/o\

Recoil

Part 3-2: Conversations and Revelations

[Author's Note: For those who think the first part looks a little familiar, that's because I took it off the last bit of Part 3-1 and added a little more detail. I think the story flows better this way.]

18 January 1994

Blue Room, The White House

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Calvert," I lied. "What PRT base are you with?"

"I'm currently based in Washington, actually," he informed me. "And let's ditch the Lieutenant this and Lieutenant that, shall we? After all, we're both the same pay grade."

I nodded slightly. "So, Calvert," I began.

He rolled his eyes. "Seriously? Tonight's a night for us. We can take the sticks out of our asses and let our hair down. Unless we actually set fire to the drapes or something, we're not gonna get in trouble." He grinned at me; on any other man, I would have called it engaging. "So call me Tom."

"Okay," I allowed. "Tom. I have a question."

He bowed slightly; I was wary. He was really pushing the charm here. What does he want from me?

"Shoot," he invited.

I got right to the point. "How did you know me by sight, from behind?" I asked him bluntly.

He raised an eyebrow. "I asked someone who you were," he told me.

Something seemed a little off with that explanation. "Why?" I asked.

He looked slightly taken aback. "Because … you're a good looking woman, and you're a lieutenant like me, and … well, I'm interested in you."

I blinked. I'm not one to think of myself as 'good looking'. My face is too long, my expression too serious, my bosom … well, we'll leave that one well alone. Even with four years of growth since I showed up in Brockton Bay, I still hadn't graduated past an A-cup.

Which left the last reason as the most plausible. And somehow, I suspected his interest in me was something other than carnal. Although, given his utter lack of a moral centre when I had known him as Coil, that could be a factor as well.

I decided to test him. "I'm not getting in trouble for having sex in the White House," I stated flatly.

That rocked him a little. "Well, not just interested in you for that," he admitted. "Though seriously? Haven't you ever wanted to do it in a public place?" He raised an eyebrow in what he probably imagined was a roguish fashion. "There's all sorts of quiet corners in a place like this."

I tilted my head. "Why else are you interested in me?"

He sighed. "Because you're a rising star in the Intelligence community. Your name is spoken in some quite high places. To be honest … you're where I want to be."

I had a flash of insight. Lisa's not the only one who can put two and two together. Calvert was jealous. He felt challenged. And he didn't have much in the way of moral restraint … less so after he got his powers, of course. But here and now, he wanted to prove his dominance over me, by the most primal way possible. By possessing, conquering, my body.

I wondered for a moment, if I had not been here, who else he would have been talking into a quiet corner right at this moment. Because I had no doubt that he would have been. He was that sort of guy. He would have done it because he could.

But he was still talking. "There'll be a promotion in the pipeline for you, probably sometime soon. To match the medal, I mean."

My hand began to move toward the few medals that I wore, then I stopped it. This was dress uniform, so I wore the actual medals, not just the ribbons.

"Which medal do you mean?" I asked coolly. I knew which one; I was wondering how he knew.

He smiled conspiratorially. "The latest one you got. The DMSM. I know what you got it for."

"The circumstances around me getting that medal," I stated firmly, "are secret."

A shrug. "Hey, it's the Intelligence community. Secrets sometimes aren't secret. And to be honest, yours is kinda badass. How'd you do it, anyway?"

"Clean living and pure thoughts," I informed him firmly. "I'm not going to answer questions on that matter, until I'm cleared by a superior officer. End of story."

Something else was becoming clear. He had known about me, knew who I was. He hadn't had to ask someone about me; he knew. I had been targeted by him from the moment I walked in the door. He was willing to use whatever means it took, it seemed, to get his hooks into Lieutenant Snow, rising Intelligence star.

He rolled his eyes again. "Okay, fine. So, anyway. I make it my business to get to know people. To make contacts. I'd like you to be one of my contacts. You do me favours, I do you favours. You see how it goes?"

I eased up on him a little; not because I was beginning to warm to him, but because I needed him to think he'd won me over. He would serve a use for me, but in order to make that happen, I had to make him think that I would serve his uses.

"Sure," I agreed. "I know how it goes."

He smiled again. "So, here's my proposition. I know people. I know people who know people. Now, with a couple of phone calls, I can have your promotion fast-tracked. But in return, you gotta do me a favour."

"Really? And what would that be?" I asked, trying to sound interested.

"I'll be transferring soon, over to the Strike squads," he informed me. "Better chance of getting a promotion."

Better chance of getting dead, too, I did not say out loud. "What's the favour?"

"A pipeline," he proposed. "You feed me your intel, I keep using my influence for you."

If Calvert had any influence, I felt certain that he'd use it for Calvert first, last and always.

But I had to at least pretend to make the bargain. "Sure," I told him. "Soon as I make Captain, you got it."

He looked a little sick, but then, he had posited the promotion. "Seal it with a kiss?" he ventured. So we're back to that again.

Well, it was a small enough sacrifice. I steeled myself and let him kiss me, a quick lips-to-lips press. It was probably better than being kissed by a poisonous reptile, but I couldn't really tell the difference.

Before he could make it any deeper, or start getting friendly in any other way, I pulled back. "I have to go. Sorry. My boss? Absolutely hidebound. I'm too far away from his side, I get strips torn off. Good to meet you. See you around."

As I hurried from the room, I heard his voice. "Call me?"

"Absolutely," I lied.

But I didn't go to the ballroom, and I didn't go to find Major Hamilton. Instead, I went back to the bathroom that I had already been to.

I got there just in time, before I started retching.

-ooo-

Lisa held my hair as I puked.

Absently, I noted that strange discrepancy; in Lisa's dream world, my hair was still as long as it had been before I joined the PRT, not the efficient inch-long cut I kept it at these days.

"I can't believe you actually let him kiss you," Lisa exclaimed in tones of wonder.

I heaved again, and more imaginary vomit joined that which I had already brought up. Wiping my mouth, I looked up at her. You said to make nice with him, I croaked.

"Yeah, but I didn't mean to kiss him," Lisa told me. Her face and voice were solemn, but there was a light in her eyes that suggested to me that she was deriving far too much enjoyment from this. "All you had to do was smile a bit, act like you didn't utterly despise him ... but wow. That's what I call going above and beyond."

Oh, shut up, I mumbled. Getting up from where I'd been kneeling over the bucket, I sat down on the patio lounge next to me. Lisa handed me a water bottle and I gargled and spat into the bucket, repeated the process, then finally drank.

Whew, I muttered. That's better.

"You know," Lisa told me seriously, "Calvert, here and now, might not be such a bad guy. He's not Coil yet. He hasn't kidnapped Dinah, killed his captain, tried to have you killed, or committed any of the other crimes he's guilty of in our time."

I stared at her. You're saying he could be a good guy?

She returned my stare for a long moment, then burst out laughing. "Oh god no," she chuckled. "He's an asshole, even now. The effort required to turn him around ... no. We let him go on his way. We let him be Calvert."

I leaned back on the patio lounge, watching the fountain spraying lazy arcs of water droplets into the air. Does this jeopardise the plan? I asked at length.

She shook her head. "No. In fact, it makes him all the more likely to call on you when the time comes."

I grimaced. So, in a way, that makes kissing him actually a good thing.

"Long term, yeah," Lisa agreed. "Short term, not so much. By the way, they're just looking for you now. Kiss before you go?"

I closed my eyes and touched my forehead to hers. I don't know what I'd do without you. Then I kissed her. The taste of dust and blood wiped away, once and for all, the memory of Calvert's lips on mine.

-ooo-

My forehead rested against cool porcelain. The taste of bile was thick in my throat, but it appeared that I had not brought anything up, at least in the real world. I had merely knelt over the toilet bowl, dry-retching, before relaxing and slipping into a much-needed respite with Lisa.

There was a discreet knock on the door. "Lieutenant Snow? Are you all right, ma'am?"

I drew a deep breath. "Yes, I'm all right. Something I … ate. I think it didn't agree with me."

"Do you require medical attention, Lieutenant?"

Carefully, I climbed to my feet and checked my uniform. No marks, no blemishes. I had to hand it to the White House staff; they kept even the bathrooms so clean one could no doubt eat off the floor. Not that I was about to accept that particular challenge. Gold-rimmed plates worked well enough for me.

I unlocked the toilet stall and mustered a smile for the female attendant who stood there; she peered at me anxiously. "I'm fine," I assured her. "I think I had a bad snack, earlier, before I got here."

"You're a little pale," she pointed out. I turned toward the mirror, and indeed, I was looking paler than normal.

"I'd say that's down to the sudden attack of nausea," I suggested. Going over to the washbasin, I removed my glasses and splashed water on my face, careful not to get any on my uniform. My medals clacked against the bench as I did so.

The attendant followed me, hovering. solicitously. "Would you like to lie down? I can fetch cool towels."

I turned to look at her, feeling much more myself. "No, but some sort of cold drink would be heavenly. Preferably non-alcoholic." As I spoke, I washed my hands. She proffered a towel as I finished.

"I can certainly bring you one," she assured me, and hurried out.

I finished drying my hands, and put the towel back on the rack before putting my glasses back on. Upon exiting the bathrooms, I found myself face to face with Major Hamilton.

"Ah, Lieutenant Snow," he greeted me. "Not feeling unwell, I hope?" He looked at me searchingly.

I shook my head. "No, sir. I … felt suddenly nauseous, but I think it might have been something I ate, earlier. Or the cocktails. I don't drink, you see."

He inclined his head. "And you are, if you will excuse the phrase, more of a lightweight than most of us. I can understand alcohol having an unwelcome effect on you."

I smiled gratefully. "Thank you, sir. I don't want to put you out, and I don't want to show our part of the PRT in a bad light."

He shook his head. "You're not about to do that. I've had several people trying to poach you off of me already, and we've only been here for an hour. And what's this I hear about you having a rather private conversation with young Calvert in the Blue Room, earlier? He wasn't trying to grab you for his boss, was he?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. His interest in me was more … personal." I met his eyes. "Just so you know, I turned him down."

"Really?" he asked curiously. "He doesn't seem to be a bad fellow, what I hear of him. He's transferred around a bit, but he's always eager to learn new things."

Oh, if only you knew. I shook my head. "He came on a bit strong for me, sir. Left a bad impression. I really don't think I like him, sir."

"Hm." He grimaced. "Well, you're my best analyst by far, so I strongly suspect that your opinion is better than most. A pity; I'd heard good things."

"It is possible for unpleasant people to be good at their job, sir," I offered diplomatically.

"Very true, very true. Ah, thank you." The female attendant had returned with a tray of drinks.

One was in a different glass, and she guarded it with her other hand. "This one is for the Lieutenant, sir." She handed it to me; I sipped it, and found that it was chilled milk. It went down very nicely, and washed the sour taste from my throat.

"Thank you very much," I told her, replacing the glass on the tray. "I appreciate your assistance."

"You're welcome," she replied, and bobbed in a sort of curtsey. "Major; Lieutenant."

We watched her walk away, and the Major Hamilton offered me his arm. I blinked a little in confusion. "Major?"

"It is customary for senior officers to offer a dance to junior officers at an event such as this. It breaks the ice, and allows the junior officers to feel as though they belong." His eyes twinkled. "And, Lieutenant Snow, I consider you to be a very promising young officer, and so you need to be shown off as such."

"Thank you, Major," I responded with a smile. "It would be my pleasure." I slid my arm through his, and we went to the dance.

-ooo-

I had never spent much time learning how to dance. Mom had me take a few lessons, way back when, back before all the unpleasantness began to start. Back when Emma was my best friend, and I had two parents. It was a thing we did; I learned to dance, Emma learned the piano, and neither of us ever thought we'd ever need to know how to do it anywhere that was actually important.

That had been a long time ago. A lot of water had passed under any bridge you cared to name. It was also, oddly enough, more than ten years in the future.

But the memories were there, the steps, if not the name of the dances themselves. I suppose all those tours through the memory palace that Lisa had constructed for me had been worthwhile after all.

I didn't step on Major Hamilton's feet, and I didn't make an idiot of myself. We circled the room, and I remembered to breathe, and after a while it seemed to come a little easier. Which, given the sheer amount of brass gathered in the East Room of the White House, was a minor miracle.

They aren't all staring at me, I told myself. It's just what it feels like.

It was strange; back in 2011, I had cared a lot less what the average PRT officer thought of me. I'd injured a few, and killed three Directors – well, only one that was actually in uniform at the time – but theiropinions had rarely mattered to me. Except, of course, when I was trying to get their cooperation on something. Which rarely happened; the PRT, it had seemed to me on more than one occasion, had been hidebound, dead set against giving any supervillain what he or she wanted, even if that thing was actually good for all concerned.

And now I was an officer in the PRT. And I was getting the cooperation I needed. By not being a supervillain. By being one of them. Even if what I was doing, the seeds I was planting, would not show up for years, or even decades. But in doing so, I needed their good opinion.

It was a strange, strange world.

-ooo-

"You look serious, Lieutenant," Major Hamilton observed quietly. "You only get that look when you're working on a particularly difficult problem."

I worked at getting the serious look off my face. "Just making sure that I don't trip over my feet, sir," I assured him. "And trying to convince myself that everyone isn't staring at me, waiting for me to do something stupid."

His chuckle was warm and helped me to relax slightly. "Oh, they'll notice if you do, but they aren't watching for it. You're just another junior officer in a plethora of them here, tonight. And those who know of your real contributions to the PRT aren't waiting for you to trip over your feet; they're waiting to talk to you, and see if they can't persuade you to transfer to their commands."

Which didn't really help the butterflies in my stomach. "Not really wanting to do that, sir," I assured him. "Maybe once I get a few more notches on my belt, but right now, Chicago is where I want to be."

He bestowed an approving look upon me. "Well said, young Snow. Loyalty to one's commanding officer is one of my favourite qualities. I've said this before, and I'll say it again. You're my best analyst by far, and I'd hate to lose you."

Which was the perfect opening. I metaphorically held my breath and took the plunge.

"Which reminds me, sir. Something I've been working on. It's very marginal, so far, but the implications are far-reaching. I need to talk to you about it."

His gaze sharpened. "Really? What's it about?"

I tilted my head to gesture to the throng around us and shook my head slightly. "Not in here, sir."

He took my meaning immediately. "Is it about an immediate threat?"

"Not one that's going to happen this month, sir."

A firm nod. "My office, as soon as we get back, then," he agreed.

The music drew to a close, and we moved off the dance floor. "Thank you for the dance, sir," I told him politely.

He nodded to me. "Entirely my pleasure, Lieutenant Snow. You dance well."

I had to smile. "Sir, you do realise that I am an analyst." And I know when you're lying to me, I didn't have to add.

Chuckling at my sally, he snagged a drink off a passing tray. "Go. Mingle. Enjoy yourself, young Snow. But remember – my office, the moment we get back."

"Definitely, sir," I agreed.

At that moment, I saw the disagreeable – or too-agreeable – Lieutenant Calvert prowling around the edges of the dance floor, head raised as if searching for something, or someone. It didn't take much in the way of analytical ability to figure out who he was seeking. I didn't feel like another encounter with him, so I slipped out through the doors into the Cross Hall once more.

-ooo-

There were too many attendants wandering around for me to want to go out through the Entrance Hall, and I didn't think they'd let me go upstairs or downstairs, so I went back into the Blue Room – thankfully, without Calvert following me this time – and opened one of the doors leading out on to the South Portico.

It was still cold out – the snowflakes were falling a little more thickly, now – but the wind was coming from the north, and I was in the lee of the building. I was absolutely certain that there were men out there, on the roof and in the shrubbery, rugged to the eyeballs in winter gear, watching the grounds and the skies in all directions. More than one of them, most likely, had just put a night-sight scope on me and checked me out.

Radio messages would be passing back and forth, along these lines:

Ah, someone's come out of the Blue Room on to the South Portico. Female PRT lieutenant. A bit on the skinny side. Not armed. Leaning on the rail.

Roger that, keep an eye on her.

Will do. Out.

The metal rail was freezing cold under my gloved hands, just as cold as the air that I pulled into my lungs. It stung, and I welcomed it. I needed it. I had to focus.

I was starting to slip into the military mindset, and I hadn't even noticed it. I had been honestly worried back there that I might slip while dancing, and that the top PRT brass would notice it, and all form flawed judgements of me.

What they think of me doesn't matter, I told myself fiercely. I haven't even been born yet, but I'm going to save the world, whether they like it or not. And it's me that's going to do it. Taylor Hebert. Skitter. Weaver. Not their idea of who 'Lieutenant Snow' should be.

I rolled my head on my neck, watching the puffs of white vapour as I breathed in and out. I've got a job to do, and I'm damn well going to do it.

And then, a voice cut through my reverie.

"A little chilly out here, isn't it?"

-ooo-

This was the second time tonight that someone had sneaked up on me while my attention was distracted; I really needed to up my game. I turned to face whoever it was – the voice had been vaguely familiar, but not overly so – and blinked in surprise.

The face was very familiar. The last time I'd been this close to her, I'd killed her shortly after.

Alexandria.

Or rather, Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown; instead of the dark costume with the heavy cape, she was wearing the dress uniform. Ornate as it was, she wore it well.

I'd known she was at the anniversary ball, of course. She was the Chief Director. Of course she would be here. But I hadn't expected to come face to face with her. This represented all sorts of dangers; she had, in my time, been an accomplished cold reader.

Of course, in my time, she'd also had eighteen years' more experience, and the same amount of accumulated knowledge. Lisa had explained to me that she had gotten her powers from Cauldron in August of 'eighty-six, and had been in her teens then. Her power serum had apparently matured her body to that of a young adult, and then frozen it there. Her hair did not grow, nor did her nails. When her eye was ripped out by the Siberian, in years yet to come, it took Eidolon's powers to heal her face so that she was able to wear a prosthetic eye and appear normal to the world.

Here and now, she'd had her powers for a bit over seven years, and been a part of the Protectorate for just under six. She had faced Behemoth once in Iran, and again in Sao Paulo, while I was still in training.

I covered my consternation and confusion with a salute. "Uh, Director Costa-Brown, ma'am," I stammered.

She smiled and returned the salute. For all that she'd only been in the employ of the PRT for just a little longer than I had, the gesture was picture perfect. Photographic memory. Right. A Thinker rating, even. Wonderful.

"Lieutenant Snow, yes?" she replied, verifying the first part of my thought. "I've heard good things about you."

"Thank you, ma'am," I replied promptly. She's heard everything about me. False modesty will not be my friend here. "I've done my best, ma'am."

She nodded fractionally. "And your best, Lieutenant, is very good indeed, so I hear." She paused, inclining her head toward the tall windows behind us. "Perhaps we could speak indoors? While it is more private out here, it's not conducive to a long conversation."

This was for my benefit, not hers, I knew. For all I knew, Alexandria could sunbathe on an iceberg in a bikini and not notice the cold. Myself, I was a Brockton Bay native, born and bred, and chilly winters like this were not to my liking.

"Thank you, ma'am," I told her, and escaped to the warmth of indoors. She followed, closing the door behind us. "You wished to talk, ma'am?"

"Yes." Her nod was contemplative. "I like to know my people. I like to have an idea of the quantities with which I am dealing. Your work on the Master/Stranger protocols was very impressive; ground-breaking, even. And I understand that they stopped several security leaks in the making."

I nodded; I was beginning to feel the tips of my ears again. They ached with the returning blood circulation. "So I heard, ma'am. But I'm sure that someone else would have -"

She smiled and shook her head slightly, cutting me off firmly. "But they didn't, Lieutenant. You were the one with the training. You were the one with the foresight. You were the one, indeed, who encountered a Master-Stranger in your base, and managed to stop him. Isn't that so?"

I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am. But he did kill another soldier -"

She nodded. "Yes, I know. Wyzowski. A pity. It's just a mercy that you happened by at the right time to ensure that nothing worse happened."

She was getting at something, and I feared that I knew what it was. This was no casual encounter, not with Alexandria involved. I had been able to resist the influence of a powerful Master/Stranger, and Alexandria wanted to know how. As Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown, she had to accept the official verdict; but Alexandria wanted to know how I had done it.

My glasses had misted over, from coming back into the warmth. I bought some time by taking them off and wiping them, then warming them with my hands. My eyes were down, and my face partially averted, when I next spoke.

"I had a hunch," I explained. "I get them. I didn't know what was wrong, not really, till I got there."

As I slid my glasses back on to my face, she frowned. I got the impression that she wasn't satisfied, not one hundred percent, but it wasn't enough to make her actually suspicious of me.

"When you were under his influence," she pressed, "were you truly controlled by him? Or were you just pretending?"

"Oh, definitely under his control," I told her truthfully. "It wasn't until I left the room and closed the door that some part of me managed to regain control enough to act."

"Whereupon you drew your service weapon, and fired three shots through the door, hitting him with all three rounds," she concluded, raising one perfect eyebrow. "That's … quite some shooting."

"I won competitions in ROTC," I explained, again quite truthfully. "I still keep it up." When I could. Sergeant Kinsey was better at hand to hand than with a pistol, but he was a top-rate coach.

She inclined her head, conceding the point. "It's good to be skilled; it's better to be lucky. It appears that you are both, Lieutenant Snow." Her voice dropped slightly, and she flicked a glance at the doors from the room; all were still closed. "Or … is there another factor involved?"

I manufactured a puzzled frown. "I … don't think I get your meaning, ma'am."

Her expression was serious. "I will make myself plain. Are you a parahuman, Lieutenant Snow? Do you possess powers?" She paused. "Understand that if you are, no penalty will befall you. In fact, quite the opposite."

I wanted to pause, to think about my answer. With Alexandria herself as my patron, as a cape working undercover for the PRT, I could make so much happen.

But my oversight would be that much more onerous.

No. I have to follow the plan.

Lisa knew that this would happen.

She had to know which way I would jump.

I looked Alexandria in the eyes and stated firmly, "Ma'am, I do not have powers." Truthfully, I added, "I only wish that I did. But I do not."

She paused for a long, long moment, looking at me searchingly. I could almost feel her leafing through my random thoughts, reading my micro-expressions. It's really hard to keep expression off your face, while not appearing to do so.

Eventually, she nodded. "Very well. Carry on, Lieutenant." Her eyes bored into mine. "This conversation never occurred; you do understand this, correct?"

I raised my eyebrows in a parody of innocence. "Conversation, ma'am? We've just been talking about the weather."

Her perfect lipstick curved in a brief, ironic, smile. "Just so. Good evening, Lieutenant Snow. It has been educational, meeting you."

"Ma'am." I stiffened into a brace, and saluted her. She returned it, gave me one more enigmatic look, then left the room.

As the door clicked shut behind her, I sagged into a chair. My heart was doing a fairly good impression of a trip-hammer, and even though I had just been out in sub-zero temperatures, I felt sweat beading on my brow.

I never want to go through that again.

When I had gotten my breathing and heartbeat under control once more, I got up from the chair. I can't hide in here forever, I decided. Might as well go back to the ball and dance with some lieutenant who's never heard of me. If I can find one.

But the moment I stepped out of the door, I saw Major Hamilton hustling along the Cross Hall. "Oh, good," he called. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Snow."

"What's the matter, sir?" I asked.

"We're heading back now," he told me. "I've called and sent your Sergeant Kinsey on ahead; you'll ride with me. There's been an airline hijacking; we'll teleconference on the way."

I frowned. "A hijacking? But that doesn't rate the PRT. Unless … " I didn't complete the thought.

He nodded. "Unless the perpetrators are parahumans."

I raised my eyebrows. "And are they?"

He nodded. "It appears to be the case. Come along, they're holding our plane at the air force base now."

I hurried with him. It appeared that even on this night of nights, we weren't going to be able to relax and let our hair down.

Not that I minded all that much. If I hung around this place much longer, I might run into Calvert again, and I didn't really want to have to worry about hiding a body.

-ooo-

January 21, 1994

"No, Frank, it was our pleasure, really it was." Major Hamilton's voice was pleased. "Thank you, you have a good day too." He put down the receiver and nodded to me. "Well, we've just gotten another pat on the back, Lieutenant. Put yourself down for a 'very well done' on the airline thing. Your insights managed to defuse the whole thing before it could get bloody."

I nodded. "Thank you, sir," I replied. "It wasn't hard, once we got the skinny on who was actually on board."

"Not hard," he snorted. "Some days, Snow, I'm convinced you have a crystal ball hidden in your desk drawer."

"No, sir," I responded, deadpan. "It's actually on the top shelf of my locker."

He barked a laugh, then picked up an envelope and held it out to me. "Here," he offered. "A letter from home. Mail call came this morning while you were working."

"Thank you, sir." I accepted the letter, and turned it over. It was addressed to me, all right, in Gladys' angular handwriting. I looked up at Hamilton.

"Go on," he urged me. "We don't have a world-ending catastrophe to deal with right at this second. Go read your letter."

"Thank you, sir," I repeated, and saluted. He returned it, and I left the office at a fast walk.

Back in my office, I settled down at the desk and carefully tore the letter open.

Dear Taylor, Gladys wrote, It was good to see you over Christmas. I know Franklin was glad to see you too. I hope you can get the time off for our wedding. It will mean a lot to me.

I smiled. It would mean a lot to me, too. Gladys had been my favourite teacher, back in Brockton Bay, and on my second go-around, she had become my friend and my confidante.

Oh, and I don't know if they've told you yet, but Danny's finally asked Anne-Rose to marry him. He did it on the Ferry, on the observation deck. She squealed so loudly that they thought someone had fallen overboard. She said yes, of course. They haven't set a date yet, but it'll be sometime later this year.

I had to stop reading, because tears had welled in my eyes. Dad and Mom are getting married. I hoped they would be happy. I knew they would be happy.

Her parents, less so.

But that wasn't my problem.

I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, and kept reading.

Oh, and you know your friend from Boot Camp, Emily? She had leave just after Christmas, and would you believe, she visited us in Brockton Bay? You should see her now, she looks even leaner and meaner and more dangerous than she did when she first got commissioned.

We took her out to dinner, me and Frank and Danny and Anne-Rose, and Andrea too, of course. She told us all about what you two got up to in Boot, and we told her about how you got into JROTC for beating up Larissa and her friends, and Andrea told her about how you two met for the first time, and I don't think any of us has laughed so much in a long time.

I shook my head. Poor Emily. She would have definitely had her eyes opened, meeting Andrea. With a grin on my face that wouldn't go away, I read on.

We went out and about and showed her the sights, and we all had a good time. She thought we were crazy, going down to the Boardwalk to buy ice-cream in January, but we talked her into it, and now she's a convert.

Danny and Anne-Rose took her to meet Dorothy and George, and she definitely made an impression there. From what I hear, Dorothy wasn't quite sure what to make of her, but she rose to the occasion like a good hostess. George, on the other hand, got along quite well with her. I'm not surprised; Emily's very no-nonsense, just like he is.

I wasn't surprised either. Gladys was spot-on with her appraisal of Emily and George. They were both straight shooters.

Oh, and get this. You know how I've been Mr Murray's assistant teacher with Computer Studies? Well, he's finally decided to step down and give me the class altogether. I think he'll be teaching PhysEd or something. But he'll still be a member of the Computer Club. They've still got a picture of you up on the wall in there, you know. You kind of left an impression.

I rolled my eyes. How could I forget? With Lisa to coach me, I had been the computer go-to person for the Club. I'd had fun there, too, of course, but there had always been the knowledge that people saw me as just short of God, when it came to working with computers. It had actually bothered me slightly; I'd felt like I was somehow cheating in order to garner popularity.

Which was, I imagined, possibly why I had enjoyed the physical stuff of JROTC and ROTC so much; it was something I could do, and learn, and get right. My way.

I was glad for Gladys, of course. She'd earned her place.

Anyway, I hope you like the photo. We had the waitress in the Club take it while Emily was visiting. She got hit on by college boys, which amused her immensely.

Photo? I tilted the envelope, and a glossy six-by-four slid out. I picked it up, and there they were. Danny, Anne-Rose, Gladys, Franklin, Emily … and Andrea. Who, predictably, was making a face.

In the background was the Club as I had known it; Danny and Anne-Rose looked happy, as did Gladys and Franklin. Emily looked simultaneously amused and bemused, as though not quite sure whether to burst into laughter or hide under the table. Andrea looked like … Andrea. There were no words to describe her; or rather, there were many. Too many to use all at once.

Tears filled my eyes again, and the photograph wavered in my vision. I missed them all terribly; I had not realised how much until just now. I'd thought that visiting them over Christmas had helped me out there, but now it was back at full strength.

I wiped my eyes on a fresh tissue, blew my nose, and finished the letter.

We all love you and miss you, and I'll see you next time you're in town. Take care, and give the bad guys an extra kick in the ribs for me.

Cheers,

Gladys

I smiled at that. I sure will.

Looking one more time at the photo, I slid it back into the envelope, along with the letter. This was something I would keep, and cherish, over the long hard days to come.

It had also reminded me of something. Dropping the envelope into my desk drawer, I went back to Major Hamilton's office.

"Major?" I asked, knocking on the door frame. "A word?"

He looked up from the paperwork he was dealing with. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

I drew a deep breath. "The, uh, matter I wanted to talk to you about at the ball? When would be a good time for that?"

It took him a few moments to recall what I meant, them I saw his eyes click into focus. "Give me half an hour," he told me decisively, "and then we'll go for a walk."

I nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Saluting, I left his office.

-ooo-

Several soldiers were doing PT on the school's running track as we strolled around its perimeter, heavy jackets and scarves warding off the winter chill. I'd thought August was cool in Chicago; it had nothing on January.

"So talk to me, Lieutenant," he invited me. "What's the problem?"

"This is really big," I began. "I'm gonna have to feed it to you in bite-sized chunks, if that's okay?"

He nodded. "Probably best," he agreed.

I paused, marshalling my thoughts. Lisa and I had agreed that this was probably the best way to put this across to him. Without real-time access to my every word and action, without the ability to predict exactly how people would react to what I did, Lisa could only advise me on things like this. It was up to me to make it work.

"Are you aware of the mechanism of trigger events?" I began. "The way parahumans get their powers?"

"I'm aware that they happen," he replied. "Not exactly sure of the whys and wherefores. One day someone doesn't have powers, next day they're juggling semi-trailers."

I nodded. "Well, in between, there's a situation of conflict. Something happens to the person to put them under strain, or there's a conflict within themselves." I drew a deep breath of winter air. "I've heard it described as 'the worst day of your life'. That's what gives people powers. The very worst thing that ever happens to them."

He was silent for a moment. "So … it's when they're attacked, or feel threatened … "

"... or feel abandoned, or all alone, or they're so caught up in a conflict that they don't feel anything at all," I finished. "There are many causes in the literature; so many that trying to replicate it is worse than useless. I personally believe that each trigger event is personally tailored to each parahuman. You can't inflict the same trauma on John Doe that you did on Mary Smith, and expect him to manifest any powers at all, much less the same powers that she got."

"So you're not talking about being able to trigger powers at need in people," he concluded.

I shook my head. "No, sir. I don't think we'll ever be able to do that. But you follow my point about how conflict and powers are closely linked?"

"Yes, I do," he agreed. "So where do we go from there?"

"Well the next point," I went on, "is that all powers are capable of causing conflict of some sort. Some might be physical, others might be mental, others might be emotional. Every power allows its user to lash out at other people. At the world around them."

For another long moment, he didn't speak. "You realise, Lieutenant, you're not making me any more sanguine about whatever your eventual point may be. But yes, I understand where you're going with this. All powers can be used to hurt others, in some way. To cause conflict. Another link between powers and conflict. Go on."

"Third point," I noted. "It's early days yet, and we haven't got nearly enough data to be certain about this, but it appears that those parahumans who use their powers for conflict, regularly and repeatedly, seem to get better with their powers than those who use them for non-conflict means."

He frowned. "By 'better' do you mean more skilled? Because any skill will improve with use."

I shook my head. "Not exactly, sir. I mean that their power and range increases – fractionally, but the increase is measurable. Their control over the effects is improved. They learn more tricks." I took my hands out of my pockets and spread them. "They get better at using them, better than the ones who are using them for normal, everyday pursuits."

He absorbed my words. "Conflict," he stated at last.

"Conflict," I agreed. "Now, the next couple of points are hypothetical. Extremely hypothetical. I have no proof, no data to back me up on them. They're just … hunches."

He turned his head to look at me. "Lieutenant, I would back your hunches over a dozen informed intellectuals from any college you would care to name. Be assured that I will give you a fair hearing on this. Fire away."

I nodded. "Thank you, sir. Hypothetically speaking, what if there was an … intelligence? A thing, out there somewhere, that was bestowing powers on humanity? Because powers aren't coming out of nowhere. They're coming from somewhere. Something's giving them to us. Something is reaching out its finger, and tapping people on the head, and saying, 'when you have the very worst day of your life –you will get super-powers'." I paused. "What if that something's doing it deliberately? What do you think its motives might be?"

Major Hamilton shivered, and I didn't think it was from the cold. "Christ, Snow, you have a way of asking very big, very scary questions."

"I'm sorry, sir."

He shook his head. "Don't be. It's very pertinent question. And the answer's simple. To foment conflict within the human race." He stared at me. "Do you think that's even possible?"

I drew a deep breath, welcomed the sting of chilled air in my lungs. "I don't know, sir. I have no data. But I have another hypothetical to run past you."

"And the hits just keep on coming. Shoot."

"This creature that came up out of the ground in Iran, and attacked Sao Paulo last year … "

"Sierra Mike Alpha, yes," he replied. "I believe the press are calling it the 'Behemoth'." He paused. "Do you think that might be your instigator … ?"

I paused, then shook my head. "No, I don't think so. But what if it's guided by conflict? What if it's drawn to it? Either moving toward an area that has ongoing conflict – such as the Middle East – or toward a place that will be most thoroughly destabilised by it attacking?"

He stopped talking, and stared at me. "Snow … are you saying you know why it attacked those places?"

I shrugged lightly. "I've been doing a lot of research, sir. Correlating a huge number of factors. Then squinting sideways at the data to see if I can make a pattern emerge." I made my tone light. "Everything short of nailing a map to the wall and throwing darts."

He didn't react to my levity. "And what did you come up with?"

"A lot of very loose numbers, sir. Numbers that need to be crunched before I can reach a solid data point, something that I can hold up and say, I know this for certain." I drew a deep breath. "But I suspect that there'll be another attack within the next three months. And my gut tells me that it will be within the continental United States."

I stopped. His stare had, if anything, intensified. I waited.

Eventually, he spoke. "Lieutenant Snow." His voice was almost harsh.

I stiffened into a brace. "Yes, sir?"

"I am ordering you to not speak on that matter to anyone other than me, until further notice."

"Sir, yes sir."

"Furthermore, you are to only pursue that matter in absolute secrecy. No-one but you and I must know about it, until you can actually produce verifiable results."

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

"Tell me what resources you need."

I drew a deep breath of the winter air. "A computer, sir. Top of the line. I can crunch the data much faster with it than without."

He nodded, sharply. "You'll get it. Now remember, you report to me, and only me, on this matter. If word got out, there would be a panic. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. I understand perfectly, sir. This is why I came to you with it, sir."

He bent a faint smile on me. "Carry on, Lieutenant Snow."

"Yes, sir."

We strolled back to the offices, and we did not speak any more of conflict.

End of Part 3-2