Soundtrack: Lullaby by the Dixie Chicks

Long Night's Journey into Day

Ryan slept now, his overlong hair falling around the sharp, bony angles of his face. He didn't look like a child anymore, even asleep. He didn't look like her child.

Brenda pulled her coat tighter around herself, staring down at him. He was fifteen. He'd be sixteen in a couple of months. When she'd been sixteen, she'd been a silly, thoughtless little thing, with no more idea of real life than a butterfly, and she'd naturally assumed he was the same.

God knew, he had his moments of thoughtlessness and self-absorption, Brenda thought caustically. But Lynnie's illness had pushed little pieces of him into adulthood far sooner than was right, and they clashed and bumped against the pieces of him that were still a child. Not yet sixteen, and he was strong enough, adult enough to understand what was happening to his sister.

She whirled and paced back to Lynnie's bed.

Her daughter was in deep quarantine still, shielded away from germs and allergens by sheets of plastic. Brenda couldn't even touch her own child without a mask or gloves. It took so long to be sanitized into safety, and in the end, it wasn't enough.

She thought of Snow White, locked away from the world, waiting. Just waiting.

Brenda had always despised that fairy tale. It seemed the height of unfairness to have to wait for some idiot prince to decide to wander in and kiss you, just so you could come back to the world. Lynnie had always thought it was silly, too. "What if he never came?" she'd asked, after Jacob had left. "What if Snow White was just stuck there? Forever?"

Unable even to die.

She rested her fingers against the plastic, wondering if Lynnie was aware, in there, in her clear casket, of helplessness and waiting and miserable boredom. Or if there was nothing left to be aware.

When Ryan had been nine, he'd been a round-faced, bright-eyed sturdy little boy who could race a block in under thirty seconds. There had been a few shadows in his face and eyes then, but they were easily banished. Lynnie had been three, and the Syndrome hadn't seemed like a death sentence then, not with all the possibilities of research going on in the fringes of medical science.

Now Lynnie was nine. Her cheeks weren't round, her eyes weren't bright. She had never run a full block, much less done it in under thirty seconds. Her hands, lying on the silvery sterile bedclothes, looked like constructions of bleached white twigs. If not for the bright blue veins, Brenda might have thought that the flesh had melted away altogether, leaving only the bones, left by inertia in the same construction as the living hand and liable to fall into disarray if bumped.

She remembered those hands nine years before, curling tightly around her own. The miracle of her baby girl, strong even in her sickliness.

On a gulping sob, Brenda closed her eyes.

"Brenda?"

She turned to find Darla at her side. Her friend looked strained and furious, the skin over her cheekbones pulling taut with anger. "What is it?" she asked, grateful for a distraction.

"I need to sleep in your room."

"Go ahead, I won't be there. What happened?"

Darla shook her head, her lips tight. "Molly--Rob and Molly--it--I--" She waved her hands. "I can't be there tonight. I just can't."

Brenda didn't pursue it. She'd seen her friend like this before. Instead, she shifted the subject to one that was always in vogue among Syndrome parents. "How's Angie doing?"

This fared no better, as a conversational gambit. Darla shrugged jerkily. "Her levels are still falling."

Brenda tried to think of something to say, but couldn't quite get the words out. She stroked Darla's back. Her friend sighed and dropped into a chair.

With her initial fury vented a little, Darla focused on her face. "Oh, Bren. What's wrong?"

"What's always wrong?" Brenda returned with unusual bitterness. "I was just thinking."

"Do you want me to leave you alone?" Darla was already getting up.

Brenda caught at her arm. "No. Please. No. I don't want to think anymore."

They sat, looking at Lynnie in silence.

It was times like this that she missed Jacob the worst. Not Jacob, exactly. He'd never been strong enough to be there in the hospital rooms with her, and eventually he hadn't been strong enough to be in the same family. But it was sheer hell, having to be the only one, there by yourself, with nobody to lean on.

Brenda felt Darla's arm slip around her shoulders, and she sagged against the other woman.

"Oh, honey," Darla said softly.

With her head on Darla's shoulder, Brenda said, "Do you know why Ryan and Molly went to see the Terrian?"

She felt her friend's body stiffen, and hurried into speech. "It was so Ryan could ask the Terrians to take Lynnie away with them."

"Molly," Darla breathed. "Did Molly--?"

"She was acting as translator," Brenda said quickly. "That's it." For now, she thought.

Reassured, Darla asked, "How did they get to him? Has he been dreaming too?"

"Not as far as I know. Dar--" Her hand closed around the other woman's wrist. "He told me, tonight. He just wants her--not to hurt anymore."

Darla, struck white with the horror of it, burst out, "You need to keep him away from her. He would've--"

"That's what I was thinking about just now," Brenda said. She pulled away, getting up to pace the length of her daughter's closed-off bed. "Would it have been so bad?"

"Brenda!"

"I just feel so much like Janet lately."

Darla's brow furrowed. "Janet who? Is this one of your fairy tales again?"

"Tam Lin," Brenda explained. "Do you remember? I told that story last week. About the girl who had to save her lover from the queen of the fairies?"

"It's just a story," Darla said.

"Is it? Isn't that what we've been doing? All of us? Holding on so tight while our babies become these--these--" She punched at the plastic sheet, and it billowed inward. "Just hoping that if we hold on long enough, tight enough, that we'll get a healthy child." She clutched the plastic, wishing she could rip it away and throw it on the floor. "What would happen," she said, "if we were to just let go?"

Darla got to her feet and came to her. "Brenda," she said. "I know three AM is tough, I know you start to think thoughts that--I know what it's like."

"It's not three AM," Brenda pointed out. "It's not even midnight."

"You know what I mean. Don't do anything crazy. Please."

"How do you know it's crazy? Maybe it's the only sane thing left."

"Please, I'm begging you. Don't make any decisions that you'll regret. Wait until morning. You know how it is. You know how these things, they seem so logical and then in the morning you realize that--Brenda, promise me."

Brenda looked into her friend's face, frantic with terror. She thought, Tell me this when you're on the other side of plastic sheeting from your baby girl. But she knew that wasn't fair, because the way things were going, that day wouldn't be very far in the future for Darla. She sighed. "All right. All right. I won't do anything until morning."

"You promise."

"I promise."

Darla let out her breath. "I think you need sleep. I think this is just lots and lots of sleep deprivation. Let's go, all right?"

But Brenda shook her head jerkily. "I don't think I could sleep. You go."

"I don't want to leave you alone."

"I want to be alone." She did, now. "One of us should sleep tonight." But Darla lingered, and Brenda said sharply, "I promised you, didn't I?"

Darla looked abashed. "You want me to bring you anything? A blanket or something?"

"No. If I get sleepy, I'll get something from one of the nurses."

"Okay." Darla went, reluctantly, looking back over her shoulder a few times. Brenda watched as she stopped by Angie's bed once again, to lean down and kiss her daughter good-night, stroking her hair for a few moments before finally tucking the bedclothes more snugly around her and slipping out the doors.

She ran her fingers across the wrinkles in the plastic that her clutching fingers had left, and then sat down by her daughter's bedside again, waiting for morning.

Days Until Moon Cross: 6

For once, Devon was the one being nagged awake, instead of the other way around. "Mom," said her son's voice. "Mom, Mama, Mom. Mo-om. Wake up. Mom. Mo-o-o-o-om. Mom!"

"M'wake," she lied, dragging her eyes open. The room was grey with approaching dawn. "Whazzit, honey?" She managed to focus, and saw that he was fully dressed. This was sufficiently unusual that her brain said, Uh-oh, time to wake up for real. She sat up and frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Mom, I gotta do something today. Can I get out of school and work detail?"

"What do you need to do?"

At that moment, her gear rang. She was going to let it go, but Uly picked it up and handed it to her. "Answer it, Mom."

Frowning, she did so. "Brenda?"

"Hi," said the other woman. "Hi. Devon. I--can I talk to Uly?"

She looked at her son. He bounced up and down a few times. "What about?" she asked Brenda.

"I should ask you first, I guess." Brenda was behaving strangely, her words coming in jerky fits and starts, her mouth trembling. "I need Uly to stay with Lynnie today."

Devon pressed her fingers to her free eye, wondering if she would still be this confused if she'd managed to complete her REM cycle. "What? In the hospital?"

"N-no. Not in the hospital. Not exactly."

It took a few seconds, but then the truth jolted through Devon like a bolt of lightning. "The Terrians?"

"I need him to go with her. Please?"

"They won't hurt her," Devon promised. "Oh, Brenda, this is--"

"I know they won't," the other woman cut her off. "But I don't know if they'll bring her back when it's--done."

"She'll come back."

"I want Uly to bring her back. I want her to be--I don't want her to be alone. I want someone familiar with her. I can't go--and Ryan can't--Uly's the only one--they were friends. I d-don't want her to be alone." Brenda took a sobbing breath. "And I want someone who can bring her back."

The enormity of what Brenda was asking sank in. Devon sat back, staring at the far wall. Brenda's voice buzzed in one ear, and Uly's in the other.

"Mom, please--"

"I know it's--"

"--can I--"

"--a lot to--"

"Wait," Devon said. "Wait. Uly, hush. Brenda, let me call you back." She folded the eyepiece back, and looked at her son. So small, she thought helplessly. So young. This was too much to ask. How could she ask her little boy to bring his friend's body back to his mother? More, to be with that friend when she died?

Uly said, "Mom--"

"Baby, I want you to know what she's asking."

"I know what she's asking. She wants me to go with Lynnie to the Terrians."

Devon didn't bother to question how he knew it, and why he was up and fully dressed minutes before Brenda had called. It was nearly Moon Cross. "Sweetie, Lynnie's very ill."

"I know, Mom."

"She's much sicker than you were."

"I know, Mom."

"It might not work."

The jiggling impatience faded away, and for the third time, he said, "I know, Mom."

"Lynnie's mom wants you to--to be there. If it doesn't work. And to--" She couldn't say it.

He said it for her. "To bring her back. So they can bury her. Like we did for Captain O'Neill and Eben."

"Can you do that?"

"Mom, I'm the only one."

She gathered him into her arms, hugging him tight, shimmering between pride and sorrow. He hugged her back for a few moments, then wiggled to be free. She let him go. "Can you take gear with you?"

He rolled his eyes at the incredible obviousness of it all. "Mo-om. No."

"Well, I just thought--"

"I can't. You know that."

"Is there any way to keep in touch?"

He thought. "I don't know. I can maybe talk to Molly? Or Alonzo."

"Okay. Yes. All right." Taking another shaky breath, Devon folded the eyepiece over her eye again. "Brenda?"

Julia pressed her thumb down on the square at the base of the datapad, signing off on the release paperwork for Lynnie. She set it down. "Okay," she said. "Let's go."

With a great rustle, she and McDonald pulled the plastic away from Lynnie's bed. She'd called the brisk head nurse in early to help, knowing that she wouldn't flutter and fuss. With gentle fingers, she extracted the breathing tube from Lynnie's nose, sliding it down over her bluish lips before lifting it away.

McDonald started peeling the monitor patches off the girl's pale skin. "Do you want the immunosuit?" she asked Brenda.

"She won't need it," Uly said.

"It'll be left behind," Devon said at the same time.

"Just dress her," Brenda said softly.

Ryan said nothing, staring down at his sister. He looked white and strained, the tendons in his neck pulling taut. Julia asked him, "Do you want to stay here?"

He looked up then, his eyes empty. "I'm going with her," he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw Danziger come in, carrying something green under his arm. He found Ryan and handed it to him, saying something Julia couldn't hear. Ryan looked at whatever-it-was, blinked, and pulled it close to his chest.

McDonald buttoned the last button on Lynnie's pajama top and stood back.

There was something solemn and ceremonious about the way Brenda lifted her daughter into her arms. The pearly light slanted across her from the windows, mercilessly lighting the grey in her hair and the lines around her mouth and eyes.

They moved down the center aisle like a procession--what kind, Julia didn't know and didn't want to speculate on. Parents who had woken early and come to visit their children looked up, staring as Brenda walked by with Lynnie in her arms. Ryan came just behind her, then Devon and Uly together. Julia and Elaine brought up the rear. As they approached the doors, Julia became aware of people following. Between the shuffle of feet and the rush of whispers, it was oddly like standing out on the beach and listening to the waves.

Someone pulled the doors open. There was a tiny explosion of gasps at the sight of the Terrians on the ridge.

Julia saw Devon glance down at her son. He kept his eyes on the Terrians. His chin lifted, his shoulders squared, and subtly he became something more than a ten-and-a-half-year-old boy.

Devon stopped and turned. "Wait," she said. "Wait. Stop. Let them go."

The crowd spilled out of the doors, puddling quietly around the front of the building, but the solemn hush seemed to hold them back, leaving Brenda, Lynnie, Ryan, and Uly to go the last twenty feet in a bubble of silence.

More New Pacificans drifted up, curious, whispering, or just staring.

Danziger came to stand next to Devon, looking down at her. She looked back up, and he pulled her close.

Brenda stopped in front of the Terrians, Lynnie's head lolling against her shoulder like a rag doll's. She looked up at the seven-foot aliens helplessly, then at Uly.

"Let her lie down," Uly said.

"On the ground?" Brenda asked, and her voice was as lost as a child's.

"It's the best place."

Brenda went to her knees, still holding Lynnie. Slowly, she bent over and let her daughter rest on the cool, damp grass, among the diamond drops of dew. She stroked her face, touched her mouth, her eyes, her arms.

Ryan, who had gone to his knees as well, shook out the green thing that Danziger had given him. It was a blanket, or part of one. Threads trailed from one end as if it had been cut from the loom before it was finished. He tucked it around his sister's form, fingers clumsy and unsure.

Uly said clearly, "We've got to go now."

As if her head was controlled by a string, Brenda nodded.

"You should probably move back," he added.

As if they inhabited bodies that were alien to them, Brenda and Ryan both scooted backward, about four or five feet away from where Lynnie lay in the grass and Uly stood over her. He looked up and around, at the Terrians, and trilled something soft. They replied.

Then the earth opened, and they were gone.

A cry went up from the watching crowd, but Brenda seemed not to hear it. She sat, staring blankly at the patch of bare grass where her child had lain. Unlike Devon on that long-ago night, she didn't lunge forward, clawing at the ground.

Slowly, she doubled over, as if pushed to the ground by the force of her grief.

"Mom," Ryan said in a tremulous voice. "Mom?"

She didn't answer or look, just rocked a few times.

Awkwardly, he put his arm around her. "Mom," he said for a third time.

Though most of the town now stood watching them, her muffled wail, and the harsh, gasping sobs that followed, seemed like the only sounds in New Pacifica.