Chapter Text
The freighter ploughed into orbit looking like the worst had already happened. Scorched hull plates buckled, venting great sheets of frozen of atmosphere. Retro thrusters spat and kicked, vainly trying to exert control. The main drive spluttered, setting the whole bulk tumbling
Yet somehow, despite this appearance of mad, futile flailing, the ship ended up on an exact collision course for the space port Hakobune.
The local authorities scrambled. Patrol craft reorientated to intercept and pilots rushed to their stations, abandoning half-finished meals, re-zipping half-open normal-suits. Soon a swarm of blue lights was racing for the wreck, bristling with weaponry and suspicion. They knew the chaos that might be unleashed were Mars' major cargo transfer point knocked offline. They'd do their utmost to prevent disaster.
A predictable reaction. One that could be planned for – or planned around.
Nestled deep inside the freighter's superstructure, the boy took slow, deliberate breaths. His heartbeat was threatening to trip into a gallop but he did not need the adrenaline for the moment. What he needed was patience, as he waited for the lines on his screen to intersect. The trajectory he'd set, using hundreds of 'random' alterations. Hakobune's orbit, steady and inexorable. A dozen incoming signals, weaving military patterns across the intervening space.
Within minutes they'd come together and, if the logic of the situation held the way he imagined, the result would be the complete destruction of his entire vessel.
He forced his jaw to unclench, his body to relax.
Just a little longer.
To Togonosuke Makanai's intense annoyance, the alarm that woke him was neither of those he'd set to ensure he would be on deck for the fleet's arrival at its destination. Instead he was roused by a shrieking klaxon the likes of which he had not heard since leaving Earth. He squinted at the clock beside his bunk and discovered it was a good hour too early for the schedule he had assigned himself.
The klaxon blared twice more, jolting him into the further realisation that the most probable reason for it was some kind of emergency.
Throwing aside both bedcovers and dignity, he dressed as fast as possible. He had one leg in his pants when his aide came knocking at the cabin door. “Yes, yes – I'll be right – one minute –” Now the deck was vibrating, as if the whole vessel was trying to convey urgency.
Cursing, he got sorted, dragging a hand through his hair to straighten it as best he could, and burst from the room, near bowling the poor woman over. “All right, what's going on?”
“Th-the Colonel ordered the fleet to accelerate. I'm afraid that's the only information I have.” She chased after him along the corridor, struggling to match his stride. “I think everyone is preparing for a battle.”
That indeed seemed the tenor of the activity, men and women dashing hither and thither, radiating trepidation. At least no one was shooting. Sustained rumbling aside, the ship was functioning fine, if Makanai any judge. Which he was not, per se, but three weeks had granted him a passing familiarity with normal operations. “Well then.” Reaching the nearest elevator, he pressed the button for the bridge. “Let's go find out what's happened.”
They found the command centre gripped by contained uproar, officers calling important-sounding updates to one another, the main screens filled with an incomprehensible masses of information. There was Mars, dead centre, confirming they were still headed in the expected direction. Heavens, though, it was approaching fast.
“Representative. You should not be up here.” A cold, stern voice, cutting above the chatter. Makanai flinched automatically. Ridiculous, certainly, but Major Une had that effect on people.
On the other hand, he hadn't gotten where he was without toughening his hide. “I've come for an explanation. We weren't supposed to be arriving until later this morning.”
Behind round steel spectacles, her eyes flashed with unconcealed anger. “We are at stand-by alert –”
“It's quite alright, Major.” Where Une's words carried on pure insistence, the Colonel's slid like a blade through water. No matter the commotion, this was his bridge. He would be heard. “The Representative should be made aware of what's happened. Please, Mr Makanai. Join me.”
Signalling his aide to stay back in deference to whatever protocol excluded civilians at a time like this, Makanai approached the command chair. It sat at the front of the elevated level, overlooking the activity on the main floor, and Treize Khushrenada stood before it with hand on hip, dark blue uniform pristine, the half-cape across his shoulder proudly displaying the full Gjallarhorn coat of arms.
Seeing him made Makanai keenly aware of his own relative scruffiness. “What's going on, Colonel? Are we under attack?”
“We have received a notification from Ares. There is a distressed cargo vessel bearing down on Hakobune. If it cannot be stopped, it will intersect the port's orbit within a quarter of an hour.”
The implications struck Makanai's mind as trucks might slam through a too-narrow street. All those spreadsheets of exports, the mathematics of Outer Sphere extraction, every choke-point enumerated – “If that hits the station – if it knocks it out of orbit –”
“Calm yourself, Representative.” Khushrenada's tone brooked no argument. “Even should the Ares garrison fail to prevent a collision, my ships will arrive in plenty of time to rescue Hakobune from any unplanned descent.”
Oh. Of course. That was why he was pushing the engines in the first place. “Well… I suppose it's moot when production is suspended anyway.”
“Indeed. Although I have no doubt disruption of normal operations is the intent.”
Makanai sucked his teeth. “You think this was planned?”
The Colonel arched an eyebrow, chin tilting. “A ship suffering some form of accident might attempt to reach the station. However it is unlikely to blunder on to such a precisely dangerous course while out of control. Have no doubt, there is intent behind this.”
Escalation then. A blow aimed at the vital organs of Martian industry, to cut the gullet and – what? Starve out the Earth, bring the colony owners to the table by sheer privation?
It wouldn't work. There were other stations, none so well-established but all providing alternatives. The bloc governments might even appeal to Gjallarhorn, have them root cargo via Ares. The drama of the attack would sting a while. It could not be expected to make much difference.
As if reading his thoughts, Khushrenada gave him a thin-lipped smile. “We may question the rationality of terrorists at our leisure once the matter is resolved. Helm, please sync deceleration drives throughout the fleet. I want to execute an englobement of Hakobune with all points in grappling range.”
“The Representative may be more comfortable retiring to the observation lounge,” Une suggested, appearing at Makanai's shoulder and he strongly suspected that what she meant was, the smelly waste would be more comfortable in the garbage.
He tugged on the tip of his beard, redirecting the urge to sneer back. “The Representative will be staying right here until he's satisfied he isn't going to have to report that the first day of his fact-finding expedition began with a thousand tonnes of important infrastructure dropping on everybody's heads.”
Khushrenada's smile widened a fraction. “Just as you say.”
“Sir – be careful!”
Even as the appeal left her mouth Noin knew it was wasted. The commander had shot far out ahead of the pack. angling for the freighter's bridge. No heed paid to the risk of getting so close. He'd decided on a course of action and that was that. All she could do about it was push her boosters to maximum to keep up.
He was synced with the ship's motion by the time she got into formation beside him and as she scanned for threats, he reached out a manipulator, launching a contact mike at the main viewport. “This is Major Zechs Marquise of Gjallarhorn. We are here to assist you. Please shut down your power-plant and prepare for outside course-correction.”
No response.
“I repeat, we are here to assist you. Power down immediately so we can move you on to a safe orbit.”
The line remained dead. Noin heard Zechs give the faintest hiss of irritation.
“I don't think there's anyone aboard,” he told her. “No one alive, at least.”
“I'm having a hard time getting clear readings through this gas. The reactor's still active though.” Which meant powered flight. They couldn't just hope its path would naturally decay below Hakobune's.
“How long have we got left?”
“Seven minutes, thirty two seconds.”
“Understood.” He broke the link, snatching the hand back. “All units, target the sections of the ship I'm highlighting for you. I want a sustained barrage on my mark.”
Only a fraction of their forces were in optimum range. They had the advantage of having come straight from Hakobune, while the patrols and the reinforcements from Ares had to manoeuvre downwards to match course and speed. “We shouldn't waste time. Permission to get started?”
Zech's Geirail looked towards her, red optic catching the light. She could practically see the calculations running in his head, the same ones she'd completed before making the request. “Granted.”
“Squads Three and Five, form up on my position. We'll concentrate on quadrant A-2.”
“Squads One, Two, Four and Six, I am reassigning your targets. Take positions relative to Lieutenant Noin's team.”
It could be called a dance, if one was poetic enough to deem mobile suit formations worthy of the description, or dull-heated enough to consider a waltz in military terms. A push and pull of thrust and mass-weight ratios, of angles and velocity, all combined to bring six more Geirails into a rough hexagon centred upon her machine. They took aim, skimming along like they were stuck to freighter by invisible sticks.
Six minutes, forty four seconds.
“Fire!”
The instant the first shells hit the hull Noin knew something was terribly wrong. Her sensors became a Christmas tree of heat signatures, secondary explosions spreading out of proportion to the low yield of the munitions they'd used. She jerked her bazooka to the side, signalling the others to hold. “It's been rigged.” With some pretty hefty bombs, too. The modules along the port flank were blowing to pieces, panels and struts fountaining outwards. “Collins, Yaeger, watch yourselves.”
“Why?” Zechs asked, unfazed by the giant shrapnel grenade they'd created, not bothering to use his shield when deft puffs from his jets could simply shimmy him around the worst of it. “Why rig it? What's this for?”
“To make the strike on Hakobune worse?” A question mark slipping unannounced on to the end of what should have a been a perfectly sensible statement. “If the charges went off at the same time… but anyone planning this must know we've had forces stationed at the port for weeks. They'd have known we'd intercept before they could score a hit.”
“…Five minutes. We'll do the autopsy later. Squads Three and Five, increase distance from target. All other units – mark.”
Missiles pummelled the freighter and were answered by more internal denotations. Any cargo would have been disintegrated. Was that the intention? Some convoluted disposal of evidence? But why get Gjallarhorn to light the fuse? Noin cycled through different filters, trying to make sense of what she was watching. The barrage had forced a change in the ship's trajectory as planned. In fact, at this rate, it was likely to fall out of orbit completely. The extra explosions were turning what should have been a forceful turn into a dramatic nosedive. Almost as if…
She raised her shield to block a particularly nasty burst of shrapnel. “Zechs, I don't like this. Are you seeing any radiation sources?”
“Nothing I can separate from the Ahab waves. You think it's a ploy to poison the ground?”
“I think someone wanted this to happen. The ship breaking up, the pieces falling to Mars.”
“In that case…”
Off he shot again, skirting above the eruptions, looping between the larger detached chunks. Noin swore and was on the verge of giving chase, of physically dragging him clear, when he abruptly halted his wild flight.
For a second he hung over the freighter's spine, the Geirail's silhouette framed by red and orange light.
Then he brandished his sabre, pointing beneath him. “There's something else inside!”
The ship shattered along preset fault lines and the boy finally let loose the adrenaline he'd been saving.
A touch disengaged the clamps holding the last intact compartment together. A thought ignited thrusters, shoving him forward and out, one more piece of debris plunging into Mars’ upper atmosphere. He would fall with the rest. Hidden in plain sight, lost to the shimmering heat of reentry. It would be a titanic risk. He was banking on his reflexes to save him, to slow him before the ground became inescapable. Hesitating would mean death.
So of course he didn't.
Down he went, powering through disarranged metal and hungry fire. For all its aerodynamics, the heat-shield was a cumbersome thing. He could not feel it as he could the servo motors and pistons holding him on top. Was that a mercy? Should he thank the dead bulk about to burn in order to ensure he would not?
He might have preferred the burning to being trapped, bound in place, frozen while the world sang and jittered and screamed with the beginnings of friction.
A change, above him, an unexpected variable, descending fast. A mobile suit. Not a Geir. One of the new models, undaunted by the micro fragments scouring its paint, sword and shield at the ready.
It saw him. It knew. It wanted to stop him.
Thinking would have cost precious seconds, opened the door to panic. Instead he flared his wings out to confuse his shape and used his thrusters again, performing a rapid twist, end over end, until he was falling backwards, face to face with his enemy. It recoiled, slowing fractionally, cautious of his actions. An intelligent reaction. Rational. Sane.
The boy detached the smooth-bore cannon from its storage position and lifted it, targetting reticule jumping about, no hope of a solid lock, only his instincts, his senses, telling him now now now.
He pulled the trigger. The canon kicked. The other mobile suit disappeared.
But not for good. It weathered the blast, came at him, sword-first, a stabbing attack he'd no time to block –
Trigger. Kick. A shock wave to send them both flying, the enemy, upwards in a cloud of broken armour; him, spinning, control lost, warning lights and alarms as the temperature sky-rocketed and he rocketed into the sky.
Had to twist back. Had to get the heat-shield under him. Stabilise. Thrusters, wings, anything to balance an equation thrown to confusion. Where was the flightpath he'd planned? The drop zone marked out for him? Couldn't find them. Didn't matter.
Survive. Or don't. Those were the only options now.
He was burning. A red meteor falling towards a red planet. And yet he endured. He'd resisted the enemy. Still had the breath to laugh, astounded he wasn't cinders.
The mission hadn't failed.
Now all he needed to do was land safely.
“C'mon c'mon c'mon –”
It was a prayer, an appeal to unthinking machinery, Noin's will, exerted through her hands and feet, echoed on her lips. She could see Zechs' Geirail, a scarecrow shorn of its clothes, cartwheeling at the bottom of the thermosphere. He'd lost one of his boosters. If she didn't reach him –
“Come on!”
Wreckage from the freighter whirled about them, spreading, breaking apart. She discarded her gun, shedding weight to move faster. He fought for balance, cycling his remaining jets and thrusters. Two hundred metres. One fifty. Ninety. Forty. Ten.
Contact.
She caught the hand he reached towards her and dragged them together. He clamped on to her side and hit full burn on the booster, matching her desperate retro blast. Slowly, painfully, they started to rise.
“That was close.”
Noin closed her eyes, swallowing a number of choice responses. “What was it? I didn't get a clear look.”
“I'm not sure.” Zechs sounded badly winded. “A mobile suit. But not a kind I've seen before.”
“Well it's not going to be a problem any more.”
“We can't bet on that. It had a reentry glider. And wings.”
It also knocked itself ass over tea-kettle in the middle of the sort of descent even the most highly trained professionals knew not to treat lightly. Then again, she trusted Zechs' judgement. For better and worse. “Is your cockpit sound?”
“Yes. I was lucky. Another metre to the left… that pilot displayed some pretty intense commitment.”
“If that's what you want to call it.” She checked her bearings. Thankfully there was a patrol ship closing on them but she had to get them out of the debris field fast. A cockpit without its shell wouldn't survive micro-strikes for long, much less a blow from anything larger.
“Thank you Noin.”
He was smiling. Probably ruefully. Never as apologetically as an outsider might assume he ought to be. “Don't be in too much of a hurry to think I did you a favour. Or hadn't you noticed? We have an audience.”
“Ah… those Halfbeaks… is that …?”
“I imagine some very important people just got a front-row seat to your daring heroics.”
“Not exactly the best way to demonstrate my authority as military governor.”
“If they believed you had everything under control, they wouldn't have sent Colonel Khushrenada to escort the diplomatic party.”
Zechs sighed. “True enough.”
“There, Representative. Nothing to worry about.”
“One less thing to worry about,” Makanai corrected, somewhat peevishly.
The Colonel accepted the rebuke with good humour. “We can at least be glad our problems are not multiplying.”
“Forgive me, I'll only be convinced of that once know who was responsible, what they were aiming to achieve, and whether or not they'll try again.”
Khushrenada stepped back from the railing and took his seat. “Helm, move us to shadow Major Marquise's ship back to Ares. Tactical, I want the Járnsaxa to remain at Hakobune for the present. Captain Daniels should coordinate with the Mars units to establish a defence perimeter. Major Une – please begin compiling all space traffic reports over the past forty-eight hours and going forward. We're looking for any anomalous or heightened activity that little fireworks display may have been cover for.”
“Yes sir,” she answered from the other side of his chair, immediately marching down the staircase to the main deck to go loom over one of the communications operators.
“I trust that will be sufficient reassurance we are taking this matter seriously, Representative.”
“I never doubted it, Colonel.” Makanai certainly did not doubt they wanted the culprits found and swiftly punished. For a peace-keeping force, the near-miss alone was an embarrassment. “But I can take the hint. Let me know once we can get started on the formalities.”
“Of course.”
“Come on, Anise. I've got some opening statements to rewrite.” He paused by the exit, casting a glance over his shoulder, curious if he might catch some passing hint at whatever lay behind Khushrenada's unflappable calm.
No luck. The man was examining the images of the 'accident zone' – as it would no doubt be reported to the public – and the only thing showing on his face was a sharply focused interest.
“See, woman? I told you you'd done too much damage!”
For the umpteenth time since taking on her passenger, Sally Po fought the urge to clip him smartly around the ears. They were tempting targets, jutting either side of a face that might have been passingly sweet if it not for its habitually sour cast and every single word out of his mouth.
But one did not strike a kid. Especially not the kid currently paying one's wages. “If that was caused by us firing on them, they'd never have made it to Mars.” Heck, she knew for a solid fact her gunners hadn't landed half the hits necessary to sink the ship. “More likely, Gjallarhorn decided to blow it up.”
“Why would they do that?”
The question surprised her. From what she'd gathered, the kid held no love for the authorities outside his home colony. He couldn't harbour illusions about the itchiness of their trigger fingers. “They must have thought it was a threat.” Then, because it still irked her to be employed as a bloodhound and not told what she was chasing, she added, “Were they right?”
He glared at her. “They wouldn't have destroyed it if they knew its true value.”
An unhelpful non sequitur. Par for the course when it came to discussions of the 'stolen materials' Mister Chang Wufei was hell bent on recovering. Sally massaged the bridge of her nose. “Steve, can you get useful readings from this far away?”
Her comm officer shook his head. “I think they must have every available ship over there, plus those others that were on an approach vector.”
“Are they paying any attention to us?”
“Not so far.”
“We have to get closer,” Chang insisted. “We have to see what happened.”
“We saw what happened,” Sally snapped, patience reaching its limit. “It's over. I'm sorry.”
“I won't accept that. It could have survived. Or it might have been taken off the ship after they evaded us. We need to find out for sure.”
“How? You want to ask Gjallarhorn?”
“We can dock at the orbital station and investigate from there.”
There was probably a way of summarising the level of suicide wading into an active crime scene under the noses of an entire armada would constitute, only it evaded her long enough for Raymond to chime in with, “We are going to have to resupply anyway…”
Damn. “They might not let us dock right away. Or they'll want to search every ship in the area just in case.”
“We'll look worse if we turn tail,” Steve murmured and Chang jumped on it.
“Exactly. Your best option is to act as if you're innocent. They won't have reason to think otherwise.”
She fixed him with a glare of her own. “Not until you start poking your nose around, you mean. But all right. I suppose it's logical. Set course for Hakobune. A wide course. Nothing suspicious about staying clear of – that.”
Chang made a small hmm noise, the smug triumph a teenager getting his way.
Sally made a mental note to check with the Doc about restocking on migraine pills.
“It's arrived? You really mean it?”
Rashid hummed uncertainly. “We received a report the package was on the doorstep. I'm afraid I can't confirm how things have proceeded from there.”
As expected, Quatre's face fell. Equally as expected, it promptly regained some of its former optimism. “Are our people prepared to collect?”
“Yes.” Abdul's team had gotten on site the night before. He'd signalled they were ready to move once they were again under the cover of darkness and steps were being taken to neutralise scrutiny in any case. No caution was too excessive for this critical stage.
“It's a necessary step,” Quatre whispered, sapphire blue eyes seeing much further than the window in front of them. He made a fist, chewing his knuckle. “We can't stand still and expect the world to get better on its own.”
The truth, stated simply, made undeniable. Rashid put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Would you like to make your excuses?” They could monitor more easily from the compound. Being trapped away from home was one extra layer of complication.
“No. This is where I'm supposed to be this evening. I can't abandon my responsibilities.”
Couldn't abandon the pretence, he meant. For it might be noticed if Quatre Winner disappeared from a social engagement and notice would incite questions. “Very well. I will let you know when there's any news.”
“Thanks.” He turned, suddenly smiling. “I'm really excited. I can't believe this is finally happening.”
Infectious enthusiasm. No matter how much Rashid tried to stay conscious of the facts, he could claim no immunity. “Me too,” he admitted. “Try not to let it show at dinner.”
“Found it. Here.”
The more senior of the two technicians stomped over to join his junior in the lee of the boulder, where something like a small crater laid bare a stretch of broken cabling. “Shit. There's your problem.”
A touch-beam played over the damage. “No wonder they aren't reviving telemetry data. You reckon it was an accident? These rocks –”
“Had fuck-all to do with this.”
“Sabotage then?”
“Yeah. Shit.” The protective tube was in bits. Must have taken a heavy-duty drill or some very determined pickaxe-swinging.
The other tech dropped to one knee, peering closer and pushing a couple of fingers into the churned earth. “Look. Charring.”
“A bomb? Oh, that makes sense. They break it open but leave it intact, plant a charge, they can set it to go off whenever they want.”
“Taking out the connection to the tracking post. You reckon we'll find the same on the others?”
“Seems pretty likely. Argh, how did they know where to dig? This should be shielded from detection.”
“Someone told them?”
The two stared at each other then as one looked towards the lights of Gjallarhorn's Second Mars Ground Base, squatting on the horizon. A row of Geirs was visible outside the hangars, towering figures waiting for the cue to launch. How easily all that mechanised strength could be rendered useless by virtue of nobody knowing where they were needed…
“I'll get on the LCS,” the senior tech said. “We have to patch this ASAP.”
“What about preserving the evidence?”
He paused mid-step. “We'll, uh, we can run a new cable from over there to… there. Won't disturb the immediate area.”
“Got it.” Unfolding to his full, lanky height, the junior swung his torch about, as if searching for clues. For a fleeting instant he looked almost satisfied by what he saw. Or didn't.
“Hey, Barton! I'm not hauling the kit by myself.”
The out-of-place emotion disappeared, neatly switched for anxious compliance. “Coming, Chief.”
“Howard! Howard! Hey, Howard, get out here!”
The hammering accompanying the shouting would have done a construction crew proud. Mike Howard levered himself to his feet, wincing at both the motion and the way his skull throbbed in time to the pounding on the door. What was it now? Couldn't a guy lie down for five minutes without the world ending?
Being a little shit by both profession and vocation, Duo greeted him with an enormous grin. “The sky's falling.”
Howard blinked at him slowly.
“No, seriously, come see! I think some idiot flash-fried their ship!”
Most of the kids were out in the yard, some clambering on top of the mobile workers to get a better view. Night was busy rolling across the industrial wasteland beyond the fence but overhead, twilight clung to the sky by its fingernails, a paler canvas now painted with streaks of vivid orange.
“What d'you reckon?” Duo asked as Howard took off his sunglasses to squint at the distant fireballs. “Can we go pick up the pieces?”
“Won't be worth it. That's all vaporising itself. Anything making it to the ground will be useless clinker.” Even good nano-laminate didn't tend to survive reentry disconnected from a reactor.
“Not that piece.”
He followed Duo's finger and butterflies started flapping inside his stomach. “Hey, Treble – give me those would'ya?”
The red-headed boy hopped off his perch to pass over the binoculars. Getting them focused, Howard searched for the trail Duo had spotted. Sure enough, a steady arc, no break-offs… a defined shape, staying whole… “Well, well, well.”
“I'm right, aren't I?” Duo folded his hands behind his head, drumming his thumbs on the base of his braid. “It's coming in steep but it's not gonna go to nothing.”
“It'll probably come down pretty near, too.”
“And if it's equipment that can make the trip, it'll be worth a whole bunch.”
The wheedling tone was over-egging the pudding. Howard could let that slide, though. Best case scenario, the flash-fried idiot bequeathed them some decent salvage. Slightly less good case, they got to help the poor dumbass return to civilisation and took a bit of material gratitude for their trouble. Worse case, they wasted fuel having a field-trip to look at a lesson in practical physics. “OK, Clef, Treble, Basso, keep tracking it for us. I want some range and speed numbers. Duo –”
“Way ahead of you, boss.” Jacket already tied around his waist, Duo tugged his braid forward, letting it hang over his chest where it wouldn't get in the way of the whisker sticking out of his back. “Look alive, losers!” he bellowed. “Let's get rolling! We're hunting the pot of gold at the end of the shooting star!
“You're thinking of rainbows,” Howard muttered to no one in particular and went to grab his coat.
“Miss Relena! There you are. Really, you must come back in. That simpering Winner boy has vanished again but they'll be serving dinner soon regardless – oh my, what's this?”
The Romero Academy commanded a hilltop position overlooking the orchards and mansions of Noachis City's most exclusive district. The grounds had been constructed to direct attention to that leafy, cultivated view, a constant reminder of the future promised to the students upon graduation. By the same token, the other side of the hill – sloping toward the factories and tenement blocks from which their wealth flowed – was carefully obscured.
It was an architectural conceit Relena had long since grown used to and bored of. She could likely count every tree from memory, every brick in every grand facade. Mars was so monotonous. Either a dusty blankness or the most artificial landscape imaginable. Nothing truly wild, nothing natural, nothing to distract from the feeling of living inside a snow-globe. Except without the snow, because terraforming had limits and aridity was the planet's defining trait.
But the dry air was preferable to the stuffy atmosphere inside the Pocklington Club. The school's exclusive inner sanctum held banquets at the start and close of each term and she was of course required to attend. An obligation imposed by the name of a family barely ever present. Was it any wonder she would rather slip away to dream of home? Some days, that blue dot in this alien sky was her only solace.
Which was how she came to be gazing at the heavens when they sprang to new, startling life.
Heels clicked across the terrace, bringing a waft of perfume and a swirl of dark silk. Part of Relena resented the intrusion. Dorothy, however, was the rare exception to Mars' dreary norm and it was silly to pretend she could horde the scene to herself. “I don't know. There was all sorts of flashing up there just now and then…”
“You don't mean they've started fighting properly at last?” The taller girl leaned on the balustrade, as though she might vault it to get closer. “How marvellous!”
Never the correct reaction, always the most provocative one. “Do you think we're safe? It's not all coming this way but –”
Raw sound stole away the rest of the sentence. Something threw a shadow over the school, trailing a wall of noise. Relena clutched at the stone, was clutched in turn, Dorothy coming close to pushing her to the ground. Their hair whipped their faces, brown and blonde, a real sensation to contrast with the impression of being struck by an anvil.
The monster rushed on by, parallel to the hills, flying, flying, and then there came a last echoing boom, a horribly final note to end the dissonant chord.
It continued to echo as Relena regained her footing, as Dorothy let her go, fussing with undue solicitousness. The ringing in her ears – she almost didn't want it to fade, for fear of compounding the unreality of what had happened. What evidence would there be otherwise?
Evidence… “Did you see where that crashed?”
“I'm not sure. South of here, I think, out in the desert. We'd see the fire if it had hit the city.”
“We should go find it.”
Dorothy took a step backwards, eyes flying wide.
“Why not? If it's wreckage – or something else – don't you want to know? Or would you rather deal with simpering boys and make polite dinner conversation all evening?” The very idea was appalling. Ludicrous. Hadn't disaster just swept the tops of the trees, kicking tiles off the roof of their make-believe paradise? Was Relena to discuss the thunder of shooting stars in the same breath as the weather, or entertain the crowd who were only now poking their noses out of the windows with recitations of shock?
Her heart sank. The fingers covering her friend's mouth no doubt preceded some sensible objection. And it was a silly suggestion, wasn't it? To hare off, following a vague direction, searching for who-knew-what on a whim –
“Why, Relena Marquise, how utterly inappropriate of you!” Lowering the hand, Dorothy seized her arm, expression revealed as the sly cousin of delight. “Let's take my car.”