Of late Duo Maxwell knew something had changed, though he could not put his finger on exactly when or exactly how it had occurred. He understood that before he'd struck out on his own he'd been full of anger and his body had been knotted with frustration. Now, as he sat alone in the cockpit of his mobile suit staring out at the stars beyond, all of that was gone. Somewhere along the way he had learned to let go.

The change was marked by the absence of nightmares. Where before he was hounded with visions of Hilde and Helen's blood-stained faces, there now was darkness and rest. More, he no longer daydreamed about them. When he touched the controls of his mobile suit he felt only the hard plastic keycaps, saw only the information displayed on his console, and thought only about the missions ahead. When he fought, he had done so without their distraction. He had found focus and purpose in the gundam, and in turn it had given him some peace.

The only negative in this new quietness, in this new awareness of his self, was that Duo often felt unexpectedly lonely. When he had left the Peacemillion he had meant to stay away forever. He'd been so consumed by his anger that he had meant to die for it, but that need—that want?—had gone. Now, as he drifted in deep space, he wished he might intercept some new transmission from his friends, though he knew the likelihood was slim.

The last weeks, Duo began to occupy his time by re-reading old briefings, listening to the voice messages he'd received, and watching the video call Heero had left him. In between, he revisited his own communications: combat logs and brief oral diaries he kept regarding his missions. Occasionally he watched the statements he had given on behalf of the colonists he'd served, statements which declared their independence and called into question the strength of the United Earth Sphere Nation. And for a time the loneliness faded. But it always came back, and it was always just a little stronger than last time.

Duo reached out for the console and brightened the monitors, and then he struck a command. He waited, just for a moment, and then he said, "Entry 94, date something in the neighborhood of January 2, AC206 at 1700 hours. I haven't looked at the clock in a while." Duo heaved a great sigh. "I think I'm going to go home."

With a nod to himself, he cut the log feed and leaned his head back against the cockpit chair. It was time to go home. If he had spent his time since leaving repenting for the detonation of M-204, it was time he went back to the Peacemillion to repent for being so cruel to everyone before he abandoned them.

But returning home would be no easy task, he reminded himself. It would not be difficult for him to re-enter colonial boundaries, to calculate his coordinates and plot a path back to civilization, but it would be enormously difficult to locate the Peacemillion. It was not uncommon for ships the size of asteroids to go untracked in the deep for months or years at a time, undetectable and off-grid. For a ship like the Peacemillion, which was trying to remain hidden, tracking could well be impossible.

After some thought, Duo decided that the best course of action would be to seek asylum somewhere inside the boundary, to find a place where he would not be persecuted or prosecuted for his actions over the last months, and then wait for news about Relena or the ship. At first consideration, any one of the colonies he'd helped to liberate would've taken him in, and they would have done so gladly. But then there would be press. There would be noise, and all Duo wanted was the quiet and the calm.

He thought absently for a long time, running through the options. He would not return to the independent colonies, this he knew. Likely he would not return to Earth—though he used to be able to blend in and disappear among the crowd. There were too many hostiles on Earth now. His face had been in too many places, and the risk seemed too high. Traveling to a colony which had not yet declared seemed just as reckless and provided fewer avenues for escape if things went poorly. The war was not yet over, and if he ended up in a place controlled by the enemy there would be no getting home at all.

Deciding that neutral ground did not really exist in the civilian world, Duo contemplated governmental routes. No way he could seek out any kind of embassy—he would only be entitled to the services of the colonial ambassadors on Earth, and he'd already decided that Earth was off limits. Returning to any military base would almost certainly prove fatal. Even if he managed to touch down with the gundam, he'd be arrested or killed on sight. But then, when Duo began to believe he had run out of options, the realization hit him: He could seek refuge with the Preventers. Too many friends worked among them to turn him over. He had worked with them too closely in the past. More, as the Preventers worked in tandem with the United Earth Sphere Military, there must certainly have been a provision somewhere that would allow him to seek their assistance.

Duo would return to the Preventers.

Eagerly, Duo brought his monitors to life and engaged his databases to plot his way home. The information contained on the hard drives of his mobile suit would easily provide the contact information of anyone associated with the Preventers organization, including their electronic messaging addresses and the location of their offices. If he could open contact with Une, she could advise him further.

A few minutes later he found the information he had been looking for, though it came somewhat to his dismay: Une's permanent offices were located on Earth with no alternatives listed, and for him to enter the atmosphere without clearance would certainly prove a death sentence. So Duo opened a blank message and thoughtfully typed.

This is Duo Maxwell. Sorry for the encryption but I had to be certain this would remain confidential. I hope this message finds you well. I assume you're aware of what I've been up to the last few months as a matter of course, so I'll try to keep this short: I need to return to the Peacemillion. My job out here is done for now, I think, and I'm no longer needed to fight. But I've got a target on my back, and I need to have some kind of legal protection, at least until I can be tried and judged accordingly. Consider this message a request for advice and an application for asylum per UESM-Preventer cooperation agreement. I can't remember the language, but I know there's an allowance. Please advise.

Another few taps and the message was encrypted and sent. And with little else to do in the meantime, Duo began carefully making his way back toward colony airspace.

The path he plotted would bring him over the border between the L2 and L5 colony clusters, close to the lunar colony. He had run a mission there in mid-October which had interrupted their suit manufacturing, and had done so with great success. His mobile suit's stealth systems had duped the lunar colony's surveillance easily enough for him to briefly enter, so Duo felt confident he'd be able to fly by again without incident. According to his maps, with throttle opened fully and autopilot engaged for sleeping hours, he would re-enter airspace in twenty-eight hours. With luck, he would be back on grid for incoming communication much sooner.

With his mind on home and peace, Duo fired his engines, set his heading, and began the long flight home. He took a meager dinner at the usual hour, engaged autopilot around midnight, and drifted into pleasantly dreamless sleep. At six o'clock he woke again, took his breakfast under autopilot, and watched the stars pass in silence. By noon his spirits were high, and he disengaged the auto piloting system to take his mind off of budding anticipation. In less than twelve hours he would be home, or nearer to home than he'd been in months.

As he flew, Duo felt happier than he'd remembered feeling since waking from stasis. He began making a list of all of the things he would do once in safe custody: Resigning his position in the military seemed the best first course of action. And then he would call Howard...No, he would shell out the extra money for a video conference. He would apologize, invite Howard to call him every name in the book, and after Howard's anger was spent Duo would request to return to his bunk aboard the Peacemillion. And no matter how angry Howard was, no matter how badly Duo had hurt the old man's feelings, Howard would oblige. Then, once back home, Duo imagined that the crew of the Peacemillion would help him to iron out all of the wrinkles he'd created. Relena would help him with the politics—she could use her position among the ESUN council to somehow end the fighting. And finally, after all of the danger was gone, Duo would have a long overdue talk with Heero about life and war and what was to come after. He would offer Heero the highest grade of unqualified advice on the matter of starting a family, while Heero offered him the highest grade of unqualified advice on the matter of finding gainful employment without military attachment. Too many drinks would be consumed over the course of this long conversation, and any truly meaningful nuggets of wisdom would almost certainly be lost among petty squabbling and dick jokes.

The rest of the afternoon passed routinely. Duo lunched, performed his daily maintenance checks under autopilot, and meticulously cleaned the interior of the cockpit as he had done every day since he'd left the Peacemillion. Even in his personal rebellion, too much military discipline made Duo unable to live in squalor.

Though his radar showed zero activity, Duo re-entered colonial airspace with full cloaking enabled. There could never be too much caution, he reasoned, so he would take every assurance for safety. As he passed closest to the lunar colony, Duo flipped his leftmost monitor to the universal public broadcast station and slowed the throttle. Absently, he bumped the volume up and listened.

"-space travel is universally grounded. Flights will be rescheduled as soon as possible. For accommodation and transportation information, contact the spaceport with which you booked your flight."

Duo startled to attention and stared at the monitor, incredulous.

"Again, current reports are unverified and new information is being received continuously. Please stay tuned for updates. We've been reporting on an apparent vigilante attack on Preventer's shuttles just outside of L3. A reminder to those unfamiliar that the Preventers Unit, formed after the One Year War, is a civilian group which works in conjunction with the United Earth Sphere Military to maintain peace in the colonies. It is unknown why the shuttles were congregated. Our sister station from L3 reports that a large number of what appeared to be mobile suits descended on the scene and began to open fire on the shuttles. As of now, no military assistance has been deployed, and officials in the Air and Space Force have yet to return any request for comment."

Suddenly, Duo understood why Une had not answered his call for communication.

Hours later, the Preventer's automated mayday signal filling his cockpit, Maxwell sat watching the siege of the Peacemillion and understood everything. He watched as dozens of mobile suits floated in the space surrounding the enormous ship. Stationary shells of Preventer protective units littered the airspace while chunks of debris floated lazily by. The shooting had ceased for now, and with the notable exception of the modestly sized Preventer's mothership, all machines were still and dark.

The Peacemillion itself, Duo noted, had sustained tremendous damage. Half of its port engine bay had been entirely blown away, and cords, hoses, and lengths of pipe trailed out behind it like thousands of tiny streamers. The starboard side remained intact as far as he could tell, which Duo considered small blessing: The dormitories were housed in the starboard side.

Tentatively and with full cloaking and hyper-jammers engaged, Duo approached, and as he came closer to the scene a familiar heat mounted in his gut. This was anger, he knew, indignation and rage. He had come to realize not long ago that no matter how far he strayed or how lost he became, the Peacemillion would always be—had always been—his home. Her crew was his family. Within that lightless metal husk were the people that he loved, and they were presently in danger because he had left them defenseless.

But Duo tempered himself. He breathed deep and eased his hands away from the throttles where, at some point very recently, his fingers had crept toward the triggers. At a halt, he rubbed at his face and set himself to thought: What would be the best way to proceed?

Duo considered his options: He could move in without warning and assail the dormant mobile suits with abandon, wipe out as many of them as he could as quickly as he could, and then hope for the best. This option would provide him at least temporary safety while the mobile suits reeled from the surprise attack, and would allow him maximum time to gain the upper hand. If he could cause enough destruction fast enough, perhaps he could force them to surrender.

But somehow, Duo knew otherwise. There was a reason that the mobile suits were dormant. Most likely, the soldier inside each unit was waiting for orders while some drama unfolded on the Preventer's ship. If nothing had been holding them up, they would have taken what they wanted and been away before drawing too much attention. Sitting still for so long, for a rebel group even as strong as this one, would eventually prove disastrous once military reinforcements arrived.

If military reinforcements arrived.

With a sigh, Duo opened his live voice communications link and programmed an open broadcast. "Private vessel responding to mayday signal from Preventer Mothership One," he said, casually yet confident. "Please advise."

He repeated himself. Twice. Three times.

And then the fat, red-cheeked visage of Corporal James O'Keefe appeared on Duo Maxwell's display.

"Civilian vessel is advised to clear airspace and land at the nearest spaceport Earthside," said O'Keefe gruffly. "We are currently in the midst of a military training operation with our—"

With a great roll of his eyes, Maxwell engaged his video output and plopped his head onto his hand. "Really?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm, "a training operation? You think I was going to fall for that?"

O'Keefe's eyes went wide as saucers, and the color in his face deepened to a violent crimson. "W—We've got Peacecraft!" spluttered the Corporal lamely. "We'll kill her!"

"Oh, come on," Duo replied, the venomous edge sharper still. "Don't play your best card right out of the gate. Certainly you're a better tactician than that, with a rank like yours."

"I'm not bluffing!"

Duo knew at once that James O'Keefe was indeed bluffing, and he closed the feed immediately.

With conviction, Duo set off toward the remains of the Peacemillion's port engine even as the mobile suits around him began to swarm. They fired into space recklessly, but Duo remained calm and steady at the helm, cloaking enabled, engines at ten percent, and his mind focused on his mission. He knew beyond doubt, thanks to O'Keefe's obvious bluff, that at least Relena was still alive, and it came to reason that Heero would be alive, too. No way Heero would let her die before he went himself. And where Heero was alive, so would he find Trowa and Quatre and Wufei and even Zechs. If one of them was alive, all of them were.

At one hundred meters, Duo cut the engines and allowed the suit to drift, unbuckling himself from the pilot's seat and maneuvering to storage. By fifty meters he had fastened his astro suit, affixed its helmet, and activated personal oxygen reserves. Better to breach the Peacemillion at its weakest point than through the safer hangars, he reasoned, as no one without life-support or a death wish would ever stay near an engine in such pitiful shape.

Duo back-throttled to halt the forward momentum of his machine some thirty feet from the ruptured shell of the Peacemillion's engines, and he floated briefly among its entrails, watching as the enemy suits continued to swarm in the wrong direction. As he expected, no one would think about approaching the ship's damaged side.

With a great heaving sigh, Duo opened the cockpit door and kicked off toward the wreckage, floating free until at last he could grasp one of the plastic hoses still attached to the Peacemillion's hull. He pulled himself along, propelled easily in zero gravity, until he reached the now dark, now cool engine innards mounted firmly to the interior of the housing system. Somewhere around here would be an entry point, either the engine room door or what remained of it.

Even in the twisted wreckage, Duo knew his way around the ship. He had entered and exited both port and starboard engine rooms hundreds of times for any number of reasons, and his familiarity with every wall panel and metal plate, every ding and scratch, made the task of finding the entrance almost paltry. And to his great amazement, the hydraulic engine room door remained largely intact, slightly bent and hanging very much askew on its rails, leaking a steady enough stream enough oxygen to cause concern.

With great effort he squeezed through the hole in the door and, once inside, took stock of his surroundings insomuch as he could. Not a single light flashed, not even those powered by the emergency generator, and not even a hint of artificial gravity weighted his body. Duo knew that this meant the ship's power system had suffered catastrophic failure, and without power, the oxygen systems would not replenish.

Time would be of the essence.

ф

Having never been one to rely on luck, Heero could not fathom how he had managed to miss being spotted by the invading soldiers. Crouched low with his body pressed hard against a metal girder, he held his gun firmly in hand and watched, breathless, as the men floated by, seemingly with more conviction now than they'd had before. Perhaps it had been the pitch darkness of the hallways, the boarding party's unfamiliarity with the Peacemillion's complicated floor plan, but Heero went unnoticed, and for that he felt grateful.

As the beams of flashlights passed on down the way, Heero was left in darkness again, and again he crept onward. Hunched over, right shoulder pressed against the wall, he maneuvered back the way the soldiers had come toward the dormitories where Relena likely would have been at the time of the explosion.

Though he heard the clank of heavy metal boots all around him—the soldiers pushed themselves hard off of the floor paneling in their haste—Heero managed to weave his way toward the ship's rear without incident. He reasoned that the safest route to the dormitories would take him past the engine rooms, down the emergency stairs to the second deck, and around the stern. But as he reached the stairwell he came to realize that safety was a relative idea, and as much as he might have been avoiding the soldiers, the air had grown progressively thinner. He had expected this, to a point, but had never anticipated the reduction in air density would have happened so fast.

He paused at the entrance to the stairwell, its sealed door closed tight. If the engine had been blown as badly as Heero thought, this would be the point of no return. Poor as the air pressure was here on the top deck, it would certainly be worse below, and Heero knew the dangers of wandering into depressurized, deoxygenated areas without equipment. Hypoxia. Asphyxiation. Death. If his luck held, the areas beyond would remain at least partially habitable.

Against instinct, Heero blew the air from his lungs and pushed the door open. It swung easily, and Heero felt the air flow past him into the stairwell. A bad sign by any count, as this meant that there was certainly a difference in pressure. Still, he moved on, inhaling calm, shallow breaths, and forcing himself along.

He entered the lower deck moments later, into the long hallway that connected the port and starboard sides of the ship—that connected the engines to the dormitories and medical bay. The otherwise dark hallway flickered irregularly as light from the ship's damaged engines filtered through the doors leading to the port engineering bay.

And though the hallway was empty, Heero continued clinging to his pistol.

With purpose, Heero moved, kicking along at intervals to float in semi-weightlessness down the long corridor. With each tap of his foot on the paneling he breathed, though not deeply: Too little oxygen forced his breaths into shallow gasps which Heero counted, then exhaled.

As Heero approached the doors to the engineering bay, he came to a curious halt, his eyes drawn to the occasional sparks thrown off of the exposed wiring left by the explosion. It was a strange phenomenon, he decided after two flickers of orange-red light, how the sparks would light and die in fractions of second. There remained just enough oxygen to ignite the spark, but not enough to sustain it.

For a moment, as he stared at the wreckage, Heero knew that his time was running out. Even if he found Relena safely and without further incident from those who had boarded the ship, the oxygen would continue to deplete. Even if he managed to retrieve Relena and get her aboard an escape vessel, he could never imagine leaving the rest behind. He had called upon them to help him. He had led them directly into this mess, and it was his duty to lead them out.

Heero turned with renewed purpose to continue down the hall, his mind refocused on his objective. The dormitories had three escape pods. He could get Relena into one and send her off with mayday blaring. And then he would return to the ship and locate the remaining crew.

But then he stopped. Something had moved. He had seen it from the corner of his eye, blocking out the red-orange sparks. He turned around, gun raised toward a lone figure.

And then he shot.

7