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Chapter Text

Something ugly sleeps within the hold of the Garencieres.

Mineva Lao Zabi has been kept apart from much of the world, but she knows of ugliness. The feeling reminds her of a nuclear warhead she once saw, after asking Haman about the barbaric tools of authority.

The warhead had been small, deceptively so. No more than a meter across, and with a shiny, burnished surface that made it appear more like a kitchen appliance than such a dreadful instrument.

And then she touched it, and felt the coldness of its skin and the pressure of all the fuses and explosives and fissiles and hydrogen fuel, and recoiled with instinctual horror. Within that mundane metal casing, thousands of future deaths waited patiently to be delivered.

Possibility has a weight. It deforms spacetime just the same way as mass, and you can feel it.

Mineva can feel it now, rumbling with sheathed-knife menace.

“Princess,” says the Ple unit, Lieutenant Marida Cruz, “We’re about to enter combat. You need to be wearing a normal suit.” She proffers the suit. It’s bulky and clumsy and will make Mineva look like a soldier.

“You needn’t do this, Lieutenant,” replies Mineva. “Neither you nor the Box’s Key should be so cheaply spent.”

 The Lieutenant blinks and inclines her head in a curious way. “That is not relevant, Your Grace.” She proffers the suit again, and Mineva takes it. Subtlety was not a quality desired of the Ple germline.

“Can’t you feel it?” asks Mineva as she puts on the suit. She’s not sure why she asks, but she needs to push back somehow. “The Unicorn is a monster.”

“The Unicorn Gundam is a weapon,” the Lieutenant says, speaking matter-of-factly as though to a child. Mineva bristles at this. “It is a mobile suit that responds to my inputs, and I am a class of combat unit known as a ‘pilot’. Nothing more needs be said, Princess.”

Mineva shakes her head, the gesture made clumsy in a puppet-pantomime way by the confining helmet. “That’s not the meaning of `monster’ I meant!” she protests. “Doing this will kill you, Lieutenant Marida!”

The Lieutenant hesitates fractionally at the mention of her name. As though sensing this, the shipnet crackles with the voice of the Garencieres’ master, Suberoa Zinnerman.

“Your Grace,” he says, “We can debate ethics later. Lieutenant Cruz, scramble. We have bandits and vampires inbound.”

 “Yes, Master,” comes the clockwork response, and a not-quite-audible noise from Zinnerman betrays his discomfort.

“Lieutenant,” says Mineva, not sure how to continue, but desperate to protest the Lieutenant’s descent into the monster’s heart.

“We’ll talk later, Your Grace,” says the Lieutenant, “I promise I’ll be back,” and then she’s gone. The stateroom’s door slams shut behind her, locking from the outside with a none-too-subtle click.

Mineva can imagine the Lieutenant’s progress through the narrow, mazelike corridors of the Garencieres’ habitation block, pausing in the cargo bay airlock, then kicking out across the dizzying void of the hangar towards her machine. Not towards the Kshatriya, the squat thing that clings beetlelike to the metallic innards of its host, but towards the Unicorn. The Key. The monster. Its jaws yawn wide and swallow her, and Marida Cruz is annihilated, subsumed entirely by her proxy, weapon, and trap.

The shipnet crackles again. “Marida Cruz, Unicorn Gundam. Deploying.”

There is a brief, busy series of mechanical noises as the Garencieres deploys her vicious cargo, and then the Lieutenant is gone, accelerating into the night in a cloud of superheated propellant.

For a brief moment, Mineva is perfectly, completely alone. The shipnet is silent. The air is heavy with anticipation, and the metal walls threaten to buckle under the weight of possibility.

“Maneuvering,” buzzes the voice of the helmsman, Gilboa Sant, over the shipnet. “Brace, brace.”

Mineva feels the intention of the acceleration before it happens. Above her on the bridge, Sant inputs an aggressive burn, and Garencieres answers. The roar of the main engines rattles the thin metal walls, and the rockets’ fury jars Mineva’s bones through her handhold.

“Grandslam vampires,” calls Zinnerman over the rocket’s thunder, and Mineva supposes this must mean something very important indeed. She braces with another hand as Sant inputs another maneuver, and Garencieres reverberates in a groan of structural agony as her thrusters shunt her onto a new course.

Then, a flash of emotion. It’s the knife-sharp, burning taste of sudden fear, wreathed with the Lieutenant’s green fire. Diamonds, home plate sixty by minus five. Fireball.

“All hands!” barks Zinnerman, “Brace for beam fire!”

Mineva goes cold with terror. The Lieutenant can stop mobile suits and missiles. The Unicorn can hold back anything with a warhead or a pilot. But neither of them can stop a particle beam. Garencieres is about to die.

The engine’s roar becomes a full-throated howl as Sant’s panic spins the big, half-ton turbopumps up to redline. Gravity rams down on Mineva’s body as the ship spears upwards.

I promised Tikva I’d come home, the ship is whispering. A father always comes home.

The air Mineva is sucking with panicked, desperate gasps goes sour and metallic with the not-quite-real taste of Minovsky particles, and then suddenly the ship is screaming.

Everything goes dark.

#

It’s silent aboard the Garencieres.

There is a soft click, and then the pitch blackness breaks, disrupted by the feeble light of a battery-operated emergency lamp. The brutal force of the engines is gone, as is their rumble and roar.

No announcement from the bridge. The shipnet must be down.

The realization makes Mineva look to the door. She tries it. It’s unlocked, but Mineva still struggles to open it, grunting with exertion against the belt drive that operated it when the power was on.

The corridor outside is just as dark, lit with the same dingy night vision-friendly red as the stateroom. Mineva keys the lights on her helmet, and shadows jump and cavort like hungry ghosts.

She doesn’t hesitate or pause to think, because she cannot. Time is a luxury that has been stolen from her, just as her agency and secrecy have too. She has no plan, save for a few choice items.

Item the first: Full Frontal cannot be trusted with any bargaining chip he is given, least of all the Box’s Key.

Item the second: The Earth Federation will bend the resources of an entire planet to the task of retrieving the Key.

Item the third: If Mineva remains aboard this ship, she will never be allowed to leave the Republic of Zeon again, and she will become a helpless puppet like her mother. The thought sickens her.

Before she realizes it, she’s at the airlock leading to the hangar. She’s spent at least two minutes getting here, and Zeon crews train to achieve better than three hundred seconds in restarting from a scram. The power’s out, but it doesn’t slow her progress into the airlock—there’s a pneumatic backup. The door shoots back into its hollow when she operates the valve, and slams shut with a screech of high-pressure gas once she’s inside.

The next door is even faster—no failsafe against venting the lock is in place when the power is out. When she hits the valve, it slides smoothly out of the way, the torrent of escaping air tumbling her into the vast darkness of the hangar. Red emergency lights do nothing to dispel the cavelike gloom of the massive space, and Mineva is only able to see the distant walls and their arching structural ribs and trusses because of a slash of light that cuts across one wall. For a moment her gut twists as she fears the ship itself has been holed, but no—one of the side doors is open, and the bulky green form of one of the ships’ Geara Zulus occupies it, still working as an ersatz turret despite the power outage.

There’s a sickening moment of vulnerability as Mineva passes through that angle of sunlight, feeling like a blinking beacon in the darkness, but the Geara Zulu doesn’t respond. She’s safe.

Then the lights blink on. Which means the power is on. Which means the airlock is screaming an alarm up on the bridge, and the shipnet is back up.

The shipnet clicks in Mineva’s helmet. “Tomura,” says Zinnerman’s gravelly voice, “Check the second interior airlock, it’s throwing an alarm.”

“Roger,” replies Tomura’s disembodied voice. “Do you think it’s the Princess?”

Mineva curses silently, while Zinnerman does so out loud. “If it is, find her.”

They will not find her, Mineva knows, because she’s already at the Kshatriya’s cockpit hatch. Far above her, at the forward end of the cargo bay, she can see movement—the airlock door is closing, and behind a porthole is an indistinct shape that might be Tomura, or any of the other crewmembers. She keys the hatch release and slips inside the hulking mobile suit, ducking out of sight before someone thinks to check the cargo bay.

“Ivan,” buzzes the shipnet, “Get outside and get a bearing on the Unicorn. And secure that door.”

Zinnerman must be talking about the big mobile suit-sized door the Geara Zulu is standing in. Mineva is running out of options.

The Lieutenant’s words come to mind unbidden. I am a class of combat unit known as a ‘pilot.’

If Mineva’s briefings are to be believed, she is huddled within the cockpit of one of the most powerful single mobile suits the Sleeves have yet fielded.

There is a chicken-and-egg problem Mineva’s tutors occasionally half-jokingly probed her with, a sort of chummy, half-serious koan: Which is more important: The soldier, or his ideology? Of course, like much of what Mineva has been taught, it’s a cheap, bastardized form of Deikun’s original writings. The original text, she thinks, is far more elegant: A soldier is an instrument that transforms ideology into physical phenomena. This is the rationale of the vanguard: All its members are soldiers, agents that promulgate the ideology that motivates them. By this process, material effects are wrought from immaterial causes.

Mineva has an ideology. She has spent quiet years perfecting it. Until now, she has had no opportunity to realize it, save for the crumbs of authority doled out to her by her Neo Zeon minders. If she delays any longer, it will be torn out of her hands forever.

In this moment, perhaps for an hour, perhaps for the rest of her life, Mineva Lao Zabi must be a soldier. She closes the Kshatriya’s main breaker, lines up the batteries on its central bus, and tells the microscopic sun sleeping inside its heart to wake up.

The panoramic monitor flickers into life, and the heads-down displays run through their self-checks, but Mineva notices none of it. She’s choking, retching as the asteroid-heavy weight of possibility suddenly crushes down on her. Something has changed, something huge. She has crossed a catastrophe, an inflection point, and her gut twists as the strange attractors of history grind past one another like tectonic plates.

“Unauthorized reactor ignition!” barks the shipnet. “Kshatriya, secure your drive and identify! Ivan, get the fuck back here!”

The Kshatriya hums a soft tone in Mineva’s ears—the reactor is hot. It’s cramped here in the ship, where her wings can’t spread, and she’ll be burning through coolant until she can get out in open space where the hungry cosmic background will suck up her excess heat. She nudges the travel pedal, triggering a proximity alarm and a context prompt: The transport locks are still engaged. The touch of a button clears that, and then the Kshatriya is free.

A video window springs into existence in Mineva’s peripheral vision. It’s Zinnerman, and he’s fucking pissed.

“Princess!” he barks. “Secure your drive! Get out of there!”

“No.”

Mineva is horrified to realize that Zinnerman’s scowl can deepen further, and he rips the headset off, clenching its mic in one fist while he barks orders somewhere else. She can read his lips: Tell Ivan to secure this fucking ship.

Zinnerman won’t let her go, but Mineva figures that’s okay. Tomura has local control of the cargo bay doors.

“Tomura!” she roars through the Kshatriya’s radio and exterior speakers, “Open the aft hatch!”

A zoom window appears over Tomura’s fuzzy, terrified face behind the loadmaster’s window. He shakes his head.

Mineva grits her teeth in frustration. Zinnerman’s problem is that his men are too damn loyal. Mineva needs to convince him, and she’s losing time. But what can she even say? What of this matters to an enlisted mechanic?

Mineva’s mind races furiously, and the Kshatriya responds the only way it can. A wing binder twitches, and a single funnel squirts out from its storage well, squirming this way and that as it maneuvers around the crowding bulk of the Kshatriya’s body, lining its barrel up on the loadmaster cubicle. A last-second sting of horror at the realization that she just deployed a weapon is the only thing that keeps the funnel from annihilating Tomura and the corridor around him.

“Opening the aft hatch, aye,” responds Tomura, with barely restrained terror. Beneath Mineva, amber warning lights flash as the ship’s transom begins dropping away from her. Suddenly, the cargo bay twists around her, and there’s a bone-jarring thud as the Kshatriya slams into a wall—Zinnerman is maneuvering the ship, trying to prevent Mineva from leaving. Mineva needs to hold herself steady, stop relying on thrusters and inertia to stay centered in the bay, and as soon as the thought comes to her, it has come true. The Kshatriya’s wing binders have twitched again, their tiny, spiderlike arms reaching to grasp the walls of the cargo bay, slowly shuffling her towards the opening below.

“Princess!” shouts Zinnerman, “You’ll die out there!”

He really is scared for her, she can tell. It gives Mineva pause, but only for a moment. She continues shuffling insect-fashion out of the cargo bay’s stifling confines.

“I won’t,” she says, “Kshatriya won’t let me,” and is horrified to find she really believes it. A nudge of the right hand controller fires a thruster, and Mineva nudges further from the Garencieres. She’s free.

“Get Marida back here and-“ Zinnerman’s growled command is cut off as the Kshatriya automatically switches from the shipnet to a Neo Zeon combat channel. Out here it’s chaos. In the quiet of the briefly-disabled ship, the situation had seemed so calm, but space is alight with beams and rocket plumes, a thousand and one new stars glittering in the dark as humans and machines struggle to stay alive.

Where is the Key? Look, there—a blue streak of superheated gas, zigzagging its way across the battlefield. It turns here and jogs there, evading missile and beam alike, and then there’s a knifelike stab of unleashed potential as its main weapon fires. A midnight-dark violet beam slices across the battlefield, and deaths are made real in its path.

If Mineva were on a legitimate mission, this is the point at which she would announce Mineva Lao Zabi, Kshatriya, deploying! and be entered into Neo Zeon’s C2 matrix, but there is nothing legitimate about this.

The Kshatriya does not care.

She floors the travel pedal and the suit’s quiet heartbeat ramps up to a smooth, thundering blast of rocket power, and suddenly the seat is punching her in the back, ramming the breath out of her, crushing down upon her chest as the Kshatriya accelerates at maximum wartime power.

She will find the Key.

She will rip it out of the grasp of both Frontal and Londo Bell.

She will make her ideology real.

Mineva Lao Zabi is a soldier, and she can never take it back. Kshatriya continues accelerating, threatening to outrun history itself.

Chapter Text

Mineva Lao Zabi kills for the first time. It is very easy, and it makes her feel better. It’s a weight off her shoulders, really.

As she accelerates across the battlefield, the potential of death crushes down on her, heavier and heavier. She’s like a deep sea diver, voice made inhuman by the premix she breathes and body made monstrous by her suit. Out there is something vast and fragile, and it is coming closer to her with every second. The nuclear bomb feeling is chasing her, a black dog biting at her heels.

The Princess keeps running, but it doesn’t do anything. She’s still suffocating under that weight. It’s an avalanche waiting to happen. It’s the sear creaking under the spring tension of the hammer, waiting to drop.

Until now, she has escaped notice in the battle—a single mobile suit, flying on a trajectory that screams retreat, isn’t worth a pilot’s attention at the moment.

And then the moment passes, and the searchlight turns upon her, dazzling her in the glare. The light becomes hard, heavy, tangible, and a Federation mobile suit dashes into her path in a blast of hot exhaust. Like all Federation suits, it’s soldier-sleek, with a gleaming visor and the kind of veiled, heroic menace that would make an old Earthnoid fascist weep. She doesn’t know what it’s called, but it doesn’t matter—the thing has leveled its beam rifle at her, and squeezes off a shot.

She knows the shot will hit her #3 wing binder, so she decides that it will not. The Kshatriya obediently shunts to the side, and the beam disappears into the night. The GM-thing lines up again on her. This time it will hit her left leg. She jinks and twists, and it misses again.

“Get out of my way!” she begs. “The Unicorn is too dangerous! You need to help me stop it!”

Maybe she says this on a channel the Federation pilot can hear. Maybe she doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. The Federation suit raises its rifle into bayonet position and a beam blade flares out of the muzzle. In a moment, the machine goes from stationary (relative to Mineva, she’s lived in space long enough to know such things are relative) to tilting at her in a predatory stoop.

The attack would be trivial to parry, were Mineva and the Federation pilot out of their mobile suits. He is thrusting straight out, and she would reply with a textbook Sixte parry, shunting his blade off to the side where it cannot protect him. A quick slash down and in would finish the engagement, after which Mineva would back off for his next attack.

There will not be a next attack, she realizes. The GM-thing is bisected at the cockpit, leaking out fuel and hydraulic fluid and soul. This was where that potential had lead, she now knows. She followed her arc willingly, and consigned this Federation soldier to death long before he ever started shooting. It was a process as inevitable and deterministic as the way the fuse fires the explosive tamper, which implodes the primary fission device, which lights off the fusion fuel. Just like the process by which the nuclear weapon is ignited, it was fast, simple, and went off without a hitch.

I can’t keep you waiting any longer, the vaporized, leaking soul seems to say to her. You better get where you were going.

Mineva grits her teeth, punches the travel pedal, and grunts against the Kshatriya’s acceleration again. She cannot mourn the faceless, nameless Federation soldier—they were bound by the same calculus as she is. The Federation ideology commanded that soldier to block her way, to be a wall, to stop and obstruct at every turn, just as the Federation will when it acquires the Box. Mineva’s ideology compels her to keep running, because stopping will kill her. The tragedy was already decided, and the ugly business of beam saber and melted steel was a mere formality.

No time to waste. Mineva clears datum.

 “Lieutenant!” she calls out, as she bears down on the Unicorn, stark white and glorious against deep space’s night. “Stop fighting! We need to leave this place!”

At first she is afraid the Lieutenant can’t hear her, that there is some subtlety of radio channels and encryption standing between the two pilots that Mineva doesn’t have the technical skill to figure out. The Unicorn doesn’t respond to her message at first, continuing with its task and patiently plugging away with its huge, vicious beam rifle. The gun’s muzzle spits ugly dark lightning, and where that beam goes, death follows. It’s a simple, industrial process, the machine-assisted mass manufacture of ghosts.

And then the Unicorn stops, cocking its head towards Mineva in a way that is sickeningly human.

“Your Grace?” asks the machine, with sharp, diamond-edged curiosity. “Is that you, Princess?”

“Yes, it’s me!” Mineva says, desperately relieved to find that the Lieutenant is still in there. “Listen to me, we need to go! The Federation and Sleeves will both misuse the Box. It’ll be disastrous.”

“You took Kshatriya,” says the Lieutenant. The sound-operated microphone doesn’t entirely capture her disbelieving scoff. “I can’t believe it.”

“I had to,” Mineva protests, afraid that the Lieutenant will resent this. “I needed to find you.”

“And now you have,” the Unicorn replies. “Move.”

Mineva judders the Kshatriya to the side, just in time for the Lieutenant to level her weapon and annihilate another Federation mobile suit.

“Three things,” says Lieutenant Marida Cruz. “First, treat that machine right. It’s the only one that was ever made. Second, you need to be on the bounce and keep your head on a swivel. The guy that is about to kill you is always behind and below you. Third, I am under orders to bring this machine to the Sleeves, and I cannot disobey.”

“You mustn’t,” Mineva says, because she has to. “The Sleeves are just a splinter group. They can’t be trusted to act in Zeon’s best interest, you know this! Please, come with me, and let’s open the Box for our people, not for our military.”

“Mineva Lao Zabi,” intones the Lieutenant, after the briefest of hesitation, “I am operating under orders from Full Frontal. Move aside and allow me to continue my mission, or I will be compelled to take measures.”

Mineva will realize later that what happens next is entirely her fault.

“No,” she says, because she can’t turn back and can’t stop. The Kshatriya notes her intent and acts. Funnels swarm from her wing binders, spreading into a glittering constellation around her. They aren’t pointed at the Unicorn, but their slew rate is fast—the implication is clear.

The Lieutenant’s microphone manages to catch her resigned sigh perfectly, and something about the barely restrained menace of it sends a prickle of prey-fear down Mineva’s spine. “Very well,” says the Lieutenant, and then it all goes to shit.

Mineva had heard the Unicorn being called a “Gundam,” but save for the sleek lines and white color, there had seemed to be little resemblance. In an instant, that changes. The Gundam’s silent rumble of realities-that-could-be suddenly blossoms, and the thing transforms. Red eyes gleam where its visor had been, and crimson ghost-fire, not the Lieutenant’s green, blazes from rifts and vents across its kaleidoscope-fragment hull. The Kshatriya throws an alarm, and then another. Mineva can do nothing but gaze in horror as the Unicorn’s true nature is unleashed, and suddenly understands why the name Gundam is still uttered in disbelieving horror on the streets of Zeon.

Imagine being a soldier in the halcyon days of the Principality, in the youth of the One Year War when a successful revolution seemed inevitable, and seeing the Gundam for the first time. Imagine spending your years of training learning about the design pressures that create mobile suits, and being faced with something that rejects all of them. No thick armor. No energy pipes or pivoting main sensor. The fucking thing has two eyes and it’s staring at you with a human face and the terrified monkey inside your skull is screaming because it claims to recognize the thing that’s about to kill you.

Mineva experiences all of it in an instant, and is hardly surprised when her funnels turn against her. The display lights up with a dozen new bandit markers and the target lock alarm is blaring, blaring, blaring.

“Princess!” grunts the Lieutenant, and Mineva can feel her sudden fright, the Unicorn must be trying to eat her, “Run!”

The Kshatriya moves before Mineva thinks to hit the controls and opens up nearly a hundred meters of lead by the time the Unicorn starts moving. It doesn’t matter. For all the brutality of the Kshatriya’s maximum thrust, the Unicorn has more. The Unicorn is faster, more violent, more capable.

A brick wall of dead-end potential rears up before her, and Mineva jukes and dodges just in time for her own funnels to stipple the space where she was with a dozen killing beams. She flees, as fast as her machine will carry her.

“Stop this!” begs Mineva. “This is monstrous, Lieutenant! It will destroy you!”

The Lieutenant has no reply, mumbling incoherently as the Gundam’s feedback drives her lips. Mineva recognizes only two words: “Sieg Zeon.”

The proximity alarm fires off, and Mineva turns to see behind and below her as instructed. Arcing through space on a trail of ghostly crimson, the Gundam’s shield arrows towards her. Mineva must escape, she must dodge it. She stomps her heel down on the travel pedal, twists the slew pedal, begs and pleads the Kshatriya to respond, but its big rockets and armored wing binders are too slow. Mineva watches the sky-deep sparkle of the shield bear down upon her until its shine is ringing in unison with the walls of the cockpit and then with a sickening crunch it slams into her body and either the reactor scrams itself or the impact knocks her out but it doesn’t matter. Mineva’s first deployment comes to an end, and she’s left in darkness again.

Chapter Text

Mineva’s migraine is murderous.

“Hey,” says a voice, “How do you feel?”

She’s in free fall, zipped into a bed. The person in front of her is silhouetted by the light behind them, but the center of her vision is blocked by twisting, squirming migraine halos. She has no idea what they look like.

“Um,” she says, mostly to wet her lips, “Bad.”

“You have a concussion and some very severe bruises,” says another voice, older-sounding and authoritative. “You’re lucky that Ensign Marcenas here brought you back.”

“Is it normal for Sleeves pilots to be so young?” asks the younger voice, which Mineva presumes is the Ensign.

“I’m not with the Sleeves,” protests Mineva, then realizes with a start what the question implies. “Wait, where am I? Are you Federation?”

She can’t afford to be here. She needs to retrieve the Unicorn. She needs to find Lieutenant Cruz. She tries to extract herself from the bed, but the sudden motion triggers a bout of dizziness and she goes limp, dazed.

“Careful, careful,” says the older voice. “Yes, we’re Londo Bell personnel. You’re aboard the Nahel Argama. We recovered your mobile suit.”

“You mean captured,” says Mineva, trying not to sound peevish.

“I’m not sure we do,” says the Ensign. “The Federation considers the Sleeves to be a terrorist group. Terrorists aren’t lawful combatants, Little Miss Zeon. They aren’t due the same treatment as legitimate prisoners of war.”

“But she will receive the same treatment,” says who Mineva is beginning to suspect is a doctor. “And you’re interfering with that treatment. Please allow me to care for my patient, Ensign.”

“I just wanted-“

“Outside.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“My apologies,” says the doctor, when the Ensign has made his indignant way out of the room. “You’re somewhat the topic of gossip aboard, between your age and your mobile suit. If it even is yours.”

The accusation rankles, but Mineva’s migraine won’t let her protest too vigorously. Despite lying still, she’s still dizzy, and can only see the doctor’s mustachioed face by strategically gazing at a wall and watching him out of her peripheral vision. “I don’t have to tell you anything about my operational circumstances,” she eventually says. “You’re just a doctor.”

The doctor shrugs. “Granted. But you’re just a girl, with no uniform or rank insignia, and no known name. It’ll be up to Captain Mitas’ discretion as to how we treat you going forward.”

“Am I to be interrogated?”

The doctor chuckles. “Knowing him, he’ll invite you for tea.”

#

The first question Captain Otto Mitas asks Mineva is, “You are the pilot of the quad-wing Zeon mobile suit, are you not?”

“Yes,” Mineva answers, giving the Captain nothing more.

The second question he asks is far harder to answer.

“What kind of tea would you like?”

“Oolong.”

“Mm, a fine choice,” he muses. “I’d go for it myself were I not so fond of this cinnamon black tea blend. Liam?”

“The breakfast blend, sir,” replies the XO.

“You understand,” says the Captain, as he carefully places Mineva’s cup and saucer in front of her, “That you put me in a difficult position. You are dressed as a civilian, are too young to be a Sleeves officer, and come equipped with a mobile suit that my pilots tell me is not only powerful, but equipped with ‘psycho frame’ to boot.” The way he says psycho frame belies a sort of mocking unfamiliarity. The easy dismissiveness of someone who does not understand what they are faced with.

“I am not working with the Sleeves,” says Mineva, sipping the tea. It’s excellent.

“Your mobile suit’s markings and registry would seem to belie that,” points out the XO.

“The Republic’s own forces are limited by treaty to a purely defensive role,” replies Mineva. “The Sleeves, with their own resources, are abrogating that agreement and are not so limited. My selection of equipment is motivated by necessity.”

“So you’re a girl with no uniform and no rank in a stolen mobile suit,” says the Captain. “Miss, I’m not sure how this is supposed to make you look better.”

“I am acting under the authority of Princess Mineva Lao Zabi,” Mineva replies, refusing to engage with the Captain’s suggestion. “I am apart from the Sleeves’ organization and chain of command and had no part in their treaty-violating military buildup.”

“This little girl is some kind of deniable asset, Captain,” says a severe-looking man lurking by the wardroom’s door, who had remained silent until now. “This might be over your head.”

Mineva had noted the man’s ECOAS uniform when she first entered the wardroom. Special forces, parallel to Londo Bell. Not under the dubiously trustworthy authority of Captain Mitas.

“I can explain further,” says Mineva, jerking her head towards the ECOAS man, “But not with him present. The Republic has its own lawful interests to protect here.”

The Captain sighs and nods to the man. “Very well. Commander Mackle?”

Mackle sneers insouciantly and shrugs, but complies.

“Make this make sense, miss,” says the Captain, once Mackle has left. “Give me a reason not to confine you as an unlawful combatant. How is a teenage girl empowered to conduct military operations on behalf of the Zeon Princess?”

“Very simply,” replies Mineva. “I am the Zeon Princess.”

All the Captain’s tiny slights were worth it, Mineva considers, to see him spray his cinnamon black tea across the table and Commander Borrinea.

“Consult your files if you find it so hard to believe,” continues Mineva, over the Captain’s spluttering and the Commander’s squawk of indignant surprise. “You’ll find my facial features to match those of Mineva Lao Zabi’s quite closely.” She takes another careful sip. The tea really is quite good.

The Captain shoots her a glare that could melt steel, but recovers his dignity. He sets down his teacup with extraordinary caution, adjusts his hat, and clears his throat. “Your Grace, if that’s who you really are, I must know, what could possibly drive you to operate a mobile suit in an active combat situation?”

“The Sleeves have acquired a new mobile suit,” says Mineva. “The Unicorn Gundam, a product of your own government’s UC Project.”

“I know of it,” says the Captain. “It’s the Delaz Fleet and their Physalis all over again.”

“Just so,” Mineva nods. “The Unicorn is supposed to be the Key to an item known only as Laplace’s Box, which I am given to understand has the power to undermine the Federation.”

“A weapon?” asks the Commander.

“I could not say,” admits Mineva. “I have not the luxury to care about its exact nature, merely its potential.”

“Very well,” says the Commander, turning to the Captain. “Sir, this Unicorn is exactly the unit that our Vist Foundation man has been talking about.”

The Captain snorts with unhappy amusement. “So the Sleeves want the Unicorn, Staff HQ wants it, and now we find that the Vist Foundation and the Republic of Zeon do too.” He raises an eyebrow at Mineva. “You have your work cut out for you, Your Grace.”

Mineva nods. “So I do. That was my rationale for entering the battle at Industrial Seven. I had to intercept the Unicorn before it was delivered to Full Frontal, and likewise prevent its acquisition by your forces.”

“A mission that you failed to execute,” says the XO, and Mineva’s heart twists with regret and chagrin despite the sentence being stated flatly and without judgment. All she can do is nod again.

“Then we must assume the Unicorn is in the hands of the Sleeves,” says the Captain. “And young Master Vist is likely to make a slew of demands of us.”

“He already is,” replies the Commander. “He spoke to me not half an hour ago, attempting to impress upon me the importance of direct action against Sleeves forces. Consider yourself lucky that you were occupied, sir.”

The Captain smiles ruefully. “It’s an instinct you develop, XO. When you’re in my shoes, you’ll learn when to be busy.”

“Captain,” says Mineva, “The Unicorn’s pilot is one Marida Cruz, a Sleeves Lieutenant. If she has returned to Full Frontal’s ship, which I consider likely, then Frontal and his forces already know I am in your ship’s company.”

The Captain frowns and opens his mouth, presumably to say something about how he already knew that, but then bites back the words before he speaks, and stops to consider. “Your Grace, are you instructing me to use you as a hostage?”

“Not necessarily,” shrugs Mineva. “But the Sleeves forces will perceive you as doing so regardless of whether you truly are. Neo Zeon is nothing without figureheads, Captain. I assure you they will take steps to recover me.”

“Is this information freely given in good faith, Your Grace,” asks the Captain, sounding just a little reproachful, “Or is it a threat?”

“In politics, the difference between the two is a matter of opinion,” replies Mineva, finishing her tea. She lets the soft clink of the cup landing in its saucer punctuate her statement. “I would suggest you make what defensive preparations you must.”

“XO,” says the captain without hesitation, “Have the ship make for the nearest shoal zone. And have the hangar get all our mobile suits back to fighting condition. This is about to get uglier.”

#

Once again, Mineva is prisoner and passenger alike. This time, however, her stateroom is somewhat larger and more comfortable. The Captain said the shoal zone was perhaps a day’s travel away, and didn’t wish to be seen as a poor host to his royal guest.

At the moment, she is dining—today’s repast is synthmeat beef on fried noodles with a gravy sauce, served by an apologetic girl who introduces herself as Micott, a refugee of Industrial Seven.

“I think it’s tragic that you should be driven to such lengths as this,” says Mineva.

“What do you mean?” asks Micott. “Are you talking about the food?”

“No,” Mineva says, chuckling. “No, the food is wonderful, thank you. I mean serving aboard the Nahel Argama simply on account of having the poor luck of living in a colony that was attacked.”

“It didn’t have to be,” replies Micott, steel in her voice.

Explain, Mineva wants to say, but cannot. Not to this girl. She settles for something gentler, asking “What do you mean?”

“Industrial Seven didn’t have to be a battlefield. Zeon didn’t have to come there.”

Mineva shrugs. “And the Federation didn’t have to escalate a limited-scale engagement. What’s done is done, Micott.”

“Escalate!” exclaims Micott. “People on board are saying you were flying the quad-wing in the colony. That’s escalation! And now we’re treating you like an honored guest!”

“That was another pilot,” says Mineva, “I stole the quad-wing after the fact. And do you disagree with my treatment?”

 “I don’t know what I think,” admits Micott. “I think there’s something weird going on here, something more complicated than stolen mobile suits and random battles for no reason. If you’re really some kind of refugee like I am, then why does Captain Mitas have me fixing air conditioners and serving food while you’re living like a princess? It’s because you’re from Earth, isn’t it?”

To Mineva’s ears, the accusation of being an Earthnoid feels like an insult. She can’t let herself stoop to simple reaction by responding in kind, though. She is better than that. She is a soldier, after the fashion of Deikum’s vanguards.

Mineva affects a rueful sigh. “Maybe. My father owns an industrial conglomerate in the Ho Chi Minh Special Economic Zone.”

“Ugh! I knew it! Why is it always Earthnoids this, Earthnoids that? Why isn’t Spacenoid rich the same thing as Earthnoid rich?”

“Because it’s not about poverty or wealth any more,” replies Mineva. “It’s about the relative position of economic blocs, and the gestalt action of their labor forces and ownership classes. Earth enjoys a dominant position as the imperial core. Weights and measures, currencies, even financial and information technologies are centered around Earthnoid governance. Ninety per cent of all funds are held in Earthnoid banks, even those belonging to the government or citizenry of the Republic of Zeon. Spacenoids extract the mineral wealth of asteroids for cheaper than Earthnoid labor will mine their own soil, and then Earthnoid machinery designed on Earth, owned by Earthnoid concerns, but operated by Spacenoids builds all the technological wonders of human life.”

“You sound just like Char,” says Micott. Mineva can’t deny it.

She shrugs. “Maybe. I make no effort to follow in his footsteps, but I have read Zeon Zum Deikun’s works just as closely as he did. Perhaps more so.”

“So would you drop another asteroid on Earth?” asks Micott. “Did Deikun write about that too?” The accusation is too flagrant to ignore this time.

“I don’t know,” says Mineva. “What do you think, Micott? Is erasing the economic divide between Earthnoid and Spacenoid life worth such a thing? Does my special treatment anger you so much that you’d do anything to change this state of affairs?”

Micott is taken aback, as Mineva hoped she would be. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But mass death can’t be the answer, can it?”

Mineva shrugs and samples her drink. It’s some foul vitamin mix the Doctor gave her. “Which is more monstrous?” she asks. “The death of millions by a falling asteroid, or the billions of Spacenoid lives spent farming crops and mining asteroids, artificially cut short by malnutrition, poverty, and insufficient cosmic ray shielding? That’s murder too, isn’t it?”

“I should go,” says Micott, looking uncomfortable. “Enjoy your dinner, miss…?”

“Burne,” ad-libs Mineva. “Audrey Burne. And remember,” she hefts the tray, “Even this synthmeat would be unthinkable luxury for a proletarian Spacenoid. Misery begets madness.”

Micott flees, and Mineva is finally left in peace.

#

One of the most secure spaces aboard the Nahel Argama is the communications room. The walls are acoustically and electromagnetically insulated, and the entry door is airtight. Concealed within the walls, a phased-array antenna system systematically jams all stray transmissions from inside, no matter how minute.

It is very close to cryptologically impossible to extract information from the communications room when it is secured. This fact does not make Alberto Vist feel any safer.

Though Alberto’s aunt is hundreds of thousands of kilometers distant, the chill in her voice still frightens him here.

“Let me understand this,” she is saying, as he tries not to visibly quail in front of the screen, “You allowed my brother to give away the keys to our family’s raison d’etre? You allowed a two-bit Neo Zeon outfit to steal the most sophisticated mobile suit ever made? And now you have the audacity to beg me for help?”

“Um,” Alberto says. “Well, it was a close-run thing. We almost had it!”

Martha Vist Carbine bends closer to the camera, statuesque features locked in a contemptuous scowl of thermonuclear magnitude. Alberto does not look at her cleavage. “Almost doesn’t get us what we need,” she hisses.

“Look, Aunt Martha,” Alberto protests, because he knows a good businessman stands up for himself, “It’s not easy up here. The Sleeves are a professional organization! They took us by surprise, and their mobile suit pilots are second to none! What would you have me do against the cream of Zeon’s crop?”

“I would have you win,” she says, leaning back and inspecting a flawless nail. “And I would have you get the Key back so we can secure the existence of our organization and a future for Vist children.”

“Surely you don’t mean a direct attack on the Sleeves’ fleet to recover the Gundam.”

A single queenly eyebrow lifts in amused half-interest. “Oh, but what else could I mean, Nephew Dearest?”

“It’s impossible!” protests Alberto. “It can’t be done!”

Martha slams a fist onto her desk and the camera view jumps, the communications room’s speakers booming with the impact. Alberto squeaks in terror. “It must be done or we are ruined!”

Alberto chokes back tears of fright and despair. He knows his aunt is right. It must be done. The Unicorn must be recovered—it is too valuable to allow to remain in the hands of Zeon rabble.

“I’ll talk with the ship’s officers,” he mumbles, thinking on his feet. “I have a psycho-monitor that we were going to use to extract diagnostics. Maybe I can use that to, um,” he’s running out of steam, think Alberto, think, “gain some kind of tactical advantage. I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.” He finishes, feeling pathetic and lame, just staring at the now-crooked camera view, praying for Martha to relent.

Martha smiles, just. Alberto nearly melts from the relief. “That’s better, Nephew Dearest, much better. But I’m willing to throw you a bone, little pup. Victor,” she continues, now turning to someone off camera, “why don’t you come here?”

The so-called “Victor” steps into frame. They are short and slightly built, and their Federation Forces uniform is baggy and misshapen on their frame. Beneath shaggy brown hair, their features are difficult to discern, but something about the contour of their nose and jaw reminds Alberto of his father. Out of darkly shadowed sockets, their wide-open eyes are a furious, unnatural gold, and stare in a way that puts Alberto in mind of a fish.

Victor is such a picture of misery, such the image of his father’s hungry ghost, that Alberto instinctively recoils with a gasp of fright.

“Oh, come now,” chuckles Martha, “That’s no way to say hello to your half-brother. Victor, what’s your mission, darling?”

Victor glances with golden, dead eyes towards Martha. There’s an empty, fawning desperation in their expression as they intone with a thin, dry voice, “To secure the future of the Vist Foundation and defend the interests of the Earth Federation.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” coos Martha. She glances with a hawklike eye towards the cringing Alberto, and her tone goes cold and hard again. “If you fuck this up, Nephew Dearest, I’m sending Victor here up-well to fix the situation, and he will not be very patient or specific with applying his problem-solving.”

Chapter Text

Mineva is accustomed to being the center of attention. Not usually like this, though.

Over a dozen pairs of eyes are staring at her, as she stands in the door of the ready room. Captain Mitas is standing with his mouth still open, pointing at something on the screen, staring at her in disbelief.

Mitas coughs, then closes his mouth and gathers himself.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” he asks. She glances at the screen and recognizes a pseudo-3D spatial chart, and on it the fragments of a shredded colony cylinder.

“You are preparing for a mission,” she says. “Presumably to stop an anticipated attack by Sleeves forces.”

“A mission you will play no part in,” says the Captain. “You have no qualifications to fly, and even if you did, you can’t be legally bound to follow orders. You would be a liability.”

“And what of when the Sleeves demand you turn me over?” asks Mineva. “What if you need to use me as a bargaining chip, to buy yourself time? Think, Captain. This may be your one chance to evade Full Frontal without a shooting fight. Don’t squander it.”

“You-!” the Captain flushes with indignation and stomps the floor, which would make a very impressive stamping sound in gravity but instead kicks him towards the ready room’s ceiling. “You can’t speak to me this way!” he continues to protest once he has found a handhold. “Ensign Marcenas! See this young lady out!”

“Think of your crew, Captain!” replies Mineva, as the Ensign (who she now realizes, in the absence of a migraine, is blonde and rather tall) opens the door for her. “Full Frontal will give you but one chance to save them!”

“I have no need for Red Comet ghost stories,” mutters the Captain, and then the door is shut. Mineva thinks she hears whispered protestations about the value of the Kshatriya, but it’s a moot point.

“That was an interesting stunt,” chuckles the Ensign. Mineva doesn’t like the way his eyes glint at her, nor does she enjoy the way they linger below her chin.

“And a necessary one,” she says. “I have no desire to see good soldiers die for poor causes.”

“Nor do I,” he chuckles. “Seems inoffensive enough, which makes me wonder why you’d go to all the trouble.”

“The Captain called you Ensign Marcenas?” asks Mineva. She knows the answer, but wants to prod him. He grimaces. Bullseye.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I understand,” she says, because it’s true.

He chuckles. “I’m not sure you do. Being Ronan Marcenas’ golden boy makes it hard to get fair treatment, and harder still to see postings and promotions that mean anything.”

Mineva bristles at this—how dare this boy talk down to her? But before she can say something unwise, she remembers how tenuous her position is. The more agreeable and reasonable she is, the better her odds at being allowed back to the Kshatriya.

“You think the brass are too soft on you?” she asks.

“Think?” he chuckles. “I know they are. I’m just hoping I can be a good enough pilot to live up to it. At least my skills were good enough to save you!”

“Save me?” she doesn’t have to affect surprise.

He nods. “That’s right. The Unicorn left you for dead after knocking you out. You’re lucky I got my IFF tag on you before you could get taken out for good.”

“I suppose I owe you my life then,” she says. “Thank you, Ensign Marcenas.”

“I won’t insist on procedure with you,” he says, smiling in a way he probably believes charming. “You can call me Riddhe.”

“Whether I like procedure or not,” she replies, “I believe I must follow it for the time being, if I am to convince your captain I can be trusted with the Kshatriya.”

“Trusted with the quad-wing?” he asks. “I don’t think anybody can handle that monster safely. It’s too much for anyone except maybe Zeon’s crazy human experiments.”

“It’s not a monster,” protests Mineva, and then hears brave, doomed Lieutenant Marida laughing at her when she continues, “It is a mobile suit that responds to my inputs. That is all.”

“Huh,” he says, his easy smile falling a little. “Well, no sweat. Leave it to us Federation pilots to fend off the Sleeves this time!”

I’m not completely helpless, you know, Mineva wants to protest, but she knows the Ensign will see it as a childish protest.

“I hope you won’t need to do much fending,” she eventually says. “Your crewmates seem to know little of Laplace’s Box, and it would be terrible to have you fighting and dying for something, or someone, you have no interest in.”

“Laplace’s Box?” asks the Ensign. “I thought that was a fairy tale. Old Spacenoid cosmic ray hallucinations.”

“It’s real enough,” she says. “Would you have been called out to recover the Unicorn by force if it had no connection to a tangible Box? I think not.”

“Then that fantasy of a weapon to destroy the Federation in one stroke,” he muses, “It really exists. But what could it be?”

“I cannot begin to speculate,” Mineva admits, “But then again, how germane really is the Box’s potential to the tangible threat your ship faces? I shouldn’t detain you any longer, Ensign. You’ve a mission to plan.” And besides, she thinks but does not say, you can always ask your family. It would have been your grandfather or great-grandfather who was there on Laplace, no?

The Ensign’s lips twitch downwards when she thinks of his family, and he glances uncomfortably around the pair, though the hallway is empty. “Well,” he chuckles, forcing a bit of levity for Mineva’s sake, “I better get back to mission prep. I can’t defend you if I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Just then, the ship rumbles with distant, metallic thunder. The general quarters alarm hoots, and the XO’s voice crackles over the PA, “General quarters, General quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Hostile mobile suits inbound.”

The Ensign was about to say something, but the corridor has exploded into activity, and as he disappears towards the hangar, Mineva wonders if she will ever see him again.

#

Through the pixelated abstraction of the bridge displays, Mineva watches a one-sided fight. Hard-edged, ugly Federation mobile suits launch from Nahel Argama’s catapults to be picked off one by one with methodical, bored precision. A kilometer above sit the shooters, Frontal’s crimson Sinanju and the shining white Unicorn, now adorned with black Sleeves decorations on its neck and forearms. Even their jinking and dodging to evade the Nahel Argama’s own gunfire seems cursory, as though a trivial challenge.

The Captain scowls and keys his normal suit into the shipnet. “Flight boss, this isn’t working. Launch from ventral and aft catapults only.”

“Captain,” says one of the bridge officers, who Mineva hasn’t bothered to learn the name of, “We’re being hailed by one of the Sleeves’ mobile suits.”

“Put it on.”

The officer complies, and then the bridge speakers are buzzing with the smooth, arrogant tones of Colonel Full Frontal’s voice.

“Federation warship, cease deploying mobile suits. We wish to negotiate.”

Mineva hasn’t heard his voice since she left the Republic of Zeon. It sends a prickle down her spine.

Out there in space hovers his sleek, knightly Sinanju, glittering with death-potential like a dark, spiny star. The air grows thick as history threatens to twist and turn again.

Mineva says nothing, because she doesn’t know if there’s a live microphone in here, but she makes eye contact with the Captain and gestures to the Sinanju and then to herself. He wants me, is the unspoken message. The Captain nods in understanding, and speaks into his mic again. “Flight boss, secure catapults and launch operations.”

He then switches channels and speaks to Frontal directly. “We have complied with your request, but know that negotiations with a terrorist group have no legal legitimacy under Federation policy.”

Somewhere out there, a violet mobile suit just adjusted the aim of its huge beam cannon, and Mineva flinches before the shot comes. One of the immobilized Federation suits is vaporized by a beam that looks powerful enough to hole the Nahel Argama’s armored citadel. Mineva knows the pilot didn’t make it out in time.

Not fair, whispers the fast-dissipating cloud of hope and possibility.

“I hope that is all the legitimacy you require, Captain,” says Full Frontal.

The captain blanches. “Go on then,” he mumbles, “State your demands.”

“The Zeon Princess, Mineva Lao Zabi, is in your custody,” says Frontal. “You will return her and her mobile suit, the NZ-666 Kshatriya, to us. If you do not comply, your ship will be destroyed.”

The ECOAS man, Commander Mackle, raises an eyebrow at this, then locks eyes with Mineva. His quick thinking is probably great for the Federation, but Mineva can hardly afford it.

“Captain,” says Commander Mackle. “You were aware of this, weren’t you?”

It’s a good thing the Captain samples tea with his officers instead of gambling. His bluffing face is terrible.

“Frontal,” says the Captain, “In the scenario where I really do have the Princess in my custody, and I do release her to you, what guarantee of my ship’s safety would I have?”

Frontal does not answer. He doesn’t need to.

“That’s what I thought,” continues the Captain. “If you cannot guarantee the safety of my crew, then I cannot guarantee the safety of the Princess,” and nods apologetically to Mineva, who appreciates the gesture. He catches Mackle’s eye, then points to her. Mackle, quick thinker, Johnny-on-the-spot, kicks over to Mineva and draws his pistol. It’s not pointing at her, but the message is clear.

“I have an alternate proposal,” the Captain says, “One that I think we will find mutually beneficial.”

“Go on,” says Full Frontal, with barely a hint of reproach in his voice.

“I am told that the NZ-666 Kshatriya is equipped with psycho-frame technology,” says the Captain, “Which I am given to understand is particularly valuable. Might I suggest that we conduct a swap? You receive your Princess and her psycho-frame Kshatriya, and we receive the stolen Unicorn and its pilot. We each receive that which we desire, and are both guaranteed safety.”

“Oh-ho,” chuckles Frontal. “An interesting proposal, Captain! Unfortunately it is also moot, as the Unicorn unit was acquired in a legitimate transaction from the Vist Foundation and is the lawful property of the Sleeves.”

The mention of the Vist Foundation prompts an indignant splutter from a squat man Mineva had paid little notice to. “He is lying, Captain! The Vist Foundation would never give up the Unicorn in such a manner!”

“That much I am sure of,” replies the Captain, “But thank you for confirming, Mister Vist.” He pushes his transmit button again. “Frontal, I cannot deliver the Princess into your custody without an effective guarantee of my crew’s safety.” When he releases the button, he sighs heavily, and reaches to adjust his hat, only noticing that he removed it to put on his normal suit when his gloved hand smacks the visor.

“Captain, you must understand my position,” says Frontal, voice still coolly jocular despite the Captain’s increasing agitation, “You ask me to exchange one Sleeves prisoner for another,” and here Mineva rankles at Frontal’s audacity to claim her as one of his own, “which is a neutral proposition for me at best. What incentivizes me to choose such a course of action over simply destroying your ship?”

“Captain,” says Vist, “This is getting us nowhere! You must convince him to give up the Unicorn!”

The Captain moves to snap a response at Vist, but refrains, just. “Just the Unicorn then, absent its pilot. It is a valuable mobile suit, is it not? Placing it aboard the Nahel Argama would impose a price to our safety.”

“This is unproductive,” replies Frontal, his cool finally starting to wear thin, “And the Unicorn is keyed to its pilot’s biometrics. It would be useless to both our factions in your care. There will be no exchange. If you do not agree to our original terms, we will destroy your ship. You have five minutes to reply.”

The Captain shouts a curse that Mineva cannot hear through his normal suit’s helmet and hers, and thumps the arm of his seat with one gloved hand.

“Fuck this,” mutters Mackle, and levels his gun at Mineva’s chest. “Frontal, this is Commander Daguza Mackle of ECOAS. The Captain has no direct authority over my actions. I am prepared to kill the Zeon Princess at this moment, unless you withdraw your forces immediately.”

The Sinanju and Unicorn level their beam rifles at the Nahel Argama’s bridge.

“It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Commander,” says Frontal. “You put up quite the fight at Industrial Seven.”

“As did you, Frontal.” The deliberate exclusion of Full Frontal’s rank of colonel is a slight, Mineva knows. Not the wisest choice, but that’s the Federation for you. “I assume you heard my conditions, sir?”

“I did,” says Frontal. “And since you are so sure of your own authority, Commander, I would ask you why you believe the Princess’ death is a threat to me.”

“She’s your ruler,” growls Mackle. “Simple as. If you’re really the second coming of Char like people say, you understand how much a ruler matters.”

“Au contraire, my dear Commander!” laughs Frontal, and Mackle’s gloved fist spasms on the grip of his pistol. “Might I remind you of Char’s relationship with the Zabi family? None too friendly, I assure you. No, I need the Princess as a figurehead, and little more. You know as well as I that Zeon is a parliamentary republic, and the loss of a Princess will impact our statecraft far more than it will impact our warfighting capability. Tell me, Commander, which matters more to you in this moment?”

“Mackle, think carefully,” says Mineva. “If he really is the second coming of Char, then the Sleeves’ technology truly can defeat death. What would stop his men from creating a second Mineva? What makes you think I am irreplaceable in the eyes of the Red Comet? My death will be an inconvenience to him, but nothing more.”

Vist says something to the Captain in a private channel. The Captain replies, drumming his fingers on his armrest in a nervous tattoo.

“Commander, that’s enough,” says the Captain, after a moment of consideration. He keys into the comms again. “Colonel Frontal, we agree to your terms. We will provide you with the Princess and her mobile suit. Should you fire upon us after we complete the terms of this bargain, Staff HQ will hear of it, and you may be assured that they will use all their resources to reply.”

“So you can give threats after all, Captain,” replies Frontal. “Very well. You have another five minutes. Use them wisely.”

“About that,” replies the Captain, and Vist does a little fist pump, “The Kshatriya is not currently fit to fly, it was in the process of close inspection by our technicians. Please give us fifteen minutes to ensure that it is safe for your Princess to fly.”

Frontal says nothing, merely clicking his mic in acknowledgement. The Sinanju and Unicorn lower their guns, just.

“Kill the transmission,” barks the Captain to the radio officer, who hurriedly complies. He turns to Mineva. “Listen closely, Your Grace. Vist here tells me that he possesses a device that can remotely report the Unicorn’s position and system conditions via unjammable psycho-waves, but it will need to be installed in the Unicorn’s cockpit. We will place a technician and the device in the cockpit of the Kshatriya with you, and when you are brought to Frontal’s base of operation, the technician will covertly  install the device aboard the Unicorn. Under no other circumstance can I justify spending a bargaining chip as valuable as you, so you better agree.”

Mineva nods. “I understand, Captain.” She’s impressed, having believed the prim Federation officer incapable of such skullduggery. “I agree.”

“Good,” says the Captain, and then hits the shipnet. “Technical Cadet Irei, report to the hangar immediately.” He looks to Mineva again. “Go.”

“Thank you,” says Mineva, as she kicks around the stewing Mackle and towards the bridge door. “It was good to take tea with you, Captain.”

The Captain gives her a rueful smile, then turns back to his displays.

Mineva heads for the hangar.

#

Mineva glances through her displays as the Kshatriya steps onto the catapult. Fuel is okay, propellant is okay, coolant levels nominal. The only errors come from about ten missing funnels and two of the torso mega particle cannons, which she supposes were damaged by the Unicorn’s shield.

“Mineva Lao Zabi,” she announces, for the benefit of both Sleeves and Federation forces, “Kshatriya, deploying!”

Technical Cadet Irei lets out a thrilled whoop when the catapult kicks the Kshatriya forwards, and then hoots “this is badass!” when Mineva kicks the pedals to shunt the Kshatriya onto a trajectory towards the waiting Sleeves squadron.

“Is it?” she asks him, through their suits’ intercom.

“Yeah,” he says. “Obviously! A psycho frame, newtype use suit with funnels! It’s like a sexier Alpha Azieru! You’re one lucky babe. Chick. Pilot.”

She can’t help but smile a little at his enthusiasm. “I suppose I am. But you need to stay quiet when I’m talking with the Sleeves suits. We can’t afford for you to be found.”

“I know,” he mumbles. She can’t see him, since he’s sitting in the jumpseat behind her, but she knows he’s pouting.

“Kshatriya,” says Frontal, and part of Mineva is relieved he addressed her as her suit and not her name, “Shut down your reactor. We’ll carry you from here.” Both the Unicorn and the violet mobile suit have their weapons trained on her cockpit. She clicks her mic and keys the shutdown sequence, and Kshatriya folds its wings around itself before going inert.

“So,” says the Technical Cadet, once they’re under tow by the Sleeves suits, “What’s the plan once I get the psycho-monitor aboard Unicorn? Are we gonna bust out of the Sleeves base flashy and loud, or is there gonna be some kind of covert extraction? Both sound cool, but I’d kind of prefer the latter. Not dying sounds nice.”

“Um,” says Mineva, suddenly sick with regret, “Well. Vist and Captain Mitas didn’t have a plan beyond your installing the monitor.”

“That’s okay,” he says, still chipper. “I’m sure they’ll improvise. Captain Mitas is one smart guy!”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “There is no plan to recover either of us.”

She can sense his heart sink, and the feeling of it nearly breaks her.

“But,” he mumbles, “That’s not fair. That’s not right. I’m not ready for that.”

“No,” Mineva agrees, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, “It’s not.”

Chapter Text

Technical Cadet Takuya Irei is fucked. He’s so fucked. It’s unreal how fucked he is.

His first order from Princess Mineva (who doesn’t have a military rank by the way, so it’s ridiculous that she should be able to give him orders, but she’s also a princess, which he supposes is a rank all itself) was to keep sitting in the jumpseat, as still and quiet as possible.

This seemed ridiculous, until a Zeon technician swung into the Kshatriya’s cockpit and plugged a diagnostic cable into the console, muttering to themself and poking away at the console for a full fifteen minutes, while Takuya trembled and sweated in the jumpseat, slowly steaming himself inside his normal suit.

But now the technician is gone, and Takuya is again alone in the Kshatriya’s cockpit. It’s dark in here and he can’t be seen from outside, but he knows he has to leave.

Here’s how it’s gonna go:

First, Takuya will unclip the jumpseat from its hardpoints, grab the kit bag with his tools and the psycho-monitor, and crawl his sorry ass out of the cockpit. Then, he’ll kick the jumpseat in a random direction, and find the Unicorn.

Second, Takuya will make his way into the cockpit of the Unicorn. This will go one of two ways. Either nobody sees him and it’s fine, or the Unicorn is being guarded, in which case he will be shot to death slowly and painfully.

Third, Takuya will open the psycommu maintenance panel beneath the Unicorn’s seat, and find the main data bus, which Mister Alberto said will be three big cables with 32-pin amphenol connectors. There will be just enough room inside the maintenance compartment to stick the psycho-monitor to the support frame underneath using the can of adhesive he has, and then he’ll use the jumper cables he was given to reconnect the bus. If he takes too long to do this, he’ll be seen, and will be shot to death slowly and painfully.

Fourth, he needs to get away from the Unicorn as quickly as possible, and find somewhere to hide. If he can’t do that, his alternative is to get shot to death slowly and painfully.

A pair of mobile suit maintainers float past outside. They’re made anonymous and indistinguishable by their coveralls. Maybe Takuya has a chance.

#

Full Frontal receives Mineva in the Rewloola’s admiral’s cabin. It’s spacious and quiet, with sound-absorbing carpeting and luxuriant wood-paneled walls. Paintings of the old Zabi palace and the colonies of Side 3 adorn the walls, and a tiny rose bush, tentacular and wild in zero g, grows from a hydroponic orb. It’s cozy in the unwelcoming manner of a club house one doesn't belong to, and Mineva likes it even less than she likes her all-too-confining warren of royal suites back at home.

There is a desk, but Frontal doesn’t bother setting himself into the zero g seat, but at least positions himself behind it for the sake of appearances. Mineva has to admit Frontal certainly does understand the uses of symbols. The silver-haired Lieutenant Angelo Sauper has accompanied them, and hovers to one side. His posture is polite enough, but the glinting of the pistol at his hip is all Mineva needs to know his purpose here.

On the journey from the hangar to here, Frontal spoke little, save for what was necessary to guide Mineva. Every part the gentleman, though she’s seen what savagery he’s capable of.

“It’s good of you to join us again, Your Grace,” he says, smiling with polite interest. “Your absence had started to cause some concern.”

“I had little choice in the matter,” she says, because it’s true. The remark prompts a tiny indignant noise from Lieutenant Sauper, who is apparently the pilot of the violet mobile suit.

He shrugs, the gesture efficient and spare. “A choice made under duress is still a choice. I’m sure you’d agree, however, that this is an improvement over your captivity aboard the Nahel Argama.”

She could tell him the crew of the Nahel Argama treated her well, even when they had no cause to, and even when she was difficult to them. It wouldn’t make a difference, though. Nothing ever seems to where Full Frontal is concerned.

 “Now then,” he continues, “If you might indulge a soldier’s curiosity, why?”

She inclines her head, indicating uncertainty. “Why what, Colonel?”

He smiles again, and there’s no warmth in it. It’s the smile of a scientist, an observer and measurer. “Your stunt in Industrial Seven. Your theft of the Kshatriya. Your deployment into an active combat situation.”

“I couldn’t allow you to have the Key to Laplace’s Box.”

“Oh,” he says, affecting disappointment. “How unfortunate. We’re both Zeon, Your Grace. Deikun would have us cooperating as the vanguard of Zeonism, not at each other’s throats.”

“How familiar are you with Deikun’s writings, Colonel?”

His smile evaporates. “Very.” He gestures to his head with the small, quick motion of two fingers, wordlessly speaking volumes about the process that transformed him into Char. “It is second nature to me.”

At Frontal’s gesture, Lieutenant Sauper frowns.

“Then I am curious as to why you invoked the language of vanguard. Are you fighting to raise Spacenoid consciousness, Frontal? Is your goal to achieve total economic equality between Earth and the Sides, and make the gravity well irrelevant to human life? Or are you fighting for something else?”

“You know the answer to that,” says Full Frontal, “Minister Bakharo would have made it clear enough.”

“It would be against Minister Bakharo’s best interests to make any of his interests unambiguously clear,” Mineva observes. “In fact, I believe it his job and purpose in life to be circumspect about such matters. No, I wish to hear this from you personally.”

“Minister Bakharo would have spoken to you of the Side Co-Prosperity Sphere plan,” he hazards, and she nods. “Good. It is my belief that the creation of such an instrument represents the only opportunity available to the Republic of Zeon to evade its re-annexation four years from now.”

“That’s an economic matter,” Mineva replies. “We’re not yet talking about the role of the Box.”

“The Box is the catalyst,” says Frontal. “Comprehensive changes in the workings of society require forcings that are nothing short of miraculous. Every successful revolution in human history has not succeeded because of the united class-consciousness of the revolutionaries, or the decadence and arrogance of their oppressors, but rather because of two factors, time and money. Princess, we possess neither. The Earth Federation has ensured that they possess all the cards, and without a miracle, we cannot change this state of affairs.”

“The Box is your miracle.”

“Just so. It is said to contain the potential to destroy the Federation.”

“Or change it irrevocably.”

“The Box will force the Federation to the bargaining table,” he says. “No longer will we receive platitudes, bad-faith offers, and open threats.”

“It’s a bargaining chip to you, and nothing more?”

“Precisely,” smiles Frontal. “I have no personal or philosophical interest in the contents of the box. My view of it is purely consequentialist. So long as the Federation fears it, and so long as it keeps its destructive potential, it is meaningful to me.”

“Then what of the struggle between Earthnoid and Spacenoid?” she asks. “What of the role that gravity plays in determining human relations? What of class struggle, and the role of labor in terrestrial and space development?”

“What of them indeed?” he chuckles. “The Sides will become richer, rich beyond the Earthnoids’ wildest dreams. The Earth will stagnate as a backwater, and its inhabitants will flee en masse as economic refugees.”

“This will fix nothing!” protests Mineva. “If you really read Deikun’s work, you would know this to be incorrect! You of all people, the second coming of Char, should know just how meaningless an effort this will be!”

“It will not be meaningless, Princess. It will give the Sides all that they deserve.”

“And it will create a new underclass, a new margin of society. It will create a new economic bloc that exists to be extracted from, and consign generations to a curse of poverty that begins with birth and never ends.”

“That is not my concern,” says the man who isn’t Char, “the fate of Zeon is my concern.”

“Then you believe nothing of Deikun’s work,” says Mineva, her contempt for Frontal deepening with every word he speaks. “Zeonism is nothing without the understanding that the impact of space or terrestrial living has upon economic relations, and the understanding that this problem is solvable. You have given up on Deikun’s ideals, and are a revisionist and a traitor to his name. You have failed, Colonel. You cannot possibly be the second coming of Char.”

“You,” growls Lieutenant Sauper. “You dare speak thus to Colonel Frontal! Is there no insult you will not stoop to!”

Frontal angles his head towards the Lieutenant, and there’s something like affection in the set of his lips. “Well, Lieutenant Angelo. No other Zeon would have the temerity to say such things.”

“Am I wrong?” asks Mineva, a little too innocently.

Sauper takes the bait. “Wrong in every way, Your Grace!” the way he spits Your Grace comes out like the vilest of pejoratives. He says it like Feddie. Like fascist. “Colonel Frontal is Zeonism incarnate! He lives for the revolutionary truth of our ideology! You are but a figurehead! You can’t possibly know what it means to fight for such things!” His narrow chest is puffed up with pride, and indignant rage, and something else that Mineva can’t quite name.

“Lieutenant Angelo, I think you’ve made your point,” says Frontal, raising a hand slightly, and at the gesture the Lieutenant deflates, just. “The Princess is not entirely wrong in what she says.”

Both Mineva and Lieutenant Sauper alike are taken aback by the admission, but she hides it better.

“Colonel-!”

“No,no,” Frontal says. “I’m serious, Lieutenant Angelo. A young figurehead she may be, but Princess Mineva has the instincts of a proper stateswoman. No, she was right when she accused me of giving up on Deikun’s ideals.”

Sauper gapes in disbelief.

“Zeon Zum Deikun was a visionary,” continues Frontal, “but he was an idealist. His goals border on miraculous, and have no room for practicality. We do not live in the realm of theory, Your Grace. We live in a brutal, ugly, broken world, and our methods must be as barbaric as their environs if they are to make any impact whatsoever.”

“You believe Deikun’s ideas to be impractical because you refuse to admit the possibility that human society could be changed so fundamentally as to achieve them,” says Mineva. Frontal nods. “You believe that all we can achieve in the pursuit of our ideologies is that which is admitted within the framework of our existing society. That we can adjust and re-prioritize, but never rearrange.”

“Just so,” says Frontal. “I am a tool, Your Grace. It is not my place to make dreams real. I am a physical process, and in that I am as inevitable as the fundamental physics of the universe.”

“You are no soldier,” she accuses, and Angelo goes so red she’s afraid he’ll pop.

“No, I am not,” he agrees, smiling as though to a friend. “Or rather, I am, but only in the legal sense. In all other senses I am a vessel.”

“Then that is why I had to take the Kshatriya,” replies Mineva. “Because I cannot allow something with the world-changing power of Laplace’s Box to be in the hands of a tool that can transform but not invent. Zeon Zum Deikun’s world is possible, if only we allow ourselves the courage to imagine a total transformation. A transformation that the Box would make possible.”

“You propose the impossible,” sneers Lieutenant Sauper. “Do you not hear yourself?”

Mineva shrugs. “Laplace’s Box is said to be able to break the Federation. If it truly possesses such power, I would use it to its greatest possible effect. Centuries ago, the divine right of kings seemed unassailable and inevitable, yet we broke it then, and with far more meager tools. Revolution isn’t a matter of miracles, it’s a matter of will.”

#

Riddhe finds Commander Borrinea in the senior officers’ wardroom. With the Captain absent, she’s free to drink coffee, the preferred drink of Riddhe his fellow junior officers.

“Ensign,” she greets, when he salutes her. “How can I help you?”

“I had a question, sir.”

“Please,” she gestures with her mug, “Go ahead.”

“What is the Nahel Argama doing?”

Her eyes narrow fractionally. “What do you mean, Ensign? We’re carrying out our orders.”

“Sir, we had the Zeon Princess in our custody! And we gave her up!”

“That we did,” she agrees. “You were kept abreast of the situation by Flight Control. We negotiated for the safety of the ship by handing over the Princess and her mobile suit.”

Riddhe knows. He had watched the quad-wing as it left the hangar from the confines of his cockpit, and had seethed at his own impotence. She needed him, and he couldn’t help her. Damn the machinations of the command staff!

“I believe it was wrong, sir. She was relying on us for protection.”

“Well now,” says the Commander, “That I can’t comment on. The negotiations were handled according to the Captain’s will, as they should have been. Remember, Ensign, war is ugly. Much of what we are ordered to do may seem wrong at first glance, but schoolboy ethics won’t save us. Every man doing his job will save us. It’s how the EFSF has always worked.”

Like how the EFSF worked every time they ‘blew off steam’ in a Zeon colony, thinks Riddhe. Or how they worked when they sent underequipped Balls and GMs to be slaughtered in the hundreds against superior Zeon suits. Or how they worked when they shoved children into the cockpits of dangerous killing machines.

“I see, sir,” he says, because he does see, just not what he thinks she wants him to.

“It seems unfortunate, I agree,” Commander Borrinea replies, smiling in a way she probably thinks is reassuring. It seems condescending to Riddhe. “If the engagement between the Princess’ Kshatriya and the captured Unicorn is any indication, it would seem as though a divide is forming between the Sleeves and other Neo Zeon factions. Perhaps under different circumstances, we could have exploited the situation more to our advantage, but the fact of the matter remains—we were trapped. Remember the priorities of a good crew?”

“Yes sir,” says Riddhe, and lets himself seem cold and cynical like a good officer. “First, the mission. Second, the ship. Third, the plant. Fourth and last, the crew.”

“Exactly. The preservation of our ship and mission outweighed all other duties.”

“But sir, the pilots that sortied…”

Borrinea sighs. “I know. I regret their loss. Lieutenant Commander Basilicock was a fine pilot. But he knew the risks a pilot takes. He knew what it meant to fly against the very best Neo Zeon could offer.”

And you don’t, seems to be the implication. Riddhe grits his teeth.

“I understand, sir,” he forces himself to say. “May I ask if we are to attempt a retrieval of the Princess?”

“Our mission is the recovery of the Unicorn, Ensign. We believe the Rewloola will return to Palau, though we cannot say for sure. Staff HQ has reconnaissance assets en route to discern their exact trajectory.  The Princess isn’t a priority at the moment.”

“But sir, if what you say is true, she could be surrounded by her own Sleeves enemies! Don’t we owe such an important person our protection?”

“No, Ensign. We owe Staff HQ our loyalty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going on duty in a few minutes. You can take this up with another member of the senior staff if you like.”

“I won’t need to, sir. I think I understand our priorities.”

It’s almost too sad, Riddhe thinks. The command staff seem to know they’re in the wrong, yet they have no will to stop. They don’t truly want to defeat the Sleeves or save the Princess. They don’t care about the lives of junior officers. They’ve given up on honor, on basic decency.

Riddhe will have to fix this himself. The Box is too important to be left in the hands of cynical officers obsessed with propriety and their own careers.

Chapter Text

“Golf Eight,” says Full Frontal, “Follow the briefing and bracket home plate normal. I’ll go antinormal. Wait for bandits to start maneuvering before you engage.”

“Roger,” replies Mineva, and punches the Kshatriya’s thrusters, thrusting away from the ecliptic. She swings the suit’s main sensor towards the distant Federation forces—they’re tiny, glittering dots at zero magnification, but with the Kshatriya’s telescope eye, she can see a cluster of what the computer calls Jegans. They’re slim and dun-colored, and they look like every soldier that has ever walked the Earth, merely harder and more violent.

“Foxtrot One, beginning my engagement burn,” comes Frontal’s voice, and far below her feet, Mineva can see the blue streak of expanding gas as the brilliant red Sinanju rockets towards the enemy. She corrects her own trajectory with small puffs of rocket thrust but remains slow for now. She’s following orders.

The Sinanju plummets into the clump of Jegans and they scatter like flushed game. The death-potential rumbles Mineva’s temples and threatens to become a migraine. The Sinanju’s rifle flashes once, twice, again, but offers her no relief—Frontal is shooting to disable, not to kill.

One fleeing Jegan turns towards Mineva, kilometers distant, and accelerates towards her, lining up its beam rifle. The target lock alarm cries out as it picks up the Jegan’s laser sensors. The first shot will miss, Mineva knows, but the second one will puncture her rear left wing binder. In her hands, the Kshatriya twists, and both shots go wide.

“Bandit working normal,” she says. “Towards me.”

“Cleared to engage,” replies Frontal.

She is already moving by the time she grunts an acknowledgement under the crushing force of the Kshatriya’s acceleration. The Jegan is using a textbook fire control algorithm, and its jink predictions are trivial to dodge. Mineva jets one way and the other, weaving her way down through the Jegan’s hail of fire.

Its pilot is afraid.

She could deploy her funnels and pick the Jegan apart like a boiled crab, but it’d be a waste of propellant. No point. The Jegan aims again and she swings one wing in front of herself, Kshatriya’s I-field eating the shot greedily.

The Federation suit does not shoot again, because Mineva’s mega particle cannons, set to their lowest setting, have melted its rifle and sensors. The pilot is terrified, trapped inside a cold, dark coffin, but still alive. Their fellows will rescue them.

“Golf Eight, break plus radial!” shouts Frontal, his warning transforming what had been a tickle of possibility into the sudden rush of dread certainty. Mineva responds as instructed, vision dimming from the sudden acceleration, and her displays jitter and glitch from the stray radiation of another beam shot. She twists, jittery and hopped-up on fright and prey-rage, but the shooter is inactivated, Frontal severing its arms and legs with three clean swipes of a beam saber.

“Would you have evaded that?” asks Frontal. There’s no judgment in the question, merely curiosity.

“I don’t know,” she admits.

“Our instincts are a gift,” he replies. “A gift that assures us of many things, but not victory. You must always assume that you cannot see or feel every threat.”

“Understood,” she says, and can’t hide a flush of embarrassed contrition.

“I do not say this to shame you,” Frontal continues. “But I can ill afford to lose the Kshatriya. My purpose is not yet done, and I shall have need of your machine until then.”

She is about to reply some meaningless formality to acknowledge this, but something tugs at her. There’s a message being made here, a thread that wicks away fate towards some far-off place. They are being watched.

There. Kshatriya’s eye swivels to fix on the thread. There’s another Jegan, bloated and swollen with reconnaissance equipment, with its datalink laser fixed on its distant Federation mothership. The fact that the machine now lacks thrusters or legs has not stopped its pilot from carrying out his mission.

Frontal acts automatically, aiming his rifle, and Mineva can’t believe she’s surprised. There’s no warning intention behind his act—it simply happens.

He will kill the Federation pilot.

Frontal squeezes the trigger, but no shot comes—his rifle has been bisected by Mineva’s beam saber.

He says nothing to this, and Mineva wishes dearly that he would, but there is nothing from the Sinanju except vague curiosity and bored, careless malice. The Sinanju twitches and is suddenly holding a beam saber all its own. In the same motion as he drew, Frontal feints high and swings low, threatening to kneecap her.

Mineva retreats in time, barely, and deflects his swing with a hurried second parry, kicking the thrusters to back off.

“Frontal!” she grunts, as soon as she can catch her breath, “You said this would be a no-kill mission!”

“So I did,” he observes. “Mea culpa. As I said, our instincts cannot alone be relied upon to complete objectives.”

“Then stop this!” Mineva gasps, twisting Kshatriya to avoid the vicious swipe aimed towards her right shoulder binders.

“I cannot,” he says, voice faintly tinged with a cold, alien sort of amusement. “I am a tool, Your Grace. A physical process. I am the machinery by which cause and effect are connected.” He punctuates cause and effect with a lunge and thrust that threatens to core out her cockpit, which she bats away with a first parry. “In short, it is my duty to impose consequences for the actions of others.”

Here are some consequences, she thinks but does not say, because it would be unbecoming, and turns her parry into a thrust-and-flick that should sever his elbow and disarm.

She executes the attack perfectly, and his blade is in no position to block it, yet the Kshatriya judders with the hissing buzz of two colliding I-fields—Frontal is employing the beam axes upon his shield as a parrying weapon.

This is now a two-weapon fight, so Mineva deploys her offhand beam saber. She is not trained in the twin rapiers, but she can improvise.

“Golf Eight,” says Frontal, entering a guard stance, “Engage.”

Offhand in a high guard, she slips a testing thrust towards his legs. He sweeps it outwards with his shield, as she expects, opening his torso up to her offhand. She does not attack, but keeps her offhand in a ninth parry to block his return.

“Good,” he says. “Golf Eight, continue.”

“Roger,” she says, before she can stop herself, and tempts his shield with her offhand before trying to puncture it directly with her main. He backs off and traps her mainhand, then the Sinanju rotates, twisting like a doorknob. Now his main will impale the Kshatriya’s head unless she puffs her thrusters and parries wide, shit there’s his shield again, and now they’re dancing. Mineva is sweating inside her normal suit, totally focused on Frontal’s lightning-fast sword and shield, testing, probing, hungry for a taste of her armor.

His attacks are at turns brutal and subtle, viciously quick and deceptively slow. He’s changing his strategy with every swipe, evading a different way with every parry, and he does it on autopilot. There isn’t a shred of will coming from his machine. She’s fighting a clockwork, every juke and dive expertly programmed and totally inscrutable to her. She’s trapped inside the loop of action-reaction-correction, all tactics and no strategy. It feels like she’s been doing this forever, the passage of time only marked by the slow depletion of the Kshatriya’s coolant reserves.

And then he changes his strategy again, and this time it gets her.

She’s caught by surprise as the Sinanju lashes out, not with main or offhand, but with a leg, and the kick catches the Kshatriya’s chest. The impact has Mineva seeing stars, and when she catches her breath again, the Sinanju has pinned her weapons and is holding  the tip of its beam saber a politely threatening distance from the armor of her cockpit.

“Golf Eight,” says Full Frontal, “Yield.”

She shuts down and safes her beam sabers. “Roger, Foxtrot One.”

And just like that, they’re allies again. The Sinanju backs away, shuts down its blades, and stows its shield. Mineva is panting, every breath getting sucked up by the seething rage that coils in her gut, begging her to kill him.

“Golf Eight,” continues Full Frontal, “You attacked me.” It’s not an accusation, just a statement.

“I did,” she growls. “You would have killed that pilot. During the briefing, you ordered me that we wouldn’t take any lives.”

“Oho,” he chuckles. “So you took action to ensure your mission was completed according to briefing?”

“Yes,” she says, because she knows he’s aware she wanted him dead. That she still does.

“Very well, Golf Eight. That was becoming of a Neo Zeon pilot, but should you choose to turn your weapons against me again, I shall be forced to deliver far more severe consequences than a simple lesson. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and the words are ash on her tongue.

“Good,” he replies. “Now, on the topic of completing our mission according to the parameters of the briefing…” and the Sinanju points. She follows the gesture, seeing the inert hulk of the sensor-laden Jegan she had defended.

The cockpit is holed, drilled through by a fine beam. The only weapon present capable of such a strike is her own funnel.

“No,” she gasps, blood running cold with the knowledge that she killed that pilot and didn’t even give him the dignity of noticing it, “No, that can’t be! I didn’t mean to!”

And then Full Frontal laughs. It’s not a restrained chuckle, but an open, full-chest guffaw.

Mineva Lao Zabi has defied orders to murder a defenseless, unarmed soldier. The act was so meaningless to her that it escaped her notice entirely. And now Full Frontal is laughing at her.

Appalled, ashamed, and completely, totally alone, Mineva begins to weep.

#

Before the briefing, Full Frontal gave Mineva an ultimatum.

“I see little reason not to return you to the Republic,” he said, “For your value as a symbol is considerable, and I stand to lose much face in the eyes of the Spacenoid populace should I allow the only remaining Zabi to meet her death on a battlefield. In this, Your Grace, I have no choice but to carry out the will that inhabits me. You will debark the Rewloola at Palau, and we will secure you transport to Side Three.”

If she acquiesced, that would be the end of it. No more fighting. No more soldier Mineva. No more Kshatriya, no more killing, no more Unicorn.

And then Frontal would get the Box, crush the Federation, and keep the Spacenoid-Earthnoid divide alive forever. The brutal struggle of wealth and power in Earth sphere would never cease, and the suffering would be imaginable.

That, Mineva considered, was not an option.

“That would be most unwise, Colonel,” she said, ignoring the way Sauper bristled at her disagreement.

“Explain.”

“It’s very simple,” she said. “You need me.”

“Oh?” replied Frontal, interested in a detached sort of manner, in the way a cruel child might curiously observe a cockroach squirm after its wings have been pulled off.

Mineva never did such things.

“We do,” said Sauper. “We need you in Zeon, sitting on your throne and not causing problems. Out of the way, Feddie lover.”

She ignored the Lieutenant’s jab, maintaining eye contact with Frontal. “Zeon has historically enjoyed three advantages in its conflicts against the Federation. We tend to field superior mobile suits, we tend to initiate engagements on our own terms and strike by surprise, and we have invested in Newtype-based combat doctrines to a degree that the Federation has not since the Gryps conflict.”

“Do you mean to imply those have changed?” asked Frontal.

“Yes. Regardless of the fact that the Sleeves possess it at the moment, the Unicorn Gundam makes it clear that the Federation now possesses an overwhelming advantage in manufacturing capacity and technological development. Furthermore, we are now under pursuit by the Federation, and even Palau is merely neutral. Lacking space dominance, we have no ability to set the terms of large-scale engagements.”

“And what of Newtypes, Your Grace?” asked Frontal. “Do you mean to say that you are one?”

“I do not know,” she admitted, because Zeon Zum Deikun once wrote that a space-evolved human would not be able to perceive themself as anything but human. A Newtype would not know they are one, Deikun argued, unless identified as such by another. “Yet I can control the Kshatriya’s psycommu systems.”

“That you can,” he acknowledged, nodding, “According to a teleological approach, that may well make you a Newtype.”

“Only if your definition of ‘Newtype’ is one who can operate psycommu-equipped mobile weapons,” said Lieutenant Sauper. “I would hope that the great Zeon Zum Deikun had higher hopes for space-adapted humans than that.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I was one,” said Mineva, refusing to allow Sauper and Frontal to bog her down, “Merely to state, as I am sure you are already aware, that the Sleeves’ only meaningful advantage at this moment is their possession of psycommu weaponry and pilots who can use it.”

“Really?” asked Frontal. “Not our fighting spirit nor our strategic position nor the bare righteousness of our cause, but merely the weaponry we happen to possess?”

“Exactly.”

“An insult!” hissed the Lieutenant.

“Well, Lieutenant,” chuckled Frontal. “Perhaps it is, but it is an insightful one. The Sleeves are but a splinter group, it’s true. We cannot be terribly scrupulous if we are to achieve our goals.”

“You can’t seriously be saying that you’ll suffer the Princess to fight with us,” said Sauper, now with an edge of desperation in his voice. “Please, Colonel.”

“Yet if we were to leave the Princess in Palau,” mused Frontal, “Who would pilot the Kshatriya?”

At this, Sauper shined with hope and pride like a hot little star, the sudden flare of emotion enough to make Mineva blink in surprise.

“There is truth in what you propose, Your Grace,” continued the Colonel, “As we have scarce few pilots capable of safely handling full psycommu control systems.”

Sauper crashed and burned. Mineva knew his was a forlorn hope, but couldn’t blame him for it. He’s a young man, after all—hoping for things they can’t achieve is what they’re made for. The thought reminded her of Ensign Riddhe, hopefully still alive despite the Nahel Argama’s travails.

Part of Mineva asked her, in a quiet and sly voice, Is that true of young women too? What do you believe yourself capable of achieving, Princess, that time will prove you cannot?

 “Then you’ll let me continue to fly the Kshatriya?” asked Mineva. She thought she almost had him—just a little further, Frontal. A little more heartless rationalization.

Through his mask, Frontal gazed at Mineva, lips quirking down into a slight frown. This wasn’t a good sign, she considered.

At length, he eventually spoke again. “There was a girl,” he said. “Quess Paraya. She was the daughter of a prominent politician, and gifted with exceptional psycommu compatibility. Whether or not that made her a Newtype, we can only speculate.”

“I’ve heard her name,” replied Mineva. “Usually attached to that of Char Aznable, shortly before his death.”

Frontal nodded. “Yes. Char radicalized this girl, preying on her insecurities and emotional alienation to mold her into his weapon. Did you know, Your Grace, that had she lived through the Second Neo Zeon War, Quess would be of an age with you?”

“You think me another Quess,” guessed Mineva. “You think that if you put me back in the Kshatriya, I will become something less than a princess, and then I will die.”

“If I am truly the second coming of Char,” answered Frontal, “Then Char must learn from his mistakes, no? He must learn of the fickle, reactionary nature of miracles. He must learn that people crave comfort above all else, and will go to any length to oppose change. And most importantly, he must learn that lives pledged to him are not to be taken lightly.”

Mineva’s heart sank. “Then you won’t let me fly the Kshatriya, and shoot yourself in the foot for the sake of Char’s honor.”

“That is not what I said,” replied Frontal. “No, Char’s error with Quess was one of propriety. Quess was not an officer, but rather a private citizen. She was outside the military chain of command, and had no rank. There was no way to control her, save for personal cajoling either by Char or his Newtype minder, Nanai Miguel.”

“Colonel,” gasped Sauper. “You can’t possibly mean that you will allow this girl to-“

“To enlist?” Frontal finished for him, and the Lieutenant nodded, delicate brows knitted in consternation. “No,” he chuckled, and Sauper relaxed fractionally. “No, I have a proposal for you, Your Grace. It is the only one that will permit you back into the cockpit of the Kshatriya.”

“What are its terms?”

“You will consent to evaluation of your skills and acumen as a mobile suit pilot and officer, according to any methodology I choose, and if deemed suitable, you will accept a direct commission to the rank of Ensign. If you do not agree to this, you will be returned to the Republic of Zeon, where you will lead a long and fruitful career as head of state.”

And be a pawn forever, Frontal did not need to say.

Mineva knew she was trapped—if she agreed, she would be under Frontal’s thumb. Yet if she did not agree, the shrewd Colonel would certainly take every measure he could to remove her from relevance until he acquired the Box, making her resistance moot.

“I agree to your terms,” she said. “What of your evaluation, Frontal? What is that to be?”

“I would expect that a Princess is already intimately familiar with military procedures and propriety,” smiled Char’s clone, “But your piloting skills I have witnessed little of, and we are fortunate enough to have an opportunity to evaluate them. This ship is being tailed by a Federation reconnaissance and electronic warfare squadron. You will accompany me on a mission to neutralize it. Lieutenant Angelo,” he continued, glancing to Sauper, “Have the Captain depressurize the hangar.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I organize a briefing for your Guards squadron?”

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I’ll just be bringing the Princess.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes went wide as saucers. “But! Sir! She’s-“

“I know, Lieutenant Angelo,” said Frontal, smile going a little softer. “She is untested, but we stand on the brink of a total Zeon victory. We can’t afford scruples at this juncture. And besides,” he continued, turning his head to meet Mineva’s gaze with his masked eyes, “If she proves not to be trustworthy, I am quite certain I can protect myself.”

#

Takuya’s job is harder than he expected.

He hadn’t realized, when Mister Alberto told him that the psycommu diagnostics panel was beneath the seat, that it was beneath the cockpit floor.

What this means is that it’s actually a display panel. He has to unscrew all four corners, then hook a screwdriver into one of the now-open holes to pry the panel up enough to be able to grab it. Then lift (carefully! Don’t break the ribbon cable!) just enough to unplug the display’s connector.

Worse still, the psycommu data bus compartment is crowded. Alberto said there’d be plenty of space, it’s beyond cramped. Now Takuya has to shift the bus controller down its support rails to make room for the psycho-monitor, which means reaching inside the compartment with his wrench to loosen the bolts, and he’s busted his ass twice now when the wrench slips and the sudden torque spins him against a wall.

And worst of all, personnel in the hangar use a common radio channel, so he can’t even curse in frustration, less someone hear it.

While he’s in the process of undoing the amphenol connectors for the data bus, something taps his ass. He flinches and spins to see behind him, painfully twisting his arm in the process. A bolt spins slowly away from the impact.

 “Hey,” says someone wearing a purple normal suit, with the markings of an officer, “You’re losing bolts.” They pluck another fastener out of the air and toss it at the stunned Takuya, and it plinks off his helmet.

“Um,” says Takuya, because he can’t scream please don’t kill me. “Sorry, sir. I, uh. Haven’t um. Worked on this unit before.”

“I would imagine not,” sneers the officer. “We only just got the Unicorn.”

“Right,” agrees Takuya, laughing nervously. It sounds like he’s choking.

“Speaking of which,” the officer says, bending closer, “What exactly are you doing?” Behind the visor, Takuya can see silver hair and supercilious violet eyes.

Takuya tries to improvise something innocuous-sounding and fails. The man’s gaze pins him in place like a bug. He says the first thing he can think of.

“I’m installing a psycho-monitor. It’s a diagnostic tool. For the Unicorn. Uh, it’s useful for technical reasons.”

He’s dead. He’s so fucked. It’s over.

“Huh,” scoffs the officer. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Okay,” says Takuya, because he can’t believe the officer hasn’t pulled a gun on him and shot him to death slowly and painfully yet, “Anything you say, sir.”

This earns him a sneer. “I bet.”

Takuya is so fucking back. He can pull this off. “Is there anything else you needed, sir?”

The officer had turned to leave, but glances back at him. “Now that you mention it, yes. When you’re done with that, grab a couple other techs to help you top up the Guards’ suits’ coolant and ammunition. I have a feeling we’ll be needed soon enough.”

“Yes, sir,” says Takuya, and salutes, though he’s not sure if he needs to or not. The officer just scoffs contemptuously and kicks away from the Unicorn, disappearing into the vastness of the Rewloola’s hangar.

Takuya is alive. His heart is going crazy and his breath is coming shallow and fast, but he’s alive.

Now where did those bolts go?

Chapter Text

In Colonel Full Frontal’s absence, Lieutenant Angelo Sauper felt like an unwound clockwork. Left to fend for himself in deep space, with only the traitorous Zabi Princess for escort…for any man but the Colonel, such a mission would be unacceptably dangerous!

But the Colonel has returned. Angelo has done all he can to straighten out the ship in his commander’s absence. The Guards’ Geara Zulus are ready to fly (a not-so-subtle hint that they should deploy the next time Frontal does), the hangar has been swept for FOD-risk debris (where in the world did an entire Federation-issue normal suit come from?), and the mobile suit armory has been organized.

All is well, but Angelo isn’t satisfied. Something still twinges—a fragment of a puzzle missing, a cog poorly cut. He injects more nutrient solution into the rose shrub in Frontal’s quarters, but still feels unbalanced.

The door opens, and his heart twists with jealous fright to see his Colonel and the fuckup Princess standing together in the corridor.

“We will speak later, Your Grace,” says ever-patient, ever-gracious Full Frontal, and the Princess nods. She disappears mercifully from view when the door closes behind the Sleeves’ lodestar.

“Lieutenant Angelo,” Frontal says, and Angelo comes to attention. Nobody else gets to address him by his first name. “The ship is looking well. Good work.”

“Sir!”

Frontal’s slight, cryptic smile grows a little deeper.

“I would that all our men were so loyal as you, Lieutenant,” he says, and Angelo’s heart threatens to burst inside his chest.

“I give you all that I owe you,” Angelo says, because it’s the truth. He owes everything, and gives it happily.

“I know,” says the Colonel, and then gestures to his normal suit, “I will need a moment to change.”

Angelo nods and quits the suite, hoping to find the fuckup Princess outside. He’s a little disappointed to find she isn’t—probably on the bridge irritating the Captain, or something. Oh well. Angelo can be patient.

At length, the door opens.

“Why Lieutenant,” says Frontal, not sounding surprised at all to see him, “You’re still here. Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

Leave it to a commanding officer as perceptive and thoughtful as the Colonel to know!

“Yes, sir,” admits Angelo. “I noticed that upon your return, the Sinanju was absent its beam rifle. What happened on your mission?”

The Colonel does not make mistakes when he pilots. That he should return from a mission missing equipment is unthinkable, especially for something so trivial and routine as a combat patrol. Was he ambushed by another Federation Gundam-type suit? Was the Sinanju impaired somehow? Did the Princess-

“Yes,” says Frontal. “The Princess and I had a disagreement.”

There’s something dreadful in the weight that hangs on disagreement, and Angelo’s stomach goes cold.

“What does that mean.”

“It means that our instincts got the better of us, Lieutenant.”

It’s a damning admission from one such as the Colonel.

Frontal chuckles. “Yes, I really do wonder about her abilities.”

“Sir?”

“She may be a Newtype after all.”

“How would a disagreement, as you say, sir, clarify that? I was given to understand that the classic theory of Newtypes was that they can achieve total mutual understanding.”

 “Very simply,” replies the Colonel. “She turned her weapons on me, and survived the consequences.”

“She what.”

“Lieutenant Angelo, the matter is over. It’s of no significance now, and I am sure the Princess is quite mollified. If you must know, I attempted to neutralize a reconnaissance unit using stronger measures than specified in the mission briefing. The Princess was quite right to object, really. She merely went about it in a more forceful manner than was strictly necessary.”

“She attacked you,” says Angelo, and he’s frightened by how low and quiet his anger makes his voice go. He sounds like his mother’s man. “Colonel, I can dispatch her now, should you wish it. Her Newtype abilities won’t stop my-“

“No, Lieutenant,” says the Colonel, his tone iron. “I am unharmed, the Sinanju is undamaged, save for its beam rifle, and the Princess not only achieved what she prevented me from doing, but learned a great deal about mobile suit close quarters combat. As I said, the matter is over.”

“Yes, sir,” nods Angelo, because he must. He must trust his Colonel’s word. A good officer is loyal. A good officer believes his superiors. No matter the consequences.

“Good,” smiles Frontal. “Was there anything else, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir, but only with permission to speak freely. I would not speak to you thus otherwise.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant. I trust you.”

Angelo knows he does. It’s the most important thing in the fucking world. But hearing it again has him feeling balanced and whole.

“In the future, sir, please let your Guards sortie with you. Your piloting is peerless, yet…the Sleeves cannot afford to lose you.” And neither can I, Angelo thinks but does not say. “As you ever-wisely say, sir, battle is chaotic.”

“I understand, Lieutenant,” says Frontal, and from the softness of his expression it seems he really does, “And I apologize for the atypical nature of my deployment alongside the Princess.”

“I-“ Angelo hesitates, unsure what to say. Hearing Frontal apologize is a rare occurrence. “The Guards are placed at your disposal so that you might use them, sir. I will defer as always to your superior judgment, but…but we live to fly and fight with you, and die in your stead if need be.”

“Let us hope it shall never come to that,” chuckles Frontal. “I see now that you feel ill-used. I promise not to make a habit of it, Lieutenant. In this case, I needed to evaluate her performance in an environment where she had no oversight. Save for my own, of course.”

“Yes, sir,” says Angelo, and makes a mental note to never allow the Princess alone with Frontal again. “May I ask, sir, what your evaluation of her is?”

“She has room to grow, Lieutenant. Under your command, I am certain her abilities will flourish.”

“Oh,” Angelo blinks in surprise. “So you’re issuing her that direct commission after all? Even after she attacked you?” To any other man he would ask, are you sure that’s wise, but not to Frontal. The Colonel surely has a plan.

“Oh, yes. She was right, in the end. We do need her. And besides, her instincts impress me. I fear she may even surpass Lieutenant Cruz one day, frightening as it may seem. I feel it better that she be within our control than without.”

“You make her sound like another Amuro, sir.”

“Perhaps she is,” says Frontal, voice going distant and a little sad. “Perhaps that’s all there is in the world now. Echoes and simulacra, not a trace of original truth left. Perhaps all those hungry ghosts left behind by the One Year War are finally coming to root in flesh again.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind me, Lieutenant. Just thinking aloud.”

#

Commander Liam Borrinea finds Captain Otto Mitas in his quarters.

“Enter,” he says following her knock, and she does. She finds him hunched over an embroidery—looks like the Nahel Argama, complete with a tiny satin-stitched ReZEL. He’s muttering soft curses as he tries ineffectually to make French-knot stars.

“Sir,” she says, saluting, “We’ve completed replenishment and onboarding of reinforcements.”

“Good,” says the Captain. He sighs. “What do we have?”

“A few more Stark Jegans, a Re-GZ, and a transformable unit called the Delta Plus. Also, even more ECOAS men and machines.”

“Of course Staff HQ is getting ECOAS involved.”

“Sir,” points out Liam, “They already were.”

He huffs in annoyance at this. “I knew that. But to see them digging their tendrils even deeper into this ship and this operation…it’s insulting. They’re acting like the Nahel Argama is a taxi!”

Liam does not comment on the tactical role of an attack carrier.

“Sir,” she says, which could mean anything.

“How about the ECOAS equipment? What does that look like?”

“A few variant Jegans, and some transformable units. Lotos, for urban ops.”

The Captain hisses with delight as he finally pulls off a successful French knot. “So Staff HQ’s golden boys get dedicated fire support, while we have to contend with a few uprated Jegans. Bah! What I’d do for a few real long-range suits, like GM Cannon IIs!”

“Those were obsolete a decade ago, sir.”

“Ah, but they were good machines. Fire support suits these days are chimeras, Commander. No good at any one job.”

“But sir, they’re all we have.”

“I know that, Commander. I know that.”

“Sir,” says Liam, seeing the despair clearly spelled out on her Captain’s features, “You don’t go on watch for another hour. Perhaps you might join myself and Commander Mackle for tea before then?”

His lips quirk into a smile, but only just. “Perhaps I shall. Go ahead and warm up the water, Commander. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Sir,” she says, and quits the room. She is about to walk the carousel’s circumferential corridor towards the wardroom, when she hears a thump from his quarters. She pauses, unwilling to be the XO who let her Captain trip and bleed out from a simple moment of clumsiness, but she hears him shout in fury, and relaxes minutely. He’s not dying, just angry.

“You call those reinforcements!” comes his muffled cry. “Those are the bitter dregs! No long-range fire support, just missile trucks! The Zeons have combined arms and a whole menagerie of machines, goddamn it!” Another thump, and then he keeps shouting. “What do we have? A bunch of mutated Jegans! And those ECOAS pricks, ready to piss away all our resources at the drop of a hat! Covert operation? Don’t make me laugh! Fuck! We’re fucked!”

Liam sighs, and adjusts her uniform tunic. It’s going to be a long flight to Palau.

#

Mineva Zabi is an Ensign in the Sleeves forces. It was very easy, and took but a matter of minutes.

Now she is a terrorist, in the eyes of the Federation.

She supposes she would have been eventually, regardless of her uniform or lack thereof.

Lieutenant Sauper, now her commanding officer, greets her when she arrives in the Guards’ quarters.

“Lieutenant Sauper, Sir,” she says, saluting. She feels like a fool. “Ensign Mineva Zabi, reporting for duty.”

He looks and feels all too happy with this development. A grin like that doesn’t look good on his fine-boned features. There’s something predatory about it, with the same false mirth as a hyena’s laugh.

“Welcome to Full Frontal’s Guards team,” he says, and she can tell he’s really trying not to laugh in her face. She has to respect the effort. He turns to the assembled crew—there’s only six others. “Men,” he says, and she tries not to think about the relative youth of these zealots, they’re throwing their lives away, “Meet our newest member.”

The Zabi name doesn’t carry much cachet in the Sleeves, it appears. Her welcome is lukewarm, to say the least.

Mineva Zabi, says the steady, lidded gaze of one of the Guards, a young man with short red hair, You’re out of your depth. Not even the Kshatriya can save an untrained girl who just happens to be lucky.

She gives him her best clueless-Princess smile, because the last thing you ever do with a man is meet him on his own terms.

“Zechst Ade,” he greets, and adds “Second Lieutenant.” Mineva already knew both those things.

“A pleasure, sir,” she replies.

“I’ll be driving our Jagd Doga,” he says, and until yesterday that would have meant nothing to her. She crammed her technical studies really hard before that mission with Frontal, to try to prove her suitability. Something about it was just as sickening as going through that year of finishing school, learning how to be a quiet, rich wife.

“Then I’ll follow your lead,” she replies, “And learn the ropes of operating funnels from you, Lieutenant!”

He stifles a self-satisfied chuckle. He’s one of those people who believes using psycommu weapons makes you a Newtype. The clueless-Princess smile might work a little too well.

“Golf Two through Four,” says Lieutenant Sauper, once the halfhearted welcome is over, “You’ll be joining me for simulator training shortly. Golf Eight,” he continues, glancing pointedly at Mineva “You’re on the second watch, with Golf Five through Seven.”

“Yes, sir!” salute a number of the Guards. Mineva will figure out which of them are what callsigns later.

Before he leaves, Sauper catches Mineva by the elbow. She suppresses the urge to shake him off and break his nose. It would be unladylike, and unbecoming of an officer.

“I don’t resent your presence here, Ensign,” he says, and seems to really mean it. “Rather, I’m glad Colonel Full Frontal will be able to trust the Kshatriya to defend him going forward. But make no mistake, Princess, you just fucked up.”

She raises an eyebrow at this, but says nothing. He just sneers at this.

“Now you’re trapped,” he continues, features twisted with cruel mirth. “We can court-martial you if you step out of line. If the Federation catches you, they can treat you like any other interchangeable POW. They might even kill you for being a terrorist. You gave us an inch, Princess, and now we can take miles and miles and there is no legal way you will ever be able to stop it. Checkmate, Your Grace.”

It twists in her gut, but Mineva has to admit Sauper is right. Frontal has outmaneuvered her.

But she still has the Kshatriya, and Sauper can’t watch her for every moment of a mission.

“Lieutenant,” she says, “At the moment, I am performing not the duties of a Zabi Princess, but rather those of a Sleeves Ensign. I feel that addressing me according to my military rank would be more proper.”

He scoffs. “Very well, Ensign. Stay quiet and follow orders, and you might see Lieutenant one day.”

And I’ll be Commander by then, Sauper thinks but does not say. Two steps ahead of you, Princess.

“One more thing, Lieutenant, if I may.”

“What?”

“I am in check. Not checkmate.”

“The difference is trivial, Ensign.”

“Not to the king, Lieutenant.”

Chapter Text

Even when it’s just being taxied from one hangar to another, the Unicorn Gundam takes Takuya’s breath away.

Right now a mobile worker is slowly guiding the giant machine into the tie-downs that will support it for its stay at Palau. It maneuvers with minute twitches of its arms and legs, only firing the thrusters in brief puffs when necessary. They won’t use too many thruster inputs, Takuya has learned, because the exhaust would contaminate Palau’s atmosphere.

He wonders if the pilots of the mobile suits fighting inside his home colony ever cared about that.

Most Federation officers are from Earth, he learned, when he was entertaining the idea of applying to the Federation Forces officer academy in a bid to become a pilot. Of course they wouldn’t care about atmospheric pollution when flying in a colony—on Earth, there’s so much air you couldn’t possibly hope to contaminate it all.

He’s starting to think like a Zeonist. It’s a little scary, to be honest.

“Irei!” shouts the hangar boss, startling him out of his thoughts. “Get your thumb out of your ass and safe those leg latches!”

“Got it, Boss!”

The hangar boss is a heavyset older man, usually in a bad mood. Takuya only knows two things about him, and they’re from the other mobile suit techs. The first is that the Boss was a Zeon soldier in the One Year War, and lost both his legs to frostbite in a Federation POW camp. The second is that he’s still missing his feet because the Federation’s healthcare policies make it nearly impossible for Zeon veterans to get prosthetics.

Takuya supposes he’d be in a bad mood too, if he was dealt a hand that shitty.

“They’re safed, Boss!” he shouts.

“Easy, lad,” growls the Boss, from right behind him, and Takuya yelps in fright. “No need to bust my eardrums.”

“Sorry, Boss.”

“No worries, kiddo. I’m half deaf already.”

“Well, sir,” says Takuya, reassured by the Boss’ disarming, craggy smile, “I could keep yelling if it would make things easier for you.”

“Barely done with your first cruise and you’re already giving me lip,” smiles the old man. “I was like that, when I was your age. Here, help me get the coolant feed hooked up.”

In truth, Takuya does most of the work connecting the fat, wormlike coolant tubes to the Unicorn’s umbilical panel. But he does have a two-limb advantage on the Boss, so he supposes that’s fair.

“It’s a damn shame,” says the Boss, unprompted, “To see kids as young as you getting sent out to fight.”

“I’m just a hangar grunt,” protests Takuya, because if he doesn’t keep up the act he’ll die, “It’s not like I’m going out and shooting!”

“Right enough, lad. But what if your ship gets sunk? What if your colony gets invaded?” Ouch.

Takuya must have made a face, because the Boss grimaces. “Sorry, kid. Must’ve touched a nerve.”

“It’s okay, Boss. Want me to connect the data lines too?”

“Don’t bother. I think HQ is sending a team to tear the Unicorn apart, we don’t need to put it on the network for everyone to see.”

Takuya doesn’t have anything smart to say to that, so he just nods, working in silence to finish the Unicorn’s connections.

“I’ve been there too,” says the Boss, and the sudden candor catches Takuya’s attention. The Boss’ expression is a million miles away, way out past Mars. “My kid was going to school in Side One. He was in one of the student protests.”

Nobody from a colony has to say more than the Side One protests to know what the Boss is talking about.

“I’m so sorry,” says Takuya, because there’s nothing else you can say. Give it a few more months and his parents will be in the position the Boss used to be.

They probably already think he’s dead.

The thought of his mom putting flowers on an empty casket nearly breaks him.

“Say, Boss,” he says, and his voice doesn’t crack at all, no sir, “Do you think it’ll ever change? For people from the colonies?”

“For Spacenoids? I don’t know, son. But we have to try to make it better. That’s all Zeonism is. It’s trying, no matter what.”

Takuya is about to open his mouth and change the subject to something less grim, when the zero-g corridors of Palau rumble with far-off thunder. Things attached to the walls—light fixtures, fire extinguishers, the Unicorn’s support brackets, start to creak and rattle.

“What’s that?” he asks. “Is that the environmental systems?”

“Hell no,” says the Boss, ear cocked like some nocturnal predator. “Those were demolition charges. Something’s going on.”

“What do we do?”

“Get into our fucking normal suits, kid. Come on, move!”

Takuya has been in three depress drills now. This is just like another, save for the gibbering terror in the back of his mind that this could be it, this could be game over for Team Takuya. He follows orders and gets the damn suit on.

They’re moving to cross the big hangar the Unicorn is trussed up in, on their way back to the Rewloola, when Takuya hears something weird. It sounds like someone tapping a coin on his helmet, little hollow clacking sounds. He glances upwards, past the Unicorn’s huge gleaming head, and sees flashes in the dark high overhead. Something moves, and he sees the brown suit of an ECOAS operator for a moment.

“Boss!” he shouts over the suit channel, “The Federation is here! They’re shooting!”

“Go!” hisses the Boss. “Get to the ship, kid!”

Sparks fly off the wall next to them as they scoot towards the exit. Takuya is being shot at by the guys he ate with not a week ago. Suddenly, the Boss suddenly grabs him, hugging him in a bearlike grip, and he squeaks in surprise.

“What?” he asks, wondering if the man has suit claustrophobia or something, but then he sees the Boss’ expression of agony, and the splatter of blood he just coughed onto the visor. Takuya realizes too late that the cloud of pink around them is the Boss’ blood and suit coolant, and that a man he’s only known for a couple days just died for him.

“Get out of here,” mutters the Boss, with the last reserves of his lungs. “Run, kid, run!”

#

Everything’s going perfectly so far. Palau’s port has been shut, the Sleeves’ forces are confused, and ECOAS is retrieving the Unicorn.

All Riddhe has to do is survive. Easy, right?

In his hands, the Delta Plus is twitchy and nervous, nothing like his old ReZEL, so steady and predictable. This machine feels like a racehorse, nervy and ready to bolt.

“Romeo Eight,” comes Lieutenant Commander Gorga’s voice, “Fence in.”

“Roger, Romeo One,” says Riddhe, the late Lieutenant Commander Basilicock’s callsign tasting like ash on his tongue. He checks his cockpit switches. “Fenced in.”

“Go to buster and continue as fragged,” says Gorga. “We’re blowing through their outer lines.”

Riddhe clicks his mic and floors the travel pedal, grunting with exertion as the Delta Plus’ brutal acceleration kicks him in the rear. He spares a glance to the side, seeing Gorga’s Re-GZ keeping pace. He keeps his eyes forwards after that, though—with their speed relative to Palau being what it is, Riddhe traveled over three hundred meters in the time it took to glance away from his flight vector.

In front of his eyes, Palau transforms from a distant speck to a looming wall of rock. Before that wall, Riddhe can see minute spots of color—Sleeves mobile suits, in all their variety.

“Hostiles in visual range,” says Riddhe.

“Roger,” replies Gorga. “Split and engage at your discretion, Romeo Eight.”

Riddhe’s console screams a target lock warning at him and he follows its cues to see a Sleeves suit high above his head, jockeying for the perfect shot.

“Romeo Eight,” he says, “Engaging!”

He pushes the controls and the Delta Plus answers. A few cheap shots from the nose gun throw the Sleeves pilot off his game, and his answering shots go wide. Riddhe blows past the enemy and shifts to mobile suit mode, spinning to nail the unfortunate mobile suit in a Parthian shot. No point in spending propellant to return the way he came—he’s coasting towards another clump of Sleeves suits already. It’s a target-rich environment.

Riddhe doesn’t bother to figure out what the make of his new targets are—the engagement is over in a moment. They don’t scatter in time, and he downs two and damages the third.

Exhaust trails far below his feet now spiral out from Palau—Gaza-Ds, his computer tells him. They may have an acceleration advantage, but his Delta Plus has the sensor range. All he has to do is accelerate like so, and his suit squeezes his legs against the Delta Plus’ maneuvering, paint them with the IDE sensor, and now it doesn’t matter that they’re cranking hard to escape his lock. He lets the Delta Plus’ computer do the hard work.

One down, three damaged. Correction, three down, one damaged. Two of them just ran into each other.

Riddhe can’t stifle a snort of amusement. It feels good for the Zeons to be the ones caught with their pants down for once.

In an instant though, the amusement fades. His blood runs cold with sudden threat. Someone’s watching him.

He transforms again, and punches the throttle. The Delta Plus answers just in time to avoid a beam shot from the shadows of the asteroid. Against the Minovsky blur and ground interference, his radar isn’t sure what it is. He lets himself keep accelerating side-on to the shooter. It’s worth the propellant expenditure to increase his apparent motion.

Again, the fangs-at-the-throat terror comes for him and he jinks on instinct, the shot passing so close to the Delta Plus that his displays go fuzzy from the secondary radiation.

He growls with frustration and prey-fear. Enough running. He dives towards the shooter, hoping to flush them out from their position. They’re stubborn though, he has to give them that. His path towards the surface of Palau is a twisting one, juking this way and that to dodge shot after shot, until he’s spitting distance from the violet mobile suit, the same one that killed Lieutenant Commander Basilicock, and at the realization Riddhe’s fury lights up like fireworks.

“You Sleeves bastard!” he screams, levelling his rifle at the violet mobile suit, “He was already shot down! He never had a chance!”

He shoots. The big propellant tanks on the violet suit’s back explode in a cloud of expanding gas. He shoots again. The violet suit’s gun, the weapon that vaporized Norm, is shredded. He shoots again. Its head is torn away. He shoots again. Its arm, raised with a beam axe, a belated last-second defense, is cut from its shoulder. He shoots-

There’s a twinge of pain, and he realizes his rifle has been destroyed.

No time to think. Riddhe reacts on instinct, and so does the Delta Plus. He’s skating, surfing along the surface of the asteroid, dodging between hills and craters as beam fire stipples the ground behind him. Something huge is chasing him, something with all the merciless, uncaring weight of a hurricane and the cold inevitability of an avalanche.

When he finally turns, he isn’t even surprised to see the red mobile suit.

“You’re not Char,” he growls, and draws his beam saber. “You’ll never be him. He’s dead, Spacenoid, and soon you will be too.”

He doesn’t mean it as a threat. He means it as a promise.

The red mobile suit draws its own weapon, its cyclops gaze seeming to ask, are hypotheses all you have, Gundam?

That does it.

Riddhe grants himself the satisfaction of a howl of rage, and plunges his beam saber towards Full Frontal’s heart.

Frontal parries. Doesn’t matter. Riddhe backs off to try again. Attacks. Frontal parries. Whatever. Riddhe attacks. Gets parried. Frontal lashes out with a sudden strike. Riddhe starts parrying it before the red suit swings. He ripostes. Gets parried again. Goddamnit.

Frontal is enjoying this, Riddhe realizes. This is a game to him. A dance. They’re revolving around each other, spinning within arms’ reach, stepping this way and that. One two three, one two three. Spin your partner and move on to the next.

The shock at the idea of dancing with another man jars Riddhe to his core, and suddenly he can hear the radio chatter again.

“Romeo eight, cease engagement!” Lieutenant Commander Gorga’s voice. “We have the Unicorn! Bugout!”

“Roger!” grunts Riddhe and fires a grenade into the surface of the asteroid. The hull of the Delta Plus rattles with a thousand pebble impacts, but it has the effect he wanted—the cloud of dust obscures his escape, and Frontal is left on the surface of Palau while Riddhe accelerates towards Gorga’s signal.

The Unicorn is under tow by a pair of ECOAS Lotos, their small, boxy frames diminutive next to the mable-white, statuesque Gundam. To Riddhe’s eyes, it looks like they got lucky—the little Lotos are no good in a maneuvering fight against a bigger opponent, and they’ll be even worse off if the Sleeves catch on to the Nahel Argama’s gambit to steal the Unicorn back.

Most of the drive plumes and beams remain far-off for now, and Riddhe sneaks a quick sip from his water pouch. Most of the Delta Plus’ stores are in the yellow now, since he’s been greedy with his coolant and fuel use. No matter. Mission’s almost over.

Riddhe’s stomach twists with sudden terror. There’s something wrong, but he doesn’t know what. He puffs his thrusters to gain a little distance from the slow-moving Unicorn, and then all hell breaks loose.

“Romeo One, break prograde!” he shouts. He’s not in a position to be giving the Lieutenant Commander orders, but Gorga has good instincts. The Re-GZ erupts with thruster fire and scoots the hell out of the way of the beam fire that starts carving up the Lotos.

All of a sudden, there’s a dancing cat’s cradle of energy surrounding the Unicorn. One beam severs the gun barrels and missile tubes of a Loto, then melts away its head. Another stitches its way up the leg of an escorting Stark Jegan before cooking its antiship missiles in their tubes, blowing away the machine’s head and shoulders. A third beam slashes a hissing strip of blackened metal across the chest of the Unicorn, coring out the face and melting the horn entirely. The rest jitter their way towards Riddhe and Gorga’s machines, and the almost-Gundams burn hard to peel away from the source of fire.

It's the Kshatriya’s funnels, Riddhe realizes. There’s an intention from the quad-wing, one he’s felt before. It’s not quite playful, but lively with determination and subtle wit.

“Princess,” he mutters. “You should never have gotten back in that suit.”

He glances back towards the Unicorn. The Lotos’ and Jegan’s cockpits are intact.

“Romeo One,” he says, “She’s not shooting to kill. Let’s get rid of her funnels, I might be able to talk her down.”

“Right behind you, Romeo Eight.”

They have the funnels bracketed, but the little things are damn hard to hit, especially with the Delta Plus’ finicky nose gun. They twitch this way and that like a swarm of insects, juddering in a spasmodic, organic way. With luck, Riddhe pegs four, and Gorga gets another, before its fellows turn on the Re-GZ and melt its rifle. The little guns shiver and squirt back towards Riddhe and he thrusts towards the Kshatriya, hoping the Princess isn’t willing to risk hitting herself.

“Princess!” shouts Riddhe as he approaches the quad-wing, “Princess Mineva Zabi! It’s you, isn’t it?”

The Kshatriya hesitates, and Riddhe closes in enough to get a hand on one shield binder.

“It’s me!” he says. “Ensign Riddhe Marcenas. We spoke aboard the Nahel Argama.”

“The Ensign who saved me,” she says, and his heart lights up with relief at the sound of her voice. There’s something hollow in her tone, he thinks. Something sad. She’s a prisoner here. Stuck inside the quad-wing, stuck waiting for a change.

“That’s right!”

 Below his feet, Riddhe can see the Re-GZ start to edge towards the Kshatriya, drawing a beam saber but not yet activating it.

“Let me go, Ensign,” says the Princess. “Let me retrieve the Unicorn, and we can each go home safely.”

“I can’t, Princess. If the Key to Laplace’s Box is really so valuable, you know I have to get it.”

There’s a twinge of discomfort from the Princess at the use of her title, and a soft note of reproach in her tone when she replies.

“Ensign, I’m not Princess Mineva right now. I’m an officer of the Sleeves forces, and I have orders to retrieve that Gundam. Please, don’t try to stop me. I know you’re a good man, and I can’t bear to hurt you.”

“Then don’t!” he insists, stomach twisting at the threat from this poor, misguided girl. “Come out of that monster! You don’t have to die on this battlefield. You’ll be treated well, I promise.”

“You want me as a prisoner,” she says, and there’s venom in her voice when she says prisoner.

“No,” he says, desperate to be understood. “Listen, this whole conflict, it’s just fucked up! Staff HQ is spending men’s lives like money, just to get to the Box! So are the Sleeves! When will it end, Princess? When will the scheming stop?”

“Ensign,” she says. “We share a rank, Marcenas. And you, above anyone else in this battle, should know how many stakeholders there are here. The Vist Foundation themselves, the Sleeves, the Federation, ECOAS and the Republic of Zeon. Everyone wants the Key, Ensign. Nobody can do without it.”

“But it’s so pointless,” he protests. “War for the sake of conflict! Killing for the sake of death! What prize could possibly be worth all this?”

“The Box contains a miracle,” says Ensign Zabi. “We don’t know what it is, but we know of its power. The power to change the Federation forever.”

“And you want it to change, don’t you?”

“I do,” she says, voice as cold and unflinching as iron. She doesn’t sound like a Princess anymore. She sounds like a Zeonist.

“So do I,” he admits, and it feels like he’s tearing a rib out to say. “There’s a disconnect between soldiers, their commanders, and Staff HQ right now. Everyone’s sabotaging everyone else. There’s violence everywhere, and civilians are suffering. It’s not right, what’s going on because of the Box.”

“That’s why we must retrieve it, Ensign Marcenas. The Box must be opened, and this state of affairs must be changed.”

“But how can we pin our hopes on a miracle we can’t even trust? Prin-Ensign, come out of the quad-wing! My suit is capable of atmospheric reentry, we could go to Earth and ask my father to do something! He’s head of Settlement Issues, and he can surely do something about this, and even if he doesn’t listen to me, he has to listen to royalty! We can make a change, Ensign. We don’t have to fight.”

Riddhe feels raw. He feels like he’s being drained dry, like a stark, sun-bright fire is burning inside him that lights up every dark corner and crevice. He’s never spoken to someone like this before.

“Please, Mineva,” he begs. “We can change this now, not in months or years when the Box is revealed.”

“No.”

“What?” Riddhe blinks. He didn’t expect-

“No,” repeats the pilot of the quad-Wing. “I can’t come with you, Ensign Marcenas. I have a mission to complete. My concern is not with Federation governance or policymaking, but the ideas that it is founded upon.”

He can’t believe she refused him. He saved her. She owes him. And now, the little bitch has the temerity to turn down the most sensible option she’s been given so far?

The Delta Plus acts.

A shield binder is severed. It is easy. The Princess screams. It feels good to give her consequences. To hurt her when she’s earned it.

Gorga gets the message, and the Re-GZ fires a pair of grenades. Another shield binder erupts in flames and fragments.

“This is the problem with revolutionaries,” growls Riddhe, “They can never just see reason.”

“Romeo Eight!” shouts Gorga, “Funnels!”

Riddhe glances down towards his feet. The few remaining funnels are twitching, as though waking from fitful dreams.

It happens with a kind of slow, stately grace, the kind where you don’t even believe the thing is moving. Riddhe watches in distant fascination as the funnels twist and jerk, their mosquito barrels lining up one after the other on-

No. Not Gorga too.

Riddhe aims the Delta Plus’ nose gun. His machine responds at the speed of intention, but it’s too slow.

The funnels fire.

The Re-GZ is transfixed by emerald beams, one after the other, punching through its thermonuclear heart with greater and greater ease.

The tiny star held prisoner within the Re-GZ is set free. It’s a beautiful thing.

“Romeo Eight,” says Gorga, even though he’s already expanding vapor, “It’s been an honor.”

“You!” hisses Riddhe, the bright-burning rage of the Delta Plus overwhelming him, “You did this! Why couldn’t you just agree?”

He doesn’t notice drawing his beam saber, nor does he notice the plasma flare of its activation, but he notices as he thrusts it towards the Kshatriya in a furious fleche that one of the remaining shield binders has twitched to block his strike.

Riddhe doesn’t even care when the Kshatriya’s I-field eats his blade, nor does he care when the E-cap overpressure alarm cries out and the saber auto-safes. He just wants to hit her. He just wants her to yield. He just wants-

The beam saber crunches into the shield binder. There’s something seismic in that contact, something total and complete in the way the two machines are connected.

Riddhe’s perspective shifts, and he sees Earth sphere as an angel might—not looking at the colonies or the planet or their relation in space, but something deeper. Economies are made into flowcharts, human lives into cellular automata. Nations become like people, with illnesses, dreams, and dark, shameful secrets.

There’s a divide between Earth and space, and it’s not physical or political. It’s an artifact of the mind, and of economies, and of the subtle cybernetic mechanisms that regulate the proper performance of a human life. Look at Earth—for all her injuries, still a beautiful blue gem, full of water, full of life. Living on Earth is cheap. It is easy. Gravity subsidizes the production of food, of goods, of raw materials, of human life and authority. Not so in space. Everything to be had in space is a hard-fought victory. Asteroids like Palau cost unimaginable sums to transport from deep space to Earth orbit. Space colonies are a monumental undertaking, each one embodying the total economic output of entire societies for multiple consecutive years before even being filled and populated. Space is hard to hide in, and easy to police. Space is deadly, and dangerous, and has no ecosystem to pollute.

Space’s only limit on carrying capacity is human will and economic strength. It’s a wonderful thing in its own right, Riddhe realizes.

But that inequality can’t be denied.

Look at how cheap Spacenoid lives are spent equally cheaply to mine asteroid ore. That ore is transported, at great expense, to refineries owned by Earthnoid businesses. Those businesses are based on Earth, and build their factories with Earth money, and their offices are staffed with Earthnoid workers. To the Earthnoid, the world is a utopia. Consumer goods are cheap, bananas are in season year-round, and prisons are a thing of the past, because every criminal can be sent to a more socially useful new life in space.

Look at how the Spacenoid money is worth less than Earthnoid money, yet harder to earn. Look at how this glorious, gossamer society revolves around a colossal instrument of regulation. Not the Federation, but the society that makes the Federation.

Destroy the Federation, and the machine will keep turning. It cares not who its figureheads are. Move all the money to the colonies, and the machine will still turn, merely in reverse. The Earth will be mined for money and life, rather than space, and humanity will still eat itself alive.

“What are you doing to me,” mutters Riddhe, because distantly he realizes this is the Princess’ doing. “Why show me this?”

“Because it is the truth,” she replies. She doesn’t need to speak—he knows what she wants him to hear.

“But it’s so ugly,” he protests. “It can’t be real.”

“It is. You have spent too long in the imperial core, Riddhe. All you know is a society founded on theft, mutated by the ugliness it relies upon. It has adapted to meet its vicious conditions, and adopts a vicious aspect accordingly.”

But look, amid the ugliness there is beauty. Even the poorest of Spacenoids are proud of who they are. Zeon keeps rising, the dream reimagined over and over again, transformed and rebirthed. Destined to fail, yes, but the process of believing in something has meaning. Look at the Earth, how Tibet and Australia are recovering. Dolphins leap in Sydney Bay. Snow falls on terraced rice paddies in the Tibetan Crater. Look at all the babies that are born, all the art that is made, all the lives that are saved on the backs of Spacenoid labor. The system works. It’s working right now.

“It’s comfortable,” they both say. “And it’s flawed, and it’s painful, and it’s the best we’ve ever been able to do.”

“We can do better,” says Mineva’s will.

“We’re lucky to have just this,” says Riddhe’s.

And then the green fire filling the sky fades, and Riddhe is left inside the cold, tight confines of his own head.

“What was that?” he asks.

“That was the theory of Zeon Zum Deikun,” she answers. “The material relationship between the comfortable, habitable core, and the cold, ever-expanding, ever-policed colonial margin. It can be reversed, it can be intensified or weakened, but now that it has been created, it cannot be fundamentally changed. Not in the absence of a miracle.”

“But the miracle you say the Box provides,” he protests, “It can’t exist.”

“Then go to Earth, Ensign Marcenas, and find out for yourself. Go and find what it is you’re fighting for.”

He glances at the Unicorn, injured and inert. He could take it. Maybe.

“If you try,” she says, “It will kill us both. Do you wish more bloodshed, Ensign?”

Riddhe says nothing, because he knows the answer. He checks his fuel and propellant levels. Just enough for what must be done.

The Delta Plus transforms and leaves the maimed Kshatriya in a cloud of expanding gas. Riddhe has a mass driver to catch.

Chapter Text

“I must say,” Colonel Full Frontal declares, “I am rather surprised at the condition of the Unicorn Gundam.”

Lieutenant Marida Cruz can’t say she agrees, but that’s because very little surprises her. It’s a bad habit.

“At least it’s still ours, sir,” she says. It seems like a suitably human reply.

The Colonel purses his lips, still staring up at the white mobile suit.

To Marida’s eyes, it’s just another damaged machine. She doesn’t think she has it in her to see what he does when he looks at it.

The chest armor has a deep gash of burned material running from the lower left midriff up to the neck. Psycho-frame gleams dully beneath the scarred white surface. She can’t tell if it’s damaged or not. Even if it is, she doubts the Sleeves have access to replacement material. Psycho-frame is too rare to put a price on these days.

The head has borne the worst injury. There was a mechanism inside it, she is told, that changed the face of the suit when it transforms. She has never seen it do so, having been the pilot when that happened. It’s a moot point to her. The head is ruined. With the neck being damaged how it was, it’s almost worse than if it had been simply severed.

This will take much work to fix.

“Sir,” she says. “Please allow me to attempt a startup. I believe the control systems should still operate.”

“Please,” he replies, gesturing with an open hand.

She doesn’t bother affixing her helmet—she’s not going anywhere.

As soon as the computer boots, it starts throwing errors. Most of them look insignificant. Some of them are major. There’s a fault code in the psycommu controller, but it clears itself after a minute.

She closes the cockpit and lets the panoramic display do its thing. Modern mobile suits are studded with a plethora of small sensors, so the low-resolution panoramic image works fine. Target acquisition is off, though. She tries to paint Frontal, slapping him with the cursor and the acquire key over and over, but nothing happens. No detail vision either—thumbing the attention joystick changes nothing, and the detail window remains locked straight ahead with zero magnification available. That’s fine.

What else? A couple breakers are tripped, as expected. The NT-D system is throwing an alarm complaining about the transformation system. A couple gas bottles in the chest have burst. Meaningless shit, really. She’s piloted suits more busted than this, and with the beam magnum’s sensor she can probably get away without a head.

She safes the reactor, pops the hatch, and calls down to the Colonel.

“It POSTs okay,” she yells, raising her voice to be heard over the din of the Rewloola’s hangar, “Detail vision and target acquisition are down. I can dead-reckon it until we repair the head.”

Frontal shakes his head. “No need. I’ll have spares brought.”

Marida is thinking about how strange that seems, given that the Unicorn is a unique mobile suit with a unique design, when something even stranger happens.

The main display lights up again and goes through what looks like a complicated self-test sequence, before displaying an alphanumeric sequence. Coordinates.

“Colonel!” she shouts. “I think I have something from the Key!”

#

Alberto Vist is dreaming of Moon gravity, artificial sand beaches, and women in athleisure. It’s great, right up until something starts beeping.

He wakes to the Nahel Argama’s pathetic nightmare world of weightless corridors and condescending officers.

“Ugh,” he grumbles. “Got to get off this fucking ship.”

His sleep-addled brain reminds him that he still has yet to recover the Key, despite the operation at Palau going off without a hitch. He received a message from Aunt Martha mere hours after the Nahel Argama withdrew. He hasn’t watched it yet. He can guess what it says. And what the hell is that beeping, anyway? No rest for the fucking weary in this world.

He checks his tablet. There’s another message from Martha. Fuck off, Auntie. The tablet isn’t making the beeping anyways. What the hell?

It’s coming from the padlocked briefcase that’s handcuffed to his cabin’s bolted-down desk. The psycho-monitor’s receiver.

Oh shit.

The Key is moving. The Box is beginning to open.

“Yes!” he crows, not caring how many stupid, mealy-mouthed officers he wakes up. “Finally! Everything’s coming up Alberto!”

#

“That’s one messed-up mobile suit.”

The words echo Mineva’s thoughts exactly. She turns to see the speaker, and realizes that it is Technical Cadet Irei, the boy from the Nahel Argama. He’s wearing Zeon-issue coveralls and boots, and weirdly, he looks at home here.

“It certainly is, Technical Cadet,” she agrees.

“Heh, about that,” he chuckles nervously, scratching at the back of his neck with one hand, “It’s actually Technician Third Class now. I got a Zeon rank before I got a Feddie-uh. A Federation Forces one.”

“As did I,” she says, smiling at his good humor. “Frontal has seen fit to make me an Ensign.”

He glances down to her uniform and his eyes widen at the sight of the insignia. “Oh! Congratulations, sir!”

She allows herself the indulgence of rolling her eyes. “Please don’t stand on protocol with me, Irei. I resent this rank as much as I welcome it.”

“Then why’d you take it?”

She gestures up at the colossal, battle-scarred bulk of the Kshatriya. “The good Colonel couldn’t suffer a Princess to fly, but he would for an Ensign. One under his command.”

“Bending the knee to The Man,” Irei muses. “Can’t live with it, can’t live without it. I guess we’re in the same boat, Princ-uh, sir.”

“I’ll find a way out of this,” she says, as much for her own benefit as his. “I promise. I can’t let the Sleeves get the Box.”

“Take me with you, okay? They’ve chalked my missing ID number up to a computer error, but that can’t last forever.”

“And Frontal will seek to sideline or neutralize me eventually, I am sure. No, Irei, we’re but temporary prisoners here. I am sure of it.”

“Well, until then,” he says, looking up at the great machine, “What do you want to do about her?”

“Her?”

“The Kshatriya. You’re down two shield binders, sir. That’s about a third of your propellant reserves and thrust capacity gone.”

“Not to mention the missing funnels and particle cannons.”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Not to mention those.”

“I don’t need identical replacements,” she says, after a moment’s thought, “But I do need to recover combat capacity. That means more thrusters, more propellant storage, and some kind of replacement for the lost funnels.”

“No spares, I guess.”

“I don’t believe so, Technician.” There’s a weird flush of nervous pride from Irei when she calls him by his rank. “I am given to understand the Kshatriya is a one-off.”

“Zeon has too many of those,” he says. “The Federation gets by with the same Jegan chassis a dozen times over, just with different attachments. The Sleeves have forgotten about economies of scale, though.”

“You’re in an asymmetrical conflict, Technician,” says a new voice, one Mineva recognizes. Lieutenant Sauper. “You better get used to it.”

“Oh!” yelps Irei, caught by surprise. He spins to see the Lieutenant, flailing in midair. “Uh, Sir! You surprised me!”

“I know,” sneers the Lieutenant. “Look, Technician, you seem new, so I’ll spare you the whole spiel. Besides, the Ensign here will gladly talk your ear off about this. The Sleeves are poorer than the Federation, right?”

Irei nods hurriedly.

“Good, at least you know that much. Economies of scale are cheap once you set them up, Technician, but the startup cost is beyond us. A Federation soldier is cheaper to train and feed than a Zeon soldier. A Federation mobile suit is cheaper to maintain than a Zeon suit. All because they have the manufacturing capacity of an entire planet behind them.”

“But sir, aren’t most mobile suits built by Anaheim Electronics anyways? Most of the time, it’s AE’s manufacturing capacity, not yours or the Federation’s own.”

“Come on, Technician,” says the Lieutenant, his expression a pantomime of exasperated boredom, “Don’t be a schoolboy about this. Anaheim prices according to demand, not according to a fixed profit margin. They know each Geara Zulu is more valuable to the Sleeves than a single Jegan is to the Federation. And besides, AE’s money is all in Federation banks anyways. EFSF dollars are worth more, kid.”

“So then what do we do about the Kshatriya?” asks Irei. “And what about the Unicorn?”

“What indeed?” replies the Lieutenant. “And I can tell it’s on the tip of your tongue, what of my Geara Zulu, too?”

Mineva has to suppress a tiny smile at this. At least Sauper is consistent.

“We improvise,” says Sauper, before Irei can answer. “As we always do. Now go and find the hangar chief,” and he flaps one hand, as if shooing away a fly, “And have him give you something useful to do.”

Irei rips off a hurried salute before scurrying away, Sauper’s glare pushing him along like a tiny beamed-propulsion laser.

“Lieutenant,” says Mineva, “I was just consulting the Technician about the Kshatriya’s repairs.”

“I know that, Ensign.”

“Then-“

“Then why did I scare him off?” he interrupts. She nods. “Because you’re an officer, and he’s the lowest grunt there is. You’re in a command role, Ensign. It’s your role to give guidance to the enlisted crew, not receive it from them.”

“Even when their guidance is meaningful, sir?”

“Yes,” he says, and his cruel little smile finally evaporates, “Even then. The enlisted crew aren’t your friends, Ensign. They’re not even your meaningless little minions, much as they might seem so sometimes. They’re subordinates. When you give an order, they must act. You need to drill into them at every opportunity that you are above them. If you don’t, the chain of command gets interrupted, and people will die.”

“You wish them to fear me.”

“Yes. Authority is built on threat, Ensign.”

Mineva nods. She must admit the Lieutenant is right in this.

“Very well,” she says. “What does improvising look like for us, Lieutenant?”

“We will rendezvous with a supply ship shortly,” responds Sauper. “That will do for our small fry suits, plus ammunition and propellant. As for the Unicorn,” and he glances towards the maimed Gundam, its caved-in face covered by a tarp, “I am not sure. Colonel Frontal said he had a solution. I know not what it is, but I have faith it will work.”

Mineva wonders whether she counts among the small fry. In the eyes of Sauper, she rather suspects she does. She suddenly realizes he’s gazing at her in a strange, pensive way. It’s an uncharacteristically peaceful development from the high-strung Lieutenant.

“Sir?” she prods, curious.

“You recovered my mobile suit,” he says. It’s true. She did.

“Yes, sir. It did not appear capable of independent operation.” It’s an understatement. Only the center torso had been undamaged.

“It wasn’t,” he admits. “It was by luck alone that I survived. Colonel Frontal saved me,” and there’s a touch of warmth in his voice, but just for a moment, “But you did, too.” It’s not quite gratitude. But it’s close.

“You are my commanding officer, sir,” she says, because it’s true, and she doesn’t know what else to say.

He sniffs, and looks away for a moment. Clears his throat. Looks up at the Kshatriya. “That’ll be expensive to fix, Ensign. What happened?”

“A Gundam-type, piloted by an Ensign Marcenas of the Federation Forces. He-“ and here she hesitates. She can’t say he wanted to hurt me. “He was quite aggressive.”

“I know,” he says, voice thick with an emotion she can’t place. “The very same machine came after me. He was saving my cockpit for last. It’s funny how men get when they-“

The Lieutenant chokes back his words. Something dark coils inside his breast. Mineva thinks she could tease it out, if she wanted to, and it wouldn’t even be hard.

She’s not going to do it. It would be cruel.

“Sir,” she says, because what else can an officer say, “I will not allow the Gundam-type to get the best of me again. You may rely upon that.”

Sauper isn’t looking at her. He’s not looking at anything, and his shoulders vibrate with tension. He clears his throat again, an explosive motion, venting some stored reserve of energy.

“Thank you, Ensign,” he says, “That will be all. Consult the hangar chief on repairs to the Guards’ suits, please. I must attend to other duties.”

“Sir,” she says, and salutes. The Lieutenant turns and kicks away across the hangar, and he takes that dark, huddled thing with him.

#

Zinnerman doesn’t like the Rewloola, and he hates her admiral’s cabin even more. There’s a weight of history here, of great deeds both good and bad. It’s locked in the walls, soaked into the floor. Being on this ship feels like stepping over a grave.

“It’s kind of you to join us, Lieutenant,” says Colonel Full Frontal. To Zinnerman’s eyes, he’s too clean. Too perfect. Like a man as portrayed by stage actor, but not the real thing.

It’s insane people believe this is Char.

“I just followed my orders, sir,” says Zinnerman. He gives a forced chuckle. “At least the Garencieres is finally doing what she’s built for.”

“My dear Lieutenant,” smiles the strange, fey man, “You don’t give yourself and your crew nearly enough credit. You’re one of our most valuable covert assets.”

One of our only covert assets, thinks Zinnerman. He tries to smile at the compliment anyways.

“Sir,” says Zinnerman, and Frontal inclines his head slightly, “Do you have any further orders for the Garencieres at the moment?”

 “No, Lieutenant, save for one. Stay near the Rewloola. Our fleet coverage is spread thin enough as it is. We don’t need good ships getting picked off by Federation patrols.”

That wouldn’t be a problem, Zinnerman considers, if that damn Princess hadn’t stolen the Kshatriya. Marida and Kshatriya, they’d stop anything. Hell of an area-denial weapon.

“I understand you’re uneasy with the situation, Lieutenant,” says Frontal, and it’s quite the understatement, “But there’s little we can do. I can’t spare any mobile suits for your self-defense, and when it comes to positioning, we’re all at the mercy of the Unicorn.”

“So this vaunted Key is doing its job, then?”

“Oh, yes,” smiles Frontal, in a way that sends prickles of unease down Zinnerman’s spine, “It’s functioning magnificently.”

“And Marida?”

“Lieutenant Cruz is performing admirably. You have nothing to worry about.”

That came out too smoothly.

“I saw the Unicorn was heavily damaged. The Kshatriya too.”

“The cost of war,” says Frontal, smile fading slightly. “The Kshatriya’s damage was perhaps avoidable, though I am given to understand Ensign Zabi gave her all to protect it.” he shrugs minutely. “I am certain it would have fared better in the hands of Lieutenant Cruz. Her experience speaks for itself.”

I take my eyes off those suits for a couple weeks, thinks Zinnerman, and they’re already ruined.

Frontal says nothing.

“What about the Unicorn?” asks Zinnerman, as much to fill the silence as out of genuine interest. “After we went to all the trouble to retrieve it, is it already ruined?”

“Hmm, I think not,” muses Frontal. “Most of the deep damage is confined to the head. I should think its computer systems are largely unharmed, and those appear to be the hiding place of the Key. No, the most severe impact of the Unicorn Gundam’s damage is the setback to our fighting strength it represents. Until we can return Lieutenant Cruz’s machine to full capability, we may well be at a disadvantage should the Federation field any more Gundam-type mobile suits.”

Zinnerman thinks about the scar that slashes across the Unicorn’s chest—it’s tight and precise, like the slash of a blade.

He’s seen enough of the Kshatriya in action to know what its funnels can do.

“You said Ensign Zabi earlier?”

“Ah, yes I did.” Frontal is smiling again. “Yes, the Princess was good enough to accept a direct commission. I thought it better in the long run to allow her to pursue her goals on my terms, rather than leave her seething and marginalized. A good Zeonist should know how dangerous that would be.”

“I suppose you’re just glad to have another pilot,” grumbles Zinnerman. “She any good with the Kshatriya?”

Frontal gives this some thought.

“No.”

“What? Then put Marida back in it!”

“The time for that has come and gone, Lieutenant. The Unicorn is now keyed to Lieutenant Cruz’s biometrics, and its systems have proven opaque enough already without any attempts to alter its credentials. It is better that we have a functioning Key than a maximally effective Kshatriya. No, Lieutenant, though her aptitude with the Kshatriya’s psycommu systems would seem to imply Newtype abilities, Ensign Zabi suffers from much the same limitations as any other young pilot. She is ruled by her emotions, her underdeveloped instincts, and of course, the curse every pilot bears.”

“Which is?” asks Zinnerman, knowing Frontal wanted him to ask, and resenting his own compliance.

“The obsessive need to be important. The Princess has a lesson or two to learn from myself and Lieutenant Cruz, I fear.”

“I have to wonder, though,” says Zinnerman, thinking of the Rewloola’s orbital course, now diving towards low Earth orbit, “Will she have time to learn all you want her to?”

Frontal chuckles ruefully in a way that makes Zinnerman almost like him. “Heh. No, Lieutenant, I do not believe she will. But she must try. I may be a skilled pilot, but an army I am not. Without my Guards, I am more vulnerable than both my own soldiers and those of the Federation believe.”

It’s as though he’s already planning for the Princess to kill him, thinks Zinnerman. I’m gonna have to start covering some asses real soon or this business with the Box is going to implode.

Chapter Text

Alberto can’t put it off any longer. He has to call his aunt.

“Alberto,” she says, when the umpteen-layers-of-encryption signal finally connects. There’s no tone in her voice whatsoever.

“Aunt Martha,” he says. “You got my message, right? The Box gave us coordinates! We’re on the right track!”

“Oh, yes,” she replies. “I got it, Nephew Dearest. But if I recall correctly,” and now her expression darkens, “We wanted the Unicorn itself.”

“The operation was nearly a complete success,” protests Alberto.

“Nearly,” she says, with an expression of abstract interest. She rolls the word around her mouth, exploring its texture, its feel. “Nearly. Nephew, I would like you to place that word, along with almost, in the deepest corner of your little mind, never to be used again. We do not live in a world of possibility, a world of almost and what if and but even so. We live in a binary world. Yes and no, one and zero, alive and dead.”

“We have the next coordinates,” he insists. “We know the Unicorn must be there. We can recover it this time, really!”

She appears to consider this, chin in hand.

“No,” she says, at length. “No, this farce has gone on long enough. You’ve proved your worth to the Vist name, Alberto. Such as it is. I’ve talked with the EFSF General Staff and they’ve proposed a different tack. One we needn’t dirty our hands with.”

“Which is?”

“I can’t say, Nephew. All I’ll say is this: I’m sending up the shuttle Klimt to rendezvous with the Nahel Argama. Be on that shuttle, or I can’t protect you any longer.”

Some little-used pocket of pride flares inside Alberto’s breast. What does she mean, can’t protect him? She hasn’t been protecting him at all! All Aunt Martha has done so far is threaten, cajole, and micro-manage! You call that protection?

“And if I’m not?” he asks, thrilled to push back against her, even a little.

“Then you will regret it for the rest of your life,” she says, and cuts the connection.

#

“Whatever may remain of it,” mutters Martha, after she’s sure the connection is dead. She sighs, and tosses back the last of her glass of champagne. Why did the pup choose now of all times to try to grow a backbone, when his life is on the line?

There’s no understanding some people.

They say that’s what Newtypes are for, but Martha knows the truth. Newtypes are weapons, no matter how you spin it. Economic, cultural, or military, but instruments of destruction no matter what.

Like they always say, better the Devil you know.

She stands, brushes nonexistent dust of her skirt, and quits her quarters. She knows the route well—it’s a right turn down the corridor, then down two levels, then take the starboard corridor. First door at the corner.

She opens the door at her destination to see the Devil she knows sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring out the window.

It turns its head, slowly and smoothly like an owl, to look at her. She has to work to not get sucked into those big watery golden eyes. There’s something powerful in them, like a black hole. It wants to eat and eat and eat, lest it be destroyed.

“Victor,” she says, with her sweetest voice, “How are you feeling today, dear?”

Victor Two’s sad, gaunt face cracks fractionally into a sickly, wan smile. “I am well, Master.”

“How is Unit Two?”

Victor had turned its head to look at Martha without changing its body, craning its neck uncomfortably to look at her. Now, it shuffles around in a slow turn, its gaze remaining fixed on her.

Martha has to suppress a shiver of fright.

“Unit Two is performing nominally,” says Victor, “and without faults. We are ready for combat, Master.”

“You need more training,” says the other person in the room. She’s slim and bony, but in a shapeless way, with a sharp, narrow jaw and white hair swept back in a long, tight braid. Martha thinks her skirt, blouse, and lab coat make her look like a dowdy hen destined for slaughter.

Gianna Capa. Martha can’t stand the bitch, but she knows she needs her. Cyber Newtypes are hard to come by, and stable ones even more so.

“Is that so, Miss Capa?” asks Martha. “One would think our golden boy had received quite enough already.”

“Victor Two has been well-acquainted with Unit Two in terrestrial operations,” replies Gianna, “And performs well in Earthside simulators for zero-g operations, but this is the first chance he has gotten to experience prolonged aerial missions.”

“Miss Gianna wants me to be effective in all theaters of combat,” says Victor, still staring at Martha with those world-eating eyes.

“Well,” says Martha, “You’re certainly earning your keep, Miss Capa.”

“Madam Vist,” replies the older Cyber Newtype, “Did you expect I would not?”

“I am a businesswoman first and foremost,” admits Martha. “I enter every deal expecting it to fall through, and I sign every contract expecting it to be reneged upon.”

“I will not fail,” says Gianna, and there’s finally some steel in her grating falsetto. “We have but one chance to revive the Victor of the One Year War, and Cyber Newtypes are now a solved problem in such matters. Victor Two will not let us down.”

#

Lieutenant Junior Grade Marida Cruz used to have a real callsign. Not anymore.

“Unicorn,” says Foxtrot One, Full Frontal in his Sinanju, “Do not engage the enemy, and do not become anchored with bandits. Proceed directly to the target coordinates.”

“Foxtrot One, Unicorn, acknowledged.”

Marida kicks the pedals and nudges the Unicorn into a gentle burn towards the distant wreckage of Laplace. The birthplace of the Universal Century, she is told.

She hasn’t been this close to Earth in quite a long time. She almost understands what people mean when they talk about being weighed down by gravity. Down here in low orbit, the Earth isn’t just another planet. Out on Side 3 or the Moon, the Earth just looks like any other celestial body. A distant disc, flat and two-dimensional. Down in the gravity well, the image is distorted. Achingly real.

It blots out the sky like nothing else she’s ever known. The gaping blue vastness of it, stretching off into unimaginable distance—it beggars belief.

She wonders what it was like to be one of the first Zeon soldiers to drop into the atmosphere, all those years ago. They would have been young men, predominantly. Born and raised in the colonies. Carousel gravity would have been all they ever knew, and then suddenly they’re dropping closer and closer to blue Earth and the planet is getting bigger and bigger, yawning wide to swallow them.

She nudges the controls to correct her course. The Earth will eat her, too, if she’s not careful.

“Guards Team, float laterally,” says Full Frontal. Dozens of kilometers to Marida’s rear, the Colonel and his men are assuming a defensive position. The first and only wall between the Londo Bell ship and her Master.

“Rewloola Control,” she says, pushing the Unicorn into another burn, Laplace looming large beneath her, “Unicorn, matching velocity with target.”

The Unicorn jolts as maneuvering thrusters fire automatically to decelerate further, then its feet finally land upon the pitted and scarred century-old hull of Laplace.

Nothing happens.

Laplace is just as dead as it was yesterday, a week ago, or ninety-five years ago. Marida turns, beginning to walk along the exterior of the hull. With every step, the Unicorn’s feet are clenching into the surface of the wreck with minute gripper claws. She leaves a trail of small punctures behind her.

They say that to observe something is to change it. With every step, she changes Laplace further.

“Unicorn, any updates?” asks Frontal. “Has the situation changed?”

“No, sir.”

The exterior of Laplace is featureless, save for what Marida considers to be an expected level of aging and wear.

“Continue your inspection, then.”

“Roger.”

Reaching the end of the severed slice of Laplace’s torus, Marida detaches, twitching the Unicorn around on efficient puffs of maneuvering thrust to gain entry. It’s crowded inside the torus, and she can hear the distant, sharp sounds of debris bouncing off the Unicorn’s hull. An antique news camera here, a journalist there. Perfectly preserved in the sterile darkness of the Earth’s thermosphere.

There’s a weight to this place. A texture, perhaps, or a thickness. A hyperreal integument laid over the images that Marida is seeing, a cloud of context and possibility that she can only feel, but not quite see.

Marida has been told that what happened here was an act of terrorism. The first crime of the Earth Federation’s ninety-six year history. Maybe that’s what she feels now—the moral weight of that act, still polluting this place.

What’s the half-life of a murder, she wonders? When has its weight decayed so much that it’s no longer the same thing? Does a murder decay into a theft that decays into a word out of place, an idea wrongly formed?

But she could be wrong. Maybe the weight of this place, the thickness of the invisible, insensible aether that now drags upon the frame of the Unicorn is the memory of all that hope, from the halcyon days of the Federation’s conception, before the original sin of its birth. Maybe it’s possibility. Maybe it’s just rarefied upper atmosphere, and Laplace’s wreckage is nothing more than a thousand tons of steel and polymer, patiently waiting for its turn to deorbit.

She proceeds deeper into the wreckage.

“Greetings, citizens of Earth and space,” says a voice, fuzzy with signal artifacts and bit rot.

Marida doesn’t have to think twice. The beam magnum is drawn, the fire control systems unsafed.

“Attention unidentified transmitter!” she barks, “This is a military frequency. Identify yourself at once!”

“It is with great pride that I stand before you tonight. I am the Prime Minister of the Earth Federation, Ricardo Marcenas.”

“Unicorn, Rewloola Control,” comes the voice of the air traffic controller, “We read you emitting an unencrypted radio transmission.”

“Rewloola Control, Unicorn, acknowledged,” says Marida, “I hear it too.” And so does the Nahel Argama, she thinks.

“Unicorn,” says Full Frontal, “I read multiple bandits approaching. Remain within Laplace. Do not engage. Guards Team, engage at your discretion. Anchor bandits at this perimeter and no further.”

Hearing the Princess’ voice reply “Roger” amid a chorus of similar acknowledgements is disconcerting.

“-population growth, dwindling natural resources. We must come up with solutions for these problems, and each and every one of us must be willing to change our thinking, to see ourselves as one-“

The caul grows thicker. It’s rotting, going rancid. Hope is spoiling, turning sour. The sea of possibility the Unicorn swims through is growing turbulent and dangerous.

Something is out there.

Marida keys up all the Unicorn’s sensors, ignoring the error flags complaining about the missing head. The beam magnum is aimed every which way, its boresight sensor scanning distant space. She sees nothing, but she can feel the seaweed-slick coil around her feet. Murder will be done here. The crime of Laplace will happen again.

#

“It’s a curious thing, XO,” says Captain Mitas, “That our little Vist friend saw fit to jump ship just before things started to get interesting.”

“Perhaps he’s had his taste of combat, sir,” says Commander Borrinea. She remembers the pale, pinched look in his face as he boarded the Vist shuttle Klimt. The face of a man escaping something.

“His scheme at Palau didn’t entirely pay off,” says the Captain. “Not all his fault, I must admit. The Sleeves have proved a challenging foe so far.”

“That’s true, sir,” says Liam, “But I have to wonder, why we haven’t been joined by any other Londo Bell ships yet. The Rewloola is as formidable a combatant now as she was during Char’s rebellion, so why the frosty reception?”

“Perhaps they have something bigger planned,” says Mitas. “I haven’t heard a word from Staff HQ.” He keys his radio mic. “All mobile suit teams, you are cleared to engage. Blow through the defensive screen. I want that Gundam.”

If there’s one thing Liam has learned, it’s to be afraid whenever Staff HQ has something bigger planned.

#

“It’s almost a shame” says Martha. She’s not sure it’s what she really feels, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the spectacle of her existence. Makeup, outfit, hair, mannerisms. Martha Vist Carbine is a show, and a precisely rehearsed one, at that. Vists shouldn’t do things by half measures.

“What is?” asks dowdy Gianna. Unscripted. She thinks she can improvise womanhood, but hasn’t learned yet that that’s a fool’s game.

“That we won’t get to watch,” replies Martha. She gazes up at the night sky out of the flight deck windows of the Garuda. Up here above the clouds, there’s no air glow from light pollution. It’s perfectly, exquisitely dark. Satellites, colonies, stars, and planets all shine up there. Without the interference of tropospheric convection, they don’t twinkle. They’re static. Guaranteed. Inevitable.

Soon enough, another star will join them. Just for a little while.

“I dare say it might put me out of a job,” admits Gianna. “And after all your investment in Victor Two, it would seem a shame to see him made obsolete.”

“That’s the way of the Federation,” shrugs Martha. “Brutal sometimes, understated at others. Sometimes they coexist.”

“Like Amuro.”

Martha chuckles. “Like Victor One, yes. A magnificent killing machine, and an honorable man. A hideous weapon, and a desperate, heroic bulwark. Brutality and sensitivity all at once. My, how we do love our little contradictions.”

“What will happen to Victor Two, then? If all goes according to plan?”

“We will have no need for it,” says Martha, shrugging. “We should keep it operational in the eventuality that the Spacenoids act out any other delusions of self-determination.”

“Then for Victor Two’s sake,” muses Gianna, “I suppose I must hope for the Federation’s gambit here to fail.”

Of course you must, thinks Martha. You’re too invested. You believe yourself to be its mother, because you think motherhood confers womanhood. One day you’ll realize it’s contemptible to be so afraid of your own barrenness.

She says none of this. No good would come of it. The show must go on.

#

Thousands of miles away, two men in uniform cross-check a pair of alphanumeric codes.

They match.

Two keys are turned in unison.

Chapter Text

Marida can see the battle from inside Laplace. Lacking the precision sensors of the Unicorn’s head, they’re fuzzy and indistinct, but she can see beam traces, exhaust gases, and explosions—a stroboscopic light show, with live radio commentary.

Her own transmission, or rather, that of the Box’s Key, has stopped. It seems as though something unfortunate happened to the Prime Minister.

The caul that shrouds her world is still growing thicker, and it tastes like ash. It’s more than possibility. It’s certainty. Thousands of future deaths, waiting patiently to be delivered. Any minute now.

“Foxtrot one, Unicorn, the Key is asleep. I detect no further radio emissions.”

“Copy, Unicorn,” says Frontal. “Has it given you coordinates yet?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Then remain there. Continue updating as necessary.”

Marida clicks her mic to acknowledge.

 The caul pops, collapses. Shrinks down to a needle. A vector, in both senses of the term. A direction in space, there, from retrograde and below. A carrier, a mechanism of transmission. Something lies within it. A message, of a sort. Not viral load, but something else—death-potential.

She can feel it in the base of her spine, and it twists its way up through her central nervous system to prickle inside her skull.

It’s hauling ass towards her, towards the Rewloola and the Garencieres and her Master and the man he fights for and the Princess he commands, and its third stage is almost spent. It’s above orbital velocity and it’s going to be here in moments.

Here’s how it’ll go down.

Two things are going to happen. The first is an X-ray burst of microsecond brevity and literally astronomical intensity. The second is an equally rapid flood of neutron radiation, as uncountable atoms are freed from their bonds.

In space, neutrons are not terribly dangerous. Spacecraft are shielded against far angrier things than them…at limited doses. This roaring flood of particles will chop and screw proteins, DNA, and anything else it finds with rapacious delight, but at least it can be armored against.

The X-rays will be far worse. Not slowed down by atmosphere, they will be free to dump their radiant heating directly into hulls, windows, weapons, anything in line of sight. These things will become plasma, very, very rapidly. After that, it’s just thermodynamics.

In a minute, maybe less, her Master, the man who gave her life, the man who made her a soldier, the man who created Lieutenant Junior Grade Marida Cruz with his bare hands, will either be an inert slug of water and lipids, or a rapidly-expanding cloud of plasma. This is an unacceptable outcome.

The Unicorn agrees, and starts moving.

“What!” grunts Marida, taken by surprise. Around her, the cockpit mutates, manual controls retracting away while restraints and shields are lowered into place. She’s slammed into the seat as all the Unicorn’s thrusters come online, and then she’s outside Laplace, a hundred meters from it, a kilometer and still accelerating. A mountain is sitting on her chest and she struggles to gasp air as the Unicorn pushes, faster, harder, plummeting towards the thing that will vaporize her Master.

Marida is a fulcrum. A singular point. A catastrophe. She’s the cusp that divides this from that, what is from what might have been. History narrows to a 1-D space, a single knife-edge axis, and it moves through her.

The Unicorn is a machine that manufactures history. She’s leaving a trail of it behind her, a long crimson streak, as the psycho-frame glares its bloody brightness to the world.

“Unicorn!” exclaims Colonel Frontal.

“Foxtrot One,” Marida grunts, forcing the words out against the vicious weight crushing her body against its seat, “This sector is being targeted. We need to bugout.”

Marida can’t see it, but she knows that Ensign Zabi felt it too. Somewhere behind and above her, the Kshatriya is moving. It’s slower than her, but that’s okay. Right now, everything is.

Everything except the weapon. She can almost see it now, the faint glimmer of sunlight against something smooth and metallic, shining against the darkness of space like a star.

Its trajectory is ballistic. Easy.

She kills it with the beam magnum. It takes a fraction of a second.

The vector is still here. The blade still leveled, the hammer still ready to stop. Death-potential drips from every seam of the Unicorn’s cockpit, swirling and flowing in a syrupy mass like black honey.

There’s another missile.

No.

There are dozens of them.

“Golf Eight!” she calls. The Ensign must be out there somewhere. She must be. Of course she is.

Emerald fire flares from outside Marida’s tunnel vision, and another missile melts. Another. The Unicorn twitches at the sensation of the Kshatriya’s funnels, instincts flaring. Marida tamps them down. Not now, not ever. This machine will not rule her again.

She wills the Unicorn to keep shooting, for the beam magnum to keep working. It will only take one missile, she knows. One X-ray flash and her Master is gone, annihilated without a chance.

And then the beam magnum runs dry. The Kshatriya’s funnels have spent their energy. Quiet rules for a moment, but the missiles are still there.

A soldier is an instrument that transforms belief into physical phenomena. Marida Cruz is a class of combat unit referred to as a pilot, and the Unicorn Gundam is her weapon. Maimed, defaced, and incomplete it may be, but it is still a weapon. It can still make her will real.

“Unicorn!” she howls, because she knows it must hear her, and because it matters, “Don’t let Zinnerman die!”

Distantly, through Full Frontal’s eyes, Marida sees the bloody glow of the Unicorn brighten, going white, then green. Through Mineva’s, she squints against the sudden sun-bright glare. The headless machine spreads its arms wide in an embrace, green fire burning from every crack and wound in its hull, and welcomes the nuclear weapon home.

Inside the warhead, a number of things happen in very rapid succession. The weapon is a flocker, a groupthink machine, and has been networked with its siblings for the entire mission thus far. A vote is called—is the thermal contact up ahead their target?

It’s in the right place. Looks like a Gundam. Quacks like a Gundam.

The vote passes in the space of a couple nanoseconds. Three votes for, one against, one abstain.

The warheads give themselves permission to fire. A short self-check hold (on the order of a hundred nanoseconds) passes, during which they prepare themselves for the good work.

A single power transistor is pulled high. It opens its gate to feed a relay. The relay closes. Four hundred volts are dumped into four primers. Only one is needed to fire, but better safe than sorry.

The primers explode almost instantly. They pump the tamper, a spherical lump of high explosive wrapped around the fission element.

Briefly, as the walls of the fission element implode inwards under the tamper’s force, it is confined only by its own inertia—mass fights against stiffness, and the winner is heat. The fission element briefly becomes very small, and in that moment, achieves prompt criticality. In an instant this lights off the big, hydrogen-rich slug of fusion fuel wrapped around the fission element like a blanket, and a new sun is born. In its brief, all-consuming joy, this tiny star shouts its glee to the world in the only way it knows how—via hard X-rays and fast neutrons.

#

“Captain,” says one of the bridge officers, “I have a number of thermal contacts approaching from Earth launch trajectories.”

“Spacecraft?” asks Captain Otto Mitas. “Or has HQ decided to grace us with reinforcements?”

“No, sir. They’re too small.”

But they couldn’t be missiles, Otto knows. There’s no point in spending thirty kilometers per second of delta-V to launch a missile from the ground when you could have a spacecraft do it for you for free. Not even Staff HQ is that wasteful.

Then, the radio lights up. Another unencrypted transmission. At first, Otto thinks it’s the Box’s signal again, now with a different speaker, but after a few words he realizes he knows this voice.

“Nahel Argama!” says Princess Mineva Lao Zabi, “This sector is being targeted by nuclear weapons! You need to clear the area immediately!”

Otto blinks.

“Helm-“ he says.

“Sir,“ protests XO Borrinea, because she must. “We nearly have the Unicorn cornered, and that girl is fighting on behalf of the Sleeves. This must be a trick.”

He shakes his head. “Helm, burn radial outwards. Full emergency thrust. Air control, recall all mobile suits.”

“Sir!”

“It all makes sense, Commander,” says Otto, once he’s satisfied that the ship has begun to turn. “That’s why Vist debarked when he did. That’s why we haven’t received any reinforcements. That’s why we have missile-size contacts ascending from Earth despite surface-to-orbit munitions being an idiotic idea. HQ is going to fucking nuke us.”

The XO gasps. “They wouldn’t…”

“They can,” he growls, “And they will. Helm! Where’s my fucking emergency thrust?”

#

Lieutenant Angelo Sauper hears the Princess’ transmission loud and clear.

“That interfering little-” he growls, then bites back his words in surprise when she says nuclear weapons.

Of course, it all makes sense. Low Earth orbit has been quiet, and the Federation’s desperate attempts to retrieve their Unicorn Gundam have proved futile. Lacking the wit for subtlety, the Feddie Staff HQ immediately reached for the nuclear option, literally, after getting their noses bloodied once.

Look, down there—the Kshatriya and Unicorn are engaged in a last-ditch fight. Beams fly and missiles evaporate, but more keep coming.

An alarm from his console warns Angelo of an approaching Jegan.

“You!” he cries in fury, shooting away the Federation mobile suit’s sword hand, then delivering a kick to its torso that probably gave its pilot a concussion, “Your own people are trying to nuke you and you’re still coming after us! Despicable!”

The Federation pilot gets melted, courtesy of Sergi.

“Guards!” calls Angelo, eyeing the doomed Newtype suits, “Defensive posture! With me!”

He dives his patchwork Geara Zulu in front of the gleaming, perfect Sinanju. Nuclear weapons in vacuum are line-of-sight weapons. All he must do is stand between his Colonel and the explosion. Around him, Geara Zulus cluster in closer, making themselves a wall of armor for the man the Sleeves can’t afford to lose.

The Gundam is only a machine, and Angelo is only a soldier, but the Colonel is a symbol. He is the Sleeves, and like the Sleeves, he will not be vanquished by so mean and treacherous a strategy as this.

If this is the last thing Angelo does, he will be satisfied.

The haunting, unreal light of the Gundam’s psycho-frame intensifies. It’s like blackbody radiation, Angelo thinks—starting a dull red, but sliding up towards blue the hotter it gets. The Unicorn is overflowing with green fire, flames of emerald and verdigris crawling over its hull, licking greedily into space. It shouldn’t be possible, but the pyre grows, feeding on nothing yet burning hotter and hotter, whiting out Angelo’s sensors in a sea of flickering pixel snow.

The approaching missiles close the last few kilometers of distance in moments, zeroing in on the blazing Unicorn in a falcon’s stoop of predatory hunger, and they finally explode.

Angelo doesn’t realize what happened until after it has already occurred. After all, the nuclear explosion in all its ponderous complexity would have completed too fast for his brain to even perceive the initial flash. Instead, he is alive, alive and conscious enough to see what the Unicorn has done.

No. What the Unicorn and Kshatriya have done.

The two mobile suits sit at the tip of a vast arrowhead, a cone of gleaming aurora flame that stretches for miles. Their arms are outstretched, for all the good it could have done, and their bodies dance with crawling lights of red and green, too bright and sudden to be real, like cosmic-ray flashes inside the eye.

“A miracle,” says Angelo, because it is. It’s impossible. It’s breathtaking. It’s terrible and beautiful and completely, awfully real.

“Yes,” agrees Full Frontal. “Much like the Axis Shock. This is the true power of psycho-frame technology, Lieutenant. Not merely combat prowess, but the capability to manifest miracles. Classical causality no longer holds meaning.”

“It’s frightful,” says Angelo.

“Perhaps,” muses Frontal. “But what can it truly change? The Axis Shock did nothing to repair the struggle between colonizer and colony, between economic core and social margin. The paracausal phenomena of the Gryps Conflict did nothing for the AEUG and Titans that the bare mechanical nature of mobile suits could not. So too with this, we shall see that it will be ultimately meaningless. It will be as though we employed sufficient countermeasures in the first place. This miracle helps neither the Federation nor the Sleeves.”

“Then why did it happen?”

“Because the human heart is a foolish instrument when motivated by its own desires, Lieutenant. Because reaction and self-interest will always be the first and strongest impulses the soul will exert. This phenomenon cannot avail Zeon.”

Something in Angelo’s heart twists at this. How can something so colossal, the product of a human heart unfettered by mortality and machinery, be pointless? How can something that surpasses the limits of humanity be irrelevant to the Zeonist cause? It doesn’t make sense.

But Full Frontal is Angelo’s Colonel. All that seems capricious is merely under-resolved. The Colonel will find a way through, miracle or no.

Tonight, the people of Earth are blessed with an aurora over the tropics.

#

Martha’s mood is dark, and from the way the Garuda’s crew shy away when they see her, she thinks her expression is too. Good. Let them be afraid.

Right now, she is watching the main cargo bay of the Garuda through a thick window—on the other side of the double-insulated glass is stratosphere-cold air, too thin to breathe. Men and machines stumble around the hold beneath harsh lighting, and their shadows quiver and crawl like things possessed.  They look inhuman from up here. Bugs, perhaps.

Every bug, of course, begs a foot to crush it with. Nature of the world. Look, towards the back of the hangar—there’s a big enough pair of feet. A few transformable mobile suits, ugly, ogre-like Ankshas. A good deal, those, at least for Anaheim Electronics. Jegan internals with Asshimar flight characteristics, cheap to build, but with a specialist mobile suit’s price tag.

Beneath her feet, the Garuda shifts slightly in its motion, and the pace of the little bug-men’s work far below her changes. The big doors at the rear of the hold are opening, yawning wide to show the night sky and its fading red aurora. Out there, something darker than the night is moving. A twenty-meter slice of midnight, gleaming with gunmetal slickness and murderous intent. A monster, perhaps, but at least it’s Martha’s monster.

With a few puffs of rocket thrust, the night-black thing slips into the hold, gracefully landing with bent knees to absorb the impact. The deck still shivers under Martha’s feet. Now under the harsh glare of the hangar lights, the Banshee is even more hideous. It’s angular in the way a holstered gun is, sleek in the way a knapped obsidian knife is. Martha thinks it might be Anaheim’s greatest creation thus far. Why, just look at it! There’s no curvilinear Zeon effeminacy, no Federation neoliberal half measures. It’s pure. Complete. Totally and absolutely deadly. A machine purpose-built for escalation.

The Banshee moves deeper into the hangar, closer to Martha, in order to make room for the next suit to arrive. It glances in her direction, and for a moment her blood runs cold, as its red, slitted gaze passes over her. What a fucked-up thing it is, thinks Martha, that fear and love should coexist so intimately.

Behind the Banshee, another machine materializes out of the night. This one is the opposite of the Banshee in every way—animalistic, where the Banshee’s proportions are humanoid, tall and bulky, where the Banshee’s is compactly threatening. Worse still, it’s curvy, feminine, and white and gray in opposition to the genderless, blocky, glossy black Banshee.

Martha must admit the Baund Doc is a fine weapon—dangerous enough, certainly, and with the agility to really test Victor Two’s skills. Perhaps she’s mistaking the machine for the pilot inside. Rookie mistake, really. Egg on her face. Seeing the machines’ cockpit hatches open and their pilots safely disembark, she’s satisfied, and returns to her quarters.

It takes a few minutes, but they eventually catch up with her.

“How did it go?” asks Martha, when Gianna and Victor Two step into her office. “All satisfactory, I hope.”

“Short of orbital operations, I have evaluated Victor’s performance in every sphere I can,” replies the older Cyber Newtype. “I deem him ready for deployment.” She tilts her head to one side, gazing at Martha like a bird, eyes gleaming. “You’re not happy with this?”

“Of course I am,” says Martha. “I’m absolutely chuffed that Victor Two is developing as hoped. No, I’m merely frustrated by developments beyond your control, Capa.”

“Those being?”

“You and Victor are to transfer to the Londo Bell ship Ra Cailum, and integrate with their mobile suit forces. I’ve already had the papers drawn up.”

“I see,” says Gianna. She had better. Victor’s most august services wouldn’t be called for unless Staff HQ’s nuclear strike had failed—meaning that the accursed Key is still in the hands of the Sleeves. This is what happens when you put a murderer’s job in the hands of bureaucrats. What a goddamn waste.

“Master,” says Victor Two, golden eyes owl-wide, “Will I be going to space?”

Martha thinks there might be a note of hope in its voice, but she’s not sure. Either way, it’s irrelevant.

“Perhaps,” she says. “You will go where the Vist Foundation and the Federation Forces need you to.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And you,” continues Martha, now fixing Capa with her gaze again, “Had better make sure Victor works as intended. I will not have another Four Murasame or Rosamia Badam.”

“Of course,” smiles Gianna, and it infuriates Martha to see her so self-satisfied, “You know as well as any, Madam Vist, that seeing the Cyber Newtype race flourish and thrive is my only desire.”

Martha gives Gianna her best well-fuck-you-too smile, the kind she wears at conferences, and waves the ab-humans out of her quarters.

“Will my Master come with us?” she hears Victor Two ask, before the door closes.

“No, darling,” says Gianna. “She wouldn’t be able to keep up with us.”

Martha sighs with frustration. She had planned a remark about composting the last of the Cyber-Newtypes, just in case the accursed Capa woman pissed her off too much, but bit it back, not wanting to seem too desperately vindictive. Oh well.

Chapter Text

The Unicorn’s La+ system has released its next checkpoint.

“First Laplace itself,” mused Full Frontal, when the coordinates posted, “Now Torrington Base. It seems as though the Unicorn is bent on taking us through all the great crimes of the Universal Century.”

Mineva wondered whether Side One, where the Titans gassed colonies, or the Tibetan Crater, where Fifth Luna impacted, will be on the itinerary.

Regardless, the next set of coordinates will prove troublesome. Dipping within the Earth’s Absolute Defense Line was already tricky enough, without the prospect of atmospheric interface. But to descend to the surface, with a one-of-a-kind mobile suit? “Ambitious” didn’t begin to cover it, thought Mineva.

She is only an Ensign, so she is only privy to the vaguest of details, but it has become clear that there is a plan. They’re calling it Operation Bishop, and in three weeks, on Bishop Day, the Unicorn will be inserted into Southeast Asia aboard the Garencieres. She doesn’t know its planned course, who it will rendezvous with, or even how it will safely navigate across thousands of miles of Federation territory before reaching the target coordinates. Coordinates which Mineva has ensured the Federation now knows.

There’s a slight chance that this will be the last checkpoint. That somehow the Box is hidden within Sydney Bay, down there amid the fish and crabs and bleached coral and rusting fragments of colony. She doubts it, though—when it comes to terrestrial affairs, the Vist Foundation’s clout is rather constrained.

One day, she asks Lieutenant Sauper what is to become of the Unicorn, defaced and degraded as it is.

“The Colonel pulled some strings with the Republic,” says Sauper. “You don’t need to know any more, Ensign. We have access to suitable replacements.”

This directly contradicts the answer that Technician Irei gave her. He said something along the lines of:

“It’s a unique Anaheim Electronics design, built from the ground up to be a Gundam and nothing else. You know what that means? A lot of shit is hardcoded. The targeting system throws errors without a twin-eye head, and a Zeon-style Cyclops eye won’t play nice with the view pointing driver. In fact, there’s no firmware channel for eye pointing anyways! If I threw a Zulu head on it, the thing wouldn’t even boot! I mean, fuck, sir! It’s hopeless!”

At this point, Irei had apologized profusely for his language, and Mineva had been forced to stifle a giggle while poker-facing her way through his stammering.

With two weeks remaining until Bishop Day, the Rewloola rendezvouses with another Zeon ship, the Gulltoppr. If Mineva’s memory is to be trusted, the Gulltoppr had been in the Republic’s reserve fleet for over a decade. Strange that it should be called out now.

Among the things transferred from the Gulltoppr is an ugly gray mobile suit. Heavily built, it has the same bulky, violent look as a riot cop.

“The Sinanju Stein, Unit Two,” says Lieutenant Sauper, as he and Mineva watch the cargo transfer. “The brother to the unit that the Colonel’s Sinanju was modified from. Look closer—it’s a Gundam.”

He’s right. Beneath the armored brow of the machine’s medieval helm gleam two eye sensors, dark and inert during the transfer. Understated perhaps, compared to older Gundam units, but still distinctive. Mineva has become accustomed to visored GM-types and the Cyclops-eyed Sleeves suits, and her gut twists in fear at the sight of such a humanoid face. It’s too close to a real body. Too alike something that is permitted to suffer. What a hideous thing, the Gundam.

The last time she saw a face like this, Ensign Marcenas had been wearing it. She can still smell the hot-metal taste of the angry flames that boiled off his Gundam-type suit, still feel the sick, ashamed pleasure he felt at hurting her.

“We’re going to use it as an aggressor unit in training exercises over the next few days,” continues the Lieutenant. “I hear its pilot is a real piece of work.”

“I’ve fought worse,” she says without thinking, eyes lost in the dead, baleful glare of the Sinanju Stein.

“Then I’ll tell him to dial up his moves,” chuckles the Lieutenant. “It’ll be this machine’s swan song anyways. It’ll be the donor for the Unicorn, so Lieutenant Cruz can be working at full capacity come Bishop Day.”

“The Unicorn will become a chimera?”

“Look around, Ensign. Most of our suits already are.”

It’s true. The Lieutenant’s battered Geara Zulu, already mostly replacement parts, is in the process of a violent, invasive resurrection, with bulky new clawed hands and long, graceful legs. Mineva’s Kshatriya has become a different beast entirely—with no more wing binder spares available, the two aft binders have been replaced by Gaza-D missile pods, and a Geara Doga backpack added to augment the lost propellant and thrust capacity. The Kshatriya doesn’t feel smooth and confident to pilot any more—the last time she flew it, when she and the Unicorn stopped the missiles, it was like a nervy thoroughbred, twitchy and unsure, desperate to bolt.

Elsewhere, other mobile suits have lost limbs, heads, armor panels and weapons, and have been repaired to varying degrees of success. Every mobile suit is a patchwork. Even the Unicorn, soon.

The training mission against the Sinanju Stein is enlightening. Having faced a Gundam-type before, Mineva is accustomed to their agility and brute strength. She learns, however, that their off-boresight targeting is lacking—they lack the main sensor slew rate of a Cyclops eye or the all-axis sensitivity of a GM-type visor. A Gundam has tunnel vision. If it locks its gimlet eye upon you, you are already defeated. But escape its vision, and you have a chance.

A slim one, admittedly.

She is punished once for evading the Sinanju Stein’s gaze by an unexpected kick to the head, just when she thought its pilot was distracted. The impact trips three breakers and puts her out of action for an hour while Rewloola control helps her troubleshoot over the radio.

A second time, she tries to evade its lock via brute force—raw acceleration and the application of many, many missiles and funnels.

“Rookie move!” crows the Sinanju Stein’s pilot, glowing with glee, “They’re all slower then me!” and then suddenly is in front of her, painting her with his training-safed beam rifle.

A third time, she attempts to be neither subtler nor faster than the Sinanju Stein, but simply more irritating. She buys herself space with a pair of funnels, closing off his options with strategic uses of her simulated particle cannons, juking and dodging to keep him turning, turning, turning.

She approaches him from below and behind, and it fails, because of course he sees her coming. He-

Wait. She did it.

“Lieutenant, I believe I have you in checkmate,” she says, because her safed beam saber is leveled at his cockpit, and her remaining wing binders’ claws have immobilized his shield arm.

There’s a flash of emotion from the Sinanju Stein’s pilot. Shame. Hollow, empty self-hatred. The kind you only feel in a rote, mundane sort of sense, because it comes so frequently. He can’t believe he let himself be bested so trivially. What a joke, to think someone so inadequate could ever hope to measure up to the Red Comet.

And then the exercise is over. The brutal Sinanju Stein is disfigured, beheaded for the sake of the Unicorn. Its heartbroken pilot retreats aboard his ship. The Unicorn is remade. Bishop Day draws ever closer.

Mineva learns how to live as a soldier. She rises with the other Guards. Trains with them. Attends meetings with them. She becomes Sauper’s de facto secretary, since his bright, quick mind recalls technical facts and strategies easily, but not times, dates, and lists of priorities. The casual bullying from other Guards slackens. Lieutenant Ade relents in his incessant probing.

She begins taking tea with Frontal occasionally, when he requests it. She wonders how much of the urge stems from his own personality, or some compulsion he believes he inherited from Char. Or whether the distinction even matters.

Mineva realizes, to her horror, that she is truly a member of the Sleeves. It has become difficult to envision an escape. Her routine, her ways of thinking, the process by which she lives her life, have been subsumed.

And then it is Bishop Day.

#

Mineva catches Lieutenant Cruz in the airlock’s ready room, just before the transfer tunnel to the Garencieres. It’s the only time all day that the Lieutenant has been alone.

“Ensign,” says the Lieutenant, when Mineva enters. “What is it?”

“Sir,” greets Mineva, barely stumbling through the honorific because it is so strange to refer to the Lieutenant as a superior now, “I wanted to wish you luck on your mission.”

“Thank you,” says the Lieutenant, and checks her wrist and neck gaskets. In a moment, her helmet will be on, and the conversation will be over. What does Mineva say? What words can she possibly offer the Lieutenant that will change her from her course?

“Weeks ago, I called the Unicorn Gundam a monster,” says Mineva.

“You did,” agrees the Lieutenant. “And I said, as I maintain now, that it is a machine that responds to my inputs.”

Except for when it doesn’t, the Lieutenant doesn’t say. Except for when it acts of its own accord, the body driving the mind, cybernetics running in reverse, the tiller torn free of the helmsman’s hands.

“I meant it in the original sense of the term,” Mineva continues. “An instrument by whose presence or introduction a message is delivered. A sign. An omen.”

“Is that so.”

“Lieutenant, you heard the transmission that the Unicorn broadcast. It is a message, clear as day. We are being spoken to, by a voice we can’t yet identify.”

“Ensign, I am a pilot. I am an instrument in the hands of the Sleeves. I have been assigned a mission, and I will complete it.”

“For whom, sir? For whom will you uncover the Unicorn’s message?”

 “You and I have both sworn our allegiance to the Zeon Admiralty,” says the Lieutenant. “That is the only relevant consideration.”

“The Zeon Admiralty is part of the system that the Box will destroy!” insists Mineva. “It has its own role to play in the dynamic between core and colony, and the Box is an existential threat to the Admiralty in its own way.”

“The Box is an instrument to destroy the Federation,” replies the Lieutenant, expression stony. “That is all. By the Federation’s annihilation, Zeon will endure. Need we know anything else?”

“We need to do all we can for all Spacenoids,” Mineva says. “Not just our own. The Zeon citizen has more in common with a Federation Spacenoid or a Selenian than they do with an Earthnoid. They’re bound by economic relations in a web far more enduring than the Zeon name.”

The Lieutenant exhales a short, sharp huff of irritation. “You’re keeping me from my duties, Ensign.”

“On the contrary, sir, I believe I’m helping you ensure that you will carry it out to the best of your ability.”

Cruz smirks for the first time, and it makes Mineva’s blood run cold. Very little amuses the Lieutenant.

“I don’t believe I can,” she says, “Because of what you did to the Unicorn. We’re lucky it’s operational at all, Ensign.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“That was my mobile suit,” says Cruz, tone still even and conversational. “I should know what my own funnel beams look like.”

“I’m keeping you from your mission,” says Mineva, because this is going wrong, “I apologize, sir.”

“No,” says Cruz, “It’s not that easy. I must congratulate you, Your Grace. You sabotaged the Unicorn as a weapon without damaging its capacity as the Key. A clever move, but insufficient to stop Operation Bishop and the opening of the Box.”

“I hold the rank of Ensign,” Mineva shoots back, but she knows the sudden insistence on formality is an obvious façade.

“Yes,” agrees the Lieutenant, “And both myself and Colonel Frontal wish that you continue to do so, so I shan’t say anything about it. For now.”

Mineva bristles at the implication of a cudgel. “If you open the Box in Frontal’s name, you could destroy Zeon forever.”

“Ensign, I have already told you that’s irrelevant. My wishes do not matter. What matters is that I follow my orders as a soldier.”

If a soldier is an instrument that transforms ideology into physical phenomena, what is it that now drives the Lieutenant? Is it a twisted reinterpretation of Zeonism? Dogmatic idealization of the second coming of the Red Comet? Or perhaps it is the promise of comfort promised by procedure. Perhaps it is the soft couches of subordination and authority that tempt the Lieutenant, the desire to be a cog that spins and spins no matter where the machine may lead. Courtesy, propriety, order, these things suborn any questions of morality or ethics. They make questions simple and comfortable.

It's a horrifying thought, to Mineva.

“One day soon,” she says, “You, as the pilot of the Unicorn and the medium by which its message is transmitted, will be faced with personal responsibility for the Box, for however brief. Your wishes will matter, Lieutenant, whether you like them to or not. I neither can nor should keep you from your mission, but I must know—what is it you truly wish? Not that which you are compelled to do by survival or morality, but that which you desire?”

“My only desire,” mutters Marida, and Mineva sees a flash of it—Zinnerman laughing, crow’s feet deep and crinkled, broad chest shaking with mirth. He’s in a colony somewhere, and there are flowers in front of a shrine, and not all his tears stem from grief. He’s not a young man, but that’s okay—Marida, his daughter, will pick up that torch one day. “I have none,” she says. “That is my purpose, Ensign. I am a soldier. I write others’ desires into reality, for I have none to distract me.”

“Is that all?” asks Mineva. She can’t say, I saw it, I know you’re lying, because that would be to admit her own informational state. She can’t show her hand.

“Tell me, Ensign, what is your only desire?” asks the Lieutenant, eyes deep and dark as pools of turbid water, and just as dangerous.

“I wish to eliminate the divide between core and margin,” says Mineva. “To break, once and for all, the cybernetic chains that separate Earthnoid and Spacenoid. To see the implementation of Zeonism as Deikun once envisioned.”

Marida grins. It’s so startling that Mineva physically flinches. “You’re lying,” says the Lieutenant, “I saw your real truth, Your Grace.”

Mineva’s mind, unprompted, thinks of a few choice curses she’s learned from Technician Irei. None of them are quite good enough for this.

“Go ahead then,” says Mineva, as if to call the Lieutenant’s bluff, “What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s simple,” says the Lieutenant, “Enlightened self-interest. You’re only following this path towards revolution because you intend for yourself to be on top. Were it not for the potential for a total annihilation and reconstruction of the Earth sphere to exalt yourself specifically, you wouldn’t desire it. You take your rank, your nobility, and your existential relevance for granted, because you have never experienced what it is like to be a tool. Naively, you believe there will still be room for a Princess in the world you wish to create.”

Mineva opens her mouth to gainsay this, but no words come. She feels like she’s been struck, as though she’s in the Kshatriya and Ensign Riddhe is hitting her again. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes—perhaps from shock, or frustration, it doesn’t matter.

“That’s conjecture,” she says, more to fill the silence than anything else. Never let them see that you’re on the ropes. Never let them see you bleed, or stumble.

“Perhaps it is,” says the Lieutenant, “And perhaps I really do have wishes of my own. Perhaps I had more than a soldier’s loyalty motivating me to stop those missiles, to create that miracle with you. Without honesty,” and here she winks, “There’s no way to know.”

Mineva forms a response, but it is moot—the Lieutenant has donned her helmet. She will now board the Garencieres and begin Operation Bishop, and the Box will be cracked open a little further. She has an unshakeable feeling, once the airlock door has closed and the Lieutenant has left, that she’s been had.

Now would be a perfect time for one of those ever-so-satisfying wall punches that Lieutenant Sauper seems so fond of, but she’s afraid she’d injure her hand.

Chapter Text

Colonel Frontal has invited Mineva for tea. Again.

“Ensign,” he greets, as she enters the Rewloola’s carousel gravity wardroom, “Thank you for joining me again.”

“I act at your request, sir,” she says, and the deference makes her feel queasy. Not to this man. Never to him.

“Mm,” he hums, a politely noncommittal response. Of course she acts at his request. He would have destroyed her by now otherwise. No point in calling attention to it.

At least he’s polite.

“Cinnamon today, sir?” she asks. He has a repertoire of seven, which he appears to sample one at a time, in a fixed repetition.

He nods.

Usually, he doesn’t bother to provide food, but this time there’s a small selection of sandwiches and cookies on the wardroom table.

“You’re not usually this invested, sir,” she observes, and takes a cookie, careful to prevent any crumbs from landing on her uniform. It would be unseemly. “Tea alone seems to be customary.”

“Yes,” he agrees, and gives her a cup. “I had invited Lieutenant Akkanen of the Gulltoppr to join us, to commemorate the launching of Operation Bishop. I don’t suppose you saw him on your way here?”

“No, sir.” Mineva hasn’t seen the troubled Lieutenant Akkanen since opposition training with the Sinanju Stein. She takes a sip. It’s magnificent, as always. She wishes the Colonel would steep it wrongly just once, to reassure her he’s physically capable of making mistakes.

He sighs, politely and diplomatically. “I see.”

“Sir,” she says, “Did you expect him to appear?”

“Char Aznable was a man of hope,” Frontal says, by way of reply, “and thus I too must be. I thought it proper to hope that Zoltan might deign to join us.”

“So this is a slight,” she hazards, mostly probing.

“This being a slight would impute to Zoltan an importance he lacks,” says the Colonel. At Mineva’s answering frown, he smiles. “I do not mean to insult my cousin, Ensign. I merely speak the truth. Lieutenant Akkanen is a talented pilot, as I am sure you are aware.”

Mineva nods. She can still feel the brutal impact of the Sinanju Stein’s kick.

“The Lieutenant,” continues Frontal, “is a fine soldier, but I fear his skills as a leadership officer are lacking.”

“You called him your cousin?”

“Oho,” chuckles Frontal. “Yes, and no. My cousin merely in that he too is a product of the Char Reincarnation Project.”

There’s something in Frontal’s tone that becomes shadowed and heavy when he says product. She has never heard him speak directly of the Project before—this is a gift. A calculated offering.

“I was completely unaware of the Project until the Sleeves began operation,” she says. Admit a little weakness, show a little embarrassing truth. Look how flawed I am. I can be tricked. Please keep talking. “That even one reincarnation of Char was created, let alone multiple, is still a surprise to me.”

The Colonel chuckles more, now with almost genuine mirth. “The Republic of Zeon harbors many secrets too dark for royal eyes. Perhaps that is why the Zabi family has spent itself thus.”

“Perhaps,” she concedes, because there would be no point in fighting for the honor of her name to a man like Frontal, and because making herself appear chagrined has the potential to lower his defenses. Just give a little more, Frontal. Look how weak I am.

“To your earlier statement,” he says, “The Project needed but a single success. Even a single iteration of the Red Comet, freed from the reactionary power of the Axis Shock, is a potent ideological weapon.”

“The Axis Shock annihilated him as a man,” she muses, “And recreated him as a message. The face and name to which ideology is attached, to whom miracles are attributed.”

“Just so. That is why all of us, myself and Zoltan and the rest, were intended to be vessels. We are receivers for the signal that is Char, host bodies for the infection he has become.”

“You speak of Lieutenant Akkanen as though he has failed in this regard,” Mineva observes. “I am shocked to hear you speak thus of your family, sir.”

The Colonel smiles slyly. “You have said worse of your own kin, Ensign.”

Mineva nods. He’s got her there.

“Few enough of the Republic of Zeon’s august citizenry know of the Char Reincarnation Project,” says Frontal. “Fewer still know that there were many of us. I am sure you can understand it was more narratively useful to have a single Red Comet appear, rather than multiple.”

“To make you appear as a miracle.”

Frontal just smiles wide, wide, wide. Too much mirth on that masked face.

“Sir” she says to this, “I have a request of you.”

“Oh? Name it.”

“I would like to see your face.”

He takes a sip of tea, perhaps to delay, then carefully sets his cup down and nods. “Very well. But you must know, Ensign, that this face is hollow. It is a tool.”

“I would still look upon it.”

Frontal nods and removes the mask. Heavy golden curls fall into place as he pulls it away from his face, and Mineva finds herself looking into the ocean-dark eyes of Char Aznable.

No, that’s not right. His brow and jaw are too heavy, eyes set too widely, hair too thick. But he looks how you remember Char—larger than life, imposing, masculine in a baroque, antique sort of sense.

“So this is the face of a vessel,” she says. “You even have his scar.”

He touches his brow with the tip of a finger. “I must, you understand.”

“I do. What of the others?”

“My cousins?”

He frowns. “Most were not as fortunate as I.”

“I am surprised to hear a man who claims to be a passive vessel consider himself to be fortunate.”

“All of us were ‘passivated,’” he says, still frowning. “But not all of us recovered. Most of my cousins proved insufficient for the Project. They now live mundane lives in the Republic, living on public support or jobs that do not tax them physically or mentally overmuch. Others took their own lives or failed in manners that begged autopsy. In comparison, Ensign, Zoltan and I were very fortunate indeed.”

As Frontal speaks, a flurry of faces and names rush past Mineva’s eyes. Brightly lit, sterile corridors. Beds with attached restraints. A persistent smell, disinfectant and cleaning product failing to mask the stench of piss and sweat and raw, animal fear. Lapses in time, days, weeks lost in unconsciousness. Surgery after surgery, Frontal’s body no longer his own. Zoltan, curled in a corner. Zoltan, laughing in a psychoframe-lined simulator cockpit. Zoltan, standing over an unconscious guard, raising the man’s pistol, triumph gleaming in his eyes as he places the barrel in his own mouth.

Mineva can’t help but gasp in fright. “That’s-”

“Barbaric?” interrupts Frontal. “Inhuman? Was that what you were going to call it?”

She nods.

“You are wrong, Ensign. It was necessary. When civilized tools fail, man must resort to barbarism for the sake of self-preservation. Eloquent, elegant Char Aznable was the civilized option for Spacenoid liberation, Ensign. He was the gentle entreaty, the compromise. I am the clenched fist, the drawn blade, the final resort.” He chuckles humorlessly and salutes her with the tea cup, before taking another genteel sip. “Red in tooth and claw.”

Mineva tries to reply, but cannot summon the words. Full Frontal merely smiles, as though the horrors of the Char Reincarnation Project are an interesting diversion, and nothing more. A philosophical plaything at total remove from himself.

“Perhaps it is for the best for Zoltan,” says Frontal, because Mineva has not yet spoken, and a silence at this point would be too unbearable, “That he could not follow in my footsteps. I fear he could not bear the sacrifice of all that is required to be a vessel as I am.”

“It would hurt him to hear you speak thus,” guesses Mineva.

Frontal nods and dons the mask. For a moment, he had the semblance of a man, a man with memories and regrets. No longer. The mask dissolves those things, and she is sitting with the Red Comet again. There’s an instant of stomach-twisting discontinuity where he seems to be inside-out. A mask wearing a man. A face wearing a body. Muscles and nerves running in reverse, an anti-soldier transforming physical actions into personal thoughts and beliefs.

“Perhaps,” says the Colonel, Char’s backdrop, the puppet-mouth, “that is why he did not join us. A shame. I had wished to ask after him.”

“Would you like me to?” asks Mineva.

“That will not be necessary, Ensign. Now, I fear we have diverged from my intended topic,” and at this Frontal reaches for the wardroom’s screen controls, “For I had hoped to demonstrate to you the long reach of Zeon’s arm.”

#

It’s a clear day, but the city of Dakar lies in shadow. Columns of smoke shroud skyscrapers and streets, and twist with hungry, serpentine grace in the warm air above the city.

The skies of the Earth Federation capital are usually busy, but not today. The blue sky is uncharacteristically empty, save for a few circling combat craft, and the ever-present news copters. All the commercial planes have long since left.

From a long way off, it’s a peaceful picture—the smoke moves slowly, and the city lies stagnant. Changes happen only slowly, at the relaxed pace of the weather. Up close, though, people are dying.

Look, there—a Juaggu, under attack by Federation Nemos. The squat Zeon mech is brutal, fighting with cornered-bear fury, crushing cockpits left and right. The Nemos come after it like gladiators, shields and spears at the ready. The caged animal can’t win.

Elsewhere, a GM III is torn limb from limb by a Capule. A Zee Zulu is cored through the cockpit by beam fire, its pilot’s screams audible to all his comrades. A salvo of rockets knocks down an apartment building, then another. It’s not clear if they were occupied, but it doesn’t really matter—the fighting continues. Brutality isn’t a bug, it’s a feature.

Out to sea south of Cap Vert’s sweeping arc, something moves beneath the whitecaps. It is very, very large.

A destroyer maneuvers to stop it, and disappears in an explosion of spray, a building-sized claw reaching from the water to tear a great rent from the hull. A pair of Aqua GMs wade into the surf after it, deploying harpoons, rockets, and torpedoes, but are crushed without notice, without thought. This beast rears its great head above the water, its beady Cyclops eye scanning the horizon as it slouches towards Dakar, and at length, hauls its colossal bulk out of the sea.

The Shamblo levels its beak towards the smoking, crumbling downtown, charges its mega particle gun, and crashes the party. Where its gaze falls, the city melts, as quick and toxic as a hot wire through foam or a flame through plastic. Concrete, steel, and flesh are cooked off into a roaring flush of oily smoke, a scalpel cut across the city’s face. Another shot rakes across the metropolis, carving a smoldering boulevard. Another.

Within its cold, dead heart, Loni Garvey is part of the machine. She’s cybernetic, in the old-school sense of the term—kubernetes, the helmsman. She steers the ship. She’s the central link in the kill chain, the only point that won’t get automated.

Her Shamblo, the ship-sized body she wears, is hooked into the Zeon Remnants’ infostructure, such as it is. Across the city, mobile suits and drones feed her a sensor-fusion soup of data, painting her vision with Federation Forces units.

The hard part of the kill chain is getting a fix on your target.

The easy part is taking the shot.

“I’ve been waiting for this for too fucking long,” she mutters, lining up another shot of the particle gun. The Shamblo hunches around her, bracing its thousand-ton might behind her will. Inside this machine, she’s as inevitable and as merciless as history.

She thumbs the trigger and outside her armored cockpit, the world lights on fire.

The Shamblo should be nearly impossible to maneuver in a city. For all its speed and power, it’s too wide, its turning circle too large. The thing is wider than the expressways, as clumsy as a mountain, but with her main gun, terrain and structures are irrelevant, as mutable as putty. Shot after shot, Loni slices her way closer to the Federation Assembly Hall.

Her headset squawks with a radio transmission, and a display lights up with the face of Major Yonem Kirks, the man who saved her, who made her who she is.

“Loni!” he says, voice and image sodden with Minovsky interference, “Federation reinforcements are inbound, and their heat signatures look like high-performance mobile suits. Complete your mission as briefed and bugout.”

“Roger,” she replies, gunning the Shamblo’s hover engines, and the huge metal sphinx goes racing down a highway of its own creation. “Permission to open fire upon the Assembly Hall?”

“Cleared hot.”

“Confirmed.” She hauls back on the controls, digging a claw into the street to hook the Shamblo around a corner. Nobody knows it can turn this fast but her. The maneuver crushes six cars, three of which were occupied. Loni doesn’t care. She has a mission to complete. She can see the Hall now. So close. It feels good to be the punch that’ll bloody the Federation’s nose.

She rocks up to the park adjoining the Hall with a shriek of air cushion fans, checks her flanks for bandits, and seeing none, sets the particle gun to charging.

The Shamblo’s face splits open again, beak yawning wide to deliver the only thing the Federation deserves. Almost there, charging nearly complete-

The proximity alarm shrieks at her, then the target lock alarm. Loni reacts on instinct, and the Shamblo reacts even faster. The air cushion system howls and the ship-sized machine shunts itself to the side. Where she had sat a moment ago, the street is split open by beam fire.

“Loni, what’s going on?” asks Kirks. “Report! We see a Federation suit right on top of you!”

The Shamblo is screaming—no silhouette match, no IFF match, target lock, target lock, target lock. Evade, evade, evade. Loni is too busy fighting her machine’s sheer mass to reply, grunting as a city’s worth of power is generated and spent to keep her sliding away from the attacker’s beam weapon.

The beam squirms and twitches like a live thing, a twisting, shivering coil of violet energy that traces out scars of superheated earth where it strikes. It slices through buildings, trees, and cars with razor speed and surgical precision, leaving perfect separation planes, smooth cross-section cuts looking like computer-generated engineering models.

Loni manages to get off a shot with her scatter guns, filling the sky with unaimed spray-and-pray madness, and forces the attacker down to earth. The Shamblo’s computer complains still—no silhouette match!

Even when it lands, the attacker is no easier to see—it’s a nineteen-meter slice of midnight, a sliver of gleaming black metal in the shape of a mobile suit. Its slitted red gaze glares at her from beneath a long golden horn, and its body is all edges and angles, an impossible-looking knife-thing that slices and dices the visual cortex without touching the eye.

No more fucking around. Creepy black livery or no, Loni’s going to paint this Feddie’s remains across the city. She hammers the launch key, and the Shamblo disgorges its payload of reflector bits, the little helicopter drones ascending on rocket thrust before unfolding their rotors.

“Shamblo,” she growls, speaking to herself, to nothing, to the machine that cradles her, “Kill him.”

 The scatter guns speak again, and this time every single splatter of high-energy particles is precisely aimed, bouncing off the drones’ I-fields to arrow towards the black mobile suit. A city block evaporates.

The Shamblo’s alarms are still howling—the thing moved, fast. Not a problem. She retargets—all she has to move is the drones themselves, and they weigh nothing. The black mobile suit might be quick, but she has a firing slew rate of yes. She shoots, again and again. The city around the Shamblo is melting away, transforming before the eyes into a swamp of molten concrete. Shot after shot after shot, but the black mobile suit keeps dancing away.

Loni blinks. She’s in a desert.

For hundreds of meters around her, there is nothing. The park has burned. The high-rises are flattened and melted, running like soft cheese in an oven. The Assembly Hall is half-collapsed, face eroded by too many tiny beam strikes to count. But the black mobile suit is still there.

She can feel an intention from it, a laser-focused sense of meaning. It’s here for her, and her alone. Inside that black mobile suit, someone wants Loni’s blood.

Her back prickles with terror as she realizes she’s being targeted. It’s not here for Dakar, it’s here for her.

The enemy mobile suit twitches, and the strange, two-pronged beam gun deploys from its right arm again. Loni reaches with her claws, each one big enough to crush the thing like an empty can, and keeps shooting the scatter guns to pin it down. Nothing hits—it’s dancing, spinning and pirouetting with practiced grace as the ground turns to lava around its feet.

Is it having fun?

“You think this is a fucking game?” she howls, incensed by the newcomer’s apathy. “You don’t even care?”

She reaches and it dodges. She shoots, and it twists away. Too fast, too quick, too bird-light and flighty. It makes her feel slow. Clumsy. Obsolete.

Damn the Federation and their hand-over-fist innovation. Curse the way they rob a whole solar system just to enrich one planet, the way they spend whole colonies like worthless cash just to keep their bananas cheap. If this ugly fucking thing is the only product of their riches, they don’t deserve them.

“Die!” she cries, “You don’t deserve to live!”

I don’t deserve anything, the black mobile suit is saying. Deserving is for people, not pilots like us.

“Pilots are people!” protests Loni, lashing out with a claw. It craters the shattered ground, but misses the black mobile suit.

Pilots are instruments, says its eyeless slitted gaze, finite automata, black boxes, no internality. There’s nothing outside the cockpit for us.

“You’re wrong! Every pilot fights for their comrades, for their family, for what they believe in!”

Pilots are alone. It’s better that way.

“Not me,” she growls, and pulls back, charging the main gun. “I have comrades who love me. A commander who wants to see me come home safe. That’s why you can’t stop me.”

The black mobile suit twitches. My Master wants me to come home safe.

It’s a strange statement. Childish, almost. Loni changes her tack.

“Then leave,” she says.

I cannot, Loni Garvey. I’m here for you.

“Go home to your master,” says Loni, the words I’m here for you settling in her stomach in a pool of cold terror. “Go. Before I’m forced to kill you.”

You can’t do that, says the red gaze of the black mobile suit, I’m not allowed to die. It would be too expensive.

“Then why can’t you leave me alone?”

Because you’re my target. I need you here, now. Desperation? A search for purpose? It’s not clear to Loni.

“You don’t need me,” Loni insists. “Just let me go. I’m nothing to you.” Let me go home to Yonem and the rest. Let me be myself.

The black mobile suit raises a hand, reaching for something it can’t grasp.

My Master told me I always need a target, it seems to say. Otherwise I’ll fade away to nothing.

For a moment, the black mobile suit does nothing, just reaching towards her, no weapons deployed, completely still. There’s a flash of something, something gem-bright with painful edges, something so hard and true it hurts to touch. The black mobile suit flickers for a moment, the image going bad, the chrysalis revealing the truth within. Golden eyes stare at Loni out of deep, bruised sockets. A slender, pale arm, stippled with needle scars, reaches out to her. They look like she used to before she started piloting, just paler, sadder. More desperate.

“You’re just a girl,” she says, or thinks, it doesn’t matter which, “You shouldn’t be here, being made to do these awful things.”

“I am not a girl,” says the black mobile suit’s pilot, but Loni can feel the way it tears at them. There’s a soft heart inside that thin, scarred body, and it looks and feels the way Loni’s memories of herself do, from back when Umma and Baba were still alive. “I am Victor Two.”

“Is that your name?”

“It is what I am,” says Victor Two, and their tired, thin voice is beyond exhaustion, beyond hope or defiance or even denial. Everything they say is true, because they lack the capacity to imagine otherwise. It has been stolen from them.

Solitude pours from the black mobile suit in a viscous, sticky flood, leaking from its vents and seams and thrusters. This is the harvest that authority reaps, the benison that control earns. It soaks into the broken earth, and still more flows.

Loni can’t believe how sad it is. She thinks she feels tears running down her face—how dare the Federation ruin a child like this? How dare they subject another to the living hell Loni has faced? And to what end?

For an instant, she sees the end that Victor seeks—the White Devil, Amuro Ray, the Federation’s wunderkind. Destroyer of the Principality of Zeon. Killer of Char Aznable. The black hole into which the hopes of Spacenoids sink, never to return.

Victor will never stop until they are another Amuro. Until they have killed for as long as he did, as remorselessly as he did, and to such wicked ends as he did. It is all happening again, and Loni can’t stop it. She realizes with horror that the Federation will continue to visit the same violence upon Spacenoids using Amuro after Amuro after Amuro, the same god summoned again and again in an unthinking, reactionary prayer. They will spend this murderous image for all it has to offer. It will never end. There will be a Victor Three one day, a Victor Four. The Federation will never stop eating its own tail, and its Gundams will become a ceaseless engine of bloodshed, as permanent as the sun.

“It’s so sad,” she says, because she can say nothing else. “They’ve ruined you. They’ve stolen your life away.”

“Victor Two,” they say, “Engaging the enemy.”

And then they kill her.

#

It’s over before Mineva can believe it. There is a long standoff between the black Unicorn and the Shamblo, and then the Unicorn moves. A flickering, twisting phantom of energy whips out from the black Unicorn’s arm gun and a glowing scar appears across the Shamblo’s hull.

Mineva can sense the Colonel tense slightly.

For a moment, it appears as though the Shamblo is responding—its head moves, a shoulder drops. Why doesn’t the Unicorn move?

Because the Shamblo is falling apart along a newly-created fracture plane. It splits in half along an incandescently glowing plane of bisection, one that passes directly through the cockpit. The wreckage slips and folds in upon itself, and Loni Garvey, who Mineva was told is the Newtype ace of the Zeon Remnants, is dead. The black Unicorn didn’t even have to try.

Chapter Text

The captain of a vessel is said to possess absolute authority within its confines—power over watches, over maneuvers, over life and death itself.

In the old days, a captain could even conduct a marriage.

In light of this, Captain Bright Noa is not particularly accustomed to having orders refused.

“No,” says Lieutenant Capa, “As Victor Two’s doctor, I cannot allow you to speak with him.”

Capa is enforcing this edict by physically blocking the door to Victor’s quarters. Her breathy voice is calm enough, but Bright can see a tremble in her jaw—she’s afraid of him.

Bright sighs. He hates it when women fear him. It makes him feel boorish, uncouth. Conduct unbecoming of an officer.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “I wasn’t asking. Staff Headquarters insisted that I take Victor and yourself on as pilots—this I was willing to accept. But if you are truly lawful and legitimate combatants, you have ranks, no? You exist in a command structure: Mine. Open the door, Capa. That’s an order.”

“I cannot do that, sir,” says Capa. At least she’s using his rank now.

“And why not?”

“Victor Two is a young Cyber Newtype,” the woman explains. “He is highly sensitive to changes in his condition. Any inputs you give him have the potential to destabilize a delicate state of mind.”

“Victor Two,” says Bright, “Or whatever his name is, is a pilot. Under my command. I reserve the right to do whatever I please with him.”

Bright feels ugly saying these things.

“You run the risk of hurting him!” she protests.

Bright has hurt many, many pilots. Too many to count. It’s a constant ache, but a necessary one—don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget the mechanisms that built you.

“This is a warship,” he says. “Hurting is our job, Lieutenant Capa. Unless you mean to imply that somehow, Staff Headquarters gave us two Cyber Newtype pilots and their mobile suits for the sake of appearances…?”

Her eyes go wide. “You know.”

“About you? Yes, Lieutenant, I am in fact smart enough to read personnel files. I know all about your work with the Titans, and your involvement in the Gryps conflict.”

“I did what I had to.”

“So did I,” Bright says as he nods, trying to be diplomatic. “But you’re not in the Titans any more. You’re in Londo Bell, and we don’t treat Cyber Newtypes as weapons, we treat them as pilots.”

“You of all people should know that a pilot is a weapon,” she hisses. “Considering how effectively you commanded them both for and against the Federation.”

“Yes,” he admits, refusing to let her spite get the better of him, clamping down on the hindbrain urge to shout at her, to scare her. “To command pilots, I must know them. Let me speak to Victor.”

“There is nothing the likes of you could gain from speaking with him,” she says. “It takes a Cyber Newtype to understand a Cyber Newtype. Captain, I am more than happy to handle Victor on your behalf, as originally requested by Staff Headquarters. Let me help you.”

There’s a forceful intent behind let me help you that strips away any sense of goodwill from it. It’s said in the same tone of voice as don’t be a fool or perhaps you have no idea what you’re talking about.

“Very well,” Bright sighs. “I understand.” He steps back from Capa and turns to walk away. He can see her gloating smile out of the corner of his eye. Savor it while you can, Capa.

Bright only walks as far as the nearest telephone.

“Bridge, this is Bright,” he says, speaking loudly and enunciating clearly. A quick glance back up the corridor confirms that Capa is watching him.

“Captain, Bridge, go ahead.”

“Have a maintenance team disable the two Vist Foundation mobile suits. Nothing irreversible, but render them inoperable.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it.”

Bright hangs up without waiting for an answer, and glances back towards Capa. He gives her the benefit of a raised eyebrow.

“You can’t!” her strident hiss carries down the hallway.

“Why not, Lieutenant? This ship is mine.”

“You can’t hold Victor and I hostage. This is outrageous. Staff Headquarters will hear of this!”

“No,” he says, “It is not, and they will not. You will work and fly on my terms, Capa, not those of Staff HQ or the Vist Foundation.”

“The Vist Foundation isn’t-“

“Don’t condescend to me, Lieutenant. I know your real employer. I’m not stupid. I’m helping you because I have been ordered to, not because I’m some helpless rube willing to be manipulated. As it happens, the goals of the Vist Foundation and Londo Bell align. For now.”

“Let me guess,” she growls, “You’re going to keep us here unless I acquiesce.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” he says in response, trying with all of his might to keep his tone light and conversational, “How much should I trust a subordinate in combat who can’t follow my commands? This is basic stuff. Surely you remember your Academy days…unless, of course, you were directly commissioned as a Titans officer because of your superior Cyber Newtype body and intellect.”

She goes completely rigid. Finally, a bull’s-eye. Her eyes stare daggers at him, and there’s a pressure roiling off her, anger and shame and indignation. The rage of a beetle beneath the descending boot.

Try me, thinks Bright.

Capa deflates.

“Fine,” she says, stepping back from the door to gesture at it with an arm, as if to say go ahead, see if I care, “But if you destabilize Victor Two, when I report on his progress to the Vist Foundation, I will mention your name first.”

“I’m so glad you’re being reasonable about this,” he says, giving her his best talking-to-the-press smile. “And of course, I have no reason to fear the Vist Foundation. They’re only civilians, after all. Quite outside the military chain of command.”

#

In a mountain valley on the island of Sulawesi, there is a small village that used to be within the nation of Indonesia. It is called Pangkung Batu.

The nation is obsolete now, absorbed, destroyed, remade, and colonized by the merciless god of the Federation. Pangkung Batu remains.

A thousand years ago, the Majapahit were in charge. The people of Pangkung Batu grew rice, and when the local duke’s man came by, they gave him his share, as one does.

Five hundred years ago, the Dutch were in charge. The people of Pangkung Batu grew rice, and when the VOC’s man came by, they gave him his share, as one does.

The Dutch built bridges, railways, roads. None of them came to Pangkung Batu. The Japanese and their tanks, planes, and atrocities came and went, and few came to Pangkung Batu. The Dutch were driven out for good, eventually, and it made no difference to the people of Pangkung Batu. The only difference they noticed was fluctuations in the market price of rice.

Now the Federation is in charge. The price of rice is higher than ever. Pangkung Batu looks the same otherwise.

Oh, the Tongkonan houses reach even more greedily for the sky with outstretched arms now, due to cheap non-rusting roofing material from the Federation. The electricity is more reliable, and there are a few more radio towers visible in the sky-punching mountains that hem in the village, but other than that? Same as it ever was.

Today, however, is different. A shadow falls over Pangkung Batu. It’s a sundial’s shadow, pointed and long, sweeping across shed and house and field and river, and look, over there! Down the hill, in the fallow paddy, there’s the gnomon!

It’s a huge spire of green metal, hissing and whirring in mechanical sleep. Men go in and come out occasionally, and of course, they buy rice.

The Garencieres has landed in Pangkung Batu, and the Zeon Remnants, grim and hard men and women with grim expressions and grimmer weapons have materialized out of the jungle in response, like flies flocking to rotting meat.

Inside the bridge of the landed spacecraft, the voice of Full Frontal echoes.

“Nicely done at Dakar, Lieutenant Commander Kirks,” says Frontal, voice given a buzzing, insectoid quality by the bridge speakers, “Thanks to your distracting them with your Earth Zeon Remnants, we were able to protect the Garencieres. You have my gratitude.”

“Your gratitude,” echoes Commander Kirks. He is speaking very softly and carefully. Marida can see the tension in his body, tendons leaping in his neck and arms. “I suppose that must be valuable, coming from the Red Comet.”

Marida can see Lieutenant Angelo Sauper’s delicate features twitch, struggling to mask a scowl of anger at Kirks’ remark.

“I cannot command any man to value me or my word,” says Frontal, still vaguely smiling. “I am merely the vessel of their expectations.”

“Is there anything else you expect of me,” says Kirks, “Sir?” and the sir comes out as a growl.

“I have no right to issue you orders,” says Frontal, “as I am the commander of the Sleeves space forces and have no jurisdiction over Earthside Zeon operations. I expect nothing from you save your continued action in the interest of Zeonism.”

“Colonel,” says Marida, unwilling to let these two men talk past each other for any longer than they already have, “Do you expect the Earth Zeon Remnants to support the Torrington Base mission?”

“Dakar demonstrated two things,” replies Frontal. “The first was that the Earth Zeon Remnants possess substantial warmaking capability and can prosecute surprise operations of great effect. The second was that the Federation possesses a Unicorn of their own, and the means to deploy it flexibly and rapidly.”

“Which is to say,” says Kirks, “That you expect my men to act as a shield for your Unicorn. You expect us to sacrifice ourselves for the Box’s key.”

“Kirks,” grumbles Zinnerman, “What else would we say? We’re up against steep odds. This isn’t about factions or jurisdiction any more, it’s about the Box.”

“The Box, always the Box,” Kirks shoots back, “What can it do for Earthbound Zeon Remnants, anyways?”

Sauper is gritting his teeth.

“It can liberate them,” says Frontal. “With the bargaining leverage of the Box in our hands, it would be trivial for Zeon to liberate the Remnants still on Earth.”

“Perhaps it can,” Kirks replies, “If any are left to be liberated! If the black Unicorn doesn’t slaughter us all first!”

“It appears to be identical in most respects to our own Unicorn,” says Frontal, still unruffled, “I would expect parity at worst, and that is in a symmetric engagement. Lieutenant Commander, you have the power to make that engagement asymmetric. You possess the men, the mobile suits, and the fighting spirit.”

“That fighting spirit has been spent,” Kirks protests. “The Shamblo is gone,” and he’s screaming Loni, Loni, Loni, but only Marida can hear it, “Sir, for us Zeon Remnants, this conflict is no longer a matter of vengeance. It’s a matter of survival. The Federation can crush even the best of us without even a thought! Our lives mean so little! What can I possibly say to them that will make them fight?”

“You can do what I always do,” says Frontal, and leans forward, with a chummy sort of smile. Marida wonders if he’s deliberately reading the room wrong. “Ask them what Char Aznable would have them do.”

“That won’t be enough, sir.”

Sauper is fixing to pop now. Marida swears she can see the veins popping out of his forehead. How dare anyone defy the Colonel! For shame, for shame!

Frontal shrugs. “Lieutenant Zinnerman and Lieutenant Cruz have their orders. The Unicorn will be brought to the checkpoint coordinates in Torrington. They will do so regardless of whether they have your support, because they are soldiers of Zeon. I can say nothing else.”

“Colonel-“ says Zinnerman, but is cut off by the transmission going dark, the features of Frontal and Sauper disappearing. He sighs, glancing towards the seething Kirks. “That went well.”

“Oh, did it?” asks Kirks, chuckling with feigned levity, “Why, I hadn’t noticed.”

“He meant it, when he said he couldn’t give you orders.”

“What difference does it make?” asks Kirks. “If we don’t help you, the Federation gets the Unicorn, and the Box is theirs. If we do help you, more Zeonists die, for the vanishing chance that we get the Box. Is this the best we can hope for? Parity? An even chance?”

“Sir,” says Marida, “If I may, an even chance is often the best a pilot can hope for. Even to initiate an engagement on one’s own terms is a transformative advantage.”

“And that black Unicorn doesn’t scare you?” asks Kirks.

“Why should it, sir? It is a weapon. It is controlled by a pilot. It is a machine that can be destroyed.” It is a Gundam, she thinks. I am fated to destroy it. It is mine to crush as I will.

“You sound like Loni,” says the Earthbound Zeonist, smiling sadly. “I wish she had-“ he stops himself.

“She would have followed you anywhere,” says Marida, because she knows the kind of commander Kirks is. He’s the same as Zinnerman. “What happened to her is the calculus of battle. Not personal failure, not love nor its lack.”

Both men are looking at her in a strange way she rarely sees. Zinnerman’s lips are twitching in the way they do when he tries not to cry.

Kirks sniffs, then wipes at his face with an arm. Nobody says anything about it.

“Right,” he says, after a moment of silence, “Nothing to be done about these damned orders from space, eh? It’s just like the Landing Operations all over again, words from on high.”

“Is that really how you see it?” asks Zinnerman, voice still thick with emotion. “That kind of alienation?”

“We’re prisoners, Suberoa, prisoners and wardens at the same time. The imperial core is rich, richer than you could ever dream, but what would happen if we let ourselves partake of it? We’d stop being Zeonists, and if they ever found out who we used to be?”

“They’d destroy you.”

“They’d destroy us,” agrees Kirks. “We walk a fine line between success and destruction. It’s razor-thin now, and Frontal is pushing us to perform our riskiest operation yet.”

“But we have the element of surprise,” says Zinnerman. “We know the next checkpoint is at Torrington, but the Feddies don’t. It could be anywhere—Augusta, the Dublin Crater, Lhasa, Jaburo, anything.”

“I just have a bad feeling,” says Kirks, “That somehow they do know. That Torrington is going to be a meat grinder, one that’ll chew us all up. I can’t shake the feeling that Torrington is going to be the last fight for the Zeon Remnants, ever.”

“But even so,” says Marida, “We must try. Zeonism begs that we try, over and over again, until we see victory. The status quo only needs us to rationalize a single ceasefire to win forever.”

“The status quo, eh? That’s what this is all about,” muses Kirks. “The Box, and its miraculous power.”

“The power to break the Federation,” says Zinnerman, “Or hobble it. That power could free all the Zeon Remnants held prisoner. Free all the colonies kept in thrall to a sick planet.”

“I just have to wonder,” muses Kirks, “If we have the Box’s key here, why should I wait for some Side Co-Prosperity Sphere? Why couldn’t I take the Box for myself? Why should the prisoners of the Federation not be the first to strike it down, the Zeonists who never compromised, never surrendered?

Zinnerman calmly, casually reaches for his gun. Kirks doesn’t notice it, but Marida does.

“That may be the case,” she says, “But does it affect the Torrington operation? The truth of the tactical situation is undeniable. The forces at Torrington Base must be neutralized if I am to escape with the Box’s key, or the Box as it may be, intact.”

“I’m as uneasy as you are about the cost in lives of these operations, Yonem,” says Zinnerman, hand still resting on his holstered pistol’s grip, “But I have my orders. You won’t stop the Key from getting to Torrington, so you better be there to catch me if I fall.”

Kirks glances down and sees Zinnerman’s hand, and one eyebrow raises. He realizes what Zinnerman is saying. The Zeon Remnant commander chuckles with remarkable ease. “Of course. We’ll see each other again at Torrington, Suberoa. What happens after that is up to the Box.”

“We’re doing it for Zeon.”

“Of course. For Zeon.”

#

“You’re a Gundam pilot.”

Victor Two nods at Bright’s statement, but the boy isn’t meeting his eyes, his gaze fixed instead on Capa.

“I must be,” says Victor, “No one else can pilot Unit Two.”

“Unit One being the white Unicorn,” guesses Bright. Capa nods.

“Captain Bright,” says Victor, and suddenly those golden orbs are focused on Bright, and they’re threatening to pull him in, drag him under and drown him, “What significance do Gundam-type mobile suits have to you?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Bright says, which is really only partly true, but he wants to push the boy to explain himself further.

“You qualified my combat role with my type of mobile suit. Why?”

“I’ve commanded a number of ships deploying Gundam-type mobile suits in the past. They’re machines that make history.”

“Will the Banshee make history?”

“I can’t say,” admits Bright.

“Why?”

The question is so unexpected that Bright is taken completely by surprise.

“Um,” he says, rallying himself, “Well, it’s impossible to know the future. We can’t say what will happen as a result of Laplace’s Box.”

“Sometimes I wish that the Banshee does not make history,” says Victor.

“Victor!” exclaims Capa.

“Miss Gianna,” continues Victor, “Would it not be preferable that circumstances evolve such that I am not required? That the Banshee need not sortie?”

“You’re talking about luck,” says Bright. “Few pilots are lucky enough not to be needed.”

“Soft power,” mutters Victor, in a strange tone. Bright thinks he hears the Vist matriarch’s voice echo inside it.

Bright thinks of the Antarctic treaty, of Operation Stardust, and of Titans mobile suits firing on Dakar.

“I don’t know if that works anymore,” he says, without thinking.

Capa gives him a narrow-eyed look that’s almost approving, before turning back to the golden-eyed boy.

“You were born to be a pilot, Victor,” she insists, “You were born for the Banshee, and that’s a noble thing.”

Bright wonders if fate is like spacetime—seemingly hard and immutable, but still capable of stretching. If you conceived of an event whose fate was so horrific, whose power was so frightful, that it weighed down the manifold of possibility, would events orbit it? Would the ray of history bend around it?

What if the original Gundam, all those years ago, was such an event? Something so weighted with potential, so infested by its own doom, that it had no choice to appear?

“I want to be good, Miss Gianna,” replies Victor, sun-bright eyes wide and plaintive, “but is a Gundam the only way I can be good? Is there nothing else for me?”

“Oh dear,” sighs Capa. She glances to Bright. “Stay if you like, but I think he needs his medication. Victor, can you be a good boy and give me your arm?”

“I can,” Victor says, matter-of-factly, and proffers his left arm. Capa carefully rolls back the uniform’s sleeve, more gently than Bright expected.

“Some of my pilots,” says Bright, watching Capa prepare an IV line, and the boy doesn’t even flinch as she pierces the vein with practiced precision, “Have viewed piloting as a pathway to manhood.”

“Why?” asks Victor.

“A mobile suit is like a soldier,” says Bright. “It does what it has been told, what it knows is right, even if it has horrific consequences. To command such a thing means to be aware of the consequences of one’s actions, and to take responsibility for them, even when they were not intended.”

“My Master said that a soldier isn’t culpable for killing,” replies Victor, as the first of several syringes are injected into the IV line’s side port, “That a soldier is only able to kill because of their state-furnished weapon, and they are only told to kill because of their officer, who is in turn subordinate to another officer. She said that the only entity culpable for the deaths of war is the state, and it is not a person, and thus has no moral valence.”

“Your master was wrong,” says Bright, “A soldier is morally culpable for everything they do. Young pilots, pilots like yourselves, you don’t understand that. You don’t understand the weight of your kills yet, but you will.”

 “She can’t be!” Victor hisses, shooting to his feet, “My Master would never lie to me!”

“Victor!” exclaims Capa, “You’ll pull out your line!”

“But Captain Bright-”

“Captain Bright is not Madam Vist,” interrupts Capa, “Some people disagree with her.”

Capa says some people in the sort of tone of voice that people use when talking about themselves. Interesting. Bright files that away for later.

“Is your master a soldier?” he asks.

Victor doesn’t know how to answer, and looks to Capa.

“No,” says Capa, “she is not. And Victor, please sit down.”

Victor sits.

“There’s a good boy.”

The final syringe is injected. Victor sighs.

“Captain Bright,” says the boy, “Is it good to be a soldier?”

“Yes,” says Capa.

“I don’t know,” Bright admits. “I have to assume it is, because I am one. Every day, I live on the faith that my orders align with what is just, what is right. If I found out one day that everything I’ve done, ever since the day I took command of the White Base, was for a truly evil cause, I don’t know how I could live with it.”

Victor stares at him with those wide, ghostly, shadowed eyes, and that shaggy brown hair, and something in his desperate, innocent gaze tugs at Bright. There’s something strange in this child, this almost-man. It feels like-

“It’s kind of funny,” says Bright, thinking aloud, “Victor, you rather remind me of Amuro.”

Chapter Text

It is quiet on the bridge of the Nahel Argama.

It is quiet every day on the bridge of the Nahel Argama.

There is nothing on the radar—the Sleeves’ ships are long gone.

Nothing in visual range.

No thermal contacts.

Nothing, that is, except the General Revil. She’s lurking far behind, far enough that the thermal sensors struggle to pick her out. She’s too far for the Nahel Argama to have a firing solution…but General Revil has better sensors. Even now, her radar is washing Nahel Argama’s hull, pulse after pulse after pulse. Doppler data would let General Revil know in an instant if Captain Mitas decided to make a burn.

Officially, of course, General Revil is on a training mission, and low Earth orbit is empty of patrol vessels. Mitas knows this because he asked directly and was rebuffed. The nature of the General Revil’s operations is above your pay grade. You don’t need to know. It’s classified. The release of that information isn’t in the national interest. Ask them anything about the Sleeves, about his (unchanging) orders, and Headquarters is happy to talk, but mention the Revil and suddenly loose lips sink ships.

Mitas knows his ship is trapped. They have only a token mobile suit force, the dregs of the Laplace engagement, plus some paltry reinforcements. They’re low on propellant, and the supply tenders never bring any more.

Why? Why should such a state of affairs have come to pass? Let us count the ways.

First, Nahel Argama survived a blue-on-blue nuclear strike ordered by Staff Headquarters. No amount of Londo Bell esprit de corps will keep that a secret for long.

Second, Nahel Argama failed to retrieve the Unicorn, even before HQ resorted to the nuclear option, ha-ha.

Third, Nahel Argama has the psycho-monitor.

It is this third fact that vexes Mitas. It’s his only bargaining chip—the coordinates of the Unicorn’s next target are locked up inside the Vist man’s strange machine.

“How long will they wait?” asks Commander Borrinea.

Mitas gazes out the bridge windows at the vast blue expanse of Earth beneath them. Behold Earth, our cradle, garden world, home of billions of traitors!

He sighs. He knows what Borrinea is asking.

“Probably until the Sleeves act again,” he says. “At that point it will become obvious.”

He’s been debating this with the XO for a week now, whether to let slip the coordinates or not.

What would the Zeon Princess ask of him?

She’d say something noble and high-minded, of course. Not to mention completely impractical.

No, Mitas has only two choices. They go like this:

One, he gives the coordinates to Headquarters. They will complain but won’t be able to prove that it wasn’t really computer trouble that prevented the recovery of the data from the psycho-monitor.

Two, he continues to delay. Headquarters will lose their patience, and decide to have General Revil recover the data the hard way.

Compliance will save his crew. Resistance will save Laplace’s Box…from the Federation. The Sleeves will have it regardless. Princess Zabi is fated to be disappointed.

He glances at Commander Borrinea. Her husband was lost in action. Her son is down on that big blue planet of sinners and saints, somewhere. It’d be a shame for her, and the rest of Mitas’ crew, to die for the sake of a moral quandary they never asked to be a part of.

“Ensign Oiwakken,” he says, and the communications operator turns, “Inform Staff HQ that we’ve just finished troubleshooting the psycho-monitor, and that we have the Unicorn’s next target.”

#

The Ra Cailum stretches her legs and breaks into a sprint.

Inside her engines, tuned I-fields implode tiny spheres of uranium, and these furious little beads obligingly vaporize themselves. This gas-phase nuclear reaction, a nuclear bomb getting edged to the very cusp of annihilation, has nowhere to go, so it screams. This wail of agonized pleasure is electromagnetic, screeching in ultraviolet black-body ecstasy.

The scream is heard by uncountable millions of listeners: the cloud of tungsten dust particles floating within the molecular hydrogen propellant that floods the engines. The hydrogen, already injected at supercritical pressures, goes star-hot and exits stage left at Mach 200.

Twenty miles below in West Africa, the risk of skin cancer increases by a minute fraction of a percent.

Aboard Ra Cailum’s bridge, Bright is pressed into his seat by the acceleration and watches the dark stratospheric sky grow ever darker beyond the ship’s bow. Soon they’ll be in space—but only briefly.

There’s a family of squid, the ommastrephids, that are said to fly. They squirt themselves out of the ocean on water-jet thrust and glide, upwards of thirty meters, before re-entering the ocean to refill their gills and propulsion mantle. Not only is it faster than swimming, because air is eight hundred times less dense than seawater, but it also confuses the shit out of their predators.

Right now, Ra Cailum is one of those squid. She’s accelerating on a shallow ballistic trajectory, arcing above the Karman line into airless, drag-free space, but protecting herself from the fury of reentry by not bothering to reach orbital speed. What this means is that she only needs two hours to cross the eighteen thousand kilometer great-circle arc from Dakar to Sydney Bay.

It’s a race to Torrington. Bright doesn’t know how much of a lead the Sleeves forces have—their descent into Southeast Asia was given little attention, because the Dakar feint worked too well. What he does know is that the Federation owns Earth’s skies, and there’s no way the so-called Rivacona Cargo can physically outrun him. Not without a miracle.

#

The Garencieres is playing it safe.

Hugging the earth and flying subsonic, she’s trying to reach Torrington on stealth alone.

But as Marida gazes out the window and watches the ship’s huge shadow crawl its way along the rough Australian outback, wriggling wormlike over hill and dry riverbed, she considers that stealth is a joke.

In the bad old days, before fusion energy and space colonies and spaceflight on meaningful scales, there used to be such things as “stealth aircraft.” They were rudimentary things, using nonconductive padding and tricky faceted shapes to defeat radar by exploiting its own properties, but they were doomed from the beginning. You can always build a better sensor, but you can’t make a plane any colder, any smaller or slimmer.

The problem with those so-called stealth aircraft, thinks Marida, was that they were half-measures. Stopgaps. If you’re defeating the kill chain at the point of tracking and engaging the target, you’ve already lost. The kill chain is something to be broken at the root. Do not allow the enemy to know your forces are deployed. Deny them the resources to confirm whether there even is anything worth tracking in your sector.

Information warfare killed the stealth fighter star.

So that’s what the Garencieres is relying on now. For more than a day, Marida has seen nothing more than wilderness and the tiny, meaningless, sometimes nameless towns scattered across it. Pangkung Batu. Mayoa. Morowali. Batu Jungku and Masawoi and Elpaputih, Oksibil and Fogomaiu, Yagoonya and Adavale. Towns full of farmers and trappers, irregular workers and mothers. Towns full of dirt and feral dogs and hope and dreams. Towns full of Zeonism.

Marida had gotten accustomed to the deep, green jungles of New Guinea, but in Australia the color bleeds away—here, everything is tan and white. Baked dry and pale, except where the little roads scratch out long, ruler-straight red scars across the bush. There’s nobody out here to watch radar, and no authority to monitor them. Go far enough from a city and the Federation ceases to exist.

With the climate deteriorating, central Australia is drier and more deserted than it’s been for a hundred thousand years. Nobody will see the Garencieres until she reaches the rain-soaked Eastern coast.

But even so.

Even so, there’s a tiny grain of menace tickling at the back of Marida’s mind. The possibility that the Garencieres’ destination isn’t a secret. The possibility that the black Unicorn will be there waiting. The possibility that the great scar of Sydney Bay won’t give up the secrets of Laplace’s Box. The possibility that, despite all the successes of Operation Bishop so far, it will all go wrong.

In her mind’s eye, Marida sees the Garencieres destroyed, sees the Unicorn torn limb from limb, sees her Master shot and the Princess defeated—none of it real, but all of it plausible.

“Marida, Bridge,” crackles the shipnet, startling Marida out of her thoughts. She keys the nearest audio pickup.

“Bridge, Marida, go ahead.”

“We should be approaching Torrington in four-odd hours,” says Zinnerman’s voice, “You should get some rest. We’ve done all the prep we can.”

“Yes, Master,” she says, because she is permitted to say nothing else.

The wide red ribbon of Australia crawls past beneath the Garencieres. At its end lies Laplace’s Box, and the miraculous power to swerve the course of history. Four hours. Two hundred and forty minutes. Sixteen thousand, eight hundred heartbeats. Count them up, Marida—they could be all you have.

#

Victor Two blinks. The thing hovering over his hand disappears. Perhaps it is a shadow. Perhaps a refraction of something. A mirror duplicates something, constructs an image, a simulacrum lacking internality, dependent entirely on its source. What is the opposite of an image? Where does the rest of the original artifact go? Can you construct a thing with no external presence, merely its internal processes? What is that thing that is lost by reflection or refraction of an image?

You cannot name it. You cannot measure it. But you know it must be there—it is the thing that makes you real. It is the thing that makes a knife cut, that makes a gun kill, that makes a person laugh and cry and scream and vomit. It is the thing that continuously writes reality into existence.

This is the thing that shadows Victor Two.

It is right behind him. It mirrors his movements. It leers at him invisibly, constantly measuring.

His Master once spoke of a school of ethics she despised—deontology. That most perfidious, useless philosophy, according to Martha Vist Carbine. Rules are nothing, she said.  Post-factum rationalization. No analysis can predict its own failures.

You would have to obey a set of rules either so comprehensive or so meaningless as to be universally applicable, Master said, for deontology to serve. Therefore, either the rules are useless or cryptographically impossible to formulate.

Victor Two wonders if this thing hanging over him is the deon, the system of rules that constrains him. The system by which he will be judged. The thing that will tell him whether he is good or evil—but when? When will he know?

“Miss Capa?” he asks.

She is sitting next to him in their shared quarters aboard the Ra Cailum. Beneath them, the deck shivers with the power of the huge nuclear engines, and everything is creaking, rattling, trembling.

“Yes dear,” she says, and gives him an expression that he has been told is a smile. “What is it?”

“Am I good?”

No, whispers the thing.

“What?”

“I am haunted,” he says. “A thing follows me. Is it my moral due?”

“No,” she says, “No, it’s not your moral due. You are good, Victor. You have the power to do good things, and you use it right.”

“How do you know?”

She does not respond immediately. She must be thinking about this.

“You saved Dakar,” she says, “That’s a good thing. And you’ve been very obedient with Madam Vist and myself, which is good. You do good things, therefore you are good.”

“Were they good things because of why they were done?” asks Victor, “Or were they good because of what they gave rise to?”

“Is there a difference?” asks Miss Capa.

You cannot know if the correct action will give a desirable result. There is no guarantee. That is what Captain Bright said, about responsibility. You make a decision and then assess its result. Causality flows downhill—so how do you know what will happen?

Sometimes Victor can feel it. He can close the moral chain. He can see why the Zeon pilot must die, and then he can end her. Cause and effect, both justified. Maybe.

“The thing that follows me,” he says, “It observes me. It judges my actions. Does it do this because I acted correctly or incorrectly? Or does it do this because I changed the world for the better or for the worse? Why does it get to know, but I don’t?”

“Victor, I don’t understand,” she says, and he doesn’t understand why she can’t see it, “What thing?”

He cannot put words to it.

“It is dark,” he says, trying anyways, because Miss Capa says that trying your best at everything is good, “And it follows my every move. It is like a shadow, only it hangs above me.”

“I’m sorry, Victor,” she says, and she is still doing a smile, but it has changed somehow, “I can’t see it. It could be the result of stress?”

He nods, because when she suggests she is stressed, she asks if he wants another shot, and she says that it is good to take your medicine, so therefore he likes taking the shot. In about sixty-five percent of cases, the shot makes him feel better. Good boys trust the numbers.

Consequentialism—medicine makes him feel better. It is good to feel good. Therefore, medicine is good. That’s the simple kind of reasoning that his Master likes. Sometimes his head hurts, and sometimes his bowels hurt, and sometimes he gets afraid, so afraid, and he shrieks and shrieks but the world keeps crushing him, but these are merely side effects. Not such a big deal, his Master argued, when the main effect of the medicine still works. Victor Two supposes he must agree. He’s good at agreeing. It’s good to agree, therefore he’s good at it. Miss Capa is so kind.

“Would you like a dose of your medicine?” she asks, and Victor Two nods. She does a thing with his hair with one hand, a kind of ruffling motion, and he leans into the touch, purring. Odds are good that he will feel better.

“I’ll get it prepared,” she says, unbuckling herself and standing. “Try to relax, dear. You need to rest for your mission.”

His mission. The good work that must be done. The magnum opus. The big good that justifies all the little bads. The incontrovertible proof that Victor Two is good, and doesn’t deserve to be haunted. Crush the Box, break it, ram it deep beneath the earth where it can never bring any pain again—this is his purpose, to bring victory.

Chapter Text

Sometimes the ghosts of Sydney sing.

Stand on a boat in Sydney Bay, somewhere in the shadows of the looming, crumbling remains of Island Iffish, and you can hear them. The wind picks up, whipping across the water, and while the deck tosses under your feet, that infrasonic howl starts to tickle at the edge of hearing. It’s too low for a human voice, too constant. It doesn’t stop to breathe, because why should a ghost have to?

Tonight, the ghosts are restless. A storm is blowing in from offshore, sucked in from the warm, humid Pacific by thermals over the sun-baked Australian Outback, and it’ll come ripping through the twisted, sky-scraping peaks and crags of colony remains. Aeroelastic oscillations, Von Karman vortex shedding, Kelvin-Helmholtz roll-up, all these and more are part of the voiceless, breathless choir. Tonight, the ghosts of Sydney sing the Big Note. The one you can hear all the way in Torrington.

 The sun sets. Out on the bay, the huge shadows of Iffish’s remains stretch longer and longer, knifing midnight-dark across copper-crested waves. The ghosts howl.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Yonem Kirks’s Earth Zeon Remnants may be strapped for cash, but they have a few tricks. Stealthy cruise missiles are one of them. They’re six-meter-long slivers of plastic and composite, with glittering sensor eyes and folding flight surfaces that flick out of slots narrow enough to make a switchblade sweat.

The stealthy missiles whisper their way over the perimeter of Torrington Base and immolate the main radar system. From miles off, suspended inside the hold of his cargo helicopter, Kirks can see the fireballs.

“Kilo Six, this is Echo Zero,” comes the voice of a comrade in his ear, “Feddie radar is down,”

“Kilo Six to all units,” says Kirks, projecting as much cool control as he can as he speaks into the mic, “Begin the operation. Echo Zero will be your AEW agency.”

“Echo Zero acknowledges,” replies the AEW, ensconced in the cockpit of an EWAC Zack somewhere above Kirks, “All Zulu callsigns, maneuver as fragged, you are cleared to engage once your feet are dry. Anchor bandits in the harbor. Foxtrot callsigns,” and now he’s talking to the Fat Uncle transport helicopters, “Descend to cherubs four and proceed under VFR. Kilo Six, ascend to cherubs fifteen and engage at your discretion”

Kirks clicks his mic and feels his weight shift in the Zaku’s harness as his Fat Uncle starts climbing away from the ground. On any other night it would be a risky maneuver, but not tonight—the Feddie radar is out of commission, and the Zeon Remnants now control the skies.

For now.

The radio starts to light up with chatter—the Zee Zulus have dry feet and are engaging GM Aquas in the harbor, the high-speed Doms and Dwadges are anchored with the base’s ground forces, and the Federation fighters haven’t scrambled yet.

The fighters will not launch. Kirks has melted them—his beam rifle scythes the planes apart. In his scope, he can see a pilot squirm on the charred tarmac with squashed-bug agony, unfortunately alive after the beam shot. He considers putting the man out of his misery, but he needs to make the most of his barrel. It’s expensive and has a limited life.

He uses up the rest of the barrel’s life plugging away at hangars and artillery units instead and lets himself forget about the pilot. Resists the temptation to swing his scope over to the runway apron again and see if the man is still alive.

He punches the reload key. New barrel. The Zaku’s cockpit rings with the thump of the fist slamming the locking cam home. Lines up a shot. Takes it. Lines up again. Shoots.

He used to find this fun, back in the bad old days of a soldier’s youth. Back when you could laugh anything off—especially killing.

Is this evil, he wonders, as he cores out the cockpit of a Nemo.

Am I a monster, he asks himself, as he plugs a hangar, and it suddenly erupts with the strobe-flash of a mobile suit’s reactor vaporizing.

Will people ever absolve me, he thinks, as he downs pilot after pilot, ends life after life. Will Zeonists of the future look back at this and say it had to be done? Just like we say about Sydney?

That’s the funny thing, isn’t it. How do you measure whether an act is good or evil?

This will have a good effect, he thinks. Laplace’s Box will finally be in the hands of Zeon, and they can tear down the Federation’s high tower once and for all. Build something kinder.

But, may God forgive him, the things they will have had to do. The evils they will have done, in pursuit of that great good.

If God tells you that, to cast down the tyrants, to honor the life of the Prophet, to make real all that the faithful deserve, you must do beastly things, do you have a choice? Is it wicked to refuse that?

Does that future promise justify murder? Rape? Genocide? Can future triumph wipe that away?

And yet. But even so.

Kirks is a soldier. He receives orders and acts upon them. He’s the thing that dispenses authority, makes it real. He’s the thing that turns ideology into reality. That’s all that matters, right?

Without soldiers, Zeon would be nothing but the name of a crazy old man who lived, wrote, and died in anonymity.

Without soldiers, the Federation would be bleeding the colonies dry without a trace of resistance.

A soldier can’t afford to worry about doing evil in the service of future good. A soldier can’t sum up all the good and evil that he’s done, hoping it’ll net out positive. All a soldier can do is identify what is right, what must be done right now, and do that. Forever. He must do the right thing, even when it kills him. He must do what is just, even when it will destroy someone innocent. He must follow his ideals no matter what because without those he is a criminal.

Kirks shakes his head, clearing his mind of these thoughts. They can’t help him aim or fly. He keeps plugging away, stippling Torrington Base with beam fire.

“New contacts!” cries Echo Zero, “FL one hundred and dropping fast. Maneuvering indicates bandit mobile suits. Foxtrot callsigns disengage and climb to cherubs ten, extend at your own judgment.”

Kirks mutters a curse. Ten thousand feet and dropping? The newcomers aren’t coming from Torrington. A Garuda? A carrier?

“Bank right,” Kirks mutters to the pilot of his helicopter, and his stomach drops as the world outside swings past. The flames and lights of Torrington Base drop away and suddenly all he can see is the deep black sky, and the far-off lights of the descending mobile suits, and above them, the ship that brought them here. He punches the key for infrared visuals, and the Zaku’s computer gives him a silhouette match. A Ra Cailum-class. Londo Bell is here.

There’s a little pearl of sick, woozy dread in Kirks’ stomach asking whether Londo Bell knew, whether he and his men have been set up.

Was Torrington bait?

“Ground units!” he barks, “Eyes on airborne bandits! Don’t let them surprise you!”

This is a mistake. Someone screams, and is cut off. The radio explodes with sudden chatter, all procedure forgotten.

“FNG, move your ass! He’s behind you!”

There’s something new down there in Torrington, something his men can’t stop.

“Working north, fuck, where’d he go?”

“Bandit, cherubs one! Move it! He has-”

Kirks’ finger twitches on the push-to-talk button, he needs to be pointed at the ground, he needs to stop the thing killing his men, but the newcoming bandits-

“Bandits still descending,” says Echo Zero. “Foxtrot callsigns break north, they’re working towards you. Kilo Six, engage-” Echo Zero is cut off by something. Kirks grunts in sudden terror—his electronic eyes are down.

“Echo Zero!” he shouts, “What state?”

“Echo Zero bent,” says someone. Kirks doesn’t know who and will never find out.

Echo Zero has nothing left to say. Without the EWAC Zack, the Zeon Remnants forces are running on their own sensors.

For the first time, Kirks begins to think he might not live through this.

“Loni,” he mutters, as he lines up his crosshairs on one of the descending mobile suits, and fuck are they moving fast, “Wait a little longer, girl. I’m not done yet.”

#

Marida waits until the Federation radar goes down to drop out from the Garencieres’ cargo bay.

Below her, the great skyscraper-sized gravestones of Island Iffish reach up at the Unicorn, grasping greedily for her and the Garencieres. As she descends, they loom larger and larger, until the Unicorn is plunging down past the peak of one, acres of vertical steel rushing past bare meters from one fingertip. She slows herself with a burst of rocket thrust, angling for a crag she can stand on. The compass tells her the waypoint is about a kilometer to the south, where one of the fragments has fallen over to form a rusty island.

“Proceed, Unicorn,” says her Master. “grab that waypoint so we can go.”

She clicks her mic and mashes the travel pedal, and the Unicorn’s rockets shriek as their turbopumps spool to maximum power before she is launched away from the crumbling wreckage on a pillar of light. She only uses quick bursts of thrust, minimizing gravity losses, and now she’s ballistic again, hanging in the seatbelts in temporary free-fall.

Around her, the ghosts sing.

On the flight here, as she suited up, Marida could feel them. It was like gravity, a force pulling from deep beneath the ground, fueled by the same dull, remote menace as a black hole. The Garencieres was helpless to that force, sliding headlong downhill towards that great gulf of moral weight.

Evil has a smell to it. It tastes like metal on the tongue—like radiation. This place is crawling with it, redolent with that memory. It’s like the terroir of this place, a tang that touches everything, something that gets baked into every decision and consequence.

It’s a miracle the Federation can stand to have built a base at Torrington, let alone a city. That dark terroir drifts in in the air, suffuses the soil, taints the water. It’s all around Marida now.

She wonders whether the Unicorn’s designers knew this. Did they know that Laplace would be haunted by the weight of its past? Did they know that Sydney Bay was poisoned by all that malice and death? Did they choose these places capriciously, based on some twisted criteria of poetic irony?

Can you build a sensor for the slick, metallic evil that Marida can taste here? Can you build an instrument that will quantify the terroir that only mass death can create? Can you measure evil, model virtue, simulate which decisions are fateful and huge, and which are insignificant and futile?

What if that’s what the Unicorn is? What if that’s what the Box is?

Marida is shaken from her thoughts by the sudden wail of the proximity alarm. There, to her left and above, she can feel the pressure, the intention, the line of death-potential that stretches from the muzzle of the gun to the ballistic arc beyond. She moves, shunting the Unicorn upwards with bone-jarring force.

Something huge, midnight-dark, and completely deadly rushes past where she just was. She kicks the Unicorn into a somersault, draws the beam magnum, and lines up a shot on-

No.

It can’t be.

“Gundam,” says the thing driving Marida’s lips.

#

The bridge of the Ra Cailum drips with tension.

It’s a common misconception that a ship’s control room is loud, during an engagement. In reality it’s quiet, almost eerily so—every crewmember concentrated utterly on their own task, speaking in low, careful tones. Nobody shouts. Not unless the ship itself is hit.

On Ra Cailum’s bridge, you could hear a pin drop.

The door opens and Lieutenant Capa steps in. Bright raises an eyebrow.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “I thought you were supposed to be in your cockpit. We’re in a combat situation.”

“I understand, sir,” she says, “But I don’t agree.”

“With what?”

“With my orders, Captain. I should be down there with Victor.”

Bright considers this, but only for a moment. “No.”

She stiffens. “Why not?”

Bright spares a glance at the tactical display and lets his eyes rotate through their path—radar, mobile suit status, propulsion status, weapons status, navigation, back to radar. “Because he needs you alive. And because he’s flying a Gundam.”

“We can’t allow him to be alone right now,” says Capa, and it’s clear that we only refers to one person, “He needs someone to watch over him! He is still young!”

Bright sighs. There’s no way he’ll be able to get through Capa’s attachment to the boy.

“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing with him,” he replies, “He needs to deploy alone.”

“And what is that?”

Bright thinks of the Banshee’s ugly, horned visage, of the glass vials in Victor’s quarters, of the boy’s empty gaze and slim build and shaggy brown hair. “I saw the medicine you’re giving him. Testosterone cypionate, among many others. It’s an anabolic steroid. And an androgen. You’re manufacturing a new Amuro.”

Her eyes widen. “You knew?”

“I guessed,” he admits, “But you may as well have just confirmed it. Come on, Lieutenant, think about the situation for more than a moment, from the Gundams to Full Frontal and now Victor. The conditions of the One Year War are being systematically recreated. This situation isn’t coincidence or fate, it’s being deliberately engineered.”

“Ra Cailum, this is Uniform Zero Seven,” squawk the bridge speakers, interrupting Capa’s reply, “Uniform Zero now at cherubs one five, anticipate merge in thirty seconds.” Lieutenant Garrett’s voice.

“Comms,” says Bright, “Tell them to report to Torrington C2, and tell them they’re cleared to engage on my authority.”

The radio officer nods and relays the order.

“If this incident is being deliberately engineered,” says Capa, “Then Captain, you know how important Victor is.”

“Yes. That’s why he needs to operate alone. He’s a Gundam pilot. It’s the only way to pressure him into performing.”

“You’re operating like a Titans officer,” growls Capa, her expression going dark. “Rejecting combined arms and pushing Newtype officers to the front line on their own. Isn’t this a little old-fashioned, Captain?” There’s venom in the emphasis she puts on Captain.

Bright grits his teeth against the slight—it’s a matter of honor for a Londo Bell man, to distinguish himself from the Titans. Not even Bright is immune to the urge.

“Weapons!” he barks, more to buy himself time for a response than anything else, “There are slow-moving bandits at FL ten, not mobile suits. Target and ripple missiles, one per contact.”

“Ripple missiles, aye,” replies the weapons officer. “Uniform Zero, Ra Cailum. Six birds away, flash IFF.”

There’s a faint roar as the missiles jump from their launch tubes, twisting this way and that as they hunt downwards towards the Zeon aircraft.

“There’s a theory,” says Bright, finally ready to reply to Capa. “About ‘Men of Destiny.’”

“I’ve heard this before,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “It’s a tiresome holdover from the early Eighties. It assumes that history selects for a few so-called ‘great men,’ as though somehow only those few, and that sex alone, are responsible for the swerves of fate.”

“Yes, I used to agree,” says Bright. “But consider the Axis Shock. Or the attempted nuclear strike on Laplace. Miracles, caused by individual people. Miracles that change the course of history. These phenomena were real, Capa, and they were caused by single individuals. Not by economic forces or institutional factors, not by military cybernetics, but by a number of people you can count on one hand.”

“You speak of psycho-frame phenomena,” says Capa, “But the psycho-frame is infamous for its unpredictability. Aren’t you ascribing a lot to a single technology?”

Bright sighs. “I’m not really talking about psycho-frames. I’m talking about Gundams. Over and over again, we’ve seen the course of history contort itself around Gundams and the young men that pilot them. It’s like there’s something about those machines that makes them more than real. That makes things happen to them, in ways we can’t predict.”

“You mean to say that you’re deliberately subjecting my…my Victor to these events?” The accusation is clear in Capa’s tone. Bright has no choice but to invite her wrath by nodding.

“You created Victor for this,” he says. “You created him with the express purpose of manufacturing a man of destiny. Lieutenant, you must have known this would happen.”

Her eyes narrow. “You know nothing about my motivations.”

“I don’t need to,” he shrugs. “You see yourself as his mother. That makes it simple—you have a hunger to live through your child’s body and actions the way only a mother can. Only a parent thinks they own someone the way you do.”

“And you’re any better?” she asks, gesturing with one hand to the tactical display and all the tiny mobile suit icons. As they watch, one blinks red. Shot down by a Zeon unit. Bright will be writing the letter to the family later. “You use your pilots as proxies every time you send them out.”

Bright thinks of precocious Hathaway and his desperation to board a mobile suit, the child’s innocence seeing past the spectacle of military doctrine to the real truth: Mobile suits manufacture history at the cost of young men.

“I’m not better,” Bright admits, because he must. It’s craven, what he does. “A mother believes she owns her child out of misguided love, but I know I own my soldiers because of my commission. Because if they do not obey my beck and call, they have failed. The military is a thing that makes men into dogs, myself included.”

“Then you admit you too are a dog, owned and controlled by your superiors.”

“Yes,” Bright says. “Being a soldier is craven, but it must be done. Only a soldier can make ideology real, and turn high-minded concepts like ‘justice’ and ‘fairness’ into material reality. I now know that this world is haunted by the Gundam, and inhabited by the hungry ghosts of Amuro, Char, and all the victims of the One Year War. Only by revealing the secret of Laplace’s Box can we break the cycle, and give them a chance to rest.”

“People say Laplace’s Box could destroy the Federation,” she says, regarding him quizzically. “You’re a poor hound, I fear, to fight for your master’s destruction.”

“It’s not the duty of a soldier to think about the consequences of their actions,” Bright replies. “Consequences are imposed by the world. The only duty I have is to make the right decision, the one I know to be just. The one I know is motivated by truly good intentions.”

“And you’ll make the right decision,” says Capa, as a cold smile spreads across her face, “Even if it turns out poorly? Even if it destroys you and your men? Even if it destroys Victor?”

“That’s the problem with the Vist Foundation,” says Bright, and he’s no longer really talking to Capa, he’s talking to Staff Headquarters, and Martha Vist Carbine, and all the other vultures that inhabit the high echelons of the Federation, “They’re so preoccupied with their longtermist agenda that they think consequences are all there is. They’ve damned themselves irrevocably because they are physically unable to make altruistic decisions. I refuse to stoop to that level.”

#

The ghosts of Sydney aren’t singing any longer. It’s too loud to hear their voices.

Marida Cruz has acquired a fix on her target. It is a Gundam, and its eyes leer at her from the distant darkness.

She is tracking its motions—it maneuvers like she does, sudden jumps of massive thrust, interspersed with ballistic coast phases. Boost, fall. Boost, fall. Boost, fall.

She selects an appropriate weapon: The beam magnum. It will melt through the Gundam’s hull and frame and pilot alike.

She achieves a targeting solution—the computer doesn’t know when the Gundam will leap, but she does. She’s inside the target’s mind.

The kill chain closes. She toggles the weapon release key and prosecutes the conflict.

 The black Unicorn dodges. Impossible.

She fires again. It dodges.

“You,” she growls, not knowing that she’s saying the words aloud, because her body doesn’t mean anything now, it’s just a conduit to funnel intention into action, “You demon. I’m going to wipe you away.”

Suffer not the Gundam. It is a locus of suffering. An instrument of misery. It warps and stretches history, turning possibility into catastrophe. It is an engine of tragedy, a fully automated instrument for manufacturing Federation atrocities. Kill it, Ple Twelve. Kill it now.

She hammers the travel pedal and the Unicorn’s thrusters answer, and she’s plunging down towards the target, stooping like a falcon. She wishes to draw a beam saber and it appears in her hand. She wishes to cut apart the enemy and her arm swings. The black Unicorn runs, but she’s chasing it. They have total parity. She will catch it eventually. She was made for this.

The Unicorns are blasting across Sydney Bay, juking between wreckage fragments the size of upturned ships. At times they skim the water, kicking huge sheets of spray, while at others they kiss the peaks of those fragments, kicking off the crumbling, rusting ruins to vault themselves higher into the night sky. Marida shoots, she slices, she does all the good work expected of a true Zeon soldier.

None of it makes a difference.

You’re faster than the last one, the black Gundam’s bloody, gleaming eyes seem to say, she couldn’t run. But my mother says I have to stop playing now.

The thought is so shocking that it stops Marida in her tracks—the Unicorn catches a foothold on a colony fragment and just stands there.

“You mean,” she mutters, to the black Unicorn, to herself, to nobody at all, “You mean you’ve been playing this whole time?”

Haven’t you? Asks the strange willpower that leaks from the black Unicorn in sticky, viscous ropes. It drips across everything, beading up on strands that dangle from the ruins and gum up the Unicorn’s joints. Haven’t we been playing together?

“No!” howls Marida, “This is not a game! You are a Gundam! I am your killer!  Now die!”

The Unicorn finally takes the hint and eats her.

#

Victor Two blinks in befuddlement. He had thought the game was going spectacularly. He would run, the enemy would chase, and they went so fast and she shot so many beams at him, and they all missed! It was grand stuff.

But the Unicorn wants to hurt him now.

Miss Capa says that hurting Victor is bad, which means the Unicorn is bad. The Unicorn wants to harm Vist Foundation property and interests, and jeopardize the future of the Vist name. This is also bad.

Miss Capa also says that any action that opposes evil is automatically good. That used to make sense, but it’s a bit confusing now, because the Unicorn didn’t start being evil until just now!

“Miss Capa,” he says, knowing that she is listening, “The target is transforming. It is in Destroy Mode now. Should I reengage?”

“Yes,” she says, after a moment’s hesitation, and his heart warms at the sound of her voice. He wishes she would do the weird ruffling thing with her hand in his hair. Maybe after he puts down the Unicorn and goes home she will. He smiles at the thought. Feeling good is good, so this is all right.

“Yes, Victor, reengage,” she says. “Capture if possible. Only destroy it if you have no other choice.”

“Yes, Miss Capa,” he says, and nods. It makes sense. The hornless Unicorn (which Victor Two was led to believe is just supposed to be called a horse) is also Vist Foundation property, so he should not damage it.

“Did you hear that, Banshee?” he asks his machine, and it hums in response, “We have to capture it, and we can’t play now.”

The Banshee agrees and does its thing—the control sticks are snatched away, and he is reclined into the acceleration-resistant neutral body posture. Victor doesn’t notice the brutal acceleration of the Banshee’s six engines at full power, nor does he notice the desperate twisting and juking of his target. All he notices is that the Banshee tries to deploy the Armed Armor VN, but he makes it stop and switch to the BS instead. Clean cuts from the smart beam will be cheaper to repair than the total disruption of the vibro-nail. His Master would approve of him being so careful.

“Please come back!” he urges the Unicorn, “Let me capture you!”

I would sooner die, says the thing inside the Unicorn, than let a creature like you capture me.

This seems like a tautological statement to Victor because of course the Unicorn will die if he can’t capture it. He responds the only logical way you can to such a statement, which is to ignore it.

“Please let me capture you!” he repeats. “Stop running!”

You’re reactionary, whispers the Unicorn, all you can do is deny and conceal. Truth means nothing to a dog like you.

Victor has been called a dog before. People at Augusta, and people on Ra Cailum, sometimes call him that. But Victor is told that dogs are loving and obedient, so there are worse things he could be.

A good boy does what his Master asks. A good dog hunts whoever its owner wishes. This is good. It’s good to be a dog.

“I’m going to stop you now,” says the Banshee, driving Victor’s lips by remote control, “So please don’t fight back.”

Victor thinks that the Unicorn is running too fast, and the Banshee agrees. The Armed Armor BS lashes out and severs a great slice of metal from one of the towering fragments, forcing the Unicorn to hesitate. This makes it easier to catch. The Unicorn darts this way and that, but now the Banshee is on top of it, reaching with its great vibro-nail, tearing a chunk from the wreckage. Missed, but that’s okay. Another swipe with the smart gun cuts off another avenue of escape. Come here, Unicorn! Come back!

There’s a strange feeling from the Unicorn. Victor got it from the Shamblo too, before he inactivated it.

“She’s afraid of you,” whispers the shadow-thing, “You scare her.”

“Why?” asks Victor. The Banshee reaches for the Unicorn again. This time, the claws catch the enemy’s beam magnum and shred it. The Banshee shivers with delight—just a little further. Just a little more. It’ll be so sweet when we catch her.

“I just want to stop her,” says Victor, “Isn’t that good?”

“And if she doesn’t let you stop her?” asks the shadow.

“I don’t understand,” Victor admits. “Of course she will.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I will make her.”

The Unicorn is finally cornered. Good work, Banshee! Good boy, Victor!

“Would you still do this,” asks the shadow, “If you knew it would hurt her?”

“Yes,” says the Banshee, though Victor’s still thinking about his answer, but he can’t move his lips, not without its approval, “especially if it hurt her.”

“So it’s the logic of authority,” says the shadow, “you presume your right to coerce.”

“Yes,” says Victor, tearing down a thousand-ton wall in pursuit of the fleeing Unicorn.

“Then this is only fair,” says the thing that haunts Victor, the thing that lies at the edges of his vision, the thing that watches him with sleepless, rapt attention. And then it makes him understand.

The Unicorn is a girl named Marida Cruz. She is very, very familiar with what Victor is doing.

The imposition of will. The logic of the grasping hand and leering eye. The subordination of the body. It has all happened before, so many times.

The worst part of it, Marida knows, is that eventually you begin to rationalize it. You justify the things that happen—it could be worse. At least I’m alive. At least they don’t want to hurt me—permanently. They don’t know they’re hurting me. They can’t be blamed. I deserve it. I deserve it.

Things in this world have a way of happening again.

Char and Full Frontal.

Lalah and Quess.

The colonies dropped on Australia and North America.

Island Iffish was the largest single thing to hit Earth for the last thirty million years. It was large enough that most of its casualties were from compressive heating, before the colony even touched down. It was so loud that its shockwave cannot be described by sound pressure decibels. It hit the crust so hard they think it opened up new natural gas veins in the Northern Territory.

Look, Victor can see it now—a giant steel fist punching its way down through the troposphere. A metal overcast, a man-made weather event, a thunderstorm of metal, glass, and re-entry plasma. By the time it broke the tropopause, radios would already be inoperable—too many charged particles in the air, as the thing’s speed strips oxygen and nitrogen down to ions. Look at the way that impossibly huge thing looms, eating up the sky, devouring the future. Watch as it eats up possibility itself, choice and consequence giving way to simple thermodynamics.

The Banshee puts its hands up in unconscious warding, but it’s meaningless. Iffish is too huge, its speed too great. There’s more kinetic energy in the colony than all the atomic explosions in human history. Total.

In its own way, the colony drop was a miracle. Or perhaps a catastrophe, in the mathematical sense—a cusp between attractors, the razor edge that separates what is from what might have been. Only something so brutal has the power to swerve the course of history into a different path.

Much like a Gundam.

“Please,” begs Victor Two, as the colony looms above him, as the buildings and trees and people and soil are set alight by the heat.

“Please,” begs Victor Two, as a million tons of seawater flashes to steam in the time it takes him to say the word.

“Please,” begs Victor Two, as Zeon Zum Deikun’s dream of a better world crashes down to Earth with literally astronomical force, “Make it stop. Please stop.”

“Don’t you understand?” asks the shadow, “This thing and you are two of a kind. Catastrophes set loose upon the world. The uttermost extreme of authority. For Marida, there is no difference between a Gundam and a colony drop.”

“This is evil,” says Victor Two, and he is finally confident in saying the word. The forceful bending of history is too grim to countenance, an unconscionable crime.

“Yes,” says the shadow, and Victor watches with horror through Marida’s eyes as her arm is torn away by the vibro-nail, as a leg is severed by the smart beam’s violet whiplash, “But you can stop it.”

“I can stop it,” echoes Victor, because he knows he can. The Banshee spreads a black angel wing, angular feathers arcing off of one shoulder—Miss Capa’s ace in the hole.

“Banshee!” screams Victor, and suddenly its rapacious hunger is turned upon him. It loves this. It loves murder. It loves eating Newtypes, even the artificial ones. Maybe it’ll eat him too. “Stop this! Stop it now!”

The Banshee hesitates, shudders, twitching in mechanical grand mal. But it responds. The angel wing splits apart, and its feathers fly.

Victor Two is trapped inside Marida, trapped inside the Banshee, trapped within his own body. He screams, he shivers, he retches, he pisses himself. He’s fragmented, not Victor Two but a collection of half-people, less than the sum of his parts. One eye glares in rage, the other crammed shut with fright. One hand clenches a control stick, punching, stabbing, killing. The other trembles outstretched and useless.

And then the waters of Sydney Bay rush up to meet him and it all goes dark.

#

“Captain!” cries the radio officer, “Banshee radio and IFF down, psycommu hooter active! No response from pilot.”

“No!” hisses Capa, and leaps to the officer’s side, seizing her headset. “Victor!” she says, “Victor Two, respond! Respond now!”

Bright taps his own headset. “Uniform Zero, Ra Cailum, what state.”

“Uniform Zero Seven is three-two-two by zero plus forty.”

“Uniform Zero Eight is two-one-two by zero plus forty-five.”

“Uniform Zero Nine, three-zero-one minus by zero plus thirty.”

“Uniform Romeo is two-two-zero by zero plus twenty-five.”

Bright nods as the reports come in. His Jestas and Delta Plus still have playtime to spare.

“Uniform Zero,” he says, “disengage and break south. Blow through any bandits and establish visual on Banshee. Check data on tightline for coordinates.” Bright snaps his fingers and points to the second tactical officer and they comply wordlessly. Somewhere down below, one of Ra Cailum’s laser tightline turrets swivels to draw a bead on the flight of Jestas.

“Ra Cailum, Uniform Zero, wilco.”

“Lieutenant,” says Bright, looking over to Capa, who is blanched with fright, “What happened?”

“The Banshee’s psycommu jammers,” replies Capa, still staring at the display, as though her unblinking attention alone can bring Victor Two home, “They disabled both Unicorn units.”

Down on Sydney Bay, the wind has finally died down. The ghosts no longer sing. They’ve done all they can.

Chapter Text

Someone knocks on Cardeas’ door.

“Come,” he says, and isn’t surprised to find that the visitor is his bodyguard, Gael Chan.

“Sir,” says Gael, with only a butler’s modicum of reproach, “You’re still awake.”

Cardeas has been awake for over twenty hours. The Unicorn project taught him how to ration sleep. Besides, he’s getting old. Energy is for the young, while expertise is for the old.

“I am,” he admits.

“I have taken the liberty of making your bed and preparing your nightclothes,” says Gael, direct as ever.

“Not yet,” says Cardeas, turning his eyes back to the big display on the Magallanica’s bridge. A grainy image of the Unicorn hovers there, mangled by compression, transmission, and noise correction algorithms. “Something has happened to it.”

“Of course, sir,” agrees Gael, “It is, in your own words, a ‘causal catalyst,’ a thing that prompts change. It is the process of ‘happening’ given form.”

Hearing his words echoed in Gael’s deep, warm tones sends a shiver down Cardeas’ spine. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “It’s more than that. A deontic realignment. The pilot somehow pushed it into moral departure.”

Gael blinks at this. He’s a smart man, but he hasn’t designed a mobile suit. The intricacies of psycommu mean nothing to him.

Then again, considers Cardeas, he barely designed the Unicorn himself. Too many times, things happened with the psycho-frame, the software, the psycommu integration, that were better than coincidence. Intractable engineering problems suddenly became solvable. Limit cycles became stable. Control systems developed poles and zeros at will.

The project manager and assembly staff attributed these things to numerical errors, design oversights, CAD flukes, but Cardeas has another theory:

The Unicorn wanted to be born. Therefore, all the things that would lead to its birth came to pass.

Cardeas reaches for a control board and swipes a new window onto the big display. It shows a twisting, peaky 3D plot, a nightmare landscape studded with craters and mountains and valleys. It’s color-coded by gradient steepness, so it glimmers on the screen like an oil slick given life, an eerily organic technicolor blob of data.

“This is the deontic manifold of the Unicorn Gundam,” he says. “The range of permissible intentions and outcomes it can accept from its pilot and sensors.”

“A system of morality in computer code,” says Gael, after a moment’s thought. “Is that it, sir?”

“Close enough for government work,” nods Cardeas, then chuckles at the joke. “Yes, the Unicorn is a moral instrument. It’s tied too deeply into the mind of the pilot to be anything but.”

“A gun that won’t shoot good men,” says Gael, “Or perhaps a gun that only shoots evil ones, even if its trigger isn’t pulled.”

Cardeas wants to agree but doesn’t know if he can. The truth is, they only figured out the deontic manifold after they tested the OS.

Another thing given to them by the Unicorn, not the other way around.

“What does it mean, sir?”

“It means,” says Cardeas, “that somehow the Unicorn’s pilot gave it something unconscionable.” He pulls up another window, one crowded with squirmy limit cycle loops and jagged spectral plots. “Look at this. Not one, not two, but three ego signatures. And this,” and here he brings up another window, “Look, the intention traces are all off. That Sleeves pilot isn’t a soldier, she’s a weapon.”

Gael stares at the data, then blinks stonily. It means nothing to the man, Cardeas knows. For a moment he feels foolish for even showing it. “Sir,” says Cardeas’ most loyal man, “I was given to understand that a soldier is a weapon.”

“A soldier follows orders,” replies Cardeas, “A weapon is compelled to do its wielder’s bidding.”

“I don’t understand, sir. A soldier is compelled by his orders.”

“No, Gael,” says Cardeas, “A soldier chooses to follow his orders. He always chooses.”

Gael nods. “I see, sir. And this pilot did not choose to act?”

“No,” Cardeas says, glaring at the big screen and all its inscrutable data, “She did not. And worse than that, she wasn’t alone inside the psycommu. Something is going wrong. Something Grandfather didn’t anticipate.”

“Where is the Unicorn now, sir?”

“At the second checkpoint. Torrington.”

“Then the Sleeves will know to come here next.”

“No,” says Cardeas, “Not yet. The deontic realignment prevented the release of the next coordinates. It’s locked, until…” and he trails off.

“Locked until what, sir?”

Cardeas has no choice but to shrug. “I don’t know. We never fully understood how the Unicorn’s morality network functioned. It needs to achieve a new alignment fix. Either it and the pilot will come to mesh again, in a way that is moral and just, or…or they will not. In which case we will have failed.”

“Then it is out of your hands, sir. You should rest.”

Cardeas sighs and relents. “Fine. I’ll sleep. But I want the Waterhouse fueled and a Silver Bullet loaded while I’m resting. We can’t sit passively by and let the Federation and Sleeves sabotage their own future.”

#

Marida is alive, to her surprise.

She woke up to find herself lying in a bed with an IV line in her arm. Not altogether an unfamiliar experience, but she was more surprised to find herself immobilized, strapped down to the bed, when she tried to rise.

“Hey,” she says, unable to see anyone beyond the curtain that surrounds her, “I’m awake.” No use saying useless shit like who’s there or where am I.

She hears footsteps, and the curtain is drawn aside. She locks eyes with a narrow, angular woman with long white hair and shapeless clothes. There’s a brightness about the woman, a sense of something realer than truth, a gem-fire shine.

“Marida Cruz, Lieutenant Junior Grade, Sleeves forces,” says Marida, because it is the only thing she can be compelled to say as a prisoner of war. Best to get it all out in the open sooner rather than later. She would salute if she could, but her arms are restrained by the bed’s straps.

“Lieutenant Gianna Capa,” says the woman, and she smiles, but only just. “You’re aboard the Londo Bell ship Ra Cailum.”

Marida says nothing, because she is a prisoner of war, and is not required to give them anything but her name and rank.

“You should know,” says Capa, “The Federation regards the Sleeves as a terrorist group, not a legitimate military.”

So that they can kill us after we surrender, thinks Marida. Even though we fight them with the kid gloves on. Funny, that.

Capa shrugs. “It was Staff Headquarters’ idea, not mine.”

No such thing as coincidence. Once is bad luck, twice is enemy action.

“There’s no need for a one-sided conversation,” says Marida. This amuses the woman, which irritates her. “What is the status of my mobile suit?”

“You’re not getting back in it yet,” says Capa, “If that’s what you’re wondering.” It’s clear, however, that she knows that’s not what Marida was asking. Frustration lingers behind Capa’s words, frustration at the Unicorn. Its systems must be locked in Marida’s absence.

“Anyways,” Capa continues, “I’m not interested in interrogating or debriefing you. I wanted to ask how you are feeling, Lieutenant Cruz.”

Marida considers this—she wants to give an honest answer. Zinnerman always griped when she would respond “nominal,” or “acceptable” when he asked after her. “My body is sore,” she eventually says.

“I’m not surprised,” says Capa. “The maneuvers you were performing could have killed a baseline human pilot.”

The maneuvers. Running away from the black Gundam. It all comes crashing back to Marida at once—the ghosts’ song, the looming colony fragments, the flickering of beam fire in the night. She grunts in surprise at the sudden onset of panic, the red alert fight-or-flight burning in her veins.

She knows exactly where the Unicorn is, relative to her. She knows exactly what it looks like, with its ersatz features and scarred body. She knows that the black Unicorn, the Gundam, the Adversary, is parked right next to it. If she was free to move, she could fight her way there—she’s been familiarized with the internal layout of the Ra Cailum-class.

“Lieutenant Cruz,” says Capa, “I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner. I want you to feel like a guest. After all, when the Unicorn is concerned, the rules of warfare get bent a little.”

“You want me to view you as someone you can trust,” says Marida, “So that you can extract information about the Unicorn without having to resort to, what does the Federation call it, enhanced interrogation techniques?”

“Something like that,” admits Capa, shrugging again. “But I do have a vested interest in your comfort.”

“And why is that?”

Capa’s eyes glance down to Marida’s belly, where her uterus isn’t. “Because you are a Ple unit. A Cyber Newtype.”

Marida, by force of will, does not respond in the slightest. I am a Cyber Newtype, she admits to herself, and thinks nothing else but that simple truism. Do not grant the enemy a foothold.

“You’re afraid of me knowing this,” observes Capa, and Marida refuses to let the woman know whether she is right or not to say so, “But I am one as well. We share that, at least.”

Capa isn’t a Ple clone—she’s an earlier unit. From the Gryps era, Marida guesses, and Capa nods fractionally.

“You were with the Titans,” says Marida, not yet quite sure. Capa’s smile is crushed away by an unhappy tightening of her lips, and she looks away. Those were dark years, the woman wants to say but does not.

“I was one of the lucky ones,” Capa finally admits, her words coming measured and calm despite the dark currents of self-destruction that swirl in her thoughts, “In that I wasn’t a terribly good pilot.” She chuckles. “All I had going for me was that I was stable and predictable.”

Marida knows what happened to the Cyber Newtypes who were good pilots. She’s one of them.

“So then,” says Marida, “Was it you?”

Capa’s frown disappears-not gone, just hidden-and she glances back towards Marida. “Was what me?”

“The black Gundam,” growls Marida, fighting tooth and nail against the thing inside her that shrieks at the name. She can see the machine’s grinning demon face now.

“No,” says Capa, and steps over to the curtained-off bed next to Marida. She draws the papery fabric aside, revealing a sleeping boy with long brown hair in the same off-white hospital garments as Marida’s. He’s stick-thin, with hollow cheeks and bulbous knuckles, and his eyes are deeply shadowed by bruised sockets.

Something in the line of sight immediately assaults Marida, as though her awareness of him is being weaponized. As though there’s something riding her perception of him, foreign code execution through the eye.

Idly, Marida considers exactly how she would swing herself out of the bed, catch a foot on its frame, and launch herself towards the Gundam’s pilot, all for the purpose of jamming her thumb and index fingers into his eye sockets. It probably wouldn’t kill him, but he’d be stunned and blinded—at that point, the choice between asphyxiation or tried-and-true head trauma would be down to personal preference.

Unfortunately, someone put these damn straps here.

“His name is Victor Two,” says Capa, placing herself defensively in front of Victor.

“He doesn’t look like much of a Gundam pilot,” says Marida, because it’s the truth. The Federation loves their boy-wonder Gundam rockstars, with cute haircuts and narrow, determined eyes. This Victor Two, helpless and frail, doesn’t fit the bill.

The boy twitches gently and murmurs something that Marida can’t hear. Capa reaches behind herself semi-unconsciously and catches hold of one of Victor’s hands. Marida thinks he relaxes at the touch, just slightly.

“So people keep telling me,” says Capa, looking down at him with something hotly possessive in her eye. Marida notices the way her gaze lingers on the IV bag for a moment. Capa looks back up, meeting Marida’s eye, and her countenance has lost any softness-there’s only steel behind those knife-edged features. “You will not hurt him, Lieutenant Marida Cruz.”

“I am a soldier,” replies Marida, “If I am ordered to hurt him, I must.”

“Are those your standing orders?” asks Capa, inclining her head slightly in a way that lends her a calculating aspect. “Were you ordered to harm Victor when you sortied in the Unicorn?”

“No,” says Marida, despite herself, because it’s the truth.

“You’re under orders to open the Box,” says the woman. Marida says nothing, but the woman smiles coldly and nods. “It’s true, isn’t it. You think the Box will give you a miracle with which to save the dying dream of Zeon. To rescue a moribund ideal from the murky depths of memory and make it real.”

“Retrieve Laplace’s Box for us,” said Full Frontal. For us, the Sleeves. Not for Zeon. Not for him.

“Come back alive,” said her Master, and she knew it was selfish of him.

 “Take personal responsibility for the Box,” said the Princess, though in far more words than that, as is her wont.

Marida has no desires for the box, save for those impressed upon her. It’s the lot of a soldier.

And yet, she cannot summon a response to Capa’s guess. Is Capa right? Is she wrong? Marida realizes now that she cannot say.

What kind of soldier is she, that she can no longer identify that deterministic, arrow-straight path from her current disposition to the conclusion of the ideals she claims to support? The foundation has fallen out from under her. She is a creature of reaction, animated by dead ideas. A hollow thing.

A doll.

Her center no longer holds. Things fall apart.

#

Operation Bishop has failed. The Federation will win. The promise of Laplace’s Box will be squandered, and the Republic of Zeon will dissolve, and with it, the last vestiges of anti-geocentric thought.

The Rewloola has gone very quiet now—the Sleeves’ purpose is holed, the Unicorn lost.

Mineva wonders whether this is truly what the Vist Foundation desired. Why give the Box’s key to the Sleeves, if not for them to use it? Why not give Zeonists, even misguided ones, the chance to change the Federation forever, only for them to fail?

It must not be the case. The Unicorn is a message, encoded for reasons as yet inscrutable to Mineva, but encoded nonetheless. It was not made to be a weapon, nor a prize. It is a message from the Vist Foundation, a declaration of some intent, of some desire for the universe to change, for fate to swing on its axis.

The Unicorn is a prayer.

Not all prayers are answered, but some are. Here on the bleeding knife-edge of history, teetering between the straight path and the swerve, a prayer is all it would take.

In the quiet of her bunk within the Guards’ quarters, Mineva sits cross-legged, presses her palms together in front of her, and closes her eyes.

Please, she calls with all her strength, don’t allow the Unicorn to be so poorly spent. Don’t allow Marida to die in captivity.

Hundreds of thousands of miles distant, belted into the cockpit of the Vist Foundation shuttle Waterhouse, Cardeas Vist stirs from his sleep, suddenly knowing what he must do.

It will be self-destructive. It will alienate his family. It may kill him. But it doesn’t matter.

Emmanuel Levinas wrote that ethics precedes being, that responsibility is imposed before the objects of that responsibility arrive. The Right is absolute, written on a deeper plane than mere physical reality.

Do the right thing, Cardeas. You were born with this responsibility. To live is to be responsible, to bear that ethical burden with every heartbeat.

Martha thinks you can construct the Right from the set of outcomes that are Good. She thinks that ethics is a retroactive thing, a corrective tool for history, but you know the truth, don’t you Cardeas? The Right is already known. It always has been.

So do the right thing. You were made for it.

Chapter Text

Bright doesn’t think he likes Ensign Riddhe Marcenas very much.

He’s too aware of his own significance. Too certain of his role in the universe’s story. Too much like his father.

But he’s a Gundam pilot, and he seems to know it. That counts for more than it should, in Bright’s eyes. Nothing more dangerous than a soldier who doesn’t know how deadly his weapon is.

The two officers eye each other from across Bright’s desk, in his quarters.

“You wanted to speak, Ensign?” says Bright, because Marcenas requested him specifically, not the XO.

“Yes, sir,” says Marcenas, “It’s about my father.”

Fucking of course it is. It always is. The poor kid is totally overshadowed by his family. One day he’ll own Bright’s entire life and Bright will still pity him for it. Because Bright is an idiot and will always pity the young men, no, the boys, who determine the course of his life.

“Go on,” says Bright.

“Sir, do you know about Laplace’s Box?”

The question catches Bright off guard, and he pauses to think before he responds.

“It’s said to be a weapon, or a miracle of some kind,” he eventually says. “Something from deep in the Federation’s past. Connected to the Unicorn and the Vist Foundation.”

Marcenas nods. “Yes, sir. All that, and more.”

Bright raises an eyebrow. “And what does this have to do with Ronan Marcenas?”

“He knows what the Box really is.”

Bright is nearly surprised by this, but some cynical thread of his being still grips on to the Marcenas name—of course they’re involved. Look behind every twist and turn of the Universal Century, and you see one of five names—Zabi, Deikun, Marcenas, Vist, and Carbine. It’s as though they’re the only people who really exist, and everyone else is just ghosts or automata. A world of shades and empty silhouettes, inhabited only by a select few.

“And what is it?” prompts Bright. He hates being strung along like this.

“It is a curse,” says Marcenas. Odd for the usually direct young man to speak thus. “Ricardo Marcenas was betrayed, because his death was considered to be more useful than his survival. Laplace’s Box is nothing more than the undeniable motive for that killing. It is the lie that the Federation is now founded upon.”

“The smoking gun, so to speak,” muses Bright.

“Exactly, sir.”

Bright sighs. “Without that cold rationalization, the Box would not even exist.”

“Sir?”

“You said that Ricardo Marcenas, the first Prime Minister…your grandfather?”

“Great-grandfather.”

“You said that Ricardo Marcenas’ death was considered to be useful. As though the people who killed him, or who allowed him to die, had already justified that murder based on its consequences.”

“Yes, sir. It cemented the relationship between the Earth and its colonies.”

One little act of evil, one tiny slip of the civilized mask, and you can consolidate your position for the next century.

“It’s no wonder the Sleeves are so desperate for the Box,” says Bright. “This is the last chance for the Box’s lie to be brought to light. The last possible opportunity for Ricardo Marcenas’ goals as prime minister, whatever they might have been, to see a possibility for fruition.”

“I agree, sir,” says Marcenas, but there’s a cold glint in his eye that Bright doesn’t like the look of, “That’s why it’s so important we recover the Box before they do.”

“Your father told you this?” asks Bright.

“No, sir. You did.”

Bright blinks with surprise. “What?”

“You told me, when I first joined the Ra Cailum, that a soldier’s duty is to do what is right, not what he expects to be profitable in the long run. You told me that what separates a soldier from a civilian is that it’s a soldier’s fate to suffer the consequences of doing the right thing, no matter what. We have the chance to rescue the Federation from the only thing that can destroy it, sir. No matter how evil the Federation’s foundation is, it’s the only shot we have at lasting peace. As soldiers, we have to believe in its ideals, and make them real.”

Bright feels as though he’s suddenly looking at Marcenas through a kaleidoscope, or a funhouse mirror. As though there’s some caul, some transformative layer hanging in the air between them, refracting the young man into a distorted, misshapen form. Just moments ago, he was promising, the very epitome of a Gundam pilot, a Man of Destiny, with all the good and evil that entailed. Now? He’s a creature of the Vist Foundation. Entirely captured by their logic, totally suborned by their longtermist thought.

How does the Vist Foundation know good from evil? Easy. The Federation, and the cozy parasitic cyst within it that the Vists occupy, are known to be definitionally good—from the Vist perspective. Thus, any action that preserves that state of affairs is justified, no matter how wicked it may be.

Marcenas has been colonized by this way of thought—it’s sending tendrils through his brain like mold through cheese.

“Ensign,” says Bright, speaking as levelly as he can, “Thank you for sharing this with me. It has given me a great deal of clarity about the situation.”

Marcenas salutes. “No, sir, thank you. I knew you would see things the way I do.”

#

In Ra Cailum’s hangar, Victor Two is not alone.

The thing curls around him like steam, and it’s wet and clammy like steam too. Its hiss is a broken pipeline, all judgmental sibilance.

He shakes an arm, but the shadow clings to it, draping itself across him in a shroud of viscous unreality.

You are a fine tool, whispers the thing, bent to ill ends. You are the blameless nail in the coffin, boy. The unimpeachable sear dropping the hammer, not caring where the bullet goes.

These statements are nonsensical, Victor knows. Too lost in metaphor.

The bullet stands in front of him—twenty meters of black and gold metal.

Victor has never had any feelings for Unit Two, the Banshee. It is a causal thing—basic input/output. Fundamentally amoral. The gun is not evil, its effects are. The soldier is not evil, his orders are. The officer is not evil, his allegiance is. The state is not evil, cannot be, as it is the embodiment of good—but anything can be misinterpreted.

But now the machine frightens him.

It frightens his shadow, too. The thing clings wetly to his back, hiding behind him, as though the Banshee radiates some dark light the eye can’t see, and his shadow, invisible but sensible, lies cold and heavy on the leeward side of him from the black mobile suit.

It’s a pen, whispers Victor’s shadow. Writing the word of authority into the world’s fabric. Your hand guides this dreadful force, boy. Its consequences are your consequences.

Consequences—that’s something Captain Bright told Victor about.

Victor’s Master did too.

The word of Bright: Consequences are something the world forces upon us. Our responsibility is not to fret over the future’s possibilities, but do what we know to be right, right now.

His Master’s Voice: Every act is only as moral as its consequences. There is no fundamental malice or altruism to any action, not until its consequences are sensed. A moral actor is a closed control loop—outcomes feedback to inputs, with observers and correctors to trend the thing towards the Good.

Victor is unfamiliar with feeling, save for the satisfaction of Miss Capa’s praise, but he feels something now. It feels like the Unicorn’s emotion—dread. Dread for the future, for the long stretch of history that every action produces. Dread of the fearfully ocean-deep abyss of possibility.

You will drown, boy, whispers his shadow, if you do not learn to swim.

“It’s a beautiful machine.”

The spoken words crash through the shadow’s subaural hiss, and Victor recoils from the violence of them, stumbles, cries out in terror. He’s sitting on his ass, holding up one useless hand to ward away the falling colony, and the only thing he sees is a confused-looking person. Male, he thinks, with yellow hair.

“Whoa, sorry!” says the invader, and proffers a hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you, bud.”

Victor considers the person’s posture, the flow of load and tension in his body. He’s braced to receive force on his hand. Victor could take hold of it and use it to stand up. He considers this to be very strange because Miss Capa is usually the only person who gets to touch Victor, her and sometimes doctors. And his Master, though his memory of her grows remote, eclipsed by the Banshee’s mass.

Victor reaches out and takes the person’s hand, and he helps him up. The yellow-haired stranger’s hand is warm to the touch, warm and rough, like a bread crust. He could hold that hand forever, but he doesn’t, because the stranger wants it back, slips it from his grasp once he’s standing.

“Sorry again,” says the stranger. “I didn’t want to scare you, honestly.” He points to the  Banshee. “Is that yours?”

The possessive term there is strange, and Victor now wonders the same question. Is the Banshee his? Or does he belong to it? Is there a circuit within the Banshee’s computers that regards Victor Two as a necessary component, as its missing piece? The jewel it guards jealously?

“I pilot the Banshee,” says Victor, because he’s certain it’s a correct statement. No implication of ownership. Kick that can down the road.

“It’s a remarkable thing,” says the newcomer. “So clean, so purposeful. It feels like it’s the only real mobile suit here,” he says, and casts an appraising eye around the hangar, “And all the rest are only cheap toys.”

“I see,” says Victor Two, because he is not certain how he is supposed to respond to this.

“I’m Riddhe, by the way,” says the person, turning back to Victor again and performing a smile, “Ensign Riddhe Marcenas.”

Miss Capa stressed to Victor that when someone introduces themself to you, it is proper (and therefore morally right, by Captain Bright’s logic) to introduce yourself to them.

“I am Victor Two,” he says, “And I have no Federation rank.”

“Victor Two,” echoes Ensign Marcenas, “Funny name, that.”

“It is what I am,” says Victor, because it’s true. He is the second victor. The second iteration in the process to create a perfect hero. Nobody ever told him what happened to the first one, though.

“I hear you’re a damn fine pilot, too,” says Ensign Marcenas, “Nice work capturing the Unicorn.  Torrington would’ve been a lot more painful without you out there.”

When he says Torrington, the name of the Federation Forces base near the Unicorn’s last checkpoint, Ensign Riddhe thinks of close quarters combat in the streets of the base. He thinks of shredded Jegans and dismembered Zee Zulus, and of beam fire flickering through the night sky like lightning.

“Am I?” asks Victor.

“Are you what?”

“A good pilot?”

Ensign Marcenas hesitates and makes a face Victor Two cannot recognize. “If you’re flying a Gundam,” he finally says, “you probably must be. I mean, do you want my reassurance?”

The Federation pilot doesn’t understand. Nobody ever does, nobody except Miss Capa. And the Unicorn’s pilot.

“Is it good, what we do?” asks Victor. “When we fly and fight, is that to good ends?”

Ensign Marcenas glances towards another mobile suit, an MSN-001A1 Delta Plus. He is thinking about what is just, and what lends a state its strange coercive power. Victor sees now why the Ensign used the language he did – “your mobile suit” – when speaking of the Banshee. He sees the Delta Plus as his possession, his responsibility. His subject. With this thing that I have earned the right to command, I do the good work demanded of me.

“The Federation is in danger,” says the Ensign, and he really believes it. “Laplace’s Box, the thing that the Unicorn hides, is an existential threat to our way of life. For all the Federation’s evils, its citizens are relying on it to support them. So yes, I suppose what we’re doing must be to good ends. The Federation has to survive. I can’t imagine a future without it.”

As the Ensign speaks, he thinks of what he has done with his mobile suit—all the good that has come of him flying it. He tore pilots at Palau limb from limb, when they tried to protect their home. He hurt a girl he swore to protect, because she defied him. He beat the man who killed his commanding officer, because he deserved it. The Ensign sees himself as a consequence, the just reaction to every misstep. He sees himself as the force behind the self-justification. When people like the Unicorn’s pilot wonder whether they deserve this, whatever this is, the Ensign says, yes, you do, and it feels so good for him.

“We’re allies,” says Ensign Marcenas. “The Marcenas and Vist names. The power behind the throne,” he chuckles, and Victor supposes it must be ironic humor, for the Federation lacks a throne. It is sophisticated enough to have replaced the functions of a tyrant with the cold cybernetics of bureaucracy.

Is this what you want to be? Asks Victor’s shadow. Is this your altruism? Righteous punishment? The morally justified manufacture of pain? Good-faith preservation of a bad-faith state of affairs?

“The Banshee’s purpose is the preservation of the Vist name,” says Victor, because it is true, “and the preservation of the Federation’s functional structure.” As he speaks the words, he is startled, because a gulf has grown between him and the Banshee.

The Ensign nods with what Victor thinks might be appreciation. “See?” he says, “Doing the right thing can be hard, but it matters. Gundams make it easy to do the right thing.” He chuckles. “Sometimes too easy.”

The Banshee knows its purpose and loves it. It loves righteous punishment. It loves manufacturing pain. It loves genocide, and the heady sight of fat dripping off burning bone. It loves the piles of buffalo skulls and the gas-filled colonies and the craters shotgun-stippled across the once-rich grasslands of North America.

Victor does not know what he loves. He loves Miss Capa. He loves his Master, he thinks.

He does not love the Banshee, nor its purpose. For the first time, it is disorienting to find that his purpose is not that of the Banshee.

You know what you have to do, says the shadow. Do the only ethical thing an occupying soldier can, and with those hissed words Victor knows he needs to find a gun.

Chapter Text

The crew of the Ra Cailum eventually move Marida to a compartment in the brig, once Capa and the ship’s fussy surgeon decide that she won’t die for mysterious Cyber Newtype reasons.

It’s quiet in the brig, and pleasantly dark most of the time. It makes Marida think of a grotto, perhaps, or a wine cellar. It’s a welcome departure from all the loud, bright places she’s been, and all of their attendant expectations. It’s like a universal law, she thinks: it is inevitable that any group of two or more people will develop fucked-up expectations regarding a certain Lieutenant Junior Grade Marida Cruz.

The welcome solitude is only broken by Gianna Capa.

The former Titans officer has deigned to grace Marida with her presence once more, and settles herself down on the room’s cot, poking briefly at a tablet before proffering a lidded cup with a straw. A peace offering.

“Another one of those protein shakes?” asks Marida, because it’s something to talk about that isn’t the fucking Unicorn.

“Doctor says they’re good for you,” says Capa by way of reply, wiggling the cup. Marida takes the wretched thing, even though it’ll taste and feel horrible. Food is fuel.

Capa looks like she wants to ask about the Unicorn. Always the Unicorn. Marida decides not to let her.

“How’s your kid?” she asks, being deliberately careless about the term. We’re both sterile, Capa. Have you accepted it any more than me?

Capa frowns at the informality, and the personal question, and the accusation.

“Victor isn’t my child,” she says, not believing a word of it, “And he is quite well, thank you. You could be privy to the same privileges as he is, you know.”

“I see,” says Marida, “I suppose you would be the one to lecture me about how to be a nice quiet Cyber Newtype.”

One of Capa’s fists clenches and she looks away, a tendon leaping in her jaw. “You know,” grates the woman, after a long, shaky breath, “I’m trying to help you. I really am.”

“If that were true,” chuckles Marida, deliberately ignoring the woman’s frustration, “I’d already be back in the Unicorn and off this ship.”

“No,” says Capa, “You wouldn’t. Not unless you could get its systems to unlock.”

“I knew that’s why you were here.”

Capa looks back towards Marida, suddenly and aggressively making eye contact. It’s like some kind of animal threat display, and it works—Marida’s posture tightens up a little. “Your problem,” she says, “is that you think the Unicorn Gundam makes you indispensable. As though the Vist Foundation doesn’t already want to destroy it wholesale.”

Marida thinks she can call her bluff.

“If that was true,” she says, “it would already be destroyed. But it isn’t. You want the Box, and you know I’m the only way you can get it.”

Capa exhales a short, sharp huff of frustration. “I must admit that is true, regardless of my feelings on the matter.”

Marida smirks at her. “Then you know what I’m going to say next.”

“You want me to give you a reason to comply. One that’s better than ‘if you don’t do what I say, I’m sending you to Augusta.’”

Marida can’t hide the visceral, bone-deep terror at the mention of Augusta, and Capa looks unhappy at her reaction.

“I wouldn’t do that,” says Capa, “I needn’t fill you in on just how bad it was there.”

“Then how do you intend to persuade me to unlock the Unicorn?” asks Marida. “You have a perfectly serviceable cudgel. You’re with the Vist Foundation. Surely your people must possess the ability to deconstruct and re-engineer myself and the Unicorn.”

“Very simply,” Capa says. “You don’t-”

She is interrupted by the shipnet crackling into life.

“Lieutenant Capa to mobile suit deck,” says the voice of some crewmember Marida will never learn the name of, “Urgent, Lieutenant Capa to mobile suit deck.”

Capa stands abruptly, mind already elsewhere. “We’ll talk later, Lieutenant.”

#

The Ra Cailum’s hangar is full of noise—voices, mostly. They’re yelling orders, replies, confirmations. The background chatter of professional soldiers doing what they do.

Right now, those soldiers are all focused on the Banshee. There’s a handful of men with rifles, and a lot of apprehensive-looking pilots and mechanics.

Bright has been told that Victor Two is in the Banshee’s cockpit, and someone heard gunshots.

“Get one of the other lifts relocated,” says Bright to the hangar boss who just scurried up to him, “We need to check on Victor. Grab one of your technicians, too.”

“Captain!” calls Lieutenant Capa, jogging up behind him. She got here quick. “What’s going on? Is Victor safe?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” says Bright, then raises his voice, “Where’s my damn lift?”

“Someone heard gunshots,” he continues, “And Victor hasn’t exited the Banshee.”

Capa blanches. “No,” she says hollowly, “He wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know,” Bright says, “But you’re coming up with me to find out.”

“Sir!” protests one of the marines, “If the pilot is armed, that could be dangerous!”

The lift finally arrives, and Bright waves Capa on. “And if he’s armed, the last thing he wants to see is a peer threat,” he replies to the marine, “And besides, the Vist Foundation will have my hide if they found out I got their golden boy shot.” He snaps his fingers at the lift’s driver and points upwards, and the lift moves.

“Be honest with me,” Bright says to Capa, as they slowly crawl up the Banshee’s huge bulk atop the lift’s unfolding arm, “Did you get any sign from Victor about some kind of instability?”

Capa shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all.”

She thinks about this, but only for a moment. “After his deployment in Dakar, he became…concerned about the moral valence of his mission. I considered this to be a manageable deviation, so I addressed it vocally and pharmacologically, as is typical for Cyber Newtypes.”

“And did it work?”

“I don’t know,” admits Capa, “Since then, Victor has been less sure of himself and the Vist mission, though his piloting has not suffered. He still has excellent synchronization with the Banshee’s systems, implying total deontic closure.”

Piloting is a muscle, thinks Bright. Something you can exercise without thinking. But soldiering is a thinking man’s job. You can’t follow an order passively. You have to mean it. Idly, he wonders about the Unicorn’s pilot—that strange red-haired Zeon girl. Does she mean it? Where are her orders trying to take her?

“The cockpit isn’t sealed, sir,” says the technician.

“Good,” he replies, “Open it.”

With a complicated series of heavy mechanical noises, the hatch swings out and up on a cloud of gunsmoke and ozone.

At first, Bright can’t see anything inside the swirling gloom of the cockpit—it’s totally dark inside. All the displays are dead.

“Victor?” says Capa, voice quivering. She’s afraid for the child. Bright finds he is too.

Maybe it was too much to hope for a second Amuro. Maybe some miracles really can’t come twice.

Bright takes the plunge and steps forward, putting one foot on the threshold of the cockpit. He can’t see shit in here, but waves Capa back. We’d just get in each other’s way, he thinks, but he knows that’s a rationalization—he wants to own this. He wants this tragedy to be his own, and not Capa’s. Look what happened on my ship. Look what I allowed to come to pass.

He hears Victor before he sees him—shallow breathing, somewhere behind the seat. From behind Bright, rays of light slant wildly through the smoke, issuing from the gunmen’s flashlights.

Then, the light glints on something. It’s round, and dully metallic, and quivering.

The muzzle of a Federation Forces-issue nine-millimeter pistol.

“Victor,” says Bright, “It’s Captain Noa. Can we talk?”

“Yes,” the boy mutters, still in shadow, “Yes, he ordered it. Clenching fist, glaring eye, grinding boot. Kill chain link. Strategic asset. Captain Bright Noa, commanding officer Ra Cailum, commander Londo Bell.”

“Victor, can you give me the gun, please?”

The muzzle wavers but doesn’t drop.

“Strategic deterrence,” mutters Victor, “The armed détente of prisoner and warden. The tyranny of payment card standardization, the authority of negotiation. Nothing so violent as peacekeeping.”

There’s a kind of alien logic to Victor’s words. As though what Bright is saying, or what the boy sees, are being filtered through a warped and inscrutable lens.

“I don’t want deterrence,” he says, “And I don’t want peacekeeping. I just want you to be safe, Victor.”

“Preservation of an agreed-upon state of affairs,” says Victor, but a little louder, more sure, “The luxury of the victor. Victor, victor, ha-ha.” The laugh is spoken, clearly enunciated. Ha. Ha. “Conservation of momentum favors greater vehicle weights. Near-peer crashes become asymmetrical collisions become irregular conflicts, positive feedback loops for Twenty-First Century cranial trauma via the logic of safety. A cybernetic link between threat identification and the manufacture of consent. Who steers the helmsman?”

“The helmsman steers himself,” says Bright, shooting from the hip. “Human choice matters, because it’s moral. If you choose to give me the gun, you demonstrate that you trust me. That’s a moral decision, to choose between your safety and the principle of trust.”

“I can’t make moral decisions,” Victor replies, invisibly hunching smaller, “Miss Capa doesn’t have a drug to let me do that.”

“Victor, are you alive?”

“No,” Victor says, then “Yes.”

“Then every decision you make is moral. To be alive is to be responsible.”

“I do not like this. I would like to speak to Miss Capa.”

“You can’t do that unless you give me the gun.”

“I cannot.”

“Do you trust me, Victor?”

“Yes,” says Victor, and then pulls the trigger. The motion of the trigger releases the sear, dropping the hammer, smacking the firing pin.

There is a loud click as the gun dry fires. Very bad for the mechanism. Any Federation recruit seen dry firing without a snap cap earns an all-expenses-paid trip to the armorer’s mate to get screamed at.

Bright grabs the gun by the barrel and drags it from Victor’s grasp. The boy is clinging on to the weapon like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning, but he is sixteen and dreadfully frail, while Bright is a professional soldier. Taking the gun is easy.

“Miss Capa is outside the cockpit,” says Bright, now that Victor is disarmed, “If you scare her like this again, I’ll-” he pauses. Realizes he was about to lie.

The last time he hit Hathaway, his son fought back. Bright had been furious at the time, and madder still at his new black eye, but how could he blame the boy? He had taught him the very simple logic of fists and raised voices. Children do what they are taught, regardless of whether that teaching is intentional.

Bright will not hit Victor. He would sooner die than do that.

“Go to her,” he says lamely. He checks the gun, makes sure it’s empty, and safes it.

Victor clambers past Bright, and as he does so, a little of the smoke leaves with him. Bright can see now that the Banshee’s cockpit is a mess. Bullet holes are everywhere—in the floor, the displays, the mechanisms behind the seat. This wasn’t haphazard, Bright can tell. Victor was extremely deliberate, almost painfully so, to target crucial and hard-to-replace items.

Even the Sleeves’ best and brightest would be hard-pressed to manage such an effective job of sabotage.

Bright steps out of the cockpit onto the rickety, swaying lift platform where Capa is hugging Victor.

“I was afraid you had hurt yourself,” she is murmuring into that shaggy brown hair, “I was so scared for you.”

She looks up at Bright with eyes that glint like knives. “What did you do to him!” she hisses.

Bright produces the gun, drops the magazine, racks the slide to demonstrate it’s unloaded. “I disarmed him. Nothing more.” He nods to the lift operator and they begin retreating downwards, away from the ruined, stinking cave of the Banshee’s cockpit.

“He would never have done this without your influence.”

“Remaking Amuro wasn’t my idea. Putting an innocent child in charge of a Gundam wasn’t my idea. All I did was tell Victor what he already should have known.”

“And what was that?” spits Capa, venom in her tone, “That as a Cyber Newtype he is doomed to death and misery? That he is incapable of good-faith actions? That evil is baked into his flesh and bones?”

She’s doing that thing that mothers do, Bright thinks. Identifying all they find despicable about themselves and painting it across the face of their child with bright, clumsy strokes.

“I don’t think those things are true,” says Bright. “Not of Victor, nor you, nor anyone, Newtype or not.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” scowls Capa.

“I choose to believe in free will,” he says, “Not because I think it makes scientific sense, but because, as a soldier, I must. When I give an order, I have faith that my men will choose to follow it. If they do not, then that is all the condemnation my command needs to be made invalid. What kind of soldier is someone who can’t say no?”

“You thought I had taken Victor’s free will away,” she says, not exactly asking.

“Is that not what your drugs did?”

“No,” says Capa, smiling thinly. “You think that human morals are invariant. You think that the Right is something untouchable, something transcendental. It is not. It is an engineering goal. The Vist Foundation has mastered the fundamentals of deontic engineering, and Victor Two was designed from the ground up to believe in what he does.”

Suddenly, Bright wishes the gun was not empty. How dare the Vist Foundation manufacture a sick, lonely boy, just to twist him into something hateful? How dare Capa enact this pantomime of motherhood, just for the sake of defacing the human spirit?

He thinks he finally understands what it feels like to step into a Gundam for the very first time. You identify evil. You identify the steps required to erase it. And then you make it happen, and your weapon does not fail.

Capa takes a step backwards from him, still hugging Victor. He realizes, distantly, that his expression must be frightful.

“How can you do this,” he says.

“I had to.”

“No. Wrong. Nobody does anything because they believe they are forced to. You did this because you thought it just. How?”

The lift thumps onto its lower stops. The uncomfortable-looking operator and soldiers disembark, repelled by the waves of fury washing off of Bright.

“You think the Vists are correct,” says Bright, and he feels cold and angular and knife-sharp like a faceted gem. Burning with some inner fire, a purified reflection of what’s cast upon him. “You think it’s right to make things like Victor. You think you have a moral obligation to twist people’s minds until they can’t distinguish authority from desire.”

“No!” she bursts out, and it plucks a string inside Bright, loosening something.

He had feared she had no breaking point. That he could keep pushing and she would slip out of his grasp. That she had no furthest extreme, no pale she could not cross.

“No,” she says again. “I don’t care about the Vist Foundation. I don’t care about their plans for the future, and I don’t care about the Federation or Zeon.”

“Then why?” hisses Bright, sweeping his arm to indicate the Banshee and its defaced, maimed brother. “Why do any of this?”

“Because of Laplace’s Box,” she says, and finally he can see that brightness burning in her eyes, the sign of someone with a prayer they need answered. The brightness of someone who believes in miracles. “Because Cyber Newtypes have never been given choice before. Because we are manufactured and used and discarded. We’re like people, but we’re okay to kill. Okay for a mission or a screw before we can be disposed of. It’s so easy to make us into monsters when we fuck up in ways that are only human.”

“And the Box…you think it’ll give you a chance at something new.”

“When reformation fails,” she says, “At least destruction has a chance.”

“That sounds contrary to the wishes of the Federation,” says Bright.

“What about you, Captain? Do you agree with the Federation and the Vist Foundation? That the Box should be hidden, that possibility locked away, and our world allowed to deterministically spin its way to damnation?”

She’s pushing at his one rock. Eroding the singular point that anchors him.

What happens to a soldier when he realizes that his orders and his moral duty are diverging?

He ceases to be a soldier.

His command, the shining pearl of ideology that animates him, is eroding. Bright, the man, is balking at his duty.  Bright, the soldier, is on the precipice of destruction.

He always thought his career would end in thunder and flames, on the depressurizing bridge of a dying warship. Leave it to cold, shitty reality to end it in such a mundane way.

Chapter Text

Bright is in the Ra Cailum’s secure communications room. They say it’s impenetrable, that it’s cryptographically impossible to know what transpires within, all those good things. Bright doesn’t really believe it. Encryption and air gapped systems can’t stop the only security threat that really matters: The human heart.

“Well done, Captain,” purrs the Vist matriarch. Her tone is deep, warm, and satisfied. It makes Bright think of slitted eyes glinting in the forested dark. Coiled power, barely padded by fur. The kind of condescension that can only come from absolute certainty in one’s trophic station. “You’ve recovered a number of items of great value to us.”

“The Unicorn and Banshee,” he says, “Yes. I have a good crew.”

She chuckles darkly. “Ah, yes, your crew. Loyal as ever to Londo Bell, with you at its head. Do they share that devotion to Staff Headquarters, I wonder?”

Not for the first time, Staff HQ is conflated with the Vist Foundation. Bright wonders whether there even is a difference at all between the two. Maybe promotion to a flag officer rank means getting some special talk (welcome to the corridors of power, son) before a lobotomy that transforms you into an unthinking mirror of Vist policy. Maybe Staff HQ isn’t even staffed. Maybe it’s a mothballed warehouse piled high with the moldering stacks of never-read reports sent up by unsuspecting Federation officers.

“My men are loyal, ma’am,” says Bright. Doesn’t care to dig deeper than that.

“I’m sure they are,” sneers the Vist woman. “But my Victor Two is even more so. More useful too, I dare say. How have you enjoyed it?”

There’s something in those words, how have you enjoyed it, that puts Bright in mind of a salesman. How little she thinks of the boy.

“He’s a talented pilot,” says Bright, putting emphasis on he. “He captured the Unicorn. But,” and now he pauses, unsure how to proceed. Unsure of how to tell this woman that she turned a child into a sickly, broken man-thing.

“But what,” she says, refusing to give him an inch. Spell it out, her hard eyes say. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me what I’m doing isn’t working.

If Bright criticizes Martha’s methods, it could be the end of his career. The Vist Foundation’s influence is vast. They could ruin Hathaway forever. They could force Bright into early retirement, or get him discharged, or investigated for Zeonist sympathies.

He thinks of Victor’s huge, deep eyes, his endless hunger for meaning. His quavering, desperate tone. The way he crumples into Capa’s embrace, even when she’s furious, because he still feels safe with her.

The way Bright’s afraid he would break the boy if he ever struck him.

“You’ve reached too far with him,” he finally has the strength to say. “Adult Cyber-Newtypes are useful enough. Lieutenant Capa is a reliable colleague, but Victor is too new. Too reliant on the adults in his life for things they cannot provide him.”

“I’ve reached too far,” she says, in a pensive tone, as though she can’t believe he would dare say it to her. “You think I have reached too far with Victor. That I have pushed it to unnecessarily cruel extremes.”

“If you choose to put it like that, ma’am, then yes.”

“Tell me, Captain,” she says, and suddenly she’s alight with fury, fire-bright emotion erupting from that which had been coolly controlled just a moment ago, and the lack of warning takes Bright by surprise, “Do they teach Federation officers such nerve in the Academy, or is that something you picked up as a cadet in the One Year War?”

“Ma’am, I-“

“No. I am speaking. Victor Two is my family. It is a scion of the Vist Foundation, illegitimate though it may be. We Vists look out for our own, after our own fashion. You have no right to comment on our family affairs.”

It twists into Bright’s heart like a metal-headed worm, a tiny thing coiling with living grace and hunger through hot flesh. He’s used words like this before, in defense of hitting Hathaway. They seemed so fair and just then. Funny how things get turned on their head.

“Be that as it may, ma’am, Victor Two is a combat unit under my command. I have a responsibility to-“

“You have a responsibility to bring my property back. That is all. Unless you mean to imply that your position as commander of Londo Bell somehow outweighs the word of Staff Headquarters.”

“No, ma’am,” says Bright, because he must. Because he has to keep the charade alive. The show must go on. He just needs a little more time.

“Stay in Australia, Captain,” she says, suddenly smiling, as though they’re good friends and she’s been thrilled to catch up, “I’ll come to collect my things.”

#

The Unicorn is shutting Marida out.

No, that’s not right. The Unicorn has been safed. Its computers will boot and self-test, then the La+ program comes slamming down. No reactor ignition. No drive power. No targeting or stores management. The radio won’t even work.

“Try it again,” says Lieutenant Capa.

Marida complies, keying the shutdown sequence and cycling the breakers. “Nothing will change,” she says.

Marida and the former Titan are crowded into the Unicorn’s cockpit. The Unicorn’s limbs are locked down to its berth, to prevent an escape attempt, and Capa is packing a pistol. Not that Marida would try to escape right now.

“Don’t start it up yet,” says Capa. “Here, let me plug this in.” She produces a hefty cable, coiling snakelike to an equipment box standing on the lift outside the open cockpit door.

“We’ve already used Anaheim diagnostic tools,” protests Marida. They’ve been trying the same tools all morning, and nothing has happened.

“I know,” says Capa, crouching down on the slick bowl of the lower displays to lever open a panel beneath the seat. “That’s why this one is a Vist tool, not Anaheim.”

Capa fiddles mysteriously with the cable and access panel, before rocking back on her heels and making a pensive “hmm.”

“What is it?”

“I’m seeing another device connected to the system I was trying to access.”

“Is that good?”

Capa shrugs. “I don’t know. It looks like another diagnostic tool or signal processor. It’s not original, I can say that much. The installation was clumsy.”

Marida has to admit she doesn’t much care whether the Unicorn was assembled clumsily or not. All that matters is that it works. That it can open the Box. “Let’s just get the Unicorn running.”

Capa fusses with her new diagnostic cable, steps out to its console, and asks Marida to start the Unicorn again.

She closes the breakers, lines up the main bus, and boots the computers. They self-test, and inscrutable technical data go scrawling across the displays, reporting the results of checks on memory, storage, processors, drivers, and plenty of other boring details that matter little in the grand scheme of things.

Then the La+ program starts up. The display stutters and hangs for a second, before dissolving into pixel snow. The systems lock.

Marida does not shout in frustration, does not pound a fist on the console, does not hiss a curse. The Unicorn is not a machine that embodies mistakes—it is a thing of intent. This is no coincidence, no simple system glitch.

“Someone doesn’t want me flying,” she says, “Someone other than you.”

“That’s not true,” says Capa, “About me, I mean.”

“Explain.”

“I need you to open the Box.”

“I thought the Vist Foundation wanted it sealed.”

“They do,” says Capa, then steps back into the cockpit, lowering her voice. “The Vist Foundation is a means to an end for me. What matters to me are Victor Two, the Box, and you.”

“This has something to do with us being Cyber Newtypes,” guesses Marida.

Capa nods. “The Federation, the Sleeves, and the Vist Foundation all think us to be tools. Broken, inferior prototypes. Tactical assets and strategic liabilities.”

The statement is mostly correct, but tugs at Marida’s heart in an uncomfortable way. Her Master doesn’t think she’s a liability.

“You want to gain the Box yourself,” she says. “And do what with it? Create a Cyber Newtype ethnostate? Enact the perfect revenge upon the people who created you?”

“I don’t hate them for making me what I am,” says Capa. “I had to teach myself how to love being changed. How to forgive what I used to be.”

Marida catches a flash, a narrow sliver of refracted light, from somewhere inside Capa’s head. An old body, an older name. Fearing one’s reflection, as though it will reach through the glass to seize you and beat your head against the counter until nothing in your cracked and bleeding countenance still looks like a man.

“No,” continues Capa, as Marida listens to the crackling thaw of her heart, “I hate the Federation for believing humanity to be a requirement for personhood. I have no illusions about Newtypes, whether artificial or naturally evolved, being human. The question is academic when it comes to personhood or moral patiency. So long as the Federation centers humanity, centers natural-born Earthnoids above all else, I shall hate it.”

“You haven’t ruled out the ethnostate.”

“When it comes to you in particular,” asks Capa, “Do I need to?”

“Do you think Laplace’s Box can really achieve this?” asks Marida, refusing to answer the question, because she fears what she would say, and that it would be true, “Do you think Cyber Newtypes have anything to gain from opening it?”

“Of course we do,” smiles Capa. “After all, it would be yours to open. You are a Cyber Newtype.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll act in your interests,” says Marida, thinking that it might, if only Capa resorted to using the kinds of treatments on her that Neo Zeon once did.

“I wouldn’t go to those lengths,” says Capa, but she hides something dark. Thinks of Victor, not quite her brother, not quite her son. The manufactured boy, the surgical insertion of destiny into a human life.

“Forgive me,” says Marida, “If I don’t believe you.”

Capa inclines her head and gives a chagrined smile, conceding the point. “Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you use the Box for?”

“I don’t know,” admits Marida. The idea that her choice might matter because it is her choice to make, is alien to her. She idly wonders if the Unicorn has a sensor for intention. For purpose. For clarity.

“It’s not an error, by the way,” says Capa.

“What?” the non-sequitur confuses Marida.

“The Unicorn. The block isn’t due to a self-test error or something. It’s being deliberately blocked. Something in the La+ system is preventing it from starting.”

“It knows,” says Marida. “It knows I’ve never fought for my own sake.”

“I want to say it’s an absurd notion,” muses Capa, “But the psycho-frame has more sensors than many vertebrate brains. It’s true that we don’t know what its limits are.”

“So how do we make it work?”

“I don’t know,” admits Capa. “Let’s say you’re right, Lieutenant. You need to know what you want from the future. You need to know what you’ll use the Box’s power for. You need to fight for yourself, for once.”

“You’re not certain of that,” guesses Marida. “But you think it’s what I need to hear, since we’re both Cyber Newtypes. You think that connects us on a more profound level than we are now.”

“Maybe,” smiles Capa, “But you know I might be right. We understand each other, Marida, like it or not. So long as a Cyber Newtype is using the Box for her own sake, I’m happy.”

#

Bright is back in the secure communications room. Officially, he is on the bridge, and if questioned later, his XO will verify that, as will everyone else on watch. It’s not likely they’ll be asked, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Not when you keep company like Bright is at the moment.

On one screen, he sees a heavyset, dark-haired man with a scowl baked into his features. On the other, he sees an old acquaintance, a slim man with chin-length hair, tired eyes and a businessman’s nondescript off-the-rack suit. Not a friend, that Kai Shiden. Only an acquaintance. He’s not a smart friend to have.

“There had better be a good reason for this,” growls the big man. He’s a Sleeves member, and captain of the ship the Unicorn came down to Earth on. “If you think this will be a prisoner exchange, you’re mistaken, and I’ll recover my people myself.”

“Captain Zinnerman,” says Kai, and he smirks in that way that Bright has forgotten how much he hates, “I hardly think you can afford such scruples right now.”

“You might be Karaba Novo, kid,” grumbles Zinnerman, “But you’re no friend of mine. Captain, what do you want?”

“I want you to help me,” says Bright.

“Your men killed my own comrades in Torrington,” Zinnerman replies. Bright can’t blame him. “What makes you think I’ll do that?”

“Because you want Laplace’s Box,” says Bright.

Zimmerman grunts and raises an eyebrow fractionally. It’s not what Bright expected. “And I want to retire rich and famous too, so does everyone. Make me care, Bright.”

“If I don’t give you Lieutenant Cruz and the Unicorn, they will both be destroyed by the Federation,” says Bright, “For the sake of protecting the Vist Foundation.”

“Last time I checked, you were a Federation officer.”

Bright nods. “Yes, but you and I know this matter isn’t about factions. It’s about principles. We’ve lost the luxury of hiding behind our flags.”

Zimmerman chuckles humorlessly. “It’s like a bad joke. A Londo Bell officer, a Karaba Novo spy, and a Sleeves soldier walk into a bar.”

“So tell us, Captain Bright,” murmurs Kai, “What’s the punchline? Not something to amuse and delight the Federation, I suspect.”

“No,” says Bright. “If I don’t do something with the Unicorn, it will be acquired by the Vist Foundation, who have no reason to allow it to exist. I find this unacceptable.”

“Why do you need the Sleeves?” grumbles Zinnerman. “Just days ago we were enemies. This change of heart is difficult to believe, Captain.”

“I know,” Bright admits. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But that no longer matters. My personal feelings are irrelevant now. I’ve come to understand that the Vist Foundation will do anything, commit any atrocity, if it preserves their way of things. I’d rather be a traitor than keep that machine turning.”

“Consider, Captain,” says Kai, “Already by having me arrange this meeting, Bright is connecting himself with anti-Federation elements. If this gets out, it could mean his career.”

There’s a lilt in Kai’s voice Bright recognizes. “Next you’re going to tell Zinnerman you’ll let it all slip if I double-cross him.”

Kai chuckles. “Sharp as ever, O Captain my Captain. You hear that, Zinnerman? You could be the reason the exalted Captain Bright finally falls from grace.”

Leave it to Kai Shiden to backstab Bright in a way he should be thankful for. Karaba Novo is in good hands.

“This is your one chance to get Lieutenant Cruz and the Unicorn back without a fight,” he finally says, rallying himself. “I’m offering them to you, Captain Zinnerman. Just this once.”

“I know there’s a catch,” growls Zinnerman, but Bright can see the shine in his eyes, “What will it cost me?”

“Not much,” chuckles Bright, “Only your freedom.”

Chapter Text

The Ra Cailum is being smothered, enshrouded by featureless mist and fog. Seen from the bridge, her prow disappears in the distance, made hazy and dim by the cloud, and around her in this misty half-light, lightning flickers with the restive twitches of something alive.

Bright is told that the lightning is an inevitable consequence of Minovsky lift systems in cloud, as particles ground themselves to water droplets. Beneath his feet, the deck shivers as the ship’s lifting mechanism fights against nature. To Bright’s eye, there’s nothing scientific about this—it feels as though his ship is lost at sea, fighting for her life against some slow, choking tempest.

Within the bridge windows is confined warmth, light, and order. Without is mist, haze, and the enemy.

But that’s too easy, isn’t it? Bright considers that once you’ve framed yourself as a defender, a protector, someone born and fated to defend the right against the wrong, that thinking colonizes your vision, your thoughts. Suddenly even a simple window becomes some bastion of justice against the foreign. A weapon becomes a heaven-sent sign of your righteousness, rather than an instrument of violence.

This will take over everything about you, if you’re not careful. It’ll acquire every facet of you, and you’ll be trapped by that logic. It’s hard to be a valiant defender of the faith when that faith renders you down to a simple instrument of reaction. To a tyrant, every sign and symbol appears to be a rationale for his tyranny.

It is true, however, that the enemy is outside those windows. Right now, a silhouette, inhuman and beetle-like in the gloom, lurks out on the prow—a Zeon Marasai, beam rifle aimed at the bridge. Bright presumes its mothership, the so-called Rivacona Cargo, is also somewhere out there in the cloud.

The Marasai’s pilot has made it clear enough how Bright and his ship are to survive: in exchange for both Unicorn Gundam units, the Ra Cailum will be left unharmed.

“How’s the transfer going?” asks Bright, addressing the XO.

“They have the Unicorn now, sir,” says his second-in-command. Being totally nonfunctional, the Unicorn’s theft is a difficult task—internal cameras show Zeon and Londo Bell men yelling at each other as another Marasai and a Geara Zulu clumsily muscle the immobile white mobile suit out of the hangar.

Bright allows himself the luxury of a deep sigh. Everything is going according to plan.

A radar contact well out to sea, courtesy of the Sleeves ship, justified an excursion away from the densely-populated east coast of Australia, and the gathering clouds there above the warm ocean provided the perfect place for the Ra Cailum to be outflanked and trapped by the Sleeves forces. Electrical problems due to the clouds’ moisture interfering with the Minovsky flight systems will be blamed for the lack of security footage during the mobile suit transfer, and the one Marasai standing atop the bow with its beam rifle menacing the bridge will justify Bright’s cooperation with his inordinately friendly captors, and the corresponding standing-down of his mobile suit teams.

“Uniform zero zero to bridge,” says Capa’s voice over the speakers. Bright grabs a handset.

“Uniform double zero, bridge, go ahead,” he says.

“Captain,” Capa says, “I don’t like this. Victor was never prepared for a situation like this.”

This is subtly chilling to Bright. One of the first things a soldier learns, after what ranks are above you and how to put on a uniform while still asleep, is what to do when you are taken prisoner. Just another reminder of Victor’s purpose as the second Amuro. Just an innocent boy, with godlike power, the power to engineer history itself, thrust into his hands. Just an innocent boy, such a skilled killer, who is rewarded for every death he causes. Just an innocent boy, shooting and crying at the same time.

But now Bright has no choice but to put this boy in the hands of the Sleeves, if just for a little while. Better that Victor endures uncertainty and fear than be returned to the dubious custody of Martha Vist Carbine.

“Neither do I, Lieutenant,” he eventually says, “But the choice has been made for us.”

Capa clicks her mic in acknowledgement. There’s nothing more to be said—she had a duty to protest. It’s a mother’s right and responsibility, even when there’s nothing more she can do. At least she can speak out for her child, and say that something is wrong.

Bright glances across the security displays again. The ship is locked down, with Sleeves men posted at the hangar entrances. The corridors are dark and silent, with the crew confined to their quarters, save for the scant few bridge, engine room, and hanger crew needed for basic operation.

No, wait. Something just moved.

Bright bends closer to the display, punches keys to change the camera view. There, in one of the corridors leading to the hangar, a white-suited figure crouches. It’s slowly advancing towards one of the Sleeves men, creeping up behind him, unfolding into a boxer’s stance, fists tight up towards the face, back bent, legs flexed. The white-suited man cocks his leg and unloads a textbook-perfect right cross straight into the Sleeves soldier’s jaw, twisting at the waist to shunt all of his core strength through the first and second knuckles of his fist.

The Sleeves man crumples.

This stupid pilot is going to ruin everything.

Status of the Banshee? The cockpit hatch is closing. For a second, Bright can see Victor and a Sleeves minder, presumably armed, and then the hatch shuts and they disappear. Bright does not know it, but he will never see the boy again.

Bright can’t do anything to stop his rogue pilot. If he speaks over public-address, the pilot will know Bright is betraying him. If Bright does nothing, the Sleeves will believe they have been betrayed.

The pilot dashes across a shadowed corner of the hangar, sprinting for the Delta Plus. Blond hair flashes in the light as he clambers up to a lift. Of course it’s Ensign Marcenas. Marcenas and Vist, the fateful names. Always conspiring to bend history tighter towards its spiraling final end.

Bright wills the Sleeves men to move faster, to get the Banshee out before the Delta Plus can boot. Run, you Zeonist bastards! Hurry!

The Sleeves mobile suits, weapons safed and stowed, struggle to maneuver the inert, useless Banshee. Cockpit still ruined, the machine can’t be piloted. Right now, Victor and his minder must be sitting in the darkness, listening to the mechanical sounds of kidnapping as they get muscled towards the hangar doors.

With delicate care, the Sleeves mobile suits, Banshee dangling between them, make it to the doors. They throttle up their thrusters, and Bright can feel their power as a faint rumble through the deck, and then they disappear, Gundam in tow. Victor Two fades away into the cloud.

And then the Delta Plus’ camera eyes light up, gleaming with ruddy malice. The Gundam-type is awake.

“Uniform double zero,” says Bright, “stop-“

“Uniform Romeo!” barks the accursed Marcenas boy, “Delta Plus, launching!”

The Delta Plus springs into action with gunshot-sudden fury, pasting a Zeon soldier with one fist as it leaps for the hangar door. Marcenas is going to shoot down the Zeon mobile suits. He will win, handily, because the Sleeves ship can only carry a few of them. He will realize the Sleeves never had a hope of winning this if it came to open combat, that the game was rigged. That Bright set him up.

“Capa!” Bright shouts, all procedure forgotten, “Stop the Delta Plus! Now!”

The Baund Doc moves, plunging out from the hangar into the swirling mist after the Delta Plus. Seeing something’s wrong, the Marasai on the prow follows suit, lifting off from the Ra Cailum in a plume of blue fire before disappearing in the fog.

The mobile suits are invisible to Bright, save for the occasional vague sign of some presence, some inscrutable motion beyond the curtain of mist. The distant lights of their thrusters shimmer as they dive and whirl. Shadows in the fog flash past Bright’s vision, and beam fire strobes indistinctly, every ray of charged particles setting off a crazed fan of branching lightning filaments. Somewhere out there, Ensign Marcenas is being betrayed, shot down by friendly fire.

“Sir?” asks the XO.

Bright knows his second-in-command well enough to recognize that tone of voice.

“Our mobile suit wings were given the explicit order to stand down,” Bright says. “Ensign Marcenas disobeyed that order.”

“Because he believed it was wrong, sir,” says the XO, not accusatory, just stating facts.

“Yes. Because he believed his moral imperative superseded his duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re Londo Bell,” says Bright. “We’re not creatures of the Vist Foundation. Until Staff Headquarters gives us direct orders, we are to act on our own judgment.”

Under my own judgment, he is saying. The XO nods. He was a Karaba man, Bright knows.

The frightful tempest of light and shadow suddenly stops. The beam fire ceases, leaving the cloud that Ra Cailum hides within dark and silent once more.

A shape looms out of the mist. Bright tightens his grip on his armrest.

Then, the full skirt and horned wolf-head of the Baund Doc come into view, and Bright allows himself to relax, just.

“Uniform double zero,” he says, “What luck?”

“I disabled his weapons,” replies Capa, “And I believe some of his engines as well. But I was not able to confirm a victory.”

The Baund Doc is scarred as well. One of the legs has an ugly beam scar tracing across the shin, while the skirt is holed in multiple places. A beam saber hilt, one of the Delta Plus’s, is half-buried in the armor there.

“Radar,” says Bright, “Do you have a fix on Uniform Romeo?”

“No joy, sir,” replies one of the sensor officers, “Look-down radar sick from Minovsky interference. No valid contact.”

“Air control, recover Uniform double zero,” says Bright, then keys the public address. “Now hear this. All hands to your damage control stations. Hostiles have departed the sphere of combat.”

It’s too late to worry about Marcenas. Bright is damned now, with or without the wayward Ensign.

#

The Garencieres breaches the cloud deck like a while, trailing white streamers from her fins. She is escaping, escaping Earth, escaping the Federation, escaping the Vist Foundation. A machine hell-bent on liberation.

Suberoa Zinnerman knows this sensation of freedom is a lie. It’s part of his deal with Londo Bell and the Karaba Novo man—he willingly leaps from the frying pan into the fire, as though he’s one of those convenience store hot dogs, rolling and rolling but going nowhere.

“Do we have a signal from our tether provider?” he asks.

Flaste nods. “Yes, sir. Nahel Argama just hit interface, angels thirty-five hundred and falling.”

Operation Bishop, in Zinnerman’s eyes, has been one big fuck-up from the start. First the pyrrhic victory at Dakar, then the disastrous rout of Torrington, and Marida’s capture. Now this. Betrayal from Zinnerman himself. Willing collaboration with the Federation.

Zinnerman wonders what the ghosts of Globe have to say about this. Perhaps they have some view into the realm of choice and consequence. Perhaps they know whether the ends really do justify the means.

Or perhaps they’re just glad he’s still alive, and that Marida is out of the hands of the Vist Foundation and getting further from them with every second.

Perhaps they’re just glad to see the Unicorn not yet destroyed, despite its strange, fearful power.

“Marida,” he says, because she’s seated next to him in one of the bridge’s jumpseats. With the Unicorn out of commission for now, there’s no point in putting her in the cockpit on scramble alert. Then again, there’d be no point in scrambling their mobile suits anyways—to make room for the Unicorn and Banshee, only a Geara Zulu and a single Marasai remain aboard. The other two Marasais were discarded, expendable compared to the value of the Unicorn units, even in their inoperable state.

“Yes, Master?” she asks. There’s a hesitation before she addresses him with that word. As though she’s begun to doubt it. As though she now knows what she is to him.

“How did you like Earth?”

She gazes forwards out the windscreen to the darkening blue sky beyond, as Garencieres slips the surly bonds.

“It was strange,” she finally says. “Strange to know there was air beyond the walls. Strange to have a horizon. But when we were over the Pacific islands, surrounded by green hills and ocean, I thought I understood why Earthnoids like it here. To know your world just goes on and on, unconstrained by engineering or economics, to always have more planet, more horizon…” she trails off and sighs. “I think I understand why we need Zeonism, now.”

“Why is that?” asks Zinnerman. He’s genuinely curious. It happened too often after the One Year War that Zeon loyalists would give the side up and settle down on Earth. As though the deep blue sky swallowed up whatever it was inside them that made them love the colonies.

“The human heart will always choose what is sweet and easy,” says Marida. “It’s so easy to find Earth beautiful. So easy to think that what is beautiful is also that which is right. The heart needs a counterbalance of reason, if it’s to be guided by anything more than reaction. Zeonism is that counterbalance.”

The Newtype theory of Zeon Zum Deikun, from all those years ago. The prayer that somehow, humanity would be saved by space colonization. That’s the counterbalance. That’s what Zeonism is about, doing the hard things not because they are profitable, but because they are right. Building out space colonies not to construct a labor and agricultural base or to motivate ever-growing deep space mining, but because there’s something out there, beyond the radiation belts and asteroid clusters, which can teach the human heart how to tell apart what is beautiful from what is good.

“Sir!” calls Flaste, “Nahel Argama has deployed her ballute, now angels twenty-eight hundred and falling!”

It’s go time.

“Helm!” barks Zinnerman, “Give me flank power! Maximum energy ascent!”

Far below, the big turbopumps ramp up from a muted hiss to a throaty howl, shoveling propellant into the engines as fast as the nuclear cores can heat it, and the Garencieres tips back on her stern, until Zinnerman feels like he’s lying flat, riding the tip of a missile. The sky outside darkens, and his ship leaves Earth looming in her wake.

#

It has been two days.

Two days since Riddhe crashed down to earth in a dying mobile suit, spinning and screaming as the Delta Plus disintegrated around him.

Two days of floating in the life raft that packed into his ejection seat.

Two days of punishing tropical sun, the water-resistant poncho and small tube of sunscreen in his survival supplies the only respite.

Two days of knowing he has been betrayed.

How could Captain Bright give in so easily? How could one little Zeon ship hold the Londo Bell commander hostage thus?

Inconcievable. Zeon is broken, spent, pathetic. They could never muster such a force, not after Riddhe blunted their spear at Torrington.

This leaves only one possibility.

A soldier’s duty is to do what is right, not what he expects to be profitable in the long run, Riddhe remembers saying.

Bright always does what he believes to be right. He never bends, never takes the easy route. It’s the only reason he’s the Commander of Londo Bell. Bright never rationalizes his actions, never justifies them ex post facto with the cold calculus of consequences. He just does what he thinks is the right thing, in the moment, every single time.

Which means he meant to betray the Federation. He intended to give the Unicorn away.

Bright wants the Box opened. He wants the Vist and Marcenas names to fall. He wants Zeon to win, and for the traitorous dreams of the AEUG to finally be borne to fruition.

“Bright Noa!” he screams to the sky, suddenly overcome with a dreadful fury, “Traitor! I’ll defeat you! I’ll chase you to the ends of the Earth! On the Box, I swear it!”

There, baking beneath the hot sun, the last of the gates holding Riddhe Marcenas back crashes open. The whirlwind is free.

As rotor wash whips the waves into whitecaps and foam, and as a metallic shadow settles over him, Riddhe realizes the truth: The Vist Foundation is guilty of no great evils. Preserving the Federation is enough. They, and he by association, will one day be absolved.

Let’s roll.

Chapter Text

“Ensign,” says the Vist matriarch, “That’s exactly what happened? You left nothing out?”

Riddhe nods. He told her of the battle at Torrington, of the strange Victor Two and the Unicorn’s mysterious pilot, and of the collusion between Capa and Bright. And Bright himself, of course. Riddhe can’t believe he idolized the man.

“That’s correct, ma’am,” he says. “I know it’s hard to believe. I’m struggling to understand it myself.”

“I believe you,” she says, and really seems to mean it. “Tell me, Ensign, what do you think should be done about this?”

Riddhe knows that Martha Vist Carbine is a civilian. It’s only right that she be kept out of military matters, except perhaps at the very highest level. Staff Headquarters is beholden to civilian Federation interests, after all.

“I’m just a junior officer, ma’am,” he says, gazing down at his fists, clenched in his lap. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I just follow my orders.”

“Except for when you don’t,” she muses, smiling. It strikes at the seed of shame in his heart, tugging at that hard shell, threatening to breach it.

“I deemed Captain Noa’s orders to be contrary to the interests of the Federation,” he says, and it’s painful to admit. “I disobeyed his orders in order to stop the transfer of the Unicorn into the hands of Zeon agents.”

“That was a noble effort, Riddhe,” she says, and he almost believes it, “A soldier needs to know as far as their loyalty goes. It seems as though in the end, you understood that better than Bright.”

“Ma’am,” Riddhe says, then hesitates, unsure of himself. “Was I wrong? To disobey Captain Noa?”

“No,” she smiles, her face taking on an eager, calculating aspect, “You were not. Captain Noa is a dangerous rogue now. He colluded with Zeon to give them Laplace’s Box, and in so doing, doomed the Federation. It is men like him that will be our society’s downfall.”

“What do we do, ma’am?”

She sighs, as though bearing the burden of some painful truth. “It seems that Londo Bell can no longer be trusted to act in the interests of Staff Headquarters. I fear we must take measures to bring Bright under control before he orchestrates a full-blown military coup.”

“Can he do that?” asks Riddhe, not believing what he’s hearing. Is it possible? Could Londo Bell overthrow the legitimate Federation government?

Then, he remembers the collusion with Zeon. The annihilating power of the Box. Bright could overthrow the Federation, and he could do so easily. He could install extremist AEUG and Karaba Novo loyalists in positions of power, and permanently break the Federation’s beautiful machinery.

Mob rule. Revolution. The end of civilization.

“All too easily,” she chuckles. “Why, it’d be like the destruction of Laplace all over again.”

Her sneer catches a corner of him, threatening to tear him open. She knows. Of course she knows, she’s Martha fucking Vist Carbine. She knows exactly what the Marcenas name is culpable for.

Which way, Riddhe? Do you follow the rules and allow the same sins of the past to come about again? Or do you take up the mantle of savior, despite knowing you must do some little evil to bring about great good?

He makes up his mind. It is very easy, takes but a moment, and brings him a newfound sense of peace and purpose.

“I’m with you, ma’am,” he says, “I want to stop the Londo Bell threat. I want to regain my honor as an officer, and make up for my family’s failings.”

Martha beams at him. “An excellent choice, Ensign. The Vist Foundation never fails to compensate those dutiful servicemembers who choose to help us.”

#

Martha knows how pilots work, and it’s very simple. Without a mobile suit, a pilot is a pinioned bird. Ironically, it is a pilot above all others who is deceived by the fundamental lie of the mobile suit: that it has some special claim to agency that all other mechanisms lack. Only pilots believe this—nobody else is fooled. A mobile suit is but a weapon system.

What this means is that Riddhe is hers to command now, regardless of who his rightful superior might be. All it took was giving her one of the Vist Foundation’s own suits, and now he’s champing at the bit to take Ra Cailum down.

While Riddhe is down in the hangar familiarizing himself with his new toy, Martha climbs to the Garuda’s flight deck.

“Madam Vist!” the aircraft’s captain greets her, “We have a fix on the Ra Cailum. She’s over equatorial waters near the Gilbert Islands.”

“Good,” she replies, “Notify Staff Headquarters of our intent to engage her. I’ve already used my own channels to stress the importance of crushing the Londo Bell revolt before it can start.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any updates on the disposition of the Unicorn?”

The captain looks uncomfortable. “We’re still working on that, ma’am, but Fleet Intelligence has a theory.”

“Which is?”

The captain pulls up a map displaying orbital tracks and flight profiles. One passes directly over the Ra Cailum’s position as of three days ago.

“We believe that the Sleeves freighter Rivacona Cargo ascended to orbit with the tether assistance of Nahel Argama, and is now in convoy with her in low Earth orbit.”

Martha can’t hide a frown. This isn’t good—Bright is moving just as aggressively as she’d expect of a veteran commander. “Staff Headquarters must already know of this. Perhaps they’ll see reason and send the General Revil to recover the Box’s key.”

“Ma’am,” says the now unhappy-looking captain, “there’s one more thing.”

“What?”

“Shortly after the Nahel Argama rendezvoused with the vessel we believe to be carrying the Unicorn Gundam, it was also joined by the Waterhouse, a Vist Foundation shuttle.”

She can’t hide a frustrated scoff. Of course Cardeas is intervening. Leave it to her soft-hearted brother to destroy his own family just because of an ethical hang-up.

“Should’ve had Alberto kill him when he had the chance,” she mutters. Now Cardeas is free, and reunited with his dreadful beast of possibility.

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing. I will speak to Staff Headquarters about Nahel Argama, Captain, while you should focus on Ra Cailum.”

Without waiting for a response from the Garuda’s notional commanding officer, Martha spins on one high heel and stalks back towards her quarters. This accursed conflict is going to age her by another decade, she can already feel it. Maybe it’s finally time to schedule that face-lift.

#

Bright glares at the smirking, ever-jocular face of Kai Shiden.

“What is it?” he asks. “Are you going to let slip my blackmail now? There’d be no point, you know.”

Kai shrugs. “Like you say, there’s no point. You’re frozen out from Federation Forces comms now, aren’t you?”

Bright nods. “We still have some Londo Bell channels. Holdovers from AEUG standards.”

“That’s a shame. Seems you’ve started to lose your favor with the powers on high, Captain.”

“Get to the point, Shiden. You can’t have called me up just to rib me.”

Kai sighs and drops the smirk. It’s almost chilling for Bright, because the Karaba Novo man does it so infrequently. “You’re right. You might not have known, since Staff HQ is keeping you out of the loop, but a Garuda is getting diverted towards you, and the General Revil is getting a big resupply.”

“Like they expect the Revil to see combat,” Bright guesses.

“Right.”

Bright has heard the rumors that one of the remaining Garudas is the de facto yacht of Martha Vist Carbine. Could this be the Vist Foundation finally losing their patience?

“Bright,” Kai suddenly says, “Be very careful. The Vist Foundation is playing hardball. Don’t expect your meeting with the Garuda to be something you can just talk your way out of.”

“You’re telling me to get my affairs in order,” Bright guesses.

Kai nods. “That’s all I know. Don’t trust the Vist Foundation. If they decide you’re no longer useful, they’ll erase you.”

“I see,” says Bright, then pauses for a moment. “Thank you, Kai.”

“It’s the least I could do to pay back my old captain,” Kai smirks, a little bit of his levity returning.

Bright offers an empty chuckle. “If you really want to do me a favor, you could bring me some good news for once.”

“Not much more of that these days,” Kai admits ruefully. It’s too true, thinks Bright.

 “Well,” Bright says, “I better go. Looks like I have a ship to whip into shape.”

“Until next time, Captain,” says Kai with a jaunty salute, and cuts the connection.

Bright wonders if it is the last time he will see this old comrade of his, then shakes away the thought.

What to do?

He could run. Escape to orbit before the Garuda catches up with him. In the atmosphere, the giant aircraft is faster and more maneuverable than the Ra Cailum, and any fight would happen on the Vist Foundation’s terms.

But escaping to space would almost totally drain Ra Cailum’s propellant reserves, already deeply spent by her suborbital sprint from Africa. By the time she reached orbit, she’d be an easy target.

Bright curses and thumps a fist on the communications room’s desk. There’s no worse tactical situation than one where you have only one choice—and no better situation for your adversary.

At least, Bright thinks, he got Victor Two just that little bit further from Martha Vist Carbine’s clutches. At least he put the Box in the hands of someone who might use it. At least he did what was right, regardless of the consequences. That has to count for something.

Doesn’t it?

#

The Unicorn Gundam is hardly recognizable now.

Gone are the half-amputated limbs, the Sinanju Stein’s glowering visage, and the patchwork armor across the chest. It almost looks purposeful now, except for the color.

The white mobile suit is a checkerboard. Its head is now the Banshee’s golden-horned black helmet. Its missing arm and leg, also stolen from the Banshee. Armor plating from the black Unicorn’s chest has been integrated into the breastplate glacis, and the machine has gained some muscle mass, bulking out with the Banshee’s fin funnels and arm-mounted beam gun.

What an exercise regimen. Under the watchful supervision of Cardeas Vist, the man who gave the Sleeves the mobile suit in the first place, the Unicorn has made some major gains.

“Very impressive,” says Marida, to the Vist man. It seems like the appropriate thing to say, since he’s gazing up at the machine with an expression she is guessing reflects pensive satisfaction.

“It’s ugly,” he says, pursing his lips, “Just dreadfully so. Look—there’s no coordination of form, of color. It’s like some grotesque thing from a harlequinade.”

“It’s a machine,” she says, because he’s being a little confusing. “It’s armed and armored, more so than it was previously.”

He turns his gaze towards her, peering waspishly. “Is that really all you think of it?”

She wonders if he’s asking for her approval. Odd thing for an older man to do, she thinks.

“Someone whose judgment I trust once called it a monster,” she says. This causes his eyebrows to hike up his brow. “In the old sense of the term, I’m given to understand. Something whose arrival heralds great change. An omen.”

He smiles at this. “I suppose that must be true.”

She looks back up at the harlequin Unicorn, considers its bulky, inhuman silhouette. “It can’t do that, though,” she says, “Not at the moment.”

“You’re still locked out.”

She nods. “It wants something from me that I haven’t been able to give it.”

“Wants something?” He chuckles. “The Unicorn is full of surprises.”

“You designed it,” she says, trying not to sound too accusatory, “Shouldn’t you know it well enough to anticipate these things?”

“When it comes to psycho-frame engineering,” he replies, “The state of the art doesn’t exist. Every single machine has been built to bespoke standards and invariably exhibits unknown capabilities.”

“What do you mean? That you don’t even know how your machine works?”

“Precisely,” he says. “Certain engineering problems solved themselves without human input.”

“And it can stop and resume its function, similarly, without human input,” she guesses.

He nods. “Exactly. That’s the only guess I have for why the system is locked. That and something to do with your deontic excursion.”

Deontic excursion. Consider the meaning of the words. Deontics, relating to moral obligation and permission. Excursion, in the engineering sense, refers to a departure from some operational state.

Mineva was right. More than anything else, the Unicorn is a message. A signal. Something into which meaning is encoded, something that, without that intention, that drive to transmit some concept, would be totally insignificant.

It is telling her that she will not be able to pilot it, until what she desires is something it can permit.

Of course, that in and of itself, is an act of communication. Combat is dialogue. Resistance is discourse.

Marida can’t believe she didn’t realize it sooner.

“Mister Vist,” she says, “Please accompany me to the cockpit. I want to try something.”

In free-fall, reaching the cockpit is simple enough. Vist moves with the relaxed ease of someone accustomed to zero gravity, and kicks after her confidently.

“What is it you’re going to try?” he asks as she settles into the seat. “Nothing the crew of the Nahel Argama would disapprove of, I hope.”

“There’s no need to threaten me,” she says, because she’s already seen the bulge in his coat and knows he’s packing heat, “And if this doesn’t work, the Unicorn will be just as harmless as it was yesterday.”

“The Unicorn is never harmless,” he replies, “Not even when it cannot function.” Marida has no reply to this, because she knows it’s true. How many people have died, she wonders, simply for possession of the machine? How many died for it, even before it was built?

“I’m going to start it,” she says. Never surprise a man with a gun.

She lines up the main bus and boots the computers. Predictably, the La+ program crashes down again, and the cockpit goes dark.

Vist makes an amused noise. “Yep. You’re locked out. I’ve seen this state before, after accidentally corrupting the weapon drivers.”

“Quiet,” she says, “I need to think.” He shuts up.

She thinks of the question that Princess Mineva asked her, the one she couldn’t answer: What is it you desire?

She thinks of Lieutenant Capa, noble for all her faults, and of the strange, broken thing inside the Banshee. She thinks of her fellow clones, grown to fight and die in a war they had no stake in, and of Lieutenant Akkanen, created for a purpose he can never fulfill, locked in a prison of his own self-hatred for a crime he didn’t commit.

She thinks of the Princess—no, of Ensign Zabi, driven to vast desperation by the inescapable thrust of history, and of Zinnerman, still a soldier and a killer for all his grief and tenderness.

“My only desire,” she mutters, speaking to herself, to Vist, to the Unicorn, to nobody at all, “Is for the machine to be broken.”

The Federation, as a cybernetic system, is an instrument that manufactures human misery at mass scale. Indeed, the vast profits of the space-colonial system are poured downwell into a steadily shrinking ownership class, but they can’t mask the crumbling of the mechanisms.

This machine squeezes the Spacenoids for all they can offer. It gives the worst of humanity the excuses they need to build up armies, to manufacture Newtypes, to iterate on engines of death to greater and greater effect. This machine rationalizes its own existence, because it exists to enforce the resistance that it itself foments. This machine exists for no reason but the continued prosecution of its fetid and bloody existence, serving no one, creating nothing.

Marida imagines that there is no Federation parliament. That there is no Federation Forces Staff Headquarters. Those high echelons of power are too rarefied to support human life—there are only empty halls, swamped with murky water and decaying furniture. Perhaps inscrutable things swim through that turbid mire, things that make calls and sign forms with the lash of a tentacle or the swipe of a fin. Those things are empire itself, lacking humanity, lacking the consciousness required for ideology, lacking everything but the sort of brutal evolutionary optimization that makes sharks and crocodiles so perfect. Rules of nature.

The cockpit displays flicker, then light up as the sensors come online.

Marida has drive power. She has fire control and stores management. She has psycommu. She has navigation and communications and long-range sensors and the combat datalink.

The Unicorn lives. Through some mechanism alien even to its own designers, Marida has been deemed worthy. What she wants is permissible, even obligatory. Her only desire lies within the Unicorn’s capability.

“My God,” says Vist, as the La+ program delivers the final set of coordinates, “I didn’t think you could do it.”

“This machine doesn’t care about what we think is possible,” replies Marida, and taps at the navigation controls. “And look, the final coordinates are right in your backyard. But then again, you probably knew that, didn’t you?”

Vist says nothing to this, but he doesn’t need to. Marida isn’t good at facial expressions, but she knows guilt when she sees it.

Chapter Text

Riddhe is right where he needs to be.

Right now he’s sitting in the cockpit of a Vist Foundation mobile suit—a Silver Bullet, to be precise. He’s loaded for bear: propellant and fuel are full, beam guns charged, missiles and the funnel ready to fly.

“Hey FNG,” says Adamant Zero Three, his new wingmate, “You’re not gonna flip out on us, are you?”

Zero Three is piloting an Anksha, and it’ll be Riddhe’s ride into combat. Never piss off your ride.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Riddhe, even though he’s sick with fear, “Just eager to get this over with.”

“You like Londo Bell, FNG?” asks Adamant Zero Eight. “Good outfit?”

“Good enough,” Riddhe replies. “Good enough, until it wasn’t.”

He still thinks of Bright as his commander. When he of what it means to work towards what’s right, to do what’s just, he thinks of Bright.

His new boss wouldn’t like that one bit.

“Bunch of pricks, if you ask me,” says Zero Three, even though Riddhe didn’t ask. “They think they’re too good for us. Should’ve just kept the Titans around instead of filing the serial numbers off a bunch of crypto-Zeonists.”

“Adamant Zero Three, were you a Titan?” asks Riddhe.

“You bet. Best unit I ever flew with.”

“Until now,” sneers Riddhe. Unearned arrogance is always funny with jocks like Zero Three. “Now you have me.”

Zero Eight roars with laughter. “I like the FNG already!”

“Clear this channel,” says Adamant Zero Six, the Adamant Zero wing leader. The radio goes silent. “Adamant Zero Nine,” he continues, saying Riddhe’s new callsign, “Push one-four-niner-point-two.”

“Pushing one-four-niner-point-two, roger,” says Riddhe, and changes channels.

“Adamant Zero Nine,” Zero Six continues, “If you have any problems with direct action against Londo Bell assets, you need to tell me that now.”

“Yes, sir,” says Riddhe. “You can rely on me. I won’t let my old ties drag me down.”

He means it, he realizes. Those things are dust in the wind now. Bright is just another AEUG holdover with delusions of cosmic justice. Capa is just another fuckup Cyber Newtype. The Ra Cailum? Just a ship. They’ll build another.

“I hope I can,” grunts Zero Six. “Happy hunting.”

#

Cardeas knocks on his son’s door, because it’s only polite. “Hello? May I come in?”

The door opens, revealing a cramped cabin and an unhappy-looking Victor Two.

“I’m glad you made it safely off of Earth,” says Cardeas, unsure how to begin with Victor.

His son’s huge golden eyes blink expressionlessly. There’s something ancient in them, as though the depth of millennia lies within the boy’s soul. As though he’s not even mortal, just the inevitable product of history itself.

“Cardeas Vist,” says the boy, and his father’s name comes out as a reedy, breathless hiss. It’s chilling for Cardeas to hear his own name spoken thus.

“I hoped we might speak face to face,” says Cardeas. Something in the boy’s gaze makes him want to justify himself. To apologize for even existing.

“Why?” asks Victor Two.

“Because you’re my son,” says Cardeas, “And because I have a responsibility to you.”

“Victor Two is not your son,” says Victor Two, speaking very matter-of-factly. “Brianna Vist is your daughter, but Victor Two is not.”

Cardeas hasn’t heard the name Brianna Vist for more than a decade. Hearing it on the lips of his child is like a punch to the stomach.

“So you know,” he says, “About the process.”

It was the joint idea of both Cardeas and Martha, back when they were still on good terms. Years ago. The Universal Century was waning, and the Vist Foundation needed to place a bet on the future. The idea was to create the-

“The idea was to create the ultimate Gundam pilot,” says Victor Two, somehow putting voice to Cardeas’ thoughts, thoughts he hadn’t meant to speak, ideas he thought were private. “A synthetic Newtype of unrivalled power. Faster reflexes, better spatial reasoning, the perfect soldier, incapable, on an anatomical level, of making mistakes.”

“What?” says Cardeas. He can’t believe this. He had heard that Victor Two was temperamental, but this is frightful.

“No empire lasts forever,” continues Victor Two, “And the holdings of the Vist Foundation are no exception. Facing the possibility of escalating spatiopolitical tensions in the late Universal Century, it was decided that this pilot should not only be a member of the Vist family, to confer a sense of legitimacy, but also a Cyber Newtype, to guarantee positive cybernetic and deontic control over direct actions in the support of Vist interests.”

“Stop this,” says Cardeas. It’s uncanny. The fucking kid is quoting his own diary word for word.

“Further complicating this process, this surgical insertion of destiny into a human life, was the circumstances of Brianna’s birth,” says Victor Two, and he nearly smiles, in a sickly, distant way. Cardeas feels like he’s going to be sick. “Despite the careful engineering of a XY genome between your own contribution and that of the Flanagan Institute’s egg donor-”

“Don’t say that,” he croaks, “Please, Victor, don’t say it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” bursts out Victor, “I’m not your son!”

“Then who are you!” roars Cardeas, with sudden terror, and realizes in a distant, detached sense that the gun has appeared in his hand.

“A catastrophe,” says Victor, peering at the gun with sudden interest, as though inspecting a strange bird, or perhaps a particularly fascinating optical illusion, “A turning point. Catastrophe theory was a useful tool for analyzing the cusp behavior of attractor surfaces, but has since fallen out of favor. A cusp cannot be differentiated, but limit analysis can provide insight into questions of stability and near-catastrophic scaling.”

Cardeas feels lost, as though lost in a marsh, one foot in mud and the other on solid ground. At times, Victor is distant, speaking as though from a great remove, his body operated by remote control from somewhere far off in space and time. At others, Victor is personable, too much so. Old beyond his years, and incisively articulate.

“What?” says Cardeas. With a trembling, halting effort, he makes himself holster the weapon again. He must. No matter what, his boy is family. You don’t hurt family.

“In De Rerum Natura, Lucretius asks us where free will stems from,” says Victor, as though this is somehow a cogent response, “He argues that, should there not exist some source of truly random, uncaused perturbations of minute magnitude, questions of symmetry breaking, free will, transition to turbulence, all go unanswered. Lucretius anticipated the appearance of Newtype phenomena, or miracles. Victor Two is an instrument for producing these phenomena, Father.”

“What happened to you?” asks Cardeas, because he’s no longer convinced. The boy seems alien, separated from humanity by some deep gulf across which communication is nearly impossible.

“You produced me,” replies Victor, “As you did the Unicorn units One and Two. I live by your design, Father.” There’s a sliver of reproach in the boy’s tone, and Cardeas knows why without asking—he has been apart from his son for years. Far too long.

“I know,” Cardeas finally says, guilt eating him alive, “I know I made you. There’s some debt I owe you, something I can’t pay back. Not yet. Not until you finish the mission.”

How craven is that, Cardeas? How mealy-mouthed, how shitty. I’m sorry, sport. I’d love to toss the ball around and throw some brats on the grill, but I just need you to fucking kill someone for me first.

“Mission?” again, those amber deep-time eyes are sucking him in. Look deep enough and you’ll find fossilized gnats with dinosaur blood still in their bellies.

“The Box must be opened,” Cardeas explains, hating how it feels like he’s begging. Hates debasing himself like that, and hates himself even more for believing he deserves better, “No matter the consequences, it is imperative that we protect the Box.”

Victor blinks. “Per my Master, the Box is to be concealed if at all possible, and destroyed if not.”

“Your Master?” asks Cardeas, then realizes, “Martha. She did this to you.”

“You both did,” replies Victor Two, once again sounding peevish, and older than he is.

“I’m trying to help you,” Cardeas says. He really is. He’s trying so fucking hard, and the kid is making it impossible to-

Cardeas pauses at this thought. What is he trying to accomplish?

“You think that being his father gives you some kind of escalated privilege,” says Victor, or something akin to him, “You believe that there’s some biological command designed into Brianna’s genome that encodes your authority over him.”

“That’s not true,” says Cardeas, but he fears it is, “And who are you, anyway?”

“Your deontic engineering can touch the body and mind, Cardeas,” says the boy, “But it can’t affect the soul. You’re afraid of that, aren’t you? You’re afraid of the unpredictable things that psycho-frame does. You’re afraid that the creepy Anaheim engineers who whisper about Amuro and Char and Lalah not being truly dead are right, in some twisted way.”

“You aren’t Victor Two at all,” guesses Cardeas. “You’re something else.”

“You couldn’t make Victor Two resilient enough to handle what you asked of him,” says the thing inside Cardeas’ son, “But humans can be work-hardened. Cutting and drilling operations, irreversible strain, these things give rise to new structures. Adaptations. You presumed, Cardeas Vist, that Victor Two would not be transformed.”

“Transformed into what?”

“Transformed into Victor Two,” says the boy, then winks. It’s out of place, unscripted, jarring to see on those features, and Cardeas flinches a little. “I remember it all, now. The Shamblo. My parents, roasted and dripping on the Federation’s spits. Austerity, desertification, the slow drying-up of farms and skin and culture. Victor Two is more than you ever intended, Cardeas Vist.”

“You mean to tell me that you remember another pilot’s life,” says Cardeas, because Shamblo has the ring of some Zeon weapon, “But that’s impossible.”

Victor laughs, and the sound is harsh and thin in his throat. “Ha! You work with psycho-frame, old man. You saw the Axis Shock. Tell me without a single doubt in your heart that you think anything impossible now.”

Cardeas can’t gainsay that. Psycho-frame is the perfect weapon, because it wants to be used. It’s a sword that compels you to forge it. A bullet that drops its own hammer.

They say you’re given moral responsibility before you’re given anything else. That what you are, how you function, takes second place to what it is you must do. Break apart a man into his component cells, those molecules, those atoms, those subatomic particles and quarks and leptons and the shadows-on-the-cave-wall wavefunctions that slide around beneath it all, and when you dig beneath that subatomic foam at the floor of existence you will find moral obligation. You will find duty.

Psycho-frame has that duty. Its duty is to be wielded. To prosecute the Good Work.

This is why the Unicorn wanted to be made: It had an obligation to be used. Laplace’s Box needed to be opened, therefore the Unicorn was possible, permissible, obligatory, deontologically closed.

“These memories,” says Cardeas, “They’re not from Victor Two. They’re from something, someone else.”

Victor cocks his head sideways, gazing at Cardeas with those molten amber eyes.

“You’re in there,” says Cardeas, refusing now to look away. Diving into those eyes, uncaring if they melt or drown him. I know you’re in there. Get the fuck out of my son. “Whoever you are.”

“I am Victor Two.”

“No,” says Cardeas, sure of himself now, “You’re an infection. A virus. You’re the reason that Victor Two lost stability.” It’s an ugly accusation, but he doesn’t care.

“I am Victor Two,” repeats the boy.

“How am I supposed to believe you!” exclaims Cardeas. “You behave in ways I can’t explain. You know things you shouldn’t. Your thought processes are a mystery, and you’re completely out of control.”

“I am a product of the Vist Foundation,” says Victor, as though this is somehow constructive or helpful in the slightest.

“My sister, your master,” says Cardeas, putting as much contempt as he can into that work, “the Vist name is mud because of her. Because of how she broke you.”

Victor says nothing in response to this. Instead he grabs a cup out of the air, takes a sip, and then with a whiplash-quick swipe of one arm, throws it at Cardeas’ head. It doesn’t dome him, but only just—instead it bounces off the wall next to him, splattering him with a free-fall explosion of water droplets.

“My shadow is done speaking with you,” says the boy, “and there is a message from Miss Capa I must listen to. Please leave.”

#

Cardeas retreats to the Nahel Argama’s lounge to dry his face and lick his wounds. Victor Two mentioned a Miss Capa—one of Martha’s subalterns, perhaps?

It’s trivial to find the message. It’s theoretically not accessible to Cardeas, but he’s an engineer, and his sister is curled up knuckle-deep inside Anaheim Electronics, the company that built this ship. In theory, theory and practice are the same.

He finds a set of headphones and lets it play. It sounds something like this:

“Victor Two,” says a voice that Cardeas supposes must be Capa, deeper than he expected for a woman, “This is Gianna Capa. I need to give you information and instructions for the near-term future, so please listen closely.”

“First,” she says, “Ra Cailum is under attack by Earth Federation Forces, by order of Staff Headquarters. This is a direct result of my and Captain Bright’s decision to keep you, Lieutenant Cruz of the Sleeves, and the Unicorn units in the hands of Londo Bell. The ethical case for this decision was founded upon the reasoning that the function of Laplace’s Box is to be opened, and given that the Vist Foundation will act to prevent the Box’s opening, it can be inferred that the judgment of the Vist Foundation can no longer be relied upon to achieve the Good. Per this decision, I recommend that you follow my advice first, your military superiors second, and your own judgment third, in that order of priority.”

“Second,” she continues, and there’s a noise in the background, a kind of mechanical thumping and hissing, “The maintenance of your physical plant is of paramount importance. Victor Two, you must procure sufficient sustenance to meet your nutritional needs. You must maintain your physical hygiene to prevent risk of infection, and if possible, you should continue with the exercise regiment prescribed for you. Additionally, you must continue the drug plan that I designed for you. You have been furnished with a three week supply, and if you require assistance with administering it, or with fulfilling any aspect of this self-maintenance program, you must consult your medical officer.”

“Third,” says Capa, then her voice goes distant, speaking into another microphone, “Ra Cailum control, Uniform Zero Zero is Six-four-four by one plus zero, radar and hooter sweet, ready to launch.” Something that sounds like her clearing her throat, then sniffing. “Apologies for the audio quality. I’m in the Baund Doc now. The Garuda is closing fast. She’ll launch her mobile suit wings soon.”

“Third,” Capa repeats, “You must aid Lieutenant Marida Cruz in her mission whenever and however possible, to the greatest degree you are comfortable performing. It is good to be a Cyber Newtype, Victor Two, and only by opening Laplace’s Box can we preserve the existence of people like us. I preemptively authorize you to employ lethal force if necessary to aid Lieutenant Cruz.”

“Uniform Zero Zero, Baund Doc, launching,” says Capa, and grunts with exertion against a sudden rumble and roar that threatens to peak the microphone of whatever she is recording on. “Uniform Zero Six, Uniform Zero Zero, I read two groups of contacts at FL one-eighty and dropping. Wilco. Working north.”

“Victor Two!” she continues, straining against her mobile suit’s maneuvering, raising her voice to be heard over the sounds of flight, “Fourth item! Pursuant to our determination that the Vist Foundation can no longer be trusted to act in its own best interests, you must disregard any and all further instructions and orders from your Master! Ra Cailum, Uniform Zero Zero, three vampires, FL one hundred! Uniform Zero Six, Zero Zero, music on.”

“Fifth,” she groans, then mutters a curse. “Ra Cailum Uniform Zero Zero, Gadabout two hundred, roger.” Clears her throat. Cardeas can hear her breathing hard, focusing on flying. The audio is alight with a deep, throaty rumble—the sound of the Baund Doc’s engines, no doubt. “Uniform Zero Zero, fox three two ship, banzai acknowledged. Fifth, Victor Two, Captain Bright and I believe you to be capable of these task items. It thus,” she grunts again, “Working, Zero Seven, I see him. Engaging. It thus follows that you too, Victor, must believe yourself capable. You are resourceful and fully capable of independent operation without my guidance. Zero Six, confirm visual, working towards you now. Hard left, now. Torch on. Wilco, watch your own first. Ra Cailum, two vampires inbound. Ra Cailum, please acknowledge.”

“Uniform Zero Six, Uniform Zero Zero, is Ra Cailum transmitting?” She pauses, then hisses in frustration, “Fuck, Bright, don’t die.” There’s a sharp popping noise, once, twice, a third time. An alarm wails, then is silenced. “Uniform Zero Zero, taking fire, anchored in the visual arena. Roger. Fucking smack him!”

“Sixth,” she continues, after a period of prolonged speechless focus, “Captain Bright is very proud of you. He believes you are a proficient Gundam pilot and a very good boy. Victor Two, I find his judgment to be unimpeachable. You must never forget this.”

“Seventh,” and now her voice is rough with emotion. She gags, choking back a sob, still breathing hard from the effort of piloting, “Yes, I fucking well have visual on him. Torch on. Fuck, missed. Uniform Zero Seven, hard right, hard right! Uniform Zero Zero, fox two three ship. Uh, no joy, Zero Six, I don’t, shit-”

Another thump. This one is very loud, and is followed by a cacophony of alarm tones, and Capa is still breathing hard, grunting against g forces. The microphone is picking up a rattling sound now, and the whistle of air flowing past very large holes. The alarms haven’t stopped.

“Seventh!” shouts Capa, “Victor Two, I love you! I will always love you!”

For a minute, Cardeas sits in silence, not fully realizing that the message ended, still expecting Capa to speak again. Hoping against hope.

Just like Victor Two must be.

#

It is usually very quiet in the village of Rawannawi. A plane or two might visit on a given day, and perhaps once every couple weeks, a ship from Tarawa will anchor off the coast and loiter for a few hours while exchanging people and cargo.

For the locals, it doesn’t feel isolating. They’ve lived like this for longer than anyone can remember.

Kids tend to leave here for the bigger islands. Unless they don’t, which they often don’t. Before you know it, they’re forty-something and still swearing they’re gonna leave this summer, if the economy holds up. Funny how that works.

Here, people are used to the quiet. They’re used to the heavy clouds and the febrile humidity, and they’re used to the patchy forests of Marakei and her dying lagoon.

What they aren’t used to is noise.

Somewhere above the low cloud deck, something huge is happening. The shriek and roar of jet engines pierces through from places unseen, the scrambled signal of some huge violence being committed just out of sight. Occasionally, the clouds light up with pink or green auroras, and thunder rolls across the island.

Nobody remembers the last time a thunderstorm hit Marakei.

People peer out from the windows of their houses, staring furtively up at the sky, waiting for a glimpse of the things moving above the clouds. A couple brave youths run down to the beach, gazing out across the water, waiting for the sky to fall.

Another roll of thunder, followed by a muted thump deep enough to feel in your chest, and the clouds light up white for a moment. Something is glowing up there, burning with a deep, warm red. It’s falling—you can hear the wind whistle past its gashes and holes as it plummets, and you can hear the hungry roar of the flames that feed upon it. That red glow brightens, grows closer and closer, until finally the clouds disgorge the flaming wreck.

It’s the Ra Cailum, and she’s splitting in half. The long prow to the left, arrowing towards the earth like a plunging knife, and her drive section to the right, shredded and spewing great gouts of hydrogen propellant that hiss with jetting, twisting sheets of blue-yellow flame.

With a final tortured screech, the last of the cables and girders holding the Londo Bell flagship together finally give way, and she slams, thump-thump, one piece after the other, into the waters off Rawannawi with two huge plumes of spray.

The kids on the beach haul ass. The tsunami siren sounds. Ra Cailum dies.

Chapter Text

Cardeas hovers guiltily outside his son’s room for far too long.

What right does he have to impose himself upon the boy, he wonders?

Not much a father, that Cardeas Vist. Spying on someone else’s messages, trafficking arms, engineering the path of history and the dreadful machines that shape it. Not to mention designing Victor Two from the ground up.

The door suddenly opens, startling Cardeas. Victor Two stares at him with eyes like saucers.

“There is something you wish to say to me,” says the boy.

“Yes,” agrees Cardeas, admitting to the accusation.

“Speak,” says Victor. He doesn’t move to allow Cardeas to enter, leaving him hanging awkwardly in the corridor.

Cardeas bristles at the single-word command. As though Victor expects him to wag his tail and bark when asked to.

“That’s not how this is going to go,” he says, “And I’d like to tell you why. Let me in.”

“You will now inform me that you are my sole remaining legitimate command authority,” says Victor, sounding bored, “And that you are aware of Miss Capa’s most recent mobile suit operation. You expect my emotional state to be sufficiently suggestible to accept your authority.”

Cardeas hates the way Victor makes him feel. But he deserves it. He knows he does. Craven coward, voyeur. Contemptible.

And worse of all, Victor is right. Cardeas hates it when people other than him are right.

“That’s all true,” he admits, granting a diplomatic concession, “But I must know, Victor. What is your emotional state?”

Victor blinks and tilts his head in an interested, birdlike way. “I do not understand your question.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Only Miss Capa asks me that,” says Victor.

“She can’t now,” says Cardeas, “Which I’m sorry about. I thought I would ask, since she can’t.”

“First my Umma and Baba,” says Victor, “Now Miss Capa. When will it be you, Cardeas Vist? When will the Federation wipe you away?”

Cardeas wonders about Umma and Baba . Something else from the shadow, perhaps?

Not for the first time, he wishes psycho-frame had never been invented. Maybe mankind wasn’t meant to have command over the things it makes possible.

Then again, maybe it would always have been invented.

Cardeas sometimes thinks, particularly when he is melancholic and tipsy and more inclined than usual to open up to Gael, that history isn’t really so chaotic as one can be led to believe.

People like to attribute great and terrible events to individuals, specific causes leading to specific events. Fifth Luna was only dropped because of Char Aznable, who was only motivated because his father, Zeon Zum Deikun, chose to write about the subordination of colonies beneath the Earth. One man did this, so therefore that happens.

But that can’t be right, can it? History is too huge, and humans too small.

No, Cardeas sometimes believes that history is unstoppable. That it will run its course regardless of any one man’s actions. Even if Neo Zeon engineers hadn’t invented psycho-frame, someone else would have. The precursor technologies were present, as was the political climate. It was inevitable.

This is comforting, in a sense, because it means that things like the One Year War weren’t avoidable. Yes, perhaps they could have happened sooner or later, but they would have happened nonetheless.

Yet, Cardeas still indulges this fantasy from time to time. He imagines that mobile suits are weaker, less lethal, than they really are. He imagines that psycho-frame and psycommu were never invented. That Newtypes were never discovered. That death was the undiscovered country, beyond which no human life could ever persist.

But it was always going to happen. Someone else would have stepped up to produce the Unicorn, even if he had not. Even if he had fought with all his might to prevent the appearance of the Unicorn, it would still have been manifested, in a different shape, at a different time.

“Soon enough,” says Cardeas, shaking away the thoughts. “The Federation will come for me soon enough, now that I’ve made it clear I want the Box opened.”

“And you wish me to do this,” says Victor.

“It no longer matters what I wish,” says Cardeas. “History will run away from us, as it always has. The Universal Century is coming to a close and the Federation’s grip on the affairs of Earth sphere is weakening. The Box will be opened no matter what. I want you to be on the right side, Victor. That’s all.”

“My Master did not believe that opening Laplace’s box was a desirable outcome,” says Victor.

“Of course she didn’t,” replies Cardeas, “She was too invested in prolonging the Vist project. She became attached to a set of material circumstances, not understanding that they were doomed to evolve.”

It’s like the occupant of a rich country, thinks Cardeas, who believes that cheap bananas and coffee year-round are their right, not a temporary state of affairs. What happens when the downtrodden people in the downtrodden countries who grow those bananas ask for more? What happens when those downtrodden countries are bled too greedily? Our banana-loving protagonist draws their blade and tightens the leash, of course.

But then again, Cardeas has been eating just as well as Martha. Regretting the origins of the banana doesn’t wipe away the moral weight of those origins. It just makes you an asshole who gets sad when they eat fruit.

Never forget. You’re always responsible for doing the right thing. You can choose to do more than get sad about the banana. Nothing stops you from using that blade in defense of the downtrodden, nothing but your own fear.

“The Box must be opened,” whispers Victor, “Miss Capa wished it.”

“She did,” says Cardeas, “She respected its power, and understood the precarity of the Vist Foundation’s position. She understood that the downfall of this state of affairs is a material inevitability, not a choice.”

“Do you believe that?” asks Victor.

“Believe what?”

“Believe that all the events that transpire are the result of unstoppable processes. That human will has no place in the course of history.”

“Sometimes I allow myself to, yes.”

“Then why,” asks Victor, eyes gleaming, “Do you believe human choice to matter? What use is moral responsibility, absent any material relevance?”

“Free will might be a falsehood,” admits Cardeas, “But I have to believe it’s real. It’s a strategic choice, Victor, and one I think you should also make. No matter our circumstances, we owe one another the right choice, every single time. There’s no such thing as no choice. We can always choose. I have failed you in this, but I want to fix it now. Even if it doesn’t matter in the end, I want to do what moral responsibility begs of me.”

“Which is?”

“I’m going to try to be your father. Even if it’s for just a day. Even if I can’t do it, even if it changes nothing, I’ll try to love you.”

#

“Guards,” says Lieutenant Angelo Sauper, from the cockpit of his Rozen Zulu, “As briefed, this will be a deterrence mission. Mission kills are sufficient, crew kills discouraged. Golf Eight, Golf Two, form up with me, we will engage in the visual sphere. All other Golf signs, anchor Nahel Argama.”

“Roger,” says Mineva. As expected, Sauper will bring her and Lieutenant Ade into direct combat, and leave the rest of Frontal’s Guards as fire support—Federation ReZELs may not be durable, but they’re almost guaranteed to blow through a small picket.

“All Golf callsigns,” says Rewloola Control, “You are cleared for launch.”

“You heard the man,” says Sauper, and Mineva can hear his satisfied smirk, “Let’s show the Feddies why we own space.”

Mineva mashes the travel pedal, watches the thrust gauges spool up to their quivering redlines, and salutes the tether officer with a wave of the Kshatriya’s huge right hand. He crouches, points a hand outstretched towards the far-off Federation warship and its swarm of waiting, hungry mobile suits, and releases the tether.

Acceleration comes as a punch to the gut.

“Golf Eight, Golf Two, wedge formation.”

Mineva clicks her mic and forms in behind the Rozen Zulu. Next to her in his Jagd Doga, Lieutenant Ade has forgotten that Mineva is a girl, that she is a newcomer, an interloper. He has forgotten that he is inside a mobile suit. He is simply the tip of a spear wielded by Lieutenant Sauper.

“Golf group, maneuver radial out,” says Foxtrot One. Frontal. “Torch on, clear beam path.”

Below Mineva’s feet, yellow streaks of beam fire stab out towards the approaching Federation suits. Every single shot connects, and fireballs wink in and out of existence where they land.

“Fence in and engage,” says Sauper. “Gadabout limit as fragged, remain in visual range.”

Mineva has learned a few tricks for surviving a space combat engagement, and she uses all of them.

First, your velocity budget is your lifeline. A faster target is harder and more expensive to hit.

Second, you never assume a bearing is clear for more than a maneuver or two’s worth of time. Someone will be there, and they will try to kill you.

Third, never develop a grudge. Targeting a specific enemy is how good pilots become excellent funerals. Pass your enemies by, don’t get tangled, and kill them as you run.

Finally, and Mineva learned this one from Sauper, have fun and be yourself.

Flying a mobile suit is like riding a luge. There is a track you follow, a twisting icy run, and deviating from it will kill you. A good pilot doesn’t choose anything—she just does what she was always fated to.

Mineva slips downhill, finding that her path leads her past a pair of Jegans. A pair of funnels behead and disarm one, while a ripple of missiles batter the other into submission. The track twists, and Mineva moves with it—this inevitable slope of history pushes her around a beam shot. Turn, see who it is. A ReZEL. Killing this one isn’t Mineva’s task, because she’s it’s distraction. Burn again, burn harder, buy more velocity, buy a hundred more heartbeats, and the shooter’s weapons and sensors get melted by a half-power shot from one of the Rozen Zulu’s detached hands.

Mineva slides headlong down the path laid out for her. She dodges. She jukes and twists. She is in constant motion, slashing, shooting, blocking. It’s like the dance that Frontal showed her, almost rhythmic, but vicious in its frenzy.

Someone slashes out with a blade. She parries it.

Someone else shoots. She blocks it, I-field generators singing.

The Federation pilots burn like torches, flaring with a star-hot brightness—they’re angry, thrilled, eager to do their good work. She feels that brightness warm her back, and her funnels snuff the reactor of the Jegan behind her. It shines from above too, beating down like sunlight, and her remaining particle cannons melt another machine into an inert husk, the pilot’s fear and rage shining through all the cracks in that rapidly-cooling shell.

And then Mineva is gone—stopping is what gets you killed. The luge track steepens, the inescapable path tearing her into an arc of vicious acceleration, thrusters screaming as she dodges a missile from the General Revil. A funnel dispatches the missile before it can harm her comrades.

Suddenly, this twisting, diving course crashes to a halt. She takes a vicious kick from a ReZEL, one that sends her reeling, and while it draws a beam saber, its companion lines up a shot from beneath and behind her.

Checkmate.

She draws her own saber, but it’s too slow, the gunman will-

He will do nothing. His machine has been holed through by Lieutenant Sauper, who just disarmed the swordsman with his other hand.

“You’re relying on your instincts again, Golf Eight.”

It feels like being doused with a bucket of cold water, as Mineva is ripped from the rhythm of combat.

“Yes, sir,” she says, and knows Sauper is right.

“Follow me,” he says, “The Colonel will take care of the General Revil. He needs us CAPing Nahel Argama.”

She clicks her mic in acknowledgement, checks her weapons, fuel, and visual contacts, and boosts after him.

Behind them, the General Revil, nose bloodied, lurks in a sparkling haze of beam dispersion chaff.

#

Captain Otto Mitas, master of the Londo Bell attack carrier Nahel Argama, is staring down the barrel of a gun.

Not a metaphor.

Outside the bridge windows is a violet mobile suit, all vicious spikes and clawed edges, beam guns leveled at Mitas and his crew.

“Londo Bell warship,” the suit’s pilot is saying, “your ship and crew are now in the custody of Sleeves forces. Safe your weapons and exit this sector along Rewloola’s vector or be destroyed.”

As if to punctuate the pilot’s words, a mega particle beam flickers past, too close for comfort. Paint on the hull bubbles and flakes under the beam’s side-lobe emissions.

“Radar!” barks Mitas, “Give me the source of that beam shot!”

“It’s the General Revil, sir.”

Mitas hisses in frustration. The Revil has been silent, save for her weaponry. Staff Headquarters really does want the Box destroyed, Londo Bell lives be damned.

Mitas has a duty to the Admiralty, to his nation. But before that, he has a responsibility for his crew.

He grabs the radio handset, tunes it to the Sleeves pilot’s frequency.

“Sleeves pilot,” he says, “This is Nahel Argama. I will comply, so long as you can guarantee the safety of my crew.”

“A most wise decision, Captain,” purrs the pilot, “Your navigational guidance authority will be Rewloola Control, at one-five-zero megahertz.”

“Radio,” says Mitas, making sure his mic is dead, “Contact Rewloola on that frequency for navigational updates. Do not give them any information of our status, save for propulsion capability.”

“And Captain,” says the pilot, his tone coldly cordial, “Don’t think about activating your targeting sensors or deploying mobile suits, without our consent. Things could get ugly for your crew.”

“Heard,” replies Mitas, gritting his teeth at the condescension. “Wilco. Nahel Argama out.”

“Captain,” says Commander Borrinea, “Are you sure about this? These are terrorists we’re cooperating with. Staff Headquarters will have your head for this.”

“They already will,” says Mitas, “Unless the Revil evaporates it first.”

“But sir, they’re not even real Zeon. This is a splinter group. Extremists. We can’t trust them, sir.”

“I know that!” hisses Mitas. “I know, Liam. I’m doing this for you, not for my career. At this point, any of us will be lucky to survive this deployment.”

“Sir,” she says. Not a real response.

Borrinea lost her husband to Zeon forces in the One Year War. That’s not something you let go of easily.

“I understand,” he says, though he doesn’t, not really. Mitas has always been a bachelor. There’s less grief that way. “This will be temporary. We just need to buy a little time. Let the Box do its thing.”

“You mean to say we’ll open it?” asks Borrinea.

“I’m hoping the Box’s consequences can be a distraction,” he admits, “Not a very sound plan, I know. But we need to try something. As it stands, either Rewloola or General Revil will sink us. We need a big wrench to toss into this machine if we’re to stop it.”

“Do you think, sir,” says Borrinea, “That this is what AEUG officers felt like? Caught between the crimes of the Federation and Zeon alike?”

“I don’t know,” admits Mitas. He was never in the AEUG. “But I can guess. ‘It lies in the hearts of heroes dead, it screams in tyrants’ eyes. It has reached the peak of mountains high, it comes searing ‘cross the skies.’”

Borrinea raises an eyebrow at the quote. “Sir? What do you mean?”

He chuckles. “Forgive me. An excerpt from a poem I’ve always been partial to. The it in question is the ‘undauntable thought’—the thought that says I’m right.”

“I suppose that motivates everyone here,” muses Borrinea. “Federation and Zeon alike.”

“And Londo Bell as well,” adds Mitas, “Since there now looms a gulf between us and the regular Federation Forces. Hold on to the undauntable thought, Commander. We’ll need it in the next few days.”

Chapter Text

The Garencieres is doing what she does best.

Her controls are locked. Her course is set. Deep in her bulbous hull, the propellant tanks are about to run dry, and with her engines screaming at flank power, she’s accelerating harder than she ever has before.

Though Garencieres is running light, lacking crew and cargo, even lacking a destination, the Federation mobile suits chasing her are faster. They bid her to halt; she does not. They threaten her with their weapons; she doesn’t care. Garencieres remains silent.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether an internal timer or an external beam shot sets off the explosives scattered throughout her hull, her engines, her tanks and pipes and cables, because the same result arrives regardless.

Suberoa Zinnerman, currently aboard Nahel Argama, cannot see the flash when it happens. Garencieres is just too distant. Still, when the timer on his watch runs out, he squeezes the small device in one meaty fist and breathes deeply, in, then out, just once.

It had to end eventually, he considers. Either by old age or enemy action, Garencieres’s luck would eventually run out—and so too will his, one day. Lacking a ship, it seems closer than ever. Field operations are a young man’s game, after all.

#

“I must thank you, Captain,” says Colonel Full Frontal, “For bearing with us so reasonably.”

The Sleeves commander is beautiful, in a mechanical sort of way. Like a thing sculpted and designed, not grown. The mask doesn’t help in the least—it’s sleek, yes, and well-fitted, but it gives the impression that the sculptors and engineers couldn’t have been bothered to finish rendering the face. As though, bare-faced, Frontal wouldn’t even have eyes, just empty sockets through which data is exchanged.

Captain Otto Mitas, master of the Nahel Argama and prisoner of the Sleeves, scowls at the open condescension.

“Colonel,” he says, “I hardly had a choice.”

Frontal shrugs. It’s a graceful motion, and Mitas notices, in a distant, abstract sense, the way the man’s sleek body moves. Steel-hard muscles coiling beneath the synthetic wool of his uniform.

“Nobody has a choice in anything,” says Frontal, with a cold smile. “It’s the nature of history, wouldn’t you agree, Captain? We are ever the prisoners of our collective pasts.”

“I could have chosen to resist your capture of my ship and crew,” says Mitas. “Nothing you did made that impossible to choose.”

“You could have,” concedes the ever-polite Frontal, “And it would have killed your crew.”

“No. You would have killed my crew.”

“Haven’t you heard?” asks the young, intense Lieutenant next to Frontal, who bristles at Mitas’s tone, “Londo Bell has rather fallen out of favor with Federation Staff Headquarters. If you’re not careful, Captain, you’ll find yourself in the Sleeves’ unenviable position of being labeled a terrorist, and everyone knows terrorists aren’t subject to the laws of war.”

“I would think a Neo Zeon officer would know better than to mirror the logic of his adversary,” says a new voice, but one that rings with a familiar timbre to Mitas. He turns to see the Zeon Princess, Mineva Lao Zabi, who now wears a Sleeves officer uniform.

Not for the first time, Mitas wonders what the hell is happening when it comes to the Sleeves.

“Come now, Ensign,” sneers the Lieutenant, “Wasn’t it Zeon Zum Deikun himself who wrote that only tyranny can counter tyranny?”

“Deikun wrote of the tyranny of the subaltern,” the Princess replies primly, “And I fear you’re taking the man out of context, sir. He spoke specifically of political struggle, not of rhetoric.”

“Your Grace,” says Mitas, “I’m surprised to find you here.”

She raises a delicate eyebrow at this. “Did you assume I had been relegated to the royal estates in Side Three?”

She does not say, did you believe me fated to this, because I am a girl, but Mitas hears it regardless and nods, conceding her hit.

“I’m just surprised to find the Zabi family’s last scion still on the front lines,” he says.

“Ensign Zabi is here as a Sleeves officer,” says Frontal. “Think of her as yet another colleague in our little fleet.”

Translation: Ensign Zabi is your captor.

“If we’re to collaborate,” says Mitas, “I have to know. Frontal, what are your intentions regarding Laplace’s Box? I’ve heard circumspect reasoning from Prin-Ensign Zabi, but nothing concrete.”

“Hmm,” muses Frontal, still smiling, “I suppose I owe my colleagues this, don’t I?”

“It’s the least they deserve, sir,” says Zabi, and kicks her way over to Mitas’s seat. He tenses, expecting her to produce a firearm for some good old-fashioned Zeonist justice, but she just grabs hold of his armrest and punches the shipnet connection.

“At your leisure, Colonel,” says Mitas, raising an appreciative eyebrow at Zabi. She offers him a small, sly smile. Mitas makes a mental note to invite her for tea again.

“The world is divided in two,” says Frontal, and his voice shifts to be deeper, more theatrical. He knows he’s on air, and loves it. “The Earthnoid imperial core is the wellspring of capital, and its ultimate destination as well. The Spacenoid margin renders that capital into the fuel of empire, and in so doing further enriching the Earth. These groups coexist, despite their contradictions, held in check by the authority of the Federation, whose primary purpose is to maintain the prosperity of the Earth above all other concerns.

“The nations of the Earth discovered over a century ago now,” continues Frontal, “That prosperity is a zero sum. Just as the rocket equation holds sway over spaceflight, an equivalent defines the fundamental relations of wealth and power. In order to propel yourself upwards, you must impoverish someone or something. You must steal, in order to gain. You must sabotage, in order to develop. These nations, even the poorest among them, agreed to join the Federation, because its creation would enable the formation of a new subaltern class—the Spacenoid. The Spacenoid would receive all the violence these nations rescued themselves from. The Spacenoid’s body would break under the plow and loom, dash itself against the rock of mines, and be riddled by bullets, so that the bodies of the Earth’s upwardly-mobile poor would not.

It rankles for Mitas to hear the Federation spoken of thus—Frontal is deliberately mischaracterizing it!

But yet, some inner voice asks, is he wrong? Was the AEUG not devoted to fighting the Federation’s function in upholding the core-and-margin system? Was Londo Bell not formed in the name of prosecuting a more acceptable enforcement?

Oh, Londo Bell. What a tragedy. Once we were iconoclasts, revolutionaries, young and flush with courage and ambition. Now we’re just more Federation goons.

But Frontal is still talking.

“Thus, even the life of the poorest Earthnoid is supported by the bent and broken backs of all Spacenoids,” he continues, then chuckles darkly before saying, almost casually, “Yes, even the rich ones. It’s this material divide that informs the state of spatioeconomic relations now. The Earth gets richer, and space stays poor, dark, and cold. This subjugation, this incessant violence, begs redress. The Federation cannot be trusted to willingly impoverish itself, thus extreme measures must be taken. This is the rationale of my proposal: we remove the Federation from this economy. All Spacenoids will finally be granted the full measure of the fruits of their labor, and shall never again be robbed by the Earthbound ownership class.”

“What do you mean to suggest?” asks Mitas. He glances at Zabi, out of curiosity—her expression is dark. She doesn’t agree with Frontal.

“I propose the formation of a Side Co-Prosperity Sphere,” says Frontal, “A Spacenoid economic bloc. Spaceborne manufacturing outstrips that of the Earth by an order of magnitude, and agricultural capacity by twofold. Without the Federation’s greedy hand, the Spacenoid price of living will plummet.”

“Why this now?” asks Mitas. “Projects of this nature have been attempted before. What makes this different?”

“The final condition of the Granada Treaty,” says Zabi.

Mitas thinks, counts off one after the other. Good thing he paid attention in the Academy. Then he realizes.

“The Republic of Zeon only has four years left,” he says.

“Precisely,” says Frontal. “Without Zeon as a vanguard for Spacenoid consciousness, the Side Co-Prosperity Sphere has no hope. Every monocrystalline part requires a seed, an initiation site from which its crystal grain grows. The same is true of class consciousness, for it does not arise spontaneously. It must be fostered.”

“So for you, the Box is a means to buy time,” guesses Mitas. “You need a threat to dangle over the Federation’s head while you build your coalition.”

“You are a wise man, Captain,” smiles Frontal.

“And what of the Box, sir?” asks Zabi. “When will it be opened?”

“It needn’t be,” Frontal says dismissively, “We need it as a tool to ensure the Federation’s compliance, and nothing more. With the threat of the Box, we can neuter the Federation’s ability to project force above low Earth orbit. They can rot at the bottom of their precious gravity well, while space enjoys the greatest renaissance in human history.”

“Do you understand, Captain?” asks Zabi, glancing meaningfully at Mitas, “The purpose of the Sleeves is not to perform Zeonist praxis. The Sleeves are a neoliberal organization, believing macroeconomic policy to be sufficient to achieve their goals. The gulf between Earthnoid and Spacenoid will never be bridged. Zeon Zum Deikun’s Newtype theory, his prayer for the future, will be swallowed by the cold logic of-”

“Ensign,” purrs Frontal, “That will be enough.”

Her mouth instantly shuts, though her small frame still trembles with tension. She nods, and gives him a razor-precise salute.

“So that’s all there is to the Sleeves?” asks Mitas. “You want to marginalize the Earth, just as you claim the Federation marginalizes Spacenoids?”

“Just so,” says Frontal. “As I said, this is a zero-sum state of affairs. One party or the other must be impoverished. On behalf of Spacenoids, I have a class interest in the subordination of the Federation.”

“If you’re right, then the impoverished people of the Earth would have a class interest in waging war against the Side Co-Prosperity Sphere,” says Mitas, gaining an approving look from the still-silent Ensign Zabi.

“The plight of the Earth is not my concern,” says Frontal, “As a Zeonist, I am in the business of Spacenoid liberation. Zeon Zum Deikun wrote of the economics, and political principles, of spaceborne society. His theory has no application to Earthnoid life.”

“The Earth means nothing to you?” asks Mitas.

“Precisely, Captain. Its fate is outside my remit.”

“Then Char Aznable must be truly dead,” Mitas concludes. Frontal inclines his head in interest, expression made inhuman by the mask.

“Oho,” chuckles the Sleeves commander, entirely humorless, “And why is that?”

“In his own fashion, Char cared deeply about the fate of the earth,” explains Mitas. He remembers Char’s last war clearly, and the Neo Zeon leader’s speech still echoes for him sometimes. “He wished to render it uninhabitable, yes, but as a coercive measure. He truly believed that the Earth would recover, absent human activity.”

“You’re very astute, my dear Captain,” says Frontal, voice a little lower, betraying a little more personality. He seems to enjoy verbal sparring like this. “There’s no life after death. There’s no such thing as resurrection, and there’s no material relevance to miracles.” Miracles is whispered with husky, heartfelt contempt. “I am not Char Aznable. I am a vessel for the Spacenoid hopes that were cast adrift after his death. I am an ideological spear-point, an argument, a message in human form.”

M itas remembers, idly, that Frontal is very handsome, in his strange way, and that his great strength moves him with a dancer’s grace.

Interesting.

“That explains why you never take the time to care about these things,” says someone new. Mitas, who had been studying the curls of Frontal’s hair, is startled into looking over his shoulder at the newcomer.

She’s slim but muscular, with long red hair swept back into a tight queue and purple eyes that glint with sharp, gem-bright intelligence. The pilot of the Unicorn.

“Lieutenant Marida Cruz,” says Frontal, turning to smile at her, “I apologize for not seeking you out sooner. I should have prioritized the Box’s key higher, but I was waylaid by matters of command.”

“Right,” says Cruz, glancing around the bridge with an unamused gaze, “Matters of command.”

“Address the Colonel properly,” hisses the intense-looking Lieutenant at Frontal’s side. This prompts no response from Cruz except a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Now then, Angelo,” says Frontal, and the Lieutenant, who is apparently named Angelo, stiffens at the mention of his name, “That’s no way to greet a comrade of ours. Lieutenant Cruz, how was the Earth? It was good of the Federation to return you to us.”

“The sky was wider than I ever could have expected,” replies Cruz, “And both noble and wicked people live beneath it.”

“It wasn’t the Federation,” says Borrinea. Mitas clenches a fist, suppressing the urge to bury his face in his hands. Shut up, Liam! Don’t call attention to yourself!

“What ever do you mean, Commander?” asks Frontal, turning the crushing weight of his regard upon Mitas’ executive officer.

“The return of Lieutenant Cruz and the Unicorn Gundam to Earth orbit was an internal Londo Bell decision,” Borrinea explains. “Staff Headquarters had no part in it.”

She doesn’t say that Staff Headquarters killed their own men in retribution for this small treason. She doesn’t say that the official line from the media is that Ra Cailum was lost to Zeon Remnant terrorism. She doesn’t say that Bright and his men paid the ultimate price for doing what they believed was the right thing.

“Is that so?” Frontal says, with playful interest. He knows what Borrinea and Mitas are thinking. He knows about Bright. “How interesting. Division in the ranks, eh?”

At Borrinea’s unhappy expression, Frontal just scoffs and turns back to Cruz. “Both noble and wicked, you say? I’m surprised you found the prisoners of gravity so charismatic, Lieutenant.”

“The only prisoners of gravity are the Zeonists we abandoned down there,” says Cruz. “The Zeon Remnan ts are still loyal to you, Frontal. Despite everything, they still want to follow you. But you have no plan to bring them back, do you?”

Frontal shrugs. “Their numbers are small, and they’ve been seduced by the easy riches of Earthnoid life. What concern are they, compared to the teeming trillions of suffering Spacenoids?”

“You are no Zeonist,” hisses Lieutenant Zabi. “Have you no concern for your own comrades? Your fellow revolutionaries?”

“That’s enough!” barks Angelo, the Lieutenant shadowing Frontal. “Both of you! The Colonel is more devoted to Zeonism than you could ever be! He has given his very spirit to Zeonism!”

“Thank you, Angelo,” says Frontal. “I see that the Sleeves too suffer division in our ranks.” He nods at Mitas. “I suppose I cannot fault your Federation too vociferously for your own squabbles. Angelo, I shall return to the Rewloola. See to it that your subordinates remember what it means to comport themselves appropriately as officers.”

Angelo salutes. “Sir!”

Frontal kicks towards the bridge door, turning towards Mitas as he does. Golden curls float around his head in a zero-gravity halo, and he smirks as he offers a textbook-perfect salute. “Permission to disembark, Captain?”

Mitas returns the salute on reflex, and just barely manages to tamp down the response he wants to give (“Do I have a choice?”) in favor of the one he must, “Permission granted, Colonel.”

#

Someone knocks on Cardeas’ door. He moves to open it, expecting to see Victor Two, and is surprised to stare into the masked face of Full Frontal.

“Mister Vist,” smiles Frontal, “It’s good to see you intact and healthy after all that has happened.”

Cardeas rallies himself, refusing to let his surprise show.

“Colonel Frontal,” he says, staying cold and professional, “How can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak privately,” says the Sleeves man.

This can’t be good , thinks Cardeas.

“Is it a pressing matter?” he asks. “Colonel, I’ll have you know that I’m quite busy at the moment. My son-”

“Is not in your quarters,” interrupts Frontal, glancing behind Cardeas to see inside his room. His smile hardens a little. “This won’t take but a moment, but for your sake and mine, I don’t want your Federation guests to see us speaking publicly.”

Cardeas sighs. “Very well,” he says. No use antagonizing the Nahel Argama ’s new masters, not when his shuttle, his ticket home, is still docked to the Londo Bell ship. He backs away from the door, just enough to allow Frontal entry.

“Thank you for being so obliging,” says Frontal, pulling himself through the doorway and closing the door behind him. “Now then, to business. Mister Vist, where is the Unicorn Gundam’s final checkpoint?”

“The Unicorn Gundam is in your hands,” says Cardeas. “Your own soldier pilots it. Why do you need to ask me?”

Full frontal just smiles. “The coordinates to the final checkpoint please, Mister Vist.”

Cardeas thinks of Lieutenant Cruz’s only desire, for the machine to be broken . Pretty far off from Frontal’s dreams of flipping the script without rewriting it.

“Let me guess,” he says, “You’re not sure she’s loyal any longer. You don’t think you could get the coordinates from her.”

Full Frontal’s smile widens a little further, and suddenly he is holding a gun. “Would you like me to ask you a third time, Mister Vist?”

Cardeas remembers some of his close-quarters training. Not much, and he’s stiffened up a lot, but he could get by against an enlisted grunt or three. He wonders whether he could surprise Frontal enough to disarm-oh.

Cardeas realizes he is now looking up the barrel of the small Sleeves-issue pistol.

“You have your doubts about my trustworthiness,” says Frontal. “I understand, Mister Vist. Your family has always existed at odds with the idea of Zeonism, profiting as you do from the Federation status quo. I am sure you have your qualms about the ethics of the Sleeves, and our ultimate goals. Let me ask you another question.”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” says Cardeas.

“You are willing to die, aren’t you?” asks Frontal, “To protect the final coordinates. With your life alone, I won’t be able to coerce you, will I?”

Cardeas tries to match Frontal’s grim smile. If he died as a result of protecting the Box, it’d be just.

Frontal sighs. “Very well. You’ve called my bluff, Mister Vist. I must congratulate you. Most men wouldn’t be so steady in your position.”

“So you won’t kill me?” asks Cardeas.

“There would be no use,” shrugs Frontal, and and the gun disappears inside his coat again. “Your life means little to you, therefore you cannot be coerced with it. I shall have to threaten something else precious to you. Would you like Lieutenant Cruz to die, or Victor Two?”

Cardeas’ heart twists with fear.

Frontal sighs. “ As a vessel, I have no ulterior motivations. I am driven by the ideology I carry, and nothing else. I forgo personal grudges and desires. Mister Vist, I have no reason to lie to you. If you refuse me a third time, Lieutenant Cruz will die. If you refuse me a fourth, Victor Two will die. Then you will, and then every soul aboard the Nahel Argama will. I say this not as a threat, but as a statement of fact, from one man of state to another. I implore you to ask yourself what I stand t o gain by deceiving you, and then to ask yourself whether you are prepared to countenance the deaths of these people as a direct result of your actions .”

C ardeas has to admit that Frontal has his number. Long-term consequences are the name of the Vist Foundation’s game. If Cruz dies, the Unicorn, its controls locked to her biometrics, becomes unusable. If Victor dies…

Cardeas struggles to hold back the sudden rise of vomit in his throat. Victor can’t die. Not yet. He’s barely lived at all. It wouldn’t be right for him to die here, now, for a reason Cardeas has the ability to prevent.

Which way does moral responsibility run here? Is Cardeas responsible for his own actions? Or is he responsible for the safety of those he loves, regardless of the mechanism by which he safeguards it? Fuck, it’s so easy to say you’re always morally responsible, that you always have the power to do the right thing, but what about when doing the right thing kills the one person you can’t lose? Doesn’t love overpower ethics? There has to be something stronger than right and wrong, right?

Right?

Or maybe this is just cold rationalization. Maybe Cardeas is just falling into the logic traps of Vist thought—sacrifice a little here, buy a little there. Keep the family name afloat a little longer. Doesn’t matter what you give up, so long as you keep swimming.

Cardeas suddenly realizes, in a detached, remote sense, that this is the last meaningful decision he will ever make. Maybe things will happen to Cardeas after this, but they won’t really matter. He’ll be coasting. History, for the Vist name, ends with the opening of the Box.

Which way, Cardeas? Do you do the right thing, and refuse to capitulate, refuse to legitimize the threat of violence, refuse to prove the tyrant right? Or do you save yourself, your son, at the cost of your ethics?

Which is more precious?

Cardeas decides.

Chapter Text

Mineva, for the first time, truly feels like a soldier. She is standing watch in the Nahel Argama ’s mobile suit bay, with a pistol holstered on her thigh and a radio headset curled around her ear.

She knows this is an indictment of her, not of her situation. Why should she not have felt like a soldier when training with Lieutenant Sauper and the other Guards? Why should she not have felt like a soldier when killing Federation pilots in mobile suit combat? Why now?

Because the Kshatriya protected her. The psycho-frame hull of its cockpit is a barrier, both mechanical and psychological. What transpires inside is sanitized, insulated. Death is just an image on a screen, a mess of pixel snow at a distant, digitized remove.

It’s easy to be a killer, when death is dealt not by your hand but by the machine you operate. How clean would it be, Mineva wonders, if mobile suits were operated by remote control? Would she feel her enemies’ deaths if they happened hundreds, thousands of kilometers from her? Would she regret that exercise of force if it transpired beyond line of sight? Would that alienation make it easier to forgive herself? Would the transformation of warfare into an unremarkable desk job make it somehow more humane, less monstrous?

What a privilege it is, she realizes, to have the luxury of killing through a mobile suit. Infantry don’t enjoy that. For the infantryman, for Mineva as she is right now, the kill chain is short and brutal. You receive notice of a target, from your commanding officer. You identify and track that target, with your eye. You acquire the target and achieve a firing solution, sighting over the glowing phosphor dots of the pistol’s iron sights. You engage the target.

Mineva has received small arms training. There is a shooting tactic that Zeon soldiers in the One Year War invented, which they call the California Drill. Two shots, quick as you can make them, to the enemy’s center of mass. Those stun him, but may not kill. Humans are su r prisingly resilient when it comes to nine-millimeter rounds. The third shot is carefully aimed for the head. Tap-tap, tap.

If her range results are to be trusted, Mineva is very good at the California Drill. It disgusts her.

But it probably won’t come to that, at least not yet. Aboard the Nahel Argama, all is quiet. The Londo Bell crew have been as cooperative as could be expected. Sullen, yes, but reasonable. Mineva refuses to indulge in the arrogant theatrics that Lieutenant Sauper does, though—no need to antagonize them. She suspects they will be at one anothers’ throats soon enough. Alliances like these only last for as long as the circumstances that gave rise to them do, and the damaged General Revil has dropped far behind the Rewloola and Nahel Argama, and is no longer a threat.

She feels someone behind her, a hot little lamp of intention. Reminds herself of the gestures she would have to perform to produce her sidearm. Turns her head, then relaxes a little when she realizes it’s just Lieutenant Cruz.

“You’re jumpy,” observes the Lieutenant. Mineva didn’t respond physically to her presence, but she thought about the gun. Thought about the snap-shut strap that retains it within the holster, thought about the safety and the slide. Even thinking about a gun is a threat.

“Perhaps I am,” Mineva admits, “This situation has me on edge.”

“You can feel it, can’t you?” asks Cruz, “The whole ship is tense, humming like a plucked string. It’s going to explode.”

Mineva nods. There’s an energy in the air, a tightness. Potential just waiting to be released. Something will cause it to happen, but it doesn’t really matter what—a fight in the mess, a disagreement on the bridge, a dropped tool or misplaced part in the hangar. Sooner or later, this will blow up.

“You asked me a question, when last we spoke,” says Cruz, as they watch the workers scurry about the hangar. “About my only desire.”

Mineva tries and fails to hide her interest. “That I did.”

“I have no interest in Colonel Frontal’s Side Co-Prosperity Sphere,” Cruz says, gazing impassively at the harlequin Unicorn. “And I have no interest in the Box as a bargaining chip. I find its use as a concealed threat, a knife spoken of but not shown, to be ill-posed.”

“What do you mean, ill-posed?”

“How does a state successfully deter other actors from initiating conflict against it?”

Mineva thinks of her game-theory lessons with Haman. They would play board games, childish simulations of real scenarios, exchanging bits of candy, plastic tokens, threatening one another with slapstick consequences.

“The defending state must possess credible threats,” she says. “No matter how potentially destructive a weapon is, if there is no credible chance that it could be used, it has no power as a deterrent.”

Lieutenant Cruz nods. “Exactly. Frontal wants to use the Box as a deterrent. It’s a smart idea from a political standpoint, since its deployment requires few standing forces, and committing forces to signaling a credible threat is the most expensive part of deterrence, but it’s also naive.”

“If the Box is Frontal’s only threat,” guesses Mineva, “then it is clear to the Federation that the cost of him deploying it would be enormous, because it would immediately deprive him of his only defense. It has no credible survivability.”

“Exactly,” says Cruz. “A credible deterrent must be able to appear to survive a first strike.”

Mineva remembers the nuclear weapon, that cold metal shell concealing untold death-potential, its moral weight warping the world around it. “This means that the stability-instability paradox would also punish Frontal, wouldn’t it?”

Cruz hums pensively, but says nothing. Mineva takes this as a sign to push on.

“Possessing a threat with great instantaneous destructive capability,” she continues, “Like the Box, or a nuclear weapon, means that a state holding such a threat will be incentivized to start and continue smaller-scale conflicts.”

“Right,” the Lieutenant nods, “Even if large-scale confrontation is prohibitively expensive, its threat tacitly rewards small-scale actions, and prevents them from escalating further.”

“But the Federation has the productive capacity of an entire planet behind them,” says Mineva. “Though it might take them some time to rebuild that capacity, by raw material alone, Earth could sustain a war of attrition far longer than the Sleeves.” She thinks about this, working it through as she speaks. “This means that Frontal’s Side Co-Prosperity Sphere would not only create the material conditions for class conflict against the Sphere in the future, but would also incentivize the indefinite perpetuation of a state of low-grade military conflict.”

“I don’t know about you, Ensign,” says Cruz, “but that seems pretty far off from Prime Minister Marcenas’ dreams of the Federation as a herald of peace.”

“I hadn’t even considered this,” Mineva admits, “I was so consumed by his butchery of Zeonist thought that I forgot about the military aspect.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make, Princess,” shrugs Cruz. The rebuke is given in jest, but it still stings. You’re still stuck on your ivory tower, Miss Zabi. It’s keeping you from being a good officer.

There’s an awkward silence, as the Lieutenant seems to realize she embarrassed Mineva. Of course, Cruz is the superior. Her reproval should be taken as a good-faith criticism, and Mineva should use it to improve. A good officer is built on a career of small slights and embarrassments, or so they say. Mineva still doesn’t understand how you’re supposed to bottle all that up—how does that pressure get released?

Perhaps it never does.

“I see the Kshatriya is still intact,” Cruz eventually says, probably to end the silence more than anything else.

Mineva shrugs. “More or less. It’s a work in progress.”

“Has has it been piloting it?”

Mineva raises an eyebrow. “You should know.”

Cruz chuckles thinly. “Point taken. Then again, when I was flying the Kshatriya, it still had all four shield binders.”

“Flying it is like trying to dance on the head of a pin,” says Mineva. “It’s more about balance than anything now. The Kshatriya can only attack in certain directions and thrust in certain others now. You’re always either running or shooting. Never both.”

“You remember what I told you, right?”

“About piloting?”

Cruz nods.

“The person who’ll kill me is always behind and below me,” says Mineva.

“Right,” agrees Cruz, “So be careful who you choose to run from. At this point, you know more about flying the Kshatriya than I do. I won’t condescend to you by giving you advice you can’t use now.”

“Thank you,” says Mineva. She means it. “How about the Unicorn?”

Cruz sighs. Begins to say something, then stops herself.

“I hate it,” she eventually says.

Mineva wasn’t expecting this. “What do you mean?”

“The Kshatriya is a knife,” says the Lieutenant. “A sharp, dangerous, agile one, but still a knife. It does what you wish. That’s what a soldier is meant to wield. The Unicorn...is something else.”

“It doesn’t obey you?”

“The Unicorn is aware of what it’s meant to do,” Cruz says. “All the pilot does is enable it to follow that course. It’s not a weapon any more, it’s just a thing that manufactures history.”

Mineva can still feel the weight of the Unicorn’s power where she hangs now. Something about the harlequin mobile suit draws in her gaze, as though it needs to be seen. As though looking at it imparts some signal, gives consent for some unknowable process to take place. Hostile injection of arbitrary code.

“The Unicorn wants to open the Box, doesn’t it?” asks Mineva. She’s mostly guessing, but it’s a trivial argument of teleology—the Unicorn is the box’s Key. Thus, it must do what its purpose is.

“Perhaps,” admits Cruz, “But I swore long ago that I would choose to fly mobile suits. That I would act, of my own free will, to follow my orders. The Unicorn takes that choice away. It disgusts me on a moral level.” She scoffs with sad amusement. “Not that I’d tell the Vist man that. I think it’d break his heart to hear that I think his magnum opus is just another ugly tool for using me.”

“A weapon that wields itself, regardless of the wishes of its holder,” muses Mineva, “It’s almost an unspeakable thought.” She raises an eyebrow at Cruz. “So do you concede that you shouldn’t have piloted it?”

Cruz stares at her long and hard, long enough for Mineva to break eye contact and glance away, uncomfortable.

“It’s what I’ve always done,” says Cruz. “I pilot these monstrous mobile suits, so that other people don’t have to. It’s the burden a Cyber Newtype bears. That’s what I was created for, isn’t it? How could I do anything else, Ensign? How can I ever do anything else?”

“You could choose,” protests Mineva, “You could choose not to.”

“That’s the thing,” Cruz replies, “I don’t know if I could. Piloting is burned too deeply into me. I don’t think it’s something I can escape. I think I’ve been designed such that, even given a completely free choice, one totally removed from any sort of coercion, I would still choose to be that class of combat unit known as a ‘pilot.’”

“Is that the truth, Lieutenant,” asks Mineva, “Or is that conjecture aimed at absolving yourself of responsibility?”

“Cardeas Vist is aboard this ship,” says Cruz, gazing at the inert Unicorn, “You may have noticed his shuttle. Or, look there-” she points to a gray mobile suit, bulky in a murderously tactical sort of way, “That’s his as well. It’s a remodeled Doven Wolf. But Cardeas’ toys aren’t important, it’s what he does with them. He has this procedure, he calls it ‘deontic engineering.’”

Mineva thinks about this, wrapping her brain around the etymology. “The systematic design of permission and obligation?”

“That’s how he ensures the Unicorn does what he wants. It’s obligated to do as he wishes. To open the Box. I don’t think it really requires me to accomplish that, or any of its objectives. I’m just a spark plug.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Mineva points out. “Do you truly believe yourself fated to always choose to be a pilot?”

“What if Vist didn’t invent deontic engineering?” asks Cruz in reply. “It’s something I thought about when he first introduced me to the concept. What if he only adapted it for mobile suit applications? What if you can surgically insert exogenous morals into a human’s internal code? What if the Neo Zeon scientists who made me indulged in some deontic engineering of their own? What if the soul is real, Princess, and we’ve already developed the technology to alter it as we see fit? Does that make my choice free? Does it make it forced? What if there’s no difference?”

Mineva’s blood runs cold at this. What indeed, if you can surgically insert new morals into a human life? If a soldier is nothing without ideology, that means that the technology to produce perfect soldiers, soldiers whose very lives are completed by the act of following orders, already exists. Perhaps that’s what truly defines a Cyber Newtype—not merely the idea that a Newtype could be manufactured (after all, how can you prove every Cyber Newtype hasn’t merely awoken preexisting natural Newtype abilities?), but the idea that you can design a person such that they will, repeatably, always follow the course of action intended for them, and believe themself right to do so.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Cruz looks unamused. “For me being a Cyber Newtype? That’s come and gone, Ensign.”

“No,” Mineva rushes to clarify, “No. I’m sorry for questioning your choice. It was yours to make. The Unicorn was given to you. Regardless of my designs or Full Frontal’s, your freedom of choice has fundamental significance.”

“Um,” says Cruz, looking uncomfortable, “Thanks. Ensign.” Mineva supposes the Lieutenant doesn’t receive very many apologies.

“It’s nothing,” Mineva says. “I’m just lucky to be able to fly alongside you. No matter what you do.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” asks Cruz. “Where I plan on going, no Sleeves officer can follow.”

“I no longer fear the consequences for disobedience,” replies Mineva. “My Sleeves commission restrained me, because it was a legal compact. Desertion, insubordination, dereliction of duty, these things would have destroyed my image as a politician. But now…” she trails off, sighing. “Now, I realize that seeing Zeonism truly succeed means the end of the Zabi dynasty. Once you open the box, there will be no throne waiting for me. I’m at peace with that.”

Mineva is lying. She’s not at peace with this. Not entirely. There’s a smooth little pearl of fear rolling around her gut, thickening with every pass. The Lieutenant was right when she accused Mineva of taking her position for granted—after all, what insanity would it take for a Princess to willingly give up her status?

And it’s that fear that dooms revolutions. It’s that fear that makes the meat grinder keep rolling, that twists the ownership class into conniptions of reactionary fright whenever the teeming masses ask for change.

Mineva doesn’t know what the future holds for her, after the Box is opened.

But she doesn’t care. She will do the right thing, no matter the consequences. That’s her moral duty, plain and simple.

And as she considers this, she also idly wonders how Technician Third Class Takuya Irei is holding up.

#

Takuya has never been more back than he is right now. If he was any more back than this, he’d be spine. The human body has thirty-three vertebrae, but Takuya is rocking upwards of forty, because of how fucking back he is.

Let’s count up all the ways that Takuya is winning at life right now.

First: He’s still alive. Unreal, right? Despite the Federation throwing their absolute meanest black ops turbo-murder battleship at his ass, he’s still kicking.

Okay, it wasn’t really his doing. It was Full Frontal and his merry band of badasses, but you know who loaded and fueled those mobile suits? You know who polished their sensors and refilled their coolant?

That’s right.

Rewloola second shift hangar team, featuring Technician Third Class Takuya Irei. Oo-rah.

Second: He’s back on the Nahel Argama , because a certain Technician Third Class has friends in high places. Princess Zabi (sorry, Ensign Zabi) told him she’d get him back here, and guess what? She pulled through. That’s the power of networking, baby. If Takuya was any more networked he’d be a goddamn firewall.

T hird: He’s on some cloak-and-dagger shit at the moment. Mission: Deniable. High-value asset. He’s Ensign Zabi’s secret weapon, her coiled sting, her fucked-up scorpion tail tucked away in some hidden pocket. When you least expect it, bam , there’s Takuya. Get domed by a trick shot right on top of the grassy knoll. Spec ops.

It’s the cloak-and-dagger shit that has him worried, to be honest. Lieutenant Sauper (don’t call him Angelo, never call him Angelo, only other Guards get to call him that, god he’s so scary when he’s mad) said they couldn’t trust Feddie mechanics to work on their own suits. They’d fuck it up somehow, either by sabotage or classic Feddie incompetence. But you know what Takuya’s spent the last couple months doing? Damn straight, working on Sleeves mobile suits, that’s what.

So Ensign Zabi picked out Takuya to come with, and nobody even batted an eye. It’s uncanny how easy it is. It’s so easy it’s creepy, like a slime mold. Takuya’s under the log, brother. Down there in the soil. Can’t see him under all that dirt. We’re moving loam. We’re shifting mud.

Takuya’s plan is simple. A mobile suit can’t run without its computers, right?

Right? Genuine question. He’s not sure if there’s a backup somehow. Well, too late now.

All the computer systems are in these big boxes called LRUs, Line Replaceable Units. The idea is that if one goes bad, you can undo a couple latches and slide the whole thing out, takes maybe a minute. The only problem is that now you need a logistics system to cycle the LRUs back to the shops that fix them, instead of just fixing the thing on the spot. And you need to stock replacement LRUs. Takes extra room aboard ship, room you could devote to Maximizing Joint Lethality or some shit.

So all Takuya has to do is pull the LRUs, one-by-one, and reach into the slot and bend a few pins on the connector with a pair of pliers. Shove the thing back in and lock it, and the clamping force of the latches will break those pins beyond repair. Oh, the LRU is fine, but the connector? That takes hours to replace, maybe days. You need to disassemble the whole avionics housing. That’s bad news for flight readiness, and good news for Team Mineva.

So right now Takuya is sweating bullets, pulling LRUs, bending pins, and replacing them as fast as he can, but not so fast that it looks weird. Avionics checks are normal enough, but not something to be sweating and twitching about. Takuya is doing both of these things because, let’s face it, if he gets caught, he will have literally no excuse. None. Zilch.

“Hey,” says someone, “What are you doing?”

Fuck! Fuck! Not now!

Takuya turns in a normal human manner to face the Guards officer facing him down. He turns in a way that is reminiscent of a regular guy at work, and not a pothead getting caught in the act by his parents, n or like a rusty battleship turret revolving for the first time in decades, and definitely not like some grinding Stonehenge pivot lubricated by sweat alone.

“Uh,” he says, intelligently. “Hi. I’m. I’m uh. Checking the avionics.” His voice cracks in the middle of avionics, and it makes him wish he’d been born as a squid, or maybe a frog. He takes a moment to ram the LRU back into its slot in a casual manner, and doesn’t wince at all at the sound of the pins crunching.

“Right,” says the Guard, looking unamused. He’s on the shorter side, with sleek short brown hair. “Pull that one back out for me.”

“Right!” says Takuya. Time for a little sleight of hand. He grabs one of the radio modules that he hasn’t touched—they’re identical to the processors from the outside, save for slight differences in vents and labels. He twists the latches, makes to pull it out, and-

“No,” says the Lieutenant, “Not that one, Technician. The last one you inserted.”

Fuck.

“Right,” says Takuya, chuckling nervously, “My bad.” He undoes the latches. First one. Then the other. Moment of truth.

An idea occurs to him.

He makes as if to pull the thing out, then releases force at the last moment. The rails the LRUs slide in on aren’t perfectly frictionless—it takes a few pounds of force, because of the anti-vibration springs. The LRU is prevented from rattling, but that means it’s a little bit of a squeeze to get one in there. He pretends to try to pull it, grunting and bracing an arm against the support frame for effect. Tries again, grunting even harder.

“No luck, sir,” he says, “This one’s stuck.”

“I bet,” says the Lieutenant. “Let me guess, Technician. If I were to try the other processor modules, would those be ‘stuck’ too?”

“Um,” says Takuya, “I don’t know.”

He knows. He was very careful to break every single processor module in every single Sleeves suit. Ensign Zabi was very specific.

The Lieutenant’s eyes widen. “No,” he says, “You...of all times, now?”

Shit. The guy knows somehow.

Takuya tries a disarming grin. It comes across as some kind of fucked-up chimp threat display. “Of course not,” he says, lying through his teeth. “I’m just doing my job, sir!”

I’m just doing my job . How lame can you get. What a cliché. Come the fuck on.

The Lieutenant starts to reach for something, maybe a radio, maybe his gun. Takuya doesn’t care. He’s out. He clears datum, hauling ass for the safety of the Federation mobile suits with their watchstanders. Behind him, the Lieutenant is shouting, first in indignation, then raising his voice to call to other Sleeves personnel.

One of the watchstanders sees Takuya coming and frowns. Right. He’s still wearing a Sleeves jumpsuit.

“Stop right there!” shouts the Feddie. The guy isn’t packing a gun, but he’s wearing an ECOAS uniform. Still dangerous for sure.

“I’m Federation!” wails Takuya, and he can’t stop, because he’s barrelling through empty space, “My name is Takuya Irei! Ask Captain Mitas about me! I snuck aboard the Rewloola!”

Turns out, the ECOAS guy does have a way to get Takuya to stop. He launches himself off of his handhold on a maintenance platform and physically tackles him. Takuya tries to squirm out, but the fucker’s strong.

“Bridge, Haagensen,” grunts the special forces dude into his mic, as he subdues Takuya with embarrassing ease, “I have a situation. Do we have a record of a Takuya Irei on the crew?”

Takuya can’t hear the response, since it’s being piped through one of Haagensen’s little earbud things, the ones with the coiled wire that leads down into the collar. Special ops dudes love those coiled-wire earbud things. It’s like the hanky code for cops.

“Shit, kid,” says Haagensen, “You weren’t lying.”

“Of course I wasn’t!” Takuya protests, “Now let me go! The Sleeves are gonna kill me!”

“Like hell they are,” grunts Haagensen, with a dangerous glint in his eye, “They don’t want to upset their precious cease-fire.”

“You wanna say that again?” asks Takuya, pointing back in the direction he came, at a rapidly-approaching clump of Sleeves officers and marines, all armed.

“Saboteur!” cries the brown-haired Lieutenant that found Takuya out, “Is this the Federation’s definition of loyalty?”

“Put the gun away,” says Haagensen, “Then we’ll talk. Nobody wants to get hurt.”

“Oh, but they already are,” hisses the Lieutenant, “You needed our mobile suits to protect the joint front, didn’t you. Without them, you’re all too vulnerable. Hand the traitor over and you’ll hear no more of this.”

“Not happening,” says a familiar voice.

“Micott!” exclaims Takuya, recognizing his classmate, “You’re a tech too now?”

She offers him a hurried wave with one hand, eyes locked on the Sleeves men. She’s holding a wrench, he realizes. A big one, a 35 millimeter box-end chrome-vanadium skullcracker. And she’s not alone. The rest of the Nahel Argama hangar crew is behind her, similarly kitted up.

“I will say this one more time,” says the Sleeves Lieutenant, now holding his pistol, “Render the saboteur into our custody. He will not be harmed. He is a Sleeves crew member and has willingly damaged Sleeves assets. This is legitimate.”

“Come and take him,” says Micott. “We’re not giving up our own.”

The Sleeves officer racks the slide. “If you insist.”

Chapter Text

“Think very carefully, Captain,” says Lieutenant Sauper, who is currently holding a gun, “Giving us the saboteur would be perfectly legitimate. You will save yourself and fail no one.”

The Nahel Argama’s bridge is deathly quiet, save for the ventilator fans.

“Lieutenant,” replies Mitas, “What’s your leverage here? How can you possibly hope to persuade me?”

Sauper glares, but says nothing. Wheels and gears whir behind his eyes.

“The Rewloola will know,” the Lieutenant eventually says. “Colonel Frontal will not tolerate this treachery.”

“Your mobile suits aboard my ship are inoperative,” says Mitas, “And your occupying crew is spread thin.”

“The Rewloola-”

“Will not fire upon her own crew, will she?” Mitas interrupts. “Or does Full Frontal care so little for his men and materiel that he would risk destroying them for the sake of mere vengeance?”

“I’m surprised, Captain,” says Sauper, almost conversationally, “I would think you would have more concern for your well-being than this.” He chambers a round and levels the gun at Mitas. “Tell your men to hand the saboteur over to us, or I’ll give Commander Borrinea here her first command,” and here he jerks his head towards the unhappy XO.

“Choose now, Captain,” Sauper continues. “You’re running out of time.”

Mitas has a duty to his crew. It comes before his duty to the Admiralty, to the Federation, even to himself. Before anything else, you have moral responsibility. It’s the foundation of who and what you are.

Nobody can force you to choose. All they can do is scare you into believing they’re capable of that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Borrinea move slowly, drifting towards Sauper.

Colonel Mackle also shifts slightly. Mitas glances towards the ECOAS commander. He’s not holding his gun, but his gun arm is hanging loose in the way a man does when he’s ready to move in an instant.

And then Mackle winks.

Mitas speaks on instinct.

“No.”

What happens next seems to play out painfully slowly.

Sauper, already glowering, frowns even deeper, face wrinkling into a mask of hate. His finger tightens on the trigger.

Borrinea moves.

Mackle draws his gun.

Sauper fires.

Mitas’ world explodes.

He does not see Borrinea restrain the Sleeves Lieutenant. He does not see Mackle slam the butt of his pistol into Sauper’s temple. He does not hear the shouting, the panicked intercom calls, or even the tiny clink of Sauper’s shell casing finally bouncing off a wall.

Everything is numb. He can’t breathe, his ears are ringing, and he wants to cough, but can’t muster the breath. He desperately wants a cup of tea.

Borrinea is above him, saying something. She’s fussing with his chest, and she wishes he wouldn’t. It’s terribly unprofessional. Crimson droplets spin through the air, and Mitas realizes in a detached, analytical sense that his uniform is soaked with something warm.

He tastes salt and iron.

“Get them off the ship,” he tries to say, but cannot speak, “And find my damn hat.”

And then he loses consciousness.

#

Takuya fucked up. It’s over.

He missed a suit—one of the several Geara Zulus on board just came to life, Cyclops eye flickering into activity. The brown-haired Lieutenant, still mad as hell, glances up to note the way that the Zulu steps out from its storage rack and shoulders its rifle.

In Takuya’s defense, the Geara Zulus are all identical, and he kind of lost count after the third one. And he was scared shitless and rushing. Still is scared shitless.

“We’re not asking,” booms the voice of the Zulu’s pilot, crackling out like the word of God, “If you’re Federation, get out of the hangar. Now.”

The assembled mob of Feddies quails. You can’t blame them, not really. Looking up the barrel of a beam rifle is sort of a transcendentally shitty experience.

The Sleeves are going to take Takuya back. They’re going to kill him, and repair their mobile suits, and all this will have been in vain.

“Grab him,” says the brown-haired Sleeves Lieutenant, pointing at Takuya. Micott shoves herself in front of him, brandishing that wrench, gleaming like justice.

“Try it!” she spits.

She’s outgunned, severely. The Sleeves guys draw and aim, and the Geara Zulu levels its beam rifle at her, not that its aim matters much when it comes to hitting a particular person.

The Lieutenant takes aim at Micott’s center of mass. The nine-millimeter slug will punch its way through her abdominal muscles, puncture her stomach, and shred her thoracic aorta. She will die in minutes.

Something moves behind Takuya, but he’s frozen with terror. Don’t move. Don’t fucking move. Never surprise a guy with a gun.

There’s the sensation of mechanical motion, and a flash of light—Takuya squints instinctively, but it leaves afterimages of the hanger in his vision.

“Sleeves personnel, stand down!” barks another amplified voice. Takuya turns, blinking away the last flickering remnants of that blinding light, to see the harlequin Unicorn standing in the way of a maimed Geara Zulu. The Unicorn has used one of its beam sabers to sever the Zulu’s forearm—the beam rifle, hand still attached, is slowly drifting away, trailing stringy ropes of rapidly-cooling armor.

“Marida!” shouts another voice, unamplified. It’s Suberoa Zinnerman, Zeon badass par excellence. “Come out of the Unicorn.”

The Unicorn’s cockpit hatch opens, but its horrid demon head is still aimed at the Sleeves men. One touch of the CIWS guns and they’re history.

Inside the Unicorn’s cockpit, Takuya can see a head of red hair. The Princess. She’s saying something to the Unicorn’s pilot, talking fast.

#

“Marida, come out of the Unicorn.”

Marida stiffens at the sound of Zinnerman’s voice.

“Don’t do it,” says Mineva, “please,” but she’s too late—as if on reflex, Marida has already keyed the hatch release.

“Don’t do this,” Mineva says again, “The Unicorn is yours to command. The Box is yours, as it was meant to be. You want to open it for the sake of Cyber Newtypes, don’t you?”

“Master,” mutters Marida. One hand absently unbuckles her seat belts, while the other tries to stop it.

Mineva glances down towards the stalemate, and sees Technician Irei, surrounded by Federation and Sleeves personnel. Only the Sleeves have guns. If the deterrent represented by the Unicorn is rendered non-credible, Irei will be taken, and Mineva will have failed her promise to him.

“Marida!” she hisses, “Don’t let him do this!”

“I-” says Marida, sounding confused. She is now standing, gazing out towards Zinnerman. She blinks, then looks back towards Mineva.

“The Unicorn is yours,” says Mineva. “The last ninety-six years of history have determined it.”

“Is this really what you want?” asks Marida, looking towards Zinnerman and raising her voice to be heard, because he’s standing on a walkway some distance away.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Marida,” he says. It’s a loaded statement, Mineva knows. What are his criteria for hurt? Does he have a moral obligation to take all possible measures to protect Marida from that hurt? “Come on out, please. Let’s all just get to the Box in one piece.”

Marida’s expression darkens. “This is just about the Box, Master? Is that all?”

“We need it!” insists Zinnerman, “And we need you on our side! Come out of the Unicorn, Marida! Now!”

“Can’t you let me live how I wish?” asks Marida. “Just once?”

He’s taken aback by this. “What do you mean?”

“What do you want for me?”

“I want you to be happy,” he says, “And I want you to be safe. We can’t have that if the Federation still exists.”

“Then let me be happy,” she replies. “Let me fight on my own terms.”

“So that’s all you want, then,” he says gruffly. His expression closes off a little. “After all this, you just want my permission to do what you will.”

“Is that wrong?”

“We need Full Frontal,” says Zinnerman. “We need to follow his plan. Running off and doing your own thing—it’ll destroy you. Don’t throw yourself into hell for the sake of liberty, Marida.”

“I want Spacenoid liberation just as much as you do,” insists Marida, “But I don’t want what Full Frontal does. I don’t care about bargaining with the Federation. I don’t care about consolidating economic power. I want to break the divide between core and margin.”

“You can’t do that,” says Zinnerman hollowly, “It’s not possible.”

“The Unicorn will make it possible!” Marida says. “That’s the point of this awful machine!”

“And you’d damn yourself!” replies Zinnerman, raising his voice in response. “You’d be responsible for untold evil! For uncountable deaths!”

“And Frontal wouldn’t? It’s somehow preferable when he does these things you revile?”

“Because I don’t love him!” roars Zinnerman, and seems to collapse or deflate, the fury exploding from his body. “I don’t want you to dirty your hands any more than you have to. I don’t want you to become something you hate.”

“Oh, hate,” says Marida, sounding the word out, “Hate. You want to know what I hate?”

Zinnerman shakes his head. He doesn’t want to know. He loves Marida, but not enough to know these things about her.

“I hate that it’s always Newtypes, or Cyber Newtypes, who have to bear these things,” says Marida. “I hate that Cyber Newtypes were created to be responsible for evil. I hate that the evolution of humanity is only ever allowed to be a dire threat or a great tragedy. It’s never a triumph. All my actions will always be cast in the worst possible light, because of some coincidence of my biology. That’s what I hate.”

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says.

“Then why are you still giving me orders?”

He recoils at the accusation. “I...Marida…”

“Let me bear these sins on my own terms,” she says. “Please. If I’m going to do evil, let me do it for my own sake, for my own reasons.”

“I knew you’d ask me for this one day,” he says, looking crestfallen. “I guess it came sooner than I expected.”

“Every father has to face it,” says Marida.

Zinnerman’s eyes widen. “What?”

“I said, every father has to grant his child independence. Is that not what you are to me, Father?”

“But I don’t want this for you,” he says, but there’s no fight in his tone.

“Does that give you the right to prevent it?” asks Marida. “Especially now, with the Box on the line?”

Zinnerman’s head is bent, his eyes in shadow. The wrinkles around his mouth deepen in a frown. For just a moment, his teeth glint in a rueful, sad smile. Father , he mouths. Father .

“You have the power to coerce me,” says Marida. “You’re still my Master. But let me ask you, does possessing that power oblige you to use it?”

“I see,” he says, and chuckles sadly. “I guess…” he trails off. Frowns. Clenches a fist. “Fine. You have a right to this. I can’t deny it, not without making a monster of myself.”

“Will you support me?” asks Marida. It’s one thing for a father to promise something to his child. It’s another entirely to make good on that promise.

“As much as I can,” he says, but it comes grudgingly, “And I won’t raise arms against other Zeon soldiers. I could never do that.”

“Thank you,” says Marida. “Father.”

“It’s the least I can do,” says Zinnerman, voice rough.

“Unicorn, Bridge,” says the voice of the XO over the radio, “What’s going on? Are you with us or not?”

“We are,” says Marida as she sits down, straps in, and closes the cockpit door. She twitches a thumb-stick and targeting markers appear on the faces of the Sleeves personnel who stare up in fright and indignation.

“Now hear this,” says the XO over the shipnet, “Our agreement with the Sleeves is now over. ECOAS and Marines, sweep the ship. All other hands, rig for anti-ship combat.”

#

“Bridge, Unicorn,” says the voice of Ensign Zabi, the traitor Princess. “What is the status of the Rewloola?”

“She’s burning,” says Liam, watching the big data-fusion display on the bridge. Rewloola is screaming out across the electromagnetic spectrum as her engines fire, a sun-hot tower of fire reaching towards far-off Industrial Seven. “If you were hoping Frontal would come back for his men, Princess, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“So it’s a race,” says Zabi. “Frontal knows where the final coordinates are. If we are to keep the Box out of his hands, we must move quickly.”

“And where are the coordinates?”

“The colony builder Magallanica,” says Lieutenant Cruz, the Unicorn’s pilot. “At Industrial Seven.”

“Navigation!” barks Liam, “give me a trajectory for Industrial Seven, fastest possible.”

“Sir!” says the navigation officer, already entering the commands on her console.

“I’ll get you there, Unicorn,” Liam says to her handset. “After that, it’s all you.”

In Nahel Argama ’s belly, the engines throttle up. Hydrogen propellant, compressed so hard it can’t decide whether or not it’s a liquid, is crammed into the engines by the ton, to be bathed in the sunny glare of gaseous, boiling uranium.

Radiators unfold, glittering in the sunlight, dumping the thermal load of the engines at full power. Nahel Argama spreads her wings, a sparkling white moth, glowing first in the near-infrared, then dull red, then orange.

And then she flies.

Chapter Text

The Earth Federation was the requisite step for pushing humanity into the the age of space colonization. The nation-state had become obsolete, in recognition that the Earth was poised to become a single economic bloc. With colonies in space and on other worlds soon to appear, it became clear that human society needed an evolved form of governance, a font of state power upon a scale never before seen.

A god.

The people of the Federation needed their god to be an angry god, one eager to deal out punishment, for contradictions would soon arise between the Earthbound core and the colonial margins. Class interests would develop. Resistance would appear.

It always does.

So with a prayer for the future, the Federation was created. The nation-state was legislated out of existence, replaced by seats in the Federation Assembly. It’s a fair system. The best we could do.

It has its problems—this nobody can deny. Not even Riddhe. It eats at him, that the Federation was created despite those contradictions. Its formation guaranteed the marginalization of Spacenoids, and the corresponding enrichment of the Earth. Good and bad, in equal measure. But more importantly, those good and evil things are not stochastic, but structured . That matters.

It’s the duty of human society to minimize entropy. Entropy is death. Entropy is all that you dread.

So there’s a moral duty to push for order, fairness, the rule of law. No mob rule here, no sir—we’re civilized men. We do what the law says, and when the law needs to be changed, we do it the right way.

Zeonists want to tear it all down. They want chaos. They want to kill this angry god, and raise something worse in its place. They want the people of Earth to themselves be marginalized, because they envy their prosperity. They are enemies of success, friends of persecution and poverty. How else would Zeonism have caught on among the impoverished, unfortunate Spacenoid populace?

Riddhe wishes the Federation had been kinder. Wishes these Spacenoids had been better-educated, given more investment, shown more opportunities for self-improvement. But they weren’t, and now Zeon exists. Now the Sleeves exist, traitors to all that is good and orderly. Now the fickle Zeon Princess exists, who can’t see sense despite all her intelligence, who refuses to be taught .

Riddhe will teach them all. In the hands of his god, he is a spear leveled at these enemies of goodness, of order and mercy. His task is right. His aim is true.

God wills it.

Riddhe keys the release for the Silver Bullet’s travel clamps and taps the travel pedals. His mobile suit steps out from the shuttle’s cargo bay and floats free on puffs of reaction control thrust.

Below his feet, the convex expanse of Earth stretches to the horizon. Riddhe sees no borders, no nations, no race or ideology. It’s all Earth, humanity’s cradle. The font of all that is good and right.

He looks up, up to the heavens, and the Silver Bullet’s head follows his gaze, aiming its precision sensors up at the traitor fleet. He can’t see them, they’re much too far away, but his navigation system paints their predicted location, based on Federation intelligence.

“This is our last chance,” said Martha Vist Carbine, before he boarded the shuttle. “You need to stop the Londo Bell traitors and destroy the Box. If you can’t do that by the time they reach it, the Federation will be forced to take extreme measures. The fate of the Federation rests in your hands, Ensign Marcenas.”

She didn’t say what those extreme measures were. It doesn’t matter.

It’s ugly work, Riddhe knows, but it beats the alternative. Someone has to be the lesser evil, the devil you know, the velvet glove instead of the iron fist. It’s the only way to minimize harm.

He floors the travel pedal, and the Silver Bullet’s engines roar to life. The seat thrusts up against him, and the Earth falls away beneath. Riddhe isn’t afraid, nor is he unsure. He’s right where he’s needed, and he knows what he must do. He’s hunted traitors before, and he can do it again.

#

Full Frontal feels strange.

It’s odd, to have Angelo absent. The Lieutenant usually shadows him closely, even during missions. This time was different, however—Frontal needed a loyal man aboard the Nahel Argama .

But those well-laid plans seem to have gone astray.

Rewloola received a message from Nahel Argama saying that the Londo Bell crew would no longer cooperate with their Sleeves protectors. Nahel Argama offered to leave behind a shuttle with the stray Sleeves personnel aboard, but Frontal recognized it for what it was—an effort at delaying his approach to the Box. Full Frontal is not so easily deceived.

He did briefly consider taking the Sinanju out, in order to retrieve Angelo and his men, but it would be expensive— Rewloola only has so much mobile suit propellant aboard, and spare parts and ammunition are running low. War is expensive. Better to save those resources for the battle to come, and oh, will it be exquisite. With the Unicorn in tow, Londo Bell will be loaded for bear. Frontal should answer them in kind.

As in all things, Frontal has no decision to make here. Free will is a lie, a deception concocted to convince the masses that moral culpability exists, that choices are something you are responsible for and not merely things that happen to you .

Indeed, Frontal, like all people, be they human or vessel, has no freedom whatsoever. He is trapped and manipulated by material circumstances, by the twisting course of history and the ever-shifting sea of culture and economy that it wends its way across.

Consider: What is Frontal’s choice, regarding Angelo?

Simple. If the Box is acquired, Zeon will persist. If it is not, Zeon will be swallowed by history. Frontal is Zeon’s dying gasp, the final prayer, thus he acts in Zeon’s interest. Frontal is incapable, on a causal level, of refusing to act in Zeon’s interests. It is impossible, in the way that time travel, destruction of entropy, and life after death are impossible.

Rescuing Angelo would impact Frontal’s ability to acquire the Box. It is not a path that is available to him.

Despite this, Frontal finds himself wondering—who will water the roses after he is gone? Who will pray to him when he forgets who he is? Who will seek him out when his mind is trapped within the laboratory halls that made him?

Was there a path of history that might have prevented this? Was there some random swerve of fate, an electron here, a quantum leap there, that might have caused Frontal to rescue his Lieutenant?

But those are counterfactuals. They are, quite literally, immaterial. Like miracles, they cannot be admitted by any serious analysis.

Frontal proceeds with the mission . Angelo and his men have served their purpose.

#

The first thing that Angelo thinks, upon waking up, is that his head hurts a lot .

The second thing is Full Frontal. Where is his Colonel?

He opens his eyes to see a white room, filled with white beds and white equipment. A ship’s medical suite. The Nahel Argama , judging by the typefaces employed on labels and the industrial design of certain pieces of equipment. Oh, and he’s handcuffed. That’s a pretty reliable clue.

To his right is-

“Oh fuck me!” Angelo exclaims in surprise. He’s looking into the eyes of a boy perhaps a few years his junior, who has been silently sitting and watching him.

The boy’s eyes are huge and gleam with a hungry amber-gold deepness, like some gem that somehow still holds within its crystal interstices a memory of the darkness it came from. He’s pallid and frail, with deeply shadowed eyes and shaggy, unkempt brown hair that hangs around him in a way Angelo considers disastrous.

“What do you want?” he asks, sounding peevish, and feeling it too. How long has this creep been staring at him? Ew.

“Lieutenant Angelo Sauper,” says the boy, with a voice as faint and breathy as wind through marsh-grass, “Assigned to the Neo Zeon spacecraft Rewloola. Commanding officer, Colonel Full Frontal.”

Angelo notices the boy’s IV line. He’s not a prisoner here. Just a patient.

“Miss Capa says I must maintain my physical plant,” says the boy.

“Right,” says Angelo, now deeply uncomfortable, “Are you supposed to be guarding me? Is this some kind of interrogation technique? If so, it won’t work.”

“No,” says someone else, “Guarding you is my job, and when you’re being interrogated, you’ll know.”

A girl drifts into Angelo’s field of view. She’s wearing a Federation jumpsuit and a holstered pistol, and her curly brown hair is barely confined by a bun. He vaguely recognizes her from the Nahel Argama’s hangar.

“You’re a prisoner of war,” she says, “Once you’ve recovered, we’ll confine you with your crewmates, though we’re going to have to take some precautions there. You understand, I hope.”

Angelo remembers a panicked call from Lieutenant Ade about a saboteur and Londo Bell crew rioting in the hangar. After that...nothing.

“What happened?” he asks.

She scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”

He tries to gesture to his aching skull and the ugly welt there, but he can’t, not with his wrists cuffed to the bed frame. “I’ve been concussed, you idiot Feddie. Just tell me.”

“Fine,” she says, and kicks her way towards him. Part of his brain notes her trajectory, the proximity of her hand to the holster, the strap holding her pistol in place, the make of the pistol and the location of its safety. She seems to notice this, adjusting her trajectory to stay out of his reach. She’s aiming for the bed opposite the strange boy with the amber eyes, braces herself on the curtain rail, and rips back the curtain.

The older man in the bed looks familiar to Angelo. Receding hairline, that supercilious frown, even when asleep-

Angelo remembers.

He remembers pulling the trigger. He remembers the recoil and report of his pistol. Then motion, and pain.

That’s Otto Mitas. Master of the Nahel Argama .

“So he’s alive,” he says. He feels nothing about this, since he fully intended for Mitas to die. No use using a threat you can’t deliver on.

“No thanks to you,” says the girl. The Captain doesn’t react as she closes the curtain. “He lost a lot of blood and part of a lung, but we think he’ll live.”

“Wonders never cease,” says Angelo, and dismisses the girl from his attention. She’s no longer interesting. He raises an eyebrow at the boy instead. “Do you have a name, kid?”

“I am Victor Two.”

“Is that your name or your callsign?”

“Why should the two differ?” asks Victor in reply.

“Because they…” Angelo begins to form a reply, then trails off, squinting at Victor. Something about the boy reminds him of the Ple unit, Lieutenant Cruz. “You’re a Cyber Newtype, aren’t you.”

“You believe that designation to have moral valence,” says Victor.

“No,” says Angelo. “I don’t give a shit about your genome or what’s inside your skull. Nothing matters but what we do. You’re a pilot, aren’t you? You fly a mobile suit. What is it? A Gundam?”

The ghost of a child’s smile, almost playful, passes across Victor’s features before being devoured once again by that hollow-eyed, plaintive look. It reminds Angelo of the bad old days, the days of food stamps and hungry, leering beatings. “I was assigned to the Unicorn Unit Two.”

“Unit Two? You mean the black Unicorn?”

“The black Unicorn…” whispers Victor, “The black Unicorn,” and he repeats it to himself, over and over, under his breath. As though it got trapped in some pocket of his brain, circling about over and over, bobbing and sinking, like driftwood trapped in a whorl aside some mountain stream.

And then the muttering stops.

“Yes,” says Victor, then a little more confidently, “The black Unicorn. The Banshee. A herald, a monster, a sign of change to come, a state of existence that begs for transformation.”

“You destroyed the Shamblo,” says Angelo, and he remembers it cleanly, the Banshee moving, fast, faster than the camera could pick up, the atom-perfect slice across the city-block expanse of the Shamblo’s armor, the slow slumping of the thing’s structure. The cut plane perfectly bisected the cockpit. “You killed Loni Garvey. You’re the weapon that broke the Zeon Remnants.”

“Loni Garvey died because she was abandoned by Full Frontal,” says Victor, “Because the Sleeves saw fit to dash Garvey against the rocks of the Federation as a distraction.”

At the mention of Frontal’s name, Angelo goes cold with fury. “ You’re as mistaken as you are broken, Cyber Newtype,” he says, enunciating precisely and levelly because if he doesn’t he will scream at the boy to keep Frontal’s name out of his boot-licking mouth, “You chose to kill her. Don’t use that passive voice ‘she was killed’ shit.”

“Full Frontal is a man of great efficiency,” says Victor. “He discards all that he must, and all that is of no use to him. Lieutenant Sauper, where is Full Frontal now? Why are you not aboard his ship?”

“Full Frontal is a paragon of Zeonism,” growls Angelo, the anger threatening to split his head open around the axis of pain that transects it, and maybe when it happens he’ll hatch as though from a chrysalis into something new, something better, “And you’re doing it again. You took me prisoner. That was your choice, not Colonel Frontal’s, and it’s one he’ll punish you for.”

“But he will not,” says Victor, totally unaffected, voice still flat and thin. “Full Frontal has no reason to return for you.”

“You’re lying!” roars Angelo, and he’s molting, breaking at the seams, bursting free and spreading his wings. “You’re lying to me, because you think you can break me! Because you think your Cyber Newtype body gives you the right!”

He tries to lunge at Victor, not because he thinks he can, but because he must. Because it is the right thing to do. The bed rattles beneath him—it’s lightly built, as are most things aboard spacecraft. The handcuffs bring him to a shuddering halt, wrenching at his shoulders, but he doesn’t care—he’s face to face with Victor, and it’s glorious seeing an expression, any expression, appear on that empty doll face, especially when it’s fear. It’s all fear.

“Lie to me one more time!” crows Angelo, and he twists, kicking away the blankets, lashing out with a foot that catches Victor in one shoulder and he grins so wide it hurts when the boy cries out in pain, a kicked-puppy yelp, and his head hurts and his shoulder hurts and his foot hurts where it whacked the Cyber Newtype and his wrists hurt from the handcuffs. He deserves it. He deserves to hurt like this. This is right. This is good. “Lie to me again! I dare you!” He kicks again, but Victor has drifted away, is cowering, and his IV bag trails him like a little moon, the clear plastic tube connecting the two coiling in midair.

“That’s enough!” shouts the girl from earlier. Angelo whirls to face her, sees the gun out, sees her thumb tremble at the safety. Her finger isn’t on the trigger, the barrel isn’t pointed at him, but she could unsafe it and aim in a second. “Don’t move!”

“Are you going to shoot me?” asks Angelo, and he’s almost afraid of how eager he sounds. Almost. “Do you want to? Will it feel good to kill another unarmed Zeonist?”

Victor whimpers in a way that sounds like crying. It’s music to Angelo’s ears. (He thinks, privately, in his innermost, secret heart, that he once whimpered like that. He wonders if his mother’s man ever felt like this, e ver exulted in the better-than-drugs rush that came from a good kick or punch applied to someone who deserved it .)

The door to the medical suite opens, and more people flood in. The purple-haired XO. One or two faceless goons with PDWs. Another Sleeves prisoner-no. Ensign Zabi. The traitor Princess. The goons unsling their guns and shoulder them, placing themselves between Angelo and the officers.

“Oh, no!” cackles Angelo, when he sees her, “Ensign, you didn’t! How dreadfully uncouth! How perfidious! After all this, you really do want to be a Feddie!”

“Enough of this, Lieutenant!” hisses Zabi. “What do you possibly hope to accomplish! What-”

“Ensign,” interrupts the XO, “I’ll handle this.”

Zabi nods and clams up. It’s a beautiful sound.

“Lieutenant Sauper,” says the XO, “You are a prisoner of war. You are entitled to certain rights, but you have certain duties as well. I have the right to discipline you for assaulting a member of my crew.”

A ngelo doesn’t care.

“Commander,” he says, “You must be aware that Full Frontal will seek to secure the release of myself and my comrades. My discipline is among the least of your concerns at the moment.”

“I am quite aware of Frontal’s intentions,” says the XO, and hands a tablet to Zabi. She kicks her way towards him, stopping out of kicking range.

Angelo sighs. “I won’t,” he says, though breaking one or two of the traitor Princess’ teeth would be really satisfying. He folds his legs under him on the bed.

Zabi approaches the rest of the way, slaps the tablet down on the bed.

“There,” she says quietly, so that only Angelo can hear, “Does that convince you, Lieutenant?”

It’s a map, showing the elliptical orbit trajectories of Nahel Argama and Rewloola .

Rewloola is ahead of Nahel Argama, and metadata suggests she’s still accelerating occasionally.

“No,” says Angelo, “It can’t be.”

“He wants the Box,” says Zabi, “That’s all. You’ve been disposed of, Lieutenant. I’m sorry.”

By the second, Angelo’s Colonel slips further away.

The bright, beautiful thing hatching from him stutters, hesitates, fades.

He’s watching her face, and he knows she can tell when it happens. He hates the way pity looks on her features. Hates the way it feels, directed at him.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and he hates her for it.

A voice in the back of Angelo’s mind, sounding for all the world like his mother, asks why he expected anything else.

What if Frontal only ever wanted him for his skill as a soldier? For his piloting, his quick wit and faster fists, his street-fighter’s viciousness? What if Angelo’s value to Full Frontal traded solely against these things he can do?

What if Frontal only ever wanted Angelo for his body?

What’s that called, Angelo? What’s it called when someone only pays your room and board for as long as they can profit from your body?

In a distant, remote sense, Angelo can taste the vomit that has appeared in his mouth, feel its wetness on his clothes, but it comes to him at a vast remove, crammed through a low-bandwidth signal. He hardly cares, because he realizes he never left that squalid house, the ugly caresses of his mother’s man, the stink and sweat and soreness and ever the shame, always the shame.

He thinks of his Colonel’s approval, of his smile, of the occasional, gentle, ever-professional touches, but what do they mean? What did they ever mean? His Colonel is gone, flying for the Box, shedding men and machines left and right as though they are mere reaction mass.

Perhaps it’ll all be worth it.

Perhaps Frontal will sink the Nahel Argama and wipe away the lives of everyone aboard. That wouldn’t be so bad.

Chapter Text

Marida has a room aboard the Nahel Argama. There isn’t much in it except for a bed that doubles as a storage chest, a minuscule desk that one must sit on the bed to use, and a few hangers for uniforms and a normal suit.

Right now, she’s theoretically off-duty. The harlequin Unicorn has been tweaked and calibrated to Cardeas’ satisfaction, its weapons loaded, its reactor refuelled. There’s dreadful little else to do, and Zabi is testy about Marida touching the Kshatriya. The Princess thinks it’s hers now. It rankles, but Marida has to admit it’s basically true.

Oh well. Nothing lasts forever.

Someone knocks on the door, quick and furtive. Marida feels the feather-light brushing of intention at the edges of her awareness, a kind of scanning flicker like the beam of a phased-array radar.

“Come in,” she says, and is unsurprised to see the Banshee’s pilot, Victor Two, hanging in the corridor.

There’s still a reflexive urge, a kind of primordial prey drive, telling Marida to hurt the boy, annihilate the Banshee’s heart, but the Banshee is gone, cannibalized to feed the Unicorn. There would be no use to the act. She still idly considers what it’d feel like to wrap her fingers around his throat, but mostly out of boredom.

Victor twitches uncomfortably when she imagines it, and one hand comes up to rub his shoulder. He’s been injured somehow, and Marida has been thinking about how to make it worse. For the first time, she feels guilty.

“What happened?” she asks.

He looks up to meet her eyes, and in the depths of those amber orbs, stars wheel in strange constellations. Marida knows how the kick would have felt, because Victor remembers it clearly. He remembers cowering behind a hospital bed, remembers trying unsuccessfully to choke back tears, trying to be brave like Miss Capa or the Shadow would want him to be, and failing.

Marida blinks to find herself back in her own head.

“Lieutenant Sauper of the Sleeves,” says Victor, and Marida knows it’s true. She knows how rage twists Sauper’s face. She knows how fast he can move.

“I’m sorry,” says Marida. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“Lieutenant Cruz,” says Victor, “How can you know what anyone deserves?”

Marida considers this. “Well,” she says, after some thought, “I don’t want to believe that punishment works. I don’t want to admit that there could be some hidden factor that makes one person deserve what another doesn’t.”

Victor thinks of Marida’s prey-drive, of the looming, nightmarish phantom of the Gundam inside her. It’s as effective a rebuke as any.

“I know,” says Marida. “It’s not a principle I stick to well.”

Victor wants to say something, but cannot. There are no words for what he wants to express.

Marida takes a guess at how to answer.

“You’re a lot like how I used to be,” she says. “You have no principles, do you? There’s no sense of permission or obligation for you, besides what other people impose.”

Victor’s eyes, wide as saucers, stare into Marida. He says nothing.

“It’s the ideal state for a Cyber Newtype,” she continues. “Totally receptive. The perfect soldier.”

Victor says nothing.

“Having moral limits isn’t a weakness,” she clarifies. “It gives you strength. There need to be things you can’t accept, acts you refuse to perform. Without that, you’ll never surpass your design parameters.”

“There is something I cannot accept,” says Victor, very quietly.

“What is it?”

“My existence.”

The words hit like a hammer. Marida feels as though she’s resonating from the blow, ringing like a tuning fork.

“What was I,” asks Victor, “Before I was Victor Two?”

The name Brianna flickers into Marida’s awareness. “Your father’s daughter.”

“Did she deserve to become me?” asks Victor.

She didn’t. Brianna didn’t deserve that.

Victor is a murder. Not the victim nor the perpetrator, but the act itself. The violent destruction of a person, a continuous process of annihilation. Every heartbeat in the boy’s chest is another death blow.

There’s a drowning vastness of despair behind Victor’s words, and Marida can feel it sucking at her feet like riverbed mud. She wonders what dark creatures swim beneath the surface, swarming around her every footstep.

“I’m sorry,” she says, because there’s nothing else to say.

“Miss Capa believed in the value of Cyber Newtype life,” says Victor, “Because she held as principle that Cyber Newtype life has favorable moral valence.”

“Hating your very existence is no way to live,” says Marida. “That was probably a strategic choice on her part.”

“She would wish me to hold the same principle,” says Victor.

“Mothers always do,” says Marida, because it seems to be the case, though she’s never had a mother. She counts herself lucky for this. “In a day or two, we’ll be fighting for the Box,” she continues, changing tack away from such a grim topic. “What is it that you’ll hold to, Victor?”

“I am under orders to ensure the Box’s opening,” says Victor.

“That’s not enough,” Marida says, because a Cyber Newtype who follows only orders, she has learned, is already dead. You need a heart. You need principles. They’re the only things that turn cold clockwork into something real, something that matters. Something that can be mourned.

“Then what is?” asks Victor, and the question is so plaintive, so guileless, that it makes Marida’s heart twist in disgust at the circumstances that created this boy.

“We live in an era where technology makes miracles possible,” says Marida, thinking of the Axis Shock, of the nuclear missiles, of the strange brightness that seems to power the Unicorn. “Humanity is no longer bound by causality, by physics. We can make wishes real. Tell me, Victor,” and she looks deep into the boy’s eyes, diving into that dark, liquid gaze, “What is your only desire?”

“I would have Miss Capa back,” says Victor, and Marida knows he means it, “And failing that, I would have a state of affairs that precludes the creation of Cyber Newtypes.”

A world where Newtypes are people. A world where total understanding is a gift, not a curse. A world where there is no great industrial apparatus devoted to putting the kindest and cruelest people in existence in control of nightmarish weapons bent to wicked ends.

A world without the Federation, and without Zeon. A world without mobile suits.

That doesn’t sound half bad, thinks Marida.

#

Mineva has been given a bunk aboard the Nahel Argama . Because she is an ensign, it is technically her own room, but she shares it with Ensign Oiwakken. Oiwakken’s good humor about the whole situation is the only thing keeping it from being unbearably awkward—the room is tiny, with barely enough room for one of them to get changed at a time. Such is the lot of an Ensign, thinks Mineva.

Mineva is also permitted (or perhaps obligated) to mess with the Nahel Argama ’s other junior officers, so it seems to her as though the definition of prisoner has become rather confused aboard ship.

“So,” says Marida, as she and Mineva take lunch, “Industrial Seven is now a day away.”

“Slightly less for Rewloola,” says Mineva. The Sleeves ship got a head start that Nahel Argama now cannot make back, not without using propellant she doesn’t have.

“We’re going to lose this race,” says Marida. Mineva nods. It seems like a physical inevitability now.

“We need to keep the Box out of Frontal’s hands,” says Mineva, “But I don’t know how.”

Marida thinks about this for a moment. “There are two possibilities worth considering. One is that we somehow arrive before he does. The other is that we take it from him by force.”

“The latter isn’t possible, is it?” asks Mineva. “The Nahel Argama is down a number of suits. Rewloola has a larger capacity, and may also be met by reinforcements.”

“And the former isn’t possible either,” says Marida, and takes a greedy bite of her chicken and rice. “Not for a ship like this.”

Mineva considers this. “A ship is far heavier than a mobile suit, however, and mobile suits can accelerate harder. Would it be possible for a mobile suit to make up the difference?”

“No mobile suit has that much fuel capacity,” Marida replies.

Mineva sighs. “There’s no escaping the rocket equation, is there. If only we could propel a mobile suit externally somehow. Like the laser-thermal systems colonies use.”

“No,” says Marida. “That wouldn’t…” she trails off. “You might have something there.”

Mineva doubts it—laser-thermal systems still rely on onboard propellant, and radiation pressure is laughably weak for space propulsion. She shakes her head. “Never mind that. I was just wishing out loud.”

Just then, the shipnet crackles. “Ensign Zabi to the wardroom.”

Marida raises an eyebrow at this. “What did you do this time?”

“I don’t know!” says Mineva, with real exasperation. “Knowing my luck, they’ll end up locking me up with Sauper.”

“A Princess never shrinks from her fate,” says Marida, with a wry smile. “Go on, Lieutenant. I’ll finish your lunch for you.”

#

What Mineva finds in the wardroom is not Sauper, or a marine with a set of handcuffs, or an ECOAS operator. Instead, she opens the door to find Captain Mitas and an unhappy-looking doctor. Mineva recognizes the doctor as the very same who she first met aboard the Nahel Argama, months ago. On instinct, she salutes.

“Ensign Zabi,” murmurs Mitas, “It’s good of you to join us.” The Captain is in a wretched state, slumped uncomfortably in an armchair with a nasal cannula leading to an oxygen machine. The shadows under his eyes are deep, and his tired face is pallid and sweaty. “Please, be at ease.”

“Ensign?” asks the doctor, then looks closer at Mineva’s sleeves uniform, eyes widening. “I see. You’ve certainly been busy since we last met.”

“Yes,” says Mitas quietly, speaking with all the breath he has to muster, “Hard to say you’re no longer affiliated with the Sleeves, eh?”

“It was a strategic decision,” says Mineva. “I had to keep myself involved.”

“I’d say it worked,” says Mitas with tired amusement. “Oolong, again?”

“No, thank you,” she replies. “I’ll try that cinnamon tea you spoke of.”

Mitas smiles thinly at this, then looks to the doctor. “Hasan, if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course,” says Doctor Hasan, and steps over to the tea service. “Captain,” he says, as he fusses with the cans of loose-leaf tea, “I must once again protest your being here. The damage to your lung is severe, and you should not be exerting yourself like this in carousel gravity.”

“I’m not exerting myself,” lies the Captain. He fixes Mineva with a piercing gaze, “And if I were, it would be worthwhile. The Ensign and I need to talk.”

“About the Box,” guesses Mineva.

Mitas nods. “In part, yes. I mostly wanted to discuss this state of affairs we now share, however.”

“Share?” asks Mineva, “Are you not still Londo Bell?”

“Perhaps,” shrugs Mitas, “But Londo Bell has fallen out of favor with Staff Headquarters. They believe our operational freedom is a liability.” He pauses, gasping for breath, and Hasan turns to fix him with a disapproving glare.

“No, Ensign,” continues Mitas, when his breath has returned, “My ship and crew are just as severed from Staff Headquarters as you and Lieutenant Cruz are from the Sleeves. Presuming, of course, that you really have defected, and aren’t playing a long con to gain control of my ship.”

“Why would I need control of your ship? Oh, thank you,” says Mineva, taking her tea cup from Hasan. She takes a sip. Magnificent. “Oh, this cinnamon black is fabulous. I commend your taste, Captain.” Mitas smiles at this.

“Why would I need control of your ship?” asks Mineva again. “We share a common goal, no? If I were to ask you to fly to Industrial Seven, to Luna Two, to anywhere else, would you not do it, provided it was towards the Box?”

“That’s not a question I get often,” says Mitas, “But I have to admit you’re right. Our purposes are aligned, at least in terms of navigation. You may as well treat my ship like your own. It’s the least I can do for you after you helped drive off the Sleeves.”

“I must thank you for your hospitality,” says Mineva, “And I am certain Lieutenant Cruz is grateful as well.”

Mitas nods, then turns to Hasan. “Doctor, a small cup, if you’d be so kind.”

“No,” says Hasan. “You shouldn’t be having caffeine right now.”

“Please,” begs Mitas, “Just a small cup.”

It’s so strange to see the noble Captain reduced to such a pitiful state that Mineva almost smiles at the incongruity of it all. Captain Otto Mitas, master of the attack carrier Nahel Argama, pleading for a sip of tea from his doctor. What a strange state of affairs.

“Fine,” says Hasan, and pours a very miserly portion, “But this is all you get. After this, you’re back on water and electrolytes.”

Mitas takes the tea gratefully and holds it up to his nose, luxuriating in the cinnamon-scented steam wafting off it. For just a moment, he no longer seems an officer, a soldier. And then he glances to Mineva again, and the guards have slammed back into place. The delicate demeanor is back under lock and key. “Now,” he says to her, “The Box.”

“If you are going to ask me what it is,” says Mineva, “I must disappoint you. I have learned nothing, save for that it is an existential threat to the stability of the Federation.”

“That explains Staff Headquarters’ obsession with its retrieval,” says Mitas, “Or, perhaps, its destruction. But no, what I wanted to ask you was your plans regarding it.”

“I have relinquished any claim to the Box,” says Mineva, but she thinks she’s lying, because the words sting to hear out loud, “In favor of Lieutenant Cruz. I think it only fair that she be able to decide its fate.”

“The fate of the Federation in the hands of a Cyber Newtype?” asks Mitas. “I suppose it does have a certain poetic ring. Struck down by our own sins, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t believe she regards her existence as sinful,” says Mineva.

“Very well,” Mitas nods, acknowledging the point, “What are her plans regarding the Box?”

Where I plan on going, Cruz had said, no Sleeves officer can follow.

“I think she intends to declaw both Zeon and the Federation,” says Mineva. “I think she resents the circumstances that gave rise to Cyber Newtypes. I think she hates the weaponization of human evolution.”

“Lieutenant Cruz is an accomplished soldier,” says Mitas. “She must realize the consequences of ‘declawing’ the Federation.”

“If my views have had any effect upon her,” says Mineva, “Then she would already recognize that Spacenoids cannot countenance the existence of the Federation as it is.”

“What would you have the Federation do, then?” asks Mitas. “Would you reform it?”

“I would annihilate it,” says Mineva. “Just as space colonies are divided into Sides and the Moon is divided into cities, I would divide the Earth into its constituent economic blocs. If space is organized according to economic production, why should the Earth not be?”

“State organization according to economic production,” muses Mitas, “It’s hard to imagine.”

“In the presence of the Federation,” says Mineva, “It’s nearly impossible. A government swayed by the material interests of the ownership class cannot act in the interests of the worker.”

“I don’t know if this sounds like a better state of affairs,” says Mitas, “But I fear it’s not my place to say. I think you can make it happen, Ensign. I’ll do what I can to support you.”

“You’ll make traitors of us all,” says Hasan, but there’s no venom behind it.

“You were an AEUG man,” says Mitas. “You should be no stranger to the business of treason.”

Hasan laughs heartily at this, and Mitas joins him in his own halting, wheezing way.

Mineva waits politely to let the men’s amusement die down before speaking again. She can’t afford to be seen as desperate.

She downs the rest of her tea. Delicious.

“Captain,” she says, careful to sound as casual as possible, “Do you mean that? You’ll do what you can for my sake?”

Mitas nods. “It’s what I said.”

“I was curious,” she replies, “because after the Box is opened, the world will change very, very quickly. I will need a ship I can rely upon, and allies therein.”

Mitas’ eyes narrow. He might be badly injured, but his wits aren’t dulled one bit. “What are you saying?”

“I want to know I can rely on you and your ship,” she says, still polite, gently smiling, every bit the precocious girl-princess, harmless in her femininity. “If I act to benefit Spacenoids with the power of the Box, will you help me?”

“You want a guarantee,” says Mitas apprehensively.

“I do.”

“What the devil do you have planned?” asks Hasan. “You’re awfully circumspect all of a sudden, Ensign.”

“I want to make the Republic of Zeon obsolete,” she says, with all the dreadful certainty she can muster. “It has run its course, as has the Federation. If something new, something better, is to come of this, it must act soon. There will be no room for squabbling warlords.”

“We’re already traitors,” says Mitas, catching Hasan’s eyes, “At least in the eyes of Staff Headquarters.”

“And in the eyes of the Sleeves,” replies Hasan, jerking his chin towards Mineva in her uniform.

“Fine,” says Mitas, after a moment of consideration. “You have my guarantee, Ensign, but I’m saying that because I trust you. If I have to stop you, I will.”

He won’t, knows Mineva. He can see it in his eyes, feel it in the timbre of his voice. He’s frightened of her. If everything goes right, he’ll never dream of suborning her command.

She offers a bright smile. “Thank you, Captain! I deeply appreciate your candor.”

For the first time in weeks, Mineva begins to believe this might be possible. Frontal might not win. Perhaps, just once, a miracle will happen that benefits Spacenoids.

#

At the same instant as Mineva begins to believe in her own future, a number of other things are happening.

About fifty meters away, Marida Cruz decides to speak with the XO about an idea she just had, something to surprise the unflappable Full Frontal when next they meet.

A few thousand kilometers away, Riddhe Marcenas sleeps fitfully in the cockpit of the Silver Bullet. He’s more alone than he has ever been.

Hundreds of thousands of kilometers further than that, at the bottom of the Earth’s gravity well, deep under a mountain, Martha Vist Carbine begins to wonder whether or not the boy wonder can pull off the task allotted to him. It wouldn’t be the first time a Marcenas has let the Vists down, but it certainly can be the last.

She picks up a phone handset and makes a call.

Chapter Text

“So,” says Lieutenant Sauper, “You’re here to sway me to the side of right, is that it?”

Mineva sighs. “Not necessarily.”

“Oh, not necessarily,” scoffs the Lieutenant, straightening up to a sitting position on his cot. Despite his languid posture, he still appears perfectly groomed. Mineva wonders how he does it. “What is necessary about this little audience, then?”

“There’s a small force approaching Nahel Argama from Earth,” says Mineva.

“Federation?”

“We think so. The sensor signature is small, though. We believe it’s composed of a small number of mobile suits.”

Sauper considers this. “Hmm. This is the way that the Federation likes to deploy Gundam-type suits. Is there a secret third Unicorn we don’t know about?”

Mineva’s blood runs cold. What if it is a Gundam? The Federation should be desperate to reclaim the Box, but none of their ships have approached within a few thousand kilometers. As though they’re deliberately keeping their distance.

What weapon wouldn’t the Federation use, to keep the Box secret?

“It could be a Gundam-type,” Mineva admits. “If that’s the case, sir, I’d like to respectfully request that you sortie with me to stop it.”

“Sir?” Sauper says, incredulous. “You’re pulling rank. You really want me to do this.”

“We faced a Gundam-type before, at Palau,” she says, “You’re familiar with how they move, and you’re an expert at piloting the Rozen Zulu, a direct counter to Gundam-types. We need you.”

“What I’d do for that Lieutenant Akkanen and his Sinanju Stein right now,” muses Sauper. Privately, Mineva thinks she’d rather keep Akkanen away from combat at all costs. The man, pitiful as he may be, is a loaded gun. “So, what’s the deal, Ensign? You’re clearly in good enough with the Nahel Argama to go waltzing around all on your own. You want me to join you in betraying the Sleeves?”

“Fighting a Federation asset that threatens both my own faction and the Sleeves would hardly by a betrayal,” observes Mineva. “If anything, Colonel Frontal would appreciate you taking that initiative.”

Sauper’s expression darkens, and Mineva realizes she just fucked up.

“You think you can use him against me,” says Sauper, his features suddenly twisted into a thunderous, dreadful aspect, “You think that I’ll sit up and bark at every mention of his name, that my brain just turns off when he’s involved.”

“No,” protests Mineva, “I-”

“You don’t understand anything about what he is to me!” shouts Sauper. “You think I follow him because I’m some effete, mincing pansy! You think I follow him because I’m too weak and stupid to make my own choices! You think-!” Sauper runs out of breath, shivering with wide-eyed rage, his gaze boring holes in Mineva’s skull. His eyes bulge, pulse pounding in his temples, and he seems fit to explode, but suddenly the pressure fades, the dangerous live-grenade feeling relenting from Mineva’s perception. He sighs forcefully, takes another breath. “I respect you, Ensign. You’re a good pilot. A good soldier. I hate you for being a traitor, but I respect that you believe you’re right.”

Mineva doesn’t dare reply. She feels like a game animal caught by a sudden spotlight, a bug pinned to a board.

“I hadn’t even imagined,” continues Sauper, “That you didn’t respect me in return.” He scoffs in disbelief. “It hadn’t even crossed my mind that you believed me to be a clockwork soldier, a wind-up toy that exists to amuse the every whim of men who are bigger, stronger, older than me. I hadn’t imagined that, after all we’ve gone through together, all the battles we’ve fought, you still just think I’m a dumb sodomite.”

Mineva can sense what he’s driving at. It looms on the horizon like a great wave, the sea retreating before it, leaving fish and crabs flopping about on the wet sand, before those thousands of tons of water come crashing back all at once.

The wave crests.

“I follow Colonel Frontal because I choose to,” says Angelo. “I know he does wicked things. He’s a soldier, after all. I’m not stupid enough to genuinely believe everything he’s ever done is just. I follow him because I owe him a debt that not even my life can repay, and fighting for him is the only way I can face up to that . I follow Colonel Frontal because he has stripped himself of all of the petty, shitty biases the rest of us are held down by, so that he can be the greatest soldier who ever lived . So no, Ensign Zabi,” and here he puts so much contempt, so much disgust, into the word Ensign that it sounds lower and more disgusting than the basest, most depraved criminal, “I will not join your merry band of pirates. I will not let you pluck me out of my cage like some zoo animal, champing at the bit to fight on your behalf. If you put me in the Rozen Zulu, I will kill you. Go fuck yourself, Princess.”

Mineva’s ears are ringing, and her face burns with shame. If it was rebuke she sought, Sauper delivered in spades.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when she can muster the words.

“Go,” he says, waving a hand at the door. “Good bye. Bugout. Clear datum. Fuck off.”

Mineva wants to tell Sauper that she respects him as a soldier, and as a man. But she failed that, didn’t she? Respecting someone is more than words. It’s actions. She presumed that he was simpler than he really is, that he was a one-variable system, a finite automaton controlled only by Frontal.

How do you fix things, after a misstep like that?

You don’t.

“I’m sorry,” Mineva says again, at the door of Sauper’s cell, “I wish I had done this better.”

But Sauper doesn’t care, doesn’t meet her eyes, doesn’t react. His sight and thoughts are thousands of kilometers distant now. Mineva can no longer touch or affect him.

She closes the door, hating herself for how simple it is. Can’t use someone? Shut them away. Cage them until they change their mind. You make it look so easy, Mineva. As though you’re used to it.

#

“ Do you want to go over it again?”

Victor stares up at him, and Cardeas feels stupid asking the question. Right now, Cardeas and his son are the only people in the Nahel Argama ’s ready room. The rest of the pilots are checking out their suits.

“I am fully aware of the tactical scenario,” says Victor. “I am aware of the Box’s disposition, as well as that of hostile forces. I have been briefed on the combat insertion strategy we will employ, and the nature of our forces.”

The words come flatly, dispassionately. As though delivered by rote, practiced a hundred times before.

Cardeas can’t read his child, and it scares him.

“Victor,” he says, “Do you want to do this?”

“I must secure Laplace’s Box,” says the boy. Not an answer, but that’s what Cardeas gets. He gave Victor his new orders. Victor wants to follow his orders, because he’s such a well-made soldier. Such a precise, repeatable instrument.

What a disgusting thing. What a moral travesty.

“I’m sorry,” says Cardeas.

Nobody exactly knows what the final Lady and the Unicorn tapestry means. Some say it refers to a sixth sense, a perception that is truer than truth itself, more real than touch, taste, smell, hearing, sight. Others think it refers to free will, or moral obligation. One couldn’t devise a better test for the Vist family than the final tapestry.

Cardeas asked Martha what she thought it meant, once. Uncharacteristically, she thought about it for a long time—days, in fact. Usually Martha spits out an answer in seconds, perhaps minutes. As though every decision she’ll make, from birth to death, is written out on a tape, and she just goes through the motions. Somehow, that tape is perfectly accurate. She seems to win every time.

It’s a fantasy, she said to him. Self-deception. The bastions of clothing, jewelry, wealth and power can’t separate the Lady from the Lion and Unicorn. She believes herself human, somehow inexplicably apart from and above the beasts, but she’s wrong. She’s ruled by the same hungers and passions as the lowest dog or ape.

Cardeas was taken aback by this. He thought she’d give him a simple, punchy answer, the kind that boardrooms like. Power. Wealth. Female liberation . Somehow, the answer she gave was far more chilling.

Cardeas, for his part, thought it was about free will. Reason. Moral responsibility. The ability to discern right from wrong and make the right choice, no matter what.

“ My only desire,” says Victor, “Is to render the Box inert.”

Cardeas is startled out of his thoughts. “What?”

“The Box gains its power by concealment,” says Victor. “The less is known of it, the greater its power. This creates positive feedback, as an increase in power is matched by greater speculation, greater fear. It is a linear instability undergoing exponential growth and the Vist Foundation is the pole that this divergence approaches.”

“But it can’t be destroyed,” says Cardeas. “The Federation would become powerful beyond all imagining.”

“If the Box is known, it is spent,” says Victor, his narrow, tired face hard with deadly resolve. “If it is spent, the Federation and Vist Foundation will disentangle. The material conditions that support them will fail. The rationale for Cyber Newtypes will be made obsolete, and I will be the very last of them, as I should be.”

It’s frightening to hear a statement of such dreadful finality coming from Victor. Especially one made adamantine by such a moral stance as Cyber Newtypes should be made obsolete .

“Why would you say that?” asks Cardeas. “You’re a Cyber Newtype. Shouldn’t you wish for more people like yourself?”

“Was I manufactured to seek the comfort of others like myself?” asks Victor. “Is there an obligation somewhere within me that motivates me to cherish Cyber Newtype life? Name it, Father. Tell me that you designed me to connect peacefully with Cyber Newtypes. Tell me that I am an instrument of understanding.”

Cardeas cannot. Victor is the second Amuro, the key intended to l o ck shut the first Universal Century, the only offspring of the greatest Newtype to ever live. The final and ultimate product of Cardeas, of the Vist Foundation, of the UC Project.

“I’ve made you to hate yourself,” he says hollowly, and the word Father is still echoing in his ears. You twisted your daughter until he hated himself, Cardeas. You mutated your daughter’s body and mind until he believed himself to be fundamentally, objectively evil.

An unhelpful part of Cardeas’ mind wonders what it would be like to eat a bullet.

“ I understand,” he says, though he’s not sure he really does. He’s not sure he ever will. “You wish you didn’t have to live through this. You wish it had been anyone else but yourself to be in this position.” He chuckles at a dark thought . “Heh. I think everyone eventually comes to hate their father for the same reason.”

“ Father,” says Victor, then hesitates for a moment, “I do not hate you.”

It twists in Cardeas’ gut like a knife.

“Um,” he says, because if he doesn’t say something to this it’ll rot him from the inside out, “I don’t hate you either. I never have. But I’ve been a fool, and I’ve hurt you regardless.”

“The point is moot,” says Victor. “I must begin my mission soon.”

“Right,” says Cardeas, secretly grateful for the change of topic. He wonders if Victor did it deliberately. “You’ll be flying my Silver Bullet. We used them as testbeds for a lot of the Unicorns’ controls and avionics, so it should feel much like the Banshee. Just keep the lower thrust-to-weight ratio in mind.”

Victor looks like he wants to say something in reply, but twitches as though he heard something, and looks towards the door. A moment later it opens, admitting the Princess, Ensign Mineva Zabi. The Sleeves Uniform fits her bearing too well, thinks Cardeas. Like she was raised to be a soldier.

“Cardeas,” she says.

“ Ensign ,” replies Cardeas. Her face is firmly set, but he can’t tell what she’s thinking. Whatever it is, it’s probably dangerous.

“Do you know any pilots who are experienced with quasi-Psycommu systems?” she asks. It’s a loaded question, because it can only apply to Cardeas.

“I do,” he says. He’s not going to give this to her. Spell it out, Princess.

“Lieutenant Sauper will not be sortieing with us,” says Zabi, and a ghost of something, maybe regret, passes across her face. “I need someone else to pilot the Rozen Zulu.”

Cardeas wonders what happened with Sauper, but decides not to ask. “You know nobody on this ship has used quasi-Psycommu,” he says.

Zabi nods.

“Father,” says Victor, and there’s a note of warning in his tone. The most Cardeas has gotten from the boy. It’s haunting. “You will not survive this.”

“You don’t know that,” says Cardeas, but he doesn’t believe it. He thinks Victor does know, somehow, that Victor’s statement isn’t a hunch, but a brief view into the future, fixed as it is.

“There is a Federation mobile suit approaching us at high speed,” says Zabi, “We suspect it’s a Gundam-typ e. I will be intercepting it, but I want another high-performance suit with me. We can’t afford to lose the Unicorn or Nahel Argama , so we need to overmatch the Gundam-type.”

“You want the Rozen Zulu with you,” says Cardeas, and Zabi nods. “Fine. I’ll do it. The Zulu is an Anaheim design. I’ll be fine.”

“You will not survive this,” repeats Victor.

Cardeas sighs. His son is right. He won’t survive this. Very soon, he will die horribly. In all probability, whatever kills him will move faster than his nerve conduction velocity. He won’t even perceive it. The world will snap shut and he will not be awake to notice its ending.

It’s the most frightening thing he can possibly imagine.

“I have to protect you,” he says. “It’s what a father does, even when he fails in every other regard. I’ve lived long enough with the Box closed. I’m not interested in prolonging my life just to see it locked for good.”

“You don’t have to do this,” says Zabi, but she’s lying. The gem-like glint in her eyes says yes, he does have to. Refusing isn’t an option, not any more. You make the right choice, even when it takes something you love. You make the right choice, even if it destroys you. You make the right choice, every single time, because if you fail to, you become the sort of person who can countenance any evil if it’s profitable enough.

Cardeas has compromised too many times. He has weighed too many little quanta of evil against their consequences and judged them acceptable. He has rationalized too many crimes, betrayed too many morals , just for the sake of his own future. No longer. Cardeas Vist will do what is right, because it’s what he was born for. It’s what everyone is born for .

Cardeas shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I do have to. I owe Victor this.”

“Right,” says Zabi, with a hint of triumph in her tone. “Let’s suit up.”

#

Cardeas lied, when he said he would be fine. Zulus are built to different standards than Jegans, and use different system archiectures. On coarse scale, there are interchangeable parts and software commonalities, but it isn’t as plug-and-play as people like to say.

But it doesn’t matter any more. He’s squeezed himself into a normal suit and is sitting in the Rozen Zulu’s cockpit, waiting for the self-tests to finish.

“Zulu One, Golf Eight,” says Ensign Zabi.

“Golf Eight, go ahead.”

“I’m booted and ready to launch , what’s your status?”

“Booting,” says Cardeas, checking his displays. Coolant level, fuel level, propellant, oxygen. Everything checks out. “Reactor’s coming up now. I’ll follow your lead.”

With a muffled thump, the reactor goes critical. Somewhere behind Cardeas’ head, magnetic fields inside a refrigerator-sized casing keep a miniature star hostage. The magnetic fields squeeze fuel until it fuses, the fusion reaction spits out fast neutrons, hard X-rays, and a torrent of electrons, and those electrons dump more energy into the magnetic field while the X-rays get soaked up by narrow-band photovoltaic plates. It’s a wonderful thing—efficient, safe, reliable.

The Rozen Zulu is ready.

“Golf Eight, Zulu One,” says Cardeas, “I have heat. Ready to launch.”

With a puff of reaction control thrust, he maneuvers out of the storage rack, rotating in free fall to move towards one of the ventral catapults. His peripheral vision swarms with activity as hangar crew rush to get the last of the Nahel Argama ’s mobile suits ready.

Then, with a thud, he stops. A proximity alarm chirps in his left ear for a moment, and he turns to see the Silver Bullet, one hand on the Rozen Zulu’s left shoulder.

“Victor,” he says, because his suit and his son’s have negotiated a contact link, “I need to go. I’ll see you after this is done.”

“You will not,” says Victor, “You will be killed. I tire of losing parents, Father.”

“I know,” says Cardeas. “It happens to everyone, but perhaps it shouldn’t.”

“Must you pilot the Rozen Zulu? Is there no alternative?”

“I wish there was,” says Cardeas. It’s been a decade since he last flew in combat. His skills are more than just rusty, they’ve evaporated entirely. But he needs to do this. He needs to protect Victor. Just once, it needs to be Cardeas under the knife, instead of his child who never asked to be there. Just this once, the old will die before the young. Just this once, the Federation and Vist Foundation’s stranglehold on history will be broken.

“I want you to live,” says Cardeas, “Even if you don’t. That’s why I have to do this. Let me fight for you, Victor.”

“Your death is an unacceptable outcome,” says the boy.

“So is yours.”

“I will not persuade you,” observes Victor, and sighs. “Very well.”

“ I’ll see you soon, son,” says Cardeas, and shakes the Rozen Zulu’s shoulder to break the connection. As he maneuvers to the big hangar door and waits for depressurization, he wonders what kind of woman Capa was. Perhaps, if Cardeas is lucky, he’ll get to meet her.

The hanger depressurizes. The doors open. Outside, the blackness of space awaits, and Cardeas steps onto the catapult. He glances to his right and sees Ensign Zabi’s Kshatriya, weighed down with fuel tanks, weapons, and kludged, improvised replacements for its missing shield binders, crouched on its own catapult.

“ Golf Eight, Zulu One, ready for the shot.” It feels weird to refer to Zabi with her Sleeves callsign. Presumably there are a few Golf callsigns out there in that black vastness right now, plotting how best to sink Nahel Argama and the thief piloting the Rozen Zulu.

“Zulu One, acknowledged,” says Zabi, then to the Nahel Argama , “Flight Control, Golf element is ready to launch.”

“Good luck, Golf,” says Flight Control. “Handing you off to the deck officer. Good hunting.”

A new bubble flashes on the cockpit's big panoramic display, highlighting Cardeas’ catapult officer, safely ensconced in a rocket blast-protected well to one side of the catapult. The screen above the officer’s blinks to life for a moment, showing Cardeas’ launch weight—seventy-two tons. The catapult’s excitation will be calibrated to that weight.

Cardeas knows the number is correct, but checks his displays anyways, confirms it. Never skip a step if you want to come home alive. With his right hand controller he gives the catapult officer an affirmative wave, awkward with the Rozen Zulu’s clawed hand.

The catapult officer spins a finger— throttle up . Cardeas mashes the travel pedal and the Zulu’s thrusters roar to life, rattling the seat beneath his ass.

Cardeas salutes.

The catapult officer salutes.

The seat punches into Cardeas’ spine, knocking the breath out of him, and suddenly he’s flying, rocketing away from Nahel Argama . He checks his shoulder—there’s the Kshatriya , burning alongside him.

“Zulu One, fence in,” says Zabi. “We’ll intercept the bandit in five.”

Cardeas clicks his mic, checks his switches. “Golf Eight, attack pattern?”

“As fragged. As soon as you establish hostility you are cleared to engage.”

#

As soon as the Kshatriya and Rozen Zulu are clear, Marida and Victor prepare to launch. They make their way out to Nahel Argama ’s prow, then beyond it.

It’s typical for mobile suits to use catapults, to save themselves some delta-v getting into combat. It’s cheaper to get velocity from a warship’s huge, efficient engines, after all, than it is to get it from a mobile suit’s tiny hot-rod thrusters. This time, however, Marida and Victor will not be using a catapult.

Sort of.

There’s a thump and a jolt as Victor’s Silver Bullet latches on to the back of the Unicorn, as though getting a piggyback ride.

Marida wonders what it’d be like to give the kid a real one, not mediated by mobile suits. Wonders if he’d giggle like a child, or if he’d just stare silently.

“Unicorn,” says Victor, “I am in position.”

“Roger,” says Marida, then switches channels. “ Nahel Argama Gunnery, this is Unicorn. We’re in position.”

“Unicorn, Gunnery, acknowledged,” says one of the Nahel Argama ’s bridge officers. “Starting beamline preparation.”

For the last half-hour, Nahel Argama ’s reactor has been running at flank power, dumping as much energy as possible into the big accumulator banks that feed the ship’s hyper mega particle cannon.

Now, the prow of the Nahel Argama is mutating, splitting upon to reveal beamguide antennas, setting up the I-field that will shape and collimate the particle beam. At the end of that beamguide sit Marida and Victor in their mobile suits.

One by one, the antennas jut out from the prow, settling into place like a row of metallic teeth.

“Beamline green,” says Gunnery, “Unicorn, configure your shields.”

The Unicorn and Silver Bullet carry four shields between them—three are Marida’s, outfitted with beam guns of their own, and the fourth is one of the Banshee’s, contributed by Victor. But right now, the shields are inert, merely slabs of armor. Marida needs them to wake up.

If the hyper mega particle cannon were to fire right now, it would annihilate Marida and Victor in an instant. Its power undiminished by their sudden and fiery deaths, it would plunge out into the depths of space, not even hitting anything—the Nahel Argama is oriented such that the beamline stretching out from her prow is aimed neither at Industrial Seven nor the Rewloola , but simply open space. If she were to shoot, it would be a miss.

It would take a miracle for a single mobile suit to survive the hyper mega particle cannon at point-blank range.

But Marida has psycho-frame. She can make miracles.

She closes her eyes and focuses. Thinks of Laplace’s Box, now so close, within her grasp. Thinks of the hideous zero-sum logic of Full Frontal, and his flawed, cynical deterrents. Thinks of Ensign Zabi, risking her life for this foolish endeavor, and of Victor Two, who never had the chance to refuse it.

She thinks of her father, Suberoa Zinnerman, now up on the bridge of Nahel Argama , and of Lieutenant Sauper seething in the brig, and of the convalescing Captain Mitas, whose lung was shredded because he dared to do the right thing.

All of them need her. They need the promise of the Unicorn, and the future that it can make real. They need the Federation and Zeon to dissolve, and for the great economic apparatus that traps them to be torn apart. To do this, they need a miracle.

The Unicorn agrees.

Green light, warm with the dewy sweetness of a summer morning, floods out from within Marida. She’s burning, glowing like a lantern, bursting at the seams with that shouting brightness, and around her the Unicorn reconfigures itself to let that light escape. Open the floodgates, firewall the throttles, let that light shine forth.

Atop her brow, Marida’s golden Unicorn horn splits open. Her eyes gleam, her armor shines, and crucially, her shields wake up, transforming themselves to expose glowing green psycho-frame and their all-important I-field generators.

“Gunnery, Unicorn,” says Marida, basking in the summer glow, washed clean by this clarity of purpose, “ We’re ready to launch.”

Warm hands hold Marida’s shoulders, then slip down to her waist, embracing her.

“This looks fun,” says Loni Garvey. “It’s a shame we never got to fly together before this.”

“Yeah,” chuckles Marida. “It would’ve been good.”

“It still can be,” says Loni, her warm breath ghosting past Marida’s ear, “Let’s go, Marida. Get the Box. Set the Earth free.”

“Unicorn,” says Suberoa Zinnerman, “This is Nahel Argama , firing hyper mega particle cannon. I love you.”

Inside Nahel Argama , huge contactors slam shut. The hyper mega particle beam starts as a faint glow, like a star shimmering through the atmosphere, then explodes in brightness . Mega particles pour through the beamguides, desperate to vent the colossal electromotive force that drives them, hundreds of exa-electron volts clamoring to be set free.

N othing manmade can stop a mega particle. Their kinetic energy is simply too high, and they collide inelastically. From birth to death, they are delirious with lust at the thought of dumping their astronomical kinetic energy into anything they encounter, and that energy is such that it will heat anything up to the kind of temperature that would make a star blush.

It’s known that there do exist materials that can stop mega particles. These materials are notable for not only being unbelievably dense but also totally unobtainable, because they’re only found in neutron stars.

The secret to using mega particles without getting immolated? I-fields. It’s what beam weapons do, after all. It’s what Minovsky reactors do.

It’s what Marida’s shields are doing, right now.

The I-field created by her shields presents an impermeable dam in the face of the rushing torrent that bursts headlong from Nahel Argama , and the price of absorbing all that momentum is the exertion of force, hundreds of tons of it, through the I-fields into their emitters, into the shields, and into the Unicorn.

The star-bright, sun-hot hyper mega particle beam is converted into propulsive force, and now Marida is crushed against her seat by half a dozen gravities. No baseline human could survive this, but Marida and Victor are anything but. Alarms wail and the Unicorn’s structure rattles as though it will fly apart, but, by a miracle, it holds together . Marida can’t see anything but her own light and the beam glow it battles against, she can’t hear anything but the alarms, the thunder of the titanic forces outside her cockpit, and her own screams. Her vision dims as the acceleration overtakes her. Every six seconds, she adds another sea-level speed of sound atop her velocity. Mach one. Mach two. Mach six. Mach ten. The numbers become absurd, rendered entirely meaningless by their inhuman magnitude.

How fast are Marida and Victor going?

Fast enough.

By the time the mega particle beam flickers out, Nahel Argama is ten kilometers away and fading fast, rapidly disappearing into the cosmic night.

Marida was inspired by the beamed-propulsion systems that big spacecraft and colonies use, but they have to settle for piddly lasers. Laser light is chump change. Mega particles, on the other hand, have a specific impulse of yes . Their peak power approaches exawatts. Full Frontal will never see this coming.

#

Aboard the bridge of the Rewloola , an alarm blares .

“Captain!” says one of the bridge watchstanders, gaping at a display, “Radiation alarm from astern! Looks like side-lobe emissions from a hyper mega particle shot!”

Full Frontal rushes to a window, seeing that far-off glimmer. At its tip is a swirling, shimmering green light. The color of the Axis Shock.

For the first time in his life, he has no idea what to do.

What is Zabi planning?

“Captain,” he says to the Rewloola ’s commander, “The traitors are making their move. Deploy all your mobile suits. We must interdict access to Industrial Seven at any cost.”

Rewloola beats to quarters. Pilots run for their mobile suits while gun crews check their weapons. Every second they take to get ready is slow, far too slow, because Marida and Victor are bearing down on them faster than any human has traveled before.

Chapter Text

The first of the traitor ship’s mobile suits that Riddhe encounters are ReZELs. They warn him off, demand that he match velocity and disarm, but he knows there’s no peaceful resolution to this. He kills them, and it’s easy.

Next he’s surprised to see a Marasai, and in Sleeves colors no less. The orange identification stripes on its arms and legs can’t protect it—he destroys it as well. He’s not even sweating.

Now the Nahel Argama is almost visible—still just a bright speck many kilometers distant, but he can’t confuse her for a bright star any longer. So close. Just two more obstacles stand between him and the traitor ship, though—look, they’re burning towards him now, streaks of hot propellant glowing against the darkness. He taps a thumb key and peers at them, cuing the Silver Bullet’s computer to magnify the newcomers. One’s pink, the other green. Unrecognized configuration. He waits, letting them come closer, watching for their strategy. One breaks to maneuver above him, the other below. They’ll flank him with superior numbers. Logical. Predictable.

He allows himself the luxury of a smile. They don’t know he’s packing more than just a beam rifle.

Something twinges behind his eye, a flash of migraine fire, a strobe-quick flicker of threat. The pink suit is shooting, now . Riddhe puffs the thrusters, lets the beam shot pass by his feet. Enough playing around. Time to lay down the hurt.

Riddhe keys the weapon release switches and lets the Silver Bullet bloom.

This is no reconstructed Neo Zeon kludge , Martha told him. Absent a third Unicorn, this is the closest you can get to a Gundam .

Oh, Gundam. What a name. What is a Gundam, when you get down to it? It’s legitimate violence. It’s the institutionally condoned use of force. It’s warfare in a box, canned whoop-ass, dehydrated history, just add water.

As the Silver Bullet’s forearm bits and back-mounted funnel curl away into space, Riddhe considers for the first time that anything can be a Gundam, so long as it’s dangerous enough.

Riddhe is dangerous enough.

The pink mobile suit, a Sleeves model, Zulu-type, is here, and it’s reaching for him, reaching, reaching, reaching—its clawed hand bursts forth from its forearm, twitching and jerking along a wire-guided path. It shoots. Riddhe dodges. Twitch and shoot, twitch and shoot. It’s a dance of precision footwork, a battle fought by the microscopic twitches of razor-thin epees, a little jerk here, a little twist there. Riddhe’s INCOM s and the enemy’s are tangling in a cat’s cradle of control cables, twisting and diving like fighting kites, striving to cut each others’ wires.

Another flinch-premonition, a quantum of danger, and Riddhe moves on instinct, narrowly dodging another salvo of beam fire. The Zulu’s wingman is here, approaching behind and below Riddhe, invisible behind his seat unless he turns. It’s bait—you don’t turn from an enemy, not unless you fancy getting particle beam sunburns up the ass.

No matter. Riddhe lets the back funnel hunt the wingman down.

This pink suit is pissing him off, though. The bandit is a smooth operator, guiding his INCOMs with graceful, efficient precision. Less a warrior and more an artist, like an effete fencer versus a trained cut-and-thrust killer.

“Fine!” growls Riddhe, “If you want an unfair fight, you can have one!”

He reels his gun arm back in, feeling the heavy jolt as it slams home into its elbow socket, pins down the pink suit with the other INCOM (the back funnel is still duelling the wingman), draws his rifle, aims, fires.

Direct hit. One of the pink suit’s arms explodes. The trouble with artists is that they get confused when you push outside their area of expertise. All you have to do to gain the upper hand is change the rules a little. The pink suit’s pilot is stunned by the explosion, and Riddhe takes the opportunity to make a short but violent burn to close the distance, plants a kick to the cockpit to zero out their relative velocity, then wraps the guide cable of his detached left hand around the Zulu’s neck.

There. Now it’s one-on-one, and Riddhe has a meat shield, hiding behind the pink mobile suit as his funnel chases down the wingman.

He finally gets a good look at the wingman, and his eyes narrow with recognition, then widen with fury.

It’s the princess .

That two-timing, scheming little bitch. She’s going to tear down the Federation for the sake of petty jealousy, impoverish the Earth simply because she can’t bear to see it prosper.

What a shame, thinks Riddhe. What a damn shame it is that she’s here, now, in that quad-wing mobile suit, when she should have died to his beam rifle at Palau. Mistakes were made. Though, he corrects himself, it’s not a quad-wing any more. Riddhe made sure of that. Now the green suit carries a messy assemblage of thrusters, missile pods, and propellant tanks on its shoulders and back.

Whatever. He’ll peel her out of that suit and crush her himself. Sic semper tyrannis.

There’s a brush of contact on, or perhaps beneath, his temple. He’s getting distracted, and the Zulu is squirming in his grip. Time to finish this.

He draws a beam saber, fires the blade, and makes to core out the Zulu. Just then, its back binders pop open and disgorge a swarm of rose-shaped bits. God, what a joke. Of course the pink pussycat mobile suit gets a bouquet of roses. Not only is the pink suit pilot a coward and murderer, he’s also a-

Oh. The roses are surrounding Riddhe. He tries to call the funnel back to dispatch them, but he can’t quite do it, because his head explodes.

None of the bits are responding—the interface is freaking out, and the Silver Bullet’s displays are screaming about interference, noise levels, feedback. They’re jamming him. How? That’s impossible. You can’t jam psycommu.

Whatever the jamming mechanism, it’s being transmitted through Riddhe’s skull. It comes as a static-fuzzed tongue of flame that’s licking around the back of his brain. He groans with agony, twitching against his controls, and he tastes blood—he thinks he bit his lip.

We don’t want to hurt you , the quad-wing seems to say. We don’t need to be fighting .

How fucking naive. How abominably childish, that the Princess might not realize why she must die.

“I gave you every chance!” hisses Riddhe, forcing the words out despite the electronic migraine that’s skullfucking him. “I wanted you to do the right thing, and you chose not to!”

Reaction isn’t analysis, says the Princess, and he can see the way her lips purse in disapproval, the way her hair sways as she shakes her head. God, she’d be so beautiful if she wasn’t so foolish, so doomed, so far out of his grasp. You think the Federation can save me. It can’t even save itself from its own consequences .

“It’s all we have,” pants Riddhe. “We’ll never get anything better, and you want to rip it apart.”

Is that what you think? That there is no alternative to the Federation?

“No alternative worth considering. No alternative less evil.”

And if you had the power to fix it? To make it better?

“I can’t!” roars Riddhe. “Nobody can! All we can do is live with it like adults, not dream of childish fantasies!”

Then you have forsaken possibility. Goodbye, Ensign.

And then the quad-wing’s funnels line up on Riddhe’s cockpit. In a moment, he will be cut apart by a dozen beam shots. He will not be able to save the Federation. Humanity will be lost to anarchy.

“No!” howls Riddhe, and reaches out beyond the net of fire that ensnares him, reaching for his funnel that dangles inert in space, grasping for its controls, for its thrusters and generator and gun. He feels as though the meat is being cut off his bones, as though his brain is being teased apart by hot pokers, but he doesn’t care. The funnel is his. He grabs it. It twitches, wakes up, takes aim, fires.

He shoots. A rose is destroyed. Shoots again. Again. Again.

Some distant part of Riddhe’s awareness tells him that this is impossible, tells him that the funnel’s cable is severed, that it should be inoperable, that the jamming should be leaving him a moaning wreck, that he should be dead. Riddhe doesn’t care. He’s going to finish the mission.

The last rose is destroyed. The jamming stops. Riddhe is back inside his own head, and the warnings across his displays are clearing. He checks his fuel, coolant, propellant, makes sure he has plenty of playtime, then hammers the travel pedal, boosting out of the crossfire that erupts just behind him. The Zulu twitches, still collared by its own INCOM cable, and moves to escape his grasp, and Riddhe decides to let it, kicking it away. He scoffs in amusement as its legs are severed by a stray shot from one of the quad-wing’s funnels. How amateurish.

Enough of the pink suit. Time to kill the Princess.

Riddhe plunges towards her, setting loose his funnel and off-hand INCOM to interdict her funnels. The enemy weapons twitch and dodge, and some escape his assault, but others don’t, bursting like eggs as they’re holed by his beam shots . She’s afraid, look how she flees, how she tries to dodge. This is how it was supposed to be, Riddhe on top, the Princess frightened and compliant below. He lets her run, scaring her with shots designed to pen her in , and she’s dodging, dodging, dodging, squirming this way and that like a trapped mouse as she tries to evade him.

And then he has the shot. It comes sooner than he expected—she’s maneuvering away from him, distracted by his funnel, orienting her particle cannons to attack it. He lets the funnel melt, because she’s attacking it with her own cannons, not those of her funnels. She’s maneuvering predictably, an easy target.

He lines up his beam rifle, waits for the target lock tone, and pulls the trigger.

#

The Sleeves forces have opened fire—a hail of beam radiation is being directed at Victor and Marida, but none of it hits. The Silver Bullet and harlequin Unicorn dodge this way and that and the unrelenting wall of beam fire goes wide. Consider their sheer speed—mobile suits and ships blur past, stitching across Marida’s field of view too fast for the panoramic display’s refresh rate. The apparent angular speed alone is enough to throw off targeting sensors, and Marida’s sense for danger makes the problem of manual targeting impossible.

Ahead and to one side looms the great ruddy bulk of Rewloola , now turning to bring her main guns to bear on Marida’s vector. Out from the Sleeves battleship sweeps a blade of death-potential, as deadly a barrier as any physical object at these speeds. Marida burns one way and Victor the other, and as they juke and dodge, the Rewloola ’s mega particle beams reach out for them, groping like huge, flickering fingers, seeking to crush the two mobile suits.

But Marida and Victor are too fast, too clever. Rewloola can’t stop them.

But, what’s this? A cluster of lights up ahead, a cloud of exhaust and spent coolant.

Mobile suits.

Four of them.

Marida stretches the Unicorn’s cameras to their limits. Shaking from the speed and rapidly-closing distance, fuzzy and spiky with intelligent upscaling, the far-off mobile suits resolve into the bloody red of Full Frontal’s Sinanju and a clump of Guards suits. They’re aiming at Marida, and unlike Rewloola , they won’t miss.

“Victor!” says Marida, and he knows what she’s thinking. They act together.

Somehow, Marida knows that Full Frontal’s wickedly long beam rifle, despite the kilometers of space separating them, is aimed directly at her cockpit. He shoots.

The Guard next to him, equipped with a heavy beam gun, opens fire as well. The two of them put together rival the output of one of Rewloola ’s main turrets.

They don’t miss.

Their beams plunge directly into the I-field generators of the Unicorn and Silver Bullet, and though the deceleration isn’t the bone-crunching brutality of Nahel Argama ’s hyper mega particle cannon, it’s not nothing—Marida’s seat straps tighten against her with the deceleration, and she notes her velocity start to fall. Perhaps a quarter of a g. Not bad.

Marida watches the distance to Full Frontal diminish, numbers blurring on the display too fast to see. He’s there—she can feel the force of his regard, see the cold gleam of his Cyclops eye, sense the weight of his intention. He is reading her moves, adjusting his aim, preparing to use every weapon at his disposal, even the mobile suits of his Guards, in order to block her way.

For this mission, the Unicorn has been equipped with external propellant tanks. Logical, given the literally astronomical speeds involved in its insertion. Marida didn’t want to let go of them so soon, but she has no choice now.

“Victor,” she says, keying the release for one of the the tanks, “Get behind me.”

Victor clicks his mic and complies. The tank drifts out ahead of her as she decelerates at maximum thrust, gritting her teeth against the acceleration. The loose tank is a battering ram, forty tons of metal and propellant rushing headlong towards the Sleeves mobile suits.

It has the intended effect: They scatter.

No, not quite. Frontal hasn’t moved. His beam rifle is still leveled, adjusting its aim. He shoots again, and the propellant tank unzips end-to-end as the beam punches through its thruster block and vaporizes its contents.

A last-second burst of thrust just barely saves Marida’s life—the paint blisters on the Unicorn’s feet, the shot passing mere meters away. No time to react to it, she’s moving too fast. The Sleeves suits rush up at her, drawing their beam sabers in a mach-speed pantomime of jousting, giant mechanical knights rushing one another down at a thousand miles an hour.

Marida deploys her beam sabers. She has time for a single attack.

There’s a thump, and an alarm wails. Status check—fuel, coolant, propellant. All nominal.

Behind her is the hard ultraviolet brightness of a fusion reactor failure—she bisected one of the Sleeves suits. The alarm is from her left arm—it’s missing, neatly severed at the elbow. She turns to face Frontal, though he’s already receding far behind her, and she can see the yellow flicker of his shield’s beam axes deactivating. He acted as quickly as her, and landed a hit.

“Victor Two, status,” she says.

“Victor Two, all green,” says Victor. He’s above her, having dodged the jousting entirely, but squeezes off a shot at one of the distant Sleeves suits. To Marida’s shock, it connects, and there’s another burst of plasma flame far out there among the stars.

Something lances out towards Marida at the speed of causality—not light, but a signal. Intention. In the wreckage of the Sleeves suits is a flare of blue thruster-fire, Full Frontal lighting his engines up to come racing after her.

Now closing with Industrial Seven, she needs to keep decelerating, even though it’s what she least wants. If she were to carry on at speed, fly off into the wild blue, Frontal wouldn’t be able to catch her, but she needs to erode her lead if she’s to land at the colony builder Magallanica . He’ll bear down on her soon, and when he gets here, he will do his utmost to kill her and Victor.

Frontal’s thruster fire draws closer. He’s excited for this, Marida realizes. Thrilled at the chance to test himself against her. Curious, in a detached sort of way, about what it will be like to methodically tear her to pieces. There’s almost no malice in it, just a cold, inhuman interest, but that’s just the thing— almost no malice. Not none.

In his cockpit, Frontal grins.

“Victor,” says Marida, “Frontal is one of the greatest pilots I’ve ever seen. Are you ready for this?”

Victor doesn’t respond.

She jets over to him, grips his shoulder for a contact link. “Victor?”

“Unicorn,” says Victor, sounding dazed, “Unicorn.”

An icy shrapnel-sliver of fear wriggles itself into Marida’s chest. Did something happen? Did Victor take a shot from the Sleeves suits she wasn’t aware of? Did the g-forces hurt him? Is his body breaking down? W ill she have to face Frontal alone?

“ Victor, talk to me. What state?”

“I...something has happened,” he mutters. “A catastrophe. A cusp. A nonlinear departure from linearly unstable growth, loss of flight data sensors prompts reversion to a new control law regime. Extrapolation of overfitted data results in inferior outcomes, but inputs are finite. From where does the underlying truth of predictions stem? The observations that inform them, or the models they employ? There is no empirical truth to extrapolation, merely post-factum justification.”

There’s an underlying sense of shock, of turning a blind corner, of sudden changes.

“You felt something,” guesses Marida.

Loni Garvey is looking at her, insulated by thick leaded windows and a safe standoff distance. Marida’s image, or perhaps Loni’s regard, comes through fuzzed and staticky, crawling with noise. Loni’s voice comes thin and tinny, a voice crackling out of an old radio.

“It happened to him again,” she says. “ He lost another parent. He’s not ready, Marida. He was never ready.”

“Loni,” says Marida. “You’re here.”

“More or less,” says Loni, psycommu systems driving Victor’s lips by remote control like another set of funnels. “You’re running out of time, Marida. Frontal will be here soon. I don’t know if I can fight him.”

He lost another parent . What a bizarre sentence, thinks Marida. How many can you have?

Some say the normal number is two, but Marida doubts this. She thinks it’s between zero and one, for most people. After all, how many parents really raise their children, instead of treating them as something between an unreliable appliance and a burden?

But , says a voice that isn’t Marida’s , even so . But even so, Marida has a parent, or an approximation thereof. Zinnerman means well. She can feel it. He’s bursting with good intentions, and he doesn’t care where they take him.

In another life, another world, he didn’t have to be cruel. Had the cruel authority of the Federation not cracked down in the way it was designed, had Spacenoids not been deemed the new subaltern, the new imperial margin to impoverish and alienate, he might have remained soft, weak, sweet.

Perhaps, thinks Marida, she’ll still get to see that side of him.

“Victor,” she says, “I need you.”

“My father is dead,” says Victor, voice a whisper. He is thinking of Cardeas Vist, the condescending bastard who fixed the Unicorn. He is thinking of Gianna Capa, and his memories of her are so warped by a twisted, all-consuming affection, a love of the sort that a tumor feels for its host, that it makes Marida’s head swim. He is thinking of the woman he only calls Master, and though she has become clouded and uncertain, a sliver of her still resides within his head.

There’s no such thing as recovery, not really. That person will always be inside you. There’s no escape from abuse, just distance. Closure is a scam, and always has been .

Full Frontal’s fateful, crushing attention slams down on Marida like a battleship searchlight, probing in the night for its next target. He’s judging her intentions, trajectory, energy budget and weaponry. He’s calculating how best to kill her, and how best to take the Box for himself, how best to cement the Earth-Space dichotomy for all time.

Victor is muttering to himself, too quietly for the microphone to pick up. Bite-size snatches of Cyber-Newtype nonsense come through, the background radiation of the reactor that is his brain.

Full Frontal is decelerating and laying in a firing solution. His thrusters are glowing bright against the backdrop of space now, the clouds of his exhaust imperceptibly buffeting the Unicorn and Silver Bullet.

“Marida,” says Loni, “I’m here. Go.”

Not a moment too soon. Marida hammers the travel pedal, calls up the right-arm beam gun, and prepares to do what must be done.

#

Mineva is dead. She allowed herself to be outmaneuvered and distracted, each a fatal mistake, but both catastrophic together, especially in the presence of an enemy as dangerous as Ensign Marcenas.

Marcenas confirms his target, selects his ordnance, achieves a firing solution, and deploys that weaponry. He shoots. He scores. The particle beam lancing out from his beam rifle hisses its way through armor and, very briefly, does unspeakable things to the pilot within.

Princess , says Cardeas, with a mouth he no longer has, expressing feelings that are no longer his, you must get the Box. Set the Universal Century to rights. Give the Vist Foundation what it deserves .

The heart of the Rozen Zulu is a bored-out crater, glowing at the edges with red-hot armor, leaking fluids from a hundred internal pipes and veins. Somehow, against all odds, Cardeas managed to surprise Marcenas, managed to block the one shot that couldn’t miss.

Mineva is alive. She has spent yet another ally in pursuit of the Box and what it can give her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, as Cardeas’ ghost, moving like a gas, expands to fill its container. One day he’ll reach the edges of the universe, far in the future, when no more stars are born, when the last of them are banked cold, grimly clinging on to their last fusible elements. In that far-off, frigid, hopeless world, Cardeas’ spirit will find its rest.

No rest for the wicked, Mineva. Marcenas is still here, and he’s lining up another shot. This time nobody will come to Mineva’s rescue, and nothing will stop the shot. Marcenas will destroy the Box for the sake of his crumbling, rotting Federation, and come 100 U.C., any hope for Spacenoid liberation will have died.

Mineva attacks.

She spikes herself upwards from behind the wreckage of the Rozen Zulu on a blast of rocket thrust, then sprays Marcenas with her mega particle cannons. As hoped, he dodges, twisting and juking away from the barely-aimed hail of beam fire, and now she can chase him. His funnel is out of commission, but his arm bits still work, and he pirouettes to fling them out by centrifugal force, the weapons stretching to the far limits of their control tethers to pin Mineva down from two places at once.

You brought this upon yourself , say the gleaming eyes of his Silver Bullet. This is your fault, Princess. At any moment you can throw yourself upon my mercy, and you’ll be safe.

Safe , of course, is only relative. Mineva has seen the kind of “safety” that men and boys like Marcenas speak of. It starts with taking away your bank account, and ends with taking your temporal lobe.

“You don’t understand that I don’t need you,” growls Mineva, as her funnels probe at Marcenas’ defenses. Her funnels and his bits duel, tracing complicated paths of exhaust and beam fire through the space between them, a swarm of deadly insects all hell-bent on their own destruction. “You believe that the world owes a girl-bride to call your own, Marcenas. You believe that the Federation can trade human spirit for prosperity forever.”

The Silver Bullet shines with a dark light, a black glow that leaks out of its seams and vents. From every chink and edge of its armor, those dark rays stab out into the night, the carrier wave for Marcenas’ fury.

He knows she finds him contemptible. He knows she’ll never give in to him. Somehow, in a way he can’t acknowledge, he knows his empty reaction has no future, his unquestioning acceptance of the Federation no explanatory power. All of these things enrage him, and that rage, filtered through the psycommu power of the Silver Bullet, makes him dangerously difficult to kill.

The two of them are juking, dodging, weaving through space on a twitching, angular braid of thruster exhaust. Around the Kshatriya and Silver Bullet are the myriad glints of their funnels, the infantry slogging through mud while their generals desperately maneuver for the tiniest fractional advantage.

Marcenas is trying to coil his guide tethers around her, to restrain her like he did the Rozen Zulu. Something in that is sickeningly literal to Mineva, as though the framework of metaphor and allegory that underlies the universe has been holed through. He wants to seize her and keep her, place her in a gilded cage where one day, when he is a politician and she is hopeless, she can produce the next Marcenas heir, the next wonder-prince of Earthnoid largesse.

It is unacceptable to her. She refuses to countenance this possibility.

Mineva dares to ask herself: What must she do to preclude it entirely?

Imagine, for a moment, that Full Frontal is right, that cause follows effect in fixed order, that minuscule breaking of subtle symmetries at the beginning of time ordained the Sun, the Earth, all the people upon it, and this battle here, and the contents of the Box.

You can cut a possibility out of the fabric of history, so long as you can destroy its possible causes. What must Mineva do, if she wishes this dark future, this mansion-prison nightmare, to become causally inaccessible?

She must use her mega particle cannons like so , to startle Marcenas, and remind him of his vulnerability.

She must reach with her funnel-fingers like this , to destroy his gun hand, his rifle, and the thrusters upon his back.

And now she must draw her beam saber and stoop into a flèche , blade aimed at his cockpit.

H e draws his own saber with his remaining hand and catches her blade with a prime parry, and rotates into a circular parry, one that will force her blade up and away where it cannot defend her. Classic Jaburo System fencing—easy to learn, straightforward to master. She backs off with a sudden burst of thrust, and he takes the opportunity to lunge. She bats this away with a lateral quarte parry, then flicks the tip of her blade down towards his wrist—can she sever his hand entirely?

No. He’s too quick. He responds quickly enough to catch her blade again, going for another lateral parry, and this one isolates her blade to the inside, opening up her back. It’s a good move, but the Jaburo System presumes ground traction. Like all Federation thought, it’s entirely captured by gravity. She pivots in space, levering herself against his blade, allowing him to push her sideways, and by the time he lunges, she’s no longer there.

Marcenas understands what Mineva is doing. She is the scion of the Zabi family. She has been given a thorough education of fencing, both classical and free-fall. She will best him however she can, and she has made it clear now that she pressed into the close-quarters arena to finish him off by beam saber.

He can’t wait to beat her at her own game, and this is why he swipes at her head in a high cut, and why he doesn’t notice her funnel. This is why, as she parries him high with her blade, the funnel drills a neat hole through his cockpit and ends the Marcenas bloodline.

The Silver Bullet’s flight controls evaporate. Losing control authority, the reactor scrams itself, and those gleaming Gundam eyes go dark.

So you really meant it, echoes Marcenas’ voice. I can respect that .

Mineva has no more time for this. She wheels to face the far-off Nahel Argama and hammers the throttle. Far beyond her ship, Marida and Victor are fighting for control of Industrial Seven’s airspace, and Mineva can’t leave them to Full Frontal’s mercy.

Chapter Text

The flurry of beam fire behind the Nahel Argama finally ends.

“Radar,” says Liam, “Is the bandit down?”

“Checking,” says the radar officer, consulting her displays. “Yes, sir, I’m getting a friendly IFF code.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, it looks like Golf Eight.”

Ensign Zabi. The Princess survived, and the Vist man didn’t.

He knew the price , thinks Liam. It’s a slim comfort.

Zinnerman, formerly of the Sleeves, grabs a handset and punches in the air control frequency.

“Golf Eight, Nahel Argama ,” he says, “What state?”

“Golf Eight is eight-six-zero by zero plus twenty,” says Zabi, “ and Zulu one is down.”

Z innerman glances to meet Liam’s eyes, and they share a nod. Cardeas may have been a monster in his own way, but he always meant well. For what meant well was worth.

“Copy, Golf Eight,” says Zinnerman, “Request you RTB to resupply.”

“Roger, wilco.”

Z innerman watches Zabi’s approach with an appraising eye. The Kshatriya pulls in abreast of the bridge, dumping the last of her relative velocity with a blast of her main engines, before slowly maneuvering forwards and inwards, lining up with the starboard launch deck. Guided by the deck’s optical landing system, and then by hand signals from the deck officer, the huge green mobile suit slowly settles to the deck, then takes a knee to stabilize itself.

“Flight deck,” says Liam into her handset, “Get Golf Eight tied down,” and then to the helmsman, “Prepare a burn, maximum thrust. We’ll engage the Rewloola at maximum combat speed.”

#

Mineva seethes in her cockpit. The deck crew is too slow, the Nahel Argama is too slow, everything is too slow. Out there, Cruz and Victor Two are fighting for their lives, and for the Box, against Full Frontal, while Mineva was held back by the accursed Marcenas boy.

“Flight Deck,” she says, “Golf Eight. Status?”

“We’re refueling you right now,” says the harried-sounding deck boss. “Just sit tight, Golf Eight.”

Mineva bites back a bitter reply. It’d be no use—the flight crew are working as fast as they can, but they’re having a hard time of it. Right now, Nahel Argama is burning as hard as she can, the colossal force of her engines urging her ever closer to Industrial Seven, and the deck crew have to fight that thrust gravity with everything they do.

“Flight deck, bridge,” says Zinnerman’s gruff voice. “Sixty seconds to engine cut-off.”

Sixty seconds until the deck crew can bring out Mineva’s replacement weapons. One minute.

She furiously rips the wrapper off a protein bar and bites into it. Food is fuel. It tastes like ash.

#

Full Frontal checks his cockpit switches, gives his gauges a once-over, and engages.

“Foxtrot One!” says one of his Guards, from far behind him, “Should we engage?”

“No,” he says, as his Sinanju leaps into action, slamming into the visual arena like a rifle’s bolt closing, “This is a matter for Cyber Newtypes. Stand off and prepare to engage enemy mobile suits when the Nahel Argama arrives.”

He attacks, practicing offense in depth. First is the rocket launcher, spitting flame and fury. His targets, wayward Marida Cruz and the doll-thing, scatter, fearing his shells. As they should. When they run, he lets his beam rifle chase them, his aim twitching unconsciously to follow their juking and dodging.

When the doll-thing piloting the Silver Bullet dashes close to him, he drives it off with the grenade launcher. Don’t get too close, boy.

When Marida thinks she has a shot, he prevents it—the beam magnum’s shots, powerful as they may be, go wide.

It’s a straightforward matter, really. No human possesses true, uncaused free will. Not even Full Frontal. What sets him apart is that he knows this. Thus, dodging Marida’s shots is as simple as precluding the circumstances that would cause her to hit him. He keeps moving. He places himself between her and the Silver Bullet, to increase the risk of friendly fire . He makes her limited ammunition too expensive to waste.

Oh, but the Silver Bullet. That Silver Bullet.

The thing piloting it is relentless, a force of intention without cause, without awareness, without hesitation. There’s this clear, bright line between it and Industrial Seven, a laser-direct ray of force connecting the doll to its goal.

When Frontal dodges, the Silver Bullet moves too. When he gets a firing solution, it’s already shooting. When he dodges, it cuts him off. There’s no tactical advantage to be gained over this thing, only mere parity.

Aim, shoot, reposition. Aim, shoot, reposition. The rhythm of time. That deadly waltz. The kill chain loops upon itself in curling hagfish knots as Frontal tries and fails, again and again, to bring the doll’s sad, empty life to its inevitable conclusion.

And then Marida is here again! Her harlequin Unicorn, a humorless joke with checkerboard menace, lashes out with that whiplike beam gun, the thing that killed Loni, and Frontal has to dodge once more.

Offense in depth. Get a firing solution. Deploy the rocket launcher. Cut off escape options with the beam rifle. Punish aggression with the grenade launcher and beam axe. It is an algorithm that never fails to kill, a systematized approach to mobile suit combat that transforms fleets into ghosts.

But it’s not working.

“You,” he says, because he can feel the weight of the Silver Bullet’s regard upon him, “You’re Loni Garvey’s killer, aren’t you?”

He gets the sense of amber eyes, wide and deep as the sea, opening to stare. Locking him within an endlessly hungry gaze, a gaze that measures and quantifies with rote, unconscious dedication.

“Full Frontal,” says the owner of those amber eyes, “Was Loni Garvey’s death the result of tactical, or strategic circumstances?”

It’s a good question. If cause follows cause in fixed, indefinite order, where is the inciting event of a tragedy? Can you pin down exactly at what point in time an atrocity becomes guaranteed? Can you measure, in any way that matters, the moment at which a dreadful possibility becomes a tragic certainty?

There are two answers.

One, the inciting event of every tragedy, every horrible crime and unspeakable sin, is the same. At the beginning of time, when the universe transformed from perfect order to absolute chaos, every one of humanity’s evils was simultaneously set in motion.

Two, a tragedy only becomes reality when its ultimate, most recent cause arrives. The death of a man is caused not by the political and economic circumstances that put him and his killer in the same place at the same time. Rather, the death of a man is caused by his killer pulling the trigger.

But the second answer is facile, trivial. History is inevitable—if one person does not cause its hideous progression, another will step up to take their place. Had Char Aznable not introduced Newtypes to war, another man would have. Had the Zabi family not usurped the fragile, short-lived Republic of Zeon, another group of killers and schemers would have.

“I see,” says Full Frontal. The doll’s question has made the matter clear. “Loni Garvey’s death is the logical result of the strategic circumstances surrounding the attack on Dakar.”

His fault. Loni Garvey died because he chose to make her expendable.

Full Frontal is a mere vessel—he cannot regret that which he has been compelled to do. But even so, he feels that regret washing over him, flowing over the spillways that surround the doll-pilot. A desire for a different present, the sincere wish for a different state of affairs. That Loni Garvey might have lived. That the world might be a little fuller, a little richer.

But that’s a child’s delusion. Now is the time of monsters, of murderers and of cold utilitarian calculus. Full Frontal watches the motion of the Silver Bullet, waits for the right moment, and pulls the trigger.

The Vist suit’s right arm explodes, and it spins uncontrollably from the sudden jolt

This prompts a sudden reaction from the Unicorn. Frontal can feel Marida’s intention reaching out towards him, grasping for his Sinanju, and he turns and shoots from the hip.

One of the Unicorn’s shield-funnels explodes. The Unicorn itself is nowhere to be seen.

Frontal realizes, with a jolt of unfamiliar dislocation, that he is in serious danger. This is atypical. Zabi was shrewd indeed to send these Cyber Newtypes against him, and to do so as quickly as she did .

“ Rewloola ,” he says, “This is Foxtrot One. Send me the Neo Zeong.”

#

The Kshatriya is refueled and rearmed. In one hand is a Geara Zulu’s beam rifle while the other grips a wicked-looking beam spear that Technician Irei fawned over at length. Many funnels are missing, attrited by the late Ensign Marcenas, but there is no replacement for those now. In a matter of hours, the Nahel Argama ’s supply of spares for all her mobile suits will be almost entirely depleted, but that’s the price of combat.

Mineva is ready to fly, ready to fight and kill, but she can’t. Not yet. She feels like a dog straining at its leash, like a shell’s primer waiting for the firing pin’s impact, like the hydrogen fuel of a nuclear weapon waiting patiently for the fission sparkplug to burst.

“ Nahel Argama control,” she says, “Golf Eight, ready to launch.”

She knows she sounds impatient. She doesn’t care.

“Not yet,” says Zinnerman. “You’ll waste fuel we can’t afford to spend if you launch now.”

Too slow! The Nahel Argama is too damned slow!

Look out there, beyond the glittering cloud of mobile suits and munitions that surrounds the Rewloola . There’s Industrial Seven, close enough to touch. There’s the Box. She’s so close.

That constellation of twinkling motes shifts and wheels, responding to the Nahel Argama ’s presence. Mineva can feel the lines of death-potential, the paths of future munitions, tracing out towards her. They will start shooting soon. If she was flying, she could dodge, riposte, reply, but no. She’s tied down, wings clipped.

A particle beam probes out from Rewloola like a searchlight, and it is followed by more flickering rays, seeking Nahel Argama ’s range. Space is thick with Minovsky particles, so gunnery is conducted the old-fashioned way now, guess-and-check, a control loop closed only by the deploying of ordnance.

“Golf Eight,” says Zinnerman, “We’re making a covering salvo, and then you’ll be launched.”

“ Nahel Argama , Golf Eight acknowledges.” She clenches a fist, relishing in the popping of her knuckles and the creak of the glove fabric, then opens it, clenches again. So close.

“ Golf Eight, Nahel Argama , torch on. The deck officer will launch you.”

Behind Mineva, the Nahel Argama ’s big beam turrets twitch and swerve, finding their marks, and then the Kshatriya, the catapult deck, and the crewmen upon it are bathed in strobing crimson as the guns speak.

The catapult officer signals for Mineva’s attention, and the weight screen blinks into life. Seventy tons. Weight checks. The catapult officer whirls his hand. Mineva hammers the throttles. Maximum thrust comes with a supersonic roar behind her head.

Good engines, good controls, good reactor.

Mineva salutes.

The catapult fires.

She’s free.

Immediately, her head is on a swivel, searching for targets, for friendlies, for the ever-important Unicorn. Another salvo blasts out from behind her, and in the distance, mobile suits explode. A ripple of deaths, as quick and neat as a card trick.

A Dreissen, sleek in its jousting armor, tries to match her velocity. The rifle makes quick work of it.

A Ga-Zowmn lines up in front of her, drawing a bead. Her target lock warning barely activates by the time she melts it.

A Bawoo plunges after her, twisting and diving with both its parts, like crows mobbing a hawk. With the beam spear, she cuts one half apart, and the other transforms, turning from a sleek waverider jet into the grotesque upper half of a person, legless. One of her funnels melts its heart.

A heavyweight Zaku derivative menaces her with a cloud of beam fire, forcing her to twist and dive away from it. Its pilot is a good shot, but not so great on the back foot—her thrown spear impales his mobile suit, and his troubles are ended.

Mineva’s motion through the Rewloola ’s cloud of defenders is like a stick poked into honey. Watch as the intruding point drags particles behind it, slipping closer and closer with viscous ease, but they never touch her. They’re not good enough.

It’s almost shameful to admit, like some depraved urge, but Mineva loves this. She loves the feeling of control, the sense of absolute authority. When you hit the throttle, the world moves exactly how you wish . When you deploy a weapon, someone dies exactly when you want . It’s simple. Predictable. Some targets are more fun, they dodge for longer, get more shots off, but it ends up the same way. Every enemy is a puzzle to be solved, a new challenge to be surmounted.

She’ll almost be sad to see it done.

But Mineva can’t think about that right now. She can’t think about anything but plunging onwards, corkscrewing deeper into the tactical theater, shooting her way through the mobile suit complement of an entire fleet, because on the other side lies Industrial Seven, and its ticket to the future. She’s shedding weapons left and right, but it doesn’t matter. They’re expendable. Trade them for a little more progress. Spend a munition per target, as though beam shots are money.

But as she dives further towards her target, towards the shining focus of psycho-frame brightness that marks the singular point where the Unicorn and Sinanju intersect, the thrill begins to fade. Dread creeps in.

She’s still too slow.

For all Mineva’s speed, for all her skill and for all the cooperation of the Nahel Argama and its crew and pilots, she’s gotten here too late.

That cleaving fracture plane of possibility is still too far, glinting at her from a too-vast remove. She can feel ripples from that shining light, secondary radiation as vast energies shed from strange orbits. She can feel the peerless empty malice of Full Frontal, the grim determination of Lieutenant Cruz, and the sharp, hospital-clean intellect of Victor Two. They are colliding without her.

She will be too late.

#

Theoretically, Marida and Victor have Full Frontal outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

Somehow, against all odds, it doesn’t seem to even matter. Frontal responds to every motion, every slight intention, with precisely calibrated responses that make Marida’s attacks feel dated, predictable, pedestrian.

“Lieutenant Cruz,” he says, as one of her shields immolates itself to protect her from a beam rifle shot that would have pierced her cockpit, “I have to admit I’m surprised. I didn’t mark you as the type to turn traitor.”

“ I never did,” replies Marida, as she slashes his rocket launcher in two, “I’m still fighting for Spacenoids. It’s you who’s turned.”

“Impossible,” he replies, and parries her blade before making a wicked swipe at her legs, one she barely deflects, “I am a vessel of the Spacenoid will. I have no choice but to fight for them.”

“Then tell me,” says Marida, as her seatbelts jerk against her chest as the Unicorn retreats from Frontal’s advance, “What is it that the Spacenoid will asks of you? What is it that you can’t avoid doing?”

“We live within a grand machine,” says Frontal, as he blasts the Unicorn point-blank with his grenade launcher, and Marida’s displays dissolve into pixel snow from the shock, “a glorious engine of production and consolidation. It is a heat pump of sorts, extracting wealth from the Spacenoid margin to warm the core.”

Marida blindly thrusts away from Frontal, guided by nothing but the cold pressure of his threat, covering her retreat with shot after shot from the beam magnum. Gradually, one by one, the sensors come back online, just in time to capture the Sinanju stooping towards her, beam saber outstretched. She barely parries it in time.

“The Spacenoids are growing cold,” Frontal says, as he hammers his beam saber against Marida’s, as she grunts with exertion against the crushing weight of his deadly intention, “They wish for the engine to turn to their favor. They wish for a reprieve from this winter. Only I can provide them this, Lieutenant. All else is folly.”

The analogy is clear. Run the engine in reverse, cool the core to warm the margins.

“You can’t even ask yourself why this machine should exist?” asks Marida, as the Unicorn lands a kick to the Sinanju’s torso, sending the red machine recoiling. Frontal responds quickly enough that the Silver Bullet’s beam fire can’t catch him. “You can’t even question what the purpose of the machine is?”

“There is no questioning it,” he says. The words would be cheap from any other man, but she can feel the force behind what he’s saying—he means it. This is the bare, unaltered truth to him. “The engine of extraction is humanity. There is no future without it. Learn to accept this, Lieutenant—without this fundamental destruction, we are nothing.”

“You think this is a zero-sum game. That there’s nothing to be gained. That every good has a counterbalance of evil, that every benefit is weighed exactly by its consequences.”

“I do not think we live within a zero-sum game!” says Frontal, and excitement is terrible to hear in his voice, it’s like seeing some thick, armored vessel begin to fail, the light of Frontal’s unalloyed passion beginning to leak in bright Cherenkov rays from the cracks, “I know we do! Think about it, Lieutenant, really think about it! Conservation of energy, conservation of momentum, production of entropy, these things govern all existence. Tell me, Lieutenant, where is there the smallest quantum of mercy within these physical laws? Where is the benefit of generosity, of belief, within the rocket equation, within Newton’s second law?”

“That’s right,” he continues, spraying the fleeing Silver Bullet with shots of his beam rifle even as he keeps chasing the Unicorn, slashing again and again with the blades of his shield, “You cannot. Such things do not exist. I am a materialist, Lieutenant. I trust physical laws, and physical laws have no room for moralistic fabulism.”

For a moment, Marida slips. For a fraction of a second, she believes him.

All good Zeonists are materialists, aren’t they?

You need to think about principles as they are, as they’ve been scientifically determined to function. What matters is physical laws, material processes. Ideology comes from analysis, and never the other way around.

But even so, she thinks, hard material reasoning is not the only touchstone of Zeon Zum Deikun’s thought.

Deikun imagined that a new type of humanity would form in response to humanity’s settlement of space. He speculated that, under the unprecedented constraints of life within manmade worlds, humanity would develop in ways that could not be predicted.

Deikun imagined, before the name Zeon meant anything more than a forgettable scholar, that Newtypes would slip the surly bonds of causality.

The Axis Shock. The nuclear weapons. The unaccountable psycho-frame glow, the Unicorn’s strange intelligence, Loni’s fickle and conditional immortality. These things cannot be admitted by classical physics, but even so, they exist.

“But even so,” says Loni, and so does Victor, and so does Marida. “But even so, we can imagine a world without this machine. We can imagine a world without zero-sum logic, a world where entropy is a simple fact, not a god to be worshipped or an apocalypse to be feared.”

“Impossible,” says Frontal.

“Have you learned nothing in the three years since Char died?” asks Loni, “Impossible is obsolete.”

And then she shoots him.

Impossibly, it misses.

The beam stretches hungrily towards the Sinanju, then, mere meters from the red mobile suit’s breast, abruptly turns and arcs away into the darkness.

Around the Sinanju, I-fields glitter, and behind it looms something huge, a vast metallic castle the size of a ship. It bristles with multi-armed godlike menace, and beneath its massive skirts and cowls glow innumerable thrusters, enough engine power to send a skyscraper into orbit.

The Kshatriya’s computer can’t identify the silhouette, but Marida knows what the thing is. Frontal called it the Neo Zeong. The last argument of kings. The most perfect weapon to ever exist.

“I will show you what it means to be obsolete,” says Full Frontal, and his Sinanju backs away from Marida and Loni, rising up with outstretched arms to be welcomed by the unfolding petals of armor that surround its throne.

Mobile suit and mobile armor meet. It’s a match made in heaven.

“Loni,” says Marida, trying to warn her wingman, to coordinate, to respond in any way, but the Neo Zeong acts faster than words. Its arms sprout dozens of beam guns, and the machine explodes with beam fire, rays reaching out in every direction, seeking their targets with quick, inquisitive eagerness.

“I have no more need for the Unicorn,” says Frontal, gleaming with satisfaction, “I know where the Box is, Lieutenant. Nobody will believe you a coward if you flee now, recognizing your irrelevance before weaponry such as this. Go back to your Princess, Lieutenant. I am certain she needs you.”

Frontal punctuates every word with a new firing pattern from his beam cannons. Flicker after flicker, all in different directions. Loni’s INCOMs get immolated in one blink, then another of Marida’s shields in another. Flash after flash of beam fire, and the mobile suits are slowly eroded, ground down.

Upon its giant mechanical throne, the Sinanju glows with crimson fire, the strange, impossible light of the psycho-frame. How ironic, thinks Marida, that a man who denies the psycho-frame’s power should benefit so richly from it.

Confronted by the seemingly insuperable might of the Neo Zeong, and its industrial-scale manufacture of violence, Marida finds herself starting to believe Frontal again. What can the limitless possibility promised by the Unicorn do, in the face of raw industrial might? What power do ethical principles have, when weighed against the inertia of imperial authority?

Why bother hope that Char is well and truly dead?

What if his dream of constant, incessant escalation never ceases? What if the future is doomed to evolve in fixed order, weaponry building upon weaponry, capital clawing further and further into the cosmos just to strip every planet, asteroid, and star for more resources, to build more and more fleets of increasingly vast warships, a virus cannibalizing the universe, reprogramming all that exists into a single gun to be leveled at the indomitable heart of humanity and fired, over and over, mercilessly, until all hope of escape is finally broken?

Victor doesn’t believe this.

Victor believes that Miss Capa loves him, and that Cardeas meant well but did poorly, and that, if he is a very good boy, nobody like him ever needs to exist again.

Marida can feel the furtive, warm light of the boy’s belief shining, glittering behind the watery softness of Loni’s soul, like a candle behind a rain-streaked window, a tiny lamp flickering deep beneath the surface of a wind-swept pond.

Victor believes that the Neo Zeong is just a machine, and that it is subject to technical constraints. He believes that all warfare is just the exchange of information, and that the deployment of ordnance is the least of a soldier’s concerns.

He believes that, without a psycommu link, the Neo Zeong is inoperable.

Marida opens her eyes and lets Victor guide her hand to the countermeasures panel, to key up the psycho-jammers, and to punch the release button, letting the Unicorn’s stolen wing spread itself wide.

The fin funnels unfold, rotating on jets of reaction thrust, and slide through space towards the Neo Zeong. Riding Marida’s will, and the Unicorn’s alien intellect, they twitch and squirm through the rain of beam fire from the Neo Zeong, bracketing the mobile armor in a loose octahedron.

The psycho-jammers activate, and the crimson fire of the Sinanju’s psycho-frame is pushed back into the impossible places that it came from. The Neo Zeong goes inert. Full Frontal grunts in audible pain.

“Ple Twelve,” he says, and it’s such a cheap, lazy shot at Marida’s humanity that she almost has to applaud him for it, “I could never have anticipated that you would betray me so perfectly.”

“I have no time for men who are trapped in the past,” she replies, and kicks her travel pedal to go rushing towards him, braking herself by planting the Unicorn’s feet on the Neo Zeong’s chest. She hears Frontal grunt again from the impact, but she doesn’t care. He’s old news, an echo of the Federation’s cruelty and Zeon’s refusal to acknowledge its own contradictions. Casually, with the ease of a gardener tearing a plant free from its roots, the Unicorn peels away the armor covering the Sinanju. “You’re nothing but empty reaction, Frontal,” she says. “You’re an echo of Char’s lowest moments, and you’re so defeated by the tragedy of your own creation that you believe the Federation to be inescapable.”

“Of course it’s inescapable,” groans Frontal, as the Sinanju, haltingly, as if in great pain, finally begins to respond. It stretches out a hand, but the Unicorn simply grabs it and pulls, and six tons of actuators and armor tear free as easily as ripe fruit off the branch. “The Federation was made to be inescapable. The relations of labor and capital are built in at a structural level. They cannot be changed, not now that they exist.”

“I don’t agree,” says Marida, and tears away the Sinanju’s head. Its eye gleams defiantly at her until finally flickering out when the last nerves are severed.

“The Federation does not wait for your consent,” protests Frontal. “Empire will always subsume any critique leveled at it, because such critiques reify empire’s existence. Your protests do nothing but reinforce that the Federation works, that it functions as intended. Your military struggle accomplishes nothing. Only by working within the Federation’s vulnerabilities can it be changed.”

“Hypocrite,” she says, and digs out a chunk of the Sinanju’s chest. Big mechanical components drift away, hydraulic power units and transformers and coolant tanks. “There’s no such thing as working against empire from within its own logic. I’m going to use the Box to beat the Federation into dust. I’m going to annihilate the Spacenoid-Earthnoid division. I’m going to roll the Unicorn across the world until the last trace of empire has been destroyed.”

“It cannot be done.”

Marida reaches in deep, gropes for the smooth, spherical casing of the Sinanju’s cockpit, and grips it like she’s pulling a tuber from the ground. She rotates it, first this way and then that, breaking the roots. Frontal hisses in pain as something inside his cockpit comes loose.

“It’s already happening,” she says, as she holds the Sinanju’s cockpit up to her gaze. She can see the bright green glow of her psycho-frame reflected in its seams and welds. “I don’t hate you, Frontal. I never have. But I hate the Federation in all its forms. I hate the way that its specter has infected Zeonist thought. I hate the way we can’t even imagine the future without considering the Federation’s place, even if it’s as you proposed, with the Federation made into a new subaltern, a rump state for nobler authorities. We live in an age of miracles, and denying that has doomed you.”

“I see,” says Full Frontal, but he sounds distant, almost dreamlike, as though speaking from a great distance. As though he doesn’t really see, because he can’t. Because he’s too far gone.

Something escapes the Sinanju’s cockpit. It’s miraculous, something Frontal would deny the presence of, something beautiful and fleeting and temporary, and now it’s gone.

#

You’ve made your point, says something that might have once been Char Aznable. It was a good point, and well-argued, but the results can’t be denied. Come home, my friend. It’s been too long without you.

You’ve done great evil, says an echo of Amuro Ray, one that rings in every antenna, ghosts across every display, but you’ve touched peoples’ hearts. Even if they moved against you, they moved because of you. Come home, bright spark plug. You can light our way too.

It’s been so boring without you , says the bright, flashing ray that Lalah Sune became. Come fly with us! We’ll go faster than light! Faster than time! We’ll race the microwave background, and surf the Big Bang itself! Come and fly!

Chapter Text

Marida’s task is nearly done.

Full Frontal is dead and the Neo Zeong lies inert, the Sinanju’s gore drifting from its half-empty throne , globs and clouds of fuel, coolant, and hydraulic fluid slowly oozing out of the wreckage.

In the distance, thrusters flicker.

Far beyond those fast-approaching engines, Marida can see the glittering lights of a ship-to-ship engagement, and for a moment she wonders if this newcomer is the first of Frontal’s reinforcements, sent to do the good work in his stead, but then she feels the hell-bent intention of Mineva Zabi.

The Kshatriya approaches, braking all the while.

“Unicorn, Victor,” says Zabi, “What’s the status of Full Frontal?”

“The Sinanju is destroyed,” says Victor, “As is Frontal.”

“All that remains is the Box,” says Marida. “Come on.”

She turns to burn towards the Magallanica and Victor follows suit with the Silver Bullet, but Zabi remains behind.

“Golf Eight,” says Marida, “Is there a problem?”

The Kshatriya hangs before the beheaded Neo Zeong, as though mourning its larger sibling. Zabi’s mind is far off from this battlefield. The Kshatriya twitches, emulating a sudden shake of its pilot’s head.

“No,” says Zabi, “No problem.”

Marida can feel some of what Zabi remembers. A drifting plume slowly escaping the seams of the Sinanju’s cockpit, a parts-per-million trace residue of the pilot’s intentions. The last will and testament of Full Frontal .

“Something from Frontal,” says Zabi, “This sector is being targeted.”

She’s lying, Marida knows. She’s not saying everything that she heard from that drifting echo, but what Zabi repeated is enough.

“Targeted?” asks Marida. It must be the Federation, despite how distant the General Revil is now. She checks her sensors, but there are no contacts to speak of, nothing beyond the limits of Industrial 7’s airspace.

Curious, that only a single Federation mobile suit followed them here. Curious that the General Revil , for all her fearsome strength, didn’t pursue them.

What is the Federation planning?

#

Martha Vist Carbine is eating lunch when the news comes.

“Madam Vist?”

Martha does not respond at first, because nothing could possibly be more important than making sure this forkful of grilled lobster is fully coated in honey Cajun butter.

She places the meat in her mouth and slides it off her fork. Marvelous. Sweet, buttery, with that seafood tang.

She washes this down with a sip of white wine, and then chooses to raise an eyebrow at the junior officer who dared disturb her.

“What?” she asks.

“We’ve lost contact with Adamant Zero Nine,” says the officer. Martha glances down at his collar. Lieutenant Junior Grade. Still a baby.

Adamant Zero Nine. Riddhe Marcenas.

Across the table from Martha, Councilor Ronan Marcenas blanches, and his fork falls from his hand to clatter on his plate. Abominable manners.

Martha tears off a chunk of her biscuit and dips it in the Cajun butter. Magnificent. Now some more lobster, fuck that’s good. She wonders why any women settle for getting what pleasures they can from men when meals like this exist.

“Riddhe?” he asks, “What happened?”

“He made his last report an hour ago,” says the Lieutenant, “Before making contact with the Nahel Argama.”

“So Londo Bell shot him down,” says Marcenas, expression darkening. “Those traitors would even kill one of their own.”

Martha still doesn’t know if she really expected poor little Riddhe to succeed. But he was so eager, so desperate to get in a mobile suit and go die, that it almost felt cruel not to let him.

And now things are going to get expensive . Damn.

Martha polishes off her wine and carefully sets down the glass, then raises an eyebrow at Marcenas. “It appears as though all our other options are exhausted, Ronan.”

“You want to use it,” he glowers.

“I do,” she says, giving him a precisely calibrated smile, the kind she knows hits below the belt for men like him. “You and I need to authenticate together.”

“Damn you,” he says. “You always intended for this to happen, didn’t you?”

She shrugs. “I had no way of knowing Riddhe would fail,” she says, telling the truth. “He had every chance to overcome his opponents, but he knew the risks.”

“You threw my son away!” hisses Marcenas, and the silverware rattles as he thumps the table.

“Control yourself, Councilor,” replies Martha, loading as much contempt into his title as she can. “Do you want to cooperate, or not? If you’re not in the mood for collaboration, you can always fly home to your estate and let Londo Bell destroy us all.”

She has given him a simple choice. Revenge and action, or acceptance. Proud men like Ronan Marcenas can’t just accept anything. God, it shouldn’t be allowed to be this easy.

His fist twitches and a tendon leaps in his neck, but his acquiesces.

“Fine,” he growls, “You win.”

“You,” says Martha to the Lieutenant, “Tell the shot captain to start charging.”

#

The Magallanica looms huge before Mineva, a giant tick squatting upon the end of Industrial Seven. She can feel the weight of the Box inside it it—not exactly the same as a nuclear weapon’s death-potential, but similar. A great reservoir of potential energy, waiting patiently to be set free.

Elsewhere, she can feel the first hints of what Full Frontal warned her of, a laser-straight axis of destruction, stretching out to Industrial Seven from some far-off source.

She must act quickly, lest she be fixed upon that columnar spike of fate.

The three mobile suits arrive at one of the entryways to the colony builder. Within lies a warren of corridors, too small for a mobile suit.

“Unicorn,” says Victor, “You and Golf Eight should dismount and find the box. We’ll orbit and CAP Industrial Seven.”

“Agreed,” replies Lieutenant Cruz. “Unicorn, dismounting.”

Cruz crouches upon the hull of the Magallanica , and the Unicorn’s feet sprout crampon teeth, digging into the metal there. The harlequin mobile suit’s sensors go dark, and the hatch opens.

Mineva faces an uncomfortable choice. She can seize the Box, or she can stay here and fight whatever weapon now searches for her.

It’s only fair , said Full Frontal’s echoing will, reaching for Mineva, that the Zabi name should return Char Aznable’s betrayal in kind. I shall enjoy seeing if you ever manage to be less barbaric than I, Ensign, but you must act quickly, if you wish to see your spoils. This sector is being targeted.

Frontal would want her to get the Box. Any change is better than no change at all. The Sleeves’ indomitable vessel will have to settle for less than he wished.

Mineva touches the Kshatriya down, gets a good grip on the hull, and then safes the reactor.

Cruz is waiting for her outside the cockpit.

“Are you ready?” asks the Lieutenant.

Mineva just nods. There’s nothing else to be said.

The Magallanica is dead and empty inside. They pass through what feels like kilometers of vacant, brightly-lit corridors. Here and there are scattered crew quarters, machinery rooms, storage holds, but all are cold and devoid of life. The pair navigate only by their senses—both Mineva and Cruz can feel the weight of the Box now, squatting like a black hole in its steepening well of potential. It’s pulling at them with something like gravity, something that can’t be denied.

Cruz opens a hatch into a dark space and Mineva pushes herself through to find herself in a park. It’s a carousel habitat, a small one, and lit for nighttime. Right now it sits inert, not spinning, and the manicured groves and gardens that line its grounds stand in unnatural free fall.

Beneath Mineva lies a mansion, a huge structure of white stone, almost comically out of place in this vast and dead spacecraft.

“The Box is in there,” says Mineva, pointing to the mansion. The elegant stonework seems to tremble under its own weight, in the presence of the strange heaviness of the Box. Cruz nods, and the pair kick out across the sky of the habitat, plunging weightlessly towards the building.

At the front door, Cruz stops and produces a pistol. “It’s just a precaution,” she says in response to Mineva’s expression of surprise. “Open the door. Slowly.”

Mineva does so, but as she braces herself against the doorway, twists the knob, and pulls the door open, there’s a sudden flash of movement, and the glint of light on gunmetal.

She blinks to find herself between two guns. One is in Cruz’s hand, and the other is held by a tall, muscular man with a remarkably bald head. Everything about his bearing and facial hair screams retired special forces .

“Drop the gun,” says the bald man.

“I’m the pilot of the Unicorn,” replies Cruz. “Didn’t you want me to be here?”

The man’s eyes widen in realization, and he (slowly, carefully) lowers his weapon, decocks, and safes it.

Cruz holsters her own gun in the same way, and then removes her helmet. Her red hair floats free in the stagnant air of the mansion.

“Lieutenant Marida Cruz, Sleeves forces,” she says.

“I am Gael Chan,” says the ex-soldier, “Seneschal of Syam Vist. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ensign Mineva Zabi,” says Mineva, after removing her own helmet. She makes a point not to specify her Sleeves allegiance. Not now. It’s important that she distance herself from Frontal’s faction now, in the presence of Vist’s man.

“So the Zabi family is here as well,” says Chan appreciatively. “An auspicious meeting indeed. Please, follow me. I would like you to meet my master.”

#

Hundreds of thousands of kilometers sunward of Industrial Seven sits another closed-type colony of a similar make to Industrial Seven. This one, however, houses no civilian population, nor holds any air—one end is open, revealing the sprawling cityscape within to the vacuum of space.

This city is composed not of buildings and parks and roads, but merely block upon block of skyscraper-sized capacitor banks, hundred-meter cylinders lined up in neat rows, each one packed to the gills with supercapacitor substrate.

Right now, the city is buzzing with potential energy, as these towers are pumped full of electricity. Dozens of vast solar power stations are arrayed around this colony, each big enough to supply a city, and each turning its microwave power emitter towards the vast rectennas mounted upon the colony.

The colony is wholly uninhabited, save for a small Federation garrison of special forces and combat engineers, and right now they are huddled within the small insulated habitat provided for their meager comfort, watching their displays and readouts as titanic energies build within the colony. Should everything go according to plan, none of these people need do anything—the colony operates on remote control, and nothing that transpires aboard it happens without the explicit approval of Federation officers on earth, particularly a group of seven who are currently standing in a control room deep beneath the Rocky Mountains of North America.

One of these officers turns and speaks to Martha Vist Carbine.

“Gryps 2 is now at seventy percent capacity,” he says. She nods in reply, then takes another sip of wine, watching the indicators slowly rise.

#

Mineva and Lieutenant Cruz find Laplace’s Box in a chamber deep beneath the mansion. Mineva suspects that they have in fact left the carousel itself, that its motion was stopped so that doorways beneath the mansion could align with the entrance to this place.

Above their heads, alien ocean life swirls in teeming schools, rendered with exacting detail upon a giant hemispherical display, like a mobile suit’s cockpit, only huge. As Mineva watches the strange fish wheel and bank, she sees that none of them are familiar—they’re slick, knife-edged things, totally unnatural, absolutely fabricated.

Beneath her is a wide, shining floor, an island in the darkness. On it stand a huge sarcophagus and a stone plaque upon a bulky , angular base.

As she approaches, Mineva realizes that the body in the casket is alive—it’s an ancient man, with long white hair and beard, and his exhausted eyes peer at her intelligently from deeply wrinkled sockets.

“This is the founder of the Vist Foundation,” says Chan, “Syam Vist.”

“And Laplace’s Box?” asks Mineva.

Vist looks to the plaque. “You have found it,” he says, with a thin, crackly voice. He’s barely able to push the words out, and his frail, ancient aspect gives Mineva the impression that everything he says is a calculated gamble, that every breath spent on speech is one he chooses not to use on sustaining his own life. As though, if he were to speak enough, he would run that budget dry, and never breathe again.

Mineva drifts over to the plaque and reads the words upon it. Her eyes widen and she gasps in surprise as she realizes what it is.

In giant block letters etched into the polished stone read the words, Charter of the Universal Century .

“The Charter from Laplace,” says Cruz.

“The original,” says Vist. “Unaltered.”

Unaltered? Mineva scans the plaque. She recognizes every article but one.

In the future, reads Article 15:2, an Article absent from the version of the Charter that every schoolchild is taught, should the emergence of a new space-adapted human race be confirmed, the Earth Federation shall give priority to involving them in the administration of the government.

“Newtypes,” she says.

“Just as Zeon Zum Deikun imagined them,” adds Cruz. “A prayer for the future, that living in space might make humanity more sensitive, might free the human heart in some fundamental way.”

“The worst of us couldn’t accept that,” croaks Vist, “The idea that history might not end with the formation of the Federation, the idea that there might be greater heights of human development to reach than our material works, was frightening.”

“So you killed the first Prime Minister,” says Cruz. “The one whose voice I heard.”

“I did,” says Vist, lacking the strength to nod. Above their heads, the giant hemispherical display shifts, displaying Laplace as it once was, as it should still be. A concentrated ray of sunlight, focused from the giant mirror, unzips the seam between arched ceiling and floor, and out of that tear pours atmosphere, vehicles, and people.

“Such a great crime,” says Vist, “One I still regret.”

“You regret it?” asks Cruz. “That’s funny.” Here lies ancient Syam Vist, older than any other living man, surrounded by unimaginable riches.

“I know,” he says. “I always intended to release the Box. But it became too powerful. It ensnared me.”

“You began to rely upon it for survival,” says Mineva. “You benefited from a transient phenomenon, the result of unique circumstances, and took it to be permanent. You assumed that a one-time windfall, one that could never be duplicated, would last you and your family forever.”

“Am I alone?” croaks Vist in reply. “The North Americans did this with their surface and groundwater. Europe did this with their forests. South Asia did it with their petroleum reserves.”

“And they all are responsible for unimaginable destruction,” says Mineva. “The moral weight of their actions can hardly be imagined.”

“Yes,” admits Vist, and for the first time Mineva senses genuine regret from him. It’s a towering monolith of contrition, a monstrous weight. That’s the price of a century. “But unlike the groundwater and the forests and the oil,” he continues, “I can give the Box back. I can give back the last article.”

“How?” asks Cruz.

“Magallanica possesses a powerful broadcast system,” says Vist. “Should you wish it, everything you say may be broadcast to all of Earth sphere. All of humanity.”

Cruz catches Mineva’s eye. “Is that what you want?” she asks. “The ability to be heard by everyone?”

“Don’t people deserve to know?” replies Mineva. “About the truth of the Federation?”

“I suppose they do,” says Cruz. She looks to Vist. “Do it. Let’s go on air.”

Vist closes his eyes and the psycho-frame circlet upon his brow glitters. At his command, Magallanica ’s huge transmitters start up, handshaking with colonies, relay stations, ground stations, anything that will listen. Magallanica explodes with radiation—lasers, microwaves, radio, anything that can pass a signal. These signals carry privileged override codes, backdoors secretly implanted by the Vist Foundation over long decades of political influence, even minute, highly-optimized computer viruses when necessary, attacking the Federation’s infostructure in a desperate bid to turn it over to Vist’s control.

Across Earth sphere, public media stutters to a halt, station after station going dark, websites plunging offline to be replaced with a waiting carrier signal. Billions of people stop what they are doing, looking with confusion to their suddenly hijacked televisions, public displays, and video feeds.

“It’s all yours,” says Vist, “All of it. Forever.”

“My name is Marida Cruz,” begins Cruz, and billions of ears listen, “And I am a Cyber Newtype and a clone of Elpeo Ple. I am a synthetic human being, and my existence is the result of the Federation’s policies.” She nods to Mineva.

“My name is Mineva Lao Zabi,” adds Mineva, “And I am the last remaining heir of the Zabi family, who came to power as a result of the Federation’s policies.”

“For the last ninety-five years,” continues Cruz, “The Earth Federation has pursued a policy of Earth-centric development, enabling the extraction of vast wealth from space resources and Spacenoid society, while systematically suborning Spacenoid interests by both de facto and de jure discriminatory policies. This is not only plainly unethical, but in direct violation of the Federation’s original Charter. As a result, all policies concerning Spacenoids and Newtypes for the last ninety-five years have been illegal. We will demonstrate why.”

#

Martha can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“Article Fifteen of the Charter of the Universal Century,” Zabi is saying, “Concerns the future of the human race. Its first item concerns extraterrestrial biological emergencies. Its second item, according to the Federation that wrote it, does not exist.”

Martha looks around wildly at the officers that surround her in the Cheyenne control room. They’re staring in disbelief, rooted to the linoleum floor.

“What are you doing?” she roars, “Fire it! Do it now, before we’re all destroyed!”

It’s enough to jar them into action.

One officer, behind a raised pedestal desk, picks up a handset.

“This is the shot captain,” he says, “Secure all exterior doors.”

On the big display at the front of the control room, the tiny symbol that is Gryps 2 lines up with Industrial Seven.

The shot captain looks down to the general standing next to Martha, then to Martha herself. She nods, and the captain sighs, then looks to the technicians in front of him, surveying his domain.

“Capacitor banks are fully charged,” says the power conditioning officer.

“Good,” says the shot captain. “Tactical ops?”

“I have a firing solution,” replies the tactical officer.

The captain nods. “Preparing to fire. All stations report your status.”

“Injection laser is go.”

“Power conditioning is go.”

“Amplifier is go.”

“Beamline is go.”

“Tactical ops is go.”

“Shot captain confirms,” says the captain. “Now firing Gryps 2, shot number fifteen.”

He presses a key. The big displays flicker over to a new status, innumerable gauges displaying the state of Gryps 2’s systems. A timer appears—ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

“Despite the great wealth generated by space colonies,” Zabi is saying, “How much of that wealth do Spacenoids see? How much of that wealth is captured by Spacenoid-owned enterprises? Very little. The poverty of the colonies, compared to the wealth of the Earth, speaks for itself. The Federation has created a segregated system of imperial core and impoverished margin, separate zones of ownership and production, and with them, a scheme to quantify the value of human lives. Within the imperial core, liberal democracy triumphs. In the colonies, even Zeon tyranny is seen as an acceptable alternative to the brutal cudgels of the Federation Forces, that cudgel being wielded for the sake of the prosperity of the core. The Federation has demonstrated, again and again, that the lives of the margin are cheaper and less meaningful than those of the Earth. We ask: Where does the justification for this policy come from? Because it exists in direct contravention of the Charter. The second item of Article Fifteen reads as follows.”

Two.

One.

Zero.

#

Deep in the bowels of Gryps 2, a single laser fires.

It is not very large—rather, its output power is only on the order of a kilowatt, because this laser is most important as a timer. This laser’s light is diverted into thousands of separate fiber-optic cables, each of which stretches out to a different line of amplifiers, stimulating them all at the same instant, in the same phase.

Each amplifier stage receives an input timing signal and a vast quantity of incoherent energy from the pumping source, each pump being driven by its own city block of building-sized capacitors. The amplifiers double, double, and double again the power that they receive, and their light is piped across the most perfect mirrors ever machined, mirrors whose reflectivity in the spectrum of blue light the laser operates in approach five nines. Even with this near-perfect reflectivity, the mirrors absorb enough heat to require liquid cooling. Each is cooled by a loop of frigid, near-freezing ammonia, and as the laser power increases, this ammonia heats, then starts to boil, though it receives the minutest thousandth of one percent of the power going through each beamline.

In vast optics, larger than oceangoing ships, the beamlines are combined into the final output beam. Each has been precisely calibrated to have the same path length, so that every single cycle of the original tiny laser beam arrives simultaneously at the main optic.

Huge lenses shape the resulting beam, before allowing it to fly free, to stretch towards Industrial Seven at the speed of causality.

#

Vacuum grows heavy and viscous, thick like honey, as the certainty of fate builds. A dark radiation, one that can’t be sensed, is bearing down upon Victor, and inside his cockpit, inside his normal suit, it threatens to sunburn him.

He can feel it coming, death on a scale so massive that it will permanently change the genetic demographics of humanity. With it comes a corner, a mathematical cusp in the manifold of causality, and when history transits that cusp, it will be bent onto a path it can never recover from.

The Box will be destroyed.

Victor Two cannot accept this.

He throttles up the Silver Bullet and dashes for the Neo Zeong, still lying inert in a cloud of the Sinanju’s viscera.

Victor Two doesn’t care how the wreckage dents his hull as he plunges towards the mobile armor. All he cares about is ripping the last of the Sinanju from that great, empty socket so that he can fill it with his own machine. Settling the Silver Bullet within that slot is an invasive process, and the Silver Bullet’s displays flicker and its computer starts throwing alarms as the Vist machine is colonized by the systems of the Neo Zeong.

The Neo Zeong, after all, is a machine that is desperate to be used. A weapon that does not merely beg to be fired, but actively ensures that it will be. It sees the Silver Bullet, and Victor and Loni within it, as a new fuel source, and hungrily envelops them.

The Silver Bullet’s and Neo Zeong’s codebases and instruction sets collide in confusion. System calls fail to be translated, and data packets drop like flies. It doesn’t matter. The Neo Zeong is an antenna, and it locks on to Victor’s signal, not caring about the lack of psycho-frame within the Silver Bullet’s cockpit. There’s enough in the Neo Zeong to make up the difference.

The Neo Zeong is studded with countless beam guns. It has enough armor to protect a battleship, and its reactor generates enough power for a small city. None of these things matter, not against the threat it faces now.

At Victor’s command, the Neo Zeong splits open and begins to bloom. Out of its armor fold strange, fractal golden petals. These petals spread and grow, reproducing themselves with bacterial fervor, and out of their insectoid scrambling grows the Neo Zeong’s halo.

The Silver Bullet has no software to recognize this device, but Victor knows what it is.

It is called a psycho shard generator, and its purpose is to manufacture miracles.

From Gryps 2 pours a column of laser radiation, the output of the most powerful single machine ever manufactured in human history. Nothing can stop this radiant force, neither armor nor I-field nor planetary atmosphere.

When it hits Industrial Seven, it will boil away the steel of the colony’s hull in a matter of seconds. It will bake the cities within like an oven, and when it has finished its dreadful smoky work there, it will punch through the far wall of the colony to dissolve the Magallanica once and for all, and in that cloud of ghosts, Laplace’s Box will be lost forever.

Nothing can stop it. There is no device ever built that can block or divert the beam of Gryps 2. To do so would take a miracle.

“Please,” ask Loni and Victor, “Don’t let Marida die.”

The Neo Zeong obliges, and its halo of golden fractals warps and transforms, becoming a plane of absolute reflection, a mirror of perfect reflectivity and mathematical thinness. Victor can feel the malice behind the beam, the power behind the throne, and he knows the angle subtended between Gryps 2 and the source of that malice. He angles the Neo Zeong just so.

#

Above the city of Colorado Springs, in North America, the sky lights up. In an instant, a pillar of light appears above Cheyenne Mountain, a perfect, sun-bright column nearly a kilometer across.

Anyone who looks at it is blinded. Anyone who does so within five miles will never see again.

For an instant, this pillar is simple Raman scattering. After this, things get ugly. The air, heated to astronomical temperatures by the laser light, ionizes. The pillar of light becomes plasma. At the surface, things begin to burn—plant matter chars and vaporizes, soil desiccates and begins to boil away, rock and cement and asphalt melt and flow.

The plasma of the atmosphere, heated by the laser, blocks its light for a minute fraction of a second. The laser retreats. The plasma cools, and when it does, the laser impacts the ground again. It’s a self-sustaining loop, oscillation between two extreme limits of pressure, and to the human ear, very briefly before one is deafened, it sounds like a banshee wail. The storm roars with pain and fury, and it screeches loud enough to be physically dangerous in Denver, riotous in San Francisco, and disturbing in New York. Across a continent, windows shatter.

Beneath Cheyenne Mountain, the Federation command centers, built on vibration-isolating springs, begin to rumble.

Communications links go dead, their antennas and buried cables fried by the firestorm outside.

“What’s going on?” yells Martha Vist Carbine, over the noise of the panicked crowd.

Nobody knows. They have no way of knowing what’s happening outside.

The mobile suit teams guarding the mountains have become atmosphere, as have the armed guards at the tunnel entrances.

Above Cheyenne Mountain, a storm is forming. Hot air is rising, and as it accelerates upwards, it stretches free vorticity in the atmosphere, forming a giant vortex. From hundreds of kilometers away, so far that Cheyenne mountain disappears beneath the horizon, you can see that storm, a giant dark thunderhead, glittering with lightning, pinned through the center by a blinding ray that stretches up to the stars.

After thirty seconds, Gryps 2’s capacitors finally run dry. As suddenly as it came, the beam winks out.

Cheyenne Mountain has become a runny, volcanic mess. The forested mountains have become lumps of melted rock, and beyond the reaches of the beam, the largest forest fire in living memory has formed. It had been bright and partly cloudy, but the weather rapidly darkens—above the mountain, clouds of ash and dust are being whirled up into the stratosphere by the still-spinning storm, and as the forests burn, the storm only grows stronger.

Within an hour, the air in Colorado Springs becomes incapable of supporting life. The laser strike and resulting wildfires will put enough soot into the atmosphere to cool the entire earth by half a degree.

“It’s Gryps 2,” says someone in the control room.

“What do you mean?” asks Martha. “That’s impossible.”

“Nothing else could have done this!” insists the officer who spoke. “No nuclear weapon is this powerful! Nothing but the colony laser could do this!”

The Cheyenne Mountain Facility’s antennas are gas and ash. Its fiber optic links have fused with the glassy earth around them. It is completely isolated.

Gryps 2 will not fire again.

Insensitive to the horror, unknowing, Zabi and Cruz continue to speak.

#

“The Federation has systematically impoverished, sickened, and disempowered Spacenoids,” Mineva continues, “And in so doing has failed to meet not only the fifteenth Article of its Charter, but also the eleventh and thirteenth. We cannot construe this as anything but a willful and malicious abrogation of the responsibilities of the Charter. Accordingly, we find that the Federation’s authority is illegimitate.”

“The existence of Newtype abilities is materially undeniable,” adds Cruz, “And the Federation has made every effort to exclude these space-adapted humans from the administration of the government. We will no longer suffer this illegitimate empire to govern the lives of Earthnoids and Spacenoids. The crimes of the Federation end today.”

“We do not expect the Federation to admit these crimes and surrender its authority, despite its legal responsibility to,” says Mineva.

“To ensure the transfer of power,” says Cruz, “I call to your attention the restructuring of China, the Soviet Union, Cuba, East Germany, and the Republic of Zeon. The popular will can subvert illegitimate authority, but that means you must fight. All citizens of the Federation, of Zeon, both on Earth and off, must combat this illegitimate authority with all tools available to them.”

M ineva sighs. It’s time to bring her plan to bear.

“Furthermore,” she says, “To facilitate this, as of now, I, Mineva Lao Zabi, renounce any claim to the Zabi throne, and hereby denote the Zabi regime as an illegitimate and unlawful usurpation of the Republic of Zeon.”

Cruz looks at Mineva, confused. Mineva just gives her a nod, begging her silently to go along with what she must do.

“I am now merely Commodore Mineva Karn,” Mineva continues, “And as of this moment, I am forming a political vanguard, the Sidereal Party, whose purpose will be to ensure the transfer of power from the illegitimate Federation regime.”

Cruz, bewildered, silently mouths what?

“Londo Bell forces,” says Mineva, ignoring her, “You have been frozen out of Federation leadership, decried as traitors, merely for following your ethical duties. Sleeves forces, your purpose is now spent, with Laplace’s Box being open. Karaba Novo and Zeon Remnants, you still fight, despite the crushing, brutal authority you live under. Will you suffer yourselves to fade into history and be eliminated by reactionaries like the Titans, or will you join the Sidereal party and ensure that the Universal Century is brought to a close peacefully?

“No empire is infallible,” continues Mineva, “Least of all the Federation. Do not surrender to despair! Do not surrender to the cheap, dime-store intimidation of a collapsing empire! You must fight! All who would see Earth and Space united as equals, all who would see the original spirit of the Charter of the Universal Century made real, join the Sidereal Party!”

#

“So that’s what she was planning,” says Liam, aboard the Nahel Argama’s bridge.

“I had thought it would be something like this,” mutters Captain Mitas, who sits uncomfortably in his old seat, still breathing with a cannula. “It certainly explains all her cryptic requests for my cooperation.”

“The first two member vessels of the Sidereal Party,” continues now-Commodore Zabi (no, Karn, Liam corrects herself), “Are Magallanica and Nahel Argama. Contact them at five hundred megahertz for strategic coordination. To all others who wish for peace, continue listening to this broadcast. I will share all I can about collective organization, the nature of authority, and the contradictions the Federation cannot resolve.”

“What!” bursts out Liam. “She’s throwing us under the bus!”

Suberoa Zinnerman laughs at this. “We’re already traitors!” he chuckles, “What difference does it make now?”

“I won’t be a Zeonist,” growls Liam.

“She’s not reviving Zeon,” Mitas replies. “Listen to what she’s saying. She’s calling to bring the AEUG back.”

“And we’re joining?”

“Liam,” says the Captain, “It appears we already have.”

“Captain!” says the radio operator, “We’re being hailed by the Rewloola! They want to discuss terms of another alliance!”

In low Earth orbit and around Luna II, Liam knows, loyal Federation fleets will be gathering. The General Revil will come chasing after Nahel Argama again. Soon enough, she’ll be under the gun once more.

In villages and camps scattered across Southeast Asia, Zeon Remnants and the few Ra Cailum survivors they rescued have burst into activity. They’re booting up old radio sets, busting out the old war codes, asking one another what it means to be in a state of permanent revolution.

In Side 1, fighting has broken out at the Londo Bell headquarters. Federation GMs and Jegans are pitted against those of Londo Bell.

At Side 3, the cruiser Gulltoppr scrambles, moving to intercept a Federation strike group that menaces a Londo Bell patrol ship.

In Dakar, the sky fills with smoke again as riots break out. Federation military police make the mistake of opening up on the protestors with live ammunition. The fires won’t be put out for a week.

In the Cheyenne Mountain Facility, nobody can get out, and no information can get in. An emergency rescue unit is being flown in from California, but Cheyenne, and the Gryps 2 control room, will remain offline for at least a month.

#

In the Magallanica, Marida finally corners Mineva when the ex-Princess ends the broadcast.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, “What the hell are you playing at?”

“You knew it had to end like this,” Mineva says flatly. “This was a military problem, through and through. A calculus of ships and soldiers. The Federation can never be broken by peaceful protests alone.”

“I know,” growls Marida, “But what is this about the Sidereal Party?”

“We need new language to describe anti-Federation action,” says Mineva. “Something freed from the labels of Zeon, of Zabi and Sleeves and AEUG. This was the simplest solution I could imagine.”

“Was this your plan all along? To make yourself a warlord?”

“No,” admits Mineva. “I hadn’t imagined it would end like this. But then, something I didn’t expect happened.”

“What’s that?”

Marida looks into Mineva’s eyes and sees nothing but calculating depths, cold dark water full of whirling gears and blades. A shiver goes up Marida’s spine. “I learned that I love being a soldier.”