WHOLE LIVES, CHAPTER 25 UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTHS

By the Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy awoke to stiff muscles and a small rambunctious boy climbing onto his chest. "Unkaroy—whatcha doin'?"

His lumbar region ached and when Maes bounced on Roy's chest the Fuhrer heard a few vertebrae pop in protest. Cirrocco must have kicked me in the back while I was asleep—at least that's what it feels like. The armchair between the children's crib and cot was less comfortable than the fold out hospital chair he'd camped out in while Ed was laid up last winter after his head injury. He'd changed into a soft shirt and loose trousers but he'd kept his gloves on, even though he no longer needed them after going through the Gateway and meeting Truth. That he could now perform alchemy without a circle was not something he wanted to be common knowledge—it gave him a tactical advantage he wanted to keep to himself. He'd offered to put a privacy screen in front of Pinako's cot but the old woman laughed and refused, telling him that she was fairly certain she could defend herself if he was overcome with the urge to make advances on her.

"Good morning Maes," he rumbled sleepily. "I got lonesome and decided to keep you and Nina company while you slept."

" 'kay!" The boy crawled over Roy and peeked at his sister. "NIIIIINAAAAAAAA! Wake up!"

Nina snorted and tugged the blanket over her head, acting so absurdly like her father Roy had to fight back a burst of laughter. "Nuh-uh. G'way, brudder!"

"Niiiiiiinaaaaaa! Get up!" Maes grabbed the bars with both hands and swung on them, rocking side to side. Roy lifted him up and moved him back to his cot. He gently called the little girl's name, softly and invitingly, and asked if he could have a hug. Ed's daughter yawned, rubbed her eyes and grinned at him, holding out her arms.

Roy scooped Nina out of the crib and was rewarded with a kiss. Winking at Maes, he confided, "Looks like you have your father's knack of persuasion. I haven't gotten to you a minute too soon, have I, son?"

Pinako showed Roy how to help Maes into his clothes. It was harder than it looked and it took a firm word to make him settle down and stop wiggling so Roy could help him get his arms in the right sleeves. "You boys go down to breakfast. We'll be there in a few minutes."

Roy and Maes answered "yes, ma'am!" in unison and headed down the stairs together, one step at a time. Pinako pulled back the curtain and rapped smartly on the balcony door. Jean Havoc stuck his head in. He'd been standing watch out there most of the night. "All clear on the perimeter, Dr. Pinako. All clear to step down?"

"Yes, son. All clear. And don't look at me in my nightie."

Havoc snapped to attention, jerking his eyes hastily in the opposite direction. "No way—I—I mean—no, ma'am!"

###

The first thing Kain Furey noticed when he drove up to the Dacha was an Amestrian flag flapping proudly in the morning breeze—from the roof of the privy. His thumb flipped the On button of his field radio. "Uhhh…Ruby? I'm seeing something at the dacha but I think it's my imagination. I mean, I hope it is—over."

"Roger. What do you mean you hope it's your imagination? Over."

"I mean there's….hold on please….no, it's real all right. Somebody's hung our national flag over the outhouse—and there's a sign on the door that reads 'Welcome To The Amestrian Embassy-Aerugoans, Keep Out!' I…don't think the Fuhrer is going to think this is very funny."

Ruby slammed down her coffee mug and cursed. "Roy is going to skin him—and when it happens I swear I'm going to sell tickets and popcorn to the crowd. Better take a picture of it and wire it to the Big Boss. And see if you can get that little jerk to take it down—hey, do you outrank him? He's retired from the military, right? Over."

"Negative. He retired with a promotion. Over."

"Well…" Ruby shook her head in frustration. Damn you, Edward! Mustang trusts you to act like a scholar and ambassador and you can't get over yourself and stop behaving like an idiot! How the hell is the plan for the Hohenheim going to work if you shoot Mustang's plan straight to hell every time he trusts you? Might as well just declare war on everybody and open fire. Sheesh! "He's your friend. Go talk some sense into him. Tell him that if he can't get his shit together he might as well burn the Collegium to the ground. Ruby out"

Kain was about as effective at reprimanding someone as he would have been dancing an erotic bump-and-grind in the Central red light district. But one of his finer qualities was recognizing both his own strengths and the strengths and talents of others. And there was one person who, without fail, could get through to Edward when nobody else could.

Kain found him down by the river and the young man Kain pinned his hopes on greeted him with a cheerful wave. "Lieutenant Fuery! Hey! What are you doing here?"

"Good morning, Alphonse! I was up here attending a conference on communications technology. The Drachmans have made a lot of advances and Dr. Tesla from Stoltovgrad has been kind enough to share his data with me. I'm heading back to Central at noon, but Fuhrer Mustang asked me to wire in a field telephone before I left. He didn't know the nearest phone was in the village and since you and Ed and Castellan Bacalla are technically ambassadors he says its important for you to have access just in case something comes up and the Fuhrer or the Prince need to get in touch with you." He pointed towards the ensign waving in the wind above the outhouse. "Uh…I'm pretty sure you and Alex had nothing to do with…that?" he asked hesitantly.

Al's cheery grin dissolved with a hearty sigh. "I love my brother, but sometimes he goes too far. 'Spose I'd better get that down."

"But what's it all about?" Kain wanted to know. He trotted after the long-legged younger man as Al strode up the riverbank to take down the offensive display.

Al treated the flag—part of a welcome banner for the crew of the Xerxes—with respect, folding it carefully and handing it to Kain, who carried it out to his car. Ed's chalked sign was deleted with a clap of the younger Elric's hands. Digging in his pocket for chalk, Al scribbled a new message: 'WELCOME—OPEN FOR BUSINESS' He wiped his hands on his pants, surveyed his work and gestured for Furey to join him. "The Castellan saw that headline about the Aerugoan bullet casings found near the hole in the Palace wall. He thinks we're framing the Aerugoans and started acting….well…damn it, he and Ed both started acting like idiots. It was funny for, well, maybe about five minutes but it's gone too far. I'm putting a stop to this right now!"

###

"Hey! Al, this isn't funny!" Ed did not appreciate being summoned to the dining room, currently chalked out as "neutral territory" according to Bacalla's house map. Ed had been in the meadow all morning working on his glider with Armstrong and Pyotir and Maxim. Armstrong had been using alchemy under Ed's direction to put the parts together according to Ed's design. Pyotir and Maxim were there to observe and were both dismayed by the machine's appearance. The Drachmans were both fairly certain that the propellers on the glider were not supposed to look like Alex's fists, nor should there be spikes and skulls on the wings. Edward had been shouting at Alex that his self-portraiture wasn't part of his sketches and Alex had mildly pointed out that the aesthetic beauty of Armstrong muscles were far more pleasing to the eye than gargoyles and spikes and scales. Pyotir, who had been studying alchemy volumes since his visit last winter, experimented by chalking a small array on the tail, activating it in hopes of making it smooth and plain again and succeeding only in having the back half of the fuselage fall off altogether. Between Armstrong's obliviousness and Pyotir's embarrassment and the irritation of Maxim laughing and taking pictures of the now-tailless monstrosity, Ed was in a foul mood and the sight of Castellan Bacalla sitting at the table did not improve it. "Now, what the fu—oh. Good morning, Dr. Lobachevsky. It's good to see you." Ed quickly cut off the flood of insults and profanity and shifted his temper into neutral gear. Lobachevsky was one person whose respect was worth having.

Glancing around, he noted Dr. Chen had joined them and was, oddly, seated at the head of the table with Lobachevsky at the opposite end, sipping a glass of hot tea and looking very serious. Dr. Chen rose and bowed. "Edward-sama, thank you for joining us. I have called an emergency session of the Collegium at Lobachevsky-sama's request. He has asked me to conduct this session as a neutral third country and he will do the same."

Lobachevsky folded his long, narrow fingers and regarded Edward and Bacalla gravely. "The Collegium—the entire concept of peace on the continent—that President Mustang has staked his entire career and reputation upon and labored so hard to promote—is at risk because of two ambassadors who choose to let their personal disagreements take precedence over the good the Collegium. And Dr. Chen and I intend to find out why. Castellan, I shall serve as ambassador on behalf of Drachma and Dr. Chen for Xing. We are both neutral to the dispute and with one another. Agreed?" Bacalla began to sweat. Ed felt his stomach squirm. Both nodded. "Good. Dr. Chen?"

The Xingese alchemist offered the warring parties each an apologetic glance. "I shall come to the heart of the matter, please. Edward-sama, you do not like the Castellan." He lifted his hand to forestall a heated response. "Please—if I may continue? Thank you. A simple yes or no will suffice."

Ed glared at Bacalla. "No."

"And Castellan, this is mutual, if I have correctly observed?"

"Indeed," Bacalla shot back.

"It is agreed that there are stories in the news and on the wireless that are not supporting confirmed facts about the bullets found on the Palace lawn in Central. There are also," he held up the morning paper, "unconfirmed stories in this morning's paper that the illness suffered by Prince Claudio this spring that he is now recovering from was linked to the visit from President Mustang-please to be quiet and let me continue, gentlemen!" Ed was turning red with fury and Chen feared Bacalla's fist was going to connect with Edward's jaw if he did not keep this discussion tightly under control. "Rumors of snipers. Rumors of germ warfare-and they are rumors. This is a tenuous peace we have worked so hard to achieve. Right this moment—right this moment—we can fall back into the darkness of the old days—the days of the Old Guard, when men like Cremmin and Edison and…others…in the corrupt regime nearly destroyed your nation—possibly this continent. Dangerous, self-serving men that were ousted from Amestris by brave people like Armstrong-sama and his sister and President Mustang-and you and Al-sama, Edward-san. You are so close to tipping the balance back to those days with your anger."

"Dr. Chen is correct." Lobachevsky nodded in agreement. "Sometimes something so small as a momentary lapse of reason—a rumor, a word said in anger-that is all it takes to tear down what others have risked everything to rebuild. Think of your friends, Edward—I know you lost people close to you during the coup. There was a man—you named your son for him. Brigadier General Hughes. As I understand he was murdered by the Old Guard factions for uncovering the plot to use alchemy to murder the people of Amestris. Am I correct?"

"Yeah." Ed felt a burning in his throat. He hadn't thought about that.

"Castellan? Didn't your own Prince narrowly avoid assassination a few years ago in Amestris, right after the Armistice was signed?"

Bacalla looked livid. "Mustang-"

"—was working to protect your prince. And Edward risked being shot to save him from a sniper's bullet. Or hadn't you heard about that?"

Ed's eyes cut to Lobachevsky's. "How did you—"

"My informants are as good as yours—and the Prince's—and the Emperor's. I will not inquire if you support your prince, Castellan. That is not my affair. But when you were appointed an ambassador and part of the Collegium you agreed to be a peacemaker and a peace keeper. Edward, you as well. I know you support the President of Amestris in his aims."

Edward and the Castellan eyed one another uneasily.

"We are not suggesting that you must like one another," Lobachevsky continued. "But we are requiring that you cease hostilities for the good of the peace others have died for. Edward—if this seems hard….think of your son and daughter. Castellan—think of your own hide. It is apparent by your behavior," he concluded, "that is what is most important to you."

"We have informed Prince Claudio and Fuhrer Mustang. A phone line will be connected to this dacha as soon as we are concluded." Dr. Chen nodded to the assembled group who remained completely silent during the confrontation. "I am sure they will want to discuss this with you personally."

As the others filed silently out, Bacalla began to mop away the chalk marks he had made. Al clapped his older brother on the shoulder. "And you used to think being sent to the principal was bad."

Ed grabbed a wet rag and followed after Bacalla, just to make sure all the lines were completely erased.

###

Bacalla flinched as he jerked his head back from the receiver as if his prince had slapped him. "I never said a word, Your Highness. Whoever 'sources close to the Royal Family' are, it wasn't me. Do you truthfully believe, Sire, that I would suggest to the foreign press that Roy Mustang tried to murder you?"

Somewhere in Aerugo a pair of keen blue eyes narrowed. "You might if it served your own self interests. I sent you to Drachma because of your character failings, Bacalla. I am not especially fond of Mustang but I agree with him to a certain extent. And I am weary of war." There was a long pause. "It was your little friend, wasn't it? The Hall Boy. That cretin with the dirty fingernails. He was the one who leaked it to the press. Am I correct?"

Bacalla thought back to his discussion with Baldric before he was shipped off on this madman's mission to Drachma with those insufferable Elrics:

"Well, of course it was an assassination attempt, dolt! Is anyone else ill like His Highness? Take into consideration the timing of his collapse. It was within days of the departure of the Xerxes—and note that Mustang has been conspicuously silent since his return to Amestris."

"Well…if someone's attempting to do in the Prince, shouldn't we get all up in arms over this? I mean—it's not like there's a dance card full of half blood bastards out there to get tapped in his place…"

"I'm not fond of him, but I daresay he's got a keen head on his shoulders and the people love him. He'll do better than some of those syphilitic ancestors of his. I suppose we need to be sure he pulls through and then fret about revenge later."

"Oooh! You mean you get to send me out to do someone in? Can it be Edward Elric? Please, sir, let me do in Edward Elric! Every time that bastard took a shower all that long blonde hair of his clogged the drains and we had sewage backing up for days—and then he'd bitch about the smell."

"Nobody's killing anybody, Baldric. Not yet…."

A bit of palace gossip with a thick-headed dolt, about as sharp as a bag of hammers. Bacalla wasn't really scheming to do in anybody. He was a little man with a lifetime of thwarted ambitions and a great deal of cleverness that could have been put to better use. And now it was all flying back at him, in public, and his prince was furious—and the old man, the Sun King, may have abdicated but he might want to go back to decorating the parapets of the castle with severed heads like in the good old days. "Sire-he's a harmless nob who is mercifully bereft of the ravages of intelligence. Surely nobody gives credence to the babblings of a moron?"

On the other end of the line, Claudio Rico smiled grimly. I've got him. "Any idea where Baldric may have gotten such ideas if he is as ignorant as you suggest he is?"

Bacalla began to babble and stumble of his words, and if he'd been in the royal audience chamber Claudio would have been hard pressed not to laugh at him. Yes…I've ferreted you out, you nasty little man. Getting a simpleton to do your dirty work for you so you can undermine me. Ugly business—wonder what you might know about those rounds that were fired at Mustang's estate. Time to call Central, I suppose. "Peace! Enough!" The Prince's voice became sharp now. "I have a new commission for you, Signor Bacalla. You have as of now been removed from the Castellan's post. From this moment on, you are the official Sunshine Ambassador of Aerugo. I heard about your little performance before the crowd in Stoltovgrad. Singing with children. My, my. It very nearly brings a tear to my eyes—except that I happed to know about the incident on the Amestris train with the son of Edward Elric. At least you didn't disgrace us by spitting on them. So—from this moment on, I hold you personally responsible for winning the hearts of our foreign friends—and for making damned sure that this whole nasty assassination business is laid to rest-permanently. If you can improve our image and make peace with the Amestrians, you will regain your title and all the benefits that go with it—including your personal estates, which, by the way, you have just lost along with your Castellan's rank. Fail me," his voice became sweetly poisonous, "and you'll be reacquainting yourself with my father's rubber duck as Bath Boy once again. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Bacalla turned very pale. If he didn't want to go back to Washing The Royal Anus again, he'd better start kissing Ed's.

###

"He's a douche….but I said I'll stop raggin' him and I meant it and…and…whatever. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And one of these days," Ed added, "you're gonna get drunk and admit that I got him good."

There was a soft growl. "Possibly," Roy answered noncommittally. "I'm calling Claudio soon as we get off the phone so we have to make this quick."

Something shifted in Ed's pants at the sound of that low, seductive voice. "How long, exactly?"

"Not long enough for what you have in mind."

"Damn."

"I'll call tonight."

"Fuckin' straight you will. You owe me."

"You were the one who slept through my call. By the way, how is the glider coming?"

Ed frowned. "Go a whole lot faster without Armstrong. Geez, everything he works on becomes some freakish looking work of art." Somewhere in the background Roy heard Alphonse and what sounded like the Drachmans whooping with laughter over Ed's idea of "freakish looking art". Someone called out, 'tell him about the spikes and skulls, Ed!'

"When do you think you'll be ready for your test flight?"

Ed calculated mentally. "Classes start in two days, so I'll be busy during the week—but I'd say we'll mount the engine up if it works according to my designs-give it a month. Man, that will be something, huh? The first heavier-than-air craft with a gas powered engine. It's going to work, Roy. It's gotta work. I feel like I'm really on the bring of something that's gonna change everything we know about air travel."

"Just be careful," Roy cautioned. "I know 'safety third' is your personal model, but let's do this one by the books. You've got to get it off the ground first. Have you got a name for it yet?"

Ed grinned. "Well, 'In Your Face, Mustang!' was my first choice-"

###

He felt odd. Very good, but very odd. It was like his skin was too tight and his heart was beating out of rhythm. It was exhilarating and it scared him and made him feel guilty about Nicholai, off at sea, so far, far away.

They had been working on the glider and it had gotten hot and Armstrong had peeled off his shirt to reveal a mountain of rippling flesh that Pyotir was not inclined to touch or admire. Too much obsession with the body means not enough attention to the mind. Not that his Nicky wasn't nicely built, he reminded himself, or that he had anything to be ashamed of as he shucked off his own shirt and enjoyed the cooling breeze on his sweat-drenched skin.

Then Edward did the same and everything changed.

"I have a lot of scars." That was all he said.

Pyotir never noticed them. He noticed everything else.

So golden…the muscles so finely cut when he raises his arms and I can see his body, just a little. Hs sweat smells like steel but his hair smells sweet and clean like a child's. It looks soft to touch. When he sits alone those wolf-gold eyes are often so sad…and he sits alone so often, it seems. I wish… There was that peculiar thumping in his chest again and he sighed, ruffling his own short hair, paler than the Elric brother's. His wide cornflower eyes turned to the comforting beauty of the river, but the vast field of sunflowers in the field beyond where Ed's glider was parked made him think of bright hair slipping through his fingers and what it would be like to touch that tanned shoulder, to press a kiss upon it. Nicholai was so different with his crow-black curls and laughing eyes, his songs and dances and the way no one was a stranger to him. Mine is a quieter light. Mine is not to shine so, like Edward and Nicky. All these vibrant young men-the dashing Alphonse, the mad pranks of Alexi and Maxim—even Pio with his theatrical speeches and tempers—such a genius with spices and herbs! They are ten times more alive than I will ever be. Perhaps, if I can master alchemy I too can be of use to this world…and to Edward..,

###

"They aren't yours. You didn't order this."

"You are correct, Roy. Aerugoan arms crossed the border during the Ishballan conflict. They are not being traded at this time, or so my informants are telling me.

That is more than you were willing to admit when Dr. Marcoh was cutting your country's bullets out of the bodies of my men. That's a step in the right direction, at least. "And as far as 'germ warfare', Highness, I've had my best men on this, going back to the Bradley era. Amestris had State Alchemists, and our laboratory research was directed—in those days -towards alchemic weapons, not biological weapons. Fuhrer Bradley, as you well recall, was a man who didn't waste time. If he wanted to attack you, he attacked you head on with alchemists and bullets or in the shadows with…" Roy stopped just short of admitting to the existence of chimeras, "—stealth troops. But germs? No. Not his style. And," Roy emphasized, "not mine. Unlike Former President Bradley—"

"You are not a monster. You have done hideous things, but it sickened you. Bradley was a beast." Silence. "Ah, Roy—did you think I did not know who you were up against from within your own ranks? Why do you think the Sun King allowed arms to the Ishbalans? A monster was consuming them and you had officers within your own army who worked at cross purposes from within, Ishballan by blood and birth, who came to us and begged my father to give arms to the smugglers. He wanted Bradley dead. He hoped the resolve of the Ishbalans might accomplish that. And when they failed, he locked our borders and allowed them to die. That is not what I would have done—but that is what occurred.

"I was sent to sue for peace. The treaty was signed—because my greatest concern as Prince Regent was that he would turn his wrath upon Aerugo, and having read eyewitness reports of you, Flame Alchemist, in battle, I knew I could never let you cross my borders with the intent to incinerate my cities and my people. They are mine to protect, and if that meant swallowing my disgust and shaking Bradley's hand, then by damn I would do it."

Roy was at a momentary loss for words. "You know what I did in the war."

"More to the point, I know what you did after Bradley's fall, Brigadier General. That you returned to the desert and dedicated yourself to the rebuilding of the Ishballan nation and its people. The very people you slaughtered in your youth. I know that you were cursed and spit on and you did not run. I know you were shot and wounded—and you did not run. I know that a legion of crippled and maimed and widowed and orphans demanded accounting from you—and you answered them. That, in my opinion, makes you a man who might be trusted. So I will ask you, Roy Mustang—did you or your people try to kill me—and do you intend to harm my people?"

'All I can give you is my word, Highness. And for the record," he added, "Edward thinks you were trying to kill me. He's not alone. According to my personal physician I contracted a not so common gram negative bacterial pneumonia. I almost died too. And I contracted it in Aerugo."

"I know. I had the same illness. Had we trusted one another enough to talk—"

"-we have a cure, developed by Dr. Chen. A beta-lactam penicillium, alchemically modified. It saved my life, and if you need it, it is yours for the asking."

After a long pause, Roy heard the prince's laughter. He sounded very, very tired. "I would appreciate it, even though I am recovered. And perhaps, if we are fortunate, we will find the source of the illness that nearly deposed us both. Perhaps it is less malevolent than we suspect."

###

"Good to meet you, sir."

"So you're our man on the ground."

"You could say that, General."

"You got the pictures?"

Reluctantly, Charles Foster handed the folder to Edison. "Here you go."

Edison peered over his glasses and stared at the reporter. "You don't agree with me. I can see it in your eyes."

Foster shrugged. "It's just…kids. I mean, is there another way? There has to be. Edward—maybe Alphonse—"

Edison shook his head. "The dripping of water wears away a great mountain. Termites can collapse a palace. One small pebble can start an avalanche.' The general held up a photograph. "Here's the pebble. Mustang is unstable. I've been collecting data on him ever since it was clear Grumman was going to nominate him as his successor. Mustang has been bleating that he wants to bring back general presidential elections in the future. I want to seem him fall, Foster. I want to see him out of power. Let him go back to his damned desert with those filthy red-eye'd madmen he's so fond of. Let him die out there." He chuckled into his coffee. "You know why Grumman stepped down, hey? Didn't have a thing to do with his age."

Foster nodded. "Scandals about…young women. He was—"

"He is an old goat who can't keep his hands off their bottoms." He tugged reflectively on the end of his beard. "To avoid scandal, he stepped down and gave the reins to his favorite dog. And I have enough on him. I just need that one little pebble to take him down under his own avalanche. "

A packet, bulging with cens notes, was passed across the table. Foster stared at it. Then he nodded at the old man in the old uniform that didn't fit him as well in the glory days of the Bradley regime."

"Good luck, General."

…..TO BE CONTINUED….