PART 8 - Divergence
There was no time to lose. First, Une removed Sebastian's watch, strapping it to her own wrist. 9:27pm. Then she took off his heavy blazer, draping it over her arm. The copper wire, its free length rewound onto the spool, went onto her other wrist. The authorisation keycard opened the one door with unceremonious ease, for Sebastian had not locked the second after him. And then Une was out in the corridor. The deactivated cameras monitoring 2.45 would not switch back on till 10:00, but beyond this corridor she would have to take care to avoid them. The plan she had worked out months before immediately surfaced - the Lady Une functioning now had never been truly dormant, only partitioned away in her separate mental cell to weave webs.
She reached the small storage closet at the end of the passage and entered. Stacks of greying laundered sheets greeted her, the fusty smell a blend of waste and frustration that was immovable even through boil-washing. Behind them, a ventilation window, just wide enough to squeeze through, was covered by a grille - she fitted the wire into the driver slot of the first screw, twisting it round the screw's perimeter. When there was sufficient grip for it to act as a micro-wrench, she cranked till the screw came free. The next three were similarly dealt with, and she wriggled through the window.
The twenty metres of sheer wall that dropped below her, free of ledges or balconies, was inconsequential. Her aim was to go up, not down. One storey above was the tiny drainage egress she had known would be there, barely three inches of the black piping protruding perpendicularly from the wall, and Une smiled to herself. Little had Sebastian known how useful his toughened copper-alloy wire was proving to be. You thought it was just part of the game...
She unwound the wire completely, doubling and twisting it; a loop four inches in diameter was left at the doubled end. And it IS part of the game, a much bigger one than you ever conceived. Where toys become tools. Stiffer than any rope, the 2mm-thick wire was just long enough, and she raised it upwards, trying to hook it round the pipe. To an observer it would have resembled a stretched butterfly net - minus the netting - but there were no observers. The only cameras on the western side were stubbornly focused on the fences, a good seventy feet below.
Two attempts later the pipe was snagged. Ironically, the little spikes around its mouth prevented the loop from slipping, making it secure enough to swing from. Bandaging her hands with the blazer to keep the wire from cutting her palms, Une pulled herself into a standing position, her feet now on the window. And then she climbed upwards, stepping up the wall.
Une was good at climbing. She seemed to walk up the side of the craft, her lanky adolescent limbs almost graceful for once. At the top was the coil of wire the technicians had called for, and she prepared to sling it down to waiting hands. As part of their training all cadets took an advanced module of craft maintenance and repair.
"Come down here, Une. It's so impolite to lob things at people."
Biting her lip as she recognised the voice, Une obeyed. Her chief tormentor was a fifteen-year-old upperclassman, and she had learnt early on that it was better to have the bullying over and done with than to prolong her suffering by attempting to make a run for it. She clambered down again, and put the coil on the ground, eyes focused on the concrete floor.
"Wh-what is it, Ivan?" Her voice echoed in the hangar. Magically, the rankless technicians and all her classmates had vanished, refusing to be witnesses.
"Good girl." He reached out, clutched a braid, and yanked it hard, bringing moisture to her eyes. "Take off your glasses."
Une did so, the world blurring. Now she felt twice as vulnerable, and unhappily, Ivan was standing close enough to be the only object clear in her vision. It appeared that the hangar had shrunk to a tiny cubicle wallpapered with Gaussian blobs, trapping her with the older boy.
"Stop blinking, Une. It looks like you're going to cry." How did his tone of voice manage to stay pleasant, affectionate even? It always did when he was inflicting pain, all the times when Une wondered if she would live to see 14.
He continued to apply short tugs to her hair. "White ribbons. How adorable, how pure." He smirked. "They're my favourite colour, did you know that? Did you wear them just for me?" He pulled out one ribbon, and it fell to the floor like a streamer. "Why, maybe you have a crush on me, Une."
Through her fear, Une almost let out a giggle of disbelief at this, then quenched it. Mocking Ivan would be fatal.
He undid the second ribbon and pulled a finger through the braid. "Every girl in this academy loves me, you see. Every girl."
Une's heart pounded in her chest. At any moment now, she was sure of it, he would negligently punch her in the stomach, or grind his knuckles into her shoulder. In fact, she almost welcomed the familiar beating that had to follow, if it could save her from the new menace that Ivan was oozing.
Then, in a light conversational manner: "I met your mother at a party Friday last..." There was a leer to accompany the boast.
Shock. There was no need to puzzle over the implication of the words; Une had known the meaning of her mother's reputation for some time, ever since she had been curious enough to look up 'wanton' in a dictionary. The floodgates opened, and the tears steamed down her cheeks in the chill hangar. And as the shame drowned her and her hate for Ivan rose to a new fervour, her sobs left her gangly frame almost forcefully.
This was not the reaction Ivan had apparently hoped for. Disgusted by the childish blubbing, Ivan narrowed his eyes. Then he jammed his knee into her ribs and walked away.
She swung from the pipe like a pendulum, pushing off the wall to widen the arc. At the crucial moment, she jerked out an arm, catching the edge of the first rung of the fixed ladder that led up to the roof, and within seconds she was on the top of the prison block. Her face was flushed with physical exertion, but she told herself that there was not far to go.
It was 9:50pm. Ten minutes to find chaos before chaos found her. She crossed the roof, keeping low, for there were cameras trained on this eastern side, which overlooked the central quadrangle. She extended the wire across the wall of the building and looped it round a fifth-floor camera pointing into the quad. Pulling on it, she felt the metal gears which panned the camera give, then she reached into the blazer again and withdrew Sebastian's slim leather wallet. This she threw with all her strength - it flew to the far corner, smacked against a metal door, and dropped onto the sawdust.
The malfunction of Quad-Camera 5 brought the first guards to the scene in under a minute, then a second group arrived from behind the metal door, in an excellent position to see the wallet. It was picked up, examined, and the barely audible words carried across the yard to Une.
"Sebastian Vail... Dr Vail?"
"He wouldn't have dropped this here on purpose. And he isn't on duty at this hour."
"He must have been taken hostage - they'd be heading to his car by now. "
"It'll be parked on the north side, that's the first place they'll go - "
"Alert more guards to the perimeter fences!"
The mass movement of guards flowed to the great doors as they sped off to the late Sebastian Vail's rescue.
Anger ate at her all night. In the darkness, the image of her mother, still glamorously attractive at forty, taunted her. And to think that Ivan -
"Une," whispered her dorm-mate from the top bunk. "Are you in a lot of pain? You're shaking..."
Une did not hear. She was lost in her own mind, remembering each and every humiliating blow absorbed over two years. The renowned Lake Victoria Academy occasionally accepted prodigies before the age of ten and produced graduates at thirteen - famed cadets Merquise and Noin were examples. At the Trier Academy though, you joined at eleven, and did not leave till you were at least sixteen. And though her piloting was more than proficient her shyness and her unhealed injuries prevented her from shining, prevented her from transferring...
Dear God, I'll die here... life's not worth living...
She could see herself. How the girl Une cowered under attack, taking every kick from the relentless booted feet. The girl's plaits dangled from her head like the drooping ears of an ass - she was so pathetic - and now the attacker was pushing her head to the floor, treading on those plaits, scuffing the white ribbons -
"You're worthless."
The girl could only sob.
"Go on. Cry.... cry till the day I beat you to death. You must like pain, Une, you seem to keep asking for more... So I'll give you more."
The girl struggled to face her attacker, preparing to beg for a surcease from the torment. And it was then that she saw who her attacker was.
Glasses glinted back at her from another Une. All at once, the pain stopped. There was a smile of triumph, a challenging glance. And it became clear, what she had to do.
The sirens blared in the background as they had not done for decades. An inmate had actually escaped. Bowed heads jerked up in wonder, the prisoners of Stonebridge adding to the cacophony with eager cheers for the unknown escapee.
The lower level cells were each barred in by a single set of doors, and Une swiped the keycard through them all. It no longer mattered that she was in broad view of the cameras; the confusion in the quadrangle had bought her time. Now she was creating even more. There were murderers here, killers and hunters, but many were also active rebels, with whom she had gained fleeting contact through the indulgences purchased from Sebastian Vail. They emerged from the cells like ghouls leaving coffins, and their numbers increased as the card passed through scanner after scanner.
And Une headed for the control room.
"Ivan."
He opened his eyes reflexively and moaned as the lights flipped on to sear his retinas. Blinded, he felt a weight straddle him, and something cold came to rest on his chin. All at once he baulked, throwing off the intruder with his larger frame, but the cold object slammed into his jaw and he cut his tongue on his teeth.
"Did that hurt?"
The sickening taste of his own blood made him nauseous, and fear was welling with it into his stomach. Despite the pain he flailed out again, grasping something in his hand - it was hair, braided neatly into a narrow plait. "Wha - ?" he spluttered - interrupted by another blow to his head. Purple spots danced in front of his eyes, and strength gone, he released the braid. By this time, blood was spurting from his nose, and his head lolled back as the blood choked him.
"I think it must have been the pretty face which attracted someone's attention at that party 'Friday last'," said a dangerously quiet voice. "Even at forty, she must have some standards."
A tear tracked from Ivan's eye as he saw the object in Une's hands. It was a trophy for sharpshooting, his own.
"But there must have been something else that kept her interested. I wonder." The trophy moved away from his face and hovered down to his belt.
Ivan was beginning to lose consciousness, but managed to squeak out desperately, "I didn't do anything! I didn't - "
"No? I'm not sure I believe you."
So he told her everything. Over and over, begging her to believe, up to the point where he blacked out. Only then did Une toss the trophy away and survey the slick redness that seemed be everywhere. There would be repercussions. Tomorrow she would probably face the superiors of the academy: there would be defence, denial and discipline. And much later in life she would reflect, realising that there was personal enjoyment taken in extracting information.
But tonight... There was infinite calm.
She went over to the washbasin and slapped away all of Ivan's toiletries from its rim. Her face and hands were disgraceful; she meticulously cleaned them before realising that her hair - the bothersome plaits had been in her way all throughout - was caked in the same dark substance that had soaked into the white ribbons. Next time I'll tie those plaits out the way, she thought, idly dipping the ribbons into the cold water. The indelible red-brown stain was itself a trophy.
"Quatre Winner... and Dorothy?" Placing his helmet on the table, Zechs pronounced the combination as if it left a bizarre aftertaste.
"Yes. They have both changed greatly," said Noin. "As we all have." She shifted along the seat to give him more room. "How was the foray into Korea?"
"Brief. It stung them, as it was meant to. I would have liked it to be more than a diversion, but it was not my mission to challenge them." He traced a finger down the ridge of the helmet. "I trust Sally discussed battle strategy to her heart's content? Is Quatre amenable to her plans?"
Noin nodded. "We need only wait for all the groups to position themselves. The communication codes have already been finalised - we are all on one figurative bandwidth now - " She frowned. "You look worried."
Clear blue eyes turned on her. "Could I not be? I learnt something in that attack. As we suspected, there is indeed a new Gundam - projected completion within the month. Worse still, the system accompanying it - something called 'ANATEXIS' - is already complete. In less than three weeks it is to be applied to all Mobile Suits and battle outfits in Mariemaia's army. So three weeks is how much time we have."
"Three weeks..." Noin laughed mirthlessly. "In 20 days the course of history will change... I like the sound of that." Hardly aware of her own action she grasped Zechs' hand. "I can't... can't be captured again. I can't be alone again, condemned to some penal colony... And I can't watch them take you away again..."
Awkward hesitation, then Zechs put an arm around her. "It won't happen again. Because if we lose this war, there shall be no force equal to Mariemaia's. We shall perish knowing that we were the last stand." It was undeniable truth, bringing both dread and comfort in its certainty.
"So we cannot lose..."
"Ahem - no, we can't." Sally had appeared, a green travel bag slung over her shoulder. "I'm glad to know you're so cheerful when you're alone together."
Two identically abashed looks, and they guiltily separated.
"ANATEXIS. Interesting name," mused Sally. She had obviously been standing at the door for an embarrassingly long time before being noticed.
"It's an obscure scientific term," said Zechs. "It describes partial melting of a solid to create a liquid of different composition."
Sally sucked air through her teeth. "Yes. Liu Wen told me something about the system improving a pilot's performance without tampering with his mind. Apt, that name. To use something existent and distill it to a higher quality."
"Are you going somewhere with that bag?" asked Noin.
"As a matter of fact, I am. To see Liu Wen." Sally sighed. "The rebel faction in China is a large one, and needs special handling. I think I'll choose to fight alongside them again when Operation Crystallise commences."
"Operation Crystallise?" Zechs raised an eyebrow. "Did you just make that up?"
Sally grinned. "A letter of the alphabet for every major conflict we've participated in." Then the grin faded. "Conflict A was in AC 195. In B we fought Mariemaia and failed. Now we have reached C... And what better contrast with melting than to Crystallise?"
Captain Yonoi was troubled. All through the ten days of their stay at Port Moresby the Colonel had been silent, growing visibly more haggard as he rose each dawn to supervise the systematic logging of the New Guinea Base. It had something to do with Galvez's mansion and the thrice-accursed basement, Yonoi was sure. The Colonel had borne a haunted look in his eyes since stepping out from it.
There had been a slight bounce back to form on the eighth day, when the 1st MSD's sub-commander Major Girot arrived from Brussels escorting three giant containers. Colonel Chang had displayed somewhat more energy then; sadly, it was only temporary. Now, in the humid New Guinea nightfall, the yellow lamp accentuated the shadows under Chang Wufei's cheekbones. The Captain saw this and felt heartsick.
"Permission to speak freely, sir."
"Granted."
"I think you need rest. Proper rest, sir, away from this place. Major Girot can easily fill in till you recov - return."
Dark eyes glittered in the lamplight, and the reply came: slow and laboured. "You need not concern yourself, Yonoi. I was planning to do precisely that."
The Captain had expected vehement denials that rest was needed, and smiled, gladdened.
"You know the new Gundam is here now. Built to my exact specifications, nothing missed... I will test it. And then I can rest." There was an air of finality to this.
"Surely you must rest before that, sir..." Yonoi protested in dismay.
The Colonel stared past his secretary as if there were words on the wall. "The screen nearly rolled back for me, I came close... If you were as close to the ultimate answer as I am, Captain, you would know that there is no rest till the very end... No rest for the wicked." He laughed quietly, a dry, frictional laugh.
As if on cue the sound of rotor blades crescendoed in the background. Yonoi went to the balcony, surprised to see the rather primitive helicopter descending in the darkness. How did it manage to get clearance to land? But then he saw the angled beret, and the dark red hair under it. Keen lilac eyes latched onto his, and he saluted automatically.
Her Excellency the Dictator had arrived.
She sat at the heavy teak desk, looking strangely exotic with the Fijian wall hangings behind her. The Colonel had taken the cane chair, and his ramrod straight posture in something designed for lounging in could almost have been comical, if he had not looked so... ill.
Mariemaia had planned to dissect him for flouting her authority for the first time in seven years. There was no daunting portrait of her father to stare down at him, but she had intended to use the full force of her personality, which was formidable indeed. On the plane, and then later in the helicopter, the sentences had played in her mind, every eventuality and outcome following through like a chess game. His weak points, pride and self-doubt, would be her weapons. And she would invoke his rough obedience again.
"This trip was both unnecessary and dangerous for you, Excellency," he said tiredly. "I clearly stated that I was unable to return to Brussels as yet. A full report - "
"I don't want a full report."
"It... it's unseemly for the Dictator to go out of her way to question a soldier."
"Then you should have obeyed my commands when I gave them!"
"Your ultimate command was that I should apply myself to preserving the State. To quashing rebellions. That is my function; I am fulfilling it."
Mariemaia's face fleetingly contorted in impatience. For Wufei, it was always the ultimate goal which mattered, she knew. If that had not been the case, he never would have joined her army. Why was it that what made him so valuable made him so frustrating at the same time?
"The best way to fulfill your function," said Mariemaia, unable to dilute the acid in her voice, "is to spare me undue concern!"
"Concern... they all show me concern, my Captains, my men... I do not need concern. I need to - " He only just managed to stop himself from plummeting into further indiscretions. His eyes widened; he was aghast. He had let his guard down, spoken out of turn. The Dictator, equally astonished, stared at him.
"What is it you need?" Had she not calculated him completely? Did she not understand his complexities? Was there something she had missed?
The moon was obscured by cloud again, the dark eyes dropped. "I need only a few more days, Excellency. The new Gundam is almost ready." He inhaled deeply and became coldly businesslike. "I sense that we shall need it soon. We have put down the internal rebellion, but the external forces are undealt with." An image of Zechs Merquise, ghosting down the Palace corridors, brought a scowl to his face. "If I were a rebel, I would choose this time of confusion to act. It is... tactically sound."
The Dictator acknowledged this broodingly. Her extensive knowledge of military history agreed with it. But the hastily snatched-back outburst of the Colonel's had given her a glimpse into the guarded interior of his psyche. What had he nearly revealed? Why was his pragmatic answer so achingly unsatisfying?
From her very first consciousness, Mariemaia had had no playmates, only servants. Leia Barton, never fully recovering from the difficult labour, had died before Mariemaia reached two years of age. Her grandfather's stern and unyielding presence always loomed over her, yet as her intellect burgeoned she grew to despise him. As for Uncle Trowa, he was purposely kept at arm's length by Dekim, and Mariemaia knew why. He seemed unstable, pinballing between seriousness and brashness and a dozen other moods. Perhaps he was a competent pilot, but otherwise...
But, watching over her from some dimension in space, there was her father. Her ambitious, brilliant, noble, handsome father, who had gifted her with life and then disappeared in search of an ideal only he could see. No, she could see it too, it was her destiny! From the moment of his ascension as World Nation Leader, the glory had been promised to his sole offspring. Isolated by walls of books, deprived of true human companionship, she hungered for her legacy - it was a hunger for the whole world.
...And a yearning for the man who would give her the world...
Only one was worthy. One who was proud enough to think that justice was a scale balanced on the blade of his sword, yet assailed by enough self-doubt to aspire to ever greater heights of achievement. One who was free of sentimental bonds, yet capable of a fierce devotion stronger than any sentiment. One whom her father had handpicked from the human slurry of soldiers. Surely it was fate that these qualities should all be amalgamated in one body!
She remembered their first meeting, in the aftermath of Sogran's puny bid for universal domination. So young then, the both of them, and Dekim had warned her afterward that he would eventually prove dangerous, quoting the absurd idiom: Fire is a good servant but a bad master. Dangerous? Ah yes. Her grandfather had been wise, in some respects.
And now she had the world. But the fear that had been growing since the Christmas assassination attempt had now gnawed its way to the core, and she was no longer certain. As Chang Wufei approached his ultimate answer, Mariemaia Barton Khushrenada was approaching the ultimate question.
"Wufei..."
He looked up.
"Tell me its name. The Gundam you have created for us."