ANATEXIS

PART 5 - Half-Life

The Range Rover spewed sand as it roared over the dunes, the driver struggling with the wheel. Beside him, his companion held sunshielded binoculars to his lightly tanned face. Then he saw what he had been searching for.

"There!" he shouted over the wind and the engine. "Bear fifty degrees to your left!"

The vehicle swerved at the crest of the dune, and they half drove, half slid to the base of it. At the sight of the body the driver stopped, and the two men jumped out.

"She's still alive," said the driver, lifting the woman into his arms. The rough turban slid off, and her long blonde hair brushed the sand. "Whoa there... The sun's burnt her pretty badly."

"Bram, I know this woman."

The driver lowered the woman into the back of the vehicle, and the two men exchanged looks. "Is she an old friend?"

Quatre Raberba Winner's brow knitted, and he shook his head. "Never a friend. Some might say we were enemies." His voice was troubled.

The Chairwoman of Saltern-Barchan Medical Technologies looked at the calendar. 10th February WNR 4. By right she should have been happy on this day. The fact that she had been able to set up the company following Mariemaia's takeover, and then turn it into the sole profit-making arm of the Winner companies, was an achievement in itself. All the other enterprises had suffered, some forcibly shut down and replaced by government-controlled industries; some doomed by the unforeseen, like the Mars terraforming project. But on the 3rd anniversary of its founding Saltern-Barchan was facing a crisis.

Two weeks ago the military had officially commandeered the South American factory dromes, and had in effect cut 40% of Saltern-Barchan's drug manufacturing capabilities. The cost itself to the company was crippling, but worse still was the thought of what the military intended to do with the distillation plants.

Iria Winner was torn by equal parts rage and despair. At first stores of medicines had held out, and the company was able to hold to its original prices, but now they were having to hike prices up, and countless people depending on the medication to survive were being dealt virtual death sentences.

If there were a way to fight... But Mariemaia's government is wise to the potential dangers of rebellions. The forces that oppose her are still scattered, and weak, unable to oust her. Yet this is no longer an oppression of the colonies; we all suffer together now.

"Iria." Quatre came into the room, a tired smile on his face. "I wish you would let me handle some work for you."

Iria shook her head, and quickly cleared the papers away before Quatre could come round the desk and see them. It was wrong of her to keep her brother completely isolated from the events of the real world, but she could not burden him till he was much stronger. The one year of lying comatose had wasted away much of his muscle mass, and Quatre had been of light build to begin with. Even two years on he was still undergoing physiotherapy to increase his stamina and mobility.

"I heard something about increasing production costs," said Quatre. "And you've been so worried lately. Has something happened?"

"We've lost a few plants due to... accidents," said Iria, her voice quavering. She knew that she could not hide her emotions from her brother, and the lies she used to cover the reasons for her despair were despicable. But what can I do? Tell Quatre that the government needs to be removed? That he should fight for freedom again? That he should survive two wars only to die in futile effort to wage a third? This time there is no powerful weapon to use, no Gundams, no allies... and the only other surviving pilot is in the enemy ranks.

"Don't be discouraged, Iria, the factories can be rebuilt. You've already done so much for the company; you deserve a rest." Quatre took her hand and pressed it. "If there is anything... anything at all... I shall do it for you."

Every day I give thanks that you live, Quatre. That we only switched off the life support machine because you no longer needed it. Iria smiled and squeezed the hand which held hers. "You'd rescue me from anything, I know. My hero."

She instantly regretted the choice of words. Quatre's eyes were suddenly distant, as if he were trying to work out something and failing. Having instructed all the servants never to mention anything that involved the Gundam pilots, she was disgusted that she herself had slipped.

"Heero," said Quatre in a sad voice. "He disappeared with Wing Zero. It was after I retrieved the Gundams, of course. I didn't see him afterwards. Afterwards? No, he didn't appear. Duo must be dreadfully worried, and Relena too." He nodded slowly, labouredly. "But then Relena is so busy nowadays, that must help her forget. Maybe Heero will come back when she least expects him to."

Iria felt a small measure of disquiet. It was strange, that Quatre should have this one illogical kink in his memories when he had perfect recall in any other case. He occasionally would bring up events linked to the wars of AC 195, with an unpolluted recollection of what had happened. And in this new World Nation Reckoning he seemed completely aware of the fact that Mariemaia was Dictator. But mention a pilot's name, and he would drift, divorced from the present.

Iria touched his cheek, taking care to avoid the thin burnline, a relic of searing hot metal and Sandrock's destruction. "I have to go to a meeting. I'll see you this evening, dear."

Half an hour later Iria was getting out of the limousine, ready to speak to her assistants on the matter of the raised prices. They could absorb some of the losses if they discontinued some lines, and....

A man suddenly burst out from a sidestreet, and for a moment Iria thought he was a snatchthief. Then she noted his tie and suit and was confused, but before she could think he had knocked over a passerby and was heading straight for her.

Perhaps, if the Chairwoman had known that he had targeted her all along, she would have avoided the impending disaster. But she did not know -

The man hooked his arm round her neck and dragged her up so that he had his back against the wall of the building. He was waving the gun around in his right hand, a blur of black which Iria could only see out of the corner of her eye. And he seemed to be sobbing and shouting at the same time... Iria heard snatches of it through a haze of shock.

"You filthy swine! All you do... is make money from our pain... You think you can get rich from SICK PEOPLE?" The butt of the gun glanced over Iria's temple, and she lolled in his grip, stunned. "You want to... make us pay more for your precious drugs?"

His hot tears were soaking into Iria's collar, and she whispered, "The factories were - "

"I'm going to DIE because of your greed!" he screamed into her ear, deafening her. Far off, there were sirens, and it all mixed in with the buzzing. "I'll make you pay, bitch, I'll make you PAY..."

In one desperate burst Iria dug an elbow into his side, and he howled. No time for explanations that it wasn't her fault, no time to say that it was Mariemaia's military rule that turned people into animals. She felt the adrenalin give her the strength to run -

The gun went off. Once, twice, three times, he emptied the barrel.

On the 10th of February, WNR 4, Iria Winner was murdered outside the headquarters of Saltern-Barchan Medical Technologies.

"Don't worry, I've seen worse cases of desert burn," said Bram, moistening another linen strip and applying it to the woman's raw, red arm. "You'll heal over in no time at all."

She lay stiffly on the camp bed, staring with unblinking blue eyes up at the tent canopy, which vibrated tautly under the blasting of the winds. Her parched lips parted, and then closed again.

"I won't give you more water, or your body will expel it quite violently," said Bram, thinking that the thirst must have been unbearable for such an obviously delicate lady. He quenched his curiosity for the moment, though, concentrating on seeing that her skin was kept cool and damp. "I'd like to apply a few salves to the worst burns, but we'll have to wait till we return to... get back home, that is. But while the storm lasts, we're best sitting it out in this tent."

The woman kept staring at the canopy. "Your concern is... appreciated."

Bram's expression was quizzical. What kind of woman would say that? Not 'Thank you for saving me'; not 'I'm glad I'm alive'. He had deduced from the size of her diamonds that she was wealthy, but this stilted formality added the flavour of aristocracy as well. So, a lady of complete leisure. Probably out in the desert seeking exotic adventure, only to be separated from her companions in a moment of carelessness.

"It looks like you'll be staying with us for awhile then, Miss...er..."

"Wescott. Mrs Wescott."

Bram was surprised. He had not expected her to be married. "I'm Bram."

Mrs Wescott finally settled her gaze on something beside the roof of the tent, and scanned her surroundings. "Where is your... friend?"

"Ah, he is outside."

"In the storm?"

Bram smiled easily. "Yes, he can tell from the patterns when it will stop or pick up; when it is best to move on."

Mrs Wescott seemed to think this amusing, but it was hard to tell her expression under the linen strips. Quatre Raberba Winner, she thought. Once dubbed as 'The Desert Prince'. It seems you have returned to your natural environment... She had not yet had a chance to study him, but in the brief glances she had already noted a few things - that he carried a thin brand running over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose; that he was far taller and thinner than before; that his hair had remained pale even in adulthood. No doubt the bleaching properties of the desert sun were partially responsible for the last characteristic.

"Tell me, Bram," said Mrs Wescott in a calculatedly mild manner. "What does a man like yourself do in this desert? Surely you're not a sightseer, if 'home' is closeby."

Bram's hands paused in mid-air, the moist bandage dripping. He seemed to glance at the tent flap, as if waiting for some signal of approval from that direction, but there was none forthcoming. "There are... resources here in the Rub'al Khali Desert." He saw the glimmer in her blue eyes, and found it strangely daunting. "And... yourself, Miss - I mean, Mrs Wescott? How did you come to be out here?"

"Circumstances beyond my control." Another unusual choice of words.

At that point the tent flap was lifted, and Quatre entered, a swirl of sand blowing in with him. It was then that she saw how bony he was - it looked much as if he had stretched rather than grown in seven years. In his figure and face there were the traces of both physical and emotional starvation.

He ran fingers through his hair, sifting out sand, and dusted his kaftan off. Bram immediately went forward to take his boots, and they spoke in very low murmurs at the tent flap before Quatre deigned to approach the camp bed. Then he sat crosslegged beside it, just on eye-level with his guest. "This morning a helicopter was spotted in the area, not far from where we found you. I think that that is how you were dropped off. Did you have any say in the matter? I doubt you expected us to find you. You should have been dead by now."

"And so should you, Quatre Winner. But you hardly look like a dead coma patient."

It was a contest of wills again, though the battleground had changed and an era had ended. A latent aggression hung heavily in the claustrophobic tent setting, and Bram, as an onlooker, felt impelled to run out into the storm to escape it.

"Is it so hard to tell me why you are here, Dorothy?"

The woman who had once been Dorothy Catalonia hardened her gaze. "I'm here because I have nowhere to go. Perhaps you're my punishment... perhaps I'm yours... Fate is cruel to send me to you in this.. this state of weakness." Her face contorted, wrinkling the linen strips that lay on it. "I... I..."

Quatre almost thought she was going to break, but the tears never came. "How sad," he whispered, echoing the words of one long gone. "A woman who cannot cry."

"I don't see you shedding tears for me."

"No," he mused, as if the thought had never occurred to him before. "I haven't shed tears in a long time."

In a short respite from the sandstorm, they dismantled the tent, packed its contents up and deposited it in the concrete cylinder from which it had come. Then they got into the Range Rover and raced for 'home'. Dorothy expected this to be some sort of palatial residence by an oasis, a concentration of comforts in a vast ocean of deprivation.

Instead, there was another tent, its colour identical to the desert sand, and its crescentic shape mimicking a large dune. Only when they finally drove the vehicle through its entrance did Dorothy realise that this semi-permanent structure was vast, reinforced from the inside by a meshwork of steel cable. There were countless men performing a range of tasks, but the nearest dozen or so immediately dropped what they were doing to greet the newcomers.

"Sir - "

"Sir."

"We have the scouting party ready, sir."

"Sir, word just came in - "

"New recruits have been checked out, sir - "

Ever surrounded by loyal followers, observed Dorothy. His Maganacs perished in the conflict, but still more have replaced them now.

There was a gentle tap on her shoulder, and she turned to face Bram. "The leader thinks you should rest in his quarters. Please follow me, Mrs Wescott." Dorothy brooked no protest, and let Bram lead her away, but she cast one purposeful look behind her at the young Arabian. Though he had his back to her, he suddenly turned, aware of her gaze.

Quatre's quarters were sparsely furnished but comfortable, and Dorothy found herself kicking off her shoes to lounge on a large cushion, her bare feet resting on the single soft rug in the room. Then she peeled off some of the linen strips, which were beginning to tighten as they dried, and dropped them into the rattan wastepaper basket.

"Bram tells me you are married," said Quatre's deeper voice from the curtain which separated his quarters from the rest of the giant structure. "That is fortunate. A few of my men still adhere to customs which prohibit them from living under the same tent as an unmarried woman."

Dorothy slowly regarded him. "Dear Mr Winner... where is your harem?"

Quatre smiled tightly. "Are you still trying to hurt me? Some might think it unwise, considering that you are entirely in my power." He crossed the room and seated himself on the edge of his desk. "And now the question remains... What am I going to do with you?"

Dorothy gave a dry little laugh. "Ransom, ravishment, or Requiescat In Pace, as tombstones say. I think at least two of those are already out of the equation."

"Oh?" said Quatre. "Which two?"

Dorothy seemed genuinely surprised at this, and loosed her joyless laugh again. "'Gentle Quatre' would have assured me that I would be unharmed. Where has he gone?"

"He too is out of the equation. 'Gentle Quatre' did not survive... You see, he was blinded after the war. And because of this, yet another person dear to him died. The shock of it killed him, and then I was obliged to take over."

Dorothy did not respond to this for awhile, picking at the remaining linen strips on her arm with uncharacteristic indecision, and slowly rotating the diamond bracelet round her wrist. "You should know now why Mariemaia won. There was no-one strong enough, no-one ruthless enough to stand up to her." Her eyes kindled with the blue of intense heat. "Why? Why couldn't you have been strong enough then?!" Her hand spasmed, and the bracelet dug into her wrist. "Why did I lose my own resolve?!"

Quatre watched her continue to tug at the bracelet, and said quietly, "I had to learn my lesson the hard way. It wasn't enough to see those I loved killed once - it had to happen again and again... And now that they have left me, there is only vengeance." He abruptly closed slim fingers round Dorothy's free wrist. "Stop that. You're achieving nothing."

Her arms trembled, but she did not continue the self-abuse. "You have decided not to kill me?"

"Surely I decided that before I rescued you," came the reply.

Dorothy held her head high. "You should know that there will be no possibility of ransom, whether monetary or... otherwise."

Quatre frowned. "So your husband is Leroy Wescott? The man who runs many of the government-endorsed companies?" And he abandoned you here? Quatre did not ask the last question aloud, but the answer was already clear.

"Yes. He is one of Mariemaia's lackeys," said Dorothy. "And I married him..."

"Why do you still take his name, if - ?"

Dorothy's glare at the Arabian flashed electric blue. "The name of Catalonia is a proud one! I will have to redeem myself first."

A low keening began; the storm had picked up again outside. Quatre broke the tension by getting off the desk to check that there were no gaps in the tent material, and all the while words came into his mind: coincidence, fate, kismet, irony. There was also doubt - if Dorothy's true function was to act as a spy, it would not be the first time. But although Quatre felt that the greater part of his empathetic abilities had been lost in the coma, there remained a spark that could sometimes discern truth...

"Here in the desert," he said, almost conversationally, "everything reduces to the bareness. When you walk in the storm, before you is a blank wall of sand - and on that blank screen your memories will play and replay. You have to face yourself here, Dorothy. Sometimes it will bring you to the brink of despair."

"What I see is that you have amassed strength, and are no longer averse to the use of force. What I see is the man Bram calls 'the leader'." Dorothy took a step toward him. "As I said, I have nowhere to go. Will you permit me to stay awhile? I think you earn my respect now, Quatre Winner."

Quatre looked up from his crouched position by the canvas. "I think you only begin to love my tragedy. The same way you loved to watch the tragedy of Treize and Zechs fighting each other."

He stood. "Do you know what I see when I face myself in the desert? I see a man who fights desperately, not 'beautifully'. A man who now lives on a hope for vengeance rather than a hope for peace. I train my followers to be warriors but use them as assassins. I fail time and again but I try time and again. And if I should meet my enemy on the battlefield I know he will never surrender, so I need not ask."

"Surrender? No-one should ever suffer the shame of surrender again." The wind continued to buffet against the tent walls, but Dorothy walked to the canvas and unbuttoned the stays that fixed it to the steel girder. As the sand blasted in, she narrowed her eyes and pulled up the material, exposing a large gap between the steel cables. She had already taken off the diamond bracelet, and for a moment she stood there, the sand chaffing her raw skin. Then she pulled her arm back, and threw the bracelet into the desert, knowing that aeons would pass before it was uncovered.

The pebble described an arc in the air, and then fell with a solid little splash into the ocean.

"Are you sure you should do that?" asked Trowa, mildly concerned. Dorothy's swordthrust had not been a shallow one.

Quatre picked up another wave-smoothened pebble from the beach and made a dismissive gesture. "It stopped hurting days ago. Now it just feels a bit tight because of the new skin growing - " He paused, slightly embarrassed. "And sometimes it itches like anything."

Trowa's face was blank for a second, and then his eyes crinkled up as he smiled in amusement. Wordlessly, he stooped to select a pebble, searching the greys and buffs and whites which looked like so many eggs on the beach. When he straightened again, however, he only had a little cone of sandgrains on his palm.

Quatre rotated the pebble in his hands. "I sense Cathrine doesn't entirely approve of my being here."

"Has she fed you something badly cooked?" Green eyes twinkled.

It was Quatre's turn to be amused, but his laugh faded quickly. "I understood her reaction when I was drawing you back into what seemed a hopeless fight. But now the war is over, and... and there seem to be other reasons."

"She only wonders why someone like you mixes with circus folk." The response was gently chiding. "No-one could dislike you, Quatre."

"That's not true, Trowa... I've done many things to merit dislike, hate... Things that I will always regret. But maybe... maybe the little good I've done will make me worthy of happiness." He faced the sunset, his youthful face suddenly lit with joy. "There's so much to look forward to now, in this world - Trowa!" As the last word sounded in the air like an invocation, his arm swept back and he tossed the pebble far away with charmingly boyish vigour.

An appraising glance. "Why did you shout my name?"

Quatre blinked. "Because it seemed right. Because of happiness."

Somehow the ingenuous reply was not cloying when Quatre said it; it was a quality the boy had. Trowa smiled with a sweetness that was itself unconsciously delightful. "As for me... I've never been happier in my life." He let the sand run through his fingers, and then leaned close.

Leroy Wescott had a vaguely constipated look about him, which was evidently supposed to convey stoicism. The suppressed quiver in his voice, the brief distraught wringing of his hands - they all spoke of a man who was rich enough to hire an acting coach.

"Mrs Wescott was abducted early last Saturday and suspicion falls on anarchists who wish to destroy the peace of the World Nation." The cameras cut to the reporter. "It is shocking to know that in this enlightened day and age there are those who seek to shatter harmony..." The reporter was working herself into a nice enthusiastic pro-Mariemaia's-government rant now. Not an uncommon thing in a media totally under the control of those in power, but this reporter was carrying it into the realms of regorge. Quatre was about to switch off in disgust when he saw Leroy Wescott in the background being 'comforted' by a strikingly attractive brunette. So this was the other reason for disposing of his wife...

Said wife was now asleep on Quatre's linen sheets while he himself was temporarily living with the new recruits. Once again he wondered why she had married the man. He was fairly good-looking, Quatre supposed, and his riches were incentive enough for the average woman. But Dorothy Catalonia had been far from an average woman.

"I thought for a time that you were in love with either Zechs or Treize," he had told her late the last evening.

"Only a masochistic woman would love a man who loves the world," she had laughed huskily. "And as for a man who loves principle above person, the woman who adores him has to adore from afar." Then she had frowned, her unusual eyebrows drawing close together. "But how could you not love them..? When they were so doomed..."

The only explanation was that once upon a time, Dorothy had loved her husband, and had given up her own resolutions to be with him, Mariemaia's lackey or no. Maybe things had been different then. Why was it that emotions were fickle in the living? Why was it that the only permanence was sealed by death? Images of a Gundam, its ammunition spent and its surface blasted by flame, rose unbidden in Quatre's memory.

"Sir - ?" Bram appeared, breathless. "Communication just came in..."

"What is it?"

"Infighting amongst the enemy... Apparently at midnight last night the 1st Mobile Suit Division attacked the New Guinea Base. It was destroyed in under four hours."

Quatre jerked up from the chair in astonishment. "What - ?" He put a hand to his chest; it was a subconscious reflex rather than a feel for the situation. "Headed by Chang Wufei?"

"Yes. The battle is now over and no further units have been deployed."

Quatre's mind worked frantically. "Then it must be a punitive strike. Who was the base commander?"

"General J Galvez."