OUR LIVES:

A SEQUEL TO "HALF LIVES" AND "WHOLE LIVES

CHAPTER 1: "THE PICKLOCKS OF BIOGRAPHERS"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

"He was a man, and as a man he knew
Love, separation, sorrow, joy and death.
He was a master of the tricks of war,
The incarnation of a national dream…

You will know you have the whole of him
Pinned down, mapped out, easy to understand-
And so you have.
All things except the heart
The heart he kept himself, that answers all.
For here was someone who lived all his life
In the most fierce and open light of the sun…

Listened and talked with every sort of man,
And kept his heart a secret to the end
From all the picklocks of biographers."

(from "The Army of Northern Virginia" by Stephen Vincent Benet)

The professor was rumpled and unshaven and curled up in an impossible knot with his head pillowed on the edge of the window. The seat beside him was covered with notebooks and there was a half-eaten sandwich on the tray table in front of him. His limp fingers were still wrapped around a cup of coffee, long since gone cold.

The boy lost his nerve. He swallowed nervously, the hands clutching the treasured book sweaty and cold. He'd heard the Great Man had a fearsome temper. He'd heard the Great Man did not suffer fools at all, gladly or otherwise. It had taken all his courage to sneak up to this railway car in hopes of just saying hello and maybe getting his treasured book signed.

Instead, the boy sighed at his own cowardice and was about to close the compartment door and slip back to his own seat when a loud crackle on the overhead speaker announced that they would be arriving in East City in thirty minutes.

The sleeper bolted awake, spilling his coffee everywhere and muttering something that sounded like "AL! AL, no! Don't leave me!" Topaz eyes were wild with disorientation…

…then he noticed he was not alone.

Grimacing, he wiped the cold coffee off his hand using the sleeve of his dusty coat. "Hello." The expression softened. 'I didn't hear you come in."

The boy shrank back a little. "I'm…I'm sorry…I…"

There was a weary smile. "What's your name?"

"Jordie…Jordie Lane." His hands shook slightly as he held out the book Jordie had read from cover to cover, so excited over the theories it proposed. "I…I just wanted…"

"I won't bite.' The smile deepened into a grin and the rumpled man pushed back the messy blonde fringe that fell into his eyes and adjusted his glasses. "Honest. I think I recognize that," he nodded at the volume. "You read it?"

Jordie's fear evaporated. "Oh yes sir!" he blurted. "It's so exciting! You really think people will be able to fly in rockets one day?"

The Great Man sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from falling asleep at such an unlikely angle. "Welllll," he drawled, "it's an interesting hypothesis. I wanted to bring Professor Gagarin's theories to Amestris. A lot of the Drachman scientists didn't want to listen to my old friend, but I thought if I translated Pyotir's work and included my own research in experimental hwacha rockets used in the Xingese border wars in the 15th Century and their use of fireworks in battle it might help people accept his theories." He yawned, stretched like a cat and took another bite of the now stale sandwich. "Looks like people might actually listen to him now that we got it in print"

"And you're really going to test them at the Institute? Gosh!" the boy's face was alight. "I wish I could see that!"

"You'll see it if I blow myself up," Edward Elric chuckled. "I'll be in the news. All over," he added, snickering at his own jest.

By the time that Jordie's mother located him the boy was chatting away with the famous inventor and aviator as easily as if they'd known each other for years. When she peeked into the compartment, Professor Elric waved a cheery greeting. "Bright kid you got here, Mrs. Lane. You ought to send him to Hohenheim. We need minds like his."

The woman shook her head with a sigh. "Oh, he's dying to go, but I'm afraid the tuition-"

"Gimme that." Ed snatched the copy of The Exploration of Space By Means Of Reaction Devices (Исследование мировых пространств реактивными приборами) by Pyotir Gagarin and Edward Elric right out of the boy's hands. He scribbled an autograph, a phone number and an address. "I want you to call this number soon as you get to East City. Call collect and ask for Sheska. Tell her I gave you the number and told you to call. Then write a letter to this address. Tell 'em you want an application—ask for a packet for the Beacon Grant. They'll want your school records or a letter from your teacher at home and one from your folks." He glanced up at the incredulous look on Mrs. Lane's face. "This isn't a joke," he told her gently. "And what the hell else is Mustang gonna do with his money? Buy more horses? And it ain't like my kids need new shoes. There's enough and more than enough. You get that paperwork to my office. We'll worry over the details later. Now," he began patting his pockets and flipping through the notebooks on the seat. "where the hell did I put my Owner's Manual?"

"You mean this?" Jordie held up a black leather travel journal, unlocked and apparently overstuffed with photographs. One of the photos was slipping out and for a split second the boy and his mother got a glimpse of a very candid snap of the President with his shirt off, apparently fondling his own nipples.

Red faced, Ed snatched it away and tucked it inside his waistcoat. "Ooop! Sorry! That's ….classified. Uh…undercover…information…" he stammered, relieved that Jordie had not accidentally opened the little wooden case that contained certain anatomically correct 'research tools' that Edward always took with him on long journeys away from home which had nothing to do with rocketry but were guaranteed to be classified as 'reaction devices', at least as far as Edward was concerned….

###

CENTRAL HQ

OCTOBER 1935

A bomb was about to go off in the office of the Fuhrer President.

It was sitting behind the desk, grinding its teeth behind a carefully schooled expression.

"Let me make absolutely sure I am hearing you correctly. You want me…the Fuhrer President of Amestris and Commander in Chief of the State Military…to stand on stage…in public…while a half-naked girl jumps out of my birthday cake?"

"Yessir!"

If Colonel Hawkeye had been in the room she would have advised the press team to take five very large steps back from the President's desk and pray that they weren't wearing anything exceptionally flammable.

There were faint rumbling sounds deep in the President's throat, the same kind the staff used to hear whenever Hughes called Mustang up to gush over the wonders of his Gracia's cooking or how limber and randy she was in bed despite her pregnancy. Hawkeye would have quickly noted the tension in his right arm and the incessant tap-tap-taptaptap cadence of his manicured fingertips on the desktop, always a warning that a phone was about to be slammed, thrown or ignited.

Hughes was gone, and short of Edward Elric there wasn't a lot that could get under his skin nowadays, with the unpleasant exception of the Presidential Press Corp that currently swarmed around his office with bright smiles, waving their hands, showing him sketches and scribbles and using irritating superlatives like 'amazing' and 'star-studded' and 'salute'. That last one particularly irked the President. A salute was a recognition of superior rank or profound respect. As far as Roy Mustang was concerned, having a sequin clad film siren jump out of a cardboard cake on stage before cooing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President!" to the Fuhrer for the radio listeners was repugnant. Salute? The only 'salute' the proposed musical number was worth would be the salute inside the shorts of nearly every man in the nation. Even Falman reluctantly admitted that the buxom blonde was 'aesthetically appealing', especially romping in a swimsuit in the latest two-reeler at the local picture show. Aunt Chris called her Miss Mattressback and snorted with laughter every time The Ice Cream Blonde showed up in the papers fluttering several inches of fake eyelashes. Whores, whitewashed or otherwise, were too familiar to hold any charms for Roy. The blond in his bed might have had a shittier attitude but was a hundred times more exciting than a peroxide doxie with bee-stung lips.

As for this publicity stunt with The Ice Cream Blonde leaping out of Roy's birthday cake?

"I think not."

A half dozen faces crumpled in regret. "But, Mr. President! Think about the publicity this gala will bring—and after all, it is for your favorite charity-"

"-the ratings on Radio Capital will go through the roof—"

"—not to mention the newsreel footage—"

"-your popularity polls will surge, probably higher than they've been all year—not like you need the good press, but—"

"—you really want to give your image a shot in the arm, considering what you're going to be announcing about the democracy initiative next month. You know there's going to be one hell of a backlash. You want to be riding high in the public eye before you go tearing the whole world apart, and—"

"—and who wouldn't want to be serenaded by Gladys Turlough? I know I would!"

Manicured fingers steepled under a face that was still boyishly attractive after five decades. Keen eyes, black as ink, lifted to meet Breda's. They were absolutely implacable.

"Breda…chain up your dogs. I am not getting up on that stage. There will be no ladies jumping out of cakes, famous or otherwise. The only reason I even agreed to this farce was because you agreed it was a good strategic move prior to the announcement at Parliament in December about the government changeover. That—and that it will raise money for the scholarship grants for the institute." He'd relied on the strategic genius of Heymans Breda for two decades now, in peace and war, but having to cope with the necessary evil of his personal press and publicity staff, Roy suspected, was as hard on his old friend as it was on Roy himself.

What the hell did all this fiftieth birthday gala nonsense have to do with running a nation anyway? Ed had played to the media for the first time when he was a State Alchemist, but that was primarily to draw the attention of the homunculi so he could take them on in a fight. More recently he'd learned how to play ball with the papers and radio and the newsreels to promote the budding airship and aeroplane industry that was taking the known world by storm. Ed—and most assuredly Alphonse—had become damned good at grabbing headlines when it suited them, and always for a cause, not simply to draw attention to their personal lives.

Roy preferred a more subtle approach to the public. Roy had taken care of his nation for over fifteen years now, forged new alliances and gone a long way to establish truce with quarrelsome border nations such as Creta. He'd done it The Mustang Way—above the boards and behind the scenes, deftly manipulating behind the scenes when open overtures failed to yield success. The very idea of a public spectacle with radio and cinema and vaudeville celebrities singing his praises and showing off in public….well, damn it, it just wasn't The Mustang Way.

Roy had made a counter offer. The Hohenheim Institute and Academy, home to some of the best and brightest young minds in the known world, had its own fine arts school, sponsored, in no small part, by King Claudio Ricco of Aerugo. If there had to be some sort of public acknowledgement of Roy Mustang turning fifty, why not showcase the students? After all, they were the ones who would benefit…not to mention it would draw attention away from Roy, which was his real goal.

That suggestion had met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Breda, ring master to this circus of nitwits who worked tirelessly to keep the Fuhrer 'popular' and beloved in the public eye, just shook his head and sighed. "Look, Boss," he rumpled his short red crew cut in frustration, "I know you don't want to do this. I get it. I really do. I don't like it either. I know you don't like public displays and you'd rather we planned something, y'know, a little more cultured. More dignified—say, a symphony or something. But right now," he held up his broad hand, level with Roy's chilly gaze," you're on a good even keel. Right after November, you're gonna announce the permanent dissolution of the Military State and the formation of a democracy. We know, sir. We've seen this coming since you took your oath of office. But it's going to shake up the public and people are going to panic. You need all the good will you can get. I know you hate this—but it can help your image. The people love you—""

Roy glanced at his watch cynically. "Well, at the moment they do—"

"—right, so let's keep up the momentum. We'll tone it down." He glanced nervously at his staff. "I'll make 'em tone it down. You won't even have to come onstage. Just wave from the Presidential box. It'll be okay. Okay?"

This was coming from the man who had so skillfully manipulated the press by commandeering Radio Capital and painting Roy as a patriotic loyalist (and Major General Armstrong as the sole architect of the coup in Central) on The Promised Day. He knew Roy and he knew what he was doing.

Roy hated to admit defeat, but he'd been outflanked by the finest goddamn chess player in the whole Amestrian military.

Breda was close enough to see a vein begin to throb prominently on Roy Mustang's forehead. Time to get out before getting singed. He gathered up his notes and saluted. "That's all I have to report at this time, Sir!"

"We'll discuss this tomorrow. Dismissed!"

As soon as the door closed behind them Roy sank back into his chair and groaned. "Gladys Turlough….jumping out of my birthday cake." He reached in his top desk drawer for an aspirin, wishing he had some whisky to wash it down with. "Ed will never let me live this down…."

###

"It's not like we can get him anything he can't get himself—well, except maybe some fresh breeding stock for the stables. I don't see that happening anytime soon."

Jean Havoc scratched thoughtfully at his goatee and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. Winter seemed to be chasing autumn's heels this year, he thought. Frost had come early and while it pinked Riza's cheeks in a way he mightily admired he'd still prefer they were out of it and into something warmer, preferable a shared bathtub with plenty of soap to make things slippery and interesting.

"We don't need to buy him a present. In fact he'd prefer it if we didn't. You know how he is about birthdays." Riza Hawkeye adjusted her scarf and peered into the shop windows they passed.

Mustang had always said that the best birthday present of all was a good bottle of scotch and good friends to help him drink it. In fact it had become a custom dating back to the old days in East City, everybody coming over to Roy's quarters and eating Xingese takeout and drinking scotch, playing chess and poker and simply 'at ease' with their commanding officer. Now that he was the leader of the nation those casual evenings were fewer and further between but cherished nonetheless. Ed nearly always made it a point to be home for Roy's birthday and sometimes they wanted private time to do unspeakable things to one another that damaged the upholstery of the much-abused red velvet chaise-longue in Private Dining Room 5 of Madame Christmas' establishment.

Roy would be turning fifty this year—not that you could really tell it by his youthful appearance—and whatever they gave him had to be, well, something worthy of the event. Roy's personal staff had spent several long evenings arguing over beer about what would be appropriate. They might have asked Madame Chris or Edward—but wasn't this a gift from his team? In the end, Breda, Falman and Furey all turned to Colonel Hawkeye and Major Havoc and told them to take their cens and go get something, anything.

A watch? No. He still carried the silver pocket watch and his wrist sported a very handsome gold watch that Edward's son Maes had constructed for his 'second father' when he was fifteen, before he started blowing things up in his tiny workshop on the Hohenheim campus.

Cufflinks? Nina Elric had crafted a set from gold and lapis bearing Roy's alchemical array. Clever things, really—they opened and closed by clapping ones hands and gave off tiny sparks of blue light when activated

New brief case? Possibly. "We could always go down to that…place. Y'know? Spenser's Emporium? Where they sell those rubber-"

"—absolutely not!" Hawkeye shuddered. The very idea!

"—I meant for a gift certificate," Havoc clarified. "He and Ed might like-"

"—out of the question, Jean. Drop it."

Havoc shoved his hands disconsolately into his pockets and sighed. "Screw it, then. Let's get him a case of Stray Dog Extra Reserve. Not like it will go to waste. And not like we'll get to drink it with him, what with all that gala crap they have planned."

Hawkeye smiled a little. She had served Roy Mustang most of her life, and if she was sure of anything she was sure that the Fuhrer had his priorities straight. He would want his team with him, in private where he could roll up his shirt sleeves, slurp lao mian noodles with beef and peppers and eat steamed pork buns, pass the bottle 'round and relish down time with the closest thing he had to a family. "We'll see," was all she said, but the look on her face said 'he damned well better or else'.

"You getting' hungry?" He sniffed deeply. "Buy you a pizza and a pitcher."

A chorus of some romantic ballad was spilling out of the half opened door of an Aerugoan pasta joint. She glanced at her grinning lover and decided that she wouldn't mind splitting a bottle of 'A'go Red' and something crusty and cheesy and paved with black olives and mushrooms. "All right. Let me just take one more look…." She glanced quickly at the lighted window behind them, eyes flicking back and forth in search of something gift-worthy. It was Barnes and Walden, one of Central's largest book stores and a favorite haunt of the Elric brothers since they installed a coffee stand within its doors and didn't care overmuch if their customers spent time reading in the cozy overstuffed chairs scattered here and there over the sales floor. She didn't see any new alchemy or history titles, so she turned away, linked her arm through Jean's and headed in the general direction of mandolin music and the enticing aroma of basil and tomato gravy…

Then she froze. "Hey, what's with-"

Colonel Riza Hawkeye spun on her high heels and raced back to the window of Barnes and Walden, and for the first time in all the many hears he'd known her, Riza cursed.

"Son of a BITCH!"

He followed her pointing finger with his eyes. They locked onto an advertising poster bearing the beaming image of a sandy haired woman with a determined squarish jaw and the kind of tight smile that made friends count the silver after she'd been to supper and made men feel very protective of their testicles. His cigarette dropped out of his mouth. "Ohhhh….fuck!"

FIRE AND VICE: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY OF ROY MUSTANG

A BRAND NEW RELEASE FROM KELLEY WINCHELL

Best-Selling Author of "Muscle Men and Madwomen: The Armstrong Dynasty" and "Conduct Unbecoming: the Grumman Files"

Release Date: November 20th—Reserve Your Copy NOW!

…..TO BE CONTINUED…