April 18 AC 201
"What's on the agenda for today, Tom?" inquired Quatre Raberba Winner from somewhere deep inside his closet.
"The usual, sir," came the somewhat muffled response of his chief assistant. "You've got a conference call with Arthur Simmons from S.J. and T. at ten, and after that there's that luncheon at the governor's mansion. At two you've got..."
"Wait a minute," Quatre interrupted, emerging from his wardrobe. "What about before ten? It's only six thirty now." Ugh. Six thirty! Carelessly He dropped the white shirt, beige pants and blue jacket he was holding onto the bed, earning himself a frown from the man who, during his childhood, had been like a second father.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I reminded you yesterday," apologized the older man. "You know," he said as a somewhat sheepish expression crossed his features, "I don't even remember. Let me see..." Bending his grizzled head, Tom consulted an electronic appointment chart.
"If you mentioned it I'm sorry," replied Quatre, picking up the shirt again and shrugging it on. "I was so tired after that interminable meeting that I probably wasn't paying attention."
I'm going to need some new clothes soon. I hope I've finally stopped growing.
"Actually," Tom began. His voice contained a note of surprise. "According to this you're free this morning. That would explain why neither of us could remember."
"Great," responded the head of the astronomically successful Winner corporation. "I could have stayed in bed."
"On a Thursday, sir?"
Tom's incredulous tone only served to broaden Quatre's gentle smile. "You know I'm only joking, Tom," he said reassuringly. The other man had been his father's assistant. He was intimately trusted by the entire family, and was the only one besides Quatre's favorite sister, Atia, who knew of his role in the war.
Thankfully, that select group is small. It's a lot to answer for.
"Does this look all right?" he asked, slightly embarrassed. "I never quite mastered the art of knotting a tie, and whenever I have to interact with that old grouch Simmons I feel like a child."
Tom cast a critical eye over the boy-no, man, he corrected himself--whom he viewed nearly as a son. "it's fine. You know blue suits you. You've filled out a great deal-grown at least eight inches --since you came home from...since you came home. But anyway," he added gruffly, "what am I, a fashion consultant? Ask Atia.."
"Only five ten," responded Quatre amiably. He was both saddened and amused by Tom''s discomfiture. Quatre knew how much his own departure from his family's pacifist ideals had upset the other man. "You sound like you need coffee, Tom," he added with a laugh. The comment was only in part an attempt to divert the conversation. "Go ahead and send up for some if you like Hey! For once we might even be able to eat a substantial breakfast."
"As you will," Tom acknowledged brusquely as he turned and made his way into the comfortable, simply furnished sitting room that adjoined Quatre's sleeping chamber. "I'll be in here when you've finished performing your ablutions."
"Old grouch," Quatre murmured, but he was smiling. Grabbing his razor and a half-empty container of shaving cream he made his way into the bathroom. Laying both items down on the edge of the sink, he reached out and drew aside the white curtains that veiled the room's one tall window.
At this time of year on L4 day always broke early, and as the watery rays of the spring sun streamed in through the glass, illuminating both Quatre's golden hair and the deep blue tiles on the floor, he thought how peaceful and beautiful life could be. It's not as though this job is easy, he mused. I guess it's just that making business and financial decisions all day is a whole lot easier than making decisions that will determine whether hundreds of thousands of people will live or die.
He hadn't been able to forget. He doubted he ever would. But more often than not he could bury the memories. There were times when they even seemed to belong to another person-as though Sandrock, the Zero System, and Gundam Pilot 04 were elements of a story that had been told him by a stranger. Then the nightmares would come, causing him to wake up sweating and crying for the lives that had been destroyed. That he had destroyed.
"It's a lot to be responsible for."
During the past few years he had devoted an extremely large part of the Corporation's annual revenue to the reconstruction effort. It was something, but it would never be enough. He knew that.
"Breakfast!" Tom's voice brought Quatre back down to earth with a jolt. He gazed out the window for another moment, taking in the lush green gardens and the seemingly endless blue sky. I hope it always stays like this. It's all controlled, of course, and nothing like the beauty of the Earth...but still.
"Mr. Winner?"
"one minute," Quatre replied, hastily splashing water on his face. As he opened the shaving cream he wondered for the thousandth time at Tom's habitually formal method of addressing him. When Tom had been his father's assistant he had called his employers only son "Q." Somehow, Mr. Winner just didn't seem right. Quatre had tried to broach the subject with the older man once, shortly after his return in early 196.
"It's not that I don't appreciate the respect you show me, Tom," he had explained. "It's just that, well, Mr. Winner was my father. I'm just not accustomed to hearing people I've known my entire life call me by that name."
Tom had merely looked at him and shaken his head. "You're head of the family now, Mr. Winner. Head of the Corporation. It wouldn't be suitable if I didn't address you as I do." There was no arguing with Tom when he used that particular tone, and Quatre had let the matter drop. Still, it didn't feel right.
Breakfast was hard-boiled eggs, thinly buttered toast and fresh orange juice. The two men ate in relative silence, only occasionally exchanging idle conversation. When he had finished his repast, Tom rose and deliberately pushed in his chair.
"You're so neat, Tom," Quatre couldn't help commenting. "It's only my quarters, not a banquet hall."
His companion merely gave a short grunt. "By the way, sir," he said after a moment, "while you were in the bathroom I took the liberty of examining that list of newly promoted staff." He indicated a neatly typed document that was uppermost in a large pile on Quatre's less than organized desk.
"You know," the younger man responded with a slightly embarrassed laugh, "Personnel sent that up last week and I haven't even looked at it. What did your perusal reveal? I know, I know,' he said, holding up his hands in mock defense. "I should be more organized and professional. But at least I haven't forgotten any important meetings yet this year. May is a record, so give me credit for trying."
Tom scowled, but Quatre was fairly certain he did so only to prevent himself from smiling. "It appears that you have spoken to each of the higher-level appointees at least once," he said sternly, "with the exception of the new Advertising Director."
Quatre sighed at the mention of that department. "You know, it was a pity we had to let Pavlov go," he said. "But I just couldn't have a man on staff who continually stepped outside the bounds of his position. It's not that I don't appreciate his enthusiasm, but it was causing some serious morale problems."
"Yes sir," agreed Tom, rather too flatly for Quatre's liking. The two had discussed the situation for hours, but despite Quatre's lengthy reasoning Tom had not fully approved of his young employer's final decision.
Eager to change the subject he asked, "So then, I can do that this morning. Go look in on...her? See if things are going well. To be perfectly honest, I don't even know her name. I trust you to fill those positions. Tom, but it puts me in a rather awkward situation when I can't call to mind the name of one of my department heads. We promoted someone from within the company, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom. "She's a fairly young woman-around your own age, I suspect-but her record is excellent and she's well-liked by the majority of her staff. Even Wen-you know, that incorrigible artist--likes her, and that's got to be some kind of miracle. I've heard from some of them that she's tough, but fair. An excellent choice, if I do say so myself."
"Doubtless," agreed Quatre, rising from the table. He allowed himself a luxurious stretch, ignoring Tom's disapproving look. "What's her name?"
To Quatre's intense surprise, Tom took a long time to reply. "You know," he said finally, looking more than a little abashed, "I've completely forgotten!" The two shared a brief but warm smile as Tom drew out his ubiquitous electronic notepad. "I want to say Kitty...but that's not right. Let's see. Oh, I suppose it's not completely wrong, either. Her last name begins with Cat. Here we are...Catalonia. Dorothy Catalonia. I'm certain you'll b quite impressed with her--Mr. Winner? Are you all right?"
"What's on the agenda for today, Tom?" inquired Quatre Raberba Winner from somewhere deep inside his closet.
"The usual, sir," came the somewhat muffled response of his chief assistant. "You've got a conference call with Arthur Simmons from S.J. and T. at ten, and after that there's that luncheon at the governor's mansion. At two you've got..."
"Wait a minute," Quatre interrupted, emerging from his wardrobe. "What about before ten? It's only six thirty now." Ugh. Six thirty! Carelessly He dropped the white shirt, beige pants and blue jacket he was holding onto the bed, earning himself a frown from the man who, during his childhood, had been like a second father.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought I reminded you yesterday," apologized the older man. "You know," he said as a somewhat sheepish expression crossed his features, "I don't even remember. Let me see..." Bending his grizzled head, Tom consulted an electronic appointment chart.
"If you mentioned it I'm sorry," replied Quatre, picking up the shirt again and shrugging it on. "I was so tired after that interminable meeting that I probably wasn't paying attention."
I'm going to need some new clothes soon. I hope I've finally stopped growing.
"Actually," Tom began. His voice contained a note of surprise. "According to this you're free this morning. That would explain why neither of us could remember."
"Great," responded the head of the astronomically successful Winner corporation. "I could have stayed in bed."
"On a Thursday, sir?"
Tom's incredulous tone only served to broaden Quatre's gentle smile. "You know I'm only joking, Tom," he said reassuringly. The other man had been his father's assistant. He was intimately trusted by the entire family, and was the only one besides Quatre's favorite sister, Atia, who knew of his role in the war.
Thankfully, that select group is small. It's a lot to answer for.
"Does this look all right?" he asked, slightly embarrassed. "I never quite mastered the art of knotting a tie, and whenever I have to interact with that old grouch Simmons I feel like a child."
Tom cast a critical eye over the boy-no, man, he corrected himself--whom he viewed nearly as a son. "it's fine. You know blue suits you. You've filled out a great deal-grown at least eight inches --since you came home from...since you came home. But anyway," he added gruffly, "what am I, a fashion consultant? Ask Atia.."
"Only five ten," responded Quatre amiably. He was both saddened and amused by Tom''s discomfiture. Quatre knew how much his own departure from his family's pacifist ideals had upset the other man. "You sound like you need coffee, Tom," he added with a laugh. The comment was only in part an attempt to divert the conversation. "Go ahead and send up for some if you like Hey! For once we might even be able to eat a substantial breakfast."
"As you will," Tom acknowledged brusquely as he turned and made his way into the comfortable, simply furnished sitting room that adjoined Quatre's sleeping chamber. "I'll be in here when you've finished performing your ablutions."
"Old grouch," Quatre murmured, but he was smiling. Grabbing his razor and a half-empty container of shaving cream he made his way into the bathroom. Laying both items down on the edge of the sink, he reached out and drew aside the white curtains that veiled the room's one tall window.
At this time of year on L4 day always broke early, and as the watery rays of the spring sun streamed in through the glass, illuminating both Quatre's golden hair and the deep blue tiles on the floor, he thought how peaceful and beautiful life could be. It's not as though this job is easy, he mused. I guess it's just that making business and financial decisions all day is a whole lot easier than making decisions that will determine whether hundreds of thousands of people will live or die.
He hadn't been able to forget. He doubted he ever would. But more often than not he could bury the memories. There were times when they even seemed to belong to another person-as though Sandrock, the Zero System, and Gundam Pilot 04 were elements of a story that had been told him by a stranger. Then the nightmares would come, causing him to wake up sweating and crying for the lives that had been destroyed. That he had destroyed.
"It's a lot to be responsible for."
During the past few years he had devoted an extremely large part of the Corporation's annual revenue to the reconstruction effort. It was something, but it would never be enough. He knew that.
"Breakfast!" Tom's voice brought Quatre back down to earth with a jolt. He gazed out the window for another moment, taking in the lush green gardens and the seemingly endless blue sky. I hope it always stays like this. It's all controlled, of course, and nothing like the beauty of the Earth...but still.
"Mr. Winner?"
"one minute," Quatre replied, hastily splashing water on his face. As he opened the shaving cream he wondered for the thousandth time at Tom's habitually formal method of addressing him. When Tom had been his father's assistant he had called his employers only son "Q." Somehow, Mr. Winner just didn't seem right. Quatre had tried to broach the subject with the older man once, shortly after his return in early 196.
"It's not that I don't appreciate the respect you show me, Tom," he had explained. "It's just that, well, Mr. Winner was my father. I'm just not accustomed to hearing people I've known my entire life call me by that name."
Tom had merely looked at him and shaken his head. "You're head of the family now, Mr. Winner. Head of the Corporation. It wouldn't be suitable if I didn't address you as I do." There was no arguing with Tom when he used that particular tone, and Quatre had let the matter drop. Still, it didn't feel right.
Breakfast was hard-boiled eggs, thinly buttered toast and fresh orange juice. The two men ate in relative silence, only occasionally exchanging idle conversation. When he had finished his repast, Tom rose and deliberately pushed in his chair.
"You're so neat, Tom," Quatre couldn't help commenting. "It's only my quarters, not a banquet hall."
His companion merely gave a short grunt. "By the way, sir," he said after a moment, "while you were in the bathroom I took the liberty of examining that list of newly promoted staff." He indicated a neatly typed document that was uppermost in a large pile on Quatre's less than organized desk.
"You know," the younger man responded with a slightly embarrassed laugh, "Personnel sent that up last week and I haven't even looked at it. What did your perusal reveal? I know, I know,' he said, holding up his hands in mock defense. "I should be more organized and professional. But at least I haven't forgotten any important meetings yet this year. May is a record, so give me credit for trying."
Tom scowled, but Quatre was fairly certain he did so only to prevent himself from smiling. "It appears that you have spoken to each of the higher-level appointees at least once," he said sternly, "with the exception of the new Advertising Director."
Quatre sighed at the mention of that department. "You know, it was a pity we had to let Pavlov go," he said. "But I just couldn't have a man on staff who continually stepped outside the bounds of his position. It's not that I don't appreciate his enthusiasm, but it was causing some serious morale problems."
"Yes sir," agreed Tom, rather too flatly for Quatre's liking. The two had discussed the situation for hours, but despite Quatre's lengthy reasoning Tom had not fully approved of his young employer's final decision.
Eager to change the subject he asked, "So then, I can do that this morning. Go look in on...her? See if things are going well. To be perfectly honest, I don't even know her name. I trust you to fill those positions. Tom, but it puts me in a rather awkward situation when I can't call to mind the name of one of my department heads. We promoted someone from within the company, didn't we?"
"Yes, sir," replied Tom. "She's a fairly young woman-around your own age, I suspect-but her record is excellent and she's well-liked by the majority of her staff. Even Wen-you know, that incorrigible artist--likes her, and that's got to be some kind of miracle. I've heard from some of them that she's tough, but fair. An excellent choice, if I do say so myself."
"Doubtless," agreed Quatre, rising from the table. He allowed himself a luxurious stretch, ignoring Tom's disapproving look. "What's her name?"
To Quatre's intense surprise, Tom took a long time to reply. "You know," he said finally, looking more than a little abashed, "I've completely forgotten!" The two shared a brief but warm smile as Tom drew out his ubiquitous electronic notepad. "I want to say Kitty...but that's not right. Let's see. Oh, I suppose it's not completely wrong, either. Her last name begins with Cat. Here we are...Catalonia. Dorothy Catalonia. I'm certain you'll b quite impressed with her--Mr. Winner? Are you all right?"