(Five)

09 January 2065

Washington DC,

USA

Unbelievably enough for the rather jaded and sophisticated city of Washington, DC, there really is a hotel with the rather small-town name of 'Hotel Washington.' While not in the highest echelons of elegance, service and history, like The Jefferson or The Willard, or Hay-Adams, it is nonetheless considered one of the grand old dames of the Capital. The Vesta/Tellus group had been given rooms there for their four-night stay in the city. Four nights only because, even with the new restrictions, it was still more economical to travel having "stayed over Saturday." But the travel and accommodations had been paid for.

The counselors from The Greenbrier had been brought in and were meeting with individuals and families to check on progress, and there were lists of available tours, concerts, plays, and events that the group could attend - most at their own expense.

It was Friday. There were tours during the day, and in the evening the Wang family was going to The Folger to see 'Henry V' - a suitable choice for a production at the Shakespeare Museum. The Celina family was going to attend a concert at The Kennedy Center. Kylen, however, had other plans for the evening. She had been invited to attend an event curiously referred to as Mess Night at Marine Corps Headquarters. She had an early breakfast with an officer from the protocol office - one Captain Armstrong. "So the briefing need not interfere with your plans for the day, Ma'am." After her meeting with the captain Kylen had promptly phoned Amy Langston to get the straight dope on this type of event. "Amy, Amy, Amy help me out here."

A few weeks earlier Amy Langston, nee McQueen, the Colonel's ex-wife and through a series of coincidences his rehabilitation therapist, had been openly infuriated by Kylen's little bomb about going to work for the Marine Corps. Ty's oblique assurances that "Kylen has her reasons" had only partially oiled the waters. Amy had become fond of Kylen, had started to build a relationship independent of the McQueen connection. She had been forced to come to a painful decision. If she wanted to maintain her growing friendship with Kylen, Amy would have to swallow, or at least not give voice to, some of her old resentments.

As it turned out Amy had only attended two Mess Nights, once when she and her father had made the fateful visit to Loxley and the second time while she been married to McQueen. A former member of the Angry Angels had retired and was given a Mess Night to "dine-out" her detachment. Amy remembered that night not so much for the tradition it signified, but rather for the memorable argument that had followed: Amy had felt that Ty should resign his commission - that he could 'do better' - and T.C. McQueen was not interested in leaving the Marine Corps.

Kylen filled Amy in on the events of the awards ceremony at the White House the day before. Amy laughed to herself. But the picture of McQueen with The President of the United States? Amy could only imagine her estranged father prowling around his office in the Senate absolutely apoplectic with rage at an InVitro being received in such a manner. And then to have the InVitro be Ty? Well, it was immensely satisfying. Amy had to caution herself. She mustn't use T.C. McQueen as a weapon against her father. Not again. She had done it before and the results had been disastrous. She had been unthinking, and the upshot had been cruel - to both T.C. and to herself. Amy and McQueen had finally achieved an almost comfortable rapprochement of their tumultuous relationship. They had started, it seemed, to forgive one another. They might one day even become friends after a fashion.

Occasionally a guest list was included with the invitation to Mess Night. When Kylen read it off to Amy, the older woman could only whistle her surprise. McQueen was playing with the Big Boys.

"Mess Night is equivalent to a black tie affair. It is formal. Did McQueen give you any pointers?" Amy asked, using Ty's surname, which in her case was a sure sign of irritation.

"He just said it was a nice dinner ... that I'd know what to do ... and to be on time," Kylen replied, her anxiety beginning to grow.

Amy shook her head. "Well, that's typical McQueen. But, from him ... consider it a compliment. How about this captain? Did she give you any info?"

Kylen waved a sheet of paper in front of the vid/phone camera. "Pages out of the Marine Officer's Guide."

"Good. That's more than I ever got," Amy said with a trace of bitterness.

"I thought it was just a dinner for the Ambassador - because The Colonel was given that decoration from Finland. But there are lists here," Kylen emphasized. "A list of people and another whole list of things that have to happen in a certain order."

"Kylen, the Marine Corps has a ritual for everything. Somewhere there are written directions for tying your shoes. But you don't have to perform the rituals. You are a guest: Remember that. You take part, but someone will be there to help you. McQueen has done this before," Amy said, but then she had a thought. "Never in such a rarefied atmosphere. I wonder how nervous he is. Always hard to tell."

"Now I'm not sure why I was invited," Kylen said. "I thought it was just to be company for Colonel McQueen. But now this?" Kylen again waved the papers in the air.

It seemed patently obvious to Amy, who had taken in politics along with her cornflakes - at the breakfast table - since childhood. "They are using this as an introduction. I don't know what job they have in mind for you, Kylen, and I don't think that I want to know. But you were invited so that the 'players' could meet you and so that your stamp of approval would be obvious. Trust me, aides-de-camp are scribbling your name into their notebooks even as we speak."

Kylen looked uncomfortable.

"Then again," Amy continued, "you were undoubtedly included to be company for Ty. In any case, the deals are made after dinner and the toasts, so stay on your toes and keep your eyes open. Takes notes. Go to the bathroom and write things down."

Kylen's initial excitement about the evening was fast turning into dread. "Deals made after dinner? Writing notes in the bathroom?" Sitting in a basement someplace reading people's mail was starting to look like a good alternative.

"Couldn't it really just be a nice dinner?" she asked. Kylen almost wished that she hadn't called Amy. In retrospect, she much preferred McQueen's terse shorthand explanation.

"Kylen, you are in Washington, DC. Even a nice dinner party is going to have an agenda." Amy could see that she may have been too forthright. She hadn't needed to be quite so blunt, but she hadn't been able to temper enough of her resentments or her political barometer. She had made Kylen nervous. Amy attempted to lighten the tone by changing the subject to one which was still of importance to most women and their feelings of confidence. "What are you going to wear?"

It was soon obvious to Amy that Kylen needed the boost that only a new and more sophisticated garment could impart. Amy immediately set up a conference call to one of her old roommates. The Celina tribe went on a tour of the city without Kylen, who instead went shopping with Amy's friend. It seemed that there was a little known but rather sizable underground of high-end resale shops in the DC area. There was a brisk market for all those suits, dresses and gowns worn by the politicos and Foreign Service types. Kylen had a good time, the appropriate gown and renewed confidence by one-o'clock. And by two-o'clock she had a manicure, the blackened areas of her fingernails covered with a warm rosy lacquer.

Colonel T.C. McQueen, on the other hand, spent the day over at the Pentagon. It was rare that someone from the front lines of his rank and caliber made it back to Earth. A lot of people wanted to attend what could best be termed a debriefing - though unlike any he had ever been through before. A lot of people came and went. Subjects jumped around, but everyone let him finish all of his thoughts and didn't interrupt. What was gratifying about the rather grueling day was the fact that people appeared to be listening. The questions posed to the Colonel did not contain veiled threats. They were in no way accusatory, but rather probing and frequently thought provoking.

If the Brass wanted something specific from him they didn't let him know. McQueen remembered what Kylen had told him about children. "They 'want.' They just don't know what it is they want." He shook his head, feeling that he had missed something.

09 January 2065

Washington, DC

USA

1815 hours

It was 6:15 PM and Kylen was again sitting in front of the vid/phone. She had checked in with Amy and had received her final bits of advice on behavior, protocol and appearance, but she was now speaking with Eithne. Kylen was pretending. "I'm NOT lying," she told herself. "I'm pretending. Please, God, let this go well."

Kylen was attempting to mend fences with her sister by asking Eithne's advice on the final touches of her appearance - touches that Amy had already given her - but it was a way to reconnect with her artistic and dramatic younger sister.

The entire trip had been slightly tainted for Kylen. She had asked Eithne to come with them, and her younger sister had refused in no uncertain and very colorful terms. From the cradle, Eithne had been known as the familial spitfire. Her brothers said the she was "a redhead and all that that implied." She was talented and driven and had hitched her wagon to a star. She would dance no matter what, and at the age of fifteen had won a scholarship to Boston's School of the Arts.

Eithne's volatile personality was kept in line by her father, to whom she was devoted, and by her brothers and sisters, who occasionally made fun of, but generally ignored, her tirades. About once a year or so there would be an argument with one of her siblings: A series of fireworks that blazed, boomed and crackled, and then died out just as quickly. It was just Eithne after all.

Kylen now remembered the whole incident that had happened only a few days ago as 'Eithne's Refusal' - complete with quotation marks and capital letters. The event had become like a national news break on television: It replayed itself incessantly - breaking in on other thoughts - interrupting and distracting her - affecting her ability to concentrate on the tasks at hand. No one can fight like family members, and this had started out as the usual family difference of opinion. It became almost immediately obvious that Kylen, at least, was not viewing the exchange as usual or common. Kylen was tired of dancing around Eithne's temperament. Life was too short to put up with mini-dramas. Once the two got started, an argument of historic proportions had ensued. There were no cooler, more mature heads around to diffuse the emotional confrontation. Frank had been at the university, and Ewan had been out at the barn.

Kylen had been walking around full of emotional disappointments and wounds that were only just beginning to heal. Eithne had seen her ambitions and possibly her entire career in the ballet placed on indefinite hold due to the War. Unconsciously they each had been spoiling for a fight. They had known exactly which buttons to push. It had been a reaction that neither one was capable of stopping - a chemical reaction that now had to run its course. Old jealousies and sibling rivalries had bubbled up and burst with acidic violence on the seemingly calm surface of the family. It had become clear that Eithne had a world of resentments to dump about Kylen's ill-fated Tellus mission and what the family had gone through in her absence and supposed death. Kylen had had it up to here with Eithne's narrow, provincial view of the War: The comfortable life filled with opportunities that the younger sister took for granted. At seventeen there was no excuse to think that your life was over. Not unless and until you had a gun pointed in your face.

Each sister had accused the other of being selfish and self-absorbed. Things had escalated rapidly.

Eithne had only been gunning for the old bob and weave. The usual. She had been frankly shocked that the fight did not progress like fights usually did. She had pushed too hard one too many times - was not prepared for the result - and was soon outclassed. There was no way on God's green earth that Kylen was going to let Eithne out of that kitchen with just the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and a door slamming. Sensing fear now in her opponent, Kylen had pressed her advantage.

Kylen had not raised a hand to her sister. Hitting your brothers or sisters had always been a forbidden and heavily punished act in the household. Such behavior would not ever be tolerated at Ridge Farm, and some training could not be overridden. But before anyone had known what was happening, Kylen had literally backed the smaller Eithne into a corner. Rather than meeting Eithne's famous heat and volume, Kylen had been unnaturally pale and extraordinarily quiet. The potential violence - the ability to do violence - under the controlled surface had been a terrifying realization for the witnesses and the participants. Kylen had given a warning to her frozen sister. "Don't let your mouth write checks that your body isn't prepared to cash." No one but Kylen had a clue as to where that little bit of poison had come from. It had been an ugly moment that was broken only when Allston slammed his schoolbooks against the kitchen table.

The incident had reinforced Kylen's decision to leave the farm - to come down to Washington. She had angers and fears and serious work to do on herself. The loss of the Tellus colonial mission had deeply scarred her family, and Kylen didn't want to risk further damage - of poisoning them all with her issues. Now, she was facing her sister again - attempting to reconnect.

"You don't think it's too sophisticated?" Kylen asked. The dress was not in the least revealing in a conventional sense and had no ornamentation, but the cut was severe - tailored and fitted. The impact of the garment was its material and its color. Real silk and a deep rich purple-blue. It had a suggestion of silvery sheen when the light hit it just right. It had made Kylen think of New England in the summer. The color of blueberries when she and Eithne plucked them off the bushes in August, enduring the stickers and scratches for the sweet reward.

"No, no, no. The dress is great," Eithne urged. "Now look in the mirror and take off one piece of jewelry. I don't care what, but something has to go."

Kylen did as she was commanded. She removed her bracelet and stood back from the camera, turning so that Eithne could give her the final word.

"That's it. Perfect," Eithne actually smiled at her sister. "Let Bridee wear the bracelet to the concert. It will make her feel grown up," she pronounced with the tone reminiscent of a grandmother. "I still have the feeling you are going into the lion's den, Kylen, but you look fabulous," she said. "Thanks for calling, but then you know that I am the arbiter of style," Eithne joked.

Kylen had to laugh. Nerves were still tender. This was going to take a while to smooth over, but it was a start.

"Love you. Bye bye."

**************

At 1835 McQueen called up from the lobby. Bridee had read about this Evening Dress Uniform in the papers Kylen had received from Captain Armstrong and had to see it to believe it. She accompanied Kylen down to the lobby with her camera.

When the elevator doors opened, Bridee gave an immediate little gasp. "Kylen, look. He is wearing a cape. He looks like a prince in a movie," she whispered.

"Hush," Kylen hissed and took her sister's arm, propelling her out of the elevator before the doors closed on them. But it was true. Six was standing there in a full-length cape. Amy hadn't prepared her for this.

As a commissioned officer it was mandatory that McQueen have an Evening Dress uniform. Even though he would never admit it unless pressed, he did rather like the uniform, and it was far and away the most money he had ever laid out for any clothing. A major expense, especially for something worn so seldom. The traditional Marine Corps boatcloak was optional. Worn only with Dress blues or Evening Dress attire, the cloak - like the sword - was a throwback to the Napoleonic era. McQueen had never been able to justify the purchase of

one for himself. They were costly in the extreme. Captain Armstrong had delivered this to his quarters at Henderson Hall last night.

"I didn't know if you had a cloak with you, Sir, but if you don't I can make this available to you for the length of your visit."

McQueen had had no idea that things like this were ever done. Marines were supposed to show up with the required gear in hand, and the cloak was not required. His unspoken question must have shown on his face.

"Part of my duty, as I see it, Colonel, is to see not only that things progress smoothly, but that people are made as comfortable as possible with protocol," Captain Armstrong had explained. "I'm a Marine and trained to improvise. With the War on we found that some bits and pieces of uniforms could get worn or lost in transit. So several of us have put together a few things to have on hand just in case. We can't lend anyone a full uniform, Sir, but gloves, covers, a sword and this cloak ... We can help."

Colonel McQueen's feelings about Captain Armstrong had changed at that moment. She went from being an officious, irritating little protocol ramrod to being HIS little protocol ramrod.

"Thank you, Captain," he had said honestly. "Waistcoat or cummerbund?" he asked, holding the items up.

"Waistcoat I think, Colonel. After all, you are one of the guests of honor," she had said. "And tomorrow evening, in honor of the Ambassador from Finland, you may - and probably should - wear the White Rose decoration on its ribbon, rather than the miniature."

So now McQueen stood before the Celina sisters - white gloves, white waistcoat, White Rose of Finland at his neck, white cover tucked under his arm - topped off with the boatcloak of a Marine Corps officer. They thought he looked spectacular.

Bridee whipped out the camera and went to work.

"Bridgid, this isn't the senior prom," Kylen remonstrated.

"But it is special," Bridee replied. She was finished anyway. "Look at the tiny medals," she said, tentatively touching the miniatures on McQueen's chest. "Where is your sword?"

"We have to leave," McQueen said, his impatience now showing. This was yet another situation that he was having trouble controlling. He was getting sick and tired of reacting — not acting. "The driver is waiting." He accepted Bridee's kiss on his cheek and escorted Kylen through the doors to the car.

Footnote: An illustration of a field grade officer in Evening Dress with boatcloak can be viewed at http://www.tecom.usmc.mil/mcub/library/images/URFigs/Fig2-1.gif