Chapter 73

The Trawlerman

George looked up at the ceiling he could not see, not wanting to think about how much his eyesight had diminished. Not that it mattered now. He just longed for an end.

In the absence of any light in 'the Hole', he was doomed to play back painful memories, the most recent one being the Ross Torama's crew being set aflame in front of him. It was similar to an old memory, one that no child should ever have. She was there, in both of them. The Red Witch. She who burned the Founding Fathers at the stakes with her crimson fires eighteen years ago. Though her hair was silver now, she had grown black wings and went by a different name.

If only Grandad could see him now.

Perhaps he could.

'Yer a failure, lad!' George would often hear, and covering his ears made no difference. 'A failure of a fisherman! A failure to yer people! A failure to the Resistance! And worse, a failure to FH!'

It would seem the spectre of Howard Peterson was there, in the darkness, heard but unseen. He was reaching out to George from the Netherworld.

'Yer got 'Lassa killed, yer daft bastard! What were yer thinkin'?'

Even though Grandad had been immolated when George was of twelve summers, he could easily envisage those suspended trousers, the bucket hat, the flannel shirt, and the favoured sea rod. The broad Mordred accent most of the first generation had, which over the decades would become a dialect unique to FH.

Just leave me alone, Grandad, George would think. Please. I'll be with you again soon, and then you can belt me until the end of eternity if you really think I deserve it.

The Red Witch told George he was to be burnt in FH's main square, or what had always passed for one, where the biweekly market was held outside the train station. In the same spot she had burnt Grandad. Again, as an example.

And George knew the Resistance would die with him. As it was, they barely had the stomach to resist Esthar. Their 'resistance' was limited to moving SeeDs discreetly through the Empire's waters, or thumbing their noses at Esthar soldiers along the Stretch, or displaying inflated prices for soldiers and discreetly lowering them for the locals. If not for George's popularity around town, and if he were not the grandson of a Founding Father, they would have remained submissive.

Three times a day, the hatch to the brig's door would slide open. This was one reason why he preferred to look at the ceiling, and he fought the reflex to look for the familiar sound. As much as he yearned for that light, it now hurt his eyes. Three times a day, sweet, blissful light would illuminate his cell, though he could not look at it. It would briefly give shape to the Hole, which was a small rectangle, about six yards by eight with a small bed. In the other corner was a literal pot to piss and shit in, though he had been given no paper. George used the infrequent opportunity to look for a miniscule detail of the room, whether it be a hole in the wall, peels in the paint, cracks in the ceiling.

The darkness was gone but for a few seconds. The hatch would slide open, the plastic plate and litre cup from the earlier mealtime would be removed, a new one would be put in its place. Morning was always marked by a ladle of gruel, and the other two meals were just as bland. The drink was always still water.

His thirtieth nameday passed a few days into his incarceration. The guards had known, of course. George had been served a breakfast of fresh, warm shit and a pint of piss. The smell had been so rancid he had tried to vomit into the chamber pot, but had missed. He had left it on the shelf, though the hatch had not been opened again until the following morning, and the guard had shoved the contents of the birthday treat onto the cell floor, forcing George to blindly wade through it to get to his gruel.

George did not even know how long he had been down here, though at a guess, it had been a few weeks. He was no fitness enthusiast, but for want of anything else to do, he went through a series of exercise and stretching circuits daily. He could not look too shabby for his execution, could he? And the pounds were surely dropping off him now! If only they had let him keep his acoustic, which was as much apart of him as his hands and feet. He did not need light to play, and could work on his own requiem.

The first alteration of his new norm had been an extra pervasion of light, accompanied by a callous voice through the hatch. Probably the same bastard that had prepared his nameday surprise.

'Guess what, Peterson? The Empress is occupied, and your execution has been postponed! I hope you're having fun in there!'

The hatch had slammed shut, and he had received no dinner that evening.

The Red Witch was occupied? By the Children of Fate, George could only presume. She had gloated as to how she had the Fire Cavern surrounded with every marine on Balamb. George had every respect for Thalassa, though knew it was unlikely she and the others had survived. George had sailed them into the mouth of the beast and led them to their deaths. The Red Witch must be finishing SeeD off right about now. And when her war was won, George's burning would not even matter. There would be no hope remaining.

Grandad was back, and George was sure he could hear him reeling before an ambitious cast.

'Better for our people to become one with power than be consumed by it!'

With the first phase of Operation Excalibur already underway, six ships had departed Lenown. Five, including the White SeeD Ship and Battleship Island, headed north for FH. One headed east, for the northern Kakashbald, and its voyage would be sped and safeguarded by both Leviathan and Pandemonium, as it was critical the Wraiths of Zefer reached their target at the same time as SeeD and the Centrans reached FH.

As the sun was rising on the morning after the Restoration, Thalassa approached Ifrit at her ship's bow. Vastly out of his element, he was sitting still and cross-legged again, and was surrounded by cactuars and tonberries. Most of the tonberries seemed to be sleeping standing up, swaying in sync with the ship. The cactuars squeaked and jumped excitedly as she approached, and though Ifrit did not stir, he addressed her.

'Good morning, Thalassa.'

'G'morning, Ifrit.'

The Guardian Force's eyes remained shut.

'What is it?' he asked patiently.

She looked to the horizon. White SeeD had taken a planned detour back to Mysidia, as it was only slightly off course. Both the Tower of Mysidia and Mount Ordeals were visible on the skyline.

'Can you make it to shore from here?' Thalassa asked.

Now, Ifrit's eyes shot open. 'We're near land?' He looked over his shoulder, sighting the landmarks. 'I had no inkling! The ocean oppresses me, snuffs me to but a pitiful ember on the Aether, you must understand. I do not belong at sea!'

'I am sorry, Ifrit,' she said earnestly. 'Though I need your help.'

He looked at her curiously now. 'Would you have me locate Gerra?'

She almost gasped. Gerra had reportedly flown east over Pocarachi Island, so it made sense he would be somewhere on the former colony. It had been less than a week ago, after all.

'Is he nearby?'

'I can always sense Phoenix,' Ifrit stated, 'however lightly. He is in Mysidia.'

Thalassa walked to the ship rail to look at the ancient town White SeeD had given so much to liberate. What was Gerra doing there, exactly? Aiding the reconstruction effort? The colony had lost many men and women conscripted to defend it. She guessed there would be a demand for his broad shoulders, and it would give him some purpose. Or was he just drinking away his sorrows? Both, most likely, Thalassa admitted. He had only given up the bottle for her.

'Not now,' she said reluctantly, turning back to Ifrit. 'I need you to go and get Gilgamesh and bring him aboard. He will either be in the tower or on the mountain, or at least the surrounding areas. We'll hug the coast until you return.'

Ifrit continued staring at her. 'If I fetch that wayward Voidsent for you,' he said, 'then you must grant me one request.'

'And what's that?'

'Although you asserted that you and Fujin would forbid it, I wish to junction with my namesake,' the GF said firmly. 'No one else here has the affinity to fire that Ifrit has.'

Thalassa only hesitated for a second.

'Deal,' she said reluctantly. 'Now go! We need to rejoin Squall and the Centrans ASAP!'

For George, weeks had passed. The Red Witch must have been hunting the last SeeDs to every remote corner of the Planet. The Third Sorceress War had to be over by now. If not for the regular mealtimes, George would have lost all semblance of time in his black prison. It kept him sane, but only just. Grandad came to deride him often, and recently, Howard had been joined by Dobe and Flo. The town's first and final Mayor had tried to convince George that he had been wrong to resist the Empire.

'The sacrifice of the Founding Fathers was necessary for lasting peace!' Dobe insisted. 'We accepted our fates! We were the last casualties of war that will ever take place here!'

Flo would speak even more condescendingly. George would always peer around at the darkness, looking for her peroxide blonde hair, but it never lit his cell.

'Our people are living much as they did before!' she chided him. 'The war as a whole and what goes on in the rest of the world is of little concern to FH, as long as we can maintain our peaceful way of life! George, you will be shunned when you arrive in the Netherworld!'

No, George would think. Dobe and Flo would never say things like that. The Founding Fathers had fled Esthar when evidence of the Grey Witch's horrific crimes had emerged. That it had been Adel who caused the Calamity in Centra and bankrolled the rebellion that fractured the Holy Dollet Empire. That like her ancient Centran forebears, Adel had always coveted global conquest.

The people had been unhappy throughout the entire occupation. The naval production facility had all but killed the fish in the surrounding waters, forcing the commercial fisherman to work much harder for their hauls, commonly sailing as far as Winter Island or the dangerous waters of southern Centra. In the harsher months, increasing numbers of trawlers were lost, and fewer skippers had the stomach to risk the harsh and treacherous seas. Trawlermen were away from their families for much longer now, and when they cashed in they had to give the Empire a percentage of their profits. All to give the Empress hard currency to bankroll the one thing FH had always been against. War.

In the end, George convinced himself that he was going mad. He had heard accepting one had a problem was the first step to recovery. Accept there would be no chance of recovery. He just had to make it to his execution and face down Red Witch's crimson flames with dignity, the way Grandad had. Then he would find out what the Founding Fathers really thought of him, and he would accept their judgement without argument.

That would be his Judgement.

The Hole was soundproofed, but the next break in George's torturous monotony was a soft vibration in the walls, waking him. It passed through his metallic bedframe, and though it might have been his untrustworthy imagination, he could feel it in his ailing bones. From how sluggish he felt, he guessed he had been in the midst of a sleep cycle, though he would not know the approximate time until his plain gruel was served.

He lay there with his eyes open, even though the image sent back to his brain was the same as if his eyes had been closed.

'G'back ter sleep, lad,' Howard said. 'It's not time ter go, yet.'

George surmised that he had dreamt it.

Okay, Grandad. Wake me when it's time to go fishing.

He closed his eyes.

Yet the Hole shook again, this time with much more ferocity. Then again. And again. Flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling. George sat up. Like every man in FH, he had been forced to aid in this building's construction. If he remembered correctly, the brigs were on the southern side, facing Centra, and it would stand to reason he could feel the base being struck by cannon barrages. Or the wrath of a Guardian Force.

But how? Timber and North Centra were both imperial territory, and George had no reason to suspect the latter had been liberated. The Red Witch had probably conquered Galbadia by now. What would striking the FH base achieve for any surviving SeeDs?

'Yer mates are comin'!' Howard said now.

'Grandad?' George croaked. He had said nothing throughout his whole incarceration, assuming that the Hole was bugged; he would not pray or plead aloud, refusing to give his captors even the slightest moment of satisfaction. He had to clear his throat. 'Is it really you?'

George was sure he could see his grandfather standing by the bed, his rod slanted over his right shoulder, touching the unseen ceiling.

'Yer gettin' another chance, lad,' Howard replied. 'Don't piss it away!'

George lost count of the explosions that followed. He could hear an alarm now, though it was very faint. It must have been sounding right outside of the door for him to hear it. Yes, the base was definitely under attack. He waited, not looking where he knew the door to be. The light that would flood inside when he was rescued would be ever so painful, yet never more welcome. It would still hurt even if he looked away, but it was pain he would accept gladly.

There were muffled voices, and the sound that he had yearned for came to pass. The locks slid back for the first time in weeks, and the door was thrust open. George was looking at the ceiling, but that treasured light was just too much, artificial though it was, and he had to close and shield his eyes.

'George! Are you in here?'

George knew that voice, though hearing it gave him a sinking feeling. It belonged to someone who had to be dead. A dear friend who was dead because of his naivety. It was the voice of Thalassa, with that sassy Balamb accent she had been so proud and determined to retain years after being sent away from her homeland. And that could only mean that he too was dead. He must have died in his sleep. Perhaps the Red Witch had decided he was not worth the trouble and told his guards to poison his dinner of oily mackerel and stale, unbuttered bread. He would have been able to taste it in the water.

'I'm sorry, Thalassa,' he croaked.

'Oh, George!' she said, throwing her arms around him and hoisting up with strength that belied her petite body. He opened his eyes and could only see white. The white of her uniform, as she was blocking the light from the door. 'FH belongs to the Allies, now! Let's get you out of here!'

'What?' he mumbled.

More footsteps, and more voices. Others had entered the Hole, and George yelped and jammed his eyes closed as Thalassa moved to nestle under one of his arms. Someone around her size did the same on the other side.

'Raiden, give him your shades!' Thalassa ordered curtly. 'His eyes are in pain! He's been in here for weeks!'

'Okay, Cap'n!' a gruff voice said in front of him.

George felt some sunglasses being placed on his face, though there were a little loose. They helped immensely, though. He could open his eyes, though could barely take in the cell that had been his home before he was dragged out by Thalassa and another woman. The man in front of him was olive-skinned and gangly. The woman leading him from the left was of a similar complexion, though had Balambi features like Thalassa's. There was a stocky White SeeD walking in front of Raiden with dark hair.

They left the solitary confinement cellblock and moved up a stairwell, then through a couple of corridors, before bursting out into an open area of the base. There was natural light in here, increased by all the holes in the roof, and sullied only by the sight of dozens of dead navy personnel. He could see White SeeDs all over the place, along with many young people in darker uniforms, who he guessed were the Lionheart's people. Though George's attention was drawn to a towering humanoid he initially mistook for a monster, with six arms and a billowing red cloak, and an impossibly big sapphire sword over one shoulder. From Thalassa's stories, he knew this to be Gilgamesh.

George stopped in a circle of sunlight, vowing that he would never take the elements for granted again, that he would never curse or damn a single rainy day.

'Sheesh!' Gilgamesh exclaimed, in a voice that was surprisingly soft. 'What's that smell?' he asked, looking at George, and suddenly making him very self-conscious. He nervously stepped away from Thalassa and the other woman, feeling his face reddening.

'FH is free?' he asked them.

'It sure is!' Thalassa confirmed. 'We took it out on the way to Timber!'

'Piece of cake!' Raiden added.

'And Governor Octavia?' George wondered.

'Dead!' the other woman said, whom someone had called Tian. 'Killed in the GF strikes!'

George nodded. 'She won't be missed,' he said coldly. And it was true, Octavia had been considerably more callous than the previous Governor. 'And now you're going to liberate Timber?' he asked incredulously. 'How much have I missed?'

'A crapload, George,' Thalassa said. 'Dollet was only the start of it! The colony in northern Centra is defeated, too. But the hard work doesn't stop there, and we need your help. We need the people of Fisherman's Horizon!' Then she smiled gently. 'But first, we need to get you washed up!'

Thousand of miles to the southeast, in the Kakashbald Desert, the Wraiths of Zefer had reached their target. Word of the attack on FH had spread across the Empire, and the XIXth Legion was being mobilised. Though not fast enough. The ancient hoplites had docked to the north and maintained a constant sprint for the air force base, propelled by a lasting gust from Pandemonium before he and Leviathan tore through the air and sea to reunite with their Summoners.

Hector and his hoplites had not tired as they sprinted day and night, for they could not. The radiation that now caused large swathes of the dunes to be devoid of human life was as irrelevant to the Wraiths as the sun or the air. They had witnessed some evidence of its effects as they passed horribly mutated abyss worms and antlions. Only freakish zuus could keep up with them, though the clumsy raptors were duly cut down by dory and left do bleed out into the dunes.

With the time zone differences, they reached the airbase as the sun was setting and tore through the gates. The guards in the base were cut down before the bulk of the hoplites secured the airfield. Hector had studied plans of the base given to him by Squall, and he led those who had been his most trusted soldiers in life on a sortie straight for the building that would house the Legatus.

As it happened, the Legatus was found sitting on the toilet. He threw his hands up faster than a Dollean in a trench, though he was not spared. The hoplites who located him were probably thankful they could not smell, because his bowels opened as he was gutted. Although the Legion still outnumbered the Wraiths at this point, the XIXth unconditionally surrendered. As the Wraiths could not speak, they presented the acting Legatus with written instructions that they were to completely evacuate the base, with enough supplies to reach a military harbour to the northeast.

All the while, hoplites pre-selected by Hector for their intelligence in life familiarised themselves with how to operate the Valkyrs, and found it was as easy as Selphie and Laguna described. Some airships, along with a token force, would remain to defend the base until it could be relieved. The remainder of the Valkyrs flew northwest, and would mark the foundations of Centra's New Royal Air Force. Fourteen hundred hoplites immediately sprinted back north to reboard their ship. While they would not rejoin the Allies until after the battle for Redwood had been decided, they would be a welcome reinforcement.