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Tallgeese III lay dormant in its hangar. Its great engines were silent, only its electrical systems running. The heavy cabling that gave it power also transmitted the entire memory archive of the Tallgeese II. Somewhere in its base programming lay the archives of the eponymous original.
Its pilot waited for the transfer to complete.
It knew him, Milliardo thought, and he knew it. Soon, they would test that knowledge against one another. Tomorrow they would depart. Tonight was for last checks, last memories.
A chime alerted him that integration of the older suit’s memory was finished. Boot heels clicked across metal as he approached. In the low lights of evening, the faint green glow of cockpit indicators showed the way to the entrance sensor.
Milliardo presented himself, and Tallgeese recognized him. Voice Print Hand Print, it prompted. On one hull panel, it presented the symbol of a spread hand.
Milliardo laid his hand against the warm surface, and spoke. “Hello, Xanthos.”
It was not he who’d set the nickname.
Tallgeese III was Milliardo’s now, last bequest of the doomed legend. Of his closest, dearest. Treize had, as always, left a signature behind.
The cockpit door hissed open. With an experienced pilot’s eye, Milliardo looked it over. Pressure plates solid and unmarred. Gaskets smooth, with no discoloration to show wear or flaws. Lock test indicators bright, solid green.
Memory told him exactly how the cockpit was shaped. He slid into the seat, glad that there was no central console to trip over.
Tallgeese III shared the layout of its precursors. Epyon had, too, but its bulky ZERO System and the helmet of its neural interface had taken up every centimeter of free space the Tallgeese had. He’d knocked his knee on the console even more often than he’d wrenched his mind open on the torrent of information it provided.
Tallgeese III, thank its designer and every hand that built it, had no ZERO System.
Milliardo leaned back against the padded seat, feeling how the padding conformed to his body. Feeling where the restraints would set, familiar, comforting.
No faint scent of rose greeted him, no smooth voice. No touch of gloved hand nor rattle of knightly saber against entirely anachronistic harness.
Treize had died along with the Tallgeese II. Milliardo knew him well enough to know: Treize had thought it necessary to die.
How Milliardo wished there had been even a body to fight over! To claim and to mourn over.
Treize had gone up in starfire, so suddenly that he’d never have felt the heat of the explosion.
Enough! he told himself.
This version of his cherished mobile suit had a voice control and a more advanced display, courtesy of the development of Epyon. Milliardo made use of it without a second thought.
“Replay Tallgeese II final log entry. Compare Tallgeese III latest log entry.”
The words scrolled obediently across the viewscreen. Every system had started as it should. Every check passed. There were hundreds of lines, all lit green on both sides of the dividing line.
Tallgeese III had more systems to check; at the first major difference, the display halted. The last line on the II’s log read `Launch Sequence Complete.`
The memory dump from the Tallgeese II included its entire run, from its initial start all the way through the logs of its final launch. Tallgeese III could not possibly have the data of its death. Milliardo resisted the urge to scroll to the end of the log.
Only its pilot had that memory, and he had no wish to repeat the performance. If only the notoriously opinionated Tallgeese would agree with him!
Milliardo closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushioned rest.
“This time when we have ended the fighting, be sure and bring your pilot safely home,” he told the empty cockpit.
Light pierced his eyelids, and Milliardo snapped to alertness. The logs were gone. Upon the viewscreen scrolled an overlay of words:
“Dread Achilles,” said he, “we will indeed save you now, but the day of your death is near, and the blame will not be ours, for it will be heaven and stern fate that will destroy you.”
Milliardo stared unblinking at the screen, his whole being steeled for the onslaught. None came; Tallgeese III had no ZERO system to yank that reference out of the recesses of his mind, and to understand exactly what response it should display to bring the maximum response from its pilot.
The quotation scrolled to its end and vanished.
Milliardo laid in the chair and breathed, just breathed, until the rush of adrenaline was gone.
No, Tallgeese II had not been at fault for its master’s fate. Where Treize had chosen to die, Milliardo wished to live. It was more courageous to overcome his pain and despair, to try to make amends for his actions, and to hope to see the world set right.
“All right, Xanthos.” The nickname had been his, once. “I’ll trust you.”
“Tomorrow, we fly.”