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Kycilia had laughed when Garma had submitted the budget request for the first aid kits to be installed in the cockpits of his force’s Dopps. A few bandages won’t save your pilots if they’re falling out of the sky, she’d said, but she’d signed off on the order form anyway. And who was laughing now?
Probably still Kycilia, if she found out that he’d been shot down, he thought grimly, cautiously stretching his arms to confirm that nothing was broken. And it wasn’t as though he had much chance of keeping it from her for very long. Even if he were vague on the details in his report—and in his request for additional Dopps—she always seemed to have her ways of finding out whatever he didn’t want her to know. She’d been good at that even back when they were kids and he’d found it annoying enough then, but now the stakes were considerably higher. Even if most of what was at stake was his pride. And possibly his budget.
Regardless, he was pleased that he’d had the foresight to insist on the first aid kits. Not because he was injured—he’d been lucky, and though he thought the Dopp’s engines might be damaged beyond what could be repaired without more specialized equipment than could be carried onboard, the worst he felt was a bit shaky from how quickly Earth’s gravity had pulled him down once his engines were hit—but because the first aid kit also contained a flare gun, and enough emergency rations to keep him alive until rescue arrived. But first, before sending up a flare, before eating, before determining if the Dopp’s leaking fuel tanks were still liable to explode or if he would have to set up shelter among the rocks and short, hardy trees—more like shrubs, really, but they had a rugged sort of beauty to them—on the mountainside where he’d crashed if he didn’t want to wake up, briefly and violently, to his shelter blowing up around him in the middle of the night, before any of that, he needed to investigate the Federation’s mobile suit.
That was what he would put first on his report, to make up for being shot down himself. At least if he had to crash, he did it while taking out the monstrous new weapon of the Federation. He brought the first aid kit a safe distance away, in case the Dopp did explode while he was dealing with whatever awaited him on the other side of the rise where his enemy had fallen, and drew his sidearm.
The Federation suit was laying on its back awkwardly, blocky limbs askew, but it didn’t look particularly damaged. Not surprising, if even Char had been unable to leave a mark on it any of the times they’d clashed. Garma wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the suit was largely still operational—better for him; capturing it intact would be an even greater victory than destroying it would have been—and that the reason it had yet to stand up again was that the pilot had been injured or killed when Garma had rammed the suit with his Dopp in an attempt to knock it out of the sky. Even the Federation, with all their resources and all their engineering prowess, had yet to make a mobile suit without the greatest weakness—and greatest strength—of any weapon: the human pilot.
The cockpit was open, which either pointed towards the pilot surviving the crash, at least for a short while, or some automatic safety feature that activated whether anyone were alive to make use of it or not. Garma doubted it was the latter; he didn’t have much room to talk, not with the design of the Zaku sparing so little concern for the pilot’s ability to escape a disabled machine, but he didn’t have to like it on either side.
He made his approach cautiously, but no one emerged. It wasn’t until he reached the edge of the cockpit and peered in that he saw the enemy pilot, right arm cradled at an unnatural angle against his stomach, blood seeping into his white pilot suit, as he fumbled for his sidearm with his left hand. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, and he looked afraid, and in pain, and incredibly young.
“Easy,” said Garma, holding out one hand placatingly while he made a show of holstering his own weapon and taking off his helmet. He didn’t think the kid could aim well enough to hit him, not in that state, but it would be preferable if he put the gun down anyway. It would be a success great enough that Garma was almost afraid to hope for it, but if he could capture not only the Federation’s new mobile suit but also its pilot… Of course, that all depended on rescue arriving before one or both of them died from exposure, starvation, or, in the other pilot’s case, blood loss, but Garma’s men were loyal and, crucially, also competent, and they’d be searching for him. Char would be searching for him, and Garma didn’t think there was much Char couldn’t do if he set his mind to it. He only hoped his men had the presence of mind to not tell Icelina until after he’d been found. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have welcomed her help in the search efforts, but her father wouldn’t allow it, and he worried about her relationship with her father deteriorating any further while he wasn’t around to give her someplace else to go.
Char certainly wouldn’t tell her, because Garma hadn’t told him about her yet even though he shouldn’t have had any reason not to, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
“I just want to talk,” Garma said, and the pilot’s sidearm clattered to the floor of his cockpit, though Garma wasn’t sure if he’d dropped it intentionally or if he’d been unable to hold it any longer. “We’re both crashed here, and it will be easier for us to survive together.”
That might not have been true. Garma was pretty sure he could survive on his own. He’d done survival training at military school and again during basic training, and he’d been living on Earth for months now. And he wasn’t convinced the Federation pilot was going to be much help, not with his injuries. But it was true enough that Garma thought it might convince the kid not to try to kill him until help arrived.
“Do you have medical supplies?” Garma said. The pilot blinked at him, like he was having trouble parsing the question, and then shook his head. “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t bother telling the pilot not to go anywhere; there didn’t seem to be much danger of that happening, and it was the kind of teasing he would do with Char, or Dozle, but here it would just make him sound cruel.
Before returning with the first aid kit Garma fired off his signal flare, in case the comms system on the Federation mobile suit was still operational and the pilot had already called for help. The pilot hadn’t moved when Garma climbed back into the cockpit, but he curled in on himself and tried to swat Garma’s hand away when he reached toward his wounded arm. The gun was still on the floor where it had fallen, and Garma tucked it in his belt, just in case.
“I can leave the supplies so that you can tend to this yourself,” said Garma, taking out everything he thought the pilot might need to splint and bandage his arm so that he could hold onto the rest of the contents of the kit. It would be ideal for the kid to stay alive, both because of his value as a potential source of information and because now that they were out of combat Garma didn’t really want the slow, painful death of a teenager on his conscience, but he wasn’t about to give away all of his food.
“Wait,” said the kid. “I don’t know how.”
That was a little bit surprising. Garma wouldn’t have been shocked to hear that he was in too much pain to do a good job, or that he couldn’t do it with only his non-dominant hand, but broken arms were the type of common injury that ought to have been covered in any military first aid course. If that was the state of the Federation’s training, no wonder Garma had gained control of so much of the Earth so quickly. No wonder they seemed to be relying on their fancy new ship and mobile suit instead of the abilities of their soldiers.
“Luckily for you, I do,” said Garma. “You might want these first, though.” He dropped a handful of painkillers into the kid’s good hand before reaching for his injured arm again, and he waited until the kid took them before trying to touch the wound. This time the kid didn’t flinch away, so Garma started working, first cutting away the sleeve of his pilot suit at the elbow so that he could see what he was dealing with. He was glad there were scissors in the first aid kit too; he didn’t think the kid would’ve reacted well to Garma pulling out a knife.
“Why are you helping me?” the kid said. He was breathing shallowly, and it sounded like it took effort for him to keep his voice under control. Maybe a little bit of conversation would keep him from panicking. Or passing out.
“I told you,” Garma said, “we stand a better chance of surviving together, at least until either of our comrades show up to rescue us.” And then one of them would be safe, and the other would be a prisoner. Garma wasn’t particularly worried about that possibility. Even if Char didn’t reach him in time, he would make too useful a hostage for him to be in any danger. It would be humiliating, sure, and Kycilia would never let him live it down, but it also likely wouldn’t last for very long. Dozle would make sure that Char had all the reinforcements he needed to mount a rescue mission, and that was if their father managed to talk Dozle down from leading the attempt himself.
(He would have loved to believe that he would be safe regardless, because the Antarctica Treaty was quite clear on the proper treatment of prisoners, but the Federation’s Trojan Horse ship had used their own refugees as a cover for moving weapons, so Garma didn’t trust them to follow any of the rules anymore.)
“That’s not true,” said the kid.
“Maybe not,” said Garma, applying the local anaesthetic. Even though it was a clean break, the bone had broken through skin, so setting it was going to be messy and unpleasant. And painful; the anaesthetic was strong enough to take the edge off but not enough to numb the limb entirely, something Garma had unfortunately learned from experience. “But you’re still the pilot of the Federation’s new mobile suit, and I want you alive to tell me how it works. I’m sure my engineers can figure out most of it, but it would be useful to have firsthand insight.”
The kid looked confused, as though Garma had said something strange, and in a way he supposed he had, if the kid were operating under the assumption that he’d shot down an ordinary fellow soldier. His eyes were flicking between Garma’s face and the design on his normal suit like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to recognize him or not. “Your engineers…”
There was something nice about temporary anonymity, when he was so used to having one of the most recognizable faces on Side 3, but he took pity on the kid and said, “I’m the commander of Zeon’s Earth Attack Force. Captain Garma Zabi.”
He realized as soon as he spoke that he might have been making a mistake, because the kid started and tried to jerk his arm away. “Hold still,” he said. “Otherwise it will set crooked.” The kid bit his lip and looked away while Garma manipulated the bone back into place, holding his breath like he was trying not to scream. Garma wanted to tell him that he could cry out if he needed to, because no one else was around to hear, but he couldn’t think of a way to say so that wouldn’t sound like a threat.
Regardless, he politely pretended not to notice the kid’s muffled whimpers, because Garma would have wished himself dead of embarrassment if anyone had offered him sympathy for pain at that age. However old the kid was. Old enough to operate a mobile suit, clearly, but younger than he and Char had been when the war started. When he was done setting the bone and moved on to the layers of bandages—when he thought the kid might be able to speak without losing control of his voice—he said, “You still have me at a disadvantage.”
“Huh?”
“Your name,” said Garma patiently.
“Amuro,” said the kid. “Amuro Ray.”
“No rank?” Garma said. There was no collar tab on his normal suit, but maybe the Federation had changed their uniform regulations, or maybe he was still a cadet, though Garma found it hard to believe that they’d entrust their newest cutting-edge weapon to a mere cadet. Although a proper soldier would have given their rank along with their name, but maybe that was the pain and fear talking.
“I’m not a soldier,” said Amuro, sounding sullen and resentful, and Garma stared at him for a moment, sure he couldn’t have heard correctly.
“I beg your pardon?” said Garma.
“I’m not a soldier,” Amuro said, more bitterly this time. He didn’t look afraid anymore. He looked like he was angry enough that he’d forgotten he was supposed to be afraid.
“You’re telling me that the Federation put their new, top-secret experimental mobile suit in the hands of a civilian… how old are you?”
“Fifteen,” he said, “and it’s the truth.”
“A civilian child,” Garma said, pausing with the bandage wrapped halfway around Amuro’s forearm. He wanted so badly to see Char’s face when Char found out. Maybe superior engineering was more important than the pilot’s skills. Although he wasn’t convinced that was entirely true; Amuro fought like an amateur, but he had good instincts. With actual training he might have been unbeatable. “At least tell me you were contracted as a test pilot.” He doubted it; information surrounding the Federation’s mobile suit development had been shrouded in too much secrecy for Garma to imagine them trusting civilian contractors.
“I’m a refugee from Side 7,” said Amuro, the words rushing out of him as though he’d been keeping them bottled up for far too long. “The Zakus were attacking, I just wanted to keep Fraw Bow safe, and now I can’t stop. The Federation won’t let us go and you won’t leave us alone.”
Garma didn’t know who Fraw Bow was, but that really didn’t matter, not with what he was beginning to suspect based on the rest of the information Amuro had given him. If he’d ever had any doubts that Amuro wasn’t a soldier, they had entirely dissipated. A soldier would have known not to give away this kind of information with such minimal prompting, so maybe it was unfair of Garma to keep asking, but he asked anyway. “Is the rest of your ship’s crew made up of refugees as well? And the Federation didn’t let you all disembark?”
Amuro nodded, still with the same bitter glint in his eyes. “Most of the original crew died in the attack on the colony. And now, because we had to use the new mobile suits to defend ourselves, we have to keep using them.”
That certainly explained their unpredictability and their unorthodox tactics. And also likely their disregard for the rules of engagement. It also gave Garma an idea, the beginnings of a plan. He’d wanted to capture the new mobile suit, but now he saw that he should be thinking bigger than that. The Federation’s new ship was crewed by untrained civilians—likely many of them young, if they had a fifteen year old as their top mobile suit pilot—and if enough of them were as discontented with the Federation as Amuro seemed to be… He’d been concerned about his forces being able to take down the Trojan Horse with force, with how little they knew about the capabilities of the ship or its mobile suits, but now he thought that they might not have to use force at all. He realized, suddenly, impatiently, that he wished Char were there. He wanted to be back in his office, or his cabin on the Gaw, or their shared dormitory back at the academy, where Char could help him turn the first draft of his plan into something real.
“I’m sorry,” said Garma, with real sincerity. He wouldn’t have blamed the kid if it had been his own anger at Operation British—or Char’s attack on Side 7—that had driven him to fight. He still would have disapproved of the negligence on the part of the Federation for allowing him to stay on the front lines, but then at least the fault could be split more evenly. Some with the Federation, but plenty with his father and Gihren, whose idea it had been to drop Island Iffish on Earth, and Garma had plenty to say about that as well. But forcing a child to fight, without training or resources, was a line that he wasn’t pleased to hear anyone crossing.
Amuro shook his head, and Garma took the opportunity to press a little further. “I mean it,” he said. “You never should have had to fight in the first place, and as Lieutenant Commander Char’s superior, I apologize for the part that we played in that.”
Amuro blinked at his sudden formality, but Garma felt that it was important for him to say, even though Char had been operating under Dozle’s orders at the time and not his. Someone ought to, surely, just as someone ought to apologize for the destruction caused by dropping a colony on the Earth. Though it was going to be a fine line to walk, especially given his position and his family, to make amends for that one action without forswearing the need to fight for their independence at all.
“And you have my sympathies, for having been pressed into service by the Federation,” said Garma. “Even if they were desperate, that’s not right, and it’s not fair to you.” And then, because Amuro didn’t seem to know how to respond, Garma tied off the bandage and said, “There, we’re done.”
“Thank you,” said Amuro, mechanically, and Garma was pleasantly surprised to find that he did have some manners after all.
“You’re welcome,” he said, settling down at the edge of the cockpit where he could watch the sky. “Now we wait.” He was pretty sure Amuro’s arm would be fine once he’d received some proper medical attention, from whichever side came for them first. Even if Amuro hadn’t been able to call his ship, if they were searching for him they might have seen Garma’s signal flare, and even if they hadn’t they might get lucky. They’d certainly had more than their fair share of luck to make it this far.
They didn’t have long to wait. It had been mid-afternoon when they’d crash landed on the mountainside, and Garma had been tracking the progress of the sun, watching it slip lower and lower until it began to slip behind the horizon, a brilliant red disc whose glow painted the surrounding clouds in gold and dusky pink. They didn’t get sunsets like that in Zeon, and Garma was struck all over again by how beautiful Earth was.
That was something that Garma thought the rest of his family didn’t really understand, or maybe they just didn’t care, and that came to the same thing. Earth was a symbol to be claimed, and a source for materials they desperately needed in order to keep their colonies functional, let alone continue the war effort. It didn’t seem to matter to them that it was in its own way just as beautiful as space, or how badly the colony drop had damaged its already fragile ecosystems, or how many people lived there—and how many had been killed—who were in their own ways suffering under the injustices of the Federation and didn’t need or deserve to suffer injustices from Zeon as well.
That had been part of what had drawn him and Icelina together, or maybe he’d come to realize it through meeting her. Maybe he’d always been aware of it in some way, but as he’d spent time with her, as he’d fallen for her, he’d come to understand more deeply and learned how to put words to things that he’d always felt.
But he didn’t know what to do about it, what he could do about it from Earth. Even though he was nominally in charge of the invasion forces, Kycilia was the one who held the real power, and any move he made that Kycilia disapproved of would be immediately countered by M’Quve. It wasn’t something he’d talked about with anyone, not even Char. He didn’t know how to say it without sounding childish—or disloyal—and he and Char had been so close, in such a synchronized orbit, during their school days, but he didn’t want Char to laugh at him. And Char had been different these past few days, irritable and cutting in a way that Garma wasn’t used to, at least not directed at him, and Garma would have asked if something was the matter if he could think of any way to phrase it that wouldn’t hurt Char’s pride or make them both look weak.
But now that he had the Federation’s new mobile suit, now that he knew what he did about the crew of their new ship, now he had something to offer Char when he shared his vision for the future, and together they could figure out how to make it real.
“They’ve found us,” said Amuro suddenly, frowning as he looked up at the sky and squinting into the setting sun.
“It’s Char,” Garma said, though he wasn’t sure why he was so certain, when he couldn’t even hear the sound of engines yet. But a moment later he heard a familiar mechanical rumble, followed by the sight of a Gaw cresting the ridgeline right where he and Amuro were looking, and he let himself smile. He twisted his hair around his finger, imagining telling Icelina that they could get married, that he was going to end the war and they didn’t have to choose between Earth and space, how happy she would be, how relieved to have concrete assurance that she could escape the gravity of her father’s commands. And he imagined how unstoppable Char would be with the Federation’s new mobile suit. He was already a hero; Garma was going to make him a legend. He needed both of them, if this was going to work. In a way, he felt like he was giving the Earth to Icelina and space to Char, but maybe it was the other way around and they were the ones giving Earth and space to him.
The Gaw landed near the wreckage of his Dopp and a figure disembarked, a speck of red against the muted greys and heather greens of the mountainside. “Can you stand?” he said to Amuro, because Char was less likely to suspect a trick if they were both out in the open, and even with Amuro unarmed and outnumbered, he wanted him where he could see him. He remembered how the kid fought.
Amuro hesitated and then nodded, and Garma helped him, carefully, to his feet and out of the cockpit. By then, Char had finished his investigation of Garma’s downed Dopp and was rounding the ridgeline toward the Federation’s mobile suit, gun drawn. Garma called out once he was close enough, and Char raised his weapon for a moment, taking aim. And then, presumably seeing that Amuro, one arm in a sling and Garma’s hand on his shoulder, didn’t present a threat, he lowered the gun.
“A productive sortie, then,” said Char, nodding toward the Federation mobile suit. With the glare of the sun on his mask, Garma couldn’t see his eyes, but he didn’t need to in order to know how Char felt. His tone was casual, but his body was angled toward the mobile suit as though he needed to be as close to it as possible, and Garma knew well enough how intense Char could be when he wanted something.
“Not a bad trade,” Garma said. “Well worth losing a Dopp for.” There was more he wanted to say—that this wasn’t just a mobile suit but a gift, an opportunity, the bridge to a new future—but that would have to wait until they were alone.
“Is it still operational?”
“It seems to be,” said Garma. “A bit of cosmetic damage from the crash landing, maybe some strain to the joints, but as far as I can tell it’s largely intact. You’d have to ask the pilot for more information.”
Garma felt Amuro’s shoulders tense up as he was forced abruptly into the crosshairs of Char’s attention. “This is the pilot?” said Char.
“That’s right,” said Garma, because Amuro didn’t seem particularly inclined to speak. He wasn’t sure if Amuro would recognize Char by sight—if the red uniform and mask would be distinctive enough to a disinterested Side 7 teenager—or if he had taken Garma at his word that Char would come from him personally, but if he did, Garma wouldn’t blame him for being nervous. Garma would be, in his position.
Char tilted his head, sizing him up. “I see,” he said. And then, to Amuro: “You’ve done an impressive job, for a beginner.”
He said it neutrally, a statement of fact, but Garma wondered if Amuro would take it as an insult, if he took enough pride in the role he’d been forced into to take offense at being dismissed as a beginner. Garma was self-aware enough to know that he would have if someone had said something like that to him when he was fifteen, no matter how true it was.
Or, upon second thought, he wondered if Amuro would take that as a cue to vent a little bit more of his bitterness at being thrown into battle unprepared, as he had with Garma. But instead he just made a small scared noise that might have been an attempt at saying thank you, and Garma patted his shoulder.
“Is there room for it in the Gaw?” said Garma. “We can leave the Dopp if we have to.”
“There should be,” said Char.
“Good,” Garma said. “Let’s get it loaded up, then.” And then, before Char could step away, Garma grabbed his arm and said, “Don’t report this right away, not to Dozle or Kycilia or even my father.” Or to Gihren, obviously, but he doubted Char had a direct line to Gihren and besides, he thought that probably went without saying. “This could change everything, but only if we get it right. We’ll talk later.”
Char looked back, and now it was Garma’s turn to be subjected to Char’s scrutiny. He met Char’s gaze, hoping that Char could see in his expression how serious he was, and they were all still and quiet for a moment—a silent tableau, limned in the warm glow of the sunset, Garma’s hand resting on Amuro’s shoulder, Char clasping his other arm—and Garma felt the strangest sense of… He didn’t know quite what to call it, if it was intuition or destiny or something that he wanted to believe so badly that it seemed real, but in that moment he thought he could feel the world shifting somehow, and he could almost see a new future opening up in front of them.
Char gave a small nod, almost to himself, as though he’d just reached a decision, and said, “Understood.” He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but what Garma could see of his face was relaxed, though Garma hadn’t realized he’d been tense before. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“So am I,” said Garma, meaning the conversation, the future they could be heading towards, all of it. It wouldn’t be easy, of course; he knew that. But now at least it was possible. He and Amuro watched as Char climbed into the cockpit of the new mobile suit, and as he brought it upright, Garma could see the moon faintly visible above him in the deepening twilight. He looked up at the sky, Earth’s breeze ruffling his hair, and smiled.