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PHASE 08: Nightmare
He realized later that he had gone into clinical shock almost immediately after the loss of his right hand. Over the next few days, he would come to himself at intervals, damp and cold and suffering from a thirst unlike anything he had experienced previously. It seemed impossible to draw enough breath and when he slept, there were dreams of suffocation or drowning. Sometimes, dreaming, he would reach for something, trying to pull himself to air, and his hands would spasm, the involuntary motion sending thin bolts of phosphorescent pain up the long nerves of his arm.
As his body slowly replaced the blood he had lost, he was able to move, but there was no profit in it. The scabs were forming then and the itching that heralded healing maddened him. Of course, there had also been the phantom limb syndrome to deal with, though the burning sensation was intermittent and could almost be eliminated after washing a pill or two down with water.
In any case, he had asked for and received assurance from both Malchio and Rice that he could end the sessions at will, without stating any reason. It was, Athrun had evidently decided, preferable to continuing while distracted and taking a chance on the kind of breakdown he had experienced during the last session.
Malchio’s Island, C.E.73, 6.02
When the hearings reconvened after this hiatus, there was no mistaking the change. The dark hair was still combed neatly to the side, but there were now faint cuts on the edges of the lips and neck. Evidently, being ambidextrous was not of foremost concern when genes were being altered.
“To continue from where we left off, you told us that the system Kira hacked into contained records of transmissions three days before the Bloody Valentine, is that correct?” Morton Rice asked.
“Essentially. All records were dated, arranged chronologically and identified by their senders.” Athrun stood up and began to walk around the room, jumpy and distractible. He stopped near a window and stared out of it, standing with his back to them.
“So did you hear any of the transmissions?” Rice prompted, when the silence went on too long.
It was a grey windless day; they had left the windows open to the June warmth and the steady sound of the rain. “Only one. It would have been wiser, in hindsight, to ignore the system altogether. The thought simply didn’t occur to us at that time. Part of the joke, I suppose,” Athrun said, inexplicably, rubbing the sill with the bandaged hand that ended just above the wrist.
Somewhere on the Debris Belt, C.E. 73 4.22
“Father!” Athrun was bent close to the terminal screen now. “Why was he on Junius 7 just before the Bloody Valentine?”
Kira’s head steadied out of its whirling bewilderment; he began to sort out what he could see. They had almost reached the end of the displayed list: the entry concerned was dated 13 February C.E.70, its sender identified as Patrick Zala.
“This feels like a nightmare,” Athrun said with an uneasy laugh. There was a flash of white on the screen as the Athrun-image instantaneously laughed – and sobered, staring.
“Maybe it’s only a glitch in the system,” Kira said, trying to sound confident. “I don’t think we will be able to re-activate the transmission anyway.”
Athrun’s face looked tight and pinched. He said uncertainly, “Perhaps you’re right.”
But when he selected the entry, the satellite’s audio system crackled to life as a familiar voice filled the tiny room.
“Commander Kleuze. What have you to report?”
Kira glanced nervously at Athrun who straightened slowly, looking hopelessly confused. Instantly, he seemed to Kira to grow somehow a little more distant, more commanding, yet more vulnerable; the sunlight blazed in his dark hair.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the meeting, sir, but I have bad news. My intelligence source has reported that there will be a large-scale attack within the next few days. The target is to be Junius 7. May I suggest that we secretly evacuate the civilians to the other PLANTs immediately, sir?”
“That would not be necessary.”
Kira could not believe what he heard. There was no emotion in the gravelly voice, it stated merely, without expression but with utter finality. He strained to hear more clearly, hardly daring to breathe.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
The councillor’s voice grew harsher, colder. “Those foolish naturals think they can bring us down by launching a nuclear attack on the PLANTs. Such a tragedy would only result in the coordinators rallying to the PLANTs’ defence: it would be the perfect excuse to terminate the existence of all naturals, don’t you think? ”
There was a pause: “I see.” The mocking condescension in Le Kleuze’s voice was unmistakable now. “What about your wife, sir? You’re taking her along with you, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Sir?”
Athrun took one quick unthinking step forward and then stopped; Kira, not daring to look up, could see the long fingers of one slender hand curve tight into a fist, the nails cutting into the palm.
“No,” Patrick Zala said again, a faint quiver in his voice. “She has found out the truth – about Athrun.”
In the quiet of the room, only Morton Rice spoke. “I don’t understand. What did your father do?”
“Patrick Zala was a murderer,” Athrun said in a fierce whisper, looking at no one. “He caused the deaths of thousands.”
“Yes. We knew that. What else did he do?”
Each word separate, the threadbare voice breaking on the last: “He allowed the destruction of Junius 7.”
They could see the cost to him, the price of saying this. He stood swaying slightly, the armature of his face demolished by the work of thin, fine muscles. Lacus breathed: “My god.”
Looking from face to face, Athrun watched comprehension working its way into their minds. What could any of them say? He almost laughed. “Can you guess what I thought just before I found out?” he asked them as he began to pace. “This is rich. This is very funny! You see, I didn’t understand what was going on. I never imagined – who could have imagined such a thing? I loved my father, even after the war, and I trusted in his love. Amusing, isn’t it? He knew that the Roosevelt was heading for the PLANTs, yet he didn’t even try to stop it. I trusted him and he let mother die.”
The agitated pacing halted as Athrun heard his own words, his voice almost normal until the end, when it fell away into uncomprehending grief, when he knew at last his own devastation fully. But he did not die, and when he could move again, and breathe once more, he looked at Yzak Jule, who said nothing, who met his eyes and would not look away.
“Go on. You haven’t told us everything.” It was, Yzak thought, the hardest thing he had ever done.
“You want more?” Athrun asked, incredulous. Then he was moving again, unable to keep still or silent a moment longer. “I can provide more details than you would be willing to hear,” he offered, theatrically expansive, merciless now. “Even before I was born, my father had heard about Dr. Hibiki’s research on Mendel – the discovery that the maternal body is the major uncontrollable factor that can prevent the realisation of the full potential of the engineered genotype. Of course, the logical solution would be to use an artificial womb, no? Still, there would have been the problem of high foetal mortality. So,” he said, stopping and looking at each of them, “so, he funded a private research on the use of female hormone suppressors in humans.”
Dearka closed his eyes and turned his head away, and Cagalli wept silently.
“Distressing, isn’t it. It doesn’t end here,” he assured them with savage cheer, moving blindly. “I must have been – what? Thirteen? Fourteen? – when my mother found out. After all, cancers are virtually unheard of in coordinators.”
Athrun waited, shaking, daring them to speak. “No questions? No argument? No comfort for the afflicted?” he asked with acrid gaiety. “I warned you. I told you that you didn’t want to know. Now it’s in your minds. But he was my father,” he said, choking with fury. “And it was my love.”
He stopped suddenly then and turned away from them at last. No one moved, and they listened to the ragged breathing stop and hold and then go on in defiance. “I would very much appreciate it,” he said finally, “if everyone but Cagalli leaves the room for a few minutes.”
Trembling, he faced Cagalli, waiting for the room to clear, Lacus gracefully sidestepping the table, Dearka hesitating by the door, waiting for Yzak, white-lipped to pass, but leaving finally and pulling the door shut with a quiet click. Cagalli wanted more than anything to look away, to leave with the others, but she knew why she was there and so she stayed and tried to be ready for what she had to hear next.
The recorded transmission went on for – he didn’t know how long. Minutes? It seemed like eternity. When he finally roused himself, Kira realised he was looking directly into the eyes of Athrun and was appalled by what he saw.
How long had they known each other? he wondered. Was it twelve years? Kira tried to find words for him, some way to let Athrun know that he had the measure of this loss, knew the weight and depth and breadth of it, and shared it.
“Athrun,” he said, “Athrun, do you remember what you told me two years ago? You said that being alive is a chance to make up for things. Do you remember, Athrun?”
His friend stared at him dully, and Kira realized then that the words were not getting through to him: Athrun understood, but it was so vivid and his isolation now seemed total, and he could not speak.
Kira leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly against Athrun’s: it was only a chaste kiss, its sole purpose to comfort. Life goes on, Kira meant for him to understand. Death is balanced.
Athrun jerked and twisted away from him, shattering at last. He was so worn out, but the sobbing lasted a long time. Finally he slumped exhausted over a table, his back to Kira, hands over his face. “Who would forgive me?” Kira heard him whisper over and over, “So many dead. So many.”
Kira thought his heart would break, but he only floated to Athrun and held him from behind, long arms and endless legs enfolding him like a nestling, cradling the shaking body until he felt the spasmodic shuddering diminish and heard his breathing grow slow and even. And so they slept: numb and drained, with mourning as their chaperone.
... ... End of Phase 08 ... ...
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