CHAPTER 18: UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
-OR -
THINGS MIGHT JUST BE STARTING TO LOOK UP
In which the Turks go on the offensive in more ways than one, and Reno receives an unexpected item in the mail.

The board meeting on the sixth of January was particularly lively.

Rude had, as a matter of course, reported what had taken place with Chelsy to Commander Veld, and Veld had, as a matter of duty, circulated among the Directors an edited account of the incident, from which all names had been deleted. President Shinra, annoyed at being bilked of an identifiable scapegoat, was venting his irritation on Veld – but then, taking the flak was, as Reno might have said, what the Chief was for.

"It's been a year since AVALANCHE first made its presence felt, and you still haven't given me anything useful. What are your Turks doing?" the Old Man demanded.

"Aside from squashing bugs, flirting with the receptionists, and running up tabs at every cheap dive in town?" added Scarlett with a glint in her eye.

Veld answered as calmly as he could, "I don't think it's fair to say we have achieved nothing this year. SOLDIER recruitment is at its highest level since that peak we hit just before the war. The Wuteng rebel bases inside Midgar have all been neutralised. In the past twelve months the quantity of free press hostile to Shinra has gone down by three quarters, and Sector 8 has only suffered four civilian casualties due to monsters. Right now, Shinra's approval rating in the popular opinion polls stands at eighty-two percent. I think these are significant achievements. It's true we have not yet eliminated AVALANCHE, but we have prevented them from doing any serious damage – "

"The loss of my data disk," interrupted Hojo. "Is that not serious?"

Veld bent his head. "I concede the loss of the data disk. If Director Heidegger had allowed me to send more than one Turk to accompany Dr Rayleigh, it might not have happened – "

"Don't you start blaming me, you twisty bugger," Heidegger grunted.

Veld raised his eyebrows, and went on, "Genesis and Angeal have both been eliminated – "

"By SOLDIER," said Scarlet.

Veld glanced across at Lazard. The SOLDIER Director had taken off his glasses and was rubbing his eyes. He looked washed out, exhausted. Beside him, Reeve Tuesti was doodling plans for slum regeneration projects: houses, sewers, plumbing, parks, and schools that would never, in any sense of the word, see the light of day.

"By Administrative Research and SOLDIER working together," Veld replied. "Hollander's in custody in Junon and the stolen documents have been retrieved. The attacks on the Sector 8 reactor and on Junon were both thwarted – "

"By Sephiroth," said the Old Man.

Veld wanted to punch him then.

The Commander had a thick skin. He could take anything that was thrown at him personally. Heidegger and Scarlett had been gunning for him for years; their enmity was to be expected. And the President had always been capricious. To handle him one had to keep a cool head.

But when somebody belittled his Turks, Veld's blood boiled.

Through clenched teeth he replied, "You seem to forget, sir, that Reno and Aviva saved your life at least twice that day, at very considerable risk to their own –"

"If you expect me to start being grateful to my employees for doing their jobs, then you've got another think coming. You need to get your priorities straight. AVALANCHE is the single biggest danger facing this company right now. We need information. We need answers. And your department is not coming up with the goods."

"Sir, with all due respect, I resent the implication that we're neglecting the AVALANCHE threat. Let me remind you that my entire staff here at head office numbers less than the First Classes in SOLDIER. We've followed up every lead, no matter how tenuous. But we're stretched to full capacity. My staff are working flat out. Nobody's had a holiday for over a year."

"I don't pay them to take holidays," the Old Man snarled. "I pay for results. I want AVALANCHE stamped out. Now. Hire more Turks if you have to, Veld – "

"Sir!" protested Scarlett and Heidegger together. They were startled, and Veld didn't blame them; he hadn't expected the argument to take this sudden turn in his favour either.

The Old Man fixed them with his coldest stare. "I want it done," he said.

This might be a vote of confidence, thought Veld, though with the President one never knew. The Old Man's tendency to make rash decisions on the spur of the moment was becoming more pronounced as he grew older. Still, it was a result, and Veld would take what he could get right now.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "More staff will help. But you also need to remember that SOLDIER is in charge of what happens at the front. If we are to move effectively against AVALANCHE, we need their full cooperation."

"You have my cooperation," said Lazard from the other end of the table. "Surely you know that?"

He sounded tired. More than tired – bone-weary. Defeated.

"I think," said their sixteen-year-old Vice-President, speaking for the first time during this meeting,"That Veld means the cooperation of the men under your so-called command."

"Rufus, that's enough," said the Old Man sharply.

"But Father – oh, I'm sorry; I mean, Mr President - AVALANCHE is making a mockery of us. Is this really the best we can do? To shuffle blame around this table like a pack of cards? If this is the way we do business, no wonder our enemies have the upper hand."

The Old Man bridled. "Do you have a problem with the way I run my company?"

"Not a problem, no. But I have some questions. How is it that AVALANCHE are able to anticipate our every move? How is it they always know where SOLDIER and the Turks are going to be? It seems blindingly obvious to me that they're getting their information from somewhere – or someone. Well, Veld?"

"Stop stirring it," said Lazard. "We all know Veld is above suspicion."

"Speak for yourself," snapped Scarlett.

"No one's above suspicion," said Rufus smoothly. "Not even me. Or you."

"I damn well am," said the Old Man. "And I make the decisions around here. Veld, I want you to find this leak and plug it. Do whatever it takes. I want results, and I want them soon. Or else."

"Understood," said the Commander.

13th January 2002

Reno reached into his pigeonhole and pulled out a pile of junk mail. Coupons for a linens sale at Robsons… a brochure for a cruise line… an estate agent's circular… the newsletter for the Red Leather fanclub. Several years ago he'd briefly hooked up with the then membership secretary, who'd put his name on the mailing list, and even though he'd never paid a sub in his life the monthly outpouring of infatuated trivia from the poncey dead git's fan-ghouls continued to arrive in his box with depressing regularity.

He tossed the lot into the wastepaper bin, and was about to walk away, when out of the corner of his eye he realized that something stiff and shiny had fallen from between the pages of the newsletter. Doubling back, he reached into the bin and fished out a postcard.

When he saw her handwriting, his heart began to beat a little faster.

I guess nothing lasts forever, she had written. Not even my anger at you. When I first got here, I loved the solitude. Now I'm starting to feel lonely. I think that's a good sign.

There was no signature, no return address, no postmark, no stamp. He turned the card over. The image on the front was a sepia-tinted photograph of the Sector Eight Clock Arch.

Where in all the world was she? Tseng knew, but he wasn't telling; Reno's attempts to finagle a hint out of him had so far met with failure. This reference to solitude was his first and only clue. It sounded like she was somewhere remote and uninhabited…. Yet wasn't it true that often the loneliest place of all was in a crowd of strangers…?

His phone rang.

"What are you doing?" Rosalind demanded. "You should have relieved me twenty minutes ago. Come on, Reno – I covered for you a week ago and you still owe me."

"Be right there," he promised, tucking the postcard into his jacket's inside pocket.

The previous seven days had been insanely busy: the Department had never known anything like it. With the big push on to take fight into the enemy's camp, the Turks were lucky to get half an hour's sleep at a stretch, and even that had to be snatched while flying in helicopters, or sitting at their desks with their heads pillowed on stacks of printouts. Rosalind kept the coffee in the kitchen hot and strong.

Rude and Reno had spent much of the last week trying to gather information on the 'Ravens', the black AVALANCHE operatives who had ambushed Dr Rayleigh and Aviva on the train. They had begun their investigation by flying to Cosmo Canyon, to cross-examine that irritatingly buoyant old hippie, Bugenhagen. Rosalind's research had already established that Fuhito had, a few years back, spent some time as Bugenhagen's pupil at the Centre for the Study of Planet Life, but had left after an unspecified disagreement. When questioned, Bugenhagen could not, or would not, shed much light on this matter. He recognised Fuhito's description, remembered him as someone clever but aloof, and said he wasn't surprised to hear about the terrorist activities, but the fact was – he hooted – students were always coming and going, and he was an old man: his memory wasn't what it used to be.

Reno personally felt that a little electric shock therapy would have done wonders for the old fraud's powers of recall. Unfortunately, they were under orders to handle him with kid gloves. Bugenhagen had a lot of friends in all sorts of places. Shame.

Back in Midgar, he and Rude combed through the routine intelligence reports filed by the company's branch offices and military outposts; they tapped deep into the department's informal network of stool pigeons, the paid informants and the private detectives Veld kept on retainer; they questioned every one of the scientists involved, however insignificantly, in the SOLDIER enhancement program, on the off-chance that someone might be hiding something. So far, they'd come up with zip.

For an organization that seemed to be pretty substantial, AVALANCHE was good at covering its tracks. On the 48th floor of the Shinra building, tempers were growing short. The Turks were not used to being outsmarted.

With a mug of black coffee in his hand, and Cissnei's postcard on his mind, Reno went to the surveillance room on the floor between floors, where Rosalind had spent the last six hours scanning radio frequencies in search of possible AVALANCHE transmissions. "My head's killing me," she snapped, yanking off the headphones and throwing them at him. "I'm going to go close my eyes for an hour. If Tseng calls, tell him I'm dead."

Tseng, meanwhile, was in Costa del Sol, standing on the porch of a lemon coloured villa. The door and the window shutters had been painted a dark blue since the last time he was here. On either side of the front porch stood terracotta pots filled with scarlet and white geraniums. He had walked up from the harbour in the blazing heat; sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, and rang the bell.

The Legendary Turk answered the door dressed in surfing trunks, a hooded cotton pullover, sunglasses, and flip-flops. His thick, reddish-blond hair had grown to touch his collar, and he sported a pair of sideburns along the line of his jaw. There was a gun in his hand; old habits died hard. When he saw Tseng, he stuffed the gun into his waistband and grinned in a way that was as much wolfish as friendly. "Come in, kiddo."

They walked through to the patio. On the way Tseng caught a glimpse through a half-closed door of a dark-skinned girl asleep on a bed. Out on the patio were a hammock and a pair of striped deck-chairs. Rather reluctantly, Tseng folded himself into one of these. Charlie offered him a sherry on the rocks. Tseng declined. Charlie poured himself a large one and stretched out in the hammock. Beyond the shade of the patio's thatch stretched a private yellow beach, and then the rolling blue surf.

"As prisons go," Tseng said, "This is tolerable, I suppose."

He was merely making conversation. The day was headache-inducingly bright. Tseng was always relieved when the time came to leave Costa and return to the subtle half-tones of Midgar. Charlie sipped his drink, saying nothing. Tseng decided to get straight to the point.

"Someone's leaking information to AVALANCHE. From the top."

"No kidding."

"What do you mean?"

"It had to be something. You and Veld never drop by for no reason, just to say hello."

"I can't speak for the Commander," said Tseng, "But personally, I have a hard time seeing you like this."

Charlie laughed. "Happy, you mean?"

"Does living like this make you happy?"

"It sure beats working. So… Information leak. Don't know anything about it. Sorry. Is that all you came to ask? Or was that just your way of leading up to another little chat about me turning to work? Because if it was, don't bother."

Tseng watched the surf ebb and flow while he turned over various replies in his mind. Charlie rocked the hammock with one foot, and sipped on his drink.

Tseng said, "We need you. That's obvious. But I think you need us more. You're fading away in the sun here, Charlie. No one talks about you much any more. The new Turks don't even know your name. You're ancient history. In ten year's time you'll be propping up the bar at the Del Sol and buying strangers drinks so they'll hang around long enough to listen to your stories. If that makes you happy, fine."

Charlie swung the hammock back and forth for a while, saying nothing. Tseng held his peace. The loudest sound was the chink of the ice in Charlie's glass.

"Could you do me a favour, Tseng?" said Charlie at last. "Tell Veld to send one of his cute young girl recruits next time. That way I can have something to feast my eye on while I'm busy not listening. Now don't let me keep you. You can find your own way out."

Tseng left, having done what he came to do. The conversation had gone pretty much as he expected. The Legend's pride was his weakness, but it was also their opportunity. Now they would have to wait and see.

Three hours later, the dial of the radio scanner was still slowly working its way through the frequencies. The successive bands of atmospheric crackle had become so much white noise in Reno's ears. For the twentieth time, he had taken out Cissnei's postcard and was re-reading it.

I guess nothing lasts forever, not even my anger against you…

Well, at least he was no longer her public enemy number one. But what else was included in nothing? What was she hinting at? How else had her feelings changed?

…Now I'm starting to feel lonely. I think that's a good sign.

What was that supposed to mean? Lonely in general? Lonely for someone in particular? Why was that good? Good for who? -

"Are you all right there?" asked Rosalind in the doorway.

Quickly he slipped the postcard back into his pocket. Rosalind appeared not to have seen it. She came in and set a fresh mug of coffee beside his elbow.

"You look better," he said.

"I feel better. I can take over now, if you want."

Just then it occurred to Reno that he might be acting like an idiot, reading far too much into a simple postcard. For all he knew, Cissnei had sent postcards to everyone in the office, and had confided to them all that she was feeling a bit lonesome...

"Hey, Roz," he asked as casually as he could, "D'you ever hear from Ciss?"

Rosalind shook her head. "Not a word. But I don't expect to. She – "

Her voice was drowned by the high pitch whine that had suddenly filled his ears. He clamped both hands to the headphones.

"What is it?" she cried.

"Hang on! Sssh!"

They both held their breath. The whine became a hum, dropped in pitch, and resolved into the distinct sound of a human voice rising and falling.

"I've got something," he told her.

"No! Where? Let me see – " Rosalind pushed round his chair to take a look at the dial. "It's a non-allocated frequency, all right," she agreed.

Reno flipped a switch to lock into the wavelength. Both of them turned their eyes to the map on the screen, where a green circle was rapidly zooming in on the Northern Continent, coming to rest at last on a spot about thirty kilometers north of Icicle Inn.

"What are they saying?" she asked him.

"It's too garbled – I can't make it out."

"It's them," she breathed.

"Roz, don't we have a base there?"

"Not that far north. And not on that frequency. It's them. It's AVALANCHE. It has to be." Overcome with delight, Rosalind threw her arms around Reno's neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"You," she laughed, "Are bloody brilliant."

"You're sure this is AVALANCHE headquarters?" said Lazard to Commander Veld an hour later.

They were standing side by side in Lazard's office, studying the map of the Northern Continent that was flickering on his wall monitor. Veld's answer was curt. "We can't be sure of anything until we check it out. But the odds are good."

"Who are you sending?"

"Knox and Reno."

Lazard inclined his head. "I'll brief my men and have them stand by. Our base is about fifteen kliks to the south. Here -" he indicated the position with one long, gloved finger.

Of all the many things about Lazard that got up Veld's nose, those white linen gloves irked him the most. They were more than an affectation. Like the emails stuffed full of double-meanings that he circulated from time to time, they were an exercise in hypocrisy. If he didn't want to get his hands dirty, why had he accepted this Directorship? If he disapproved of the way his father did business, why didn't he resign? Instead, he sat on the fence, enjoying all the benefits of being a Shinra executive while badmouthing the company to its employees in the slyest possible way – and that, in Veld's eyes, was the act of a coward.

That the Old Man had chosen to give his bastard son command of SOLDIER was an error of judgement for which, Veld was sure, the company had not yet finished paying, not by a long chalk. He'd advised against it, and suggested something harmless like HR or Marketing, but the Old Man would have his own way.

The Old Man felt guilty about Lazard. Veld saw no reason why he should. Though he had left Lazard's mother in order to marry the young society beauty who would eventually die giving birth to Rufus, it had never been his intention to abandon his older son. Lazard's mother was the one who had chosen to disappear into the slums, taking their child with her, and for eight years Veld had sought her in vain. Finally he had come across her by accident in a charity clinic in Sector Two; she was slurring her words like an alcoholic, though the doctors said it was a degenerative disease. Lazard, by then aged twelve, had had no idea who his father was, and the Old Man had been happy to leave it that way: his young wife was having difficulties conceiving, and the last thing he needed was a scandal that might tear apart the already fragile harmony of his domestic life.

Lazard's mother had been put in a nursing home, and the boy had gone to boarding school, where he did well. Then there had been the internship at the bank, followed by the move to Shinra, and the rapid ascent up the corporate ladder that had set tongues wagging. Lazard's relationship to the Old Man, though never officially acknowledged, was now an open secret. Lazard himself did not speak of it in public, or, as far as Veld could discover, in private either. With Cissnei he had never referred to the Old Man as anything other than The President.

Perhaps he liked to pretend to himself that he had risen so far on his own merits. But if all he was guilty of was self-deception… well, who wasn't? Incompetence and cowardice did not, on their own, constitute treachery. Lazard was weak. He was embittered. But according to Cissnei, he was also a man whose principles ran deep. Did he really have the nerve, or the desire, to be a traitor?

Veld asked him, "What kind of force do we have up there?"

"Two platoons of troopers. A dozen Thirds. And two Seconds – Essai Yevtushenko and Sebastian Bold."

"That's a lot of manpower for a monster hunting mission," Veld observed.

Though his tone had been neutral, the implication was inescapable. Lazard's body tensed. Guilt? wondered the Turk. Certainly Lazard seemed to have been taken by surprise. It took him several moments to put together a response.

"Commander Veld," he said at last, "You are a man whom I respect. I think I've made that clear these last few years. So please, do me the favour of being straight with me. Do you suspect me of leaking information to AVALANCHE?"

"I suspect everyone," Veld replied.

"Guilty until proven innocent. Is that how it works?"

Veld made a noise that was partly a chuckle, partly a grunt acknowledging Lazard was right. "Everyone is guilty of something," he told him, "In my experience, at least."

Next morning, after seeing Knox and Reno off, the Commander returned from the rooftop helipad to find the Director of SOLDIER pacing back and forth in his office. Lazard's face was ashen. Without any preamble, he said, "We've lost radio contact with the base."

It was bad news, and yet…. Veld realized he wasn't surprised.

"Phones?" he asked.

"They're ringing. No one's answering." Lazard paused.

"What about your Seconds?"

"We've been unable to get in touch with them."

"What?" Veld could not keep the disbelief out of his voice. "Both of them?"

Lazard closed his eyes with an air of resigned helplessness, and nodded. Veld grabbed him and shook him. "Don't go to sleep, man! When did this happen?"

"Just now."

"Bloody hell." Veld ground his teeth. "Someone tipped them off."

"So it would appear. Commander, listen – I'm aware of what this makes me sound like, but if I were you I'd call my men back. You don't know what they're flying into."

Veld treated this suggestion with the contempt it deserved. Turning his back on Lazard, he took out his phone and made two calls: the first to Tseng, to brief him, and the second over the radio link to Knox. "Re-route to Icicle Inn and proceed by chocobo," he ordered. "The first priority is to avoid detection. Find out what happened at the base, and report to Tseng."

Snapping the phone shut, he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Lazard asked.

"To inform the President."

"Shall I come with you?"

The Commander did not hesitate. "No."

Five minutes later he walked into the penthouse on the 70th floor. The Old Man was busy working at his desk, while Rufus lay stretched out on the floor underneath the window, reading a comic, his golden head pillowed against Dark Nation's purple flank. The boy had had a growth spurt in the last year, and had recently taken to wearing oddly-cut assymetrical suits in layers of black and white; Veld supposed it must be the fashion amongst teenagers these days.

The Old Man looked up. "Veld? What's happened?"

All the President's hopes for a swift and final end to the AVALANCHE crisis were riding on this mission. He was, as Veld well knew, an irrepressible optimist. He had always been the one with the vision; the job of those around him was to make that vision happen. The likelihood of setbacks, the possibility of failure, never seriously entered into his calculations. In the President's imagination, AVALANCHE had already been brought to their knees.

His anger at the news thus took the form of righteous indignation, as if he had been robbed of something that belonged to him, or cheated out of a prize that he had won fair and square. Picking up a carved ashtray, he hurled it at the window – but the glass was bullet proof, and the ashtray fell to the floor, cracking the marble tile.

"Two Second Classes!" he cried. "How? It's impossible. Who betrayed us, Veld? Who?"

Rufus, unperturbed, turned the page of his comic.

"I don't know," Veld admitted.

"Why the hell don't you know? I told you to plug that leak!"

"What do you want me to do? Put the entire Board under arrest?"

The Old Man's fist clenched around a paperweight. "Damn it, Veld. My Board can't be the only suspects."

"Who else has access to that kind of information?"

"What about your Turks?"

"Don't be stupid, Father," Rufus interrupted, laying his comic aside. "The Turks have more to lose than anybody if this company goes under."

"Goes under?" the Old Man sputtered. "What are you talking about? You think a bunch of crazy vermin could bring down this company? We have what the world wants, Rufus. We are what the world wants. Who the hell wants AVALANCHE? In fact…." The Old Man hesitated. A sly smile lightened his face. "If you look at it another way, the lousy scum have done us a favour."

"What do you mean?" asked his son.

"Everyone knows the man on the Sector Eight omnibus is an ungrateful bastard -"

"The who?" Rufus interrupted.

"It's a saying," Veld explained. "The man in the street. Joe Public."

"People are quick to forget what they owe us," the President went on. "They take the good times for granted. But when AVALANCHE threatens us, it makes people think. What would their lives be like without Shinra? Where would they be? Back in the bad old days, that's where."

Rufus looked thoughtful. "So you're saying a little terrorism is good for P.R.?"

"I'm saying that they served a purpose they didn't intend. But they've worn out their welcome. They're starting to make us look weak. It's time we got rid of them once and for all. Since we've lost the element of surprise we'll have to settle with AVALANCHE first, and deal with our mole later. Veld, I want to launch an immediate assault. Liaise with Heidegger and Lazard."

"We can't attack if we don't know what we're facing. Let my men finish their recce -"

"They can reconnoitre while Lazard and Heidegger muster the troops. You've got twenty-four hours. And tell Lazard to get Sephiroth on the case."

"Sephiroth's on another mission," said Veld. "With Zack Fair."

"All right, leave Sephiroth where he is. Pull Zack, and put him in charge of this assignment. It'll be a good opportunity to see what he's made of."

"I think it's Hojo," said Rufus.

The two old men turned to look at him. "What?" said his father.

"If you were to ask me who is the least loyal director on the Board, I'd say Hojo. He's a shark. He follows the smell of blood. Plus he's a hack. The only useful thing he's ever done for this company was the development of the mako enhancement procedure, and even that was mostly Gast's work. I think the mole is Hojo."

"Hojo has everything he wants right here," President Shinra affirmed with confidence. "He's the last man who would betray us. Just read your comic, Rufus, and leave business to the men who understand it."

PHS Transcript, 14 January 2002, 21.56 pm

Knox: Survey completed, sir.

Tseng: What did you find?

Knox: It's AVALANCHE, all right, and it's big. Could be their H.Q. They've dug in under the ice. It's almost impossible to see from the outside.

Tseng: What do you put their strength at?

Knox: Maybe several hundred men? And monsters – Guard Hounds and Grand Horns.

Tseng: Did you have any trouble?

Knox: Nothing we couldn't handle.

Tseng: Are you back at the base now?

Knox: Yes. It's not ideal, but we have to have shelter. We've posted lookouts. Most of our men were only knocked out. They're back on their feet now.

Tseng: What about the two SOLDIERs?

Knox: AVALANCHE took them.

[static]

Tseng: Are they dead?

Knox: No. We found them. They were being held in tanks filled with some sort of dark liquid. Reno and I freed them. They seem to be OK.

Tseng: Tanks? Like cloning tanks?

Knox: Apparently AVALANCHE use the tanks to regenerate their Ravens.

Tseng: The Ravens….

Knox: I've counted four so far. They seem to be almost indestructible. I fought one in the tank room and thought I'd killed it, but when we got outside, it had regenerated. The AVALANCHE guy with the glasses – Fuhito – said it was defective. He killed it with a mako gun.

Tseng: Are they human?

Knox: Hard to tell. I think maybe they were once, sir…

Tanks? Liquids? Human experiments? Monsters that could not die? Reading the transcript, Veld turned these vivid images over in his mind, and was troubled by the possibilities they suggested. The 'Ravens' sounded like Hojo's kind of operation. AVALANCHE had stolen Hojo's disk, true… But the data on the disk had been about something different. And in any case, AVALANCHE had used Ravens to steal the disk, so they must have known how to make those black operatives since well before last July. Where had they learnt the technique? Who had shown it to them?

Could it be that Rufus was right?

Was Hojo breaking loose from his gilded cage?