For one hour, the Gundam unit held the line.
Not advanced. Not victorious. Just enduring.
Space around A Baoa Qu had become a graveyard of burning hulls and fading transponders. The Solar System strikes came in irregular pulses, each one ripping another hole through what remained of the Federation vanguard. Between those pulses, Zeon mobile suits surged forward—Zakus, Gelgoogs, improvised assault units—throwing themselves into close combat with a fanaticism that bordered on suicidal.
Inside White Base's bridge, Bright Noa's hands trembled—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
One hour of constant command. Three hours of watching icons vanish from the tactical map.
"Any response from General Tianem?" Bright asked again, already knowing the answer.
The comm officer shook his head. "Negative. Minovsky density is too high. Long-range transmission is completely dead."
Bright looked at the main display.
Only two Federation capital ships remained.
White Base.
And Shirogane Miyuki's flagship.
Everything else—Salamis-class cruisers, GM carriers, escort ships—had been erased by the satellite weapon and the layered defenses of A Baoa Qu. The GM units were gone almost entirely, wiped out either by beam saturation or by Zeon countercharges that left nothing but debris clouds.
Bright closed his eyes for a second.
"…All units," he said at last, voice heavy, "prepare for retreat."
No one argued.
They couldn't.
Reports flooded in immediately.
"Strike Gundam—left arm destroyed! Zaku II performed a direct suicide detonation!"
Gary Lin gritted his teeth inside the cockpit, compensating thrusters screaming as he stabilized the Strike's crippled frame. "I'm still operational," he snapped. "Barely."
"Buster Gundam is out of energy," Lockon reported calmly. "Returning to hangar for emergency recharge."
"Blitz Gundam—same situation," Hikigaya added, irritation barely masking fatigue. "And yes, this is ridiculous."
"Duel Gundam—leg gone, right arm severed," Mikazuki said flatly, as if reading a weather report. His suit was torn apart, armor blackened, frame screaming warnings—but it still moved.
"Aegis still active," Athrun cut in, breathing hard. "But I'm at my limit. I can't keep this up much longer."
Bright's eyes flicked to another status window. "Samus—hold position. Do not sortie."
"What?" Samus Aran replied instantly. "I can still fight."
"This is a retreat," Bright said sharply. "Not a counterattack. I won't lose you here."
There was a pause.
"…Understood," Samus said, restrained but controlled.
Only one Gundam remained in relatively stable condition.
"Alex Gundam still active," Amuro Ray reported. His voice was calm—but too calm. "Energy refilled earlier. I'll cover the withdrawal."
Bright winced. "Amuro—don't overextend."
"I know," Amuro replied. Then, quieter: "I've already almost died enough times today."
Gary swung the Strike between Amuro and an incoming Gelgoog squad, beam fire flashing past his cockpit. "You're not dying today," Gary said. "Not on my watch."
Amuro didn't reply—but he adjusted formation, trusting Gary without question.
Bright's gaze drifted briefly to another status indicator.
Sayla Mass — Standby. Not Sortied.
For the first time in hours, relief cut through the tension.
"…Good," Bright muttered. "If she'd launched with the GM units…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Orders followed rapidly.
"Lockon, Hikigaya—once recharged, sortie immediately and provide rear cover."
Hikigaya groaned over the channel. "We're retreating and I still have to go back out? This war is objectively stupid."
"Move," Bright snapped.
"…Yes, sir."
The hangar doors opened again.
Buster Gundam launched first, its massive cannons glowing as Lockon immediately began suppressive fire—wide-area saturation, not to kill, but to keep Zeon units back.
Blitz Gundam followed, weaving through debris, throwing itself into the gaps, forcing Zeon pilots to hesitate.
"Covering retreat," Lockon reported. "Go. Now."
Bright turned to Samus. "Launch. Escort role only."
This time, she didn't argue.
The Full Armor Gundam surged out, positioning itself between the withdrawing ships and the enemy, cannons firing in controlled bursts.
On the front line, Athrun grabbed Duel Gundam's battered frame with Aegis' remaining manipulators.
"Mikazuki—fall back," he ordered.
"I can still fight," Mikazuki replied, already turning back toward the enemy.
"RETREAT," Gary Lin roared over the open channel, raw urgency breaking through his usual composure. "Look around you!"
Mikazuki froze.
For the first time, he really looked.
White Base.
One other Federation flagship.
And a handful of battered Gundams.
That was all.
The battlefield was otherwise empty—or hostile.
"…Tch," Mikazuki muttered. Then, reluctantly, he allowed Athrun to pull him back.
The remaining Gundams formed up around White Base and Miyuki's ship, a tight, desperate formation, engines burning hard as they pulled away from A Baoa Qu's killing range.
Behind them, Zeon units did not pursue aggressively.
They didn't need to.
The fortress loomed in the distance, untouched. Unbroken.
And as the Federation force withdrew—bloodied, silent, shaken—every pilot there understood the truth they had just learned the hard way.
A Baoa Qu was not just a fortress.
It was a trap.
And they had barely escaped with their lives.
At A Baoa Qu command room.
Gihren Zabi stood alone before the panoramic display, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the retreating Federation vanguard.
White Base and its remaining escorts pulled away like wounded animals, their engine flares shrinking into the darkness beyond A Baoa Qu's perimeter. For two full minutes, Gihren said nothing. No triumph. No anger. Just calculation.
"So they chose survival," he murmured. "Reasonable."
Silence stretched in the command chamber. Officers waited, uneasy.
Then Gihren turned.
"Advance phase two."
The room snapped to life.
"Recharge the Solar System array," he ordered calmly. "Bring A Baoa Qu's internal defense network to full capacity. When the Federation main fleet enters firing range, I want uninterrupted saturation fire."
An officer hesitated. "Sir… the recharge cycle—"
"I am aware of the cycle," Gihren cut in coldly. "That is why we built redundancy. This fortress will not fire once. It will fire repeatedly."
He shifted his gaze to another display. "Contact Lady Kycilia."
Her image appeared moments later, composed but visibly strained.
"I want fifteen Newtype pilots transferred immediately," Gihren said. "Assign them to the Zeong units completed at Side 3. All of them."
Kycilia's eyes narrowed. "Fifteen at once? Gihren, those machines are unstable in untrained hands—"
"Then train them faster," he replied flatly. "The Federation fields Gundams like mass-produced weapons now. We will respond in kind."
She inhaled sharply, clearly unwilling—but nodded. "Understood."
Gihren continued without pause. "Deploy Shin Matsunaga and Johnny Ridden. They will lead the vanguard strike against the Federation main fleet. I want pressure. Constant pressure."
"Yes, Supreme Commander," the adjutant replied.
As the orders rippled outward, Gihren glanced at a roster scrolling across the screen.
One name was missing.
"…Von Zehrtfeld," he muttered.
Tanya's unit was absent. He skimmed the report quickly—injured, combat fatigue, pulled back after Solomon.
"Tch." His fingers curled slightly. "Unfortunate. She would have been ideal."
For a moment, he considered overriding the medical recommendation.
Then dismissed it.
"Assign another elite unit to the internal mission," he said. "A Baoa Qu will not rely on sentiment."
Far below, in one of the fortress hangars, Shin Matsunaga stood before his mobile suit.
The Gelgoog Jäger loomed over him—sleek, deadly, customized to its limit. Its white armor gleamed under the hangar lights, immaculate and severe, a machine built for precision rather than spectacle.
Matsunaga rested a hand briefly against the armor plating, eyes distant.
Behind him, footsteps echoed.
Johnny Ridden approached, helmet tucked under one arm, his own Gelgoog Jäger painted in unmistakable crimson. He stopped beside Matsunaga, following his gaze.
"Still thinking?" Johnny asked casually.
Matsunaga didn't look away. "In a war like this, thinking is unavoidable."
Johnny snorted. "That's one way to put it. Orders are orders. Vanguard strike against the Federation main fleet. Sounds lively."
Matsunaga finally turned his head slightly. "Be careful, Johnny. This battle won't end at A Baoa Qu."
Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"There will be another battlefield," Matsunaga continued calmly. "One where ideology matters less than endurance. Think about yourself in this war—not just the enemy in front of you."
Johnny glanced at him, surprised by the seriousness, then shrugged. "I always do."
He looked down at his own red-painted suit with a faint smirk. Matsunaga noticed—but said nothing.
He wondered, briefly, if the color was coincidence.
Or homage.
The thought passed without comment. Pride was a fragile thing among aces.
Alarms sounded across the hangar.
Sortie countdowns began.
Matsunaga placed his helmet on, sealing it with practiced ease. Johnny did the same.
As their Gelgoogs powered up, thrusters humming with lethal promise, the fortress of A Baoa Qu prepared to strike again—this time not merely to repel the Federation, but to hunt them.
And far from the command room, unseen by Gihren's eyes, the absence of one particular unit would soon matter more than he realized.
On Federation side.
Admiral Tianem stood on the bridge of his flagship, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the forward tactical display. According to the operation plan, his fleet was to advance and reinforce the Vanguard in thirty minutes. The delay was intentional. Minovsky particle density was already rising; once it peaked, long-range communication would become unreliable beyond a narrow operational radius.
"Maintain tight formation," Tianem ordered earlier. "Relay communication ship-to-ship. No gaps."
It was the only way to preserve command cohesion under Minovsky jamming—dangerous, but necessary.
Extra preparations were underway when an unexpected signal broke through.
"—White Base to Federation fleet—retreat immediately or lose formation—repeat—retreat—"
Tianem stepped forward. "What? Clarify. White Base, explain—"
Static answered him.
His eyes flicked back to the display.
Two ships vanished on the left flank—cleanly, violently. Not missile impacts. But big beam saturation.
Then three more on the right, farther out, erased almost simultaneously.
Tianem froze.
"…I see," he said quietly.
A weapon. Long-range. Precise. Powerful enough to punish tight formations.
Zeon had anticipated this.
"They've built something that feeds on density," he muttered. "A weapon designed to kill fleets that think like ours."
He turned sharply. "All ships—loosen formation. Immediately."
An officer hesitated, alarmed. "Sir, if we loosen formation, we lose relay communication. Outer ships will be blind."
"Better blind than dead," Tianem snapped. "Execute the order."
The fleet began to spread—
And then chaos erupted.
Outer ships failed to respond. Relay officers panicked. Some forgot to pass the order. Others assumed someone else already had. Vessels altered vectors independently, clipping one another, disrupting engine paths, breaking what little order remained.
Tianem slammed his fist against the console. "Damn it! Relay the order! Why wasn't it relayed?!"
Too late.
The formation fractured unevenly, not tactically—emotionally. Fear spread faster than Minovsky particles.
Tianem looked past the chaos and saw it.
Behind White Base, Zeon silhouettes emerged—numerous warships, mobile suits of unfamiliar profiles, mixed formations moving with unsettling confidence.
Different frames. Different silhouettes. Different doctrines.
"So that's it," Tianem said under his breath. "They were already there."
If he failed to stabilize this situation—if command dissolved completely—the Federation would not merely lose this battle.
They would lose the war decisively.
---
Aboard Shirogane Miyuki's flagship, the atmosphere was tense but controlled.
Oreki Houtarou studied the tactical feeds with narrowed eyes, not panicked—fascinated.
"…Impressive," he said at last.
Miyuki glanced at him sharply. "That's not the word I'd use."
"They weaponized our assumptions," Oreki replied calmly. "We believed the Gundams guaranteed dominance. Superior machines. Superior numbers. So we clustered. We grew confident."
He gestured to the Zeon mobile suit signatures flooding the display.
"Look at that variety. Specialized units everywhere. High-mobility types, assault frames, interception models. It's inefficient on paper—wasteful, even. From a production standpoint, something like the GM makes more sense. Modular. Flexible."
He paused.
"But Zeon didn't build for efficiency," he continued. "They built for situations."
Miyuki said nothing.
Oreki's eyes darkened slightly. "And none of our intelligence predicted a strategic weapon like that. A long-range system designed not just to destroy—but to destroy hope."
He exhaled slowly. "They dangled it in front of the Vanguard. Forced engagement. Forced density. Almost wiped out the Gundams."
"Almost," Miyuki echoed.
"Yes," Oreki agreed. "They failed."
Then, quietly: "But they were willing to sacrifice their own pilots to make it work."
That lingered in the bridge like a bad aftertaste.
Bravery—or fanaticism.
Either way, it was dangerous.
Outside, Zeon formations closed in, disciplined amid the chaos they had engineered.
And for the first time since the Gundams appeared, the Federation truly understood the problem:
Zeon was not reacting anymore.
They were dictating the battlefield.