=====
Quicksilver
Lady of the Labyrinth
Full time student and part-time writer
"You haven't lived until you've danced the dagger's edge."
http://www.homestead.com/quicksilverslabyrinth
http://www.method.org/gundam
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-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: act22.txt
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Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV
Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright
2000 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission
before reposting.
SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING
SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT II, PART II
By Gerald Tarrant and Quicksilver
Lordofmerentha@yahoo.com, mbsilvana@yahoo.com
Note: /.../ indicates italics. Feedback is craved, urged, ect.
Earlier parts can be found: http://www.method.org/gundam, along with
sidestories, biographies, information, the SnK timeline, and HTML
copies of this part.
Namae mo shiranai hana ga
Tatakai no akai hi ni tsutsumareru
Itsudemo seigi wa hitotsu
Shourisha no te no naka
Mirai o sagasu you na
Kirei koto ja nai
Dareka o nakasetemo
Mayou koto wa shinai
***************************
A flower of an unknown name
Is consumed in the red flame of battle
Eternal justice is alone
In the hands of the victor
This beauty is not
Like searching for the future
If I caused someone to weep
I still would not lose my way
--Gundam Wing, Hoshikuzu no Senshitachi
[Soldiers of the Stars, Treize Khushrenada image song]
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scene V: All That He Seems to be and More
"I want something else
To get me through this
Semi-charmed kind of life."
--Third Eye Blind, Semi-Charmed Life
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Mornings were not his thing. Despite what many people may have
believed, Quatre was not a cheerful person until he had a few ounces
of caffeine running through his veins. His sister Jaffa had once
tried to give him decaffeinated tea in place of his regular
ultra-caffenated brand without informing him. By noon, he had thrown
two temper tantrums over relatively minor matters, a maid had quit,
and Jaffa was forcing two cups of Darjeeling down his throat.
Six AM, and his manservant Kasserine threw his curtains back,
letting the false light of the dawn of the Colony into Quatre's room.
The blonde teenager mumbled a derogatory comment about Kasserine's
probable ancestry and rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head.
Used to the antics of his employer, Kasserine jerked the blankets off
the boy. Quatre made a hurried grab, but his manservant deftly
avoided him. "You're fired! Lemme alone!" Quatre snapped irritably.
With a sigh, Kasserine ignored the order and shoved a cup of Earl
Grey into Quatre's hands. Ten minutes later, Quatre gave him smile
that was wonderful in its sweetness. "Why do you put up with me?" he
asked.
Kasserine stifled a smirk. "You pay well, sir," he said. "Would you
like the rest of your breakfast now?"
Quatre nodded, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Please. And
since I'm sure Bartlett is waiting outside, send him in."
Kasserine nodded, left to carry out his orders, and was replaced
almost immediately by Bartlett, who was holding his daily planner.
"Morning, Bartlett," Quatre said, sipping on his second cup of tea.
"What's on for today?"
Bartlett didn't look up from the notebook, and Quatre barely kept
from sighing out loud. Over a year, and still the man was like an
iceberg. His aide was suppose to be his most valued employee, yet how
could they work together if Bartlett refused to trust him? Quatre was
seriously concerned that he may have to fire the man. "We have a busy
day," Bartlett began, reading over the planner. "Meetings until noon,
lunch with a few of your suppliers, a tour of the new college you
helped finance, two more quick meetings, then you'll be attending a
concert with Ms. Indira Hussein. Remember to be extremely apolitical.
Her family hasn't forgotten the twentieth century."
Quatre hated arranged dates, but it was part and parcel of his
position. Rolling out of bed, he set his feet on the floor, his toes
sinking into the inch-thick plush blue carpet. Darting for the
closet, he disappeared into the vast depths of the wardrobe, looking
around for an outfit for the day. He settled on gray slacks, a pink
silk shirt, and a matching gray vest. Slipping out of his pajamas, he
wrapped a satin dressing robe around his slender body.
He picked up the ensemble he had selected, and started out of the
closet to the bathroom. "Is that all, then?" he asked somewhat dryly.
Bartlett flipped a page. "There is a breaking news story you should
be aware of in case someone wants you to comment on it. It seems a
reporter managed to get a hold of some documents about the Gundam Pilots."
Quatre turned into a statue. "What did they say?" he asked quietly.
Bartlett misinterpreted Quatre's stillness as terror at the very
mention of the word "Gundam". He scowled slightly. "The pilots were
young- the oldest was sixteen when the war ended. The papers claim
they are holding the names, but it's very feasible that the records
will be made public under Act 60 of the World Congress."
"What will happen when the public gets a hold of the names?" Quatre
wondered aloud, but Bartlett took it as a direct question.
The man leveled a gaze on his employer that spoke volumes for how
much he thought of Quatre's intelligence. "Riots, public outcry, the
usual. Hopefully the governments of the world have stabilized enough
to maintain peace, but if not...." The older man shrugged. "We have
the contingency plans prepared already, Mr. Winner. The Winner Group
will weather this as it always has. We are an eternal force of
nature."
Quatre nodded and headed to the bathroom to dress. He washed his face
slowly, looking back at the angelic countenance that was reflected.
Limpid blue eyes stared at him, and Quatre looked at the golden hair
that framed his cupid-like face, the sweet mouth and pale skin. Some
of his sisters liked to tease him about being a cuckoo in the nest,
for who had ever heard of an Arabian who looked like he did? Quatre
used to try to argue that five of his other sisters who had the same
fair coloring, but Jaffa would retaliate by saying they had a
Middle-Eastern cast to their born structure, while he looked as
European as possible. Still, he wished that he looked older. It
wasn't fair that he had lived through the war and still didn't look
like he needed to shave.
After ten minutes or so, he emerged from the bathroom, freshly
washed. Bartlett had taken his leave, but one of Quatre's sisters had
taken his place.
Aisha was the sister he saw the most of. She was the very epitome of
Arabic, having the dark complexion and black hair and eyes that he
lacked, along with the elegantly chiseled features that marked her
Middle Eastern heritage. "Hello, Quatre," she said affectionately.
"Bartlett is going to be handling some of your lower-powered meetings
today, so I'll fill in for him," she said.
He smiled back at her. "Glad to have you," he said. "Does Kasserine
have breakfast ready?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to eat in the car. I grabbed what Kasserine
had finished, and packed some nutritional bars that should do," she
said apologetically. "There's a lot of work to be done, and we're
bracing for the crisis."
He looked at his slender sister, who graceful leaned forward and
straightened his vest. Stepping back, she gave him a once over before
pronouncing him suitable. Together they hurried downstairs, Aisha
falling automatically behind him, modestly keeping her eyes down.
Quatre wondered why she was being so quiet... usually she would at
least twit him about being so informally dressed.
"Aisha, is something going on?" he wanted to know.
"There's always something going on," she replied primly.
His eyes narrowed. "Sheherezade?" he asked suspiciously. Sheherezade
was Aisha's twin sister, and delighted in playing pranks. Sometimes
she would pretend to be her sister, much to everyone's consternation.
His sister laughed. "I assure you, I'm Aisha. The thing is, we have a
guest."
Quatre's eyes narrowed. "Who is it?"
"Jaffa," Aisha answered quietly.
"Jaffa? Here?" he squeaked. As if he didn't have enough to worry
about, now his surrogate mother and head of the Winner family had
appeared.
Jaffa was the fourth daughter, yet she mothered even those who were
older then her. A cheerful, bright personality, she was the tie that
bound the Winner Family together. She knew everyone, serving as the
family mediator, mother, confidante and social coordinator. Quatre
hadn't seen her in three months- the last he knew, she was moderating
yet another of the quarrels between his older sisters. One of them
was a parasite who fed off of the family fortune, and often ended up
fighting with the others about her lifestyle. Jaffa was constantly
soothing the ruffled feathers.
"Yes, here," Aisha replied, a wicked glint in her eye. "She's going
to ride with us to work so she can talk to you. She says it's about
something important."
"I can imagine," Quatre said, his mind flickering to the news
Bartlett had just told him about.
"Well, we had better get going. Your first meeting I in half an
hour."
/Great,/ Quatre thought. /Just great./
The two siblings walked out to the elegant blank limo. Quatre had
toyed with the idea of getting a pink one in mockery of a certain
Queen, but decided he didn't like pink that much. Sliding inside,
Quatre sat opposite both his sisters.
Jaffa was another member of the Winner family who had inherited the
Arabic features of their ancesters. Hey sherry brown eyes lacked
their usual glint of good humor as she clicked the privacy button on.
"You've heard the news, I assume?" she asked, her usually cheerful
soprano muted with a serious concern he had never heard before.
"Yes," Quatre confessed, darting a glance at Aisha. As far as he
knew, Aisha had no idea what her little brother had done during the
war.
"You're going to have to tell her anyway," Jaffa said. "The entire
family is going to find out, along with the rest of the galaxy."
Aisha looked more puzzled. "Find out what?" she wanted to know.
"How many know already?" he wanted to know.
"During the war, six of them found out. Since Iria died, it'd been
five, but I've informed Yaminah since we're going to need her
services."
"Yaminah?" Quatre asked, trying to place the name to the sister. He
had an impossible time keeping them straight.
"She's the lawyer."
"Have I met her?"
"No- she works in London and rarely sees any of the family. Still,
she's taking the first shuttle here."
Aisha finally couldn't take it anymore. "Could one of you please
explain exactly what's going on to me?" she demanded.
Quatre blinked. "It's about what I did during the war."
Aisha went very still suddenly. "What?" she wanted to know, having a
slight preminition of impending doom.
"I was a Gundam Pilot," he said quietly. "Pilot of 04, Gundam
Sandrock."
Aisha blinked, and her eyes grew wide. "This is a joke, right?
Quatre, your sense of humor needs work! Imagine what would happen if
someone actually BELIEVED that?! Do you know how long it would take
for the public relationships to mend the damage that joke would
cause?"
"No," Jaffa said. "He's telling the truth."
Aisha looked at both of their solemn faces. "Quatre, how could you?"
she demanded. "That's against everything our family stands for!"
"It gets better," Quatre said, continuing his confession. "I was also
the one who built Gundam Wing Zero. That was the Gundam that
destroyed the colonies."
"You- you..." Aisha's eyes rolled up into her forehead, and she
collapsed, unable to assimilate the news that her quiet, gentle
brother was a mass murderer.
"Aisha!" Quatre cried, but Jaffa had been prepared for such a
reaction.
"She'll get over it. Be good and eat your breakfast- you're going to
need all the energy you can get."
Quatre obediently picked up a slice of his cooling toast, chewing on
it somewhat resentfully. "So we have a lawyer coming, and we're going
to tell the rest of the family. Great."
"I also took the liberty of contacting Rashid- he's going to be
bringing his soldiers up to be your bodyguards."
"Bodyguards?"
"Quatre, you know as well as I do that people are very, very upset.
There's going to be assassination attempts on your life."
Quatre blinked. "I never thought about it."
She sighed. "No, of course you wouldn't. You always think about an
ideal, or in other abstract concepts. I've arranged a press
conference for three days from now."
"Press conference?" Quatre parroted.
"It'll be better if we release the news ourselves, rather then have
it spread. That way, we can put the proper spin control on it. I've
contacted Briggs and Tenno- they're the best speech writers in the
business."
Quatre felt like he had just been hit by a high-speed shuttle. "Is
there anything you didn't think of?" he wanted to know.
"Most likely. But I'm your older sister, I'm suppose to boss you
around."
He smiled and took a sip of orange juice. "I love you," he said.
"I know you do," she said affectionately. "You're not the only one
with empathic abilities."
Glancing over at Aisha, he wondered. If his own sister had reacted
this badly, what would the rest of the world do?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scene VI: The Price of Fame and Nobility
"Osanai koro wo omou yasashisa ni ueteta
Amari ni mo toosugita anata no koe.
[I remember my childhood when I hungered for gentleness
But your voice was too far from me.]"
--Dir en Grey, I'll
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"I hide nothing," she intoned calmly for the fifth time. Camera bulbs
flashed in her face and she resisted the urge to spin around and bolt
back into the safety of one of the many myriad hidden rooms of the
palace. "I was not aware of the need to reveal the identities of the
pilots to the public."
"Isn't that hiding, Lady Peacecraft?"
"I call it protecting, rather."
"You wish to protect murderers?"
"They are not murderers," Relena flared, regretting that show of
temper immediately after she had spoken. The cameras clicked and
flashbulbs sparked. "They are my friends!"
"You claim to be a pacifist, yet you befriend soldiers?"
"These soldiers fought for the greater good."
"Yet they fought!"
Microphones shoved up in her face.
"Lady Peacecraft, what-"
"Lady Peacecraft, please-"
"Lady Peacecraft, why-"
She opened her mouth to tell them all to go to hell, and a shadow
stepped smoothly in front of her, blocking her from public view.
"I believe Lady Peacecraft is tired," intoned her security chief.
"She needs to rest. Thank you for coming."
The clamor from the crowd of reporters rose as he backed away from
the blocked off entrance-way to the Cinq palace, sweeping her along
with them. When enough shrubbery and latticework hid them from sight,
he stopped, turning around to look at her.
"I apologize for dragging you off, my lady, but you did look tired."
She managed a ragged smile, pushing a lock of hair back behind her
ear. "No. Thank you. You did the right thing. A second longer there,
and I would have..."
His smile showed he understood. From what Milliard had told her, this
particular guard had served under the Peacecrafts when her father was
king. He was a big man with salt-and pepper hair and beard and gentle
eyes. He could be counted on.
"It's been a long day, Jarod."
"That it has, my lady. Perhaps you would like to be escorted back to
your rooms to rest?"
That sounded nice. To rest. "No...I can't. There's work to be taken
care of."
"You've done enough work today, my lady."
Relena rested her head against the stone pillar at the edge of the
drive. "There's press reports to read...paperwork. I need to contact
lawyers in case anything does happen. I need to prepare a statement
to the country...Secretary Warner and I think it's a good idea if I
have a public appearance to clear everything up as much it can be
cleared up..."
"Relena."
She looked up at him. He had only called her by her given name a few
times before, but he had known her since she was a child, and she
trusted him.
"I'm sorry, Jarod. I can't sleep yet."
His eyes showed that he was worried about her, but instead he nodded.
"Shall I accompany you back to your office, then?"
"That would be nice. Thank you."
The stars were bright tonight and it was almost a shame when they
stepped into the side door that led directly to the offices inside
the east wing of the palace. The hallways were quiet and most of the
doors were locked, personnel having gone home rather than stay up
late dealing with the paperwork that had piled up on their desks
within a day after the news broke.
The media had no mercy.
Relena had been eating breakfast when she had heard. She had planned
for a fairly relaxing day, with only two meetings: one with the
Secretary of Commerce and the other with some committee chairman for
the Renovation of Public Lands. When the servant appeared at the door
with that familiar look on his face, the please-Relena-sama-could-
you-change-your-schedule look, she'd felt slightly downcast at the
hopes of her one free day in months going down the drain.
A lot more was about to go down the drain, as she found out when she
saw the gathering of news vans pulled up in front of the palace
gates. Her chief of security was waiting for her at the door.
"Jarod?" She'd snapped. "What's going on?"
He had broken the news to her as gently as possible and she had felt
the old resignation bubble up from where she had stored it, hoping
never to have to use it again. The resignation that things were never
going to go the way she wanted them to, and she should just learn to
deal with it. Milliard had told her that his first night back.
"Stop trying to change the world, Relena. It won't happen. You'll
just have to deal with the fact that what you want might not be the
way things are going to be."
Relena had never been the type of person to "just deal" with
anything. But when Jarod had uttered the words "Gundam" and "pilot,"
she had felt strangely blank, as if it had nothing to do with her. As
if she had never been involved, had been just a spectator sitting on
the sidelines watching as the bloody drama unfolded. Because she had
never really been involved, after all. She'd pushed her way in,
hoping to make a difference...and she'd been used. Cruelly used and
then thrown aside.
/Heero.../
She'd watched from the window of her office as the reporters
gathered. She pretended to do paperwork, glancing at the clock every
two minutes, wondering why the second hand crawled so slowly by the
silver numbers on the face. After reading and rereading the same
paragraph on foreign affairs for half an hour, she stood, slammed the
stack of papers down on the desk, and drew the curtain over the
window.
Jarod had appeared at the door, alarmed.
"Lady Peacecraft? What's wrong?"
"I'm going down to face them."
Now, as she sat in the same chair and stared at the even higher stack
of papers on her desk, she wondered if that had been such a good
idea. She had raised more questions than answers, and the results of
that hurried interview were sure to be in the news tomorrow, twisted
out of context and interspersed with the news anchors' snide remarks.
That was how it always was. She couldn't even make a simple interview
sound how she wanted it to, in the end.
She'd spoken from the heart. Always. And it hurt.
"Relena? You sure you'll be all right?"
She smiled at Jarod's worried face, waving him away. "I'm fine. I'll
go lie down in a little bit, after I finished writing a preliminary
speech."
"You really should hire a speech writer," he said, hand hovering
around the doorknob. "It would be-"
"A lot easier?" Relena said softly, smiling at him. Her cheeks hurt.
"Yes it would be. But then they wouldn't be my words. Would they?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I see."
No, he didn't, but it was all right. "Goodnight, Jarod."
He bowed and the door closed behind him with a click. She sighed.
After a moment, she got up, kicking off her shoes as she did so,
letting her sore feet pad soundlessly on the carpet. Walking to the
window, she slowly drew back the curtains, watching the stars and the
moon in the sky.
Most of the vans had gone now, and the few that remained were
starting their engines, crew packing away camera equipment. Ironic,
that a queen couldn't even keep reporter crews out of her own front
yard.
No, she wasn't a queen. More like a prime minister, a president. A
queen had more power than she was wielding right now, and she knew
that some of her ministers thought she was overstepping her bounds.
Relena Peacecraft may be the rightful heir to the throne...but she's
different. An outsider. Not one of us.
She supposed she would have to just deal with it, as she had with
everything else. It hurt.
Sighing, Relena pushed back the papers covering most of the desk,
biting back a yelp as she sliced the skin of one finger on a corner
of a document. Putting the finger in her mouth, she cleared enough
space to work, then retrieved an ink pen and a spare sheet of paper.
/My people:/
No, that wouldn't work. She would be being too presumptuous.
Scratching that out, she started over.
/My fellow citizens:/
That wouldn't work either. She wasn't really a citizen of the Cinq
Kingdom, in their eyes. She hadn't been there when they'd needed her.
Never mind that she had been a child with no recollection of her
past, and that her older brother, the traitor-turned-rebel, was the
true heir. Sighing, she scribbled it out.
/Citizens of the Cinq Kingdom:/
Hmm. What next? A simple explanation. She was too tired to add in the
flowery greetings and pleasantries. She could do that later, if she
wanted. She doubted she would.
/The news of the identities of the Gundam Pilots has been a matter of great concern to us and a matter of great concern to this state as well. In this address, we wish to state our position on this matter. '
/We- /
We what?
What was her position on the Gundam pilots?
Relena chewed on the end of the pen, propping her head up with one
hand. They were expecting her to support the decision of the world
government. That was definitely what they would want: all her
ministers. A strong kingdom must have a strong queen, and a strong
queen follows the just rule of law. Wasn't that what she had been
taught?
So exactly what was the just rule of law?
Steepling her fingers in front of her, Relena closed her eyes,
sorting through memory after memory. The war had been about power,
in the end. Power in the name of peace. That was all it was, and some
part of her had known that even through the struggle to create a real
world government in the name of peace. She had known, as with
everything, that nothing she did would matter. That she would
eventually be cast aside as just another pawn, and she would have to
learn to deal.
/Milliard, this is all your fault./
It was his fault. If he hadn't been so selfish, hadn't decided to
walk away from his responsibility without a care in the world and
left her with the throne, it would all be all right. At least he
could have stayed when he had decided to come back out of wherever he
had been hiding himself. At least he could have offered to help her.
Instead, he'd sat around offering cryptic remarks and showing no
sympathy whatsoever towards her troubles.
She'd wanted a brother, and he had acted the part of stern parent.
She'd wanted a brother, and he had acted the part of overbearing
advisor. Never simply there for her, like a true brother would be.
Milliard Peacecraft obviously didn't understand.
Some brother.
Relena clenched her fists, feeling like a five-year-old throwing a
temper tantrum, but she didn't care. She was still a child, in
Milliard's eyes, and would always be a child. It wasn't her fault
that she had none of his charisma, his presence, his ability to plan
and charm into submission. She wasn't her brother, and Milliard
couldn't accept that.
Heero had the same qualities that Milliard had, except he was...
different. He was...
Pure?
As absurd as that was, that was how she thought of him.
They were all pure.
She reached for her pen, began scribbling lines down on the page of
paper, knowing that what she wrote was far from politically correct,
even farther from the policies which she had hoped to instill in the
country as queen, but that really wasn't a choice any longer. She had
to be selfish sometimes.
This matter was something which she couldn't just let slide. Even if
it didn't matter in the end, she would act. She refused to sit by and
deal with it any longer.
/We believe in peace, yet we-/
No.
Starting from the beginning of the document, Relena began scratching
out all references to the royal "we." This was not about the kingdom,
but her and her alone. There was no "we" in this.
/I believe in peace, yet I believe that in order to sustain that
peace, one must also sometimes deviate from absolute pacifism. This
matter of the Gundam pilots threatens the peace that we have so
carefully built, and therefore I must stand behind the pilots. The
pilots fought for our peace. They gave us the courage and the ability
to build this new world in which we live. In order to preserve their
dreams, what they have fought for, I also must stand up and fight.
Not with weapons, but with words and with action. I believe that we
should give back to the pilots what they gave to us, and that
includes support in their darkest hour./
She read the words over, seeing them as if through a distant, dim
tunnel. She was digging her own grave, yet she could not lie.
/Milliard, we're different, you and I./
/I do not plead with you to stand with me. I know that this time will
be one of trial for all citizens, and I will not exempt myself from
that trial. The Gundam pilots taught us strength and honor, and for
that strength and honor, I will stand up for what I believe is the
truth./
The truth.
What was the truth?
In the darkness of the room she could almost see a pair of
Prussian-blue eyes gazing cold and hard into hers, a hand reaching
out, the feel of cold metal against her skin.
/Omae o korosu./
They had left her. They had all left her alone, and yet she was
defending them.
/I urge every citizen to support the side which they believe stands
in the right. In every crucible and conflagration, those who emerge
will emerge stronger and wiser. So I hope it is with this conflict.
And in the end, I hope that none of us will hold regrets for what we
have done. /
The room suddenly felt very cold, and the twinkling stars offered no
comfort.
"Milliard," she said quietly to the shadows. "You're a coward."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scene VII: To Begin a Battle
"Pass the word; it's a call to arms."
--Mike and the Mechanics, A Call to Arms
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Colonel was in command.
Technically that wasn't true. Lady Une was now a General; she hadn't
been a Colonel since the end of the Eve Wars. Still, that was how
Sally thought of Une when she was like this. Even though Une had
integrated both aspects of her personality, sometime one side would
become more dominant.
It was fascinating to watch. Sally, though no psychologist,
recognized a classic case of a dissociation disorder when she saw
one. Aside from the slight breakdown Une had first had when they
surveyed her office, the Lady had managed to maintain control of the
situation.
The world was going nuts. Already the Preventers had been forced to
dispatch four teams as riot control, and fires had been reported in
thirteen major cities and two colonies. The press was pounding on
their doors, heckling any employees who tried to enter. Two
secretaries had quit in tears, and one of their operatives had
grabbed a photographer and destroyed his camera.
Sally knocked cautiously on the door, ready to get her head bitten
off. People had been treading carefully around Une, with good reason.
Une was never a calm personality, but in times of crisis, heads
rolled if things weren't done as well as she could have. And as Une
was a perfectionist, people were naturally frightened.
Sally wasn't afraid of her, but she understandably didn't look
forward to getting chopped off at the knees. The press had fallen
onto the story like rabid wolves, and they were left picking up the
mess.
"Enter!" Une said.
She was sitting behind the desk, her hair still messed from the storm
she had gotten caught in. She had taken the time to put on a clean
uniform, and Sally saw that the old one had been thrown onto the
chair that was in the right hand corner of the office. Obviously the
maid hadn't found the courage to enter. All things considered, it was
probably a wise thing. Sally made a mental note to give her a raise-
that was assuming that the Preventers were still around in a month.
This whole mess could destroy them.
"We got Banks. He was sitting at home, waiting for us. Came without a
fight," Sally reported without preamble.
Une's eyes flashed in satisfaction. "The press get it?"
"The press always 'gets it.' Right now our cover is that we've taken
him in for questioning about how he obtained the documents."
Une snorted. "Bury him in paperwork."
"Taken care of. I have a gag order on the World Free Press, but Lord
knows how long it will be until they manage to get a court to
overturn it for long enough to publish the story- I give it about ten
days."
"Ten days to brace for the hurricane. How lovely," Une said
sardonically.
"I know," Sally said, a grim expression on her face. "What the hell
can we do?" she wanted to know.
"I have not the slightest idea. If I did, believe me we wouldn't be
messing with this." Une rested her face in her hands, rubbing at her
temples as though she had a headache.
The vidscreen blinked, signaling an incoming call. Une sighed and
entered the passcode that would allow the call through. "Yes?" she
asked temperamentally.
Sally came around the other side of Une's desk, curious in spite of
herself. On the screen was a man in a stained Preventers uniform,
wearing the insignia of a first lieutenant. His brown eyes had tight
stress lines around them, and Sally wondered what the smoke she could
see rising behind the lieutenant was coming from.
The man saluted. "Lieutenant Drake, reporting, ma'am," he announced.
Une stared him down for a second. "Dispense with the formalities,
soldier. What is so god damn urgent that you have to interrupt me?"
she demanded rudely.
Sally barely kept from wincing at Une's harsh tones.
"I was calling to report a riot in Moscow, ma'am," he said.
"We have a riot in Moscow now?" she demanded, wanting to know exactly
where the hell the world was going to. "Great!"
"Hardly, ma'am. I have all of our peacekeepers out to quell the
crowds- we've used tear gas twice already, and it just seems to be
making them more angry."
"Spare me from imbeciles! Of course it's making them more angry. The
population just found out the Preventers knew who the Gundam Pilots
were, and when they protest, they get bombarded with tear gas! You
stupid, stupid man! Get our people who are there to form a barricade
by the government buildings, but otherwise let the people do what
they want as long as they aren't hurting each other. They have a
right to demonstrate."
"But they're burning cars!" the lieutenant said in protest.
"Cars are replaceable. Lives aren't," Une said shortly. "Be patient-
I'll be sending a Colonel out to take care of the situation shortly.
Until then, do not do anything rash. Lady Une out.
"Sally, remind me to demote that idiot as soon as possible."
"Duly noted," Sally said dryly.
Une rubbed her temples, then reached into her desk, pulling out a
pain medication. Taking two tablets, she swallowed without water.
"Damn migraine," she griped.
/Great,/ Sally thought. /As if she wasn't bad enough already, now she
had a headache. She's going to be worse then a lion with a thorn in
its paw./
Une looked up. "I've been getting calls like that all day. So far
thirty people have died. We've lost five agents, and I've had over a
hundred resignations delivered to my desk. Then I have idiots like
that- how the hell did he make lieutenant?" she griped. "You think
there would be a requirement for a brain, wouldn't you? Apparently
not."
Sally blushed slightly. She was in charge of personnel, and Une's
complaint was a valid one. "Sorry," she said uselessly.
"Doesn't matter right now. That's the least of my concerns. What I
need is to make sure that the riots don't spread. If I have to, I'll
resign as Head of Preventers... the problem is, who would take my
place? You? You're in just as deep as I am, if not more so. You were
the ally of the Pilots during the war."
Sally shrugged. "I make no apology for that fact."
"Nor should you. Then there's Noin and Zechs- Noin may be dead right
now for all we know, and Zechs- well, he doesn't want it. Too bad,
really, because he'd probably handle this better then anyone else
could."
Une sank back into her seat. "I just had papers filed against me,"
she said. "The families of some of the soldiers who were killed at
Lake Victoria have banded together and are pressing suit. I expect
there will be many, many more. I might have to hire additional
lawyers."
"In war, people die. Ignore that for now," Sally advise quietly.
"What we need to concentrate on is Banks. He caused this, and we have
to react. Part of the mission statement for the Preventers is to
promote peace. Banks is hardly doing that. He broke his oath as a
Preventer, so we can have a military trial. A court martial, at the
very least."
Une snorted. "His loyalties were never with us to start with."
"No, but it's the excuse we can use to make sure we can keep him in
our custody."
Une nodded. "Would you do me a tremendous favor?" she asked in a
sweet voice.
Sally slanted her a wary look. Une rarely asked for anything; usually
she outright demanded. If she was asking, it meant trouble. "What is
it?" she wanted to know.
"Someone needs to question Banks; someone high in the organization. I
don't trust myself to do it- if I had my way, I'd shoot the bastard.
You're a little more patient then I ever am."
Sally nodded, conceding the point. "You're not the only one who'd
prefer to see a rotting corpse," she muttered under her breath.
Une looked at her. "I want to know if he had any accomplices. I want
to know how he did it. And most of all, I want to know why he did it."
"Don't we all," Sally agreed. "Sure. I'll go interview Banks."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Scene VIII: Name, Rank, Serial Number, and Date of Birth
"When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to
give name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. I will avoid
answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make
no oral or written statements disloyal to my country or its allies,
or harmful to their cause."
--Article 5, United States Military Code of Conduct
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
She glared silently, defiantly, at the man who stood before her. Her
arms tingled and she could feel the sensation leaving them as the
handcuffs chafed at her wrists. Not that it mattered.
Noin wondered how long it would take until he figured out she
wouldn't talk.
The room was a large one, almost throne-room like, with enormous
glass windows placed at strategic intervals through which sunlight
streamed. The room was bare of furniture. She guessed that in
peacetime, it had been used as a ballroom of some sort, but the feel
of it now was far from the festive atmosphere of a ballroom. Though
that had much to do with the officer who was standing amid the shafts
of sun, mocking her predicament.
"You're a stubborn one," he said at last, looking at her thoughtfully
as he paced around her in a circle. Circle after circle. It was
enough to drive a woman crazy. And the thoughtfulness in his eyes was
not friendly. "What will it take to make you tell me what I want to
know?"
"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number 15822147. Date of
birth January 25, 176."
"You know, that name sounds familiar." The look of thoughtfulness in
his eyes was real now, as he cocked his head to the side to ponder.
"Oh...I know who you are. The OZ Lieutenant Noin, am I right? Thought
I recognized your face. You were always in the news, before the war.
Merquise's sidekick, am I correct?"
She said nothing, but he smiled and continued to circle, like a
vulture descending on its prey from spirals in the sky. He had on
lieutenant colonel ranks and wore his saber with all the
condescending air of an officer who was more than sure of his
abilities, one of those officers who could break all the rules and
get away with it and still be worshipped. She resisted the urge to
spit in the smirking face under the styled golden hair. He was tall
and handsome and confident, and he knew it.
That was the problem, wasn't it? He was confident in his ability to
break her, and she was not so confident she would not be broken.
She wouldn't have, once. But that was a long time ago...when...
He reminded her of...
"You'll talk, Lieutenant Noin. You'll talk soon enough. Why don't you
just save me the trouble of...less healthy methods and just tell me
what your government wants?"
"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin," she said through gritted teeth.
"Serial number 15822147. Date of birth January 25, 176."
There was a silence as he frowned at her, and then he began to laugh.
The peals of laughter rolled through the high-ceilinged room, and for
a moment, she blinked, confused. He smiled at her, still laughing.
"They trained you better than I thought," he said at last. "I suppose
I underestimated those OZ bastards. You won't say anything else to me
unless I do decide to apply the rules, so I should stop trying, is
that right?"
It was all she could do to stop herself from hurling obscenities at
him. And from the look on his face, he knew it.
"You may break easier than I thought," he said. Stopping his pacing
for a minute, he scratched the side of his nose, fingering the hilt
of his dress saber with the other hand. "I'm sorry. I never
introduced myself, did I? My name is Lieutenant Colonel Davi Morgan,
and I am the commander of the 5th infantry battalion for the
liberation of the colony." He stopped, and she stared stonily at him.
There was sunshine coming through the skylight above his head. "A
grand title, isn't it? A grand ideal."
"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number-"
He waved irritably at her. "I know, I know. Serial number 15822147,
etcetera. What every good soldier learns as soon as the enter the
forces. Save me the trouble, major."
"You won't get away with this," she said, holding her chin up high.
The handcuffs squeezed her wrists.
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? The captive does speak after all."
"I'm not helpless," she spat. "I can defend myself, and you will
regret this."
"I'm sure," he said lazily, drawing his saber with a silvery metallic
ring and tracing invisible circles in the air with it. His polished
black boots clicked on the floor as he began to circle once more, and
she stiffened as he twirled the saber around with one hand and
pointed it at her throat. Circling. Around and around.
"You're not bad looking at all," he murmured softly. "In fact, you'd
actually be quite pretty if you weren't so sour looking. What's a
lovely girl like you doing in the military?"
Her hands trembled.
Abruptly, he sheathed the saber with a flourish. "Enough idle talk.
I suppose I've grown tired of your company, charming though it is,
so I'll let you retire to your chambers now. Let us continue this
conversation later, shall we?"
"Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number 15822147. Date of birth January
25, 176."
"As I said," he said, raising one eyebrow. "A very pleasant
conversation." He snapped his fingers, and another man appeared
through the door on the far side, with staff sergeant chevrons on his
sleeves, striding across the floor to where Morgan stood. She
recognized him. He was the one who had brought her here, the one who
guarded her door on the afternoon shift and occasionally came in to
check that she was not entertaining any ideas of suicide.
"Take her away," Morgan said dismissively. "I'm through with her for today."
"Yes, sir."
"And Noin?"
She couldn't help but look up at him, towards that deceptively casual
tone of voice. His face was hard, and all trace of humor had vanished.
"This is your last chance to talk," he said coldly. "If you do not
give me the information my commander seeks, I will be forced to use
other methods to gain that information. This colony is no longer
under the control of the Terran government, and we may do whatever we
want with you. Do you understand?"
She didn't answer.
In a split second the mask was back. Smiling slightly, he bowed to
her, a perfect gentleman's bow.
"Good day, Major."
And then the click of his boots in the hallway outside was the only
evidence that he had been standing before her at all.
"Come on," the sergeant grunted, taking her roughly by her bound
hands and tugging her. "Let's go."
She didn't argue, simply letting him lead her back to the room that
was actually a cell, no matter what they called it. Her lunch was
waiting in the food tray, and as the lock clicked behind her, she
could smell the aroma wafting towards her nose.
The skin on her hands hurt where the handcuffs had bound her, and she
rubbed them absently, closing her eyes for a moment and letting the
sunshine soak through her skin. It was only them she realized she was
shaking.
/Zechs...I can't do this. I can't do this./
She had never been a prisoner of war. Fearless commander, ace mobile
suit pilot, that was her. But she had never imagined that she would
actually ever become a prisoner. The war was over. It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair at all.
When she was a cadet she had been trained with all the survival
skills she would need to survive on her own in the forest, in the
jungle, in the desert, adrift in the ocean or in the depths of space.
But how did one survive in a prison with all the comforts of home?
Her troops needed her...and she wasn't there for them.
/Noin, how could you be so stupid?/
Her legs were stiff and jelly all at once and she fell to her knees
on the hard floor.
She'd thought she was strong enough, but perhaps she wasn't. There'd
been the books, the personal testimonies of the men and women on
holovid in the Academy library, men and women who had been prisoners
of war and who had testified the horrible truth that they hadn't been
as strong as they thought they were when it came down to the bottom
line.
What would happen, if she broke?
"Zechs," she whispered, the sound barely a breath of air over the
mechanical whir of the air conditioning through the vent. "Zechs...
why did you have to die?"
/Why did you have to die?/
END ACT 2, PART 2