Chapter Thirteen

1/

The Headquarters of Winner Enterprises was located in the center of a bustling city, its titanium-steel frame reaching almost to the colony's sky barrier. Beyond this was pure outer space, but the use of high-tech mirrors, shields and computers gave the barrier an almost earth-like appearance--whenever the weather control system simulated a specific event (such as rain, a necessity for the agriculture and livestock centers, which provided the colony with its own food), the barrier corresponded as best it could with everything from a gray background slashed through with angry clouds to clear blue on the best of days.

Headquarters itself was a familiar landmark for any T0057 resident; the Winners themselves were alternately despised and respected, but the home base of their huge business was unanimously regarded with an affectionate air. Children attempted misguided skateboard stunts off of the handrails of its side entrance, where a guard indulgently watched and called out the occassional half-hearted threat. Dark suited, serious businessmen and women passed by the front entrance on a day to day basis, dropping coins in the guitar cases of performers who used the marble steps as an improvised stage.

Currently, Headquarters was in an uproar, though the initial shock was beginning to wear off. Hana Winner, usually a huge presence in the offices, was nowhere to be found, and for the first time in ages, Quatre Winner himself was seated calmly in his private office (humming under his breath a snatch of song that one of the guitar players has been belting out earlier that morning), shuffling through papers and taking phone calls.

Wu Fei calmly ticked off the seconds in his head, pretending to read a day old newspaper which had emblazoned across its front page, GUNDAM PILOT PLOTS MURDER OF WINNER HEIR. Ridiculous, he mentally growled. The Oracle never gets the story straight. He didn't believe for a second that Trowa Barton was behind whoever was targetting Quatre; the threats, the "attacks"--they just weren't his style. And Trowa had never shown any signs of resentment towards Quatre. Quite the opposite, Wu Fei had to admit. He stole a glance at Quatre, who was mulling over a document detailing certain problems encountered on one of the resource satellites. The boy seemed controlled enough. Fair locks fell messily over his face, and he kept pushing them aside absentmindedly, as if deep in thought.

A knock at the door broke Wu Fei's concentration on his companion, and he rose to stand next to Quatre as the person on the other side admitted himself.

Private Investigator Jordan entered the room with a dramatic bow and flourish of his ratty coat. "At your service, Mr. Winner."

Wu Fei scowled.

Smiling, Quatre indicated that the investigator take a seat in the plush chair across from him. Wu Fei swallowed his dislike and returned to his seat, both eyes firmly fixed on Jordan, who in turn was staring back at him knowingly.

"I must apologize for my rash actions on . . ." Quatre's lips tightened, and he noticibly forced himself onward. "On the night my sister died. I should have listened to you."

The investigator shook his head. "No. If anything, it was I who made the mistake of not paying closer attention to you--should have tied you up and hidden you away, eh?"

The little heir blushed faintly.

"Anyway, I don't hold it too much against you, Mr. Winner. As I informed you earlier over the phone, I have very good news. We have captured the leader of the organization that was behind your sister's death. I say 'we captured', but in fact the scoundrel turned himself in--"

"I--I heard." Quatre leaned forward slightly. "It's been all over the news--the papers--but I can't believe . . . the man responsible for all this is not Trowa Barton."

"Oh no, I'm sure he is. He was taken into custody earlier today, but my men imprisoned him weeks ago after discovering him in an apartment building guarded by known terrorists. Of course, he has a fantastic cover story--some sort of circus job on a colony far from here--but he's already confessed, and that won't do him any good now."

"No, you don't understand--" Suddenly Quatre paused. His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "May I see him?"

Jordan laughed harshly. "'See him'? No, you can't 'see him'! He's a criminal, locked away in C1716's maximum security prison. Are you bloody insane? Why on earth would you want to 'see him' for?"

"Because I . . . want to face the man who killed my sister." Wu Fei started, and looked sharply at Quatre, whose expression was now blank. "I have to see him, so he'll know."

"Look, I can understand how you feel, but it just isn't possible," Jordan protested, tugging at the collar of his coat. He seemed very disturbed by Quatre's words.

"And why not?" Wu Fei raised an eyebrow haughtily at the investigator. "Isn't the security at this prison top of the line? Why should Mr. Winner be in any danger? Are you implying that there is a chance this Barton fellow could escape?"

"N-no, not at all." Jordan looked from one boy to the other and back, finally seeming to come to the conclusion that neither was going to back down. "Well, it's really your decision, and I can't stop you if you're determined . . ."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Jordan." Quatre stood and bowed, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling like two sapphires.

Scratching his head worriedly, the investigator left without returning the bow. When they were alone, Quatre turned to Wu Fei and said, "Trowa must be innocent."

Wu Fei made no reply. He was thinking that he would bring his gun, just in case Quatre's faith (and his own) was ill-founded.

2/

A heavy silence fell over Quatre on the shuttle ride to the L1 colony C0057. There were many things he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the energy to actually move his lips, or do anything other than stare out the window at space and the blue-brown-white sphere that was earth.

They must think us so silly, those people down there, he thought sadly.

He refused the lunch the stewardess brought, and avoided Wu Fei's worried gaze; his thoughts weighed on his mind heavily, pounding behind his eyes. Trowa was up to something, but he had no idea what. During the wars, Trowa had often relied on infiltration tactics . . . but Quatre could think of nothing that Trowa could gain by becoming a prisoner. Why not a guard? And why L1? It made no sense at all.

Unless Trowa really was guilty, but that was not possible. Quatre berated himself for even entertaining the thought for a second.

A few reporters were still camped out on the steps to the Governor's Mansion. Quatre rolled up the window of the car, suddenly grateful that it was tinted and obscurred his features from curious eyes. The prison (Angleworth it was named, though it was rarely called that by anyone outside of its walls) was possessed of the most boring architecture imaginable, hardly more than a concrete square. However, it was surrounded by two walls: one an electric wire mesh, and the other stone topped with barbed wire. Between the two walls were trained guard dogs that barked at the car as it was admitted into the tiny parking lot.

An elderly man met them and directed them through a metal detector (which revealed that Wu Fei was carrying a gun and two knives, which he refused to leave behind) and finally led them into the prison itself.

"Well, son," the man said confidentially to Quatre, "I for one do unnerstand why yer a-doin' this--if the basterd'd done my fambly like he's done yers . . . well, he wouldn't've made it ter this place, I tell ya what."

"Thank you," Quatre said gently, recognizing the kindness behind the words, though they pained him.

As they walked past the barred cells, that peculiar sense of silence fell over Quatre again. He'd been in this place before; not in Angleworth, but in places not unlike it, and on the other side of those cool bars. Quatre glanced at his bodyguard, wondering if the same thing had occurred to him, but Wu Fei's face seemed to have been forcibly wiped clean of all emotion.

"This's it," the elderly man stated, warning the two not to venture too near the cell, in case the prisoner should try "any funny bus'ness", before leaving the boys alone.

The cell was bright with artificial lighting, its walls unadorned tan (though it was gray in places where the paint had chipped off). A toilet was set up in one corner, and in the opposite was a bed, built into the wall. Trowa Barton sat upon this, not looking up or showing any sign that he was aware of their presence.

Being careful to stay no less than a few centimeters away from the vertical bars (there were, after all, security cameras positioned all over this place, and Quatre didn't want to risk a worried guard thinking him too thoughtless), Quatre called softly, "Trowa?"

The green eye that was visible to Quatre fell closed. So familiar--that lanky frame, long arms crossed over his knees, sharp features and that curtain of brown hair. It really was Trowa; for some reason, Quatre had almost thought that . . . no, it was mad.

"I knew you would come, Quatre." "Trowa!" Quatre couldn't help the jump in his voice. Even after all this time, he was still affected by this boy--not in the gut-jarring way that he was affected by Wu Fei (and he did not want to open that can of worms just yet). It was a soft sort of feeling that welled up within him; something like friendship and something like knowing they were on the same page, if not always in the same book. "Trowa, please tell me what--"

"No, Quatre. A series of events has been put into motion." A ghost of a smile. "Please go home, and don't worry about me."

After that, no matter what Quatre said, Trowa would not reply or acknowledge him.

3/

The curtains had been drawn over the ceiling to floor windows, and the golden chandelier painted everything in warm yellow hues. For one startling moment, Hana thought, This is my home, and then she fully entered the dining room. The long table was bare; she knew that recently Quatre and his Chinese bodyguard had taken to eating in the kitchen. Still, she seated herself at the head of the table, crossing her legs comfortably.

Father would be sitting where she was right now, maybe watching Catherine at his right with that tender look he used to have whenever he was around her, maybe smiling at Iria two seats down on his left. Iria would be scolding or praising one of her younger sisters--before Quatre's birth, she'd been forever sticking her nose in the other girls' lives, straightening things as she saw fit. Hana herself would have been laughingly dismissing Iria, elbowing Naia, the eldest daughter, to get her to agree. Mara and Tara would be bickering over something trivial. Cora would be complaining loudly about the food, while mentally planning another outrageous costume design. A few of the girls would be on earth--the rest on other colonies. But Hana thought of them all affectionately.

When Quatre was born, all of that fell apart. Catherine had died, and slowly Hana's sisters had stopped coming to the estate. Iria stayed to help Father raise Quatre, and to continue her medical studies on her home colony. But eventually, as Quatre grew older, even Iria's visits became few and far between.

We were all kind of hung up back then. Too close, I guess. I felt like a teenager until I was twenty-five. She grinned, leaning her chair back on its rear legs. Can't help but think that you're not really gone, Iria. Any minute now, I expect you to show up and take control. I know I don't seem to have any at the moment. God, and Quatre . . .

Quatre had grown up much too fast; when he'd withdrawn into himself after the Wars, it had genuinely frightened Hana half to death. Not as badly as when he'd been younger, and had insisted that he and his sisters were all tools of their father.

"Well hell, Iria," Hana realized suddenly. "You've given it away, haven't you?" It was a miracle Quatre hadn't asked her about it yet . . . or perhaps not. She had been inconsolable for a few days. Surely she owed Quatre an explanation. Father had, of course, been flatly against any suggestion that Quatre be made aware of the true nature of his birth. But Father was dead, and . . . Iria was dead, and Quatre was almost an adult. Nineteen and already the legal leader of a huge business empire, as well as a war hero. Yeah, it was about time.

4/

"I wonder what he meant."

Wu Fei swallowed his mouthful of canned spaghetti (they'd resorted to canned food recently, neither really caring to cook anything more complicated in light of all that was happening, though they did make an effort to add more food to the selection that they left at Hana's door during mealtimes). They were using two large books as makeshift trays, since they more often than not sat in the plain straightback chairs already available in the kitchen area. Wu Fei actually preferred this to the elaborate dining room, which seemed so huge when only occupied by two people. This was more personal, somehow.

He noticed that Quatre was only pushing his food around his plate, having not really eaten anything at all. "Barton?"

"Yes." Blue eyes met his. "He said that 'a series of events have been put into motion'. D'you think--"

"No, I don't think. I'm not thinking of it at all," Wu Fei said practically. "There's nothing you or I can do; well, of course, you can choose not to press charges, but the courts will still find a way to get their hands on him. They can't let a self-confessed criminal walk free; it might give other people ideas. That's politics, Quatre."

"That's cruel, Wu Fei." The comment lacked any fire, but Wu Fei knew that his Arabian charge was not so ready to admit defeat.

Wu Fei shrugged, finishing off the last of his spaghetti. He took Quatre's still full plate and scraped the left over sauce and noodles in the trash can; though he hated to waste food, he knew he couldn't eat any more of the stuff, and Quatre was apparently going on a hunger strike. "Want desert, at least?" he asked flatly, hiding his anxiety.

"Desert?" Quatre blinked at the suden change of subject.

Rolling his eyes, Wu Fei deposited their plates in the sink and pulled open the freezer. He took out a bag of blueberries, which he showed Quatre. "Desert."

"But they're . . . frozen. Shouldn't you should cook them or something?"

"I don't suppose it matters." Ripping open the plastic bag, Wu Fei palmed a few berries before handing over the bag to Quatre, who hesitantly took one. He slipped it between his lips and suckled on it. Wu Fei felt himself overheat, and quickly ate a few of the berries himself. They were a little tart, but he liked them that way.

"Hm," said Quatre. He was reaching his hand in the bag to grab a handful of the chilled fruit. "Rather good."

Wu Fei smirked. "You're a mess," he said, amused.

"Wha--?" This cute little shocked expression flitted over Quatre's face and remained there.

Wu Fei caught the other boy's hand in his own and turned it over, palm up. The first two fingers and thumb were stained a reddish-purple. Quatre's lips were darker than usual, and his teeth a faint shade of blue. "In this case, 'mess' might be too gentle a word."

"Oh dear," Quatre said, mortified.

"Hey, me too," Wu Fei said. He smiled faintly. Leaned forward over Quatre and pressed their lips together. Then he straightened and murmured, "Let's get cleaned up."

5/

Sometime in the night Wu Fei awoke. Instinctively he reached across his own cot to Quatre's bed, pushed together as they were, and when he encountered only sheets and cool comforter, he sat up, blearily scanning the room. All was dark and still; wherever Quatre was, he had not been here in a long while. Tossing off his blankets, he quickly pulled on a pair of pants over his boxers, and a shirt he didn't waste time buttoning up. Almost as an afterthought he donned his gun holster, the weapon securely held in place as it always was. It didn't hurt to be cautious.

Silently he checked the bathroom and every other room he suspected Quatre might visit in the middle of the night. He was just deciding to pay the kitchen a visit (maybe Quatre's appetite had returned) when he noticed that the door to the ballroom was slightly ajar.

The room was cold; for some reason its temperature was always ten degrees below that of the rest of the mansion. A beam of light was focused on the marble floor, but it swept up as Wu Fei entered and positioned itself on his face. Shielding his eyes, Wu Fei said in a rather pained way, "It's me."

"Oh." Light tenor voice and the beam removed itself, only to flirt along the opposite wall. Quatre was seated indian style on the floor, engulfed mostly in shadow--the flashlight in his hands revealed enough of him that Wu Fei could identify him. Ungracefully Wu Fei slid to the floor next to him, wincing at the sudden coldness against his rear-end.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, Quatre dancing the beam all around the room but focusing mostly in one spot; something about it disturbed Wu Fei, but he couldn't put his finger on what, exactly. "I've been meaning to ask you," Quatre said quietly after a while. "And you don't have to answer if you don't wish to."

". . . Go on."

"Why did you leave the Preventers? You said that your jobs on L3 weren't very prestigious--or all that well-paying--but as a Preventer you were provided with free room and board, and you know that the pay there is excellent . . . so why did you give all that up?"

Startled, Wu Fei felt his mouth drop against his chest and then close again with a snap. "I didn't leave," he said stiffly. "I was discharged."

"You?" Quatre stared at him incredulously.

"It came to my commander's attention that I was an alcoholic." Wu Fei frowned, the old shame creeping over him again like a rancid odor. "Said it would impair my judgement on the field. So I was let go. I haven't been back since."

Most of the memories were in gray shades; tossing his uniform in his locker, glaring at any young cadet who dared give him a questioning look, longing for a good drink and a bed to lay on. First he'd gone to his home colony cluster. He'd gotten drunk and thrown out of a couple of bars. Scorned by the colonists, though he'd wanted to shout, I'm the last living member of the Long clan; you shouldn't think so lowly of me. Realizing that they had every right to. And then when he couldn't bear it, he boarded a shuttle to L3, where he remained until that summons from Hana Winner.

It occurred to him that he hadn't been desperately in need of alcohol for a few days now. Maybe its hold was beginning to wear off; maybe Quatre had something to do with that.

The yellow circle of light kept skirting around that particular area, half-way across the ballroom. Most of the furnishings had been removed by Jordan's men and the colonial police, leaving the room hardly more than a pretty shell. "What will you do after all of this is over?" Quatre's head was now resting on his left palm, eyes following the light. "Try to reenlist?"

Wu Fei snorted. "Hell no. I don't know what I'm going to do. What about you?"

"I--I haven't thought about it." Now he was flicking the flashlight on and off absently. It reminded Wu Fei for some reason of those ancient films from the beginning of the twentieth century. "Perhaps I'll go wherever you take me."

Wu Fei resisted the urge to box the other boy's ears, or maybe kiss him. "And where will I take you, dreamer?"

"China, America, Arabia. England and France. Russia." The smile Quatre gave him was wistful. "It's all the same. As long as you're there, and I'm there with you." He laughed, resting his blond head against Wu Fei's shoulder (sharp and uncomfortable as it was). A click, and the flashlight went out.

6/

"I'm glad you're feeling better," Quatre said sincerely.

Hana grunted, tugging nervously at her still damp hair. She smelled strongly of soap and floral shampoo, and over that, the coffee that had been her breakfast. "I'm going in to the office today with you. But first . . ." Instead of heading for the front door, she led Quatre into the parlor. She was momentarily glad that the bodyguard was waiting with the car outside the mansion; she wasn't sure if she'd have the nerve to say this in front of him.

Quatre sat on the sofa next to Hana, and curiously took the book she handed him, immediately flipping it open and then. Staring. "Hana . . ." His pale fingers passed over the first page almost as if he wasn't sure it was real. "Hana, what . . . what is this?" She said nothing. Allowed him time to turn the pages, take in the pictures--time to realize exactly what these were. He returned to the first page, fingering the edge of the photograph taped there. "Who is this, Hana? Who's this woman next to Father?"

"Your mother," Hana said tonelessly.

7/

Mother?

The day went by in a blur of activity that he took part in, but at the same time kept his distance from. He could feel a little piece of himself that was still a child fall away. Kept thinking, when, and how, and most of all, what for. His mother. He had a mother. Flesh and blood. So what. She was gone now; he'd never known her. What did it matter?

But she had existed. He remembered the wedding photo, the first one he'd seen. He rather resembled her. She existed on his face.

Mother.

He could almost understand why his father had not breathed a word of the truth to him. Suddenly it was as if a veil, thin but there all the same, had been put up between him and his sisters, him and the Maganac Corps. He was . . . normal now. Basically. Flesh and blood. They've always known, he thought, stunned.

He didn't tell Wu Fei.

8/

That night when Hana, Quatre, and Wu Fei arrived at the Winner home, they discovered a package unopened in a chair near the entryway. One of the few remaining servants had brought it in and left it there. Hana warned them that they had better have it checked, but Quatre recognized the handwriting and was immediately ripping open the box, pulling out bubble sheets and a flat round object that turned out to be a tiny vid-disc.

"From a friend," Quatre said calmly, giving Wu Fei a significant look that only earned him a raised eyebrow in return.

When they were alone in his room, Quatre placed the vid-disc carefully in his player and waited for the visual to show on his television. Nothing came except what looked to be dark fabric passing back and forth across the screen. Then voices. Sounds of a struggle. A boy's voice, clearly, "C-Cathrine?"

"Trowa," Quatre said a little desperately.

"Shit," said Wu Fei.

A girl's scream, and Trowa again, calling that name. "Shut up, you little bastard!" A coarse male voice growled. A thump, as if something had collided with the camera, and then the television became snowy; visual and sound were out. Just as Quatre was moving to get up and take the vid-disc out, the screen went dark again, and a man said in an overly friendly tone, "It's a cruel world out there..."