When that man had entered his world the first time, everything was turned upside down. So it didn't come as a surprise to First Lieutenant Zechs Merquise that when the Lt. General Diego O'Neguil appeared again in his life, the world had wrenched sickeningly, narrowing on this one man. Everything driven at once from his mind.
O'Neguil. The man who killed his father and destroyed everything he had ever had. Everything, lost in one blood-soaked evening...
He want to kill the man the very instance he laid eyes on him, every muscle tensed and held by sheer effort in its place, not to move, not to do anything rash. His father's voice, quoting from Kant: treat all beings as a end in themselves and never as a means... act always according to the most reasonable course. As Sun-tzu had said: a gentleman's revenge might take ten years. But another part of him protested: ten years, it was more than ten years...
Zechs stood in the cold rain, trying to bring his mind, his body back into line. Back into function. You were ten feet away from the man who killed your father and you didn't even draw your gun. You could have killed him. His hands tightened into fists, fingernails biting into his palm.
Another proverb: You and your father's murder cannot coexist under one sky. Ten feet away. Merely ten feet away. He closed his eyes, feeling the cold rain pour down on him. Would that be your tears, mother?
Later, oblivious to the cold, he sat in front of the laptop, plugged into the general information network. The files he wanted access to were privileged military information, and he did not have the permission levels or the passwords to do so. But he knew that he would eventually get the information he wanted.
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Noin had volunteered to be the councilor for girls in the Academy, but since there were only something like ten girls registered, she usually did not have to do anything. Well, today, fifteen or so girls had shown up in her office, all here on "official" problems, but really just asking about last night. When she finally excused herself to teach, they had reluctantly allowed her to go, promising to come back later. And then, class was impossible. There wasn't even one single question on a sinc function, or even about the midterm, which she probably should write up sometime soon. (Alex and Muller were sulking about something, and wouldn't co-operate either.) After class there came an invitation out for tea by the secretaries, who wanted some "juicy" details on the two men, and why had Lt. Zechs walked out so suddenly on her (their current theory was that she had mentioned the General, and you know men and their pride...). So when she saw the newspapers (and the tabloids sold next to time), she groaned. The press apparently had labeled her the protege of the General (and maybe something else?), and the tabloids had it that she had a wild, kinky relationship with both men, menage a trois style. It was very late at night before she returned to her quarters, entirely left alone with her own thoughts, which she desperately need to sort out.
After unplugging the telephone, she flopped out on her bed, exhausted. General, Zechs, why did you have to do this to me? But Noin was confused. What was wrong with Zechs? Why did he walk out like that? What are my feelings towards the lieutenant? Just another schoolgirl crush?
It was unbearable rude of him (but so unlike him, mentioned the little voice) to walk out of the dance, leaving her alone, stranded on the floor. She was angry with him for that. She was angry at herself for being angry at him for such a small thing. Furthermore, it just felt like another crush, nothing more. Physical attraction. (Who wouldn't be?) Then why was she upset that he had a girlfriend, that it wasn't her? Jealousy? Was it as simple as that?
"Argh," Noin said to the world in general. "I'm becoming a mess. A typical high school girl. You're saaaaad and paaathetic, Lucrezia Noin, becoming obsessed over a boy." She made a face and began changing out of her uniform. You have a final to write, and no more time to worry about such things as your friend First Lieutenant Zechs Merquise, as handsome as he might be.
So she logged on her computer, started up Emacs and began typing up the exam. Then it died. And restarted again.
What? What's going on?
"Why did the Myr06 frame crash?" she muttered to herself. The system was based on the CHAN kernel; it shouldn't crash much. Could it be someone trying to hack in? Trying to use the abnormal conditions at start up to take advantage of any bugs? Intrigued, she started investigating into network activity.
But after three hours of careful investigation, she had to admit, it wasn't likely. She found no trace of any abnormal activity in the system, before or after the crash. And it wasn't like a crash was totally impossible. (It had crashed sometime last year). Activating the watch program on her terminal, Noin watched as millions of packet whizzed by. She asked the computer to summarize the direction of data flow. A window popped up, nicely displaying the computers the system was currently connected to. Of course, there were the usual sites were connected: the base in North Africa, in Shanghai, in Siberia, in Luxemborg... and then there were the usual government sites, and a thousand and one random people surfing the net from within Lake Victoria net. Some remote connections from computer workers that had gone back home. All normal stuff. You're just a suspicious person, Noin, she told herself, yawning. She started to write some more of the exam. Eventually, she fell asleep.
Meanwhile, the net activity program ran in the background, still carefully monitoring the traffic across the main bridge computer of the Lake Victoria network.
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He remembered, when he was younger, of gazing up at the hallways in the palace, where countless ancestors bore down on him. Here and there, he recognized, with a strange sense of familiarity, here was his nose, there his eyes, and there agin his hair. The men had usually been painted or photographed with weapons of war-- you could learn the evolution of weapon from the portraits. In the older paintings, the kings, dukes, earls carried first the broadsword, and then epee or sabre of latter periods. And then came the guns, which replaced the sword as the primary method of killing men. The weight of the gazes bore heavy on him even then, daring him to be improper, to disgrace the family honour.
He recalled the places in the hall where armour and weaponery hung, even though they had been taken down by royal decree before he was three.It is immoral and shameful to hang such instruments of death in our house, his father had said. Although we cannot change the past we are not proud of it.
Even at five years old, the Crown Prince Millardo Peacecraft was precocious. He amazed his tutors at his grasp of history, science, and languages. But more amazing to them, was the bearing of the little prince, each action careful and measured and entirely, flawlessly proper. Even his Great-Uncle, the Earl of Alhenard, noted for his strong opposition to King Peacecraft's reforms-- 'Peacecraft', the old Earl spat, 'Peace' 'Craft'? When our glorious ancestors defended our country by the threat of blood? --even he had nothing but praise for the prince. True to his father and the modern factions, he studied voraciously the arts of philosophy, of statesmanship, of peacecraft. True to the rest of his family and the heritage factions, he studied swordmanship, military strategy, warcraft. Both sides proclaimed he was a dutiful nephew or son, and left the prince alone to his own devices. Never was so much attention focussed on a little prince. Never was so little attention paid to a little boy.
When asked by the media on his views, the prince was careful not to offend anybody. For his father's changes were not popular with the people, and he had to represent the hope for the future, for a reconciliation of two views that cannot coexist. "Peace," he said, his clear child's voice grave, "is the true objective of all nations. Whether it is by the careful use of statescraft, or of military power, it is the security of our people, that my ancestors-- and likewise, my father-- strives to protect." Both sides interpreted as they wished. The nation applauded. The prince hid inside the library, where he wished at once they would leave him alone, and come look for him.
He was overjoyed by the birth of his sister, Princess Relena Peacecraft, because for once, his family seemed like an normal family with everybody celebrating the birth of the little girl, and not arguing over his education. Within his family for a while, a few short months, there was peace.
And then war struck.
The idea of absolute pacifism proclaimed by King Peacecraft of Sanq had been spreading slowly across the world. In the modern ages filled with rebel armies, terrorist attacks, civil wars, revolutionary wars, anti-revolutinary wars, the prospect of peace was appealing. Lay down your arms and your enemy will do the same, out of shame, because of your moral superiority. For is it not written that the meek shall inherit the world? It was the only way the weak could rebel against the strong.
Only if the producers of weapons, the Romeller Foundation, gave up their wealth in the trade of death. Who can sacrifice money, prestige, power, all in one go?
Only if the weak in power, the heads of the Alliance Military, did not fear their ultimate loss of influence. Who needs armies in everlasting peace?
Only if the strong in their strength were noble, honourable people, like King Peacecraft. Is it human nature to nurture the weak?
They attacked the kingdom, hoping to show the world the hypocrisy of the teachings. But true to teaching of his mentor Heero Yui, King Peacecraft of Sanq protested peacefully, the first of his bloodline to do so. And the mobile suits ran over the country. They destroyed the palace, leveled its cities. It didn't take very long, with the all armies of the United Sphere Alliance Military.
In one evening, the Kingdom of Sanq fell.