Disclaimer: Grace is my character, and so is Sophie, but as for the rest, I don't own them. I just have fun with them.
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Leaving Logan, like being with him, was harder than it looked. Not the part where Grace stayed up way too late at night, listening to sad music and crying. Not the part where every single thing she saw and heard, touched and tasted and smelled, reminded her of him. No, the loneliness of separation took on a whole new meaning when you weren't actually alone. When you were having your little breakdown before least two sets of watchful eyes.
If she really was under surveillance by one or more Manticore factions, at least she had the satisfaction of picturing all those hardcore military types forced to spend hours listening to her sob and blow her nose. And while it was comforting to know that friends, too, watched over her, she sincerely hoped they were reporting only that she was safe and unharmed, and leaving out the parts about the kind of sappy music that made her bawl, and the way her face turned blotchy and red after a good long cry. Some nights, she turned out all the lights and sat in the dark. At least it was private.
She felt more relaxed at the hospital, where security was currently tight. After two near-shootouts in the emergency department (gang-related), followed by an APB from the sector police for a female fugitive (in advanced pregnancy and possibly seeking medical attention), there were plenty of security guards and ID checks and spot searches that would be a nuisance for anyone trying to shadow her. Besides, it was easier not to think there. She kept herself very busy. And she stayed away from the courtyard.
Nearly a month went by without disturbances in her apartment or office. The rather melodramatic scene outside of Logan's building on that last day had been meant to signal any and all observers that Grace was no longer part of his life, and apparently it had worked. If she was still on anyone's radar, there was no sign of it.
By that time, the whole thing had actually begun to seem a little unreal, even silly. Not Logan's tragedy, of course. She didn't doubt the depth of his grief or the sincerity of his love. But the idea that somewhere, somehow, Max lived -- well, back under the cold fluorescent hospital lights where it had all started, she saw that idea for what it was. Wishful thinking. He needed more time to accept his loss, she saw now. Which was partly her fault. She, of all people, should have realized that it was possible to comfort someone too quickly, especially someone who had been through so much in such a short time. Give him six months, even a year -- whatever it took for him to truly come to terms with all of his losses. It stinks, she thought, especially for him. But it was the only way.
If he could hang tough until then, she could too.
So she assumed as she wearily climbed the stairs one evening after work. She no longer approached her own front door with keys in hand, poised to whirl and attack like those fierce self-defense women in late-night tv public service announcements. That night, her mind elsewhere, she found herself scrounging in her bag for her keys, yawning, longing for sleep.
That night a hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth, a second hand pinned her arms to her sides, and a voice whispered in her ear, "Don't make a sound."
In a weird way, she wasn't a bit surprised, except that she'd been expecting a man with a gun. But there was no gun, and the hands, the voice, and the body that pressed against her to hold her motionless were all unmistakably female. She could see nothing but the chipped, dirty paint of her front door, however, and when the voice hissed in her ear, "Unlock the door. Step inside. Got that?" Grace simply nodded. Her right arm was released. She found her keys, unlocked the door with a minimum of nervous fumbling, and more or less fell into the apartment thanks to a shove from her captor. The street lights illuminated the center of the room and Grace instinctively stepped aside, into shadow, then stood with her back to the door, hearing the sounds of the latch and the locks. Then, slowly, she turned, and such a shock went through her that her mouth actually fell open.
It was Max.
Her clothes were torn and stained, and the long hair, so glossy in the photograph on Logan's desk, was now dull and tangled, but there was no mistaking her. Amazement momentarily overwhelmed every other thought and feeling in Grace. Max was alive. Too stunned to speak, Grace watched her step back to the wall, away from the window and out of the sight lines of any observers. "Pull the shade," she ordered.
Staying to one side, Grace quickly did so. The room fell dark and Grace, remembering all that Logan had told her about Max, began to feel a little afraid. She was uncomfortably aware that Max could corner her in the darkness as easily as a cat could trap its prey. Wide awake now, prickling with alarm, she said hoarsely, "Why are you here?"
In answer, the lamp flicked on. Max watched her coldly. "Do you know who I am?" she asked.
"Yes," Grace managed to say.
"I know who you are too," Max replied, "but I won't hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of." So, Bling had been right. Max, alive. And well-informed. Oh, this was going to be messy.
Max said, "I need help, and there's not much time. I need you to take me to the hospital."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. A friend needs help."
"What kind of help?"
Max stared at Grace. "She's having a baby. Now. I want supplies, whatever it takes to keep a newborn baby safe. Get me in, get me what I need and you're free to go."
Grace shook her head. "That's not going to work."
"Why?"
"The hospital's on high security--"
Max smiled confidently. "I don't worry about security."
"How about arrest warrants?" The smile vanished. "Yup. There's a warrant out for the arrest of a female fugitive in advanced pregnancy. So, they're stopping people who sneak around with big bags of obstetric supplies."
"Damn," Max said to herself. "I hoped they wouldn't look for her in Seattle." Frowning, she began to pace. She seemed to have forgotten Grace, who found herself wondering, Now how did that happen? A minute ago I was afraid she would wring my neck and now I'm warning her? I don't even know what's going on here. She cleared her throat. "Can we back this up for a minute? If you didn't know about the warrant, why didn't you just bring her in? Any emergency department in the city would have delivered her. These days, plenty of babies arrive that way."
"She's not going anywhere near a hospital," Max said impatiently, still deep in thought.
"Why?"
Max said fiercely, "You don't have a clue how many people want to get their hands on this baby. Especially now. If they noticed anything unusual, they'd grab it in a heartbeat."
"Okay, let that ride for a minute. Then why are you here? I hear you're good at breaking into just about anywhere, and stealing just about anything. Why involve me? Don't I just complicate things?" She stared at Max. This definitely didn't add up. She just couldn't quite figure out how.
"Maybe I just wanted to meet the woman who helped Logan get over me," Max said rudely, turning her back on Grace.
"All right, then, why not Logan, as long as we're bringing him into this?"
Even without seeing her face Grace could tell how much it hurt Max to talk about him. It was in the way her shoulders slumped just a little, the way she shifted restlessly. But her voice did not soften. "He's not exactly inconspicuous, you know?"
"There are other ways he could help. Maybe even find you a --" Comprehension suddenly dawned. "Oh, I get it! What were you going to do, use me as bait? Someone trustworthy to lure a doctor or nurse into a dark room, so you could grab them? Is that it?" Max said nothing and Grace went on, "Did it ever occur to you to just ask me? That maybe you could trust me?"
The minute she said it she felt like an idiot. Max didn't let it slide, either. She sneered over her shoulder, "No. Surprise, huh?" then turned away again.
Grace took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair and said, "All right, that was stupid. Can we start over? Look, even if I did hate you -- which I don't -- what makes you think I would hurt Logan by hurting you? Believe it or not, I'm willing to listen to you. I might even be able to help. It's what I do, you know."
"All right." Max turned. "That 'female fugitive' is actually my sister. She was safe in Mexico until she contacted the baby's father and they found out about it. Now she's on the run, and she needs help. Tonight. So -- let's see how you do what you do."
Her sister! No wonder Max didn't want the girl anywhere near a hospital. Grace remembered enough of Logan's story to realize that after the destruction of the Manticore DNA lab, there would be an astronomical price on this baby's head. If Max said she needed help, she probably wasn't kidding around. Grace said, "I have a friend from the hospital, a nurse who is also a midwife. Sometimes she delivers babies outside the hospital, at the shantytowns and the encampments. She won't ask a lot of questions. All right?"
Max hesitated, then nodded. "One condition. She knows nothing. I don't care what you tell her, as long as it isn't the truth."
Grace immediately called Sophie, a West Indian woman who had come to the United States just weeks before the Pulse, planning to study for her M.D. The depression had changed all that, but Sophie had been more fortunate than most. Her nursing and midwifery skills had at least allowed her to earn a living and keep a roof over her head.
Sophie was willing to help, but the wait for her to arrive was one of the most excruciating half-hours of Grace's life. Silently Max searched the apartment, tossing food and other supplies into her battered, filthy backpack, helping herself without permission. Grace closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands, wishing desperately that Max would go away for just five minutes, so she could quiet her racing head and pounding heart. It wasn't fear. This was not the first time she and Sophie had traveled out of the city at night to help someone too poor or frightened to use the hospital. And she was fairly sure now that Max wouldn't hurt her, at least not while she had help to offer. What was that phrase Logan had kept using? "Genetically-engineered." Max might be an angry, jealous, genetically-engineered romantic rival, but she was one with a mission. At least for the moment.
No, what was making her head spin was the undeniable reality: Max lived. The woman who had died in Logan's arms was now standing before the open refrigerator, greedily gulping an entire carton of milk.
As if reading her thoughts, Max said, "Aren't you even going to ask questions? Or is resurrection just business as usual for you religious types?" She set the empty carton down on the table and added, "Or maybe your mind's not on business right now. Maybe you're distracted by some ... personal issues."
"Are you telling me I should put in a call to the Vatican or something?"
Max laughed grimly. "No, the last thing I need is someone else after my ass. They're not too crazy about people like me."
"So I can assume there's some reasonble, rational explanation for what you're doing here?"
In answer, Max raised the hem of her shirt so that Grace could see the bottom of a long scar. Grace recognized that kind of scar; she'd seen it more than once at the hospital on open-heart surgery patients. The sight took her back to that first morning on the fifth floor of the hospital, recalled Logan's bruised face. Unexpectedly, sympathy filled her. Max's enemies were brutal. Dangerous. "I see," she said softly. Silently, Max dropped her shirt and turned back to the refrigerator.
Still, there was mystery here. How, and why, had Bling and Logan believed that she might be alive? Had the strength of the bond they shared allowed them to sense her in some way, or had it simply been stubborn denial, a refusal to accept a painful truth? Even as Grace wondered, she became increasingly aware of her own aching heart. That crack about "personal issues" had been more perceptive than Grace wanted to admit. Painful truth -- she'd been deceiving herself. She had never really believed that Max could be alive, therefore she had never really believed in the finality of the choice she had made. Well, believe, she told herself bitterly. 'Cause you've now put your fingers in the nail holes.
Abruptly Grace stood up. Time enough -- all the time in the world, really -- to sort that out later. Right now, she'd better prepare herself for a long night. A pair of jeans, a sweater, extra socks -- as she pulled out the clothes, she became aware that Max had followed her across the room. Grace watched, wondering whether she was planning to liberate anything else. At least her clothes were safe. Max was a good three inches taller than she was.
Carelessly, Max pulled out one or two theology books, glanced at the covers, replaced them and said, "Hmmm. You're smarter than I thought you would be."
"Because my books have lots of big words?" Grace asked, annoyed.
Max raised her eyebrows. From the small table next to the bed she picked up another book, flipped through it, dropped it, and said, "So. What are you, some kind of a nun?"
"Uh, no," said Grace, trying very hard not think about Logan, and failing. She turned red, and the amused curiosity on Max's face changed immediately to comprehension followed by outrage. Grace thought wildly about crawling under the bed, then caught herself. You didn't do anything wrong. She was dead, for heaven's sake. She stared straight back at Max with a bravery she didn't really feel. "Isn't that against your religion?" Max asked with cold fury, and Grace, without a good answer, wordlessly picked up her clothes and locked herself in the bathroom to change. She was wondering whether it was safe to come back out when she heard the blessed sound of Sophie's car horn out on the street. By the time she opened the door Max was already out in the hall.
They left the building in silence.
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Leaving Logan, like being with him, was harder than it looked. Not the part where Grace stayed up way too late at night, listening to sad music and crying. Not the part where every single thing she saw and heard, touched and tasted and smelled, reminded her of him. No, the loneliness of separation took on a whole new meaning when you weren't actually alone. When you were having your little breakdown before least two sets of watchful eyes.
If she really was under surveillance by one or more Manticore factions, at least she had the satisfaction of picturing all those hardcore military types forced to spend hours listening to her sob and blow her nose. And while it was comforting to know that friends, too, watched over her, she sincerely hoped they were reporting only that she was safe and unharmed, and leaving out the parts about the kind of sappy music that made her bawl, and the way her face turned blotchy and red after a good long cry. Some nights, she turned out all the lights and sat in the dark. At least it was private.
She felt more relaxed at the hospital, where security was currently tight. After two near-shootouts in the emergency department (gang-related), followed by an APB from the sector police for a female fugitive (in advanced pregnancy and possibly seeking medical attention), there were plenty of security guards and ID checks and spot searches that would be a nuisance for anyone trying to shadow her. Besides, it was easier not to think there. She kept herself very busy. And she stayed away from the courtyard.
Nearly a month went by without disturbances in her apartment or office. The rather melodramatic scene outside of Logan's building on that last day had been meant to signal any and all observers that Grace was no longer part of his life, and apparently it had worked. If she was still on anyone's radar, there was no sign of it.
By that time, the whole thing had actually begun to seem a little unreal, even silly. Not Logan's tragedy, of course. She didn't doubt the depth of his grief or the sincerity of his love. But the idea that somewhere, somehow, Max lived -- well, back under the cold fluorescent hospital lights where it had all started, she saw that idea for what it was. Wishful thinking. He needed more time to accept his loss, she saw now. Which was partly her fault. She, of all people, should have realized that it was possible to comfort someone too quickly, especially someone who had been through so much in such a short time. Give him six months, even a year -- whatever it took for him to truly come to terms with all of his losses. It stinks, she thought, especially for him. But it was the only way.
If he could hang tough until then, she could too.
So she assumed as she wearily climbed the stairs one evening after work. She no longer approached her own front door with keys in hand, poised to whirl and attack like those fierce self-defense women in late-night tv public service announcements. That night, her mind elsewhere, she found herself scrounging in her bag for her keys, yawning, longing for sleep.
That night a hand clamped itself firmly over her mouth, a second hand pinned her arms to her sides, and a voice whispered in her ear, "Don't make a sound."
In a weird way, she wasn't a bit surprised, except that she'd been expecting a man with a gun. But there was no gun, and the hands, the voice, and the body that pressed against her to hold her motionless were all unmistakably female. She could see nothing but the chipped, dirty paint of her front door, however, and when the voice hissed in her ear, "Unlock the door. Step inside. Got that?" Grace simply nodded. Her right arm was released. She found her keys, unlocked the door with a minimum of nervous fumbling, and more or less fell into the apartment thanks to a shove from her captor. The street lights illuminated the center of the room and Grace instinctively stepped aside, into shadow, then stood with her back to the door, hearing the sounds of the latch and the locks. Then, slowly, she turned, and such a shock went through her that her mouth actually fell open.
It was Max.
Her clothes were torn and stained, and the long hair, so glossy in the photograph on Logan's desk, was now dull and tangled, but there was no mistaking her. Amazement momentarily overwhelmed every other thought and feeling in Grace. Max was alive. Too stunned to speak, Grace watched her step back to the wall, away from the window and out of the sight lines of any observers. "Pull the shade," she ordered.
Staying to one side, Grace quickly did so. The room fell dark and Grace, remembering all that Logan had told her about Max, began to feel a little afraid. She was uncomfortably aware that Max could corner her in the darkness as easily as a cat could trap its prey. Wide awake now, prickling with alarm, she said hoarsely, "Why are you here?"
In answer, the lamp flicked on. Max watched her coldly. "Do you know who I am?" she asked.
"Yes," Grace managed to say.
"I know who you are too," Max replied, "but I won't hurt you, if that's what you're afraid of." So, Bling had been right. Max, alive. And well-informed. Oh, this was going to be messy.
Max said, "I need help, and there's not much time. I need you to take me to the hospital."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. A friend needs help."
"What kind of help?"
Max stared at Grace. "She's having a baby. Now. I want supplies, whatever it takes to keep a newborn baby safe. Get me in, get me what I need and you're free to go."
Grace shook her head. "That's not going to work."
"Why?"
"The hospital's on high security--"
Max smiled confidently. "I don't worry about security."
"How about arrest warrants?" The smile vanished. "Yup. There's a warrant out for the arrest of a female fugitive in advanced pregnancy. So, they're stopping people who sneak around with big bags of obstetric supplies."
"Damn," Max said to herself. "I hoped they wouldn't look for her in Seattle." Frowning, she began to pace. She seemed to have forgotten Grace, who found herself wondering, Now how did that happen? A minute ago I was afraid she would wring my neck and now I'm warning her? I don't even know what's going on here. She cleared her throat. "Can we back this up for a minute? If you didn't know about the warrant, why didn't you just bring her in? Any emergency department in the city would have delivered her. These days, plenty of babies arrive that way."
"She's not going anywhere near a hospital," Max said impatiently, still deep in thought.
"Why?"
Max said fiercely, "You don't have a clue how many people want to get their hands on this baby. Especially now. If they noticed anything unusual, they'd grab it in a heartbeat."
"Okay, let that ride for a minute. Then why are you here? I hear you're good at breaking into just about anywhere, and stealing just about anything. Why involve me? Don't I just complicate things?" She stared at Max. This definitely didn't add up. She just couldn't quite figure out how.
"Maybe I just wanted to meet the woman who helped Logan get over me," Max said rudely, turning her back on Grace.
"All right, then, why not Logan, as long as we're bringing him into this?"
Even without seeing her face Grace could tell how much it hurt Max to talk about him. It was in the way her shoulders slumped just a little, the way she shifted restlessly. But her voice did not soften. "He's not exactly inconspicuous, you know?"
"There are other ways he could help. Maybe even find you a --" Comprehension suddenly dawned. "Oh, I get it! What were you going to do, use me as bait? Someone trustworthy to lure a doctor or nurse into a dark room, so you could grab them? Is that it?" Max said nothing and Grace went on, "Did it ever occur to you to just ask me? That maybe you could trust me?"
The minute she said it she felt like an idiot. Max didn't let it slide, either. She sneered over her shoulder, "No. Surprise, huh?" then turned away again.
Grace took a deep breath, ran her hands through her hair and said, "All right, that was stupid. Can we start over? Look, even if I did hate you -- which I don't -- what makes you think I would hurt Logan by hurting you? Believe it or not, I'm willing to listen to you. I might even be able to help. It's what I do, you know."
"All right." Max turned. "That 'female fugitive' is actually my sister. She was safe in Mexico until she contacted the baby's father and they found out about it. Now she's on the run, and she needs help. Tonight. So -- let's see how you do what you do."
Her sister! No wonder Max didn't want the girl anywhere near a hospital. Grace remembered enough of Logan's story to realize that after the destruction of the Manticore DNA lab, there would be an astronomical price on this baby's head. If Max said she needed help, she probably wasn't kidding around. Grace said, "I have a friend from the hospital, a nurse who is also a midwife. Sometimes she delivers babies outside the hospital, at the shantytowns and the encampments. She won't ask a lot of questions. All right?"
Max hesitated, then nodded. "One condition. She knows nothing. I don't care what you tell her, as long as it isn't the truth."
Grace immediately called Sophie, a West Indian woman who had come to the United States just weeks before the Pulse, planning to study for her M.D. The depression had changed all that, but Sophie had been more fortunate than most. Her nursing and midwifery skills had at least allowed her to earn a living and keep a roof over her head.
Sophie was willing to help, but the wait for her to arrive was one of the most excruciating half-hours of Grace's life. Silently Max searched the apartment, tossing food and other supplies into her battered, filthy backpack, helping herself without permission. Grace closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands, wishing desperately that Max would go away for just five minutes, so she could quiet her racing head and pounding heart. It wasn't fear. This was not the first time she and Sophie had traveled out of the city at night to help someone too poor or frightened to use the hospital. And she was fairly sure now that Max wouldn't hurt her, at least not while she had help to offer. What was that phrase Logan had kept using? "Genetically-engineered." Max might be an angry, jealous, genetically-engineered romantic rival, but she was one with a mission. At least for the moment.
No, what was making her head spin was the undeniable reality: Max lived. The woman who had died in Logan's arms was now standing before the open refrigerator, greedily gulping an entire carton of milk.
As if reading her thoughts, Max said, "Aren't you even going to ask questions? Or is resurrection just business as usual for you religious types?" She set the empty carton down on the table and added, "Or maybe your mind's not on business right now. Maybe you're distracted by some ... personal issues."
"Are you telling me I should put in a call to the Vatican or something?"
Max laughed grimly. "No, the last thing I need is someone else after my ass. They're not too crazy about people like me."
"So I can assume there's some reasonble, rational explanation for what you're doing here?"
In answer, Max raised the hem of her shirt so that Grace could see the bottom of a long scar. Grace recognized that kind of scar; she'd seen it more than once at the hospital on open-heart surgery patients. The sight took her back to that first morning on the fifth floor of the hospital, recalled Logan's bruised face. Unexpectedly, sympathy filled her. Max's enemies were brutal. Dangerous. "I see," she said softly. Silently, Max dropped her shirt and turned back to the refrigerator.
Still, there was mystery here. How, and why, had Bling and Logan believed that she might be alive? Had the strength of the bond they shared allowed them to sense her in some way, or had it simply been stubborn denial, a refusal to accept a painful truth? Even as Grace wondered, she became increasingly aware of her own aching heart. That crack about "personal issues" had been more perceptive than Grace wanted to admit. Painful truth -- she'd been deceiving herself. She had never really believed that Max could be alive, therefore she had never really believed in the finality of the choice she had made. Well, believe, she told herself bitterly. 'Cause you've now put your fingers in the nail holes.
Abruptly Grace stood up. Time enough -- all the time in the world, really -- to sort that out later. Right now, she'd better prepare herself for a long night. A pair of jeans, a sweater, extra socks -- as she pulled out the clothes, she became aware that Max had followed her across the room. Grace watched, wondering whether she was planning to liberate anything else. At least her clothes were safe. Max was a good three inches taller than she was.
Carelessly, Max pulled out one or two theology books, glanced at the covers, replaced them and said, "Hmmm. You're smarter than I thought you would be."
"Because my books have lots of big words?" Grace asked, annoyed.
Max raised her eyebrows. From the small table next to the bed she picked up another book, flipped through it, dropped it, and said, "So. What are you, some kind of a nun?"
"Uh, no," said Grace, trying very hard not think about Logan, and failing. She turned red, and the amused curiosity on Max's face changed immediately to comprehension followed by outrage. Grace thought wildly about crawling under the bed, then caught herself. You didn't do anything wrong. She was dead, for heaven's sake. She stared straight back at Max with a bravery she didn't really feel. "Isn't that against your religion?" Max asked with cold fury, and Grace, without a good answer, wordlessly picked up her clothes and locked herself in the bathroom to change. She was wondering whether it was safe to come back out when she heard the blessed sound of Sophie's car horn out on the street. By the time she opened the door Max was already out in the hall.
They left the building in silence.