BDP64

The blowing snow had erased any prints with a swirling white hand. Nottingham looked out over the night, checking for any sign of movement. There was nothing. With a silent prayer for guidance, Ian began to quarter the area, looking for anything out of place.

Nottingham willed his senses to expand, bringing himself to a level of hyperawareness. He could see each flake as it fell, smell the sleeping earth beneath it's frozen blanket, hear the mixed babble from the building. It was not enough. The storm had become violent enough to eradicate any passage markers of his beloved.

He didn't let the lack of clues stop him. He began a search pattern, expanding outward steadily. Somewhere, somehow, in spite of the snow, he would find Moira. As he moved, he came across a familiar scent. It was Matheson, Moira's coworker and personal friend. He had passed this way recently.

The tracks were already filling in from the snowfall, but he could see that they were going the wrong way to be of any help to him. He dismissed the man's passage; too intent on finding Moira to think about what Matheson would find when he arrived at the apartment. Or that he would immediately alert the base authorities.

The first time Ian had to avoid a patrol, he chalked it up to sentries doing their job. But it soon became apparent that the base was being shut down, and search teams were doing the same thing he was.

It wouldn't be long before they sounded General Quarters, and there would be a head count back at the lab, especially since Burke's disappearance was most likely linked to the research she was doing. Knowing he could do no good inside a brig, Nottingham reluctantly abandoned the search and headed back to the lab. He was going to have to trust the military to do its job, even though his instincts were screaming that it wouldn't be enough.

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The two physicians labored over the unconscious woman. Moira Burke was responding much better than they had expected to their treatment. She was still going to lose some toes, the fingers were iffy right now, and the frostbite ringing her wrists was going to be problematic, but she was going to pull through.

Irons watched behind the glass observation panel until her bios stabilized, and he had confirmation that the trauma had not harmed the zygotes. Fortunately, Burke was in her first trimester, so there was little extraneous strain from the pregnancy. It did limit the drugs they could use to keep her sedated, as many crossed the placental barrier and could be harmful to the children.

The state of the mother did not concern Irons overmuch. If she had some additional discomfort during the healing process, so what? Burke's real value was her womb. Her mental and emotional state did not truly concern him, except as a means to manipulate the doctor. It would be delicious if he used her offspring as leverage to get her to work for him. Burke's mind was a resource he would be a fool not to tap.

Speaking of fools, Casca's past performances were overshadowed by his present failings. Irons could not let this go without expressing his displeasure. He turned to Casca, letting his fist fly as he turned. The blow caught Casca across the jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Irons glared down at the prostrate form. "Your weakness has narrowed my options. I find this...vessel," he waved at Moira, "a poor substitute for that which you have lost."

"I lost you nothing!" Casca spat from the ground, "I took advantage of the situation presented to me. Nottingham was obviously smitten with her for some reason, so I managed a DNA test of the good doctor. When I found that she carries several of the same genetic markers as the Bronte subject, I was intrigued. I would say that they are related, however distantly, based on my findings. You will still have a child with the genes you wanted, without having to interbreed the strain so close to the source."

"Yes, yes, I know your concerns on that front, but it was the best option available that I knew of. Where did someone with a surname of Burke come up with these genes? That name does not appear in any of my records of that bloodline."

"Didn't you read her file? Until her grandmother immigrated to Belfast, Burke's family all lived on the Isle of Skye. Her great-great grandmother's maiden name is Sgntheach." Casca stood gingerly, keeping a wary eye on Irons.

"Sgntheach?" Irons paused. He had not bothered to read the good doctor's biography past the section about her strict moral code, clearly a mistake on his part.

If the woman before him was of the Wielder bloodline, however distant, the chance of Nottingham and Burke's offspring being able to utilize the Witchblade were high. Much higher than Casca deserved, especially after his failure to hold on to the only female from the DeAngelo experiment.

Irons narrowed his wintry eyes at the man standing before him. Did his success outweigh his failure? Age was clearly slowing Casca down, making him less useful on the whole. When a simple tool was damaged beyond use, one threw it away. With the more complex tools, it was often more cost effective to recycle them.

Perhaps he should downscale Casca's part in the game? It would be a shame to lose all that knowledge, just because he couldn't keep up in the field anymore. Irons decided to send the aging scientist to the South American lab. He could still serve, just in a different capacity.

Besides, if Casca failed him there, in any capacity, his body would be much easier to dispose of. The jungle was very efficient at consuming organic remains. Mind made up, Irons ordered Casca and Moira moved to the Soledad Facility.

Recognizing the reprieve for what it was, Casca did not argue. He took his reassignment with the best grace he could, not wanting to give Irons any reason to rethink his orders.

A/N: Sorry to keep everyone waiting on this. I'm afraid I was obsessed with getting Two to Tango done. Now that it's complete, look for more frequent updates here. Thank you all for your patience and understanding.-Lassar