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3. Shattered

"Alas! We were lost [ ...]! We shattered ourselves! We left our elder brothers behind! Our younger brothers! Where did they see the sun? Where must they be staying, now that the dawn has come?"
— Popul Vuh, Part Four

Tom stirred in his bed at the sound of the alarm, automatically reaching out to the space next to him. The sheets were cool and smooth beneath his fingertips; it took him a moment to realize that he'd been subconsciously expecting something else, then another long moment to wonder at just what it was that he'd been expecting.

It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the human mind could adjust to new conditions. It had only been three days since he and John had started spending the night in the same bed, and he already felt the other man's absence as a dimming at the start of the day.

He couldn't help but wonder if John had missed his presence, too; and if he still would, after Tom told him about the latest bombshell. He hadn't had it in him to test how deep 'just because I've started to give a damn' actually went the night before. Tom had a lot more brittle places now than he'd had before the war ... or at least, that he'd been willing to acknowledge, then. The remarkable part was that John hadn't made him feel guilty about his avoidance; just challenged him, the same way he always had, if somewhat less acrimoniously than in the early days. But John had his brittle places, too.

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for the folded pages he'd left on the bedside table the night before. He was getting ahead of himself again. It might not change anything. And even if it did, wasn't it the height of selfishness to stare at his own navel while humanity was once more facing extinction?

To quote Dan, 'it ain't over 'til it's over'. Time to start the day, and let the chips fall how they would.

When he wandered into the cafeteria for breakfast sometime later, papers tucked in a pocket, Tom found that the cooks had managed to scrounge up enough eggs for a scramble. It made a nice treat for the morning after the battle. There were even a few shreds of greenery and some unidentified meat mixed in, probably the last of the previous week's hunting and gathering. He savored every bite, thinking of the small ways every last resident of Charleston cultivated hope; he did need reminding, from time to time, that it wasn't his burden alone to bear.

He looked up as another plate joined his on the table, and Marina sat down across from him. It wasn't time for their meeting yet, but he didn't mind; she was becoming a good friend, as well as a capable administrator. She'd been a senator's aide before the war, so she knew the political and legal foundation of the job better than he did, and she'd treated her occasional missteps on the practical front — the time she'd taken the photographs of the Volm grid gun out of his desk and shown them to someone not cleared for sensitive information without considering the potential consequences, for example; or some of the moves she'd supported Hathaway in while Tom and Pope had been in Boston — as learning experiences, rather than trying to pass the buck. He appreciated that about her.

"Letting yourself be seen this morning?" she said, in a lightly teasing tone.

Tom shrugged, and found a smile for her in return. "Followed my nose. Looks like the chicken project's been a success."

"So far so good," she nodded, taking a bite of her own portion with a pleased smile. "Though we were lucky we had enough warning to prepare for the attack; the coop was in the area devastated by the Mega-mechs."

"Even with that warning, though, we still lost all too much. Every life lost, even in exchange for one of their death machines, is one too many." He shook his head, remembering how frustrated he'd felt while the battle was unfolding, penned underground with only fragmented radio reports to keep him informed. If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd known John was right about him being a target, he would have gone up there, regardless.

"Especially when you count the dead as family," she observed, eyes kind. "I heard a glass was lifted in your name at a wake last night, for one of the Berserkers. I hope you didn't spend that time in your office; you need time to rest and recharge and grieve as much as anyone. Perhaps more."

"Perhaps so, but that doesn't change the fact that running this place is a twenty-five hour a day, eight day a week job, even at the best of times," Tom replied — then realized what else she was getting at, and rolled his eyes. "And Pope and I aren't actually joined at the hip. Don't worry, though; I did get some rest. And by rest, I mean sleep."

"I had begun to wonder," she said, the corners of her mouth tucking in briefly. "I hope you know what you're doing, there. I've heard such different accounts of him as ... let's say, puzzle me exceedingly."

Tom snorted at that bit of careful summation. "I almost want to hear you quote that to his face. Pride in good regulation, ha. Though I suspect he'd claim to identify more with the rogue of the piece than the brooding hero."

"The President knows his Pride and Prejudice," Marina tipped her cup to him. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that of all men, you would; back in the days when we had the world at our fingertips, there was an Internet saying that a man who knows his Jane Austen always, always wins."

"Rebecca was a fan," he admitted, a bit abashed by the praise. "Comedies of manners; the small-scale interpersonal dramas that define us as human beings every bit as much as the grander movements of nations."

"Perhaps that's why the Espheni have had such trouble predicting us. Didn't you say one of the rebel Skitters described them to you as organic computers? I have a hard time imagining a culture like that ever producing anything as irrational as romantic literature."

"Pity it's not really something we can weaponize against them." Tom spent a brief, brightly amused moment imagining Espheni twitching and collapsing when faced with literary quotations, then put down his fork. "Speaking of plotting against the Espheni — care to adjourn with me? Or ...." He glanced over as he saw Dan Weaver walk into the room from the other side, eyeing the food line with an intrigued expression. "Nevermind, I'm sure Dan will keep you company while you finish your breakfast."

Marina lifted an admonishing eyebrow at him, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. "We had a few ... differences of opinion while you were out of the city looking for Anne and your daughter, that's all. There's nothing of that nature between the Colonel and I."

"That's not what Jeanne says. And you were the one who just brought up romantic literature." Tom waggled his eyebrows back. Then he relented and got up to clear his plate. "Anyway, take your time."

She scoffed, but he noticed she didn't immediately get up ... and her gaze tracked over to the food line the moment Tom was out of conversational range.

Another example of hope and day-to-day human courage. Perhaps Cochise had been right to remind him of what he'd said the day after Alexis' birth: that the human spirit really was the most powerful thing on the planet.

Tom's fingers drifted to the pocket crinkling with the weight of Dr. Kadar's new report, and he found himself humming the song Jeanne had arranged for the Liberty Tree's christening as he headed for his office.

He tried to hold onto that cautiously positive mood as the morning unfolded, and mostly managed to succeed — until Anne showed up for the conversation he'd promised her the night before.

She seemed ... less antagonistic than in recent weeks as she entered his office and took a seat on the other side of the desk, a mixed omen for their conversation. He understood that she'd had the right to be angry with him, but he'd had a right to be angry too, and frankly, he hadn't had the emotional resources to clear the air what with everything else on his plate. He'd figured they'd get past it eventually anyway, because she was the conciliating type ... which, of course, was one of the things that had gone wrong in their relationship to begin with.

One of these days, he should probably find a book on self-care for PTSD sufferers. It wasn't as though everyone still alive hadn't collected a whole attic full of issues, and he wanted to be a better role model for his kids.

"Before we start, I'd like to apologize again for waiting to talk to you about this," he began, clearing his throat and knitting his fingers together atop his desk. "In my defense, I can only offer that I thought it might be hard for you to hear the kinds of things I was asking Dr. Kadar to look for, particularly when I didn't yet have any answers."

"What kinds of things?" Anne asked, frowning at him in clear suspicion.

Tom took a deep breath, and began. "First of all, whether or not she really is — genetically — our daughter." He held up a hand to forestall the obvious objection. "Not because I doubted you, or because I had any intention of abandoning her regardless of the answer; but because the Espheni are capable of rewriting biology on a level that frankly terrifies me, and I wanted to be sure they hadn't found a way to change that. The good news is, they didn't; she's one hundred percent ours."

Anne clenched her hands tighter together in her lap, but her voice was steady as she replied. "If that was the first question, I hate to ask what the second was," she replied.

He abruptly remembered that Dr. Kadar's results were still tucked in his pocket; he took the sheets of paper out, then carefully unfolded them, smoothing them flat atop the desk. He slid the top three sheets over to Anne — the original DNA test she herself had asked for, followed by the ones to establish paternity and maternity — then stared down at the next set, trying to decide how best to explain them. He still found it difficult to believe what the tests suggested, despite his long-standing suspicions on the subject.

"So did I," he said, seriously. "The question was — whether the alien DNA Dr. Kadar found in her initial tests came from the Espheni, or from some other source entirely."

Anne went several shades paler, staring at him in consternation. "The fact that you phrased it like that tells me that it isn't — but what else would it be? What else could it be?" she objected.

He spread his hands wide. "There's no easy answer to that question. After Cochise stopped by, it was pretty simple for Dr. Kadar to find some transfer DNA to test against the Volm genome. And I recently had a scavenging party go back to retrieve a sample from the last Overlord we killed under the pretext of finding easier ways to destroy them. What's showing up in Lexie's DNA ... it doesn't match either of those sources."

"But the fevers she suffers when she has the growth spurts, the things we've seen in her blood samples ... apart from the heightened rather than lowered temperature, it mimics what we've seen from other Espheni infections in the past," Anne pointed out. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know, it doesn't," Tom shrugged helplessly. "He did find some Espheni proteins in her blood, particularly in the samples taken right after her last episode. The thing is, though ... he's pretty sure those are from an infection or virus of some kind. Separate from the actual DNA changes, as if it's trying to boost or enhance the alterations. He thinks that's what actually might be responsible for her rapid aging; it puts so much stress on her system, it's not likely to be a naturally occurring feature of the originating organism."

Anne swallowed thickly, as if her mouth had gone dry, then came to the obvious conclusion. "Because Karen wanted to use her as a weapon. And whatever she is — whatever she might become — you can't give a baby orders, or brainwash it into believing whatever warped version of reality best fits your plans."

"Exactly," he nodded, wearily.

"So what's the complicated answer, then," she said, lips pressed into a thin line.

"That's ... still mostly speculative, but I'm pretty sure it has a lot has to do with the answer to my third question," he said, turning over the last page of results. If there'd been any sense of proportion in the world, it would have hit the table with an ominous thud, not a quiet rustle; but reality was seldom so coordinated.

Anne reached across the table, snagging the sheet of paper and drawing it back where she could read it. She scanned it over once, then again, a furrow drawing between her brows. "I'm no expert," she said slowly, "but ... these aren't Alexis' results. They can't be; this DNA sample is male."

"I know," he replied wryly, pulling one of Alexis' sheets free and lining it up next to the one she was staring at. He'd had Dr. Kadar run this particular test three times. "That one is mine."

Anne gaped at him, then looked down again, staring first at the spike of strangeness in her daughter's DNA, then at the less obvious — but no less alien — deviation highlighted at a similar place in Tom's. "But how?"

"You're asking me?" he shrugged again. "All I can tell you is that the only gaps in my memory when this could have been done to me were back on the Espheni ship. Right before that red-eyed Skitter did two unbelievable things: let me, alone of all humans on that ship, go ... and begin a Skitter rebellion on Earth."

Anne shook her head, a tight, side-to-side denial of belief, never taking her eyes off him. "But what does this even mean? If you were the target — does that mean Alexis' uniqueness was just a byproduct? One that Karen just so happened to discover and capitalize on?"

"No ... no, I think what happened with Alexis was absolutely intentional. At least, in principle." That aspect of the problem, in fact, had taken Tom as much effort to come to terms with as all the rest of it. The Espheni harnessed children mostly between the ages of eight and eighteen for a reason; they were big enough to put to useful work, but still contained all the potential and malleability of youth. But the only subjects the rebel Skitter had had available were adults. "I think he was just playing a much longer game than the Espheni. They knew a lot about my ... social connections ... before they ever took me aboard, thanks to Rick's betrayal; and thanks to the eyebug, Red Eye was able to track me back so he could ... and I'm guessing, here ... monitor the success of his experiment. No wonder we were able to get that eyebug out so easily; he'd already found me by then."

If he hadn't gone aboard that ship the day the rest of their group fled the Boston area, Alexis might be normal. Or ... she might not exist at all. Red Eye might have picked another human subject; or might not have chosen anyone, and put off his rebellion a while longer. The Second Mass might have prospered better with Tom at Dan's side the whole way; or it might've been wiped out before they even reached Fitchburg. They might not have found and destroyed the jammer or the fuel plant without the rebel Skitters' help; the Volm might never have found any human allies, or might've been unable to complete their project in time. Everyone on Earth might, even now, be dying under the radiation projected by the Espheni defense grid. Or ... they might have found some other, better way to destroy it. It was impossible to know; impossible not to feel guilty, regardless.

Anne looked horrified; she reached a hand to him automatically. "God. Tom ...."

He clasped it across the desk, giving her a crooked smile. "Nothing we can do about any of it at this point; I was obviously just the carrier for this ... whatever it is. My main concern is what it means for Alexis."

She swallowed, studying him, then looked down at the reports again and let go his hand, brushing her fingers over the ink that represented their daughter's differences. "You've given me answers, but now I have new questions. If the rapid aging really is separate from the genetic changes themselves, can we stop it? Kill the infection and let her grow at a normal rate, without endangering her?"

"Maybe. Should we?" Tom had to ask. Nothing in this world was completely without danger.

"What?" Her eyes widened incredulously. "How can you even ask that? Of course we should; its effects aren't natural, and not only is it hurting her, it's denying her the opportunity to have a normal childhood. Children shouldn't have to grow up so fast; you've said that to me before, about Alexis and Matt."

"But she's also a target, Anne. The Espheni know about her, remember? Sooner or later they'll try to reclaim her. And the older she is, the more developed her talents, the better she can protect herself." Better that she didn't have to, but — there was no kindness left in their world for the defenseless.

Anne stared at him for a long moment; then she gathered up the pages and stood. "That isn't solely your decision to make; any more than it was your right to keep any of this from me in the first place. I'm going to go talk to Roger, confirm what you've said. Then I'm going to think about it. And then I'm going to ask Alexis what she wants to do," she said.

Tom's first instinct was to object. Like the accusation John had leveled at him the day their lives had taken a sudden left turn on the way back from West Virginia: 'You're so far up your own ass trying to hold it all together that your first response to anything that doesn't fit your plan is to try to control it'. Or words to that effect. He liked to think he was a little more self-aware than that ... but this situation was out of his control, and it did bother him, and his track record was a little problematic, viewed from that angle.

"Please ... I know it's hypocritical of me to ask, but keep me in the loop before you do anything?" he conceded, quietly. "I'm not saying no, but I need to be a part of it."

She raised an eyebrow, studying him for a long moment. "That depends," she finally said. "How much of your playing devil's advocate just now was Pope's idea?"

Tom snorted. "None of it; I know what I said last night, but she's ours, Anne. She's your daughter, and mine, and I was a father long before I ever met John Pope. You came first. Besides, if you think I'm all that eager to tell him that not only does she have alien DNA, but apparently I do, too ...." he trailed off into a rough, self-deprecating chuckle. "Well, some bridges I'll just have to blow up as I come to them."

Anne pressed her lips together, then finally relented with a nod. "All right. I believe you. Just ... don't do this again, all right? I need to be able to trust you with our daughter; to know you aren't going to make unilateral decisions without me either, if you really want us to stick around."

"I do. I do, and I promise — I'll do my best," Tom told her.

"We'll see," she said. Then she left, closing the door gently behind her.

Tom wanted to bow his head over the desk; to thrust his fingers through his hair, pour himself a glass of scotch, and throw it at the wall. Then pour himself another and abdicate from the rest of the day's problems. But he'd given up that luxury the day he'd sworn to leave his father's legacy behind him.

He reached for the tentative, hopeful feeling from that morning, remembering the fire in John's eyes the night before, and blew out a breath. Then he got up, collected his rifle, and headed for the nearest stairwell. There were plenty of work parties on the surface that day, and he had some time before the next fixed point on his schedule. Maybe a little fresh air and sunshine would help put things into perspective.

Evening found him — several hours later — out on the porch of a mostly-restored house just off Liberty Square. The lintels and windowsills had picked up another layer of windblown dust after the attack, but it was otherwise ready for habitation as soon as enough furniture and linens could be found to make it comfortable. Tom had taken a seat at the top of the porch steps, elbows braced on his knees, and watched the flow of the city as the light began to fade from the sky. His cheek itched where he'd rubbed concrete dust on it at some point; his trousers were smeared with grey along the right side from working in the rubble that afternoon; and there was grime worked so deep under his fingernails he'd probably be better off just trimming them to the quick instead of trying to scrub.

But strings of salvaged holiday lights hung from eaves and tent poles once again, and the murmur of laughter and live, raucous music spilled out into the street from the Nest, a block and a half away. A woman walked by, humming and gently patting the back of a baby in her arms; he didn't know her as more than a face occasionally seen in the crowd, but she smiled and nodded respectfully as she passed him, murmuring 'Good evening, Mr. President'. Just one of his five thousand or so constituents, going about her day.

Tom was still following her with his eyes, thinking about human will and perseverance, when the thud of boots on wood alerted him to the presence of another, climbing the steps to join him.

"Heard you were out and about," John said. He had an unlabeled dark brown bottle in each hand, product of the Nest's makeshift microbrewery; he held one out as he took a seat next to Tom.

Tom took it with a nod. He'd figured someone would find him here sooner or later; just as well it was John. "Albert Einstein once said, 'Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.' I suppose that seemed like good advice to me, today."

"Einstein, this time," John observed, quirking a wry smile. "Huh, so you do have some variety in your fortune cookie jar; it's not all historians and soldiers. You know he also said, 'two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I am not yet sure about the universe'? Truer words."

"Still not ready to talk about it," Tom warned him with a tight shake of his head, then relented slightly, because he really was pleased to see John: a bright point in his day. "Though I appreciate the beer. And the company."

The brew in the bottle was dark, strong, and a little chocolaty; it must have been maturing in a cool basement somewhere almost since the microbrewery had begun operations. John's gaze matched it, serious and a little opaque as he stared at Tom.

"We dodged a bullet here yesterday," he replied, seemingly apropos of nothing. "A lot of communities probably didn't. Even most of them, if you want to ruin your day any worse thinking about it. I could take a scouting party out; mostly Berserkers, the battle couple, a refugee or two from the area to point us the way. See what kind of range we can get on those drones from the Volm and check out what's going on inside one of those fences."

It took Tom a moment to recognize the out John was leaving him; his eyebrows flew up, torn between amusement and indignance. "I'm not ... getting cold feet, or buyer's remorse, or whatever else you think is going on here. Not that I don't think the scouting trip's a good idea; I planned to propose something very like that tomorrow, after everyone's done enjoying their day of not-quite-rest. I just ...."

He cast his mind back over past conversations, and abruptly remembered one that might ease the way; that last trip to Boston and back had largely resolved into a blur of grief, exhaustion, and numb fury, but certain moments stood out sharply in his memories even now, like glints of sunlight illuminating the surface of a dark, still pond. "You remember the option that worried me most, when I told you I didn't think Karen was responsible for Lexie?"

John's forehead wrinkled; then he rocked back in dismay. "You're talking about the Skitter playing god option? You're shitting me."

"I wish I was," Tom shook his head, ruefully. "Whatever's in Alexis is there because he did it to me first. I'd show you Dr. Kadar's analysis for proof, but Anne has it now — she wanted to confirm it with him." His hand came to the pocket where the pages had been tucked away, then dropped again, empty. "And if it turns out to mean ...." He sighed. "Maybe you should have run me off into the woods, when I first got back."

"You ...." John stared at him for a long moment, speechless. Then he slammed his bottle down on the step next to Tom with a thunk and shot to his feet, striding a few restless paces away, then braced his hands on his hips and gave Tom a dirty look. "So. 'My President is an Alien', huh?" he drawled, turning to stare off down the same street Tom had been watching, taking in the state of the city.

John's back was as tense as a drawn bow beneath his jacket, giving no clue how he felt about that statement. Tom hadn't forgotten how often John had said that the only good alien was a dead alien over the last couple of years, or how persistently he'd claimed that neither the rebel Skitters nor the Volm ultimately had humanity's long-term best interests in mind. But after the wringer he'd already put his emotions through that day ... Tom sighed and took another sip of the excellent beer.

"Yep. Though I'm not sure which is actually the strangest word in that sentence; it all feels ... equally surreal."

John turned sharply to look back over his shoulder at that, profile lit with burnished gold hues in the fading light. Between the scruff, the leather, and the visible arsenal, he looked something like a still from a Mad Max movie: Brooding Apocalyptic Antihero at Sunset.

"The 'President', the 'Alien' ... or the 'My'?" he said, voice curling low and sardonic around the words. Then he grinned, a flash of bared teeth. "Personally? I'm voting for the 'My'."

A shiver went up Tom's spine, and he set his half-empty bottle down next to John's. "I don't blame you for that, since it looks like you might've been right after all. I still could end up posing a threat to everyone."

John's whole face twitched at that; a succession of emotions Tom could only partly read flashed over his features, rage and resignation and something much softer jumbled together with others he couldn't put a name to, and his fists clenched at his sides. Then he moved again, striding back toward the porch as swiftly and suddenly as he'd stepped away, grabbing the front of Tom's shirt and lifting him bodily from the steps with the force of his momentum. Tom stumbled backward, trying to maintain his balance as he was carried off his feet, and felt the shock with his whole body as he was slammed up against the front wall of the house.

"Would you stop with the testing me already?" John hissed, grip tightening in the fabric of Tom's shirt. He vibrated with tension, like he wanted to shake him, but didn't dare start lest he not be able to stop. "Or playing the martyr; I don't care which it is, but I'm getting fucking tired of this, either way. How many more ways do I have to say it? You'll get rid of me when I want to be rid of you, and not one second sooner. If that happens to mean putting a bullet in you to save humanity — well, we'll dive off that cliff when we come to it, but I'm sure as hell not going to torture myself over the possibility. I've got better things to do. Get over yourself, Mason."

"That's ... that wasn't what I ...." Tom started to say, then stopped, going still in John's grasp. Because it was, wasn't it? Not intentionally, but another bad habit it was taking a while to unlearn. He swallowed, then gave John a tiny, crooked smile and answered the question, not the insults. How many? "At least one more."

He stopped there before he could fuck things up worse and dug his fingers into the leather of John's jacket, switching to a method of communication a little harder to misunderstand. Tom's lips were chapped and sore from all the time he'd spent outdoors that day; John tasted of beer and something fried that wasn't very savory secondhand. But none of that mattered in the moment: heat washed through him like the snap of a circuit closing, tension bleeding out of his muscles.

John groaned, slanting his mouth over Tom's as his hands relaxed, uncurling out of their tight fists to flatten against Tom's chest. In response, Tom reeled him in closer, until the firm planes of John's body were pressed as close as the weatherworn wood at his back. He hitched his hips automatically, seeking friction; sparks flared behind his eyes at the contact, and he slid his hands down to John's flanks, tugging the hem of his shirt free to run his hands over the warm skin beneath. The fingerless gloves he'd put on to protect his palms while he worked hampered the contact he really wanted, but he was too impatient to strip them off first; and from the shudder John gave under the rasping touch of the stiff fabric, he didn't seem to mind.

John came up for air a moment later, pupils blown wide in the sinking light of dusk. "Jesus, Mason," he said with a hoarse chuckle. "Was it the ultimatum or the manhandling that turned your crank? 'Cause either way, I'm down with that."

Tom smirked, then took a page out of John's book and came at the subject from another angle. "I missed you this morning, you know. Still think it's a little quick to be playing house?"

"You're unbelievable," John scoffed, then leaned back in, gaze dropping to Tom's mouth as they shifted together.

"Hey," a voice shouted from the street, breaking the moment; pressed neck to knee against John, Tom couldn't quite see who it was. "Get a room, assholes!"

John pulled just far enough away to throw a middle finger in the speaker's direction, not even bothering to look. "That's get a room, Mister President!" he called, in loud, offended tones, then chuckled lowly at the mumbled curse and hurried footsteps that followed. The sound vibrated through his chest and into Tom's like the bubbles in champagne, and reminded Tom suddenly, vividly, of his college days, when everything was still possibility.

"...So. I don't suppose they've furnished this place since the last housing inventory?" John added more quietly, eyes glinting with humor.

Tom snorted, amusement and affection cooling his still-raw emotions like soothing rain. "I'm afraid not."

"Damn. Well, if I'm going to take one for humanity and try my hand — so to speak — at alien cock, I'm sure as hell not going to do it on my knees," John continued, eyebrows waggling suggestively. "So how's about we head to my place and reconvene this in a more congenial setting?"

Tom had spent the first night of his return from the Espheni ship on the Second Massachusetts' med bus, more than a year ago, reliving the parts of the long trek back he could remember in fevered dreams. Since their arrival in Charleston and its replacement with a full-sized infirmary, Pope had converted the old Greyhound to a mobile living space rather than setting up a more permanent residence in one of the houses. It seemed oddly appropriate to close the circle in the same place, exorcizing the last of the fallout of that misadventure.

"You pretty much had me at 'quid pro quo'," he murmured back — referencing the night John had talked him out of resigning the Presidency, but absolutely intending the implied double entendre.

John's teeth flashed in a smug grin; then he chuckled darkly and took a fistful of Tom's shirt once more. "Promises, promises," he said, echoing Tom's words from the morning before; then he stepped back, pulling Tom with him, towing him toward the post-apocalyptic luxuries of Popetown.

At least he'd got one thing right that day. Tom leaned down to snag the necks of the beer bottles as they passed them by, feeling hope — that thing with feathers — once more stirring in his soul.

He'd thought he'd been concealing his fit of melancholy pretty well, but John apparently wasn't the only one who'd been reading him like cheap newsprint.

"So," Dan grunted at him the next morning, as they leaned over a map marking a route north and east along the route of the old I-26. They'd sent the tiny Volm drones as far as Columbia, snooping around for evidence of other survivors, and found only a ghost town intermittently patrolled by Skitters; the planned scouting party would have to go either west on I-20 from there to Atlanta, or north on I-77 to Charlotte, their best guesses for the nearest cities still populated enough to attract the attention of the Espheni. "You seem steadier, today. Feelin' a little less like you've been staked out for the vultures?"

Tom looked up, throwing his friend a sheepish look. "Was it that obvious?"

"You get that look in your eye when you're missin' the days when all you were responsible for were the lives of the Second Mass and the deaths of the next bunch of Skitters to cross our path. I know, 'cause Jeanne tells me I get the same way sometimes," Dan commiserated. "But it was gettin' to the point this time where I wondered if we should've asked Hathaway to stay, for your sake if not for Charleston's."

Tom made a face. "Definitely not Charleston's; I don't think he knew quite what to do with us, half the time. Or our allies; his administration's still on a fairly reactionary footing. Have we heard from his people again, yet?"

"No; and I'm thinkin' we might not, given that they were headed for the Richmond area last we talked," Dan replied gravely, tapping a finger over a section of the map where they'd previously marked evidence of survivors. The perfect target for another enclosing force.

"Damn. Better send Pope north, then; see if he can pick up any traces while he's out. Could just be the radios; I noticed we were having a little trouble with them, yesterday."

"Like the early days of the resistance all over again. Like the Espheni found some kinda replacement fuel source," Dan nodded.

"Yeah," Tom grunted. "Might want to have one of our engineers take a look at the downed Beamers across the river, see if they can tell what they're using now. Might help us with the fences, too. Whatever that green energy is, electricity is electricity, and physics is physics; there has to be a way to defuse it or short it out."

"You sure about sending the Berserkers on this mission, though? They're not exactly the stealthiest bunch." Dan's tone was casual and unworried — but he didn't look at Tom as he asked it, and Tom suppressed a sigh.

"Who else do you suggest I send?" he replied, carefully matching Dan's calm, factual approach. "I'm not sending you on back to back patrols. Everyone keeps harping on me to rest, but you need it too, you know; you're mission essential around here. Hal's still a little young for fighters not already familiar with him to follow without question. And I need Anthony to go over our internal security in case the Espheni try the infiltration route again. I'd honestly prefer to take him off military operations altogether and ask him to start building a police force — John's policies have done a lot to defuse destructive impulses in the city, and we've been firm on discipline among the fighters, but with over five thousand people living in a pressure cooker environment we're just asking for trouble without one — but I know he's not ready to give up being on the front lines, just yet. That leaves Pope as the best option with the experience and the flexibility to see it through. Can't send him without the Berserkers — and they'll want feel like they're doing something anyway, after what happened to Zack. John'll make sure they get the job done."

"You're not afraid he'll go off half-cocked, somewhere in the field?" Dan raised craggy eyebrows. "It's gonna be weeks, at a minimum, before they get back — if they get back."

"Not particularly. I'll send a Volm communicator with him, and Hal and Maggie will be with the group as well. You know neither of them's inclined to cut him any slack," Tom offered.

Dan's eyes narrowed further as he considered that statement. "That your idea or his?"

"He wants to go play; and to do that, he's willing to play along," Tom shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It matters when I can't figure out his motivations," Dan admitted. "I got used to him being an asshole, but a useful one; he's still an asshole, but then I see him with his daughter, or I see you walk in here like a huge weight's been lifted off your shoulders, and it makes me wonder. You gonna be alright letting him go off without you just now? I'd half-expected you to try to talk me into letting you go on the mission, too."

Tom blinked as his understanding of Dan's objections shifted, then chuckled. "You remember what it was like when Porter first assigned us together? How we fought like cats and dogs because we didn't always understand, or agree with, where the other was coming from? But we usually worked it out in the best interests of the Second Mass."

Dan nodded, cautiously. "Thought Jim had lost his mind at first. But it turned out he'd picked better than he knew." He didn't add, what's that got to do with the price of eggs?, but Tom heard it nonetheless.

"You know how much I value the friendship we have now, Dan. Knowing you — I finally understand a little of what it must be like for my sons to have each other." He had to clear his throat before continuing, carefully ignoring Dan's reaction to the words. "But our jobs have changed significantly, both in role and scale, since we found Charleston. And that push and pull we had when I was your XO, that kick in the ass you said you sometimes needed — I get that from him. Not that I don't still value your input, far from it. But I know my own stubbornness well enough to know that I occasionally need it delivered with a certain ruthless efficiency, and I would never ask that of you. The more personal benefits have been an unexpected bonus."

Dan's gaze went briefly distant; then he nodded, rubbing a hand over his chin. "I get you," he said slowly. "And no need to hold my hand; I get that too, actually. Something I didn't realize 'til you were gone, those months after Karen took you the first time. The way you reacted when I was at my worst? The anger, the drugs I was using to keep myself goin' back then? A man don't defuse that as carefully as you did if he don't have some experience doin' that kind of thing."

"Dan ...." Tom hadn't realized Dan had noticed that; hadn't even thought about it himself at the time, just acted.

"No need to say anything more," Dan cut him off gruffly, clasping his shoulder. "I'm grateful every day that you stuck with me through all that; you didn't have to. Maybe I've gone a little in the other direction since; maybe you do need someone less ... sentimental ... givin' you advice. Someone who gets the whys and the wherefores without you havin' to spell it out. Just so long as you don't take everything he says for gospel, either."

"You don't have to worry about that, Dan," Tom replied warmly, returning the gesture.

"Yes, well," Dan replied, clearing his throat. "I think that's all my objections dealt with then; time to call the others in and brief 'em."

It didn't take long to lay it all out for the team. Only one major change was made to the plan; Hal tapped the map just south and east of Richmond, frowning thoughtfully at the dot marked 'Norfolk'.

"I know it's a little out of our way. And it might be a long shot," he said, earnestly. "But there was that big naval station there. And the Espheni didn't target port facilities for bombing the way they did army and air force bases, right? The people would have been rounded up, and probably the guns and ammo, too — but there might still be some vehicles we could use. Like, the big tracked kind."

"Whoa, whoa; I think I see where you're goin' with this," Dan said, eyes lighting up.

"Uh huh," Hal nodded, grinning. "I got to talking to one of the engineers at dinner last night, and he said something like that might be our best option for getting the BFG mobile. General Bressler's people checked the base here in Charleston a couple years ago, but most of its assets were deployed in the initial invasion. Naval Station Norfolk was the biggest in the country, though; there has to still be something there we can use."

"I like the way you think, kid," John said, arms crossed as he stared down at the map. "Be a bit of a trek, but if we're already in the area looking for the politician formerly known as the President, I suppose it couldn't hurt to take a look."

"I'm so glad you approve, Pope," Hal said, very dryly, then looked up at Tom. "Dad, what do you think?"

Tom gave the nineteen-year-old his best unimpressed look. "I think since Pope is going to be the one leading this scout, it's a good thing you're already on the same page," he replied, matching his son for sarcasm. "That said — this is already a risky mission. We have no idea what you'll find out there. The drones will help; but even Volm technology can't spot everything."

He switched his attention to John, locking eyes with him as he continued. "The primary goal for this mission is to observe an intact fence and determine what we'll have to do to take it down, but it'll also be important to establish conditions on the ground along the way. I'd prefer not to just trust the word of the Volm scouts for that. I'll send both a radio and a communicator with you, and we'll reassess along the way whether it's feasible to extend the trip northward or if it will have to be delayed. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." John nodded to him, then raised a pointed eyebrow at Hal.

Hal glanced at his dad again, his expression slightly incredulous — then winced and shut his mouth as Maggie pinched his thigh with vicious fingers.

Maggie met Tom's gaze next, half-challenging and half-amused; Tom shared a commiserating smile with her, then turned the briefing slash family squabble back over to Dan.

They might have been knocked back to the early days again, but they could do this. One step at a time.

The duffel bag made its appearance in his rooms again that night — but disappeared again almost as quickly, kicked under a table after its contents were emptied into one of the dresser's empty drawers. There was no further discussion of anyone's feelings, but Tom heard the echo of John's promise nonetheless: how many ways do I have to say it? That night, he slept deeply, without the usual disruption of vaguely disquieting dreams.

The next morning, he slapped his son heartily on the back in lieu of a hug, slipped a half-bar of Hershey's that he'd been saving into John's saddlebags, and shook hands with the others; Lyle made a decent attempt to crush his fingers, but he was smirking while he did it, and the rest followed Tector in wolf-whistling at John's farewell kiss.

It felt — different, being the partner left at home rather than the one leaving someone behind. But settled too, in some way he couldn't quite define. Tom ate breakfast with Matt and Ben, touching base with his younger sons and filling them in on what Hal was up to, then went on to the next committee meeting with only half his mind still wishing he'd been able to go along. And when Cochise called only a few hours later, triggering the Volm communicator he'd given Tom to carry, he was grateful for the clearer head.

"I am relieved to hear that you have successfully repelled the attack, Professor," Cochise's voice issued from the device. "From what we have seen, and learned from the other Volm scout teams, others were ... not so lucky."

"How many others?" Tom asked him.

"Most. Perhaps all," Cochise replied, mournfully. "Human settlements are being fenced in by impenetrable green energy barriers on a worldwide scale, each accompanied by a single Espheni troopship to monitor and control those trapped within. And in each case we have observed, the area was blasted into rubble by superior terrain droids first, apparently to eliminate any existing food stores or prepared shelter. Once that was done, Skitters were sent in to remove any remaining weaponry ... as well as any children of an age to be harnessed."

Tom blanched, imagining what might've happened to Charleston if they hadn't been prepared, and had to put his head down between his knees for a moment to stave off a wave of nausea. "If that had happened here ... we owe you big, Cochise. Thank you."

"It was the least I could do," Cochise replied, lowering his voice; probably so the rest of his squad couldn't hear. "There has as yet been no sign what the Espheni plan for the remainder of those in the camps. I will send any refugees we encounter your way, and contact you again when I have more news."

"Likewise," Tom replied. "We sent a scout group out to take a closer look; I'll let you know if we find any more pieces to the puzzle. Keep the faith, my friend."

"Keep the faith," Cochise echoed back awkwardly, then cut the connection.

Tom informed most of his staff of the news, but after some discussion with Marina decided not to spread it to the whole of Charleston just yet. Virtually everyone in the city still had loved ones somewhere in the world whose fate they didn't know; if not immediate family, then cousins or grandparents or college roommates they'd all told themselves were surely holed up somewhere, safe and sound and waiting to be found when the war was over. The knowledge that most remaining survivors were being collected into prison camps ... well, until the scout team returned to hang a human face on the news and hopefully also bring back a major piece for their next counteroffensive, it would just stir up more doubts and unrest and encourage more negativity toward the Volm.

Tom wasn't feeling very optimistic about Cochise's people in general these days, either. But he had a feeling they would still need their assistance before the end. And even if they didn't ... any successful picture of life after the war would still include contact with alien species; there would be no putting that genie back in the bottle. And there was no arguing with the fact that they were not starting that relationship from a position of strength. That worried him.

Last on the list was the infirmary: Anne. Any refugees Cochise — or John and his team — sent back to Charleston would undoubtedly be in need of their services, for a checkup if not more serious medical problems. In the last few years, many deprivation-related disorders that had been virtually eliminated in America had claimed a lot of lives, and that was even before getting into the deaths from diseases and complicated wounds and other medical issues that would have been survivable in a pre-war hospital. Anne took every such death personally.

He arrived to find Anne in a meeting already with Dr. Kadar, though; they were having an animated, low-voiced conversation at the back of the infirmary, one that looked like it might go on for a while. She was very intent, and he was talking with his hands and expression as much as with his words, the way that seemed to come naturally to him when he forgot to zealously guard himself against others. And the reason was fairly obvious: on one of the gurneys near the front of the room, Alexis lay curled with her dark head in Matt's lap, eyes dull with the onset of fever.

Both his youngest children were listening intently to Tanya Pope, wearing nurse-apprentice's scrubs, who was reading to them from a much-battered paperback with a rabbit on the cover. Matt's ever-present rifle had been propped against the bed within reach of his hand, but his fingers were currently tangled in his sister's hair, smoothing it away from her slightly sweaty forehead.

Tom's heart caught in his throat at the sight, and he automatically came to a halt, half-hoping that they hadn't noticed him come in so he could soak up the moment for a little longer.

"'You'd better wait here,' he said," Tanya read. Her soprano voice was rich with emotion; she was clearly a natural storyteller, the way the other two hung on her every word. "'When I get to the bend, I'll stamp. But if I run into trouble, get the others away.' Without waiting for an answer, he ran into the open and down the path ... Oh! Mr. Mason!" The book slipped closed in Tanya's hands as she looked up, catching him standing there.

If it had been possible to snap to attention while reclining on a mattress, Matt would have done so; the instant smile he aimed at his dad was one Tom knew very, very well from watching his brothers alternately cover for and or blame each other for every childhood slight and adventure. His heart squeezed again to see it in this context.

"Tanya was just reading to us a little, while Mom's talking to Dr. Kadar!" he blurted. "I know you said I wasn't supposed to read Watership Down on my own, but I'm not a little kid anymore, and when I saw Tanya had a copy, and Lexie said she'd never even heard of it ...."

Tanya's earnest expression was even better than Matt's, though there was a little of her father's chin-up defiance in it as well. "It's one of the last things I remember Dad reading to me, before he went to jail. It's one of the only things I have from before, too, so I read it a lot. Lexie said she doesn't read novels much, but I told her it's an allegory about escaping a destroyed home and finding a place to start over, and she said she'd like to try it ...."

Privately, Tom thought they were probably all still a little young for that book; or would have been, before the war. It wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a children's novel, despite the fact that the protagonists were all rabbits. But it was very Pope, to have given his young daughter a book all about surviving hardships after escaping utter destruction without caring whether it was entirely appropriate — and there was nothing in it that would cast much of a shadow in the world these kids were already surviving, every day.

He held up a hand, smiling warmly at them. "No need to explain it to me; it's a good book. Ben was about your age, Tanya, when I read it to him — and Matt snuck in to listen to parts of it. You enjoying it, Lexie?"

His daughter nodded, a slight movement against Matt's stomach, and one corner of her mouth twitched up. "Fiver's interesting," she said.

"Maybe I'll pop back by later and take a turn reading with you this afternoon — since it looks like we won't be doing our regular lesson today. Having another growth spurt, sweetheart?"

She nodded again, but Matt was the one who answered, cheerful and already so protective. "Yeah. I told her she'd better stop before she gets taller than me — I've been enjoying not being the littlest, and I'm not ready for her to pass me up just yet!"

"It's not like I want to," she replied fretfully; but the smile she aimed up at her brother was affectionate. "Mom says she thinks maybe she can stop it, but not 'til after I'm done growing this time. Sorry, Matt."

"Is that true, Dad?" Matt turned expectant eyes on him.

"Maybe," Tom said, then cast around for a stool and pulled it up next to the bed, on the opposite side from Tanya. He propped his gun next to Matt's, then settled in for a longer explanation. "I don't know if you remember how sick Colonel Weaver was before we got to Charleston — while we were staying at that abandoned hospital?"

"Right before I almost got eaten by those creepy bug things that killed Jamil?" Matt wrinkled his nose. "I mostly remember Hal and Ben and Maggie all freaking out about Karen. And the bug things, of course. Your dad totally almost shot me when he heard me moving around in the vents; I think it scared him as much as it scared me," he added in an aside to Tanya. "But yeah, I know he got bit by one of the harnesses when you guys came to rescue me and Jeanne and Diego from the harnessing facility, and it put him in a coma or something. He snapped out of it pretty quick, though."

"Yeah," Tom nodded. "Anne hooked him up to a machine that took his blood out of his body, killed the infection, and put it back in. Sounds scary, I know, but it worked. And we have even better equipment here. If she thinks she can help you with something similar, Lexie, your Mom's a very smart woman. I believe her."

Both of his children looked reassured to hear that; and he didn't miss the fact that Tanya looked relieved and intrigued in equal parts, as well. He resolved to find some of the less controversial stories of John's time with the Second Mass to give her, later on; things she could tease her father about when he got back.

"Anyway, I know I interrupted your reading — and it's been a long time since I heard the story, myself. If you wanted to get back to it while I wait for Dr. Glass ...?" he nodded to Tanya.

"What about it guys, you want more of the story?" she grinned at Matt and Lexie.

"Yes, please," Alexis replied, politely, and Matt settled back as well, adopting an aloof expression. "Well, I don't know, I guess I could stand to hear a little more."

Tanya smiled at them both, then Tom, then opened the paperback again to the page where she'd left off and cleared her throat.

"Without waiting for an answer, he ran into the open and down the path. A few seconds brought him to the old oak. He paused a moment, staring about him, and then ran onto the bend. Beyond, the path was the same — empty in the darkening moonlight and leading gently downhill ....."

A touch to Tom's shoulder drew him back out of the spell Tanya was weaving with her words, and he looked up, startled, into the apprehensive face of his ex.

"Tom?" Anne prompted him, lowly. "Is something wrong?"

"What ... oh!" He got up, retrieving his rifle and waving the kids to continue, then guided Anne a short distance away where they could still watch but not be overheard. "No; at least, not urgently. Cochise called, and I just wanted to let you know we might be getting a new wave of refugees soon — we weren't the only community to be attacked this week."

"I was afraid of that," Anne sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, we'll do our best — though if you could mention blood donation at the next community meeting, that would help. Our reserves are getting pretty low."

"Of course," Tom nodded. "No problem." One of the benefits in being in a place with a continuous power supply — they could afford a small amount of constant refrigeration. It was amazing how luxuries got redefined, in a situation like this. "Is that something that would help Alexis?"

Anne frowned. "No — well, maybe; if we use a hemofiltration machine, it'll recycle her own blood, but it'll also strip out everything but the red blood cells and replacement fluids. Once you start talking about significant blood volume, she'll need other blood products added back in, and I don't know how much it'll take to destabilize the infection since it's not identical to the pathogen Dan was dealing with. But if it does work ...."

"Sorry. Most of that's going over my head. But if it means you think I should donate, then I will," he promised.

Anne's expression softened. "Yesterday you seemed to think that she would be safer if we let her suffer."

Tom winced. "Every day I tell myself, 'bullets before food before fuel before entertainment'. We have to survive before we can live. But ...." He gestured helplessly toward the bed. "Seeing them like this ... we've already missed so many moments with her. And not just us; it's cheating her and her brothers, too. And ultimately, it's our job to protect them, not theirs to make things easier on us."

He blinked moisture out of his eyes, then cleared his throat. "So ... I'll support whatever decision you make."

"Thank you," Anne said softly, then reached out to squeeze his hand, a quick commiserating clasp. "Dr. Sumner, Roger and I have been discussing possibilities, and we have one that we think will work without significantly endangering her. I don't want to risk it while her system's already stressed from a forced growth cycle, but as soon as she's stable again, I'd like to try it."

"All right." He nodded. "Keep me posted. And tell her I'll be back down later? I promised I'd read with her some more, after John and Hal check in."

"I will," she promised, then shooed him out of the infirmary with a renewed smile.

4. Out for a Walk

"This is how they died: when there was just one person out walking, or just two were out walking, it wasn't obvious when they took them away."
— Popul Vuh, Part Four

John had always felt a little on edge in the city; sure, he preferred modern amenities to camping in the rough, especially with supplies of things like Bics and toilet paper running low, but the press of boring people and lack of clear enemies to fight always left him restless and tangled up in other people's petty bullshit. On the road, hunting Skitters and fishheads — for the last couple years, that had been the absolute best place for him to be.

But the space at his side felt unexpectedly empty, three days down the road from Charleston. And it wasn't just that Tom wasn't there with him — which might not be that bad an idea while he was still processing the latest bombshell the Professor had dropped on him. It was that Mason wasn't there, strange as that thought felt. He hadn't realized just how much of his time and energy he'd spent fixated on the guy even before he'd admitted there was anything about him to admire. Baiting Hal and Maggie to cheer himself up just wasn't the same.

And that was even without taking into account other people's reactions to his private business. "I can feel you watching me, Tector," he drawled, shooting a glance to his left. "You got something to say?"

"Sorry. Don't mean to stare," the Berserkers' sniper replied, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "It's just ... we-all get that you and Mason had this big bonding experience, between the plane crash and the torture and everything else last month. Dramatic life-saving adventures and all that. A little weird that it's you, but hooking up after shit like that ain't all that unusual, if you believe the movies," He grinned back over his shoulder at the rest of the group, waggling his eyebrows. "But I just didn't expect the rest of it, I guess."

"The hell do you mean by that?" John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Oh, you know. Starin' off into the distance like you were doin' just now. Stakin' your claim before we set out. Talkin' about him all the damn time. I mighta suspected Mason of being a romantic at heart, but John Pope?" He clucked his tongue, still smirking. "Not hardly."

There'd been some debate before setting out on this trip whether to use horses or vehicles; ultimately, John had decided that the fact that the Espheni might have the resources to home in on engine heat again was a bigger threat than the length of time it took to get anywhere in a saddle. One factor he hadn't thought of, that might have tipped the scales the other way: the slower pace and lack of separation meant he could be fending off comments like this for potentially weeks before they got back to Charleston.

"What you know about romance could probably fit in a thimble, Tec," John said quellingly, rolling his eyes. "Maybe I'm just worried Mason's going to do something stupid and noble while I'm not there to pull his ass out of the fire. Go off with an Espheni again, or face down a coup, or who the hell knows what. Man's a trouble magnet, always has been, but he's got a lot more riding on his shoulders these days than just the Second Mass."

"Hate to burst your bubble, Pope, but I'm pretty sure worrying about your partner's covered somewhere under the definition of 'romance'," Maggie spoke up, looking more amused than she had any right to be.

"Ugh. 'Partner' is bad enough, but I'd prefer you didn't mention my dad's ass ever again," Hal drawled, riding at her side. "I really don't need that mental image. Walking in on you two last week was scarring enough."

Lyle's guffaw was just the icing on a particularly irksome cake; John cast his closest friend a scathing look before falling back to talk to the locals they'd folded in for this scout instead. One of the pair, a dainty-looking dark-haired chick with no sense of humor and a dead eye with a rifle, had been an accountant in Columbia; she'd helped them mark an anonymous-looking warehouse still half-full of dry goods for a follow-up salvage team that morning, and had had an idea where they might find shelter that night. That had meant taking the 321 north rather than the wider I-77; but given all the givens, that hadn't seemed like the worst idea.

"So — that organic farm you said was up this way. We talking grass-fed beef and free-range eggs, or mostly greenstuff?" he asked the woman: Isabel, who preferred to be called Bell, no second 'e', and had been known to punch first and ask questions later when addressed as Bella. "I only ask, 'cause any animals that might've been there are probably long gone down a Skitter gullet, but if the folks that ran it were the canning type ...."

"Beef and lamb — at least, according to their sales records," Bell confirmed. "But I visited there once or twice; they had a big kitchen garden, and I think they kept a supply of diesel. Might even be medical supplies; the owner wasn't young, and his wife had had a hip replacement. Their kids still helped out, but they lived in Columbia."

Which meant — ninety percent odds the kids had died in the initial bombardment; worse odds than that of the owners surviving the couple of years since without any medical treatment. "The place well-known?"

"Not really," she shook her head. "Other locals that dealt with them directly might've known, but they mostly kept to themselves from what I remember, and they didn't participate in the local farmer's markets or anything."

"Makes a man wonder how many places like this are still out there," Tector mused aloud, dropping back to join them, "just waiting for the scavengers to come through — and how many of 'em will never be found at all. Gotta figure there's what, a hundredth, maybe even less of the original population still alive; a few centuries from now, archaeologists are gonna find all kinds of strange shit just abandoned all across the country."

"Provided they're there to find anything at all," John reminded him, dryly. "Mason might not know the meaning of the word 'quit', but if he ever does run out of luck, ten to one he'll take us all with him. And then it's all over but the crying. The only way the caveman wins the contest between the caveman and the astronaut is if the astronaut doesn't have any weapons. And the Espheni just picked theirs back up."

"You're a joy and an inspiration to us all, Boss. But just so you know, that makes less than five minutes since the last time you mentioned Mason," Lyle cut into the conversation, grinning.

John snarled, prepared to tell the man just where he could stick his commentary — but the woman at his side perked up just then, pointing to a sign up ahead. "That's the turn; a mile and a half up ahead."

"Great. Lyle, why don't you take point? Since you're so eager to exercise your observational skills. And take Tector with you." There'd been no Skitter sign since the outskirts of Columbia, but that was no excuse for sloughing off, and it would get them both out of his hair. "We'll hang back at the turn-off for your signal. Don't dawdle; we only got an hour or so before the sun goes down, and I'd rather not still be out at dusk when the Beamer patrols start to pick back up."

Lyle grumbled, but Tector gave a good-natured chuckle, nudging his horse into a trot. "Will do, Boss."

The rest of them followed at their usual unhurried but sustainable pace, then dismounted in the verge at the junction to stretch their legs and take a closer look at the road surface for signs of recent passage. They'd check in and do another sensor survey of the area when they were settled for the night; no matter how empty the landscape seemed, he'd rather not be distracted in an indefensible position.

Maybe fifteen minutes passed there before John checked the position of the sun again, swiftly sinking in the sky, and turned back to the accountant. "How far past this turn was the farm, again?" he asked, frowning.

"Not far. Half a mile, maybe?" she shrugged. "Two story white house, garage, huge barn just past them, and fields all around; there's no way they could have missed it."

"Probably still checking all the buildings," Hal commented. "Half a mile at a trot, is what, five minutes or so to get there? Yeah, five minutes there, five back, and close enough we would've heard it if one of 'em fired a gun. They gotta still be looking. Which probably means there is something to find."

"Mmm, green beans for dinner tonight. Or corn — or eggplant — or cherry tomatoes," Maggie observed hopefully, rubbing her hands together. "I really never thought I would miss fresh vegetables this much."

"Or pickles," Nico mused, expression distant and faintly rapturous. "I'd trade my last treat-size bag of M'n'M's for a jar of kosher dill pickles. Mmm, mmm, mmm."

"Or black-eyed peas — we are in the South, you know. Lima beans. I'd even take a jar of goddamn Brussels sprouts," Ox said, smacking his lips. "Anything but oatmeal, mystery meat, and pears in syrup. Those omelets just before we left were a real treat. There any truth to the rumors the President's started collecting a herd of cattle in a park somewhere, too? I'd just about kill for a hamburger."

"You're asking me?" John laughed, then jerked his chin at Hal. "Junior'd be a better target for that kind of question, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Hal replied with sour laugh. "I think if you look back, you'll find you've been in the loop about as much as I have for a while now — at least, since he found us after Fitchburg. Not that I could tell why, half the time. Or, well — I guess I do now." He made a face.

"Not everything's about that — though I know it might seem that way at your age," John smirked. "Hell, maybe I should be reassured he valued me for my mind, first. That's certainly been a new one on me."

"Or maybe he just lost his mind," Maggie snarked. "I know which option I'd place my bet on."

Bell stirred, looking back up the narrow, two-lane blacktop that led toward the farm, and eyed the position of the sun again. "They really should have been back by now, though," she interrupted. "The place isn't all that big, and you told them not to dawdle."

"Well, shit. Three days out, and we're already down two guys." John sighed, then whistled to make sure he had everyone's attention. "All right; mount up. We'll dismount just out of sight and storm the place. And if we find 'em in the pantry with their hands in a jar, I swear to God, they'll be on permanent latrine duty."

Honestly, he'd prefer that to any of the likelier options. Anyone that careless in the Second Mass had earned their Darwin award a long damn time ago. But he wouldn't bury 'em before he'd seen the proof.

The first sign they came across was a single horse, cropping the grass at an unhurried pace; it had been tethered off the road a short way back from the farm, sort of shielded from the property by a rusty truck that had been driven into the ditch, saddle scabbard empty and saddlebags long gone. But there was no blood, and no bodies; just Lyle's big placid beast, waiting patiently for its rider. There was no recent Skitter sign, and no hum or stomp of mech feet; the ground wasn't significantly disturbed, and the buildings, viewed from that distance, seemed intact. But Tector's horse wasn't there. And neither were Lyle or Tector.

Except ... John held up a hand to halt the others and squatted down to take a closer look at the ground, then eye the buildings again. The house wasn't only intact, there were signs of grooming around the place. The lawn out front was uniformly short — which, what the hell was the point of cutting your grass in the apocalypse — and there were definite paths through the leaf litter. The shiny bicycle propped up by the lean-to style garage was kind of a clue, too. But the hanging plants were crusty, and most of the windows were dirty; that made him sort of doubt the original residents had stuck around. They tended to have a bit more pride of place.

Someone had been living there; someone human. And given the lack of gunfire, someone clever, too. Someone that had probably bugged out before they'd even got close. But better to play it safe; they could've just moved one of the horses out of sight and planned to leave after dark, left the other to sow confusion.

"Looks like someone's been eating the porridge," he said, voice low and quiet. Then he gestured toward the house. "Hal and Ox, take the back; Nico, Dixon, with me. We'll be going in the front door. Maggie, Bell, check the garage. Jesse, Nate, hold back; watch the horses and the barn just in case."

No one asked any stupid questions, just nodded and moved smoothly and quietly as told, keeping behind cover or under line of sight from the windows wherever possible. Even the temporary members of John's band weren't half bad, though he'd have traded them for Zack and Crazy Lee in a heartbeat. When everyone was in place, he set an ear to the front door, listening; then he stepped back and signaled for entry.

About a minute later, seven Berserkers converged in the kitchen ... only to find no pressing target despite the flickering light of a lamp on the kitchen table. Just two slumped bodies, lit by the low-burning flame. At first glance Lyle and Tector looked dead, pitched over in their seats; John's lip pulled back in a snarl, and a knot of rage threatened to choke him. But then the ropes registered, and the half-empty beer bottles, and he heard the slight whistling undertone that Lyle's breathing picked up during allergy season. It had driven John up a wall too many evenings to mistake; relief washed through him, and he gestured Nico over to them with a jerk of his chin.

The room had obviously been the focal point for whoever had been living there; the half-open door of the pantry showed only a few jars left on expansive shelving, and several open cupboards had obviously been ransacked. There were dishes stacked on every flat surface, and he'd seen the blankets on the living room couch on his way through; there was even a half-full bucket of water by the sink. But whoever had been using it was long gone. Probably a woman; a reasonably attractive person on her own with a little guile and a smooth delivery could sucker a lot of guys into trusting her, or at least discounting her as a threat. And to take both Lyle and Tector down without a struggle? The carrot must have been a damn sight more appealing than the stick.

"Out pretty cold, but they seem OK," Nico pronounced. He reached over to the lamp and turned up the wick without making John ask, shedding a little more light on the subject.

"Drugged, I'd bet," Maggie added, pursing her mouth as she stooped to pick up a prescription bottle that had fallen to the floor beneath the cupboards. "Depending on what they were given, they might wake up in ten minutes — or ten hours. No way to tell."

"But they're not gonna die, right?" Hal asked, looking grim; he and Tector had struck up something of a friendship while both had been running errands for Weaver, if John remembered right.

Maggie gave them both a critical look, then nodded. "Their color's all right, and they're breathing just fine. Though I wouldn't doubt they'll both have pretty nasty headaches when they wake up."

"Guess I'm out of practice being suspicious of open beverages, but I doubt I'd have expected a roofie, either. It's the apocalypse; you'd think people would stop being pointlessly shitty to each other," Bell said, fingering her gun.

"Assholes are still assholes, even after the world ends," Maggie said darkly, tilting her chin up.

She didn't look at John as she said it, but he felt her attention on him just the same, the hatchet between them still only partially buried. Irritation chewed at the back of his mind again; he determinedly kept his mouth shut as he drifted over to open the defunct refrigerator, then whistled lowly at the sight of two and a half more six-packs of bottled beer on the dusty shelves inside. If that wasn't a reward for holding his temper this whole fucking evening, he didn't know what was.

"You know, some people believe what happened three years ago was the Biblical Rapture? And that we're living through the tribulations right now." he mused aloud, retrieving one of the six-packs. "Which would mean, by definition, that no one still alive on this Earth deserves a halo. Now, that's not to say they were asking for it, even if they were dumbasses; but it don't make whoever drugged Lyle and Tec the devil, either. We — all of us — do whatever we think's necessary to survive."

Hal blinked at that, and a suddenly thoughtful expression crossed his face as he glanced toward the front wall of the house. "They could have cut their throats, and didn't. Could've taken both horses, too."

"Fortunately for us, the horse they did take was Tector's, and that horse is just as ornery as Tec is. Here; have a brew, we'll gather up whatever supplies are left, bring the horses up, and camp in the barn, if it's as empty as it looks from outside. If the horse isn't back by moonrise, I'll be very surprised. Probably even money the rider comes back after it; depends on how far they get. And then we'll see what we'll see."

Hal raised a challenging eyebrow as he took one of the bottles. "Not gonna gripe at me about still being nineteen, like you did the last time I came by the Nest to talk to one of my guys?"

"That was in Charleston — and before your old man and I came to an understanding. I somehow doubt I have to worry about him yanking my liquor license anymore," John rolled his eyes. "Mags?"

Maggie shook her head, then jerked a thumb toward the door. "I'll just go get Jesse and Nate and the horses. I'll take any applesauce you find, though?"

"Yes ma'am," Ox half-saluted her, then took a bottle and headed for the remains of the pantry.

"I'll keep watch out back," Nico offered, taking a bottle as well. "I thought I saw a tool shed back there, anyway; might be worth tagging this place for salvage, too, even with most of the food gone."

John raised an eyebrow, then offered two of the remaining three bottles in the six-pack to their local guides. "One of you want to untie these geniuses and make sure they don't choke in their sleep?"

Bell and Dixon glanced at each other, then threw a quick game of tick, tick, boom — the Second Mass version of rock, paper, scissors. "Damn," Bell said, looking at the results. "All right, I'll do it."

"Dix, scan the ground floor. See if there's anything we can use? I'll be upstairs."

"Oh, and don't forget the garage," Bell added. "I checked on my way through; there's enough cans of diesel out there to fill a truck bed. We might should stack 'em out of sight, but there's enough to be worth the partial tank to fetch 'em from Charleston, for sure."

"That oughtta make Weaver happy," John agreed. Then he shook his head at Tector and Lyle again and headed for the stairs with the last of the six-pack. A quick search, then a call to Charleston; he wasn't looking forward to the report, but as mission disasters went, this one actually could've been a whole lot worse.

He could only hope the next few days to Charlotte were as quiet. He had a feeling tonight's little adventure would be nothing next to tackling one of those fences again.

The bedrooms upstairs were in about the same condition Mason's had been when he and Tom had crashed there on their way back from the Boston tower: at least twice picked over, with no attempt made to clean up afterward. The debris of a long life, well-lived, mingled with the frozen daydreams of teenagers long gone. John picked up a half-deflated pigskin from the floor of a room decorated with black and gold banners, and wondered if he should hand it to Hal to give his kid brother. Or, hell, maybe John should save it to give to the kid himself; Matt had been a little standoffish since John had stopped being the mentor his dad disapproved of and started sleeping with Tom instead. John had never done the sorta-stepkid thing before; he was more or less winging it, here.

...Or maybe it would just be better to leave well enough alone. He already had the alien one calling him Uncle John; the last thing he needed was Maggie realizing that that would make him her step-parent-adjacent-inlaw-type-whatever as well and raising hell about it with Hal and his dad.

John snorted at the thought, tossing the ball up and down in his hand, then threw it toward the small pile of blankets and such he'd folded up to put with the salvageable supplies. One of the linen cabinets had been properly mothballed, and it had reminded him of that empty house back in Charleston; call it doing his part for the public works committee. Not that he'd ever been, or ever would be, the picket fence type.

Christ, what was he doing, thinking about the Masonets in that context? He was barely managing to communicate with his own actual kid, and co-parenting the various offspring was one of those coupley romantic milestones he'd expected they'd mutually avoid. John shook his head, then picked the room farthest from the stairs and fired up the Volm communicator.

The connection was a lot clearer than the radios, and more secure, too; Tom had confirmed with Cochise that the Espheni couldn't intercept the small device's transmissions. John took a few minutes to go over the route and read off the coordinates for the supplies they'd spotted that day, then passed on the news about the scavenger. Lyle had woken and confirmed it had been a blonde chick, maybe fortyish, who hadn't wanted to listen to anything they'd tried to tell her — though she'd seemed more desperate than cruel.

"Anyway, if she's been holed up here for months, not so much as visiting the barn, I somehow doubt she's an experienced horsewoman. Tector's demon on hooves ought to find its way back sometime tonight, and we'll be on our way in the morning. Couple more days to Charlotte, and we'll get a look at what's going on there."

"But other than your scavenger, it's been quiet?" Tom asked, a certain tension in his voice it took John a second to identify as worry.

"Yeah, don't worry; Hal and Maggie are doin' fine. Except for the perpetual argument on what they want to do after the war — but that's nothing new. How're things back in Charleston?"

"Oh, same old, same old. The engineers took one of those obelisks apart; they're pretty sure the things share power somehow when they're active, which is why they all went dead at once. Made more than a few of them start freaking out about sufficiently advanced technology again, and living in a scifi novel. It basically means that as long as one's plugged in, the whole fence is, which will make taking a whole one down a little harder. The next project's going to be bringing in any pieces they can find of the downed Beamers; maybe there'll be a way we can harness the technology they use to hover."

Tom paused there to clear his throat. "And on a more personal note — Lexie's fever broke."

"And how big is the princess now?" John asked, frowning; he'd have thought Tom would sound happier.

"Pretty close to Tanya's age, we think. Younger than Ben, older than Matt." Tom sighed, then continued, more subdued. "Rebecca always wanted four, you know; two pairs so they'd never be alone if they didn't want to be, and there'd always be someone on their side. But after Matt, when she found the lump — well, between the treatments and the risk, there weren't going to be any more. If Anne's idea works, and Lexie stays this age ...."

He trailed off there, which was just as well; most of John's successes at offering comfort tended to involve a lot more touch than talk. "Bet Tanya's pleased," he said, neutrally.

Tom took a deep breath, then let it out; John wondered if it was just his imagination that it sounded relieved. "Yeah; they're becoming pretty good friends. Tanya's been reading Watership Down to her and Matt; I found out a few nights ago. She's got this battered paperback she's been lugging around since Florida, and Matt saw it and got curious, so it's turned into sort of a reading circle."

"She's still got that old thing, huh?" John perked up at the thought. He hadn't had a chance to give Tanya many gifts after she'd reached the age where you could actually talk to a kid about something meaningful; besides which, she'd been the younger of his pair, and the girl, which meant he hadn't had much idea how to relate to her. It was good to know she still remembered some positive things from that age. "Hey, do you think, maybe ...."

Tom snorted. "We're never telling Dan I let you use sensitive military hardware like a cell phone, but ... since I happen to know she's off shift eating dinner with Lourdes right now ...." He trailed off, and John heard muffled, distant words. Then he was back. "I sent a sentry to get her; I'll show her how to work the comm."

John swallowed past the knot of emotion in his throat. "And then back to your lonely bed. You sure you don't want to really give these things a workout? You could always call me back in a while ...."

"John! I am not going to have phone sex on a Volm frequency; I wouldn't put it past some of Cochise's colleagues to be monitoring it just to make sure the indigenes aren't misusing their technology," Tom said, audible exasperation burning away the last of the melancholy undertone to his words.

"Cochise's dad, you mean. Might give him a thrill to listen in; God knows he seems to need one," John replied, unrepentant. "But maybe it's for the best. I gotta take watch in a couple of hours anyway; I'll let you know what happens with the scavenger."

"Yeah, and — hey, she's here," Tom said distractedly. "Love you. Hey, Tanya, it's your dad ...."

There wasn't time for a response; truthfully, John wasn't even sure Tom knew he'd said it, or that he'd meant to say it in the first place. But the jolt that went through him at those words stayed with him during the rest of the conversation with his daughter, and long into the witching hour, like a burr in the back of his mind.

As it happened, the horse did not, in fact, show up before sunrise. John started out the day short-tempered and annoyed from the inconvenience and the lack of sleep when Lyle shook him awake from a cold bed, and his mood didn't improve much over a breakfast of travel biscuits paired with pickled okra the scavenger hadn't had a use for while he unfolded the map and compared times and distances with what the Volm scout bugs had picked up. There was no help for it; they couldn't risk doubling anyone up if they had to move quickly, it would tax the horses. Someone would have to stay behind, either to wait for the salvage crew from Charleston or make their way back using the abandoned bicycle.

Bell volunteered; John would miss her sass, but they'd already mostly passed her area of guide expertise, and she was more than capable of taking care of herself, so he gave her the nod. Then the rest of them loaded up and headed out, skirting Winnsboro and taking Route 200 back toward the asphalt river of I-77 running north.

They'd just reached a crossing with another two-lane road the signs called the Mobley Highway that was marked with a 20 on the map, when the faint sounds of cursing and an annoyed, neighing horse improved John's day a little. Off to the west arm of the crossing, cleared fields led toward what looked like another family farm, marked by a couple of barn-sized buildings and a rusting graveyard of tractors. A couple hundred yards down that branch of the road, a slight, blonde-haired form stood in the weedy verge, wrestling with the reins of Tector's horse.

He assumed she'd been trying to get it to move in a farmlike direction, though by the looks of things she'd been at it for awhile. She was smeared with grass and dirt from ass to elbows from her initial slip from the saddle, and her knees were showing through holes in her jeans, but she was still trying; there was a lot of waving arms, alternately cajoling and threatening tones, and furious body posture going on. John smirked, slung his rifle across his lap, then gestured to the others to form up on him and head in her direction.

She didn't run when she heard them coming, just made one last swipe for the horse's reins, then tipped her chin up and squared her shoulders in their direction, clutching a shotgun in her arms. "Back off!" she yelled. "You come any closer, and someone's gonna get shot! You really think you can take me before I hit one of you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," John drawled in reply, though he held up a hand to bring the group to a halt just far enough away not to crowd her. "Tector, the guy whose horse you stole? He don't miss, and he can tag you from a lot further out than this. And he's just a little bit pissed at the performance you put on back at the farm."

The woman set her jaw, eyes sparking with trapped fury, but lowered the muzzle of the shotgun. "Yeah, well, you tell me what you'd have done in my place. One girl, two dangerous-looking guys who say there's another half-dozen of you back up the road, not enough food left in the cupboards to be worth fighting over, and two big beautiful horses just waiting for a feminine touch. In my book? That's finders, keepers."

Up close, the woman was more or less what John had been expecting: a tough, smart cookie who was doing her best to maximize her assets. She had long, dark blonde hair with a few threads of grey that she was still making the effort to keep brushed smooth, and wore a heavy brown suede jacket with a fur lining, a pair of fingerless gloves, a black shirt appliquéd with a silver skull, and fraying black jeans tucked into sturdy boots. The shirt was a v-neck, flirting close enough to her cleavage to make it interesting if she bent forward, and there was quite a bit of fire in her personality; yeah, he could see how she'd managed to take Lyle and Tector off guard.

"Adverse property laws only apply to properties deliberately abandoned by their owners — for at least a decade, at a minimum," John told her, amused by her pluck. "I don't think that argument's going to cut it, in this case. And I wouldn't advise trying for the nine-tenths argument, either; given that there's ten of us and only one of you, it should be pretty obvious this is one of those one-tenth situations."

"Are you kidding me with this?" she said, then glanced behind him, unerringly fixing her attention on Maggie, the lone woman among the scout troop with Bell left back at the farm. "Does this guy speak for all of you, or just the assholes? I'm not gonna let you guys just leave me out here for the aliens! Surely you can spare a horse for a woman in a jam? I don't see anyone here who needs one, anyway!"

"That would be because we had to leave one of our group behind this morning," Maggie replied, unimpressed. "Don't look to me for sympathy. I appreciate your concern for your personal safety — believe me, I do — but poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on ours."

"Yeah, we left our resident bleeding hearts behind in Charleston. If you head that way, they might even take you in," John allowed. They probably would, too; Mason might have turned out to be a dyed-in-the-wool pragmatist underneath the surface optimism, but the heroic image persisted for a reason. Second chances were a big thing with him. "It's a town of several thousand now, I'm sure they could find some use for — whatever it is you do."

She gave a bitter laugh. "Graphic designer for a company that sold water-resistant cell phone cases? Yeah, I don't think so. Like I'd believe it anyway; I'd be surprised if there were several thousand human beings left in the whole country, never mind one town. You're the most people I've seen all at once in months."

"What, you haven't heard of the New United States?" Hal spoke up then, frowning. "I thought Manchester and Bressler sent scouts all through this area before we even got here, and Charleston's almost doubled in population since."

"Are those names supposed to mean something to me?" she shook her head, scoffing.

"Never mind him," John sighed, tired of the conversation. "His daddy's the President, so he's a little proud. Now, if you'll just step away from the horse, we'll leave you your personal possessions and a few days' worth of ... huh."

He trailed off there, suddenly on edge and not entirely certain why; maybe the silence that had fallen in a bubble all around them, maybe the sway of a branch, maybe a muffled metallic scrape, but he was abruptly certain they weren't alone anymore. Which had to be deliberate, because the drones hadn't caught any patrols for miles.

"Boss?" Tector said sharply, turning to the wooded side of the road with his handgun at the ready. The big Volm rifle they'd brought along was still attached to the saddle of his horse, but it hadn't impaired his instincts any. Lyle, Ox, and the others took their cue from him and came to alert as well, alarming the scavenger, who shied back closer to the horse.

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on here, guys?" she said, holding up her hands, the one empty and the other carefully pointing the shotgun toward the sky.

"What's going on is that you went stumbling around in the dark last night drawing attention, and might've led us straight into an ambush," John replied, tersely. "Tec, if there's mechs around ...."

"On it," Tector nodded, and swung out of the saddle, tossing the reins of Bell's horse to Nate.

"Wait, you aren't really going to just leave me?" the scavenger objected, eyes wide as she immediately shifted to put herself between Tector and the horse.

"Get out of my way, lady, I need that rifle if I'm gonna ... aw, shit!" Tector thrust her behind him as the kudzu veiling the wall of close-planted pines along that part of the highway suddenly tore like a curtain opening onto a battle scene: Intrant Skitters.

The next few minutes were pure chaos. Tector got to the horse in time to pull the rifle on the first mech to bowl over the rusting machinery it had been hiding behind and draw a bead on the group, then heaved the scavenger up to Lyle, who easily sheltered her against him with one arm while firing at Skitters with the other. John got the rest of them porcupined up and riding for a defensible position — any defensible position — post-haste, Maggie and Hal shoulder to shoulder with him in place of Tector and Lyle, while Ox, Dixon and Nico had their backs. Jesse and Nate, the least experienced, aimed from the center of the moving circle, guiding the empty-saddled horse.

If there'd been more than just a couple of the Mega-mechs, or if Tector hadn't been on the ball, John doubted they'd have been able to escape so easily. But no Espheni could have reasonably predicted who they'd catch in their improvised back-country cordon, and a whole mess of dead Skitters later the group finally broke contact somewhere in the woods to the east of Route 200.

John called them to a halt again to listen for a minute; then he gave permission to reload, check for wounds, and maybe wash off the worst of the mess in the little slow-moving creek they'd used to disguise their trail. Widely spaced trees marched along its banks, crowded with ankle-high greenery that the horses nipped at as they cooled down, and the brown water rippled listlessly around downed, rotting branches. For a miracle, only one of the Berserkers had an injury worth noting; Ox had taken a Skitter claw across the back that had torn through jacket and shirt down to dark skin and left a long, shallow, sluggishly bleeding gash across his spine. The rest, including the horses, mainly had a random assortment of scrapes, bruising, and a heated graze or two from mechfire.

The scavenger woman came to a halt on the bank of the stream and just stood there for the first few minutes, arms wrapped tightly around herself as she stared around at the rest of them. She shook her head at offers of both damp rags and a bottle of water in favor of watching them work, tight-lipped and silent, but she wasn't pale or visibly bleeding, so John left her to herself for a minute in favor of wrapping up a scratched wrist. Then he helped Ox tear up his wrecked shirt for bandage material and ease a fresh Henley over his head.

She'd found her self-possession again by the time he was ready to deal with her, just as stubborn as before, but maybe a little less angry. She finally took water from Lyle, who stared her down with a challenging expression until she ducked her head and acquiesced, then finally picked her way along the bank to John.

"Uh, hi, by the way," she said, thrusting a hand in his direction. "My name's Sara."

One of those, then; whether from privacy or a desire to leave the past behind, a lot of people had defaulted to mononyms once civilization stopped keeping track of them. John had never quite seen the point.

"Well, hello, Sara," he replied, giving her hand a brief, polite shake. "John Pope. You can call me Pope."

She cleared her throat. "Nice to meet you, uh, Pope ... no, sorry, I can't call you that. It's just that the word makes me picture the robes, and the, the ...." She laughed a little, gesturing over her head in illustration of a miter. "Sorry! I hope you don't mind, but I think I'm gonna have to call you John."

John raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, wondering where this was going. "Call me whatever you like, as long as you don't attack any more of my people. Look, the thing is — by the time you could get back to the farmhouse, the team from Charleston will have probably already been and gone with the supplies that were left. The fishheads will probably pick up their patrols on these roads, too, after they lost those two mechs. That means we can't leave you here either, not if it might tip 'em off what direction we're going. So what you're gonna do is hand your weapons over to Lyle, ride with us a day or two on the spare until we do what we've come to do at Charlotte, and then we'll let you go, wherever you want, so long as it's on our route. Understood?"

She nodded, then looked down at the water bottle in her hands, fiddling with it. "I've never — I've never fought those things before, only run and hid from them. And it's been more than a year since I even had to do that much. Do you think you could maybe give me some pointers on what to do while I'm tagging along?"

The angle of her body toward his suggested she might have something other than fighting in mind when she mentioned pointers. John didn't fault her for the reaction; but her timing left a little to be desired.

"Tell you what, if you can talk Lyle or Tector into helping? You can ask 'em whatever you want," he shrugged. "I do want your word, though, that you're not going to try taking off again, for both our safety and yours."

"Yes sir, general sir," she said, wryly. Then she took a step or two closer, lowering her voice a little as her smile turned more coy. "You are the leader of this motley bunch, right? So, assuming this city you all come from is about as imaginary as it turns out your alien-fighting skills are — where do you fit into the hierarchy?"

Maggie had been crouched down by the stream bank rinsing Skitter blood from her knife; she looked up at Sara's oh-so-innocent question and snorted, saving him the effort of trying to find some even more discouraging response that wouldn't send her stomping off into the trees. "We'd all kind of like to know that ourselves," she said, dryly. "Neither 'proprietor of the Nest' nor 'President's boyfriend' show up on the official org charts, and the responsibilities attached to 'leader of the Berserkers' seem to vary by the day."

Sara blinked, then blinked again and took a breath, still smiling. "That sounds ... complicated," she said gamely, and John's respect for her sheer balls went up another notch. She might be inexperienced at fighting, but she sure had spirit; had he still been single and hard-up when he came across her, he might actually have been tempted. Women weren't impossible, just not usually to his taste.

"...Except for the 'proprietor' part," she continued, cocking her head to one side. "So what's this Nest, then? Restaurant? Bar? ...Bookstore?"

"Bar," he nodded, then jerked his head toward Lyle. "Lyle and I run the place; found a couple of guys that knew a thing or two about brewing. Figured people would need a place to blow off steam even more after the end of the world. Plus, it passes the time when we're not out here." He gestured vaguely at the surrounding woods.

"Sounds like my kind of place," Sara said, maintaining her smile as she backed off a step, then another, angling herself downstream. "I'll be sure to stop by sometime — assuming, you know, this whole Charleston thing turns out to be real. So, I think I'm just gonna see if I can get this blood off my jacket ..." She jerked her thumb behind her, then turned and walked away at a nonchalant, not-too-hurried pace.

Maggie snorted again, watching her go, and John gave her the evil eye. "What was that all about?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, and the expression on her face was what one might charitably call judgmental. "That woman was hitting on you, and you were letting her," she said. "So I enlightened her."

Ah, Mags. It wasn't the first time she'd stuck her nose into his relationship with Tom; he ought to have been expecting that. It wasn't just that Tom was her boyfriend's father, either; he'd been the catalyst for a world-shattering change in her life for the better, and that degree of deferential respect was not easy to shake.

"And just which part bugged you more?" he sneered, crossing his arms. "Sara for latching onto me as the most attractive option present? Or me for trying to find a way to let her down easy? The woman's upset enough already, I didn't want to push her into bolting again and blabbing to the first fishhead to crack her skull open."

Maggie's lip curled a little. "Oh, is that the reason. Sure you're not coming down with a case of wandering eye? I might not think much of her taste, but she and Tom both deserve better."

"As if deserving's got much to do with it," John scoffed at the notion. "It's the end of the world, Maggie May, and niceties like 'falling in love' or holding out for the perfect partner are a first world luxury. Hell, a twentieth century luxury; ask the Professor sometime, if you don't believe me. The dating pool's a damn sight smaller than it used to be, and the needs people bring into relationships have a lot more to do with survival than making the heart go pitter-pat. A vulnerable woman like Sara, with her looks? Of course she's going to latch on to the first guy she meets who she thinks is more likely to protect her than rape her."

Maggie's expression darkened at that; John held up a hand. "Yeah, exactly. I might've fallen down on the job on the protection front before, but the impulse wasn't wrong. It's human nature to find someone who seems good enough and settle, especially with threat of death or worse always hanging over your shoulder."

She seemed to read something more into that than he'd intended, because a little of the curdled anger seeped out of her scowl, replaced by something more speculative. "You think Tom's settling. What need could you possibly meet for him that would make him throw Anne over in your favor, if not love?"

"He thinks it's love, probably because he never really had the chance to grieve for his wife, and anything less would be an insult to her memory." He'd put some thought into it since the comm transmission the night before. "And none of your damn business. But ask yourself this: what need is Hal looking to meet with you now that he's out of the wheelchair his last girlfriend put him in? Spoiler alert: judging by the arguments I've been overhearing, it may involve baby Masons and white picket fences."

"And that is none of your business," she spat back, a muscle jumping in her jaw. Then she turned and stalked abruptly away in the direction Sara had gone, undoubtedly to congratulate her on her narrow escape.

John just shook his head. In his opinion, the fact that Tom had consistently clung harder every time John gave him proof he wasn't going away, said a lot about which stage of the self-actualization pyramid Rebecca's death, several near-death experiences with his children, and Anne's defection — however temporary — had stranded the Professor on, and it wasn't the halfway-up 'love and belonging' strata. If he wanted to delude himself about it, though, John had no intention of bringing it to his attention; it just so happened that Tom was meeting a few rather foundational needs of John's own.

John blew out a breath, then started the process of herding everyone back together again. The sooner they put this particular patch of Espheni-controlled territory behind them, the better.

They skulked in the woods just out of sight of the interstate for the remainder of the day; it slowed them down further, but also kept them out of sight of any pursuit, so John considered it a fair trade. Beamers couldn't sense them, mechs couldn't reach them, and Skitters wouldn't know where to look. They stopped for the night in an abandoned, half-fallen-down church just off one of the freeway's exits, and headed out toward Charlotte again early the next morning.

Sara, John was unsurprised to note, had first apologized to and then needled Lyle to see if he'd retaliate for the drugging incident; she obviously had a keen sense of human hierarchy. He wished her luck; Lyle hadn't taken anyone on since Crazy Lee's death, as far as he could tell. Maggie, on the other hand, was a perfect little gloomcloud, even around Hal. Neither situation threatened the mission, though, so he chose to leave well enough alone.

They passed two more Skitter and mech patrols that last day, one on I-77 and one on the ringroad, the I-485 loop. Finding a way around the massive dual-highway interchange and crossing the creek on the other side took more than a little time and ingenuity to accomplish; John was muddy to the thigh and the sun was low again by the time they were finally past those obstacles and hunkered down in an old business park paralleling the northbound freeway. He'd decided to send the drones out one more time before proceeding; they only had a couple, but it shouldn't take more to find the fences and check out the setup. He'd caught sight of a green glow the night before, but hadn't wanted to press at that distance.

According to Mason, who'd looked it up in one of Manchester's books, the city had held at least three quarters of a million people before the Espheni arrived; John had no idea how many might've survived until the fence went up, but there had definitely been enough to make it worth their while to site a prison there, as Mason had guessed. He couldn't get a good look from beyond the green hatchwork of the fence, but he could see enough to extrapolate based on the size of the area inside; there had to be several hundred people in there, minimum. No kids among 'em, except a few babes in arms, which tallied with Cochise's report, but not many senior citizens, either. Just the healthy, the lucky ... and those who knew how best to take advantage, like John.

"What is that," Sara said, staring at the miniaturized holographic images displayed by the Volm interface.

"Prison fence," Tector told her, tersely. "Espheni tried to put one up around Charleston, too, but we chased 'em off before they could finish. Lost some damn good men doin' it. That's why we're out here — to try and find out what they're doin' in there before they come for us, again. Free these people, if we can swing it; but we'll probably have to make another trip. Got a mission to run up in Virginia, too."

"You aren't actually going to go there, are you?" she said, rather faintly.

"Can't see what we need to see from all the way out here," John shrugged at her. "Don't worry, we'll stop a little short and leave someone with the horses; you can hang back there, too. Wouldn't want you there anyway; you barely know which end of the shotgun to point at the enemy."

The calculated insult put her back up immediately. "Hey! I may not have killed any of those things, but I kept myself safe for over two years — your guys weren't the first to find me and think they had a right to something of mine," she said, tipping her chin up. "Maybe it's about time I started sticking it to the real enemy."

John chuckled to himself and lifted an eyebrow at Lyle. "You willing to keep an eye on her?"

The big man shrugged, but he didn't look displeased. "Whatever you say, Boss."

"All right then, sweetheart; a nighttime stroll it is. We're about nine miles back from the fence; looks like they dropped it around most of Uptown. Not a hell of a lot of greenery in that part of town, but there are a few neighborhood parks, according to the map." He unfolded the paper accordion with the little blown-up city inset someone had looted from an abandoned convenience store, and spread it out for everyone to take a look, tracing a callused fingertip around the loop of the city center. "We'll stop there, sneak in on foot, make contact with someone on the inside if we can. Goal is to find whatever the hell it is that's powering the fence."

Hal frowned thoughtfully down at the road grid, eyes scanning over the yellow lines of freeway, the little patches of green, and the notations for the Charlotte Hornets and the convention center. "Why did they put it there, do you think? Can't be because that many people actually lived there — the downtown grid was mostly bombed to hell in the bigger cities. The few skyscrapers that aren't rubble in the streets are probably unsound as hell, and the biggest green patches in there are in the cemeteries. Why not a residential district, the golf course maybe, somewhere people could grow their own food? They've got to be feeding them; no way they aren't starving otherwise, and they have to want them for something if they're going to all this trouble."

Nico shook his head. "Every time your dad sends out a scavenging party, he tells us 'Bullets before food before fuel before entertainment'. Prisoners don't get weapons. The next most basic need they can control is food."

"Exactly," John pointed at him. "They want people uncomfortable and constantly hungry, fighting each other for whatever does get dropped in. That way their prisoners aren't banding together and fighting back. Nobody ever said the Espheni were stupid."

"Nah, just kind of like Voldemort on a mass scale," Hal snorted. "Vulnerable only to the power he knows not. Never thought Dad's nighttime reading with Ben would ever actually be relevant to my life."

"It still isn't," John scoffed, remembering taking Brandon to one of the movies; he'd been treated to an impromptu lecture afterward on everything his son thought was silly in the series. "Unless you think it's a valid life choice to defend the bad guy to death after he's already on the verge of winning it all. I'd kinda prefer to kick the Espheni off the planet before things get that far."

"Are you ... seriously drawing a comparison to Harry Potter, here?" Sara blinked at both of them, astonished.

"Yeah, he's not up to his dad's level of historical analogies quite yet, I'm afraid," John grinned at Hal, earning another highly annoyed look from the teenage warrior. "Keep practicing, though, Junior."

"All right, enough talk; are we gonna get out there, or what?" Maggie braced the heels of her hands against the pearl handles of her revolvers, tucked securely in their underarm holsters. "Time's a'wasting."

"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," John drawled, earning another eyeroll from her as he folded up the map. "As soon as your boyfriend calls the drones back in, we'll go. Pack it up, boys and girls!"

Wet and muddy and tired they might be; but it was finally time to rock and roll.

It turned out to be a very good thing they had snuck up in person. One thing the drone's eye view hadn't shown him was that the duplicate of the big Espheni ship they'd seen on the horizon back in Charleston was tethered to the ground here in Charlotte, behaving more like a blimp than a spaceship as it slowly circled over the fenced area ... and that the tether came down in very close proximity to one of the obelisks.

"I think we done found the power source," Tector said grimly, scanning the ship and its connection to the ground with the scope of his rifle. "Don't know where the ship's getting its power, but it's definitely usin' what it's got to run the fence. And there don't seem to be much in the way of patrols looking outward, apart from a few watchtowers — those alien assholes are too busy makin' the prisoners' lives hell, instead."

"More of an internment camp, then, than a regular prison," Hal wrinkled his nose, following Tector's gaze with a pair of field glasses. "Getting a little too World War II up in here for comfort — though I guess that's probably the point. Dad said when he was up in that ship with the Espheni before, they talked about setting aside protected areas for any humans who surrendered — made it sound all idyllic and shit. This must be what that concept looks like when it's at home."

"No flies on Tom Mason, no sir," John drawled.

"Something else they overlooked this time; the rail line goes right under the fence, next to the tether. Look. Even if we don't get tracks for the BFG this trip, we can probably still use it to take this motherfucker down. Shoot the ship, which conveniently can't get away; short out the tether; take down the fence," Tector pointed out.

John took the field glasses Hal handed him and followed Tec's gestures, easily noting the same features, even on a dark night with only a thumbnail crescent of moon visible in the sky. The fence made its own eerie floodlamp zone, rendering the area by the fence a no-man's-land that they wouldn't be crossing without a lot more scouting to map out the alien patrols. But it did make it easier to pick out the relevant details. Like how the only Skitters he'd seen since the last patrol they'd ducked out on the I-485 were the ones inside the fence with the prisoners.

"Gonna get ugly when we do," Maggie agreed, hovering behind Hal. "But yeah, it's doable."

"You folks are all fucking crazy," Sara murmured lowly, shaking her head at them all. "You seriously think you could take that thing down?"

"You ain't seen the grid gun yet," Lyle told her. "We were there when they fired it the last time. Taking it down's gonna be easy. Saving the people's gonna be the hard part."

"It always is," John sighed. "Okay then, boys and girls. Hal, Mags, Ox, Tector, follow the line of the I-77; we'll go right around the loop, check for weak points or anything else our esteemed President might want to know. It doesn't look like we'll get a chance to talk to anyone on the inside this time, so make note of everything you see. We'll camp for the night somewhere on the other side; Jesse, Dix and Nate will meet us with the horses."

Everyone murmured agreement, even Sara, and they moved out with determined faces and quiet feet, in macro echo of the assault on the farmhouse two evenings before. Too bad everyone in Charleston wasn't up to Berserker standards, or there'd be no stopping them; as it was, they'd yet to come up against an obstacle they couldn't eventually overcome. It was a good feeling; almost enough to make him believe Mason was right.

About the war, that is; not about Tom being a part-alien threat to Charleston. And even if he was — John was a selfish son-of-a-bitch, and they had Volm stun technology now.

John shook his head as that prickly issue finally settled itself in the back of his mind, and moved out, trailing Lyle, Nico, and Sara in his wake like a band of deadly ducklings in the dark.

The next morning, they set out for the next potential fence site, Greensboro, after reporting in — and after, to no one's surprise, Sara announced her intention to keep tagging along after all. It was a wrench to leave without doing anything else, but even Pope's Berserkers weren't crazy enough to kick over that massive of an anthill without a flamethrower backing them up. Or even a bomb; but they were all out of TNT.

The surprise came maybe an hour down the road to the north. John was pretty damn familiar with it between the original trek down from Boston and his and Mason's weary journey after the plane crash. It hadn't quite occurred to him, though, until the moment he caught sight of another group headed their way, that Keystone, West Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina, were roughly equidistant from Charlotte, North Carolina.

The strangers were moving in a mix of surplus military vehicles and bicycle-powered transports, and about three quarters of the group wore military uniforms. But the two officers at the head of the group were blonde, fresh-faced, and female — and one of them was more than a little familiar. Lieutenant Fisher.

They'd set out partially to find the other President, but Hathaway's coterie had come to them.

Whatever that portended ... John didn't flatter himself that it was anything good.

>> Parts 5 & 6

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30	31

Fic: Now That the Dawn Has Come, 2/5 (R; Falling Skies; Mason/Pope)

Fic: Now That the Dawn Has Come, 2/5 (R; Falling Skies; Mason/Pope)

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