Nine hours on a stuffy, jolting steam-train, and, as far as Mustang was concerned, it might well have been nine years. Even ensconced in a relatively comfortable seat in the second class, the constant swaying motion, the terrific thunder of the engine and the wheels on the iron tracks, and the smell of his fellow passengers' cigarettes and perfumes and lunches and pomade and sour sweat combined to give the sleep-deprived captain a headache and an impatience to be outside in the questionably fresh air of Central City.
Getting up at four in the morning was not unusual – the war had included many night raids by one side or the other, besides watch duty, and up until very recently, he had scarcely had an uninterrupted night's sleep for years – but spending a day bored and cooped up in a hot wooden box was taxing. Why on earth had he been posted at the opposite end of the country from HQ?
Most of the territory through which the railway passed was given over to agriculture; fields of wheat, potatoes, pastures for cattle, ploughed, grazed or scythed to stubble. All the land had been farmed to exhaustion, as had the country. Every province, every town, every citizen, had given everything to get through this war. Victory had been declared, but what did that mean to the survivors? Slightly less than to the mothers whose sons would never come home, and young women widowed before they were married, the fields laid to fallow.
This, the Fuhrer's rhetoric had not taken into account - the country that he now ruled was brought to its knees. He asked for total dedication, the land had given it, and now had nothing more to give. The men and women had given their strength, their health and their youth, and the state could not afford their pensions. Towns were run to ruin, their wealth given entirely to the war effort.
As he did every day, Mustang looked down at his hands, clad in white gloves, and wished that he could erase the past seven years of his life, or begin again somehow. He felt a hundred years old.
At last, the train crossed the brown sluggish river Ebro, and dragged through the suburbs, then the slums, then the grimy industrial district of Central City. Two in the afternoon, and the streets around the railway station were busy. This, Mustang found difficult to adapt to. People, just walking around.
Buying vegetables, carrying packages, pushing perambulators with chattering babies, sitting on benches, eating hot chestnuts, busy and idle and occupied with their own lives. Luxuriating in safety and mundane cares. Now he knew he was in a different world.
The briefing was tedious and predictable. A phone-call or even a letter would have sufficed, rather than dragging him hundreds of miles to hear about the massive budget cuts, the frozen salaries, the uncertainty that a third war was not imminent. His resource allocation was pitiful, a token amount, denoting the low risk that the Fuhrer clearly believed the Western provinces to present to his rule, and by extension, the stability of the nation. The army was barely necessary for this task, and Roy got the sense that they were being not so much deployed as held there in reserve, ready to march in case of further disturbance to the south.
Then on to the college of the State Alchemists. Even now, he felt a warm afterglow of the reverence and pride that had once overwhelmed him as he had walked among these grand old buildings, as a much younger man. To belong to an institution such as this was, in his mind, justification for signing away his adolescence to lecture halls and libraries and an intractable master. That was before the war, at any rate.
With half an hour to kill before meeting the Dean, he headed for one of the newer blocks, put up during the first war to house alchemists-turned-officers. Many of the names over the pigeon-holes were familiar, some he knew to be dead. A haphazard pile of letters suggested that Armstrong had not been back to his quarters for some time. Kimble's name had been unceremoniously removed, and not yet replaced. Where his own name had once been was now a blank space; the porter would forward his mail to Ausburg. Or perhaps he wouldn't.
The Dean's office was where it had always been, at the top of the administrative block; a large crescent-shaped window looked out over the quadrangle, and between the walls was cramped with dusty oak furniture that might have been there since the college was built five centuries ago. The ceiling was painted dark blue, with a constellation map picked out in silver, but furred and dimmed by years of dust and lamp-soot and pipe-smoke. Roy remembered the gentle old man being quiet, sincere and knowledgeable about alchemy and also statecraft. Like so many others, the war seemed to have aged him by twenty, rather than seven years, and his eyes were practically blind.
He stood at the door, the Dean's secretary introduced him, and then leftU the room.
"Do please be seated, Mustang," the man gestured at a hard wooden seat by the empty hearth.
"Thank you, sir."
The Dean settled himself into a chair facing the younger man, and lifted his spectacles from his chest to his face, the better to see him.
"I was pleased to hear that you had made it through the war without getting yourself killed like so many, or going spectacularly mad like others. You look well, under the circumstances."
"Yes, sir."
"And they've sent you out west to drink beer and lounge around in the hot-springs, eh? Ha! I had some good times in Ausburg when I was a student!"
Mustang smiled. Was the old man perhaps slightly senile? Or was it his own greater age and experience that allowed them to speak together, almost as equals?
"It's a pleasant posting, sir. But I don't see what good I can be to the college out there."
"Funny you should mention it, Mustang. I've been giving this some thought, and on speculation, I commissioned one of my undergraduates to travel around a bit and gather some intelligence. What the college needs right now, more than anything else, is recruits. Thanks to the weaponisation programme, we suffered disproportionately from fatalities during the war; almost half the college was deployed at some stage or another, and two-thirds of those who went out never made it back. We are depleted, and barely have enough teaching staff to continue in our function as a college, let alone carry out research. And our research is needed now more than ever, if the state is to recover from this debacle. Which brings me back to my roving undergraduate. About two-hundred miles to the south-west of Ausburg, he picked up the trail of an alchemist whose name will be familiar to you, I'm sure; van Hohenheim. It seems he was seen around there ten to twelve years ago. A little further digging revealed that he had, during that time, fathered at least two sons. The boys show signs of unusual talents, transmuting matter into different shapes, largely for their own amusement. Their pedigree is remarkable, Mustang. This van Hohenheim has been known to the college for some time, and we have never heard of him having produced any children. You will be ideally placed to keep an eye on these boys, and to recruit them when they come of age."
The captain nodded slowly. Recruitment was not his area of expertise, but the opportunity to manage two innate alchemists was tempting.
"There is a slight complication, however. The boys have recently been in contact with an old friend of yours; then Izumi Haru, now Izumi Curtis. She has taken up residence in the north, Dublith, I believe, and has married an Amestrian man. As a result, we cannot deport her, and the statute of limitations on her previous criminal activities has passed, so we cannot imprison her on any legitimate grounds."
"That doesn't necessarily mean that the boys will be hostile to the State Alchemists," Roy said, after a moment's thought, "Only that we'll have to approach them separately, and with an emphatically non-military offer. I'll get on their trail, and figure out what they want."
The old man now smiled, somewhat bitterly;
"I knew you would understand, Mustang. I have always thought you have a good head for tactics."
They spoke a while longer, reminiscing about the past, while skirting carefully around the issue of the war. Small hints in the Dean's speech led Mustang to thing that he was not enamoured of Bradley's power-grab, or the new dictatorial governance of the previously republican state. But, out of respect for the old man's politically precarious situation, he did not disclose the plot into which he had entered with Major General Armstrong. Ultimately, he didn't need to. As he rose to leave, the old man shook his hand, and then pulled him close to whisper in his ear;
"I've heard you've become embroiled in the intrigues of the Armstrong family. Olivia and Marie Armstrong, in particular, seem to have developed a strong interest in you."
Careful, he thought.
"Yes, sir. I had a conversation with the Major General before her departure for Fort Briggs, and I have a standing appointment with Miss Armstrong. I'll be meeting her for lunch tomorrow, and I'll pass on your regards."
"You're a lucky man," the Dean did not seem pleased to admit it, "I hope that stays with you. For gods sake, get some good men on your side. The women of the Armstrong family are not sentimental; they will chew you up and spit you out."
Roy raised his eyebrows.
"That sounds like the voice of experience, sir?"
"Ah, well. In my youth, I was briefly courting Honoria Armstrong. Needless to say, she married Karl Albrecht Scherzinger, and I married my books and my college."
"Ouch. I'll be careful. As far as I know, it's just a dalliance. I know my place."
They parted on good terms, and Mustang opted to walk across town in the cooling rain, rather than hail a cab to get to the Hughes household for dinner. The house was small and neat, in a good neighbourhood, and boxes of blooming geraniums grew under the street-facing windows. The housekeeper answered the door, and admitted him straight to the parlour, where sat a slender, sweet-faced girl of twenty-three, dressed in baby-blue, with a ribbon in her hair. She rose to her feet, and kissed him on both cheeks with a bright smile.
"Captain Roy Mustang, I'm delighted to finally meet you. Maes will be home imminently, he has unfortunately been delayed at the office," she rolled her eyes at him, still smiling, "This is a fairly common occurrence. He asked me to convey his apologies, and to ensure that you are made comfortable."
"Mrs Hughes, thank you for inviting me into your home. You are too kind."
"Please do call me Gracia. I'll have Heidi show you to your room so that you can change into some dry clothing. The porter brought your luggage round this afternoon, and it's all waiting for you. I will also change for dinner, and hopefully by then my office-bound husband and our guest will have materialised."
The housekeeper led him up two flights of stairs to the attic bedroom, where his trunk had been deposited. He changed from his day uniform into a dinner suit, and combed the greasy city rainwater out of his hair. The room, like the rest of the house, was cozy, slightly in need of renovation, but carefully kept. A china vase of fragrant lilies brightened the dressing table. How his friend had been domesticated!
While changing, he heard the door opening downstairs, and Hughes' voice, indistinct through two
floors. Then footsteps thundering up the stairs, and his bedroom door flew open.
"Good evening, old boy! You look almost presentable!" his friend was also damp from the rain, but his smile was warm, "I'm glad you and your luggage found your way alright. We can talk business later, but I wanted to let you know so that you are forewarned. Earlier today, I learned that the Hawkeye girl was in town, having been recalled from the south, as per your requisition. So I took the liberty of inviting her for dinner. Don't make a scene, there's a good chap."
Mustang shrugged.
"Why would I make a scene? You can dine with whoever you like."
His friend winked, and ducked back around the door. Mustang followed him downstairs, and back
into the parlour. Gracia had changed into a green velvet gown, and opposite her sat his Lieutenant, in a simple black evening gown. Doubtless, a sign of respect for her father. Introductions being redundant, they launched straight into conversation.
The evening started promisingly enough; a cocktail of gin with mint and violet essence, a beef consommé, quail stuffed with nuts and raisins, paired with white wine, veal escalopes with root vegetables braised in port, paired with red wine, a light pudding of cream and raspberries, followed by brandy and cigars for the two men, tea for the ladies. Around the main course, Hughes observed that his wife had engaged Hawkeye deeply in conversation about a literary journal to which they both subscribed - effectively, catching her up on four years of missed issues - and turned his conversation with Mustang to work gossip. He grinned as he reported;
"We had two privates returned from Briggs this week. Apparently, they had gone a little mad, poor devils. Thrashing about and screaming that there was some sort of spectre or demon loose in the fortress. They'd been found like that, hiding in a snow-bank, six hours after having failed to report in from guard detail. Serious hypothermia, and the like, but mostly they were just… hysterical."
Roy was only vaguely interested;
"There must be quite a lot of undiagnosed cases of shell-shock in returning soldiers. Perhaps the darkness and cold were just too much for them, and they snapped."
"Or perhaps it's Armstrong's reign of terror!" Maes was amused by the idea, "She's only been up there two weeks, and already the men are feigning madness to get reassigned!"
"I don't think anyone in their right mind would choose to be sent to Briggs. Never mind the bears and wolves in the mountains, the Drachmans run up and hurl fireballs and improvised explosive devices at them, pretty much every month. And it's miles away from the nearest civilisation. No cozy suppers like this one, I'll wager."
"That's the truth. Armstrong will keep them on bread-crusts and water. Her brother mentioned offhand that she only eats once a day, and regularly fasts, just so her body can deal without food. She'll outlive us all. So what's the gossip from the college?"
"No official statement on Kimble, so I guess there won't be an inquiry. They'll just bury it."
His friend shuddered.
"Crazy wretch."
"That was pretty much the Dean's diagnosis. Put it down to combat stress. Tucker passed his examinations, at long last. You remember, that funny pale kid who vomited on his rifle when that body came floating down the river at Pesaro? He's been at it for a while, but he's finally made it. He's putting together a proposal for research funding to resume work on chimeras."
"What's the strategic value of chimeras?" Hughes was sceptical, "Haven't they been down that blind alley already?"
"We know more now than we did then. It's possible that it's safe to try it again. And the strategic value is pretty obvious, when you think about it. There are diseases that affect humans but not animals. It's possible that you could even use them to grow organs or blood for human transplants. From a military perspective, imagine sentient hawks that could reconnoitre a battle-ground, or intelligent rats that could carry small quantities of explosives into enemy-held territory, or convey messages to allies."
"It sounds dicey to me."
He wondered about sharing his assignment with his friend, and decided to sit on it for a while longer. How impressed would Hughes be about a babysitting detail?
After the meal, they moved to the drawing room, where Hughes tried to ply them with port, and Mustang found himself sat opposite his Lieutenant.
"It's very kind of your friends to have invited me for dinner," she offered, as the conversation lulled, "I haven't had such a magnificent meal for years."
"Quite. One forgets what real food tastes like," he failed to keep the bitterness from his voice, his temperature rising with the richness of the meal and port.
"What brings you to Central?" she tried again.
"I was summoned to meet the resourcing panel about my new posting. The wages aren't going to be as good as they were in the field. And most of the duties will be administrative. Lieutenant Hawkeye - blast it! What is your name?"
"Riza."
"Right. Riza, why do you want to be on my staff?"
She gave him a long look, and then asked;
"May I speak frankly?"
He glanced at the back of Maes, hunched over the card table, cackling with laughter, and Gracia's radiant face as she pencilled in her score.
"Please. Although, if your answer displeases me, I will stop you."
She replied directly, and spoke steadily.
"Fine. I'm sure you know that I was also posted at the Iqbal front-line for four years. I carried out my basic training in the field, and I was immediately recruited to the sharp-shooters. We covered most of the infantry's manoeuvres. I knew of you by reputation through my father, and other contacts in the college, so I looked out for you when our platoons were involved in the same action. I watched you, where you went on the battlefield or in covert strikes."
She took a breath, and glanced at him before continuing. Her voice was crisp and cool, and her eyes were clear, in spite of the emotionally-loaded subject.
"The sharp-shooters had a difficult time of it. We never saw our kills up close, and for the most part, they died without knowing what hit them. Men would be overcome by guilt and remorse, or even just fatigue in the face of the pointless nature of the conflict. That was what caused them to turn their weapons on their feet or legs to be sent home, or on their heads to die quickly. I was very young, and, looking back, quite naive, but even I struggled to see the point of it all sometimes. Then, quite by coincidence, I found that I had saved your life, by taking out a foot-soldier who was advancing on your position. I felt that I had done something worthwhile. I didn't believe in the conflict, or in the mission, or in the chain of command, but I believed that whatever you did, it was a good man who did it."
She fixed him with her eyes. He wondered where this had come from. They had never met. Was she able to see something that he, and the rest of the world, was unable to? Or was she projecting on him her own need for a good and moral man?
"It was a game at first," she continued, still perfectly factual, "I'd watch out for you when I knew you were close, keep you safe, clear your path, watch over you until you got home. It kept me present, engaged in the mission, purposeful. As long as you were alive, at least I had done something right. When the conflict ended, and I learned that you were still alive, I felt that I had been given an opportunity to continue my self-appointed mission. The last thing I want to do is to go back to Iqbal and round up and kill the stragglers and the refugees, those too stubborn or too incapacitated to leave the contested zone. Nor did I want to be seconded to a guard post under a CO who celebrated the outcome. I still have no faith in the chain of command, or the state, or even the Fuhrer. I have faith in you. Does that answer your question inoffensively?"
She asked this last question with a slight smile, teasing. He was utterly surprised by her honesty, naked, jewel-bright, and her total lack of self-interest. What creature was this that, never having met him, would risk her life and her career to protect him? This was insanity, pure folly. She would discover the truth soon, that he was petty, selfish, dishonest, embittered.
The sound of a throat clearing behind him. Hughes, standing over his shoulder. He had been staring at the girl's implacable face, those ocean eyes, for some time.
"Miss Hawkeye, perhaps you would entertain my wife for a hand or two of Hearts while I catch up with my old friend?"
She stood with a smile.
"With pleasure, Captain Hughes."
He resumed her empty chair, and his friend glared at him. With a smile, he asked lightly;
"Are you out of your mind?"
"What?"
"You're going the right way to get court-martialled. Worse, your men will lose faith in you. For the love of god, man. Do not fuck your subordinates!"
The last injunction was delivered in an urgent whisper. Mustang was again surprised.
"I don't intend to! What are you driving at, Hughes?"
"Come off it, old boy. That poor child is clearly infatuated with you, and you give her all encouragement. Had I known, I would not have requisitioned her for you. This is irresponsible to the highest degree."
He resented the reprimand, and shot back;
"I had no idea, Hughes. This is the second time we've spoken, and I repeat that I have no intention of becoming involved with her. What kind of man do you think I am? I can't deny that it's useful if she has some personal feeling towards me, it will keep her loyal, and increase her dedication to her work. But no pretty eyes are worth committing professional suicide!"
"I'm glad we agree. Roy, I apologise, it's just that I know that you can be impulsive and damnably contrarian in nature. I wish you'd do yourself and this girl a favour and send her back to the infantry. I'll find you another Lieutenant, somebody equally loyal and talented."
"No dice, Hughes. She's convinced me. It's definitely better to have this kind of officer as an ally than an enemy. Besides, as she herself pointed out, if people think I'm the kind of guy to recruit a pretty young Lieutenant as an unofficial secretary, they'll underestimate me in other ways."
His friend sighed, resigned.
"I hope you know what you're doing."
"Hey, I learned by watching you. Now why don't we play a doubles game? I'm still just about sober enough for a hand of Bridge, and I perceive that your charming wife is something of a card-sharp."
They rejoined the table, and a game went underway. An hour later, Hawkeye departed, and the dinner part ended. She was to take a train later that week to Ausburg, and Mustang was relieved that they would not spend the nine-hour journey close to one another.
The following morning, he spent in a haze. Having ordered his luggage to be sent to the station, he dressed in his finest civilian clothes - a much-pressed linen shirt, navy trousers too large for his war-starved frame, fine waistcoat and collar from his long-ago graduation, and a second-hand woollen great-coat - and set out through the sodden streets. His destination was the restaurant of an excellent hotel, where his coat and hat were taken by a footman dressed more grandly than himself. He raked his fingers through his black hair to make it sit straight, and allowed himself to be shown to his table. There, Marie poised on her seat, relaxed and insouciant, in a blue-grey day dress that probably cost more than his entire ensemble brand-new. Her golden hair was softly curled and pinned back, and her face flawless.
"Captain Mustang," she rose to her feet, and offered her cheek for a kiss, "I'm so pleased that you could join me."
Her eyes flitted about, making sure that they were observed by the bored semi-aristocratic gossips who occupied the nearby tables. Then she offered him a satisfied smile and a wink. He felt, if anything, more uncomfortable and self-conscious, which he covered with a taciturn frown.
"Miss Armstrong, delighted as I am to see you again, I must inform you that my train for Ausberg departs in under two hours, and I may have to leave you abruptly."
"Oh! We'll see to that!" she laughed, airily, "I won't give up my favourite dining companion for anything so common as public transport! Tell me, how have you enjoyed your stay in Central? What is it like to return after such a long time abroad?"
He was briefly spared answering by the return of the waiter, bringing an unasked-for glass of red wine, which he drank in two quick gulps. What could be said? The city was laconic, decadent, stumbling along without purpose, dazed by a decade of war and total change of leadership, beaten down by oppressive war-taxes and hateful rhetoric?
"I have enjoyed my stay, ma'am. It has been enlightening. I find the city quite different, but no less civilised, I'm sure."
To his surprise, she smiled at his answer.
"I am glad, Captain, I am glad! And you are to be stationed at Ausberg, I understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"That is rather remote," she said, reproachfully, "If we didn't have the railways, I don't know what we should do!"
Her transformation from satirical to apparently vacuous was difficult to follow. Mustang could only nod, and add;
"Each of our borders must be defended, ma'am. Including the north, as your family will do so capably."
Nothing could shake her composure.
"I am so glad that our best and brightest are able to be dispatched to where they are needed. My sister is well-suited to her commission, and she will do an excellent job, as I am sure you will."
The courses, and the conversation, followed on in accordance with formulae. Marie was charming, full of pleasantries and the occasional insight, until the end of the meal. As she paid, she invited Mustang to follow her to a suite that her family reserved upstairs. Although his train was minutes away from departure, he knew better than to disagree, and followed the slight form of Miss Armstrong out of the restaurant and upstairs, conscious that he was pursued by many eyes.
Once inside the suite, the girl was all business. She poured two measures of whiskey into two glasses, and motioned him to a comfortable seat, in front of which she knelt on the plush carpet.
"I have news for you from my sister," she stated, matter-of-factly, "you needn't worry about being overheard, this room is quite secure."
As she spoke, he was alarmed that she unpinned her hair, extracting a bright pink ribbon from among its tresses and letting it float to the floor.
"She has consolidated her position, and ensured that the men about her are those that she - and by extension you - can trust. She has recruited them to her mission, and hopes for success before the next year is out."
He averted his eyes as she reached to her ankles and untied her pink silk boots, and kicked them aside.
"She offers you the following words of advice," at this, she reached into the cleavage of her dress, and extracted a much-folded strip of paper; "'Build your team wisely. You are an intuitive leader, you will not struggle to identify and recruit the right men, taking into account their skills, experiences and motives.'"
Marie smiled and nodded, shaking her golden curls over her shoulders;
"Ah, now. Let me see. She recommends that you 'run your unit as a team of teams. Men in groups will form cliques. Allow them to do so. Only ensure that you have a man on the inside to report back to you the pulse of the organism.'"
She paused to raise herself on her knees and untie her gown behind her back, allowing it to slip to below her corseted waist.
"Additionally, 'you will have recruited a team of specialists. Encourage them to be protective of their specialism, and generous with their information. All data must be shared with all, to the benefit of all. Your strategic arm must know what your operational arm is doing, and vice-versa. Insist that these channels of communication should be open.'"
Mustang took in these words, even as he watched Marie reach her arms behind her back to unfasten her own corset lacings with a happy sigh. Shaking herself out of these garments, and raising herself to her feet to walk around the room in only her stockings, she continued;
"'There will be many languages spoken in the office. You and your Lieutenant - Hawkeye, unless my sources deceive me - will be fluent in the practical, abbreviated dialect of the front line. Your tactician, Breda, will speak in the language of the bureaucrats, which is calculated to please, rather than to inform. Your technologist will communicate in jargon. Your job is to encourage him to convey what his machines convey, rather than what they do. Plain language is the aim. Make them speak in the same language, regardless of the information that they have to convey. The finest intelligence is useless if they don't understand one another, or if you don't understand them.'"
Armstrong halted, as her sister's letter was complete, and glanced at Mustang to ensure that he had understood. His eyes were fixed on her, and he roused himself to nod.
"Please, um… please thank your sister, ma'am, for these insights. Tell her that I am grateful for her experience."
Marie smiled, and settled herself on his lap, one leg on either side of his own, and slipped the paper into his pocket. Then her hands reached to his waistcoat and shirt, unfastening the buttons without invitation, down to his waist.
"I'm sure you will be able to thank her yourself at some point, Captain."
He drew breath carefully, not wishing to offend his hostess, nor to convey his enthusiasm too strongly. She slipped his shirt over his shoulders, moving his braces aside, and bringing her face alongside his so that she could whisper in his ear.
"Of course, anything you want to convey to her, you can always give to me. And I will carry the message on."
Her lips grazed his at the end of the sentence, and the temptation was too great to ignore. He met her with a kiss, and wrapped his arms around her waist, slipping his hands to her rear as she hastened to remove his clothes. For a young woman, she was experienced and authoritative, generous and unabashed with her body. Mustang couldn't remember when he had last had such total self-forgetfulness, folding into her arms, allowing her to do as she wished with him.
Afterwards, he slept better than he had for years. When he woke, he was alone, but his clothing was folded neatly on the end of the bed, and he discovered a ticket for the night train - complete with sleeper carriage - in his coat pocket. A paid-for cab awaited him downstairs, and he travelled easily from the hotel to the station, then from the station to Ausberg, falling asleep in his berth as soon as the train set off. The scent of perfume clung to his skin and hair, and he fingered the slip of paper that comprised Marie's transcript of her sister's instructions, half enjoying its lingering traces of intimacy, half afraid that it should be stolen.