\o/

Recoil

Part 3-1: Meeting Again for the First Time

The zombie lurched toward me, tried to grab me. Its mouth was open in a near-silent groan; I wrinkled my nose at the stench.

I brought my sword up and around in a glittering arc; the zombie took one more step, then its head slid from its shoulders. Spinning around, I kicked an importunate member of the undead in the middle of the chest, beheaded a third, and then bisected the one I had kicked. Twirling the sword in an intricate move designed to remove zombie bits from the blade, I paused to catch my breath.

Lisa was doing well also; instead of a sword, she carried two long knives. As I watched, she pirouetted between two zombies, stabbing each of them in the eye-socket as she went past. A third one, reaching for her, lost both its hands in quick succession before she scissored its head off.

A groan behind me reminded me that I was not yet out of danger; I stabbed up and back, barely bothering to turn, and then pulled my sword out again. As the tip of the blade slid out of the zombie's mouth, it collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

Lisa came running toward me, knives held up ready to throw. I crouched; she threw. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw two more walkers, each currently decorated with a knife hilt in the middle of the forehead. Their shrivelled eyes tried to cross, in an attempt to look at their new fashion accessories, before they both fell over backward.

Showoff, I accused her with a grin.

She smirked at me as she retrieved her knives. "Yeah, but it's fun."

Oh, so very true, I admitted.

After cleaning the blades on a not-too-filthy strip of cloth torn from the closest zombie's shirt, she put them away and pulled a mini-tablet from the pocket of her cargo pants. "Latest stuff to send to Andrea. She's doing well, by the way, but she misses you."

I sighed. I miss her too. More than I thought I would. More than I missed Brian, to be honest.

She shrugged. "I could model her in here for you, if you want."

I was tempted, but shook my head. Thanks, but no thanks. I need to keep a clear separation. And besides, it might get weird.

"Your loss. Oh, and there's a note on there for you."

I started to scan the data on the tablet, but she shook her head. "No time. Kiss before you go?"

I put my arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood. She snuggled against me, and I closed my eyes for a moment -

-ooo-

August 1993

- and opened them in my barracks room, sitting at my desk.

There were two pads in front of me, each with a chatty letter covering the top two pages. Each had been carefully, even meticulously, written while I was communing with Lisa. One was directed to Danny, and the other to Gladys. My intent was to write two of these letters and send them away every two weeks; I had written the first two on my first night back as a fully commissioned officer.

Thus, the letters were not unusual; it was the scrap of notepaper, resting on the letter to Gladys, that caught my attention. It held five words that chilled me to the bone.

Intruder in the security office.

I replaced the pads in my desk drawer, then stuffed the notepaper in my mouth. As I chewed and swallowed it, I took my pistol belt and buckled it on.

I wasn't duty officer on that day, but I had the feeling that Lisa didn't intend for me to go through regular channels on this. Accordingly, then, I exited my barracks room, locked it behind me, and headed for the security office at the double.

The PRT was still finding its feet; there were bases established in each of the major cities, and they were working on the smaller capital cities. I was currently based in Chicago, in what used to be an old school; it wasn't perfect, but it was certainly better than nothing. The security office was in a different building, but it was supposed to be guarded. It held filing cabinet after filing cabinet, holding all the classified records of known parahumans, as well as the computer terminal that linked us through the nascent DoD internet to all the other PRT bases.

The summer breeze cut across the campus as I hurried between buildings. Chicago would never be hot, but today was warmer than some. I supposed that growing up in Brockton Bay had spoiled me a little.

Entering the building containing the security office, I frowned. There should be officers and NCOs stationed here, primary lines of defence, but they were conspicuously absent. I moved faster.

Outside the door to the security room itself, an armed MP sergeant stood, at parade rest. I wasn't reassured. There was something seriously wrong here, especially when he didn't come to attention or salute when I approached.

I stopped right in front of him. "Sergeant. Has anyone entered this room in the last hour?"

His eyes focused on me, and he finally saluted. "No, ma'am." He hesitated, then added, "No-one important."

I fixed on that. "No-one important, or no-one at all?"

His eyes shifted. "I … " He went for his pistol, while reaching for me with his left hand.

I took his wrist, spun him around, and slammed him face-first into the wall opposite. Then I kicked him behind the knee, dropped him to the ground, and plucked the gun from his unresisting hand. Taking the cuffs from his belt, I secured his hands behind him, then stood up once more. That, I decided, was much easier than it should have been. His ingrained duty had been fighting all the way against whatever orders he had been given.

The sergeant's gun in my left hand, my own pistol in my right, I kicked open the door to the security room. Armed and ready for anything, I leaped in through the doorway, dropping to the floor and rolling, then came up on to one knee, both guns aimed at the room's sole occupant.

The guy feeding files into the shredder looked over at me. "I'll be done in a moment," he told me mildly. "If you can wait outside till then?"

I stood up and holstered my pistol; not sure what to do with the sergeant's gun, I stuck it in my belt. "Okay, sure," I agreed, brushing myself off. "Sorry to have bothered you."

He nodded. "Oh, could you leave that gun here please?" he requested. "I might need it."

"Not a problem," I agreed, pulling the sergeant's pistol from my belt and putting it on the desk. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, that'll be fine," he told me. "You can go now."

I turned and exited the room, pulling the door closed behind me. As I did so, I became aware of something wrong. Dimly, in the back of my head, someone was screaming at me. I couldn't make it out. Frowning, I concentrated -

- my right arm moved, without my volition, pulling the pistol from my holster and firing three shots into the closed door -

- and suddenly it was as if a fog had lifted from my mind. There was an intruder in the security office!

I looked down at the smoking gun in my hand. I had no recollection of choosing to pull it or fire it. Slowly, cautiously, I pushed open the door. In the back of my mind, I made a mental note to have the lock fixed. Slumped over the shredder was a nondescript man in his twenties, wearing clothes that might look like a uniform at a distance, with three closely-spaced bullet holes in his back. I approached carefully; there was a pistol within reach of him on the desk. I vaguely recalled putting it there, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Not until I had hooked the gun away from him with a pen I found on the desk did I begin to relax. From the placement of the bullet holes, he was either severely injured or dead, but I checked his pulse anyway. He was gone.

At my touch, he slid to the ground, crumpling in an untidy heap. I looked down at him, then heard boots thundering down the hallway. Shouts of alarm rose as someone saw the handcuffed MP sergeant.

"Is anyone in there?" a voice shouted.

"Yes!" I called back at once. "Lieutenant Snow! We also have an intruder; he's dead!"

"Are you armed?"

"Yes!" I replied. "There are two pistols in here!"

"Slide them out one at a time, then get down on your knees, hands clasped behind your neck!"

I complied, placing the pistols on 'safe' before sliding them out. "This one's mine!" I called. "Careful handling it; I shot the intruder with it." One went out, then the other. Then I got down on my knees. "Ready," I told them.

They were careful anyway; I approved. First, rifle barrels showed around the doorframe, and then, cautiously, the soldiers carrying them. They entered, rifles swivelling to covering the room, including me. I stayed kneeling while they searched me and checked the dead guy. Even though I was led out under guard, I wasn't too worried; I had an idea of what was coming next. The building would be placed on lockdown, and each and every one of us would be interrogated to find out what had happened.

I already had a fairly good idea of what that was.

-ooo-

A Day Later

"We found Lieutenant Wyzowski in the security office; his throat had been cut and he'd been stuffed behind a filing cabinet," the MP reported. "He was security officer for the day; he had the keys to get in. We located the keys on the body of the deceased."

Major Hamilton nodded, then turned to me. "Lieutenant Snow; did you know that Wyzowski was in the security office?"

I remained standing at attention. "Sir, no, sir," I replied. "I only knew that there was something wrong in the building."

His head came up at that. "Something wrong? Please elucidate, Lieutenant."

"Sir. I was passing by the building, and decided to look it over. On entering, neither the MP guard nor the NCO at the front desk were in evidence. This did not look right, so I investigated further. The only person I found was Sergeant Kinsey, at the door to the security room. He did not react to me as I approached, so I asked him some questions. He attempted to attack me, I subdued him, then investigated the security office."

Hamilton frowned. "Lieutenant, Sergeant Kinsey teaches hand to hand combat. I understand that you are good at it, but Kinsey outmasses you twice over, and has ten years of experience on you. I find it hard to believe that you could overpower him so easily."

"Sir, yes, sir," I responded. "I believe that Kinsey was under outside compulsion to not allow anyone to investigate the security office while the intruder was inside. However, he is a loyal soldier, and he was fighting to throw off the compulsion. It was only his strength of will that allowed me to beat him so quickly."

Hamilton stared at me, as if I had begun reciting the Lord's Prayer in Urdu. "Outside compulsion? Strength of will?" he repeated. "What, exactly, are you referring to?"

I took a deep breath. "Sir, are you aware of the parahuman -" I was careful not to use the word 'cape', even now - "power category known as 'Master'? Or 'Stranger'?"

He frowned. "I'd heard something about it." The lightbulb visibly went on, over his head. "You're saying that the intruder was a Master, or maybe a Stranger. That he was controlling Kinsey."

"Yes, sir. I suspect both. He was able to simply pretend to not be important enough to notice by everyone who saw him. And he was able to give orders that people followed without question. Once he was dead, of course ..."

He was nodding now. "The compulsion went away. I see." He peered closely at me. "I've looked over your jacket, Snow. You studied this sort of thing in college?"

"I did, sir. I grew up fascinated by the parahuman phenomenon -" true enough - "and when I reached college, they had a class on the subject. So I took it."

"Indeed." He steepled his fingers before him. "Which leads us to the most important question, Snow. You were in the room with this man. He gave you orders, which you followed. To give him Kinsey's pistol, and to leave the room. Orders which you followed without question."

"Sir, yes, sir," I agreed. "I was under his compulsion." I knew what was coming next.

"So it seems," he went on. "But why, if you were under his compulsion, did you then draw your own service weapon and fire it through the door? How did you break his compulsion?"

"I've been wondering about that myself, sir," I 'confessed'. "I suspect that it has to do with an incident that happened some years ago. I was involved in a fairly traumatic event, a disaster at sea, and I lost some of my memories. Afterward, at my doctor's suggestion, I took up self-hypnosis and even managed to regain some of my lost past."

I took a deep breath. "Since then, I have retained the habit of putting myself under for a few minutes at a time, when at my leisure. It helps to centre my mind and aids in concentration. I suspect that it has given me a stronger connection to my unconscious mind than most, and when I was undergoing that level of inner conflict, such as Sergeant Kinsey was, I managed to act without consciously thinking about it, once I was out of line of sight. Just as Kinsey did."

I actually had my own ideas about what had really happened, but I'd have to wait till later to investigate.

Hamilton was nodding slowly. "Yes, I've read about that incident. Self-hypnosis, hmm? It sounds like a neat trick. Could you teach it to others?"

I paused, as if thinking about it. "I could try, sir, but it's not something I picked up overnight. I've been doing it for years."

I had known that Hamilton had perused my past; going into the intelligence community, I would necessarily be scrutinised more closely than most. Therefore I had prepared the way, using the resources of my growing financial empire to have false records inserted here and there, so that investigators would find just enough of a fragmentary paper trail to ascertain that yes, Taylor Snow had been born a citizen of the United States. Parents were of course dead, with no relatives close enough to recall little Taylor, but that was the way of things sometimes, wasn't it?

"Hm," responded Hamilton. He nodded to his aide de camp. "Make a note. It might be something we can look into. We can't have these Masters and Strangers simply waltzing in and destroying our files at will. It would destroy the organisation before we even got started."

I noted the 'we'. The questioning was no longer adversarial; I had been included in the major's worldview of 'us'. "Sir, a suggestion."

"Yes, Lieutenant Snow?"

I took a breath. "I can look into devising protocols to use, to detect cases of people being manipulated by Masters and Strangers. There are quite a few case studies on record, and I've kept up with the literature."

His gaze upon me sharpened. "That sounds like a very interesting suggestion, Lieutenant Snow. I believe it has merit. What resources would you be needing?"

"Relatively few, sir," I responded. "Access to all the latest research, mainly." I paused. "And if I could have Sergeant Kinsey assigned to me, sir?"

He frowned. "Kinsey? Why him?"

"Because, sir, he's the one person on this base that I know has a fighting chance to resist a Master's influence. I'd prefer to have him at my back, protecting it, because once these protocols get out, I may just find myself with a target painted on it."

He rubbed his chin. "But he's already been affected by this Master mind-control. Wouldn't he be more susceptible, the next time?"

With Regent, he would have been, yes. "Not necessarily, sir," I replied. "By your same logic, he's been exposed to it, so he's just as likely to be more capable of fighting it off, the next time he encounters a Master."

He nodded, slowly. "Your point is valid, Lieutenant Snow." An expression creased his lined face that in another man might have been mistaken for a smile. "You've got him."

"Thank you, sir."

"No, Lieutenant. Thank you. Dismissed."

I saluted, about-faced, and marched from the room. Already, in my head, I was crafting the Master/Stranger protocols that they would need.

The PRT may have been a sieve early on, but by God, it's going to be airtight by the time I'm done with it.

"Sergeant Kinsey."

Kinsey looked up from where he had been reclining on his bunk. "Lieutenant Snow?" He still, I saw, had a bruise on his face from where I had slammed him into the wall.

"Up and at 'em, sergeant. You're with me, now."

Blinking his confusion, he got to his feet. "I've been taken off of regular duties, since that thing in the security office, ma'am. I'm not sure -"

"I've dealt with that, Kinsey. I've had you assigned to me. I needed a staff, and you're it."

My brisk tone must have surprised him. "But I attacked you -"

I shook my head. "No, Kinsey, you tried to attack me. And failed. You were under outside control. I'm going to be making sure that sort of thing doesn't happen in the PRT again, and I want you helping me."

Now a frown creased that broad, battered face. "How can I help you, ma'am? I'm no brain."

I recognised the lack of surety; he'd lost control of his body, his capabilities. He'd been moved around like a puppet, forced to act against his sworn duty, and it had wounded him, inside. It was a lesser version of what had happened to Brian, after Bonesaw had taken him apart. Hopefully, I could help restore Kinsey's confidence without needing to go to the lengths that I had with Brian.

"You can guard my back, Sergeant," I told him, putting the snap of command into my voice. He straightened to attention without meaning to. "I can't watch my back every second of every day, and there are going to be some very angry Masters and Strangers out there, once we start using the protocols that I'll be devising."

"But I didn't fight them off," he protested. "I tried to attack you."

"And failed, which shows how much you were fighting back," I pointed out. "Or can't you kick ass on the mat, any more?" My tone was deliberately challenging, now.

His eyes narrowed, his pride stung. "Any time the Lieutenant wishes to try her hand at a return match," he retorted, "I'm ready to accommodate her."

I smiled tightly. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear, Sergeant. Because not only will you be guarding my back, but you'll be showing me every trick you've got. I suspect that, sooner or later, I'll need them."

Sergeant James Kinsey came to full attention and gave me a parade-ground salute. "Ma'am," he declared, "I am at your disposal."

I returned the salute. "At ease, Sergeant," I told him. "Now let's go; we've got work to do."

-ooo-

I lifted the drink from its holder on the side of my floating pool lounge and tasted it; it was delicious and tart. Over our heads, beyond the transparisteel dome, the starfield slowly wheeled. Every three minutes, the sun passed overhead, sending sparkles reflecting from the water all around us. I pushed my sunglasses down slightly, so I could look over them at Lisa.

She was floating on a similar lounge, but her drink had more fruit in it. Both of us wore spectacularly skimpy swimsuits, and quite a lot of sunscreen; outside the atmosphere, it was easy to get a wicked sunburn. Lisa was already well tanned.

So spill.

She raised an eyebrow. "Spill what?"

How were you able to take over my body?

She took a sip from her drink, then mustered an innocent look. I didn't trust it for an instant. "Take over your body? Would I do a thing like that?"

Given that you already did, the answer would be 'yes'.

She sighed, putting her glass down. "Okay, fine, yes I did. Kind of."

Kind of?

"It was a special case. You know how you do that automatic writing thing?"

I nodded. It was how I wrote the letters to Gladys and Danny. But that's when I'm in a trance.

"And you were nearly in a trance right then. Your conscious mind was suppressed to the point that you were nearly under already; I just gave you a bit of a push, and grabbed control. I couldn't hold on for long – you weren't really under – but I managed for long enough to shoot that bastard."

So who was he, anyway?

She grinned her fox-like grin. "You've heard of Nice Guy?"

My jaw dropped. Holy shit. I killed Nice Guy?

"The one and only."

But he's supposed to be a member of the Nine.

She nodded. "He was going around the country, destroying files on the members of the Nine, to make it harder for the PRT to get a grip on them. Your base was the fourth one he'd hit."

And we'd heard nothing, I marvelled. I stretched out on the lounge and finished my drink.

"One of the perks of being a powerful Master/Stranger," she agreed.

Raising myself on one elbow, I looked at her. Will this damage our plans for later?

She grinned again. "Already factored in."

Excellent.

A klaxon blared. Lisa sighed. "Back to work."

She rolled off her lounge into the water; I followed suit. The oxywater allowed us to breathe as we swam down, down to the airlock at the bottom of the pool. We cycled through, stepping into a busy corridor. A harried-looking ensign stood there at attention; he saluted Lisa, back held rigidly straight.

"Commander Wilbourn, the Brak have returned," he reported. "We need you to lead us out against them." He gave her a beseeching look. "You're our only hope."

I must have snickered, because Lisa shot me a stern look. "They believe it," she murmured. "Far be it from me to disabuse them of the notion." She touched an inconspicuous button set into the shoulder-strap of her swimsuit; immediately, it shimmered and became a full military flight suit.

"Go save the world yet again," I told her with a grin. "Kiss before you go?"

She smiled, and pulled my face down to hers. Her lips tasted of dust and blood.

-ooo-

Kinsey and I circled each other on the mat, eyeing each other warily. He was bigger than I was, by a factor of two or three, but I was a little taller. I was also a little faster, but there wasn't much in it. Kinsey, just gone thirty, was horrendously fit and very strong. What he didn't know about hand to hand dirty fighting wasn't really worth knowing.

This wasn't to say that I was a total novice; I'd had training from Brian, once upon a time, backed up by real-world experience on the streets of Brockton Bay. But Brian was a dabbler; trained primarily in boxing, he had gone into other fighting forms, just to pick up a little from each of them. At seventeen, he'd been good for his age and weight group. Against Kinsey, he wouldn't have had a chance, assuming he didn't use his powers.

Kinsey moved in, moving cautiously. He'd learned caution in our first few bouts; while he was the better fighter, I still had a few tricks, and I used them ruthlessly. He flicked out a kick at my kneecap, watching my eyes. His foot wouldn't lift high enough to grab, so I pivoted, dropped, and swept a leg at his rear foot. I connected, but he was already falling; I realised that he'd decoyed me into going down so that he could get me on the ground.

Rolling to the side, I raised a knee so that he'd wind himself on it when he landed on me. He twisted, taking my knee on his hip, but one brawny arm still encircled my ribs. I started the counter immediately, and when the flurry of motion ceased, we were in a deadlock; I had his arm stretched out in a bar, but he held my leg twisted at a most uncomfortable angle.

We paused for a long moment, then I spoke up. "Draw, Sergeant?"

He nodded. "Draw, Lieutenant. Go again?"

"Go again." We released each other and rolled apart. "I'm not even going to pretend that I got the drop on you that time, Sergeant. Something's on your mind. What's the matter?"

He looked troubled as we came to our feet. "I think someone's snooping around, Lieutenant. Checking you out. Not going through regular channels. It's got me worried."

I shook my head. "It's fine. A security thing. Just do your job, and I'll be fine."

He nodded, once. "If the Lieutenant says so."

I returned the nod. "I say so."

"Good. Then let's see how that should've gone."

We moved together again.

Predictably, this time, I didn't do nearly as well.

-ooo-

September 1993

Hamilton's phone rang; he picked it up. "Major Hamilton."

"Sir, I have a call for you on the secure line."

Hamilton put the receiver down and pressed a red button set into the phone before picking it up again. He heard the squeal of encrypted lines synchronising, then the line became quiet. "Hamilton here."

"Captain Michaels, reporting."

"Michaels. What do you have?"

"An extensive written report, sir, but I can give you the gist over the phone."

"Fire away."

"It took a bit of digging, sir, but we found a paper trail. The yachts docked at Savannah on their way north, and it seems that Snow joined them there, as a deck hand, off the books. Underage, you see."

Hamilton made notes. "Not exactly unknown. Go on."

"Backtracking from there, we have notes on police blotters regarding a girl of her description travelling through. No arrests, no fingerprinting, just warned and moved along."

"That fits with what we already have."

"The trail curls around a bit there. The people we have earmarked as her parents moved around a bit. They spent some time in and around Brockton Bay, but didn't form lasting connections. Snow apparently had latent memories of the city when she was pulled from the water."

"Yes; I read Doctor Veder's report, too. So you're saying she was travelling around with her parents?"

"So it seems, sir. They died in a traffic accident when she was quite young; we managed to find the orphanage that she was sent to. It's since closed down, but we got hold of some of the paperwork concerning her time there. Unfortunately, we were not able to locate the name of the family that adopted her. Nor could we find a copy of her birth certificate, just a notation that one had been deposited in the registry office in Boca Raton. Which has since been destroyed by fire."

Hamilton sighed. "Well, at least we have a partial picture of the life story of our talented Lieutenant Snow. It's no surprise, given that she's so self-reliant. What have you uncovered about her life in Brockton Bay?"

"That she was entirely up front and honest in her self-assessment, sir. She lived for two years with the Heberts, the family of the boy who saved her life. By all accounts, she formed a close friendship with him, but there are no romantic overtones there."

"Any truth to the rumours that she may be a practising homosexual?" Hamilton hated asking the question, but any crack, any chink, in the integrity of his officers had to be examined. He had nothing against gays or lesbians, but the practice was strictly forbidden in the armed forces. As a result, homosexuals, however blameless, could be blackmailed into betraying their country.

"A Ms Gladys Harvey was her closest friend in high school and went through college with her. There is no evidence of an improper relationship there; Harvey is currently engaged to her long-time boyfriend, Franklin Knott."

He paused. "However, her roommate throughout college was one Andrea Campbell, who was and is an openly practising lesbian. All indications were that they were in a very close relationship, not inconsistent with a romantic pairing. One of her professors, who did not wish to be named, confirmed this. He was very vocal about it. Also, outside of college, they rented a shared apartment."

Hamilton let out a sigh. "And now?"

"Upon completing recruit training and being commissioned, Lieutenant Snow cut off the relationship. While she writes regularly to Hebert and Harvey, she has written perhaps three letters to Ms Campbell, all of them devoid of any romantic feeling. Her name has also been removed from the lease on the apartment."

"What does she write to Hebert and Harvey about?"

"Nothing untoward, sir. She leaves no indication of where she is, or what she's doing. She is quite careful about that."

"Your personal judgement on the situation?"

"My read on it, sir, is that the liaison between Lieutenant Snow and Ms Campbell was nothing more than the experimentation of a young woman away from the strictures of home for the first time. The Heberts are devout Christians, you see."

Hamilton made another note. "Indeed. Regarding the Campbell girl, do you believe that there are any bad feelings arising from the split?"

"Not that I can see, sir. It appears to have been entirely amicable on both sides. For her part, Ms Campbell occasionally sees Mr Hebert and Ms Harvey on social occasions. As an interesting aside, Mr Hebert is seeing a young woman who bears a remarkable likeness to Lieutenant Snow."

"Interesting, yes, but probably irrelevant. What about Lieutenant Snow's behaviour since enlisting?"

"Absolutely professional. She has neither made advances toward any officers - or enlisted, for that matter - or accepted such advances. While she takes regular physical combat training with a Sergeant Kinsey, there is nothing unprofessional between them. She does correspond with a few friends she made in recruit training, but there is no evidence of any improper leanings there, either."

"Does she meet with anyone off duty? In or out of the service?"

"Not that I can determine. She may as well be a nun. I could wish that we had more like her."

Hamilton cleared his throat. "Well. Be that as it may. Any progress on the last query I had; specifically, the incident we had last month, and Snow's part in it?"

"As you know, sir, the science to determine whether someone has parahuman powers is still in its infancy. The best I can tell you is that there is anecdotal evidence pointing at a high level of intuitive capability; she made much use of that in JROTC and ROTC, during tactical exercises."

"Any indication of more than human ability in that line? Clear evidence of clairvoyant or telepathic activity, or whatever the big brains are calling it these days?"

"None, sir, but you and I both know that even if she did have such capability, it would not be hard to dumb it down to avoid suspicion."

"Or she could simply be very intuitive. We might be overthinking the whole thing." Hamilton was thinking out loud now. "After all, isn't intuition in an officer something we prize?"

"That's very true, sir."

"Also, she was visibly upset when we found Wyzowski. If she were truly clairvoyant, surely she would have arrived in time to save his life, or at least have known about him?"

"I don't know about that, sir. But one question. She was due to graduate this year, but she pushed for early graduation, before Christmas. Before ... that thing emerged, in Iran. Before the PRT was formed."

Michaels paused; Hamilton waited. "Yes?"

"The question I would like to ask her, sir, is ... how did she know? How did she know to graduate early, to be ready to enlist when the PRT was formed?"

Hamilton leafed through the folders on his desk. "I've actually got that somewhere here. Someone did ask her, during her initial psych exam. The question came up, and she answered it without hesitation." He turned over a sheet of paper. "Ah, here we are. She said, and I quote, 'I just had a feeling.' Does that answer your question?"

All Michaels said was, "Intuitive."

"Indeed," agreed Hamilton. "She was studying the parahuman phenomenon, along with her other courses, and somewhere along the line she got the feeling that something big, something bad was about to happen. She has proven herself capable of taking the most tenuous of data and building a complete picture out of them. Maybe she just saw this coming before anyone else did?"

"It still doesn't prove that she's not a parahuman, sir," Michaels reminded him.

"Do you have anything to prove that she is, Captain?" Hamilton asked sharply.

"No, sir," replied Michaels promptly. "Nothing explicit, or even implicit."

"Well then," Hamilton told him. "Keep an eye out for any irregularities, but for the moment, we're going to treat her just the same as any other officer. She helped us dodge a huge bullet, and she does not deserve to be singled out just because she's good at her job."

"Yes, sir,"acknowledged Michaels, tactfully not mentioning that the investigation that Hamilton had set him on had been aimed at doing precisely that.

"Good work, Michaels," Hamilton stated. "You've done well."

"Thank you, sir."

"Hamilton, out." And the line went dead.

Michaels put the phone down. "Lieutenant!" he called.

The lieutenant, a tall thin scarecrow of a man, entered his office. "Yes, sir?"

"Take these files back to storage. And just by the way, the major said you did well on this investigation."

The lieutenant saluted. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.". He scooped up the files and started from the office. At the door, he paused and looked back. "Ah, sir, what further action on the subject?"

Michaels waved a hand. "No further action, Lieutenant. She's doing a good job; we leave her alone."

"Very good, sir.". The lieutenant headed on back to his desk with the files. He paused there for a moment, perusing them.

"So, Lieutenant Snow is Intelligence's new fair-haired child, hmm? Well, well, well." He tapped the photo on the jacket with one fingernail. "We might need to get to know each other a little better, in future."

Lieutenant Thomas Calvert straightened the files, and called for a sergeant to convey them back to Records.

-ooo-

October 1993

"Attennnn-hut!"

Major Hamilton barked the order; I went to rigid attention, as did Sergeant Kinsey. Director Rankine rose from behind his desk, and walked around it to stand before us. He was an older man, a political appointee, from what Lisa had told me. He was shorter than me, his grey hair was thinning, and he walked with a limp.

"For outstanding meritorious service to the United States and to the Parahuman Response Teams, on the eleventh of August, nineteen hundred and ninety three, Lieutenant Taylor Snow is awarded the Defense Meritorious Service Medal," declared Hamilton.

I stood, stock still, as Rankine carefully pinned the medal on to my uniform, then shook my hand.

"For outstanding achievement leading to the foiling of an enemy combatant on that same day, Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey is awarded the Joint Service Achievement medal," Hamilton went on.

Kinsey stood equally still as Rankine pinned the medal to his immaculately pressed uniform jacket. Rankine shook his hand, then walked back around behind his desk.

"At ease," Hamilton went on. Kinsey and I relaxed, and went to parade rest.

"Thank you, Major Hamilton," Rankine told him. Then he turned to us. "You two will be allowed to keep your medals," he stated. "You did, after all, earn them. However, the circumstances under which youdid earn them must forever remain secret. The Parahuman Response Teams are a very new organisation, and if word of this leak got out, we would be in very grave danger."

He paused, and smiled, as if he could read our minds. "Not from parahuman criminals, although I suppose they would be heartened, but from Washington. We must be seen to be strong, and secure." He nodded to me. "Your Master/Stranger protocols are making the rounds even now, Lieutenant Snow. They have caused quite a bit of aggravation, and not a few complaints."

Again, he paused. "However ..."

I raised my head. He glanced my way. "Yes, Lieutenant Snow?"

"Sir, they've caught some people already, haven't they?"

The smile that split his face was wide and genuine. "Hamilton, you said she was a bright one, and by god, you were right. Yes, Lieutenant Snow, your Protocols have already proven their worth. You are to be congratulated."

"Uh, thank you, sir," I replied.

"Think nothing of it, Lieutenant. If you have any other bright ideas, and the good Major is unavailable, my door is always open."

I had my doubts about that; he had been a politician after all. But he seemed sincere.

"Lieutenant Snow! Sergeant Kinsey!" barked Hamilton. "Dismissed!"

We both came to attention, saluted with parade-ground crispness, and marched from the room.

-ooo-

November 1993

"Danny!" Andrea grabbed the tall form of Danny Hebert and swung him around. "Wow, you've grown."

Danny shook his head. "Not that much. You're still short." He grinned down at the petite redhead; she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Watch it," she retorted, "or I'll steal Anne-Rose back off of you."

"Not a chance," she heard from behind her, just before a pair of arms went around her. She squirmed around to look up into the smiling face of Danny's girlfriend.

"You sure?" she asked with a grin.

Anne-Rose nodded seriously, so like Taylor that it nearly broke Andrea's heart. "I've decided. Danny's the one for me."

"Well, good for you, girl," Andrea told her. "Make Taylor proud."

"What was that about Taylor?" asked Gladys, moving up to hug Danny, and give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, nothing," Danny told her. "Where's Frank?"

"Parking the car," Gladys told him, then looked around. "Is it just me, or do a lot of college students come here to drink?"

Andrea looked studiously innocent. "Maybe," she hedged. "The drinks are cheap, and the College isn't too far away."

"Riiight," Danny observed, very dryly. "Ah, there's Frank. Shall we get a table?"

The five of them managed to snag a table before the bar became too full; as if by chance, Andrea sat between Danny and Gladys. Her handbag was on her lap; under the table, she felt first Danny and then Gladys handing her a sheet of folded paper. These both went into a zippered compartment of her bag.

The evening passed with general merriment; Andrea told them cheerfully scandalous stories about her escapades, and Danny retorted with tales of doings among the Dock Workers. He was still working on the docks on the weekend while doing his engineering course-load during the week; it was hard work, and he was filling out just that little bit more.

Eventually, Andrea got up from the table and went to get them more drinks. On the way, she encountered a college student with whom she had been exchanging glances for the last half hour. Not entirely by chance, the student was tall and brunette.

She took the drinks back to the table, made her excuses, and went back to talk to the college student. Half an hour and two drinks later, she left. The college student went with her.

"Well, that's her for the evening," sighed Danny, as he watched Andrea leave.

Anne-Rose put her arm through his. "What, are you jealous?" she teased him.

He shook his head. "Not really. It's a little sad. Taylor's gone, so she keeps taking girls home who look a bit like her."

Gladys put her arm around his shoulders, and squeezed; he felt his spine creak. "Taylor won't be gone forever," she predicted. "She'll be back. She's not the type to leave someone in the lurch like that. Andrea's waiting for her."

"Andrea's taking girls home every week!" sputtered Franklin; his clean-cut upbringing rebelled slightly at the idea of Andrea's free-living ways.

"Yeah," Gladys pointed out, "but she's taking a different girl home each time. So she doesn't get attached to them."

Anne-Rose put her head on Danny's shoulder; he put his arm around her. "I hope Taylor does come home one day," she murmured. "I hope she doesn't die out there."

Danny squeezed her tightly; he agreed whole-heartedly.

If she does, he thought, she'll die doing what she has to do. Because that's Taylor.

Of that, he had no doubt.

Andrea lay under a roughly-pulled up sheet, holding the slender body of her bed partner for the night. She hadn't even bothered to learn the girl's name; after a few more drinks on her sofa, the girl had been entirely pliant to her wishes, and had even suggested a few variations. Now, passion was spent, and the girl was asleep, snoring slightly.

She felt suddenly sick to her stomach; this was how she'd been before she had met Taylor. Meet and seduce, wham bam thank you ma'am. When she tired of one, move on to the next. It had been a hobby, the sex mindless and fun. Until she had met the straight girl who tried to seduce her.

Taylor had challenged her worldview, changed how she saw things. Slowly but inevitably, Andrea had fallen in love with her. It wasn't the sex; that had happened infrequently enough to make it a delightful treat when Andrea did manage to wheedle her into it. It was the togetherness, the meaningfulness that a real relationship brought to them. The little things; breakfast in bed, foot rubs, long walks around the campus or along the Boardwalk while they discussed the events of the world.

Taylor had known more about such things than Andrea; more than that, she had known of the deep causes, the events behind the events. Andrea had spent fascinated hours listening to her, explaining how and why the real world operated as it did.

And then, like the last wrappings of a present being stripped away, the real revelation of Taylor had come to light. Taylor was a time traveller, sent back to save the world. It had blown Andrea's mind, had totally stunned her, that this serious-faced girl, who was so deliciously naïve about certain bedroom matters, had chosen her to assist her in her quest.

She had fallen in love with Taylor all over again.

And so, Taylor had trusted her with certain secrets, certain information, that she kept even from Danny and Gladys. Together, they had built the foundations of what Taylor cheerfully called her 'financial empire'; the money from those first few investments having blown out of all proportion. There was now a company, the ownership of which led back to Andrea by devious and slippery means, which handled corporate investments. And handled them remarkably well, thanks to Lisa's information. Andrea wasn't quite sure how much she and Taylor were worth now, from day to day, but there were sure a lot of zeroes involved.

Which reminded her; she eased her arm from under the snoring girl's body and slipped from the bed. Naked, she padded into the small room which she had set aside for the computer which Taylor had advised she get. On her first leave back from officer training, Taylor had sat up all night writing some sort of massively complex computer program, which she had stored on a floppy disk.

Andrea sat down at the computer and pressed the power button. When the start screen came up, she opened a drawer and leafed through a series of floppies until she found the one marked 'Household Expenses 92', right between those for 1991 and 1993. Inserting the disk, she typed the command to load a program name which did not show up on the screen. Nonetheless, the program opened. A single box showed itself. READY.

Despite the lack of a prompt, she typed in a password, which was long and quite complex. The screen flickered a few times, then went blank.

Getting up, she went out into the living room, and retrieved her handbag. On the way, she checked on the girl in the bedroom. She was now lying on her back, snoring more loudly.

Opening the zippered pocket, Andrea pulled out the folded sheets. Taking them back into the computer room, she set them down beside her, re-creasing the folds the other way to make them lie flat. They were photocopies of the originals, she knew.

Carefully, she proceeded to type the text of each letter into the computer, leaving out the salutations and ignoring punctuation and spaces. Two blocks of text, separated by a single carriage return. She checked her work carefully, then pressed F1 and F2 simultaneously. Normally, this would have no effect.

The computer seemed to think otherwise; it hummed, and the screen flickered again. The text disappeared; this was Andrea's cue to feed the letters into the shredder next to the desk. By the time the last of the sheets had become finely subdivided ribbons of trash, the computer screen was showing a result.

First was the stock market listings for the next two weeks; or at least, those that would show appreciable climbs and dives. Secondly was a list of winning horses in various races; it was up to Andrea which ones to take. Third was a series of instructions for employing a group of men who would otherwise be engaged in acts of mayhem around the world. Without them ever seeing her, she would pay them a handsome retainer, to be employed by her in whatever means she saw fit, at some later date.

She wrote the instructions carefully down on a piece of paper, spread flat on her desk, which she then folded and slid into the floppy envelope.

Finally, there was the letter, encoded within the other two, meant for her and her alone.

Dear Andrea,

I miss you so much. It's so hard being away from you. It hasn't gotten any easier with time.

Taylor went on to joke with Andrea about her habit of bringing college girls home, and to tell her how technology trends would run over the next few years. Her letter was chatty and sweet and loving, and brought a lump to Andrea's throat.

Lisa says I've got to end the letter soon, so I'll just say this now. I love you and miss you, and I don't care what I've got to do; we'll be together again someday. Maybe not soon, but someday.

Forever yours,

Taylor

Tears stood in Andrea's eyes as she pressed two fingers to her lips, and then to Taylor's name on the softly glowing screen. "I love you too," she whispered.

Then she pressed the space-bar; an instant later, the message was deleted, gone forever, even from the computer's memory. She took the floppy disk out and stored it back in its envelope, along with the folded paper, in the desk drawer.

She was just shutting the computer down when the computer room door opened; the college girl stood there, looking drowsy and a little bewildered.

"I woke up and you were gone," she murmured.

Andrea constructed a smile. "I was just doing some work," she reassured the girl. "Come on, let's go back to bed."

The girl smiled back. "Okay."

Someday, Andrea promised Taylor as she led the girl back to the bedroom, it will be just you and me again.

-ooo-

December 1993

I climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell. Moments later, the door was opened by Dorothy.

"Taylor," she exclaimed. "You're back!"

"Only for a couple of days," I told her. "We're very busy, but I managed to get weekend leave."

"Oh," she replied. "Well, come in. Come in."

I entered the house, closing the door behind me. Immediately, I felt warmer; although Brockton Bay was warmer than most places in the northeast, December could still get quite chilly.

Danny got up to greet me; I hugged him, feeling his arms around me in return.

"How have you been?" I asked him. "Have you been getting my letters?"

"Regular as clockwork," he assured me. "How do you get the time to write them?"

I chuckled. "I'll tell you a secret," I stage-whispered. "I get the lower ranks to write them out for me. It's a privilege of rank."

He snorted and ruffled my hair, which was still quite short. I slapped at his arm.

"It's good to see you," he told me. "Hey, wow, you've got medals. What are they for?"

I pointed at the ribbons. "Sharpshooting, good conduct, and … I forget what this one's for. Whistling while standing on one leg, I think."

He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, I think you've gotten worse since you went away."

"More dangerous, for sure," I agreed. "I'm taking training off a guy who could give Bigfoot the heebie-jeebies."

He blinked. "That, I believe. Why do I believe that?"

"I dunno," I informed him blithely. "Maybe because it's true?"

"Taylor," asked Dorothy, coming back into the room, "will you be staying for dinner?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, gotta bolt. But it's good to see you." I hugged her, feeling once more the fragility of her. When we separated, there were tears in her eyes.

"Taylor ..." she began. I waited. "Taylor … I'm sorry we had our differences. I'm glad you came back."

"I'm glad I came back too," I told her honestly.

-ooo-

Andrea sat on the sofa. Christmas Eve. Spending it alone depressed her. She wished she had Taylor with her; wearing the sexy Santa outfit, teasing her, making her laugh.

There was a bottle of bourbon in the cupboard, but she didn't want to get drunk. Nor did she want to go out to the Club; no doubt she'd pick up, but she really didn't want to do that either. To do it when she wasn't getting the coded messages from Danny and Gladys felt like she was actually cheating on Taylor, rather than just pretending to.

There was a knock on the door. Listlessly, she climbed to her feet and wandered over. When she opened the door, her mouth dropped open and her eyes went very wide indeed.

"Merry Christmas," Taylor told her.

Much later, they lay in bed together.

At first, they had sat on the sofa talking, but there were things that Taylor could not or would not talk about, and so they had just held each other. And then Taylor had started crying. Slowly, by degrees, Andrea had coaxed her into the bedroom; quite readily, Taylor had gotten undressed and into bed with her, where Andrea held her while she got it out of her system.

The strain, Andrea gathered, was getting worse. Taylor was having to deal with things first-hand, and it was not easy on her. But she was doing it. She was getting things done. She was setting up preparations for events that were years yet in coming.

"You know what you need?" Andrea asked her. "You need a good old-fashioned back massage."

Not taking no for an answer, she had fetched the coconut-scented oil, had made Taylor lie on her stomach, and had begun the massage. She had not lost any of her skill, if Taylor's contented murmurs were anything to go by. Inch by inch, bit by bit, she worked her way down Taylor's back, every well-known part of her body.

And then, she grinned to herself, I'll pounce.

Slowly, subtly, she massaged the oil in, until her lover was relaxed, her guard lowered to its minimum. And then she started to caress her in more lewd and lascivious ways. She waited for a murmur of protest, which never came. What did come … was a faint snore.

After all that, after all the setup leading to the moment of seduction … Taylor had gone to sleep.

For a moment, Andrea was quite offended. But then, she saw the humour of the situation, and so she climbed out of bed, washed the oil off of her hands, and climbed back in with Taylor.

Holding her close, comforting her even in her sleep, she drifted into dreamland herself.

-ooo-

Given my two-day leave in Brockton Bay, I had managed to avoid the base Christmas party, which had been my intent. Too much alcohol, too much general merriment. I had awoken on Christmas morning alongside Andrea, feeling more relaxed than I had in months; suspecting that we'd had sex during the night, I questioned her, only to nearly fall off the bed laughing when she told me what had actually happened.

We had spent the morning together, visiting Gladys and Frank, and finished it off with lunch on the Boardwalk. I couldn't stay, I told her. Things were going to start warming up. Events were going to start coming together, and I was going to be in the thick of it.

How right I was.

-ooo-

January 1994

For the first half of January, I worked on predicting parahuman trends. I didn't have to do much work, to be honest; Lisa helped me work out graphs and charts that were just far enough off to be reasonable, but close enough to be in the ballpark. More and more people started coming to me, showing me their work, asking me where they were going wrong. Some, I could help. Some, I could not. And always, with Lisa, I laid my future plans.

The eighteenth of January was an event I would not be able to dodge. The PRT was determined to celebrate the first anniversary of its inauguration in style. Every officer who was not either hip-deep in alligators or literally unable to come was told, quite firmly, to ensure that their dress uniform was up to scratch.

I tried to get out of it, and may well have even succeeded, if Lisa hadn't suggested that I go after all. I thought back to the last time that I'd ignored her recommendation, when Andrea had wanted me to come to the Club with her and meet Anne-Rose. Had I gone with her on that occasion, perhaps many embarrassing things might not have occurred. And so, I conceded, and had Kinsey lay out my dress uniform.

Sergeant Kinsey had gravitated into the role of my orderly quite readily; with my workload, I needed someone to take care of my personal affairs, and he seemed to hold a strong level of loyalty to me. We still worked out regularly on the sparring mat, and he seemed to take a fatherly pride in my progress. He still beat me on a regular occasion, but I was beginning to hold my own. He had also been rather adamant that I attend the anniversary ball.

And so, on the night of the eighteenth, he drove the hired car up around the curving driveway in front of the White House, north side. Pulling to a halt where indicated by one of the multiplicity of attendants, he got out and opened my door. I climbed out of the car, straightened my dress jacket, and gave him a slight nod. He looked me up and down – eyeing the uniform, not the body underneath – and gave me a fractional nod in return, which he backed up with a parade-ground perfect salute. I returned it; while he got back in the car and drove to the designated parking area, I strode past the colonnade and up the broad steps. Resisting the urge to rub my arms – January in DC is cold at night! - I entered the main doors as they were held open by yet more attendants.

The wave of warm air washed over me as I stepped on to the wide marble floor of the Entrance Hall, decorated in a diamond pattern. Squaring my shoulders and straightening my back, I strode forward, the clicking of my heels echoing along with those of everyone else who was also entering.

The attendants directed us to the right; we passed between gorgeous columns and entered what I recognised as the Cross Hall. I made way for higher-ranking officers in the PRT, until I recognised Major Hamilton, Director Rankine, and a few of the other officers from the Chicago base. As a junior officer, I tucked in behind them, not wanting to be seen or heard. I had to be there; I didn't have to like it.

Before we ate, cocktails were served in what they called the Green Room. I could easily tell why; the wallpaper, the furnishings, all were in shades of green. It was more or less required that I accept one glass, and that glass lasted me all the way up until we were informed that dinner had been served. I put that glass, still half full, on an attendant's tray on the way out of the room.

We ate in the State Dining Room. It was the first time I'd eaten in such palatial surroundings; the very plates from which we ate had gold rims, and the silverware was more gold. The food was good, but not spectacular; I kept my elbows in, my head down, and ate. I was vaguely aware that the President and First Lady were in the room, but I didn't gawk and I didn't look around.

After the meal, we were informed that the ball would begin in approximately one-quarter of an hour, in the East Room; this was readily accessible, to be found at the far end of the Cross Hall. Attendants would show us, we were also informed, to any facilities that we wished to make use of.

I wasn't particularly interested in dancing, so I decided to look around a little; not so far that I would get lost – not that the ever-present attendants would allow that, of course – and yet not look as though I was hanging around with nothing to do. First, however, I decided to avail myself of the proffered facilities, that being one of the first unwritten rules I had learned in Basic.

There was less gilt in there than in the State Dining Room, but not by much.

Needs of biology assuaged, I wandered along the Cross Hall, taking a right into the Blue Room. In the East Room, I could hear what sounded like a live orchestra tuning up.

The Blue Room lived up to its name, just as much as its mate next door had. However, it was quite a bit larger, and was oval in shape. From my recollections of the White House in plan, it was in the semicircle that bulged out on the south side. I strolled up to the tall windows that looked out on to the South Lawn; in the glare of the floodlights, the first snowflakes were beginning to fall.

And then a voice addressed me from behind. A quite familiar voice.

"Lieutenant Snow, I presume?"

I turned, slowly, to get my reactions under control. He was tall, skinny, and wore a PRT uniform, just as I did. Like me, he sported a lieutenant's bars, with an Intelligence flash.

"The name's Tom," he greeted me. "Tom Calvert."

End of Part 3-1