The memorial service for Suzanne McCullough and Norton Drake was held five days later. It was a small, intimate affair with only immediate family and teammates in attendance. This included, besides Harrison and Ironhorse, General Wilson, Suzanne's daughter Debi and, of course, the Cottage housekeeper, Mrs. Pennyworth, who dabbed at her eyes constantly with a lace handkerchief.

"I feel like I did when my husband was killed," she confided before the funeral. "It's a part of my life just gone."

"I understand, Mrs. Pennyworth." Despite the sling supporting his injured arm, Harrison's dark suit was flawless, his shirt pristine white. Outwardly controlled, he drew the sobbing woman into a tight embrace, hiding the unshed tears shimmering in his own eyes against her hair. "We're all going to miss them."

"We all do miss them," Ironhorse corrected from her other side. Formally attired in a dress uniform, his composure complete, the man looked every inch the officer, untouched and unaffected save for the unnatural stiffness to his bearing and stone mask across his features.

Mrs. Pennyworth glanced at them with admiration, sniffing. "I guess I'm just not strong. Not like you two are. I can't handle...." She sniffed again, desperately fighting another bout of tears, then gave up and buried her head in Harrison's shoulder.

The chapel door opened then to admit Norton's brother, Stan, who represented the Jamaica-based Drake family at these services. A year younger than Norton and the one who had been closest to the computer genius while they were growing up, he was a big man, powerfully built, and unsmiling. He was accompanied by a petite, youthful looking woman dressed in black, who hung on to his arm like a life preserver.

Harrison gently disengaged himself from the sobbing housekeeper and crossed to meet them, leaving Mrs. Pennyworth to Ironhorse's care. "Stan?" The black man nodded curtly. "I'm Harrison Blackwood. Norton introduced us at the Pacific Institute of Technology two years ago."

There was no return greeting from the man. Drake hesitated, studying the tall physicist from head to foot with hard brown eyes. After a moment he grudgingly gestured the woman forward with a short jerk of his arm. "My wife, Madalyn."

The woman smiled tentatively, one hand brushing a short strand of curly hair back from her face. "Did you know Norton for very long, Mr. Blackwood?"

"Harrison," he corrected gently. "Norton and I were friends and colleagues for nearly fifteen years. He was a good friend."

Thick lips parted. Drake made to say something but refrained when General Wilson appeared at his elbow and extended a hand. "You must be Stanley Drake."

The black man scowled, making no move to accept the handshake. "What of it?" he challenged truculently.

Wilson's shoulders stiffened, his light eyes narrowing to slits. But he held his peace, allowing the hostility to pass. "I'm General Henry Wilson," he continued, allowing his hand to drop naturally back to his side. "My niece was killed at the same time as your brother."

"Uh-huh." Drake eyed the uniform coldly. "And just how were they killed, Wilson? All I've been told is that some big, secret, terrorist organization blew my brother away then vanished without a trace."

"That's right, Sir."

The bigger man placed both hands on his hips, his whole attitude one of patent disbelief. "Yeah? So, how come the Man doesn't know nuthin' about it?"

Wilson glanced at Harrison inquiringly. "Which man?"

"The Man. The police." Anger flashed in Drake's brown eyes, so reminiscent of his brother's. "They don't know anything about any terrorist organization, anything about any shooting, and especially nothing about you." The peculiar mixture of college precision and faint Jamaican accent became more pronounced as Drake warmed to his subject. He broke off with a start when Madalyn touched his arm.

"Stan, maybe...."

"Quiet, woman." He spun on her savagely, then dismissed her with a gesture. "I want to hear what these people have to tell me about my brother -- including what he was working on and the real way he died."

"Is there a problem here?"

The quiet voice made them all jump, so silently had Ironhorse approached. Drake scrutinized him with the same attention one would give an insect under a rock. "Another white-boy friend of Norton's, eh?" he snarled, growing even angrier.

"Mr. Drake was a friend of mine," Ironhorse replied evenly enough though his eyes gleamed dangerously. He waited at ease, outwardly relaxed though the tight muscles in his jaw showed him primed for anything that might happen.

Forgetting Blackwood completely for the moment, Stan balled his fists and took a step nearer the soldier, bending slightly until they stood nose-to- nose. "Not white," he said with distant analysis. "Indian. That's something, anyway. Since when did Mister Drake have anything to do with the Army, Tonto?"

Ironhorse didn't retreat an inch from either tone or bearing. He straightened his back another impossible inch, tilting his head to meet the challenge directly. "Norton's work is classified. You're going to have to be satisfied with what you've been told."

Time hung frozen in the tense atmosphere. A full minute passed during which two pairs of dark eyes burned into each other, gauging, challenging. Drake's fists clenched tighter.

"My friends, if we could begin?" The soft voice from the podium disrupted the almost palpable charge which flashed between the two. Drake blinked, obviously debating whether to accept the Indian's silent challenge to battle.

"Stan, it's for Norton." Madalyn tugged at her husband's sleeve, breaking the spell completely. "Please, Stan?"

An intense sadness settled across the big man's features, chasing away the anger in a rush. Shoulders sagging as though under intense pressure, life fleeing from his face, he resembled nothing so much as a deflated mannequin. "Another time, soldier boy," he muttered, then followed his wife to sit forlornly at the side of his brother's casket.

Ironhorse and Wilson exchanged a sympathetic look, then Wilson left to rejoin Debi and Mrs. Pennyworth, who were already seated. "Come on, Harrison," Ironhorse muttered to the distressed looking physicist. "They're ready to begin." He prodded the man, who followed obediently back to seats opposite the Drake's.

The service was short, lasting no more than twenty minutes. The Chaplain recounted the dedication of both members of the team, their warmth and friendship for each other, to all in attendance. "It is always difficult to lose a friend but even more so a family member," intoned the short, round, little man with white hair and wire spectacles. "Young Debra has lost a beloved mother. Suzanne McCullough cared deeply for her daughter, balked at no sacrifice to give Debi the best, both materially and of herself. Being a single parent is never an easy task," he droned on, warming to his subject. "But Suzanne strove to be the best she could be, and we grieve with you now, young Debra, at the loss of your mother at an age when you would need her most."

The words precipitated a fresh font of tears from Debi, wrapped securely in Mrs. Pennyworth's arms. They struck home as heavily with Harrison, whose memories lived in his eyes. He had lost his own parents at an even younger age, watched them cruelly murdered by the same inhuman creatures that had taken Suzanne and Norton. Lip gripped tight between his teeth, he laid one hand across Debi's shoulder, using the other one to swipe at his wet face.

"She was a good friend," the Chaplain went on, consulting some notes. "Warmly offering her caring concern to her comrades. A gentle woman and one who leaves a space in our hearts that once was filled with the soft warmth of Suzanne McCullough."

A little flowery, Colonel Ironhorse noted silently, but it suits her somehow. It took more strength than he was capable of summoning to batter down the wealth of memories that filled his mind at the mention of Suzanne McCullough. There was a time not two weeks ago when they had first begun receiving reports that dead aliens were turning up in cities across the northwest. He had been nearly eaten up with curiosity -- so had Suzanne....

***

"...I'm dying to know who's killing all those aliens!" She tossed down the latest report on some decomposed bodies discovered in Washington, adding the papers to the already overflowing stacks littering her desk. "And how are they identifying them? Do you think they've got some equipment to pierce the disguise or are they notified ahead of time that a host is going to be somewhere?"

"Perhaps they have a way of tapping into the alien intelligence network," Ironhorse commented thoughtfully, settling his lean form into her desk chair.

Suzanne glared at him a moment and he smiled sheepishly and rose to perch on one corner of a lab bench. "If we could make contact with them," she muttered, seating herself and crossing her long legs, "learn their secrets, we'd be able to anticipate the aliens -- even set traps of our own. We could really start making an inroad into their organization!"

"I just hope whoever they are, they realize how they're endangering our setup," Ironhorse reminded her sourly. "With the sheer number of alien bodies being discovered by non-military personnel, it's not going to be long before our security is compromised."

One shoe dangled coquettishly from her toe, swinging in imperfect rhythm to the beat of a Reggae tune coming from Norton's desk. "Why, Paul, you sound almost ungrateful for the help! Aren't you glad we have at least one friend out there to help us?"

"Oh, very grateful, Dr. McCullough," he teased back, appreciating the view; Suzanne had very good legs. "Unless it's one of those nosy reporter types you seem to be so fond of."

"That, my dear Colonel, is a low blow." Suzanne huffed offendedly but a warm twinkle belied her words. "I suppose you would be happier to just wipe out everyone and..."

"...let God sort 'em out!" they finished in chorus, Ironhorse bursting into a laugh. "You've got to admit we wouldn't miss any that way!"

Suzanne shook her head fondly. "You're impossible...!"

***

....I hope He's sorting you out, Suzanne, Ironhorse thought sadly, making a great show at adjusting his uniform tie to hide the sudden trembling in his hands. If anyone in this world deserved better than she got, it was you.

The words rang in his thoughts, mixing with the drone of the Chaplain's memorial. "And we must also remember Norton Drake -- scientist, comrade, brother to Stan and Madalyn. Norton was born the second of six children. Confined to a wheelchair all his life, his spirit soared free of his earthly restraints, allowing our friend to rise above the shadow of his handicap and become one of the top experts in the computer field...."

***

"...Do you miss not being able to walk?" Debi remembered the courage it had taken for her to ask the computer expert that question, yet had known deep inside that the man would not be offended. Though awash in grief over the loss of her mother, Debi would also miss the black scientist terribly. He had been so easy to talk to -- so open and friendly to a shy young girl -- that they had become fast friends, and she'd come to him with all her questions and fears. They'd talked politics, race, the problems a handicapped person faced in the world, and he'd treated her like a real adult. Norton had never made her feel awkward or uncomfortable over his lack of working legs or her teenage concerns, and Debi had grown to love him dearly and count him a replacement for the father she barely knew.

She'd especially enjoyed watching him match that razor-sharp wit against Ironhorse or Dr. Blackwood; he'd never once come off the loser. Through falling tears she glanced at the two men sitting to her left and wondered if they missed Norton as much as she did.

"...so we now commit the bodies of our two dear friends to the ground from which they came. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Harrison put his arm around the softly crying Debi, his own eyes filling. The child had forborne the last two days well, exhibiting a dignity and maturity far beyond her years. This last was too much, her loss too great. He held the child and remembered....

***

"...And that was when the Klingon ship fired photon torpedoes at the monster and blew it away!"

"Blew it away? Oh, Debi." Suzanne slung a companionable arm around her daughter's shoulders giving her a squeeze that nearly swept the child off her feet. "You have definitely been spending too much time around a certain Army Colonel of our acquaintance."

"Army?" Deep in a manual, Ironhorse looked up distractedly. "What was that, Suzanne?"

"I said, you're contaminating my daughter!" Suzanne swatted Debi's bottom as the child scampered away to the window. She sniffed. "'Blew it away,' indeed."

"Part of the Army mentality, Suzanne." Norton Drake laid his newspaper on the coffee table and held his arms over his head, nearly upsetting his wheelchair with the force of his stretch. "Ummm. That feels good."

Ironhorse ignored the latter. He sat up straighter in his chair and scowled, the light of combat entering his eyes. "What Army mentality, Mr. Drake?"

Norton shrugged, recovering his newspaper and laying it open across his bound legs. "You know what Army mentality, Colonel: catch 'em young, fill their defenseless little heads with all that flag-waving, right-wing military crap-trap before they're old enough to see through the Rambo razzle-dazzle."

Ironhorse looked startled for a moment while he sorted the string of adjectives into some semblance of sense. "That razzle-dazzle, as you call it," he began hotly, "was responsible for building this country into the world power that it is. Without the military force of this nation, you would be speaking German right now. Remember World War II?"

Norton smiled lazily. "Or Vietnamese. Remember Viet Nam, Colonel?"

Ironhorse bristled. "Viet Nam was a mistake of the politicians, not the military. They--"

"Gentlemen, please!" Suzanne threw herself onto the couch, her hands clapped to her ears. "I can't take it any more! If you're not arguing politics, you're arguing something else."

"But...." Ironhorse protested, smoothing the pages of his book.

"No, no, no!" McCullough dropped her hands, instead crossing her arms stubbornly across her breast. "Not today, Colonel. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and my daughter is talking like Sylvester Stallone. Couldn't we just once discuss something neutral?"

Having watched the exchange with considerable amusement, Harrison uncurled his lanky frame, climbing gracefully to his feet. "I agree with Suzanne. No politics today."

"And what do you suggest, Doctor?" Ironhorse asked acidly, turning his attention to the curly haired man sitting legs folded in the overstuffed chair by the window. "Far Eastern religions? Ecological disasters I have known?"

Blackwood grinned boyishly. "I suggest a picnic."

"A what?"

The grin broadened. "A picnic. We've been working non-stop for almost two weeks, and I for one am ready for a break."

"A picnic!" Debi left her post, jumping up and down in excitement. "Can we, Mom? Please? We can eat by that lake on the other side of the property. I know Mrs. Pennyworth has some fried chicken in the fridge!"

Suzanne smiled fondly at her pretty daughter, smoothing her long blonde hair once. "I guess I have been neglecting you lately, haven't I, sweetheart? I think a picnic is a wonderful idea. I'll ask Mrs. Pennyworth to pack up that chicken.

"And dessert!" Debi chirped, following her mother out of the room.

"A picnic. What a marvelous idea, Harrison," Norton chortled, this time letting his paper drop carelessly to the floor. "Peaceful, serene ... neutral ground." He wiggled an eyebrow meaningfully.

Less delighted with the concept, Ironhorse leaped to his feet, ignoring the chucking computer genius with a vengeance to tower over the physicist by the window. "Harrison, we have a meeting with a representative of the President's Cabinet in two days. We have reports to file, data to organize...."

Unfolding his legs and getting to his feet, Blackwood stretched his lanky frame to its full height, a beatific smile decorating the boyish features. "Relax, Colonel, we're ahead of schedule. My report is ready to go and the computer files..."

"Organized and on disk," Norton interjected firmly.

"...are organized and on disk. Plenty of time for a picnic." He clapped the soldier once on the shoulder and turned to leave. "You are going, aren't you?" When the other hesitated, he shrugged innocently and played his trump card. "You never know what kind of trouble we might run into without you to protect us; I'd feel better with a little backup."

Ironhorse goggled. "On a picnic?"

Norton threw up his hands disgustedly. "Oh, let him stay, Harrison," he groaned. "He'd just be a wet blanket, anyway."

That did it. The soldier stiffened before the implied challenge. "I'll show you a wet blanket, Mr. Drake." He glared back at Blackwood, stance including them both in the warning. "But if that meeting with the Secretary doesn't come off perfectly...."

Harrison shrugged blithely, a gesture calculated to infuriate and placate at once. "I'll take full responsibility."

Ironhorse's glare strengthened. "You always say that."

"I guess I do at that."

Norton wheeled toward the entrance, pausing to allow the soldier to open the door for him. "Ever play wheelchair Frisbee, Colonel?"

The soldier, waiting patiently for the man to pass through, tipped his head. "No."

Norton's smile was predatorial. "Come on, then. I'll show you how the big boys play. I'll even lay you a little wager I beat you...."

***

...The memory of that afternoon was one that Harrison would treasure for the rest of his life. The crystal blue sky raised everyone's spirits, and even Ironhorse allowed himself to relax and enjoy the autumn sun. They'd been a family that day -- a real family -- and now that family had lost two of its members. With a wrench, Harrison brought himself back to the present and the Chaplain's monotonous drone.

"...pay our final respects to two who are forever lost. May they rest in peace." The Chaplain closed his book and left the small dais, pausing to speak first to the Drake's, then to Wilson and Debi, moving on to a knot of people in the aisle.

Stan Drake pushed his way through the small crowd to his brother's coffin and stood staring at the dead man's waxy features for a long moment. Then, sparing no one a second look, he turned on his heel and strode out, Madalyn following more slowly. She stopped near Debi, who was still ensconced in Mrs. Pennyworth's arms. "I'm sorry about your mother," she offered softly. "And your niece, General."

Wilson extended a firm hand, which was accepted bashfully. "Thank you, Mrs. Drake. My condolences on your brother-in-law. We'll miss him."

The woman withdrew her hand and wiped it on her skirt. "Yes. You'll ... please excuse Stan. He's a good man, only...." She gazed helplessly in the direction her husband had disappeared. "They were very close."

Wilson patted her arm. "Don't explain, Mrs. Drake. We understand."

She smiled faintly and was gone.

"I don't understand." The voice was weak, muffled in a handkerchief. Debi wiped her face, peeking from one man to the other around the older woman's shoulder. "I don't know why she had to die; she wasn't a soldier, she shouldn't have been there where people were shooting at her." She bit her lip, visibly fighting the tears again, grief becoming confused anger in the space of a heartbeat. "It should have been one of you, not my mother! She shouldn't have had to die!"

Shocked into speechlessness, Harrison stood frozen, his eyes bleak with agreement; also surprised but reacting more smoothly, Ironhorse started forward, an involuntary motion that seemed to surprise him as well as the girl. "Debi...." He halted, uncertain of the words, his meaning clear "You're right. And I'm sorry."

"It should have been you instead of her!" Debi spat at him with all the strength of a child's loss. "Both of you. I hate you both!"

"Hush, baby, you don't mean that." Mrs. Pennyworth gathered the girl to herself, making soft crooning noises. "Colonel Ironhorse and Dr. Blackwood are your friends. You know that."

Harrison pulled his glasses off his nose and began to polish then on his sleeve, an unconscious gesture done without thought. Bereft of their camouflage, he looked defenseless, somehow, lost. Not so, Ironhorse. Understanding born from many years of losing friends in combat softened the indian's hawk-like face from its controlled mask. It was he who opened his arms when Debi tore herself from Mrs. Pennyworth's grasp two minutes later and flung herself at him. "I didn't mean it, Colonel," the child gasped, clutching him desperately. "I don't hate you. I don't want you to be dead. I just want my mom back!"

"I know, honey," he murmured into her hair. "It's all right. And ... you were right. She shouldn't have been there at all."

Behind, Harrison continued to polish his shiny lenses, making no move to redon them, blue eyes locked on the duo with an unnatural blankness. He shook his head wearily, exhaustion adding years to his boyish face. He started visibly when Debi pulled back from Ironhorse and gazed tearfully up at him. "I don't hate you, either, Harrison," she said.

He blinked down at her, grim determination replacing the shock, turning his sky blue eyes stormy gray. "It's not for nothing, Debi," he said more to himself than the child. "They're going to pay for this." Releasing the child, Ironhorse craned his neck to stare worriedly at the tone; Harrison never noticed him. "I swear, Debi," he went on, "the ... terrorists are going to pay for what they did to us. I promise."

Leaning lightly on the child's shoulder, Ironhorse stood, dark eyes worriedly seeking the physicist's. "Doctor." He lifted a hand, dropping it on the other's lean shoulder, but Blackwood was too far gone in his own loss to notice.

"They'll pay," he repeated, spinning on his heel as though the room had suddenly become unbearable. He fled for the door and then he too was gone.

"Is he mad at me?" Debi asked timidly, sniffing.

Ironhorse shook his head.

"Is he all right?" Mrs. Pennyworth asked from the girl's side.

Ironhorse shrugged, too tired himself to generate a convincing lie. "Are any of us?" he asked simply, trudging slowly for the door.

***