Don't Need the Sunshine
by Jillian Storm
Ten years after the war Dorothy investigates to see where the Gundam Wing boys are and
finds them in the most unexpected places. However, all records of Trowa Barton are
suspiciously missing. Dorothy finds out why.
(Disclaimer: This is my idea, but these are not my characters. Granted, they are my favorite
Gundam Wing characters, so I certainly feel as if I know them well in my own mind--even if
they did not originate there. Anyway. This is post GW universe, and I tried to make it
different than the expected "post GW universe"--inspired in part by music groups Catatonia
and also No Doubt, which I recently re -discovered. No Doubt was my high school "nasty girl"
music before I graduated to the overseas crowd. "Nasty girl" music, see. Now you know why
I *adore* Dorothy Catalonia . . . )
Between the bookends of my life, most of my ambitions surrounded men and war. Of course,
there was the small fascination with following Relena Peacecraft around to see exactly how
long she could stand by her ideals of men and peace. It was peculiarly similar and vexingly
different to watch her find alternate answers to the same questions that I was asking.
Anyway, even long after the "great" war as many are caught referring to it--I would argue that
their were great men in this war but the war itself was hardly "great" by the standards of
previous wars--I was researching in the Lake Victoria libraries for information on ancient
warfare.
We may be living in a time of peace when old war-bases are turned into educational,
peaceful, facilities--but the evidence of war is far from forgotten. Peace always tastes better
when one remembers the efforts that brought it.
I sat at a public computer terminal at the Base and a to -scale model of a Leo was just outside
the window. A horrible and elegant example of humankind's achievements.
Glancing back at the computer screen, I typed in the search word, "Gundam." Scanning the
results I could read old colonist propaganda both supporting and condemning the rebellious
activity. Narrow the search. "Pilots."
Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy. I remembered him as the first knight of the terrorist battle who
had followed through his mission to the last breath. But then he had kept breathing and had
to find something else to do. Unless the Victoria Base Library was severely mistaken--Heero
had married a colony girl and raised a litter of little Yuys thereby staying out of the
aggressively, political scene. The most recent news surrounding the pilot 01 had him winning
some kennel competition with a pure bread canine he'd raised and trained. I seemed to
remember Heero having a thing for puppies and kids.
Duo Maxwell. I had just seen him at one of Quatre's parties, well, it had been about eight
months ago. But since the war had been over for ten years, that was fairly recent. Duo
actually set himself up as the owner and star DJ of an inter -colony/Earth entertainment
station--resurrecting broadcast music and other old media. He had quite a monopoly on the
revived organization, but Duo claimed he was completely non -profit. From the way he was
dressed at Quatre's last party, I would have to believe him.
Quatre actually followed the Winner tradition of going to medical school and decided to
become a doctor. By this point, he was almost finished with the extensive education program.
His sister, Irea, had a colony clinic of which a good deal was charity work. Quatre did
volunteer work there when he took internships during his later study. What did he do with all
the money? Well, school was pretty expensive, but the kid really liked to throw parties. And,
somehow, after ten years he'd forgiven me for stabbing his delicate tummy. "You barely
missed my dorso -lateral antigenic duct, Dorothy, but when the doctors repaired my ossophytic
membrane--and that didn't take *hours*--they discovered the latent (and might I add highly
dangerous!) case of vasilial meningococcus I was developing. So you actually did me a great
favor . . ." About ten words in the Winner kid had lost me but still, somehow, made me feel
good about myself. I was glad he had . . . direction.
Wufei Chang felt a religious calling after the war and rebuilt his family temple along with a
dojo - school . Wufei didn't teach the lessons himself but he often exercised and practiced
with the youngsters invested with the program. Wufei came to Quatre's parties, but would eye
me warily. Until, Quatre would notice the problem and promptly start up again about my
miraculous sword thrusting ability and how I would make an excellent pupil at the dojo. Wufei
would remind him that they didn't use swords for his current style of *martial* arts. I smiled to
myself, remembering how I had piled a herd of energized civilians into my semi's and plopped
them at the feet of Wufei's Gundam. From me, he learned about the value of many bodies -ªand how they could use some discipline and training.
I reached the end of the list of entries. And a thought tickled the back of my mind. I was one
pilot short , and that was the reason why I had come. Was there simply no news on Trowa Barton? But how was that possible? He had done that circus thing. They were rather successful so the press should have had some sort of coverage of the events?
An hour later I was starting to get cross -eyed, but the computer had no record of any Trowa
Barton besides the original aristocrat from the colonies who had been killed before the
Gundam war had begun. I jotted down a few more references for my book, but my face
began to slip into a concentrated frown. Had I seen Trowa more than two times at required
reunions since the war? Why wasn't Trowa Barton in the database?
Because Trowa Barton was in the Lake Victoria Library.
I saw his lean frame step out from between two shelves of typeset texts. He had one book in
hand flipping through the delicate pages with the other. Uncharacteristic, thin -rimmed glasses
were delicately balanced on the end of his nose, but it was undeniably the oldest, tallest,
thinnest Gundam pilot. At twenty -eight, it was no surprise that Barton's eyes might need a
little coaxing to see the words-- ancient typeset text, but I was surprised that he opted for an
antique model when corrective surgery was so simple. Quatre could probably have do it
when he was a second -year student.
I watched Trowa fold himself into a chair, adjusting for his gangly legs under the fancy, cherryªwood table. I glanced back at the unhelpful computer, collected my materials and decided to
go interview the real thing. I was intending to write the definitive book on war as my lifetime
achievement. I would need primary sources.
"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Barton." I pulled out a chair, the same dark -red stained color as
the table, and waited until he nodded to sit down. Sometimes it's painful to be polite, but
society demanded it from me. If I could coast just under the radar by honoring a few social
norms, I found I could escape and be myself a great deal more.
"What are you doing here, Ms. Catalonia?"
"Dorothy." I smiled and met his grave green eyes as they peered over the reading glasses. "I
did skewer your best friend at one point, so I suppose that makes us intimates."
He didn't smile, but with his reputation, I expected as much. "The dorso -lateral antigenic
duct? And the vasilial menigo -something? I've heard." An amused breath passed his lips.
"I've heard."
"Well, I was a little misguided back then, you know." I pulled my hair behind one ear and it
slipped free again. After losing one of my childhood crushes to his "beloved lieutenant," I
decided I needed a change and the hair was the first thing to go. "But Quatre Winner's a
great guy, I'm glad I, um, saved his life."
"Right."
I decided that Trowa Barton was a tough crowd. "What are you up to at the Lake Victoria
Library?"
"Reading." He tilted the book so I could read the title. I couldn't read the title. "Ã
The Divine Comedy, by Dante." He supplied with a slight curl to his lips. I understood and rolled my
eyes. "You should give it a try sometime. I've had the chance to make it through several,
various translations. It's a tragedy how many folks misunderstand or never finish this
particular piece of fiction." He scanned the page and turned it over to exam the backside.
"Good stuff though, Dante *really* mastered that terza rima. Purgatory's my favorite."
Jumping to the bait, my novelist sensibilities asked, "Why's that, Mr. Barton? Don't tell me
that after ten years . . ."
". . . I feel like I'm living in purgatory?" Trowa finished without looking up from the page.
Then he faced me with a tight impression of a smile, "No. Not anymore. How about
yourself?"
The verbal game had come up a draw. I had felt like my old self for the briefest of moments.
"No. I guess not." I reflected his tight smile. Was he agitated with me? With the question?
Why did I continually get cold shoulders? Then I remembered. Why wasn't he in the
database?
"So why are you here, Dorothy?" He asked again, pausing before saying my name. I
wondered if he'd ever really spoken to me before. I couldn't recall.
"I'm researching and writing the definitive book on warfare."
"Not unexpected." Trowa nodded, his fingers lacing over the now closed
"Divine Comedy"
.
"No, Mr. Barton . . ."
"Call me Trowa if you want."
"Well, see the funny thing is . . . that there is no Mr. Barton or Trowa Barton--that is *you*--in
the entire Lake Victoria database." I watched his face, curious. "Almost as if your files were,
let's say, *purged*. What do you make of that?"
"Before Dante can see heaven, he's asked to drink from the Waters of Oblivion in order to
erase the guilty memory of his faults--an offer of forgiveness." Trowa smiled, more gently this
time.
"So are you going to heaven?" I asked, somewhat confused. Was he suicidal? No.
"Figuratively." Trowa answered.
"Um, can you say more about that?" I pushed, curious now that he was being cryptic. That
had to mean that Trowa was serious.
"Are you a reporter now, Dorothy?" He smiled again, leaning back in his chair and lacing his
fingers over his thin stomach.
"Nope." I shook my head with an eye -crinkled, flirty smile. "I just hadn't heard the news that
heaven had come to earth."
"I've been on Earth visiting Catherine, if you must know." Trowa lifted his thumbs with the
statement before settling them back against his button -up shirt. "She was my partner in the
circus act. We were co -ringmasters for about seven years before Catherine decided to
migrate to Earth. She came to visit once on tour and adored Italy. Something about the
Mediterranean and a dashing guy named Pietro she couldn't resist." Trowa rolled his eyes
back and examined the re -decorated ceiling. "I'm expecting my first god -child."
"But no family of your own?" I couldn't help but ask the personal questions, some inhibition
was recklessly ignited--and as long as he was actually comfortable and equally reckless by
volunteering information.
He didn't answer that one and was quiet for a while. I felt my regrown compassion start to
scold me. It wasn't as if I had taken the Heero Yuy path and thereby finding for myself a nice
colony citizen to start a family with. I had been looking for something else these past ten
years. I couldn't do that.
"Me either." Trowa said softly. And I realized I must have shared that last thought out loud.
He was still looking at the ceiling. Then out the window. "So when I got an invitation to work
on the Terra -Project, I realized that I wasn't finished working. I wasn't finished using my
soldier born talents for this new world."
"The Terra -Project? I thought that was abandoned?" I was sort of startled with that thought.
Soon after the war, some of the council members had proposed a project to find or re-construct a planet so that it was compatible with human life. After three years of fluctuating media coverage, the project had lost it's momentum. I thought it had ended as an impossibility.
Trowa looked back at me. "No, it's been a raw project since the end of the war. Just now
coming into pioneering possibilities."
"What?" I hissed, suddenly disbelieving yet knowing that Trowa Barton would not lie about
such a thing. "It's impossible. The news systems haven't discussed the Terra Project in
years. If they had had any successes . . ."
" . . . they would want to keep them rather quiet. If not *purge* them from the databanks
completely." Trowa added, "I think that's how you put it."
"So you accepted? A program that's *hidden* from the public? A public the prides itself on
being informed?" I started to argue aimlessly, testing his answers to see if I understood him
correctly.
"I accepted after I received an official recommendation and offer from Zechs Marquis and
Lucrezia Noin."
"Oh my gosh," I felt the words tumble out of my lips as unexpected as Trowa's revelation. I
had known. I had known that Zechs left on some secretive mission that was more than a
love -get -away with Noin. And with Zechs on the mission so long, the Terra -Project might be
near opening stages. And to *need* Zechs on the mission, the Terra -Project was probably
quite a challenge. "What happened up there?"
"They found a site, one that Earth had been looking at before the colonies
were constructed, but was unable to reach with their current technology. Zechs and Noin had led a team of
scientists to gather information on the planetary conditions and habitability factors. They're
ready to take the Terra -Project to the next step. It's still risky, even though they've examined
and researched every factor of Earth's biosphere and paralleled it with Eunoe."
"Eunoe?"
"Earth -2. Or," Trowa smiled, then tapped his book, "the second river Dante drinks from
before he enters heaven. The waters of Good Remembrance--an offer of grace."
"It sounds so hopeful." I admitted.
"That's what I thought." Trowa nodded. "I'm leading a group of pioneers to actually land on
the planet and try to settle the land. Grow food. Survive. And then introduce a larger
population."
"And when does the public find out about this?" I wasn't about to let him slip out of explaining
his rationalization of that one question.
"When we survive." Trowa shrugged. "I'm fine with becoming an invisible player. It's
something that I've become rather talented at doing. And the project is going to need
someone who can lead from the inside of a group--as a member of the team."
"And you're willing to go, even when Catherine is . . . " My kind heart sneaks up on me now
and again. I started to worry about his well -being, and I'm a little surprised. Catching my
sentence mid -thought.
"Who else?" Trowa looked at me, kindly. "Who else erases as quickly as myself from the
general public eye?"
"I noticed you."
Trowa started for a second, his eyes settling on the book. He set his hands stiffly on either
side of the volume, one hand playing with the top corner of the pages. "Not that many people
are researching the definitive book on warfare." He seemed unchanged then. His eyes, face,
soft and his lips almost, but not, smiling.
"Catherine will miss you." I shrugged, letting him believe that he could disappear. Believing
that he could myself.
"We made a good team." Trowa nodded, seeming more than a little sad. "But she has the
baby . . ."
"And you'll miss your god -child."
"I'm sure," Trowa hesitated. "There is that. I'm not going completely satisfied, but I
understand that they need me."
I sat still, studying the pilled grey carpet, the heavily shelved walls, and the dark wood tables.
"Well, that's a lot to register." I said, filling our empty space--the strange familiarity with this
person I only knew in passing. "You're going to join Zechs and Noin in their project to take
humanity to new space." I shook my head, chuckling.
"Not exactly," Trowa tilted his head to one side. "I'm going because Zechs and Noin are
coming back."
"They've abandoned the project?" I asked, surprised.
"No," Trowa smiled, almost. "They have another project that they're working on presently.
That's why they need me."
"Who else is going with you then? It'll take several hands to replace their's. Not that you're
incapable." I quickly added holding up my palms for him to see. I looked at them a second.
Older hands. Pale hands. Unused hands. "What if . . ."
"Would you understand what it was to disappear, Dorothy Catalonia? Would you ever try?" I
heard his voice, but I stare at my hands. So different than Trowa. So confrontational and
forward, but tempered with a regrown compassion and the ability to trust.
I looked up and saw his gentle eyes, questioning. Offering. Drink new waters.
I smile
.
"Why not? No one would read the definitive book on warfare anyway."
the end?
the beginning?
ha ha ha
Jillian
by Jillian Storm
Ten years after the war Dorothy investigates to see where the Gundam Wing boys are and
finds them in the most unexpected places. However, all records of Trowa Barton are
suspiciously missing. Dorothy finds out why.
(Disclaimer: This is my idea, but these are not my characters. Granted, they are my favorite
Gundam Wing characters, so I certainly feel as if I know them well in my own mind--even if
they did not originate there. Anyway. This is post GW universe, and I tried to make it
different than the expected "post GW universe"--inspired in part by music groups Catatonia
and also No Doubt, which I recently re -discovered. No Doubt was my high school "nasty girl"
music before I graduated to the overseas crowd. "Nasty girl" music, see. Now you know why
I *adore* Dorothy Catalonia . . . )
Between the bookends of my life, most of my ambitions surrounded men and war. Of course,
there was the small fascination with following Relena Peacecraft around to see exactly how
long she could stand by her ideals of men and peace. It was peculiarly similar and vexingly
different to watch her find alternate answers to the same questions that I was asking.
Anyway, even long after the "great" war as many are caught referring to it--I would argue that
their were great men in this war but the war itself was hardly "great" by the standards of
previous wars--I was researching in the Lake Victoria libraries for information on ancient
warfare.
We may be living in a time of peace when old war-bases are turned into educational,
peaceful, facilities--but the evidence of war is far from forgotten. Peace always tastes better
when one remembers the efforts that brought it.
I sat at a public computer terminal at the Base and a to -scale model of a Leo was just outside
the window. A horrible and elegant example of humankind's achievements.
Glancing back at the computer screen, I typed in the search word, "Gundam." Scanning the
results I could read old colonist propaganda both supporting and condemning the rebellious
activity. Narrow the search. "Pilots."
Gundam Pilots. Heero Yuy. I remembered him as the first knight of the terrorist battle who
had followed through his mission to the last breath. But then he had kept breathing and had
to find something else to do. Unless the Victoria Base Library was severely mistaken--Heero
had married a colony girl and raised a litter of little Yuys thereby staying out of the
aggressively, political scene. The most recent news surrounding the pilot 01 had him winning
some kennel competition with a pure bread canine he'd raised and trained. I seemed to
remember Heero having a thing for puppies and kids.
Duo Maxwell. I had just seen him at one of Quatre's parties, well, it had been about eight
months ago. But since the war had been over for ten years, that was fairly recent. Duo
actually set himself up as the owner and star DJ of an inter -colony/Earth entertainment
station--resurrecting broadcast music and other old media. He had quite a monopoly on the
revived organization, but Duo claimed he was completely non -profit. From the way he was
dressed at Quatre's last party, I would have to believe him.
Quatre actually followed the Winner tradition of going to medical school and decided to
become a doctor. By this point, he was almost finished with the extensive education program.
His sister, Irea, had a colony clinic of which a good deal was charity work. Quatre did
volunteer work there when he took internships during his later study. What did he do with all
the money? Well, school was pretty expensive, but the kid really liked to throw parties. And,
somehow, after ten years he'd forgiven me for stabbing his delicate tummy. "You barely
missed my dorso -lateral antigenic duct, Dorothy, but when the doctors repaired my ossophytic
membrane--and that didn't take *hours*--they discovered the latent (and might I add highly
dangerous!) case of vasilial meningococcus I was developing. So you actually did me a great
favor . . ." About ten words in the Winner kid had lost me but still, somehow, made me feel
good about myself. I was glad he had . . . direction.
Wufei Chang felt a religious calling after the war and rebuilt his family temple along with a
dojo - school . Wufei didn't teach the lessons himself but he often exercised and practiced
with the youngsters invested with the program. Wufei came to Quatre's parties, but would eye
me warily. Until, Quatre would notice the problem and promptly start up again about my
miraculous sword thrusting ability and how I would make an excellent pupil at the dojo. Wufei
would remind him that they didn't use swords for his current style of *martial* arts. I smiled to
myself, remembering how I had piled a herd of energized civilians into my semi's and plopped
them at the feet of Wufei's Gundam. From me, he learned about the value of many bodies -ªand how they could use some discipline and training.
I reached the end of the list of entries. And a thought tickled the back of my mind. I was one
pilot short , and that was the reason why I had come. Was there simply no news on Trowa Barton? But how was that possible? He had done that circus thing. They were rather successful so the press should have had some sort of coverage of the events?
An hour later I was starting to get cross -eyed, but the computer had no record of any Trowa
Barton besides the original aristocrat from the colonies who had been killed before the
Gundam war had begun. I jotted down a few more references for my book, but my face
began to slip into a concentrated frown. Had I seen Trowa more than two times at required
reunions since the war? Why wasn't Trowa Barton in the database?
Because Trowa Barton was in the Lake Victoria Library.
I saw his lean frame step out from between two shelves of typeset texts. He had one book in
hand flipping through the delicate pages with the other. Uncharacteristic, thin -rimmed glasses
were delicately balanced on the end of his nose, but it was undeniably the oldest, tallest,
thinnest Gundam pilot. At twenty -eight, it was no surprise that Barton's eyes might need a
little coaxing to see the words-- ancient typeset text, but I was surprised that he opted for an
antique model when corrective surgery was so simple. Quatre could probably have do it
when he was a second -year student.
I watched Trowa fold himself into a chair, adjusting for his gangly legs under the fancy, cherryªwood table. I glanced back at the unhelpful computer, collected my materials and decided to
go interview the real thing. I was intending to write the definitive book on war as my lifetime
achievement. I would need primary sources.
"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Barton." I pulled out a chair, the same dark -red stained color as
the table, and waited until he nodded to sit down. Sometimes it's painful to be polite, but
society demanded it from me. If I could coast just under the radar by honoring a few social
norms, I found I could escape and be myself a great deal more.
"What are you doing here, Ms. Catalonia?"
"Dorothy." I smiled and met his grave green eyes as they peered over the reading glasses. "I
did skewer your best friend at one point, so I suppose that makes us intimates."
He didn't smile, but with his reputation, I expected as much. "The dorso -lateral antigenic
duct? And the vasilial menigo -something? I've heard." An amused breath passed his lips.
"I've heard."
"Well, I was a little misguided back then, you know." I pulled my hair behind one ear and it
slipped free again. After losing one of my childhood crushes to his "beloved lieutenant," I
decided I needed a change and the hair was the first thing to go. "But Quatre Winner's a
great guy, I'm glad I, um, saved his life."
"Right."
I decided that Trowa Barton was a tough crowd. "What are you up to at the Lake Victoria
Library?"
"Reading." He tilted the book so I could read the title. I couldn't read the title. "Ã
The Divine Comedy, by Dante." He supplied with a slight curl to his lips. I understood and rolled my
eyes. "You should give it a try sometime. I've had the chance to make it through several,
various translations. It's a tragedy how many folks misunderstand or never finish this
particular piece of fiction." He scanned the page and turned it over to exam the backside.
"Good stuff though, Dante *really* mastered that terza rima. Purgatory's my favorite."
Jumping to the bait, my novelist sensibilities asked, "Why's that, Mr. Barton? Don't tell me
that after ten years . . ."
". . . I feel like I'm living in purgatory?" Trowa finished without looking up from the page.
Then he faced me with a tight impression of a smile, "No. Not anymore. How about
yourself?"
The verbal game had come up a draw. I had felt like my old self for the briefest of moments.
"No. I guess not." I reflected his tight smile. Was he agitated with me? With the question?
Why did I continually get cold shoulders? Then I remembered. Why wasn't he in the
database?
"So why are you here, Dorothy?" He asked again, pausing before saying my name. I
wondered if he'd ever really spoken to me before. I couldn't recall.
"I'm researching and writing the definitive book on warfare."
"Not unexpected." Trowa nodded, his fingers lacing over the now closed
"Divine Comedy"
.
"No, Mr. Barton . . ."
"Call me Trowa if you want."
"Well, see the funny thing is . . . that there is no Mr. Barton or Trowa Barton--that is *you*--in
the entire Lake Victoria database." I watched his face, curious. "Almost as if your files were,
let's say, *purged*. What do you make of that?"
"Before Dante can see heaven, he's asked to drink from the Waters of Oblivion in order to
erase the guilty memory of his faults--an offer of forgiveness." Trowa smiled, more gently this
time.
"So are you going to heaven?" I asked, somewhat confused. Was he suicidal? No.
"Figuratively." Trowa answered.
"Um, can you say more about that?" I pushed, curious now that he was being cryptic. That
had to mean that Trowa was serious.
"Are you a reporter now, Dorothy?" He smiled again, leaning back in his chair and lacing his
fingers over his thin stomach.
"Nope." I shook my head with an eye -crinkled, flirty smile. "I just hadn't heard the news that
heaven had come to earth."
"I've been on Earth visiting Catherine, if you must know." Trowa lifted his thumbs with the
statement before settling them back against his button -up shirt. "She was my partner in the
circus act. We were co -ringmasters for about seven years before Catherine decided to
migrate to Earth. She came to visit once on tour and adored Italy. Something about the
Mediterranean and a dashing guy named Pietro she couldn't resist." Trowa rolled his eyes
back and examined the re -decorated ceiling. "I'm expecting my first god -child."
"But no family of your own?" I couldn't help but ask the personal questions, some inhibition
was recklessly ignited--and as long as he was actually comfortable and equally reckless by
volunteering information.
He didn't answer that one and was quiet for a while. I felt my regrown compassion start to
scold me. It wasn't as if I had taken the Heero Yuy path and thereby finding for myself a nice
colony citizen to start a family with. I had been looking for something else these past ten
years. I couldn't do that.
"Me either." Trowa said softly. And I realized I must have shared that last thought out loud.
He was still looking at the ceiling. Then out the window. "So when I got an invitation to work
on the Terra -Project, I realized that I wasn't finished working. I wasn't finished using my
soldier born talents for this new world."
"The Terra -Project? I thought that was abandoned?" I was sort of startled with that thought.
Soon after the war, some of the council members had proposed a project to find or re-construct a planet so that it was compatible with human life. After three years of fluctuating media coverage, the project had lost it's momentum. I thought it had ended as an impossibility.
Trowa looked back at me. "No, it's been a raw project since the end of the war. Just now
coming into pioneering possibilities."
"What?" I hissed, suddenly disbelieving yet knowing that Trowa Barton would not lie about
such a thing. "It's impossible. The news systems haven't discussed the Terra Project in
years. If they had had any successes . . ."
" . . . they would want to keep them rather quiet. If not *purge* them from the databanks
completely." Trowa added, "I think that's how you put it."
"So you accepted? A program that's *hidden* from the public? A public the prides itself on
being informed?" I started to argue aimlessly, testing his answers to see if I understood him
correctly.
"I accepted after I received an official recommendation and offer from Zechs Marquis and
Lucrezia Noin."
"Oh my gosh," I felt the words tumble out of my lips as unexpected as Trowa's revelation. I
had known. I had known that Zechs left on some secretive mission that was more than a
love -get -away with Noin. And with Zechs on the mission so long, the Terra -Project might be
near opening stages. And to *need* Zechs on the mission, the Terra -Project was probably
quite a challenge. "What happened up there?"
"They found a site, one that Earth had been looking at before the colonies
were constructed, but was unable to reach with their current technology. Zechs and Noin had led a team of
scientists to gather information on the planetary conditions and habitability factors. They're
ready to take the Terra -Project to the next step. It's still risky, even though they've examined
and researched every factor of Earth's biosphere and paralleled it with Eunoe."
"Eunoe?"
"Earth -2. Or," Trowa smiled, then tapped his book, "the second river Dante drinks from
before he enters heaven. The waters of Good Remembrance--an offer of grace."
"It sounds so hopeful." I admitted.
"That's what I thought." Trowa nodded. "I'm leading a group of pioneers to actually land on
the planet and try to settle the land. Grow food. Survive. And then introduce a larger
population."
"And when does the public find out about this?" I wasn't about to let him slip out of explaining
his rationalization of that one question.
"When we survive." Trowa shrugged. "I'm fine with becoming an invisible player. It's
something that I've become rather talented at doing. And the project is going to need
someone who can lead from the inside of a group--as a member of the team."
"And you're willing to go, even when Catherine is . . . " My kind heart sneaks up on me now
and again. I started to worry about his well -being, and I'm a little surprised. Catching my
sentence mid -thought.
"Who else?" Trowa looked at me, kindly. "Who else erases as quickly as myself from the
general public eye?"
"I noticed you."
Trowa started for a second, his eyes settling on the book. He set his hands stiffly on either
side of the volume, one hand playing with the top corner of the pages. "Not that many people
are researching the definitive book on warfare." He seemed unchanged then. His eyes, face,
soft and his lips almost, but not, smiling.
"Catherine will miss you." I shrugged, letting him believe that he could disappear. Believing
that he could myself.
"We made a good team." Trowa nodded, seeming more than a little sad. "But she has the
baby . . ."
"And you'll miss your god -child."
"I'm sure," Trowa hesitated. "There is that. I'm not going completely satisfied, but I
understand that they need me."
I sat still, studying the pilled grey carpet, the heavily shelved walls, and the dark wood tables.
"Well, that's a lot to register." I said, filling our empty space--the strange familiarity with this
person I only knew in passing. "You're going to join Zechs and Noin in their project to take
humanity to new space." I shook my head, chuckling.
"Not exactly," Trowa tilted his head to one side. "I'm going because Zechs and Noin are
coming back."
"They've abandoned the project?" I asked, surprised.
"No," Trowa smiled, almost. "They have another project that they're working on presently.
That's why they need me."
"Who else is going with you then? It'll take several hands to replace their's. Not that you're
incapable." I quickly added holding up my palms for him to see. I looked at them a second.
Older hands. Pale hands. Unused hands. "What if . . ."
"Would you understand what it was to disappear, Dorothy Catalonia? Would you ever try?" I
heard his voice, but I stare at my hands. So different than Trowa. So confrontational and
forward, but tempered with a regrown compassion and the ability to trust.
I looked up and saw his gentle eyes, questioning. Offering. Drink new waters.
I smile
.
"Why not? No one would read the definitive book on warfare anyway."
the end?
the beginning?
ha ha ha
Jillian