Disclaimer: this story contains characters and situations that do not belong to this author. They belong to one or more of the following: Bandai, Sunrise, SOTSU. This story is copyright Bryon Nightshade, a.k.a. Sam Durbin, and is bound by all applicable laws and statutes.

Rehearsals

            The planet Earth is no longer the only home of human beings. Permanent space stations or colonies now exist that harbor a significant portion of humanity. The construction of the first of these colonies was such an important event that a new calendar was created to commemorate it. Despite the change in scenery, some things never change.

            The United Earth Sphere Alliance first came into being to mediate international disputes and resolve the issues between nations and between colonies. Over time, it adopted a policy that the best way to prevent wars between nations was to control those nations' actions directly. Since the Alliance had a practical monopoly on military power, there was no effective check to this new policy. In this manner, the Alliance dictated the actions of the nations of Earth and the colonies of space. Not surprisingly, discontent has run rampant at the Alliance's heavy-handedness. Rebels and malcontents of every stripe have designs on the Alliance's destruction… or corruption.

            The year is After Colony 193, and one particular group of rebels has won twin victories. It has recruited a dangerous new agent, and it has successfully insinuated itself into the Alliance military…

            "'Lieutenant Colonel' Treize Khushrenada?"

            Second Lieutenant Zechs Marquise pointed at an unopened box containing rank insignia. The box rested on a desk, and behind that desk sat a smiling former major. "The United Earth Sphere Alliance felt they had to promote me. It was enough of an embarrassment that they were allowing me to form this new unit, the Special Mobile Suit Corps, but for a mere major to command it…"

            Zechs smiled below his mask. "Yes. The Alliance wants to draw as little attention to this unit as it can. A major in command would bring unwanted controversy."

            "Your own promotion is on its way," said Treize. Zechs made no reaction. "I didn't expect that to mean much to you. It's merely symbolic, but symbols have their own power."

            "Sir…" began Zechs. "It bothers me that I'm going to be a leader in a unit whose purpose I don't yet know. You recruited me, said you'd "make me your knight", but that's all you've told me."

            Treize stood. "I plan to address that bother. Come with me. We're on our way to Africa."

            "Africa?"

            "The Alliance's main mobile suit testing and training grounds, in Africa."

            Zechs' thoughts flashed back. The last time he'd been in Africa was his graduation from the Lake Victoria Military Academy... He brushed the thoughts from his mind. Nostalgia was worthless. Right now, his task was to serve Treize as best he could.

            They sat facing each other on Treize's shuttle. Zechs tried to stuff his impatience. After promising to address the subject, Treize had said nothing. Zechs was learning that everything Treize did had a very deliberate pace, was calculated for effect.

            It just annoyed him horribly.

            "The Specials," Treize announced, catching Zechs unready. "They're a new unit in the Alliance, but they will serve our purposes as well. Their main purpose, their avowed purpose to the Alliance, is to test out new mobile suits and new tactics for those mobile suits. You've received Alliance training and fought in their war games, so you know the Alliance doesn't comprehend how to properly use mobile suits in combat."

            Zechs nodded. It was symptomatic of a pattern in the Alliance: they often tampered with forces and took actions they didn't fully understand. It was a dangerous pattern, with serious consequences—something Zechs knew first-hand. It was the reason Zechs had joined this conspiracy with Treize in the first place.

            That… and the personal charisma of Treize Khushrenada.

            "This lack of understanding, along with my influence and connections, are what forced the Alliance to agree to form this unit," Treize continued.

            "So how does it serve our ends?" Zechs asked.

            "Mostly through its avowed purpose," Treize said. "However, we will instruct these pilots in more than just tactics and techniques. We will indoctrinate them politically. We'll induct them into my organization, OZ, and then make them the best pilots in the Earth sphere."

            Zechs nodded—it was such a simple, yet devastating plan. "Once we've trained and recruited them," he said, guessing the rest, "we cycle them back out to the other Alliance mobile suit units. Thus, within every Alliance unit there will be elite, specially trained soldiers loyal to OZ."

            Treize's smile was serene for one contemplating conquering the world. "It's a world-wide coup d'etat waiting to happen. OZ will have a presence in every Alliance unit. They will all strike simultaneously, crippling the Alliance beyond repair within the first six hours."

            "Then the all-Specials units can clean up the rest," Zechs concluded. "Take over the world a country at a time, as quickly as our units can move from place to place. Every country and base will be hamstrung by the first blow, incapable of coordination and mutual defense."

            "So you see," said Treize, "we don't have to match the Alliance's sheer military strength to conquer it. If we make it impossible for them to move and concentrate their power, the Alliance is only as strong as its best individual unit. And on a unit by unit basis, OZ will be superior."

            It was a powerful plan—but Zechs had his doubts.

            "You can tell me," said Treize.

            Sometimes Zechs imagined Treize could read minds, and only asked for speech to be polite. "Sir… in order for this plan to work, the fact that each member of Specials is a member of OZ has to be concealed. However, part of the plan is for pilots to cycle in and out of Specials. If anyone who comes to Specials does not accept our message, doesn't want to join OZ, he's a security risk to the entire operation."

            Treize gave the smile he always used before saying something to blow Zechs' mind. Zechs braced as Treize spoke. "Then we will just have to be extra persuasive, shall we not?"

            Zechs was glad his mask was on, his shock hidden by its white surface. "Sir, that's… bold," he managed.

            "I thought you'd have that reaction. Of course, we will be selective in whom we accept into Specials, and we will contain everyone while they're in Specials—and no one will be sent out from Specials until they're a devoted member of OZ."

            "Naturally," said Zechs. He still wasn't convinced.

            "Additionally, Specials will serve as the mechanism for getting those already in OZ to the correct positions. But one step at a time. First, we will arrive in Africa."

            Zechs followed Treize as they left his shuttle. Around them were hangars and repair bays for mobile suits. "Are the personnel here ours?" he said. 'Ours' meaning both part of Specials, and part of OZ.

            "Most of them. The remainder will depart shortly."

            Zechs looked around. Most of the hangars had Leos—an earlier production run of Leos, he determined visually. Primitive equipment and electronics, no doubt. The Alliance was tolerating the Specials, but not funding them much.

            Treize turned his head as he kept walking. "You deserve the best equipment, my knight, and you will get it. Rest assured of that; I have backers who will ensure it, regardless of the Alliance's vendettas. In actuality, it's better this way. When we sever ties with the Alliance it won't hurt the Specials."

            Zechs nodded. With Treize, everything was planned out, everything was certain; he knew how the world worked, and his confidence was absolute. Either he's a genius, Zechs thought, or a very convincing madman. I'm not sure which is more dangerous.

            Outside of the base perimeter was nothing but open savannah as far as the eye could see. "Well," said Zechs, "at least security will be easy to maintain."

            "You're optimistic, then?" said Treize. "That's unusual."

            "My pessimism is the necessary counter for your optimism. Begging your pardon, sir."

            "Don't worry, I prefer it that way. Now let's go about and assume command."

            Zechs finally realized what "assume command" meant.

            Paperwork.

            Lots and lots of paperwork.

            It was a shock to him, because he found himself—totally without warning—the director of mobile suit operations for the Specials. It was quite a leap from being just a pilot. He could only pray that he wouldn't have to write so much in the future. He almost rejoiced when he cleared away enough of his paperwork to get out and head for the hangars.

            "Not a single Aires," he said to himself. He knew, he'd gone over the inventory. "That's alright. I needed to start with Leos anyway."

            The Leo—basis of all mobile suit units. It was a humanoid machine that walked with feet and fought with hands. Typically, the Leo carried a machine gun built to its proportions. In many ways, the Leo didn't seem all that different from a typical soldier on the ground—just on a larger scale.

            And that larger scale included heavy armor and heavy weaponry, which was why people even bothered with mobile suits. Besides, having a war machine with hands allowed it to fulfill many functions not possible for a simpler war machine.

            Zechs' motions were automatic; he was on autopilot. Without even willing it he was traveling through the hangar, selecting a Leo, and rising towards its cockpit. He strapped himself in, cleared his departure with base control, and grasped the joysticks.

            "Lightning one, moving out," he said.

            "Roger," confirmed the base.

            'Lightning one'? No squadron here is called "Lightning". It just occurred to me. Well, they do call me the Lightning Lieutenant, and I am certainly the first pilot in the squadron. So. Lightning it is.

            He moved the Leo out—walking slowly until he passed the gates, then at a slow loping jog. And when the base faded out of sight of his monitors, his mind burst free.

            What have I gotten myself into?

            I'm just a mobile suit pilot—and I don't actually want to be a pilot in the first place. Being a pilot is simply my destiny, the one method by which I can attain the goals I've set for myself.

            The same is true of my alliance with Treize. He's promised to help me; he seems to be the only method available to me. On the other hand, his is the single most dangerous route.

            I'm letting myself be swept away by Treize's personal charisma. He would be a good man to have as a friend, if he had less ambition. Yet I've committed myself to conquering the world for him, so I can accomplish my own mission.

            He shook his head. He had half a mind to try some evasive maneuvers to liven things up and keep himself sharp, but he needed all his faculties analyzing the real problems he faced.

            The fact remains that this is a little late to be having second thoughts. The decision has already been made; I can never go back, even if I wanted to, to being a brilliant but hated Alliance pilot. I am now a brilliant but hated pilot, and a friend of a man with delusions of grandeur. And a traitor, can't forget that. But then again, I was a traitor when I joined the Alliance and donned my mask, so that hasn't changed.

            He sighed and turned back for the base.

            Fine, then. I'll throw everything into making this plan of Treize's work. I'll fulfill my destiny with his help. And then I'll decide, after it's over, whether or not I made the right choice.

            He laughed a little. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up agreeing with Treize after all. Maybe I'll buy into this deal about exalting the warrior as a way to bring peace.

            Maybe not. Either way, I'm jumping the gun. I am Zechs Marquise. I have infinite patience, and I have things to do.  Step one, I teach the Specials Mobile Suit troops in the art of mobile suit combat as best I can. Step two, I accomplish my revenge. Step three, I finish my service to Treize as we conquer the world. That's quite enough for one person to handle without the self-recrimination. That can wait.

            He entered the base's perimeter and moved over to the hangar. "Lightning one, returning."

            "Roger, park at position one-five-two," said control.

            Zechs would have sworn that the voice was Treize's.

            "And then join me in the base commander's suite."

            Doubt vanished.

            "Yes, sir."

            Zechs entered into Treize's office. "Sir," he said.

            "Zechs, I just wanted to speak to you about the task you are about to undertake." Unusually, Treize was speaking at Zechs through his back; Treize's eyes were looking out the window towards the base below.

            Surveying your domain already, Treize? Zechs thought. It's smaller than your ambition—your self-control is impressive.

            "I'd like for you to know that your job is the most important in OZ right now. Training the first set of pilots is the most critical—because that first set will become the instructors for future sets, and those that cycle back out to the regular Alliance military will find new prospects and send them to us. If our plan is to succeed, we must have a strong first class."

            He finally turned to Zechs and settled those powerful, penetrating eyes upon his subordinate. "So if there is anything you need from me, any resource you might require, I will do my utmost to ensure that you receive it."

            "Thank you, sir," said Treize. He could think of nothing else to say.

            "Because of the importance of this first group," Treize continued, "it will consist of the most motivated pilots already in OZ, and it will be much smaller. Some of those pilots will then be available to assist you, allowing you to handle and instruct larger groups."

            Zechs nodded as he took all of this in. "Thank you, sir."

            Treize nodded in return, then looked away. "There was only one thing I could not do for you, and that is change the timetable. You will have only two months with each group, and the first group arrives in one week. Although this will allow you to teach a larger volume of pilots, it will reduce the time you have with them and the time you have to evaluate and improve your methods."

            "I understand," said Zechs calmly, though internally he was moaning. Just one week? He'd be lucky if he had even a basic curriculum planned by that time! Plus there was all the administrative work to do…

            "On the positive side, I am bringing in some people to relieve some of the paperwork burden upon you. I want your full attention to be on your real job."

            "Thank you, sir," said Zechs, though his words mixed with a sigh of relief.

            "And as I said," said Treize, once more turning flush to Zechs, "if there is anything else I can do for you, I will make it so."

            "Sir, believe me, that's very comforting."

            Treize smiled. "You're dismissed."

            Zechs saluted, turned about, and left.

            As he walked down the hall, he smiled to himself. For someone who's bent on world conquest, he's a remarkably decent employer.

            Zechs' mind was working frantically. He struggled to remember his lesson plan—attempted to match the personnel files he'd received with the expectant soldiers watching him now—tried to analyze how they might respond to certain things.

            But all of that was internal. He betrayed no external worries or signs of any kind—he simply stood before them as their teacher, his bearing perfect.

            I am Zechs Marquise, he thought. The mask represents my self-control—my ability to keep everything inside of me. I am calm. I am collected. I am your teacher.

            And the instant he began talking, his thoughts settled. His mind sorted itself and waited for his orders.

            "My name is First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise," he said. He felt it quite interesting how he was addressing some pilots who were higher in rank than he himself. No thanks to you, Treize.

            "I will be your primary mobile suit instructor while you are here, at the Special Mobile Suit Corps Training Center. The mobile suit is the most powerful piece of military equipment in existence. Therefore, the winner of future wars will be the side that can deploy, employ, and coordinate mobile suit actions effectively—and the side whose pilots are better equipped and trained for killing other mobile suits. My job is to give you that training, primarily at the pilot's level, but secondarily on the operational level."

            There were some murmurs at this point. Zechs didn't blame them, and knew for certain that he would have their doubts if he was a 'student' at this point. After all, their "teacher" was clearly very young, and wore a big white mask and First Lieutenant's insignia. What could he possibly have to offer them? If these are the most dedicated, the pilots already in OZ, I can only imagine what it will be like when it comes time to start on regular Alliance troops.

            Plus, there was his uniform. Rather than the standard olive drab uniform worn by the pilots all around him, he wore a bright red dress uniform complete with cape—on Treize's advice, no less. "You are not normal," he remembered Treize saying. "Be sure they know that. Actively be their commander, have the presence of a commander, and they will follow you. In time, that uniform will be tied to your identity as a pilot, and your legend will grow."

            Well, in any event, they know I'm not normal.

            "Since we don't have much time, we will move very quickly in this course," he said. "There will be two exercises or combat sorties per day, minimum, with their attendant briefings and de-briefings, along with three classes per day, again at a minimum. We will all work very long hours." They took that news fairly well, Zechs thought. Their work ethic should be good. It has to be for this to work.

            A sense of inadequacy struck him suddenly but viciously. The arrogance I must adopt to take care of this post is colossal. While I can tell that the Alliance is dead wrong in its methods and thoughts, how can I be sure that I am any better?

            Well, Treize Khushrenada has faith in me. I just need for that to be enough.

            He plowed on with a confidence in his voice that didn't exist in his mind. "You all know the basics of mobile suit combat—you're all checked out by the Alliance's standards—but we are going to rebuild you. Starting with a firm basis in maneuver, we'll move on into firing-on-the-move and close-in combat, all geared specifically towards mobile suit-on-mobile suit combat. If we have time we will even practice basic melee skills."

            There was a definite reaction to this statement. Though the Alliance did allow certain of its pilots to carry beam sabers for melee combat, its tactical doctrine all but forbade their use. But it does work. Sometimes. Plus, it's a much more accurate measurer of skill than ranged combat.

            "Does anyone have any questions before we really get started?"

            One hand rose. It belonged to a woman who wore a severe expression beneath her glasses. Her hair was wrapped into two tight buns. Zechs remembered back to the personnel files he'd memorized—that would be Major Une, and according to her file, the meticulous and strict style of her hair was an apt example of her overall attitude.

            "Just one, Lieutenant," she said, enunciating his rank carefully. "Who are we being trained to fight?"

            Zechs restrained a wry smile. No easy questions for the rookie, I see. She smells blood. This woman is dangerous. And, even though Treize assures me that all of these people are in OZ, I must behave as if they are not. That means I can't say, "Your future opponents are the entire Earth Sphere Alliance military."

            "You are being trained to be the best pilots in the Earth sphere," he said.

            "You didn't answer my question, sir," she said, a touch of menace in her voice. "Currently, only the Earth Sphere Alliance has the technology to build mobile suits. It is hardly fitting for officers in the Alliance to train for battle against the Alliance itself."

            "No, I did answer your question, Major," he responded, slightly on the defensive. "The most powerful weapon that exists is a skilled pilot in a mobile suit. The purpose of this training is to produce the best pilots possible—pilots capable of winning any engagement, beating any enemy. Since the future is uncertain, and technology unavoidably spreads, then versatile pilots are necessary. To sum up, you are being trained to defeat anyone."

            "That's very ambitious, sir," she said. "I hope that this training accomplishes its goals."

            Zechs saw it, then. Luckily he managed to keep his reaction internal.

            You couldn't resist, could you, Treize?

            "Let's get started," he said. He hoped that working would help him cover up the things he felt.

            "Sir," Zechs said stiffly.

            "Welcome, Zechs," said Treize, still wearing his disarming smile.

            "Why did you send one of your agents into this opening class?"

            "My dear knight, whatever do you mean? All the students are members of OZ, so technically they are all my "agents"."

            "I mean Major Une," said Zechs, managing to restrain himself.

            "Ah, yes. Subtlety isn't exactly her strong point, is it?" said Treize, turning his eyes on a vase of roses. "Please, sit down. Yes, I told her to test you, to push you, to make this class difficult. I want her to learn, so please don't treat her any differently. That would insult her, besides."

            "But why, sir?"

            "Everyone here is in training, Zechs. Myself, the students, and you. Even though this class, as a rule, will be extremely cooperative, you need someone to test your limits so that you, like your pilots, will be able to handle everything."

            Zechs nodded. "In that case, may I ask where you found her?"

            "Lady Une, you mean?" asked Treize, a slight smile on his lips.

            "Yes, sir," said Zechs, somewhat unnerved by Treize calling her "lady".

            "You like her?" Treize said, though with a tone that made Zechs almost feel like his superior was teasing him.

            "She's dangerous, I can feel it."

            Treize drew out one of the roses and brought it to his face. "Yes, she is. And very dedicated. She is by far the most motivated soldier in OZ."

            "I believe you, sir," said Zechs, his mind going back over her service record.

            "Under normal circumstances, she is my statistician and one of my planning aides," said Treize. "Her skills are undeniable. But as to where she came from… you are aware, of course, of the growing resurgence of nobility in the world."

            "More aware than you can imagine, sir," said Zechs, shifting uncomfortably.

            "It's time I explain exactly who is funding us. Some members of the new nobility have banded together in an extra-national block. They find that they have more in common with each other than with the wishes either of their own countries or the Alliance. They created the Romefeller Foundation as the method for them to combine and exert influence."

            Zechs nodded. "So OZ is the military extension of Romefeller."

            "That's correct. Although unifying their finances and influences has granted the nobility some power, Romefeller lacks several key ingredients. First, a way to exert military power. Second, a coherent plan for the future. Third, an ideology. And fourth, a leader capable of rising above the aristocratic squabbles that inevitably arise."

            "And that's where you come in," said Zechs. "OZ, which you control, is the method of exerting power. You have a plan for overthrowing the Alliance and establishing Romefeller as the rulers. Your glorification of the warrior and warrior virtues is your ideology. And you yourself are the leader."

            "It sounds very narcissistic when you put it that way," said Treize. "However, you did speak the truth. The officials of Romefeller, at least, have bought into my arguments. They're now pouring their money into Specials, and into mobile suits in general. Suffice to say, there is little we might need that we would have much trouble acquiring."

            Zechs nodded. "Except loyalty."

            Treize smiled. "Some people will sell their loyalty, but those are not the sorts of people whom we would want in OZ. I'm glad you agree with me on this matter."

            There was a moment of silence. "Sir, you still haven't answered my question."

            "About where Lady Une came from?"

            "Yes."

            Treize's smile turned inscrutable. "That is between me and her."

            Zechs gave the slightest of sighs. "Sir," he said, standing, "is there anything else?"

            Treize shook his head. "Feel free to go. But please, do come by tomorrow evening."

            Zechs saluted. "Yes, sir," he said, and left.

            "Next," said Zechs, utterly calm. "The next pilot may engage when ready."

            Not far outside the gate to the base, a gaggle of Leos stood, observing Zechs. One of them emerged, strode to within a hundred meters, and waited.

            Zechs sighed. "I said, engage when ready." Why did they all hesitate to do anything unless he directly told them?

            Now his would-be opponent raised his weapon, aimed for a moment, and fired a burst towards Zechs.

            The shot wasn't close enough to set off Zechs' proximity alarms.

            His Leo was in motion the moment his enemy raised his weapon. The enemy's shot went wide, and his follow up shots continued to trail behind Zechs.

            Doesn't he know how to 'lead' a target? I suppose not. How disappointing—and how disappointingly common.

            Zechs noticed that his opponent was moving only his Leo's arms, not its torso, as it tracked Zechs' movement. In that case… He fired a hard burst from his maneuvering thrusters, pushing him much further ahead of his target's firing arc. Stupidly, the pilot tried to track Zechs, only to discover that his Leo's arms didn't bend like that.

            Free of enemy fire for a moment, Zechs brought his weapon to bear on his target and fired several purposefully inaccurate shots. To his surprise, his target stood his ground, bringing his own torso and then gun around and firing a few shots in return.

            Zechs maneuvered around them easily, and just to be sure he fired a few more bursts at his target. Still the pilot refused to move, his Leo's feet planted firmly.

            In that case, allow me to show you what happens to immobile targets.

            Zechs fired one more shot into his target's Leo—no way he could ignore that. Zechs then gave him a scant second to start maneuvering—and when the other pilot still did not, Zechs poured training rounds into him for three full seconds.

            Even one solid second of training bullets would be more than enough to end the simulation—three was a direct chastisement.

            Zechs cued his comm. "Base, Lightning one. Report on target…" he looked at his heads-up display, "…Bravo six."

            "Confirmed," the soldier on the other end responded. "Bravo six, pilot ID: first lieutenant Amos."

            Zechs was surprised—he'd thought from Amos' record that he was better than that. "Gunnery score: three out of seven, piloting score: one out of seven."

            "Confirmed," the respondent said again. "Gunnery three, piloting one."

            "Roger." Zechs waved Amos off of the training grounds and sighed. I didn't think my material would be this raw. I don't even need to rest between engagements. He shook his head, then changed frequencies again. "Next."

            Zechs looked as if he hadn't fought even a single combatant—uniform immaculate, face clean, hair straight. The rest of the debriefing room, however, contained a mass of surly, sweaty soldiers with a variety of hateful expressions on their faces.

            "Does anyone know the reasons for the engagements just held?" Zechs said.

            "To boost your ego!" a faceless voice shouted.

            Zechs half-smiled. "Clever, but wrong. Today's series of matches were to evaluate all of you, to gain an understanding of the level of your combat skills—and of your mental readiness."

            Zechs pushed a button, and on the large screen behind him appeared a roster of the pilots, along with their rating in both piloting and gunnery. It is, itself, a motivator. The pilots at the bottom wish to improve so that they can escape the embarrassment of being at the bottom,  the pilots at the top must keep working to remain there, and the pilots in the middle have something to shoot for and something to avoid.

            "Your skills, on average, are marginally superior to the typical Alliance pilot—but that's like saying it would take 1.1 enemy Leos to kill you, as opposed to one. This is unacceptable. Moreover, there are serious flaws in your mental state and thought processes."

            Murmurs. They're dissatisfied. In a way, that's good. The trick will be to channel that dissatisfaction so that it rests with their own deficiencies, rather than me. If I can manage the former, we'll have a strong class. If not, Specials may well be still-born.

            "Each Leo was assigned a designation, and it was obvious that I was calling you in order of your Leo's designation. Why, then, was there so much hesitation between the end of one fight and the beginning of another? Why did I have to repeat two or three times that it was the next pilot's turn? Each successive pilot should have been ready, should have already been thinking on how to make the coming fight more even, and should have attacked the instant the opportunity arose." He paused. When he spoke again, it wasn't any louder, but it held a strong negative emphasis. "Hesitation."

            He showed an overhead picture of the training ground. "Notice this. I set up directly in front of a hill. If any of you had had presence of mind, you could have gone around the back of the hill and set up in cover, thus making it far harder for me to hit you and allowing you better chances in your fight against me. Instead, each of you went to the same spot your comrades began at, even after you saw that I could defeat you easily, all things being equal."

            In the same tone as before, he bit off, "Unimaginative."

            He clasped his hands behind his back. "No doubt you're thinking now, 'Well, how was I supposed to know I could move before he said next?' Am I right? You're thinking things along the lines of, He never told me what order he was going in, or, Wouldn't he have told me if I could move?

            "Am I right?" he concluded.

            There were more murmurs, and a few nods.

            "You are dead wrong," Zechs said, emphasizing the 'dead'. "I never specified where you should have engaged me from, or where you could start, or when you could move. I told you, "I will wait here and fight you in turn"—you could have done whatever you wanted to. Instead, you adopted the opposite interpretation—that you would not act unless I told you to act, and anything outside of my specific instruction was forbidden."

            As if it was a curse, he said, "Dependence."

            He gestured back towards the board. "The numbers prove this, but it was something I felt myself. Each successive pilot who fought me should have done better. Fighting this many should have worn me out over time. Instead, the average score actually declined in the later fights."

            He stared at them, conveying his dissatisfaction even through the mask. "As you grew more aware of my abilities, you became more tentative, more lifeless, more instinctive, and much, much less effective. You knew that I would defeat you, and so you shut down. You had lost before the battle even began."

            And he finished most virulently of all. "Fear."

            He let the room fall silent for a moment. No one dared murmur now; some even turned their faces away in shame. "When you overcome your fear is when you are at the peak of your skills as a soldier, but that is almost beside the point. When the odds are impossible, when you are going to lose, that is when a soldier truly shines—that is when he is at his noblest. A soldier has fear; it's natural. But if you allow that fear to dominate you, you lose everything. In actuality, our entire existence is preparation for that moment when we stand at the brink.

            "There, and only there, can we find what is great within ourselves.

            "It may sound trivial or meaningless—after all, when you're about to die, what can really be important? But if, at that moment, you are ready to give it all—to fight and die for what seems meaningless, to throw your last gasps at the enemy, to dare him to finish you off so that you can bleed him with your dying strikes—if you overcome your fear at that time… Then, regardless of anything else that happens, I will call you brother."

            It wasn't even as if the volume or tone of his voice changed—but there had been something in it, some underlying passion, that demanded attention and respect.

            Zechs struggled to retain his composure. Ever since adopting his mask, he'd buried his emotions deep inside. Still, he'd never lost sight of them, and under Treys' tutelage was learning how to channel them. He was succeeding better than he'd thought possible—and his bearing was suffering as a consequence.

            He breathed in slowly several times, then continued. "Hesitation. Lack of imagination. Dependence. Fear. These are things you cannot have and still be a mobile suit pilot. If you hesitate, you are lost. If you lack imagination, you will be predicted and overcome. If you depend upon those above you, you lose the will and energy to fight. And if you give in to fear, you cannot be a soldier.

            "I can teach you techniques of mobile suit piloting, and I can try to tell you how to promote those things within yourselves. But they are internal; I cannot put them into you. They must come from within you."

            He turned and walked towards the exit. "That is all for today. If, in the wake of what you have seen and felt today, you decide you do not want to become a part of Specials, no one will hold it against you. You can return to the regular Alliance military, where they don't care about the things I've discussed today. No one will be the wiser. For everyone else, briefing for the next sortie begins at 0555 tomorrow morning."

            And he left the room.

            Zechs spent the next hours carefully evaluating the tapes of every match to determine each pilot's individual strengths and weaknesses. He also continued his planning and preparation for the class deep into the night, wondering all the while how many pilots would still be around to receive instruction the next day.

            When he returned to his room after midnight, he was surprised to find an envelope half-beneath his door. He opened it as he entered his room. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It read, "We will stand by you."

            Beneath it were signatures. Zechs counted to be sure—yes, he was right. Each pilot had signed it, even Major Une.

            Zechs smiled. He continued to smile, even after he fell asleep.

            For the time being, at least, he was victorious.