The Fourth Dimension
by the Black Rose
AN: This story is set in an Alternate Universe in the forseeable future. Although I began writing it in 2004, it has taken me so long to work through it (I swear, this was supposed to be Clancy's novel, but he was too busy the day the Universe was handing out the idea), that this has to be 'set' in an alternate timeline to our own current day. Although, to date, the only real difference in the political sphere was the Democratic candidate who won the last US Presidential election. Let's hope that my version of the 'future' is too extreme to actually happen...despite the fact it accurately predicted the healthcare system overhaul. Weee?
Warnings: Character death. Most of the story will be set (one way or the other) in the 'past' (relative to the year 2027). So, while the character's death is upsetting, it does not mean the character won't be appearing in this story. And although I am not a fan of dead main characters myself, in this case, it is absolutely essential to the plotline. Please forgive me. And if you could spare me some trust...I think I can still work everything out to a satisfying conclusion.
Thank you to those that will read this. Love, ~the Black Rose
Prologue Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
October 24, 2026 A.D.
Washington, D.C.
The autumn air held its breath. Horseshoes clacked a funereal march while pitted, wrought-iron wheels from another century creaked against patchwork lanes. A fine dusting of snow crept along street crevices but couldn't escape granite curbs. Crisp air reeked of horses and pine. General Heero Yuy wasn't sure he understood why the old-world tradition remained.
This is a joke. It's not her in that coffin...
For two days, hundreds of thousands shuffled through the rotunda to see that coffin, adorned in the flag of the old republic. Dignitaries, soldiers, civilians….So many tears – some dried, some still worn into people's faces...Pleading eyes. Blank stares. Their faces blurred.
This is wrong. Something about it...
The carriage stopped at the end of the road. Two soldiers stepped down from their positions and opened the back of the vehicle. Six more honor guardsmen moved forward in the dress blue uniforms of the unified nation. Eight men hefted an ivory coffin onto their shoulders. The whine of bagpipes filled the air as the funeral party accompanied Relena Darlian up the long set of steps to her final resting place.
"Heero..." Her voice, whisper soft, found his ear. The General jerked his head, searching...
The eight soldiers continued their trek through the private gates of Arlington Cemetery, and the bagpipes fell silent. Boots crunched on the occasional patch of snow. A bird cackled overhead. The air smelled of pine and wood; it felt too cold, too thin to breathe...
This isn't over. Relena…
A blond ghost moved in the corner of his eye. Heero squared his shoulders and followed the crowd of mourners.
September 1, 2027 A.D.
Washington, D.C.
Heero wasn't sure why he was here…in this place. Stained glass threw strange light against the wood and carpet floors of the sanctuary. He didn't know how or why he found himself here, just that today was a day when she…When he couldn't let go of the feeling that she was still…
"Heero." She found his hand in the dark, lying next to him on the cold, hard ground. Her fingers curled around his fist. The air in the tunnel was dank and dirty. But he'd slept in worse places. "I want to know more about you." Her voice was soft; if he could have seen her, she probably would have smiled. He grunted. "So you can give up?" "No. So I can remember." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Years from now, I want to remember your face and everything," she took a breath. Neither one knew how many breaths they had left. "About you."
He felt the urge to leave, but his feet held him planted in the aisle between rows of woodblock benches. At the front of the church, the focal point was a platform and an ornate podium painted gold. Behind the arrangement, stained glass representations of the life of Christ filled the place with quiet, sparkling light…It was eerie how blood from a lamb could seem so bright.
Churches. The places only hold the dead. He'd seen the inside of a church on four occasions: his mother's death, his father's death, one time when she insisted – in the depths of her anxiety – on praying over him, and the last time...
"She was the hope of a generation." An ancient man began in a tremulous voice; former President Weyridge was just as much a spectacle as the funeral procession. "Her guidance and faith brought warring brothers home again. Our nation would not be what it is today without her sacrifice, her benevolence, and her strength.
"It was her gentleness that healed a war-torn nation. And with her strength, she defended it against a great many odds. She was the embodiment of honor and nobility, generosity, and compassion.
"She will be sorely missed by us all."
He didn't want to be here. To be here was to say goodbye. That he failed... That he failed her.
"Can I help you, son?"
Heero opened his eyes and turned in the direction of the voice. A "man of the cloth" stood nearby looking more like a teen of the cloth dressed in oversized robes than the image held in history books.
"I asked if there's something I could do to help you."
"No." The General took a step back. At least his feet were moving again. He could leave…
"You look—" The younger man's forehead was smooth, as if he'd never known an anxious day in his life, "like you could use an ear." His lips smiled in a way that didn't reach his eyes.
Heero shook his head. Why couldn't he just leave? "I'm fine." Flickering candlelight caught his eye…Prayer candles. She'd lit one for him, once. But, he didn't want to remember….
"You light one in dedication." Her green-blue eyes stared up at him; he felt uncomfortable – not just because she was staring, incredulous (probably), that he'd never heard of such a thing. But churches only held the dead…
"What for?" He pried the too-tall collar of his uniform away from his neck. The uniform wasn't made for someone his age…
"It's a way of praying for someone." She dropped a folded dollar into the collection box and picked up an already-lit candle. "Someone who needs it, who needs help."
Another wick burned; the flame writhed on a deathbed of ivory wax. Relena touched his arm. "Most often, people light them for lost cau—"
"Seems like a waste of a dollar to me."
"Would you like to pray for someone? I'd be happy to pray with you."
Heero found himself staring into the rows of lighted candles.
"It's not a waste!" Her grip on his arm turned to steel. "When there's nothing else I can do, I find it comforting," her eyebrows pinched together; her eyes no longer reflected the candlelight, "to remember. There's someone who has it all under control." Her mouth turned up into a smile.
Heero snorted. "If he has it under control already, what do you hope to—"
"Peace. It's to remind me, Heero. Not to give up hope." She sighed and folded her arms around her chest like she was giving herself a hug. "Miracles happen every day."
"Do you believe in miracles, son?"
Ice flooded his system; he shook his head and turned to stare at the priest. "What?"
The younger man's face still held that expression – the one with the annoying twist of his lips like he was superior in some way. Like he had all the answers. "That's what the candles are for."
"Yeah, sure."
"Go ahead. Whatever's on your mind. Whoever's on your heart." The priest plucked the nearest candle from its resting place and held it towards Heero. The General briefly wondered if the guy's robes were flame-retardant.
"Light a candle and pray. A miracle can still happen."
Miracles. He wanted to laugh. She was buried. In a coffin. She can't come back…
"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil." The priest shut the book and bowed his head. "Let us pray. Heavenly Father, we come here to celebrate the sanctity of life. We, as a nation, don't understand your will, Father. We don't understand why someone so beloved, Lord, should be taken from us. But, while our knowledge is limited, we trust your infinite wisdom. I ask that you bless this nation. Repair the divisions that still exist among us."
Heero shifted and kept his head bowed. The priest's words held little meaning. She was dead. She couldn't be dead.
"Watch over her, Father. May you keep her close to you always. And pour your mercy and grace on all those she left behind. Amen."
The sky split with a deafening roar. Three F38 fighter jets screamed overhead, followed by three more, and three more... Heero didn't bother to count them. He knew 51 aircraft would perform the tribute. Two honor guardsmen stepped forward and began the careful, ceremonial folding of the flag. They had chosen the pre-war design: 13 stripes and 50 stars - the symbol of the old republic. It was fitting.
The flag folded, its guardians held the triangle of red and white aloft. A man with white-blond hair in the green, decorated uniform of an Army General stepped toward the honor guardsmen and performed an about-face. The soldiers extended the flag to General Zechs Merquise.
"Please accept this token of the Light Infantry and Terrorist Elimination forces of the United States of America."
Zechs nodded and accepted the flag. "Thank you."
A man shouted. The crack of rifles – seven shots fired from seven guns; the riflemen performed three volleys in a 21-Gun salute. AirForce 1 flew overhead and a bugle began to play. Heero knew the words to the haunting melody…
Fading light dims the sight
And a star gems the sky, gleaming bright
From afar drawing nigh,
Falls the night.
With numb fingers, Heero cradled a lit candle, and held the flame to the wick of a white candle in the last row. If you're up there, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed and tried again. "If anyone is up there at all..." The candle wavered in his hand; he almost dropped it. The wick ignited and its flame burned higher than the others for a moment.
"Bring her back."
She didn't deserve this. He tasted acid in his mouth. I did. You could have taken me a hundred times… Rage, white hot and aching lit a fire in every cell of his skin. But you didn't. Why her? You can't take her. Heero whirled to glare up at the stained glass window.
"I'm sorry, son—"
"You hear me?" He shouted up at the window, willing it to shatter into a million pieces. To bring God himself down from his majestic mountaintop. "Damn you!" The small fires melted through his skin and spread inside his body, merging, forming a single blaze. The heat was unbearable. His body began to tremble…it couldn't hold the raging fire within.
"Sir—"
The blaze roared out of control. "GIVE HER BACK!"
In memory of Relena Darlian
47th President of the United States
Beloved by all who knew her.
1999 – 2026
Supplemental Note:
Due to a reviewer's comment, I thought I should mention... I majored in political science and am aware of US age requirements for office. I don't say that to be jerky in any way (it was a good catch from the perspective that the person was paying attention to the details), I just want you all to know... This is a very complex story that I've been working on for 6 years (in some form or fashion), and Relena's age at her death and during her tenure in office is an important part of the back story that will all be explained as we go along. I did attempt to hint at a point earlier in the story (check Heero's flashbacks) that not just Relena's age is...unique.
Constructive criticism is always welcome, and
I am grateful to all of you - for reading, for your reviews, and comments. Love, Rose