Having to get back into the chair to go to black section dented Mark's optimism some, but not a great deal. He felt better. He was the Eagle, his physical problems were temporary, and right now, for the first time in forever, he felt like the same man who had worn birdstyle and saved the world on a regular basis.

It wasn't long since he'd been in black section, but the last time he'd been here he'd felt like an imposter. An instructor, and a visiting one at that. Now he exited from the elevator and wheeled himself up to the guardpost feeling like he belonged.

"I need to speak to Chief Anderson, urgently."

"He's in his office, sir," the security officer told him.

Yeah, and it's in the oldest part of the building, up two flights of stairs from the highest point I can get to in an elevator. Mark just looked at him, and the man flushed in sudden realisation and looked away, reaching for the phone.

"Chief, it's Jamieson, duty officer on the elevator guardpost. I have Commander Jarrald here for you." He stood listening, the phone held such that Mark couldn't easily hear what was being said, nodding occasionally.

"Yes, Chief." He passed the phone over to Mark.

"Mark here," he said.

"Mark, this isn't a good time. Is it urgent?"

No, I just came for a chat. Mark pushed the irritation down. "Priority one, Chief." Urgent, but not drop-everything.

"Can it wait ten minutes? I'll come find you." The phone went down before he even had a chance to respond, and Mark felt his lip curl. Sit in the lobby to be called for, like a visitor? Oh, he didn't think so. Not this time. Not any more. He caught the eye of the duty officer.

"Do me a favour? When Chief Anderson comes looking for me, tell him I'm in the G-Force ready room."

.

Past the guardpost, turn to the left down the central corridor of black section, then the second turning on the right into a much narrower one. That corridor wiggled and it sloped as it crossed from the new part of the building to the older section. When he'd first come here, a naive, arrogant sixteen-year-old, the older building had been all there was. It had been suggested that they move into the new part. Just once. Jason had gone completely ballistic, Princess and Tiny had backed him up, and no more had been said about it. So G-Force's accommodations had remained in the same place, and the architecture had been adjusted as required.

He remembered the last time he'd come up here vividly. Beyond vividly. Chris had just told him he was fine and cleared him to go back on duty and, so confused he hadn't even started to process it, he'd headed back to the ready room on pure instinct. Only when he'd stopped just outside had it hit him. He couldn't do it. He knew there was something desperately wrong - but he also knew he couldn't put this decision on anyone else. There were voices just barely audible from inside the ready room - cheerful, friendly, a little edge of worry that he could only distinguish because he knew them so well. Worry for him. His team. His friends.

He'd leant against the wall and listened to the voices, as what he had to do crystallised in his mind. And so he'd turned and walked away, nodding to the guards as though nothing was wrong. Half an hour later he'd left ISO, fully intending to never come back.

Well, he wasn't exactly back. Wouldn't be until he was on his feet. He was, however, here, and there were voices inside. One deep and one female. Princess and Tiny. But it wasn't his ready room any more; he was a visitor. Mark reached out and knocked on the door.

The voices stopped. Nobody knocked on this door. Everyone who had cause to come here knew the internal phone number, if not the bracelet frequency, and simply called. At the edge of his enhanced hearing, he could hear light footsteps approaching. Far too late, all he wanted to do was turn and flee. What had possessed him to come here, now, in a wheelchair?

The door opened, and he steeled himself.

"Mark!" And Princess's arms were round his neck, and her head on his shoulder. He felt the chair rock, almost tipping, and obviously she did too, because she backed off hastily. "I'm sorry."

Oh, to hell with protocol. To hell with stiff upper lips, and standing on my dignity. To hell with being strong. Mark put his arms out. "Don't be sorry. Do that again."

And she did.

"Are you going to come in, or should we start using the window as the way in and out?" Tiny's amused voice said an indeterminate length of time later.

Mark laughed, and pushed Princess back to standing. "I'll come in - briefly. I'm waiting for Anderson."

He saw Princess's face fall even as he said it, and cursed himself. Way to spoil the moment, idiot. "I meant to do this...a long time ago. Sorry."

"Don't you dare apologise." She wiped tears from her eyes, and turned back into the room. "Come drink coffee. If you want...Jason said you don't drink decaf any more."

Jason's out of date. Mark smiled as he put his hands to the rims of the wheels and headed in after her. "Decaf's fine. No milk, no sugar."

"Hardly seems worth drinking it like that," Tiny said as he added coffee grounds and water to the percolator. "Jason's going to be pissed he missed you."

"I just spoke to Jason."

Tiny half-turned, a worried frown on his face. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. The powers of motor racing changed their drug testing system, and he failed some test. I'm firefighting, but I'm going to need Anderson to retrofit some evidence."

"He can't have failed a drug test."

"He didn't, not on residues. They've started looking for evidence of non-natural performance."

Tiny's face fell. "Crap. How the hell does he get out of that one?"

Mark outlined the story he'd told Dave to use, finishing with, "but since he admitted taking drugs, denial's going to have to come from a higher level than me. I figure black section saying they've been doing reflex tests and muscle stimulation on him should do it - especially since he's got to be squeaky-clean to ordinary tests. Sound plausible to you?"

Tiny nodded. "I guess so. He'd be a likely candidate for something like that with a race driver's reflexes - and he's young enough that they'd swallow him panicking at it being discovered, when he'd been told it was top secret."

"That's what I thought." He put his hand out for the mug, and sat there sipping the coffee, looking round the ready room. It hadn't changed a great deal. The ping-pong table was folded up against the wall, and he had the impression that the stool behind Keyop's drumkit was higher, but apart from that it looked just as it always had. A few comfortable chairs and a sofa, a small kitchen area where he was now, screens on two of the walls and external windows on the other two, with a view out across the grounds to the ocean. There were so many folders and books open on the table that its surface was barely visible, and a heap of racing magazines overflowing from one of the seats of the sofa onto the carpet. The bookcases had obvious gaps on their shelves, but remained in good order. That would be Princess's work - she'd always insisted on keeping the shelves orderly. She was a naturally tidy person. Even now, she'd moved over to the table, placed her mug carefully on a mat, and was straightening up her work area, making a pile of books to return to the shelves and closing the folders she was finished with. He wondered what she was working on at the moment. He had absolutely no idea.

What was missing was any sign of Rick. There wasn't anything here that he didn't recognise. Nothing that he looked at and thought, yeah, that's something a computer hacker would do. No computer magazines. Nothing new associated with fast jets, either. The shelf he'd always kept his reference manuals on looked exactly as he remembered it. Did Rick never come in here at all?

"Mark?"

He abruptly realised it wasn't the first thing Tiny had said, and jerked himself back to reality.

"Yeah? Great coffee, by the way."

Tiny looked at his mug with a slightly bemused air. Entirely normal coffee, to be honest. It just tasted better in here.

"I have something for you. If you want it." He placed the bracelet on the counter and pushed it towards Mark, making no attempt to hand it directly to him. Mark knew what it was even before he saw it.

"Does Anderson know you're giving it back to me?"

"Anderson doesn't know you stopped having it." Tiny's face wore an open, slightly apologetic expression, but his voice was confident. "I hung onto it myself, waiting for the right time. I figured he wouldn't ask you for it back, since he didn't at the debrief."

Princess, over at the table drinking her own coffee, frowned slightly. "Why do you have it, Tiny?"

Mark felt himself flush, and saw the other's subtle shift of body language. Don't ask, I'll tell you later. He was highly grateful that she picked up on it instantly. He had no desire to explain - or hear it explained - that Tiny had picked up the bracelet after he, Mark, had flung it across the room in a fit of frustrated pique. At the time he had been beyond unhappy. Now it all seemed rather embarrassing, and extremely childish. And he very much wanted the bracelet back. Permanently, if possible.

"Thank you," he said simply, picking it up and snapping it onto his wrist. Here, in black section, he could wear it openly. Sitting in the ready room drinking coffee, with Tiny washing what looked like ISO's entire supply of teaspoons and Princess doing her own thing instead of hovering protectively, he finally felt like he belonged again.

Of course, that's why they're doing it, his subconscious nagged. To put you at ease.

He didn't care. That hug had felt very real. Not at all planned or contrived. And, just as soon as he was back on his feet, he could finally do something he'd promised himself years ago. Princess was no longer in his chain of command. Once he wasn't a useless cripple any more, he'd ask her out. He was pretty sure she'd say yes.

"Everyone wants us today," Tiny commented at the knock on the door, heading to open it. "Chief?"

"I'm looking for Mark."

Mark drained his mug, put it back on the counter, and spun his chair round to head for the door. "You found me. Can I talk to you somewhere that's not up three flights of stairs?"

"Of course. I'm sure one of the briefing rooms is free."

.

It was briefing room two in the end, the smaller and less plush one. Painted walls rather than panelled wood, and a big rectangular table formed from a whole load of little ones pushed together. Anderson pulled one chair right out of the way near the end of the table, pulled out another for himself round the corner, and sat down.

"So, what can I do for you?"

You can wait thirty seconds. Mark was done with looking up at everyone, at least when there was an option. He wheeled his chair into the gap, applied the brakes, tested the rigidity of the table. Good and solid. As casually as he could manage, he pushed himself to standing, shuffled across to the nearest chair, and sat down again. Not exactly instant, but good enough. He even managed to resist the temptation to smirk at the astonishment on Anderson's face. Well, the Security Chief would just have to get used to the fact that the Eagle wasn't as crippled as he had been any more.

"Jason has a problem with his cover occupation. A bad one."

Anderson frowned. "Go on."

"I don't have all the details yet, but it seems that the racing drug test procedure has changed to something that's picking up his heightened activity levels as evidence of performance enhancement. He's admitted taking drugs to them."

The frown deepened. "And why did he do that? For that matter, where is he?"

Mark chose to ignore the second question. "I don't know first-hand. It came to me via Team Seven. One of the operatives there also drives for ISO Racing, and was telling the story to a highly interested audience. I thought I should jump in and stop it. I think I've got it under control, but it is going to need some high-powered backup evidence."

Anderson nodded, taking a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket. "Tell me what you need."

Mark explained his cover story yet again, then leant back and waited for questions. They weren't long in coming.

"You told this O'Leary the truth? Can he be trusted?"

Mark resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the table. "I've known him a long time - so has Jason. I hope he's trustworthy, but he does have a tendency to speak first and think second. I recommend you haul him in here and have Grant put the fear of God into him."

Anderson made a note. "It won't be Grant - I'll do it myself. Apart from that, Chris can handle it. Reflex stimulation experiments of some kind, strictly secret. Quite why the Condor couldn't have denied everything for a couple of hours I do not know, but I'll take that up with him when I see him. Thank you, Mark. We'll take it from here."

.

It wasn't until he was in the elevator returning to the more public levels of ISO that Mark digested what Anderson had said. Take it up with Jason when he saw him? Normally he'd have called within seconds of hearing something like that and hauled the miscreant in for a dressing-down. Which meant he knew, at least to some extent, that it wasn't a good idea. Whether or not he suspected that Jason was in fact crashed on Mark's bed at this very moment, Mark didn't know. Anderson could find out in moments if he chose, provided Jason was wearing his bracelet. The fact that he hadn't done so meant, presumably, that Jason was being given some privacy – something he'd too often desperately needed without getting it. Anderson must know that there was something badly wrong, and that Jason was more than fragile right now.

Should he have told Anderson where Jason was - and that he was miserable with migraine again? Heck, should he have told him about Rick's resignation? It wasn't like his attempts so far had fixed anything. The only thing that was going to help there was getting Rick and Jason in the same room - and even then, he didn't hold out too much hope.

The elevator stopped on the ground floor and Mark wheeled himself out, avoiding a whole crowd of Team Three pilots in flight suits heading in, presumably up to their common room on the second floor. This was what Rick wanted, and he'd fit in very well - every one of them tall, fit and confident, every one of them a crack pilot. All just back from a sortie of some kind, from what he could hear. Not a training session either. They'd shot something down, and were inordinately pleased with themselves. He'd have dearly liked to ask for details, but Lieutenant Commander Jarrald of Team Seven was beneath the notice of such lofty mortals even if he did technically outrank them. None of them even looked at him as they passed either side of his chair on their way into the elevator. If he asked, they'd be polite enough, probably even explain it in nauseating detail - but he couldn't face their condescending sympathy. He'd watch the newsfeeds later.

If Team Three could do more than just keep the enemy occupied until G-Force could get there, that would make a difference. They'd never do much more than that, though. A worryingly large proportion of mecha had always required Fiery Phoenix to take them out, something not available to a standard fighter jet. Which meant G-Force had to stay operational. Right now, improbable as it seemed, it looked like it was going to come down to their crippled ex-commander to keep them that way.

Jason was still curled on his side as Mark gently closed the door behind him with barely a click. He must be dead tired, he thought. He'd have said it was impossible to sneak up on even a sleeping Jason without waking him. Unfortunately, he did need to wake him. Chris Johnson would be wanting him in the very near future, so a contrite junior lieutenant could trail after him to ISO Racing to get his license returned, once it had been explained that he hadn't taken drugs after all and had been trying to cover up what he had been told was a top secret medical trial with galactic security implications.

He considered his friend, who didn't appear to have even twitched during the previous hour. Dead tired, dreadfully stressed...and would the migraine have subsided? If not, it was time Chris knew about it. Mark headed for his kitchen area by the window, determinedly stood up, even though by this stage in the day he needed to lean heavily on the counter and had no hope of walking, and got the coffee percolator going. Agony aunt, going on coffee maker, still a very long way from active service security operative.

It was bubbling noisily and filling the room with the smell of the best decaf the ISO store stocked when Jason stretched and sat up.

"Better?" Mark asked.

The other nodded, and opened his mouth to speak. What came out was a near-soundless croak. Jason cleared his throat and tried again with no better result, then coughed. That didn't seem to help either, and Mark hastily poured milk into a mug and added coffee and sugar.

"You'll have to come get it." Even first thing in the morning and fully rested he couldn't have carried a mug of coffee anywhere.

Jason joined him, leaning on the counter and looking out to sea. He spent the next couple of minutes alternately clearing his throat and sipping at the coffee, and finally found some voice.

"I hate it when that happens." There was no weight behind it at all, though, and he coughed hard afterwards and cleared his throat yet again. "Bloody vocal cords."

"This has happened before? You need to tell Chris -"

Jason's sideways glance was weary rather than furious. "I try not to make the same stupid mistake twice. There's a throat mike built into my birdstyle, and my bracelet's set to respond to the transmute action even if talking isn't happening."

"Oh." There wasn't much else he could say, so Mark went back to admiring the white crests on the waves and drinking coffee. He'd had far too much coffee today, even if it was decaf, he decided. He abandoned his mug still half-full, considered the relative merits of chair and walking frame, and was forced to admit he needed the chair to get to the bathroom.

By the time he came back and determinedly pushed himself to his feet yet again to drink his coffee, Jason had wandered over to the bookcase, mug in hand, and was inspecting the titles, eyebrows raised. Mark knew why, too. Not an aircraft magazine in sight. Not a flight manual, not a chart.

"Detective stories?" His voice was back to normal. Light, faintly querulous, utterly unsuitable for the man who could make whole battalions of Spectran troops turn and run just by appearing.

"I like solving problems," Mark told him calmly. "And they have a bunch of good put-down lines."

"National Geographic?"

"It's interesting."

"And the decaf?"

"Laugh and I'll kill you." It came out before he could think about moderating his words, or even his tone.

Jason put the mug down deliberately on the top shelf and turned to face him, frowning. "I figured you were having trouble sleeping or something, because the whole of Team Seven knows you're a bigger caffeine addict than Nykinnen these days. But when did that turn into a touchy sub..." His voice trailed off, and he pinched the bridge of his nose hard. "Oh, man. Tell me I'm wrong."

What, about me wanting my job back - your job, now - so bad it hurts? Mark just shook his head. "You don't need to worry. Commander."

"Worry?" Jason's voice cracked on the last syllable, misbehaving again. "Dammit, Mark, you get yourself fit again and I'll resign so fast it'll be redshifted. Like I said before. I'm so not cut out for this."

"You meant what you said before? It wasn't just the migraine talking?"

Jason shook his head wearily. "No. If there was another realistic candidate, I'd have resigned already. Is that why you're on decaf?"

Mark felt himself flush. "I figured if Force Two got desperate..."

"Force Two can go whistle. We're desperate."

"You're going to have to use Rick if you're that desperate. I'm months away from being fit." And verging on not being able to stand up any longer. Mark shifted his weight from one leg to the other, trying to stave off the twitching which told him that his leg muscles hadn't just had enough for the day, they were about to deposit him unceremoniously on the floor, and abruptly Jason was at his side.

"You okay?"

"I need to sit down," he admitted.

Jason reached out a long arm and pulled a chair close. "Then sit down. You have to take -"

He stopped at the tap at the door, and glanced uncertainly at Mark.

Like I'm going to go answer it. Mark lowered himself carefully onto the chair. "Get that for me?" He didn't have visitors; this was going to be for Jason anyway.

He was right. Chris Johnson, head of black section medical, stood there, his discomfort apparent in every inch of his stiff posture.

"Jason? Good, I was looking for you. You need to come with me - I'll explain everything on the way to ISO Racing." He looked into the room, and smiled his professional doctor's smile. "Hail and farewell, I'm afraid, Mark. It makes no sense for you to be there."

Jason held up a hand, and threw him a look which said more than words ever could, and then they were gone, Jason pulling the door closed behind him as Chris asked whether he wanted to drive. Mark could hear no more, and useless loneliness washed over him again. Would they even think to tell him how it had gone? Quite possibly not.

"Did Mark tell you what the cover story is?" Chris asked as Jason pulled away from the checkpoint at the entrance to ISO.

"No," Jason said bluntly. That, of course, left him open to a whole bunch of other questions, about how come he didn't know, and how come Mark had been running about fixing Jason's mess. He didn't much want to admit to how poorly he was coping right now. The fact that Chris didn't ask suggested that he'd already guessed.

"The story is that you've been on a reflex testing program, where we've used electronic stimulation to push your muscles beyond what they could normally do. That scary man, Major Grant, told you that under no circumstances were you to divulge anything about it to anyone. We selected you because, as a top race driver, your reflexes are better than other people's. You don't know what the program is about, but suspect it's associated with a second G-Force team, for which you, of course, aren't remotely qualified. You've signed some scary forms about confidentiality, despite being just a guinea-pig. You panicked when they hauled you in for failing the drug test and figured taking the fall was required to protect the program. A reasonable guess, but what I'm going to strongly imply is that ISO would rather tell a few high-level and of course above suspicion racing officials the truth than have 'ISO Racing driver is drug cheat' plastered all over the papers."

Jason nodded. Flattering the people you were trying to deceive was always a good technique. Mark hadn't lost his touch when it came to such things. He must remember to thank him for it later.

"So I'm going to suggest they do a full drug screen right now, or as soon as it's convenient for them" Chris continued. "Blood, urine, anything else they care to name. They'll almost certainly decline and do them later at random – I would, if I was still at all suspicious I might be being set up. I'll offer them a bunch of our test results too, to demonstrate what residues our muscle stimulation can leave."

Jason frowned, keeping his eyes on the road as he merged with the traffic on the main route into town. "And where do those come from?"

"Your standard implant tests. It's all electronic stimulation." He chuckled to himself. "The only complication was removing 'Condor' from all the data headers. I hope I caught them all..."

"Tell me you're joking."

"I'm joking. Rick did it."

Jason felt himself stiffen, and only hoped Chris hadn't noticed. It wasn't even that he didn't trust Rick - without question, the Kite was the best computer person they had, and file editing was beyond a waste of his talents. He was just trying not to think about him right now. After all, as far as Jason knew, Rick considered himself not a member of G-Force any more, though it was a relief that he'd evidently not said anything to the black section senior staff. 'Let me know how you want to handle this' was how the resignation letter had ended. Mark had dealt with that too, he hoped. He had no idea how.

It was a ten minute drive out to ISO Racing, the rest of it spent in silence until they pulled into the industrial park and Jason abruptly wasn't sure where to go next.

"Who are we going to talk to? And do they know we're coming?"

"Everyone who was involved in your suspension, I hope." Chris chuckled again. "I believe your boss at ISO Racing was more than a little taken aback to get a phone call from the man everyone knows is the head of the G-Force operation. Anderson gave him the job of getting them back together. Park right out front."

"I'm not supposed to -"

"No, you're not. But right now you're chauffeuring the most high-powered medic in ISO, and you park where I say."

At that, Jason could only sag in relief that matters were out of his hands. He had plenty of experience at pretending to be just a driver.

.

And Chris apparently had more experience than Jason had ever suspected of being in charge. There wasn't a flicker of hesitation in his voice as he told the hastily assembled group of men that their tests were wrong and that young Lieutenant Alouita was to be cleared immediately. Jason stood behind and to one side, eyes on the floor, pretending horrified embarrassment instead of the guilty pleasure at revenge that he actually felt. Gordon, the man who had stripped his car, appeared particularly shocked. The ISO Racing managers looked as if Christmas had come early. Ed was grinning from ear to ear. Only the track manager was frowning.

"Doctor, I appreciate that your trial has caused the results - but the fact remains that you have been giving this man an unfair advantage. Drugs, electronics, whatever the cause of his heightened reflexes...he can't continue to race with it."

Chris silenced him with a glare that Jason would have been proud of. "He doesn't race with it. As I explained, the effect is temporary, only while the stimulus is applied. You did have his car tested, I believe? Not to mention that you've tested him on numerous occasions right after the races and found no more adrenaline than would be considered normal." He snorted derisively. "In fact, being on this program may be a detriment to Alouita's racing skills. Our test subjects have consistently reported abnormal tiredness and stiffness following sessions."

"But, Doctor -"

"That would be 'Professor'." Chris slammed a pile of papers down on the table, and every man in the room jumped. "Alouita's results are right here. If they go public I will personally destroy every one of you. You can return them to him tomorrow, after you've confirmed what I told you. You'll want to do traditional tests as well, if you don't trust mine. I'd lay money he's cleaner than every one of you. You do caffeine, alcohol and painkillers, and probably don't even consider them to be drugs. He doesn't take any of them. Questions?"

"Professor," the ISO Racing director said hesitantly," your integrity is not in question. Our testing procedures -"

"Have interacted in an unfortunate way with a top secret medical trial which has implications for planetary defence. So go back to using the old procedures on him. Is this a problem?"

There was a great deal of shaking of heads.

"Then we're done here. Be sure those papers get back to me. Good evening, gentlemen."

Even the Eagle couldn't have swept out of the room more impressively, and Jason was only half acting as he caught Ed's eye in a shared moment of astonishment before hurrying after him.

"Professor?" he asked as he started the car.

"You don't think I'm entitled to it?"

"I've never heard you use it."

Chris laughed out loud. "No, you wouldn't have. It's an honorary position, from...not the most prestigious institution of all time, and I'm pretty darn sure they only did it in the hopes of getting ISO sponsorship. But technically I am Professor Johnson, when I choose to use it."

Jason said nothing, keeping his eyes on the road. It had never really occurred to him before, but of course G-Force weren't the only people unable to get credit for what they did. Chris, Mike Bennett... their implant research was cutting edge. Revolutionary. Probably Nobel prize material. And yet here was Chris, 'only' a doctor, and the only people offering him accolades were the minnows looking for what they could get out of it.

"Thanks," he said. "I owe you. We all do."