3.5 Progenitors
Muphrid
Star of the Lancer
17. Progenitors
I took a few minutes to study my surroundings, and I soon realized something:
This place may have looked like Tokyo-3, but it wasn't the city I remembered living in.
The first sign of that was the smog. Tokyo-3 had been a pioneer for clean energy, but a haze hung over this city as far as the eye could see. It was a thick cloud—you couldn't see above it.
Then there was the matter of my clothes: I was wearing a black robe and headdress—like something nomads or desert people might wear. The headdress came with facial covering, too, leaving only a slit for the eyes.
And even despite this, my skin was sticky with sunscreen: I found four bottles of sunscreen in the washroom, with two more empty ones in the trash. "Official government issue," the bottles read. "SPF 300."
No, I hadn't heard of SPF 300 before either. Couple that with the form-fitting goggles, double-layered gloves that tied to the robe, and long socks, and I think the picture became very, very clear.
You might think I'd be crazy to go outside at all under those conditions, but I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to do that. There was a note on the refrigerator:
"Presentation: Monday, Headquarters, 09:00."
The crosses on the calendar told me it was indeed Monday—the first of nine days in a week—and the clock on the wall read 08:15.
There was only one place in town that could be called headquarters, and Ayanami—she must've wanted me to see something—so I headed out.
The way to Central Dogma's street entrance was an unsettling hike. The buses didn't seem to be running, for one, and there was hardly any traffic on the roads. Some cars sat abandoned, with paint peeling off them or blistering. I walked the whole way, but the air had a foul stench about it, tingling the roof of my mouth. At first, my skin felt alive with pinpricks all over, but after a few minutes that sensation faded to a numb buzz. One could only hope I'd feel anything at all when I got inside.
After a good twenty minutes, I made it to the train station, and thankfully, the trains were still running. I didn't have to worry about finding a seat, either: there was hardly anyone else waiting.
The train got me to the Central Dogma street entrance. I did have an ID card to swipe at the gate, but when the blast doors opened and I stepped through, a voice called to me.
"Ah, hold the gate!"
I hesitated. Two other figures—clad head to toe in black—were at the card reader. My hesitation was enough for the first, the woman who'd called to me, to step through and straddle the seal, holding the gate open.
"Hurry up!" she called back to the second figure.
"I'm hurrying!" The second woman fished through a handbag for her ID card. All the while, the gate buzzed unpleasantly, with flashing lights and an audible countdown.
"This gate must close as a security precaution. Please clear the area. Authorities will be contacted in ten seconds if the gate is not closed. Ten, nine…"
At last, the second woman swiped in, and she scampered through the gate, too.
"Sorry about that," she said, bowing to me in gratitude. "Thanks for holding up; those things take so long to open up again, right?"
"Altogether too long," said the first woman. "Honestly! All the money they spent on this—you'd think they'd have come up with a better checkpoint system!"
"What can you do?" said the second. "It's bureaucracy in action."
"I know! It's awful." The first woman rolled her eyes.
Her stark red eyes.
"Ayanami?" I said.
"Huh?" She eyed me strangely; she raised an eyebrow. "What did you say?"
I flinched. "Oh, uh, I don't—sorry, I must be confused, I—"
"Samael?"
"Huh?"
She pulled back her headdress and took off her goggles. Sure enough, there she was—the girl with red eyes and pallid skin. But there, the similarities ended: this girl clucked in disappointment, like an older sister chiding me. "Come on, it's us," she said. "Who else would it be?"
The second woman pulled her hood back, too: it was Horaki. She eyed me strangely, too. "Maybe the sunscreen's getting to him?"
"It'd better not!" said Ayanami, and she looked at me crossly. "Samael, are you feeling all right?"
I laughed nervously, taking off my hood and goggles, too. "I'm fine," I said. "I just have a lot on my mind, I guess."
Ayanami nodded, pursing her lips. "We all do, don't we." She let out a heavy breath, and she looked to the distance—far down the giant escalator to Nerv Headquarters. "But!" she said, brightening, "that's what we're here for, right? We're going to help change that."
"We'll try," said Horaki.
"We will." Ayanami smirked. "Count on it."
What strange and bizarre alternate universe had I walked into?
I struggled with that question as Horaki, Ayanami, and I boarded the escalator down to the heart of Nerv. The girls went back and forth for a bit longer, with Ayanami confident that we would succeed and Horaki more measured and cautious about…well, whatever it was they were talking about. I couldn't really follow everything they were saying, but just how they carried themselves and behaved spoke volumes: this Ayanami spoke with sweeping gestures, but she looked directly at who she was speaking to and nodded along as she listened, never missing a word.
And she laughed.
Horaki said something funny, and Ayanami giggled. She even wiped at her eye to make sure she wasn't crying. What a sight that was to behold.
I can't say I remember what it was Horaki said, but I remember well what happened next: once Ayanami calmed down and caught her breath, she was…different, again. She got a distant look in her eye, and she asked Horaki,
"Do you think they'll go for it?"
Horaki started to look back, but she hesitated. "There's a chance," she said at last.
Ayanami frowned at that, irritated. "They ought to," she insisted.
"Yes," said Horaki, nodding. "They ought to." But she knew those people—whoever they were—might not.
There was a silence for a time. Ayanami closed her eyes, and her irritation turned to pain. She slumped a little bit. The weight of the world was on her, and she could be forgiven for buckling a tiny bit under it.
But she did bear that weight. She gripped the escalator railing, let out a breath, and opened her eyes. She stood straight and tall, and she looked on, eyes unblinking and cool, silent but watchful.
Horaki started talking again, and Ayanami said nothing. She kept that unflinching gaze, and a word—a name—sputtered from my lips.
"Lilith?" I said.
"Yes?" said Ayanami.
My mouth hung open. A faint sound came from my throat, but it was nothing resembling a word.
"Something wrong, Samael?" she said.
I shook my head, but she narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure? You've been awfully quiet."
"It's nothing, really!" I raised my hands. "Honest!"
"Okay…" She kept watching me. "If you say so."
I spent the rest of the escalator ride silent, with Ayanami and Horaki chatting away.
There were seven of us.
Horaki, Ayanami, and I headed to an elevator. Four others were already waiting there: people with the faces of Asuka, Nozomi, Toji, and Kaworu Nagisa. They waved to us, and we boarded the elevator without a word. Kaworu, with his white hair and red eyes, let everyone else on ahead of him. He stood at the front of the elevator cabin. He seemed to be in charge. He wanted to make sure everything was in order. He asked Horaki about some details, for instance:
"Did you make changes to the talk?" he asked Horaki.
"I did." Horaki handed him a flash drive. "Just a few tweaks to my part. I'll handle it."
"Very good." He tugged on his shirt, straightening out a few wrinkles, and he put on a smile for the group. "Everyone ready?" he asked.
"We'd better be," said Toji, who rubbed his arm up and down. "I'd hate for all that pokin' and proddin' to have been for nothin'."
Ayanami laughed. As serious as the mood was, she took it upon herself to lighten it. She sidled up to Toji and shot him a sly look. "So concerned about wasting your DNA all of a sudden? That's not what I've heard."
Who was this person?!
Toji reacted, too, albeit for a different reason. He put both hands in the air, saying, "I ain't got any idea what you're talking about." He snuck an irritated glance at me. "It can't be somebody like Samael's been spreadin' rumors—totally untrue rumors—can it?"
Well, I certainly didn't have anything to do with it.
"I didn't say Samael had anything to do with it," said Ayanami, with a smile that showed Samael had everything to do with it. I could only be glad I wasn't actually Samael, or I would've been in trouble. "Besides," she told Toji, "you should be proud. Survival of the fittest and all that."
Toji's face went through three or four different contortions before settling on a tentative grin. "Yeah!" he said. "Yeah. I should be proud. I am proud. Time like this, if you can help propagate the species and satisfy people doin' it—why not?"
"I don't know if satisfaction is what I've been hearing," said Ayanami, stifling a laugh.
"Hey!"
They went back and forth like this for a short time, with Toji getting increasingly flustered about the whole thing, at least until Nozomi decided to step in—perhaps even in Toji's defense.
"Easy, Lilith." Nozomi touched Ayanami on the shoulder. "He knows your weakness."
"He does?" Ayanami went pale—well, paler than usual. "No he doesn't. Not a chance."
At that, Toji grinned. "Something from Enoch's Bakery? A high-priced, fancy—"
"Don't!" Ayanami pointed a finger at him. "Let's agree to let it go, all right? I don't have a problem with that, and you don't have a problem with spreading your DNA around. Right?"
"This ain't fair when everyone knows about me and I can't say the word cup—"
"Take it easy, both of you," said Horaki, shooting them a stern look. "A little levity is fine, but let's not get carried away."
Ayanami did a faux salute. "Yes, Mom! No joking around, and no cupcakes later!"
Horaki flushed a bit. "Let's not be hasty here. If we can get the Council to go along with the plan, I think one cupcake is only fair, don't you?"
"You two are hopeless," said Toji, and Horaki bowed her head and nodded in reluctant agreement, to the chuckles and laughter of the rest of the room. Ayanami even patted Horaki on the shoulder in joking consolation.
"Let's put on our professional faces, hm?" That was Kaworu, who nodded toward the counter above the elevator door. Sure enough, there was a ding sound, and the doors opened…
To a wide platform with various and strange markings on the floor. Grand windows opened to the rest of the Geofront, with light pouring in from the outside.
This was—in another world—my father's office.
It wasn't my father's office there, though. In that world, rows of chairs had been placed, with no small audience sitting in them. My father was among them, but he was just one of many—which included Ritsuko, Maya, and more.
And from the front row, Misato rose, addressing the seven of us.
"Adam," she said, nodding in acknowledgement. "Thank you for bringing this plan to our attention."
"Of course, Madam President," said Kaworu. "I hope we can explain it clearly for you and for the assembled Councilors."
Two guards near the elevator showed us to a table with seven seats. Asuka took the first seat, then Kaworu, Nozomi, Toji, Horaki, me, and then Ayanami. There was a laptop in front of Kaworu's seat. He slotted in the flash drive Horaki had given him, and to the table's right (as we faced the crowd), a hologram materialized. The image was one of a planet, Earth-like in look—with landmasses and oceans and clouds—but the continents were different.
Kaworu took a handheld clicker in hand, and he circled around the table to the holographic projector. He addressed the room, saying,
"Ladies and gentlemen, Madam President, and members of the Council, good morning. My name is Adam. Our world and our people are in a dire situation, and I know there is not a soul left who doesn't eagerly await a solution, or who isn't working toward one.
"I'm pleased to present a proposal, one that our group at the Global Institute for Metaphysics has painstakingly developed over the past few months from technologies at hand." He gestured to our table. "A few of my colleagues are here today to help discuss the proposal and answer questions."
He clicked on his remote, and the hologram switched to some text.
"Now," he continued, "let me begin. I'll outline our current estimates for the Mainline Geofront proposal, including some of the shortcomings we hoped to address. Then, I'll hand off to one of my colleagues to discuss the Seed proposal we're presenting here, including the timeline for relocation. At the end of the talk, we'll answer your questions.
"But first," he said, clicking his remote once more, "let's discuss the Mainline Geofront proposal."
I won't pretend to be able to keep up with material such as this or to understand all the words. Still, I can tell you what I saw and what I did understand.
What I saw was a world that had been scarred—blasted, as though some angry god had held a burning candle to its side. Kaworu talked over this hologram projection, discussing the loss of entire species on the "irradiated hemisphere" of the planet. He spoke of an increase of cancer incidence worldwide, of crop failures due to a worldwide haze. It would take years—decades, or even more—for the ecosystem to recover.
But they had the Geofronts. They could go underground and save some of their people. They could grow food there and produce enough artificial light to sustain themselves through the dark times above ground.
But, large though an individual Geofront may have been, it was only so big. They could save people—some people. Millions, perhaps. Maybe even a billion or two.
In a world of many billions of people, that is a great sacrifice. And there would be no guarantee that civilization would recover even when the dark night passed.
"So you see," Kaworu concluded, "we at the Global Institute for Metaphysics were tasked to find a new solution, one that could save more lives—without requiring such a steep sacrifice or the inherent unfairness of selecting only a few of out every thousand people to continue civilization. For that explanation, I turn things over to one of my colleagues."
I looked down the right side of the table, toward the projector. Horaki rose, and she circled around the table's front. Kaworu handed over the remote. Then Horaki, standing with poise and solemnity, faced down the crowd.
"Good morning. I'm the lead scientist for Soul Transference Programs and Research at GIMP. My name is Eisheth."
She clicked a button on the remote, and the hologram switched back to a view of the planet, with splotches of light and dark red on the landmasses.
"The red color you see here," said Horaki, "is population density. All of these…"
She clicked the remote again, and dozens and dozens of spheres—filled with red—appeared on the projection.
"These are just a fraction of the Geofronts we'd need to protect ourselves until the ecosystem stabilizes. We don't have the time to invest in that. But, what we can do…"
Click. Back to the world in red.
Red and awash in crosses.
"What we can do," said Horaki, "is store the souls of our people in the Geofronts we already have."
They were madmen. That's what they were. They were going to let themselves all die, harvest their own souls, and find somewhere else to be reincarnated. They'd take the Geofronts to the stars, each with a fraction of their people's souls. The Geofronts carried with them the foundations for life: amino acids, proteins, all of it.
And then, they would wait. They'd wait billions of years for life to evolve from there, for something intelligent enough to take shape. Then, their program would resume: they'd imbue those dumb apes with souls and hijack those animals' primitive lives to carry out this mad survival plan.
Madmen—all of them. People die all the time. It's just a matter of when and how. To force yourself into an alien shape—a container? The idea alone made me shake.
I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Some in the room were skeptical, even hostile. One man, who looked like Professor Fuyutsuki, stood up to pose a question to us, saying,
"You're asking us to accept artificial reincarnation into bodies we can't even imagine right now." He shook his head, baffled with the very concept. "Why would we want to accept that? Many of us have lived good lives. Save the children and those who are absolutely needed to carry on our people. Have you seriously considered how many more Geofronts could be built before we run out of essential supplies?"
Horaki glanced toward my end of the table, and Ayanami rose. "Seven, maybe eight Geofronts," said Ayanami. "That's the best we can do, but Councilor, this question isn't about mathematics, is it?"
At that, the man looking like Fuyutsuki stood there for a moment before nodding in agreement.
"I didn't think so," said Ayanami, who circled the table to stand with Horaki. "This is about something else: about what we want our future to be. I want us to have a future. I want all of us to have a future."
She paced about the projector, peering at a projection of a globe. "I've been around the world," she said. "I've visited people affected by the burst." She put her finger into the projection, touching one spot, one location. "I've been here," she said. "There were some nice people there. I met a family with a boy who wants to be a sprinter." She faced the crowd again. "They know what's going on. They know that, if there's a lottery, there's a low chance they would be saved. They asked me if there were a chance their son could be saved anyway. 'So he can grow up and run,' is what they asked me."
She pressed a hand to the side of her head, as though the memory were a migraine she couldn't shake. That let the crowd chew on the story for a moment, too.
"I don't know how you feel about that," said Ayanami, still holding her head, "but I can't accept that. I can't stand it."
She let out a breath, collecting herself, and put her hand to her side. She froze the room with a hard stare.
"And I won't stand for it, either. I refuse to ask people to lay down and die for their children. What Eisheth and Adam have described to you—our proposal—is a fair solution. It is as fair as it possibly can be. Nearly everyone will bear an equal burden, and an equal chance of living on."
" 'Nearly'?" said Fuyutsuki.
Ayanami held out a hand to Horaki, who handed over the remote. Ayanami flipped through several projections until a white giant with seven eyes appeared on the hologram.
"Someone has to be the shepherd for the souls of our people," said Ayanami, "in bodies that can last the test of time—as long as it takes. These people—these volunteers—should have an understanding of basic metaphysics and metaphysical biology, but more importantly, they should be ready and willing to wait through the long night for this plan to go through."
She waved her arm toward the table.
"Like we are," she said.
My heart clenched. All I could think was no, no, no.
But that was so very like her, wasn't it? As much as it pained me to admit it, it made sense. Even before she ever heard the name Rei Ayanami, she was like that. She did something she thought selfless or necessary, with no regard to how it might hurt herself—or even her friends and family around her. What did they think about that? Had she even asked them?
No, I didn't think she had. Ayanami wasn't one to ask before she made sacrifices. When you believe in something like that—when every cell in your body calls on you to act, to do something—you don't ask other people. You tell them you're going to do it, and only after you're done do you ask them.
You ask for their forgiveness.
Ayanami asked for no forgiveness that day, even as the rest of the politicians and scientists hotly debated the proposal. Eventually, they sent us away to deliberate in private. I'm sure it was important to them, even though I already knew what their decision would be.
With the meeting closed to outsiders, the seven of us went back down on the elevator and toward the Geofront's exits. I followed Ayanami and Horaki the way we came; Kaworu and the others went their separate ways.
Ayanami, for her part, was much quieter than on the way in. She took the lead, standing two steps ahead on the escalator.
"I think that went well," I offered at one point, peering around the side to catch a glimpse of her face.
"Mm, yes," she said, smiling slightly. She looked back at me with the corner of her eye. "I think so, too. I hope so. It's what we need, to give everyone a chance. I hope they can understand that."
"They're not happy about handing things over to us." Horaki stared up the escalator intently. The wheels were turning in her mind. "Even though they should," she said at last. "It's not like we're getting a good end of the deal."
"We're going to help our people survive—all of them," said Ayanami, who looked ahead, too. "What could be more right than that?"
"Saving everyone, including ourselves," said Horaki.
Ayanami rolled her eyes. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" said Horaki.
"Being super serious."
"Somebody has to balance you out, you know."
"I was super serious earlier!" said Ayanami, who stomped her foot on the escalator step for good measure.
"Yes." Horaki smiled slightly. "I know."
Ayanami laughed—she giggled, even, and she leaned along the escalator railing, letting some of the weight on her shoulders float away, at least for a time.
And, to tell the truth, I wouldn't have minded to see her like that every once in a while. If I'd had that chance before, I would've enjoyed it.
But Horaki didn't let me enjoy it then—not for long, anyway. She came down one step of the escalator. She touched my shoulder and whispered into my ear. "Don't let that fool you," she told me. "Lilith knew full well what it meant to become a Seed of Life—to give everything of herself for her people."
I sighed, and I looked up the escalator, at Ayanami. "I know she does," I whispered. "I've seen it."
"You have, haven't you?" said Horaki. "That's good. You should learn from the past, Shinji Ikari."
I jolted. I did a double-take. I tried to look back at Horaki, but the escalator was gone. The inside of the Geofront was gone. I was on my own two feet, with hard, immobile sidewalk beneath me. The only thing that moved was the march of demonstrators on the road: they circled National Square with their signs bobbing up and down as they walked. The lead demonstrator kept the crowd chanting blasphemy.
The only being in front of me was the ghost who wore a satin hood.
"You should learn from the past," she said, facing me—though her eyes were covered by the hood. "Seven hearts burned for their brothers and sisters, but all this?" She waved with her sleeves—her hands weren't visible. She waved at the earth and sky. "This didn't fill the holes in their hearts. You're the same, Shinji Ikari."
I looked past the stranger. Ayanami was there, too, watching from a distance, but she was silent. She let me refute the stranger on my own terms.
"I'm trying not to be," I said at last.
The stranger pursed her lips, and she nodded once in deference? Or was it respect?
"You can try," she said, "for all the good it will do, but this is how you were made, how the people who made you were made." She turned her head slightly, indicating Ayanami behind her. "People like Lilith. You can try to overcome that, but you shouldn't be surprised if you don't succeed."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I glanced at the fence—at the black fabric that let only sporadic dots of light come through. I cleared my throat, and I said,
"I don't believe—"
But she was gone. They were gone—Ayanami and the stranger both.
I headed directly home after that, putting the demonstration of Seele sympathizers and visions of…whatever that was behind me. We had Keel Lorenz. It was our job to look forward, to make sure those who identified with him couldn't hurt us, and to prepare for whatever else might come.
I headed to the kitchen, and I started laying out some onions and radishes for a meal. I turned on the TV while I worked. Asuka would be home within the hour.
But what I heard on the TV made my heart sink.
You see, Ayanami showed me something—and it wasn't just her past. It was a lesson to learn, a lesson she and the hooded stranger both thought important: when you act rashly to plug a hole in your heart, you might stop the bleeding there, but something else might fail instead.
Lilith and her colleagues saved their people, but did they think their sacrifices through? Did they sacrifice themselves for the right reasons? Were their actions truly for the best?
And what about me, or Misato? I helped capture Keel Lorenz, but did I really stop to consider everything that might result from that? Misato sent me there to make the world safe again, but did we actually accomplish that?
No, we hadn't. We acted, and we got Lorenz, but there is a saying, right? "Cut the head of a hydra, and two shall take its place?" I don't like to think that evil can never be extinguished, but one must be careful. If you're going to cut the head of a hydra, you should cauterize the wound when you're done.
Misato and I hadn't done that. When I got home and saw the news, I finally understood.
"Late this afternoon," said the presenter on the TV, "officials at the Japanese Consulate in Myanmar confirmed that Kyoji Ishikawa, an employee at a consulting firm in the protectorate, was arrested by Chinese authorities on charges of espionage."
I took a few minutes to study my surroundings, and I soon realized something:
This place may have looked like Tokyo-3, but it wasn't the city I remembered living in.
The first sign of that was the smog. Tokyo-3 had been a pioneer for clean energy, but a haze hung over this city as far as the eye could see. It was a thick cloud—you couldn't see above it.
Then there was the matter of my clothes: I was wearing a black robe and headdress—like something nomads or desert people might wear. The headdress came with facial covering, too, leaving only a slit for the eyes.
And even despite this, my skin was sticky with sunscreen: I found four bottles of sunscreen in the washroom, with two more empty ones in the trash. "Official government issue," the bottles read. "SPF 300."
No, I hadn't heard of SPF 300 before either. Couple that with the form-fitting goggles, double-layered gloves that tied to the robe, and long socks, and I think the picture became very, very clear.
You might think I'd be crazy to go outside at all under those conditions, but I had a feeling I wasn't supposed to do that. There was a note on the refrigerator:
"Presentation: Monday, Headquarters, 09:00."
The crosses on the calendar told me it was indeed Monday—the first of nine days in a week—and the clock on the wall read 08:15.
There was only one place in town that could be called headquarters, and Ayanami—she must've wanted me to see something—so I headed out.
The way to Central Dogma's street entrance was an unsettling hike. The buses didn't seem to be running, for one, and there was hardly any traffic on the roads. Some cars sat abandoned, with paint peeling off them or blistering. I walked the whole way, but the air had a foul stench about it, tingling the roof of my mouth. At first, my skin felt alive with pinpricks all over, but after a few minutes that sensation faded to a numb buzz. One could only hope I'd feel anything at all when I got inside.
After a good twenty minutes, I made it to the train station, and thankfully, the trains were still running. I didn't have to worry about finding a seat, either: there was hardly anyone else waiting.
The train got me to the Central Dogma street entrance. I did have an ID card to swipe at the gate, but when the blast doors opened and I stepped through, a voice called to me.
"Ah, hold the gate!"
I hesitated. Two other figures—clad head to toe in black—were at the card reader. My hesitation was enough for the first, the woman who'd called to me, to step through and straddle the seal, holding the gate open.
"Hurry up!" she called back to the second figure.
"I'm hurrying!" The second woman fished through a handbag for her ID card. All the while, the gate buzzed unpleasantly, with flashing lights and an audible countdown.
"This gate must close as a security precaution. Please clear the area. Authorities will be contacted in ten seconds if the gate is not closed. Ten, nine…"
At last, the second woman swiped in, and she scampered through the gate, too.
"Sorry about that," she said, bowing to me in gratitude. "Thanks for holding up; those things take so long to open up again, right?"
"Altogether too long," said the first woman. "Honestly! All the money they spent on this—you'd think they'd have come up with a better checkpoint system!"
"What can you do?" said the second. "It's bureaucracy in action."
"I know! It's awful." The first woman rolled her eyes.
Her stark red eyes.
"Ayanami?" I said.
"Huh?" She eyed me strangely; she raised an eyebrow. "What did you say?"
I flinched. "Oh, uh, I don't—sorry, I must be confused, I—"
"Samael?"
"Huh?"
She pulled back her headdress and took off her goggles. Sure enough, there she was—the girl with red eyes and pallid skin. But there, the similarities ended: this girl clucked in disappointment, like an older sister chiding me. "Come on, it's us," she said. "Who else would it be?"
The second woman pulled her hood back, too: it was Horaki. She eyed me strangely, too. "Maybe the sunscreen's getting to him?"
"It'd better not!" said Ayanami, and she looked at me crossly. "Samael, are you feeling all right?"
I laughed nervously, taking off my hood and goggles, too. "I'm fine," I said. "I just have a lot on my mind, I guess."
Ayanami nodded, pursing her lips. "We all do, don't we." She let out a heavy breath, and she looked to the distance—far down the giant escalator to Nerv Headquarters. "But!" she said, brightening, "that's what we're here for, right? We're going to help change that."
"We'll try," said Horaki.
"We will." Ayanami smirked. "Count on it."
What strange and bizarre alternate universe had I walked into?
I struggled with that question as Horaki, Ayanami, and I boarded the escalator down to the heart of Nerv. The girls went back and forth for a bit longer, with Ayanami confident that we would succeed and Horaki more measured and cautious about…well, whatever it was they were talking about. I couldn't really follow everything they were saying, but just how they carried themselves and behaved spoke volumes: this Ayanami spoke with sweeping gestures, but she looked directly at who she was speaking to and nodded along as she listened, never missing a word.
And she laughed.
Horaki said something funny, and Ayanami giggled. She even wiped at her eye to make sure she wasn't crying. What a sight that was to behold.
I can't say I remember what it was Horaki said, but I remember well what happened next: once Ayanami calmed down and caught her breath, she was…different, again. She got a distant look in her eye, and she asked Horaki,
"Do you think they'll go for it?"
Horaki started to look back, but she hesitated. "There's a chance," she said at last.
Ayanami frowned at that, irritated. "They ought to," she insisted.
"Yes," said Horaki, nodding. "They ought to." But she knew those people—whoever they were—might not.
There was a silence for a time. Ayanami closed her eyes, and her irritation turned to pain. She slumped a little bit. The weight of the world was on her, and she could be forgiven for buckling a tiny bit under it.
But she did bear that weight. She gripped the escalator railing, let out a breath, and opened her eyes. She stood straight and tall, and she looked on, eyes unblinking and cool, silent but watchful.
Horaki started talking again, and Ayanami said nothing. She kept that unflinching gaze, and a word—a name—sputtered from my lips.
"Lilith?" I said.
"Yes?" said Ayanami.
My mouth hung open. A faint sound came from my throat, but it was nothing resembling a word.
"Something wrong, Samael?" she said.
I shook my head, but she narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure? You've been awfully quiet."
"It's nothing, really!" I raised my hands. "Honest!"
"Okay…" She kept watching me. "If you say so."
I spent the rest of the escalator ride silent, with Ayanami and Horaki chatting away.
There were seven of us.
Horaki, Ayanami, and I headed to an elevator. Four others were already waiting there: people with the faces of Asuka, Nozomi, Toji, and Kaworu Nagisa. They waved to us, and we boarded the elevator without a word. Kaworu, with his white hair and red eyes, let everyone else on ahead of him. He stood at the front of the elevator cabin. He seemed to be in charge. He wanted to make sure everything was in order. He asked Horaki about some details, for instance:
"Did you make changes to the talk?" he asked Horaki.
"I did." Horaki handed him a flash drive. "Just a few tweaks to my part. I'll handle it."
"Very good." He tugged on his shirt, straightening out a few wrinkles, and he put on a smile for the group. "Everyone ready?" he asked.
"We'd better be," said Toji, who rubbed his arm up and down. "I'd hate for all that pokin' and proddin' to have been for nothin'."
Ayanami laughed. As serious as the mood was, she took it upon herself to lighten it. She sidled up to Toji and shot him a sly look. "So concerned about wasting your DNA all of a sudden? That's not what I've heard."
Who was this person?!
Toji reacted, too, albeit for a different reason. He put both hands in the air, saying, "I ain't got any idea what you're talking about." He snuck an irritated glance at me. "It can't be somebody like Samael's been spreadin' rumors—totally untrue rumors—can it?"
Well, I certainly didn't have anything to do with it.
"I didn't say Samael had anything to do with it," said Ayanami, with a smile that showed Samael had everything to do with it. I could only be glad I wasn't actually Samael, or I would've been in trouble. "Besides," she told Toji, "you should be proud. Survival of the fittest and all that."
Toji's face went through three or four different contortions before settling on a tentative grin. "Yeah!" he said. "Yeah. I should be proud. I am proud. Time like this, if you can help propagate the species and satisfy people doin' it—why not?"
"I don't know if satisfaction is what I've been hearing," said Ayanami, stifling a laugh.
"Hey!"
They went back and forth like this for a short time, with Toji getting increasingly flustered about the whole thing, at least until Nozomi decided to step in—perhaps even in Toji's defense.
"Easy, Lilith." Nozomi touched Ayanami on the shoulder. "He knows your weakness."
"He does?" Ayanami went pale—well, paler than usual. "No he doesn't. Not a chance."
At that, Toji grinned. "Something from Enoch's Bakery? A high-priced, fancy—"
"Don't!" Ayanami pointed a finger at him. "Let's agree to let it go, all right? I don't have a problem with that, and you don't have a problem with spreading your DNA around. Right?"
"This ain't fair when everyone knows about me and I can't say the word cup—"
"Take it easy, both of you," said Horaki, shooting them a stern look. "A little levity is fine, but let's not get carried away."
Ayanami did a faux salute. "Yes, Mom! No joking around, and no cupcakes later!"
Horaki flushed a bit. "Let's not be hasty here. If we can get the Council to go along with the plan, I think one cupcake is only fair, don't you?"
"You two are hopeless," said Toji, and Horaki bowed her head and nodded in reluctant agreement, to the chuckles and laughter of the rest of the room. Ayanami even patted Horaki on the shoulder in joking consolation.
"Let's put on our professional faces, hm?" That was Kaworu, who nodded toward the counter above the elevator door. Sure enough, there was a ding sound, and the doors opened…
To a wide platform with various and strange markings on the floor. Grand windows opened to the rest of the Geofront, with light pouring in from the outside.
This was—in another world—my father's office.
It wasn't my father's office there, though. In that world, rows of chairs had been placed, with no small audience sitting in them. My father was among them, but he was just one of many—which included Ritsuko, Maya, and more.
And from the front row, Misato rose, addressing the seven of us.
"Adam," she said, nodding in acknowledgement. "Thank you for bringing this plan to our attention."
"Of course, Madam President," said Kaworu. "I hope we can explain it clearly for you and for the assembled Councilors."
Two guards near the elevator showed us to a table with seven seats. Asuka took the first seat, then Kaworu, Nozomi, Toji, Horaki, me, and then Ayanami. There was a laptop in front of Kaworu's seat. He slotted in the flash drive Horaki had given him, and to the table's right (as we faced the crowd), a hologram materialized. The image was one of a planet, Earth-like in look—with landmasses and oceans and clouds—but the continents were different.
Kaworu took a handheld clicker in hand, and he circled around the table to the holographic projector. He addressed the room, saying,
"Ladies and gentlemen, Madam President, and members of the Council, good morning. My name is Adam. Our world and our people are in a dire situation, and I know there is not a soul left who doesn't eagerly await a solution, or who isn't working toward one.
"I'm pleased to present a proposal, one that our group at the Global Institute for Metaphysics has painstakingly developed over the past few months from technologies at hand." He gestured to our table. "A few of my colleagues are here today to help discuss the proposal and answer questions."
He clicked on his remote, and the hologram switched to some text.
"Now," he continued, "let me begin. I'll outline our current estimates for the Mainline Geofront proposal, including some of the shortcomings we hoped to address. Then, I'll hand off to one of my colleagues to discuss the Seed proposal we're presenting here, including the timeline for relocation. At the end of the talk, we'll answer your questions.
"But first," he said, clicking his remote once more, "let's discuss the Mainline Geofront proposal."
I won't pretend to be able to keep up with material such as this or to understand all the words. Still, I can tell you what I saw and what I did understand.
What I saw was a world that had been scarred—blasted, as though some angry god had held a burning candle to its side. Kaworu talked over this hologram projection, discussing the loss of entire species on the "irradiated hemisphere" of the planet. He spoke of an increase of cancer incidence worldwide, of crop failures due to a worldwide haze. It would take years—decades, or even more—for the ecosystem to recover.
But they had the Geofronts. They could go underground and save some of their people. They could grow food there and produce enough artificial light to sustain themselves through the dark times above ground.
But, large though an individual Geofront may have been, it was only so big. They could save people—some people. Millions, perhaps. Maybe even a billion or two.
In a world of many billions of people, that is a great sacrifice. And there would be no guarantee that civilization would recover even when the dark night passed.
"So you see," Kaworu concluded, "we at the Global Institute for Metaphysics were tasked to find a new solution, one that could save more lives—without requiring such a steep sacrifice or the inherent unfairness of selecting only a few of out every thousand people to continue civilization. For that explanation, I turn things over to one of my colleagues."
I looked down the right side of the table, toward the projector. Horaki rose, and she circled around the table's front. Kaworu handed over the remote. Then Horaki, standing with poise and solemnity, faced down the crowd.
"Good morning. I'm the lead scientist for Soul Transference Programs and Research at GIMP. My name is Eisheth."
She clicked a button on the remote, and the hologram switched back to a view of the planet, with splotches of light and dark red on the landmasses.
"The red color you see here," said Horaki, "is population density. All of these…"
She clicked the remote again, and dozens and dozens of spheres—filled with red—appeared on the projection.
"These are just a fraction of the Geofronts we'd need to protect ourselves until the ecosystem stabilizes. We don't have the time to invest in that. But, what we can do…"
Click. Back to the world in red.
Red and awash in crosses.
"What we can do," said Horaki, "is store the souls of our people in the Geofronts we already have."
They were madmen. That's what they were. They were going to let themselves all die, harvest their own souls, and find somewhere else to be reincarnated. They'd take the Geofronts to the stars, each with a fraction of their people's souls. The Geofronts carried with them the foundations for life: amino acids, proteins, all of it.
And then, they would wait. They'd wait billions of years for life to evolve from there, for something intelligent enough to take shape. Then, their program would resume: they'd imbue those dumb apes with souls and hijack those animals' primitive lives to carry out this mad survival plan.
Madmen—all of them. People die all the time. It's just a matter of when and how. To force yourself into an alien shape—a container? The idea alone made me shake.
I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Some in the room were skeptical, even hostile. One man, who looked like Professor Fuyutsuki, stood up to pose a question to us, saying,
"You're asking us to accept artificial reincarnation into bodies we can't even imagine right now." He shook his head, baffled with the very concept. "Why would we want to accept that? Many of us have lived good lives. Save the children and those who are absolutely needed to carry on our people. Have you seriously considered how many more Geofronts could be built before we run out of essential supplies?"
Horaki glanced toward my end of the table, and Ayanami rose. "Seven, maybe eight Geofronts," said Ayanami. "That's the best we can do, but Councilor, this question isn't about mathematics, is it?"
At that, the man looking like Fuyutsuki stood there for a moment before nodding in agreement.
"I didn't think so," said Ayanami, who circled the table to stand with Horaki. "This is about something else: about what we want our future to be. I want us to have a future. I want all of us to have a future."
She paced about the projector, peering at a projection of a globe. "I've been around the world," she said. "I've visited people affected by the burst." She put her finger into the projection, touching one spot, one location. "I've been here," she said. "There were some nice people there. I met a family with a boy who wants to be a sprinter." She faced the crowd again. "They know what's going on. They know that, if there's a lottery, there's a low chance they would be saved. They asked me if there were a chance their son could be saved anyway. 'So he can grow up and run,' is what they asked me."
She pressed a hand to the side of her head, as though the memory were a migraine she couldn't shake. That let the crowd chew on the story for a moment, too.
"I don't know how you feel about that," said Ayanami, still holding her head, "but I can't accept that. I can't stand it."
She let out a breath, collecting herself, and put her hand to her side. She froze the room with a hard stare.
"And I won't stand for it, either. I refuse to ask people to lay down and die for their children. What Eisheth and Adam have described to you—our proposal—is a fair solution. It is as fair as it possibly can be. Nearly everyone will bear an equal burden, and an equal chance of living on."
" 'Nearly'?" said Fuyutsuki.
Ayanami held out a hand to Horaki, who handed over the remote. Ayanami flipped through several projections until a white giant with seven eyes appeared on the hologram.
"Someone has to be the shepherd for the souls of our people," said Ayanami, "in bodies that can last the test of time—as long as it takes. These people—these volunteers—should have an understanding of basic metaphysics and metaphysical biology, but more importantly, they should be ready and willing to wait through the long night for this plan to go through."
She waved her arm toward the table.
"Like we are," she said.
My heart clenched. All I could think was no, no, no.
But that was so very like her, wasn't it? As much as it pained me to admit it, it made sense. Even before she ever heard the name Rei Ayanami, she was like that. She did something she thought selfless or necessary, with no regard to how it might hurt herself—or even her friends and family around her. What did they think about that? Had she even asked them?
No, I didn't think she had. Ayanami wasn't one to ask before she made sacrifices. When you believe in something like that—when every cell in your body calls on you to act, to do something—you don't ask other people. You tell them you're going to do it, and only after you're done do you ask them.
You ask for their forgiveness.
Ayanami asked for no forgiveness that day, even as the rest of the politicians and scientists hotly debated the proposal. Eventually, they sent us away to deliberate in private. I'm sure it was important to them, even though I already knew what their decision would be.
With the meeting closed to outsiders, the seven of us went back down on the elevator and toward the Geofront's exits. I followed Ayanami and Horaki the way we came; Kaworu and the others went their separate ways.
Ayanami, for her part, was much quieter than on the way in. She took the lead, standing two steps ahead on the escalator.
"I think that went well," I offered at one point, peering around the side to catch a glimpse of her face.
"Mm, yes," she said, smiling slightly. She looked back at me with the corner of her eye. "I think so, too. I hope so. It's what we need, to give everyone a chance. I hope they can understand that."
"They're not happy about handing things over to us." Horaki stared up the escalator intently. The wheels were turning in her mind. "Even though they should," she said at last. "It's not like we're getting a good end of the deal."
"We're going to help our people survive—all of them," said Ayanami, who looked ahead, too. "What could be more right than that?"
"Saving everyone, including ourselves," said Horaki.
Ayanami rolled her eyes. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" said Horaki.
"Being super serious."
"Somebody has to balance you out, you know."
"I was super serious earlier!" said Ayanami, who stomped her foot on the escalator step for good measure.
"Yes." Horaki smiled slightly. "I know."
Ayanami laughed—she giggled, even, and she leaned along the escalator railing, letting some of the weight on her shoulders float away, at least for a time.
And, to tell the truth, I wouldn't have minded to see her like that every once in a while. If I'd had that chance before, I would've enjoyed it.
But Horaki didn't let me enjoy it then—not for long, anyway. She came down one step of the escalator. She touched my shoulder and whispered into my ear. "Don't let that fool you," she told me. "Lilith knew full well what it meant to become a Seed of Life—to give everything of herself for her people."
I sighed, and I looked up the escalator, at Ayanami. "I know she does," I whispered. "I've seen it."
"You have, haven't you?" said Horaki. "That's good. You should learn from the past, Shinji Ikari."
I jolted. I did a double-take. I tried to look back at Horaki, but the escalator was gone. The inside of the Geofront was gone. I was on my own two feet, with hard, immobile sidewalk beneath me. The only thing that moved was the march of demonstrators on the road: they circled National Square with their signs bobbing up and down as they walked. The lead demonstrator kept the crowd chanting blasphemy.
The only being in front of me was the ghost who wore a satin hood.
"You should learn from the past," she said, facing me—though her eyes were covered by the hood. "Seven hearts burned for their brothers and sisters, but all this?" She waved with her sleeves—her hands weren't visible. She waved at the earth and sky. "This didn't fill the holes in their hearts. You're the same, Shinji Ikari."
I looked past the stranger. Ayanami was there, too, watching from a distance, but she was silent. She let me refute the stranger on my own terms.
"I'm trying not to be," I said at last.
The stranger pursed her lips, and she nodded once in deference? Or was it respect?
"You can try," she said, "for all the good it will do, but this is how you were made, how the people who made you were made." She turned her head slightly, indicating Ayanami behind her. "People like Lilith. You can try to overcome that, but you shouldn't be surprised if you don't succeed."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I glanced at the fence—at the black fabric that let only sporadic dots of light come through. I cleared my throat, and I said,
"I don't believe—"
But she was gone. They were gone—Ayanami and the stranger both.
I headed directly home after that, putting the demonstration of Seele sympathizers and visions of…whatever that was behind me. We had Keel Lorenz. It was our job to look forward, to make sure those who identified with him couldn't hurt us, and to prepare for whatever else might come.
I headed to the kitchen, and I started laying out some onions and radishes for a meal. I turned on the TV while I worked. Asuka would be home within the hour.
But what I heard on the TV made my heart sink.
You see, Ayanami showed me something—and it wasn't just her past. It was a lesson to learn, a lesson she and the hooded stranger both thought important: when you act rashly to plug a hole in your heart, you might stop the bleeding there, but something else might fail instead.
Lilith and her colleagues saved their people, but did they think their sacrifices through? Did they sacrifice themselves for the right reasons? Were their actions truly for the best?
And what about me, or Misato? I helped capture Keel Lorenz, but did I really stop to consider everything that might result from that? Misato sent me there to make the world safe again, but did we actually accomplish that?
No, we hadn't. We acted, and we got Lorenz, but there is a saying, right? "Cut the head of a hydra, and two shall take its place?" I don't like to think that evil can never be extinguished, but one must be careful. If you're going to cut the head of a hydra, you should cauterize the wound when you're done.
Misato and I hadn't done that. When I got home and saw the news, I finally understood.
"Late this afternoon," said the presenter on the TV, "officials at the Japanese Consulate in Myanmar confirmed that Kyoji Ishikawa, an employee at a consulting firm in the protectorate, was arrested by Chinese authorities on charges of espionage."
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Misato... you are not a plague carrier. Your father and Kaji died, yes, but that doesn't mean you should... hide like this.