(Nine)

09 January 2065

Pennsylvania Ave. (en route to Hotel Washington)

Washington DC,

USA

2300

McQueen and Kylen sat together in the back seat of the staff car. A sheet of Plexiglas separated them from the driver - a corporal. Kylen now recognized the sleeve patches for that rank. There really was no need for the extra privacy. They were both tired and silent. Kylen leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes.

McQueen found her to be distant. Not disconnected - she was right there with him - not lost and shaken by something. She just seemed distracted. She was so calm. It was unusual. He decided that as long as when he looked into her eyes she was in there looking back at him he would let it ride. He looked over at her, thinking: "She'll be asleep before we even reach Capitol Hill. I'll have to wake her up when we get to the hotel."

McQueen looked out of the window to his left. He took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He did it again .... And again .... And then he began the exercise.

"1862: Mackie," he thought to himself.

"1863: Vaughn, Nugent."

"1864: Binder; Miller; Martin, James ...; "

"You look like you are so far away," Kylen whispered, so softly that McQueen was not sure if she had actually spoken or if he had imagined it.

"I am," he murmured. "You too."

It was enough for Kylen at the moment. His tone made it clear that he was not angry or displeased with her. He was just being private. Kylen was used to it and left him alone. She was content.

McQueen went back to his exercise.

"1864: Oviatt; Denig; Roantree; Hudson; Sprowle; Smith,Willard."

"1865: Tomlin, Thompson, Shivers, Fry, Rannahan."

"1871: Brown, Coleman."

Without thinking, and for reasons that he didn't understand, McQueen began to very softly repeat the list out loud.

"1872: McNamara, Dougherty, Purvis, Steward."

"1876: Owens, Michael."

"1884: Morris."

"1898: Quick; Ford; Franklin; Gaughan; Kuchneister; Hill, Frank."

Kylen felt he was giving her both a hint and a gentle challenge. She became alert. "Marines?" she asked.

"Yes."

The car was near to The Washington Hotel, and stopped for a light. McQueen tapped on the glass that separated them from the driver. He held up his index finger and drew several flat circles in the air - the signal for "drive around awhile." The corporal nodded and eased the car into the traffic.

After several minutes Kylen asked: "2062?"

"No," he said.

After a few moments she asked again, picking a date at random. "1957?"

"No"

"1921?"

"One of the ones I most admire," he said. "Smith in 1921." He paused, and then in a different tone he said: "Cook in 1964."

"Is it a long list?" Kylen asked.

"Too long."

Kylen had an insight. "They're the Marines who've received the Medal of Honor, aren't they?"

McQueen gave his half-smile. She hadn't let him down.

"Why do you call this list to mind? ... When?" she asked gently.

McQueen paused. "You brought it up for a reason," he told himself. "Go ahead." He took a breath and centered himself.

"When my time was up - my five years in the mines - I was conscripted to the InVitro platoons. The very same day."

Kylen gave a little gasp. It was horrifying.

"Actually, I suppose it could have been worse," he said. "If I hadn't been conscripted, I would be dead. I would have had to stay in that hellhole. I would have had to work for another two years to make enough money to pay for passage off of Omicron Draconis. No InVitro has ever lived for seven years in those mines. When I got to Earth, I wasn't in a combat platoon. I was in a labor gang."

McQueen decided to skip over the Port Riskin Affair. To cover the time gap in the story, and his time in solitary, he leaned forward and tapped on the glass. There was a faint whirring sound as the window was lowered. "Lincoln Memorial," he ordered. The driver put the window back up. McQueen sat back and continued his story. "During my second year I was transferred into a different unit. I had drawn attention to myself, and the Sergeant decided that I needed to be 'put in my place.' He made it his mission, and he could be very creative. In one of the hallways in headquarters there were portraits of all the Medal of Honor recipients. I didn't know what that meant at the time. Well, I did something that pissed the Sergeant off - can't even remember what it was. He canceled my liberty and gave me thirty-six hours to memorize the list. It was a punishment. And if I failed, I knew that he would come up with something else, and something more, and so on and so on until he found some way - something - to break me. When the time was up he tested me every which way but loose. He couldn't catch me. I was ready. I knew them all backward and forward. I could recite the list alphabetically, or by years, or by rank."

"So you did it," Kylen prompted.

"Yes, I did it. And I learned a lot in the process. I learned that the medal was the military's highest honor. It is still a 'pure' thing. Nobody tries to 'win' the medal. If they do - they screw up. Hell, they probably take out a lot of their buddies as well. I learned that most of the guys were just ordinary grunts doin' their jobs when something extraordinary happened. Loyalty - I already knew about loyalty. And I knew a few things about courage. I learned what tradition was - or rather what it could be. What dedication was." McQueen gave a little smirk. "I learned that I was smarter than the Sergeant, and that I had a good memory. That sometimes I could take control of the events around me. And I learned that I could learn." He paused for a moment, and then spoke again. "After that - as long as I did my job - he left me pretty much alone."

"So you go through the list to get in the mindset for challenges?" Kylen asked.

"No," he responded abruptly. "I don't recite it before action, and I don't use it as a mantra - not in the conventional sense. I use it to remind myself."

The list had evolved. It was similar to McQueen's wedding photograph. And, like the picture, it had become a form of self-discipline. Both had taken on meanings that had little to do with their initial significance. Both things were now reminders of both his failures and his successes.

Kylen could think of nothing to say.

They arrived at the Lincoln Memorial. The driver parked, and waited for orders like a good Marine. McQueen got out of the car and then held out his hand to assist Kylen as she slid across the seat. They walked to the Memorial and started up the steps. There were few tourists. It was getting late, and it was cold for this essentially Southern city. As a New Englander, Kylen found the weather unseasonably warm. Her breath was visible in the night air, but there was no snow.

She returned to the subject. "You were at 1899?" Kylen phrased it as a question.

"There were ten in 1899. I know all their names."

They reached the main floor of the memorial. McQueen looked up into the illuminated face of the statue.

"I know all their names." McQueen said it again. He spoke as if he expected Lincoln to answer him.

Kylen almost expected that the statue would. Lincoln had piloted the country through its most turbulent time, and as a result a nation had been created. Lincoln had outlawed the institution of slavery - an institution that the IVA had been able to resurrect on a legal technicality. The InVitro program and the aberration of indentured servitude has lasted for thirty-three years.

"If the stones were to speak, they would speak to McQueen," she thought.

"'I do the very best I know how - the very best I can, and I mean to keep doing so until the end.'" he thought, quoting the President's words back at the man's statue.

Kylen waited in silence. After a minute or so McQueen turned and held out his arm for her.

"Do you know that the statue is carved from marble quarried in Georgia?" she asked. McQueen looked over his shoulder into her eyes - looking for the truth. It was there. He turned back to the sculpture. The irony of it all was not lost on McQueen. "Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle," he softly quoted Lincoln to Kylen.

Kylen took his arm, and together they left the building. When they reached the bottom of the stairs Kylen asked: "You memorized them all - the names and the years - but you said that there are two you really admire?"

At that moment McQueen felt almost ashamed that he hadn't memorized the histories of all the men - even though he knew that that was too big a task. But there were two men - now three with Paul - who meant something special to him.

"Who are they?" Kylen asked.

"Smith, Albert J. He was just an ordinary grunt standing sentry. It was in 1921 - the very infancy of the airplane. He saw a plane crash, and he pulled the pilot out of the burning wreckage."

It fit together for Kylen. McQueen was a pilot. All pilots feared fire. There was nothing more that needed to be said about Albert J. Smith's actions.

Kylen waited, but McQueen said nothing. "You mentioned one other," she prompted.

"Did I?" he asked.

Kylen almost tripped. There must be a real and distinct reason that he had chosen to suddenly 'forget' something he had so recently said to her. There was a reason that he wanted to drop it. She chose to leave it alone. It was either private or secret. Either way, Kylen did not want to push any buttons. No matter how much she wanted to know, it was not worth creating tension in the evening, which had become personal and private - almost like a night in Maine.

McQueen escorted Kylen back to the hotel. Silent again, he was deeply ensconced his own bubble. Kylen was well used to it. And while curious, she was not offended. He said good night in the lobby, at the elevators - in full view of the public. Kylen had caught on to the conventions of "public displays of affection." Bridee giving him a kiss - a kiss from a child - in public was one thing. A kiss from her - even on the cheek - would be something else altogether. She took his hand in both of hers, thanked him for a lovely evening, and wished him good night. She gave him a wave as the elevator doors closed.

The driver held the car door open. "Hains Point. The Awakening," McQueen ordered with purpose as he got into the car.

Kylen entered her room and took off her coat. Bridee was sound asleep. Kylen was tired, but knew that she would be unable to sleep. She knew that the feeling of control that she had felt - had earned - during the evening would not last. Not with that level of intensity. She knew that it would fade into the background. Kylen was aware that she would again have feelings of confusion in her life - of not being in control. It was, after all, real life. But now she had a touchstone. Having felt it - the sense of control - she was sure that it was a real and not a dream. And if the feeling was real, then she could have it again. The knowledge created a fantastic calm in her heart. Comfort. Kylen was determined to enjoy the feeling until the very last of it drained away. She went to get her father, correctly surmising that he had stayed up until she was home. They went up to the Terrace Room on the top floor of the hotel for a nightcap. They had a skyline view of the city.

"Cook, Colonel Donald G." As McQueen absently looked through his window he thought about the man. McQueen hadn't told Kylen about Cook for a reason - the story was just a little too close to home.

The date on the Medal of Honor Citation technically made it the first awarded to a Marine in the Vietnam War - even though the medal wasn't actually awarded for over ten years. A captain at the time, Cook had been captured by the VC one hundred years ago. December 31, 1964. He had survived for three years. He had rallied, and had been an inspiration to his fellow prisoners. Cook had tried to escape. He had shared his food and medicine with his men, and had finally died of malaria - or so the VC had alleged. In the 1990s the Navy had named a destroyer after this steadfast Marine: The Donald G. Cook. During the C.C. War with the Communist Chinese the Navy had transferred the name to a new space destroyer. The motto of both of the vessels had been, and was: "Faith without fear." During three years of capture, starvation, illness, and encouraging other men - during three years of torture - Cook had never talked. Cook had never been broken.

The driver parked the car and opened the door for McQueen, who walked toward the mammoth sculpture. The driver got back into the car to await the Colonel's pleasure. This place always gave the Corporal the creeps. He tried to avoid the place even in the daytime. The sculpture had been in the ground for just about a hundred years, and DC residents seemed to almost ignore it. It was part of the landscape. Tourists were still fascinated by it, and in his job as a driver for the brass that came into town, the Corporal was often asked to bring people out here. It never got any easier. The place had a bad vibe, and he was sure that his mother would say that it wasn't healthy. The thing was just too weird.

The place - the Awakening - always drew McQueen back. He walked around and through the dimly illuminated artwork. It was literally a sculpted metal giant awakening from the earth - clawing its way out of the ground. Only pieces of the giant were visible as it seemed to be fighting its way out of the earth. Part of a hand and part of a bent leg - and from the expression on the partially freed face and head, awakening was no easy matter. Being trapped was hard enough, but getting out was even more difficult. Forever caught halfway to freedom. The possibility of failing was a heartbeat away. There were moments that McQueen wondered if the giant was not awakening from the earth, but instead being sucked back down into it.

"Colonel Cook. Faith without fear."

McQueen had accepted the fact that his final actions while under torture had been excused. The AIs had learned from the Vietcong, and then had perfected the art. He had lasted for several days. McQueen still had no idea what he had said under torture - no memory - but he knew that he would have said anything. Anything. The torture had been too extreme. The military understood that fact as well. But Paul had been right. It was done to show that you could be broken. That your will would fail before your body. Cook had had a key - a secret place in his soul - that McQueen hadn't been able to find. He hoped that Cook would forgive him. "I wonder just what is the number on that door?" he asked himself.

Closing his eyes, McQueen caught another Lincoln quotation as it floated to the surface. "My concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with your failure." He opened his eyes.

McQueen was not content.

One of the giant's arms was totally free and stretched up to the sky. The hand, however, was not reaching for help. It was bent into a claw - waiting to strike - to tear into the dirt. It was the part of the whole piece that McQueen liked the most. It implied action - not reaction. He had a brief desire to lay out on the ground in the middle of the installation. Ready to be crushed by the metal arms if the giant should move. To feel the giant's heartbeat through the ground against his back. To see the universe from the giant's point of view. To know with certainty that he, T.C. McQueen, could get up, stretch, and walk away. "I know that already," he realized. "Thanks, but no thanks. I already know the view from down there."

Lincoln had also said: "Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing."

As he walked back toward the car, McQueen felt that he was starting to regain control over his life. There were possibilities. "All in all, Kylen was right. It has been a pretty good evening."

The corporal jumped out and opened the door. "Henderson Hall," McQueen said, to the young Marine's relief.