Even though these things give you about as much legal coverage as a G-string on a stripper, I am going to include it anyways. Most of the characters in this story are the property of Harmony Gold, and a whole lot of other companies who's names escape me at the moment, and are used without their permission. However, since this is a not for profit undertaking, I dont think its neccecary to worry about it. At any rate, I'm so broke suing would be a waste of time. The few original charecters in here are mine, so please ask before using them in a fic of your own. Comments and Criticisms welcome: E-Mail Starrngr@aol.com. Flames will be promptly filed in file 13 and ignored. Previous parts of this story can be found at: Ranger HQ: HTTP://home.talkcity.com/TheSanitarium/Da_Muck/Libr/wndr/ AND at Sofaspud's Couch HTTP://www.sofaspud.org/ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Tales of the Wanderer: Book 2: Wandering Ace Chapter 5: Acceptance There was something of a timeless nature to life in Macross City. Every day, sunrise and sunset occurred at the same time, though there was no 'sun' in the EVE sky. Day and night, the temperature was a comfortable 75 degrees, and even the massive amounts of air that were circulated through the city were not enough to generate a detectable breeze unless one was near an air vent. Shops tended to be open seven days a week, with one day blending into the next so that one needed to look at a calendar to remember the day or date. Nor was there much need to do even that in the insulated community of refugees tucked safely in the belly of the SDF-1... Most of the people who needed to keep track of things like that were crewmembers anyway. Elsa Bibat (1) was one of the latter, since as "The Wanderer's" keeper she had to remember when he was supposed to appear at various debriefings. The Wanderer himself, as he had been dubbed by Dr. Lang, had adopted a calendar of 3 days, consisting of just Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, so Elsa wound up acting as much as an appointment secretary as guide and observer. Her years as a rebel to the Huk government, which had controlled the Philippine islands through a campaign of terror during the years of the Global Civil Wars, served her in good stead, allowing her to keep the schedule in her head and getting the wanderer to the right place and time without making it appear he had to be lead. Elsa, on the other hand, was very much a creature of habit and precise schedules; it had been a handy distraction during those years, as Huk informants were often dulled into inattention, neutralizing them. As a Corpsman, her precision allowed her to perform her tasks in an efficient manner, without overlooking vital information. All of which explained why she was letting herself into the Wanderer's quarters at exactly 08:00, even though she knew that he wouldn't be up. The Wanderer had been extensively debriefed, and only Dr. Lang continued to show any interest in him; however, for the last few days Lang and the entire engineering department had been putting the finishing touches on the implementation of some of Lang's research. With no debriefings to attend, the Wanderer had taken to sleeping in; as expected the lights were off and the drapes drawn. Elsa helped herself to a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker which had automatically turned itself on five minutes ago, then opened the drapes to let the EVE generated light in before settling down to wait. A few minutes after 09:00, her patience was rewarded by the faint sound of activity from the single bedroom of the apartment, followed by the momentary appearance of her charge. His red hair was impossibly disheveled, and he was dressed in a ratty maroon robe over equally ratty pajamas, topped off with heavy beard stubble. To Elsa's trained eyes, it was very clear that the Wanderer was not much of a morning person; he showed no sign that he even knew she was there as he shambled over to the coffeepot and pored himself his first cup of coffee, then shambled back into the bedroom. She continued doodling and she turned over something he had said in passing the morning before. He had noticed her sketches, and had asked her if she had ever considered drawing manga. Elsa liked drawing, but it wasn't the center of her universe, really. Even before joining the rebellion, she had been studying medicine. Her time as a rebel showed her that being the first on the scene and rendering emergency aid was more to her liking than working in a hospital. Besides, who would possibly want to read a manga about a boy who turned into a girl when splashed with water? Eager to be about whatever it was for the day, she put away her sketchpad as the sound of the shower stopped, and headed into the kitchen. By the time the Wanderer emerged, clean, shaven, and dressed, there was food sitting on the small table out on the balcony. "Morning, Elsa," he said with a yawn, finally noticing her presence as he poured himself a second cup of coffee. "What's on the schedule for today?" Elsa found herself counting backwards from ten in Latin before she could resist the urge to hit him over the head with something heavy. The Wanderer was as least as intelligent as she was, yet he insisted on behaving like some burned out beach bum that couldn't even remember what day it was! "Why actually, I have no idea," she replied, deciding that two could play this game. "Hmm." Elsa winced, she knew what was coming next, and she still didn't appreciate it. Undaunted, the Wanderer continued his delivery, slipping into a deep bass; "Pinky, are you pondering what I am pondering?" Elsa refused to rise to the bait; "Why no, *sir*. I'm not a mind reader." Micheal, noting that the sir was meant as a slur, hung his head sheepishly and retreated out to the balcony. It took another count back from ten before she was composed enough to follow him. He was playing with his food, staring listlessly out at the EVE sky overhead. "Is something bothering you?" she finally found herself asking after he picked up the plate of food, un-eaten, and dumped it down the reclamation chute. "Cabin Fever," was the grunted reply, catching Elsa by surprise. "Why? You're free to move about the city, as long as I go with you..." "Not out there," Micheal replied, pointing out at the city. "Up there," he elaborated, pointing up at the EVE sky. "I'm feeling penned in here on the ground, but Command would have a cow if I took to the air here in town, let alone if I asked for a ride in a VT." Elsa grinned at that. For all of the irritating things about her 'charge', there was something about him that kept her from being mad at him for long, and at the moment his little boy act had managed to stir the maternal in her soul. "Perceptive as usual, Muck," she noted, closing the sliding glass door to the balcony as she collected her purse from the table. "However, I have an idea..." * * * * * * * * * Blinko Imperiale, owner and manager of the Close Encounters arcade, looked out across his domain with pride before turning back to Frankie, his assistant manager. "What did I tell you, Frankie? It's all about location. With all the RDF types that come in along with the kids, we've made enough to pay off our startup costs in half the time. And that's with buying the machines instead of leasing them the way everyone else has. By the time we get off this hunk of metal we'll be able to retire in STYLE, man!" From his expression, Frankie clearly had some doubts, but choose to remain silent. He was assisted in this by the arrival of additional parties who changed the course of the conversation. "There he is... Hey Blinko, do you still have that Strike Commander machine around here somewhere?" a familiar voice injected into the conversation. "Yo, Elsa," Blinko replied, changing topics without missing a beat. "Whadda want with that relic, anyway?" The machine in question was one of Blinko's first purchases from the game machine firm founded by Elsa's family after the SDF-1's miss-jump. As a test bed for later designs, Elsa's brother had converted an old computer game into an arcade version. The basic machine had been a reasonable success, but the full motion version had sold only one unit... to Blinko. After Bibat Games next release, however, Strike Commander had become yesterday's news. In fact, Blinko's full motion copy was the only Strike Commander machine that hadn't been scrapped or converted to the more popular 'Veritechs!'. "My friend here wants to play it," Elsa replied in a frosty tone that screamed 'DUH' to Micheal, standing a half pace behind her. "No problem, Elsa. I take it this is the friend in question?" Blinko gave Micheal a quick glance that clearly approved his loud Hawaiian print shirt. "Yes. Blinko, this is Muck. Muck, Blinko, the owner," Elsa replied. Blinko raised an eyebrow as Muck shook hands but otherwise remained rather subdued. "No problem. Frankie will plug it in for ya. I was just on my way to lunch, Elsa... Could I interest you in joining me?" "Blinko, what part of the word no don't you understand?" "Elsa, if I listened to everyone who told me no, I wouldn't be where I am today!" * * * * * * * * * "Ah, now *THIS* is my idea of a lunch!" Micheal chortled around a mouthful of steak and mushrooms. Elsa couldn't help but shake her head at his manners, but grinned herself in-between bites of her Chinese chicken salad. "Actually, what got me was the expression on Blinko's face when he walked in from lunch just as Frankie was handing you your prize. He's had that voucher for lunch for two here for months and no one had won it yet. And on a Strike Commander machine in campaign mode to boot!" she admitted. Micheal gave her an incredulous look, forcing her to explain. "Ok. Here's the deal. My brother made the machine, but it's not that popular anymore, both because it was low scoring, and because everyone has Veritech fever. Plus, in Campaign mode, you only get points if you complete the mission successfully." Micheal still had an expression of disbelief on his face as he replied. "But the machine wasn't that hard... at least not to me anyway." "True, but most people prefer the interactive 'dog-fight' mode, because they get points per kill, not per mission. And everyone really loves the Veritech machine, because they know that's what out there keeping the enemy away from us." Micheal popped another bite of steak into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before replying. "So, In the space of two hours, I cleaned him out on what was possibly the most difficult machine in the place... Hard enough that no one else plays it anymore, at any rate. No wonder he was so glad to see us go." "Well, you anyway. He's been trying to get me to go out with him since I first met him." "But he's not your type." Micheal's tone made it clear that it was a statement, not a question. "Nope. I prefer someone a bit more quiet and self-assured in a man. Like Lt. Sterling there..." Elsa noted, indicating the trio of pilots who had just walked into the steak house and sat down. The soft tinkling of a fork that was dropped a short distance caught her attention, and she looked at Micheal, who was now just sitting there with his eyes closed and a look of pain on his face. "Are you all right?" she asked, leaning close and whispering into Micheal's ear. Micheal leaned back and took a deep breath before opening his eyes again. "Yes. I'm just suddenly not hungry anymore. Have them pack the rest of this to go, please?" he asked, then stood and deliberately walked from the restaurant without saying another word. He was already in the jeep Elsa had been issued with the engine running by the time that she emerged carrying the two to-go boxes. Once she was in, he peeled out with a short protest from the tires as he whipped the jeep through a U-turn and started back to the apartment he had been assigned. "What is going on here, Muck?" Elsa demanded, trying to get her seat belt fastened without loosing the food boxes or being thrown from the jeep. "Be glad you don't know the future, Elsa. All heck is about to break loose," Micheal replied ominously. "Ah. More of your 'I know what is going to happen to us' claims, Muck?" "It's the truth, Elsa. The SDF-1 is going to be coming under attack shortly. Before its over, though, several thousand civilians and one Flight Corporal Ben Dixon, the pilot back there in the uniform with yellow trim, will be dead." Elsa remained quiet after that, but carried an expression of disbelief on her face the rest of the way back to the apartment. One that turned to shock when she heard the alert sirens go off just as Micheal put the leftovers in his refrigerator. * * * * * * * * * Captain Henry Gloval stared out the viewport that formed the back wall of his office and smoked, trying to make sense out of the most recent turn of events. He wasn't certain which disturbed him more; the high casualty reports from the Ontario sector, or that aside from warning him, this visitor of theirs hadn't tried to stop it. Why hadn't he was the question that nagged most at Gloval. Was it because he wanted to prove what he was talking about? Or had it been some sort of triple or quadruple think to set Gloval up? And both of those didn't preclude the possibility that this wanderer hadn't done anything because he couldn't; but was that because for all his knowledge, even this wanderer couldn't change what was in their future, or just that Gloval hadn't listened? What else did this person have up his sleeve? The admittance chime of his door moved his thoughts from the esoteric to immediate concerns. "Enter," he commanded, and the door slid open to admit Cmdr. Hayes and Grant. As they took seats, Gloval indicated the stack of reports on his desk with his pipe. "Have you familiarized yourselves with the most recent reports on our visitor?" "Yes, sir," came the response in stereo. "And?" Lisa and Claudia exchanged a glance, then Lisa took the lead. "Sir, I believe we have no choice but to accept what he has told us at face value. He knows things there is no way anyone would know about me... about the SDF-1 in General, and certain crew members in specific sir." Claudia then stepped in. "In the long run, what we believe doesn't really matter, sir. Once Ontario sector rescinded its offer, we have no way of putting him off the ship even if we wanted to. Our only decision has to be if we trust him, or confine him to the brig until this is over one way or another." Lisa took the next part. "Also, from Petty Officer Bibat's reports, he has not tried to pry for information, nor to engage in any sort of activity that could possibly be considered espionage. We both feel that Col. Maistroff's assertions are invalid and a knee jerk response. We both feel that believing him is no riskier a proposition than promoting Lt. Hunter to the CAG (2) slot." Gloval grimaced at that. The decision to promote said Lt. had been another heated debate, since there were several squadron CO's with more seniority. None of them, however, had Lt. Hunter's combination of piloting skill and raw leadership ability. "But what do you think we should DO with him?" he prodded. "He's not a member of our military, sir. We suggest asking him what he wants to do." * * * * * * * * * Gloval looked across his desk at the wanderer and deliberately drew a few more drags from his pipe before speaking. Micheal was dressed casually, in a loud Hawaiian print shirt and jeans, but sat patiently and respectfully. In a way, Gloval wished Micheal had been much more arrogant about being right, as it would have made Gloval's decision much easier. Finally, Gloval put his pipe down. "Mr. Thunders. I understand you have been talking to Dr. Lang about your vehicle?" "Yes, Captain. Unfortunately, I believe that I have no way of replacing two critical components at this time." Gloval simply nodded his head at that. "And you wish to remain aboard." He made it a statement rather than a question. "Actually, Captain, neither you nor I have a choice in the matter. As soon as you finish loading supplies, you are going to be ordered back out into space, with the citizenry of Macross still aboard, in hopes of distracting the Zentraedi fleet's attention away from Earth. No one is going to be allowed off the SDF-1 until the war is over." "A war which your advice will help us win?" Gloval asked. Micheal blinked for a moment before replying. "Seeing as how no one believes me, I rather doubt it. And to be honest, I can't blame you for that. Seriously, Captain, even if I offered to tell you what to do from now till the war is over, would you believe me?" "Do you honestly expect me to risk the lives of Sixty thousand civilians on the word of someone who claims this is all a Saturday morning cartoon?" Gloval retorted. "No sir. And, to be honest, I'm not sure I could change things if I tried. Hell, I'm not even certain I *SHOULD* try." Micheal admitted. Gloval nodded at that. "Very well. Now that that is out of the way, You are right in and of the fact that everyone aboard this ship is remaining so for the foreseeable future. Given that, what did you intend to do?" Micheal met his gaze with an earnest look. "Sir, ever since I was a child, I've always wanted to fly a Veritech." Gloval met his gaze with a look of shock. "Do you realize how preposterous that sounds?" Micheal nodded his head in response. "Then what makes you think I would allow you into a Veritech?" "I was one of the best pilots in my home fica, Captain. And I know that the SDF-1 always needed pilots. But I'm not asking you to take my word for it. All I'm asking for is for a chance to prove it to you." Gloval picked up his pipe and knocked the ashes from the bowl. "Very well then. I'll give you your chance..." * * * * * * * * * "I tell ya, Max. If I had totally realized that they were giving me the wing instead of just Roy's plane, I might have turned them down." The new CAG of the SDF-1 was, as usual, feeling unsure of himself. With the recent loss of both his 'big brother' as well as Ben Dixon, Lt. Hunter was uncertain about his command abilities. His audience of one, Lt. Sterling, just smiled his shy smile and adjusted his glasses. "I dunno, Skipper. But I do know that Gloval wouldn't have given you the job if he didn't think you could handle it. Besides, like a certain squadron commander pointed out to me not long ago... You never turn down a promotion. If you do, The Powers That Be will never offer you another one." The two officers had been spending more time in meetings than any pilot ever wanted too, all with the single purpose of briefing Rick on the present status of the air wing. They were taking a shortcut through the Pilot Candidate section on their way from one meeting to another when they heard the groans of a bunch of cadets through a half open briefing room door. A glance inside told the tale clearly enough; the cadets were participating in a simulated squadron sized operation. As usual, the squadron was getting a massive dose of humility in the process as well. Half a dozen cadets had already been 'killed out' of the mission, and from the looks of the 'god' screen in the briefing room the lone attacker had just gotten two more as well. Max just shook his head at that; it was common occurrence early on in training. Beside him, Rick narrowed his eyes for a moment at the representation of the lone attacker, then whispered quietly to Max. "Isn't that the battle-suit you fought to a standstill inside the ship?" Max gave the attacker a second look before nodding in agreement. Before he could ask what was on Rick's mind, Rick had grabbed him by the elbow and all but dragged him to the simulator control room next door. Inside the control room were the two people Rick had expected to see, namely Staff Sargent Hutchinson and Lt. 'Skip' Tyler. Lt. Tyler had lost most of his right leg during the initial encounter with the Zentraedi; now grounded, he was in charge of the simulator complex. "Hey, Skip... who's your ringer this time?" Rick asked. Lt. Tyler and SSGT Hutchinson had a long history of tapping current pilots to fly missions against the cadets; Rick still recalled the time Roy had taken a lone officer's battle-pod and cleaned Cadet Hunter's squadron's collective clocks. "Howdy, CAG. What tipped ya off?" SSG Hutchinson asked in his backwoods Maine drawl. "Your 'aggressor' is flying like a VT in fighter mode," Rick replied as the last two Cadets fell to the 'aggressors' weapons. "Would you believe a potential candidate?" Skip asked as SSGT Hutchinson ordered the 'aggressor' to proceed to a set of co-ordinates and hold for instructions. "You have GOT to be kidding me!" Rick replied in astonishment. "No fooling, CAG. Word from on high came down to run this joker through a flight aptitude screening. He tore through the canned missions like white on rice, so Ben and I set up one of our infamous cross-links. He saw battle-pods; they saw that new model that Lt. Sterling faced a couple of weeks ago." Rick grinned at the two simulator operators. "What do you say we give him a real challenge then?" SSGT Hutchinson grinned right back at Rick. "If'n ya'll strap into numbers one and two, we'll run him through a simulated trap and shoot while you two get spun up..." * * * * * * * * * "YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!" Col. Maistroff exploded. "You're actually going to allow that... that THING in the cockpit of a fighter? What's next? The enemy decides to defect because of Minmei's songs?" "That will be ALL, COLONEL!" Gloval thundered, rising to his feet and smacking a fist on his desk. "I did not ask for opinions, I am informing everyone of what has been decided. One more word out of you on this subject and you will find yourself a guest in your own brig!" Shaken (but still quite stirred up ^_^), Maistroff sat back down and remained silent. Gloval ignored him and returned his attention to the other senior officers. "In this case, the risks outweigh the benefits. There are currently only two active duty pilots who outperformed our visitor in the simulators, Lt.'s Hunter and Sterling. Given our constant need for pilots, it would be against our best interests not to put this man in the air. In addition, there are certain benefits to having him enlist as well." "Such as being able to order him to 'Keep his big mouth shut' sir?" Claudia observed. "Exactly. In addition, we don't have to come up with an explanation why Macross' population has again increased by one." +++++ (1) Once again, Elsa appears courtesy of herself... (2) CAG: Commander Air Group. The person responsible for the operations of all embarked aircraft.