(Four)

O8 January 2065

The White House

Washington, DC, USA.

1130 hours

While he waited to take his seat, McQueen noted the fact that, the President having returned to the Oval Office, most of the diplomats and the political bigwigs had disappeared. They had chosen to decline an invitation to lunch and a private tour of the White House. "The moment has passed - there is no more political currency to be gained by eating lunch. They obviously have things they need to do," he thought. "Or perhaps they weren't invited. Aerotech certainly wasn't." That gave him a certain amount of personal satisfaction. "Or maybe this all really was a gesture of kindness on the part of the First Lady."

McQueen watched with a certain level of understanding as a number of the former hostages surreptitiously moved their placecards so that they could be seated facing exits. "Where is she?" He looked for Kylen's table, but was too late to see if she had moved her card. He would not have been in the least surprised if she had done so. If the fact that people had switched seats upset any of the valets or waiters, then they didn't show it.

The Colonel was seated between The First Lady and Mrs. Wang. Classes taken during Officer's Candidate School had taught him the appropriate nuts and bolts for such an occasion, and during their time together Amy had imparted a good deal of knowledge and a subsequent level of polish. Unfortunately, small talk had never been and probably would never be his forte.

It didn't take long for the President's wife to realized that no one at her table had a hidden agenda. No one wanted anything from her or had an ax to grind. It was rare and it was refreshing, but she found that she had to use a different part of her brain. The guests at her table were not particularly comfortable with each other, and she had to cast around to find a method of easing the tension. Thankfully, the First Lady was a skilled conversationalist and had received a good briefing from her staff. The people at her table were rather charming, each in his or her own way, even the taciturn Marine. It would take some work, but she was confident that she could find a way to relax the atmosphere.

Kylen had indeed moved her placecard. She still never liked to sit with her back to a door, still feeling the need to gauge potential escape routes. Kylen was surprised when she looked up from her little bit of slight-of-hand. McQueen was watching her. "I wonder if he saw?" she thought. He was all 'Door Number Two' at this point - the military commander. She therefore found it more difficult to read his reaction. He finally gave her the briefest of half smiles.

Kylen was delighted to see that Martin was seated with her family. Martin Aalto Guilio was the lone surviving InVitro Colonist. With the receiving line and photographs earlier, Kylen had not been able to really speak with him. The otherworldly young man who could make the Sewell fuel - The Pink - vibrate by singing was accompanied by a middle-aged Native American woman. Six weeks ago Martin had been offered the hospitality of a Navajo reservation in Arizona, courtesy of General Radford. Kylen had only spoken with Martin long enough to learn that he was doing fairly well and that the woman was Radford's sister.

During lunch Kylen's family became increasingly involved in a conversation with Martin and Dawn Radford Chee. Though Martin was biologically almost six years older than Allston, they were a good fit. Each had found a needed buddy in this formal atmosphere. Martin said something about Colonel McQueen, and Kylen half-heard Allston telling the young InVitro that Colonel McQueen was a 'friend of the family.' Kylen shook her head indulgently. She knew that Allston, Sky King, was a bit intimidated by McQueen, and now he spoke of him as if they were old buddies.

General Radford's sister's full name, it turned out, was Dawntreader, and Bridee was fascinated with her squash-blossom jewelry. Frank was interested in life and conditions on the reservation. It seemed to Kylen that they all were having a pleasant time.

The First Lady had finally decided to try to get her guests to talk about Paul Wang. A bit risky - true - and it could result in tears, but Mr. and Mrs. Wang seemed to light up when their son was mentioned. They quickly opened up. The Colonel was obviously interested, but still did not take an active role in the conversation.

"They talk about him as if he was still a little kid. I don't know who they are talking about. ... And I don't imagine that they want to hear my stories - not really," McQueen thought. This was something new to him - new since meeting West's parents. West's mother had clutched a picture of Neil - at about the age of ten - to her chest while she had blasted him with her grievances against the war and the Marine Corps. The picture of Neil wearing the Marine uniform was high up on the shelf - ignored - as if the fighting man had never existed. Not for the first time McQueen wondered: "Is this how all natural-borns see their children? As always being children?"

McQueen unexpectedly knew that he had just been given an insight into the workings of 'Naturals' - something he may have thought that he had understood, but really hadn't until that moment. Twenty-three years out of the tank and there were still some subtleties of natural-born behaviors that McQueen couldn't quite get his mind around. The first funeral he had ever attended was when he was eight years out of the tank. There were no services for the dead on Omicron Draconis. There had been no memorials - no rituals - unless you wanted to consider taking boots off of dead bodies a ritual. Boots were hard to come by. The overseers had, for the most part, kept each 'crop' of InVitros separate. Older tanks were known to breed discontent in the younger ones. Best to keep them apart. Keep them isolated. Get a new batch when about half of the old one had died off. Consequently McQueen had spent the first five years of his life with only his own history and what habits his group came up with. He really hadn't spent any time with older tanks until the InVitro platoons - it was here that he had gotten his first real taste of the broader InVitro subculture. And, despite the discrimination, it was here that he had gotten his first taste of tradition: He had fallen on it like a starving man.

"The only religion in the mines had been to avoid pain, eat as much as you could and sleep whenever possible. Hell, I didn't know anything about organized religions 'til basic training." Sitting in the State Dining Room of the White House, surround by the crystal and china - the servants and the ceremony - McQueen had an uncanny experience. A vision of the formidable Sergeant Menendez appeared in his mind - voice like a gravel crusher. "You had best get your pagan ass to chapel every Sunday without fail, Maggot." McQueen hadn't been sure what the word 'pagan' meant at the time, but he had dragged his butt to chapel every Sunday morning. To hear the singing alone was worth it - especially if the southern guys got rolling - swaying, clapping their hands, and giving the 'call and return' of gospel music. McQueen had watched in silent amazement. That was when he had started to study the life and death rituals of Natural-borns. He had studied them, but he knew that he was still learning to understand them.

His first several years in the service, the funerals and the memorial services that McQueen had attended were all for people his own age, or there about, and he had hung with the Marines and avoided the families at all cost. He had carried caskets and folded flags, and had tried with varying degrees of success to maintain his emotional distance. But McQueen had known these young Marines as just that - Marines - and Marines died. During the last decade, McQueen had written his share of letters to grieving parents, but had never dealt with them face to face - until recently. There had been five years of peace. Only since the start of this war had he officiated over the ceremonies for someone noticeably younger than himself. McQueen realized that part of him would always remember his Kids at the age they were when he first saw them. Not children perhaps, but almost unbelievably young.

The Wangs continued to tell stories about this guy named Paul. It did not make McQueen particularly uncomfortable, although he felt unable to join the conversation. He was not involved - McQueen had never met the guy they were talking about. As long as he didn't recognize the person they were speaking about, McQueen didn't have to worry about his feelings. Their conversation did not affect him. He could remain detached.

McQueen tuned back into the conversation. Mrs. Wang was speaking. "The mothers. Is it always the mothers?" McQueen asked himself.

"Remember the Halloween when Paul was about ten? He went out trick or treating and brought home a full bag. He changed his costume - dressing up like a bum - and went out again to the same houses. People must have known, but he came home with a second bag chock full of candy."

McQueen felt his heart catch. This was the young marine that he knew. The kid who loved to gossip, the wiseacre - The Joker.

"Now that sounds like Wang," he said before he could censor himself.

"It does, doesn't it? It sort of says it all," Mr. Wang said, and then smiled, rather sadly.

"The sod from Wrigley field was still growing when I left the Saratoga," McQueen offered. "Wang watered it and trimmed it with scissors." The entire Wang family put down their forks and stared at the Colonel. The quiet was ominous. He had touched a nerve. "Oh, hell."

The First Lady sensed that the mood had shifted dangerously. "You actually sent Paul sod from Wrigley Field? How did you ever get it? Oh, tell me this story." The moment was broken. The tears so close to the surface retreated, and the Wang's told the tale.

While Kylen's family was opening up and becoming more sociable, she was withdrawing further and further into herself. She found that she was watching people and listening to their conversations as if she was not involved - as if she was watching a movie. Detached. Separated.

Dessert and coffee were now finished and people were beginning to mill about, waiting to be led off in small groups for private guided tours of the White House. A large number of people drifted over to Kylen's table - they wanted to see Martin again. Kylen and Martin stood together making small talk and introductions, but she was still distracted.

It was so strange seeing these people again. They shared a bond. A bond that should not be broken - they needed each other on an elemental level. But as Kylen mouthed words that she couldn't remember as soon as she said them, she realized something else on an elemental level. She knew these people. Knew them too well. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their foibles. Their pettiness. Things that they did when they thought no one was watching. The survivors knew each other too well. Knew each other in ways that no one should be able to know anyone else. Totally stripped of any and all pretense or protection. "That's who you really are. What you do in the dark when you think no one is watching," she thought. "And these people know the same about me."

Kylen knew a truth. "I never wanted to see any of these people ever again. Ever." She shuddered.

"What's the matter?" Martin whispered.

Kylen spoke her new truth before she thought better of it.

"I never want to see these people again in my life," she whispered through her teeth, still smiling a 'receiving line' smile.

"I was thinking the same thing, ... Well, sort of," he whispered.

They looked at each other. Each mildly shocked.

Martin spoke tentatively. "If one of them called and needed to talk to me ... Well, I'd talk to that person - any one of them. I wouldn't turn any of them away. But you and I are different somehow. We are friends somehow. At least I thought we were. You were there ... with me. You felt it, Kylen. You felt the stone singing back."

"Oh yes, Martin. I did feel it." Kylen threw her arms around the young InVitro's neck and hugged him tightly. She remembered the almost painful beauty of the moment Martin discovered that the Pink could vibrate." And yes, we are friends," she whispered in his ear. It was another truth. She wanted to keep track of Martin.

He returned her hug. "Do you think that other people feel the same way? That they never want to see us again?" he asked.

"I'd be surprised if a lot of them didn't feel that way," she said. "But it isn't personal. It's just ... what it is."

"But it is sort of frightening. Like being cast adrift," Martin whispered.

"I know, Martin. I feel it too," Kylen admitted.

Martin squeezed her hand. One of the guides came to their table and they moved off to begin their tour. Martin and Kylen were still holding hands. They were like little children on a school outing - holding hands so no one gets lost.

08 January 2065

BOQ, Henderson Hall

Arlington, Virginia

USA

2230

The afternoon McQueen had spent with General Wierick and his staff. He was to see them again tomorrow. Captain Armstrong had stopped by briefly in the evening. McQueen was beat. "It is amazing how a mental workout can be as tiring as a physical workout." Curiosity finally got to Ty and he opened the note that the French Ambassador had passed into his hand almost twelve hours earlier. "From Chaput," she had said.

My Dear Colonel,

I understand that you now know the heavy burden of the truth that I have carried for months. Things better left unsaid - at least for now.

I was truly glad that you managed to keep your head. Watch out for Madam le Guillotine - you confound her again and she will not look kindly upon you.

Congratulations. I will continue to follow your career with interest. I will always know where to look for the winds of change. They swirl around you.

Bonne Chance, Mon ami

N.C.

Colonel McQueen tore the United Nations stationery into little pieces and flushed the bits down the toilet. He pushed the lever a second time in disgust before hitting the rack.