Chapter 5: Nunnally
NERV Boston: the new capital city of an empire that died twenty years ago. Long after Pendragon dried up and starved, the MAGI-operated infrastructure in Boston cranks onward. Automated water and electricity continue as before. The trains run on time. In a Britannian Empire of barely a hundred thousand people, the computers that run our lives do not mourn the dead. The delights of Instrumentality did not tempt our machines as they tempted us…once.
We are the remnant.
A winding chain of souls dangles in front of me. It stretches from an infinitely distant floor to an infinitely distant ceiling. Bodies compose its links. Some hang upside down; others jut to the side. All merge into a single long strand. Their arms beckon me, reach out for me. Their skin is black.
Around us: golden clouds. A sun that never sets pierces through them. It hovers ahead, ensuring that all of our shadows fall behind us—as long as we face the light and never look back. We stand in an open air temple. When reflected at this angle, the sunbeams give it the look of dark green quartz, although it isn't. Steps lead up to it. Flanking these, two columns stand watch, each mounting an octahedral lamp that the sunlight makes irrelevant.
It's an illusion, all of it. Akasha is actually a steel cylinder, perhaps a football field in diameter. Colored wires and hastily soldered metal panels are its walls. Above it—if we could look beyond the veil that our minds' eyes have constructed—we would see a planet floating in a void--a gas giant, like Jupiter.
Father built it as a weapon to overthrow the gods. He was a bit late.
Retainers stand behind me. I know their innermost thoughts, and they know mine. We saw each other in Instrumentality, and kept up correspondence thereafter when Lilith let us go. In a world of two hundred thousand souls with no common language, my company at the top is rather thin. In case you care:
Jeremiah. At attention. As always.
Lloyd. In the years before Instrumentality, his eccentric tics and monomania drove others away. Now, his experience as an isolated misfit has become an asset—if you could call it that. He doesn't anymore. There is an empty space to his right where Cecile should be, but isn't.
C.C. A hollow shell, a vessel for her Code. Instrumentality tore her soul in two like Kyoko Sohryu's. She yearns for someone still trapped in the Ring of Souls, but cannot remember what it felt like to love him.
…That's it. The rest of them swim in the hive-mind that poisons our oceans and orbits the Earth in a red ring. It prospers and grows fat from the souls it eats, and has eaten. Below it, the Collective Unconscious withers.
I place my hand on the chain. It crackles in response.
"You're sure that this will work?" I ask.
Lloyd shakes his head.
"Nope," he says. "Sorry, Nunners."
Jeremiah stiffens behind him.
"You will address her as 'Empress' or 'Your Majesty'," he snaps.
"Fascist," Lloyd mutters.
His jibe is good-natured; I hope. Lloyd has become more serious with passing years. The former sub-Director of the Jetalot program bows so low that his hand sweeps across the floor. I smile, removing my hand from Akasha to place it on his shoulder. The other rests on Jeremiah's.
"So this is it," I say.
C.C. watches us from the sidelines like a child peering through a window. She wrings her hands and looks at nothing in particular. Amber eyes dart to random points in the clouds. I try to coax her over, but she doesn't come.
"Wish me luck," I say.
"Going to rain tonight," C.C. replies. "Hm…vi Britannia's there, isn't he?...mm…sunny here, though…softest black hair I've ever felt…Distant as usual…Time's a state of mind, really…"
"Good luck," says Jeremiah.
"Good luck," says Lloyd.
"Goodbye," I whisper.
Akasha activates.
Japan: Jetalot Project Meeting
I stood at a podium with a corrugated yellow screen behind me. Someone had decorated the wall with red-and-white striped banners that reminded me of candy canes. Paper flowers studded it at intervals of a foot or so. A thousand paper cranes hung on the walls.
Several had messages written on them: 'wellcome Nunalie', 'huray', and the rest.
I sighed. The Japanese—not Elevens, I reminded myself—had gone all-out to receive me. And if they didn't know my language as well as I knew theirs, well…it was our fault for closing the public schools, wasn't it?
Half an hour earlier, Euphie and I had arrived in one of those VTOL planes that my brothers found interesting when they were children. Now she sat with Cornelia. Non-Britannians sat apart from the rest in the corner of the room. The Britannian tables overflowed with food—beluga caviar, champagne bottles, Kobe beef, truffles, foie gras—while our Japanese subjects made do with cheap sake.
…Until Luciano Bradley took it away from them. Can't have the Elevens getting drunk on company time, after all.
When Euphie had sent her own champagne to the 'Eleven' table, Bradley had given her a look that would have curdled milk. Euphie had ignored it. Suzaku had not…and since Luciano had surrendered his knives at the door, the Knight of Ten looked distinctly relieved when I patched matters up before Suzaku got the chance to take him apart. Euphie's knight could be a little...overzealous sometimes.
I tapped the microphone.
"Um…hello? Is this—oh, good. It's on. O-kay….Hi, everyone. My name is Nunnally vi Britannia, Eleventh Princess of Britannia and your new boss…."
I smiled and waved. At our table, Rolo jumped up, yelling "Hi!" at the top of his lungs. He sat down a second later after everyone stared at him. Rolo's fingers shot to the chain around his neck, nervously stroking the locket I'd given him.
"Ahem…anyway, I see a lot of Britannian military in the audience tonight…"
Gino waved and gave me a goofy grin. The rest preened or tried to look official and stoic.
"…which is good," I continued. "Um…great, actually. Unlike NERV, we have top pilots instead of children. I know that all of you are itching to face the monsters that killed so many of your comrades…and…um…I hope we'll build machines worthy of your abilities."
It was as if I'd waved a cape in front of a bull. A collective growl ran through the crowd. It was muted, but definitely there. Britannia's military hated Shinji Ikari—hated him with a passion greater than the Angels could ever evoke. Fourteen-year-old Numbers weren't supposed to pilot Britannia's greatest weapon. Even Suzaku's social climbing paled in comparison.
Good. They needed motivation.
My speech concluded, I thanked everyone for their time. My relatives rose and clapped. I can remember them still—a wall of gold buttons, velvet dresses and silk ascots. Schneizel shook my hand as I descended the stage. In another time, another life, he would have become Project Director and played his small (albeit oblivious) part in destroying the world. Not now.
Guinevere thought otherwise. My speech had barely ended when my sister swished across the room and accused me of stealing Odysseus's post. The feathers on her headdress bobbed angrily when she spoke. I had used undue influence, she said. I had manipulated Father, she said. Her accusations came as no surprise, since I had heard them before almost word for word—except that she'd directed them at Schneizel last time.
Odysseus patted me on the head and muttered his apologies after Guinevere stormed off. I thanked him. We heard a meaty thwack across the room, and Odysseus's eyes widened.
"You'd better go," I said. "It sounds like—"
"Gwen slapped another man for ogling her," Schneizel finished with a wry smile.
Our oldest brother nodded and raced after her. Guinevere's tattoo had a habit of attracting unwanted attention.
"Poor Odysseus," I said.
Schneizel nodded sagely and joined the party.
Mother hadn't come. She was "ill". I hid my disappointment behind the mask I always wore for company.
My spirits rose slightly when I saw a familiar pair of pigtails. Each supported an enormous gold hoop that must have weighed a pound. Her pink dress looked beautiful.
"Carline!" I squealed.
"Nunnally!"
We clasped hands and came this close (I'm pinching my fingers together) to hopping up and down.
"I haven't seen you for ages," she said.
"You don't know the half of it."
I hadn't met Carline until we were seven, when I'd discovered her curled up in the pantry. Her mother had locked her there after she'd sneezed at a military review. I'll refrain from commenting any further on her mother save to say that she made our friendship difficult, but we managed anyway. That evening, we had baked blueberry cookies and debated the relative merits of Lelouch and Clovis. Things mushroomed from there. Seven years later, she still treated me with an air of exaggerated respect that I found embarrassing.
We chatted, swapped cookie recipes, and promised to catch up later.
A green light appeared in the corner of my eye. I followed it to its source: a camera in the hands of a ponytailed Britannian in a coat and turtleneck. Another man stood behind him—Japanese, with stubble on his chin.
Well hello, Kaji…
Later on, I could use him…but not yet. I crooked a finger at Guilford.
"Yes, Milady?"
"I'm sorry to sound pushy," I said, "but I specifically excluded press and the U.F.N. from this event."
Guilford's eyes widened like saucers. At any moment, he was going to start stammering his apologies.
"I don't know how they got—"
I headed him off by patting his hand.
"Don't worry," I said. "I just want Jetalot kept under wraps from now on."
Guilford exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed j-u-u-u-st a smidgeon. He turned to go.
"And Guilford?" I said.
"Yes, Milady?"
"Don't be too mean to them, okay?"
"I…er…very well, Milady."
As Guilford evicted our party crashers, I heard a familiar voice. It droned in a world-weary way about particle accelerators, Gefjun theory, and whether cornstarch made a better thickening agent than tapioca. Before I could catch myself—or even realize what I was doing—I dashed over and half-hugged, half-tackled him. His wine splashed on me. I didn't care.
His coat smelled of mothballs.
"Lloyd!"
For a quarter of a second, surprise etched itself into his weasely face. Then we both realized that everybody was staring at us. I released him.
"Um…" I began.
"Er…yes…"
I stuck out my hand. My voice came out as a squeak.
"Nice to meet you!"
Lloyd looked around as if he'd stumbled into the middle of a rather elaborate practical joke and was waiting for everyone to laugh. Nobody did. Cornelia coughed loudly and looked from Lloyd to my outstretched hand.
"Ah…? Oh, right…" he said.
He leaned forward and kissed it. The blonde woman beside him smirked, but said nothing. She tapped a silver opium pipe on the hem of her sleeve. I recognized her: Rakshata Chawla, the knightmare designer who'd sold her talents to China in return for limited self-rule in Bengal. They'd given her to the Jetalot Project, and in return, she would spy for them.
I intended to let her. Doomsday was more important than national security.
After we broke off, I felt a sharp pain as Cornelia gripped my arm. I must have winced, because she let go as if I'd burned her and refused to meet my eyes after that. We walked to a balcony. I pretended to stare at the neon glow of Tokyo-2.
"I know," I said. "It won't happen again."
"It had better not!" she hissed.
My fists clenched. I turned to her.
"Cornelia, he and Jeremiah were the only friends I had. I'm sorry it looked suspicious, and I told you it won't happen again."
Cornelia's scowl softened. She ran her hand through my hair, and sighed.
"My little Nunnally," she said. "I'd never guess you had the consciousness of a woman in her thirties."
"I'm young at heart," I replied.
Another pair of high heels stepped onto the balcony. I heard the sound of silk dragging across the ground. The voice was gentle.
"Nunnally, you shouldn't have—"
Cornelia's raised hand cut Euphemia off.
"I already told her," she said. "It won't happen again."
"Oh…"
Euphie leaned on the marble railing. Below us, horns honked and aircraft roared through the sky, but all of that happened in the distance. For now, the night's air warmed our necks. Cicadas fiddled for us, courtesy of Second Impact.
"We should tell Lelouch," Euphemia said.
"No!...I mean, no. Not yet," I said. "The fewer people who know about this, the smaller the butterfly effect will be."
"…and the better your predictions are," Cornelia added.
"Right," I said.
Euphie absentmindedly chewed on her nails.
"But if Lelouch dies—"
"He won't," I said. "Sayoko's keeping me informed of his movements. He's safe."
Cornelia snorted.
"Safe? With Gendo Ikari?"
"Gendo knows that killing Lelouch would be a death sentence for NERV," I said. "Father wouldn't stand for it."
If Cornelia had been dismissive before, she was doubly so now.
"You must be joking."
I gently squeezed her shoulder and turned to the door.
"You'll have to trust me on this one," I said. "And Cornelia?"
"Yes?"
I unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to her. Graphite stains were smeared across it. I'd written it in a hurry.
"I want the Jetalot Project's rooms redesigned to these specifications," I said.
Cornelia raised an eyebrow.
"If what you've told me about Geass is accurate, we'd just need a visor—"
"I'm not worried about Lelouch's Geass," I said. "He would never use it on me."
Cornelia's eyes narrowed.
"Then what…?"
"The person I'm worried about can read minds," I said.
Politics is a game of gestures. The Japanese kow-towed when I sat at their table. Gasps erupted from the nearest Britannians, but fortunately, the table sat far enough in the corner that few noticed us.
My new companions looked at me, red-faced from the sake but unwilling to meet my eyes. Everybody stopped eating. They shuffled, fidgeted, and did their utmost to look away without seeming rude. There were only two exceptions. The first was a red-haired girl whose sickly demeanor—'act' would have been more accurate—belied the highest aptitude scores for knightmare combat short of Suzaku's. Karen Stadtfeld, a.k.a. Kallen Kozuki. The Britannians had picked her because she was half-Britannian herself—and thus a 'natural' leader for her Japanese subordinates. They'd chosen poorly, since she was a terrorist.
She was Tohdoh's pawn, and he was Gendo's.
The second was more furtive. Unlike Kallen, Mana looked up from her food only when she thought I wasn't looking. Like Kallen, her hair carried a reddish tint, although wore it shorter, in a bob cut. She shared Kallen's hobby.
I switched to Japanese.
"Um…hi, everybody."
Jaws dropped. Silence, then nervous welcomes that contained more honorifics than your average C.V. I struggled to maintain my smile.
"Well," I said, "I'm going to be making an official announcement tomorrow, but I wanted to give this in advance….Oh for goodness's sake, eat!"
They dug into their food with the zeal of marines storming a beach. Not quite what I'd had in mind.
"I…er…anyway…Mana? Kallen? I'm doubling your training hours."
Mana nearly choked on her food, but said nothing. Kallen's hand tightened around her fork until the knuckles whitened.
"Begging your Majesty's pardon…" she began.
Her tone made it obvious that she wasn't doing anything of the sort. I nodded politely.
"…but I'm already doing forty hour workweeks. What makes you think—"
"Miss Stadtfeld!" I said, with as much sternness as I could muster. "Are you aware that your people are treated like second class citizens?"
"What does that have to do with—"
"And furthermore, do you realize that you and Mana are the only Japanese who have been given the chance to compete directly with the Knights of the Round?"
"I—um—What?"
"You and Mana are the first step toward equal rights for the Japanese. You're going to beat the Britannians at their own game, and that's that. Don't screw it up. And now, if you'll excuse me…"
I stood up. They stared at me as if I'd just announced that Nessie was real…which, in a way, I had. Belatedly, I noticed the stain on my collar from Lloyd's wine. Oh, well…
"…I have work to do," I finished.
I dipped my head to Kallen and headed back to my sisters. What I hadn't added was that the eighty-hour workweeks would prevent Kallen from contacting the JLF easily.
That night, I drank far too much champagne.
