Gaz meandered around the ship bays and control rooms, uncontainably restless. She couldn't bear the constant tizzy that was organizing the Resisty. Action was her strongest point, and after that, planning – nowhere in her was the capacity for wasting time.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be what everyone else was good at.

There was no one that she wanted to talk to, and no one that wanted to talk to her. Eventually, in a fit of churning boredom verging on mild despair, she found her way to the ship bay where her Spittle Runner was being repaired.

It had been a fight to ensure that the ship would be fixed. The Resisty was insanely suspicious of a ship that held an Irken's mind, which was understandable, truly, but Gaz still wasn't in any mood to tolerate argument on the decisions she had made (And did she miss Tak? Maybe a little – the Irken understood her, both of them ugly and struggling against a world that aligned itself to oppose them). Uncharacteristically, she wouldn't have minded talking to Tak right now, indulging in a good argument or insult-fest.

Abruptly, the human recognized her own mood – it was the same feeling that came with a tough new videogame. A challenge to be overcome. Gaz chuckled. Game on. Yes…

She sat down and watched the aliens clustered over her ship. They were efficient, she'd give them that, even with the tall, unfriendly newcomer glaring down at them – she thought of termites blindly obeying their queen. Yes. This was the way things should be.

A cloaked alien with glowing red eyes picked up a databank and inserted it back into the proper place. Wires dangled under it like a bridal train. The Irken computer parts were beautiful; they looked like explosions of ice and color, insane abstract sculptures. Or, alternately, Tetris pieces from Hell. Gaz laughed again.

Startling – to realize that she was actually looking forward to seeing Dib again. Was excited for the reunion. She could hardly remember what it was like to be with him, and at the same time it was unimaginable to think of going on without him. She wanted, she demanded another human - that was all. She needed someone to remind her where she was… and who. The possibility of his death had touched her mind and skipped off of it, like a stone across water. There was no revelation and no grief. On some level, she was certain, she would have known if Dib had died. Even if he was miles away.

She would just have known.

Gaz thought of explosions, blooming fire-flowers in the black chasm that was space. She could feel her heart beating faster, thud-thump, thud-thump, like the repeated slamming of a door. Valves pulsing open and closed, the heavy cardiac muscle spasming, doing its best to keep going. She brought up one hand to her breast and felt the delicate fluttering vibration for a moment, thinking of injured birds. "Weak," she said, for some inconceivable reason.

One of the aliens looked up at her for a moment, and then away.

Gaz smirked. She was going to start talking to herself, like Dib. She thought nostalgically of him, for a moment; of the pastel-bloody blur that was their childhood together. Nothing stood out as especially happy, or even especially horrible, but it had been good, right? It had been what she needed, Dib and Dad, Dad and Dib, that was all, the three of them in their own microcosm. Dib versus the world and Gaz behind Dib.

She remembered:

A hot day, a good day. Walking home from school with Dib, skipping over the cracks. He's just in third grade, which is very young to be seeing his sister and himself safely home, but it's what he's always done. (Daddy – because he was Daddy then – could send someone to drive them, but, oh, they are as safe as baby rabbits in their hole, they are as innocent and as gentle as fawns, who would touch them?). The pavement is drenched and soaked and sheeting with sun.

They hold hands. Dib's palm is soft and a little slippery; he is biting back his long eight-year-old stride in consideration for her shorter legs. He looks far away, eyeing the corners, cars, the people passing. Gaz watches their feet and makes sure they skip the sidewalk cracks (because that is how it is, that is always how things are, Dib the sentinel outward-watcher and Gaz who holds the fort. They are different, opposite, complimentary). It is Dib who steers them left up the little walk to their house, because Gaz is not paying attention – if he were not there she would just keep walking until she went off the edge of the earth.

Inside the house it is dim and cave like. Gaz shakes her brother off and sighs, making for the kitchen – she has in mind a certain can of soda, ice cold and sweet. Father says it isn't good for little girl bones but she gets her way because she gets her way because she gets her way… Daddy's little princess.

There are voices in the kitchen and this is what first alerts her that something about this day is different. A chubby blonde woman, wearing tweed and pantyhose, sits across the kitchen table from the Father; Gaz stops, stalk-still, and watches them with the tenacity of a snake. What is this intruder doing here?

Dib is behind her, somehow, without her knowing how he got there.

The adults look up at them; heads rising from hunched postures and twisting simultaneously. "Children," Membrane says. He sounds strained and at seven years old it is a sound that Gaz cannot identify. It is impossible for her to imagine her Father as anything less than the master of everything he surveys. "Is it time for you to be out of school?"

"We had a half-day today," Dib says, part earnest, part reproachful. He would like his Father to remember these things. "So we're out early. We gotta eat lunch here."

The woman turns and looks at the scientist. There is a tense silence. "Well, then," Membrane says. "Make yourselves something healthy. Ensure that it contains ample representatives from both the vegetable and fruit groups."

Dib cocks his head and walks around Gaz, measuring out a precise bubble of space around her form. There is leftover pizza in the fridge. Dib stacks pieces up on a clean plate. Gaz notes with a sudden burst of feeling that from the fridge he removes a soda – her soda – and cracks it open.

"We'll share," Dib says to her, before she can do anything. He scrambles onto the counter and pulls out two tall cups, and divides the soda with microscopic exactness between them.

Membrane and his guest track the children across the room, like rotating security cameras – Dib ushers his sister upstairs, closing the door behind them. He runs into the bathroom, and pours his soda down the sink's drain. Voices are swelling up from the kitchen again, Membrane's tone immediately distinct, grinding like glaciers rubbing up together. Gaz chugs her drink in giant gulps. The gas bloats her stomach and she forces up one burp, then another – then good. "Come on," Dib says, and he patters past her and quietly back down the stairs, where the door at the bottom is closed. Immediately he places his empty glass against the wood. Gaz slips up next to him and does the same.

" – couldn't you even get the cups out for him?"

The woman is talking. She has a low, throaty voice. "He's only eight years old, professor. Small for his age as well, from the looks of it."

"Don't underestimate him." Membrane, now. "You can't begin to imagine what those two children might become, doctor. You can't do this to me now. Things are going so well –"

"He's only eight years old!" Her voice pitches higher. "The girl's a year younger, am I right? I'm right, yes? They're just children, professor!"

"Already they show potential," Membrane argues. "You haven't been here, you haven't seen them like I have. It's amazing – their development. Dib is slightly unstable but he's intelligent! He has a vivid imagination, but I can turn that to more useful things. Gaz is astounding. Her hand-eye coordination, her strategic planning, she's everything we were looking for –"

"You're not listening, professor." Her voice gone cold. "They are just. CHILDREN. The war is over! I know this project is valuable to you, but at this point there is no longer demand for subjects with their… assets. The war is OVER. I don't know how you could have missed it."

BANG, and Dib jumped – Gaz imagined her Father slapping the table, actually expressing anger. "You don't understand! You don't, none of you, understand what we've done – these children will bring us a new future! Dib is an idealist, he has all the signs, and Gaz – when she grows up there will be nothing like her. Don't write them off –"

"Professor," the woman says. "Membrane." She sounds weary. "Understand, this is important to us, of course – but we've lost it, understand? The bigwigs don't want to deal with it anymore. They were always squeamish about playing around with humans. I'm sorry, but the funding has been cut, and that's it. No more argument."

There was a long silence.

"And Dib and Gaz?" Membrane said finally.

"What do you think?"

"I want them." He said it flatly. "I don't care if the funding is gone. I can still – "

"Don't say anything," she said. "I don't want to know. And I won't say anything, either."

After a long, sullen moment, shuffling came from the kitchen room, retreating in the direction of the door.

Dib tapped Gaz's arm and she flinched, then turned to glare at him. He stared at her, looking pale. "That's all," he mouthed. "Come on before Dad comes."

They held a conference of war in Dib's room – he looked drawn, pale, only picking at his cold pizza. "They were talking about us," he said.

"Mmph." Gaz took picky bite of her own slice of pizza. "So?"

"So, something about funding!" He dropped his food back on the plate, hurled up onto his feet and paced the room, corner to dark corner. "Maybe they're aliens, and we're being monitored to see how humans grow up. Maybe Dad can't afford to have us around anymore and we'll be sent to India and forced to work in carpet factories. Maybe we should run away and – "

"That's stupid," Gaz snapped. His frenetic energy was throwing her off. "She said he'd get to keep us. So what?"

"Yeah." Dib paused, and his face was ridiculously dramatic – looking back, he seemed hilariously adult and calculating. "So… what?"

…

Gaz smiled slightly, without knowing it. He was already paranoid – even then. Her eyes stung and she rubbed at them absently.

"Gaz-human?" Lard Nar said, in the kind of voice that suggested he'd said her name at least three times. She hadn't even heard him come up: Gaz flinched backwards, jerked upright and glared on reflex. The Vortian backed away. He'd already been far from normal striking distance. Good, he was scared; it would keep him in line. She grunted a nasty little laugh.

"What is it, you?" she said, and looking over him, she thought she already knew – the ship standing ready, some claw-hooked and graceful predator. Her thumbs twitched. Yes.

He eyed her beadily. Wary, wary, and for a good reason - ! Gaz felt good. Clean, well-oiled. Better than she had in days. Ready to go, yeah, ready for…!

And she was on her feet, right away, lunging forwards, barely able to restrain herself to stay with the little alien pacing along beside her tic-tic-tic-tic on the metal. Talk about the plan, oh, she knew the God-damn plan! Talk about nothing! Talk about nothing!

The seat was squishy. She had no room. But. Hot Damn. The controls at her fingers, a fleet at her back – this was what she'd been waiting for! This was what her life was for! Let the shit hit the fan! Let the shit hit the fan!

August 3, 2006.

Please don't kill me for taking so long. But go and bestow snuggles and reviews upon Lael Adair, who beta-ed this thing for me in one huge chat of the apocalypse. Without her, who knows how much longer this chapter would have taken to come out?