Macross The Ride - #2: Up, Up and Away
Compared to the galaxy as a whole,
mankind’s history is no more than a speck of dust.
The galaxy knows none of this.
But we do.
A person’s life and death may be no more than a fleeting moment,
but the human soul lives in a way that understands the value of each moment.
Thus, the radiance of each soul is no less brilliant than the galaxy itself.
That is the nature of this story.
“How the hell did things turn out like this!?”
The girl named Chelsea Scarlett had uttered these words to herself every time she woke up for many years now.
Not the stark, specially-armored ceiling of the Macross Quarter battle carrier. She rubbed her tired eyes, looking up at the decidedly classic, wood-panelled ceiling.
Sparkling sunlight from an artificial sun streamed in through the window, enveloping her old yet clean sheets.
She was confused, but not quite uncomfortable.
The bedroom assigned to her was small and cluttered, but not dirty at all. Old photographs, models of Variable Fighters and engine blades of unknown origin were scattered throughout, telling the story of its inhabitant's love for planes and childish attachments.
She sat up halfway and brushed her hair back from the linen pillow.
Did I… sweat in my sleep…?
As usual, she wondered if she’d feel the sticky remnants of a nightmare on her, but there was no such thing. All that tickled her senses was the faint, rustic scent of sun-kissed linen.
Not having that dream about sleeping in an icy coffin actually gave her a slight sense of unease, but she forgot all about it as soon as she felt the scent of coffee in her nose.
“Yo, good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
The man’s unfamiliar voice startled her, so she rushed to pull her sheets up to cover her ample breasts, barely concealed by her T-shirt.
“C’mon. ‘Who’s there’ is a bit much, don’t you think?”
The man, coffee cup in hand, gave a dramatic shrug.
Chelsea managed to salvage his face from the murky depths of her hazy memory. He was the man that she’d met at a small repair shop that she was sent to on a temporary assignment from S.M.S. Though, strictly speaking, it wasn’t really a temporary assignment. Her commanding officer, José, had cobbled together some borderline forged documents to shield her and send her out under the guise of a temporary assignment just as she was on the verge of being laid off.
She was grateful for that, and relieved that she hadn’t been sent to a disciplinary hearing, but that didn’t mean that being asked out of the blue to become a Vanquish Racer wasn’t a breach of contract in its own right.
I specifically joined S.M.S. because I didn’t want to be a sideshow anymore!
Regardless, that was the reality in front of her.
Since it was there, she had to deal with it.
She’d already gotten into a long argument with Hakuna over it, but she ended up borrowing a room…
“Sorry for entering a lady’s bedroom without knocking. But, if you could recall that it was my room not long ago, that’d be great.”
Setting his coffee cup down on a plywood sideboard crammed with tools, the man who introduced himself as Hakuna turned his back to her.
“Breakfast should be ready in about half an hour. Once we’ve eaten, let’s continue that discussion from yesterday.”
“So, about that conversation.”
Chelsea, now wearing an S.M.S. jacket, decided to get right to the point after taking a sip of her brim-full mug of herbal tea.
Hakuna, on the other hand, sat relaxed in his well-worn overalls.
“I’m not just gonna become a racer! I don’t know what Captain José told you, but I firmly refuse to go along with it!”
“You’re definitely a fighter pilot. I mean, sure, if we made you be some short-haul passenger plane pilot who just does what a computer says, that’s one thing, but the actual work you’ll get here can’t really be that different, can it? D’you think a chicken cares about the difference between ham or bacon with their eggs?”
“What a coincidence. I’m the kinda guy who spends his life obsessing over the difference between ham and bacon, too.”
He looked as rough as a rock, but no matter how hard she pounded him with her words, he seemed to just brush them off like wind through a willow tree. She’d spent the whole night debating him, only to be outmaneuvered at every turn.
But it wouldn’t be right to call him an unapproachable or cold man, either. There was something about his defiant smile that melted Chelsea’s heart. A heart which, after a long life in the entertainment industry, had grown wary of others and learned not to trust people so easily.
Otherwise, even if she couldn’t return to her room on the Macross Quarter, she certainly wouldn’t have stayed the night in the room of a man she’d only just met.
“Okay, lemme explain it again. Chelsea Scarlett, you couldn’t pull the trigger during combat… is that right?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. Did you know? They say that even if you put a gun in the hands of every Earthling and sent ‘em straight to the battlefield, seven out of ten times they won’t be able to fire at another person—even if it means they’ll die. It wouldn’t shock me if the same was true of Zentrans.”
Chelsea had no words to respond with.
The Zentradi were a warrior race. They were bred that way. That was why people generally believed that they had no qualms about killing. But the fact that the girl named Chelsea differed from that was an exception, nothing more, nothing less.
“When it comes to soldiers, only about three out of ten people actually make it through training. Even with those who don’t make it, that’s just how it is—a swan who can’t keep up with its flock is still a swan, y’know?”
“Next time… next time I’ll definitely…”
Trying to shake off the image of the boy’s face, his frozen expression of terror that was etched into her mind, Chelsea forced out the words. It wasn’t as simple as saying them. There was that much resistance within her.
Hakuna replied immediately, in a matter-of-fact yet resolute tone. It was as sharp and devoid of unnecessary force as the slash of a top-tier swordsman.
“Neither José nor I have ever seen anyone say something like that and actually be able to pull the trigger in their next battle. They eventually die, kill their allies, or end up drowning themselves with drugs. That’s about it.”
“Yeah, Chelsea. The fact that you can’t pull the trigger means that the enemy won’t die. It's simple math. There aren’t even numbers to it—you get what I’m saying, right?”
The man of unknown race and creed went on.
“The idea of sending you to race as an S.M.S. operation isn’t half bad. When José thought it up, I didn’t hesitate to accept. I get the partner I’ve always wanted. You get to keep your job. I don’t see the problem here.”
“I didn’t join S.M.S. to race!”
“But still, the nature of your missions is at your employer’s discretion. You could’ve just as easily been fired on the spot, but José covered for you. You should be grateful for that.”
“I… I want to be with them! On the Macross! That’s my family!”
Chelsea slammed her fist on the desk. Her mug bounced slightly. The force of the blow shocked even her.
Hakuna didn’t ask about her real family. She didn’t know if it was indifference or kindness.
“Yeah, I get that. Any pilot who’s flown with a Macross would say the same.”
A silence passed over them. It was objectively brief, but felt like an eternity to Chelsea.
“Alright, how about this? Wanna play a game with me?”
Hakuna grinned, baring his white teeth.
A smile like the sun. The kind of smile that could make anyone who saw it feel at ease. The smile of a true man among men.
“Yeah. Let’s give this a try. You challenge me to a Vanquish Race. If you win, I’ll negotiate with José to get you back into the S.M.S. If they won’t agree, he’ll have to talk it out with me.”
“Can you… really do that?”
“He and I are friends, after all.”
What he said didn’t exactly make logical sense, but it struck a chord within Chelsea more than logic ever could’ve.
The world he comes from isn’t one full of lies and tricks.
“If you lose, you’ll just have to race with me for a while. Of course, I’ll treat you as a proper racer and take care of you. That’s separate from your S.M.S. salary.”
“Isn’t this bet a little unfair? I’ve never raced before…”
“I’ll give you a handicap. That’s what sportsmanship’s all about. Come with me.”
With that, Hakuna stood up from his chair. He was gentle, but still had an undeniable, commanding presence about him.
He led her to another hangar, adjacent to the one she was staying in.
With landing gear to serve as evidence that it was brand new, a large Variable Fighter sat inside.
“They’ve entrusted me with it. This hangar’s meant for customers.”
“Yep. José gave it to me for you to race with.”
“You could call it a prototype under testing. We’ll gather extensive data in conditions close to live combat and that should help speed up development on the new model. Putting it simply, they’re letting us borrow it.”
It was an incredibly beautiful machine.
So beautiful that it was hard for her to believe that it was a Valkyrie, a Variable Fighter originally created for killing.
If she had to compare it to something, it’d be a sword.
Shining brilliantly, sharp, without a single flaw, forged solely for its singular purpose. A sword.
Its wings made her feel that the swordsmith who forged it must have offered their soul to the gods, without any hint of doubt or shame, carving out a beautiful thing for the sake of the world.
“A VF-19EF…? No, it’s not. The shape of its wings is…”
It did resemble her beloved plane.
But everything about it was so different.
Its distinctive shape was like a swan gracefully spreading its wings, but it was nonetheless evident that the electronic equipment and navigational support systems integrated throughout it were as up to date as could be.
“The model number within S.M.S. is VF-19ACTIVE. It’s called the Nothung.”
“Nothung? Like from Wagner’s opera?”
“Act I, Scene 2. Siegfried, a hero born from forbidden love, takes the sword Nothung as his own to slay Fafnir, a giant that was transformed into a dragon. It’s the sword wielded by the man that the most renowned Valkyrie, Brünhilde, loved. S.M.S. must have a bit of a romantic streak in them.”
Chelsea stroked the Nothung’s wings tenderly, like a lover would.
Even though it bore the name of the sword which slew a detestable giant, its blade was beautiful. Its state-of-the-art energy conversion armor was polished to an almost mirror-like finish, shining so brilliantly that she felt that her soul itself might end up being sucked into it.
This Valkyrie… was waiting for me.
This sword had simply been forged for her hand to hold, an instrument played for her soul’s satisfaction.
The fact that these wings were created for her sake was as self-evident as the fact that a rose has a fragrance. It was so obvious that there was no need to provide any proof of it.
They were a pair of wings forged so that Chelsea Scarlett could take flight.
The wings of Icarus, forged from OTM-reinforced titanium composite material that even the flames of Helios could never hope to scorch.
“Seems like you’re a fan.”
She couldn’t even pretend that she wasn’t. Her soul as a pilot, her pride, even, would not allow it.
So, she gave a different answer.
“If I fly in this—what about you?”
“You saw it already. My VF-1.”
“A VF-1!? The original Valkyrie!?”
“Yup. Those are my wings.”
“No way! Are you making fun of me!?”
“No way. I’d never lie about a plane.”
“But that’s about as big of a difference as there is between a light aircraft and a jet!”
The VF-1 Valkyrie was the most famous Variable Fighter in the galaxy.
The simple fact that “Valkyrie,” which was just a nickname, had become a generic term for its type of weapon spoke volumes.
No one could doubt the excellence of this humanoid fighter which could transform into three different stages, which once fought the invading Zentradi as the Earth’s main fighter during Space War I.
Though, when compared to modern Variable Fighters, its performance was hardly worth mentioning. Putting it bluntly, it was an outdated model.
After all, Space War I was fifty years ago now. Both Chelsea and Hakuna were from the generation that had no memory of the war itself.
In contrast, even if there was a successor currently in development, the VF-19 remained an unparalleled masterpiece of human civilization in terms of speed, maneuverability and range—not to mention its cost.
Pitting the two against one another would be as reckless as pitting a World War II Me-262 fighter against the MIM-31 Karyovin stealth bombers used by the Anti-UN Forces during the Earth Unification war at the end of the 20th century purely because they were both jets.
Even if it wasn’t an aerial battle, or maybe because it wasn’t, it was like a fight between an adult and a child. Like a race between a top-of-the-line sports car and a used compact. Chelsea had to assume that he wasn’t speaking with full sanity.
But the man looking at her with eyes like a hawk just twisted his lips in defiance and spoke.
“That’s why I called it a handicap. For someone like you who’s used to using an EX Gear, this would be better than something like a VF-11. I couldn’t get my hands on a 25, though…”
“I’m not screwing around.”
There was a fierce resolve behind Hakuna’s eyes.
It wasn’t a joke or some casual remark. It was a resolve that said he wouldn’t allow her to say such a thing.
He’s killed someone before.
Chelsea’s instincts sensed it.
Of course, even if Chelsea was part of a private military company, she was still a professional soldier. She had killed people before, without any distinction between Earthlings and Zentras.
But the thing conveyed in Hakuna’s eyes was a darkness deeper than any that Chelsea had ever known.
“I’ve given you a fair presentation of the best possible options. I think this deal should be meaningful for the both of us. If that sounds like a joke to you, then go ahead and propose an alternative, Chelsea Scarlett.”
“We all live by taking lives in one form or another. It’s the difference between killing them on a farm or hunting ground yourself versus paying someone else to do it for you. That’s why I think I understand your argument, your desire to get sustenance in a way that satisfies you. But it’s a baby chick’s privilege to have its parents bring food whenever it holds its mouth open.”
“You’re calling me selfish now!?”
“If that’s what it sounded like, I’m sorry.”
Chelsea clenched her fists.
But that was all she could do.
Her cheeks flushed; her well-shaped eyebrows twisted in humiliation.
It wasn’t rage. It was shame.
Toward herself, of course. For having been so childish.
Toward herself, who was faced with adult logic and could only counter it with childish emotion.
Just because she hadn’t been able to say anything back then, when she stepped off the stage, didn’t mean that she could say anything now. It didn’t mean that doing so had made her into an adult.
Even so—even so, Chelsea Scarlett was no longer a child. She resolved to stop letting her emotion dictate her words.
And, just as she had when she first stepped onto the stage, she planted her feet firmly on the ground and tensed her stomach.
She felt that she had to do it.
“I’ll do it—but don’t cry if you lose, alright?”
With a sly grin, Hakuna gave her a thumbs-up.
“That’s what makes you a pilot.”
TV news was abuzz with reports of victory over a faction of renegade Zentradi. An excited news anchor announced that President Glass’ approval ratings were through the roof, which served as the driving force to fend off his opposition’s attacks about the delay in tax reforms.
Of course, the news made no mention of S.M.S.’s involvement in the fight.
The only mention of it was a line tucked away in the corner of an official document that read: “We received cooperation from a private military provider.”
Works for me, Ozma Lee thought.
They weren’t ordinary troops who fought for glory. They were professional soldiers who worked for money. If there was ever a time when he would truly stake his life and honor, it’d be when those bugs finally arrived.
Next to him on the living room sofa was his beloved sister, Ranka Lee, with jade-green hair so different from his own. Her big, round eyes peered into her brother’s raptor-like eyes.
“Why do they call them renegade Zentradi?”
“Officially, the galaxy isn’t supposed to have nations aside from the New United Nations Government. From the government’s perspective, all Zentradi not under their rule are rebels.”
“But aren’t there a thousand or so ships in the Zentradi main fleet? I heard that the Boddole Fleet that came to Earth was just one of many.”
“You’re so smart, Ranka.”
The ace pilot’s eyes softened. It was a look that his subordinates would never see. He would do anything to protect his sister.
“That’s right. That’s why the Frontier Fleet is headed toward the galactic center, where there’s minimal activity from the main fleet. They just said it on the news, right? That detachment was only sent for recon, they were wiped out before they could contact the main fleet, so this won’t escalate into a full-scale war.”
“Yeah. The New United Nations Forces are doing just fine.”
Ozma was actually troubled about this, and wondered if a hint of sarcasm crept into his words. The part of him that cursed at his subordinates and enemies, seething with rage at the New United Nations Forces’ cowardice and corruption, tended to clash with his desire to raise his sister to be a refined and gentle lady.
“You’re not going to do anything dangerous, are you?”
Ozma gave a wry smile. One with a double meaning.
“I’m just a human resources guy at a security firm. I couldn’t get myself into trouble even if I tried. They don’t transfer office guys like me into anything that’d make me wear a uniform.”
With the same hands that gripped control sticks every day, the same fingers that pulled the triggers of missile launchers and machine guns, Ozma ruffled Ranka’s hair.
Soon, Ranka lost interest in the topic when the entertainment section of the news drew her eye toward the radiant superstar, Sheryl Nome. Then, leaning her weight on her brother, she drifted to sleep.
As he carried his sister’s light body to her bed, Ozma looked up at the galaxy through the window.
—I wish this could last just a little while longer—
After assigning Chelsea a spare room, Hakuna was finally able to lay in his own bed. He could feel the scent of a young, beautiful woman lingering somewhere in his room, which did make him a bit shy.
“Still, who would’ve thought.”
He picked up a photograph. A nostalgic image.
“That’s what makes life so interesting. It’s like that saying about the hedgehog who sleeps under a cactus, never knowing about the bird incubating its eggs just beneath him.”
Cracking his shoulder blades, Hakuna spread his fingers out from pinky to thumb, then folded them into each other one by one several times.
“Well, things’ll work out somehow. I swear by the summit of Kilimanjaro."
The Macross Frontier Fleet was classified as an Island Cluster-type Long-Range Emigration Fleet.
An Island Cluster was, in essence, a collection of self-propelled space colonies.
At their core was Island One, which was 15 kilometers in diameter. On the surface of the nearly circular, salad-bowl-like spacecraft with thin walls, urban areas modeled after various Earth cities were recreated, with a layered city extending beneath them as well.
Extending out behind it like a flock of birds were Environment Ships. Glass tubes each 8 kilometers in length.
Each Environment Ship was a spacecraft capable of self-propulsion, each with its own semi-independent natural environment. Along with Island One, they formed a greater ecosystem, allowing them to circulate waste and atmosphere among them.
Island One had a population of approximately 5 million, and the twenty-or-so Environment Ships behind it housed another 5 million. A total of 10 million people were on an endless pilgrimage, in search of a new home, with this vast, glass-walled world serving as both their land and sky.
Island Reno was unique, even among the Environment Ships.
Typically, the artificial recreation of Earth’s natural environment served one of two purposes: to support key industries like agriculture and fishing, or to create a warm, habitable environment that could allow humans to survive in the harsh, inhospitable conditions of outer space.
However, what made this ship unique was that it recreated a desert, specifically, the deserts of Nevada in North America.
Naturally, there were residential areas underground, but the surface was nothing but a barren wasteland. Newspapers on the Macross Galaxy, which generally valued practicality above aesthetics, sarcastically referred to this Island as a “flying test tube full of sand” and “an archaic form of adoration toward pebbles.”
Nevertheless, Island Reno generated wealth for itself primarily through its unimaginable peculiarity among Environment Ships. Tourists from all over the galaxy travelled through its recreated desert in covered wagons, reflecting on the hardships of pioneers from the faraway past. In Western Land, they dressed up as heroes and villains and carried out four-act plays as a kind of survival game.
Come nightfall, the red lights of the casino district built in the center of the island drew people in. The crowd appeared in the desert just as the stars appeared in the night sky.
Amid that town’s hustle and bustle, Chelsea Scarlett had just arrived.
“All these people are here to watch the Vanquish!?”
It had only been three days, but Chelsea was once again struck by the realization that a powerful current of fate had swept her up.
There were so, so, so many people.
It was like they had gathered from every corner of the galaxy. The streets were packed not only with what seemed like every ethnic group that once existed on Earth, but also with Zentradi, intelligent species of even more obscure varieties, and mixed-race people descended from all of the above. It was a mosaic of color and culture.
“Yep, that’s right. After all, the Vanquish is the only place you get to see Valkyries fight up close outside of combat. There are plenty of fools who wanna fly in the sky.”
Indeed, the vast desert was one of the best environments for flying aircrafts. No rain, and even if they were to crash, the thick sand would prevent them from piercing through and dealing any damage to the residential district below. The exposed hotels and casinos were protected by pinpoint barriers, too. It was a perfect place for Valkyries to fly.
A plane with forward-swept wings and flash coloring flew above Chelsea’s head, trailing rainbow smoke as it sped away.
A deafening roar of cheers erupted from the crowd.
“A VF-19!? Not an EF-type though… is it a domestic model?”
Hakuna provided commentary, his tonea mix of rivalry and admiration.
“That’s Oscar Brauhitsch’s VF-19A. It’s won three consecutive Vanquish races in the Frontier Fleet.”
“Wh—Why is a machine like that taking part in some ordinary race!?”
“Hey now, races have been a showcase for a sponsor’s technological prowess since the days of horse racing. A racer of Brauhitsch’s caliber was able to get the company itself—Shinsei Industries—to back him. He’s their personal pilot now. I don’t see much of an issue with it. I’m in cahoots with S.M.S. myself.”
“That thing’s in today’s race too?”
“Yep. He’s on his way back from the qualifiers. If you let the fact that he’s got a new model bug you this much, he’ll trip you up before you even get to facing me.”
“Right… that’s actually… kind of exciting.”
Her true feelings slipped out before she could stop them. As a fellow VF-19 pilot, she got an itch to go head-to-head with him. She was honest enough with herself to not deny the feeling.
Fireworks went off. It seemed like the real battle was finally about to begin.
She settled into the cockpit of the VF-19ACTIVE, revealing a prototype EX Gear pilot suit built into its seat, which doubled as a power assist unit.
The flight support AI, Brünhilde, activated, sending a message confirming that there were no abnormalities. It was a military-grade AI, cold and impersonal, lacking the gentle, pseudo-human interface common in civilian systems. But that fact was what made its matter-of-fact message feel reassuring to her.
It was Chelsea who’d named it Brünhilde. She also drew the emblem on the nose of the plane, which was inspired by Brünhilde, queen of the ancient Norse Valkyries.
The anthropomorphism may have been childish, but any pilot worth their salt knew that personal attachments like these could sometimes be the final thing keeping them going.
Besides, she also wanted to try out having a personal emblem, since the amount of covert operations they carried out meant that she never got to try it back with the S.M.S.’s Apollo Platoon.
“I have control! OK, OK, here I go!”
The battle between Chelsea and Hakuna would take the form of a Vanquish qualifier.
Put in the simplest terms, thirty-something Valkyries would take off and fly in a predetermined circle. Strict restrictions were placed on flight altitude and transformation in certain areas, so there were some parts of the course where a Fighter Mode’s performance was crucial, and other parts where the GERWALK and Battroid Modes were the key to victory.
The winner, the first to capture a specific flag, would earn the right to compete. That said, this particular event had nothing to do with Chelsea. Her only objective was to cross the finish line before Hakuna did.
But if I’m doing this, I should want to win, right Brünhilde?
The thought did cross her mind.
More than any of this, the first beat of the Nothung’s heart was a magnificent rhythm that lifted Chelsea’s spirits.
She checked its instruments. The sound of its reactor idling was crystal clear, as beautiful as resonant quartz. The vibrations that shook her seat and the hot hair being sucked into the engine rang out like a symphony.
Beautiful—yeah, almost too beautiful.
She understood that José wanted her to collect data for this experimental craft in near-combat conditions.
She understood, but it was still far too extravagant for her. She couldn’t fathom why even the flight assistant AI had to be a new LAI design. No matter how she looked at it, it just cost far too much money.
After all, all of the other planes, from Hakuna’s VF-1 to Brauhitsch’s VF-19, were civilian units, restored and modified from former military aircraft. The Nothung was a state-of-the-art plane that shone from tip to tail. It was just too beautiful.
The S.M.S. is still hiding something from me—
Chelsea couldn’t tell what it was, or if it was separate from her existing paranoia about her situation.
Chelsea wasn’t the only one with these doubts.
Oscar Brauhitsch, a macho man with blond hair cut so short he was almost a skinhead, asked the chief mechanic about the exact same subject.
“Hey, what’s with that VF-19? I haven’t heard of any other company sending in a VF-19 series model.”
“Rumors say they’re from the S.M.S.”
“I see. Must be LAI or something, then.”
LAI was an Italian conglomerate that maintained friendly relations with the Japanese military conglomerate, Shinsei Industries. However, there was an irreconcilable difference in the corporate cultures of LAI, a space-based enterprise that had completely shifted its management to the Frontier, and Shinsei, which remained strictly an Earthling-based company. Their relationship was extremely efficient, but they each kept a knife hidden behind their backs, just in case.
Shinsei was a rising star that completed the VF-19 and propelled it to become the de facto standard, so the fact that LAI, which co-developed the Frontier Model “Caliburn,” would introduce another VF-19 into the Vanquish race felt to them like someone they’d lended their roof to was trying to take over the entire building.
Brauhitsch, racing under their banner, felt the same way.
“And what’s with that pilot? Is she just some chick with nothing going for her but her big chest?”
“Of course. A pilot’s eyes are his life—well, she is good on the eyes. I’ll give her that, but…”
With a grand gesture Brauhitsch waved his hand.
“If they wanna use her as a poster girl to make a name for themselves in Vanquish, those Italian bastards at LAI must have a screw loose. I mean, c’mon. If you’re gonna do it, at least do it properly. Handing a machine like that over to some privateer, not even a works team—it just doesn’t add up.”
“She’s an S.M.S. pilot, they say her skills are solid.”
“Sure, maybe in a fight. But this is Vanquish. It’s the most extreme race in the galaxy. If they think they can bring in some fancy new model, stick a pretty girl in the cockpit and make it to the podium, they have another thing coming.”
Brauhitsch laughed defiantly.
A trained eye could see that his left arm, encased in his pilot suit, was a chrome cyber-arm. He hadn’t augmented his brain through implants, but he’d lost his original arm in a Vanquish accident five years prior.
He spoke with the pride of a man who lived and breathed Vanquish, not envy.
With cheers roaring out, colorful Variable Fighters took off from the desert runway.
Of course, Chelsea’s Nothung was no exception.
Taking full advantage of its variable wings, she adopted a configuration optimized for low speeds to start riding the wind in one swift motion, soaring into the skies above Island Reno.
Hakuna really did come in a VF-1. I admire his pride, but that’s not everything. Relying on my machine’s power alone isn’t exactly my—!?
Her convenient train of thought was cut short.
Like a bolt of silver lightning splitting the sky, a Valkyrie streaked right past the Nothung.
“The VF-1…!? No way, this acceleration is…”
“Hey, what’s the matter, latest model!?”
Hakuna’s voice came over the radio.
She opened her throttles wide and transformed her wings into high-speed flight mode. If she didn’t, she would’ve been left completely in the dust.
This thing—it doesn’t just have tweaked aerodynamics.
Powered by Super Pack boosters that were sourced from somewhere she couldn’t say and forcibly mounted on its legs, along with a main engine with clearly extraordinary thrust capabilities, the VF-1 entered supersonic flight at almost the exact same moment the VF-19 did.
The two planes closed in at a distance so close that they might have been able to touch their hands together if they reached out, slicing through the sky, intertwining like a spiral, tearing through the air as they closed in on the gate to outer space.
Enduring the G-forces, Chelsea listened to the sound of the VF-1.
There wasn’t the slightest disturbance in it.
Using gentle, sometimes strict commands, its pilot took the wail of a machine that should have been crying out in agony from being pushed beyond its limits and transformed it into a flawless melody.
What is it—why would someone like this be racing in a place like—!?
That question was cut short.
Because Brauhitsch’s plane accelerated from behind, taking a straight trajectory toward the gate.
She activated the high-mobility units at her wingtips and tried to fly while responding and blocking Hakuna’s course at the same time. Naturally, Hakuna wouldn’t allow it. Since she also had to fly the designated course, her trajectory became even more complex, tracing a smooth curve.
With each pass over the neon lights of the Reno cityscape, once, twice, three times, they could hear the cheers of the crowd.
The three Valkyries, tangled together, passed through the pinpoint barrier gate that served as the boundary between them and outer space.
The pinpoint barrier gate was a technology that utilized the pinpoint barrier—originally designed to protect ships from asteroids and enemy attacks—to create a special field that allowed Valkyries and people to pass through into space without allowing the atmosphere to escape.
Strictly speaking, crafts didn’t actually pass through. Rather, at the exact moment they pass, the barrier vanishes quantum-mechanically for a fraction of a second, too brief for human eyes to perceive. If she were honest, Chelsea didn’t understand how it worked even after it was explained to her.
In any case, when she broke through the auroral gate at the absolute limit of her speed, she found herself in the void that surrounded the fleet. Outer space.
There was a three-dimensional course the shape of several ovals, passing through a number of gates installed on the surface of Island Reno and then returning to its interior.
“Out of my way! Rookies who bet on the power of fancy machines alone should just stay off of the path!”
Brauhitsch’s VF-19 cut between Hakuna and Chelsea, executing a maneuver that bordered on ramming them. Chelsea’s course was thrown off because she instinctively dodged it. Her ears picked up the sound of Hakuna’s engine, which she never should’ve been able to hear, as he flew away.
Indeed, this was a race. Not air combat. Moves that would work in air combat wouldn’t necessarily be correct in a race.
In a Valkyrie race where they were flying at super high speeds, even the slightest deviation in trajectory could create a gap that was impossible to close with only a few seconds left. Falling slightly behind those in the lead, Chelsea’s Nothung accelerated once more.
Once in space, the Valkyries changed their path into a race course by passing through gates set near the Island or on non-environmental ships.
“You little—! Don’t underestimate me!”
No missiles were coming at her, at least. She stopped treating it as a game, but slipping from gate to gate at top speed was hardly a challenge for someone like Chelsea.
Superior maneuverability that could transcend human limits was the true strength of the VF-19 Series. Even in space, the trio of EX Gear, support AI and high-mobility nozzles fully demonstrated this fact. Overtaking two or three of her more hesitant opponents, Chelsea managed to take a position to chase the leading group consisting of Hakuna, Brauhitsch and about five others.
But that was where the two men’s cunning came into play. Their movements were precise and had no waste, born of intimate knowledge of the course. They gave her no opportunity to overtake them.
With the leads firmly established, the race went on.
Again, she passed through the pinpoint barrier gate and returned to Island Reno.
The GERWALK Mode slalom was brutal.
She wasn’t averse to flying through dense, rocky terrain by any means, even if she was restricted to a certain altitude. The problem was the VF-19’s structural limitations. Because it used forward-swept wings, the arms and wings get in each other’s way in GERWALK Mode, limiting its ability to use a swing of the arms to shift its center of gravity, as is necessary in slalom. The same applied to Brauhitsch, so, incredibly, Hakuna’s VF-1 managed to pull ahead.
This thing—it’s tuned specifically for low altitude aerodynamics—
It lived up to its reputation. But that wasn’t all.
The VF-1 was a bit smaller than current models. That made it well-suited to Vanquish, navigating narrow passageways in GERWALK Mode where one’s width can normally become a hindrance. Several times, Chelsea was forced to lose time because she couldn’t squeeze through gaps that Hakuna could pass through easily.
They navigated the slalom course and charged into the flag area. Like the slalom course, the flag area was a rocky desert, but transformation was now unrestricted. Whoever captured the few flags placed in the area would advance to the main Vanquish tournament.
They were permitted to use gunpods loaded with mock battle shock rounds (projectiles that use an electromagnetic pulse to disable a machine temporarily) that were placed haphazardly throughout the area. Vanquish Valkyries carried no weapons aside from defensive pinpoint barriers, so this was a bit of a breakthrough for them.
With the freedom to transform, there was no way that Chelsea and her Nothung, which excelled at high-mobility combat at low altitudes, could lose. She quickly grabbed a gunpod and used a combination of GERWALK and Battroid Modes to race forward.
She slalomed past a punch thrown by a VA-3 Invader, then performed a half-turn and transformed into Battroid Mode. She outmaneuvered the enemy and tried to break away. Even with close combat and shock-round fire now unrestricted, she didn’t have time to be dragged into some chaotic brawl.
In fact, behind her, that same VA-3 had already been knocked out of the race after a spectacular kick from a VF-14 Vampire perched on a rocky outcrop crushed its head.
It was no exaggeration when they called it the most extreme race in the galaxy. Chelsea knew all too well why they raced in planes with limbs and fought over flags.
What about him—where’s Hakuna!?
In GERWALK Mode, the composite sensors in her head, which were normally sealed behind her armor, activated. It didn’t take long to find him.
Words. Transformation. They came simultaneously.
Hakuna hadn’t secured a flag yet. Brauhitsch had sped up to snatch it from him. Hakuna banked, searching for another one. Chelsea knew the sound in her ears.
She used her Battroid feet to kick off the ground. She transformed into Fighter Mode. The Nothung soared just above the surface. It moved at a speed that would make even a decent pilot flinch. The ground was right below the lower cockpit monitor.
A Battroid, pelted by a hail of shock rounds, was spinning and hurtling toward her at a terrifying speed. Even if their unit survived the crash, the pilot inside wouldn’t have it easy.
But Chelsea wasn’t afraid. The wind’s grace, the sound of her wings; they told her all she needed to know about the world around her more eloquently than a sensor ever could. Her ears didn’t miss even the slightest rustle in the air.
Her engine beat out a rhythm. The flag flapped in the wind. The intricate pillars of rock played a symphony called “The World.”
Chelsea was part of that song. So, she thought that as long as she could hear it, she wouldn’t lose. She thought that she could fly.
Hakuna’s white VF-1 charged toward the flag. If she let him take it, she faced certain defeat.
As if the towers of rock didn’t even exist, her ears read every nuance of the complex air currents and sent the Nothung soaring along the optimal course as simply as if it were a straight line. It was a silver sword slicing through the world. The audience stared in awe, cheered, and showered her with thunderous applause. Even the other competitors were forced to admit that she was no longer relying on her plane alone. Even Brauhitsch was staring with wide eyes. With the EX Gear linking them, Chelsea and the Nothung had undoubtedly become one.
No matter how many boosters it had or how its engine had been upgraded, the VF-1’s fundamental aerodynamic characteristics hadn’t changed. With transformable wings, a sturdy frame capable of withstanding the massive thrust of its engine, and Chelsea at its controls, the Nothung could catch up and overtake it.
That was the only way to describe it.
In one swift motion, she overtook two VF-11 Thunderbolts.
Transformed into Battroid Mode.
But Hakuna was still too fast.
The white back of the VF-1, reaching out to the flag.
Its wings, so defenseless. Too defenseless.
There’s no way he doesn’t see me closing in—
In the VF-19’s right hand was a massive gatling gunpod.
She wouldn’t miss. She couldn’t miss. No. Even if she did, she could use a pinpoint barrier punch…
If they’re just practice rounds—then—!
Her finger reached for the trigger.
Her finger reached for the trigger.
Instead, Chelsea transformed.
Quickly nullifying its perfect opportunity to shoot and performing a spectacular somersault, the VF-19 left everyone blinking in disbelief. Her flying itself was still magnificent, so there were still those who cheered.
“…You knew… that I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger?”
After the qualifiers, Chelsea muttered to Hakuna as he climbed out of his cockpit.
Hakuna seemed a bit troubled. He hadn’t been able to beat Brauhitsch either. But so it goes.
“No, that’s not exactly it. If you could shoot, then you should’ve won and went back to S.M.S. anyways. If you couldn’t, then you shouldn’t go back. That was the idea.”
“So it wasn’t a serious fight?”
His voice dropped slightly.
“Back there, even if I banked to evade or moved to counterattack, your shot would’ve been spot-on. In a VF-1, I could evade, but I wouldn’t have been able to get the flag afterward. My bet that you wouldn’t be able to shoot me was just the best strategy. There’s one thing I can say without reservation, though. You’re a great pilot, Chelsea!”
“More importantly, you’d better go answer their cheers.”
Before her eyes, she saw people cheering for her, Hakuna, and the other pilots. Cameras were flashing nonstop. Even if it was only the qualifier, it had been quite a race.
—Oddly, she wasn’t afraid.
It wasn’t like it was back when she couldn’t get on stage.
There was a sense of satisfaction. A sense that she’d given it her all, soared through the air, and was now being celebrated for it.
So, quietly, Chelsea murmured.
“Vanquish—But only until I can pull the trigger again. How’s that?”
“Ahh—Works for me. I’ll let José know.”
She felt a little lighter.
On the vast horizon, contrails from someone’s Valkyrie in flight stretched until they faded away.
Chelsea didn’t know what lay at the end of it.
NEXT RIDE
Translated by TrafalgarLog
Edited by PixelatedShinobi and Melos Catcher
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