“Where to next, Lieutenant?” Vultee asked.

  After thinking for a moment, I said, “I’m going back to the mobile suit hangar to harass Ensign Donnelly until he makes some modifications to my mobile suit. You’re free to do whatever you want until our Zakus are repaired.”

  Vultee scratched his chin before saying, “I have nothing better to do right now, so I think I’ll just stick with you, Lieutenant.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said as Vultee led the way back to the hangar. Eventually, I would learn the layout of the ship.

  What would happen if my Zaku wasn’t repaired before the battle against Fleet Tianem in four days? I’d have to sit on my ass in the Nordhausen while the other pilots went out and fought. How terrible.

  That seemed like a pleasing prospect, until I realized that the Nordhausen never appeared in Mobile Suit Gundam. Was it destroyed fighting against Fleet Tianem? I could not remember.

  Absent evidence of the ship’s long-term survival, I would have a higher chance of surviving a space battle out in my highly-mobile Zaku than inside the huge slow-moving cruiser. A hit by a ship’s particle gun would kill me whether I was in the Nordhausen or in my Zaku, and I would be in control of my Zaku’s positioning.

  Four days. Would that be enough time for Donnelly to repair my mobile suit and perform the modifications? I would have to ask.

  We floated into the hangar just as a mountainous Zaku with a damaged cockpit pulled into the last empty dock. In total, there were six mobile suits in the hangar, meaning that a significant portion of the ship’s space was dedicated to holding the mobile suits and their spare parts.

  There was a space near the door to the hangar where pilots and mechanics would aggregate when not actively working on the mobile suits. This area was set a long distance from the mobile suits to prevent people from being crushed by the Zakus’ spare parts. The observation area was big enough to hold more than a hundred people comfortably, but it was utterly miniscule compared to the full size of the hangar. I had never been to Times Square, but I imagined that was what it was like.

  “Ensign Donnelly,” I called out, and the red-haired mechanic turned and floated toward me with a short burst of his jetpack.

  “What is it, Dogwood?” Donnelly asked in an annoyed tone of voice.

  “Can you have the repairs done in four days?” I asked.

  After a derisive laugh, Donnelly said, “What? Do you think I’m a Fed mechanic? All the damage is external. My guys will be done in thirteen hours.” His eyes turned upward, deep in thought. “Wait, no. That job for Lieutenant Commander Caldwell takes priority, so it’ll be more like sixteen hours.”

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  “Excellent,” I said, smiling. “While you’re at it, could you install a machine gun in my Zaku’s head?”

  “What!?” Donnelly demanded.

  “Just weld a light machine gun to my Zaku’s head and link it to the cockpit. It can’t be that hard, right?” I said, shrugging.

  “It’s not that simple, and you know it,” Donnelly said accusatorily.

  I really didn’t. The inner mechanics of mobile suits had always been an interest of mine, but the nature of Mobile Suit Gundam as a work of fiction meant that such things would remain as pure speculation.

  “Can you do it?” I asked.

  Ensign Alastair Donnelly looked over at my Zaku, the third one from the right, and sighed. “Sure, but I’m billing you for an extra five hours.”

  “Thanks, Donnelly. You’re the best mechanic in the Earth Sphere,” I said, playing on his pride.

  “I really am,” Donnelly said as a reluctant smile appeared on his face.

  Good, I would take any point defense I could take. The head mounted machine gun would be useless against hard targets, but it would be incredibly useful against missiles flying through space or soldiers on foot.

  Another pilot wearing the uniform of a petty officer entered the observation wing of the hangar, and his eyes immediately locked on Hotchkiss’s Zaku. The pilot was smiling broadly, and he looked like he was a few seconds away from cheering in joy.

  Physically, the pilot had a look that just screamed lady-killer. His uniform was fastidiously maintained, but his sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms. His hair was slightly longer than my own, but it looked intentional on the pilot whereas my hair just looked unkempt.

  “Are you the new pilot for Oracle Squad!?” I shouted at the man.

  “Yes,” he said, snapping me a salute. “My name is Petty Officer Diego Ramos.”

  “It’s good to have you on the squad, Officer Ramos,” I said, returning the salute with the same enthusiasm. Based on the lisping pronunciation he gave his last name, Diego’s family must have originally come from Spain.

  “Oracle Squad? Is that what we’re called?” Ramos asked.

  “It’s Commander Roth’s idea of a joke,” Vultee said, sighing. “I’m Petty Officer Heinrich Vultee, and that’s our squad leader, Lieutenant Sebastian Dogwood.”

  “I’m happy to meet you,” Ramos said, smiling.

  “Here’s your first order from me. Return here at 2300 hours tomorrow, and we’ll begin training for ship combat,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Ramos said, snapping off a salute before disappearing back out of the hangar.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as a few of the hangar’s mechanics pulled a small object out of the right-most Zaku’s lower midsection. I tried not to watch too closely, but I could tell that they were moving Hotchkiss out of his Zaku. After being subjected to the flesh-tearing effects of the G3 Gas and the explosive decompression of space, the corpse inside of his suit must have been little more than ragged meat.

  That would be my fate if I failed to take the right precautions. If the One Year War kept going without my intervention, it was only a matter of time before I was unceremoniously vaporized by Amuro Ray’s beam saber alongside a dozen other Zaku pilots. My only chance at survival was to spend all of my time diligently preparing for the coming battles and strengthening my position in the Principality of Zeon.