AUGUST 1, CE 74

The desert city of Banadiya resembled more than anything a ruin, a remnant, like so many other sites, of a civilization that had fallen into the dusts of history. Of course, this was only from a distance. It was considerably livelier up close, if just as dusty as the antique settlements that wasted away out in the desert. And while it might have been a 'city' in local terms, it fell more into the category of a town, though one that had overgrown itself somewhat. Compared to a true city like London or Washington or even the rebuilding Berlin, Banadiya was much, much smaller. But if one had never seen such places, they could be forgiven for making the mistake. The main plaza had a bustling market, street-side food stands did regular business, and shops and stores abounded, from small hole-in-the-wall resellers to spacious, well-lit retailers that lined the main streets. Indeed, if one stuck to the main streets, they might never see the more rural aspects of the place, as all the major thoroughfares were all paved and maintained by city employees and watched over by uniformed police. It had enough modern amenities (Internet, hotels, restaurants, and the like) at reasonable enough rates that it wouldn't be too bad a place to conduct business. The locals seemed to do well enough at that. But venture into the dirt backstreets and alleys and the city changed utterly. Here, one could see the damage of successive occupations: crippled beggars, ruined buildings, smoke stains and bullet holes, trash and vermin. Here, rather than wander about an open market, people moved quickly, purposefully, heads down and eyes always searching for a threat. The population was much less dense – people preferring to stay indoors and out of the way – and the atmosphere much quieter and much warier. The business in this part of town were of a different type than the commerce on the open streets. Transactions were conducted behind closed doors, usually in the company of one or more armed guards. Names were mostly false and, even so, seldom exchanged. Payments were always in cash.

A man, tall and broad-chested, moved carefully but quickly down the street towards a large warehouse. No one recognized him, a new arrival, and various watchers took note, though none had business with the stranger. But in case they did in the future, they would know of him. His skin was brown, marking him as a native of North Africa or the Middle East, unremarkable enough considering where he was, and well-cared for. His hair was black and wavy, pulled back in a short ponytail. Also relatively unremarkable. He wore sunglasses despite the shade of the buildings. He wore a navy blue casual jacket of a lightweight fabric open over a white cotton shirt, plain khaki pants, and black leather work boots, all of quality make and good fit. In his right hand he held a black briefcase. His left was empty. He was not obviously armed, though perhaps concealed a shoulder holster. Wise.

His pace was confident, declarative, his demeanor was considered and, while not outright threatening, imposing. The few people in his path instinctively got out of the way as he approached. He was met at the door of the warehouse by a man with an assault rifle slung across his chest and the two briefly spoke in the Arabic dialect of the region without flaw or accent. The guard then stepped aside, allowing the stranger to enter and escape the public view.

Once the door closed behind him, the man reached up and removed his sunglasses, carefully tucking them into an interior pocket of his jacket. He was now standing in a small vestibule with two doors, one leading to a few offices and the other out into the body of the warehouse itself. Both were guarded. There were a couple of expensive stuffed chairs here, contrasting quite severely to the run-down exterior of the building and the condition of the streets outside. The stranger took one, finding it quite comfortable, and settled in to wait. He was a few minutes early and it did not take long.

"I must admit I didn't expect to see you out here again," said the man in the office. He, too, was of Arabic descent, and was shaven bald with a brown goatee and not a trace of stubble anywhere else. He wore expensive, but understated, clothing, unadorned gold jewelry and sat behind a desk of solid oak, stained dark. The room was comfortably carpeted and a small painting hung on each wall, original canvases, elegant still lives and landscapes. An elegant bronze sculpture, a bit less than a foot tall, sat on the corner of the desk. Facing the desk were two red leather wingback chairs, old and supple to the touch.

"Please, sit," said the man. "It seems we have much to discuss. The last time you were here, you and your Desert Dawn friends were interested in 'tapping' some of my 'water.' But if I do recall, the Dawn disbanded some time ago and you had left even before that. Is there another menace that requires the Dawn to return, then? Or something else, perhaps?"

"I am here representing a different client," the stranger said. "And I do not seek water, I seek information."

"I'm sure you're aware, but that is quite a bit rarer than water."

The stranger patted his briefcase. "I'm quite aware."

"I never did quite believe you were one those part-timers. Though I'm sure they benefitted from your presence."

"I had my reasons."

"We all have reasons."

The 'water'-dealer scrutinized the face of the man across from him. It had been a few years since their last encounter and since then the man had developed a few fine worry lines around his eyes and on his forehead. Not unexpected. His facial expression was carefully neutral and his eyes were bright, intelligent.

"They needed my help," said the man calmly.

"True," the dealer replied.

The man picked up his briefcase. "I assume you still accept Alliance dollars?" he asked, tactically steering the conversation back to its previous topic.

"Of course," remarked the dealer, as the man sprung the latches on the case. "Though, I'm doing more and more business in Orb currency these days. Seems to hold its value better."

"Quite," said the man, presenting a banded stack of bills. "Ten thousand, to show my client is serious. Depending on what you have to offer, I have been authorized to pay you more."

The dealer tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully and did not otherwise move, but considered the offer. Then, he reached out and took the money, fanning through the stack to check the thickness of the bills and light-sensitive ink printed on them. Satisfied in his inspection, he met the eyes of the man across from him and raised an eyebrow.

"Very well, Ledonir, what would you like to know?"

If Kisaka had been caught off guard by being confronted with his name, he did not betray it. His expression did not change and his voice was as smooth and calm as before.

"Six months ago, a shipment of mobile suit parts on their way across the Atlantic was hijacked by pirates. I want to know who was responsible and where to find them." Orb Intelligence had run the serial number Murdoch had found on the ion pump. It, and the rest of its lot number, had been in that shipment.

Kisaka was supposed to have been back in Orb three days ago. His original orders were to reestablish contact with Sahib Ashman, retired leader of the Desert Dawn and an old friend, and see if he had noticed any suspicious activity that might indicate a hidden base in the desert. And while he enjoyed catching up with Sahib, he had learned that the only suspicious things were routine suspicious things perpetrated by ordinary criminals. It was fortunate that he had decided to stay an extra day and thus was still in Banadiya when Cagalli brought him up to speed.

The dealer chuckled. "You know I don't do that sort of thing."

Kisaka mutely passed him another ten thousand. The money in the case had been wired to him from a slush fund specifically set up for situations like this, just one of the many expenditures that made up the national defense budget. And considering the events of the past few years, the Treasury was more than willing to fund intelligence gathering.

"Like I said, I don't draw from those sorts of wells."

"But one of your competitors does?"

"Perhaps. But it's not a high-volume market in this region, understand? The big sellers are mostly on the western coast of the continent, not here in the north."

"The Atlantic ports."

"Precisely. And though we might not trade in it up here, doesn't mean we don't hear about it." The dealer leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. "Now, in my dealings with some of my associates from the area, I happened to hear about a big influx of parts that flooded the market around the time you mentioned. Some interesting pieces, too."

Kisaka closed the case, but did not lock it. "Can you be any more specific?" he asked.

"I only got secondhand rumors, but they did seem to focus on one captain in particular," said the dealer. He glanced down briefly at the case, the back up to Kisaka, who reopened it.

"And does this captain have a name?"

"I'm sure he does. I just need to remember what it is."

Of course, thought Kisaka. He withdrew three more stacks of ten thousand and placed them on the desk. "Might this help?" he asked quietly.

The dealer stroked his beard. Fifty thousand for a name, and perhaps more. He had no interest in protecting the pirate, didn't even do business with anyone who associated with him, but he was a businessman and shrewd negotiator with a reputation to protect.

"Ah. It's popped into my head." The dealer smiled a little. "Gruznich. Nasty reputation, that fellow. Seems there's always a new horror story every time he shows up."

"I've heard the name," Kisaka said. "Likes to kill captives to prove his point."

"Does he, now…" And I wonder where Ledonir heard that? "Doing government work are you?" The dealer narrowed his eyes. "Trying to catch me out?"

Kisaka took a beat to reply, but kept his composure. "I'm only here for information. I'm not working for anyone who has jurisdiction to take you on. Not around here."

"So they sent you, because you are from around here. Fair enough."

"I'll admit that there are a plenty of other people we'd be after before we'd consider your… activities." That was the truth. While the man may have been an arms dealer, he was well connected in his government, was a relatively trustworthy businessman, and maintained most of his scruples. He was a broker, a merchant, not someone who got his hands dirty. Though he had influence, he wasn't a direct threat to anyone and preferred it that way, since it allowed him to do business mostly trouble-free. He may have sold guns, but intelligence agencies, Orb included, would rather go after the people who bought them. The water-dealer was an intelligent enough man to realize that. He was also intelligent enough to realize that other arms dealers were not quite so civilized as he was. He hadn't confiscated Kisaka's gun for this reason, because the weapon was not intended for him, it was intended as protection from the prospective muggers and desperate junkies that lurked in the back alleys.

"Well I won't press you about it," the dealer said genially. "You, I suspect, have other priorities."

Kisaka said nothing.

"So what's your interest in Gruznich?" asked the dealer.

"My client has a few questions for him."

"Your client…" said the dealer, raising his eyebrows, "has their work cut out for them. He runs heavy. He started out with a couple of freighters but, from what I hear, now runs his own private battle group and isn't one for negotiating."

There was a glimmer of amusement in Kisaka's eyes. "Do you recall the last time we met?" The dealer nodded. "I introduced you to some new friends I'd made. Shortly after that, I ended up traveling with them for a while."

Ah, so that's what he's implying, thought the dealer. "Didn't stay very long, did they? But I'm sure they had places to be. ZAFT, too, I suppose, seeing as they up and left around the same time. I recall Alaska being nice that time of year."

"The weather can turn awful rather suddenly up there," Kisaka replied casually.

Clever, thought the dealer. Considering it's that ship, he must be working for Orb. "I've heard some interesting rumors about your friends since then, if you're interested."

"I'm afraid not. Hear it straight from the horse's mouth, you could say. Gruznich, on the other hand…"

"He takes his privacy rather personally. Doesn't let much slip. But I'm sure someone around here…" The dealer gestured around the office. "Might be able to point you in the right direction."

"And how much would the fuel cost to get me there?"

"About fifty. You know fuel prices these days…"

Kisaka laid five more bundles of money on the desk.

The dealer smiled again. "There's a particular island in the Caribbean, named Amano, that's a lovely vacation spot. Privately administered of course, but the amenities are fantastic. Beautiful resort on the bay, room to park a ship or seven… I'd recommend it, but the guest list is very exclusive."

"I'll be sure to make a reservation, then." Kisaka's eyes twinkled. "A pleasure, as always." He shut and locked the case.

"Have fun. Before you go, though, you wouldn't be interested in doing me a favor once you got home? I'd make it up to you, of course."

"This is still a one way relationship. I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Don't even want to hear it?"

"I've got business of my own, old friend."

"You and your commitments. But we should chat more often."

"We'll see. Goodbye, Malik."

"Farewell, Ledonir."

Safely back in his hotel room, Kisaka admitted that he'd probably gotten a bit carried away in the game of wits between him and Malik. Like Kisaka, Malik had been a native of Tassil, and while they had never been friends, per se, they had at least been friendly. Kisaka did not trust arms dealer for very good reasons and certainly did not trust Malik, but he was a bit more lenient with his old acquaintance. The man was about the only thing about Tassil that sustained Kisaka's interest. Tassil, which was little more than ashes now, burned down by Andrew Waltfeld when the man was still with ZAFT. Kisaka could not bring himself to feel upset about it.

He had a good view of the rest of Banadiya from his hotel room. When he had first looked on the city, he had been awed by its size and pulsating rhythm of life within, so different from his staid home village. He looked on it with different eyes now, or maybe eyes that now knew what they looked at. In the grand scheme of things, Banadiya meant little. It was not blessed with oil wealth or with strategic location on the coast or along a river. The one thing of importance in it was its iron mines and the city had essentially grown up around them, providing services and goods to the miners that worked the veins. It was now more-or-less self-sustaining, children growing up to work the mines or manage stores in town.

None of that had appealed to Ledonir when he had been a child, nor had becoming a farmer or goat herder and staying in his village. He had been a difficult child. His father had been killed by bandits shortly after Ledonir was born. Kisaka had only become more difficult, he supposed, after his mother died when he was ten. He would not give proper respect to tradition or his elders. He spent a lot of time away from home, exploring the hills and canyons and gullies mostly alone. He was seldom still and often escaped his chores.

If he had remained in Tassil or Banadiya, he would have made the choice that most shiftless young men made in this place: to pick up a gun. There wasn't much centralized authority in the region and as a result, banditry flourished and militant resistance movements hid out in the remote areas outside the city's influence. Occasionally a regime would fall and one of the resistance movements would stage a coup, and the standing army loyal to the old one would commandeer the equipment they'd been issued and form a new resistance. For civilians, it was often very hard to tell the difference between the army, militants, and unaffiliated bandits since the first tended to be corrupt and took what they wanted, the second tended to be ruthless and took what they wanted, and the third took what they wanted because it was in their job description. Even uniforms were no help, since unhappy or disillusioned soldiers walked off their posts and joined the roving bands. And they all bought from arms dealers. The Desert Dawn had formed to protect the region from occupation by foreign powers, but had disbanded with the end of the Valentine Wars, so now the only real protection Banadiya had was paid guards from the companies that owned the mine. Beyond making sure their ore shipments were secure, though, the guards generally left the city of Banadiya to fend for itself. Small wonder Kisaka had left as soon as he'd had the opportunity.

That opportunity had come in the form of a scholarship to a military boarding school in Orb. After his mother had died he'd left Tassil and gone to live with a distant relation in Banadiya, where he was enrolled in the only public school. He'd been a mostly indifferent student during that time of his life, but fortune smiled on him. Every student in the country was given an aptitude test at age twelve, and when he realized that it might mean he could leave Banadiya and Tassil, he'd put forth his full effort and scored very highly and soon was on a plane to a little island nation in the middle of the Pacific Ocean that he'd never heard of until the teacher had shown him the offer letter.

After a few days to adjust to his new life, it felt more like home than Tassil ever had and he'd thrived ever since. The restless young man found himself challenged for the first time in his life and rose to it admirably, learning the discipline and work ethic he had so disregarded in his old life, succeeding brilliantly in academics because he could see a future for himself now, rather than the humble life of a shopkeeper or a miner. He found himself fascinated by history and military theory, physics and astronomy, and graduated at the top of his class.

After becoming a naturalized citizen of his adopted country, he applied to Orb's national military academy and from there went on to a glittering career in the Special Forces. After rising to the rank of Colonel at the age of twenty-five, he was assigned to oversee the protection of Chief Representative Uzumi Nara Athha and his daughter Cagalli, becoming a confidant and good friend of the former and the bodyguard and surrogate brother of the latter. Then Heliopolis was attacked, and though Cagalli had been rescued safely, she refused to sit on the sidelines and pleaded to fight. Knowing that his hot-tempered daughter would go whether he allowed her to or not, Uzumi had asked Kisaka to keep her safe and away from anywhere the fighting might become total war. Against his better judgment, Ledonir had suggested Tassil. Andrew Waltfeld had a reputation as a commander that kept collateral damage to a minimum and the Alliance wasn't even in the theater, preferring to only bankroll a resistance that consisted of men from the surrounding villages armed with assault rifles and the occasional bazooka. Relatively low-intensity. Limited war. Deep down, Kisaka had actually wanted to liberate his birthplace. He did not foresee the Archangel's arrival, of course. Tassil had been destroyed and most of its inhabitants had been incorporated into Banadiya when the Desert Dawn and the errant Archangel forced out ZAFT.

With that, Kisaka considered paid whatever lingering debts he owed his birthplace. Though he spoke the dialect of Arabic native to the region just as fluently as he spoke the English and Japanese of his adopted country, knew the traditions and ceremonies of his village as well as he knew Orb's constitution, he prized the latter over the former. He had a different home now.

Lacus had been away from the Council for too long. There was still plenty of rebuilding to do in the PLANTs that required her attention. Despite the danger the warships would be getting into, she had still been rather reluctant to part.

"It just doesn't feel right for me not to be on a warship while there's a crisis going on," she said to Kira just before boarding her shuttle. She would be escorted home by a Laurasia-class; the Archangel and the Diana would continue on to Earth. "I feel like I'm abandoning you."

Waltfeld, still playing the part of bodyguard, had chimed in at this point. "It's a feeling every commander knows. I wouldn't respect an officer who didn't feel that way. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is step back and let others face danger, but you just have to trust the people under you to do their jobs and everything will be fine."

"I appreciate the sympathy, General."

Andy had given a wan smile at this. "I've got the same problem, you know. Wish I'd brought the Gaia with me so I could help out."

Kira smiled. "I think we'll be able to handle it without you, Andy," he said.

"Well, don't count me out, kid. A desk job ain't stopping me from getting my flight hours in." Waltfeld smirked and gracefully bowed out of the conversation, stepping into the shuttle's cockpit and providing Kira and Lacus a little privacy.

Kira clasped her hand in his own. "We'll be fine without you here. Really," he said, then realized those words might be misinterpreted for the worse. "I mean," he hurriedly clarified, "I'll miss you of course and wish we didn't have to spend so much time apart, but we don't really need your help in combat. I mean, not that it's unappreciated or anything – "

"I think I understand," interrupted Lacus, smiling. Kira was always a worrier and had always been more comfortable with numbers than words. The result was a tendency to put his foot in his mouth. She thought it was adorable. "You have confidence in your abilities and will be glad I'm safe."

"Yes, that," said Kira, relieved. "Make sure you double-check your security. I want to help as well, and – "

"Kira, you will be busy flying a mobile suit and helping run the ship. You won't be able to go over my security plans."

"Oh. Right."

She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be safer than you, probably. Be careful. I worry, too."

"Of course," he said, and returned the kiss. "It wouldn't do for the Chairwoman to be unhappy." He grinned and stepped back. "See you soon."

Lacus gave a little wave and stepped aboard the shuttle.

"We'll be clear to leave once Kira is off the deck," Waltfeld reported. Lacus nodded and strapped herself into the co-pilot's seat.

Soon enough, the young white-coat was safely cycled into the observation bay, where he watched the shuttle shrink into the distance until it was a mere speck that slipped between the stars and out of sight.

All of the pilots were gathered in the ready-room. Once the task force had received Kisaka's report, they unanimously came to the conclusion that Gruznich would be highly uncooperative. All the gun crews were standing ready and every mobile suit was prepped to launch once the two ships had broken atmosphere, even though there would still be a few hours of sailing to reach Amano.

It made Shinn antsy.

If he was honest, he wasn't quite sure how he felt about all this. Yes, he'd declined the honorable discharge he'd been offered shortly after Messiah. Yes, he'd been running training missions for seven months. But climbing back into the cockpit for real… it bothered him. He was unusually nervous, pacing around, readjusting the straps and seals on his suit, tracing the contours of his helmet with a fingertip, trying and failing to achieve the before-mission calm that he had once found effortlessly.

He was starting to get on the others' nerves. Heck, Shinn was getting on his own nerves. He was being stupid, he thought. This wasn't going to be a particularly dangerous sortie. He'd prepared for open battles, prepared to outright kill and hadn't been this nervous. Sure, there had been a few butterflies, but he'd controlled them and had been fine, was even relaxed enough to read magazines before launching. But at the moment, reading was beyond him. He'd tried. After two or three minutes he realized that he'd read the same paragraph three times without actually taking it in, so he gave up. And now he was considering going back for it.

His first real sortie in months and he was acting like a cadet about to take his first solo flight! He'd sortied to protect the Archangel over Copernicus, but he didn't really count that one as a full-fledged mission, not like this one. That had been mostly muscle memory: wake up, suit up, get out there. No time to think. But now that he'd been given a couple of hours to think of whatever he wanted, he kind of wished he hadn't. He was actually hoping for an emergency just to take his mind, paradoxically, off of his own mind.

It wasn't that he didn't want to take on this assignment, far from it: he was driven at a very personal level to see all this through and help however he could. And it wasn't like he hadn't known what this job entailed, either. But there were very real prospects of killing people, prospects that hadn't reared their ugly heads for seven months.

Shinn was an ace. He'd stopped counting exactly how many suits he'd shot down, but it was a high number. The number of people he had killed was surely less – but still plenty high. He'd always cared more for the former statistic, as most pilots did. His world was more pure that way – he fought contests of skill, proved that he was better, cleverer, stronger than his opponents. He wasn't in it for the kill, didn't need to worry about what happened to the other. All that mattered was who won the fight, which side had fielded the greater champion. In hindsight, Shinn could see how he'd been manipulated, how he'd been used and set loose by Durandal. An arrogant man who had run the war like a game, shifting and sacrificing his pawns to fulfill his arrogant future. How many thousands of lives were ruined because one man thought he knew better than everyone else, and was persuasive enough to make them believe it? How much destruction, how much death? How many had died because Shinn himself was arrogant enough to believe what Rey and Durandal had whispered in his ear? Getting played like a fool, it made him feel dirty, made him angry and ashamed at himself: for falling for it, for failing Stella and all the others he'd lost, for being too wrapped up in his own pain to see that which he was causing, for being too naïve to recognize what he'd become. For a lot of things.

For being a killer.

When all this was over, would he be a killer again?

The question settled in his veins like ice.

Amano Island was the sort of place that appeared on postcards, if anyone bothered to make any for it. It happened to be too remote to become a legitimate port and, once you got past the white sand beach, too rocky and jungled to make a resort practical. Its current tenants also tended to discourage visitors. Still, the water was a lovely shade of blue, palm trees swayed in the wind, and there was a magnificent bay: two densely forested peninsulas jutted out into the sea, creating an almost-lagoon. A textbook chokepoint, there was only enough room between them for one or two ships to pass through at a time. Once upon a time, pirates had made havens from the many small islands in the Caribbean Sea. Amano was but the latest, and Captain Lido Gruznich was quite proud to be carrying on the tradition.

The man himself was large and while he was certainly muscled, he did not put much effort into his fitness, leaving him the shape of a brick: wide and flat. His hair was iron-grey, buzzed close to his head, and his eyes were watery and bloodshot, souvenirs of chronic alcohol abuse. His arms bore numerous tattoos and scars of varying vintages; some were very fresh and overlapped older examples. He went armed at all times, a pistol holstered on his hip and a shotgun slung across his back. The dossiers from Orb and ZAFT intelligence had enumerated a long history of cutthroat dealings, an endless string of hijackings, murders, and arms deals that he'd parlayed into his own pirate empire. There was a longstanding bounty on any information that led to his capture, but so far he was only known to have a base somewhere in Atlantic Federation territory, where any capture operation by a foreign power would be politically risky at best. The Feds, for their part, steadfastly refused to divert resources from their operations to hunt him down, discouraged by unpalatably high casualty projections. Not that they announced this – Orb Intelligence had "obtained" some internal Federation memos on the subject.

The main reason for their reluctance was Gruznich's fleet: eleven ships that, together, carried enough firepower to level a city. Most had started life as commandeered merchant ships, but four were once Alliance warships, three destroyers and a cruiser seized from ZAFT surface forces after the latter had captured them in-port. Each ship had been extensively modified – more powerful engines, heavy armor, and the biggest guns they could carry. He had also acquired eight GuAIZes in the raid that netted him the warships, and retrofitted them with modern systems and weaponry. It was, in fact, an excessive amount of firepower, roughly equivalent to that of a military task force, and above and beyond what was necessary for raiding merchant shipping. It seemed the man simply enjoyed blowing things up – the more valuable, the better.

So when the Archangel and the Diana sailed right into Amano bay, he could barely contain his glee.

Gruznich had seven ships, including his flagship, in plain view at the back of the bay. The remaining four were in camouflaged pens built into the mountains that sheltered the harbor. He had but to give the word and they would launch, surrounding the two intruders and blocking the exit. Trying to fight through that blockade wouldn't be an option, for not even the famously resilient Archangel would be able to survive a simultaneous salvo from his eleven ships.

If his greed had not overtaken his common sense, he might have wondered why the two ships had chosen such a tactically suspect position. He remembered only that the Archangel was reckless enough to take on both ZAFT and the Alliance simultaneously. He did not remember that the ship was brave enough, clever enough, and tough enough to face those odds and come through time after time after time. He might not have been so eager to push them into a corner otherwise.

There was a minute or two of uneasy calm, the two sides alike in waiting for the other to twitch. But the Archangel and the Diana made no move to deploy their weapons. Instead, they opened with a message:

"Archangel Actual to Lido Gruznich, request to conduct negotiations, over."

Gruznich had been lounging in the captain's chair of his flagship. Now he sat bolt upright, eyes narrowed critically at the two vessels in the middle of his harbor, assessing them for entry points. The noose he'd been preparing was ready to close; all he had to do was confirm the order with the press of a single key. Still, he decided to play along, if only because it entertained him. He walked over to the comms station, ignoring the officer already in place there, and grabbed the microphone.

"This is Gruznich," he rumbled across the airwaves. "I'm listening. What do you want?"

"A specific shipment of mobile suit components," was the even reply.

"And you think I have it?"

"We think you know who does."

The pirate lord let out a short, barking laugh. "I'm afraid my business transactions are confidential. Customers need a dealer they can trust, after all."

There was a pause as the other deliberated. After a minute of breathless anticipation on Gruznich's part, they replied.

"State your price."

There it was. He laughed, full-throated, long and low, making sure to broadcast his genuine amusement to the opposite ship. True, he might have been exaggerating it a little, but that only made it more fun, to play it up. He always enjoyed the rush, the feeling of power just before he turned a situation upside down. He took his sweet time walking back to the command chair, grinning like mad all the while.

"My price?" he asked, casually tapping the 'Enter' key to confirm the orders for the four hidden ships. Done, he turned to stare out of the window and directly at the Archangel's bridge.

"My price is everything you have!"

Ric had made a few exceptionally bad decisions in his life. There was that bike ramp he'd built in middle school out of wood scraps, there was the time he'd accidentally pissed off a professional boxer at a gas station, there was the time he'd gotten really drunk when celebrating his academy graduation… and that was about the list. Fairly short, for which he was thankful. Those were the unequivocally bad decisions, anyway; he was increasingly inclined to add 'joining the military' to that list, since this mission was going to shit in rather spectacular fashion. Topping them all, though, was his current predicament. While he'd had plenty of misadventures in uniform, none of them had ended up with him in the brig. Up to this point, anyway.

After storming out of the simulators, he tore through the ship, searching for something that would make him stop thinking about what had just happened. Something to get all of the mistakes and miscalculations out of his head, to silence the grueling whisper of Not Good Enough. Something to, maybe, stop him thinking about much of anything for a while. But he hated the taste of cigarettes, couldn't stand the thought of a video game at the moment, books were too peaceful, playing cards too social, music too fleeting, and he certainly didn't need a workout considering what he'd just been through. That left alcohol. As luck would have it, one of the cooks had stashed a half-liter of vodka in one of the galley cabinets, to which Ric had helped himself with a long pull before wandering off to the firing range. By the time he had reached it (a feat in itself, since he hadn't quite learned the ship's layout yet), he'd gone through quite a lot of the bottle.

It was at this point his memory went fuzzy – the sudden influx, coupled to his exhaustion, meant the booze hit him all at once like a brick. He remembered arguing with the range gunnery sergeant about something. The gunny had gotten right in his face and shouted at him, as they were wont to do, and Ric had shouted something incomprehensible back. The next thing he remembered was trashing his own quarters, just throwing things around randomly and making a mess. He remembered wanting to climb into his real Blood Dagger and the head mechanic refusing to even let him on the hangar deck. At the time, it had been very important to him to get in his mobile suit and launch, and when he was refused, he'd tackled the head mechanic because he had to, had to get his Dagger in the air. It was more important than anything and everything else, he wouldn't let anything get in his way, because it was so incredibly important and if they'd just let him go climb in it would be so easy…

Then some marines grabbed him. He'd struggled, but apparently they'd managed to bundle him off to the brig and then tossed him into a cell to sober up.

Doubtless Halley would have been informed by now. Ric was halfway surprised that the captain wasn't here glowering at him as he woke up. They'd been at odds since they'd embarked; Ric figured that his CO was just waiting for the chance to dress him down in excruciating detail. Ric was expecting to be berated, insulted, chastised, threatened, and generally shouted at, and then he would probably be grounded, maybe even court-martialed. Certainly, his career prospects were down the tubes, but he'd take a dishonorable discharge or prison time over a death-by-Gundam, easy. Ric saw it as a silver lining because, though it would probably ruin his life in the long run, 'probably ruined' definitely beat 'none' on the life-having scale. At least he'd have a long run to worry about. Of course, that depended on getting off the ship, and with his luck, the Odysseus would catch a beam right in the reactor and explode with him still locked in this cell. His last thought before dying would be: Oh, for fuck's sake – Then he'd be incinerated or irradiated or mutilated or…

Captain Halley entered the brig during Ric's contemplation of his gruesome and undoubtedly inevitable demise. It took the bedraggled pilot a moment to look up and realize that he was no longer alone.

"Oh," Ric said flatly. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Halley merely stared at the man behind the bars, rumpled and unkempt where the officer was immaculately groomed, his uniform clean and crisply creased. If anyone had been watching, they would have been shocked at the contrast. But no one was.

The pilot sat up on his cot, glaring mutinously through the bars. "Come to gloat, Captain?"

Yes, Ric was angry. It made his hangover throb, but he couldn't help it – the man was so put-together, so superior, that Ric couldn't help but loathe the sight of him. "Well, get on with it, then! It's not like I'm going anywhere!"

Halley still waited. He seemed to be evaluating the younger man, trying to find insight on him through observation alone. Finally, he deigned to speak.

"I'm not here to gloat, Ric," he said softly.

"What happened to 'Lieutenant Duomo'?"

"I don't believe he is present. The only person I see in here is Ric."

The pilot took a moment to process this. "Fuck off."

Halley just shrugged and remained exactly where he was. Ric flopped back down on his cot and rolled to face the wall, determinedly ignoring the recalcitrant Captain. Edwin Halley, however, was willing to wait him out. Finally, after surreptitiously checking several times to see if the man had left and finding that he had not even moved over the course of an hour, Ric let out a frustrated sigh and rolled back over.

"Fine." Ric suddenly seemed very tired. "What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Well, you're doing a goddamned fantastic job so far!"

The captain only now moved for the first time, stepping back and leaning against the wall across from Ric's cell door. "Allow me to rephrase. I wanted to talk as equals."

Ric said nothing in response, only glared daggers.

"Oh, come on. Would you have listened to anything I said if I'd started talking an hour ago?" He paused, continuing to eye Ric critically as the pilot shifted in momentary discomfort. Halley waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not. You'd already made up your mind to be hostile, so I waited for you to get tired of manning the walls, so to speak."

"And I'm supposed to be, what, impressed?"

"If you want to be."

"Oh, sure," Ric muttered.

Halley was unperturbed by Ric's temper. The man wore his discipline like armor, an almost physical component of his being that seemed to make the white Alliance uniform and gold bars shine just a little more brilliantly. It seemed to make his grey eyes bright and clear and his sandy brown hair to sit that much straighter on his head. It was enough that Ric wanted to push him into a mud-puddle and make him just as dirty as everyone else. But he was stuck in a cell, his options reduced to staring at his antithesis and venomous words that he knew would do no more than bounce off Halley's iron self-control. The smug, superior bastard.

"Ric, when I learned you were being assigned to this ship, I dug through everything I could find on you. I read your CSV; went through, in order, every mission you took part in – even tracked down your training evaluations. And you know what? You've impressed every step of the way. Based on what I've seen, you're far more than just a good pilot, you're one of the best – anywhere." Halley paused and just watched Ric, an odd expression coming on to his face while he waited for the irascible pilot's reaction.

Ric had not expected praise. He was thrown off balance, his displeasure and frustration giving way to genuine anger almost before he realized it. "Don't you dare come in here and lie to me," he snarled. "I know what you are. Flattering, cajoling, trying to grease me up and bring me around… I'm sick of it. Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong. Lie to me, tell me that all this can go away but you need me, what I'm capable of, and we'll be heroes for saving all the innocent little puppies and babies and their sweet mamas. Go on! Say it!" He was breathing hard, his pulse thudding in his ears. His hands were drawn in tight fists, knuckles white, and he paced the cell's length like the caged tiger that he was, from a certain point of view; a mostly-trained animal defying its master's whip.

Halley closed his eyes and let out a breath, his expression becoming pained. He opened his mouth to speak, but made no sound and closed it again. "Fine," the captain said finally, wearily. "You win." At this, Ric drew back like he'd been stung. Halley only slouched against the wall opposite the bars, yielding at last to some invisible weight. "I meant it, you know. And furthermore, I think you're still improving, getting stronger. But I won't deny that I'm trying to get you back in a mobile suit."

"It doesn't matter if I'm good or not. It's still a death sentence," Ric opined bitterly.

"You know what else I learned from your files?" Halley asked abruptly. Ric's only reply was to narrow his eyes, so the captain continued. "You're used to coming out on top. No matter what happened in the big picture, you pulled through pretty much every time. And when you couldn't, it ended up being inconsequential. You're not used to failure. Others have failed you: the Alliance, your commanders, your fellow soldiers, even your own equipment. But you've never had to face failing yourself. But now you're being forced to stare it straight in the face."

Ric scoffed, but it only made Halley smile ruefully.

"You're talented and smart enough that you've made it here without more than some bumps. But now you've hit a wall your talent can't overcome and it makes you feel helpless, doesn't it?" he probed. "And if there's one thing a pilot hates, it's feeling helpless."

"Shut up," growled Ric as he stormed up to the bars. "Shut. Up. You don't have the right. You think you know what it's like to be helpless? Helpless is when you have to watch whole squadrons get wiped out because their fire support doesn't exist. Helpless is when the line always breaks, always collapses and flees to another so-called 'secure' position, no matter what you do or how well you fight. Helpless is getting dumped in a remote, bombed-out firebase smack in the path of enemy advance and then abandoned! You don't know what it is to be helpless!"

"No. I suppose I don't," the captain admitted quietly. "I'm not going to pretend the Alliance hasn't earned every single iota of your distrust. And it is asking a lot from you now, loyalty and trust it has neither encouraged nor earned. You deserve better. So do Trey and Tasha and the rest of the crew." He looked down at his shoes. "I can't give it to them, or you, and I'm sorry. You have every right to be upset." Halley looked back up and fixed Ric with his steely gaze. "Though your conduct yesterday was… unbecoming, regardless."

"That's it then? I'm getting thrown away now that I'm no longer reliable?"

"I'm not going to let you walk away and give up, not from this. For one, it's too important, but it's also because slapping you with a Dishonorable would not only be a colossal waste of ability and potential, but a grave disservice both to you and the military. You belong in a pilot's seat, Ric. You know that and so do I." Halley straightened back up to his normal posture, almost entirely the model officer once again, but for the melancholy softness around his eyes that still hinted at the honest, weary man he was underneath. "The odds on this mission were never good. But I honestly doubt we'll be able to track them down, at least not without Orb and ZAFT getting involved. And our chances will be a lot better with them on our side. You should consider that before writing us off."

Halley's watch chimed. The captain spared a quick glance at the message it displayed before once again devoting his full attention to the pilot in the cell.

"I'm needed on the bridge. You've got a few more days in here before I'll consider letting you out, but I'm more than willing to let you sit in there and stagnate while you decide whether or not you still want to be a pilot. Understood?"

"I got it," Ric said flatly. Halley scrutinized the pilot for a moment, nodded once, and left without another word.

Ric watched him go. It was the first time that anyone with gold bars on their collar had been truly honest with him, had considered his views valid, had conversed with him as an equal. It had never really occurred to him to think of Halley as another person; Ric had dehumanized him without realizing, had only thought of him in terms of his uniform, rank, and authority. He had dealt so often with officers that had been disgraces to their uniforms – some were willing to stab anyone in the back to make themselves look good to their superiors, or were Coordinator-hating fanatics that would neglect their obligations towards anyone who didn't fight for their 'blue and pure world,' or cowards, or just grossly incompetent. He'd even run into a special few that were all of the above. He'd thought Halley had been one of them, a fool who would sacrifice lives for his own ambition. But now… perhaps not. Perhaps Halley and Ric were more alike than the latter had ever thought. He wasn't at all sure how to feel about that.

Ric was sure, however, that he still wanted to be a pilot. Piloting mobile suits was what he did best, almost his sacred calling. But could he fight for the Alliance that had dispensed of his loyalty? For the commanders that had squandered his trust? No, and if that was all there was to look forward to, he'd have taken the Dishonorable and been done with it. But it didn't come to that. Instead, what it came down to was this: could he trust Halley?

He decided the answer was maybe.

That was good enough.

The noose had closed. The Archangel and the Diana were now surrounded and staring down the barrels of entirely too many guns. What move could they make? If either ship tried anything, they would drown under the rain of high-explosive shells.

Gruznich, contented, waited for a signal of surrender. He did not get one.

"Archangel Actual to Gruznich, offer to negotiate still stands."

He scowled. So they were cowards, then, trying to buy their way out of trouble. Well, they'd learn how things worked soon enough.

"Gruznich to Archangel, the only offer I will accept is unconditional surrender," he snapped. He owned them now. They just had to figure that out. Again, he would go unsatisfied.

"Archangel to Gruznich. No dice. Out."

Of course. Should he have expected soldiers to abandon their duty? In any case, it wasn't up to them. It was for situations like this that he had boarding craft. And the men to fill them, of course, but he was less concerned with them. Doubtless there would be casualties, couldn't be helped, but that only meant fewer shares to carve out of the take. He never got the chance to send the order, however.

As if on cue (and they were), five mobile suits rose straight from the sea, ascending from the foaming waves like vengeful pagan spirits. Two were customized GOUFs, but the other three were… exotics – one gold, one red, one white and black and blue. Catching the armada completely unawares, every ship quite suddenly found itself held hostage by the overlapping field of fire that sprang into existence around them, a weapon zeroed in on each command bridge. All it would take to cripple the entire fleet's combat capacity was a single fire order to the mobile suits, and every CIC would be simultaneously obliterated. The ships were utterly incapable of preventing this for one very simple reason:

All the firepower in the world was completely and totally useless when pointed in the wrong direction.

It had been Mu's idea to hide underwater. Six hours out from the island, the pilots and officers had met in the Archangel's briefing room, clustering around a few satellite reconnaissance photos, to plan the upcoming operation. It was immediately apparent that an assault would have been risky for the ships: they would be bracketed as they entered the harbor, and there was no guarantee they'd be able to capture Gruznich alive. Sending the mobile suits in from above would only result in radar detection and a firefight. And entering peacefully would undoubtedly see Gruznich turn on them and start shooting anyway, leaving the launching mobile suits vulnerable to being picked off as they launched from the catapults.

At this point, Mu had remembered playing cat-and-mouse across the Pacific Ocean with ZAFT submarine forces. The Archangel had been forced jerry-rig a sonar unit and use it to locate the enemy by their engine noises. The pirates would no doubt have their own sonar arrays, so approaching submerged was out – they'd be detected easily. But what if…

"What if we used a split approach?" he'd asked. Everyone else had turned to regard him curiously. "The two ships are big and loud enough that passing by would foul up any sonar, right? So if we towed the mobile suits under them, they'd never know. Then, Archangel and Diana play bait and surreptitiously mark targets for the mobile suits to ambush if things go bad."

Yzak had gave him a sidelong glance. "Camouflage… I like it."

And that had been that.

This new development resulted in a tense silence aboard Gruznich's bridge as crewmembers held their breath in fear of provoking their captain's wrath as well as the mobile suits. For his part, Gruznich gritted his teeth, galled that he had been played. The lull was only broken by an incoming transmission from the Archangel.

"Archangel Actual to Gruznich, the only offer we will accept is unconditional surrender."

Damn them! There would be no recovery from this humiliation – it would destroy his credibility, and in doing so, wipe away the fear and respect that tied his fleet together. He had fallen to an outside challenger, and that made him vulnerable to challenges from within as well. The glaring evidence that he could be beaten would encourage dissent and, eventually, mutiny. Whether or not he was still in control afterwards didn't matter. It would be bloody and the losses substantial, if he even managed to reclaim anything. Raw anger flared up in Gruznich as he began to realize that he had instantly become a captain without a fleet.

"What do you want from me?" he replied. His voice was strained, but he remained deceptively calm otherwise. It wouldn't do for the crews to start questioning his leadership now. No, he had to at least give the appearance of control, even if he was in a figurative free-fall at the moment.

"Six months ago, you hijacked and sold a shipment of precision mobile suit parts that was crossing the Atlantic. We want to know who you sold them to. We want their names, locations, everything you've got. Start talking."

It was time for a little brinksmanship. "And if I don't?"

"Then we'll ask someone lower on the food-chain." For additional emphasis, the white GOUF lashed out with its heat-whip and neatly carved away the array of antennas mounted above the bridge. The glowing lash was only a scant meter away from burning through him as well. As far as messages went, it was pretty clear.

"What's going on, Myers?" asked Halley as he swept on to the bridge of the Odysseus. "Has HQ decided to reveal why they want us in GITMO?"

"Not yet, sir," Myers answered, shaking his head and standing up from the command chair so that his superior could take the conn. "But there's something going on that I thought you'd want to see for yourself."

The XO nodded to the sensor operator, who pushed a map of an island to the main tactical display. "You're looking at Amano Island, a suspected pirate hideout," the ensign reported. "We detected a lot of activity all of a sudden, like they're scrambling." He placed eleven yellow 'unknown contact' markers in a circle on the map. "Surface ships mostly, judging by the engine emissions. We're also seeing two space vessels," Two purple markers appeared in the center of the yellow circle. "Why they'd be here we're not sure. No friendlies are supposed to be operating in this area, and we're too far to get a clear enough signature to try matching to library."

Myers picked up where the ensign had left off. "It's a minor deviation, but we'll still be en route to GITMO even if we take the detour. Plus, we should be getting more detailed data as we get closer. Seems to me we've picked up on some sort of stand-off," he concluded.

Halley studied the map quietly for a few seconds, then nodded once. "Let's check it out," he said. "All crew to Level-1 battlestations. Prep the guns and the mobile suits, but leave the safeties on. Thomas and Vela are to launch when ready; they're to stay close to the ship and may only engage on my command. And get us in contact with GITMO, they'll want to hear about this."

The ship was ready for battle within five minutes, at which time the klaxons fell silent. Trey, in his Blood Dagger, held station to port, while Tasha flew starboard. The ship's Lohengrin turret, mounted on the Odysseus's dorsal spine, had been deployed. Four single-barrel Gottfried emplacements complemented the heavy gun, two each to port and starboard. The Lohengrin turret could swivel to cover a firing arc of more than 180 degrees, and all five cannons could be oriented ahead toward a single target. A pair of 110cm linear cannons rounded out the ship's primary arsenal, mounted on the Odysseus's flanks just ahead of the engine nacelles at the rear. Hopefully, the mere sight of the guns would be enough to discourage any conflict.

"Mobile suit contacts!" the sensor officer called out. "Popped up from nowhere! Matching to library… contacts designate Alpha, Bravo, match for GOUF. Contacts designate Charlie, Delta, Echo… no matches!" Five orange markers popped up on the screen, marked A through E, two of them tagged with 'GOUF' and the other three with 'Unknown.'

Halley grimaced. Even if it was classified to all hell, he at least had sensor profiles for the three stolen mobile suits. He didn't like unknowns, not one bit.

"Are we close enough to identify the ships?" he queried.

"Aye, sir. Matching… one ZAFT Minerva-class and… No way." The tech took a moment to double check the result, and when he continued there was a definite note of awe in his voice. "Sir, the other ship is the ONS Archangel."

"What are Orb and ZAFT doing in our backyard?" Tasha asked.

"Well," Halley said evenly, "let's ask them." He turned to the comms officer. "Ping 'em."

"Where are they?" Dearka asked from the Diana's captain's chair. Since his ZAKU couldn't fly under its own power, he was fulfilling his other duty aboard ship, namely, deputy commander. While this was something he knew how to do, no one had expected an Alliance assault carrier to blunder into the Gundam task force's quick-and-quiet (for a certain definition of 'quiet') intel op.

"They're sitting just outside the bay entrance, sir, making sure we can't leave," replied Jon the sensor operator.

Luna's voice crackled in from the ready room intercom. "Did this just turn into an international incident?"

Dearka sighed. "Maybe."

"We could try just bluffing them," Shiho, also down in the ready room, said helpfully.

There was silence for a moment.

"Oh, screw it," Dearka said, resigned. "Just shoot for 'plausible,' Meyrin. Don't worry about 'believable.'"

Meyrin swallowed audibly. "Aye, sir."

"Attention, ZAFT and Orb ships, this is the Alliance Assault Ship Odysseus. You are trespassing in Atlantic Federation waters. State your business at once." Halley's voice was clear and authoritative.

This was only greeted with a brief burst of static.

"Attention –" Halley began again, but was interrupted.

"AAS Odysseus," cut in a nervous female voice, "this is the ZAFT Battleship Diana." The Minerva-class's blip on the tac-map was immediately updated by the sensor officer. "We cannot speak for the Orb ship, but we were not aware we had left international waters."

"Of course not," Tasha muttered sarcastically. She was not, however, patched into the open channel, so only the Alliance forces heard her.

Halley quirked a skeptical eyebrow, the effect of which was rather lost considering it was an audio-only channel. "Be that as it may, you have encroached on Federation territory. State your business," he ordered tersely.

The ZAFT ship hesitated briefly before finally replying. "Details are classified, I'm afraid," the female officer replied. Halley got the impression that she was quite young. "However, I can tell you that we are pursuing a wanted criminal."

A plausible enough explanation, in Halley's estimation. There had been rumors of pirates operating from Amano for a long time. Still, something was up. "Since when does ZAFT care about terrestrial criminals?"

Another hesitation from the other side. "Oceania Union requested our assistance."

Halley let off the transmission button and sighed. "They're certainly being careful with their words. And we've got nothing to indicate why Orb is here." He looked over to Myles. "Do we have a visual on the three unknown suits?"

"We do, sir."

Three picture-in-picture video windows opened on the main screen. Evidently, the Blood Daggers got the feeds as well, as Tasha made a sound over the comm that indicated she had choked on her own spit.

"Holy –" she started before dissolving into a coughing fit. "That's the computer monster! It's real?"

Trey had gone very, very quiet.

"Well, well," Halley murmured. "Looks like we've found the tip of the spear."

"Captain?" Myers looked confused.

Halley ignored him. "Diana," he transmitted, "what is the Archangel's business here?"

Again, there was a moderate delay before a response came. "Archangel is pursuing a wanted criminal."

"And you just happened to bump into each other and get surrounded?"

This time the delay was very, very long. "Affirmative."

"Very well, Diana," Halley replied. "You have no jurisdiction here. Leave this area immediately and return to international waters."

"Odysseus, be advised that we have a dangerous criminal currently in custody and by leaving the area we will no longer be able to prevent him from attacking."

"We'll handle it. Odysseus out." He then let off the transmitter and leaned back into his chair. Myers goggled at him, and he could almost feel the disbelief radiating from the Blood Daggers.

"Surely you don't believe them, Captain?" his XO ventured.

Halley scoffed. "I don't buy it for a second. There's no way this is a coincidence. Everyone knows that Representative Attha and Chairwoman Clyne are close friends, even if their countries aren't. Both have spent time on the Archangel, and the Minerva-class plays the same operational role. They're working together, off-the-books I'm sure."

"You're not going to press them?"

"They were very careful to give us a plausible story, so we can't prove anything. Nor do we have the leverage to force them to tell us what's really going on and we really can't afford to alienate other major powers at this point. If they wanted a fight, they'd win," Halley said calmly.

"But…" Tasha began.

"It's simple. They know we can't stop them in a fight and didn't want to make this an incident, so they gave us an out: they leave while we arrest the pirates. This way, the brass can't blame us for not stopping a non-hostile trespasser because we had to deal with more pressing matters. Hell, we might even get credit for bringing in wanted criminals. Meanwhile, they get to go about their business away from us. I assume they got what they wanted."

"Damn, sir. I'm never, ever playing poker with you," Tasha said.

"I prefer board games, Ensign. You and Lieutenant Thomas get into position to suppress the pirate ships if they make any funny moves." Halley then turned to Myers. "Looks like Duomo's getting parole. Put him in his Dagger and get him out there, we need all the cover we can get and all the brig space we have." Halley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Comms, get me a line to GITMO. We'd better tell them what's going on."