Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account
Chapter 54 – Rubicon, I
Lady Soris Armonia was waiting outside OZ's embassy in L1-C-102, leaning against the stonework around the main gate while listening to the gurgling stone fountain behind her. A few seconds later, it was joined by the clicking of high-heel shoes against the pavement.
She half-expected Eva Cebotari, but a quick glance over her shoulder immediately proved her wrong. Wearing a beige suit and a dark blouse was Helena Arroway, sunglasses hiding her eyes and her hair done in a civilian style. She crossed over to the entrance before pausing, looking at Soris and lowering her sunglasses.
"Colonel Armonia."
"Helena Arroway," the younger woman purred back, grinning. "What brings you to our part of town?"
"I had some unfinished business with OZ's administration in Outer Space."
"I take that to mean you resigned your commission?" Soris asked, cocking her head to the right but still smiling.
"You could say that. Could you really call it 'resigning' if it's something so worthless?" she countered, stepping passed the gate, which swiftly shut behind her.
"And what will you do now that you're a free woman?"
Arroway thought about it. "Maybe write a book. OZ isn't censoring the media yet, it might be fun to publish a tell-all." She lowered her sunglasses again and gave Soris a more menacing smile. "You should be wary, Colonel Armonia. I hear there's dissension brewing in the Space Forces. As someone still in a position of authority, you have certain responsibilities," she told her before departing down the sidewalk, heals clicking against the concrete.
Soris had no response and instead held her arms up, a disarming smile on her face.
II
In as presentable a line as they could manage, Flight Lieutenant Walker, Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri, and finally Pilot Officer Bishop, stood at ceremony, white and maroon capes draped over their left shoulders. General Philippe Albert Marie, better known as His Majesty Philippe III, presented them, and eight other officers, with the Order of the Colonial Star, Third Class, one of the military orders created to replace the defunct Alliance Colonial Cross. The King of the Belgians was a rather plain, unassuming but friendly-looking man in his early fifties, slightly paunchy in his atomic age-style army uniform and royal sash, but military-looking enough, and a member of the board of governors of the Romefeller Foundation.
Just as they had under the Alliance to dozens of European, Asian and African monarchs, the Mobile Suit Troops saluted him as a superior-ranking officer rather than a king, allowing him to pin a medal to the left side of their chests, just past their capes, and then shook his hand. It was just routine enough that it was a challenge to mess up.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Dac said, managing not to stammer thanks to all the rehearsing he'd done in the restroom right before the ceremony.
They remained very still until the completion of the ceremony, upon which the royal procession paused for a few photographs before returning to the stands, where they'd chat among themselves before leaving the division headquarters at Leopoldsburg.
"So, what's better, the Colonial Star or the Red Banner?" Kanna asked when they were finally allowed to relax their postures.
Walker raised an eyebrow, before getting the picture. The Earth Forces had reissued him a replacement Order of the Red Banner, after he reported the first's loss when Maya Barton kidnapped him. He chuckled and held the medal hanging from his collar with his right hand. "Well, this one is a fake."
"I always wondered why we only get to wear our actual medals at parade functions," Dac said, a little too loudly. "Now I see why."
"What a vote of confidence," Walker muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Don't take it so hard sir," Mazuri interjected. "Had Dac been in your place, he'd be dead."
"Oh yeah, totally."
"And I'm the one considering a career change," Walker mumbled under his breath.
"Excuse me, sir?" Dac asked. By the time he looked back, Walker was already halfway across the courtyard with a leather attaché case under his hand. He was trying to make his way towards the large, well-dressed men who formed a neat perimeter over the end of the stands, adjacent to His Majesty's party. They were a small portion of the OZ Earth Army's Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment—one of the two elite bodyguard units to Treize Khushrenada. The other unit, the Fusiliers-Chasseurs Regiment, had remained in Luxembourg.
Rather predictably in his mind, there was a familiar face towards the bottom of the stands. Master Aircrew Serrati spotted Walker well before Walker saw him, and was waiting for him when another officer approached from the stands.
Squadron Commander Ogasawara, in full in-formation uniform with a presentation katana hanging from her belt, grabbed the large bodyguard by the arm, pulling at it to get his attention. "I need to speak with the colonel."
Serrati gave her a rather distasteful look before relenting. "Go ahead, ma'am." He turned to Walker. "Do you need something, Flight Lieutenant?"
Walker gave him a less distasteful but still unfriendly look. "I'll speak to His Excellency when he's less busy," he mumbled before turning back to the courtyard. His three pilots were waiting for him, holding plastic cups of ice water, when he returned.
"Did you know First Recon was here?" Dac asked.
"No, just her I'd say," Mazuri pointed out. Ogasawara was standing next to Treize in the stands, surrounded by imposing-looking bodyguards that managed to make her look small and coquettish, visibly but inaudibly engaged in conversation. "I wonder what's so damn important?"
"I really don't want to know."
Mazuri nodded in agreement as the two men drank their water. Finishing his, Dac spoke again.
"Ever met the Queen of Belgium?"
"I think she's technically Queen of the Belgians, and no, I haven't. Let's go," he declared, a brief glimmer of childlike wonder in his eyes.
The two men strolled off, leaving Kanna shaking her head with a hand on her hip. "You hear from Colonel North?" she asked quietly.
"No, I haven't seen him since last night."
"Maybe he just had a bad hangover," she guessed wishfully.
"Well, he did say he would meet with his contacts in the United Nations Colonial Affairs Ministry," Walker muttered.
"What I don't like was why he was so adamant we not come with him."
"It's not that big a deal. His resignation already went through, he wasn't going to be at this event anyway," he muttered, trying not to look upset.
Kanna gave another sigh. "What's with the briefcase?"
"Oh, this?" He looked at the leather attaché case he was holding. "Leftover work from Outer Space. You know, sometimes I think we're too hard on Dac and Ajay," he pointed out.
Kanna cocked her head. "Maybe. It's not like they're supposed to be warriors or somethin'."
Walker nodded, holding his briefcase behind his back. He wasn't certain if that was sarcasm. "You can't really blame them. Even here on Earth, we tend to become insulated from the civilian world."
Kanna begrudgingly nodded. "It's still a really lame concert tour for those guys," she mumbled.
"Have you ever met the Queen of Belgium?" Walker asked, grinning abruptly.
Kanna laughed sharply. "I've met the sitting monarchs of both Japan and Korea, how's that? 'Course, that's just because I was a pilot in the Eighteenth Airborne and Colonel Chuang was decorated multiple times." She cocked her head. "I met the Empress Regent when I was a kid."
"Empress Regent?"
"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have heard of her—she'd already left before you were posted to the J.A.P., right?" Kanna put a finger to her head, as if conjuring up long-disused academic knowledge. "Empress Yukiko, who rule for about fourteen years after the Heijō Emperor died of a stroke, until her only son came of age. She visited Okinawa three times during her reign, I think, and I was in Montessori when she visited my school on her last trip as regent."
She laughed and rubbed the back of her head. "I guess 'met' isn't the right word, huh? I was a four-year old."
Walker smiled. "Must have been quite a treat to meet a sitting empress."
"I know, right?" she answered, giving him a hard smack on the back that almost spilled his water. "Man, I had a great childhood. We sang the anthem of the Okinawan Republic, performed a traditional play in costume, she even took questions," she beamed.
"What was she like?"
Kanna thought about it. "She was…is a very charming woman, more than her son. Apparently she was super-genki in her teens, a real prankster. Used to drive her schoolmates insane. You could still see some of that, decades later." She held either elbow over her head and sighed. "Way more interesting than her children ever are. But I guess that wasn't very statesmanlike."
She grinned again. "Whatever. I don't care what the Diet thought, I thought she was a great queen. She was funny and she had a good sense of humor. What else should a monarch have in this day and age?"
Walker laughed, causing Kanna to raise an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," he assured her.
"Oh, I get it. Very funny. Before you ask, Ryūkyū's last king ruled back in the Nineteenth Century, and the Americans abolished Japanese peerages after the Pacific War. And after the republic was declared, I'm pretty sure that killed any chance for a resurrected monarchy. Besides, can you imagine me as queen?" she asked, rolling her eyes.
"It's a challenge, I suppose."
She smiled and looked down at Walker sipping his water. "What about you, Tai-i?"
"Meet a monarch? No one, never. In the Dominion of Canada, our monarchs are the British King and Queen. You may find this surprising, but Ontario's a lot farther from England than Okinawa is from Honshu."
Kanna nodded, making sense of it. "Still, you're only nineteen. Do well enough in this war, get promoted to lieutenant colonel, baron of the Foundation—you could marry one of those British princesses," she said, grinning slyly and elbowing him in the back. "Prince Oswald, Duke of Ontario," she giggled.
Walker smirked. "I'd hope, at least, they could give me a better name than 'Oswald'. Something like 'James' or 'Charles'."
"Has a Canadian ever married into the royal family?"
"I have no idea," he confessed before they both laughed.
III
It was well into the evening before Walker could obtain a 4WD military car and make the hundred-minute drive over highway A2, bypassing Brussels, back to Chièvres AFB. There, he found the base was substantially more populated than it had been previously, now home to a brigade of Internal Army troops out of Ghent. Treize Khushrenada's headquarters were a large office building by a pair of mobile suit-sized hangars, indicated by the presence of His Excellency's aircraft nearby. He parked as close as he could get—right by a very obvious security checkpoint with a pair of white-helmeted military policemen.
"'Evening," he announced, as casually as he could manage, squinting in the darkness. He couldn't tell in the inadequate lighting, but both men wore uniforms that looked more bluish in hue than green.
The sergeant on duty saluted, his comrade holding a torch. "Goedenavond, Flight Lieutenant. May I help you?"
"I'm here on business to see His Excellency," he said, before showing his military passport, the most obvious form of identification he had on him. "Walker, Space Mobile Suit Troops."
The sergeant dutifully took the passport, pulled a nearby handset from the guard office and spoke into it. "Gate heir. Een 'Flight Lieutenant Walker', hier om Zijne Excellentie te zien." A short pause. "Ja meneer."
He hung up and returned the booklet to Walker. "I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot let you enter. Should I have them call His Excellency?"
"Why not?" he asked, ignoring the counteroffer.
"I don't know sir," he replied, a little too quickly.
Walker stared at the older, larger noncommissioned officer, at the closed gate, then back at the men at the checkpoint before climbing back into his car. He was about to drive for the highway again when, out of frustration, he slammed on the breaks barely twenty meters down road of the gate and just sat there on the curb, resisting the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel.
After watching Walker obstruct traffic for a few minutes, the two men, instead of demanding Walker move like he expected, instead moved to let someone out through the gate. An armored limousine mounting small flags he didn't recognize passed through, turned, and then passed him directly without stopping.
"Flight Lieutenant Walker, sir!" the same sergeant called out. Walker came on foot this time.
"Well?"
He sighed. "I've been ordered to do two things, sir," he said, in very deliberate English with a Dutch accent. "First, do you want me to have that attaché case delivered to His Excellency, Colonel Khushrenada?"
Walker stared at him, then at the leather briefcase. "How do you know that…"
"Sir! Excuse me, sir, I may not be a flying officer, but I'm not stupid, sir," he interjected loudly.
He sighed and handed him the briefcase. "Yes, thank you," he said. "And I'm sorry Sergeant," he added.
The sergeant gave no indication he'd heard the apology. "Second, sir, something has been delivered to you."
"Excuse me?"
As the two had spoken, Walker hadn't seen that the other soldier on duty had crossed through the gate and come back pushing something large. He squinted for a few seconds in the dark before realizing what it is.
"My Armstrong! How did…where did this…?"
"So this is your motorfiets sir?" the sergeant asked as the soldier brought it to Walker and deployed the kickstand.
"Yes, but the last place I saw this…never mind. Who ordered you to give me this?"
The sergeant looked genuinely uncertain. "My commander, sir, but I imagine the order came from someone higher up," he explained, his meaning plainly obvious.
Walker stared at the four-stroke motorcycle—it looked exactly as he remembered it, in its dull green paintjob with a few harmless nicks and scrapes over the chassis, the leather seat stretched and a little dirty. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, he immediately pulled his goggles down from his cap, climbing onto it.
Cold as a stone, he thought, touching the engine block. Both guards watched with some interest as he turned open the fuel line all the way, gave the starter four charging kicks, opened the throttle to full and then kick started it in earnest. The engine gave a high-pitched but efficient-sounding garble and whine before coming to power, and he revved it twice before looking up at them. The second guard patted his comrade on the side before gesturing, "Hoe te starten."
"We've never seen a Before Colony motorcycle design, sir," the sergeant explained.
In spite of the prior disappointment, Walker was grinning at them as he gave the engine one last rev. "Light, magnesium engines," he explained. "They can be hard to start, the electric ones are easier."
He throttled up and turned around before adding, "Make sure the colonel gets that that case!"
"Ja meneer!"
"Sir, what should we do with your car?" the guard asked.
"Well it's not my car…I don't know, return it to the divisional headquarters at Leopoldsburg?" Walker shouted before he accelerated away down the road, leaving the sergeant shaking his head.
It was another two hours riding on dark, near-empty streets and highways through the Belgian countryside back to Leopoldsburg, but he was still grinning to himself when he arrived.
IV
After a rather short ceremony where Duke Dermail Catalonia personally presented medals certain distinguished pilots of the First Recon Battalion, compared to the general awarding of decorations to all participants from the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division, practically all pilots were invited to a Foundation-hosted reception that would a closed-door address to be given by His Grace.
The last reward he presented went to the de facto commander of battalion, a tall, dusky woman with perfect posture and an impenetrable, almost severe expression on her face. He placed her as being Southeast Asian—only because he hadn't expected such a woman to be in charge of the unit, but another Caucasian like Soris Armonia. He did leave the Duke with a much better impression than Lady Soris typically did.
He shook the gloved hand of the statuesquely humorless officer after presenting her with a medal, the Order of the Crown, one the highest decorations that could be presented by the Foundation itself rather than an independent nation. Afterwards, he was glad for the opportunity—despite her entirely unenthusiastic expression, there was something calming about her presence. Not her beauty, of which she had in spades in his opinion, but her clear stoicism.
When Flight Officer Tal found him, the difference was apparent. "Your Grace," he said, rushing over to the isolated corner where he was waiting.
"Ah, Talik. You found it?"
"Of course, Your Grace, though I'm a little confused about…" he began, presenting him with the plan leather attaché case under his arm. "Never mind, Your Grace. Is there anything else, sir?"
"Just one last thing. There'll be orders coming in from Luxembourg for the troops leaving the city, I'd like you to read them personally here."
Tal looked completely confused. "I…see, Your Grace. Of course." His face seemed to brighten. "If you mind me saying so, Your Grace, you seem much more at peace than you were yesterday."
"I should," he mumbled in agreement before dismissing Tal, who immediately. The Duke took one last look around the—either for one last look for the severe pilot or at the Space Forces officers as a whole—before quietly leaving himself.
"Oh, I love this. Too early to drink anything hard or strike up conversations with rich heiresses," Mazuri muttered to Bishop, who almost spat out his chardonnay. Both men stood at the opposite corner of the ballroom, near the refreshment tables, about four meters from a bored-looking camera crew recording the event.
"Don't do that, do you have any idea of much this costs?" he asked before finishing the remainder in his glass. "You're as bad as Walker."
"Where is he, anyway? I thought he'd be cowering in the corner."
"Didn't they teach you in school to pay attention?" he demanded. Ajay gave him a rather skeptical look. "That chesty pilot from First Recon, Emi, already left in a hurry. He's only afraid of her."
"Why was that again?" he asked, swishing his own glass.
"What did I just say?" Dac barked at him.
"Either of you losers seen Lieutenant Colonel North?" Kaneshiro Kanna asked quickly, circling around the nearby long table, her own hands empty.
The two quieted and exchanged looks. "No, not at all."
"You should look for Chernenko, they always seemed close," Mazuri pointed out. "Speaking of which, what did Clarkson talk to you about?" he asked, cocking his head.
"What do you mean?"
"Back on the shuttle-ride down to Earth. You had a long conversation with F/L Clarkson, I remember it."
"Why do you care?"
"I'm curious," he insisted.
Kanna forced a rigid grin. "About how bigotry works. Like against the Colonials. Especially when they look just like we do."
"Christ, that's some heavy stuff," Mazuri asked, returning to his glass. "Forget I asked."
"No problem, Ajay," she told him, smacking him on the back hard enough to spill some of his drink. He departed, exchanging places with Walker as he hurried strolled back in, whose hands were empty.
"Welcome back," Kanna told him as his eyes darted around.
"He's not here. North, I mean."
"Yeah, neither is Chernenko," Kanna said, the anxiety apparent in her voice.
"Well, it's...probably nothing. It's the military, people come and go all the time," he whispered.
"Sure. Especially when a whole colony gets wiped out," Kanna muttered aloud before reaching behind her back and grabbing whatever food was within arm's reach.
Walker shushed her quickly. "It's easy to speak your mind when you're a two meters of solid muscle. I couldn't talk my way past two checkpoint guards last night."
"It didn't go great?"
"It could have gone better," he admitted. "But it wasn't a total disaster."
Kanna was about to give a rejoinder when Walker preempted her. "And yes, I do consider that an improvement, all things considered.
"Well, things about to get worse," Kanna told him.
"I'm sorry?" he asked, turning in the direction Kanna gestured with her head. Towards the front of the ballroom, by a half-dozen officers in royal blue rather than hunter green uniforms, two elderly Foundation officials were trying to keep pace with an overexcited young woman in an expensive black gown and long platinum blond hair. Her face lit up when she spotted Kanna, who gave an awkward, uncomfortable smile in response.
"Flight Officer Kaneshiro, there you are! I was told you'd be here, how wonderful it is to see you again," she cooed loudly, trotting up to them in her high heels.
"Who the heck is this?" Walker whispered.
"Dorothy Catalonia," she muttered back.
"As in Duke Dermail Catalonia?" he asked. Kanna nodded and forced a smile on her face.
"Ms. Kaneshiro, it really is quite wonderful to see you again," Dorothy excitedly chirped after batting her eyelashes for a few seconds, before reaching out and taking Kanna's large, empty right hand and shaking it repeatedly. Walker stared at the two after failing to appear more discreet.
"Ms. Catalonia, this is my commanding officer, Flight Lieutenant Walker," Kanna said finally, taking her hand back and gesturing at him. "Sir, Dorothy Catalonia."
"It's a pleasure, Ms. Catalonia," Walker said, forcing a smile and offering his hand. She took it and squeezed it through the white cotton gloves, indigo eyes twinkling from excitement.
"It's an honor to meet you, Flight Lieutenant Walker. Your valor during Operation 'Citadel' was quite marvelous!" she told him, sounding very prim though enthusiastic.
Walker stared at Dorothy, visibly confused. "Thank you, Ms. Catalonia."
"Please call me 'Dorothy'," she insisted.
"Of course…Dorothy."
Towards the front of the ballroom, the band began to play a slow waltz which momentarily caught her attention, and Walker took what he thought was a discreet step away from Dorothy and Kanna, which only caused her to take a larger step towards him, her black-gloved hands rubbing together. "In particular, I found the story of your escape from Alliance Headquarters to rejoin the battle absolutely enthralling."
Walker forced a smile. "Enthralling, you say?"
Kanna gave one of her nervous, forced laughs.
"Oh yes, Flight Lieutenant. You must know there've been so few prisoners taken in this war that to be one does make you quite exceptional," she beamed, eyes twinkling again.
"It's not really…that much of a story," he began.
Abruptly, Dorothy's tone changed and the twinkling seemed stop. "Oh my, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to dredge up any painful or traumatic memories…" she began apologetically.
Walker pulled at his collar with a finger and turned his head. "No, it's quite all right. On the contrary, I was actually treated fairly well, considering the circumstances. It's just not that interesting of a story."
"Oh, I'm sure that isn't the case, Flight Lieutenant…"
"Dorothy, would you care to dance?" Kanna asked abruptly, taking her by one of her small, delicate-looking gloved hands and bowing.
Dorothy looked surprised only momentarily as Kanna led her towards the center of the ballroom. Walker remained where he stood, rubbing the side of his head tiredly, and was still doing so when Mazuri approached him, arms behind his back.
"So that's Dorothy Catalonia."
Walker nodded. "Granddaughter of the Duke of Liechtenstein, daughter of the founder of the Special Mobile Suit Troops," he added.
"That might be the most difficult surname to live up to in all of Earth-Sphere. I don't envy her," he said, a hand on his hip. "Poor girl must be, what, fourteen? Fifteen? And the Foundation already has her gallivanting from warzone to warzone as one of their envoys?"
Walker nodded in agreement.
"Then again, she would be Treize Khushrenada's cousin, wouldn't she?" he speculated.
Walker looked at Mazuri, apparently surprised.
"Chilias Catalonia was Treize Khushrenada's uncle, right? Ergo, Dorothy would be his cousin." Mazuri gave him an skeptical look. "You must have known that."
Walker didn't respond as he took another drink from his glass. "Speaking of Dermail Catalonia, they better plan to address those Gundam attacks in Outer Space."
"So you think a Gundam's the cause of that missing colony?" Walker asked.
"Don't you?" Mazuri asked, watching Walker's face steadily grow grimmer. "Wherever the Gundams go, they leave death and destruction in their wake. It's not such an outlandish theory to surmise that they might visit destruction on the very colonies they created them in the first place."
"So the chickens have come home to roost," he said with a sad sigh.
"They would have to, eventually, wouldn't they?" Walker looked at him and he cleared his throat. "Don't misunderstand, I wasn't hoping it would happen. Just confident that it would."
The two watched as Dorothy and Kanna continued their slow, even mechanical waltz in time to the music, Kanna doing her best to lead despite finding Dorothy was the much more skilled dancer.
"So Oswald Walker is your commanding officer?"
"Something interest you?" she managed to ask, narrowly avoiding missing a step.
"Oh, I've just heard some very interesting things about him, even before his posting in Outer Space. Like the debate he had in Bremen with Ms. Relena Darlian."
Kanna didn't bother hiding the surprise in her face. "Who?"
"The daughter of the Alliance Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian, who was killed at New Edwards Air Base," she told her matter-of-factly. Kanna still looked confused, a fact she clearly enjoyed as the two spun in time with the music.
As the waltz finally came to its conclusion, Walker was attempting to discreetly check the news aggregator on his mobile—Dorothy was able to catch him off guard with her uncomfortably friendly smile.
"I don't think Ms. Kaneshiro is particularly enjoying herself, Flight Lieutenant. May I ask you to take her place?" she asked in a prim, saccharine voice.
Mazuri quickly looked at Walker and then Dorothy. "As a matter of fact, Dorothy, if you…"
"I'd be happy to take over for her," Walker announced with the same primness, though sounding rather rigid by comparison and causing Mazuri to stare at him in wide-eyed surprised for a few more seconds. He gave an obliging bow and took Dorothy's extended left hand.
"Thank you so much, Flight Lieutenant."
"What was that about?" Mazuri asked Kanna as she passed Walker and Dorothy. She gave him a defeated look and shrugged.
Another Viennese waltz began, with Walker managing to awkwardly keep up with Dorothy's graceful, efficient movements while not bumping into their neighbors. Like Kanna, he could not perform any advanced or impressive maneuvers, but Dorothy seemed to make up for it. She had no trouble talking as she did.
"As I've already mentioned, I've heard many interesting things about you, Flight Lieutenant."
"Is that so?" Walker asked, taking care to avoid walking over Dorothy's feet with his boots.
"Very much so," she said as they spun around. "And I believe you must have some questions for me, don't you?"
Walker almost tripped, but managed to recover quite gracefully from it, partially disguising his error. "What makes you think that, Dorothy?"
"Oh, Flight Lieutenant Walker, I think you're too smart not to be curious," she giggled mischievously.
What I'm curious about are those eyebrows. Walker bit down on his lip as they spun around again in the opposite direction.
"If you work up the nerve I'll be happy to answer them, Flight Lieutenant," she sang softly.
"I'll keep that in mind, miss."
The waltz's tempo began to slow down gradually and it became easier for him to keep up with Dorothy. "You're quite the accomplished dancer, Ms. Catalonia," he said, trying to compliment her.
She visibly held back a laugh. "It's one of the things they teach you in finishing school."
"I see." He really didn't, having only a vague notion of what finishing school was.
Dorothy seemed to sense that. "I don't blame you for not being impressed. It's quite useless compared to what they teach at the academy."
Her sincerity wasn't immediately apparent. "I suppose that might be the case."
This time Dorothy giggled. "It's fine, Flight Lieutenant, you don't need to humor me. I'm actually quite envious of you and your comrades. When you were my age, you were only on your career path in the Alliance military."
Walker neglected to hide his frown. "Is that so?"
"Of course, I don't think I'm suited to be a soldier," she confessed with another giggle. "Though I suppose that just makes me all the more envious of you. Surely in the years you've spent as a soldier, you've experienced things far more meaningful than drinking champagne to a Viennese waltz?"
He was about to methodically correct her on the distinction between an enlisted soldier and a commissioned officer when he felt Dorothy's offhanded remark almost forcefully jogging his memory. For a few seconds, he was standing in the cafeteria in the headquarters of the Republican Guard's First Central Division in L1-D-120. Someone had dragged him up to the dancefloor and begun throwing him about. He bounced against someone behind him, almost falling down, and he felt himself being held close and laughing hysterically. The mental image became clearer: it was Tsujimoto Nabiki who'd dragged him out onto the dancefloor, and spun him around so hard she'd lost hold of him. It was her he'd pulled himself back onto his feet with. And half of that laughter was coming from him. Pop music was blaring over the loudspeakers.
I must have forgotten it in my inebriated state, he thought, a little amused.
"Reminiscing about past valor, Flight Lieutenant?" Dorothy asked.
His expression had given him away; he was back in the ballroom in Brussels, listening to live 'entertainment' in tuxedos and dresses play waltz after waltz. "Just that I'm probably not the warrior you think I am, Ms. Catalonia."
To his surprise, Dorothy looked at him and pouted—just as affluent teenage girl might be expected to—and opened her mouth to object when the music tersely stopped. In front of the band, a junior officer Walker would have sworn seeing before took the microphone and tapped it twice.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse the interruption. I have orders from all personnel from the Seventh Division, issued by the General Staff in Diekirch," he said, actually holding an unsealed military envelope in front of him. "All pilots, noncommissioned officers and aerospace personnel are to return to Leopoldsburg and remain on standby, pending further orders."
The officer remained on stage, and the music didn't resume. A tense, uncomfortable silence followed. There was a palpable feeling of annoyance in the room while it lasted.
"Goddamn it, Talik, is this gonna' be a surprise drill?" another flight lieutenant asked behind Walker.
"Sir, I don't know," he said apologetically.
While Dorothy kept pouting, Walker excused himself quickly and found his three wingmen by the refreshments, emptying and refilling their glasses in quick succession. "Well, you heard the man."
"I bet it is another drill," Dac muttered between gulps.
Mazuri paused between gulps to look at his wristwatch. "Wasn't there supposed to be a Foundation summit in thirty?"
"If orders mean missing that, fine by me," Kanna announced indignantly. "Come on boys."
"What kind of drill are we supposed to do without mobile suits, anyway?" Dac asked, following Kanna towards the exit.
"Not like you remember how to operate one," Mazuri fired back rapidly, causing Dac to give him a not-so-friendly punch in the side. "Maybe we'll practice changing into those new blue uniforms," he added with a laugh, holding himself.
One hand under his cape, Walker watched them depart before looking back at the ballroom stage. Just in front of it, Dorothy Catalonia was standing in her black dress, still clearly annoyed at what had just happened. He gave a shrug before turning and running after them.
V
"Captain Fielding, can you please step forward."
Wearing an unadorned Alliance Army officer's uniform, Alexander Fielding rose from the chair he'd been patiently waiting on and approached the thick glass wall of the holding cell. The spare uniform was slightly too big from him, and devoid of the correct insignia, but right now that was the least of his concerns.
"Please hold still."
Fielding was able to hold a violent sneeze until after the camera behind the glass wall had flashed at him brightly. Almost immediately after arriving in continental Europe, he'd found he had seasonal allergies that weren't entirely prevented by remaining indoors.
"Thank you, Captain," the bored voice of a Terrestrial officer from the Military Commissariat announced after he sneezed. He sat back down, stretched his legs, tried to relax. It'd been years since he'd been on Earth.
In a different room, but within earshot, Carmen Soletta endured the same process, dressed in much the same ill-fitting army field uniform, but assisted by two young officer cadets from the Commissariat pulling security duty. After she proved unresponsive to the voice's request, they stood her up by the glass wall, waited for the bright flash, then sat her back down.
"Is this your first time on Earth, Captain?"
When Soletta didn't respond, the security officer to her right gave a leg of the metal chair a sharp kick, not enough to knock it, and her, over but enough to encourage a response. "Yes," she muttered. It was difficult to gauge the truth of the answer, though not her extreme disinterest.
"Do you have any family relations in Europe, Captain?"
In his room, Fielding shook his head. "No, they're all in North America, except for an aunt living in New Zealand." As he answered, it occurred to him they were gauging if he'd be allowed to contact his family before being visited by the International Red Cross.
"Is there anyone we can put you in contact with?"
Soletta delayed her response until it appeared her chair was going to be kicked again. "No one," she answered truthfully—her friends and family all lived in Outer Space, spread across the First Lagrange Point.
"Any immediate health considerations?"
"I could use some over-the-counter…sneezing medicine," Fielding gradually explained, his nose twitching.
"Do you mean antihistamines?"
"Yes, those. I haven't had allergies since I left Earth," he explained before laughing softly. The voice behind the glass didn't laugh, so he stopped.
"Do you recall where you are, Captain?"
She blinked twice. "Evere, Belgium."
"Very good. At least you're cognizant," the voice replied before terminating with a click. The door immediately opened and another officer in-uniform stepped through and gestured at the men at her sides.
"Bring her to visitor room three," she ordered while the two security officers nodded.
"Yes ma'am."
They half-guided, half-dragged her to her feet and through the door. At the other end of the well-lit corridor, another door opened and a familiar face stepped through, escorted by only one noncommissioned officer.
"Soletta? Soletta!" Fielding immediately shouted before getting a glare from the young man escorting him. He ignored the cadet. "Soletta, it's me, Fielding!" he repeated before his escort took him by the arm.
To his disappointment, Soletta didn't acknowledge him as he was dragged away. The three Military Commissariat officers waited until they were in a separate corridor before the leader spoke. "You have a visitor. So try and stay cognizant, and be on your best behavior while you're at it. Unless you want to spend the next two years as our guest," she said before smiling.
As usual, she didn't respond, so the officer continued. "Who is it, you ask? I think you can guess."
They led her to a visitor's room, unfurnished except for a table with a chair at both ends and doors on opposing walls. A pair of NCOs stood guard over the opposite door, and one opened it just as Soletta sat down at the table.
"Squadron Commander, ma'am," the junior officer chirped, clicking her heels together.
Still in her complete service uniform, in-formation, and wearing the medal given to her by the Duke of Liechtenstein, Ogasawara Emi took the remaining chair at the table and sat, pulling her white leather cape out of the way.
"You again," Soletta mumbled after another minute of silence.
"I think that's an improvement, Squadron Commander, ma'am," the Commissariat officer added, patting Soletta on the shoulder unnecessarily.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Would you…?" she began.
"Yes ma'am!" she shouted a little too enthusiastically, before gesturing at the four men to follow her out of the room, leaving Ogasawara and Soletta to sit alone. As soon as the door was closed, Ogasawara pulled back one of her bleached white gloves and glanced at her wristwatch.
"The summit should have already begun. That only gives me a few minutes to talk to you."
"Then why bother?" Soletta countered in quiet hostility.
"She was right, you are more cognizant," she jeered. Her smile promptly vanished. "Do you know where you are?"
Soletta groaned. "Evere. What is it with you Terrestrials and stupid geography questions?"
"A municipality of Brussels City, the 'capital' of the Romefeller Foundation. Any of this make any sense?" she asked quickly.
Soletta took her time answering. "Romefeller, it's one of those NGOs isn't it? They promoted the founding of the Alliance, didn't they?"
"Among other things, yes. I'm sure you've heard the rumors about the Alliance military, OZ, and the Foundation."
Soletta sat there until Ogasawara leaned further across the table, making it obvious she wanted an answer. She relented again. "I know that Field Marshal Noventa was an honorary board member of the Romefeller Foundation, and I know that the Foundation was big in bankrolling the original militarization of mobile suits," she muttered.
"And OZ?"
She actually had to think about that one. There were rumors, so blatantly clichéd that saying them out loud seemed to render them the products of conspiracy theorists and military science novelists. "I heard that back when OZ was the Specials, it was made up of the Foundation's Youth movement."
"The Cadets, yes. It's one of those secrets kept in plain sight. Those are the only kinds of secrets that people like me know," she warned.
Soletta said nothing again.
"Yeah, I'm sure your friend Fielding would get a good laugh if he knew," she smirked. "You know I'm new to this sort of thing. I had a whole plane laid out, a half-dozen interviews to build a rapport between the two of us, and put you to good use. Better use than fighting for the tin-pot government of some doomed Colonial republic."
Emi barely had time to evade the stamped-sheet aluminum table when Soletta drove both her feet into it from below and flipped it into the air. It spun once before clattering onto the linoleum floor with a loud clang the echoed through the small room. On her feet now, Emi grinned at her roguishly at her. "See what I mean?"
Breathing loudly, Soletta said nothing, and she continued. "You're a good pilot, 'Bella'. Even a great one, considering your bad luck. I know my share of pilots who're the same—you might be the best of them, if you're in a mobile suit, instead of some stupid Alliance wunderwaffe. You held your own against me in a Leo, after all."
Still no response. Emi dragged her chair closer to Soletta, so that barely a half-meter separated the two. "At least for a while. But thanks to this stupid spat between the royals, we're running out of time. Right now, everything could be coming apart just down the street in central Brussels. I've been in OZ since I was I was sixteen, in the M.S. Troops Recon Battalion for almost all of that. I've gathered a lot of cards since then, which I've been saving. Now I get to use them."
The prisoner gave Emi a skeptical, even patronizing look, which didn't upset her. Instead, she leaned even closer, bringing her face right up to Soletta's, muscles visibly tense under her uniform. "So you can keep being useless, or you can actually listen for me a change, Bella."
VI
As Ogasawara surmised, the Foundation's summit was already underway behind closed doors, except for a five-minute-long briefing given by a Foundation spokesperson for ESPAN-2 and other affiliates just outside for the media and public.
She made no effort to disguise checking her jeweled wristwatch before looking back up at the press corp. "We're almost at that time. I'll take a few questions, you, from the back."
"Thank you, ma'am. Is Count Khushrenada's briefing to the Foundation's governing board intended to signal the end of the campaign against the former Alliance in Outer Space?"
"I can't say anything concrete other than there will be discussion on that particular subject, but any formal declaration about that military campaign will have to be done before the United Nations."
"But there are U.N.O. representatives present at this meeting," the journalist pressed.
"Yes, of course."
Multiple hands came up and someone spoke prematurely. "But if the war in Outer Space is over, does the Foundation have anything to say about the rumored appearance of a new Gundam, or reports of fighting on Luna in the vicinity of Marius Crater?" she asked quickly.
"Those are purely military matters, which should be directed at the military leadership, not the Foundation," the spokesperson replied quickly.
"But fighting hasn't actually stopped, has it?" the journalist repeated.
"I won't repeat myself. You, over there?"
"Can you comment on the absence of information coming from Ambassador Une's office in the First Lagrange Point?" another journalist asked, lowering his arm.
"No, I can't."
"But with the possible destruction of Colony E-063, don't you…"
"If you're asking questions about Outer Space, I suggest you direct those to my colleague, Colonel Andrews in Luxembourg," she shot back. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I have to end this briefing now.'
"Wait, ma'am, can you comment on…?"
"I most certainly cannot," she said as she left.
"Ma'am, has this summit been convened at the request of the Supreme Military Council?"
"What about Luna?"
"Has Treize Khushrenada been called to answer for the rumored destruction of E-063?"
The questions continued even after a pair of enlisted men on guard-of-honor duty escorted the spokesperson from the podium and down the hall. Behind the tall doors to the main chambers, Duke Dermail had already begun his address to the Romefeller Foundation's board of governors, standing in his trademark militaristic dress in the style of the Napoleonic Wars. The wall of the stage behind him was almost completely obscured by a massive Foundation banner that covered much of the stage behind him: two white unicorns flanking either side of a shield, part Celtic cross, part red band, and the crown of a Tyrian purple bell visible behind it, pointing up to the raise, cathedral-like ceiling.
"It cannot be forgotten, progress waits for no-one—not the Alliance and not the Winner Corporation. And not for ourselves. With the financial power of the Romefeller Foundation behind it, a revolution in the technological and industrial capabilities of the colonies will now be possible. A case in point, the system for mass production of 'mobile dolls' is almost fully established. Per our responsibilities as the natural leadership, we will position these automated troops in the ongoing conflict zones of each country. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, we will demonstrate to the world our power and our resolve to bring peace and order to Earth."
Despite the rhetoric, his face was missing its usual triumphant enthusiasm. "Is it not time for us to once more usher in an era of tradition and civility, so that the world might be properly governed?"
On either side of the chamber, the members of the board gave enthusiastic applause, loud enough to obscure the opening of the doors at the end of the chamber. Through them, a military officer in full in-formation uniform strode towards His Grace's podium, snapping his heels together when he stopped.
The speaker stared at the late arrival, hiding a small amount of momentary surprise. "Welcome, my dear Treize. We continue to rely on your leadership of OZ," the Duke told him, without his usual frivolity.
There was moment of palpable silence, made more tolerable by the fact that the only two men in the room aware of what was about to transpire were at least face-to-face. Opening his eyes, Treize Khushrenada answered.
"Your Grace, I'm sorry but I cannot support the Romefeller Foundation in the path its taking."
The silence immediately turned tense, with many board members audibly gasping in shock. After a few long seconds, Dermail simply replied, "What?"
"Tradition is a history given to us by our ancestors. It's the history of compassion, the product of people's genuine sincerity. I do think that there sometimes is a beauty in the struggle of war. But at the same time I'd like to express my regret over those lost souls and appeal to you to recognize how precious life is. I believe what mankind needs is not absolute victory, but rather a certain demeanor in struggle itself, an attitude towards fighting. I fear the era of these soulless weapons we call 'mobile dolls', the era the Foundation has created, may be shameful to the people of the future.
"I used to think that the ideals of the Colonial pacifist movement were rather pitiable complaints born out of an ignorance of tradition and reality. But from those conditions, new warriors who surpass my own ideals were born."
"He means the Gundam pilots," Shalua Yuy whispered from the back row where she sat in attendance. Her aide-de-camp, the massive man sitting next to her, nodded in agreement.
"But tradition becomes muddled alongside their pure sentiments. From a historical perspective, soldiers who lost what they fought to protect or were further betrayed by those they served were defeated, considered 'losers'. But they do not recognize themselves as such. Not only that, but they would retain a strong will to continue fighting. The emotions of those I find most beautiful are always sorrowful, honored traditions disappear in the cry of the weak. The victors in war will eventually decline themselves and are vanquished—it is those 'losers' who cultivate a new leader."
"Treize, what are you getting at?" Dermail asked, his voice tense.
He closed his eyes. "I will be joining the ranks of the 'losers'."
"So you're asking that the Foundation governing board remove you as commander-in-chief of OZ?" Dermail bellowed sharply.
When Treize opened his eyes again, he saw Duke Dermail pointing something glimmering in the dim light directly at him—a ceremonial muzzeloader pistol, given to the recipient of a military decoration in the same manner as the presentation swords worn by OZ officers or the daggers given to the most accomplished graduates of Eurasian and European military academies. He hadn't expected to see such a thing, much less pointed at him, at the hands of his granduncle.
"Yes."
Dermail sighed deeply, immediately setting the pistol down onto the podium in front of him. "No one here wishes to see further bloodshed. Besides, we must take your distinguished service into account. On the authority of the Supreme Military Council, I hereby confine you the Foundation headquarters in Luxembourg. The terms of your resignation will be brought before them for consideration."
Treize bowed his head quickly before turning, cape swirling after him, to leave the chamber, Dermail watching him depart. He either didn't notice, or didn't care, when Shalua Yuy stood in her shimmering light-blue gown and left herself, followed by her suit-wearing companion.
Treize was smiling. With an ornate, forgotten weapon like that, I'd feel no emotion even if I could shoot an enemy through the heart. It's not that a pure soul has no direction, it's that their mind is free.
VII
Kanna found Walker standing in front of his room in the barracks at Leopoldsburg, goggles still pulled down over his eyes, tearing free the stamped, sealed envelope stuck to his door.
"You got them too?" she asked and he nodded back, tearing through the security tape and taking out the contents—a single page document, meticulously wrapped and secured.
"Here it is: orders from the General Staff in Diekirch to Space Forces troops in Leopoldsburg, Chièvres, or anywhere else in Belgium. We're to remain on standby until further orders, no alert condition given."
Walker folded the sheet in his hand and looked at Kanna. "If it sounds like a drill, and looks like a drill…"
"Then it's a drill?" Kanna asked.
Walker gave her an unassuming smile.
"Still enjoying having your bike back?" she asked jokingly.
"More than my face can register," he replied.
Putting a hand on her hip, she stared out the window at the sun setting over farm fields and outcroppings of trees. "I wish we knew what happened to E-063. I bet that closed meeting between the Foundation's old men was actually about that."
"I might have been. I just…" Walker began.
"Walker! I mean, sir! There's someone here to see you!" a voice shouted down the hallway. Its unmistakable owner came running up the stairs, Dac almost tripping over his boots, followed by a similarly anxious looking Mazuri following behind him. The later reached them first, pushing his glasses up from the tip of his nose and panting.
"What the hell guys?" Kanna asked, a little disappointed.
"It's not that we're not in bad shape. Those stairs are…not ergonomically designed," Mazuri excused himself, panting for breath.
"What does that even mean?" Kanna asked, hands apart, uniform tunic draped over her arm.
"There's two people here for you, sir!" Dac shouted again, as both men rose to their feet.
Walker was immediately worried—if Dac was calling him "sir" he thought he should be. Climbing up the stairs after them, slowly and deliberately, was a large man, easily Kanna's size if lacking her curves. The man wore a well-fitted navy blue suit and was very cleanly-kept. He had a goatee that when combined with his shaved head was a rather rare fashion, at least on Earth, and was of either Polynesian or South Asian descent, or a combination of the two.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Lieutenant Walker," he said in a fairly deep, though not surprisingly so, voice. He was stern but at least appeared polite, but with his eyes hidden behind rimless sunglasses it was hard to consider it sincere.
"Flight Lieutenant Walker," Walker muttered, taking a step towards him, and he did the same. The large muscular man unsurprisingly towered over him, but Walker was more intimidated by just how large he was horizontally as well.
Kanna stood nearby, very still, muscles visibly tightened in her large arms, jaw clenched. Walker saw her out of the corner of his eye and endeavored to stand up straight and at least hide whatever worry he might've been betraying up to that point. The large man regarded him for a moment longer before saying the last thing he expected. "May I see some ID, sir?"
Walker blinked and pulled his goggles up over his cap before taking his military passport/identification booklet out from one of his pockets, flipping it open and handing it to the large man, who took it slowly and compared the image inside to the young man standing in front of him. He quickly handed it back.
"Thank you, Flight Lieutenant."
"I told you that wasn't necessary, Hale," a voice behind him chided quickly. A woman who was rather easy-on-the-eyes strolled down the hallway, heels clicking with each step against the hardwood floor. Three of the pilots were immediately occupied by her choice of attire, a costly-looking backless gown underneath a long laboratory coat she wore like a cloak over her shoulders. Kanna looked back at Walker briefly only to see for once he didn't share their level of surprise as he pulled on the hem of his uniform tailcoat and adjusted his collar. Now he even seemed calm, collected.
"Comrades, may I present Ms. Shalua Yuy, Romefeller's delegate from the Yuy Foundation," he said finally, after a very deliberate choice of words.
"I'm sorry for Hale intruding on you like this but he insisted," she said, giving the large man a quietly judgmental look with her one open eye. Hale immediately straightened his tie in a guilty fashion.
"And these are your subordinates in the Space Forces," Yuy asked, looking at the distinctive extraterrestrial military insignia visible on their caps and unit patches just below their shoulders.
Walker took a step to the side of Hale, towards her. "I'm very surprised to see you here, of all places, Ms. Yuy," he replied rather convincingly. Even before he could add anything, Mazuri elbowed Dac warningly in the ribs, causing him to cough through closed lips.
"I was here on business, as I'm sure you know," she replied with a discernible hint of accusation. Her right arm shifted underneath her coat before appearing in an elbow-length glove and she opened her palm. "I also wanted to return something of yours."
Kanna squinted—in the palm of her hand was small, circular object barely larger than one of the diamond-shaped rank pips on her epaulets. It took a little longer to realize it was a covert listening device, a tiny transmitter paired with an even tinnier microphone, all integrated onto a small microchip board with an adhesive backing. She remembered the incident on Luna, during the combat exercises, and a look of guilt immediately appeared on her face. By contrast, Dac and Mazuri simply looked shocked when Walker reached out and took the 'bug' from her, managing to appear rather faultless.
"I'm sorry, where are my manners," he said, pocketing the bug. "My first seat, Kaneshiro Kanna. And those two with the gaping expressions are Mazuri and Bishop respectively."
"It's nice to meet both of you," she said, keeping her right hand extended and turning to them.
"Likewise."
"Yes ma'am," Dac muttered, awkwardly shaking her hand. Not missing a beat she stepped towards Kanna, who reluctant took her hand.
"Yuy-sama," Kanna began, sounding very worried.
"Just Miss Yuy, please. As hard as it is to believe, I was voted into my position."
Having recovered just enough to look indignant, Mazuri very overtly rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "Well, Miss Yuy. I'm afraid if you came here hoping to find someone privy to Colonel Treize Khushrenada's agenda, you've come to the wrong place," he announced rather dramatically, gesturing at his comrades for effect.
Yuy's one open eye grew very harsh. "Is that true?" When none of them answered, she regarded each of them, one by one, stopping at Walker, who averted his own eyes quickly. "If there's somewhere we could speak more privately than the barracks hall, I'd appreciate it."
Just a few minutes later the four of them were sitting in the officer's dining room on the same floor. Hale, despite Yuy's request, remained by the door. Walker, peculiarly immune to the discomfort and suspicion that had afflicted his subordinates, carefully set a tray with a large metal teapot and a number of military-issue aluminum tea cups and began filling them from a matching teapot.
The three stared at him, similarly wide-eyed, as Yuy reached out with both arms from underneath her improvised cloak, taking the cup by its plastic heat-treated handle and carefully blowing on it. They watched as she took a small sip and looked up at Walker before crossing her legs.
"It's better than I expected."
"That must be whatever's left of the Scot in me," Walker surmised, removing his cap as he sat down.
"So you're Scottish?" Dac suddenly burst out, all eyes on him. He blushed and shrank back into his chair. "Sorry for trying to lighten the…never mind…"
Looking fairly at ease, she turned back to Walker. "I came here as a favor to a friend of mine," she said, reaching back into her coat. This time she produced a neatly-folded piece of paper, military stationary by the looks of it, unfolded it and held it at Walker.
"This is yours, isn't it?" she said, indicating the signature underneath the short paragraph of typed text. Just below it, there were a few handwritten lines in dark blue ink.
Walker had recognized the document even before she unfolded and took it from her. "Yes it is."
Yuy glanced at the other three. "If you'd rather it remain private, I'm…"
"My dear friend Walker," he interrupted her, reading aloud. "I'd like to give you my thanks in person for your continued reports even with your time in captivity, but circumstances prevent me from doing so. That aside, they are no less valuable than yourself to my mission. It's for that reason I must decline your request for a transfer out of the Mobile Suit Troops to another branch of service on Earth. Of course, I can't and won't stop you from filing the same request to your divisional commander, who has full authority to grant it, but I ask you, as a comrade, to refrain from doing so in the immediate future. The skills and abilities of young officers like yourself, particularly those with experience in OZ's design bureaus, will be more precious than any number of divisions or battalions to the coming struggles."
He paused for a moment. "I still hope to thank you again in person, gratefully yours, T. Khushrenada." When he finished, Walker remained absolutely still, the letter in both gloved hands.
Yuy, considerably more relaxed, leaned back in her seat. "Something interesting to tell your children one day," she offered. The three other pilots stared at Walker with mixed levels of disbelief.
Some of the forced coolness and calm had left Walker's face when he moved again, turning his head slowly towards her. "I can't imagine you just came here to deliver a letter, Ms. Yuy," he said, his voice more than a little strained.
"I know how you feel about him, but you do understand what Treize was telling you, don't you?" She gave a sigh and shook her head, her orange-red ponytail shifting back and forth. "In any case, I think I need to explain it to your subordinates at the very least."
She turned directly to them, with one open eye and another closed. "Please pay attention, I'll only have time to say this once."
VIII
"Go ahead and ask, Mr. Talik."
In the middle limousine of the protected motorcade traveling down the Rue Royale, Flight Officer Tal looked into the rearview mirror at the seat behind him were Duke Dermail sat. He'd been under the impression that His Grace was resting or even asleep.
Tal wasn't sure where to begin, so he did it for him. "That old presentation pistol you retrieved—it was awarded to me when I graduated from the Alliance Academy at Sandhurst, many, many years ago, when I was around your age. At some point they stopped giving pistols and went back to presentations daggers."
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Those early days of the Alliance, I thought I might have a military career, but in the end I didn't."
Tal nodded slightly. "Your Grace, why did you…?"
"The theatrics with Treize?" he asked with a smirk. He then sounded almost sad as he answered. "You know I always envied Cinquante Khushrenada, Treize's own grandfather. That he could count among his own such an upstanding young man, his progeny." He chuckled. "Of course, I shouldn't have. Angelina Khushrenada's madness must have torn that poor boy apart from the inside-out. But after my son Chilias—Colonel General Chilias Catalonia to you—left us, I was even more envious. That such an exceptional example of the human race could emerge from that lunacy."
After a moment's pause, Tal wondered if this was something he really shouldn't know, and Dermail continued. "I doted on him, in my own way. Maybe not the same way I spoil my granddaughter Dorothy, but I did nonetheless. Which isn't to say that what Treize has he didn't earn, but he couldn't help but give a certain impression."
He gave tired sigh. "He's crossed a point now from which there's no turning back. However this ends, I want people to know, the right people, that family or not I'll do whatever it takes to stop him, and he'd do the same to me. When video of that summit leaks out, and it will, there'll be no spinning this as some misguided attempt by 'Old Man Catalonia' to cover for the indiscretions of Humbelt's boys," he said dryly.
Tal wasn't completely sure of just what His Grace was saying, and Duke Dermail seemed to realize as much from his silence. He smiled under his mustache. "You know, ever since I took you from Tubarov, I've wondered if I'd regret doing so," he told him. "And I haven't yet," he immediately added.
Tal seemed a little relieved at least. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"You're a good lad, don't think I don't realize that. While the rest of us royalty are busy psychologically scarring our children or sticking knives in each other's backs, its good lads like yourself that are the machinery beneath us that makes all of it possible." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment, really."
The flight officer cleared his throat. "What will you do now, sir?"
"Those orders from Luxembourg have delayed all those veterans from the extraterrestrial campaign for now. It'll be measured in minutes, but it's some reprieve nonetheless. That machinery is in motion and it cannot be stopped." He closed his eyes again. "But there are top people already moving into place. I will get some much-needed sleep. First thing tomorrow, I'll speak with Dorothy about it."
"Understood, Your Grace." Following the limousine in front of him, Tal gently turned the wheel to make a right at the intersection.
A large lorry that technically had the right-of-way stopped well before it could pose any danger to the first car in the motorcade, much less the second one—it barely registered with Tal. Had he been paying closer attention to it, he would have seen that it was a canvas-covered troop truck loaded with the uniformed men of the Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment, traveling the opposite direction of the motorcade, out of the city.
Author's Notes:
Another chapter posted in a timely manner, hurray! And with that, we've finished with episode 25, and thus, we begin the long-awaited arc covering the split between Romefeller Foundation loyalists and Treizists that I've been hinting at for ages. I considered calling this chapter 'Treize vs Dermail', just as the episode is called 'Quatre vs Heero', but thought that was a little corny. 'Rubicon' will have to work instead (hardly subtle though, is it?).
I'm actually fairly happy with how this chapter came out. I probably could have put it out a day or more earlier, but between Diablo III and Armored Warfare's second early access, I barely do any writing in the evening (plus, I actually bothered to proofread this chapter before I posted it at least once). For once, we have a fairly confident, cool Walker (except when Emi's around, for aforementioned reasons). Dermail Catalonia also makes a big appearance. I've long since decided it's much more enjoyable to write Dermail as a rational, even sympathetic actor who behaves reasonably in his own mind. I thought about skipping that rather ridiculous scene with the gun between him and Treize entirely, but I'm happy with the solution to pick. The thing about Dermail, and the Romefeller Foundation as a whole, is that for some sort of Illuminati-like secret society of the superwealthy elite, it's still 300 years removed from ourselves. 300 years ago, even the most liberal or egalitarian minds of their age, with a few exceptions, could not be considered by basic, nonradical standards as being either liberal or egalitarian. Their racism, bigotry and misogyny would be painfully obvious. Supposing a general trend as I have, even the most bourgeois or aristocratic minds would likely possess notions we'd consider radical or downright leftist. Less politically, we've already established that Dermail trusts and is even fond of his military adjutant, Abraham Tal, who, in turn, appreciates having such a powerful, influential man treat him with some respect (much better than most of our bosses treat us, I'd wager!). Of course, we know what happens to Dermail in the end...does that fate await Tal? You'll have to keep reading to find out!
Finally, I'm gradually pushing forward with my plans for Soletta (and Emi) as we go. Without spoiling anything, Soletta is not going to be doing the most obvious plot-related activity that you could think of, her use is further down the line. As always, please post your reviews.
