Disclaimer: GW isn't mine even though I spent my last tooth wishing for that. :(
Prisoner 1156-02 shuffled forward another step in the line. There was excited talk all around him, but he paid it little attention. He had long ago ceased to be excited by anything other than a good meal. Next to him, his guide, a younger girl called 2439 patted his arm and said something about different uniforms on their guards.
"Different uniforms?" 02 repeated, more because his companion expected it than because he cared.
"Yeah. The OZ emblems, they're different."
"It might not mean anything," 02 replied listlessly. "We're probably just moving to a new location. They used to do that, before you came."
She didn't say anything to that. They moved forward another couple of steps, and she led him as they turned a corner.
There were men and women, not the regular guards, who walked up and down the lines and talked to each of them in turn, telling them that they were going to be given showers and new clothes, and trying to learn their names. Some people couldn't remember theirs; 02 struggled with it himself, until his guide answered for him.
"His name is Duo Maxwell," she told the soldier who had asked, patting 02's arm consolingly. "And I'm Mariemaia Barton."
02 heard the beep of a hand-held computer as the OZ soldier typed in their names, once or twice checking her spelling. Then he heard the compassion in her voice when she spoke to them before moving on. "Don't be alarmed, please. Everyone in this prison camp is free now. We'll find your families or friends, and you'll have places to go. We're going to take good care of you."
02 couldn't really bring himself to believe her. He'd heard that once before, and it had been a lie. It was pointless to get his hopes up. Mariemaia wasn't of the same mind, and her exhilaration communicated itself through her tightened grip on his arm, and the way her step acquired more energy. He worried for her. He didn't want her to be dissapointed, the way he had been.
It was an hour or so before they were seperated into groups of men and women and led to the communal showers. The soldiers gave them strong soap that must have been mostly lye, the way it scraped the caked dirt off of his skin. He tried to get most of the grime out of his hair, and his stinging fingers slipped several times as he rebraided it, still wet. Then he stood still with the thirty or so other men who had showered at the same time, and the OZies sprayed them with a chemical that burned a little, explaining that it would prevent them from spreading diseases like tuberculosis or lice to other prisoners or the soldiers. They gave him clothes, which felt like real wool, not cheap synthetic fibers that he had worn for most his life, drawstring slacks and a shirt that hung too loose on his bony frame, and then they were herded into the main courtyard of the prison, into a crowd of people who smelled like the lye soap and the wool, and told to wait until a helicopter came for them.
02 searched, with increasing desperation, for [her]. He needed her with him. Reality was beginning to sink in. They were really taking him away. He became frightened that he would lose her.
A hand came down on his shoulder. "Has anyone given you a helicopter assignment, sir?"
02 lifted a hand and felt the smooth leather cuff of the man's sleeve; an OZie. "Help me find her," he begged.
The man was kind. "Find who, sir."
"[Her]. She's here. She must be! I need to find her."
The soldier stood in helpless silence for a moment, then squeezed his shoulder. "You're all being taken to the same place, sir. Victoria Base. When you get there, we'll help you find her. Things are a little hectic right now."
02 pulled away from the man. So. He was losing [her]. Like hell, they'd help him find her. The soldier might as well have told him the truth. He'd never see [her] again. Bitterly, he wrung his hands and fought his impotent grief.
The OZie took him by the elbow. "Why don't you come with me, sir," he said kindly. "I think there's still room on helicopter 16. We can get you out to Victoria right away, and get started looking for your friend. How does that sound?"
02 didn't give a damn.
Treize tried to soften his defensive tone as Quatre glared at him. "I didn't know until a few weeks ago that this camp still existed," he stated evenly. "It had been so isolated that the bureacrats completely lost track of it. You have my word that as soon as it was brought to the Senate's attention, orders were dispatched to get those poor people out."
"Seventeen years!" Quatre bit out, slamming a hand down on his desk. "Seventeen years, Treize! My God, the war's been over for less than that! Those people should have been freed the minute the Resistance surrendured. They're not war criminals, they're hostages! *Forgotten* hostages. I can't believe--"
Treize tapped two fingers on the table impatiently. "My dear Mr. Winner," he said, carefully controlling his volume, "Mistakes like these happen. There is no one directly responsible. But we are taking measures to compensate these prisoners for the trauma they've been through, and I do assure you that very thorough checks are being made to ensure that no other such camps exist."
Quatre was scowling, the expression carving deep lines into his strong golden face, but before he could reply the door buzzer announced an intrusion which Treize felt was very welcome. Rashid entered when bidden, and bowed to the Winner executive.
"You have a call, Quatre-sama," he rumbled with polite passivity.
Quatre's brief glare at Treize told the OZ general that their discussion was *not* over, but he obediently tapped the communications link into activity and greeted the smiling Alliance administrator who saluted over the video transmission.
/"Mr. Winner, good morning. I hope my call hasn't caught you at a bad time."/
"Not at all, Admiral Amory. What can I do for you?"
/"It's more what *I* can do for *you*, Mr. Winner."/ Amory stroked his goatee, still smiling. /"You've heard about the mass release of prisoners from the lost Rudee Camp?"/
Quatre's expression tightened. "I have," he replied coolly.
Amory didn't lose his joviality. /"One of the prisoners released was well-known to us, once his identity was cross-checked by the officers handling the release. As I recall, he was a friend and former confederate of yours."/
Quatre frowned.
Amory's enthusiasm was heightening. /"Duo Maxwell, sir,"/ he proclaimed triumphantly. /"The last of the Gundam pilots."/
The Winner heir did not blink. "He's dead," he said flatly.
/"Not anymore, he's not, sir. I don't have the entire story for you, Mr. Winner, but somehow this Maxwell ended out at the Jorden Base about sixteen or so years ago, and was transferred to the Rudee Prison Camp shortly thereafter. There are very precise records. He didn't specifically name you as a friend, but an officer involved in the investigations recalled that you two had both been pilots, and Maxwell didn't object to us contacting you."/
Quatre was numb. Duo. Alive.
Behind him, Treize stepped forward and leaned into view of the video transmission. "Pleasure to see you again, Admiral," he interjected courteously. "If I might ask, what's going to happen to Duo Maxwell now?"
Amory tugged on the tip of his beard, then pressed his hands flat on the table. /"It's a complicated question. Unlike a lot of those prisoners, Maxwell really *was* a war criminal. Speaking on technical terms, he should be arrested, tried and sentenced. On the other hand, the war has been over for nearly two decades. Word in the Senate is that the excessive term of his imprisonment, accidental or no, is punishment enough, especially considering that there seems to have been some unnecessary cruelty in his treatment during that incarceration... Personally, I'm pushing for his release. What he does with himself is up to him, short of starting another war. I think we'll have a majority."/
Quatre sat back, stunned and silent. He let Treize take over smoothly, making the arrangements for Duo Maxwell to be transported to Quatre's estate on L4. When it was over, Treize signed off, and placed his hands on Quatre's shoulders.
"Are you all right?" he asked seriously.
He shook his head. "I can't believe this," he whispered.
Treize perched on the desk, brows coming together as he considered his friend. "You thought Duo died during his escape from the Lunar Base, yes?"
Quatre tapped an agitated rhythm on the table with two fingers. "Yes. He never arrived at the designated safepoint, where Wufei was waiting for him. Then the pieces of his Gundam were found, and we all assumed that he'd gone down, especially when he never showed up after the Resistance surrendured. Even Heero gave up hoping, after a few years... "
Treize flicked imaginary dust from his slacks and frowned. "You'll have to meet him and his escort at the spaceport. Would you like me to go with you?"
Quatre acquiesed slowly. "I'm not sure--it hasn't completely hit me yet. I'm not--not sure I'll be able to handle it on my own."
Treize only nodded. Thoughtfully, he added, "I'd always wished I could have met the last of the Gundam pilots. I'm very glad to hear he's survived."
Quatre swallowed hard. "Yes," he breathed. "Very glad."
End Part 2
(:./erin/20years2)
