by the fans for the fans

New Life, New Purpose


Dyson McCrae swam up out of the warm, comfortable darkness that was sleep, to find his senses being assaulted. First, his ears were on the receiving end of high-pitched clinks as metal objects impacted other metal objects, a sound he found exceptionally irritating.

Next, his nose and mouth were violated with scents and tastes of an antiseptic nature, something that wasn’t quite like the smell of rubbing alcohol.

Finally, he could see light, through his eyelids, and felt the crushing soreness that always occurred after something bad happened. His body was one big ache.

He opened his eyes, and looked. What he saw first was white, what seemed to be acres and acres of white. When he got up the nerve to lift his head, what he saw threw him for a loop.

He peered at the walls of the room he was in, and found all the trappings and mechanisms of a hospital room. Instruments and monitors hung on the walls, behind and beside several beds. All these beds were empty, except for the one he occupied. He let his head return to the pillow, feeling fatigue in his neck.

Several minutes later, a door opened, and a med tech appeared, pushing a small wheeled cart that had two covered metal trays, one large, and one small. The tech, Dyson immediately noticed, wasn’t a simple med tech at all, but a full blown surgeon, wearing the rank of major.

“Good morning.” The doctor said, in greeting. “Looks like I planned your wake-up time perfectly.”

“Where am I?” Dyson croaked, his throat badly in need of water.

“Still at Purgatory. Here, let me get you some water, and you can take these.” The doctor offered Dyson a small paper cup with two large white capsules in it.

Purgatory?? Dyson thought. Purgatory never looked like this! The walls were painted! They actually looked like real walls, not the form-fitted concrete slabs that he was used to. Add to that, Purgatory’s med station was simply a room that stored the few odd first aid kits the station was allowed to have. Not a full blown treatment room.

“How long was I out?” Dyson asked.

“Three days.” The doctor replied. “You received a mild concussion in the crash, and we treated that easily, but the base commander wanted you to get three days rest, so that’s the reason you’ve been out so long.”

Oh, God, the crash… Dyson thought. Suddenly, a flood of memories came smashing into his conscious mind. Views of the screen, where the horizon kept shifting from horizontal to vertical, his one remaining gun firing out of control, the loud CRACK that started the whole process of his destroid dying in the grey nothing that was Purgatory.

“There’s a clean uniform for you, on the bed, over there. They’re waiting for you in the briefing room.” The doctor motioned to the bed next to Dyson’s And, indeed, there was. New, from the look of the garments.

“Is my destroid scrapped?” Dyson asked, but the doctor had left the room, silently.

Dyson shook his head, slowly. Nice guy… great bedside manner. he thought, as he lifted himself up, and off the paper-lined mattress. As he stood, he could feel the fatigue and soreness leave his muscles. Whatever those pills were, they worked fast.

He walked, slowly, to the next bed, and examined the pieces of the uniform that lay there. As he did, he chuckled, softly, remembering how his unit’s unconventional uniform came to be.

Third Armor’s reputation for unconventional behavior on the battlefield was topped only by the cumulative amount of decorations its pilots had received. The top winners, by a narrow margin, were the DeathDealers. Their exploits were, literally, the stuff of legend.

Third Armor, like most of the units on board the SDF-1, had been depleted through attrition, from the continual assaults from the Zentradi fleet that pursued and assaulted the massive ship. One such assault had taken the bulk of Third Armors’ forces down to sixty-five percent of their optimal level. Both man and machine were being cut down at an alarming rate. By some strange quirk of luck, all the pilots that called themselves DeathDealers were alive, and functional, but their machines weren‘t. Most of the destroids belonging to the 43rd Heavy Assault were torn apart, needing repairs, and needing them badly.

When they went on watch, the pilots were milling around the repair bays, looking at their shattered and broken mecha, and trying to figure out how they where going to pull the watch with no machines. Someone had the bright idea to find whatever destroids were in working order, commandeer them, and apologize later.

No sooner than the idea had been implemented, and all the pilots found something to drive, than the alarm sounded for another Zentradi raid. The motley collection of destroids that made up the 43rd Heavy Assault, again marched out to meet the enemy.

While some pilots, Dyson McCrae included, found mecha of the same type as their own machines, more pilots were stuck in machines that weren’t familiar. Spartan pilots found themselves in missile-launcher Phalanx destroids, and Tomahawk drivers showed up in the anti-air-designed Defender.

After two brutal hours of battle on the decks of Daedelus and Prometheus, they brought their borrowed machines back to the bays, some damaged more than when they left, some in the same condition, but all still walking. That evening, when their watch was concluded, the beer flowed freely, and so did the stories.

The next day, as most of their machines were cleared, finally, for duty, 3rd Armor’s most infamous unit was called for an inspection in their assembly area. Most suspected a reprimand, or at least a strong dressing down, for absconding with other people’s mecha. They couldn’t be more wrong. The entire staff of 43rd Heavy Assault were being decorated, again.

When the commanding general attempted to award the first medal to a pilot, the highest ranking NCO, a Command Sergeant Major originally from Scotland, spoke up.

“With all due respect, General Sir, you can keep your medals. We’d like to have something else.”

“Oh, Yeah?” was the stunned general’s only reply.

“Aye, sir. We’ve got ourselves a reputation to uphold, one that says we’re a bit… different. We’d like to have our own uniform.”

Chuckling, the general nodded, and simply said “I’ll see what I can do.” Two days later, design specs and sketches were submitted, and in another two days, the DeathDealers had their own look.


Now, Dyson McCrae looked at the garments laid out for him. All the parts were there, from new black duty boots, and socks, to the black beret with his units’ symbol on the front.

Their uniform was a tribute to nostalgia, although in a very obscure way. From the feet up to the waist, it was standard issue. Black boots, and class ’B’ BDU pants, with a black web belt holding whatever the pilot carried, including their sidearm. From the waist up, though, it became a tribute to gladiators and warriors from times long past. A sleeveless gunmetal-grey shirt made of semi-ballistic cloth adorned the torso, with two semi-rigid shoulder caps holding rank insignia, as well as unit markings. The beret was military issue, but the fingerless leather gloves were a DeathDealer specialty.

Fighting through the last, persistent aches and pains, McCrae put the uniform on, marveling at the quality of the clothes. They were new, and not the ones he had been wearing these last seven years. In his time at Purgatory, he had managed to replace only two of his uniforms, and only after a paperwork battle that rivaled action he’d seen on the decks of the SDF-1.

But, new as the clothes were, he had more important things on his mind. The crash of Anubis weighed heavily, and the consequences of his failure to bring his destroid into the bay might be fatal to his career. Dyson had always managed to bring his machine home, no matter what the condition, and this was the first time he had to face the possible judgment of failure.

Finally dressed, Sergeant Dyson McCrae exited the medical quarters of Purgatory Station, and headed off to face the music. Medical was on the first floor of the station’s administration section, and on the other side of the building from the second floor briefing room. Because of this, McCrae walked through the admin section, marveling at the changes that took place. The walls were painted, freshly painted at that, in the style of grey that adorned battleships of the last century. The floor was carpeted, and it took a minute for Dyson to get used to the complete absence of sound as his feet hit the floor. Whoever was taking over the place, they‘d be living in the lap of luxury.

His path took him towards the wall that separated admin from the mecha bays. Thick concrete walls couldn’t completely obscure the sounds that continually erupted from the hangar, the staccato chatter of an air hammer, followed by the deeper POP-POP-POP as it torqued its target down. Clanging wrenches sounded off, followed by the muffled voices of technicians as they cursed the tools they dropped. From the amount of noise going on in the hangar, Dyson guessed there could be a full battalion or squadron in there.

Finally, climbing the stairs to the second floor of the admin section, Dyson found the door to the briefing room. He tried the door, and found it open. He walked, slowly, inside.

Purgatory’s briefing room, as long as Dyson had known it, was used for storing stuff, anything from old, dead paperwork, to the personal effects of the various station controllers, those people that tormented Dyson during his time at this place.

Now, though, the briefing room was anything but a storage room. Carpeted in a thick, lush shag, and lined with wood panels, the briefing room was dominated by a huge oak table in its center. On the far wall, towards the end of the oblong table, was a podium, and behind this was a projection screen. Dyson didn’t think the screen would be used, though, since the table had, in its center, a projection device all its own. Oblong as well, the opaque glass plate shimmered with energy, as it waited to show whatever it was programmed to.

Several chairs surrounded the table, luxury chairs. Framed in dark oak wood, the leather upholstery looked fresh and supple, looking more like seats in an old Ferrari than the standard RDF-issue folding crap. On the table, where the chairs were situated, seating arrangements were set up, each of them with a large white mug, a legal pad, a pen and pencil set, and a small blotter under it all. This is amazing! Dyson thought to himself.

Dyson noticed motion out of the corner if his eye, and turned to see the source. In the corner of the room, next to the podium, stood a female lieutenant. She stood just shorter than Dyson, and she wore the same uniform as he did. She seemed busy arranging another paper and pen setup on the podium, but as soon as he looked her way, she smiled and greeted him.

“Good morning, Sergeant.” She said, in a voice that was low, soft, and full of confidence. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well, after your fall.”

I’ll bet you are! Dyson thought, before answering her “Thank you.”

“You’re place is… let’s see…” She said, as she scanned the table. “Here you are.” She finally said, as she pointed to a place at the center of the table, on the far side from the door.

“Thank you, again, Lieutenant.” he said, taking his place.

“The briefing will start shortly. You’re a bit early.” She told him, still smiling. Sensing the worst, Dyson’s thoughts were full of venom.

As soon as he had seen this girl wearing his uniform -HIS uniform - he was certain that he would be discharged. She was here to take over his patrol duties, and assuming Anubis wasn’t scrapped, to take THAT over too!

As she moved around the table, situating things at the various chairs, he looked more closely at the insignia and markings she wore. She was, indeed, a lieutenant, but the red edges on her single bar denoted her as a ‘candidate’ officer, still needing to fulfill the last few requirements before her rank was solidified. Also, she wore the markings showing her as a destroid pilot, again with a red edging. So… Dyson thought You’re taking Anubis away, and you’re not even fully qualified?

On her shoulder caps, though, her unit designation was something alien to him, a unit he’d never heard of before. Something called the 21st CSOG. What the hell’s that?

The last thing he noticed about the young girls’ uniform was her name, printed on her uniform shirt: Keller.

Through all his thinking, Dyson became aware that a strange, long -lost aroma was caressing his nose. Coffee? Could it be? It had been so long since he’d had coffee, he had nearly forgotten the smell of it.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, but is that coffee?” Dyson asked, meekly.

“Yup. Sumatran supreme.” She responded, still wearing her amazing, dazzling smile. As he’d watched her, Dyson realized this girl was quite lovely.

“I can’t remember the last time was I had coffee.” Dyson mused, mostly to himself.

The young lieutenant chuckled, and pointed to the opposite corner of the room. “It’s all there. Help yourself, Sergeant. As much as you want.”

Dyson stood up, not really knowing what to think. As he grabbed the mug sitting in front of him, he was full of confusion. He thought hard on the way to the coffee service.

She’s being too nice. He thought. Here I am, and it looks like I’m getting fired, but she’s being courteous and friendly. She isn’t acting like someone who wants my job, but she hasn’t said anything about anything yet! ARGH!!

Savoring the wonderful, deep, rich scents coming from the stream of hot liquid filling his cup, Dyson cogitated further. Okay, if Anubis is dead, why not just tell me I’m out, and go on from there? If Anubis is salvageable, why draw this out? Tell me I’m gone, and be done with it!

Finally, the tension overwhelmed him. After taking the first sip of coffee in seven years, he looked at the young Lieutenant and asked “Is there any news on my destroid, LT?”

Again, with that great smile, she responded with “The techs’ll be up shortly, and they can tell you.”

Great! McCrae thought. More mystery! But before he could go any further, his thinking was interrupted by the sound of a phone’s chirp. He watched as the Lieutenant picked up the phone, listened, and finally responded with a short “Yes, Sir.” She pressed the plunger, then dialed another extension. After a half-second wait, she spoke again. “All tech leads to the briefing room. All tech leads to the briefing room. It’s starting, guys, so don’t keep the colonel waiting!” She hung up the receiver, and Dyson heard a loud beep from beyond the wall separating the hangar from the admin building, followed by her message.

Shortly after this, all the noise from the hangar bays ceased, and then the sounds of footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs that joined the hangar bays to the briefing room. Two young men in clean, blue coveralls entered the room, and shot Dyson mock salutes, while asking, one after the other, “How ya doin’?”

Quickly taking their places, as if they’d been there a thousand times, the technicians immediately got up again, filled their mugs, and returned to their seats, all the while, quietly chattering between themselves, quiet enough that McCrae couldn’t make any of it out.

Another door, on the opposite side of the room opened, admitting two more lieutenants. One of them Dyson recognized as the new control officer for the station, Hadden. Dyson, however, didn’t recognize the other officer.

The second lieutenant, a woman about the same age as Dyson, was roughly five feet tall, and her long platinum-blonde hair was draped over her right shoulder. Her glasses were a simple metal frame, the lenses highlighting crystalline blue eyes. Her left hand wore a wedding ring, and her uniform bore the markings of a tactical intelligence expert.

Everyone except the technicians wore the same colors, matching Dyson’s own uniform. Gunmetal grey, highlighted with black accents. There was a theme here, confirmed by the fact that every uniform, including the techs, bore the same unit designation: 21st CSOG. What is this? Dyson asked himself, again.

After a few seconds of waiting, the new station commander walked in. As he took his place at the podium, everyone in the room, including McCrae, stood at attention. Dyson looked at the colonel for a moment, and found that the man’s face was familiar, but at the moment, he couldn’t remember why. Dyson couldn’t find any help on the colonel’s uniform, either. Fitted with the same unit markings, it showed the colonel as a master destroid driver, and a simple brass plate showed his name, although it didn’t ring any bells: McKitterick.

As he situated himself at the podium, and made sure everything was to his liking, the colonel issued the command for everyone to take their seats. Everyone was quiet, and the deafening silence was maddening to McCrae.

Then, suddenly, the colonel barked out “Sergeant McCrae, up here, front and center!”

Dyson, ever the professional soldier, reacted immediately. Standing from his chair, he assumed the posture of full attention, then pivoted on his heels, turning to approach the podium.

When he completed the ten-foot walk, he saluted smartly, and resumed the stiff, straight posture, but his body was doing what his mind couldn’t. His brain was a complete jumble of thought and emotion. Still, he made sure that his last minutes as an RDF soldier and pilot were executed with decorum and precision.

The colonel gave Dyson a quick inspection with his eyes, once down, then back up. After this, he reached up and plucked the left shoulder cap off McCrae’s uniform. Oh, God, this is it. The end!

“Sir… am I..” Dyson tried to ask, but was cut off by the stern, sharp bark of the colonel. “You’re at attention, soldier!”

Dyson snapped back to full attention, and responded with a quick “Sir!”

The colonel reached up again, plucking the right shoulder cap, and then, with both in hand, he turned away from McCrae.

For the next few seconds, Dyson’s heart sank. Certain, once and for all, that his career as a destroid pilot was dead, he couldn’t help the one tear forming in his right eye. Nineteen years! He thought. Nineteen years, and it’s all over now! He felt like screaming.

When the colonel turned to face McCrae, though, he had a new set of shoulder caps in his hand. Where they came from, Dyson couldn’t see, but they were not at all what he expected to see. As the colonel presented them, then replaced them on Dyson’s shoulders, McCrae could see a gleaming set of captains’ bars.

“It is my great duty, and privilege, to restore the rank of Captain to Dyson McCrae, formerly of the 43rd Heavy Assault Platoon, Third Heavy Armor Corp, complete with all decorations and certifications.” McKitterick recited, with a tone of pride and respect.

Applause thundered in the briefing room, along with a few whistles and cheers. Dyson, completely overwhelmed, began to feel faint, so much so that he stumbled, slightly. Colonel McKitterick reached out to steady the wobbling pilot, and asked, quietly “You okay, Cap’n?”

Regaining his composure, Dyson replied, quietly “I… I don’t know what to say, sir.”

With a grin, the colonel relied “Well, a ‘thank you’ and a handshake is the usual procedure.”

Not one to disobey orders, Dyson took the colonel’s hand, and said “Thank you, very much, sir.”

Colonel McMitterick reached for a small, black box sitting on the podiums’ top platform, and handed it to Dyson, saying “These are yours, too.” As Dyson took the box, the colonel motioned to the table and said “Take your seat… Captain.”

“Sir!” Dyson replied. He pivoted on his heels, as he’d done before, and walked back to chair. This time, he couldn’t feel the floor under his feet. As he took his chair, he noticed that his every move was being tracked by the young lieutenant Keller. When Dyson was finally seated, she simply smiled, and nodded at him.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Dyson took a quick glance in the black box the colonel had given him. Inside were more insignia, and what appeared to be his old ‘fruit salad’, a collection of ribbons that marked his experience in the field, as well as his qualifications. Among the other loose identifiers inside the box, one caught his eye immediately. It was an insignia that declared, to the world, that the wearer was a master in the art of piloting a destroid. This qualification, more than anything else in this crazy morning, meant everything to Dyson. It meant that the last nineteen years of Dyson’s life had not been wasted.

When everyone was settled, and Dyson’s attention was back to the briefing, Colonel McKitterick continued. “I think it’s time for introductions. First, you’ve already met our control officer, Second Lieutenant James Hadden. He likes to go by Jimmy, though.” Dyson glanced his way, and got a nod from Hadden.

“Next to him is our intelligence officer, First Lieutenant Michelle Brooks.” The colonel continued, indicating the platinum-blonde woman that entered with Hadden.

“Those two guys in the coveralls are our technical chiefs, Torrey and Grey. They’re our top grease monkeys.” With their names mentioned, they also nodded to Dyson.

“And, Finally, this is Candidate Lieutenant Rachel Keller, driver of the Black Rose, another Tomahawk.” McKitterick said, introducing the young woman. She also nodded, but along with the nod, she gave a wink.

Dyson and the others stood and exchanged handshakes all around.

“So, with the pleasantries done, shall we continue?” McKitterick asked, to bring the briefing, once again, back to order. “What happened with Anubis?”

“Well, sir, I think a leg joint collapsed…” Dyson started, but was immediately cut off by one of the chiefs, Torrey.

“Sir, what happened was a severe lack of maintenance, compounded by sporadic drive-by fixits by an inadequate idiot.” Torrey started out. Continuing, his voice took on a harsh, wicked tone. “Anubis was neglected, to the point that it should’ve been overhauled six months ago. All his secondary weapons were near the point of failure, and his missile launchers were badly in need of replacement. His one main gun, the one that worked, that is, was getting ready to explode, anyway. It’s no wonder the gun fired out of control. About the only guns he had that were working were the head-mount machine guns.”

Torrey continued. “Chassis damage was considerable. We saw massive damage to all the leg joints, and the hip structure was complete hash. Hydraulic and pneumatic systems were on their last legs, too.”

McKitterick nodded, and asked “Prognosis?”

“Sir, we have most of the work done. Lower body’s good to go, and the rear torso section is all up to speed.” This came from Grey, the other technician.

Dyson was shocked. “You guys salvaged Anubis? After all that?”

Grey and Torrey chuckled, and it was Grey who responded. “Captain, we’d be pretty poor techs if we couldn’t fix your destroid. All we have left is the new cockpit, and that’s coming in early tomorrow.”

“New cockpit?” Dyson asked, still amazed at the speed of things.

“Captain, your C3 was a mess.” This was from Torrey. “You had a MOD-2 computer, that was patched together with some MOD-2 and MOD-3 software. We’re already at MOD-5, so you were due for a serious upgrade.”

Dyson nodded, understanding the basics of what Torrey told him. While the basic structure of a Tomahawk destroid remained the same after the initial design was approved, certain modifications in the internal structure and C3 components were always being developed. When Anubis was assigned to Purgatory, MOD-3 upgrades and replacements were just being produced, but the reasons for Dyson’s exile put Anubis at the bottom of the list for the new stuff. Now, seven years later, they were two full upgrade levels beyond what he knew of.

“On top of the new cockpit, we got you a whole new weapons suite, including the big guns, and new armor. we’ve replaced some of the old stuff that started delaminating, so you’ve got a pretty new machine, sir.” Torrey said, to supplement his bragging rights.

Dyson had a concern, right off. “How much of the original is still there?”

Grinning, Grey answered. “Captain, we were able to save about twenty percent of the original. It’s still Anubis.”

Relieved, Dyson leaned back in his chair. The rule of thumb was, if a destroid lost ninety percent of itself due to repairs, it was a new machine. Only eighty percent was replaced on Anubis.

McKitterick spoke up again. “When will you have Anubis ready?”

Torrey said “Sir, we’ve got him ready, now. A few last minute things, and we’ll be ready to install the mains. After that, we have to wait for the new cockpit, and get Captain McCrae fitted for the seat. After that, he’s good to go.”

McKitterick nodded. “Good. Gentlemen, please proceed. I don’t want to keep the captain waiting.”

With that, Grey and Torrey stood, and left. Shortly after, there was a resumption of sounds coming from the hangar, though it was heavily muffled by the walls of the briefing room.

“Intel, anything to report?” McKitterick asked Brooks. She responded by simply shaking her head. The colonel dismissed her with a nod.

“Control?” he asked Hadden.

“I’ve got all voice comms and data lines up and running, sir. Looks like we got the run of the place, so there should be no problems with our plans.” Hadden replied, consulting some notes he brought with him.

“Excellent” the colonel acknowledged. “That’s all, Jimmy.”

“Sir.” Hadden said, as he got up to leave.

“Lieutenant Keller, you have the rest of the day off. Find a way to enjoy it, huh? Maybe Captain McCrae might like some help moving into officers’ quarters, later.”

Keller smiled, broadly, as she replied “It would be a pleasure to assist him, sir.” And with that, she left.

Finally, Dyson was alone with the colonel, who moved to the chair opposite his.

The colonel looked Dyson in the eye, and asked, simply “Questions?”

“Just one, sir. What the hell’s going on here?” Dyson asked.

Colonel McKitterick stood, holding his mug, and walked over to the giant metal vessel to refill it. Offering to refill Dyson’s, he started his answer.

“Captain, before I can get into specifics, I have to tell you that anything I say from here on is covered under a Class-One directive. Are you okay with that?” The colonel asked.

Class-One? Dyson asked himself. For his part, a class-one directive meant that if he talked to anyone that wasn’t cleared for this ‘project’, or whatever it was, he would end up against the wall, waiting for a bullet.

Dyson McCrae had only ever worked under a class-three directive, the standard-issue rules for a front-line destroid driver. Nothing special, it set the rules about what you could talk about, and what you couldn’t.

A class-one directive, though, was different. This was the realm of black operations, and it gave Dyson the creeps to hear it. But, he was a captain, again, probably due to this guy, this enigmatic colonel, so Dyson figured he owed the colonel that much.

“Yes, sir, I can.” Dyson replied. “Now, again I ask, what the hell is going on?”

McKitterick returned to the seat opposite Dyson, and placed both mugs on the table. After both men had taken drinks, the colonel began.

“The SDF-3 is set to launch in just over two years. Since they’re designating the ship’s mission as primarily diplomatic, the Robotech Expeditionary Forces command is sending small fleets out to scout the trail, as it were.” The colonel began. “Now, most of these fleet ships are going to be equipped with front-line veritech squadrons, and a few destroid groups, but none of them are small enough, or specialized enough, to take on the types of missions that can’t be talked about.”

Continuing, the colonel said “There are going to be situations that the front-line groups aren’t going to be able to handle. I’m talking hostage rescue, infiltration, and other stuff that the brass will ‘have no knowledge of’, so to speak.”

Dyson nodding, began to get a picture of what, indeed, was going on here. As the picture formed, he continued to listen.

McKitterick expanded even more. “I’m working with a general, and the commander of a very good veritech group, to form a special operations contingent, for just such occasions.”

Dyson, sensing the opportunity for a question, asked “With just two destroids?”

The colonel laughed, and replied with “Our plans call for eight destroids, plus two platoons of marines.”

Dyson then asked “I got the impression there’s only the two of us, here. Me, and the other Tomahawk.”

Understanding McCrae’s concern, KcKitterick explained. “I have all the destroids. Pilots are what we need. Any new pilots going into the academy, though, are opting for the veritech side. Those few that choose the destroids, they’re gobbled up by other units quickly. Besides, I want the best, and so far, Lt. Keller is the only one that’s really shined.”

Again, Dyson’s curiosity was piqued. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s actually been in the accelerated program since she started at the academy. The girl’s a prodigy. Best entrance scores I’d ever seen. I grabbed her as soon as I could.” McKitterick told McCrae. “One of the reasons I got you your masters’ recertification. She’s due for her finals, so I need you to take her out, and prep her for them. They’ll take place here. If she passes, then she’ll be my lead pilot for the second destroid platoon, where you’ll lead the first.”

“That good, huh?” Dyson asked. “She sure seems confident.”

McKitterick nodded, and said “She went into a cross-training simulation, and clobbered seven targets. She’s been trained for Tomahawks, but she did that simulation in a Spartan. Impressive, to say the least.”

Dyson agreed, silently. The problem that most pilots encountered centered on their primary assignment. When a pilot is trained for one type of destroid, they find it very difficult to move to another.

“What about my old unit?” he asked.

“Third Armor is gone.” McKitterick explained. “All the older drivers topped out their twenty years, and retired. 43rd Heavy Assault is gone, as well. I know you didn’t hear about it, but the only other pilot left in the old DeathDealers died of a heart attack nineteen months ago.”

The news was a blow to Dyson. To add insult to injury, his ‘punishment’ was spread around. Not only was he assigned to Purgatory, but all of his fellow pilots in the 43rd Heavy Assault platoon were deployed into similar situations. Most of them opted for an early retirement, and Dyson couldn’t blame them at all. Only two of the pilots stuck it out with him. Of those, one got injured, and retired on medical leave, and, as Dyson just heard, the other died. Heart attack might have been the official cause reported, but Dyson suspected a deeper reason: despair.

Dyson took a moment to digest the news, adjusting to the fact that the DeathDealers were no more. The one symbol that was most constant in his life had been shattered. It was a difficult, bitter pill to swallow. And, in that instant, he found that he couldn’t remember any of their faces. This realization, coupled with the sad news of the other pilot, was very troubling for Dyson.

After giving McCrae a few moments of reflection, the colonel broke the uncomfortable silence with a simple question. “Captain, are you in?”

Lost in thought, it took another moment for Dyson to return to the present. “I’m sorry, sir. What?”

“The choice is yours, Captain. Are you in?” McKitterick asked.

After a few more deliberate seconds of thought, Dyson nodded. “Yes, sir. But I have one request.”

“Name it.” McKitterick said.

“Sir, I don’t want the DeatheDealers to die in disgrace. Let me keep the name for my platoon, so I can return some honor to it.” Dyson stated, with feeling. For some reason only known to him, the request was extremely important. Or, so he thought. It seemed that others felt the same way.

Reaching into his pocket, the colonel presented Dyson McCrae with one last gift, an embroidered unit patch for the 21st CSOG, and dead center in the patch’s design, was the old symbol for 43rd Heave Assault. A stylized ‘Grim Reaper’ figure, holding a scythe, and showing wicked, glowing red eyes under the cowl.

Dyson nodded, not able to put his gratitude into words, and realizing none were needed.

Colonel McKitterick stood, and walked over to the podium, where he grabbed a data plate. Looking like nothing more than a highly polished sheet of clear plastic, its top edge was solid black, where a few small buttons were perched. Punching one of these, the plate lit up, showing written data, and holographic pictures. McKitterick handed the data plate to McCrae, and said “Read this. It’s got all the particulars of the mission statement, as well as some technical descriptions and tactical overviews. When you’re done, sign at the bottom, and you’ll be officially part of the family.”

‘Yes, sir.” Dyson replied.

“After that” McKitterick continued “You’ve got the rest of the day for yourself. Get moved into officer’s country, and enjoy yourself. The techs have told me that they want you in the hangar no later than 0800, tomorrow.”

Dyson felt one last question float up. “Can I see Anubis, now?”

“Not right now. They’re installing the new mains, and you know what that means. No non-essential personnel.” McKitterick answered, a note of empathy in his voice. He knew that Anubis’ fall weighed heavily on Dyson. The torment wouldn’t die until he saw the great monster upright, and in good condition. “I’ll let you know when the restriction is lifted, though. It should be sometime this evening.”

“Thank you, sir.” Dyson said. He stood and saluted, as the colonel left the room. As the door closed, he was left with his feelings. Sadness over the loss of old friends, coupled with the overwhelming curiosity that came with this new assignment. And, to top it off, the undying need to see, really see, Anubis, upright and ready.

Well, no time like the present, Dyson thought, as he sat down to read.

For Rachel Keller, her world was completely filled with the excitement of seeing her hero, the man that had saved her life, the man that had influenced her decision to become a destroid pilot, and the man that she had grown to love. It was all she could do to keep from squealing like a school girl, the first moment she saw him. Maintaining her composure, in the face of The Dyson McCrae, was a monumental effort. She had to do things just right.

She’d shimmied out of her uniform earlier, and now she was prowling around Purgatory’s halls, looking for a diversion. Her own possessions were secured in a room in the officers’ quarters, so finding civilian clothes was no problem. She chose garments that, she hoped, would have a certain appeal for the new captain. Slightly worn blue jeans, black shoes, and a long-sleeved grey t-shirt, with a caption from the Destroid Academy splashed across the chest. The caption read “Tomahawks Have Bigger Guns!”, and the way she wore it, her physique gave the words new power. She chuckled to herself, wondering just what McCrae’s reaction would be.

She wandered aimlessly, choosing corridors at random, and found herself outside the ‘Enlisted and NCO’ rooms, the barracks-style housing that was meant to hold thirty-odd pilots and ground crew. As there were no other people here, McCrae had the room to himself, but Keller knew it couldn’t have been very comfortable. Dyson McCrae, she felt, deserved better.

Knowing McCrae was nowhere near the room, she opened the door, slightly, and issued the obligatory “Hello, anyone home?” Hearing no response, she entered. What she found was surprising.

Most of the stacked bunks were crowded in one end of the large room. They were the standard metal-tube type of stackable beds that have been present in militaries since the beginning of the twentieth century. These, of course, were stacked four high, to make best use of space, but they had no mattresses, linens, or pillows. Just the bare, metal frames.

Near the door, though, one was made up. A single bunk, professionally made, sat near the wall closest to the entrance door, next to a small collection of drawers, a small goal-post type hanging rack, and an improvised set of bookshelves, comprised of odd cinderblocks and old boards.

Not wanting to violate Dysons’ privacy, Keller focused on the shelves and their contents. Most of the books were hard covers, histories and other nonfiction, but a good portion of the books were also fiction, classical literature mixed with a smattering of newer stuff. Though it was small, the collection of books was an impressive, balanced selection.

She stood up from the short stack, and again, took in the room. As she did so, she was overwhelmed by a great wave of sadness. Her hero, the man she idolized, was stuck here, in this rat-trap room, living out his existence, and driving a machine that by all rights should have been repaired or retired. She, of course, preferred that it be repaired, because of the impact it had had on her life. Nothing as legendary as the great Anubis should ever be scrapped.

Her sadness, though, fled as soon as it came, as she came to realize another fact about this room. Even though this place was a dump for as long as he’d been here, he didn’t let despair overcome him. His bunk was still made to specification, all his personal belongings were in their proper place, and his uniforms were hung on the hanging rod with a modicum of precision, even. Still the consummate soldier, after all this time. No, she didn’t feel sad for him any more. She felt pride. Pride in the idea of learning from him, and serving with him. But, there was something more than pride at work in her. There was a deep longing, and an even deeper sense of love for the man she adored. She savored the feeling as she left the room.

Checking her watch, she decided it was time for lunch, and she had an invite to issue. But, as she started the walk back to the briefing room, she felt the sickening tickle in her throat again, the sign that she needed to take a hit from the device she hated most in all the world. She dug the pistol-gripped inhaler out of a pocket, and placed the inlet tube into her mouth. Pressing the trigger, she inhaled the metallic-tasting medicine quickly, and held her breath for as long as she could. Finally, exhaling, she felt her throat and lungs return to some form of normalcy. As she jammed the inhaler back into her pocket, she asked herself, silently, Will I have enough time? Enough time with him?

Dyson McCrae, meanwhile, had become completely engrossed with the information presented on the data plate the colonel had handed him. The mission statement, the unit’s organization, and even the ship’s schematics were a wonder to behold.

Two ships were to be involved, working loosely with each other. One would hold the destroids of the 21st, complete with their marine contingent, as well as the new drop sleds developed just for them. The other one, unnamed in the data plate document, was to hold a similar unit designed around veritech fighters and marines.

The drop sleds, in particular, were of special interest to McCrae. Called ‘Dragonflies’, they were manned vehicles equipped with force-shield generators and antigravity devices. One didn’t need to wonder where the name came from, either. Starting with a cylindrical body, or fuselage, the bulbous windscreen for the pilot, indeed, looked insect-like. Designed for maximum visibility, the windscreen simply added to the overall image of a dragonfly.

Extending from the tail of the body, a telescoping array held the antigravity generators used for transporting a heavy machine, such as a destroid. Extending from under the body, two articulated arms fitted with magnetic grapples, were meant to attach to the shoulders of a destroid, and the articulation assured that any one dragonfly unit could lift whatever class of destroid it was directed to.

Finally, the ‘wings’ of the things housed force-shield emitters to protect themselves and their payloads as they descended to a planet’s surface, or ascended from it.

The two ships themselves had a small history, one that seemed, initially, to be plagued with troubles, but now those troubles were resolved.

Completely human in design, the ships borrowed nothing from Zentradi influence. The internal workings of the ship were also human in nature, fully redesigned fold drives, living quarters, and external weapons all drawn up and built by the original inhabitants of Earth.

Originally called ‘Damocles’, the class of ship was drawn up as an oversized destroyer, meant to escort the SDF-3 on her long journey. The keels were laid for three of the Damocles-class, but only one went to space trials, the third day of which proved fatal to the new ship. Equipped with an underpowered set of engines, the resulting overload had breached the protective measures surrounding the ship’s fold drive, and the cascade failure obliterated the ship, and her crew. Since then, the hulls for the remaining two Damocles-class vessels were scheduled to be scrapped, and the materials used for other vessels.

But, apparently, an industrious group of officers gave the old Damocles deck plans a look, and began working to redesign them. With a new, more powerful set of engines and fold drives, as well as new weapons and hangar bays, the Damocles was reborn as the new ’Blackjack’ class light cruiser.

The entire ship was rebuilt, starting with the keel, where a large beam weapon was incorporated. The bore of the big particle gun stretched to fifty feet, and was fixed forward. Add to this, the ship was given twenty twin-barrel laser turrets for defense, and a completely redesigned hangar bay. The top of the square-ish main gun was flat, and made an excellent runway for shuttles and fighters approaching the Blackjack, where they would land in the cavernous hanger bay. For the destroids on Blackjack, there would be eight docking bays, with doors along the back wall, that would open to allow them to drop to planetside, with the assistance of the dragonflies on board.

For Dyson, all the technical aspects of the ship, and of the new mission, was pure brain candy. He was so entranced with the contents of the data plate that he was completely unaware of another voice, calling his name, until the voice made its third attempt. “Captain McCrae?”

Finally ripping himself from his reading, he looked up, and was completely taken by surprise. Standing in front of him was Rachel Keller, leaning on the table, her posture lending a certain emphasis to the words on her shirt. Her black hair, easily long enough to fall past her hips, cascaded over her left shoulder. Dyson felt his jaw drop.

Keller laughed, an infectious sound that Dyson found very appealing, then spoke, in her soft, deep voice. “Want some lunch, Captain?”

Dyson made a foul face, reacting to the prospect of more of Purgatory’s pre-processed food packs. “Do I have to?”

“The dining hall’s been redone, too, and we have an actual chef here.” Keller explained. “You might like his stuff.”

“Let me finish this thing.” He said, indicating the data plate. Popping a stylus out of the top portion of the plate, he applied his signature, and replaced it on the podium’s top platform.

With his reintroduction to coffee, earlier in the day, McCrae was instantly curious about the idea of real food. It had been so long, though, that he feared his stomach might fall out the moment it encountered something other than a processed paste. Still, he thought, anything’s better than nothing.

As they walked, Keller took the lead. Dyson, still in his uniform, immediately assumed the respectful position to escort a civilian, and even though Keller was a pilot, she wore civilian clothing now, and Dyson’s move was the practiced reaction of a career soldier.

As he followed her, though, he found himself, for a split second, wondering what it would be like to have her arms around him, to put his own around her. Another split second, and he slammed the door, hard, on that unwelcome thought. She was his subordinate, and a student, besides. He couldn’t allow himself to stray from his assigned duties.

Instead, he busied his thoughts with a more practical problem. As he followed her, he tried to figure out how she hid her long, silky hair under the beret she wore earlier. Another of those amazing tricks that women seem to know from the moment they were born. The unwelcome thought came back, knocking on the door, and it was all Dyson could do to engage a deadbolt lock, blocking the thought out.

Finally, they arrived at the dining hall section of the base. Dyson remembered the dining hall as simply another storage area, stacks of boxes, all containing food-packs the had been his diet for so long. Now, it was a carpeted affair, like the briefing room and every other place he’d seen. Broad tables were situated all around the room, with equally sturdy chairs. On one side of the place, a serving counter stood in front of the kitchen, some of its glass plates steamed to opacity. On the opposite wall, a complete selection of drinks were on display. Anything from soda, to iced tea, to coffee was offered. Towering stacks of glasses stood next to the servers, as well as napkins and silverware.

Soon, the smells of the kitchen hit Dyson’s nose, and his gut wrenched in a horrible pang of hunger. It had been three days, after all, and his stomach screamed for something.

Keller broke the silence. “Tony?” she called.

A pure Creole accent came form the back of the kitchen area. “What do you want, Little Girl?”

Tilting her head back in a mock wolf-howl, Keller shouted “We want FOOD!”

The owner of the voice, a sandy-blonde man slightly shorter than Dyson, appeared around the corner, asking “What’s this ‘we’ stuff, darlin’? You got a mouse in your pocket?”

As Tony rounded the corner, he noticed Dyson, and smiled. “You must be the captain everyone’s been talkin’ ‘bout.”

Keller made the introductions. “Tony Brooks, meet Captain Dyson McCrae. Captain, this is the god of our kitchen, Tony Brooks.”

Dyson thought, fast. Brooks… Brooks… AHA! He asked “You’re married to the… uh…” He ended his question with an upward-pointed finger.

“That’s right, Captain. She’s my lady wife. And, as for what Little Girl, here, is sayin’, I don’t know about bein’ a god or nothing’, but I get the job done.” Tony explained. Then, he asked Keller “What do you think our captain, here, might want?”

Keller’s eyes glowed, as she schemed. “Tony, let’s get him one of those amazing open-faced roast beef sandwiches, and your steak fries!”

Tony nodded, and said, simply “My specialty.” Then, continuing to Dyson, he said “Captain, help yourself to the drinks we have, and there’s no limit. We’ve got plenty. I’ll have your meals out shortly.” With that, Tony returned to the kitchen, a man with a purpose.

Dyson and Rachel got their drinks, and found a table.

“Tony’s been trained in Paris. That’s why I call him a god. His food’s amazing!” Keller started. “I’ve been eating his food ever since I started at the academy, and he’s never failed to make wonderful stuff.”

Dyson, though, didn’t know whether he’d be able to tell the difference between amazing, and just plain good. His palate, such as it was, might have been wrecked by the food packs that he had had to ingest for so long. He had to admit, though, that the place smelled damn good.

While they waited, a silence stood over the table. Dyson, still somewhat overwhelmed by the day’s events, found it hard to speak. Rachel, though, found the silence easy to break.

“I read your record.” She said, in opening.

“How? My record’s been sealed.” Dyson said, feeling a bit awkward.

“Nah, just the stuff that happened here.” Keller replied. “When you were a sergeant, I could look up your duty record with no problem. I am an LT, remember.”

“Candidate LT, if memory serves.” Dyson said.

“Still an LT, though. Executive privilege, you know.” Keller said, smiling.

“What did you think? Did it put you to sleep?” Dyson asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Oh, no!” Rachel answered, at once. “You’re record is amazing! Some of your stuff is even taught at the academy! But, there’s really no record of your assignment here.”

Dyson grumbled, softly. “That’s because this isn’t just any assignment. It’s a prison.”

Tony arrived with their orders, two large plates piled high with delicious smelling food, and Dyson’s gut did another lurch. His hunger was very, very real now, and it was all McCrae could do to keep from diving into the plate like a savage.

“Captain, it’s an honor to finally meet you.” Tony said, extending his hand. Dyson took it, returning the handshake. Before leaving, Tony said “Anything you need, you let me know, now.” And with a nod, he returned to the kitchen.

Dyson returned to his chair, and gazed at the plate, for a moment. Then, finding his fork, he began to eat the first real meal he’d had in over seven years. The delight he experienced was beyond description. He was, he felt, in heaven. As he ate, though, he became aware of the fact that Rachel Keller wasn’t joining him. Looking over at her, he could see a look of genuine concern on her face.

Looking a question at her, she simply responded by saying “Tell me.”

After swallowing his first bite, Dyson said “Tell you what?”

“Why you were here. What happened?” Rachel asked.

After a moment’s consideration, and a few more bites, Dyson nodded. Taking a drink from his soda, he swabbed his mouth with a napkin, and began his story. “I was a captain, before, you know…”


Dyson McCrae was, indeed, a captain, before his assignment at Purgatory Station. His rank was the result of long years of battle in the cockpit, as well as study and determination.

After the final landing of the SDF-1, Dyson, and several other DeathDealers, were asked to instruct at the RDF Destroid Academy. With most of the long-term destroid pilots retiring out of sheer exhaustion, the ranks were being depleted at a high rate. Being a supposed time of peace, Dyson and his fellow pilots accepted.

For the first two years of his training assignment, things went well. McCrae was able to attain his masters’ certification, and the addition of ‘Academy Instructor’ was a fine feather in his cap.

As McCrae’s reputation in the academy grew, so did the demand for pilots who trained under him. Some of the students even asked for him, by name. Others were assigned to him by highly powerful people.

One of these students was Sean Higgins, son of Major General Willis Higgins. Sean, used to his father’s influence, had an easy time going through basic training. Being a general’s son, his course of action was predetermined. Just like daddy, he was supposed to be a destroid driver. And, being a general’s son, he was supposed to get the best training possible. He was assigned to Captain Dyson McCrae.

Dyson, though, didn’t suffer fools lightly. Sean, a ruthless prankster in basic, and one of the few ‘silver-spoon’ candidates, found a brick wall where his instructors were concerned. Sean’s father might have been able to pick his trainer, and use his influence to cover up a lot of stuff, but Sean found out the hard way that his father’s influence only went so far where Dyson McCrae and company were concerned.

One fine morning, Dyson and two other instructors were leading a group of seven Tomahawks to a missile range, for a simple free-fall trajectory lesson. The range, several kilometers south of the academy, was situated on the edge of a desert region. Just beyond the range’s southern border was a Zentradi settlement zone.

Zentradi, being genetically engineered for combat, found that adjusting to peacetime conditions was extremely difficult for them. The urge to fight was very strong in them, and, as a result, riots broke out with a fair amount of regularity, regardless of their opponent’s race. Humans and Zentradi were all fair game.

Halfway to the missile range, Dyson’s group of Tomahawks were diverted to intervene in one of these riots. The settlement zone south of the range had reported major structural damage, and an urgent need for medical assistance. All the claims were overstated, of course, but that was the only way a settlement could get any attention to their problem. Simply stating the truth of a situation, that two Zentradi males were wrestling in the streets, would’ve gotten nothing but a laugh.

So, Dyson’s crew of ten Tomahawks ran down, past the missile range, to the settlement zone. As they approached, the situation reports gave their C3s targeting and navigational data to work with, as well as a clearer picture of the actual events happening. As was the case, so many times before, two Zentradi males were slugging it out over a relatively minor issue, and someone overreacted.

The usual procedure for anything like this was to observe, intervene if needed, then report. Sean Higgins, however, didn’t restrain himself to the usual procedure. Seeing the red target data on his screen, he thought he was finally going to see some action. Arming his missiles, he throttled up, and ran his destroid ahead of the group, until it got to the optimal firing range. He fired four, selecting a free-fall trajectory, and started thinking of the great medals he had coming for his act of bravery.

When the missiles struck, though, they landed in a completely different part of the town, killing seven zentradi, and four humans. The fight was stopped, but at a horrible cost. Enraged, Dyson had to use every once of his will to keep from blowing Higgins’ Tomahawk sky high. Finally, after a huge amount of effort had been expended, Dyson managed to get his group back under control, and headed back to the academy’s hangar bays.

A court of inquiry was held, and found that Captain McCrae was not responsible for the actions of Sean Higgins, and that Sean Higgins was guilty of murder. The court made sure that Sean Higgins was going to spend the rest of his life in the stockade, contemplating the meaning of restraint.

Sean’s father, however, didn’t see things in quite the same light. Major General Willis Higgins had seen his legacy destroyed. His son was now a disgrace, and the officer meant to ensure his career, Dyson McCrae, was a free man. This was the biggest insult of all.

Pulling whatever strings he needed to, Willis Higgins arranged his own private court of inquiry, with two other generals that owed him favors. Finding, on their own, that Dyson McCrae was the commanding officer for the training mission, he was responsible for the conduct of his students, and for this, he was sentenced.

For the inexcusable act of defying Major General Willis Higgins, Dyson McCrae was stripped of his rank and accolades, dropped to the lowest rank allowed for a pilot, and sentenced to live the rest of his days at Purgatory Station. And, to add the final insult to their verdict, the three generals decided that the rest of 43rd Heavy Assault should share in Dyson’s punishment. They were all given similar assignments, with lackluster maintenance, poor food, and even worse administration. When asked why they were being assigned such horrible duty, they were referred to Dyson, who had no real answers to give.



“…and this is where I’ve been since then.” Dyson said, in closing.

Disbelief and astonishment marched across Rachel Keller’s face in regular intervals, as she heard the story. Finally, she shook her head, slowly, and asked “Why didn’t you leave? Retire?”

“All I’ve ever known is the cockpit.” Dyson answered. “If they’d thrown me out, I would’ve been able to get a job driving construction mecha, but this is the only life I’ve ever known. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of breaking me.”

Dyson looked at his empty plate, and felt a moment of sadness. He’d been so involved in telling Rachel the circumstances that led to him being at Purgatory that he barely noticed the fine meal he’d had. Oh, well, he thought. There’ll be more.

As they took their empty dishes to the appropriate place, Rachel asked “Want to get your stuff moved, now?”

“Sure.” Dyson said, smiling. He looked forward to having an actual room of his own.

“Ok, I’ll meet you there.” Rachel said, her own smile lighting up her face. She told Dyson that she’d go get a rolling cart for the move, and would be at the NCO’s room shortly after he got there.

Dyson took his time walking to the NCO quarters. He spent the time trying to come to terms with everything that had happened that day. So many things, so many new people, the sheer immensity of his new circumstances made it difficult for Dyson to truly appreciate all that had so suddenly happened. He felt as if he were in a dream, one that would be shattered the moment he woke and found himself back in the shabby life that he had in Purgatory. Try as he might, he just couldn’t get his head all the way around the changes.

He entered his old quarters, finally, and immediately began prepping his things for the move. Two minutes later, he realized that the job was done. His pitiful collection of posessions wasn’t much, and he could’ve probably done the entire move himself. The young lieutenant, though, might have been disappointed at the thought. She was so intent on helping Dyson, he didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

Using the little free time he had left, he locked the door, and got out of his own uniform. Finding clean clothes of a civilian nature, he quickly changed. A black t-shirt and blue jeans later, he was ready to move. When he unlocked the door, he found Keller waiting, a grin on her face. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.” Dyson replied. He watched as she rolled a wheeled cart, roughly six feet in length, into the room. Dyson started with his books, stacking them in order on one end of the cart. Then, with the books placed, he started reaching for the old, decrepit components of the shelves, themselves, but was stopped by Rachel. She explained that the officers’ rooms had their own shelving units built into the walls.

The packing and stacking of all things Dyson McCrae lasted less than ten minutes, a fact that gave Dyson a tiny bit of embarrassment, but he was thankful for the ease of it. Less stuff meant he could get this over quickly. With that, they moved out.

Dyson was ready to push the cart, but Keller had all but shoved him out of position, and manhandled the thing herself. She seemed eager to please, so much so that Dyson found her attitude a bit intimidating. As they moved down the corridors, she talked, lightly, about little things. How nice the place had shaped up, how they had over a thousand people working on the station while Dyson was out cold, and how she helped put his new quarters together. Dyson listened, intently, as she rattled on and on about this and that, and found himself enjoying it. The voice of another human being was definitely something he liked to hear, after all his years in solitude.

They finally reached the corridor for the officers’ quarters, where Keller pushed the cart to a door with a simple etched plaque that read “Captain Dyson McCrae”. She drew his attention to the door opposite his, where another plaque was etched with “Lieutenant Rachel Keller”. She seemed genuinely happy that her room was across from his, and Dyson didn’t see any harm in it either, so he simply nodded, and smiled.

Dyson didn’t know what to expect in the new room, but what he found when he opened the door was beyond anything his mind imagined. The room was spacious, easily the size of the NCO’s quarters. It was heavily furnished, too. Along the walls were built-in shelves and drawers, even a desk. On one wall, another door led to a small bathroom that had its own shower stall. On the far wall, away from the entrance door, there was a large bed, recessed into its own little cave-like recess. Dyson took a moment, just to look at the new place. After taking it all in, he started to unpack.

The unpacking took only a few more minutes that the original packing, something that Dyson was thankful for. It meant that he could spend more time arranging things to his liking. As he did this, Rachel sat on the edge of his new bed, and continued her chatter. For some, this might have been annoying, but for Dyson, it was bliss. News of the outside world had never reached Purgatory, and so he listened intently to her, while he placed this and that.

Their conversation was interrupted by a thumping sound over the PA system. Dyson’s new room even had a PA speaker situated high in one wall, and so the message was heard, loud and clear. After the initial thumping, Colonel McKitterick’s voice erupted over the speaker. “Is this thing on? Does it work, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s voice quickly jumped in, saying “Yes, Colonel. It’s on. You just have to talk into this microphone, here.”

McKitterick saying “Now?”

Hadden “Yes, now.”

McKitterick, muttering “…damn new-fangled gadgets… I could never get the hang of ‘em…” After his muted utterance, the colonel cleared his throat, loudly, and announced “Attention shoppers. Attention. Anubis is now available for viewing in bay zero one. Anubis available, bay zero one.” And, after a few seconds, he shot another question at Hadden “Did I do that right?”

Hadden replied “Yes, sir. It’s just fine.”

McKitterick said “You know, I don’t think so… I’d better do it agai…” and the announcement was cut off.

Dyson and Rachel both laughed at the broadcast. They both knew that the colonel had to be one of the most technically proficient people around, so his play acting was a welcome diversion.

Dyson looked around, and found that most of his stuff was situated correctly. He looked at Rachel Keller, and said “I’m going to go look at my destroid, now.”

Rachel asked “May I come with you?”

Shaking his head, Dyson answered “Not this time. Your company’s been great, and I enjoyed the hell out of it, but I’ve had a lot of stuff thrown at me in a very short period of time. I just need a while to try and digest it all. Sorry, Miss Keller, but I’m going solo on this one.”

A quick flash of sadness crossed Rachel’s face, but she quickly recovered, and nodded. “I understand. You know where I am, at least, so if you need anything, let me know.”

Dyson nodded, and replied “I’ll do that.”

With that, Dyson and Rachel exited his new quarters. Rachel went to her own room across the hall, and Dyson moved in the direction of the hangar. His pace quickened with every step, to the point that he was almost sprinting by the time he reached the door.

As he entered, he was surprised, again, at how things shaped up. He was used to a drab, depressing interior in the hangar, but the difference was nothing short of amazing. Bare concrete walls were now painted a bright white, and the markings all around the hangar were fresh and bold, as well. It may as well have been a new place.

As he entered, Dyson found the hangar to be quiet. Just the hum of a few machines, here and there, but there were no human noises. No crashing tools, no curses being thrown. He had the place to himself. He felt like he was in a cathedral.

Dyson walked slowly towards bay 01. As he proceeded, he could feel his heart beat, pounding out a fear the he couldn’t quite overcome. Was it all a joke? He asked himself. Would Anubis really be there? He wouldn’t know until he rounded that last corner.

Finally, standing in front of the bay, he looked.

There was Anubis. In pieces, but still there.

The legs and hips stood on their own, resplendent in new paint and markings. Behind and above them, the rear torso section sat on a scaffold pedestal, complete with the new arms, guns, and armor Dyson had been told about. Anubis might not have been whole, yet, but it still stood there, full of pride and menace.

Dyson walked up the shallow ramp leading to the bay, and closely examined the legs. The markings on the destroid were the same alphanumeric codes delineating its identity. There was something new, however.

On the left shin, someone had replaced the ‘nose art’ style picture that had been painted there. Originally, Dyson had gotten a friend of his to paint a portrait of the great Lord Anubis, from Egyptian antiquity. Originally, the picture was a recreation of a statue, Anubis standing tall and straight, with a staff in his hand.

Now, though, Anubis was more menacing. Leaning forward, he held his staff with both hands, lightning sparkling from its tip, and the great god’s jackal face was fixed in a snarl. Under this new art was a single word, in a text that was meant to resemble Egyptian hieroglyphics. The letters spelled ‘Anubis’.

Dyson ran his hand along the portrait, marveling at what had been done. Still overwhelmed by everything, he found this new identifier to be just another aspect of the whirlwind of events that had taken place since the morning, when he woke up expecting to be fired. He walked back to the center of the hangar bay floor, and took in as much of the destroid as he could. Concentrating hard, he could just make out the coolant pumps for his machine’s reactor, humming quietly. Yes, my friend, you’re still alive.

Dyson continued to gaze at the wondrous sight of his newly repaired mecha. As he looked, his body started to stand with a rigidity that mimicked the destroids’ own. Dyson’s heart swelled with pride.

Finally, after an indeterminate amount of time, he broke his gaze, and started to take in other aspects of the hangar. He turned, and was stunned to see something he didn’t notice before.

Standing in the bay opposite from his own was another Tomahawk. This one painted an olive drab, it held markings that were different from Anubis, but similar. On its own shin, a black rose, its stem studded with steely-looking thorns, proclaimed to all that this was the ‘Black Rose’. Dyson stepped back, taking in Keller’s machine. Aside from the different paint job, it was identical in every respect to Anubis, except that this one was whole.

The Black Rose’s missile launchers were open, both on the chest, and the one sprouting from the right shoulder, and they all had missiles tucked away inside. The white-painted bodies of the missiles stood in stark contrast to the overall olive-drab green paint job of the machine. It was as if Keller, by extension, was showing her willingness to go, to learn, to be a pilot. Dyson knew that the launchers were left open by the technicians that serviced them, but still, there was that sneaking suspicion that said Rachel was behind this.

Dyson turned away from the Black Rose, and took in the rest of the hangar. The roof, some sixty feet above him, wasn’t coated in grime and soot any longer. Its grey paint made a pleasant transition from the bright white of the walls. Towards the admin section of the building, there were work benches and large red tool boxes, lockers for larger tools, and even several shelves full of manuals. All of these things looked so new, it could’ve come out of a catalog, or a recruiting poster.

Turning the other way, Dyson looked down the expansive walkway, towards the other bays. There were twenty-four in total, only two of which were occupied by destroids. Thoretically, they could service veritech fighters, as well, but they’d have to be in their battloid mode, their most human of appearances.

Dyson saw, though, that there were objects in bays three and five. On closer inspection, three was the current home of two piles of scrap armor sheeting. Some of these sheets still bore the chipped, tan paint, and faded markings of Anubis’ former life. Dyson chuckled, savoring the idea of shedding that old life, just like these pieces of armor.

In bay five, the giant hulk of his former cockpit loomed. Dirty, chipped, and leaning slightly to the right, Anubis’ old, red, crescent eye looked at Dyson, a parting glance from an old friend. The only markings on this section were the D-3, on the area that would be Anubis’ midsection. Dyson was sure that the same D-3 would be on the new cockpit section the next day. Another oddity caught McCrae’s attention. Several cables snaked from the old module to a small, black box. A tiny panel showed lights and a readout on the face of the box, but Dyson didn’t have the courage to get closer, lest he face the wrath of an angry tech.

Dyson continued his walk down the bays, their numbers, big and black and painted on the rear walls, getting progressively higher as he went. Odds on his left, evens on his right. However they did this, the hangar was amazing.

Finally, he reached the big, heavy door that allowed mecha in and out of the hangar. The door was in four sections that slid horizontally, opening to a full width of forty feet, and as high as the hangar itself.

An announcement came over the loudspeakers, telling all that heard that the dining hall was now closed. Dyson checked his watch, and was startled that the time had gotten away from him. Still full from lunch, he wasn’t interested in eating.

He found an access door to the outside of the building, a simple man door, built into one of the huge, sliding pieces that made up the giant mecha door. He opened it, stepped outside, and was greeted by an amazing sunset. Bright orange coated the horizon, and the clouds were tinted a deep, glorious purple. Dyson simply stood in awe of the sight.

“Beautiful, huh?” a voice said.

Dyson turned to the source, and found Colonel McKitterick standing next to the door, in civvie clothes, and clutching a cigar.

“I’ve seen a few out here. It was the only nice thing about this place.” Dyson explained.

“Well, there’s a lot more, now.” McKitterick said. His gaze was drawn to the magnificent colors, as well.

The two men stood and watched as the sun dipped below the horizon, another day for the record books at Purgatory Station.

McKitterick motioned to another new addition that Dyson hadn’t yet seen. Standing about thirty feet away from the building was a plastic-and-metal picnic table. On the table were a package of the colonel’s cigars, and a cooler, opened to reveal cold soda in cans. McKitterick motioned to the table’s contents, inviting Dyson to help himself. Dyson did just that. Finding a cold cola, he popped it open, and took a long pull. Finishing with a PAH, he sat at the table as the colonel ditched the stub of his first ciger, and made preparations to light another.

“Colonel, I…” Dyson started, but was cut off. McKitterick hooked the sleeve of his own t-shirt with a finger, and said “No uniform, so you can call me Jeff.”

“Ok… Jeff… I guess I’m ok with that… Your unit is a bit strange.” Dyson said.

“Yes, it is. What concerns you?” The colonel acknowledged.

“Well, it’s got a weird feel to it. I don’t know quite how to explain it, but it’s there.” Dyson said, trying to put his jumbled thoughts into words.

“Are you talking unit structure, or the way we interact, something along those lines?” McKitterick prompted.

“Well, that, and the fact that this place shaped up in days… that kind of work takes weeks, usually.” Dyson said. With the colonel’s help, his words started making more sense.

“Ok, first things first.” McKitterick said. “Unit structure is out of the ordinary, because we’re so small. We have the classification of a combat group, but really, we’re not going to be made up of more than two platoons, at best. Since our mission is so sensitive, we’ve got a large amount of latitude to work in.”

“Okay.” Dyson said, curious again. “Now, how about the way you folks talk to each other?”

“I want this unit to run as smoothly as it can, so I have to have people that are comfortable with each other.” McKitterick explained. He had, apparently, anticipated these questions.

“Why the urgency, Jeff?” Dyson asked “Why rush things so damn fast?”

McKitterick took a long pull on his cigar before answering, seeming to savor its rich flavor. “You and I are career destroid pilots. It’s what we are. Now, they’re telling me that some kind of veritech ‘hover tank’ is being put up on the drawing board, and you know what that means. Any time a new toy comes up, the old ones get thrown out.”

Dyson nodded, and allowed the colonel to continue.

“See, I can guarantee that we’ll be operational as long as destroids are in active service, but when they’re replaced, we might be out of a job, or worse, forced to drive those damn things.” McKitterick said, with a bit of a growl. “This is, in essence, our last dance.”

Taking it all in, Dyson pondered the gravity of what McKitterick just told him. It meant that the destroids were an endangered species. However long it took, they would be phased out, in favor of the new, flashier whatever-it-was that some junior egghead came up with. It might take years, a couple of decades even, but the drastic truth of the matter was, nothing lasted forever. Not even Anubis.

Finally, Dyson spoke. “I hope your faith in me is justified, Jeff. It’s been a while for me.”

McKitterick replied, his voice confident and comforting. “You’ll do fine. After all, it was Keller that chose you, not me.”

Dyson sat up straight, hearing those words from the colonel. “What? Her? How?”

“When I plucked her for this unit, I asked her who her choice would be for a final trainer.” Jeff said. “She said you. I told her that you weren’t available, and she said that if I wanted her, then I better find a way to get you. She’s that good, Dyson. I need her… And, I need you, too. This doesn’t work without an experienced person on the lead.”

“Like I said, Jeff, I hope I can justify your faith.” Dyson repeated.

“You will.” McKitterick replied, simply. “I’m certain of it.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I present, for your enjoyment and approval, Part 2.

Yes, it's big.

great read! I can't wait for the next part =]

To say i'm in RT heaven reading this is an understatement! Between Your Story here and Attention On Deck! These have to be the best stories in the RT universe. I mean i like my Mckinny novels but they just don't do what you two do!

I'm glad you like it.

I'm not familiar with 'Attention on Deck'... can you point me in the right direction to find it?

Needless to say, after part two, my brain felt like jell-o, so it's time for me to take a break, before I continue with three.

Thanks for the feedback, LVS.

Yeah np it's a great story and as i've subscribed to this i'll be waitin lol!


btw incase the PM didn't go through here is Attention on Deck's address.

www.robotech-aod.com/

enjoy it but don't stop writing urs!! LOL:laugh:

enjoy it but don't stop writing urs!! LOL:laugh:

Are you kidding? As soon as my brain congeals to something like it's former self, I'm gonna get crankin' on pt.3...

Thanks for the link. That story looks interesting. The little I've read so far looks great!

Kudos...Kudos and Snickers (i think those are compliments, if not they are making me hungry) i really enjoy your works man.