Mobile Suit Gundam Fan Fiction ❯ Seig Zeon! ❯ Advance and Retreat ( Chapter 3 )

Isis Delaney clawed the mud from her face, the tracks her nails dug into the earthen mask exposing her mocha coloured skin beneath. To her left and right Inez Vega and Jerome Faulkner were similarly dirtied. The three of them were crouching amidst the hulking wreckage of a long discarded Zaku I class suit that had fallen roughly thirty metres from an elevated roadway that served as a supply route. It was too old a suit to have been destroyed in the most recent round of fighting, and had long since been cannibalised of all salvageable operating components, but it provided excellent cover for the dismounted Federation pilots as they watched an armoured convoy of Zeonic drab artillery pieces rumble past on the thoroughfare.

The convoy was primarily of support vehicles falling back from the collapsing frontline. Fortunately, they were doing so just ahead of the retreating combat forces, so the escort was relatively light. High altitude fighters and helicopter support for the most part, though a few Magella attack tanks were interspersed amongst the troop carriers, materiel trucks, ambulances and howitzers; Zeonic command probably didn't think that it would be worth it to send MS with every convoy—better to hold the line as long as they could, especially when they would be falling back through what was ostensibly still secure territory.

Jesus, Isis thought, this is a lot of shit to be moving back. Well, Silvie, we're at least still hitting them.

Their team had been on the ground for several hours now, trudging across the steppe in search of friendly units firing signal flares after they judged that no more Zeeks were likely to be in the area. While it made her glad to see that the enemy was having a difficult time and retreating, it was by unfortunate that they had come upon the convoy when they did, for it had significantly slowed their trek back towards the front. There was just so much materiel being moved around…it almost made her nervous.

Perhaps they might be preparing to fall back just far enough to establish a stiffer resistance closer to their stronghold.

That thought was frustrating enough. The Federation's advance could—no should—have progressed much smoother than this. The operation had commenced three days ago, and despite heavy shelling and superior MS, the Federal Forces had still not yet reached Odessa. The shit just wasn't adding up.

`Sarge?'

Isis blinked. `I'm sorry, Vega, you were saying?'

`Just that the road's clear now,' her subordinate mumbled. `This might be a good time to make for that next stand of trees.'

She could have been less than tactful about it, and although that would've rankled, Isis would hardly have been in the position to really reprimand her about it. It was overcast, it was cold, and the three of them had been sopping wet ever since they ditched their suits. It was all Isis could do herself to keep from growing snippy.

`Right,' she said, and dashed from her hiding space behind the downed mech's right arm towards the nearest tree.

In similar fashion, she and her comrades went from tree to tree until they were close enough to dive into the ditch at the base of the elevated highway. Yet, whilst it was obvious that no further traffic was coming from either direction and the aerial support had long since flown past, caution still reigned supreme. Isis looked down the rutted, puddle, dirt thoroughfare one last time before climbing over the top of the ditch and scuttling across, bent at her midsection. The treeline was a good twenty metres back from the ditch on the opposite side, and after sliding down the embankment, she moved towards it as swiftly as she dared.

Roughly a minute and a half later, Faulkner was by her side where she crouched behind a log amidst the shrubbery and rotting leaves. She looked back in time to see Vega as she slipped down the side of the road, rolled into the ditch and sprinted over to them.

After the three had caught their breath, Isis pulled out the map and compass in order to try and gauge their position. Looking from the small plastic compass to her watch, to the milky white ball of the midday sun as it did its damnedest to hide behind the grey curtain of clouds, and finally back to the laminated map of the entire Ukrainian Front she gave a long sigh.

`Well, there's still too much Minovsky interference for the compass to provide accurate direction,' she said, `but from the position of the sun, and the fact that those Zeek bastards were busy high-tailin' it that way—' emphasised with a jabbing finger in the direction the convoy had been moving—`we oughta be fine as long as we stay going this way.'

Inez nodded, but said, `Sarge, I think we'd do well to get a little further from the road and rest up until nightfall though. Granted, that was a big convoy, so it's unlikely that there'll be another coming any time real soon, but if the line's really collapsing like that…'

`It won't be too long until the MS start coming this way too,' Isis finished for her. `You're absolutely right. Although, in this instance we'd have far more to worry about from another convoy than Zakus in that we make for such small targets, but you're right nonetheless. If I was a retreating infantryman, I'd want to stick as close to those Cyclopes as I could, and with all the anti-Zeek partisan activity going on in these parts, those ground-pounders will definitely be on shoot-first-ask-questions-later mode.'

`So…we rest then?' Jerome asked, speaking up at last.

Poor kid, Isis thought, looking piteously at him. `Yeah. We'll hoof it about another click or so and hopefully find cover where we can recoup.'

 

Alan Grey closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the oil-leather-and-electronics scent of the cockpit of his mobile suit. After letting out a long, controlled sigh, he flexed and clenched his gloved hands feeling the satisfying pop of the joints before setting them gently on the control sticks. As he slowly became conscious of the sounds around him—the hum of the generator, the higher pitched whir of the computer cooling systems, and, most distant of all, the muffled clatter and scramble of the hangar just beyond the closed hatch—he twisted ever so slightly in the seat feeling the muscles in his lower back tense momentarily, and then relax, moulded to the contours of the crash chair.

He at last opened his eyes.

Yes…this was what he had missed so. This adrenaline high that always preceded a launch. This tension…this exhilaration…this…

It was a sensation at once similar to, and entirely different from standing atop a stone jutting forth above a high waterfall. The—he would not lie to himself, for that's really what it was—the fear was there, yes, but there was also a familiarity to it that somehow prevented it from being total terror. A sense of yes, this is frightening, but I've done it before. Irrational, but the I've-done-it-before-and-I'll-sure-as-hell-do-it-again, attitude just would not go away.

Grey smirked at that. Would I want it to go away? He asked himself.

Hell fuckin' no.

This was where he belonged. This was how he'd come up in the ranks in this aristocrat's plaything of an army. No, he'd not been born into privilege like most of the other officers, he'd had to work for his recognition. And if it had been something of a fluke that he had received his most recent field promotion, then so fucking be it.

Of course, the irony there was that the new rank had taken him away from the front. Taken him away from that sensation of giddy not-quite-fear that accompanied a mobile suit launch.

Taken him away from September…

Ah, but here at last, his direct superior, the adjutant of the Commandant for this entire theatre of operations, had at last seen fit to return him to the field. To return him to his weapons and his calling.

Never one to choose style over effectiveness, and a genuine rustic if truth be told, Grey's weapon of choice was the MS-07B3 Gouf-class suit. The mech was unquestionably powerful—one of the mainstays of the terrestrial combat theatre—but few pilots could handle it so as to bring out the fullest of its potential. In fact, Gouf suits were generally reserved for officers or aces because of these inherent difficulties. The average Zeonic MS jockey piloted the all-purpose Zaku II suit, whilst special operatives were given permission to use the MS-09 Dom suits which had superior speed, armour, and firepower. Both were relatively simple designs and there was nothing particularly wrong with either (Grey himself had piloted a Zaku during the early days of the war). In fact, the Dom was technically superior to the Gouf in terms of capabilities; but it was designed to be a high-speed, hit-and-run suit. It was hardy, but with the standard bazooka armament, it simply could not last in an out and out firefight except possibly as a support unit.

The Gouf, however, was a brawler's dream weapon.

From the rubber-composite soles of its feet to the tip of the command crest, the MS-07B3 was eighteen-point-seven metres of expertly crafted fighting machine. Standard armament included a three-barrelled 35mm machine cannon mounted on the left forearm and a powerful electromagnetic pulse cable that could be fired from the right. Grey, however, had opted for the full load, which supplemented the arsenal by adding a six-barrelled 75mm drum and belt fed Gatling gun, a single-edged superheated broadsword, and a kite shield in the style of medieval knights. In fact, the whole suit itself seemed a high-tech version of the armour crafted in the workshops of old Milan back in the days when the pinnacle of martial technology was the Welsh longbow.

The armour of the Gouf was lightweight Lunar titanium alloy, but it was the 40,700kg of available thrust from the rockets mounted on its back that made the seventy-seven tonne suit capable of fighting at optimum efficiency. The armourers had splurged a little in designing the shoulder guards: they were massive, and made all the more imposing by three sinister looking spikes that protruded on each—perfect for ramming and goring enemy suits, or simply adding a gothic flair to the overall demoralising effect such a wicked looking MS already inspired.

In fact, the only thing about the suit that was not uniquely designed was the head or helm. Perhaps the Zeonic Company—the nationalised corporation that was behind most of the Duchy's weapons development programmes—had wanted some continuity in their product designs, for the Gouf's head was nothing but a more streamlined version of the Zaku's. Both were round and ended in a snout-like cooling vent, and both had the single half-metre in diameter eye-camera. The camera, when activated, glowed an angry shade of crimson—Grey had heard that the Feddies had taken to calling Zeonic MS `cyclopes' for this reason.

Still, it was a vicious suit. A straightforward grapple/brawler, very much in line with his own personality. Or at least, the way his personality had been before he had been forced to don the mask of `officer and gentleman'…

`Crusader One to tower.' His voice was something of a shock to his own ears as it broke the monotonous thrum of the cockpit instruments. `How's it looking out there?'

The reply was prompt, albeit somewhat staticky given the Minovsky interference: `Not too good, sir. Feds are forcing breakthroughs all along the front. Give `em another couple `a hours and they'll be in Uman.'

Except they won't be in the city at all, Grey thought grimly. No, knowing them and the strategy that they're working with, they'll bypass the city entirely and continue to push south.

`Acknowledged,' he said aloud, `we'll just have to see what we can do to stem the tide. You can give me launch clearance?'

`Yes sir. You and the rest of the 13th squad are cleared as soon as the techies get outta the way.'

`Roger that.'

 

The three Feddie soldiers camped beneath the spreading eaves of a massive oak that dominated a small copse of trees about a kilometre away from a farmhouse and eight-k northeast of the highway they had crossed earlier in the day. The map said that they were at least heading in the right direction towards where the front had been when they had first set out on sortie that morning (was it really just this morning? Jesus, it felt like a week had gone by already).

Jerome and Inez slept fitfully on beds of nettles and dead leaves whilst Isis took watch. It wasn't incumbent upon her to do so, being that she was the ranking soldier amongst them, but she had wanted it that way. Better to suffer a little herself and give them time to recoup—especially Jerome.

Isis allowed herself a smile as she gazed over at her male subordinate. So much like her kid brother back home. Of course, there were obvious differences—Troy played soccer in school and had a good ten pounds of muscle on Jerome who'd clearly been processed straight into the MS corps without having to go through all the hellish fitness tests that career soldiers like herself and Silvia had—but the basic personality traits were uncannily similar. It tore Isis up inside to have to see such a bright and good-natured kid thrown into the meat-grinder like this; he didn't deserve to die now, not with so much promised in his future.

And also, that the Federation government was so desperate for bodies to fight its wars that they were instituting a draft that brought in people like Faulkner…perhaps, if things didn't clear up soon, Troy might…

She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, her ear-length black hair spraying accumulated mud and water as she did so. She'd not think such things. It was bad for her morale, which in turn would be bad for his and Inez's morale.

Ah, Inez. Damn, they'd had some times together! Of course, the Valkyries had all been tight when they'd first started working together, but Isis and Inez had shared a bond that went even deeper than the camaraderie that had bound them to Silvia and Atsuko. Perhaps that was what had kept them both alive even now—but no. You could try and pretty it up with pretences like karma and fate all you wanted, but nine times out of ten, what war really boiled down to was just dumb luck. Not even training could save you; look how Jerome survived a firefight that Silvia…

`Such dark thoughts,' Isis murmured as she looked off in the direction of the slowly sinking sun.

`Thoughts of what?' Inez asked around a yawn. Apparently she'd awoken just after Isis had taken to watch the sunset.

`Nothing you need to concern yourself with, dumbass,' Isis said with a smile looking back in the direction of her friend/subordinate. They were alone in the wilderness and Jerome was asleep, so she figured they could take the time to talk as equals.

Inez brushed at the dead leaves and dirt that still clung to her flight suit as she walked over and sat down next to Isis. `Fuck you, bitch,' she said, smiling herself. A moment later, and seriously: `how you holding up, fearless leader?'

`I wish Silvia were here for one thing. I hate having to play commander.'

`I bet you do,' Inez said, sarcastically. `You've wanted that LT spot for a long while yet.'

`Yeah, but I didn't want it like this.'

`You think God and the Virgin give a shit what or how you want something?'

Oh Lord, Isis thought she's feeling Catholic again…

`Here, gimme your hand.'

`Why?' Isis asked, hesitantly. Whenever Inez started throwing around God or the Virgin Mary in her conversation, it was usually a sign that she was gonna get all religious and want to pray and shit like that. Isis never begrudged her to her face, but that stuff quickly got annoying. Scary too—there were no atheists in foxholes, but being all fatalistic and `In nominae Patris…' and shit didn't exactly calm her nerves.

`I want you to work my rosary. God'll help us get through this, Isis.'

The sergeant grumbled but took the beads.

Inez laughed. `It can't hurt anything, right?'

`You know I don't like this kind of thing. It makes me worry more than anything else. Worry about the war, about…not making it back…'

`Just say the words, Isis. God is for sure—He won't let you go astray.'

Isis grudgingly complied and went through some of the `Pater nosters' and `Ave Marias' that Inez had taught her. The latter smiled sleepily, and gave her a kiss on each cheek before retiring back to the dead leaves at the roots of the oak.

Isis was still muttering the prayers when a sound from further to the north caught her attention. She looked up sharply, as a frightened doe might at the sound of a cracked twig.

In a way, the analogy was oddly appropriate; it was a sound at once familiar and alien, a rhythmic shudder that was more felt than heard. Like thunder. Repeated rolls of thunder.

Like MS footsteps…

Instantly Isis was moving. She threw herself flat against the mud and detritus and crawled over to where Inez and Jerome were. Another seismic footfall and Inez's eyes shot open, revealing the whites all around the irises. Isis could see her fighting for composure as she approached, but knew that there was no need in telling her to keep quiet. No, sheer terror was already working well enough for that.

Another roll of thunder; this one followed by the prolonged groans and gunshot cracks of tree trunks being crushed. Isis looked back to the forest's edge, hoping to the God she had just been praying to that she would see the familiar white-on-red of a GM through the breaks in the canopy. Unfortunately, between the cloudy moonless night and the sheer density of growth in the small forest in which they had chosen to hide, she couldn't even make out a silhouette.

She realised then, surprisingly, that she still clutched the rosary and had subconsciously been working the beads the whole while. There truly are no atheists in foxholes.

She stopped right next to Inez and the two of them pushed up against the base of the tree, listening intently as the miniature earthquakes caused by the multi-tonne fighting mech's approach continued to grow in intensity. Jerome awoke, as gripped by fear as Inez was, and scrambling over to where they sat, latched on to her shoulders with white-knuckled intensity.

Nothing they could do but wait it out. Well, that and keep praying that it was, in fact a friendly.

 

 

Lieutenant September Pershing stood by the small, grimy window in the second floor pilot's lounge. Behind her, Yumi Tanaka and Mark Rosenfeld sat on opposite ends of the patched and worn blue leather couch in a most unnatural quiet, he smoking a cigarette and she holding a still unopened bottle of beer.

This isn't right, September thought, staring more into the space of her mind than at the sweep of the city or the coast of the Black Sea. How can they expect us to yet win this war?

Granted, they were faring much better than anyone had expected they would when the Fed first made the move to push towards Odessa, but hell if they weren't still falling back and losing too many good pilots like Wade .

Wade…

A good kid. They all were. So many young people being drawn into the war after the early days had killed off most the professionals of the standing army. She herself was an `old vet' at twenty-two.

`You think you're old? I'm twenty-four!'

A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. She knew this was not the time to think of Grey, not with news of another Feddie breakthrough and the overall miasma of gloom that surrounded her escort wing. Besides, Grey was ancient history—that is, if he would wake up and realise that he was.

Or if she would wake up and realise that he was…