10: seeds of the stars.

Alpha unit made quick work of the satellite's frame, and with the efficiency of a trained machine behaving under the single will of a control room, they safely transported the beaten remains of Tallgeese into the belly of Une's retrieval vessel; settling it beside the severed arm that was no longer evidence of a sacrifice, now seemed a portion of the healing process.

"Good work," was all she offered, her throat pinched with relief and the pressing urgency of Zechs' condition, but her soldiers knew and understood and set about the frantic efforts of peeling open the damaged cockpit in silence.

Une made her way to the cargo bay of the vessel, her open palms trailing down the blinking and whirring machines she passed like a somnambulist; slow and dreamstate, remembering her location only by the touch that burnished this passage with the very human oil of her skin. She left her remnants in her wake, imagining the gently drifting graveyards of alloy she had personally relegated to the endless confines of space; her own list of the deceased and their destroyed machines that would never rust, never decay. She had no shadows out here; no certain way to mark the sun, to find her position, to know her feet were on the ground. She had no ground, out here.

So she took what she needed and left what she could, and felt that humans could never adapt to being aliens themselves; they were designed for the Earth, from it, and no manner of the outstretched regimes of technology would change that. Animals of dust and dirt.

Une entered the cargo bay in a surreal daze. Two or three soldiers on the peripherals of the work snapped to attention, and she waved them away with a dismissive hand. The medic was ready. Then, with a groaning and a final crack, Zechs was out.

Unconscious, of course, but even the sight of his prone and wounded body had Une scrambling to his side, stiffly overseeing as the medics began running diagnostics, checking his vitals, discerning his condition before he could be pried free of his impaler. His sticky blood began to ooze off the edge of the cockpit floor, plopping in sickly chunks.

"Report?" Une groused, her stomach churning in revulsion.

"Nice... to see you... too," came the gasping, shuddering voice of Zechs, revived by the wash of fresh oxygen from the cargo bay. His eyelashes fluttered as he focused, found the sight of her.

"Be quiet, Colonel," she grunted, choking back the choking in her throat. "The medics need to work."

"I hope y... you're paying them... well."

"Be quiet."

She spun her back to the infuriating, immortal pilot and stomped back to the control room, following her own trail as the beeping devices and tourniquets descended upon him in her absence. It was time for Treize to be allowed to relax.

...

Beep. Outgoing communication. Beep. Outgoing communication.

Treize allowed himself the minor satisfaction of a nervous tick, tapping his fingertips atop his bicep, arms crossed solidly across his chest. The quiet voice in the back of his mind was begging, begging in a bitterly uncharacteristic manner for his blond lover to be alright, to have been rescued and revived and patched together and fine, just fine, able to come to his aide in these decisive moments of battle that would permanently alter the state of his war.

A quieter voice was describing how he would act without him.

"Colonel Une he- General Treize, sir! I was just about to com you-"

"Is he alright?" Treize interrupted, voice too terse for his Lady. Did you find him at all?

Une offered the barest of comforting smiles, her lips pursed and curved on the screen. "He's badly injured, but conscious and there appears to be no... damage." Her meaningful pause found Treize releasing his entire lung capacity in one loud exhale. "The medical team is hard at work. General, sir," her tone was a steadying hand on his shoulder, "he's going to be fine."

"Of course he is," Treize confirmed with renewed confidence. "I, on the other hand..."

"Sir?"

"You must have noticed I am transmitting from a concealed feed. I am currently a hostage in my manor under orders of Dermail and the Foundation."

"What?" Une's posture stiffened, her eyes narrowing and drawing the harrowed guise of the soldier around her face.

"A small band of soldiers of various rank and position have declared loyalty to me, and we are forming the Treize Faction now. There will be a battle, milady."

"I can be there with this Specials unit in 1800 hours."

"By then, I fear the outcome will already have been decided."

"I'll rally as many platoons-"

"No, Colonel, we don't want to spread ourselves too thin in these crucial hours. I need you to send communication to all decidedly loyal bases, have them secure and locked-down. Loyal soldiers at uncertain OZ bases must be contacted by word of underground channels-"

"The Gravity feed we set up your first year as General-"

"Of course. We want as few deaths as possible while I am captive. Hopefully no skirmishes will break out, but we must be prepared. When you arrive here, we'll return to the Korokova Base and brief on further strategy." Treize rubbed his chin, the bristle of his 20-hour shadow tingling his nerves, already on edge with adrenaline. He felt intimately every shift of his skin, every furrow in his brow."

"Understood, sir. Perhaps then you can explain to me just how the hell this happened."

Treize responded with a wry smirk that quickly morphed into a knowing, secretive expression. "Take good care of him. Over and out."

Treize cut the transmission and returned his attention to his soldiers with a solemn sweep. "That was necessarily shorter than anticipated. Since the Colonel will not be present for the ensuing battle, we needn't bore her with the details." An appreciative chuckle murmured through the small flank. "Attention, soldiers. Our strategy is as follows..."