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PHASE 06: A Conspiracy of Coincidences
They now saw, for the most part, whomever Athrun wished them to see. Sometimes, they were dealing with the ideal coordinator, invulnerable and aristocratic, a man who had rebuilt the castle walls and found some bastion from which to defend his integrity, and whose composure could not be disturbed by pointed questions about beloved ones, now dead. Or Diogenes, dry-eyed and contained, to whom the lower depths of hell were known and familiar and drained of swampy emotion. Most often it was the former persona.
The session now focused on a question from Dearka regarding the paucity of oxygen. He thought all escape pods would have had at least a week’s supply of breathable air stored in tanks.
“Yes,” Athrun said. “There was enough oxygen. But we could not use the transceivers in the pod to transmit signals at normal radio frequencies since there appeared to be a lot of interference.”
“Interference…” Dearka chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “Could it be that the same bunch of jokers who destroyed the Acis had also thought of jamming the radio channels?”
“Quite likely,” Athrun agreed. “Anyway, we thought of using UHF instead. The second problem is that the pod didn’t have the necessary equipment for that.”
Somewhere on the Debris Belt, C.E. 73 4.21
They had brought the tanks into the satellite and emptied them, all the while hoping that the air pressure will be of a sufficient level to allow normal respiration.
“Cross your fingers.” Athrun removed his helmet and took a cautious breath; then made a horrible face. “This place stinks!”
Kira fumbled for a moment with the catch on his helmet, and then flung it over his head. There was not a speck of dust to be seen: yet the room smelt like a graveyard.
He stared round the square room, filling the length and breadth of the satellite, into which they had just come. Brightness was everywhere: a soft, white light filtered through the quartz-like walls of the room. It could be a cave of ice, Kira thought. But this was a cluttered, busy place, as if someone had left it in a hurry while preoccupied with some great complex matter. Piles of curling manuscript floated above tables and shelves; against one wall a terminal stood on an enormous table.
They spent the next minutes bent over the terminal, trying to contact the PLANT but got only dead air. “Blackout,” Kira said disgustedly. It was one of those irritating hiatuses in satellite relay coverage. “Four hours before we get a carrier signal back.”
“We will just have to wait then,” Athrun said. “At least we have food, water and air.”
Kira scowled. “Some comfort.”
“And,” Athrun added reasonably, “we are alive.”
“The personnel on Jachin Chare reported that they received your transmissions at 2200 hours on April 21,” Rice said.
Athrun’s face took on the careful neutral look that now told them that he was working hard. “Yes.” He sat very still but looked steadily at Yzak Jule. “It was the terminal.”
Knowing that he was being addressed directly for some reason but unable to see why, Yzak shook his head.
It was Diogenes who laughed. “The mistake. What you’ve been waiting for. The fatal error.”
Somewhere on the Debris Belt, C.E. 73 4.22
With a triumphant cry, Kira tapped the last key of the password he had just unravelled and collapsed, panting, draped over the terminal. Sweat was trickling down the side of his nose, and his bare chest was damp, speckled with tiny beads of perspiration.
“Arghh! It’s even hotter than yesterday!”
Grinning, Athrun propelled himself off the floor and floated towards Kira. “I see that you have hacked into the satellite’s backup system. How did you figure out this terminal was networked to it, genius?”
Kira sat cross-legged on a bed of air and said, his face freakishly solemn. “What can I say? I just know.”
Athrun snorted. “No kidding.” He leaned close to the terminal. “What have you found?”
“I don’t know,” Kira replied, watching the display on the terminal as images flickered on it. “The system is still being uploaded.”
Ten hours earlier, they had managed to transmit news of their plight to PLANT, which had in turn sent a signal, confirming their coordinates and informing them that a rescue crew had been sent to pick them up. They slept then and awoke late, tight-muscled and sore, but heartened by the good news and their survival. Things were fine; the crew would probably arrive in a day or two. The only little flaw was that Kira found himself with way too much time on his hands: he needed some distraction.
Kira sighed. It was already too late: his mind, with its damnable propensity for perverseness, had veered in the direction of thought he had been trying studiously to avoid for the past twenty-four hours.
He fidgeted with the fabric of his suit trousers. The air was warm and still, almost stifling; somewhere in the satellite, something creaked as it expanded. The temperature in the satellite followed the same diurnal fluctuations they experienced on Earth and PLANT except that the temperatures were more extreme due to the lack of insulation. Fortunately, their suits were able to shield them from the cold. After yesterday, they had both, independently, made the decision to keep most of their suits on, despite the torrid heat.
“Athrun,” he said after a while. “Can I ask you something? A personal question?”
“Of course,” Athrun said a little warily. “I don’t promise I will answer it.”
“How do you stand it?” Kira burst out in a strangled whisper. “I mean, I’m going crazy! Look, I hope this doesn’t embarrass you, because I sure as hell am, but about what happened yesterday…” He suddenly found himself at a loss for words.
Athrun gazed searchingly at the other man. “No, I am not angry or offended, if that’s what you’re driving at.” He paused, eyes sliding away. “It wasn’t my first time, anyway.”
Kira’s first reaction was unpleasant. “It wasn’t your first time?”
His friend flushed: he was red not only on his cheeks, but on his neck. “Yes…”
“I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Athrun’s face closed. “We all have our private lives, Kira.”
For the first time since knowing Athrun, Kira felt he had crossed some line; he back-pedalled as quickly as he could. “I’m sorry. Really. You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
Athrun sighed, clearly uncomfortable. “I suppose, under the circumstances… All right. You know that Nicol and I used to share a room, don’t you?” Kira nodded. “Well, he happened to enter the room when I was taking care of myself.” The red crept to the collarbones, and lower still.
Kira couldn’t help it, he put his face in his hands, his body shaking; he did not bother to muffle the terrible whining sounds that issued from his throat.
“Kira, what’s so funny?” Athrun demanded, shame turning to exasperation.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” he gasped. A few seconds passed before he could continue. “So, which one of you was on top?”
“No–nothing like that happened.”
“Really? That’s all?”
“What were you expecting? We were in the middle of a war!”
“So to speak,” Kira laughed, wrapping his arms around his knees.
“Kira! That is awful!”
Kira uncurled his limbs and looked back at Athrun, his face sober and straight. “Seriously, who was on your mind then?”
He was bracing himself for the worst, so he almost didn’t understand when Athrun said, “It was right after you returned Lacus to the Vesalius, and I had failed to get you to join us…” His voice trailed off.
Athrun had, by this time, turned a magnificent red, almost glowing like a priceless ruby. The words, in themselves insignificant, took on importance because of the flush that accompanied them. Kira was quiet then. He could not be deaf to the language of colours, which, linked to those words, seemed to him to speak of unconfessed desires: desires so violent that they defy resistance.
He waited to see if Athrun had more but when he remained silent, Kira decided to take a shot in the dark. “You know, if we stay here much longer, we shall give scandal.” The statement had its desired effect, Kira observed, as the scarlet faded somewhat.
Athrun rolled his eyes. “How flattering!” He straightened and offered his friend a hand up. Kira stood easily in the zero gravity but held onto his hand a moment longer than necessary; they embraced and laughed again because it was hard to decide whose arms should go over whose shoulders. The moment passed and they were back together, staring at each other, companionable again. Then the spell was broken: “Look, the system has finished uploading.”
Kira swivelled around and stared at the terminal display. Wordlessly, he waved Athrun in closer to the screen. Athrun did, and was more puzzled than ever. “What is it, I don’t understand – good lord.”
“Kira figured out that the satellite terminal was networked to Junius 7’s backup communication system and had managed to hack into it…” Athrun stopped, concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. “I’ve got to finish this. The system – it recorded all transmissions relayed to and from Junius 7 within the PLANT three days before…” A few more minutes passed.
“Before the Bloody Valentine?” It was Yzak’s voice.
“Yes. Before that.”
Athrun tried to escape from the scrutiny somehow, to go inside himself away from all this, but found no place to hide. For the past week, he had prepared single-mindedly, building walls brick by brick, deciding which questions to answer, which to turn aside and how. He had been sure he would get through the hearings, that he had some distance from everything now, but the carefully constructed defences were crumbling, and he felt as flayed and raw and exposed as if it were all happening again.
He took his hands away from his head and tried to look at his friends. “I’m sorry. Do you mind if we continue another day?” He pleaded.
In the shocked silence, Yzak’s head came up. The end justifies the means, he thought. Know the act and move ruthlessly when the time is right. “You are many things, but you are not a coward,” he said to Athrun Zala. “Face it. Tell us.”
Athrun was trembling badly now. “No… I can’t.”
“Say it. Make us understand.” It has to be here, now.
He was still, his eyes unfocused, each breath coming with mechanical regularity, as though carefully planned and executed, until the moment came when he stood abruptly and struck the table a crushing blow with his fist, splintering the wood in the volcanic explosion of rage and scattering the other occupants to the edges of the room. Only Yzak Jule remained where he was, and all the sounds of the world were reduced to the harsh, labouring breath of the man standing at the head of the table, whose lips formed words they could hardly hear. “I had almost forgotten,” he said, “that I left ZAFT originally so as to be free at last. However, I realised recently that some things never change.” And then, seemingly unaware of his split knuckles or of the blood that flowed down between his fingers, he strode to the door and left.
Cagalli started to go after him.
“Really,” Yzak said in a dry, bored voice. “I’m sure he would be better off if he is left alone to meditate on all that has happened so far.”
“You had no right – ” she hissed. “How could you do that to him?”
“It was necessary.” Yzak saw, without unseemly satisfaction, the fresh anger he had provoked and continued in the same light, ironic tone. “And it was necessary for us to hear it.”
“How could you?” Cagalli persisted, implacable. “Did you get some kind of perverse pleasure from listening to – ”
“That’s enough.” Malchio’s words cut through the argument and the room fell silent. Somewhere else in the house, they heard the distant slam of a door to another room.
His voice was very mild when he spoke again. “Cagalli, he’s right. Athrun would have to face his inner demons at some point. All we can do is to help him find the meaning in everything.”
Lacus said quietly, “Mr. Malchio, I hope you don’t mind the table – ”
Malchio waved that off. “Oh, no. Of course not.” He turned to his right. “Mr. Rice, I’m afraid the hearing will have to be delayed for a few days. Is that alright with you?”
The investigator collected his notes and stood. “We don’t have a choice in this, do we?” He stepped over to the now open doorway. “Anyway, it will do all of us good to get some sleep, though I doubt I will be able to get much of it. Goodnight.”
With that, the tall man bowed slightly to the room in general and exited.
Alone in his room, Athrun wondered if he would ever be able to return to the life he had enjoyed before the war. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.
He washed his hands under the cold running tap for a while, then held up his right hand and inspected it: it was the hand he had smashed against the mahogany table, and the torn flesh of the knuckles had turned greyish white.
Someone, he couldn’t remember who, had once asked him how he had been able to destroy ships – whole ships full of soldiers fighting merely to survive – without any visible sign of distress. Athrun had stopped then, searching for some way to explain. He had said: “It was terrible the first time, and even worse the second time round. But after a while, there was no longer any pain, only a sort of hammering in my soul. Do you understand? It felt only like hammering.” The person had tried, but Athrun knew he couldn’t imagine it.
What had driven him to take part in the war, when he had known for a fact that killing of innocents would be an inevitable outcome? Was he a masochist who sought degradation and pain? Athrun was only one of many. Were men like him mad?
No, Athrun had decided at last. Not madness but the mathematics of eternity drove them. To save their people from the misery of a long drawn-out war, to bring about lasting peace and to protect the sovereignty of their homeland, no burden was too heavy, no price too steep.
Yes, he thought, ZAFT elites are well prepared for martyrdom. Survival, on the other hand, could be an intractable problem. Sometimes, Athrun Zala suspected, it is easier to die than to live.
... ... End of Phase 06 ... ...
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