2: Xbalanqué
The professor finally went quiet after dropping the latest in a long series of bombshells, and John glanced across the truck at him in disbelief. Had Mason really just called John a good man? Ever since he'd woken up on the wrong side of the log that morning, John had finally been getting a glimpse of the real man under the ever-earnest façade, and he wasn't what he'd been expecting at all.
He'd spent so long needling the guy, trying to get him to wake up and smell the nightshade, that it left him a little at a loss to realize that Mason had never been as blithe as he seemed: he just didn't wear it all on his sleeve like John did. All those anecdotes he pulled out of his history books, all earnest and bright-eyed and so sure what path they should be taking; John had always assumed from his diction and idealism that he was the trust fund type, trained from toddlerhood to believe his opinions were always in the right. Liable to get the rest of them killed when his pretty words finally came up short of reality. But John was the one who'd been proved wrong, every time so far. And now he knew why: he'd been reasoning from a faulty premise from the start.
Mason only acted like he'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His own father had never even had a high school education. He'd just ... made a lot more bricks with the straw he'd been given than John had. A tenured professorship, a wife and three sons before the invasion, the good opinion of almost every authority figure he met: it might sound boring to John now, but there'd been a time that he'd craved that kind of life, too. He hadn't been cut out for it; hadn't had what it took to choose that course and follow it through without getting blown off course. But Mason apparently had. It was disordering John's entire view of him.
Not that it seemed to bother Mason much. Asleep, he looked a good ten years younger than usual: slumped in the angle between the seat and the passenger door, the lines of pain creasing his face finally relaxed under the joint influence of exhaustion and alcohol. He was such an intense guy when he was awake, always talking, always thinking; John rarely had the chance to just look at him, to linger over the mobile mouth framed by a well-trimmed beard and smile lines carved as deep as the stress marks around his eyes.
Did Weaver ever get to see Mason like that? Had Manchester known the origins of the other man's driving passions? John frowned at that line of thought, an unwelcome twang of jealousy stirring his gut, and turned his attention back to the road.
Mason had got in under his armor at long last, despite every attempt John had made to hold him off. What the hell was he going to do when they got back to Charleston? Laying aside the whole issue of the mole ... did he want to get further involved in the professor's life, or write the whole adventure off as some kind of one-time truce? Mason had seemed to hint that he'd value some kind of honest attempt at friendship ... but no matter how much he disparaged the title, he was the no-shit President of the New United States, and John Pope, ex-con turned chef and guerilla fighter, was so far outside the circle of trust it wasn't funny.
Weaver would choke on his own tongue, if John tried to take advantage of the offer. And his Berserkers would probably think he'd lost it. On the other hand, it might be worth it for the looks on the kids' faces ... at least, until Maggie opened her mouth. She knew another secret or two of his that Mason still hadn't heard, and depending on how much of the Kool-Aid she'd drunk, mutually assured destruction might fall apart in the face of a perceived threat to her boyfriend's so-noble father.
John shook his head, then eyed the gas gauge and sighed. Looked like he still had plenty of time to decide, at least. The needle was hovering just over the E, and there were a lot of miles left to go.
They finally crossed into familiar territory just before the gas tank ran dry. John's shoulders slumped in relief as they passed a sign he remembered from their original trek down to Charleston, and he reached across to nudge Mason's elbow.
"Hey. Hey, Professor. You awake?"
Mason groaned, then brought a hand up to his forehead. "Ugh. More than I want to be. We getting close?"
"Sort of; we're pretty much running on fumes at this point, but we're still a bit more than ten miles out. Want to crack us another can of tuna? We're going to need it before long, and I doubt you want to try and carry the bag with us."
Mason blinked his eyes open, then swiped at them with the back of one gloved hand. "Um. Sure. Going to need a second, though. What I wouldn't give for some coffee."
"Sorry; didn't see any in the cabin. Wouldn't even mind chewing it dry at this point, myself."
Mason shuddered, straightening up again as he visibly drew himself back together, and carefully shifted his awkwardly splinted ankle off the bag of salvaged goodies. He retrieved a couple of cans, then poked a pair of holes in each with his knife and passed one over for John to toss back. Unfortunately, they were the kind of tuna packaged in water; the oily kind probably would have tasted worse, but they'd also have packed more energy. John was more or less running on fumes by that point himself.
He sucked it down, washed it back with another slug of whiskey, then passed the bottle back to Mason as the engine finally started to choke. "You know, it didn't even occur to me to try insulating this thing before we left? Guess we really are starving the fishheads for fuel; after they scanned the crash, I haven't seen hide nor hair of anything else of theirs runs on engines, and we had to've made a nice hot target."
"Also means we can cross our own names off the list of potential sleeper agents," Mason pointed out. Seeking the silver lining, as usual. "If Karen'd had any idea where we were after we lost the tracker, we'd have seen something by now. Thank God for small favors, I suppose."
"Yeah, well, it's probably going to be the last we see for a while." He coasted the truck onto the overgrown verge, killing the ignition while he still had a little control, then carefully set the parking brake. Not that it had anywhere much to roll, but they might be able to send scouts out later with a jerry can; salvage her and the last of her supplies for the city fleet. "Sure you don't want to try and catch a little more rest before we hike it out? 'Cause these last few miles, even on a flat road, are going to be a stone bitch on that ankle."
Mason gave him a wry, unamused look. "When have you ever known me to volunteer to sit on my ass when there was something more productive I could be doing?"
John held up his hands. "Right, right; forgot who I was talking to. Forgive me for trying to 'look outside myself' for once," he replied, unable to fully suppress the curl at the corner of his mouth. "Don't move; I'll get the stick out of the bed. You fall on your ass, I'm not going to be able to pick you up this time."
"Don't make me any promises you can't keep, or anything," came the dry reply.
Goddamn Mason. John shook his head as he got out and circled the truck. Forget the 'if'; he might as well go ahead and write himself off now. He'd drunk the Kool-Aid, too; he'd fallen into the professor's cult of personality, and it was probably going to be the end of him.
At least it was pretty much guaranteed to be an interesting way to go. Part of the last myth of humanity; or maybe the first of a new world, if they were luckier than they deserved.
He got a good grip around Mason's back, made sure he had a hold of the walking stick with his other hand, then started off down the road, a shambling four-and-a-half legged knot of exhaustion and ragged pragmatism.
They didn't talk much, the first hour or so of that nightmare slog; for once, John felt no burning need to fill up the silence between him and another person, and Mason seemed pretty deep in his own thoughts. Probably wondering if anyone out of Keystone had contacted Charleston yet, or daydreaming about his little daughter, or something else suitably heroic or wholesome.
Or ... maybe not. John should probably get out of the habit of automatically disparaging him at some point.
"Credit for your thoughts?" he rasped, thinking of all the useless piles of paper piling up back at his bar. Really, why did the rest of Charleston think he ran The Nest, if not to keep tabs on his sort of people? Sure as hell wasn't for the 'profit' in it. Where, exactly, was he supposed to spend all that theoretical dough?
Mason gave him a sidewise glance. "Not sure they're worth that much. Was just thinking it felt good to lose my temper today. Not my proudest moment. But ..."
John smirked. "Just don't go lettin' off steam all the time, people would think you'd got yourself eyebugged again. That's my designated role in the community, not yours."
Mason chuckled, then cut himself off with a quiet groan. "Damn. Don't make me laugh. Speaking of cutting loose, though ... something you said earlier just came back to me. 'Add it to the list'? Didn't strike me as the kind of guy into self-denial."
The question was more implied than stated; John probably could have ignored it if he wanted. But Maggie probably really would spill the beans, if he let things drag on without saying something. No point in putting the conversation off. And really, how much longer could it have stayed a secret, anyway? His balls were getting pretty damn blue, and people in as small a community as Charleston always talked.
"Yeah, and I've put a lot of effort into that, too. Pretty sure most people think I'm some other woman's dirty little secret; not like anyone'd want to be seen with the local bad-boy with such shining examples of virtue leading the way." He eyed Mason pointedly, smirking. "Just as well. For a supposedly random sampling of humanity, Charleston's pretty much the straightest, most God-fearing bunch a Hollywood producer could dream up. Not much room there for differences."
"Not like you've been the poster child for inclusion, either," Mason said carefully, staring at him again with a little frown between his eyes. "I remember your ... colorful introductions ... the day we met. And if anyone's spoken up louder about the harnessed kids, or the Volm, I sure can't remember it."
"Yeah, you just think about that for a minute," John rolled his eyes. Really, he'd thought the man was quicker on the uptake than that. "Not that the one really has all that much to do with the other."
Mason blinked at that – then looked again, long and startled this time. "...No."
"And the penny drops."
"...You can't be serious."
"Didn't take you for a homophobe, Mason," John replied, matching the other man's surprised tone.
Not that he thought he was; Tom hadn't stiffened or tried to pull away, and injury or not, most of the folks who'd put that at the top of the list of reasons John was going to hell would have flinched at the very idea. But lack of hatred didn't mean a positive reaction.
"Give me a little credit, Pope. It just ... runs counter to everything I thought I knew about you. Your wife...? I know your kids are real; a man doesn't make up a story like that out of whole cloth."
He didn't need to specify which story. Yeah; that had probably been the beginning of the end of holding Tom Mason at arm's length, and it was his own damn fault.
"Yeah, I had a wife," John admitted. "People I ran with, family like mine – you bet I did. Not a bad-looking woman, either; I'm not completely blind to the charms of the female form. But I made sure to snare one smart enough to kick me to the curb as soon as the shine wore off; gave me the perfect excuse to opt out of the meat market. Long as I didn't flaunt it, long as I still showed up for my kids when I could, people just assumed that what they saw was what they got."
He grimaced at that; he hadn't been able to show up for his kids the last five years before the invasion, and it was one of the few things he truly regretted.
"I'd say it worked pretty well," Mason mused.
"Yeah. Maggie knows, and ... well, a couple others. Kind of surprised it hasn't got out yet, actually," he added, shading things a little. "I'm hardly a monk, and I'd have expected Mags to bring it up sooner or later."
Something about that perturbed Mason, too. "Why did you leave her guarding us that day if you knew she had a grudge, by the way? I've wondered, but I didn't want to bring it up, given the ... circumstances."
"Given that she murdered my brother, you mean." Ah, hell; might as well unpack the whole mess. "You don't need to sugarcoat it; he was an asshole. But he was blood; the only family I still had after the invasion. As for Maggie ..."
He sighed. "I knew it was a bad idea to leave her watchin' you with that pair, but I couldn't take Cueball on the raid and have a hope in hell of everything not turning to shit before I even ran up the white flag, and damn if I was going to expect her to hold a gun on women and babies. She's a survivor, our Mags, but she's got some brittle spots that I expect your son knows all about by now. So I took a roll of the dice. Suppose it's arguable whether or not it came up sixes."
"So you never ..." Mason's eyebrows arched skeptically.
"Not that it's really any of your damn business, but no."
"Didn't stop the others, though," Mason prodded further.
John scowled at him. "Didn't try to stop her from leaving once we found a place, either. Gave her a gun, even taught her to ride. She stayed, and didn't bother putting the others 'straight' about us, so I figured unless she brought it up, the details were her business. Maybe that falls a little short of your precious moral code, but I wasn't exactly eager to draw attention to the fact that I couldn't have cared less about checking pussy off the post-apocalyptic shopping list. All I cared about at that point was getting my revenge on, and the best way to do that was not to give 'em any reason to stop following my orders."
"That's a ... calculating way to look at it."
"It worked, though, didn't it?" John shrugged; at least, as much as he could with the professor half-draped over him. "I'm still alive; so's Maggie; and we've made a pretty serious dent in the ranks of our alien oppressors. You can talk about reestablishing democracy all you want; enthusiasm looks damn good on you, even if it is still mostly a bunch of ceremonial bullshit pasted over martial law. But personally, every day my kill count goes up, that's what I call a win. Haven't had much cause to celebrate anything else in a real long time."
"Hard to argue with that. Though I doubt Maggie would say the same." The professor went silent again after that, finally letting the subject lie.
For his own peace of mind, John decided that meant the topic was closed.
But then Mason threw John another one of his little sidelong looks, crinkles developing around his eyes, and flipped expectations yet again. "...Ceremonial bullshit, you say?" he repeated, amusement warming his tone.
"Have I mentioned how fucking ugly that 'Liberty Tree' is, yet?" John replied, lightly.
"...As opposed to me, apparently?" The crinkles deepened.
As opposed...? John ran his little speech back in his mind and winced as he realized what he'd just admitted. Jesus; how punch drunk was he? "Yeah, you can just forget I said that," he grumbled, and cast around for something else to deflect Mason's attention. "Though I've wondered a time or two if Weaver might not think the same; your guys' bromance has been kinda sickening of late. I about choked the last time he called you sir in front of me, in that oh-so-respectful tone of voice."
Mason coughed out a laugh. "Ow. No; no. Not Dan. For all he fought with his wife like cats and dogs, from what Jeanne says, I think she was pretty much it for him. Though ... well." He gave another searching, sidelong look.
"Well?" Now John was curious; he hadn't really expected to stir anything up with that one.
"You said quid pro quo, right?" Mason mused, then continued, measuring his words as if tiptoeing through a minefield. "I won't deny there was a ... pull, after I came back from the Espheni ship. Especially after he found his daughter, and finally had something more to live for than hate; and made a point of trusting me, even when he had every reason not to. He's a very ... deeply feeling person, underneath the hardliner attitude. But I was with Anne by then; and now, he's the closest thing to a brother I've ever had."
"Huh." John whistled softly, trying to imagine what that development might have done to the Second Mass. He might not've appreciated it much himself at the time, but the fallout would have been ... memorable. "Goes to show. Never really know anyone, do you?"
A weary smile tugged at the corner of Mason's mouth. "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known."
"You're quoting the Bible at me now?" John pulled a face.
"Thought it was appropriate." Mason grunted, staggering a little as his walking staff caught on something. The section of road they'd hit had been razed by mechs at some point, pot-holey as hell – but at least it meant they were getting close. "Since, apparently, I've got this 'bad habit of wishful-thinking everyone into being the best they can be and all', and here we are, getting to know each other ..."
"You little shit," John blurted, recognizing his own words quoted ironically back at him. "You better not think you're reforming me with the power of your resolute charm and self-evident truths, or anything. It was losing your temper that made me decide you were still human after all, not that pious presidential persona."
Mason chuckled, steps slowing further as the ragged edge of Charleston finally started appearing on the horizon. "And there's my carefully cultivated reputation, ruined."
"Oh, no, no, my friend; I'm keeping this side of you all to myself. Not that I think anyone would believe me."
"Mutual, there," Mason agreed. "Though ... Dan would. Or don't you remember me getting myself assigned to the Berserkers to keep him from running you off? Not that that lasted long."
John snorted at that; it was a fair point.
"I've always thought you had a valuable perspective," Mason continued, slowly. "No damn impulse control or respect for chain of command ... but you say and do the things most people won't. Sometimes it's the wrong thing; but sometimes it keeps us alive when hope can't do the job alone." He paused again, grasping for words. "Keeps us balanced ... keeps me balanced."
John thought about that, mulling the past few minutes over, measuring Mason's collection of half-veiled accusations, admissions, and compliments against his little confession. Verify, then trust, huh? Made him wonder what layers he'd been missing in past conversations with the man.
"So ... we're good, then," he concluded.
"Yeah," Mason murmured back, half-smiling again. "We're good."
Arms locked around each other, they staggered on.
The last stage of the trip would feature in John's nightmares for years to come; he barely had the wherewithal to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and Mason was wilting like a plant cut off at the root. At some point, they must have finally run into the sentries, because he had a vague impression of collapsing onto the road at Tom's side; by the time he found himself thinking clearly again after that, he was on an infirmary bed somewhere under Charleston.
Well, what do you know; he was actually still alive. Three cheers for Mason's ever improbable luck. John blinked his eyes open slowly, vaguely aware of the blur of a doctorish uniform next to him; he felt like six shades of warmed over crap, so that wasn't much of a surprise. Except that ... wasn't there was something Tom had been all paranoid about, regarding a doctor...?
Lourdes. The mole. What if he'd been right...?
John came awake all at a jolt, reaching out snake-quick to snag the doctor's wrist before it could reach the bag of saline hanging on the pole by his bed. "Who ...?" he growled, squinting up at a blurry face.
"Easy; it's just Doc Sumner," someone said; not the blurry doctor-form themselves, but the distinctly gravelly tones of Colonel Weaver.
But that made no more sense than anything else had in the last forty-eight hours. John forced himself to slowly let go of the doctor, watching him suspiciously as he threw his hands up and backed away.
"He's all yours, Colonel; just some bruises, abrasions, and dehydration. I'll come back later."
Colonel, again. John frowned and turned his head, creaky as hell but a little more human after the jolt of adrenaline. Sure enough, there was Dan Weaver's scowling, ugly mug. John stared at him for a second, thinking about what Mason had said – really? Weaver? He couldn't see it, but whatever – then cleared his throat.
"Tom ...?" he rasped.
Craggy, graying eyebrows shot for the sky at his choice of greeting. "Tom, is it?"
John rolled his eyes, painfully. "You know what I mean. Where ...?"
"Down the hall, in another bed. In considerably worse shape than you. What the hell happened out there, Pope?"
So, that was it; it was debriefing time. John picked the IV line out of his arm, not exactly in the mood to be tied down for that discussion, then sat slowly up on the bed. "First things first. Who's in there with him? Please tell me it's Dr. Glass, and not that apprentice of hers."
Something ... strange passed over Weaver's face at that; something more pained than his usual default scowl that set the hairs on the backs of John's arms standing up. But his first answer was all bark, right according to pattern. "And what possible business is that of yours?"
"The same as yours, if you want to keep your bestie alive and in one piece," John replied, impatiently. "Has he woken up yet?"
"No; and if that was a threat ..." Weaver moved to stand up out of his chair, expression darkening considerably.
"Hardly," John tried again. "You'd probably take this better from him ... but we figured out who the mole had to be while we were away. After the plane was shot down ..."
"It what?" Weaver's voice rose further; then he quieted himself, looking around, and stepped closer to the bed. "How about we back this up and take it from the top, Pope. Because all anyone around here knows is that you went off to meet someone who was supposed to be President Hathaway, and came back minus General Bressler, our Volm ally, and that lieutenant you took along as a guide."
"Sure, but not here. Drag your chair along; I assume there's one in there already?" John struggled to get his feet over the bed; all they'd taken off were his boots, and those were still sitting where he could get to them, thank fuck.
"Pope, so help me, if you're trying to run out of here without telling me what's going on ..."
John shoved his feet into the boots without any attempt at tying the laces, then turned the fiercest look he could muster on Weaver. "Keep up, man. Mason thinks Lourdes is the mole. The whole thing's a long fucking story and I'll gladly tell it, but not while he's lying there alone. I'll stand guard by my own damn self if I have to, but I'm pretty sure we'd both be better off if you came along."
Weaver's lips thinned, but he finally seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. "Fine," he said, dropping one hand to his holster and gesturing John out of his own little sheet-walled cubby with the other. "This way. And Pope? The story better be good."
"Oh, it will be," he promised, darkly.
The cubicle Weaver ushered him to was empty of Lourdes, fortunately; there was no Dr. Glass in evidence either, though, nor any of the kidlets. That hinted that something else was going on, more drama in Masonville that would undoubtedly splash all over the rest of them sooner or later. The man himself appeared much as John had left him: his ankle had been wrapped and elevated, and it looked like someone had at least given him a sponge bath, but he was still deeply unconscious, battered and bruised and hooked up to an IV of his own.
"All right, then," he said, grimly pulling the curtain to at least given them the illusion of privacy. "It all started when a flock of Beamers came down on us ..."
He told the story as succinctly as he could, making sure to mention Bressler's attempts to get them down safely – military types always appreciated that kind of thing – and glossing over a few unimportant details. Like, say, one party dropping a reptile on the other's face, and a little mutual admission of some uneasy truths. The crash, the Skitters, the fall into the river, the hike, the truck: he made sure to cover those. Plus one conversation in full detail: the one where Mason had convinced him of his suspicions about the mole.
Weaver grew paler and paler as the story continued, interrupting only for clarification and a few sharp, incredulous questions. By the time John had brought the tale full-circle back to Charleston, he seemed to have forgotten most of his suspicions. All in all, it had gone much easier than John had been expecting; something was definitely wrong, if Weaver wasn't even waiting on Mason's corroboration to trust him.
"I wish I could say I didn't believe it," Weaver finally commented, "but it makes all too much sense. All the tests she was doing, all the things she said about Anne ... and God only knows what she said to Anne. This is going to kill Tom."
"What? She did something to Dr. Glass ...?" John blurted, growing alarmed at Weaver's choice of words. "What the hell happened here while we were gone?"
Weaver threw a worried glance toward the bed, then gave John a long, considering look. "You know, he's stuck up for you more than once when the rest of us would have seen you in a cell without a qualm. You up for repaying the favor, or are you gonna turn around and sell this information in your bar the next chance you got?"
John tipped his chin up. "We just spent the better part of forty-eight hours cheek-by-jowl, Colonel. Not much room left for false impressions of each other. And let's just say ... I appreciate the man under all the sound and thunder a hell of a lot more than I do the title he's let himself get shoehorned into. If something's happened to the good doc, it's not gossip he'll need, it's vengeance, and I'm always up for a little evening of the scales."
Weaver thought that over, then inclined his head. "No much vengeance to be had, I'm afraid. Anne's ... gone. Her and Alexis both. She found out the baby had alien DNA, and next thing we knew, she'd knocked out Dr. Kadar and Lourdes and disappeared. There's some evidence she might've been taken by Skitters out beyond the perimeter, but from there ..." He shrugged. "My first assumption – and it's going to do a number on Tom, if it's true – was that she ran to keep Alexis safe. But if Lourdes was involved ..."
"Mother of God," John hissed, aghast. A part-alien baby? Drama was an understatement. "You've got to put her under guard now. If not actually in a cell, watching her at the very least. Every move. If she's got a backup, or if she sends a message ..."
"You don't need to tell me how to do my job, Pope," Weaver cut him off, sternly. "I was going to wait with Tom ... but if you think you can handle Dr. Sumner hooking you up again in here ...?"
"Skip the IV; get me some water and something not either tuna or charred frog to eat, and I'll manage," John assured him.
"Good. Good. Then I'll just ..." Weaver gestured out to the hallway. "Make sure someone gets a message the minute he wakes, all right? Lourdes said ... and Sumner agreed ... it should be sometime tomorrow. But ..." He made a frustrated gesture.
"I'll make sure he does wake up, don't worry. Now go find the bitch," John waved him out of the room.
A part-alien baby. What the fuck? Weren't harnessed kids violation enough?
John shuddered, trying not to think of the ever-present specter of Brandon and Tanya's fates, and turned his chair until he had a better look at Tom's sleeping mug.
Who would have guessed John Pope still had a soul left to search? Not he. But over the next couple of days, while Weaver ducked in and out of Tom's infirmary room setting up a watch on Lourdes and trying to keep everything running smoothly, he found himself with a lot of time on his hands and not much else to do with it.
The whole time they'd known each other, Tom Mason had been a hard man to ignore. Even when he'd thought the guy was insane, talking about the future like they actually had one; even when he'd believed Mason was a danger to the whole group, after the professor had volunteered himself onto an Espheni ship only to turn up alone several months later. Probably had even made things worse, looking back: he'd almost been angrier at himself than Tom for still being drawn to the man, despite everything. And just look where they were now.
The princes trooped in and out several times while he sat there, every last one of them grim-faced and all too practiced at mourning, even the littlest. Matt clung to his daddy's still hand desperately for a couple of hours that first day, staring at the vivid scrapes and bruises littering Tom's pale skin, and barely smiled when the nurse tried to reassure him that nothing was seriously wrong with Mason Senior apart from the ankle.
"Cheer up, kiddo," John told him when the woman left. "They broke the mold when they made your dad, and you know it. He's going to be just fine. I know it sucks that Anne and your sister are gone, but he's not going to leave any stone unturned 'til he finds 'em. And you can take that to the bank."
"I know," Matt said, still looking miserable. "But that didn't save Mom. And it hasn't been all that long since ..." He trailed off, looking as conflicted as an eleven-year-old carrying a rifle could.
"What, kid? C'mon, you can tell me." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, leaning forward in the stiff mall-discard chair, elbows braced on his knees.
"I ... I asked Anne if I could call her Mom, too," Matt replied, ducking his head like the weight of the world had suddenly fallen on his narrow little shoulders. Craze's necklace caught the light as he moved, reminding John that he'd already suffered an up-close loss that month, more than any kid his age should have to deal with.
"Aw, kid." John fought with himself a moment, then figured to hell with it and opened his arms to the boy. Matt reminded John of Brandon sometimes; he'd always been amused by his pluck, even when the rest of the Mason clan was driving him up a wall. "It's not your fault. Trust me; that probably made her feel like a million bucks. Hate the fishheads all you want, but never believe you had anything to do with her leaving."
Matt took a shaky breath, standing still for a stiff, awkward hug for a few seconds, then collected himself and nodded. "That's what Ben said. But ..."
"It's not the same as an adult saying it, huh? There's no shame in that; soldier or not, you're still more'n half kid. Nothing wrong with wanting a comforting word from your dad. Give it a few days, and he'll tell you so himself."
"Really?"
"Really, really." He drew an exaggerated X across his chest, feeling like a dork; but it seemed to help. Masons. If he went soft, it would be all their fault.
"Thanks, Pope," Matt replied, finally looking a little cheered.
Ben was the next of them to actually talk to John; he walked back in just after Matt left to track down some sustenance, brow furrowed at John in suspicion.
Fair enough; John was suspicious of him right back. He could never forget that Ben had chosen the rebel Skitters over other human beings, more than once. The thing they could do, where they reached straight into Ben's mind through those spikes on his back and used him like a mouthpiece: that creeped John right the fuck out. Who knew what other hooks they had in him? If anything ever went badly wrong with the alliance, Ben and his other spiked buddies were going to be first on the firing line between the two groups, and he had to know it.
He had that ironclad Mason belief in his cause, though: had it in spades. It wasn't the pie in the sky wishes and hot air that you'd normally expect to find in a teenager, or all too many adults for that matter, like – just for example – the late General Bressler. But John didn't know whether that made it better or worse.
"Ben," he said, neutrally, biting his tongue on his usual greeting. Would be just his luck to call the kid 'spike boy' and have that be the first thing Tom heard, waking up.
The kid eyed him, then walked over and checked on his father, a pained, fond look crossing his face. As though he'd seen the like too often to be surprised that Mason Senior had found his way into an infirmary bed yet again. He did the same little bonding by touch ritual Matt had done before him, then drew himself up and turned back to John.
"What do you want, Pope?" he asked, face screwed up in a ferocious scowl.
"Want?" John shrugged, more amused than anything; it felt like being taunted by a half-grown lion cub. The harness studs still rooted in his back might give Ben more strength and speed than the average human being, but even with all his alien advantages he wasn't the Masonet John was wariest of. "No more fishheads. No more bubbleheads, either. Something decent in the mess. Oh – and a new Harley; I miss my old one."
Ben stared back, nonplussed, then shook his head. "You know what I mean. Why are you here? Colonel Weaver told us what happened – but it doesn't make any sense to me. It's only been what, a year, since I caught you trying to run my dad off into the woods? What'd you make him promise for bringing him back this time?"
Well, that answered one question; Weaver hadn't actually told the boys jack squat. No mention of Lourdes, or John's half-implied deal with the colonel. Interesting.
"Lot of road under those tires, kid," he said neutrally, figuring up a story on the fly. No doubt the rough details would get around to the mole's ears, too; might make her less suspicious about his presence there, which was all to the good. And the best part was, timing aside, it was mostly even the truth. "Me and your dad, we came to an understanding a while back. Granted, it's usually a little more clandestine than this, but sometimes you gotta use the tool to hand."
"Clandestine?" Ben glanced between his father and John again, still frowning. "You mean like spy stuff? Why would he go to you for that? It's not like anyone trusts you."
"Anyone in your rarefied sphere, you mean," John shrugged. "Ask Weaver where most of the tips about unrest in the civvie sector come from. You honestly think I got enough people pried loose of the vital occupation list to staff a bar and run a microbrewery without a little help from the administration?" He wagged his brows. "Or that it's a coincidence half my Berserkers are up under Volm hill and the rest out watching the front door?"
He'd sort of thrown that in Tom's face while Crazy Lee was dying, actually; but he'd figured out since that it was more a back-handed expression of trust than the exile he'd taken it for at the time. He'd pushed pretty damn hard trying to get a reaction from Tom that day, figuring him for a cold-hearted bastard; probably a good thing he hadn't, in hindsight. Would've been an ugly scene if the President actually had lost his temper in front of Weaver, Matt, the docs, and all the mourning Berserkers.
John tended to forget that Tom had been a Berserker himself, there for a little while. Maybe if he'd remembered their punch-up over Jimmy's compass sooner, he wouldn't have taken the man's slick statesman's mask at face value for so long. But then again ... he'd just taken it for the usual upper-class bully's resort to physical intimidation when rhetoric failed, at the time. Plus, he would have missed out on this entertaining little myth he was weaving about playing the President's agent provocateur. That would have been a pity.
He smirked at the wide-eyed, constipated look the kid was giving him now. As if he was trying to reevaluate the conflicts of the last year or so with the idea of John Pope, Loyal Citizen, in mind and failing.
"Keep it quiet, though, all right? It'll stop working if people figure out I'm here because I actually care rather than waiting around to make sure he ain't going to welsh on our deal," he hinted further, laying a shushing finger across his lips.
Ben still looked stunned; but he lowered his voice obediently, and John knew he had him. "You're worried. Why? Because of Anne? Or has something else happened?"
"Like I said, ask Weaver; I'm not sure what op-sec applies when we know the rebs'll be trooping in and out of your skull every other week," he shrugged.
He was more than a little entertained by the complicated mix of worry and offense that went flying across the kid's face at that. Mason-baiting: still the sport that kept on giving, even if he had to watch his language a little more than he was used to. Pity it probably wouldn't work on his elder brother.
Ben swallowed, jaw tight, but didn't object any further. "I'll ... I'll do that," he said, turning back to his dad to squeeze the man's hand one more time. Then he walked out of the room, pausing as he passed John for one more comment. "And Pope ... thanks. I heard what you said to Matt."
"Little man's a good kid," he shrugged it off; but reluctantly found himself pleased by that, too.
Goddamn Masons. Couldn't even trust his own instincts anymore.
And, of course, there was still one hoop left to jump through. John got up to take a piss during one of Weaver's visits – he'd learned not to try leaving the room when anyone else was there, as the last time he'd done so he'd come back to find Lourdes reading the man's chart, despite Weaver arranging for Doc Sumner to pull seniority over her on the President's case – and returned to find the tall, dark-haired form of Tom's eldest snooping from the curtained doorway.
He was staring at his father with a flat, blank-faced intensity that seemed a little ... out of character for Hal Mason, his voice low and indecipherable as he delivered some kind of report to Weaver. John stopped a ways down the hall, stepping out of the flow of foot traffic, and wished for a moment he'd thought to summon Lyle to spell him. Then he could have sent the other Berserker to follow Hal when he left without either drawing attention to himself, or abandoning Tom unguarded in a security nightmare.
John hadn't forgotten the fact that Hal was head and shoulders above even his father in terms of unwanted contact with the Espheni. The young man had only just started walking again after his last encounter with Karen had left him paralyzed; she'd been his girlfriend until just the year before, when after getting caught and harnessed she'd decided she loved the Espheni so much they transformed her into the new overlord of the East Coast. Unfortunately, that hadn't overwritten her fixation on Hal and his family. The timing didn't work for Hal to've been the one who killed Manchester; he'd still been in the wheelchair then, and that had been the night his baby sister was born. But he could easily have unknowingly passed a bug to the active mole.
Well, he wasn't going to bring that possibility up to either Weaver or Tom himself without a little more than his gut feeling to go on, after Tom's blatant ducking of the subject earlier. But he wasn't going to let Weaver leave Hal alone with his unconscious father, either. Karen had been doing her best to decapitate the administration of Charleston for a while now, between orchestrating Manchester's death, Anne's abduction, and the plane crash, and John didn't want to take the risk that Tom's current vulnerability would prove tempting enough for her to take advantage of.
That would leave Peralta in charge, after all. A career penpusher, that one. John was still learning to trust Mason farther than he could throw him; it would take a hell of a lot more for him to buy into Marina Peralta's calculated smiles.
He sighed, stretched deliberately as if he'd only stopped to work a little of the lingering stiffness out of his limbs, then brushed on past Hal into the room. Weaver was in the second chair, up near the head of Tom's bed; he exchanged nods with John, then went back to his conversation with Hal as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. John smirked, then took his own seat and pulled out the latest paperback he'd bartered Anthony for.
Normally, he didn't let anyone catch him reading, but that made it even more perfect for his immediate purposes. John cracked open the battered Clancy novel, licking his finger to turn the page to where he'd left off, then glanced up covertly to see what Mason Junior was making of the scene.
"Are you kidding me with this?" Hal blurted, gesturing in John's direction as he stared at Weaver. "I just had to calm Lourdes down because she's upset Dr. Sumner won't let her look after Dad anymore, and now I find out Pope of all people makes the cut? What's going on, Colonel?"
John could have had a few choice words for him; but he was curious what Weaver would say. He ostentatiously turned another page instead, idly wondering what Mason Senior would make of the unlikely shenanigans of the book's fictional hero-President.
"What's going on," Weaver replied, irritation thick under the words, "is a soldier still on medical leave, however irregular he may be, freeing up a spot for an able-bodied man out on the front lines. Just as a precaution. I might not have much say in the civilian side of the administration – though don't worry, I'll be having a word with the doc – but trust me when I say I have your father's safety foremost in mind."
Well; so Weaver wasn't entirely the blunt instrument of the Second Mass leadership pair after all. John should have gone to the Mason side of things a long time ago, if it was all going to be this enlightening. He bit back another smirk, doing his best to give off an air of irritated boredom, and tuned out of the rest of Hal's blunt whining. He looked up just in time to nod tersely to the nettled young man as he stalked back out again, then folded the book up and raised his eyebrows at the colonel.
"So. You're worried about Hal, too," he pointed out.
"So. What's this I hear about you being Tom's spy all along?" Weaver replied, shrewdly.
"Touché." John lifted the book to his forehead in a sloppy salute. "Hopefully the mole thinks our 'secret friendship' is the only reason I'm in here, too."
"Quick thinking." Weaver stared at him a moment more, then got up out of the chair. He leaned over to pat at Tom's shoulder – same damn grounding type gesture as the kids; Mason hadn't been exaggerating about the brother thing, had he? – then took a ragged breath and gave a sharp nod.
"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for now, 'cause so far your information's proved good. I can't actually arrest her 'til we find more evidence than a Volm-modified gun we can't even prove's hers tucked away under a spare mattress, but it's enough for me to be willing to go along with this latest scheme of yours. For now. But if Tom wakes up and tells me something different ..." The glare he directed at John promised fire and brimstone.
John repeated the crossing gesture over his heart that he'd given Matt, but with an expression as deadly serious as the colonel's. "I hear you. Sir."
"Good," Weaver nodded again, then left without another word.
It was coming up on two days after their not-so-triumphal return, according to Sumner, when Tom finally showed signs of waking. Two long, uncomfortable days mostly spent in the chair or catching cat-naps on a gurney in the next room while one of the others from the Second Mass sat watch. It reminded John a little of the night he'd spent in the emergency room with his daughter when she was small, so sick she could hardly breathe; the same waiting-room tension, complete with concerned other parties hovering.
He made sure Weaver got the word, then tucked his book away again and listened to Tom's breathing change, watching the flutter of eyelids and the lines of tension reappearing between his brows. Waiting for those few moments when he'd see the man again, before the presidential mantle descended. He had to know, before anyone else stormed in on them; he had to be sure it hadn't all been some hallucination.
The first sign that full consciousness had returned was a pained, indrawn breath; yeah, he'd just bet Mason had a nasty headache. John's hadn't entirely disappeared yet, either. Tom shifted a little on the bed, reaching one hand up to rub at his temple, then turned his head toward the visitor chairs – and finally opened his eyes.
There was always a certain honesty in that moment between sleeping and waking: between the dreaming mind and the iron bars of consciousness descending. John saw an old, dull pain in Mason's brown eyes, layered underneath the fresh physical aches, and an instinctive, tensing readiness in his posture. But then his gaze lit on John, and ... he smiled.
Sort of. Not much; just that slight relaxation around the eyes and mouth that meant you being here makes this morning not quite so hellish, after all. John knew it well, though he hadn't recognized it before; probably because it had never before been directed at him.
He found himself swallowing past a lump in his throat, feeling all kinds of things he'd never expected to associate with a card-carrying representative of law and order.
"How long have I been out?" Tom rasped, hitching himself up a little on the bed.
"Two days," John shrugged, wondering what his expression looked like to Tom.
"And how long have you been sitting there?" Tom asked, wasting his second question on John's condition.
"Two days," John repeated, spreading his hands in front of him: of course.
A slow smile grew on Tom's face at that. "We lived."
"That we did."
"Hmm. You get the word to Weaver?"
"What do you think? And don't you ever turn off that brain of yours?" Third question, straight from self, to immediate visitor, to the protection of the extended clan. How very Mason.
"Only when someone wakes me up with a snake to the face," Tom actually chuckled in response.
"Now, that part I didn't tell Weaver. But all the rest – so far as I've heard, it's all under control. Though I'm pretty sure he'd appreciate you confirming it."
"Good," Tom replied with a faint, satisfied nod. "Good."
Rapid footfalls sounded in the corridor then, signaling the success of John's messenger; a callused hand swept the curtain back, and Weaver's tightly contained presence entered the room. He took all of two steps in, then paused, wearing that same damn constipated expression he always did; but then Tom's gaze shifted to meet the colonel's, and John could practically see the solid cable of their friendship snapping back into place as he watched. Like an anchor, taking some of the strain off Weaver's shoulders, and vice versa. He felt the loss of Tom's attention like the chill after taking a step away from the night's fire, but for once, felt no urge to draw all eyes back to him; the pleasure in Tom's smile at seeing Weaver was compensation enough for the pang.
...Damn, he was even worse off than he'd thought, wasn't he? Full fathom five, and sinking fast.
"Hey. Now there's a sight for sore eyes," Mason said, happily.
"I'm happy to be seen," Weaver bit out, restrained to the last, but his eyes said the rest for him. And then he did something unexpected; he gestured over to John, raising his voice and reincluding him in the conversation. "Pope's filled me in on what happened. General Bressler; I hear that his flying saved your lives."
"It's true," Tom nodded, pushing himself up farther on his elbows. "Any word from Cochise and the President?"
"Radio silence," Weaver shook his head.
"I assume you've contacted the Volm?"
"They're out looking for him."
"And ... the rest?" Tom glanced back to John, rubbing at the back of his neck; the words were vague, owing no doubt to awareness of the public venue, but the meaning was clear.
"Pending," Weaver replied, "but under control. That is ... assuming you're referring to what I think you're referring to?" He echoed the glance at John again.
"Whatever Pope said; consider his word as good as mine on the subject," came Tom's quick response.
"I am going to have to hear more about this camping trip of yours later," Weaver replied, but offered no more objection. "In the meantime, there's something else you need to know ..."
His attempt to break the news got cut short, though, as a chatter of younger voices burst into the room, filling up the space between John and the bed. Little Matt dove right for his father's chest, hugging him as best he could with his rifle sticking up over his shoulder, and the others weren't far behind him.
"Dad," Matt said happily, as Tom pressed a kiss into his unruly curls.
"Good to see you again, Dad," Ben smiled, looking almost his actual sixteen years for once.
"Glad you made it," was Hal's attempt at a slightly more adult greeting.
All three of them had glanced at John at some point during their entry; Margaret, tucked in against Hal's side as she usually was of late, added her narrow-eyed contribution as Tom replied. John was tempted to stick his tongue out at her, but refrained, as caught up in the scene as everyone else.
"Yeah, I'm glad we made it, too," Tom smiled.
If it hadn't been for the weighty news John knew was coming, he would have left then, leaving them all to their saccharine little family reunion. But some imp of the perverse, whatever corner of his shriveled soul had leapt at the notion that the woman who had got to Tom first was conveniently out of the picture, kept him pinned in place as Tom's gaze suddenly roamed the room again, realizing something was wrong.
"Where's Anne? Where's Alexis?" Tom asked, the extra weight of carriage that had landed him as President vanishing again in favor of the all-too-rarely-visible human being beneath.
The kids shuffled, but said nothing; not even the little man, whose face said plenty enough all on its own. Tom glanced at each of them, from Matt to Ben to Maggie and Hal, then John in the corner, and finally Weaver; he paused there, the joy of being greeted by his nearest and dearest wiped off his face like someone had taken an eraser to him.
"Dan. Where's Anne?"
Weaver heaved a breath at that; John had overheard the scout reports, and knew he had no good news to give. "There's no easy way to say this, Tom, so I'm just going to say it. Anne and Alexis are missing. Gone."
The expression that crossed Tom's face then, John couldn't have named, but he knew it all the same: the silent aftershock of a world cracking down to its foundations. It triggered the expected wash of self-directed anger, garnished with shame – that he'd failed in his own tests; that he'd been basking in the man's attention despite knowing this was coming – but something else, too. Something he'd actually forgotten he'd promised Weaver: the desire to take revenge on Tom's behalf.
Conflicted, angry, weary, and surer of himself than he'd been in years, John turned and slipped out of the room. Time to put a few feelers out, check up on his men ... and wait. Mason would need him again soon; he'd have something stupidly suicidal in mind, and he'd need someone to do it. In the meantime, John had a business to run.
It wasn't an end; nor was it a beginning. But it was more purpose than he'd had in quite some time.
Screw the fell clutch of circumstance; he'd been running long enough. It was time to finally commit to Mason's grand vision, and let the chips fall where they may.
-(2/5)-