"Corsica?"
Treize nodded to Zechs as the carrier sped on. "Corsica. It was one of the first mobile suit development grounds. It's been underused for the past fifteen years. Now the Alliance wants to redevelop it as a major production facility for the Leo."
"Corsica is awfully close to Europe," said Zechs tactfully.
Treize smiled. "Yes, Romefeller got the contract for the Corsica project," he said, confirming his friends' suspicions. "They're bankrolling the facility and pocketing the profits. Remember, anything we can do to push the Alliance further into mobile suits benefits us. So we have to make sure everything goes smoothly."
Zechs nodded thoughtfully. It was only logical.
"Given how much it matters to us, I pushed hard to have Specials administer the construction project. I was successful. That's why you, Zechs, are overseeing the project."
"What?" he blinked, surprised. "Why me?"
Treize smiled. "I know what you're thinking. Why take a gifted soldier, the most gifted soldier, off of the front lines? Zechs, though your abilities as a pilot are peerless, you would do well to broaden a bit. There is more to command than piloting. Logistics, morale, long-term factors matter also. You would benefit from learning some of these. It will also help your record with the Alliance. After several combat assignments, it's healthy for you to change gears with a project."
"As you wish, sir," said Zechs reluctantly.
"Besides," said Treize, leaning forward, "the next conflicts are going to be different. They'll be in underdeveloped areas. They'll be low-level uprisings and guerilla campaigns. They'll be small raids and incursions that demand ever-stronger responses. In other words, they will drag on and on if OZ doesn't intervene."
"And you want them to go on," Zechs said. "The longer these conflicts last, the more military power the Alliance will need. They'll be forced to construct many more mobile suits and call on member nations more."
"The more they struggle," said Treize, "the more they need from us, and the closer to their throats we get."
Zechs nodded in comprehension. "So it's Corsica."
"And Corsica is yours, to do with as you wish."
It was remarkably nice language for a man who'd just forced new and difficult work on his subordinate.
So it wasn't Zechs' first choice of assignments, but it had to be done. He resolved to do it, and do it well.
Task number one was to find someone to teach him about mobile suit construction.
Shortly after his arrival Zechs sent a clear message to his staff at Corsica. He would listen to anyone—if they had merit. Zechs made clear their previous records and ranks didn't matter, only their current ideas.
It took two weeks to break their attitudes of careerism and their jockeying for power. Two weeks of non-production that Zechs had to sacrifice to line his men up properly. When he was satisfied with them, he threw their records out again and started over with his opinions.
After another week, he selected two as his teachers. Then the work really began.
Zechs knew just about everything there was to know about the Leo's operations, but he didn't have the first clue how it was put together. This became obvious when he badly flubbed a problem.
Flight Officer Walker was one of Zechs' 'instructors'. He was a steady soldier who had started off working in the mobile suit industry. Through talent, perseverance, and the aid of OZ (in exchange for fealty) he'd earned the right to pilot the machines he'd helped build.
"Sir, we have a logistical problem," he said one day as he entered Zechs' office. "We've got a ton of equipment failures. The entire line of machines needs replacing."
Zechs rubbed his mask. Another one. "What machines this time?"
"Everything we have that can join titanium to gundanium is totally shot. They need to be replaced."
Zechs blinked. "Titanium I know. Gundanium isn't on any periodic table I've seen."
Walker looked embarrassed. "Sorry, sir, I'll explain. Gundanium isn't an element, it's an alloy, very special stuff. It's very dense because of how it's made, so you never need much. It's like spiderweb—strong, durable, high tensile strength. We use a little of it in the joints of every Leo and Aires. Without gundanium, mobile suits wouldn't be practical. A mobile suit's arms and legs are so heavy you have to have superb support to keep the suit together. Gundanium gives us that."
"So why don't we use more of it?" asked Zechs, intrigued.
"The same reason we don't use spiderweb," said Walker. "Not enough supply. Production is limited because making the stuff is a real pain. All of the elements have to be combined at molten temperatures and mixed properly; it has to be homogeneous. Then you have to keep it all in place as it cools; if the metals separate, you create brittle spots in the mix. After all, a rod of gundanium is only as strong as its weakest point. If the mix separates, there's no point to the process."
"So it has to be done in space," said Zechs, reaching the conclusion. "If you tried to make it on Earth, no matter how refined your techniques, gravity would cause some shifting of the metals. The mixture would be imperfect. But in space's zero gravity, everything stays in place."
Walker nodded. "That's it. That's one of the reasons it's so expensive. It doesn't make economic sense to try and use it in more places. I've dreamed sometimes about mobile suits with lines of gundanium in their armor, but it just isn't feasible. You'd never be able to mass-produce them."
"Is gundanium used anywhere else?" Zechs said.
"It's used a little in shuttle construction," Walker said vaguely, searching for answers. "Wait, I just remembered. They use it to line the rims of beam sabers."
"Really?" said Zechs, surprised. "I suppose it makes sense. I was always surprised at how a saber that can cut effortlessly through titanium didn't burn itself out." He laughed. "That would explain why beam sabers are so rare. The Alliance doesn't have the tactics to use them, and they're expensive to manufacture."
"Two beam sabers cost as much as an entire Leo," said Walker, "and all because of the gundanium requirements."
Zechs considered for a moment. "What if a mobile suit was made entirely out of gundanium?"
Walker's eyes widened. "Sir, don't even joke about it!"
"Is it that far-fetched?" said Zechs.
"Trying to make mobile suits out of… it would bankrupt Romefeller!" Walker exclaimed.
Zechs smiled. "Well, we should at least consider it. A prudent soldier aims for accuracy but is sure to consider the worst his enemies can do."
Walker shook his head. "Honestly, sir, it's not funny. A mobile suit entirely of gundanium would be incredibly durable. You'd have to pound it all day to destroy it. Because it's so strong you don't need as much of it to provide lots of protection. That means you save a lot of weight and space for other things."
"What other things?"
"Ammunition, fuel, more sensors, more sensitive controls… a gundanium-suit would be a technological marvel! It could take on squadrons of our suits and beat them. Sir, I know it slows us down, but let's be glad gundanium is so expensive."
Zechs nodded. "And let's hope we never meet a gundam in battle."
Zechs learned quickly, as he always had. To his surprise, it turned out to be one of his easier assignments. Managing a factory was very different from piloting a mobile suit. Less was happening at any single time, but problem after problem arose over time.
He was used to making snap decisions. Now, even taking the time to apply his full intellect to a problem, he was still able to rapidly make his choice and dispatch the crisis. It kept him from being overwhelmed, and when he made a bad decision it was discovered quickly.
All the while, he kept an ear and a quarter of brain turned to world events. Minor rebellions, ignited by the actions of the emirates, had started boiling over in Asia. Fighting had spread in the Himalayas as the Alliance bumbled its pursuit from the Pokhran incident. The longer the Alliance took in its pursuit, the more heavy-handed it became. The natural result was ever-increasing brutality with a subsequent rise in rebelliousness.
The rugged terrain of the Himalayas and the Gobi desert played into the rebels' favor. To this point, the vastness of China had swallowed the Alliance as it had swallowed all previous conquerors. The Alliance maintained its strangleholds in the east, suppressing the population and operating normally. In the west of China, where the population is spread and the country is wild, the Alliance adopted laissez faire. It was impractical to control. So the peasants lived their lives unchanged. The Alliance's conquering the world did not affect the 5000 year-old routines they lived with.
Now, in their clumsiness, the Alliance's first contact with these peoples was trampling their rice paddies. It was not a great way to impress the peasants.
It stood to reason that the peasants couldn't much hurt the Alliance, for the same reason the Alliance had no interest in them: they had no money or resources. There wasn't even a Mao Tse-Tung or other leader to rally the people. The revolution, if it could be called such, was not televised.
The fact remained that no Alliance search group dared stay overnight inside a village.
Mobile suits remained the trump card. No weapon the peasants owned or could steal countered the few Leos dispatched into China. Using Leos created new problems, however, most of which involved logistics and security.
Zechs read with astonishment how several trucks carrying Leo ammunition had vanished somewhere in China.
"What do you suppose a Chinese peasant village uses Leo ammo for?" he asked Walker.
Walker smiled. "They probably sell it back to the Alliance."
China, though vast, was not the only site of rebellion. It bubbled south throughout the Himalayas. Anywhere the terrain was rough, anywhere it was easier to hide than to track, fighting flared up.
"How does the Alliance plan to stop them?" said Zechs to Treize. Treize was talking from one of his estates, and he spoke while twirling his rapier.
"I don't know what the Alliance plans," said Treize. He parried an imaginary attack, followed with a mock riposte. "They could have been gentler in the beginning, but it's too late for that now. When you attack and conquer, you only have two ways to bring the public to you. The first is to act as a liberator, actively trying to help the peoples you encounter, make them benefit from your presence. The Alliance botched this. They didn't even adopt a 'just-passing-through' message, which might have been enough. By now the rebels the Alliance was hunting are spread throughout a hundred villages in a hundred thousand square kilometers of ground."
"You said there were two ways," said Zechs. "What's the other?"
"Make them fear you," said Treize. He exploded into a lunge, skewering his mental adversary. "The Roman Empire stood for a thousand years, bringing peace, prosperity, learning, and development to everything in their world-view. They did this sometimes through peaceful methods, and oftentimes the other way. When the Romans defeated Carthage, for example, they didn't just sack the city. They burned it. When the fires were out, they moved through the city and slaughtered all they found. Everyone who escaped was rounded up and sold into slavery in other lands. After the city was devoid of life, the Romans moved through the ruins and demolished any structure still standing, until no stone sat upon another. Finally, they sowed the Earth with salt so that nothing could ever grow there, so that the city could never be rebuilt. All so that Carthage would never again threaten Rome's dominion."
Treize calmly wiped his sword of imaginary blood and sheathed it. "One alternative available to the Alliance is to slaughter the inhabitants of any village that opposes them. If the next village fights, you slaughter that one, too. You make sure, by using native couriers or other methods, that all the villages know what you're doing. If you are consistent enough, thorough enough, and publicized enough, fear becomes your ally. The villages will turn the rebels in rather than risk your wrath."
Zechs swallowed, blinking. "Sir, you… you wouldn't actually do that, would you?"
"I'm not a fan of scorched-earth," he said solidly. "A commander considers all courses of actions, even the ones he would never undertake. I've thought of it, but it so repulses me I hope I must never consider it again."
"Thank you, sir," said Zechs.
"Zechs, I appreciate your status reports. Please continue as my knight. I can sense you have other matters to attend to. Carry on."
"Yes, sir." Zechs hung up, wondering if his friend and the fiend who'd just advocated genocide were the same person.
Time flew by rapidly. Months passed as the Alliance offensive continued, the factory came together, and the first mobile suits began to flow from the doors.
"The Alliance transport division is responsible for the shipments," Treize told Zechs. "However, their security is suspect."
"Even I know that," said Zechs.
"What you may not know," said Treize, "is that several plots are already in progress to steal newly-built Leos. My sources are working on the problem. I'll have details within the week. How you deal with them, Zechs, is up to you."
"Thank you, sir," said Zechs, even though he wasn't sure how thankful he was. Counter-espionage work was another field in which he had no experience.
He smiled. Treize was a real jerk, forcing him to do things he wasn't good at, making Zechs develop new skills. Curse the man.
Now, if he wanted to hijack some Leos, what would he do?
Everything was prepared. Those who needed buying were bought. Those who needed killing were dead. Those who weren't yet aware of the conspiracy would be dead shortly; the remainder would never catch up. Everything was planned out.
Only two things were unaccounted for, but only because they were unknown to the conspirators. The first was the traitor. The problem with spies is that there's no way to know how many people they're lying to; for them, a good double-cross is just the necessary prelude to a successful triple-cross.
The other was Zechs Marquise.
Just before firing, Zechs edged the Leo forward a touch.
Wham!
The recoil from the oversized gun on his Leo's shoulder rocked the chassis backwards. Zechs shook his head in disappointment. My timing is still off, he thought.
He was working on a new technique for his piloting. Leos were capable of mounting large cannons known as "dober guns" on their shoulders. These heavy weapons could blast through barriers and fortresses a Leo rifle would struggle to destroy. However, dober guns were enormous, and Leos were frequently overpowered by their weapons. There had been several embarrassing training incidents where pilots had been knocked over by the recoil of their weapons. Most pilots had dealt with the recoil by planting the Leo's legs widely; in so doing, they abandoned their mobility.
Zechs, in his arrogance, wasn't just trying to deal with the recoil. He was trying to negate it. If he could get the timing right, a precise forward motion would balance out the dober gun's recoil. This would make Zechs far more maneuverable, since it would slash his recovery time from each shot, and it would let him put several shots on the same location.
All that, of course, is contingent on getting the timing right. I'm not there yet.
He tried again. This time he was late, his maneuver balancing the Leo only after it rocked off its heels. Zechs grimaced. I never expected this to be easy. Few things of value are.
"Sir," said the base monitor over the comm., "a call from His Excellency."
"Put him through," Zechs said. He listened to his friend dispassionately. "I see," he said at last. "Thank you, sir. I'll handle it."
He began walking his Leo back towards the main base. A few moments of fiddling, and he had two soldiers on the line with him. "Juno, Walker, meet me at the airstrip. We're heading out in the number two carrier."
"Yes sir," they confirmed.
"Ground crews," he said, changing frequencies, "Lightning one. Drop what you're doing and fuel up the number two carrier. I want it ready for launch within twenty minutes."
"It'll be ready in fifteen, sir!" was the enthusiastic reply.
Zechs smiled. I can't be that gratifying to work for… can I? "Confirmed, and thank you," he said. "I'll appreciate every second you give me."
He walked the Leo into the carrier. The ground crews were working feverishly, tying his mobile suit down in moments. He exited the Leo and made for the carrier's cockpit. Walker and Juno met him inside. "What's this about, sir?" asked Walker.
"You'll see," said Zechs. "Taxi out and prepare for takeoff. In the meantime, monitor the Alliance distress frequencies. I believe something's about to come up, and we'll want to hear it."
"Like what?" said Walker, still not understanding.
"This is not the only base on Corsica, even though it's the most important," Zechs said. "The transport division wanted nothing to do with Specials. Their headquarters is in the main Alliance base in southern Corsica."
"The transport division?" said Walker. Then his eyes grew wide.
"Got something, sir," said Juno. "It's distress from… sir! They're stealing the Leos!"
"Follow them," said Zechs.
The carrier was already warmed up and ready for launch. It was airborne almost before the rebels' carrier.
"Why isn't the Alliance following them?" said Walker.
Juno listened intently while flying. "It appears the rebels self-destructed one of the Leos in the hangar. No one will be following from that base, not for a while."
"I want an intercept course, maximum speed," said Zechs, refocusing his agents. "This carrier has no weapons, so we'll have to run them down."
"How can we do that, sir?" said Juno.
"We only have one mobile suit onboard," said Zechs. "We're faster, and they'll run out of fuel first."
"We're closing on the rebels," said Walker. "Estimated time to catch them is… three hours."
"Belay that," said Juno. "They know we're here. The rebels are accelerating and changing course. Time to intercept is…"
"In your hands," said Zechs. "It's on you, men. Stick to that carrier. As long as we can see them, they can't go home without exposing their friends. Eventually you'll run them out of fuel. That's when I'll get involved. The rest is up to you."
He walked out of the cockpit, his motions smooth and calm.
When he was out of sight and hearing, he shuddered, a hand over his heart. It pounded in his chest.
Treize has a lot of confidence in me, he thought to himself. I need to have some of that confidence in my subordinates—and myself.
Zechs returned to his Leo, got in, and prepped himself for battle. Once he was ready, he turned on his instruments and patched himself in to the carrier's controls.
The chase was not dramatic, just a series of dots chasing each other across phosphor screens. Nevertheless, the longer it went on, the harder Zechs' heart beat. On it went, one hour, two hours three hours fourhours…
The rebels tried everything. They used terrain, they used clouds, they used electronic countermeasures. They stayed away from Alliance bases, they went over the Mediterranean Sea, and they kept on running. It didn't matter. Zechs had the bloodhounds on his side.
Finally, as the fifth hour began to approach, the enemy carrier began to slow and lose altitude.
Zechs was cautious at first. The rebels had tried feints before, faking to be low on fuel before accelerating again. This time, as far as Zechs and his men could tell, it was for real.
"Match their speed," he said, the first words he'd spoken in hours. "Position us above and behind them. When they skim the surface, open the cargo doors."
"Sir!" said Juno. "A combat drop with an Aires is one thing, but with a Leo…"
"Don't drop me from high altitude," Zechs said, "and I'll be fine."
"Roger, sir," said Walker. "Alright, opening doors. Three, two, one… Whenever you're ready, sir."
Zechs had one display repeating the carrier's camera. As he watched, the rebel carrier dipped low, lower, ever lower. When he saw dirt and grass erupt from the belly, he released his straps.
With the heavy dober gun on his shoulder, it was a difficult trick to land safely. But, using lightning-fast blasts of his thrusters, he managed.
Zechs landed heavily, the best he could manage with the overbearing weight of the dober gun. Ahead of him, the carrier completed its crash landing. Zechs made for the fallen machine, shouldering the dober. He ticked off the range in his head. 2 kilometers… 1.9 klicks… 1.8… moving forward, ever forward.
As he expected, the rebels were trying to evacuate from the carrier. He smiled grimly. They'd stolen the Leos trucks and all. In the confines of the carrier, there'd be no room to move around. They'd have to unload the Leos before they could stand.
Zechs flicked on his targeting display. With a predator's ease he brought the dober gun to bear. One of the trucks was backing down the ramp. Zechs settled the reticule on the truck.
It was too easy.
For Zechs, even a second of hesitation was a long pause. He couldn't help it. They're so defenseless!
They were enemy soldiers, though. They would kill him, given the shot; killing them before they could defend themselves was no different than killing them after. Giving the enemy a sporting chance never led to anything good.
He hesitated no longer.
The truck, mobile suit and all, immolated. The explosive shell from the dober gun ignited the fuel and ammunition, touching off a firestorm.
Zechs almost didn't notice the effect of his shot. Something more immediate had his attention.
My timing is on.
There had been no backwards motion from the Leo's shot. Zechs had cancelled the recoil. He fired again instantly, as much to test his new technique as to complete his mission.
He was spot on again. The rebels couldn't appreciate this display of skill; they were more concerned with its effects. The second shot hit the top of the ramp, partially inside the carrier. The damage ensured no truck inside could escape.
Zechs spoke on the "open" frequency. "Rebels aboard stolen carrier: this battle is over. You are defeated. Surrender now or die on the spot. Respond." He counted off three seconds, then shouldered the dober again. "As you wish."
"Wait!" a panicked voice returned. "If we surrender, will you guarantee…"
"No," he said, cutting the other off. "I will only guarantee this: I will not kill you, nor anyone in the Special Mobile Suit Corps."
"That's not good enough," haggled the voice. "We can still destroy your precious Leos…"
A whoosh sound echoed over both ends of the communication—the sound of a dober gun shot just missing its target.
"I don't have to miss," said Zechs, void of emotion. "I am a soldier. I'll treat you as such. Surrender now."
He was midway through a new three-count when the voice came back, "We surrender! You, Specials pilot, we surrender to you."
"Very well," said Zechs, prying his fingers from the trigger. He cancelled his first instinct. I'll not turn these men over to the Alliance. I promised them, and they surrendered to me. "Juno," he said, "summon the nearest Specials troops. We're taking these men into custody. Walker, call up the transport division. Their Leos and carrier are damaged but mostly intact. Oh, one Leo and one truck are destroyed, but all else is in good order."
"Yes, sir," said Juno promptly.
Zechs breathed slowly, calming his nerves. He kept his dober trained on the carrier just in case, but things were under control.
This was the first time he'd operated completely independently. Treize had only provided him with information; all else was left to Zechs. And, depending upon how the inevitable hearing went, things looked successful.
Are you happy now, Treize? Your evil plot, forcing me to be a better officer, has worked. You must be giggling.
It was a funny image.
The hearing was convened and conducted with utmost haste. It was routine by now.
The trying officers were less numerous now, the facts presented with more rapidity and accuracy. Zechs shook his head. Didn't they realize that every time they let Treize open his mouth, Specials benefited and others suffered?
Apparently not; there was Treize yet again, his wondrous blend of truth and lies intoxicating the Alliance top brass.
"So, Lieutenant Zechs was already fueling up to come see me. That's when he heard of the raid, and that's when he responded," Treize said.
"One thing bothers me," said General Septum. That man hates us almost as much as General Compton, Zechs though, but he's much smarter about it. Plus, he sees we have some value—he just wishes to bring us to heel. "Even if he was on his way to see you, Lieutenant Colonel Treize, how could he get a mobile suit warmed and equipped so quickly?"
There was a simple, truthful answer to that question—Zechs had been on maneuvers, and brought his suit when he got Treize's call. Zechs knew, the moment he saw Treize move rather than speak, that the simple, truthful answer was not forthcoming. He braced himself; something was about to hit the fan.
"My apologies, General Septum," said Treize, bowing and trying to look embarrassed. "It's just… I thought your security policies…" he ended abruptly, leaving a vacuum in the air.
"What about them?" Septum growled.
"Well, sir," said Treize, still in false-modesty mode, "Specials is a mobile suit corps, so we rely upon mobile suits for all forms of defense. Since they're our only asset, it makes sense—to me—that our only guards be active at all times. For me, it's logical that mobile suit guards be on patrol at all times, so that we're not defenseless. I'm sure you have better ways of running things, sir, and I'm sure even your mobile suit bases have their own defense plans. My policy was fortunate in this case, but I lack your experience. Please tell me, what alternative should I pursue? What security policy is better than always-active mobile suit guards?"
The next thing he knew, Zechs was back aboard Treize's shuttle. The rest of the hearing had gone faster than a slap.
"Sir," he said after recovering his bearings, "you know that this means a policy change. Every Specials base needs to implement the policies you said we've been using."
"It's already in progress," said Treize airily, drunk with victory. "Lady Une has it under control."
Zechs shook his head. "Sir, forgive my saying so, but have you no shame at all? If I tried to tell lies half as bold as yours, I could never do it convincingly."
"Shame?" said Treize, as if surprised by the word. "I reserve shame for my friends, Zechs, not my enemies. Sun Tzu espoused deception as one of the first principles of warfare. As to the size of the lie, Hitler knew the truth. Men fall prey to big lies more than small ones; they tell small ones themselves but are too scared to tell big ones. Thus the big one is more believable."
"If you say so, sir," said Zechs, shaking his head.
"I noticed you didn't mention the prisoners you took," Treize said.
"It didn't come up," said Zechs evasively.
Treize smiled. "As you say. What do you plan to do with them?"
"I haven't decided," Zechs said, though that wasn't quite true. He had a few possibilities in mind, but that could wait; he'd tell Treize the results. At this taste of independence, Zechs had begun to think of them as his own prisoners. They did surrender to me, personally. I would give them to Treize if he asked, but I think he understands the situation.
"Very well," said Treize. "Be on guard. Your peaceful times at Corsica are nearly over. I'll call upon you soon enough."
"I'm your servant and friend," Zechs said, bowing.
A nod and a grin. "I know."
Zechs walked before the prisoners, dressed as formally as he could manage. They sat in chairs before him, their faces shaven (or not, as they wished) and their clothes clean. If not for the two guards with submachine guns nearby, it would have looked like any brief before any class of pilots.
Well, they didn't suicide with the razor blades, Zechs thought. This just might work.
"Good morning," he said, voice neutral. "My name is First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise. I am the pilot who captured you men."
They mumbled at this news, always keeping their eyes upon him. A year ago, this would have unnerved Zechs horribly. Now, it was his cue to continue.
"The time for subterfuge is over," he said with a sweep of his hand. "We've identified you men. Four of you are from Paris, one from Corsica, and the rest from various parts of France. You belong to the organization AFFF, a group whose goal is the overthrow of the Alliance."
There was surprisingly little reaction from the rebels, but there was enough for Zechs to know he was right. Very well. Now I'll take off my own mask. Figuratively, of course.
"It's a tragedy that we had to fight, because our goals are the same." He continued over the rapidly mounting murmurs. "I, too, wish to destroy the Alliance. The Special Mobile Suit Corps to which I belong is the cover for OZ. Our goals are the same," he repeated, silencing them with a quick scan of the room. "Since you surrendered to me and not the Alliance, I will treat you very differently from how they would. That includes not punishing you for treason."
He avoided the word 'executing', so as not to suggest he'd considered it. "On the contrary, as far as I can tell, you've done nothing wrong. I'm not going to hold hating the Alliance against you. In fact, I want to give you the chance to fight the Alliance again."
He took a deep breath. "Join me, and join OZ," he said. "We want the same things, but we've been reduced to fighting each other. No longer. Come with me, and we'll fight the Alliance together. OZ has the resources to take it on everywhere, not just France. We'll make the Alliance pay for all it's done. I'm sorry we fought in the past, but that's water under the bridge now. We both need all the comrades we can get."
He paused for a moment, letting them digest things. "If you decide not to join me, I'll transport you to another OZ base. This isn't as punishment," he hastened to say. "You'll be well looked after. However, having revealed OZ to you, I can't let you do anything rash. But for any who choose to join me, I'll see that you're gainfully used. You'll be treated like any other OZ soldiers. If anyone treats you differently, my wrath be upon them. This way, even though your plans failed, you can still fight to destroy the Alliance."
Another pause. "You needn't decide right away," he said. "I'll come to each of you tomorrow, you can answer me then. Just remember: we could really use your help."
He walked away then, entering the cool-down period he always felt after speaking publicly. He relaxed himself, losing some of the stature and grandeur he'd adopted. His defenses lowered a little as well, letting some cynicism creep in.
Of course, Zechs, give them a song-and-dance about a free France and world peace. But what will they think later, after OZ wins? When France is dissected by Romefeller's dukes and marquises and counts and viscounts and BARONS…
He snapped back. Of course not. I fight for the sake of Treize Khushrenada—as these men will if they decide to join OZ.
And yet… I fight with Treize, not for him.
Walker moved forward to Zechs. "Sir, that was excellent," he said. "How many do you think will join us?"
"I haven't a clue," Zechs answered honestly.
"Either way, sir, it was great." Walker looked down. "There's just one thing, sir, that I've been meaning to ask you. It occurred to me while I was listening to you."
Walker resettled his gaze on Zechs, like he was trying to pierce the mask with his eyes. "Why do you fight?"
Zechs coughed. "Why do I fight?" he repeated. "Does that matter to you?"
"Not as a soldier," Walker said quickly, apparently embarrassed. "A soldier doesn't care about the motivations of his comrades, right? So long as they keep the same code of conduct, it's alright. But, if I may be allowed, I'm not asking as a soldier."
Walker pointed to the room. "Those men joined… whatever group because they hate the Alliance. I suppose I do, too, but not enough to move me as a person. I don't hate the Alliance that strongly. Honestly, I joined OZ out of boredom. It was something I wanted to do—I wanted to pilot mobile suits."
"Some soldiers do that," Zechs said vaguely.
"But it's not enough," said Walker. "I need… something. If I'm going to be fighting, I want a reason to fight. That's why I was asking why you fight, sir. I respect you as a soldier and a person, and I figured, if there's something that'll make you fight, that'll be enough for me."
My own goals haven't changed. I keep that ember buried in my soul. So sad. I use these men as the tools of Zechs Marquise without ever letting them know why I do what I do. It's just too dangerous.
And shameful.
"Walker," said Zechs, "you've already had a reason for your actions."
"Sir?" said Walker, drawing back.
"Even before you were a soldier, when you worked at the Corsica factory," Zechs said. "Walker, by working to make sure the mobile suits were top-notch, you were fighting for future soldiers."
"Future soldiers?" Walker said, surprised.
Zechs nodded. "Every mobile suit you made was a weapon used to preserve soldiers' lives at their enemy's expense. It's the same now. You fight with me, you fight for Treize, for the sake of tomorrow's soldiers."
"I do?" said Walker.
"That's what His Excellency's philosophy is all about," Zechs said, running over Walker's doubt. "It's about making things better, easier, for tomorrow's soldiers, so they have to fight less. Then they have to fight less, because some of the battles are already won. And so on, until there's no more war."
"But I haven't been doing that," said Walker.
"It may not have been why you were doing those things," Zechs said, "but it's what you were doing. Why not unite your actions and motives? Say to me, 'I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow'. Give meaning to your life. Give yourself a purpose. Come now, Walker."
"I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow," Walker said with hesitation.
Zechs grunted. "Try it a few more times," he said. "You're not very convincing."
"I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow," Walker said again, but this time with more conviction.
This time Zechs nodded. "You're getting there. Work on it." Without brooking further comments, he walked away, leaving Walker behind him.
I guess what Treize said about big lies is true, he thought. What did I just tell that man? 'Fight for the soldiers of tomorrow?' I feel like I just said all that to avoid answering his question! Perhaps it is the essence of Treize's philosophy, but it's not something I believe in, and it certainly isn't something Walker ever believed in.
Until now, perhaps.
Zechs' mind stopped functioning as it came to the realization. By blending truth and lies, he'd successfully given Walker idealism, purpose, and drive enough to make him a perfect soldier. In other words, Zechs was acting just like Treize.
Even if I am acting like Treize, he thought defiantly, it's for different reasons and with different ends in mind. I am my own person.
He tried very hard to convince himself of that.
Though he was having trouble describing just what person he was. Zechs Marquise? Milliardo Peacecraft? Some perverse mixture of the two? All under the shadow of Treize Khushrenada, a man who thrived by drawing others into his orbit.
He'd gotten more sleep when he was training his first class of pilots.
In the end, twelve of the fifteen rebels decided to join Zechs. Three mobile suit pilots, four mechanics, two transport pilots, a demolitions expert, and two commandos joined OZ's ranks.
Zechs sent them to various Specials commands to fully integrate them into OZ. The three who refused were sent to the under-construction Specials base in Antarctica (where two of them gave in and joined OZ anyway.)
Those rebels, in a way Zechs might have noticed but certainly didn't appreciate, took something more with them. They brought and shared the story of a lieutenant who'd treated them with more than fairness.