"Alas! We were lost [ ...]! We shattered ourselves! We left our elder brothers behind! Our younger brothers! Where did they see the sun? Where must they be staying, now that the dawn has come?"
— Popul Vuh, Part Four
Tom stirred in his bed at the sound of the alarm, automatically reaching out to the space next to him. The sheets were cool and smooth beneath his fingertips; it took him a moment to realize that he'd been subconsciously expecting something else, then another long moment to wonder at just what it was that he'd been expecting.
It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the human mind could adjust to new conditions. It had only been three days since he and John had started spending the night in the same bed, and he already felt the other man's absence as a dimming at the start of the day.
He couldn't help but wonder if John had missed his presence, too; and if he still would, after Tom told him about the latest bombshell. He hadn't had it in him to test how deep 'just because I've started to give a damn' actually went the night before. Tom had a lot more brittle places now than he'd had before the war ... or at least, that he'd been willing to acknowledge, then. The remarkable part was that John hadn't made him feel guilty about his avoidance; just challenged him, the same way he always had, if somewhat less acrimoniously than in the early days. But John had his brittle places, too.
He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for the folded pages he'd left on the bedside table the night before. He was getting ahead of himself again. It might not change anything. And even if it did, wasn't it the height of selfishness to stare at his own navel while humanity was once more facing extinction?
To quote Dan, 'it ain't over 'til it's over'. Time to start the day, and let the chips fall how they would.
When he wandered into the cafeteria for breakfast sometime later, papers tucked in a pocket, Tom found that the cooks had managed to scrounge up enough eggs for a scramble. It made a nice treat for the morning after the battle. There were even a few shreds of greenery and some unidentified meat mixed in, probably the last of the previous week's hunting and gathering. He savored every bite, thinking of the small ways every last resident of Charleston cultivated hope; he did need reminding, from time to time, that it wasn't his burden alone to bear.
He looked up as another plate joined his on the table, and Marina sat down across from him. It wasn't time for their meeting yet, but he didn't mind; she was becoming a good friend, as well as a capable administrator. She'd been a senator's aide before the war, so she knew the political and legal foundation of the job better than he did, and she'd treated her occasional missteps on the practical front — the time she'd taken the photographs of the Volm grid gun out of his desk and shown them to someone not cleared for sensitive information without considering the potential consequences, for example; or some of the moves she'd supported Hathaway in while Tom and Pope had been in Boston — as learning experiences, rather than trying to pass the buck. He appreciated that about her.
"Letting yourself be seen this morning?" she said, in a lightly teasing tone.
Tom shrugged, and found a smile for her in return. "Followed my nose. Looks like the chicken project's been a success."
"So far so good," she nodded, taking a bite of her own portion with a pleased smile. "Though we were lucky we had enough warning to prepare for the attack; the coop was in the area devastated by the Mega-mechs."
"Even with that warning, though, we still lost all too much. Every life lost, even in exchange for one of their death machines, is one too many." He shook his head, remembering how frustrated he'd felt while the battle was unfolding, penned underground with only fragmented radio reports to keep him informed. If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd known John was right about him being a target, he would have gone up there, regardless.
"Especially when you count the dead as family," she observed, eyes kind. "I heard a glass was lifted in your name at a wake last night, for one of the Berserkers. I hope you didn't spend that time in your office; you need time to rest and recharge and grieve as much as anyone. Perhaps more."
"Perhaps so, but that doesn't change the fact that running this place is a twenty-five hour a day, eight day a week job, even at the best of times," Tom replied — then realized what else she was getting at, and rolled his eyes. "And Pope and I aren't actually joined at the hip. Don't worry, though; I did get some rest. And by rest, I mean sleep."
"I had begun to wonder," she said, the corners of her mouth tucking in briefly. "I hope you know what you're doing, there. I've heard such different accounts of him as ... let's say, puzzle me exceedingly."
Tom snorted at that bit of careful summation. "I almost want to hear you quote that to his face. Pride in good regulation, ha. Though I suspect he'd claim to identify more with the rogue of the piece than the brooding hero."
"The President knows his Pride and Prejudice," Marina tipped her cup to him. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that of all men, you would; back in the days when we had the world at our fingertips, there was an Internet saying that a man who knows his Jane Austen always, always wins."
"Rebecca was a fan," he admitted, a bit abashed by the praise. "Comedies of manners; the small-scale interpersonal dramas that define us as human beings every bit as much as the grander movements of nations."
"Perhaps that's why the Espheni have had such trouble predicting us. Didn't you say one of the rebel Skitters described them to you as organic computers? I have a hard time imagining a culture like that ever producing anything as irrational as romantic literature."
"Pity it's not really something we can weaponize against them." Tom spent a brief, brightly amused moment imagining Espheni twitching and collapsing when faced with literary quotations, then put down his fork. "Speaking of plotting against the Espheni — care to adjourn with me? Or ..." He glanced over as he saw Dan Weaver walk into the room from the other side, eyeing the food line with an intrigued expression. "Nevermind, I'm sure Dan will keep you company while you finish your breakfast."
Marina lifted an admonishing eyebrow at him, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. "We had a few ... differences of opinion while you were out of the city looking for Anne and your daughter, that's all. There's nothing of that nature between the Colonel and I."
"That's not what Jeanne says. And you were the one who just brought up romantic literature." Tom waggled his eyebrows back. Then he relented and got up to clear his plate. "Anyway, take your time."
She scoffed, but he noticed she didn't immediately get up ... and her gaze tracked over to the food line the moment Tom was out of conversational range.
Another example of hope and day-to-day human courage. Perhaps Cochise had been right to remind him of what he'd said the day after Alexis' birth: that the human spirit really was the most powerful thing on the planet.
Tom's fingers drifted to the pocket crinkling with the weight of Dr. Kadar's new report, and he found himself humming the song Jeanne had arranged for the Liberty Tree's christening as he headed for his office.
He tried to hold onto that cautiously positive mood as the morning unfolded, and mostly managed to succeed — until Anne showed up for the conversation he'd promised her the night before.
She seemed ... less antagonistic than in recent weeks as she entered his office and took a seat on the other side of the desk, a mixed omen for their conversation. He understood that she'd had the right to be angry with him, but he'd had a right to be angry too, and frankly, he hadn't had the emotional resources to clear the air what with everything else on his plate. He'd figured they'd get past it eventually anyway, because she was the conciliating type ... which, of course, was one of the things that had gone wrong in their relationship to begin with.
One of these days, he should probably find a book on self-care for PTSD sufferers. It wasn't as though everyone still alive hadn't collected a whole attic full of issues, and he wanted to be a better role model for his kids.
"Before we start, I'd like to apologize again for waiting to talk to you about this," he began, clearing his throat and knitting his fingers together atop his desk. "In my defense, I can only offer that I thought it might be hard for you to hear the kinds of things I was asking Dr. Kadar to look for, particularly when I didn't yet have any answers."
"What kinds of things?" Anne asked, frowning at him in clear suspicion.
Tom took a deep breath, and began. "First of all, whether or not she really is — genetically — our daughter." He held up a hand to forestall the obvious objection. "Not because I doubted you, or because I had any intention of abandoning her regardless of the answer; but because the Espheni are capable of rewriting biology on a level that frankly terrifies me, and I wanted to be sure they hadn't found a way to change that. The good news is, they didn't; she's one hundred percent ours."
Anne clenched her hands tighter together in her lap, but her voice was steady as she replied. "If that was the first question, I hate to ask what the second was," she replied.
He abruptly remembered that Dr. Kadar's results were still tucked in his pocket; he took the sheets of paper out, then carefully unfolded them, smoothing them flat atop the desk. He slid the top three sheets over to Anne — the original DNA test she herself had asked for, followed by the ones to establish paternity and maternity — then stared down at the next set, trying to decide how best to explain them. He still found it difficult to believe what the tests suggested, despite his long-standing suspicions on the subject.
"So did I," he said, seriously. "The question was — whether the alien DNA Dr. Kadar found in her initial tests came from the Espheni, or from some other source entirely."
Anne went several shades paler, staring at him in consternation. "The fact that you phrased it like that tells me that it isn't — but what else would it be? What else could it be?" she objected.
He spread his hands wide. "There's no easy answer to that question. After Cochise stopped by, it was pretty simple for Dr. Kadar to find some transfer DNA to test against the Volm genome. And I recently had a scavenging party go back to retrieve a sample from the last Overlord we killed under the pretext of finding easier ways to destroy them. What's showing up in Lexie's DNA ... it doesn't match either of those sources."
"But the fevers she suffers when she has the growth spurts, the things we've seen in her blood samples ... apart from the heightened rather than lowered temperature, it mimics what we've seen from other Espheni infections in the past," Anne pointed out. "That doesn't make any sense."
"I know, it doesn't," Tom shrugged helplessly. "He did find some Espheni proteins in her blood, particularly in the samples taken right after her last episode. The thing is, though ... he's pretty sure those are from an infection or virus of some kind. Separate from the actual DNA changes, as if it's trying to boost or enhance the alterations. He thinks that's what actually might be responsible for her rapid aging; it puts so much stress on her system, it's not likely to be a naturally occurring feature of the originating organism."
Anne swallowed thickly, as if her mouth had gone dry, then came to the obvious conclusion. "Because Karen wanted to use her as a weapon. And whatever she is — whatever she might become — you can't give a baby orders, or brainwash it into believing whatever warped version of reality best fits your plans."
"Exactly," he nodded, wearily.
"So what's the complicated answer, then," she said, lips pressed into a thin line.
"That's ... still mostly speculative, but I'm pretty sure it has a lot has to do with the answer to my third question," he said, turning over the last page of results. If there'd been any sense of proportion in the world, it would have hit the table with an ominous thud, not a quiet rustle; but reality was seldom so coordinated.
Anne reached across the table, snagging the sheet of paper and drawing it back where she could read it. She scanned it over once, then again, a furrow drawing between her brows. "I'm no expert," she said slowly, "but ... these aren't Alexis' results. They can't be; this DNA sample is male."
"I know," he replied wryly, pulling one of Alexis' sheets free and lining it up next to the one she was staring at. He'd had Dr. Kadar run this particular test three times. "That one is mine."
Anne gaped at him, then looked down again, staring first at the spike of strangeness in her daughter's DNA, then at the less obvious — but no less alien — deviation highlighted at a similar place in Tom's. "But how?"
"You're asking me?" he shrugged again. "All I can tell you is that the only gaps in my memory when this could have been done to me were back on the Espheni ship. Right before that red-eyed Skitter did two unbelievable things: let me, alone of all humans on that ship, go ... and begin a Skitter rebellion on Earth."
Anne shook her head, a tight, side-to-side denial of belief, never taking her eyes off him. "But what does this even mean? If you were the target — does that mean Alexis' uniqueness was just a byproduct? One that Karen just so happened to discover and capitalize on?"
"No ... no, I think what happened with Alexis was absolutely intentional. At least, in principle." That aspect of the problem, in fact, had taken Tom as much effort to come to terms with as all the rest of it. The Espheni harnessed children mostly between the ages of eight and eighteen for a reason; they were big enough to put to useful work, but still contained all the potential and malleability of youth. But the only subjects the rebel Skitter had had available were adults. "I think he was just playing a much longer game than the Espheni. They knew a lot about my ... social connections ... before they ever took me aboard, thanks to Rick's betrayal; and thanks to the eyebug, Red Eye was able to track me back so he could ... and I'm guessing, here ... monitor the success of his experiment. No wonder we were able to get that eyebug out so easily; he'd already found me by then."
If he hadn't gone aboard that ship the day the rest of their group fled the Boston area, Alexis might be normal. Or ... she might not exist at all. Red Eye might have picked another human subject; or might not have chosen anyone, and put off his rebellion a while longer. The Second Mass might have prospered better with Tom at Dan's side the whole way; or it might've been wiped out before they even reached Fitchburg. They might not have found and destroyed the jammer or the fuel plant without the rebel Skitters' help; the Volm might never have found any human allies, or might've been unable to complete their project in time. Everyone on Earth might, even now, be dying under the radiation projected by the Espheni defense grid. Or ... they might have found some other, better way to destroy it. It was impossible to know; impossible not to feel guilty, regardless.
Anne looked horrified; she reached a hand to him automatically. "God. Tom ..."
He clasped it across the desk, giving her a crooked smile. "Nothing we can do about any of it at this point; I was obviously just the carrier for this ... whatever it is. My main concern is what it means for Alexis."
She swallowed, studying him, then looked down at the reports again and let go his hand, brushing her fingers over the ink that represented their daughter's differences. "You've given me answers, but now I have new questions. If the rapid aging really is separate from the genetic changes themselves, can we stop it? Kill the infection and let her grow at a normal rate, without endangering her?"
"Maybe. Should we?" Tom had to ask. Nothing in this world was completely without danger.
"What?" Her eyes widened incredulously. "How can you even ask that? Of course we should; its effects aren't natural, and not only is it hurting her, it's denying her the opportunity to have a normal childhood. Children shouldn't have to grow up so fast; you've said that to me before, about Alexis and Matt."
"But she's also a target, Anne. The Espheni know about her, remember? Sooner or later they'll try to reclaim her. And the older she is, the more developed her talents, the better she can protect herself." Better that she didn't have to, but — there was no kindness left in their world for the defenseless.
Anne stared at him for a long moment; then she gathered up the pages and stood. "That isn't solely your decision to make; any more than it was your right to keep any of this from me in the first place. I'm going to go talk to Roger, confirm what you've said. Then I'm going to think about it. And then I'm going to ask Alexis what she wants to do," she said.
Tom's first instinct was to object. Like the accusation John had leveled at him the day their lives had taken a sudden left turn on the way back from West Virginia: 'You're so far up your own ass trying to hold it all together that your first response to anything that doesn't fit your plan is to try to control it'. Or words to that effect. He liked to think he was a little more self-aware than that ... but this situation was out of his control, and it did bother him, and his track record was a little problematic, viewed from that angle.
"Please ... I know it's hypocritical of me to ask, but keep me in the loop before you do anything?" he conceded, quietly. "I'm not saying no, but I need to be a part of it."
She raised an eyebrow, studying him for a long moment. "That depends," she finally said. "How much of your playing devil's advocate just now was Pope's idea?"
Tom snorted. "None of it; I know what I said last night, but she's ours, Anne. She's your daughter, and mine, and I was a father long before I ever met John Pope. You came first. Besides, if you think I'm all that eager to tell him that not only does she have alien DNA, but apparently I do, too ..." he trailed off into a rough, self-deprecating chuckle. "Well, some bridges I'll just have to blow up as I come to them."
Anne pressed her lips together, then finally relented with a nod. "All right. I believe you. Just ... don't do this again, all right? I need to be able to trust you with our daughter; to know you aren't going to make unilateral decisions without me either, if you really want us to stick around."
"I do. I do, and I promise — I'll do my best," Tom told her.
"We'll see," she said. Then she left, closing the door gently behind her.
Tom wanted to bow his head over the desk; to thrust his fingers through his hair, pour himself a glass of scotch, and throw it at the wall. Then pour himself another and abdicate from the rest of the day's problems. But he'd given up that luxury the day he'd sworn to leave his father's legacy behind him.
He reached for the tentative, hopeful feeling from that morning, remembering the fire in John's eyes the night before, and blew out a breath. Then he got up, collected his rifle, and headed for the nearest stairwell. There were plenty of work parties on the surface that day, and he had some time before the next fixed point on his schedule. Maybe a little fresh air and sunshine would help put things into perspective.
Evening found him — several hours later — out on the porch of a mostly-restored house just off Liberty Square. The lintels and windowsills had picked up another layer of windblown dust after the attack, but it was otherwise ready for habitation as soon as enough furniture and linens could be found to make it comfortable. Tom had taken a seat at the top of the porch steps, elbows braced on his knees, and watched the flow of the city as the light began to fade from the sky. His cheek itched where he'd rubbed concrete dust on it at some point; his trousers were smeared with grey along the right side from working in the rubble that afternoon; and there was grime worked so deep under his fingernails he'd probably be better off just trimming them to the quick instead of trying to scrub.
But strings of salvaged holiday lights hung from eaves and tent poles once again, and the murmur of laughter and live, raucous music spilled out into the street from the Nest, a block and a half away. A woman walked by, humming and gently patting the back of a baby in her arms; he didn't know her as more than a face occasionally seen in the crowd, but she smiled and nodded respectfully as she passed him, murmuring 'Good evening, Mr. President'. Just one of his five thousand or so constituents, going about her day.
Tom was still following her with his eyes, thinking about human will and perseverance, when the thud of boots on wood alerted him to the presence of another, climbing the steps to join him.
"Heard you were out and about," John said. He had an unlabeled dark brown bottle in each hand, product of the Nest's makeshift microbrewery; he held one out as he took a seat next to Tom.
Tom took it with a nod. He'd figured someone would find him here sooner or later; just as well it was John. "Albert Einstein once said, 'Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.' I suppose that seemed like good advice to me, today."
"Einstein, this time," John observed, quirking a wry smile. "Huh, so you do have some variety in your fortune cookie jar; it's not all historians and soldiers. You know he also said, 'two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I am not yet sure about the universe'? Truer words."
"Still not ready to talk about it," Tom warned him with a tight shake of his head, then relented slightly, because he really was pleased to see John: a bright point in his day. "Though I appreciate the beer. And the company."
The brew in the bottle was dark, strong, and a little chocolaty; it must have been maturing in a cool basement somewhere almost since the microbrewery had begun operations. John's gaze matched it, serious and a little opaque as he stared at Tom.
"We dodged a bullet here yesterday," he replied, seemingly apropos of nothing. "A lot of communities probably didn't. Even most of them, if you want to ruin your day any worse thinking about it. I could take a scouting party out; mostly Berserkers, the battle couple, a refugee or two from the area to point us the way. See what kind of range we can get on those drones from the Volm and check out what's going on inside one of those fences."
It took Tom a moment to recognize the out John was leaving him; his eyebrows flew up, torn between amusement and indignance. "I'm not ... getting cold feet, or buyer's remorse, or whatever else you think is going on here. Not that I don't think the scouting trip's a good idea; I planned to propose something very like that tomorrow, after everyone's done enjoying their day of not-quite-rest. I just ..."
He cast his mind back over past conversations, and abruptly remembered one that might ease the way; that last trip to Boston and back had largely resolved into a blur of grief, exhaustion, and numb fury, but certain moments stood out sharply in his memories even now, like glints of sunlight illuminating the surface of a dark, still pond. "You remember the option that worried me most, when I told you I didn't think Karen was responsible for Lexie?"
John's forehead wrinkled; then he rocked back in dismay. "You're talking about the Skitter playing god option? You're shitting me."
"I wish I was," Tom shook his head, ruefully. "Whatever's in Alexis is there because he did it to me first. I'd show you Dr. Kadar's analysis for proof, but Anne has it now — she wanted to confirm it with him." His hand came to the pocket where the pages had been tucked away, then dropped again, empty. "And if it turns out to mean ..." He sighed. "Maybe you should have run me off into the woods, when I first got back."
"You ..." John stared at him for a long moment, speechless. Then he slammed his bottle down on the step next to Tom with a thunk and shot to his feet, striding a few restless paces away, then braced his hands on his hips and gave Tom a dirty look. "So. 'My President is an Alien', huh?" he drawled, turning to stare off down the same street Tom had been watching, taking in the state of the city.
John's back was as tense as a drawn bow beneath his jacket, giving no clue how he felt about that statement. Tom hadn't forgotten how often John had said that the only good alien was a dead alien over the last couple of years, or how persistently he'd claimed that neither the rebel Skitters nor the Volm ultimately had humanity's long-term best interests in mind. But after the wringer he'd already put his emotions through that day ... Tom sighed and took another sip of the excellent beer.
"Yep. Though I'm not sure which is actually the strangest word in that sentence; it all feels ... equally surreal."
John turned sharply to look back over his shoulder at that, profile lit with burnished gold hues in the fading light. Between the scruff, the leather, and the visible arsenal, he looked something like a still from a Mad Max movie: Brooding Apocalyptic Antihero at Sunset.
"The 'President', the 'Alien' ... or the 'My'?" he said, voice curling low and sardonic around the words. Then he grinned, a flash of bared teeth. "Personally? I'm voting for the 'My'."
A shiver went up Tom's spine, and he set his half-empty bottle down next to John's. "I don't blame you for that, since it looks like you might've been right after all. I still could end up posing a threat to everyone."
John's whole face twitched at that; a succession of emotions Tom could only partly read flashed over his features, rage and resignation and something much softer jumbled together with others he couldn't put a name to, and his fists clenched at his sides. Then he moved again, striding back toward the porch as swiftly and suddenly as he'd stepped away, grabbing the front of Tom's shirt and lifting him bodily from the steps with the force of his momentum. Tom stumbled backward, trying to maintain his balance as he was carried off his feet, and felt the shock with his whole body as he was slammed up against the front wall of the house.
"Would you stop with the testing me already?" John hissed, grip tightening in the fabric of Tom's shirt. He vibrated with tension, like he wanted to shake him, but didn't dare start lest he not be able to stop. "Or playing the martyr; I don't care which it is, but I'm getting fucking tired of this, either way. How many more ways do I have to say it? You'll get rid of me when I want to be rid of you, and not one second sooner. If that happens to mean putting a bullet in you to save humanity — well, we'll dive off that cliff when we come to it, but I'm sure as hell not going to torture myself over the possibility. I've got better things to do. Get over yourself, Mason."
"That's ... that wasn't what I ..." Tom started to say, then stopped, going still in John's grasp. Because it was, wasn't it? Not intentionally, but another bad habit it was taking a while to unlearn. He swallowed, then gave John a tiny, crooked smile and answered the question, not the insults. How many? "At least one more."
He stopped there before he could fuck things up worse and dug his fingers into the leather of John's jacket, switching to a method of communication a little harder to misunderstand. Tom's lips were chapped and sore from all the time he'd spent outdoors that day; John tasted of beer and something fried that wasn't very savory secondhand. But none of that mattered in the moment: heat washed through him like the snap of a circuit closing, tension bleeding out of his muscles.
John groaned, slanting his mouth over Tom's as his hands relaxed, uncurling out of their tight fists to flatten against Tom's chest. In response, Tom reeled him in closer, until the firm planes of John's body were pressed as close as the weatherworn wood at his back. He hitched his hips automatically, seeking friction; sparks flared behind his eyes at the contact, and he slid his hands down to John's flanks, tugging the hem of his shirt free to run his hands over the warm skin beneath. The fingerless gloves he'd put on to protect his palms while he worked hampered the contact he really wanted, but he was too impatient to strip them off first; and from the shudder John gave under the rasping touch of the stiff fabric, he didn't seem to mind.
John came up for air a moment later, pupils blown wide in the sinking light of dusk. "Jesus, Mason," he said with a hoarse chuckle. "Was it the ultimatum or the manhandling that turned your crank? 'Cause either way, I'm down with that."
Tom smirked, then took a page out of John's book and came at the subject from another angle. "I missed you this morning, you know. Still think it's a little quick to be playing house?"
"You're unbelievable," John scoffed, then leaned back in, gaze dropping to Tom's mouth as they shifted together.
"Hey," a voice shouted from the street, breaking the moment; pressed neck to knee against John, Tom couldn't quite see who it was. "Get a room, assholes!"
John pulled just far enough away to throw a middle finger in the speaker's direction, not even bothering to look. "That's get a room, Mister President!" he called, in loud, offended tones, then chuckled lowly at the mumbled curse and hurried footsteps that followed. The sound vibrated through his chest and into Tom's like the bubbles in champagne, and reminded Tom suddenly, vividly, of his college days, when everything was still possibility.
"...So. I don't suppose they've furnished this place since the last housing inventory?" John added more quietly, eyes glinting with humor.
Tom snorted, amusement and affection cooling his still-raw emotions like soothing rain. "I'm afraid not."
"Damn. Well, if I'm going to take one for humanity and try my hand — so to speak — at alien cock, I'm sure as hell not going to do it on my knees," John continued, eyebrows waggling suggestively. "So how's about we head to my place and reconvene this in a more congenial setting?"
Tom had spent the first night of his return from the Espheni ship on the Second Massachusetts' med bus, more than a year ago, reliving the parts of the long trek back he could remember in fevered dreams. Since their arrival in Charleston and its replacement with a full-sized infirmary, Pope had converted the old Greyhound to a mobile living space rather than setting up a more permanent residence in one of the houses. It seemed oddly appropriate to close the circle in the same place, exorcizing the last of the fallout of that misadventure.
"You pretty much had me at 'quid pro quo'," he murmured back — referencing the night John had talked him out of resigning the Presidency, but absolutely intending the implied double entendre.
John's teeth flashed in a smug grin; then he chuckled darkly and took a fistful of Tom's shirt once more. "Promises, promises," he said, echoing Tom's words from the morning before; then he stepped back, pulling Tom with him, towing him toward the post-apocalyptic luxuries of Popetown.
At least he'd got one thing right that day. Tom leaned down to snag the necks of the beer bottles as they passed them by, feeling hope — that thing with feathers — once more stirring in his soul.
He'd thought he'd been concealing his fit of melancholy pretty well, but John apparently wasn't the only one who'd been reading him like cheap newsprint.
"So," Dan grunted at him the next morning, as they leaned over a map marking a route north and east along the route of the old I-26. They'd sent the tiny Volm drones as far as Columbia, snooping around for evidence of other survivors, and found only a ghost town intermittently patrolled by Skitters; the planned scouting party would have to go either west on I-20 from there to Atlanta, or north on I-77 to Charlotte, their best guesses for the nearest cities still populated enough to attract the attention of the Espheni. "You seem steadier, today. Feelin' a little less like you've been staked out for the vultures?"
Tom looked up, throwing his friend a sheepish look. "Was it that obvious?"
"You get that look in your eye when you're missin' the days when all you were responsible for were the lives of the Second Mass and the deaths of the next bunch of Skitters to cross our path. I know, 'cause Jeanne tells me I get the same way sometimes," Dan commiserated. "But it was gettin' to the point this time where I wondered if we should've asked Hathaway to stay, for your sake if not for Charleston's."
Tom made a face. "Definitely not Charleston's; I don't think he knew quite what to do with us, half the time. Or our allies; his administration's still on a fairly reactionary footing. Have we heard from his people again, yet?"
"No; and I'm thinkin' we might not, given that they were headed for the Richmond area last we talked," Dan replied gravely, tapping a finger over a section of the map where they'd previously marked evidence of survivors. The perfect target for another enclosing force.
"Damn. Better send Pope north, then; see if he can pick up any traces while he's out. Could just be the radios; I noticed we were having a little trouble with them, yesterday."
"Like the early days of the resistance all over again. Like the Espheni found some kinda replacement fuel source," Dan nodded.
"Yeah," Tom grunted. "Might want to have one of our engineers take a look at the downed Beamers across the river, see if they can tell what they're using now. Might help us with the fences, too. Whatever that green energy is, electricity is electricity, and physics is physics; there has to be a way to defuse it or short it out."
"You sure about sending the Berserkers on this mission, though? They're not exactly the stealthiest bunch." Dan's tone was casual and unworried — but he didn't look at Tom as he asked it, and Tom suppressed a sigh.
"Who else do you suggest I send?" he replied, carefully matching Dan's calm, factual approach. "I'm not sending you on back to back patrols. Everyone keeps harping on me to rest, but you need it too, you know; you're mission essential around here. Hal's still a little young for fighters not already familiar with him to follow without question. And I need Anthony to go over our internal security in case the Espheni try the infiltration route again. I'd honestly prefer to take him off military operations altogether and ask him to start building a police force — John's policies have done a lot to defuse destructive impulses in the city, and we've been firm on discipline among the fighters, but with over five thousand people living in a pressure cooker environment we're just asking for trouble without one — but I know he's not ready to give up being on the front lines, just yet. That leaves Pope as the best option with the experience and the flexibility to see it through. Can't send him without the Berserkers — and they'll want feel like they're doing something anyway, after what happened to Zack. John'll make sure they get the job done."
"You're not afraid he'll go off half-cocked, somewhere in the field?" Dan raised craggy eyebrows. "It's gonna be weeks, at a minimum, before they get back — if they get back."
"Not particularly. I'll send a Volm communicator with him, and Hal and Maggie will be with the group as well. You know neither of them's inclined to cut him any slack," Tom offered.
Dan's eyes narrowed further as he considered that statement. "That your idea or his?"
"He wants to go play; and to do that, he's willing to play along," Tom shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"It matters when I can't figure out his motivations," Dan admitted. "I got used to him being an asshole, but a useful one; he's still an asshole, but then I see him with his daughter, or I see you walk in here like a huge weight's been lifted off your shoulders, and it makes me wonder. You gonna be alright letting him go off without you just now? I'd half-expected you to try to talk me into letting you go on the mission, too."
Tom blinked as his understanding of Dan's objections shifted, then chuckled. "You remember what it was like when Porter first assigned us together? How we fought like cats and dogs because we didn't always understand, or agree with, where the other was coming from? But we usually worked it out in the best interests of the Second Mass."
Dan nodded, cautiously. "Thought Jim had lost his mind at first. But it turned out he'd picked better than he knew." He didn't add, what's that got to do with the price of eggs?, but Tom heard it nonetheless.
"You know how much I value the friendship we have now, Dan. Knowing you — I finally understand a little of what it must be like for my sons to have each other." He had to clear his throat before continuing, carefully ignoring Dan's reaction to the words. "But our jobs have changed significantly, both in role and scale, since we found Charleston. And that push and pull we had when I was your XO, that kick in the ass you said you sometimes needed — I get that from him. Not that I don't still value your input, far from it. But I know my own stubbornness well enough to know that I occasionally need it delivered with a certain ruthless efficiency, and I would never ask that of you. The more personal benefits have been an unexpected bonus."
Dan's gaze went briefly distant; then he nodded, rubbing a hand over his chin. "I get you," he said slowly. "And no need to hold my hand; I get that too, actually. Something I didn't realize 'til you were gone, those months after Karen took you the first time. The way you reacted when I was at my worst? The anger, the drugs I was using to keep myself goin' back then? A man don't defuse that as carefully as you did if he don't have some experience doin' that kind of thing."
"Dan ..." Tom hadn't realized Dan had noticed that; hadn't even thought about it himself at the time, just acted.
"No need to say anything more," Dan cut him off gruffly, clasping his shoulder. "I'm grateful every day that you stuck with me through all that; you didn't have to. Maybe I've gone a little in the other direction since; maybe you do need someone less ... sentimental ... givin' you advice. Someone who gets the whys and the wherefores without you havin' to spell it out. Just so long as you don't take everything he says for gospel, either."
"You don't have to worry about that, Dan," Tom replied warmly, returning the gesture.
"Yes, well," Dan replied, clearing his throat. "I think that's all my objections dealt with then; time to call the others in and brief 'em."
It didn't take long to lay it all out for the team. Only one major change was made to the plan; Hal tapped the map just south and east of Richmond, frowning thoughtfully at the dot marked 'Norfolk'.
"I know it's a little out of our way. And it might be a long shot," he said, earnestly. "But there was that big naval station there. And the Espheni didn't target port facilities for bombing the way they did army and air force bases, right? The people would have been rounded up, and probably the guns and ammo, too — but there might still be some vehicles we could use. Like, the big tracked kind."
"Whoa, whoa; I think I see where you're goin' with this," Dan said, eyes lighting up.
"Uh huh," Hal nodded, grinning. "I got to talking to one of the engineers at dinner last night, and he said something like that might be our best option for getting the BFG mobile. General Bressler's people checked the base here in Charleston a couple years ago, but most of its assets were deployed in the initial invasion. Naval Station Norfolk was the biggest in the country, though; there has to still be something there we can use."
"I like the way you think, kid," John said, arms crossed as he stared down at the map. "Be a bit of a trek, but if we're already in the area looking for the politician formerly known as the President, I suppose it couldn't hurt to take a look."
"I'm so glad you approve, Pope," Hal said, very dryly, then looked up at Tom. "Dad, what do you think?"
Tom gave the nineteen-year-old his best unimpressed look. "I think since Pope is going to be the one leading this scout, it's a good thing you're already on the same page," he replied, matching his son for sarcasm. "That said — this is already a risky mission. We have no idea what you'll find out there. The drones will help; but even Volm technology can't spot everything."
He switched his attention to John, locking eyes with him as he continued. "The primary goal for this mission is to observe an intact fence and determine what we'll have to do to take it down, but it'll also be important to establish conditions on the ground along the way. I'd prefer not to just trust the word of the Volm scouts for that. I'll send both a radio and a communicator with you, and we'll reassess along the way whether it's feasible to extend the trip northward or if it will have to be delayed. Fair enough?"
"Fair enough." John nodded to him, then raised a pointed eyebrow at Hal.
Hal glanced at his dad again, his expression slightly incredulous — then winced and shut his mouth as Maggie pinched his thigh with vicious fingers.
Maggie met Tom's gaze next, half-challenging and half-amused; Tom shared a commiserating smile with her, then turned the briefing slash family squabble back over to Dan.
They might have been knocked back to the early days again, but they could do this. One step at a time.
The duffel bag made its appearance in his rooms again that night — but disappeared again almost as quickly, kicked under a table after its contents were emptied into one of the dresser's empty drawers. There was no further discussion of anyone's feelings, but Tom heard the echo of John's promise nonetheless: how many ways do I have to say it? That night, he slept deeply, without the usual disruption of vaguely disquieting dreams.
The next morning, he slapped his son heartily on the back in lieu of a hug, slipped a half-bar of Hershey's that he'd been saving into John's saddlebags, and shook hands with the others; Lyle made a decent attempt to crush his fingers, but he was smirking while he did it, and the rest followed Tector in wolf-whistling at John's farewell kiss.
It felt — different, being the partner left at home rather than the one leaving someone behind. But settled too, in some way he couldn't quite define. Tom ate breakfast with Matt and Ben, touching base with his younger sons and filling them in on what Hal was up to, then went on to the next committee meeting with only half his mind still wishing he'd been able to go along. And when Cochise called only a few hours later, triggering the Volm communicator he'd given Tom to carry, he was grateful for the clearer head.
"I am relieved to hear that you have successfully repelled the attack, Professor," Cochise's voice issued from the device. "From what we have seen, and learned from the other Volm scout teams, others were ... not so lucky."
"How many others?" Tom asked him.
"Most. Perhaps all," Cochise replied, mournfully. "Human settlements are being fenced in by impenetrable green energy barriers on a worldwide scale, each accompanied by a single Espheni troopship to monitor and control those trapped within. And in each case we have observed, the area was blasted into rubble by superior terrain droids first, apparently to eliminate any existing food stores or prepared shelter. Once that was done, Skitters were sent in to remove any remaining weaponry ... as well as any children of an age to be harnessed."
Tom blanched, imagining what might've happened to Charleston if they hadn't been prepared, and had to put his head down between his knees for a moment to stave off a wave of nausea. "If that had happened here ... we owe you big, Cochise. Thank you."
"It was the least I could do," Cochise replied, lowering his voice; probably so the rest of his squad couldn't hear. "There has as yet been no sign what the Espheni plan for the remainder of those in the camps. I will send any refugees we encounter your way, and contact you again when I have more news."
"Likewise," Tom replied. "We sent a scout group out to take a closer look; I'll let you know if we find any more pieces to the puzzle. Keep the faith, my friend."
"Keep the faith," Cochise echoed back awkwardly, then cut the connection.
Tom informed most of his staff of the news, but after some discussion with Marina decided not to spread it to the whole of Charleston just yet. Virtually everyone in the city still had loved ones somewhere in the world whose fate they didn't know; if not immediate family, then cousins or grandparents or college roommates they'd all told themselves were surely holed up somewhere, safe and sound and waiting to be found when the war was over. The knowledge that most remaining survivors were being collected into prison camps ... well, until the scout team returned to hang a human face on the news and hopefully also bring back a major piece for their next counteroffensive, it would just stir up more doubts and unrest and encourage more negativity toward the Volm.
Tom wasn't feeling very optimistic about Cochise's people in general these days, either. But he had a feeling they would still need their assistance before the end. And even if they didn't ... any successful picture of life after the war would still include contact with alien species; there would be no putting that genie back in the bottle. And there was no arguing with the fact that they were not starting that relationship from a position of strength. That worried him.
Last on the list was the infirmary: Anne. Any refugees Cochise — or John and his team — sent back to Charleston would undoubtedly be in need of their services, for a checkup if not more serious medical problems. In the last few years, many deprivation-related disorders that had been virtually eliminated in America had claimed a lot of lives, and that was even before getting into the deaths from diseases and complicated wounds and other medical issues that would have been survivable in a pre-war hospital. Anne took every such death personally.
He arrived to find Anne in a meeting already with Dr. Kadar, though; they were having an animated, low-voiced conversation at the back of the infirmary, one that looked like it might go on for a while. She was very intent, and he was talking with his hands and expression as much as with his words, the way that seemed to come naturally to him when he forgot to zealously guard himself against others. And the reason was fairly obvious: on one of the gurneys near the front of the room, Alexis lay curled with her dark head in Matt's lap, eyes dull with the onset of fever.
Both his youngest children were listening intently to Tanya Pope, wearing nurse-apprentice's scrubs, who was reading to them from a much-battered paperback with a rabbit on the cover. Matt's ever-present rifle had been propped against the bed within reach of his hand, but his fingers were currently tangled in his sister's hair, smoothing it away from her slightly sweaty forehead.
Tom's heart caught in his throat at the sight, and he automatically came to a halt, half-hoping that they hadn't noticed him come in so he could soak up the moment for a little longer.
"'You'd better wait here,' he said," Tanya read. Her soprano voice was rich with emotion; she was clearly a natural storyteller, the way the other two hung on her every word. "'When I get to the bend, I'll stamp. But if I run into trouble, get the others away.' Without waiting for an answer, he ran into the open and down the path ... Oh! Mr. Mason!" The book slipped closed in Tanya's hands as she looked up, catching him standing there.
If it had been possible to snap to attention while reclining on a mattress, Matt would have done so; the instant smile he aimed at his dad was one Tom knew very, very well from watching his brothers alternately cover for and or blame each other for every childhood slight and adventure. His heart squeezed again to see it in this context.
"Tanya was just reading to us a little, while Mom's talking to Dr. Kadar!" he blurted. "I know you said I wasn't supposed to read Watership Down on my own, but I'm not a little kid anymore, and when I saw Tanya had a copy, and Lexie said she'd never even heard of it ..."
Tanya's earnest expression was even better than Matt's, though there was a little of her father's chin-up defiance in it as well. "It's one of the last things I remember Dad reading to me, before he went to jail. It's one of the only things I have from before, too, so I read it a lot. Lexie said she doesn't read novels much, but I told her it's an allegory about escaping a destroyed home and finding a place to start over, and she said she'd like to try it ..."
Privately, Tom thought they were probably all still a little young for that book; or would have been, before the war. It wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a children's novel, despite the fact that the protagonists were all rabbits. But it was very Pope, to have given his young daughter a book all about surviving hardships after escaping utter destruction without caring whether it was entirely appropriate — and there was nothing in it that would cast much of a shadow in the world these kids were already surviving, every day.
He held up a hand, smiling warmly at them. "No need to explain it to me; it's a good book. Ben was about your age, Tanya, when I read it to him — and Matt snuck in to listen to parts of it. You enjoying it, Lexie?"
His daughter nodded, a slight movement against Matt's stomach, and one corner of her mouth twitched up. "Fiver's interesting," she said.
"Maybe I'll pop back by later and take a turn reading with you this afternoon — since it looks like we won't be doing our regular lesson today. Having another growth spurt, sweetheart?"
She nodded again, but Matt was the one who answered, cheerful and already so protective. "Yeah. I told her she'd better stop before she gets taller than me — I've been enjoying not being the littlest, and I'm not ready for her to pass me up just yet!"
"It's not like I want to," she replied fretfully; but the smile she aimed up at her brother was affectionate. "Mom says she thinks maybe she can stop it, but not 'til after I'm done growing this time. Sorry, Matt."
"Is that true, Dad?" Matt turned expectant eyes on him.
"Maybe," Tom said, then cast around for a stool and pulled it up next to the bed, on the opposite side from Tanya. He propped his gun next to Matt's, then settled in for a longer explanation. "I don't know if you remember how sick Colonel Weaver was before we got to Charleston — while we were staying at that abandoned hospital?"
"Right before I almost got eaten by those creepy bug things that killed Jamil?" Matt wrinkled his nose. "I mostly remember Hal and Ben and Maggie all freaking out about Karen. And the bug things, of course. Your dad totally almost shot me when he heard me moving around in the vents; I think it scared him as much as it scared me," he added in an aside to Tanya. "But yeah, I know he got bit by one of the harnesses when you guys came to rescue me and Jeanne and Diego from the harnessing facility, and it put him in a coma or something. He snapped out of it pretty quick, though."
"Yeah," Tom nodded. "Anne hooked him up to a machine that took his blood out of his body, killed the infection, and put it back in. Sounds scary, I know, but it worked. And we have even better equipment here. If she thinks she can help you with something similar, Lexie, your Mom's a very smart woman. I believe her."
Both of his children looked reassured to hear that; and he didn't miss the fact that Tanya looked relieved and intrigued in equal parts, as well. He resolved to find some of the less controversial stories of John's time with the Second Mass to give her, later on; things she could tease her father about when he got back.
"Anyway, I know I interrupted your reading — and it's been a long time since I heard the story, myself. If you wanted to get back to it while I wait for Dr. Glass ...?" he nodded to Tanya.
"What about it guys, you want more of the story?" she grinned at Matt and Lexie.
"Yes, please," Alexis replied, politely, and Matt settled back as well, adopting an aloof expression. "Well, I don't know, I guess I could stand to hear a little more."
Tanya smiled at them both, then Tom, then opened the paperback again to the page where she'd left off and cleared her throat.
"Without waiting for an answer, he ran into the open and down the path. A few seconds brought him to the old oak. He paused a moment, staring about him, and then ran onto the bend. Beyond, the path was the same — empty in the darkening moonlight and leading gently downhill ..."
A touch to Tom's shoulder drew him back out of the spell Tanya was weaving with her words, and he looked up, startled, into the apprehensive face of his ex.
"Tom?" Anne prompted him, lowly. "Is something wrong?"
"What ... oh!" He got up, retrieving his rifle and waving the kids to continue, then guided Anne a short distance away where they could still watch but not be overheard. "No; at least, not urgently. Cochise called, and I just wanted to let you know we might be getting a new wave of refugees soon — we weren't the only community to be attacked this week."
"I was afraid of that," Anne sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, we'll do our best — though if you could mention blood donation at the next community meeting, that would help. Our reserves are getting pretty low."
"Of course," Tom nodded. "No problem." One of the benefits in being in a place with a continuous power supply — they could afford a small amount of constant refrigeration. It was amazing how luxuries got redefined, in a situation like this. "Is that something that would help Alexis?"
Anne frowned. "No — well, maybe; if we use a hemofiltration machine, it'll recycle her own blood, but it'll also strip out everything but the red blood cells and replacement fluids. Once you start talking about significant blood volume, she'll need other blood products added back in, and I don't know how much it'll take to destabilize the infection since it's not identical to the pathogen Dan was dealing with. But if it does work ..."
"Sorry. Most of that's going over my head. But if it means you think I should donate, then I will," he promised.
Anne's expression softened. "Yesterday you seemed to think that she would be safer if we let her suffer."
Tom winced. "Every day I tell myself, 'bullets before food before fuel before entertainment'. We have to survive before we can live. But ..." He gestured helplessly toward the bed. "Seeing them like this ... we've already missed so many moments with her. And not just us; it's cheating her and her brothers, too. And ultimately, it's our job to protect them, not theirs to make things easier on us."
He blinked moisture out of his eyes, then cleared his throat. "So ... I'll support whatever decision you make."
"Thank you," Anne said softly, then reached out to squeeze his hand, a quick commiserating clasp. "Dr. Sumner, Roger and I have been discussing possibilities, and we have one that we think will work without significantly endangering her. I don't want to risk it while her system's already stressed from a forced growth cycle, but as soon as she's stable again, I'd like to try it."
"All right." He nodded. "Keep me posted. And tell her I'll be back down later? I promised I'd read with her some more, after John and Hal check in."
"I will," she promised, then shooed him out of the infirmary with a renewed smile.
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