To all my architects, let me be traitor
Now let me say I myself gave the order
To sleep and to search and to destroy -
Yes, you who are broken by power,
You who are absent all day,
You who are kings for the sake of your children's story,
The hand of your beggar is burdened down with money;
The hand of your lover is clay.
Into this furnace I ask you now to venture,
You whom I cannot betray.

--"The Old Revolution," Leonard Cohen


IRENICON: Book Eleven

I.


Everything for the next generation, her parents used to say.

Irina had spent her life trying not to take anyone's word on faith - and yet, somehow, she had accepted her parents' words without question. Twenty-five years of looking to her daughters for answers had probably strengthened the lesson as well.

For whatever reason, she had spent the previous two months believing utterly that Sydney's daughter would provide the cure for the Rain of Gold. That the plagues could be stopped before the damage became completely irreparable, that millions or billions of lives could be saved. That the mistake she'd made a quarter-century ago could still be undone. Now she cursed herself for falling prey to such optimism.

Irina, of all of them, ought to have known the cruelty of putting such expectations upon a child. If Sarah did not yet know of their disappointment, Sydney did, and she had spent the first two weeks of her child's life in tears.

"How am I supposed to protect her?" Sydney had whispered last night, as Irina cuddled her granddaughter against her chest. "I can't believe I thought somebody so tiny was going to protect anybody else."

"You'll take care of her. You'll find a way, and we'll help you," Irina had replied, winding one of Sarah's wispy curls of hair around her fingers. To distract Sydney, she'd laughed. "Look at this. I think Sarah has inherited her dadushka's curly hair."

"Poor baby," Jack had said, leaning over Irina's shoulder to rub Sarah's cheek. Sarah had turned toward his fingers, seeking nourishment. Sydney had smiled, and for a moment they had all been a family - but a family lying to themselves and to each other, swaddling the baby's safety in meaningless platitudes that could not hold the Rain of Gold at bay.

Rambaldi's touch destroyed everything. It always had. As she lay in Jack's bed, refusing to get up and face the morning, Irina envisioned the pages of the Rambaldi manuscripts, wondering if perhaps the ink was a kind of poison that seeped through his readers' fingertips.

Enough of this, Irina thought. Sydney needs you.

Exhausted, she stood up, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep from her. Jack had been awake for at least an hour; by now he was probably harrying the unfortunate Marshall, trying to shake forth a cure where there was none. It was long past time for her to go to her daughter.

Her body ached with exhaustion. Little wonder, as she'd hardly slept. She and Jack held each other at night, not dreaming, not resting, merely hanging on.

Irina splashed water on her face and then glanced into the mirror, where her bloodshot eyes stared back.

She stumbled against the bathroom wall, recognizing her body's weariness and discomfort at last. The linoleum on the floor was unnaturally cold against her feet - no, her skin was unnaturally warm. Fever.

So this is the face it wears, Irina thought. The Rain of Gold.

Slowly, she walked back to bed. Irina had prided herself upon having a solution for any problem, no matter what - but they now all knew there was no solution for this. Even going to fetch that obnoxious doctor would involve walking among her family, perhaps infecting them, if she hadn't done so already. Jack, Nadia, Sydney, Sarah - her terror for them swallowed up her own mortal fear. Never before had Irina responded to a crisis as she did now, by swaddling herself in blankets and lying in silence. She would have done something else if there were anything else to do.

The cabin door opened some time later; immediately, Irina called, "Don't come in!"

After a pause, she heard Jack's voice. "Is something wrong?"

Irina turned over and looked at him. Jack's recognition, instantaneous, made his face go white.

"This is impossible. You should be immune."

"So should Katya," Irina said. "Blood ties don't protect us. Nothing protects any of us but the laws of probability. Most of us - most of you will live. But I won't."

Ignoring her warning, Jack was at her side in three steps, his hand firm around her arm. "I don't accept that." He would never accept it, Irina knew, not until he saw her dead body. Perhaps not even then. Her stubborn Jack.

"I'm not giving up yet." It was true; she would fight as long and as hard as she could. But Irina could fight without hope. She'd done it before.

His free hand brushed her forehead, and she watched his expression register the burn of her temperature. Then he pressed his fingers against her neck, checking her pulse. Even these utilitarian touches moved her, but she tried again to push him away. "You should stay out of here. Leave this between me and the doctor. Isolation is the obvious next step."

"You've spent considerable time in close contact with everyone aboard ship. Containment is not an option." That was Jack's way of saying he wouldn't leave her.

But - close contact. She'd held Sarah in her arms just last night. What if she had -

No. Irina would believe in her granddaughter's safety. She had to.

Jack was still at her side, but his expression was distant. She could see him questioning, calculating, trying to devise a plan that would save her despite everything. Another man might have held her and comforted her; Jack would bleed himself dry trying to find a solution. Irina only hoped he would not risk his own health. For him, she tried to put her plight in perspective - revealing her final secret at last. "Rambaldi wrote about me centuries ago. You've known that for a long time. But didn't you ever ask yourself why he never wrote about anything besides the children I'd bear?"

"No." Jack's grip tightened around her arm, as though he were trying to keep her from slipping away.

"I always knew that was the last role I had to play, Jack. Nothing else after that has mattered - not in the grand scheme of things. I always knew that, after the Rain of Gold came to pass, I would die. For a long time I thought it would be by my own hand, or in a fight. I imagined my death in a thousand faces, but I never thought it would be this."

"You knew - you believed you were going to die?" Jack would obviously have been angry with her if he had been less devastated. "Why didn't you say something?"

"What good would it have done? It would only have hurt you, and with Rambaldi - nothing ever changes." She breathed in deeply, trying to absorb the scent of his skin. "My part in Rambaldi's future is over."

**

II.


"Don't tell me to stay calm. My mother's dying, not to mention who knows how many other people. This is not a time for calm."

Vaughn crossed "Stay calm" off of the mental list of things to say to Sydney. "We're working on a plan," "This isn't your fault" and "Let's try to stay constructive" had all met similar fates.

He sat on the bed, Sarah dozing on his shoulder. This was the first day in her short life that nobody had poked her repeatedly with a needle and made her cry; his heart hurt to think about how uncomfortable and unwelcoming his daughter must have found the world so far.

Sydney was in far worse shape. Although she was back on her feet, belly down to a smaller swell she covered with one of Weiss' shirts, she'd been frantic ever since Marshall revealed that Sarah didn't provide the key to the cure after all. Vaughn had slept by her side ever since the birth, the better to help her out, but it felt as though Sydney were on another planet altogether. She cried in the night when she thought he didn't hear, and during the days, she wore herself down with worry. The word of Irina's illness had apparently been the last straw.

"I'm the Irenicon, whatever that is," Sydney said, pacing back and forth by the foot of the bed. "But the Irenicon provides the cure to the disease. The disease comes from the Irenicon's sister, who is Nadia, which means unless my mother had some third daughter - oh, God."

"I think Irina would've mentioned that by now," Vaughn interjected. Then he wondered if that was true.

"What about Dad? He went on missions as a young man. What if there's another sister none of us even knows about?"

"Let's face it -- Sloane would know. Syd, your dad's planning to lead a strike team back to Bomani's lab. We can at least get the vaccine for Sarah and the rest of us."

"You heard the new intel - they've got three dozen guys around that lab. A full team is never going to get through. And we don't need a vaccine for a few of us. We need a cure for everybody. And maybe for us too - we've all been exposed already. Even Sarah."

She sat heavily by his side, reaching out to brush the fine curls on Sarah's delicate scalp. The baby jerked once in his arms, but settled back into slumber. Once again, Vaughn felt the surge of helpless love and protectiveness that had defined his two weeks as a father. Sarah was in danger. He would move heaven and earth to end that danger to her, but he didn't know how.

Nothing Jack Bristow had ever done in Sydney's name confused him any longer. Nothing his own father had ever done for him made the slightest bit of sense.

"I just wish we could take her home," Vaughn said. "I wish we could go back to Los Angeles - not the way it is now. The way it used to be."

Sydney nodded, and for a moment he thought she might lean her head against his shoulder. But instead she pulled back, drawing within herself.

Say it now, he thought. Just get it out there. It's the wrong time, but it's the only time you've got, and you need to deal with this.

"Syd, what's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong?"

"I mean - between us." Vaughn met her eyes, daring her to look away. She didn't. "You're not letting me help you. We still haven't talked about - what have we talked about, besides Sarah? Not that there's been a lot of time, but, still. We should be closer than we've ever been. We need each other more than we ever have. But you're a million miles away. And I'm - I know I'm not helping, but -"

"Don't blame yourself," Sydney said. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a well-remembered gesture of resolution. "You're right. We need to talk."

He took a deep breath. "Okay. Talk to me." Still she hesitated, and he tried to help her out: "I know we were apart for a long time. It takes a while to - get back in synch."

And that was all it was. They were only going through another transition. Dreams of Nadia at night were just that, just dreams.

"We were apart for a long time," Sydney repeated, nodding on the last word. "And during that time - I leaned on Eric. A lot. He gave me the support I needed. He gave me strength."

If Sarah hadn't been sleeping so peacefully in his arms, Vaughn would've shrugged. Of course she'd leaned on Weiss. Vaughn had assumed as much; Weiss wouldn't have it any other way. Why was she even bothering to tell him -

He sat up a little straighter. Everything in the room seemed to have changed in an instant: the scent of the air, the way the light flickered off the water, the expression in Sydney's eyes. For a few seconds, all Vaughn could pay any attention to was the flannel shirt she wore. Weiss' shirt.

"Vaughn -"

"Give me a second." His first impulse, straight from the cave, was to scream at Sydney, then find Weiss and punch him in the face. That wasn't going to help anything. Even though, right this second, it really felt like it would help everything - no. "You and Weiss."

"Yeah." Sydney's eyes were brimming with tears; she'd been crying, off and on, ever since they'd learned that Sarah didn't provide the cure, but this was different, somehow. "We spent so much time together after I returned from Hong Kong; he'd already become my best friend, before anything ever happened to you. I think - I think my feelings for Eric had already started to change. If you hadn't gone missing, and I hadn't gotten pregnant, we might have figured it out sooner, not later. But we figured it out. Or I did, anyway."

Before he was kidnapped? Vaughn felt his body flushing hot and cold, as if he were physically ill. "I - Syd - when did this happen?"

"A couple months ago. Not the emotions, but the - relationship - about two and a half months ago. Please, no matter what else you do, don't be mad at Eric. I'm the one who made the first move, I'm the one who pushed for us to -"

"You don't have to draw me a picture!" Vaughn snapped. Then he took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I'm sorry. But skip the details. Please."

"I didn't mean to - I just - okay. Okay."

It hurt. It physically hurt him, like a band tightening around his chest. "You guys have been - together - all this time, and you never -"

"Nothing has happened since we found you," Sydney promised. "Eric just assumed that I would go back to you, and - I don't know if I assumed that or not - well, we ended it. But Vaughn - I still love him."

"And me?" He couldn't believe he would ever have to ask Sydney this question. "Syd, do you still love me?"

"Yes. Always." A sob escaped her. "I'm just so confused. I love both of you, and because of that, I can't really be with either of you, and this entire situation is so screwed up I can't stand it. Vaughn, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Carefully, Vaughn held Sarah out to Sydney; he didn't know what the hell he was about to do, but he couldn't hold a baby and do it. As soon as Sydney had her, Vaughn stood up and stared out at the sea.

Eric and Sydney. While she was pregnant with his child.

"I never thought you were coming back," she said. "If I'd known -"

"Don't worry. I'm not going to scream at you about 'faith.'" They were silent for a few moments, and he forced himself to say, "I'm sorry. That was out of line."

"No, it wasn't." When he glanced over his shoulder, he could see that Sydney was steadier. "I didn't understand then. I do now. I was wrong."

Yeah, NOW she says she was wrong, something in him sneered. But Vaughn knew he had his own confession to make. Maybe it wasn't as substantial - but it wasn't imaginary, either.

"I know what it's like," Vaughn said at last. "Being alone, and being lonely. Trying to reach out to somebody."

"I realize that's why you married Lauren. I stopped blaming you for that a long time ago. But Eric and I - it's more than that -"

"Please, let me get this out." He could hear her love paean to his best friend later, when his fists weren't already clenched so tightly they hurt. "I'm not talking about Lauren. I'm talking about Nadia."

Her face went pale, and he knew both the pleasure and the pain of having hurt her the way she'd hurt him. Sydney ducked her head, as if checking to make sure Sarah was all right.

"Nothing's really happened between me and Nadia," Vaughn said. Compared to what he'd just heard, one kiss in the surf didn't seem to count. "I'm not her lover; I'm not her boyfriend. I don't think she even knows how I feel. But there's something there, and as long as that's true, I don't get to judge you."

They were quiet for a while. Vaughn looked down at her - Sydney, holding their daughter in her arms - and tried to figure out how the hell they got here. When did everything get so screwed up? When she had an affair with Weiss? When he kissed Nadia? When his dad kidnapped him? When he found out what Lauren really was? When he married Lauren?

No. Nothing had been the same since the day he'd stood in Sydney's burnt-out apartment and thought her dead.

"I love you," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you know that."

"I do. I love you too." Tears streaked her cheeks. Had those saying those words ever made two people so unhappy?

Sarah began to fuss, her high, ragged cry activating something primitive in his brain, something that told him to take care of the baby or else. Sydney, as instantly businesslike as he was, did a quick check. "Not her diaper. She's probably hungry again."

As she started unbuttoning her shirt - Weiss' shirt - Vaughn said, "I'm going to go for a walk on deck, okay? I think that might be a good idea."

"I do too." Sydney made a face as the baby latched on, then said, "We have bigger things to worry about, I know. We have to find a cure for this disease. But if we're going to get through this, we're all going to have to work together. We can't do that with secrets weighing us down."

"That's how we've always done it before," Vaughn said tiredly. "No, I'm relieved you told me. I mean it."

But as he walked out on the deck, gulping in fresh air, he wasn't sure he meant that at all. Ignorance really was bliss, wasn't it? Of course, everyone else on the ship probably knew. Jack, Irina, Dr. Lo, Marshall - fuck, Sark knew and was probably still laughing his ass off about it.

Sydney and Weiss. Weiss and Sydney. His mind kept providing images for him, each one more unwelcome and painful than the last. He started below decks, wanting to crawl down into the very belly of the ship where nobody could find him, where he wouldn't have to hear anything but the creaking of metal and the echoes of water. But somebody else was on the steps.

"Hey, man," Weiss said. He was bringing up something from the galley, just running an errand, as though it were any other day.

Vaughn stood there, unable to speak, unable to keep walking. Weiss half-turned as though to let him by in the narrow stairwell - but then their eyes met. The realization was visible, a slow, dawning dread on his face.

"You will never know how sorry I am." Weiss' voice shook. "Vaughn, I screwed up, and I know it."

"Just stop." He didn't want to hear it. But he couldn't step aside and let Weiss move on.

"This is - I'm just gonna say this one thing, and after that, if you don't ever want to talk to me again, I won't blame you: It's over. It was over the moment we saw you. Sydney loves you, and I'm not going to get in your way."

And that was too much.

"Don't do me any fucking favors," Vaughn growled, pushing past Weiss to disappear in the depths. He didn't hear footsteps moving upward or down, so Weiss was probably just standing there watching him go.

He managed to get all the way to the bottom, in an engine room by himself, before the tears began.

**

III.


Maputo, Mozambique


How long had they all known? How long had they all laughed at him?

Sloane replayed every moment in his mind: Sydney and Jack standing by as he smashed the Hourglass at his - at Jack's feet. Irina sitting at a sidewalk cafÈ in Warsaw, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Vaughn pretending to sulk as he walked out to join Nadia on the beach, the better to twist her mind against him.

Nadia - had even Nadia known?

He had looked at her and seen shades of his mother, his father, himself. But now, picturing Nadia's face in his mind, he could see Jack Bristow there: the curve of the forehead, the set of the ears. Sloane had looked into that girl's face for more than the completion of his life's work; he had looked there for love. But it had only been Jack smirking back at him.

At least Judy had possessed the common decency to tell him the truth. Perhaps death wrung honesty from the weak. If so, Sloane intended to make sure that Jack told him the truth at least once more.

"Sir?" one of his guards said. "The transport to Chimolo should be ready within fifteen minutes."

"Very good," Sloane replied. Their journey from strife-torn Los Angeles had been even more difficult than the original infiltration; across the world, borders were tightening, paranoia growing ever more intense. The West blamed Islamic terrorists; the Arabs blamed the Americans and the Jews; the Japanese blamed the Chinese; the North Koreans blamed everyone. It was not exactly as he had planned, but close enough. His status as a fugitive from justice was no longer a great inconvenience - law-enforcement priorities had shifted. No, now it was merely a matter of finding people willing to take him where he wanted to go.

Fortunately, no matter how much priorities shifted, money always held sway.

The guard still hovered there, clearly unwilling to speak further - the bearer of bad tidings, Sloane realized. "What is it? You can tell me."

"We tapped into the security files in Johannesburg, as you'd asked. We found this."

On the small palmtop in the guard's hand, a grainy, black-and-white image flickered. Sloane watched Michael Vaughn ogling a scantily clad Nadia, the two of them flaunting their obvious sexual relationship as they played their game. Revolted and yet fascinated, he watched again. And again. And again.

Nadia, he thought, watching her lips pout for Michael Vaughn. I loved you. I believed in you. Was it so easy to leave me?

At last he said, "Shut it off. Never show it to me again." As the guard clicked the palmtop shut, Sloane added, "Obviously, they had access to some of our information. What's the date stamp on that footage?"

"Three weeks ago."

But if they had been at Bomani's lab, his men would have found them by now. They must have gone there, inoculated Vaughn against the virus, and left once more. So Michael Vaughn, the least worthy of them all, would share in Rambaldi's immortality. It was enough to destroy any belief in justice Sloane had ever possessed.

Then again, that gave him an eternity in which to exact revenge - on Vaughn, on Jack, on Irina, on Nadia herself. And Sloane intended to have that eternity in his grasp.

The one sure way Vaughn and Nadia could have struck at him would have been to destroy the lab - to deny him access to Bomani's vaccine. But they had never known that he would realize he needed it; they'd never imagined that Judy Barnett would tell him the truth before it was too late.

Their mistake would be his good fortune yet.

Carefully, he slipped his face mask on and began walking through the airport, his guards following at a discreet distance. His troubles would soon all be behind him. Immortality lay just ahead.

**

IV.


"Why didn't you kill me?" Nadia thought it was as good an icebreaker as any.

If Sark disagreed, he showed no sign. "I meant to. Had I been only slightly more certain of your role in the Rain of Gold, I would have done so." They stood on the deck, looking back toward the Mozambique coast.

"If you'd killed me when we first met, the world would have been spared all of this." Death and devastation on an apocalyptic scale - all of it flowing from her veins.

"Yes. Nothing personal, you understand."

Nothing in Nadia's life seemed to be wholly personal. Just business. "I'm not offended, if that's what you mean. But you'll understand if I'm cautious."

"Naturally."

"I think you'd be disappointed if I didn't think of you as a dangerous man." At that, Sark smiled - he was handsome, despite his coldness -- and the pathways open to her seemed to divide yet again.

First, Nadia could remain on this ship - the second sister, the afterthought, the mistake. She could help watch these children she didn't know, perhaps babysit Sarah from time to time. The mother she'd thought was dead would die, rendering her ties to this group even more uncertain. The sister she'd betrayed for Sloane's sake might forgive her - though they could never be alone together again, because of the prophecy. Jack Bristow might never like her, but he would no longer attempt to hurt her, and in the coming days of chaos, he might be a useful ally. And Michael would always be near: forever out of reach, but perhaps always a friend. If friendship was less than she might have hoped for, it was more than she'd had in a long time.

Second, she could play Sark's game. He was testing her, conversation by conversation, and she understood men well enough to know that he liked what he'd found. Sark's interest in this ship and its inhabitants had faded sharply after Sarah proved not to be the cure he'd sought; soon, he would leave and begin working to consolidate what power he could on the outside. He sought a partner. Of course, Sark had said none of this aloud yet; he hadn't needed to. Nadia could imagine them sealing their pact in bed, a consummation as cold and perfect as a diamond.

Finally, Nadia could return to her father. He would forgive her. She would ask him what purpose - what possible purpose - could ever justify the Rain of Gold.

What could justify her existence?

It wasn't impossible that he might have an answer. Her experience of Rambaldi had given her more than nightmares; she had foreseen transcendence, too. A kind of love and unity and understanding - born of something darker - that could illuminate her from within. Nadia had seen that in her dreams too. Was she a fool not to chase it? For all her father's lies and manipulations, it seemed as though he was the only one who might understand the way.

A dangerous line of thought - but she was unable to entirely erase it, while talking to Sark or for hours afterward.

In the heat of the afternoon, Nadia went back to her cabin, too warm and too miserable to want anything more than a nap. Or so she thought, until she opened the door and found Michael sitting on her bed.

"Hey," he said. His head was in his hands, giving the lie to his casual tone.

"Hi." Nadia hesitated only a moment before closing the door behind her. Now they were alone. "Are you all right?"

"No." 

That one word seemed to cost him; his shoulders slumped, and his fingers curled against his temples. Nadia walked nearer, wanting to touch him if it would give him comfort. And yet she sensed a volatility in him - a danger - that held her back. "What's wrong?" she whispered, standing only inches away.

"Sydney had an affair with Weiss." Nadia was astonished; was Michael becoming unstable again? Surely such a thing couldn't be true. But Michael's voice was steady as he continued, "Maybe an affair is the wrong thing to call it. They didn't realize - I wasn't - whatever. They were fucking. That's kind of the key part of the whole thing."

"Oh." What a useful response - but it was all she could manage. It didn't seem to matter. Michael was in place where he couldn't hear anyone or anything beyond his own pain.

"That's not true; that's not the key part. If they'd just been sleeping together - just, I don't know, for comfort or something - who am I kidding? I'd hate it. But Sydney loves him. That kills me, it absolutely kills me, and I don't even know if I have the right to feel like that about it anymore."

"Of course you have the right." She felt a surge of anger on Michael's behalf. How could her sister throw him aside so easily? When they had a child on the way? "Don't apologize for how you feel. Weiss was your best friend, and Sydney was your lover. Why wouldn't you have the right to be angry?"

Michael raised his head at last, his eyes electric and dark. Nadia's pulse leaped as he stared at her. "You know why."

Her desire for him mingled with the slow heat of the afternoon and the swaying of the ship to dizzy her, throw her off-balance. As she brushed her fingers through Michael's hair, he shuddered, then slid his arms around her waist. The side of his head pressed against her belly, and she could feel the tension in his hands against her upper thighs and the small of her back. Nadia bowed just enough to cradle him.

"I came here - I just wanted to talk," Michael said. But if he'd believed that when he walked into her room, Nadia could tell he already knew better.

This is my sister's man, Nadia thought, even if Sydney has pushed him away. He is the father to her child. And he's not himself right now; he's blind with pain, pushing toward you just to get away from his own hurt. All of that should have sobered her up.

Instead, her pulse quickened as she felt the warmth of Michael's breath through the thin cotton of her shirt. "Michael," she whispered, doubly aware that he was sitting on the bed. "What do you want?"

The dam broke, and the words poured out of him, ragged and desperate. "I want to make love to you. I want to take you on the bed, on the floor, against the wall - anyplace, any way, until we can't move or see or even think. Until we drop. Until I don't know that there's anyone in the world but you."

Oh, God. Nadia tried to retain some semblance of calm, even as her hands began to shake.

Then Michael spoke again, more slowly. "But I can't tell how much of what I feel is for you and how much is just - revenge. I don't want to use you, Nadia. But I want you. I want you so much."

It wasn't all revenge. Nadia knew that at least part of what flowed between them now, binding them close, had been born long before Michael even knew Sydney was still alive. But where could they draw the line? And did it have to be drawn with Michael on the other side of her bedroom door?

For months she had desired him, night and day. It would be so easy now. So good.

"I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I know what I want, but I don't know what to do."

"I know. Me either." To her surprise, Michael straightened, dropping his arms away from her waist. "What I want you to do -- that can't be what matters, to either of us. It has to be about what you want to do."

He looked up at her, the expression in his eyes different than any she had ever seen there before. Vaughn wanted comfort, shelter, escape. She could give all of that to him. She wanted to give herself to him. And it didn't matter that this was weakness, that he was vulnerable and she would be taking advantage of him. Later, later Nadia would think about those things, but at this moment -

If you want him, she thought to herself, take him.  If you love him, you must stop this now.

"You have to go," she whispered, pulling her hands away. "Please, Michael, go."

Michael grimaced - not in loss, Nadia knew, but in recognition of his own behavior. "I'm such a son of a bitch. Nadia, please, forgive me."

"You're upset. Anybody would be."

"You're too good at making excuses for me." He couldn't meet her eyes anymore. "You ought to just haul off and smack me one."

Did he not realize that any touch between them - even violence, maybe especially violence - would send them spiraling back over the edge? "I didn't realize being understanding was a problem."

If only she were better at knowing what she wanted, instead of trying to be who everyone else wanted her to be.

"I'm going to get the hell out of here before I dig a deeper hole for myself." Michael was at the door in an instant, opening it before he dared to speak. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucked-up."

If you weren't, Michael, you wouldn't like me. Nadia tried to smile. "We've made the right decision. Now go."

He left. The room seemed emptier than it ever had before.  Nadia wondered if she would ever be given a choice in her life more substantial than wondering who should have the honor of using her. 

**

V.


Sydney lay on her side, watching her daughter sleep.

Sarah dozed in the very center of the bed - not a large bed, not at sea, but her tiny form seemed even smaller when surrounded by an expanse of white. The sunset light fell across the sheets, illuminating her few wispy curls in gold and pink.

She doesn't understand any of this, Sydney thought. None of the forces around her - none of the people who would kill her just in case she's the cure, or kill her because she's not the cure, or kill her to hurt me, or Vaughn, or Mom and Dad. She's completely innocent. I wish she could stay completely innocent forever.

But that innocence - and perhaps Sarah's survival - could only come at a price.

Until she'd talked to Vaughn that morning, Sydney hadn't realized how much she was still expecting a solution. As if somehow, despite all the complexity of their situation, she would be able to look at things from a different angle and shake them all into place: Vaughn and Eric, her mother, the Rain of Gold.

But Vaughn's raw pain and confusion - the recognition that he was as lost as she was, if not more so - made Sydney realize that she couldn't fix everything.  Possibly, she couldn't fix anything. But she had to focus on what mattered most, and on what she could do. When she did that, everything had become perfectly clear. 

Sydney had already done her crying. The only question now was whether or not she was in control. Darkness would fall soon, and she had things to do.

Carefully, Sydney gathered the sleeping Sarah up in her arms; the baby's fists opened, then closed, but she gave no other sign of waking. With Sarah tucked in one arm, she used the other to collect the bag of needful things (diapers, mostly) she'd packed earlier. Although she and Vaughn hadn't shared a single word since his abrupt departure, she knew that by now he would be back in the cabin he'd been using before Sarah was born.

A soft rap on the door confirmed her suspicions; Vaughn opened it, his face stark, with dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. But his voice was gentle as he said, "Is Sarah okay?"

"She's great. She's sleeping. But - you know that walk around the deck you took earlier? I could use one of those myself."

Vaughn nodded and held out his hands. And this was the hardest - actually handing her over - but in a moment her weight, so heavy and sweet, was gone. He cradled Sarah next to him, his movements sure, and the darkness briefly left him as he made soft shushing noises. Everything she'd ever loved about Vaughn - every reason she'd ever wanted him - was alive in that moment.

"Take as long as you want," he said. "Or at least until the princess gets hungry again. I can't do much about that."

Formula was on hand, but Vaughn would discover that soon enough. Sydney liked that he would at least try to make a joke. "Are you - how are you doing?"

"Wish I knew." She was so proud of him for managing to smile as he said it.

Sydney touched his cheek, just once. "Thanks, Vaughn."

"You don't have to thank me for taking care of Sarah."

"That's not what I meant. Just - thank you." Before she could say anything else, she backed into the corridor, giving father and daughter a quick wave. The door shut behind her as she hurried away.

Control. This was no time to lose control, not now, before she'd even begun.

Next she went to her father's room - no, her parents' room. She found her father stepping out into the hallway just as she walked up. He carried a tray of eggs and toast, mostly untouched. "Dad. How is she?"

"Sydney." Her father's mind seemed to be a very great distance away, or perhaps only on the other side of the door. His gaze focused upon her very slowly, as though he had to work to take her in. "Your mother's sleeping. She's - she's comfortable."

He took a couple of halting steps toward the galley before Sydney had the presence of mind to take the tray from him. "I've got it. It's okay." Her father nodded, numb to the small favor, as weary as she'd ever seen him. They walked slowly toward the galley together, Sydney measuring her pace to match his, mindful of the limp he hadn't yet completely shaken.

"Your mother says she doesn't want to see you. She's lying. She's afraid of exposing you. After the team goes back to Bomani's lab, and we can have you inoculated - she'll change her mind."

"How long?"

"Another couple of days, no more." He rubbed his forehead, as if trying to wake himself up. "I can talk to the tactical team tonight. Don't worry. It's taken care of."

He did not ask her to be a part of the team, nor even to help plan it; Sydney wasn't offended by this anymore, not now that she understood. Her father's world was a binary one: ally or enemy, helpful or harmful, protector or protected.

How many things had they failed to say to each other? What had Sydney still - even now - left unspoken? She chose her words carefully; she didn't want to alarm him. "We never talked about you and Mom."

"That's not necessary." His bearing immediately became stiff, almost formal.

"I think it is." Sydney went in the galley after him, even though she was the one holding the tray. "All the objections I might've had - they don't matter now. I just wanted to say that I'm glad the two of you got some time. That you're together, and while she's - that you can take care of her while she's -"

"Sydney." He half-turned from her as she set down the tray - not rejecting her, but withdrawing his face back into the shadows, where she couldn't really see. "Don't."

Even now, he couldn't talk about how he felt. It would be cruel to press him. "Go back to Mom." With any luck, he'd attribute her emotional reactions to fear for her mother. That was at least part of the reason. He might not think about it too deeply until later. "She needs you. Tell her - tell her I asked about her, okay? You can talk to the strike team in the morning."

"I'll talk to them tonight," he said, refocusing on the tactical meeting immediately - just as Sydney had planned. "But I'll be there when your mother wakes up."

"Okay." She smiled at him, heartened to see him smile back. Her father looked so much older now, so tired, so worn. How would he look when -

No, she wouldn't think about that. Sydney squeezed his hand, just for a moment, then set off for the very last of the indulgences she planned to allow herself that night.

As soon as her fist rapped against Eric's door, it swung open; he'd been expecting someone - but not her. Although she'd suspected as much, it only took a glance at him to know for certain. "You talked to Vaughn."

"I think 'talked to' sounds like an actual conversation took place." Eric relaxed slightly; obviously, he'd been expecting Vaughn, and more confrontation. "I know he knows. I know he's mad. That's about where we are."

Eric's body language, unnaturally rigid, told her clearly that he wanted her to go; instead, she walked into the room, ignoring his discomfort. "I probably should have warned you before I said anything."

"I knew you were going to sooner or later. You had to choose a good moment. And if that was the result of telling him at a good moment, believe me, I'm really glad you didn't pick a bad one."

He leaned against the wall farthest from her, arms crossed against his chest. As she studied him, Sydney realized that this posture was familiar to her: Eric had behaved like this occasionally back in Los Angeles, when he was still just her best friend and she was still Vaughn's girl. This was the way Eric looked when he wanted something he couldn't have. How long had she been blind to his love for her?

And how could she ever have been blind to him? The way he looked now - his strong arms and shoulders, his dark eyes, the expression in his face as he looked at her - it seemed impossible that she could ever have ignored him. That she could ever have gazed at him without desire.

"Vaughn's calmed down now," Sydney said. "He's back in his room - the one he was in before."

"He'll come back." Eric's jaw only set like that when he was being especially stubborn. "If he needs a bad guy to blame for this, give me the black hat, okay?"

"Vaughn doesn't need a bad guy. You know that."

He breathed out heavily. "Yeah. I know that." They studied each other in the light of the single lamp, and Sydney saw the subtle change in him - the understanding of what she was feeling, his unwillingness to believe it. "If you weren't sure I'd talked to Vaughn - if that's not what you want to talk about - why are you here?"

"I want to settle some unfinished business." Sydney took one deliberate step closer to him. "I want you to kiss me goodbye."

"Stop." Eric almost flinched. She knew she was hurting him, but she couldn't let herself care. In the long run, this was too important.

"You ran out of my life like you were fleeing a crime scene, Eric. That's not what happened between us. We deserve a better ending than that."

Two more steps, and she was close to him - so close he could have wrapped his arms around her, if they weren't still folded. Eric's eyes drifted down to her mouth, sending a sharp jolt through her. His voice ragged, he said, "You deserve the happy ending, Syd. But I'm not a part of it."

"Eric, please." He would understand someday. That was what mattered - that Eric would finally understand, even if she weren't there to see it. "Just one kiss -"

She pressed her lips to his, a chaste kiss that would have been a decent farewell. But she felt the galvanic shock of need between them - Eric's hands moving to her shoulders, her tender breasts brushing against his chest - and kissed him again.

In an instant, Eric had her in his arms, crushing her against him. His tongue slipped into her mouth, and he pushed her back against the wall so that their bodies were pressed together, and Sydney still couldn't get him close enough. Arousal made her shake as she kept touching him, running her fingertips through his dark hair. He kissed her so hard, clutched her so tightly - was this desperation? Guilt? Need? She didn't care, as long as Eric didn't let her go.

This was all she had planned for tonight, but she hadn't planned for this - this wanting, this need, a hundred times stronger than it had ever been before. Sydney knew that, if her body were only ready for sex again, she would have made love to him tonight. Eric would have resisted her, but she could have gotten him to the bed. Oh, God, she wanted to take him to bed.

But she couldn't, not so soon after birth, and it was for the best. Even in Eric's embrace, she couldn't afford to forget what she needed to do tonight.

At last their kisses became slower, shallow, until finally they were both still, Eric's forehead resting against hers, their lips not even an inch apart.

"So much for willpower," he said. "This doesn't bode well. I'm just saying."

"It's okay. Just this once, it's okay."

His breath was warm against her cheek. "I'm not so sure."

"I love you," she whispered. "I need to know that you believe that."

"Don't do this to me, Syd." He stepped away from her, already shutting himself away again. "If I believed that, don't you see that it would only be worse? And I can't get through much worse than losing you. Don't make me. Please."

Sydney could have argued the point with him. She would have been right, in one sense. But tonight, she would only be hurting him. Maybe later he'd understand the truth of what she'd done and why. "I'm going," she said. "This won't happen again. I promise."

That much, at least, was the absolute truth.

His eyes betrayed every lie he'd spoken, every impulse he was holding back; they followed her hungrily as she went to the door.

And now she was free to begin.

It took her less time than she would've thought to find Nadia, who was at the very prow of the boat, looking for the world like a figurehead, or maybe an actress auditioning for a Titanic remake. "We have to talk," Sydney said. 

They were the first words she'd spoken to Nadia alone in almost a year - since before her sister had abandoned her to go to Sloane. Nadia turned slowly, as if unwilling to grant Sydney the attention. She wore a white tank top that hugged her lean form, pants slung low on her hips. Sydney could see what Vaughn liked about her, and even now - with Eric's kiss still warm on her lips - that thought made her jealous almost to the point of illness.

"What about?" Nadia was expressionless, to a degree that could only have been calculated. Sydney liked that. If they were adversaries, then she knew how to play this.

"We need some privacy." They walked in perfect silence to the nearest room, which happened to be sickbay.  The walls hemmed them in closer to each other than Sydney would have preferred for this conversation, but it would do. "You know about Mom. You know that we're all at risk - maybe even you."

"Everyone except Sark." Nadia raised an eyebrow. "Which means everyone we care about."

Sydney ignored the attempt at humor, except to note that Nadia, too, was uncomfortable. Good. "My father's putting together an assault team to go back to Bomani's lab, get through whatever forces are assembled there, and get more raw materials to formulate enough vaccine to at least protect everyone on board. Do you see the problem with this scenario?"

"A large-scale attack team is a tactical mistake. We don't have many people here, so we can't outgun them. A one- or two-person infiltration effort would probably be more successful. I don't understand why he hasn't tried that."

Unwillingly, Sydney ratcheted up her opinion of her sister's ability. "My guess? He didn't really trust anyone to go but himself - or me. He's injured, and he doesn't think I'm ready to go on a mission yet. But I think he's wrong."

"You're going. Tonight." Nadia cocked her head. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because my father might be right. I need someone to back me up. Vaughn or Weiss could do it, but either of them would try to stop me from going in the first place. Sark would probably go with me just for fun, but I'm not convinced he'd return with what we found there, not if I don't make it back with him. I need someone who cares about other people on this ship - more than they care about me." Sydney sighed. "And that leaves me with you."

"Who is it you think I care about so much? We're going after a vaccine, not a cure. Mama - we've already lost her. You know that."

Nadia was testing her now, and Sydney was ready to test her in turn. "I think you'll come back for Vaughn."

They stared at one another in silence. Nadia's shock took her a second too long to conceal. She wasn't blind to Vaughn's feelings, Sydney realized, but she'd never expected him to tell Sydney about it. There was embarrassment there, but also hope, and Sydney would have hated it if she hadn't needed it, too.

Nadia said, "And the prophecy - that doesn't scare you at all?"

"That we're destined to fight each other, and only one of us will survive?" Sydney shrugged. "If you're the survivor, and you bring the vaccine back to this ship for my daughter afterward, honestly, I don't give a damn."

The smile on Nadia's face provided the first genuine moment that had ever passed between them. "When do we start?"

"Now."

**

VI.


Jack sat on the far side of the room, watching Irina sleep.

Her pallid skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat; her lips were cracked, her hair damp. He'd never seen her like this, so weak. Even when she'd confronted him about the Rain of Gold in Los Angeles, as shaken as she'd been, Irina had still possessed her strength. Now she seemed smaller than herself - fading away before his eyes.

She'd never been ill a day of their marriage; he used to joke with her about it. Even pregnancy had only seemed to make her stronger. Jack had imagined her dying in many ways - even at his own hands - but he had never imagined her slowly falling apart, giving into darkness.

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Irina opened her eyes. The whites were almost wholly red now, rendering her face nearly grotesque. "You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"With Sydney. Or Sarah." She breathed out, a shallow, ragged sound. The disease was moving into her lungs. "I'm glad I got the chance to see Sarah."

Whenever she talked like that, Jack became acutely uncomfortable. "Are you thirsty? Or hungry? You didn't eat much, earlier."

Even with her eyes blood-clouded, Irina could still fix him in a knowing stare. "You know I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat."

"You mean, you need to feed me." She sighed. "Maybe some toast."

He hurried, as much as his foot would allow him to hurry, down to the galley. The toast from earlier would be cold, but he could make more. As the bread darkened, he remembered an old broken toaster and a bottle of rotgut; maybe it was a measure of their marriage that, when he thought of the good times, he thought of a night he'd nearly set the house on fire.

Toast done, he put it on a plate, set it on the tray still standing where Sydney had left it, then picked it up -

--and felt paper beneath his fingertips.

A quick tug revealed the note affixed to the bottom of the tray. Jack half-opened it, recognized Sydney's handwriting, dropped the tray on the table and went to the door. One of the guards was walking through the hallway; Jack ordered, "Find my daughter. Now."

The guard left, and Jack began to read.

Dad,

By the time you read this, I will have left the ship. Nadia has probably gone with me. Vaughn has Sarah; tell him there's formula in the fridge and in sickbay.

You know where I've gone and why. If you think about it, you'll realize that I'm doing the right thing.

The right thing. Risking her life, when she was still weakened from childbirth - and Nadia? Why, of all the people on this ship, had she chosen Nadia? Had their failure to find a cure within Sarah convinced her that none of Rambaldi's prophecies were real?

The thing is, I know that you're not going to think about it. You're never going to admit that I've done what I had to do. You think it's your job to take care of me, no matter what. And if you could have gone on your own, to risk your life to protect me, you would have done it a long time ago.

But if it's your job to take care of me, then it's my job to take care of Sarah. You have to let me protect her, Dad. That's the one thing that I know you have to admit is my responsibility, my duty and my right. You understand what it means to sacrifice anything - everything - to protect your daughter.

Jack sat down heavily in one of the galley's chairs, telling himself that his injury demanded it. The footsteps of the guards in the hallways were becoming heavier and more numerous; the search was intensifying. But by now, Jack was certain that Sydney and Nadia had left the ship within an hour of her planting this note on the tray. If she'd done that while they were speaking, and he felt sure that she had, they were two hours into Mozambique by now.

When I look down at Sarah, and I think about all the secrets that surround her - all the terrible things that could happen to her - I understand why you've done so much of what you've done. I don't excuse all of your actions, but at least now I know what you feel: I could kill anyone who wanted to hurt her. I would betray anyone if it meant being loyal to her. And I would tell any lie to anyone - even to Sarah herself - if I thought that lie had even a chance of keeping her safe.

I'm sorry I never understood that before. But I couldn't understand. How could I know that you did these things out of love for me when you always tried so hard to hide that love away?

That, too, had been protecting her. Did she still not understand how he'd tried to spare her a love so entangled in lies? Jack's fingers were gripping the paper so hard it wrinkled beneath his gaze.

I'm going to do what you've always done: protect my daughter. And you're going to have to do what I've always done: take something on faith.

During the storm, I told you that we hadn't learned to trust each other yet. You still don't trust my judgment, and I still don't trust your love for me - not even now, when I know what it means to love a daughter. And I want to believe in you, Dad. There's nothing left in the world left to hang on to, except each other.

When you don't send the strike team after me - when you let me go, let me protect my daughter, and have faith in my ability to get back - I'll finally know that you trust me. And you'll know that wherever I am, even if I never return - I'll finally believe that you love me. I need to believe that at last.

I hope you realize that I've always loved you. Even when I wasn't speaking to you, even when we were so far apart it looked like we would never get back - I always loved you, Dad. And that's what gives me the strength to go. Because I know, no matter what, Sarah will always love me. Daughters can't help it.

Sydney


Jack wanted his ankle healed, now, but that couldn't happen. He also wanted a CETME rifle and an armored car and a clear path to Bomani's lab; those could happen, and they would. Sydney could hate him all she wanted, believe whatever she wanted to believe, as long as she was here and safe.

But then he envisioned Sydney's face as it had been in Wittenburg - tears running down her cheeks, expression changing from agony to coldness. She had threatened him on that day, saying they would never speak again; if she drew that line again, the threat might be real. They probably didn't have much time left for mending fences.

Sydney might die on her mission tonight. If he brought her back, she might die from the Rain of Gold. He would do anything to save her - but there was nothing left. Jack could hide from the truth no longer: His daughter was beyond his rescue, beyond his reach.

A sound at the door made him turn - but instead of the guards, it was Robin Dixon, leaning down to hold the hands of the toddling Mitchell Flinkman. "See, big boy? You walked to the kitchen almost by yourself. Oh - hey, Mr. Bristow."

"Robin." This was more or less the extent of the conversation that had ever passed between them, by mutual consent.

"Did you drop this?" She pointed to the tray, which had scattered toast and plate across the table when he'd let it fall.

"Yes, I did. You don't have to clean it up." 

"Was that for your wife?"

He felt as though he ought to correct Robin, though her words were not inaccurate. "Yes, it is. Or it was."

"She's sick with the same thing that - that Dad got, isn't she?"

Jack tried to think of what best to say; he was out of practice in talking to teenage girls, not that he had ever been much good at it. But there was something in Robin's face that wasn't unlike Sydney's at that age - that naked worry that could cut your heart out if you let it. "Don't worry. You and Stephen and Mitchell are all vaccinated against the disease. You're safe."

Robin nodded, but she didn't seem to understand that the interview should now be over. "I know it's scary. You want to do something, but you can't. They wouldn't even let me see him in the hospital except for one time, but he was so sleepy he couldn't really talk to us. I think they had given him some drugs, so it wouldn't hurt."

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of to say. Maybe it would do.

But tears were welling in Robin's eyes, even as Mitchell plopped onto the floor to pull at her shoelaces. "I was mean to him, right before he got sick. Dad wouldn't let me go to the Halloween dance, and A.J. Bryant was going to be there, and I was all excited because I thought A.J. liked me. It was just this stupid guy and this stupid dance, and I didn't talk to Dad for a week because of it. I didn't know it was the last week he was going to be around."

Jack stopped trying to think about how to escape. Carefully, he put one hand on Robin's shoulder, as uneasy about offering it as she probably was in accepting it. "Don't worry about that any longer. Your father wouldn't want you to."

"But I never said anything nice to him, and -"

"He knew you loved him."

Robin sniffled once, hope in her eyes that was even more vulnerable than the worry had been. "Are you sure?"

"Fathers know."

She nodded, accepting that with a small smile. "Come on, Mitchell. Let's see if you can't walk back down the hall." As she pulled Mitchell up on his sturdy little legs, she added, "Thanks."

As she left, she wiggled Mitchell out of the way of the guard, who had finally returned. "Your daughter doesn't appear to be on board."

"No. She's attempting to penetrate Bomani's lab herself, with Nadia Santos' assistance." Jack half-gestured with the note, as explanation.

"We can send the team after her, either to intercept or for backup."

If he could be sure that he would save Sydney, Jack would go after her and damn the consequences. But knowing that he couldn't be sure of any such thing, he had to ask himself the last thing he wanted to tell her before she died.

Jack said, "All hands should remain on board. Reiterate this for Mr. Weiss and Mr. Vaughn as strongly as necessary."

"Sir -"

"Let her go."

His body felt weighted down as he went back to Irina's room, his limp stronger than it had been in days. When he came in, Irina was still awake. "No toast?"

"I forgot it. I'll go -"

"I didn't want it." She breathed out, that shallow, ragged sound again. "I'm glad you're back."

He looked at her, sweaty and tangled in her bedclothes, and realized one thing he could do for her. "You need a bath."

"Are you going to sponge me down? I'd have feigned illness much sooner." Some fragment of her former mischief lingered in her bloodshot eyes.

"I can do better than that." Jack stripped her down, quickly and efficiently, before doing the same for himself. She was able to brace her hands around his neck well enough for them to reach the cabin's head, where he set the shower's water to a lukewarm temperature. Within a few moments, they were together, Jack holding Irina up with one arm while he used the other to wash her hair. Irina leaned against him completely, saying nothing, making only a soft murmur of satisfaction as he rubbed her scalp.

Sydney was gone; Irina was going. Only Sarah was left to fight for, to live for. Sarah was a reason to go on, but Jack could not imagine feeling any joy in life again. The last of it swayed in his arms.

When he'd rinsed the suds from her hair, Jack reached for the nozzle. "We should get you back to bed."

"Not yet."

"You must want to lie down -"

"Not yet, Jack." Irina's arms tightened around his shoulders, and he realized that she wanted to be held. Beneath the flowing water, Jack bowed his head down to her shoulder and tried to pretend that holding her was enough, that he would never have to let go.

**



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