In the hours following Garfield's departure from Patrick Zala's office, the estate buzzed with quiet, purposeful activity.
Siegel Clyne, having embraced his daughter's audacious strategy, mobilized his network of loyalists and political operatives.
They began meticulously plotting the implementation of the parasitic infiltration that young Lacus had so calmly outlined, unaware that their every intended move had already been laid bare before their rival.
The two old foxes, Patrick and Siegel, each believing they held a decisive advantage, commenced their respective performances.
They maneuvered through the political theater of the PLANTs with renewed vigor, layering deception upon deception, each convinced that their network of spies and informants was successfully shielding their true designs from the other.
And all of it, every whispered conspiracy and coded transmission, unfolded beneath the half lidded gaze of an orange tabby cat who was deeply engrossed in the systematic excavation of a watermelon.
Garfield observed the machinations of mortals with the detached amusement of a being watching an ant colony reorganize after a child had poked it with a stick.
Lacus Clyne possessed a formidable talent for intrigue, a natural acuity that belied her tender years.
As she monitored the progress of her father's plan, a subtle inconsistency began to nag at her thoughts.
The pieces were moving too smoothly, the anticipated resistance from ZAFT's security apparatus was strangely absent.
It felt as though the board had been prepared in advance for their gambit.
After returning from a joint performance with Mia on one of the outer agricultural colonies, Lacus waited until her fellow songstress had retired to wash away the exertion of the stage.
Then, clutching a datapad containing her compiled observations, she sought out the true master of the house.
She found Garfield in his favored spot, a sun warmed cushion by the garden window, a half hollowed watermelon cradled between his paws.
He was scooping the red flesh with a spoon held in a manner that defied feline anatomy, chewing with an air of profound concentration.
Lacus settled before him, folding her legs into a perfect, traditional girl's sitting posture and waiting in patient silence.
Garfield crunched another mouthful of watermelon, swallowed the seeds with a practiced gulp, and regarded her with feigned innocence.
"What is it. Do I have watermelon seeds stuck to my face again."
Lacus shook her head gently, her pink hair swaying with the motion.
"No, your face is clean. I came to ask if you already knew, Garfield."
She did not need to specify what she meant.
The parasitic plan.
Garfield saw no reason for pretense.
He had always been candid with the little pink one when she asked directly.
He gave a simple nod.
"That's correct. I informed Patrick of your family's likely strategy some time ago. I provided the resources that allowed him to form ZAFT in the first place, and I also took the opportunity to warn him to remain vigilant against Blue Cosmos."
The name hung in the air.
Blue Cosmos.
Lacus was well aware of the organization.
They occupied a strange space in the collective consciousness, simultaneously notorious and enigmatic.
Everyone in the higher echelons of power knew they were a shadowy cabal of arms dealers and ideological fanatics, but their true leadership, their ultimate base of operations, remained a perfect void in every intelligence database.
The Clyne family's extensive network had chased phantoms for years, finding nothing of substance.
Even that supposed master thinker, educator, and philosopher who went by the name Morchio had only offered vague, unhelpful warnings that the group was powerful, mysterious, and exceptionally dangerous.
Yet, as Lacus looked at the plump orange cat contentedly licking watermelon juice from his whiskers, she felt with the certainty of deep intuition that whatever danger Blue Cosmos represented, it paled in comparison to the creature sitting before her.
This cat could reach into minds and rewrite thoughts.
He could fold space and open doorways to distant worlds.
He had once, in a display of power that still sent a shiver down her spine, summoned the spectral shade of her own deceased mother for a brief, tearful conversation.
And he had, with the casual ease of ordering a meal, furnished enough war material to build a military force that now rivaled any in the Earth sphere.
The unspoken truth was clear.
If Garfield could so easily equip Patrick Zala's ZAFT, he could just as effortlessly assemble a force ten times its size for himself.
Perhaps, somewhere out among the stars, he already had.
Far from the political heart of the PLANTs, on a repurposed agricultural colony that had been converted into a dedicated ZAFT garrison and training installation, the evidence of Garfield's industrial reach materialized in the void.
A colossal transport vessel, a wedge shaped behemoth stretching over two thousand meters from stem to stern, dropped out of a shimmering distortion and began its final approach to the colony's docking spire.
The insignia of the High Claw Group was emblazoned across its dark hull.
This was one of the freighters Garfield had caused to be constructed over several years in the uninhabited star systems he had claimed as his own private domain.
The resources within its cavernous holds were surplus materials from his personal forces, deliberately routed to support Patrick Zala's fledgling military.
And as ZAFT grew in strength and operational efficiency, so too did its utility to Garfield's long term designs.
Inside the colony's control tower, a fresh faced recruit pressed his nose against the armored glass, his jaw slack with awe.
"That transport is enormous. It has to be ten times the size of our own warships."
A grizzled ZAFT veteran beside him chuckled and clapped a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder.
"You've got a good eye, kid. It's bigger, no doubt about it. But don't get your blood up too much. It's just a freighter, not a battleship. Armament is minimal."
The recruit frowned, his military training overriding his wonder.
"Aren't you senior officers worried about pirate attacks on a ship that size, especially with such light defenses."
The veteran's eyes crinkled with a knowing smile.
"Silly boy. Minimal armament doesn't mean no armament. And more to the point, the High Claw Group's freighters have a perfect record. No pirate has ever returned from an attempt. We'd all love to know how they manage it."
"We'd all love to know."
Another technician muttered from his console.
"But that information is about as classified as anything gets. Forget about it and focus on the job. For the future of the PLANTs."
For several hours, ZAFT logistics personnel labored to offload the immense shipment.
Crate after crate of refined materials, prefabricated components, and advanced electronics were ferried from the transport's belly into the colony's warehouses.
When the last container was secured, the control tower transmitted its clearance.
The massive ship pivoted gracefully and receded into the starfield, shrinking until it vanished from unaided sight.
Once the vessel had achieved sufficient distance, the command droid seated within its bridge issued a series of flat, mechanical orders.
"Initiate jamming protocols against all enemy detection systems. Prepare for faster than light transit."
"Directive acknowledged. Executing."
"Jamming arrays active. Interference with hostile sensor grids is complete."
"Faster than light transit sequence engaged. Countdown commencing. Three. Two. One."
With a silent flicker of distorted light, the transport ship simply ceased to be present in normal space, hurling itself across the light years in an instant.
Back within the colony's intelligence section, the technicians monitoring their sensor suites stared at screens filled with nothing but cascading static.
The lead analyst let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Another failure. They've vanished again."
"What about the probe droids we deployed. Any telemetry."
"Negative, sir. No response from any of them."
"How do they keep neutralizing those units. They're state of the art."
"Should we recommend deploying a manned reconnaissance craft next time."
The lead analyst shook his head firmly.
"Out of the question. The Speaker cannot afford to jeopardize relations with the High Claw Group. They provide the majority of our strategic resources. If we were caught spying with a manned vessel, the political fallout would be catastrophic."
The intelligence team resigned themselves to yet another report admitting failure.
As was always the case, moments after the transport's departure, the interference ceased as abruptly as it had begun.
Their probe droids began chirping back status updates, their memory banks utterly blank, as though they had experienced nothing but empty void.
The method was laughably simple from Garfield's perspective.
Technology derived from a galaxy far, far away operated on principles that the Coordinators of the PLANTs could scarcely imagine.
The moment those probe droids detached from the colony, they were detected, their signals hijacked, their control overridden, and their data buffers purged.
If Patrick Zala wanted to know where the High Claw Group's transports originated, he would have to send living beings.
And he was not yet willing to risk that particular provocation.
Patrick did not fully trust Garfield, a sentiment the cat found both prudent and endearing.
The Chairman had attempted to seed tracking devices among the cargo on multiple occasions.
But the transport vessels were protected by energy shields that deflected any external scanning, and their policy was one of strict export only.
Nothing ever came aboard.
Without the ability to openly install large scale tracking infrastructure aboard the ships themselves, Patrick's technology was simply incapable of piercing the veil.
This resupply run was merely routine, one of many that would continue indefinitely.
Beyond his ongoing chess match with Siegel Clyne, Patrick was now deeply engaged in a new operation.
He was infiltrating the Morgenroete facilities on Heliopolis, seeding the Gundam development project with his own operatives.
The Coordinators proved to be exceptionally gifted spies.
Their enhanced reaction times and eidetic memories allowed them to absorb technical knowledge and blend into the workforce with remarkable speed, establishing a clandestine presence within the heart of the secret project.
Garfield, aware of every move through his own pervasive network, simply allowed it to proceed.
It suited his purposes.
The formation of ZAFT had sent shockwaves through the power structures of Earth.
The Atlantic Federation and their masters in Blue Cosmos felt the pressure acutely.
With renewed urgency, they petitioned the High Claw Group to return its key personnel to Heliopolis and resume their acting roles in the Gundam development program.
Their request was couched in the language of lucrative new contracts and veiled threats of economic retaliation.
Garfield accepted the proffered benefits with a gracious purr.
As for the threats, he filed them away under amusing human bluster.
Revealing the full scope of his power was counterproductive at this stage.
It was far more useful to project an image of a powerful but ultimately manageable corporate entity.
And so, with Garfield's tacit approval and active facilitation, Project Gundam lurched back into motion, its ultimate destination now shaped by forces its Earthbound creators could not begin to comprehend.