probably caused the other, I suppose...
He scanned the bar once more, and recognized an officer at the bar. It isn’t... I recognize that face, and if I didn’t I know I’d recognize the hair! Well, there’s no question-that’s Dana!
He stepped off the stage as another pianist-a student of his-took over, and walked over to the bar. “Jason, I’ll have the usual.”
“One Shirley Temple, then, boss.”
“Thanks.” Bowie watched him mix it up and slowly pour it all in a glass with a bunch of fruit. He took a sip, and then walked over to Dana.
“Hey, Bowie, how is everything?” Dana asked.
“Not bad, Dana. How about yourself? I see you’re back in the service.”
“Hovertanks still, Bowie. They dug up my ASC records, quite literally.”
Bowie rolled his eyes. “They offered me a pension before they knew I was a maitre’d.”
Dana chuckled. “Well, that happens. I didn’t have much left after leaving the development company. So the United States Army made me an officer again.”
Bowie sighed. “Dana, really. Tell me why you went back into the army. It was not for the money, I know that much. I mean, it’s not like you.”
“Bowie, please.” Dana sipped her scotch. “Really, my experience was all I had to rely on, and the Army is really taking care of an old hand like me. I mean, the U.S. is really generous with pensions for old soldiers anymore, and even a job or two here and there. You should have seen what they wanted to offer Angie when they found out about his family.”
“Okay,” Bowie said dubiously. The faint piano music tinkled like floating crystal in the lounge. He sipped his drink, thoughtfully.
“Your stand-in is pretty good-a student of yours?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah-he is a student. He’s a lot better than last year, too. That’s why I hired him, after all. I needed someone to cover for me while I cool down my fingers.”
“Well, I think you made the right choice.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s it like, with the U.S. Army? Different from the ol’ ASC?”
“By a mile, Bowie-you old soldier. I don’t think two armies are ever the same. By the way, where’s the lovely Musica?”
Bowie glanced at the stage momentarily. “She’s backstage. She and I do a duet now and then.”
“It sounds like a dream come true, Bowie. You’re doing what you love and have a girl who loves you along for the ride.”
Bowie blushed just a bit. “Well, when you put it that way...”
Dana looked at her watch. “Oh, Bowie, I hate to cut the reunion short, but I’ve got to be back at base-lots of recruits to process.”
“We were two of them once, Dana. Go easy on them,” Bowie said with a wink.
Dana rolled her eyes. “Sure, you silly goose. I’ll see you some other time. Bye!”
“Goodbye, Dana...”
Elsewhere, another young lady in uniform paced the city sidewalks, trying to make sense of her life, the secrets of which she told no one. She slowly walked down the Boulevard of the Allies, occasionally glancing at the sky.
Why can I not return to you? I carried out your life’s mission-why must we still be separated?
Guys would walk by and not help but be spellbound by her dark, exotic skin, her long, silky black hair, her cute, innocent features. She never noticed one, lost in thought as she was.
I did as you said-why am I trapped here? So often has this planet sent missions to find our home-why can’t I return to you?
It had been a hard decision to join the Navy, but she was there. A seaman first class-albeit not biologically speaking-promoted after basic training, she was on her way to the Navy base to receive her assignment. She had joined in hopes of making the trip to her home planet, and finding her long lost lover.
She came to the corner, and waited for the bus. Most every guy that saw her didn’t take his eyes off of her that quickly. After all, she was a pretty girl.
The bus pulled up. The young lady boarded and paid her fare, feeling not quite ready for what lay ahead of her...
A small single-turbine racing aircraft buzzed its way into the Pittsburgh airspace. The young pilot hailed the control tower of Pittsburgh International Airport, requesting permission to land. He was granted permission and adeptly touched his craft down on the pavement, taxied out of the path of the commercial jets, and jumped out of the small craft. The pilot’s green skin showed up well against the matching orange and white schemes of his airplane and his flightsuit. He checked his craft in at one of the public service hangars, and went to hail a cab. He was soon escorted to the address he sought, but to no avail-the residence was unoccupied.
“One.” “Two.” “Three.” “Four.” The dull shouts of the marching cadence echoed across the field as a mass of raw Army recruits drilled in the green, clipped grass just outside the city, where the SDF-5 was barely visible over the peaks of the Allegheny mountains. A colonel, in full dress uniform and carrying file folders, walked over to the group of trainees. He was followed by a staff sergeant whose lapels bore the insignia of the judge advocate general staff.
“Corporal Maria Bartley! Present yourself!” the sergeant yelled. A young, blonde-haired corporal, in olive drab battle dress, removed herself from the drill and jogged promptly over to the waiting officer. When she came near them, she came promptly to attention and saluted.
“Corporal Bartley, sir.”
The colonel cleared his throat before speaking. “Corporal, your excellence in exercises and assistance in training duties has caught my attention, and I’d like to ask you if you would like to transfer from regular infantry.”
“Sir?” Maria asked. She was momentarily confused, and almost dropped out of attention. But the colonel continued.
“I’m Colonel Conrad Joseph of the 38th Special Infantry. We get all the experimental, dangerous and unusual combat battalions. You’ve heard of the K-9 Corps?” Maria nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s a part of us. So are the Special Combat Engineers and the Tankbusters.”
“Wow. I mean, wow, sir,” Maria faltered.
Colonel Joseph began to walk down the field, and Maria and the sergeant followed. “I need good people, and at the moment I need some for a new company I’m putting together, and it’s an important one. All the details I have at the moment are that the unit is forming here, in Allegheny City, and that the role is an experimental obstacle-clearing unit. Totally new theory of tactics, best weapons and intensive training are all a part of this project, but I need people who can do this.” He stopped, then turned to Maria.
“I need someone of your caliber, and from what I’ve seen, you are one of the top people I’ve run across. I’d like you to think about it, and I do have some information if you would like to consider this.”
“It sounds interesting, Colonel. I need some time to think on it. You mentioned you had some additional information...sir?” The colonel handed her one of the file folders he was carrying.
“Please consider this. I would be glad to see you on my team.”
“Yes sir,” she replied.
“Dismissed.” And with that Colonel Joseph walked away.
Maria watched him for a moment, then heard her sergeant calling to her from across the field. As she jogged quickly back to the drill, she thought momentarily of her home, her refuge in the Southwest, her parents-heroes of the last Robotech war. It crossed her mind how reluctant they were to see her leave, knowing that they didn’t think getting out and seeing the world was such a good idea. ‘Stay home, it’s safe here, and you know everyone.’ That was their advice, for what it was worth. But Maria was tired of home, and wanted to get out of her hometown, so she joined the Army. Others had told her that the Navy would be more accommodating to a woman, that the Air Force was an easier life, that there were more opportunities in the Marines. But the Army was the fastest way by which she could leave town, get out and see the world, and up close too.
Her long blonde hair and curvy figure were noticeable as she returned to her unit. She was approached by her sergeant.
“Corporal, who was that?” he barked.
“Colonel Conrad Joseph, Sarge.”
“Joseph?” The sergeant’s brow wrinkled. Then a look of realization dawned on his beefy face. “Oh yeah, Joseph. I know him. He was my lieutenant in the European Campaign. Good man. Why’d he want to talk to you?”
“He said he needed good personnel for a unit he’s putting together,” Maria replied.
“Ah, I see.” For the first time the sergeant noted the folder in Maria’s hand. “He give you some reading material?”
“Yes-”
“Okay. You’re relieved. Go think it over. And I think you ought to accept. It’d be a good spot for you, you’re a damn good soldier and I’d hate to lose you, but he needs the best.”
“Yes, sir, Sarge.”
Roy Hunter strolled into the hangar to check on his squadron’s fighter aircraft.
There they sat-the pinnacle of combat aircraft technology. Neon Squadron’s black-and-multicolored-pinstripe scheme flowed gently, gracefully over the VF-14 Veritech Tomcat’s alloy and composite surface. The sleek, classic lines were not original, being a celebrated pre-Robotech era design, but they never failed to please-in combat or just for show.
"Nothing to worry about," Roy remarked. He'd always loved flying. He knew it came from his father, a legendary fighter pilot of his own time. Admiral Rick Hunter had, during the storied First Robotech War, become a flying legend, an ace many times over. As a matter of fact, he, Lieutenant Maximilian Sterling, and the late Lieutenant Commander Roy Fokker had redefined the term 'ace' during those turbulent years. Roy Hunter had spent many flights with his father in the antique World War II airplane they'd restored together, and learned to fly at his father's hand. He had found a love of flying fighter aircraft, so he'd decided to join the military.
Unfortunately, Rick had a strong objection-he'd hoped his son would not become a part of a war machine, not get involved. But there was a mission to explore new worlds, to find out just how far the damage caused by the Robotech Masters reached, and the demand for good pilots was very strong. The ship that was to lead this great expedition was the SDF-4, a massive carrier/battleship well-suited for long expeditions in deep space. Both Roy and his father were getting daily requests to join, and while Rick finally decided to accept a training position, he insisted Roy stay behind. Roy, however, objected. He had made up his mind-if his father was going, he’d be right there behind. Finally, Rick gave in, but insisted that Roy be kept somewhere he’d be safe. Roy of course rebelled, and became one of the fastest promoted officers of the naval forces of Earth. He was a fine leader of men and a master of a pilot. Rick may have even been jealous of his son, proud though he was of Roy.
This thought crossed Roy’s mind at one point, and he’d questioned why he had pushed himself so hard. Was it because he wanted to excel? Was it to spite his father? Was it to make his parents proud of him? Why? But he was reassured when one day Rick talked to him, and apologized for being against Roy’s ambitions, for not understanding that this was what Roy wanted to do more than anything. Rick said that he had watched Roy grow up beyond what he himself could have imagined and that he and Lisa were proud of him.
The mission went rather well in the beginning. A number of new worlds and a few new civilizations were discovered, and the SDF-4 crew generally got on well with their new allies and acquaintances. Few signs that the Zentraedi, the Robotech Masters, the Invid Regent, or any other conquerors had disturbed this portion of the galaxy could be found, and the mission was about to come to a close.
Then they stumbled upon the obsidian dust world known to the Terrans as Noir, the home of an alien race whose name was never revealed. They were strange creatures, evil some called them-psychologically speaking they were as a whole psychotic, reclusive, xenophobic, and obsessively paranoid. Once the SDF-4 deployed fighters to investigate the planet, the aliens surfaced, and destroyed the explorers with a savage ferocity that shocked all aboard the ship. Retaliation was executed, but this was against Admirals Rick and Lisa’s concerns. The creatures attacked the ship, killing many of the best pilots, and eventually destroying the SDF-4.
In the midst of this destruction, Rick Hunter had, against all better judgment, commandeered an Alpha fighter, and attempted to defend the ship. He managed to kill a number of the attacking aliens, but was eventually overwhelmed. Roy didn’t realize his father was gone until the SDF-4 was destroyed completely. Lisa and a number of other crewmembers escaped the ship’s ultimate destruction, but even a few of the escaping personnel were lost to the aliens’ suicide attacks. In the end, the Karbarrans, an ursinoid race of the Local Group worlds, sent a party to rescue them, and although Roy and Lisa made it back to Earth, Lisa passed away nine months after the attack. Some who knew her well had said she died of a broken heart, having lost her husband Rick.
And Earth had changed while they were away, as well. Before the mission, Earth had been ruled by a relatively benign world democracy, but some parts of the world would not accept what had eventually turned into the rule of a few old men whose first concern was pirating all the wealth they could from their citizens and then maybe worrying about the state of their nation. Revolution spread across the globe like wildfire. First the Soviets, both Communists and capitalists, drove the new world order forces out-although they soon began fighting each other. The Americans, the group that had a widespread rebellion against the Invid during their occupation, quickly liberated their own nation, and many other countries followed suit. Sometimes it was a full liberation; other times a balkanization of once-friendly neighboring regions. Even now did some of this fighting continue-so in a sense, the Second Global Civil War was not over, not by a long shot.
All in all, Roy counted himself very lucky to make it out of all the fighting. He left the base, and waited to board the bus to downtown Pittsburgh.
But the figure coming up behind had different plans for Roy in mind.
The bus stopped at fleet headquarters. The girl was the only passenger to disembark. She walked through the door, and arrived at the front desk.
“Your card?” the MP asked. She dug in her pocket, and produced the plastic identification card. “You’ll want to wait over there,” the guard said, and pointed towards a group of seats where a dozen other recruits in Navy uniforms waited. She walked over and sat down, away from the other recruits.
One of them, just a kid with short, blond hair that went all over the place walked over and sat down next to her. “Hi,” he said, and looked back at the rest of the recruits, then turned to the girl again. “Sorry about the rest of the gang-they’re not real talkative. And some days...” He rolled his eyes. “My name’s Scott. What’s yours?” She sort of squirmed, then turned to him and whispered, in a soft voice one would think was made of cotton candy-not the voice of a soldier. There are all kinds, though.
“Shayla,” she replied.
Dana’s jeep pulled up at Division headquarters, and she hopped out. She had taken a moment to stop at her quarters and change into field dress. Still in excellent physical condition, Dana strolled up to the security desk.
“Well, have all the recruits filed in yet?” she asked the MP on duty.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied. “That’s them over there.” He pointed to a dozen soldiers, privates all. Dana looked them over. “Hmm... A good crop. Well, it’s time.” She walked over to the group.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to begin. I’m Lieutenant Dana Sterling, and I’m your new commanding officer.” At this they fell in and saluted. Very good, Dana thought.
“Right. Follow me-I’ll show you what a Hovertank can do.” The group proceeded through the building’s main hall to the motor pool out back. There sat row upon row of Veritech Hovertanks, battle-ready and waiting for the call to come.
“Well, there they are. For the most part we’re gonna be working with simulators, and that’s fine for combat training, but I want you to get a feel for how a Hovertank handles. It’s not like a sports car or a pickup truck-it’s a big machine and you need to know how to handle it safely.”
They walked to a group of tanks set aside, without any armaments, and painted in what had become the standard trainer scheme for the U.S. Army and Navy-orange and beige.
“We’ll use these for now, but when we ship out, we’ll get the real deal-but then and only then, okay?” Dana said, noticing some dismay among the recruits. “Any questions?”
One young lady with short brown hair raised her hand. “Richardson?” Dana asked.
“Do you mean we’re starting today?” the brown-haired girl asked.
“You bet, soldier,” Dana replied. “Now, let’s get moving! Pile into a tank and start her up.” Dana jumped into the red-trimmed instructor’s tank, and put on a headset. “Check radio. Check. Can you all hear me? Good-oh, Davis can’t hear anything? Ask him if the headset cord is in the jack the whole way-that’s been a problem for a while now.”
“Davis here, Lieutenant. I’m ready now.”
“All right then, you guys. Bring up the main menu on your screen and select ignition.” Thirteen tanks rumbled to life. “Okay, control stick to steer. Follow me slowly.” Dana started for the end of the row, and a large open space to maneuver around in the middle of all the buildings and marshalling lots. Her recruits followed closely.
“Good. Now let’s pick up the pace.” Dana pressed the accelerator a bit more, and her tank ran faster. The rest of the bunch followed suit. “This is an easy move-we’ll move everyone from in the back to the front of the column. Arges, we’ll start with you.”
The rearmost tank drifted to the left, and then accelerated, overtaking the column. It pulled ahead of Dana’s tank, and drifted to the right coming back in formation. “Excellent move, Arges. Let’s go, one by one.”
And one by one they pulled ahead of Dana’s tank, and fell into formation again. Dana never let her eye wander. “A little fast, Sardo-slow down next time. Oh, excellent, Ulvaney, good one. Whoa-a little close to Ulvaney there, Davis-back off next time. Okay, slow it down. Left turn, squad-wall ahead. Robinson, back off.” Robinson backed down to the rear of the column and made the left behind everybody else.
They’re not bad, Dana thought. I think I could learn to work with them.
Kilroy walked into his quarters, collapsed on the bed, and began snoring.
“Well, just think, Admiral. In three days you’ll be on the bridge of the SDF-5, and you’ll be back where you belong.”
Admiral Morrell stood up. “Sam, you know how I feel about this whole thing. The promotion, the launch ceremony, the fact that we’re taking an entire American city halfway down our leg of the galaxy-well, it all just bothers me.” He poured himself a scotch and sat back down. He’d served on the SDF-3 once he became old enough-the son of a supply sergeant whose husband was a pilot killed in the Zentraedi Uprisings, Morrell was young for his rank, but tough and hardy enough to have helped liberate America this second time.
Commander Sam Marquette, soon to be the gunnery executive officer of the SDF-5, sat back in his chair. “Alan, it’s an easy job-we just have to fly on out, stand by and look good while the diplomats do their job, and fly back home.” Morrell sat back down, and sipped his drink.
“Sam, there are always details. I understand you’re not a detail man, but I can pass for one, and our full job-all of it-is going to raise some eyebrows-maybe worse.” He pulled his cap over his eyes. “Deploying Army troops to Arcadia III, the entire Hobson system, and depleting our Moon bases of their Marines, just to send them to Fantoma-and the Zentraedi have not approved that part of the plan-it sounds somewhat rash, in my opinion.”
“Well, Alan,” Sam replied, “you’re the boss.”
“I get the feeling the president and the Joint Chiefs; the ambassadors; they all know something but aren’t telling us...” Morrell mused. “But what, and for what ungodly reason? If something big is about to happen, I’d like to know about it. Sabotage is one thing, a mass attack is another, but not knowing until the damage is done is troubling.”
“Alan, you’re the mastermind behind the evacuation of Tobin Base and Israel’s population, including military hardware-sending the fleet’s fighter complement out to intercept the Jihad Alliance MiGs instead of standoff or defense was what saved us-they wouldn’t move without their fighter cover. You have a mind-” Morrell rolled his eyes in disbelief at this point. “Hold on, Alan, this is important-when I watched you on the bridge of the Forrestal, I saw a man who could read the enemy like a book. I saw a man with the situation controlled as much as he had power over it. And you wouldn’t leave anyone behind. Colonel First wasn’t going to fight the Arabs until they’d come within range of his guns-you told him to get out there and hold them off until all the refugees could be accounted for. Alan, you’re one of the finest commanders I’ve had the honor to know. I think you can pull this off.”
Morrell thought about it for a moment, and replied: “Sam, this is bigger than an evacuation-it’s a threat. Why Tirol is disputing so many of our claims to territory, I don’t understand, but it’s not an issue to me. If Zakarte doesn’t like Frontier Service patrols, then why keep them up?”
“I have a theory on that subject. Remember the war between Fantoma and Tirol? When Admiral Kimmel’s ship and an air corps battalion went to play defense for the Zentraedi?” Morrell acknowledged.
“Then you should remember the excuse the Tirolians used to start that bloody conflict. They claimed governance over the Zentraedi because the Zents were the Masters’ front-line troops, and the Tirolians are the new generation of the Masters’ civilization?” Morrell nodded again.
“The Tirolians, it is my guess, under Zakarte’s leadership, have dreams of galactic conquest. The world is not enough, if you’ll excuse the cliché. Their military buildup has been three times ours-and they have no active enemies! At least we have the Mexicans yet, North Germany and Eastern Europe, the Muslim empire, Communist China and the Indo-Chinese peninsula to worry about.”
Morrell got up again, this time to leave. “I don’t know, Sam. It seems a little far-fetched to me. But I never liked politics anyway. I’ll talk to you later then.”
“Don’t turn around, mister. You know what you’ll see.”
“I bet I’ll see a crazy person.” Roy did not attempt to hide that he knew the pistol being dug into his back was in fact made of the thumb and forefinger-strung with a rubber band-of a very good friend of his.
“Congratulations! You’ve won a brand new car.”
Roy turned around. There stood a young Zentraedi crazy person, micronized to more easily interact with the smaller races, such as humans.
“How the hell are you, Roy?” the crazy one asked.
“Just fine, Drannin,” Roy replied. A few of the veterans of the SDF-3 Pioneer mission would recognize the name of Drannin Hesh, the son of the Zentraedi’s last and greatest commanding officer, Breetai Tul. “I heard you’re into air racing and all that crazy stunt flying, you nut.”
“Yep,” Drannin said, with the air of a man who has just done something that he thinks insignificant, but he knows others believe remarkable. “Won three championships in a row, and finished second for five more. Never failed to place.” If you listened, Drannin almost sounded bored as he listed his accomplishments. Roy knew his friend was a bit stubborn or proud at times, but he knew he wouldn’t want it any other way. “How about you?” Drannin noted his friend’s uniform. “Still flying with the military, I see...”
Roy was hesitant to respond, because he knew that his friend was, curiously, uninterested in his heritage, his warrior progenitors. It was likely due to the education his mother had insisted he take on Earth. He made a number of friends and was almost an honorary human, really. Everything he had learned about human pop culture had changed him so much, you would think he was a rock star’s little brother.
As a matter of fact, you could almost overlook the green skin.
“Drannin, man, you know what I’ve always said,” Roy calmly explained. “Everyone has their place. Yours is in the winner’s circle, mine’s in the not-so-friendly skies.” He waited for the response, relatively sure of what he’d hear.
“I know you say that, but dude, I don’t want anyone to get killed for nothing,” Drannin replied. Roy was taken aback. This certainly is different, he thought.
“If you think I’m flying for nothing, you’re dead wrong,” Roy replied, a little rattled and fighting to keep calm. “I’ve seen some bastards in my time and I’ve been damn glad to stop’em.”
Drannin appeared rather perplexed at this point, as if he were trying to understand Roy’s point of view, but said, “But, say with that fight in Egypt and Israel not long ago, couldn’t we just have stopped the Arab armies without fighting? Convince them they’re wrong, or change governments?” Roy felt stressed at this point-he had asked himself all these questions, and he felt he couldn’t really make his best friend understand his answers.
“The government tried everything it had at its disposal,” he replied. “Sanctions, international resolutions, lots of things were tried but every single one was ignored by the Arab militias. There was nothing left to do but fight. And the young man, Admiral Morrell, evacuated Luxor, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem because he didn’t want to drag the US into the conflict. The Israelis and Egyptians are still waiting to liberate their homelands. They’re going to have to fight to reclaim their homes.”
Drannin appeared unconvinced, and began to speak. “I dunno, Roy, I just don’t like the idea.” Roy glanced at his watch and realized he was going to be late for a meeting if he didn’t get moving.
“Drannin, dude, I’d like to keep this debate up but I’m going to be late for something important if I don’t run now,” he said, ready to run.
“Another thing I never liked the idea of,” Drannin replied.
“What?”
“Authority!”
“See you later!” And with that, Roy ran to catch a taxi to base.
Shayla stepped into the locker room and began to undress, thinking over the day’s events. Her commanding officer had started to show the group some of the advanced methods for firing antiaircraft machine guns, and demonstrated for them the big .50-caliber Browning machine gun, as well as the new twenty-millimeter cannon the Navy was using. Next week they would be given a demonstration of the AA flak cannons. Shayla and Scott had managed to down several of the moving targets, and had come out the best of the group for today. Their practice Browning .30-cal was small by antiaircraft standards, but they had used it to deadly effect on the targets.
She picked up a towel and headed towards the showers. The locker room generally was empty this time of day, and Shayla liked getting some privacy. She undressed, and stepped into the showers. She turned the hot water on, and picked up the soap. The steam began to fill the room, and Shayla closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts as she washed and rinsed her dark skin. Thoughts of her past drifted through her mind as she wondered if she could ever go back. As she shut the water off, she realized she was not alone. She quickly wrapped her towel around herself and stepped out of the showers.
A female MP was standing in the locker room with a clipboard holding a sheaf of papers and a pen. When Shayla stepped out of the showers, the MP turned around. “Are you a Seaman...” She consulted her papers for a moment. “I’m looking for someone named Shayla...Prime. Is that you?”
“Yes,” Shayla replied. “Why?”
“I’m to escort you to Commander Clarkson. He’s reviewing all personnel records and yours were selected for further review. Over in HQ, basement two,” the MP said.
“Yes ma’am.” Shayla began to dress.
The small fighter tumbled through the endless vortex. Enemy craft of all shapes and sizes swirled around it, firing, but never making a hit. The pilot, sweat running down his face, realized that his luck would never hold. Then the shadow fell in front of him and one of his nightmares came to life. The enemy fire came right at his eyes, and in that instant, he heard the screams of all the men he’d outlived, all he’d known and watched perish in the fight.
Then he woke up and screamed.
Kilroy calmed down and readjusted the dark sunglasses that constantly adorned his face-many of the Navy flyboys who knew him wondered if he ever took them off, or whether they were even removable. No one could remember an occasion on which they had even seen his eyes.
It’s happened again...
The nightmare had been a recurring one for quite some time. He’d already talked to staff psychologists-not the psychiatrists, since he prided himself on keeping his head clear of any powerful drugs-and they had given him the ‘a-ok’, told him he was fine and to pay no attention to the nightmare. But he knew it so well by now, he couldn’t help feeling that it meant something.
I think I’ll head over to the mess hall, see what’s for dinner, and cruise the town. Nothing else to do at the moment, since I’m not on patrol for thirty-six hours. Kilroy slowly raised himself from his bed, then walked to his closet and pulled a fresh uniform from the rack and began to change.
He stepped out of his room and turned down the hallway towards the mess hall. Coming the other way was Roy, and he appeared a bit concerned. Kilroy called out to him and Roy looked up.
“Commander,” Roy said, with an uncomfortable salute. He’d always been slightly unnerved around Kilroy, mostly because of the sunglasses, and also because unlike the rest of the pilots, who in general were rock’n’rollers, party animals, womanizers, or some combination thereof, Kilroy was oddly enough a stoic, quiet type who seemed to prefer to drink alone, stay in more often. Roy, of course, was one of the crazier, and was just a bit afraid of Kilroy’s attitude towards his own lifestyle. Sometimes, the younger recruits called him ‘the old man,’ but a few braver pilots got away with ‘old stoneface’.
“Lieutenant,” Kilroy replied, returning the salute. “Where you off to?”
“My bunk. I need to pick up some papers for a Special Service pilots meeting,” Roy replied.
“What on?”
“Morale. Not much else to talk about. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. Not much going on around here, since the ship’s nearly done. I’ve got a few hours downtime, heading into town.”
“Well, sir, have a good time.”
“Right. See you around.”
Roy continued to his bunk, shaking off that uneasy feeling he got every time he tried to talk to the commander.
“Mr. President, I am sorry to intrude on your time, but I must impress upon you the importance of our meeting,” the elderly figure said as he stepped carefully into the Oval Office. His frail, homely frame and maroon skin marked him as not only another Zentraedi, but their minister of foreign affairs, Exedore Formo.
“Minister, it’s good to see you again,” the figure behind the desk replied warmly. Charles Everrett, President of the United States of America, was a practical man. He had never thought of the extraterrestrial-American population as being any different than any other group of immigrants, and that aliens were good people-as much as humans were. Thus he was not troubled to see Exedore’s name on his agenda for the day.
“I understand if you find my constant requests a bother,” began Exedore, but the President cut him off.
“It’s no trouble at all, Minister. After all, we’d asked for quite a lot of aid from your nation as well as the other Local Group worlds during the revolution, and I’d like to return the favor.”
“I worry that the request may be too much this time, Mr. President,” the old Zentraedi replied.
“Well then, what is it you need?”
“My superiors asked me to request that you send an additional five hundred combat aircraft to Fantoma. As you know, we have become mired in sorting out the factionalist conflicts, and more of our troops have become necessary to police the secured zones.” Exedore let out a small, soft sigh. “I’ve been told it’s becoming rather unmanageable in the some of the factionalist systems.” The factionalist territory was a large zone of space controlled by hundreds of small governments, terrorist and crime organizations, autonomous communes and stellar hermits. Basically, if you landed on a planet, you could claim it as your own, even though many were nothing more than worthless rock. Most of the population makeup was Terran human and Tirolian human, with a significant portion of micronized Zentraedi, and smatterings of other Local Group races.
The whole of the factionalist zone was supposed to be neutral, but a civil war had broken out on one planet, and thus dragged the other worlds into the quagmire. It had become so bad, the Zentraedi and Karbarrans had been called in by one side, and the Tirolians by another-which was just what the galaxy didn’t need, since the Zentraedi and Tirolians had been at each others’ throats for several years now. A third side had tried to recruit the Americans, and the British, Soviets, and Southern Cross had all been pled to for help. Only the Southern Cross sent troops, and they ended up fighting against the Zentraedi and the Tirolian forces! Truly a rock and a hard place; the Zentraedi, though their culture was no longer limited to warfare, were still formidable fighters and possessed highly advanced technology, while the Tirolians had crack troops in the war and undeniably the numbers to win in a war of attrition-not to mention many of the most advanced weapons and fighting vehicles ever seen. Thus, the Zentraedi were loath to leave their homeworld-which literally stood in the small but philosophically formidable shadow of Tirol-in any sort of vulnerable state. This would explain the meeting currently going on between Exedore and the president.
“Well, I may be able to spare an aircraft carrier or two, or other naval power, and possibly some Air Force units,” President Everrett replied. “But five hundred...may be a little many. I will call a meeting of the Joint Chiefs for tomorrow or Friday, and you should have your answer by Saturday, Sunday for sure. For the time being, that’s the best I can do.”
“I understand, Mr. President. Even if they are only reserve units, we will be most appreciative. The Fantoman Republic is very grateful for all the aid you have lent us,” Exedore mused. “Then I must be on my way.” He stood up to leave.
President Everrett stood up from his chair, walked around the desk, and extended his right hand. “Minister, I’m glad you came today, and we will be happy to help you in any way we can.”
Exedore returned the handshake. “I thank you again, Mr. President. Good day.”
Shayla followed the MP to the registrar’s offices. They stepped through the door, and a clerk came up to them. “Yes?” he queried.
“Seaman Recruit Shayla Prime, escorted as ordered,” replied the MP.
“Good,” he returned, and motioned for Shayla to take a seat with a group of other Navy personnel, a few of whom she recognized as troublemakers she’d run across once or twice. She took a seat and waited, as the sailors around her went into the office for a brief interview with the commander.
Some returned with relieved or glad expressions on their faces, but others left in a hurry, looking angry or sick.
Finally, her turn came. Shayla stood up, took a very deep breath, and fought down the panic in her chest as best she could.
The last of Dana’s crew exited the briefing room. She had just finished the short introductory talk on tactical and evasive maneuvers, and was gathering up her papers when there was a knock at the door.
“Come!” Dana called. The door opened, and Kilroy stepped in.
“Howzitgoin’, Dana?” he replied.
“Okay, and yourself?” Dana placed a thick stack of files into her canvas briefcase, and zipped it shut.
“I’m alright, just kinda tired.”
“I understand.” Dana sighed. “Long day today, another long day tomorrow, and I think it’s time to hit the hay.” She picked up her briefcase, and headed for the door.
“Hey, I’m off for a while, and I was wondering if you wanted to go into town for a drink,” Kilroy said.
“I’m sorry, Commander. I’ve got an early start in the morning. I’ll have to turn you down.”
Kilroy took a very deep breath. “Alright then,” he replied. “I’ll see you around n’at.” He turned to leave.
“Kilroy-” Dana began, but she hesitated. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” he replied as he headed for the door. When he reached it, he opened it, turned around, and gave Dana a small wave. And then he was gone.
“Well, it’s almost time for shift change,” the young bridge tech sighed as she ran her fingers through her long auburn hair.
“Carrie, what’s the rush?” asked her companion sitting at the next station over. A third station had recently been vacated by a relief watch tech. Normally it would be occupied by Marquette, but he was heavily involved in the launching celebration and ceremony, so his job was taken over by the relief watch until the first trials were to begin. The brown-haired tech, Commander Carrie Stollsteimer-Executive Officer of all combat units, was trying to get through the landing of Blue Squadron, and their leader had just crashed on the runway. He was fine albeit shaken; but his nose landing gear had collapsed just as he touched down. Right now they were trying to coordinate the landings with the launch of Vermilion Squadron, heading out for a patrol. This was made tougher with Blue Leader’s Veritech still blocking one of the runways. Carrie swore under her breath.
Her companion, Lieutenant Commander Anissa Kaufmann spoke next. “Carrie, I was thinking about heading into town when I’m off duty, and I was wondering if you wanted to join me.” Anissa was tall, with short black hair and very dark skin, but very pretty and shapely. She was just a couple inches taller than Carrie, who was slender, with a pale complexion and hazel eyes in addition to her shoulder-length auburn tresses.
“I don’t know, I was just going to turn in for the day,” Carrie replied. “I’m ready for a long rest.” She sighed softly as she cleared Vermilion’s last fighter for takeoff.
“Are you sure?” Anissa asked. “You almost never go out, or have much by way of fun anymore. You worry me, you know.”
“I’m just not feeling up to anything,” Carrie said listlessly. “You know how hard everyone’s been working, Anissa.”
Anissa acknowledged. “I know, and that’s exactly why you need a break, Carrie.” Some downtime would be good for her. Maybe she’ll even meet someone...
Her thoughts were momentarily interrupted by the relief watch filing onto the bridge. “Looks like it’s time to go,” she remarked.
“Oh, well,” Carrie sighed. “I’m headed to-wait, where’s CPO Harris? He’s supposed to take over my station,” she called to the relief watch tech nearest her.
“He’s very ill, and they took him to sickbay,” came the reply. “Thus the relief is one short...someone’s going to have to stay on.”
“I’ll take this one, Carrie,” Anissa ventured, but Carrie would have none of it.
“No, that’s fine. You had plans. Go on, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Anissa sighed, knowing it would be useless to argue. Once Carrie made up her mind, she would practically never change it. “Don’t wear yourself out, Carrie,” she added as she got up to leave.
“I’ll be fine.”
The bus pulled into the downtown section of Allegheny City, and about twenty soldiers and sailors stepped off for a night on the town. Kilroy was among the last to disembark, and walked towards the 9th Street Bridge. He was headed to a favorite spot of his, a small bar & grille in the city’s ‘Strip District’, known for its wholesale industries and nightlife.
Just as he was passing the old railroad warehouses, a bright red Hudson convertible pulled up beside him. The driver leaned out the window and yelled.
“Hey!”
Kilroy turned around. His face brightened a little when he saw just who it was. He recognized the young man as an Air Force pilot by the name of Cameron Gates, but his close friends all called him C.J. He had flown alongside Kilroy in the Second Revolution and with Roy as well in the European War. They were seasoned vets, and were not about to quit flying anytime soon. Kilroy walked over to the car.
“How the hell are you, C.J.?” he replied, leaning on the windshield frame.
“Pretty damn good, and you?” C.J. answered, flicking his sandy bangs back into place. He was young, lanky but not overly tall, with shaggy, sandy hair and a mild suntan. He wasn’t in uniform at the moment, but a .50 cal service automatic hung from his belt. He shifted his hot ride into park and stretched in the seat.
“Not too bad, old buddy,” Kilroy sighed. “Just tired as all hell. We’ve been busy here, you know.”
“Don’t think you’re the only ones,” C.J. said. “I just got my orders last week to come up here from Eagle’s Nest Air Station. And we’ve been swamped with new recruits, you wouldn’t believe. They were pissed to see me go-that’s how many we got.”
“I’ll be go to hell.”
“You said it. Now, where in the hell is this Primanti’s place you kept yapping about?” C.J. looked around for a parking space; he was in the middle of traffic.
“Park down there,” Kilroy told him, pointing down the street to a lot underneath the 7th Street Bridge. He then strolled around to the passenger side and hopped into the car.
“Nice ride.”
“Thanks, man.” They pulled into a parking space, paid the guard when he came by, and headed for the restaurant.
“So what exactly are you doing in the Steel City?” Kilroy asked. “Besides the transfer, I mean.”
C.J. flipped his hair before answering. “No opportunities in Colorado, man. Just training these dumb kids day in, day out. They all need a good slap upside the head, you know...”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Kids today...” Kilroy thought for a moment and realized he’d been like that himself once. But then I joined the Army for the first time...
“But we were like that, y’know? I know I was,” C.J. replied. “I guess we can’t blame them too much.”
“I dunno. All I know is, I’m damn hungry. And the place is just around the corner,” Kilroy said. They rounded the corner of a large, dirty brick building, and headed right for the restaurant, above which hung a huge neon sign that read ‘Prmianti Bros. Since 1933’.
C.J. and Kilroy stepped through the doors, and into a press of the restaurant’s patrons. At this time of night they were damn busy, almost as busy as the lunch hour. They found their way to a recently vacated pair of bar stools as the waitress came over.
“What’ll it be, boys?”
“Two beers and one cheese steak with triple cheese,” Kilroy began, “And... The menu’s over there, C.J. What looks good?” He pointed to a large wooden sign on the wall of the restaurant.
“Hmm... I think I’ll try that hot sausage and cheese, there.”
“Sure thing,” the waitress replied. “I’ll bring your beers in just a second.”
Shayla sat down in Clarkson’s office. The MP exited the room, to stand on guard outside the office. The commander came in and sat down, then sorted through his files and mumbling to himself. He almost didn’t notice Shayla sitting in front of his desk, and may not have if she hadn’t cleared her throat when she did.
“Huh? Oh.” Clarkson recovered from a moment of confusion. “Recruit Shayla Prime, I see.” He picked up a pair of smudgy bifocals from the desk, put them on, pulled a file from his stack and opened it. Shayla noticed that it was hers. “I just have a few questions about your background and record. This won’t take long.” Shayla stiffened a bit, somewhat nervous.
“First of all, where are you from?”
Shayla almost froze. “I’m from Arizona,” she replied.
At this point Clarkson made a few notes on a pad, but Shayla couldn’t sneak a peek at his writing due to the mess on his desk.
“I see. But that’s not the mailing address here... Where have you lived since then?”
“In New Mexico. I lived with my sister.” And it’s true, Shayla thought.
Clarkson glanced at her file for a moment. “Ah, I see. Then this person in your mailing address is this sister?” Shayla nodded again.
Apparently satisfied, Clarkson moved on.
Roy leaned back in his chair as his fellow officers babbled on about morale, leave and keeping subordinates out of trouble with the law and senior officers, among other things. His own solution was to give the whole squad a night off and let them take care of their problems on their own. All he had to do was keep an eye on them a bit and deal with any trouble the got into.
“...and I would say that a reduction in allowable leave for all personnel would be a good idea. As of late, I’ve noticed an upswing in the incidents perpetrated by our newest recruits...” rambled one officer. Roy closed his eyes.
Just at that moment, there was a sharp knock at the door. A young petty officer stepped into the room accompanied by the sentry, and came to attention.
“I have a message for Lieutenant Roy Hunter.” Roy practically shot out of his chair and snatched the message from her hands. He read it and breathed a sigh of relief.
“If you will excuse me gentlemen, I have an emergency patrol to attend to.” Apparently another gap had been created in the patrol roster, and Neon Squadron came up in the selection. Already, Roy’s subordinates would be scrambling, and their fighters would be prepped for patrol. Roy slipped back to his seat, cleaned up his files, and left as the meeting resumed.
Maria lay in her bunk, flipping through the file Colonel Joseph had given her. She wanted to be promoted; she wanted more pay, of course...
But I’m not sure I want to leave the group I’m with now. We’re doing damn well...
She closed the file and thought about what her mission would entail should she take the offer. She would constantly be working on tough developmental tactics, and lose a lot of the free time she had now, but she would be challenged.
It would be something different for sure, she thought as she stared at the ceiling, just thinking. Maria thought she knew what she wanted to do, but she just couldn’t overcome her doubts. She worried about her qualifications, her motives, her friends, and her safety most of all.
Just before she fell off to sleep, she made her decision.
I’ll tell the colonel in the morning...
C.J. and Kilroy had been served by now, and Kilroy dug into the huge sandwich like there was no tomorrow. C.J. had only taken a few experimental bites into the thick Italian-style bread and sausage, but he liked what he tasted. “That ain’t bad, Kilroy,” he mentioned in between mouthfuls.
Kilroy drank a little beer before replying. “Hell yeah, man. This here is a tradition around this city.”
“So, have you been busy around here?” C.J. asked. “A lot going on with the ship?”
Kilroy paused before taking a bite, and said, “Yeah, actually. Mostly we’ve been trying to get her built, but we also take some time to get the testing done on all the systems. They’ve been testing the defense network a lot, from what I hear.”
“A lot of holes?”
Kilroy thought for a moment. “Yeah, at first. The contractors had to rebuild it once already. Sucks.”
“Odd...” C.J. “Y’know, I just thought of something.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you moving out with her when she launches?”
Kilroy laughed. “The SDF-5? You bet your ass I am.”
C.J. sighed. “I might be heading out on her myself.” Kilroy looked at him quizzically. “Really?” he replied.
“I might be. They haven’t found a squadron for me to command just yet, but it’s entirely possible.”
“Cool.” Kilroy grinned. Having a good friend along like C.J. would make things bearable.
“Hey, is Roy around anywhere?”
“Yeah, I just saw him before I left the base.”
C.J. motioned to the waitress to refill his glass. “Sweet. He still leading Neon Squadron?”
“Yeah, yeah he is.” Kilroy was not the young Lieutenant’s biggest fan, but had to admit he was a damn good pilot. “By the way, what do they have you flying these days? I remember you were still in rebuilt Lightning Veritechs during the war.”
C.J. grinned. “Still in those damn antiques, but not for long. I got a little insider info, and the first production VF-15 Veritech Eagles arrive from McDonnell-Boeing here, at the airbase, in two days. Finally, we get something new.” The Veritech Eagle project had been held up for two years now, and technical problems were to blame. The design was another practically antique fighter, used in the same era as the original Tomcat, but it was also making a return as a Veritech fighter.
“They held that project up for what-a couple years, and to fix the tail or something?” Kilroy asked.
“Tailplanes kept tearing away,” C.J. replied, rather seriously. “And the radar wasn’t ready on time. Corporate troubles or something.” He sighed. “I lost a good friend-a test pilot-to the program...”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Kilroy downed his beer, took a deep breath, and pulled out his wallet. “This one’s on me,” he said. “And I think I’m going to head on out.”
C.J. nodded his head. “I better check in at the base. They’ll be wanting to hear from me-but not before I finish this sandwich. I’ll see you around.”
“Sure thing.” Kilroy got up, waved and turned to leave.
Shayla left Headquarters, and turned towards the naval barracks. She sighed softly, considering herself lucky to have escaped the interview with her rank and freedom. As she reached into her pocket for her ID card, she felt a pang of loneliness and fought back the tears.
She took a deep breath and looked out over the runways of the naval air station. She could barely see a group of Veritech Tomcats lined up for takeoff in the southernmost prep station. The sun was almost below the horizon; a mere gold sliver was all that gave its light to the scene.
Those Tomcats, lined up and preparing to fly, belonged to none other than Roy Hunter and his very own Neon Squadron. Their black Veritechs gleamed under the lights in the prep station and the cockpit lighting glowed softly as the sun disappeared completely, leaving just a reddish glow over the western horizon.
Roy was arguing with his NCO, mostly about what took him so damn long to get the rest of the squad ready.
“But Lieutenant, he came in and was yelling at us-” he protested, to no avail.
“CPO Gurzowski, did it not occur to you that he was doing your job?” Roy replied.
“Oh.” The young pilot fell silent for a while. Roy, in the meantime had walked over to his own fighter, climbed into the cockpit, and radioed the SDF-5 bridge.
“Modex 910 to SDF-5 bridge, when is Neon Squadron clear for takeoff?” he demanded.
Admiral Morrell had just stepped onto the bridge when Roy made his transmission. “Neon Squadron on patrol? What’s the situation, Commander Stollsteimer?” he asked.
“Wait one moment, Modex 910,” Carrie replied to Roy. “Everything’s going well, Admiral. The only problem at the moment is that White Squadron is down; they’re fighting a fire at their hangar. Neon Squadron was selected and they’re prepping for launch.”
“Great,” Morrell sighed.
Another setback... Morrell turned to leave. “Keep up the good work, Commander.”
“Yes sir...”
“Well?” queried Roy.
“Um...” Carrie faltered for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Neon Squadron is clear for takeoff. All pilots, prepare to launch.” She hit a few keys on her console, then turned her attention back to Roy. “Modex 910, taxi to the runway and prepare for takeoff.”
Roy gunned his fighter’s turbines and maneuvered to the end of the long runway. The light was still fading; the sun was long out of sight but still the sky glowed cherry red. The runway officer waved her orange pylon lights, directing Roy to the end of the takeoff zone; then held him at the end of the runway for just a second. Finally she gave him the go signal and he shifted his turbines into max thrust. The afterburners glowed bright yellow in the darkness as Roy’s fighter began to roll down the runway. He did not take his hand off the throttle as his fighter accelerated in to the darkness. He felt the landing gear come off the ground and noticed the horizon begin to disappear-he was airborne!
“SDF-5 bridge, Modex 910 is clear of the runway!” Roy grinned from ear to ear as he did a little victory roll. He heard his wingmate, Gurzowski, radio his clearance; he was just lifting away from the next runway over.
“All right, Modex 643, link up with 910 and begin patrol in Red Sector A,” ordered Carrie.
“Yes ma’am, Lieutenant Commander,” Roy replied. “Let’s get outta here, Modex 643.”
Shayla watched the pair of fighters fly away and out of sight; then turned to go home to the barracks building where she lived. She walked a little slower, trying not to think much. She was very tired, but her mind wandered...
No! I must focus. She took a deep breath and removed a photograph from her pocket. It was small and worn, an odd size and fading slightly now, but still one of the most important things she had ever laid hands on.
The interview with Clarkson had gone well; she had earned flying colors in his eyes, although not in such interesting words. She was now free to explore the possibilities; she thought of the photograph and held it in both hands, looking upon the image longingly. As she clutched the small photograph tightly with both hands, her gaze wandered to the stars above. No one knew it at the time, but the handsome young man in the picture was dead. Even so, future events would revolve around him...
Kilroy chose that moment to look up at the stars. And I hardly ever look at them anymore, he thought. He put his hands in his pockets and began to walk again. Home was his destination; he was supposed to use his officer’s quarters all the time, but owing to the fact that he owned an old a house not a mile from the barracks, he would stay there frequently. He preferred it over the base housing; his place was a reminder of happier times for him, of people and things that came before...
Just on the edge of the asteroid belt, a pair of black spacecraft cruised swiftly and unseen towards Earth. Their purpose dark, the crews prepared for an event which would shake the resolve of the whole of the galaxy...