Phase 11: Preparation

- - -

A personal call at 1 am is rarely a good thing. In Heim Temeritus' case, tonight he debated whether or not to smash the communicator with his bare hands rather than be forced to leave the business at hand.

No. Not business. Pleasure. Pleasure. The two were rapidly becoming more difficult to balance. Thus being asked to report in to Councilor Nakara's private office still reeking of sweat and sex, for the first time in many years he devoutly wished he could be less responsible. The pudgy man had surprised him by being there in the flesh, but this did not change his inner dislike of him.

Standing, Nakara extended a hand. "Good evening, Admiral. So good of you to come at such a late hour. Can I interest you in a drink? Coffee? Tea?"

Temeritus flinched away. He did not like the toothy smile on the other man's face- it looked like he was chewing on his own gums. "No, thank you. I prefer to avoid using such things to stay up past a decent hour; just I prefer not to be woken up this time at all."

Wince. Another lie. It had come so effortlessly. "Nonetheless, I think you will appreciate my doing this without an audience." Taking a long, hot sip of his own brew to draw the tension out, Nakara's big-eyed gaze shifted to his little laptop. "You are aware, of course, of the recent engagements at the Henderson colony conducted by your subordinate Mokra Parker, are you not?"

As usual, Nakara made a surgical tool out of every statement. This one was a calculated inquiry- one that would make him insult himself if he chose to lie again, and a lead-in to the real issue if he chose the path of truth. "Of course. It is my understanding that the colony suffered zero casualties."

"Certainly, Parker is to be commended for his intuition in knowing where our mystery attacker would strike", Nakara admitted. "But of greater import is exactly how he stopped him or her."

"The MS", Heim grunted, barely audible. Then, even quieter: "No wonder you're in such a good mood."

"Exactly. Now, if I recall, we agreed they were to be kept safe and sound inside this base. Am I wrong?"

"No."

"Sorry? Couldn't hear you, could you speak up?"

"No, sir. The council decreed that the MS were to be kept inside the Exodus colony."

"Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. Unfortunately, it caused quite a stir when we found out you'd been doing the exact opposite… and then tried to cover it up. Or am I wrong?"

Temeritus blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Tell me I'm wrong, that Parker was acting on his own, and I'll apologize right now. We understand how disobedient some subordinates can be, after all."

You asshole. I see the way out you're giving me. Get me to finger Parker. Except you already know that I'm the one. You can get me any time you want. So you get rid of two obstacles to your ascension with one stone. "…Parker acted on my orders. We believed the MS to be the only thing that could match the mystery man. I believe, sir, that without them along, both our fleet and the Henderson Colony would have taken losses. Measured in lives."

Lives? What are those? Are they important? Nakara's casual shrug seemed to say. "That was an interesting response. Regardless, Admiral, I'm afraid this august body cannot tolerate military personnel who go against our direct orders." He paused a moment, taking a deep breath for what was to come. "By the authority of the Shyron Provisional Council, I hereby relieve you of this post."

Termination. The implications struck him so deaf and numb that he did not resist, and simply recited the rest of the procedure- one still rooted in the times of oceanic-navy instead of space- along with this man he hated. The end of thirty-two years of military service. Somehow, he figured the big part of him that wanted to rant and rage and plot and plan for Nakara's death had momentarily been shocked into submission. Of course, a little voice whispered instead. Of course, of course. How could it end any differently? We saw from the start that this man was determined to have the post, to kick any non-Shyronian out. He was so powerful and determined that it was only a matter of time.

Said man sniffed at the air. "Oh, and I suggest you clean up that uniform before you return it. Burning bridges and all that."

The final salute, eye-to-eye, seemed to last forever. Temeritus permitted himself to stew over Nakara's departing smirk several dozen minutes after leaving the office for the slate gray metal of the main corridor, drifting in its reduced artificial gravity like it was endless water. A hollow, dreamlike state to match the way he felt inside.

Then, and only then, did he begin to make new plans. Plans for the future, and plans to get him to that future.

- - -

Indecision and irony had still not unfrozen Bryce Daravon, nor allowed him the freedom to act. On one hand, he was now surrounded by allies, folk from his own nation who would almost certainly be friendlier if they knew that he was one of them.

On the other, he was now surrounded by trigger-happy spies. From what he had seen of them so far, many of the trench-coated men around him were on edge, comforted only by the presence of their guns in their pockets. Such actions now could easily set them off before he could explain anything.

Instead, he remained utterly silent as the group marched them around to a descending staircase, a black oak door that necessitated retinal identification, and finally a basement devoid of light.

He thought about it long and hard when the door closed. One could not see their own arms in front of their face- it would be child's play to slip a dagger into his and Fehn's spines without a sound. So when a single lamp-light did snap on in the safe house he exhaled loudly enough to be heard.

"You're certain no one saw", he heard a deep, rich voice call out. No surprise that the stress was getting to him- he could have sworn the voice sounded familiar. Whoever he was, the men who had taken them had some way of communicating with him without anyone else hearing. "It's not often we come by a man worth taking such risks to procure, Professor Verne. You should feel privileged."

Bryce looked around frantically. He couldn't see Fehn, couldn't see if she was still unconscious or awake. Decision time. Do I tip my hand or not?

"Before we carry out the sentence", the voice interrupted his panic, "we should share notes, you and I. I, for example, have a man with a gun directly behind you. At my word he will shoot. Would you care to give us the location of the MS units in return?"

"Gladly", he panted, trying to block out the fear creeping into his words. "But more importantly, you don't want to do that. Not around a friend."

A harsh laugh from the dark. "You are not a friend, Professor. You are a traitor to the Houses of Birthright and all that they stand for. We are here to clean up the mess you've made. Now, I'm not interested in your motivations, only in your answers."

No choice. "Then you're asking the wrong man. You're asking a man who doesn't even exist."

"Yain't dead yet, Professor".

"I'm not Nirel Verne, either… uncle. Can't you recognize my voice?"

A longer pause than before, and Bryce knew he'd guessed right. "Lights. Let's see what the joke is, hmm?"

Slowly, carefully, so as to avoid setting off the agents he knew were right behind him, he removed the contacts first. Then the clip that braided his hair into a professional's comb-over instead of his usual dark redhead mop. Some features, such as the dye and the Van Dyke beard, he couldn't remove right away. But it was enough.

"B-Bryce? Bryce Daravon?"

He heard several guns click off and allowed himself a smile. "Yes, Uncle. It's me."

"How…? Wait. Take off your coat."

"What?"

"Take off your godamned COAT, boy!"

He couldn't pretend he wasn't perturbed at hearing his own uncle Rast speak to him like that. In the times they'd visited each other, Rast had been a man of the utmost joviality among family, only the dark color of his beard and deep voice spoiling the image of an oddly fit Santa Claus. As a child, Bryce would never have suspected anything sinister about the funny terms the man used sometimes when he thought the kids weren't listening at Christmastime.

In other words, there was plenty of surprise to go around. He stood motionless as Rast stepped out into the dim light, and felt his face to determine its corporeality. "What did I give you on your tenth year, boy?"

He managed, against all odds, to avoid flinching. "You gave me a basic book on the inner workings of the human body for my birthday. Complete with X-rays of bones. I liked it so much that you bought me a replacement when I lost it two years later." Which is one of several things that started me down the path of weapons technology modelled after the human body...

Rast hesitated, then laughed his belly-laugh, for once sounding like the warm-hearted man Bryce remembered. "Well I'll be. It really is you. I imagine you have quite the story to tell me, eh? Oh, and arms down."

Minutes later, he'd gotten a better measure of the safe house- though safe basement would be more appropriate since the upper floors were living quarters for a pair of Shyron science teachers. Rast always had two of his men sauntering around the building with the look of homeless folk, but with one always keeping an eye on it, the retinal scanner disguised by a mailbox. Uncle Rast might be a jolly fat man, but he knew his chosen trade far better than his nephew.

Then there came the decision of just how much he could say about his mission.

"I felt a personal responsibility for them", he carefully explained once the topic of the MS came up. Now seated at an old-fashioned wooden desk, Rast drank in his nephew's tale with an interest that betrayed how impassive he tried to look.

"I know I should have gotten permission from father. I know I should have left this to the professionals… but I'm responsible for it, uncle. Have you ever, by chance, heard of the Alpha Gundam?"

That stopped Rast's inquisitive gaze cold. For a while he seemed at a complete loss, his arms hanging limp at his broad sides. Then he managed; "Not a word. Your dad told me the names of the ones that got stolen- Peregrine, Rana, and Hyrcanian… but he didn't mention a fourth one."

"Well that one's on my list too, uncle. Its pilot, whoever he may be, is completely batshit insane, doesn't care who he kills."

"I'll be", Rast repeated incredulously, gingerly brushing Bryce's hair from his face. "You've grown a lot since I last saw you. And I ain't talking about your nads, boy. I see death hanging in your eyes, beyond... what happened to Yeshua."

Those eyes studied the deck plating beneath them, at once feeling heavy as iron bearings. Why did he have to bring his late brother into this? Did Rast want him to feel worse than he already did? "I…I felt mom die."

Rast nodded. "I've seen and felt a lot of friends die in my line of work, boy. Won't pretend it doesn't eat at you. Never was all that close to Edwina y'know, but I knew she had a good soul. Cleaner than any man in our family at any rate. So that's why…?"

Daravon's skin burned at the memory. "Yeah. He did it. And I'm no longer so naïve to think the other three won't do the same to other families in the wrong hands. Losing one family member is tough, but we got over it. Losing two was agony. That's why."

He felt something wet in his palm and opened his eyes to find hot tears, impossible to hide from his uncle. For the first time since the Solar Barrier fight, he was with someone who knew the reason for these tears, knew his purpose. He hadn't realized until now how tiring the façade of the absent-minded professor was becoming, but now returning to it felt like cutting off his own ears.

"You got spirit", Uncle Rast remarked from somewhere above him. "But spirit ain't enough, boy. Not for this task you set for yourself. Not alone. Stick with us, and I'll be your alibi fer Anno Domino when all's said and done. You act like a grownup and we'll treat you like one. And that's a lot more old Jakey would ever offer you in this situation."

That reminder brought him back to where he was. His father, Jacob. A sadistic choice. Options and possibilities galore… but who could say if his uncle's patriotism ran thicker than blood? Who can I really trust anymore?

No one stopped him from taking a look at the unconscious form in the corner, one of Rast's men standing over her with a pistol. For so long now, I've fought with no hope at all. I'd resigned myself to death in the attempt. Natural to want to see the end of this nightmare, but not yet. Not yet. There are some secrets meant to be kept from a man like my uncle, even if he's the veteran here, and I'm just the rookie.

"I'll… do my best, uncle. However, I won't be able to contact you often- the alias DES created for this project- Nirel Verne- is still being watched by Shyron. That's why I need to bring the girl back with me, or they'll kill me on the spot. Not to mention, I don't want yet another one to die because of me.

Rast nodded after a pause. "Truth be told, we were going to… discard you after we got the location from one of you. It's not a fun part of the business, that. A little beauty like that you'd never suspect to be a military pilot or soldier… which I suspect is the idea. Go to your concert, boy. We'll be in touch."

That's it? It felt like a handful of minutes since they'd arrived, and now one of the trench coated men was wordlessly helping him to get the colored contacts back into his eyes.

Apparently, Rast felt it too. "Shame", he remarked dryly. "We can't even have this moment to catch up; this invisible war of ours waits for no man. But something tells me you keep your head in the game, boy, you'll do fine for now."

"When this is all over", he replied over his shoulder, "meet me at our old Christmas cottage. We can look back at this and laugh."

- - -

"Frackit". In a rare display of anger, Chief designer Umil Granq slammed both palms onto the flatboard, momentarily jarring the display in front of him. Contrary to his hopes, this did not change the scores listed in front of him, the ratings for each attribute of his creation, which seemed so much like direct markings of his own ability, like grades at school.

And he was failing. This was the final deadline for his team to transmit the design specs for the new MS units, those his new crew had voted to be named 'Slayers', to engineering so they could complete the details on the frames they had already constructed. Yet the MS-27A Slayers were imperfect. Flawed. They carried just as much firepower as their predecessors, true, but their speed and protection ratings were flawed; only 55 of their closest duplicate, the MS-22 Rana- 5 less than what he'd originally told Jakob Daravon they would be.

He'd tried. His entire team had done everything they could to iron out the drag coefficent, to reinforce the joints without weighing them down. Those efforts had ended in a general consensus that Nirel Verne was more skilled than they were.

Umil had ended up cursing them all for lazy idiots and left for the isolation of the building's vehicle pool. From there, a sole wall terminal still allowed him to know just how weak his work was next to DES' golden boy. He cursed him too, for setting such an impossible standard, for hamstringing them into using only Umil's knowledge and an incomplete backup copy. Perhaps this was karma for not going along with his final request and deleting it.

Not for the first time, he acknowledged that being the leader of this team of 'experts' Jakob had assembled was not his strength. In this particular area, previous experience with combat vehicles used in the revolution 40 years ago could only go so far- mustachioed Robert Mandell didn't seem to understand that these machines were built to be suits instead of tanks, and damned if he would let himself be corrected by a boy half his age.

What's done is done, he tried to comfort himself over the familiar nervousness welling up in his gut. We can do no more than-

Hold on… what's this?

A link left open, the electronic lock of its password picked. To a cursory glance, it would appear to be the trademark sloppiness of employees too tired out to care about logging out once they were done. Even now, a DES ID number was still required.

But the information alighting his eyes now had nothing to do with his job. It was an electronic order form to the House of Orpheon. The secret of the Mobile Suits. Is this...? It has to be!

A hydraulic hiss reached his ears, and he cursed again. Of course he didn't want any, he never wanted any, but trouble had always come to find him. It didn't even matter who was coming in- he was the chief, he was supposed to be in the lab with the others, not sifting through forbidden files in the V-Pool. He could think of a handful of DES employees who wouldn't blab about this and cost him his job, three of them being his old crew.

Footsteps. Dropping any further reservation, he dropped off the upraised partition of floor that held the terminal and sprinted for the closest cover; in this case, some sort of metal pillar barely wide enough to accommodate him- the pipeline strut of one of the shuttlecraft. He couldn't tell if his quick prayer to the man upstairs did anything, but the two men took the long way around the struts, one of them lowering the ramp with a small remote in their right hand.

Umil stared. There were no scheduled take-offs today. Had they just come to retrieve a pack or something locked in the shuttlecraft? Their posture said different- they were going about their buisness efficently, wordlessly, lacking banter of any kind. And now that he looked closer, these two men in DES uniforms were two he'd never seen before.

Just walk away, Umil. Just walk away. No one else knew they were here. Don't try to be a hero...

A single 'ping' of bare knuckles on metal drove his heart into his stomach. He'd been so nervous he hadn't watched where his shaking hands were on the strut, and that was enough for the larger of the two to peek his head out of the boarding ramp's eclipse. He was walking this way, his face shrouded in the V-Pool's darkness...

No choice now. Umil threw himself across to the next strut over and looked hard at diving into the nearest pile of crates. But no, the tall man had a nose for suspicous activity that suited his profession. He whispered something into his earpiece and went for the lights at the door. Umil's heart beat in his chest loudly enough to block out the sound of footsteps- when that ceiling light switched on, he would be impossible to miss-

Except the shuttle's lights weren't on. Only the cockpit lights, where the tall guy's partner was already seated. By the time the room's lights were on, he'd scrambled aboard the shuttle and hidden in the rearmost area he could find, a storage bay several lengths behind the bunks and navigation room. Crouched hidden in the dark, he did not dare breathe loudly.

Just get your thing and get going, you idiot. Get those lights off on your way out and don't look in the storage bay. Please please please don't look in the storage bay, you've looked there already...

That's right. There's no one here. V-Pool lights off, now close the ramp. That's good. You've found your misplaced item, now get off this shuttle.

I said get off the shuttle. Please don't turn the thrusters on... please please please don't open the V-Pool gate...

Oh crap.

- - -

Premier Orpheon had always found it a curious study to take note of the changes in a man's behavior around his little metal sled. They could claim respect, could promote equality amongst crips all they wished, yet the body language was a dead giveaway that his audiences saw him as a weak and unsuitable leader. He maintained sets of cameras inside and outside his office expressly for this purpose. The differences were often worth observing in detail.

Even with complete mobility, the Premier had spent much of his career as the quintessional observer, a social scientist first and participant second. Distancing oneself from the emotional undercurrents of events, he was soon to learn, was the defining trait of the professional politician as well as the social experimenter. The former also required a degree of ability to feign the stress a truly emotional person would convey, which again was no problem for him.

Here in the darkness of his office, however, the pretense of caring was not required. Instead he could simply watch something unfold that had been his chief experiment for the past decade.

As he had done countless times, his young retainer finished opening the forward 'hatch' of Kagebarai's modern hoversled. Beneath its support, behind the narrow bands at his feet, lay a grave reminder of his own mortality- as if he required such a thing. Two legs wreathed in wrinkled skin, stretched utterly useless before him as they had in the hospital he'd first woken up in.

Fortunately, he and his retainer had done this procedure countless times. The young man- Pola? Was that his name?- lifted his Premier effortlessly off the large sled and into the stationary chair beside it. As fast and professional about it as the poor lad was… there was always that inevitable moment of physical discomfort. Such a transfer required him to relinquish a moment's modesty. Even if the lad never breathed a word of it to anyone else, they wouldn't ever forget it.

Strong as ever today, that embarrassment at his personal weakness and immobility burned in Kagebarai Orpheon's heart. He banished it just as quickly- the experiment was more important than his trivial, mortal insecurities.

Securely fastened into the other chair, this one festooned with devices measuring cranial activity, the old man finally relaxed his arthritic grip. "I'm ready. Make sure you lock the door, Pola."

"You're certain, sir? If something goes wrong…"

So that was the kid's name after all. "Nonsense. I'm used to this by now. Give me half an hour undisturbed. Anyone comes, tell them I'm busy rounding out funding for this year's municipal budget. I'm counting on you."

Swiftly bowing, the young man turned and left. Kagebarai smiled when he was gone. Pola didn't appreciate how very unique he was, in his ability to see beyond appearances. Crippled or not, he treated his Premier with the greatest respect and obedience… He couldn't recall a single time when he had to make use of his power with that one.

Ah, yes. The experiment. His experiment. More in particular, the chair that held computers identical to those secretly installed in the fruits of his long joint-venture with the House of Daravon. His own aging but incredibly sharp mind was the spark, the chair the tinder for the FATE equation.

It began. All at once, twin ampoules punctured his back, spiking his bloodstream with adrenaline it would take his own body a war's worth of stress to manufacture. The House of Orpheon couldn't very well have its Premier running out to real battles just to properly work a secret project. With this, however, he could feel the details of his office fading to a faint black and white motif within the first two minutes.

Beyond that, he couldn't tell how long it would take. Time always seemed meaningless and elusive when the equation kicked in. Just like everything else around him. His office. Pola. Earth.

Reality caved inwards around him, leaving behind only the lines of black and white. Hundreds of thousands of lines connecting everything in the universe like strings, just like the last time and the time before that.

And yet, there were always subtle differences. He'd done this in secret for long enough to comprehend the basest inputs it offered, even to affect the direction his mind peered in some cases. In others, he could pick up on the stirrings of events by feeling the raw emotions these lines radiated.

This time, though…

This time was different. New, somehow. He couldn't ignore the wails of pain emitting from up and down huge clusters of lines. The sounds of gunfire and explosions and deaths. Billions of lines representing factors were intersecting at a certain spot. Trillions, all tied up into a knot. Thousands of lines just suddenly stopping, ending. Dead.

The Premier decided he could only be looking at a battle. Anno Domino versus Shyron, he noted with whatever clarity he could muster amidst such a head rush. Then the decisive battle between them is closer than I thought. Events that are about to unfold. Cause and effect. The life and death of thousands is affected by it, and it in turn is affected by the actions of billions of people.

Not just any battle, but the end of Shyron and its people… forever.

This looked promising. He would observe.