Chapter 26: Zero

"Monday, April 12, 2017

Kirkham Acquitted of Murder in Fuji Massacre

By Diethard Reid, special to Wall Street Today

FORT ST GERMANS, TOKYO CONCESSION—Lieutenant Leonard J. Kirkham was acquitted today of Human Trafficking and Murder charges for his role in the death of civilians during the Invasion of Japan.

He was convicted on the lesser charges of Absence without Leave and Behavior Unbecoming an Officer and Gentleman. Kirkham was sentenced to dismissal from the army and four and half years house arrest, reduced to two years after subtracting 30 months he spent in hospital recovering from injuries received during his arrest.

The jury panel of nine military officers deliberated three hours before reaching a verdict: Kirkham was acquitted of trafficking 38 Japanese children, of premeditated murder in the killing of the same, and of premeditated murder in the killing of 87 Japanese civilians at a refugee camp. A two-thirds majority is required for conviction.

When the verdict was read, a mixed reaction of outrage and applause erupted in the courtroom before the presiding judge restored order. Kirkham saluted the court and appeared cheerful as he waved at supporters. He went outside and told reporters that despite disappointment over his dismissal, he accepted the verdict and maintained his complete faith in the military justice system.

Kirkham was represented by a team of high-profile civilian attorneys led by New York criminal defense lawyer Alan D. Goldstein. Industry experts estimate his defense to have cost his father, the Duke of Morley, between 5 to 10 million pounds sterling. The 29-year-old was denounced in the prosecution's summation as a rogue officer who left "an indelible stain on the honor and integrity" of the Britannian military, and whose "bloody hands could not be cleansed by any amount of clever rhetoric."

Kirkham was originally charged with the murder of Japanese refugees he encountered while leading his platoon on the outskirts of Fuji City in Shizuoka Prefecture in August, 2010. He was charged also with removing minors from the site and transporting them to a trafficker's ship. When intercepted by pursuing forces, Kirham allegedly ordered the crew to dump the children overboard.

The jury of nine officers had to consider whether Lieutenant Kirkham ordered the killings, or had been aware that his men were "improperly killing noncombatants" and had declined to exercise his command responsibility by ordering a halt to the killings; whether he was guilty of human trafficking by transporting people against their will with profit motive, and whether he was guilty of ordering the drowning of the children, an incident described by his counsel, Fred Shupack, as "a unintended, tragic accident."

In his final argument, Major Frederick G. Maxim, serving as prosecutor in chief, ridiculed the defense's contention that Lieutenant Kirkham was an unwitting bystander misled by slavers into believing that he and his men were escorting war orphans to a safe location.Colonel Bledsoe, the presiding judge, cast doubts on the testimony of some of the prosecution's key witnesses in his instructions to the jury. He referred to Yabuki Yoshito, father to two of the victims, as a "frequent user of Refrain, as many as four doses a day" and as such the accuracy of his memory of events from seven years ago could be called into question.

In the wake of international uproar after the Fuji killings came to light, the Asian crew of the smuggling ship was extradited to the Chinese Federation, where five were executed and three given lengthy sentences of re-education through hard labor. Most members of Kirkham's platoon had left the army by the time trial proceedings began, and so were unable to be prosecuted. Out of 14 officers and enlisted men originally charged, seven cases were dismissed and there were four acquittals before the Kirkham verdict.

The Ministry of War announced yesterday that no appeal by the prosecution was pending and that the Fuji investigation was closed."

Andreas Darlton sat hunched over, hands clenched, elbows resting on his knees. His face was a stone mask. His ears—filled with the roar of blood—were deaf to the commotion in the packed courtroom. He looked like a man in prayer but for his steely eyes, which followed the defendant as he strolled down the aisle, arms raised in victory, his pearly white smile lit up by continuous camera flashes.

For a split second their eyes met. The general saw recognition on the lieutenant's face, followed by the upward curve at the corner of his perfect, surgically repaired lips. Darlton knew they were repaired because he was the one who necessitated surgery in the first place, more than six years ago. Now the scoundrel was as good as new, off with a slap on the wrist, enjoying the last laugh—laughing at the world, laughing at the system, laughing at his victims, laughing at him.

Claudio glared at the gloating lieutenant as he left the courtroom surrounded by his escort of lawyers and military police. He placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "Come on, dad. Let's go."

Brigadier General Andreas Darlton was pleased: After just two weeks into the invasion, organized resistance was collapsing and Japanese troops were surrendering in mass. Leaflets warning people to shelter in the countryside were scattered over major cities weeks prior to the landing and achieved their intended effect. Civilian casualties trended towards the low end of estimates despite the destruction wrought upon Tokyo, the primary objective and home to the fiercest fighting. Advancing according to plan, Britannian forces shifted gears from war fighting to peace keeping, securing infrastructure and facilitating the distribution of aid supplies and services.

Everything proceeded perfectly until he received the call on Y-Day+13, a cloudless, scorching hot day.

He drove immediately to the site. A sergeant led him to a camp in the forest. Thick vegetation shielded family tents from the oppressive summer heat. Half-finished breakfasts sat on picnic tables, pots and kettles simmered over portable gas stoves, freshly done laundry was strung out on clotheslines, a choir of cicadas sang, a radio played a bubble pop song.

"Down by the river, sir."

They followed a trail to a cool bubbling stream. The water ran clearly until it reached the people, lying face down in shallow water, each with a hole in the back of their heads. Their bodies stretched along the crimson shore, coloring the water downstream. His troops grimly went about taking photos, collecting evidence, and filling body bags, radioing for more when stocks ran low. A chaplain said prayers for the departed. A sergeant broke down and wept.

Darlton had seen the work of death squads before: from his experience, a surprise attack—by which the assailants seek to terrorize and control their victims—usually preceded the rounding up and mass execution. Here there was no sign of violence or looting at the camp. The people had been ordered to leave and obeyed, which meant the attackers likely presented themselves as figures of authority, which, given the Japanese army's state of disintegration, meant those who committed the atrocity were Britannian. Something else however was amiss…

"Where are the children?"

Using imagery from a high altitude UAV, Darlton tracked the trucks from the campsite to a fishing port on the coast. He then exceeded his pay grade by asking a nearby marine assault carrier to sweep the area with its complement of aircraft before boarding a helicopter himself. Less than half an hour later, a plane from the carrier spotted a costal barge 70 miles southwest of the port. When hailed on radio, the ship identified itself as an Indonesian registered vessel bound for Kagoshima with a cargo of skipjack tuna. With the ship's coordinates and heading, Darlton's helicopter quickly closed the distance while he radioed for reinforcements. Soon the barge came into view.

"Luzon Maru, Luzon Maru. This is General Darlton of the Britannian Army. You are hereby ordered to cut your engines and wait for boarding and inspection. I repeat: cut engines and await inspection."

From a low altitude Darlton could make out sailors and Britannian soldiers on board. A minute went by and the engines of the Luzon Maru continued to churn. He repeated his message; hearing no reply, he tapped the helicopter's door gunner on the shoulder, who fired a stream of warning shots at the barge's waterline. The ship stopped its engines.

As he and his men prepared to fast rope down, he saw the ship's crane begin to move. A sick sense of dread gripped his bowels; he watched in horror as the crane picked up one of the containers and rotated until it was hanging over the water.

"God, no…"

The crane released and the container splashed into the water.

"I can't believe they let him off so easily." Cecile's brows furrowed as she followed the news the next day on TV.

Lloyd stretched back in his chair, feet crossed atop of the table. He snapped off a bite from his melon-flavored Pocky. "What's not to believe? His father is a duke. He can afford the best result the system has to offer."

"But everyone knows he's guilty!"

"Doesn't mean people think he deserves to hang. The law is gray, especially in a case like this." The scientist twirled his snack like a pen and continued blithely. "Fog of war, obscured memories, an Eleven's word against a Britannian noble. All considered, I think this was the most politically correct outcome. Right, Suzaku?"

The corporal—his white pilot suit unzipped to the waist—looked up from the neighboring table. "Um, I guess."

"What a noncommittal answer. Come now, as an Honorary Brit serving in the army, you must have an opinion on this matter. Share it with us."

"Could you be any less sensitive?" Cecile turned to the young pilot whose lunch sat untouched. "Don't mind Lloyd. His curiosity makes him stupid sometimes."

"Thanks, ma'am." Suzaku pushed the peas around his tray with his fork. "Part of me is angry, as a Japanese and a soldier. But life's not fair; the world isn't perfect, and if you want to change the system you need to have power first."

"I see, but there's a hole in your way of thinking."

"Where?"

"Who said you had to work inside the system, with all its hierarchies and rules?" Lloyd nibbled on his snack with a mischievous grin. "If you like, I can find Kirkham's address in two seconds, you can go over there in the Lancelot and presto, justice is oww!"

"Stop spouting nonsense." Lloyd cradled his hand where Cecile rapped his knuckles with her binder. The female officer gave him a reprimanding glare before turning back to the corporal. "It's true that it takes a lot of effort to effect change, but if you work hard I'm sure one day you'll reach a place where you can make a difference and do a lot of good. We're rooting for you, Suzaku."

"I'll give it my best shot, ma'am."

The scientist rubbed his hand in a sulk. "Yeah right. Hard work, friendship, victory? That only works in Japanese comics; see how well it's done for them in the real world. Success in life is about kowtowing to superiors and stabbing friends in the back and using them as footstools to get a leg up and…"

"What was that, Lloyd Carmine Asplund?"

"Nothing, I'll shut up now." He shrank in his chair to appear as small as possible. Suzaku smiled.

"Animal!"

Holding Kirkham up by the collar, Darlton delivered another liver shot into the ringleader's ribcage. His troops stood and watched coolly as their commander pummeled the lieutenant. The boarding party met no resistance as it took control of the ship. At first Kirkham and his soldiers professed ignorance; he then demanded a lawyer when a frigate arrived with rig and divers to raise the container. They found the doors chained shut and cut it by blowtorch. Inside were the rigid remains of almost 40 boys and girls from kindergarten to high school, crammed into a 20 feet shipping container. Many were missing fingernails. When Darlton saw the red scratch marks that marred the interior of the steel container, something inside him snapped.

"Murderer!"The general planted what was left of the lieutenant's face into his knee and felt something crunch. "Coward!"

The ship's crew confessed readily: Kirkham contacted their organization a week ago, claiming he could gather and deliver a shipment of Japanese orphans to help meet the mainland's insatiable demand for fresh young bodies: sex workers and organ providers. When their ship was stopped by the helicopter the lieutenant turned on them, threatening to kill them unless they "disposed of the evidence."

Darlton dragged Kirkham by the hair across the deck to where the bodies were laid out. He dunked his head in seawater until he regained consciousness, then held him face to face with his victims. "Look at them! Look! What do you see?"

Kirkham coughed and sputtered before cracking a grin. "Collateral damage?"

"Wrong! They're kids, innocent children. You murdered their parents and now you murdered them, you bastard!" Darlton backhanded the lieutenant across the face with a clenched fist. "Why? Why in the world would you do such a thing?"

"Who are you, mother f-ing Teresa?" Kirkham spat out two teeth that had been knocked loose, "Civilians die all the time; since we're here to kill them anyways, why not try and make some bank?"

"There's no we; the only killer here is you."

"Oh really?" Kirkham began to laugh. "What did you expect would happen when we invaded? That nobody would get hurt? That no one would be home when we shelled Tokyo to the ground? We knew people were going die. Hell general, you probably wasted more of them calling one airstrike than I have the past two weeks. Doesn't that make you a killer?"

"Shut up."

"Chivalric Code, knightly conduct, it's all bull. We're killers, you and me. Where the Emperor points we go and spread the Gospel of Darwin; might is right, weakness is sin, and the wages of sin are death."

"Shut up!"

Kirkham kept talking, taking pleasure in the torment on his captor's face. "Innocent children? Innocent is just another word for weak, and the weak have one fate, to become food. The moment we invaded these kids' fates were sealed. Their existences would have been miserable and meaningless. I'm just putting them to better use…"

Unable to form an answer or even words, he let his fists do the talking, pounding the lieutenant into the deck, continuing even as his troops—alarmed by their general's loss of control—tried to pry him away. He shook them off and continued until he was finally tackled to the ground.

He kneeled in front of the tablet, erected near the forest where the massacre took place. Unlike that day in the hot summer of 2010, the weather was overcast, windy, and wet. The surface of the monument was covered with raindrops running like a thousand tears. The stone memorial listed the victims' names, birthdates, and age. The altar in front was filled with incense, candles, and bouquets, to which Darlton added his own bundle of flowers—white clovers and bright yellow birdsfoot trefoils. There were also photos of the victims; graduation ceremonies, family portraits, boys and girls dressed in traditional finery for Shichi-Go-San festivals. He reached out and touched each smiling young face—Seven years later, he still remembered the names of all 38 children he failed to save.

His eyes landed on the offerings placed by locals: Juice and snacks, sake for the adults, carefully wrapped sweets for the kids; gestures for the comfort of the living, as the dead were beyond the enjoyment of eating.

Years ago, after bureaucracy and legal maneuvering allowed most of the platoon to escape, Darlton planned his visit here after Kirkham's verdict was read, believing that he should be the bearer of the news—good or ill—to the victims. He had pulled every string, used all his social capital in pushing for the court martial, but it wasn't enough. In the end, though many found the act distasteful, Britannia's ruling elite was not ready to convict one of their own.

Darlton rose to his feet. The wind began to pick up; a storm was on its way. The leaves of the forest stirred around him, needles of rain stinging the side of his somber face.

"I'm sorry."

It was not an apology for the past, but for what was to come.

He shut the door to the rusty warehouse, one of thousands occupying miles of industrial waterfront facing Tokyo Bay. The lights blinked and swayed slightly from the ceiling from the force of the gale outside. A single shipping container sat in the middle of the warehouse. He had it shipped three weeks ago to the address in Chiba Port, a mere hour's drive to Tokyo. Opening a hatch on the outside of the container, he applied his palm to a scanner and a digital voice came to life. "Good evening, General. Password please."

"Plan B."

The screen flashed green and he heard bolts behind the double-thick doors unlock. LED lights lit the interior as he entered, revealing an arsenal: Pistols, sub machine guns, carbines, rifles, and machine guns filled the walls. Cases of heavy weapons, ammunition, and other ordnance sat on the floor. He walked past the weaponry to the end, where an upright cylindrical container displayed what appeared to be a sleek, muscular body suit, complete with cape and helmet.

Years ago, when knightmare frame development was in its infancy, Britannian Special Operations Command began looking into power suits as one way to enhance the capability of individual soldiers. Unlike conventional body armor, which provided protection to the wearer at the cost of additional weight, a power suit would increase mobility, load-bearing capacity, and battlefield awareness, but without the size and bulk of KMFs. The decision to go ahead with the project was as much in response to a perceived need as well as a political one: KMFs—designed to defeat traditional mechanized armies—would contribute little to Special Ops, whose unique mission remained the domain of elite light infantry. Impressed by and jealous of the army's technological transformation through the KMF, SOCOM sought to revolutionize its own capabilities to meet the challenges of the new century.

Darlton—then a young major—was in charge of overseeing the project, so secret it was not given a name or disclosed to other departments within the Service. The project ran into difficulties from the beginning; engineers couldn't miniaturize and integrate a stable power source. Weight was an issue, as existing technology could not provide both protection and lifting power required by the project without making the final product impractically heavy; the R&D team began calling their project the Zero suit, referring to the probability that the project would reach fruition. The team ultimately came up with a hybrid solution: Synthetic strands that mimicked human muscle, but far stronger, surrounded by nano gel that altered density and rigidity in response to the user's movement and external force, finished with strips of super light carbon plating.

Pressure on the project continued to mount as rival development of KMFs progressed rapidly. Increased specs and extra capabilities were demanded, causing redesigns and delays: The suit was to have slash-harkens. The cape had to enable gliding for short distances. A small radar was to be incorporated. Costs spiraled out of control; the helmet alone—a full-enclosure design with an oval indicating the face—cost 100 million pounds to design and build. The suit took 30 minutes for the user to wear and remove; the power supply issue was never fully solved. The first two prototypes were destroyed during testing, setting the project back by a year. In the interim, the first production KMF began to reach army units, who responded with rave reviews.

The nail in the coffin for the power suit was the successful invasion of Japan. The Glasgow's groundbreaking performance was credited with the victory and changed warfare forever. SOCOM, embarrassed by the failure of its expensive pet project, pulled the plug and ordered all records and samples destroyed. The research team was dispersed, sworn to secrecy on penalty of prolonged, painful death. The project, which never officially existed in the first place, was wiped from institutional memory. Darlton—by then a general with clout of his own—had other ideas, and wasting precious pounds from the taxpayer was not amongst them.

The suit before him was the fifth prototype, as close to a production model to emerge from over a decade's worth of research and labor. The color—from helmet to boots—was jet black, a choice not made for style points but the fact that the project was shelved before a camouflage scheme could be applied. Contrary to conventional wisdom, black was a terrible color for concealment in most situations. Fortunately for Darlton, a stormy night was the exception.

The Princess found her teacher in his bedroom. The windows and blinds were shut; the room smelled like must and alcohol. Its occupant reflected the state of the room; Darlton sat on his bed with his head bowed, face haggard and unshaven. In his left hand was a flask, in his right hand a pistol.

"You're going to kill yourself?" Cornelia held her breath when he scratched his neck with the muzzle of the gun, exhaling when she saw that the safety was on, for now. "Because of what that man said? Because of what he did?"

"He wouldn't have had the chance if we never invaded." Darlton took a deep pull from the flask.

"The Empire…"

"Screw the Empire."

"… Sakuradite is the future. Japan owned most of it and conspired with the Chinese and Europeans to deny us access. We had no choice." Cornelia continued softly but sternly. "Left alone, they would either have joined the EU or been annexed by the Federation; you know all this."

He did. "But we're not the ones who pay the price."

"That's the way it's been and always will be, unless you do something to change things."

"How?"

"Live. Live and lead by example, mentor your sons, your subordinates, the future leaders." Cornelia crossed her arms: In her years knowing him, Andreas Darlton had always been the very model of a knight and soldier, intelligent and brave, confident yet humble. She could not bear to see her role model in such a state. "You're a good man, Darlton. Your death solves nothing; alive you can teach others your ideals, and perhaps one day the military will live up to your vision of what it ought to be. You can't let someone like Kirkham define who we are, why we do what we do; you can't let him win."

A spark of emotion stirred within him. "He can't get away."

"He won't, none of them will, unless you let them." She kneeled in front of him, forcing him to lift his face and look at her.

"You have to see this through."

Claudio knocked again on the door to the hotel room. "Weird. Dad said he was going to bed early and that he'd see us in the morning."

Lelouch shifted the clear bottle of Cognac in his arms, a rare item he pilfered from Clovis' collection. He and Claudio had planned on surprising Darlton in order to cheer him up after the disappointing outcome of the trial. "Have you tried calling?"

"Yeah, not answering, left me a keycard though."

They found the door's bolt unlatched. The suite was lit but appeared empty. Claudio checked the bathroom and found no sign of use. His father's uniform hung neatly in the closet, as were his dress shoes.

"Captain, you better come see this."

Claudio walked quickly to where Lelouch was standing. On top of the desk were two pairs of ornate stars—silver pips from his uniform collar denoting the rank of major general. Left also was a velvet case holding his Victoria Cross and Bar, which he wore on important occasions and today at trial. There were two envelopes addressed to Princess Cornelia and Claudio. He tore open the latter and began to read quickly. Lelouch didn't open Cornelia's letter but had a good guess of what the gist contained. "He's going to kill Kirkham, isn't he?"

"This is insane." Claudio gripped the letter in his hands, not believing his eyes. "He's going to take out Kirkham and his entire platoon, alone. It's suicide. Even if he survives he'll be charged with treason and become a fugitive."

"Then there's no time to lose." Lelouch took off for the door.

"To do what?"

"Stop him before he succeeds."

The champagne flowed inside the luxury penthouse where the former lieutenant was serving out his sentence. Police were nowhere to be seen. Kirkham—surrounded by all the former members of his platoon jetted in for the occasion—downed his third shot of Vodka and howled. "Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty I'm free at last!"

"Congratulations, lieutenant. Always knew you'd make it out."

"Thank you. Thank you. I knew that too." Kirkham puffed as a corporal gave him a light. "Time flies, doesn't it? Last I recall Tokyo was still a pile of smelly, smoking rubble. Now we've got this beautiful new Concession."

"You ain't seen nothing yet, lieutenant." The corporal pocketed the lighter. "After things settle down a bit we'll take you to Babel Tower and throw you a real party. They got clubs, casinos, cage fights, massage, broads, and all kinds of off-the-menu specials; place makes Las Vegas look like Salt Like City."

"It's a date." Shaping his mouth into an O, Kirkham exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "The old man wants me back in school, get an MBA. But I already know business, and right now Area Eleven is the place to be."

A private scratched his head. "I don't get it. Why the heck would you want to stick around here for?"

"Think, dimwit. All those little Elevens who lost their parents? Ghettos are full of them. It'd be easier than taking candy from a baby to package and ship them to the Asian continent."

"I don't know, lieutenant. We got caught once before you know."

Kirkham dismissed the naysayer with a flick cigar ash. "Empire's too busy screwing Europe—or is it the other way around—to pay attention to smuggling around here. We're off the radar; coast's clear, no better time to cash in."

A couple of people exchanged looks. "If you say so, boss."

"I do say so. Last I checked, traders still paid triple for virgins and the waitlist for healthy young lungs was still miles long; it's our duty as good citizens of the world to provide these poor folk with what they need and get paid!"

This resulted in a standing ovation. Kirkham tossed back another shot and was beginning to feel a buzz when his phone rang. "Yeah?"

"Sir, there's a gentleman here to see you."

It was the security guard down by gatehouse. "Who is he?"

There was an unusually long pause from the other end. "George McGrath, says he served with you in Shizuoka seven years ago."

"George? Send him right up!" He hung up and turned to his friends. "Old killer McGrath. Didn't hear back from him when I was ringing all of you; guess he wanted to surprise me."

"Sergeant McGrath? I thought he died a short while ago, drunken driving or something."

"What?" Heads turned when the ding of the elevator signaled its arrival. The door slid open. Kirkham's eyes widened, his cigar fell from his lips.

A seven-foot tall man in black stepped from the elevator carrying an evil-looking belt-fed cannon. The masked stranger pulled back the action, the sound of a round chambering causing everyone to stop what they were doing.

Kirkham was suddenly sober. "Fuck."

Diethard Reid had been cooped up in his stakeout van for two days. From his informants he learned that Leonard Kirkham was holed up at 1220 Hyde Avenue, a up-scale business stay condo completely rented out by his father. He also learned that private security took the place of police, whose official excuse for their absence was to protect the privacy of the inmate by avoiding drawing attention; clearly, a stream of limos and luxury SUVs entering the house of a recently convicted criminal was not regarded as attention-drawing.

Had they known Kirkham's whereabouts, most journalists would have tried to force entry with cameras rolling, only to be stopped dead at the gates. Diethard's plan was to sit a block away, filming all who came and went, hopefully getting footage of Kirkham leaving as he pleased, which would then headline the evening news: "House Arrest a Farce: Convicted Aristocrat Lives Above the Law."

His watch alarm went off, rousing him from a two hour nap. It was nearly midnight, the gale was at its peak, the streets were abandoned. Wind and rain lashed loudly against the side of the van. Diethard checked his camera, trained on the front gate of Kirkham's residence, and saw that the guard who'd been manning the gatehouse was missing. He rewound the video on his laptop and when he saw what happened during his nap, bolted out of the van with his camera on his shoulders.

The term machine gun was a gross understatement for the 14.5mm KPV. Built by Russians as an anti-aircraft gun, its design was copied and updated by the Empire, who found its power and rate of fire useful against KMFs as well. Like most weapons of Russian origin, the KPV was ugly and heavy, weighing in at over 160 pounds with 300 rounds of ammunition, but in Darlton's hands—assisted by the power suit—its feel was comfortably similar to that of a light machine gun.

He went to work, blowing the nearest cluster of goons to smithereens. It was every general's ideal situation: No innocents in the vicinity and weapons free. Every man present had sold his soul to the devil seven years ago and now Darlton was here to collect. Kirkham's men were still former soldiers however and quickly dove for cover. Through the sensors in his helmet, Darlton was able to see framed silhouettes of everyone in the lounge even through smoke and physical barriers.

"Lesson One: Don't mistake concealment for cover."

He turned his gun on an unlucky guest hiding behind a pillar and watched his rounds chew through two feet of reinforced concrete and turn his target into paste. The deafening roar of his weapon was a gentle hum in his ears, thanks to the helmet selectively filtering out unhealthy and otherwise distracting background noise, like screaming. He positioned himself at a point between the elevator and the emergency stairwell with clear lanes of fire to both exits. He cut down a pair who made a run for the stairs before swinging his gun back to vaporize someone dumb enough to try to get on the elevator. He tore through his helpless foes, cowering behind walls, furniture, and each other. The lounge turned to Swiss cheese, the walls and floors covered in human debris.

The lead storm came to an abrupt end. Even firing bursts he'd run through 300 rounds in less than a minute. From somewhere in the vast, smoke-filled, newly ventilated room, he heard Kirkham scream shrilly.

"Shoot back, you bums!"

How a man under house arrest manages to bring so many guns into his house was a mystery to Darlton, who took cover as the remaining half of Kirkham's platoon returned fire. He was covered in a shower of concrete and plaster bits as the pillar he stood behind turned into a chewed up apple core. He dropped the KPV on the ground with a thud and reached to his sides for a pair of general purpose machineguns. The heft and recoil of the crew-served weapons—a relatively modest 30 pounds loaded—usually required the user to lie prone on the ground with a bipod, but the strength and stability provided by the suit permitted Darlton to dual wield without detriment to his aim. When his enemies paused to reload, he stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Lesson Two: In a shootout, the winner is the man with one more bullet left."

The lead storm resumed. Several former squad mates had a brain wave to suppress and flank their lone opponent; the plan backfired. They discovered too late that their bullets were bouncing off their target. To the man inside the suit the rounds felt like bugs hitting the car windshield. If the manual was to be trusted, the suit was immune up to 12.7mm, so he'd be fine as long as none of Kirkham's platoon carried a rocket launcher. He watched one goon pick up a dead buddy and scoot towards the emergency exit.

"Lesson Three: When using a human shield, grab a fat guy."

"Good morning, it is just past midnight and we are at the scene in front of 1220 Hyde Avenue, where Leonard Kirkham is being kept under house arrest. The audience may have difficult hearing over this weather, but there appears to have been a break in and a shootout is taking place as we speak inside the building. Two bodies have already been found outside behind the gatehouse. A warning to parents and young viewers, the following images may become disturbing…"

From the television in the dashboard, Lelouch followed the shaky camera's view, raised and zoomed in on the penthouse of the condo, from where intermittent flashes could be seen. Claudio sat anxiously behind the wheel. Diethard yelled when someone leapt out of a shattered window in a desperate bid to escape whatever was inside; a censor mosaic covered the jumper moments before he hit the ground. Lelouch winced. "Looks like Darlton is holding his own."

"That's good to hear."

400 rounds of 7.62mm later the lounge was clear. Darlton waded through the smoke and dust, searching the room for anyone he missed when he spotted the trapdoor in the floor behind the bar.

"Die, rebel scum!"

The man who'd been playing possum stared in disbelief when the man clad in black armor caught his knife and then snapped the carbon steel blade clean off. Stumbling back, he shrieked when the same hand grabbed him by the face and lifted him off the ground. The large hand's fingers dug into his skull like a vise. "Where's Kirkham?"

"D… Downstairs! Basement parking lot!"

Darlton increased pressure to his grip until he heard a crunch. Dropping the limp form, he studied the smallish trap door and the shot up elevator. Then he looked at the window.

Kirkham and the corporal piled into his Lamborghini; the lieutenant had the good sense of never firing a round during the shootout, knowing that bullets attracted bullets in return. "Who the heck was that?"

"Don't know, sent by the Elevens maybe. I'm not hanging around to find out."

The super car sped out from its parking space, sending sparks flying as the vehicle screeched from the lot and out of the winding ramp onto ground level, where it suddenly jerked to a halt. "Why'd you stop? Get Going!"

"The car's stuck! It's… oh shit."

Kirkham saw his friend gaping at the rearview mirror and looked back from his seat. Twenty yards behind them—crouching amidst a cascade of broken glass, asphalt cratered from his landing—was the man in black, his cape whipping in the storm like a nightmare, holding back their escape with what appeared to be slash harkens fired from his arms. Kirkham screamed at his driver. "Floor it, you bastard, floor it!"

Darlton dug in his heels and began retracting the cables, feet crunching into the pavement as the desperate Lamborghini swerved from side to side, burning its tires against the slippery pavement. A bold red message popped up in the corner of his vision, and a voice from the suit's operating system warned him that the suit's power supply was draining rapidly under the strain of the tug of war.

The general gathered his strength and pulled with a mighty roar, tearing off the supercar's rear fender, axle and wheels. The disemboweled Lamborghini spun and crashed to a halt against the perimeter wall, against which was plastered the driver, who had gone straight through the windshield. Darlton walked up to the smoking wreckage, tore off the passenger side door and threw an unconscious Kirkham over his shoulders.

"Wait! Who are you? Why are you doing this? Are you trying to make a political statement?"

Diethard was sprinting towards the scene when the masked man turned around. The anchorman swallowed, holding his ground at what he thought was a polite distance.

Darlton checked the time: start to finish his assault lasted five minutes six seconds. The appearance of an innocent witness was unexpected, but better a reporter than the police, who he was reluctant to hurt and were probably on their way. His body had been moving on auto, focused on the directive of kill and capture—the lull in violence and Diethard's question prompted him to think.

He had no political aim. His motive was not purely revenge; logically, all revenge was pointless because two wrongs do not make a right. There was also no one to avenge; not the victims, whose wrongful deaths had been dismissed by the only system which could have granted them justice, but failed to punish the guilty. Outside the law his acts could have no meaning, achieve no good.

"Zero."

With sirens approaching in the distance, he fired his slash harken at the top of the adjacent building and swung away with his prize.

"Holy moley." Tamaki gawked at the small TV in the hideout. "Did you see that guy? He tore up that Ferrari like it was made of toilet paper!"

Ougi scratched his head. "Zero? What kind of answer is that? What does he mean?"

"Maybe that's his name." Tamaki popped open a can of beer. "Here's a toast to my hero Zero; may he find creative ways to make that bastard suffer."

The first thing Kirkham felt was a skull-splitting headache. The rest of his body felt like a massive sore. Gradually the fog lifted from his senses and he found himself in the midst of a surreal scene: He was sitting on a barrel at the end of a pier that stretched deep into Tokyo Bay as the storm churned the ocean surrounding him. His hands were cuffed behind him; he was soaked and freezing. When he tried to stand he fell on his face.

"Rise and shine."

The menacing voice, deep and digitally altered, would have caused him to jump had he been able to. He looked down and saw that his feet were encased in a large block of cement. "What is this?"

"Rapid setting concrete, used to patch damaged airfields. It's denser than water, so if I were to push you over…" Kirkham shrieked when the masked man dragged and tossed him close to the edge of the pier. "You're fish food."

"Please, don't do this! I have Money, my father is a wealthy man, he'll pay anything you want, double whatever you were promised! Triple!"

"Duke Morley's money saved you from the courts, but they can't save you from me."

He was grabbed by the neck and stood. "Who are you? You're not an Eleven. What did I ever do to you?"

The masked man's tone became even more dangerous. "At least try and remember your crimes before you die."

"What crimes? Those Elevens? That wasn't me!" He yelled at his captor through the howling wind and crashing waves. "Haven't you seen the news? I'm innocent. I was just there!"

"So was I." He reached back behind his head, and a mechanical sliding noise was heard as the helmet came off, revealing the man underneath.

"You! You son of a... You can't do this. You're a bloody general! I'm a civilian, there are rules. I… I have rights, damn it!"

"So did those people you killed. So did those kids you locked in a container and dumped in the ocean." Teeth clenching at the memory, Darlton grabbed him by the jaw and squeezed. "Remember what you said? The weak are food for the strong. Guess what, you're also part of the food chain, and from where I'm standing you're nothing more than a piece of meat."

"Well said."

Darlton spun around; Lelouch and Claudio walked towards where he and Kirkham were standing. He narrowed his eyes. "How did you find me?"

Claudio, wrapped in a heavy rain-coat, held onto a side rail. "Educated guess: There are roadblocks everywhere, you couldn't have gotten far without a car."

"You took him alive, which meant you had something special planned." Lelouch stood with his hands in his pocket, his buttoned-down black trench coat ripping in the wind as the surging waves threatened to sweep all of them into the bay. "Since his most notorious crime was at sea, we took a chance and headed for the nearest body of water, Tokyo Bay. This is the only sector relatively abandoned."

"I see; I should've expected no less from you two." He smiled proudly and seized Kirkham by the shoulder, pushing him to the edge. "But my mind is made. You read my letters. Everything I've done today goes against the laws I swore to uphold. That's why I resigned, so my actions today do not reflect upon my unit or the service. Everything ends here, now."

"Stop talking like I'm not here!" Kirkham squirmed, trying to wriggle out of Darlton's steely grip. "This guy is a criminal! Shoot him and get me out…"

"Shut up or I'll end you myself." Claudio turned to his father. "Dad, think about it. Your life, your career, throw away everything you've achieved for this guy? It's not worth it!"

"I know. But he needs to pay. This is the only way."

"What about your duties, your pledge of fealty? You swore an oath to General Cornelia, have you forgotten?"

"… Her Highness will understand." For the first time that night, Darlton's voice and body language betrayed weariness. "I've taught you and your brothers all I know. It's up to you now, Claudio; never forget the meaning of chivalry."

Things were at a stalemate; Lelouch, who had remained silent for the past few minutes, walked to the end of the pier until he was standing an arm's length away from the two. "Your intentions are honorable and admirable, Darlton, but in times like these—in a world like ours—good intentions must rise above romantic sentiment in order to prevail."

"What do you mean?"

"To survive the strong must feed upon the weak. This is nature's law and cannot change. Therefore, those who seek to protect the weak have but one course: prey upon the predators and visit violence and fear upon those who do evil, as you have done tonight." An ocean surge crashed over the railings and a stretch of pier disappeared momentarily. "You have a decision: Right now, there are three people in the world who know who the man behind the mask was tonight."

Kirkham craned his neck at the prince. "Three? Don't you mean four?"

"No. Three."

Lelouch planted his foot in the lieutenant's chest, sneered at the stupid look on his face, and pushed. Knocked off balance, Kirkham screamed as he fell back and was immediately swallowed by the angry ocean.

The prince turned to face his friend and mentor, who looked up from the spot where Kirkham vanished. "I won't stop you if you still want to turn yourself in, only consider this: the world will not miss scum like him, but all of us—your troops, Claudio, my sister and myself—will suffer immeasurably deprived of your courage and conscience. The choice is yours, Zero."

The following day, residents of the Concession rose to one of the most beautiful mornings in recent memory. Trees and flowers swayed in light breeze and sunlight, the air was sweet to breathe and the sky was clear and blue, as if last night's storm had dispelled the miasma and tension hanging over Tokyo for the past week.

Enjoying their view of the garden from their table at the Strand Hotel were a pair of generals, one young and one old. At 8:05 AM the Coffee Room was relatively empty, allowing the two to breakfast in quiet comfort. They partook liberally of the hotel's excellent Blue Mountain coffee which, in addition to hints of little sleep on their faces, led bystanders to infer that the two had a late night. Little did they know.

Lelouch toyed with the white chess piece beneath his chin, unable to recall the vaguely familiar setup in front of him. "… Bishop to G5."

The older man took a swig from his cup, which in his hands resembled an espresso cup. "Knight to A4."

The prince narrowed his bleary eyes at the board; recognizing his mistake, he let his head fall back. "Very unsportsmanlike of you, taking advantage of my condition to reenact the Byrne-Fischer match."

"Only this time the wily veteran trumps the prodigy." Darlton chuckled as Lelouch stretched his arms in a yawn. "Besides, I thought you'd be accustomed to three hours of sleep per day after Africa."

"Apparently not." The prodigy blew his nose; running around in inclement weather had caught him a cold, leaving him groggy and sniffling.

"Lelouch!" The few heads present turned at the Governor's sudden appearance. Clovis marched hastily across the dining hall to his brother's table. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you! I wouldn't have found you if your maid hadn't told me you were here."

"Not so loud please." Lelouch motioned his brother to sit down and ordered some soothing Earl Gray. "To answer your question: You couldn't reach me because I left my cell phone at home. Darlton and I were up late, catching up, having a drink... speaking of which, if you happen to be missing a bottle of Louis XIV de Remy Martin, it's upstairs in the generals' room. The bottle, that is."

"Thanks for the drink, Governor; really warmed the cockles of this old soldier's heart."

"I uh… you're welcome?" Like a customer at a fixed shell game, Clovis looked perplexedly between the two men before sliding down in his chair. "Well, while you two were enjoying yourselves, the world's been turned upside down and I've been forced to sort out the mess."

"What happened?"

"Someone attacked the house where Leonard Kirkham was being held, now he's missing. Here," Clovis placed a folder on the table. "Big shoot out, dozens dead; seems there was a party when the attack took place."

Darlton flipped through the report, looking very interested. "Wasn't he under house arrest? Where were the police?"

"He wore a wristband; we would have known if he tried to leave." Face suddenly warm, Clovis crossed his arms in a huff. "Not that police presence would've made a difference with the firepower the kidnappers had: The carnage was so awful, crime scene investigators could only guess a body count. They won't have an exact number until they piece everyone back together at the lab; bloody massacre."

Lelouch laughed inwardly at Clovis' ironic choice of words. "Massacre implies a one-sided affair. It says here that Kirkham and his guests—all veterans from his platoon—fought back, more than 1000 rounds fired by both sides."

"Just a figure of speech." Clovis ordered breakfast and helped himself to some of Lelouch's coffee. "One of the assailants was caught on video by a journalist—that Diethard Reid again, always where the trouble is—and left his name before he carried off Kirkham."

"Zero?" Darlton glanced up from the report. "Doesn't tell us much, does it?"

"Hardly; we have no idea who this fellow is. Could be terrorist, hired professional, foreign operative, anyone." Glancing over his shoulders, Clovis leaned in with his audience and spoke in a whisper. "Just between us, I suspect he was sent by Pendragon. See now, you don't hear it discussed often, but there are quite a few blue bloods who consider Kirkham a bad apple and wish he'd do us all a service by disappearing, or knocking himself off."

"You don't say?" Clovis nodded confidently. Lelouch spooned a cube of sugar into his cup. "Well I certainly don't envy the job ahead of you, but at least you have a name and face..."

"Mask, a real plain one at that."

"Right, a name and a mask." Lelouch smiled at his brother's knit brows. "Mind if I give some advice?"

"I'm all ears."

"Do nothing."

Clovis choked on his coffee. "Pardon me?"

"Look, if this Zero is terrorist then Kirkham's already dead. But if retribution was the goal why not just blow him away with everyone else? Alternatively, if this was motivated by money—everyone knows Duke Morley will pony up for his prodigal son—then you'll hear from the kidnapper soon enough. And if this whole thing was done under the auspices of Pendragon as you sagely suggested, then of course it'd be best to distance yourself from the grisly business."

Darlton nodded. "Furinkazan."

"I didn't know you spoke Japanese, General."

"It's originally from Sun Tzu's Art of War: In action be swift and unstoppable, like wind and wild fire, but when the situation calls for inaction—like the present—be steadfast and immovable, like the forest and the mountain."

Clovis tapped his finger as his mind went over the famous metaphor, finally turning to his younger sibling. "So what you're saying is I should become the forest."

"Yes, become the forest." Lelouch saw that his brother remained doubtful but was beginning to waver. "Certainly, even someone like Kirkham has his sympathizers, but these must be few and dwindling. Go through the gestures, enough to placate but no more. There's simply no profit in it."

"I suppose you're right, though I'm sure to catch earfuls from Duke Morley and his clique." Clovis sighed deeply, perking up a little when his blueberry pancakes arrived. "On the bright side, at least I'll have fewer disgruntled Elevens to deal with."

Lelouch exchanged a smile with Darlton and raised his cup. "That's the spirit."

To be Continued.

Author's Notes: Not what you were expecting? Though it may not be apparent at the moment, Zero's appearance will have an effect on the rest of the story, even if Zero himself is not central to the plot. Hopefully, this chapter offers a glimpse of how even an evil empire Britannia is gray, which makes sense when one considers how varied the background and upbringing of its people are. In case anyone was wondering: Ferrari was not a typo, Tamaki just can't tell them apart.

On an aside, I was flattered to get a request from a reader to translate Lelouch of Britannia into French… so if anyone has Japanese-English translation experience, I'd love to be able to submit the story to Sunrise for consideration.