PART 7 - Ghost Multiples
So these were Galvez's prizes. Two pilots from the last major conflict, snatched from the maws of death to drift like unborn foetuses in cold glass wombs. How young they looked, and how vulnerable. Had they truly been so young when they had written themselves into history? Wufei could not remember it, but it must be so, for the nutrient gel that encased them could only hold them in stasis. They were trapped in time, never ageing.
Wufei remained hunched up against the wall for interminable minutes, transfixed by the fractional movement of the two bodies in the tanks. Both pilots still showed the injuries inflicted before their purported deaths - but around the gashes and torn sinew there was fresh skin creeping in to close them. Though healing had been painfully slow in seven years, it was steadily taking place. And after many more years, they would perhaps be whole again... Gripped by the sudden irrational fear that they would open their eyes at any moment, Wufei pressed himself hard against the wall, his breaths shallow.
"Do you think we'll survive the war, Wufei?"
"Do you think you're doing the right thing?"
"Do you ever wonder what death is like?"
"Do you hate me, Wufei?"
"Do you love me, Wufei?"
"Do you understand? My God - why can't you understand?"
And in the Colonel's mind Wing Zero and Heavyarms fell away from him, never to rise again.
Quatre Raberba Winner dreamed. He dreamt of what might have been, what had already come to pass, what was yet to befall. The desert moon accelerated into the sky and dropped, followed closely by the searing sun, an endless cycle persisting throughout the petty dramas of human life.
He saw a black-haired boy astride a motorcycle, smiling as he zipped up his dark Preventer jacket. A woman, her golden hair twisted into two plaits, playfully tweaked his uncut ponytail before handing him a sheet of paper, and then he rode off.
... a flash of sunlight reflecting off the silvered lenses of sunglasses. An upturned nose, a wide jovial mouth parting in both dismay and astonishment, a chestnut braid slung over one shoulder that contrasted with the jet black cloth covering a slender frame. The gun dropped from his hand, clattering down the carved stone steps. And he moved forward, drawn towards the carved wooden doors that swung open, beckoned by the warm yellow candlelight. A circular jewel of stained glass at the far end of the cathedral winked at him.
... a metal table in the centre of a claustrophobically small room. Arrayed neatly on it were six hairpins, two red ribbons, and a comb. One more object, gleaming dully in the darkness, swung into visibility as the woman picked it up. It was a coil, and she unwound about six inches of the copper wire, scrutinising it. "For you, Mr Winner," she whispered.
... and finally he was floating in a deep blue ocean, surrounded by a chill that penetrated his flesh to numb his very bones. The isolation, the clarity... Like and unlike the desert.
- For you, Mr Winner -
Quatre awoke, shivering.
The familiar beige of the tent walls and the dry heat welcomed him, and he heaved a deep sigh as he pushed away the bedclothes. Was it possible to awake even more tired than before one had gone to sleep? But then his eyes snapped to the figure standing at the foot of the bed. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Not very long," Dorothy lied. She walked round to the straight-backed chair and sat there, demurely arranging her skirt over her lap. "Bram has brought back word from the other rebel leaders."
Quatre sat upright and left the bed, the rumpled sheets trailing after him a little way. The dream's disjointed images had evoked emotions which threatened to torment him even in the sunlight. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wrinkling the scar tissue there.
"They are collectively represented by someone known as 'Doc'," added Dorothy. "Bram is inclined to think they are sincere." Her voice was impassive, but was there a flash of hope in her eyes?
Quatre paused, regarding her. "This is the moment, then. I will meet their representative personally."
Relena had not seen the Dictator so frustrated before, not even since the war seven years ago, when the Gundams had made their unexpected appearance and nearly turned the tide for the opposition. She was now pacing the office, occasionally hissing discontentedly. Bright eyes darted around, as if searching out targets, and the brass rings of her uniform-like suit clinked impatiently for emphasis.
"A direct order." Her usual quiet voice was overlaid with a dangerous tremor. "Explicit - explicit orders to return at once."
"Perhaps he is ill - " said Relena, trying to remain calm herself. The raised art deco patterns on the chair dug into her back, and she shifted nervously.
"He is NOT ill." Mariemaia's return nipped on the heels of Relena's suggestion. "And if he were, he should be recuperating here. In Brussels! By the Dictator's side!" She stalked over to the desk, then to the centre of the room, then back to the desk. "Eight days in New Guinea. He should have been back within 24 hours. 24 hours!"
It was horrifying to hear Mariemaia's voice fracture into soprano. Worse still, with all her usual poise dropped, the Dictator was chewing on her knuckles, a frighteningly childish action. Relena realised that the outburst was not a mere tantrum at being disobeyed. This was fear. Fear of losing control of her primary weapon, fear of being betrayed, fear of... rejection? An image of a torn invitation and Heero's unreadable expression sprung to Relena's mind, and she was surprised at how the old memory still stung.
A knock on the door, and a private timidly entered, saluting. "Your Excellency." He offered the Dictator a slim metal tube which contained top level communications, and exited. Mariemaia broke the seals, unrolled the paper, and paled. Relena thought at first that the girl was about to faint.
"What is he doing - what is he doing?" Mariemaia's small fist thumped the desk in rhythm with the question. "What is the attraction in New Guinea?" She swung round to face the massive portrait on the wall. "I don't understand! What is he doing?" The communication had been brief: the Colonel had asked that the new Gundam be dismantled and sent from Brussels to New Guinea, where he would continue its development.
From the painting, Treize Khushrenada's permanent self-assured smile seemed almost patronising, as if he knew something that no-one else did. The Dictator stood staring at the portrait for the duration of a long silence, then turned around. The abrupt change was startling; her face was now smooth, calm, calculating, and Relena tensed involuntarily as the girl walked up to her.
"My dear adviser, I believe we are making a short trip to Port Moresby. I hear the weather there is hot and humid, so tell the servants this before they pack."
After leaving the controls, Noin washed her hands once, dried them, then washed them again: a habit picked up from operating the heavily greased machines of the prison colony. Sally did not comment aloud, but secretly she found it rather disturbing. Human behaviour was so easily subject to conditioning, and the psyche was incredibly fragile. Noin was as efficient and brisk as ever, but now and then, especially as the preparations for conflict escalated, small cracks showed. There was an eagerness in her for the impending fight, an aggression Sally had not known before in her friend.
Zechs, in comparison, seemed to have mellowed. His approach towards the enemy was ruthless, but as an ally he was much less closed than previously. He spoke of the past, cautiously discussed the future, and was far less cryptic than of old. Now and then he would bring up Relena, his tone almost fond. But he would not be present at the important meeting with the desert-based 'leader' today; his task was to coordinate a diversionary attack on the army base in Korea. If Mariemaia's attention was focused on Asia there was far less risk of the secret meeting on an L2 colony being interrupted.
For her part, Sally was confident that she could secure an alliance with the leader of the unknown rebel faction; he had proven himself both powerful and dedicated to the cause with the Christmas assassination attempt. Through an intermediary they had agreed to meet, unaccompanied by guards, in a neutral residence off the planet.
She watched Noin dry her hands for the second time on a fresh towel before they disembarked from the craft. Their false identity codes passed through the scanners with no problems, and they found themselves walking through the spaceport. Thirty-five minutes and a taxi ride later, they were in front of a nondescript blue-grey building, typical blocky housing dating from the early 80s. Noin appeared to hesitate at the sliding doors.
"Doubts, Noin?" Distrust was natural. But to achieve great things risk was inevitable.
Noin shook her head, and they walked in, heading for Apartment 51 as specified. The door looked flimsy but as it opened a succession of steel bolts protruding from its reinforced frame was revealed. And there, at the glass table, sat three figures. One was Sally's contact Huxley, who had helped engineer the meeting. The other two...
They hailed from a common past.
"Sally Po. Lucrezia Noin." The thin blond man stood, pushing past Huxley's guards. "I had no idea - "
"And I had even less idea," said Sally, moving forward to meet him. He was much taller now, and the scar across his face made him look older than herself. But it was Quatre, a Quatre who was alive, and smiling. Impulsively, Sally drew him close and squeezed him in a comradely embrace, but the feel of his bony body was unexpectedly uncomfortable and she released him quickly. The softness she had always associated with the Winner heir was gone, in more ways than one.
Dorothy remained at the table, unsure of her position. Her nod of acknowledgement was at first wary, noncommital, but when Sally shook her hand her expression warmed. This would be an easy alliance.
"Well!" said Huxley, seating himself at the head of the table. "I see we're all acquainted. I'm chuffed."
"But is this place safe?" asked Noin. "We've left all weapons behind in order to secure this meeting. Should we be attacked now - "
"I chose this colony for a reason. V07733 is the only place with a garrison of only 60 or 70 staff. It's clean, and nothing will happen."
"Thank you, Huxley." Sally looked across the table at Quatre. "So you pulled off the bombing last Christmas."
"Yes," replied Quatre, his face returned to seriousness. "Are you surprised at my tactics?"
"Yes and no. Desperate times require desperate measures. We're back to fighting a guerilla war, and we must use all methods at our disposal. I acknowledge that."
Quatre noticeably relaxed at this.
"But now that we are working together, perhaps we are no longer as desperate as before." Sally pointed to the map Noin was spreading on the table. "Presently the rebel factions are spread evenly over Earth, and I have enlisted the cooperation of all the significant players." Noin was indicating these with adhesive blue flags. "And, as you can see - " Noin began affixing red flags to the map " - Mariemaia's largest bases are also evenly spread."
"You intend to use separate rebel groups to deal with each of the bases," said Dorothy.
"Yes. Not in an open fight, but using the guerilla tactics we are familiar with." Sally smiled. "And if we launch our attacks simultaneously, they will be completely taken by surprise. No base will be able to send aid to the others."
Quatre studied the map for awhile. "But that isn't the key, is it, Sally? Those attacks are only distractions..."
"Quite right. It is not essential to capture the army bases, only prevent them from reinforcing our main target. Because the focus of our attack will be Brussels, seat of Mariemaia's government. Her power base. We are not waging an all out war. We are performing an operation that should be swift and efficient."
Noin spoke. "Quatre, we've seen from the Christmas incident that you're able to infiltrate the closed networks of the capital. We are depending on your force to perform the main strike."
"You have great confidence in my abilities." Quatre's face was wry. "But if the other army bases are preoccupied, then it will be much easier."
"Only relatively," cut in Dorothy. She stood, staring down at the map in something like contempt. "You've neglected to mention that the 1st Mobile Suit Division is still free to move and defend Brussels. You may be able to cause confusion with your simultaneous attacks, but you cannot discount the fact that they are still stronger."
Sally hid her surprise. She had long known of Dorothy's apparent affiliation to the new regime (through her marriage to Leroy Wescott), but now General Catalonia's daughter seemed fiercely protective of Quatre's interests. Quatre's reply to Dorothy was equally astonishing.
"I have always fought against a stronger enemy, Dorothy. You of all people should know." He traced the burnline across his face, his expression thoughtful. "My last attempt failed. But this time I will succeed. And both of us will have vengeance."
He had eluded death again. Less than 30 hours after he had effected his escape from the New Guinea Base, Duo heard of its destruction. Had he still been resident in the labs next to the base, he would have undoubtedly been killed. Anyone else might have been sobered by this realisation, but not Duo Maxwell; grim smile widely set in his face, he took another swig of the ice cold schnapps and drove on.
He had not slept since his escape, fueled by the exhilaration of regaining his freedom. Stowing away on a passenger craft at the airport, then hotwiring a convertible at his next destination, he had simply run as far and as fast as he could. The green signs of the motorway he was travelling on displayed names he did not recognise, but at least they sported roman letters... On either side of the road were acres of green fields, but they held no attraction for him.
He tossed the empty schnapps bottle in the backseat, and readjusted his sunglasses. Whatever country this was, it was sunny enough in winter. The cap of the second schnapps bottle was pried off with practised ease on the edge of the steering wheel. If there was one thing to be said about first class lounges in airports, then it was that they were certainly well stocked.
I think I can stop running now...
With a negligent twist of the wheel, the convertible swung off the smooth tarmac, gave a little hop over the hard shoulder and ungracefully thudded into the grassy trench. Its driver managed a heady whoop of excitement before clambering out into the field, his schnapps miraculously unspilt.
Well, would you look at that - sheep. For no logical reason, this dried up the hysterical laughter which had been threatening to explode out from him. He lowered himself cross-legged onto a dung-free patch of field, and closed his eyes. I want a place to go... I'm so tired - because I've been running for seven years. I only want rest. Is this the only way I can be killed? Through exhaustion?
The sound of bleating complaint from the sheep made him open his eyes once more, and he gazed off into the distance. Rising above the low trees and brown-roofed houses the spire of a church spiked up towards the heavens, and he began walking towards it.
Every Saturday, at precisely nine o'clock, the cameras trained on Corridor 2.45 were turned off. And at 9:02pm light footfalls echoed down the corridors lit by flickering fluorescent lights. They would pass down the narrow hallway, pause halfway down to coincide with the entity reaching inside his blazer pocket to find his authorisation keycard, then continue on before halting outside Cell 2.45.11. The entity would slide the card through the first scanner, entering the first set of doors, then voice-activate the second set of doors. Then he would enter the cell, put his briefcase on the metal table, and sit down on the stool in the corner. This had been the routine for nearly four years now.
"Good evening, Lady Une."
"Good evening. Is it Saturday again? The days seem to pass so quickly. I am very busy."
The man looked around at the bare cell, with its washbasin and toilet in the opposite corner. Plain grey all round, except where the cracks in the wall were black. Her little fantasy world must be rich indeed. "Yes, it is Saturday again. Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Of course I am, Sebastian. I wish you would come see me more often."
"That's good. Very good." He moved over and stroked her long brown hair. "Tonight's quite special, Une. We're going to try something different tonight."
"Oh?" She had such a gentle, sweet voice. It was a pity that so few people had heard it in the last seven years of her stay at Stonebridge Prison. "What is that, Sebastian?"
The man pulled the briefcase over and opened it, showing Une its contents. She blinked, and seemed disquieted, but said nothing. Nor did she move away when he picked up the sandalwood comb and ran it through her hair. "I want to see you with your hair up, as you had it ten years ago. I've wanted that for a long time."
"You know everything about me, Sebastian." Her voice remained mild and meek as he began the first braid. "I thought you said, some time ago, that you would never do this...?"
"I've changed my mind." He put in the red ribbon with the deftness of a master, taking care that his cufflinks did not catch. "And it would be boring if we always kept to the rules." He scooped up the hair on the other side and began braiding that.
"Sebastian, did you bring me my copper wire?"
"Yes. You shall have that when I have finished with your hair." He frowned; the braid had loosened. Combing it out he started over.
"Sebastian... did I ever tell you about my time in the Academy? I wore my hair in two plaits then, hanging down my back."
He paused, hands resting on her shoulders, intrigued. Her files went into painful detail about her role in the wars, but held little of her past before that. "You must have been the sweetest, most beautiful girl in the Academy."
"We weren't there to be beautiful or sweet. I was a cadet, destined for the Specials. I was very shy; I tried not to draw attention to myself."
"Did you wear red ribbons then?"
"No." Une's tone was dreamy. "I wore white ribbons. And thick glasses. I was very low in the hierarchy then - many of the other cadets liked to rag me."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow and combed the loose hair again. "But you were strong, underneath that."
"No, I wasn't. I cried when they broke my belongings, or ripped my uniform, or called me names. Did you know that my mother was a society beauty? She was adventurous, and had a succession of romantic conquests, and there was I: plain, tomboyish... The other cadets teased me about her. They said that under my repressed exterior, I was probably as hedonistic as she was." Une laughed, a silvery sound in the dim cell. "I suppose our instructors let the bullying go on because they thought it made us more resilient...?"
Sebastian finished the second braid and began looping it up. "Were they so very bad to you?"
"Of course. I was weak. They were strong. My work suffered because of my injuries. They were always careful not to hit me on my arms or legs, where the bruises would be obvious. Oh dear, I was so useless then. At night I imagined how I would get my revenge, if only I were ruthless, and strong, and... different."
Sebastian paused awhile before tying in the second red ribbon. Une's breathing was even, and her slender neck warm. She turned round to look at him, her braids swinging gently against her dark head. "Not yet complete," he told her. Reaching into the briefcase, he procured a pair of eyeglasses, correct to the prescription and description in her files. "When you've put these on, you'll be perfect. And then we can move on."
"Do you know what happens when you're chafed day in and day out in the same closed environment?" Une allowed him to settle the glasses on her nose, and lightly placed a hand on his cheek.
"What happens?"
"You divide." Her hand tenderly brushed his face, then dropped to his throat. And in a split second the copper wire she had taken from the briefcase was looped around his neck. She quickly moved behind him, pulling the ends of the wire, the rest of the coil rolling and unspooling onto the floor. Half-lifting, half-dragging, she pulled him off the stool, and his own body weight did the rest. An efficient killer, the garrotte. She was not sure which actually finished him; asphyxiation, a broken neck, or the severed jugular. But he was dead, and there would be no more games. No more bartering of favours.
Over the years these favours had allowed her to track both the outside world and the other malcontents who shared Stonebridge. As Sally had found out in her attempt to wrest information from the system, the closed network was a formidable obstacle. Unless, of course, one were living in a prison that formed part of the network... Unknown to Quatre Winner, his trained recruit had been an ex-inmate of Stonebridge, bearing the network access codes which allowed him to masquerade as a staff member of the World Nation Building and plant the unsuccessful bomb.
"Actually, I did get my revenge," she told the dead prison psychiatrist. "That's the story of why I wear red ribbons and have my hair up. But perhaps next week, Sebastian dear?"