I practiced my sainthood
I gave to one and all
But the rumors of my virtue
They moved her not at all

I changed my style to silver
I changed my clothes to black
And where I would surrender
Now I would attack

I stormed the old casino
For the money and the flesh
And I myself decided
What was rotten and what was fresh

And men to do my bidding
And broken bones to teach
The value of my pardon
The shadow of my reach

But no, I could not touch her
With such a heavy hand
Her star beyond my order
Her nakedness unmanned

I came so far for beauty
I left so much behind
My patience and my family
My masterpiece unsigned.

--Leonard Cohen, "I Came So Far For Beauty"

IRENICON: Book Four

I.


Istanbul, Turkey


I'm sorry, my baby.

Olivia Reed lay on the bed in her hotel, staring at the wobbly cycles of the antique ceiling fan overhead. White sheets, white walls, white fan, all illuminated by pale light from the one open window: It was like being snow-blind.

Lauren's nursery had been white, soft with eyelet frills. Her friends - the wives of other politically prominent men in Virginia - had said Olivia was mad, that everything would stain. They painted their babies' walls brilliant yellow and bright green, with round shapes and cartoon characters, equally welcoming for a boy or a girl. Resolute, Olivia had done everything in white lace, as sure of a daughter as she was sure of perfection.

And she had been right. Lauren had never disappointed her, not even once.

Had Lauren known that? Olivia hoped that she had - but it was a hope without much substance. Ever since Lauren's marriage to Michael Vaughn -

--that worthless wretch, that scum-

--Olivia had been sharp with her, making demands that in retrospect might have been unfair. She'd envied Lauren, in a way. Michael, from the sound of things, had been a less onerous husband than George Reed: He made few demands on Lauren's time, didn't require incessant reassurance for his ego, did not possess bizarre and unpleasant sexual predilections. But that didn't mean the marriage was easy for Lauren. Marriage without love could never be easy.

George had been a reasonably adequate father, all the more reason Olivia should have been more understanding about his murder. Lauren's hesitation had been only human; really, the task should have been given to Olivia herself, aching as she had been for that fatal blow. Decades, she'd waited - but still, she could have given her daughter a little more time. Instead, she'd been sharp and unkind.

Olivia's eyes filled with tears as she turned her face into the pillowcase, wishing for her daughter back. She wept brokenly as the sun went down, and only consoled herself by remembering some particularly gruesome interrogation techniques the Covenant had taught her, and resolving to use them upon Michael Vaughn at the next opportunity. They comforted her into dreams as the ululations from the Hagia Sophia wafted through the window.

The next morning, when Olivia went to wash her face, her first thought was that her weeping had made her eyes bloodshot. In only a few seconds she realized it was more than that.

Julian Sark opened the door to his hotel room mere seconds after her first knock; his comprehension was immediate. "This is not possible."

"So we thought," Olivia said. "But the Rain of Gold isn't theory any longer. This is fact."

Julian's eyes were still clear and blue. His exposure to the virus had come at the same time and same level as her own; given the disease's extreme level of contagion, it seemed likely that Bomani's vaccinations worked. However, the protections everyone had assumed were inherent in the genetic code - the natural immunity - didn't seem to be universal.

"This will come as an unwelcome surprise to a lot of people," Olivia said later that night, when her fever had begun. "Most of whom deserve it."

"May it come to Arvin Sloane first of all," Julian said as he patted down her arms with a cool, wet cloth.

Olivia kept expecting Julian to leave her. It was the logical thing to do, and she wouldn't have resented his departure. Was it emotion for Lauren that kept him at her side? She doubted that, as pleasant as it was to believe. It would have been nice to think that her daughter had won genuine feeling from her final and most loyal lover.

It was more likely that he was using the chance to observe the disease's progression, though Olivia felt certain he would have many more opportunities, and soon.

When he was not attending to her, Julian lay next to her on the bed; this too was probably just for observation, but in her distress Olivia found his presence vaguely reassuring. They watched the English-language news together at midnight, beneath the humming and clacking of the ceiling fan. A virus believed to be a variant of SARS had its first reported case in Japan that day; reports circulated that China had several cases but would not admit it. In Thailand, there was something of a panic; news footage showed people walking around wearing surgical masks or bandanas over their noses and mouths, though their eyes were bored as they went about their errands. The newscaster gravely informed them that the disease had claimed 39 known victims.

"I wonder who number 47 will be," she said.

"Not amusing."

"Gallows humor. Indulge me."

Her fever spiked during the night, dulling her thoughts and turning the world to pain. Olivia could feel the blood heat in her eyes, wondered how grotesque she must look to Julian. His face betrayed no emotion as he tended to her, not tenderly, but efficiently.

When she could concentrate, she gave him instructions:

"Tobias will know Sloane's location if nobody else does. You'll - you'll talk to him."

"He should be in Istanbul any day." Julian's voice was the only coolness in the room.

"And you can't - you can't make it sound like Sloane's the one you're after. It has to be Bill Vaughn. Sloane has allies. Bill - he has nothing left -"

"Except his son, whom I shall take away."

"Good." Olivia breathed through heavy lungs. "What's happening to me - this is better than the alternative."

"I believe you. Even now."

Olivia tried to maintain belief in it herself.

In the early hours of the morning, just at dawn, Julian's most secure cellphone rang, startling them both. Julian rose from her side to answer it. He swore once, then closed his eyes tightly. After this, what could possibly count as bad news?

He flipped the phone shut and stared at her with hollow eyes. "Sydney Bristow has been murdered."

Then there is no hope left, Olivia thought. None at all.

She whispered, "There's morphine in my kit. I'd prefer the overdose now, if you don't mind."

"You always did know when to make an exit." Julian's smile might almost have been gallant as he prepared her death. Olivia stared at the syringe and tried to summon up any emotion save despair.

Sydney Bristow was dead. The answers they had hoped to find in her had never come. All Olivia's work - all those years, all those nights with George Reed, even the sacrifice of her daughter - had been for nothing.

Julian took her arm in his hand, waiting for no last words, standing upon no ceremony. As she watched the needle slide into her vein, Olivia decided she preferred it that way.

Her head drooped back onto the white pillowcase, and she tried to pretend that she was again in Lauren's nursery, holding her baby in her arms. "Our cause is just," she murmured, hoping her daughter could hear. "Our cause was just."

**

II.


Ninety-nine evenings out of a hundred - when Eric wasn't in the field, anyway - he kept his cellphone with him at all times. But the memory chip needed replacing, so he left the phone with Marshall that night.

Ninety-nine evenings out of a hundred - when Eric made himself go to the gym - he mentioned where he would be to the people at the front desk, so that if anyone needed to reach him in a hell of a hurry, they could head to the weight room or racquetball court right away. That night, the front desk people were busy when he went by, and that particular precaution had never paid off once, so Eric just went ahead to his nemesis, the Stairmaster.

So he had been completely out of touch with the CIA for about three hours when he turned onto the road to his apartment complex; it was almost no time at all, but in his life, it was an eternity. Eric realized that fact about two seconds after he saw the red and blue lights flashing from the courtyard, their rhythm a staccato heartbeat.

It wouldn't be Sydney's apartment. It wouldn't be Sydney's apartment. Oh, shit, oh, fuck, it was Sydney's apartment.

Eric accelerated all the way into the curb, ignoring the clank of metal and the yank of the seatbelt against his chest. One grab into his gym bag and his CIA identification was in hand, which ought to get him through any cops.

"What's going on here?" he called as he ran toward the door. Neighbors who knew him only from paper pickups and pizza delivery huddled in front of their houses, wondering just what he did for a living. Time to move. "What happened?"

A break-in, Eric thought, answering his own question. It was a robbery, nothing more. Syd had lost a TV, and she'd have to come over and watch movies at his place. That would be the end of it. Not so bad.

But then he got close enough to look in the open door. The wide red stain on the carpet struck him like a blow.

He froze then - something he'd never done, not in the field, not in life, not once. It was as though he couldn't move or think, as if he could do nothing but stand there in the grass, in his T-shirt and shorts, staring at a bloodstain that had swallowed him up.

Behind him, he heard one of the cops talking into his radio. The words "murder suspect in custody" - they didn't make sense. He couldn't force them to make sense. "Murder."

"Weiss!" From the hallway of Sydney's apartment, a shape took form and personality: It was Dixon, his tie unknotted, his eyes anguished. "Weiss - we need you in here."

"I need a minute," Eric said, surprised that he could even speak aloud. Dixon looked as though he wanted to walk out to him, but maybe he was frozen too.

Sydney, dead. Killed. Murdered. And it wouldn't have been by some damned burglar either; Sydney could have taken anyone like that out in five seconds flat. This was the work of an assassin, somebody trained, somebody that Eric was trained to stop, but he hadn't been there to stop it, and -

Sydney, laughing as they shared a bottle of Chianti, crying in his arms after Vaughn's disappearance, shining in a tight silver gown in the middle of a nightclub in Helsinki as she listened to the words he whispered to the device in her ear. She was everything beautiful and brilliant and brave, and she was gone. Gone forever.

Not Syd, Eric said to a God who obviously wasn't listening. Not Sydney and Vaughn too, not both of them, and the first motherfucker who tells me At Least They're Together is going to get my fist in his face, dammit, dammit, dammit.

Tears were welling in Eric's eyes as he heard one of the cops say, "This one's got ID too. Let him through." He could hear footsteps in the grass, but he didn't turn to see who was standing behind him.

A bustling within the apartment, and then Dixon and a couple of cops walked out, towing a handcuffed man with them. Eric tried to look at the son of a bitch, but he couldn't make out much more than a stocky frame and a silvery-white scar; it was as if his mind refused to accept that Sydney's killer could have a human face.

"We're taking this man into our custody," Dixon said, apparently addressing the cops outside. "We'll provide transport-"

The person standing behind Eric stepped in front of him, raising his arm in one swift motion. Eric realized it was Jack Bristow the same moment he saw the gun.

"Jack!" Dixon yelled, and the shout almost drowned out the whirr-click of a silenced pistol. The head of the man who killed Sydney folded in upon itself, lost in a thick spray of blood. Eric ducked away, shielding his eyes with his arm; hot wet mess splattered on him, and his elbow pricked as if pierced by little needles.

Bone fragments, Eric realized. It was as close as he could get to thinking.

Dazed, he looked up at Jack Bristow's profile. Even as the cops swarmed him, Jack's face remained completely still.

**

Perhaps an hour later - though Eric would have been hard-pressed to name the time - Eric found himself driving back to CIA headquarters, now with a handcuffed Jack Bristow in his car. They were both bloodstained and silent.

Eric would deliver Jack Bristow into custody, while Dixon and the others tried to placate the by-now outraged LAPD. Jack would go to jail for destroying Sydney's murderer, and Eric only wished he'd had the sense and the gun to beat him to it.

Sydney deserved better, he wanted to say to Jack. Sydney was the best person I ever knew - yeah, better than Vaughn, even - and I don't see how I'm supposed to go on in a world that doesn't have her in it.

You avenged her, and I resent you for it, and I'm glad for it, and -

Quickly, Eric pulled the car over. Jack, who had been staring flatly at the road ahead, jerked around to stare at him. "What are you doing, Mr. Weiss?"

"Get out."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out of the car." Eric grabbed the key and took Jack's cuffed wrists to set him free. "I'll smack myself across the jaw, say you did it. Dixon won't buy that story and he won't give a shit. You can take care of yourself. Get out of here."

Maybe Jack was in shock too, because he just kept staring at Eric like they'd never set eyes on each other before. "You're breaking CIA regulations." 

"And I don't care. You killed the guy who killed Sydney. As far as I'm concerned, you shouldn't go to jail for that. You should get a medal for that. But you know and I know that somebody paid that guy - somebody hired him - and whoever that was has to die too. You can probably take care of that better than anyone. So go on. Do it."

Instead of taking advantage of Eric's mercy or temporary insanity, whichever it was, Jack just sat there, staring.

Eric, crazy with grief and frustration, slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Didn't you hear me? You need to go!"

Jack paused a moment longer, then said, "I think you need to come with me."

**

III.


Sloane was reading the stories of Guy de Maupassant when Bill Vaughn appeared in his doorway. Bill said nothing, not at first.

Time seemed to slow down, each second defined and separate from all the others. Sloane was very aware of lowering the book, of sliding the gold ribbon between the pages to mark his place; he noted the last line he'd read ("Le commandant seul gardait de la retenue,") so that he could begin again later. "Yes?" he said. He sounded so calm, marveling at it as though he were an observer.

"It's done. Sydney Bristow is dead."

Sloane was the one who had named the day and the hour, the one who had paid the price, and yet still it hurt. He'd known it would. "Are you quite sure?"

"They intercepted LAPD as well as CIA communications confirming it last night. Franco was caught." Bill hesitated, long enough for Sloane to take two shaky breaths. "He was murdered by Jack Bristow before the cops could take him away. Apparently Jack - he went a little crazy. He's in custody now."

Jack would escape from that jail eventually, Sloane knew. Sooner rather than later. But still, too late.

"Thank you," Sloane said. Though he spoke no more, and made no gesture, Bill understood that he had been dismissed and left.

She had been an excellent trainee, he'd told her. Among the most promising they'd ever had. He had shaken her hand and welcomed her to SD-6. She had looked into his eyes, guileless and patriotic, transparently yearning for all the approval her father had never given her. Sydney had been an eighteen-year-old girl.

Sloane rose slowly, feeling his age in his bones. At first he meant to pour himself a brandy, despite the early hour, but his hands shook so that he was afraid to handle the crystal. Instead he walked out to the deck and gazed toward the north. Nadia rode her horse near the water's edge; she'd asked for the privilege and he had granted it gladly, happy to indulge her. The guards kept her safe, but she was still there, sitting tall in her saddle, hair streaming out behind her like a banner. His beautiful daughter.

And yet, still, in his heart, when he thought of the word "daughter," it was Sydney he thought of. Sydney, whom he had killed.

So like her mother, he thought. And like her father too, though she wouldn't have liked to hear it. Sydney was the best of both of them - the best of two of the people I loved most in the world. Now that she is gone, the best of them has gone as well.

Only a few dozen feet away, Michael Vaughn stood right at the water's edge. He was watching Nadia ride; perhaps he had been invited along but had declined. The guards were closer to him than to Nadia. When Vaughn was told, there would be trouble once more. Had this man ever truly made Sydney happy? Sloane hoped so. She had deserved that much.

Why did you give her so little, Jack? How did you leave her so easily, Irina?

Sloane wondered if anyone else had ever loved Sydney as deeply as he had, as deeply as he always would.

And yet it was Sydney he'd been forced to sacrifice, in the end, to bring about Rambaldi's greatest work. That was the irony of it - and, Sloane understood, the justice. To gain this glory, it was only right that he should be forced to make a sacrifice. He had to bleed once more - to know this last and most terrible wound - before he could go on.

The better world to come would be Rambaldi's creation, and Sloane's, and, to some small extent, Sydney's too. Sloane tried to think of that. It was a comfort.

**

IV.


Brussels, Belgium


Irina punched the man who told her in the jaw, hard enough that she felt bone shatter against her knuckles. At that moment she hated them all, swore within her heart to kill them, could not understand why, after years of loyalty, they would betray her this way.

No, they were fools, traitors and scum. They told her lies. They told her that Sydney was dead.

"Leave me," she rasped. Her men shared glances, unwilling to obey. They distrusted her in her grief. They were wise. "I said, leave me." Finally they left. 

When she fell to the floor, she thought one of them must have hidden in the room to attack her, though she could not remember the blow. At last it occurred to her that she had simply fallen, that her body would not support her any more. Now that she was alone, it was safe to lose control.

Her madness swallowed her whole. Irina could not stand, but she threw what she could reach, cursed the world in a dozen languages until her throat boiled and her breath caught. Then she just screamed, wordless, into her arms, into the floor, for as long as she could. When she could no longer scream, she cried, sick with betrayal and lies. 

She cried herself to sleep, inasmuch as what she drifted into was sleep. It was more like passing out, the sudden cessation of thought and consciousness, a blessed relief from pain.

Irina came to on the floor, and for a moment she was disoriented, unable to remember why she would be sleeping on hardwood, why her throat hurt, why her face was sticky and her hand sore. Then she remembered, and the tears began again, unchecked by any further denial.

Sydney was dead.

This wasn't like last time. She'd always doubted the earlier reports of Sydney's death - they made no tactical sense. This made perfect sense.

She remembered giving birth to Sydney, the shock and wonder of an infant's wet, slippery weight against her chest, the way it had drowned out all her pain in happiness. She remembered piano lessons, putting aside mundane songs about clowns and parades to teach Sydney a simple version of the Ode to Joy. She remembered one too-brief embrace on the roof of CIA headquarters, the way Sydney's body had felt in her arms. They had only hugged once.

Irina remained motionless for a few moments, trying to muster up the strength to move.

Sloane was the one who had ordered Sydney's murder; Irina had no intel to inform her of this and did not need it. Now there was nothing to do but remember, and she dwelled on the most visceral, disgusting memories possible: She had let Sloane fuck her. The man who had murdered her first daughter had climaxed inside her body. She had given him a child, and he had taken hers away.

As she had intended, revulsion empowered her in a way grief had not. Irina crawled across the floor to a small table, opened a drawer, took out her pistol. A double-check revealed that the guards had not thought to unload it. Clicking off the safety, Irina settled the muzzle under her jaw. The bullet's upward trajectory would empty out the center of her brain, just like coring an apple.

Jack, she thought, calling to him as she had never allowed herself to do before. Jack, we should be together.

Irina knew that Jack would have held his gun beneath her chin, and she would have done the same for him. Neither of them could want anything but death in the left-over world they now inhabited. They could have given that to each other, a final gift.

Then he spoke, inside her mind: If we do this, Sloane wins.

He's won already, Irina thought. But now it was her own mind arguing back, saying - not if he dies soon. You still have time to find him. You still have time to kill him.

Irina clicked the safety back on and called the guards back. Without a word, she held out the pistol and let them take it from her.  They were too competent to make such a mistake again, at least not for many days, and by that time perhaps it would not matter.

"What shall we do?" one of them said.

"We have a message to send," she replied.

Months before, Irina had cut off all her old channels of communication; neither Jack nor Katya could have reached her now, even if they had wanted to. But Irina still knew ways of sending messages so that only certain eyes would see them.

Within a few hours, the reply came. Irina picked up the phone and heard, "May I extend my sympathies?"

"We won't discuss it. Sloane has to pay for this."

"I quite agree. And I have some information that may help us in that. I've just had a little chat with Tobias - the late Tobias - that cleared up many important questions as to Arvin Sloane's whereabouts."

Could this be an angel of the lord? No, Irina knew better than that, but no other words could possibly have made her smile - even so bitter a smile as she had now. "I'm glad I thought of you."

"As am I," said Julian Sark. "I didn't look forward to traveling alone."

**

V.


Vaughn lay on the floor of his room; it didn't seem like a strange thing to do, for whatever reason. He was focusing. You could focus while lying on the floor.

The events of the past two days had a strangely disjointed quality. Vaughn could remember them in detail: Sloane's eyes filling with tears as he broke the news. The way his own stomach had lurched, how every bite of food he'd taken in this strange place seemed to turn to poison. Nadia's plaintive weeping echoing down the hallway. The mournful look in his father's eyes, the soft touch on Vaughn's shoulder, violently shrugged off.

But these memories didn't seem to have sunk all the way into his brain. Vaughn knew them all to be true, but it seemed as though they should have killed him, and they hadn't.

He needed to focus. Focusing was important.

Perhaps it was as simple as the fact that he'd already lost his mind with grief for Sydney's death once, and couldn't do it all over. Perhaps it was the nagging sense he had that Sydney had only died the once, in the fire, and that he'd just had a long hallucination about her returning. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he'd nearly lost himself completely after learning the truth about Lauren, and that he had only barely won back his sanity - and now was determined not to surrender it, no matter what.

Whatever it was that had built this wall in his mind, sealing off his grief, Vaughn was grateful for it. He had work to do.

From his place on the floor, Vaughn ticked off the facts he was certain of: Sydney was really dead this time. Sloane believed it, absolutely - Vaughn didn't know how he could tell that, given what a masterful liar Sloane could be, but he knew this as surely as he'd known anything in his life.  Sydney's death was in some way linked to the documents he was still discovering in the secret computer room; the glances between Sloane and his father confirmed that as surely as a signed document. And finally - Sloane was in some way responsible for Sydney's death. Sloane's own grief was his evidence. Vaughn had realized that, if anyone else had done it, if her murder had not served Sloane's endgame, Sloane would not have been mournful but angry. Sloane would have wanted revenge.

Vaughn was going to be the one to get revenge. He could sit at the dinner table with Syd's killer and smile, if that was the price. He could do all that and more, just as soon as he could get up off the floor.

So, not just yet.

Creaking hinges revealed that the door was being opened. Vaughn didn't bother to look up. "Get out."

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Nadia said. "You were so much better -"

"This is different. I think you're probably aware of that."

"I am. I know." She stepped forward - he could hear her bare feet on the carpet - but did not attempt to touch him, for which he was grateful. "Michael, I can't pretend that I knew her as you did. Or that I loved her as much as you loved her. But Sydney was my sister. You and I - we both lost her."

Time to speak? Not yet. Let Nadia tug a little more rope first.

"I keep thinking of everything I lost - the chance even to know her. And I want to know her through you, if I can." The sincerity of her appeal was unmistakable, and to his surprise, Vaughn wanted to respond. But he remained quiet. "Papa can only tell me so much -"

The thought of Sloane warping Nadia's mind to match his own snapped Vaughn's control. "You want to know her," he growled, lifting his face from the floor at last. Nadia stood above him, wearing a red T-shirt and jeans and looking so much like Syd that it hurt. He could use that. "You could have known her, if you'd stayed in Los Angeles instead of betraying her."

"I didn't - Michael, Papa came to me, and -"

"You didn't care what your father did or didn't do. You were just so damn needy for a daddy you'd take one wherever you could find him." He used the bed to pull himself up to a standing position. "You were too busy chasing your own obsession to be there for Sydney."

Nadia shook her head. "You're upset. You're not yourself."

"And you are? You were too caught up in what happened to YOU to care about what happened to HER."  Vaughn was shouting now, and he didn't know where the anger inside him was coming from, but he could use that too.  "Don't stand here and tell me how much you loved Sydney when you threw her away! They didn't take her away from you - you lost her all on your own."

"Mike!" His father appeared in the doorway. About time, Vaughn thought. Nadia pushed her way out, blindly, perhaps through tears. "Mike, calm down."

"Calm down? Sydney's dead and you want me to calm down?" But he had to shove the anger aside now. It couldn't help him much longer.

"Come on, buddy." That was something he'd said after Little League games, or picking him up at the skating rink. Vaughn tried to remember being that boy, the one who loved his father so completely, the one who lived in a world he could trust. "Let's sit here, okay? Nadia's a sweet girl. She's not the one you're angry at."

And it was true, Vaughn realized, identifying the source of his rage at last. He was angry at himself.

I was too busy chasing my own obsession to be there for Sydney. They didn't take her away from me; I lost her all on my own. Or I was about to, just before the end.

The wall crumbled, and Vaughn half-sat, half-fell onto the bed beside his father.  When his dad's arm clasped him around the shoulder, he didn't resist.

"She used to be my whole world, Dad. Sydney was - it was like I'd spent my whole life playing it safe, and then she came along and showed me what it meant to live - to live like it mattered."

"I know, Mike. I know."

When did you know what that kind of love was like, Dad? When you left Mom without a word to chase Milo Rambaldi?  But even now, as tears welled in his eyes, Vaughn was disciplined enough not to say those words aloud.

"She wanted so much. Syd hated this life we all lead - all these lies - she just wanted a chance to have something honest in her life. Something real. And she never got it, not even once."

"I'm so sorry. You know that, don't you, Mike?"

Vaughn let his head rest against his father's shoulder, surrendering to the embrace. Wasn't this a sign of trust? Grieving openly in Dad's arms? There had been a guarded quality to all his father's Rambaldi revelations so far - but after this, after the night when his son had wept for Sydney in his arms, Bill Vaughn would be willing to trust more. To talk more.

And if it really did feel good, deep down, to be held by his father once again - Vaughn wasn't above using that too.

As his tears turned to sobs, Vaughn tightened his arms around his father and thought, If Sydney never got anything real, neither will you.

**

VI.


Hearing is the last sense to go, and the first to return.

Sydney thought that as she heard a soft rustling nearby, then wondered why she was thinking such a thing. Then memory returned: the gunman, the blow, the dizzying fall to the floor. Instead of shocking or frightening her, the images merely played out in her mind, mildly interesting at best.

I'm drugged, Sydney realized. Then, thinking upon the tingling warmth that had spread through her after the shot, she amended that to "still drugged." Fortunately for her, the gunman had fired a tranquilizer dart instead of a bullet.

As her mind cleared a little further, Sydney realized this meant that, instead of being dead, she was a captive. A better situation, maybe, but still, definitely, not good.

The rustling was a little closer now, and she felt fingertips brush against her forehead for a moment. Sydney did not tense her muscles, did not even let her eyes move so that they might be seen beneath her eyelids. A couple of footsteps, and her captor moved away.

Feigning unconsciousness could buy her a little time, Sydney thought, but not very long. Chances were that the tranquilizer's dosage and effects had been calculated before the attack; they would know that she was due to awaken soon.

Her brain had snapped over automatically into "capture mode," performing the tasks most necessary to ensure her survival, and nothing else. As best as she could, Sydney tried to evaluate her circumstances. She could feel no bindings on her legs, arms or midriff; therefore she was free to move. This might be a good sign - a chance to fight - or a bad one, if her present jail was thought to be too secure for easy escape. It was a little cold in the room, not uncomfortably so, but to an unusual degree - 60 degrees, maybe; the light weight that covered her from the midriff down was possibly a blanket. The footsteps had no echo, and the overall sense of the ambient sounds suggested to her that she was in a fairly confined space - a small room, perhaps. Then, feeling the break between flat, firm cushions underneath her neck and the small of her back, Sydney realized she was lying on a medical table. This might be an examination room, then. Examination rooms sometimes had scalpels, scissors and other potential weapons. That much was definitely a good sign. Although her chest ached from the impact of the tranquilizer dart, and a whopper of a headache seemed to be brewing, she didn't feel any other physical pain or even discomfort. So, once she could throw off the drug's effects, she was in prime position to make her move.

Her captor shifted on his or her feet. Whoever it was seemed to be settling in to wait, and not going anywhere. And he or she was a few feet away, meaning that Sydney couldn't just lunge - it would take a step or two to get there, and that was time her opponent could use to prepare.

Sydney slowly tensed her arm muscles, then her legs. They responded to her commands; she might not be able to move at her usual speed, but she was able to move. Could she fight?

Her head was still heavy, and she knew from experience that such a heavy dose of tranquilizer would probably create some nausea. No, she couldn't spring into action. But if she confronted her captor, tried to get some answers, and maybe bought herself enough time to see and grab a weapon - then, maybe, she would have a chance.

Now or never, she thought. One, two -

Sydney sat up straight, opened her eyes, and saw her father.

He stared at her, expressionless, as she gaped at him. Surprise, fear, anger, relief - all of them flashed through her, each emotion muddied with the rest. Shock overpowered everything else.

 As soon as Sydney could talk, she said, "You kidnapped me."

"Yes."

The ways he'd manipulated her throughout her life weren't enough; no, he finally had to take her prisoner. More in misery and resignation than anger, she said, "You couldn't ask for whatever it was you wanted. You had to send someone to shoot me."

"No. Arvin Sloane sent someone to shoot you, and to kill you. I was able to intercept that assassin and offer him double the money to fake your death instead."

"You still paid someone to shoot me."

Her father smiled, an expression she did not like. "He was paid exactly what he deserved."

"Why did Sloane try to kill me now? He's had other chances. He never took them." If her father thought she was going to take his word on faith at this late date, he was gravely mistaken.

"Sloane needed you before. He needs your death now."

"And so you took me prisoner for my own protection?" She glanced around the examination room, which had a makeshift look. A camp, perhaps?

"You aren't a prisoner, Sydney."

"I can leave, then."

"It would be a bad idea. Sloane isn't the only one who wants you dead." Her father stepped a little closer, and for the first time since their conversation in Wittenburg, she could sense that he was appealing to her to listen. "You should remain here for your own safety. If you won't trust me about anything else, trust me about that."

"I'll make my own decisions, and I'll leave when I'm ready. Where are we?"

"Antarctica."

Sydney stared at him. No, he wasn't joking. "I'm a prisoner," she said, contradicting him. "You wouldn't have brought me here for any other reason, drugged me to  -"

Then her breath failed her, and the world spun, as her brain snapped out of capture mode and became human again: the drugs.

The baby.

"Sydney?" Her father was staring at her. "Are you all right?"

"You drugged me. Oh, my God, you bastard, you drugged me. You could have called me, told me about the attack and the faked death -"

His voice was sharp as he said, "Would you have listened? Somehow I doubt it."

"If you've hurt my baby, I swear to God, I will kill you."

And she meant it. So this was maternal instinct - nothing soft and fuzzy and talcum-scented, but as powerful and fierce an emotion as Sydney had ever felt. The entire world seemed to shift for her, centered on a love that crushed her, illuminated her, made her strong.

She was having a baby. Her baby was in danger. Nothing else mattered, or could ever matter.

Her father's eyes went wide as he glanced down at her midriff. "Sydney - you're pregnant?"

Sydney had never meant to tell him, but she was his captive now, and the truth would be apparent sooner rather than later. She just nodded.

Her father looked away from her quickly, and his voice sounded strange. "You - you never said anything."

"I think you should understand the reasons why." Sydney's arm slid protectively around her belly, wondering how the baby could ever have seemed less than real. Had anything in her life ever been more real than this feeling - than this fear?  She tried desperately to remember anything she'd ever read about the effects of tranquilizers on pregnant women. Had they covered that material, ever? Most drugs' effects were less severe after the first trimester, and she was a few weeks into the second - would that protect the baby? "I want a doctor, and I want tests, and I want exact information on the drug you used."

"As fast I can get them. It's going to take a day or two, for the doctor. " He was still hunched over, his face weathered and sad. For the first time, Sydney realized that he was the baby's grandfather. Jack Bristow a granddad. It didn't seem real - to him either, to judge by his expression.

There was a brief window of a few months - back when she was first dating Vaughn, years ago - when she'd been able to envision revealing news like this happily: over brunch, or during a walk in the park. But for most of her life, she'd imagined the event as just another chance for her father to disappoint her. She hadn't guessed the half of it.

"You risked my baby's life to do this. You deserve to know that," Sydney said. Despite her words, she was less certain now, and she could hear it in her own voice. "I deserve to know your reasons."

Maybe it was the shock of finding out about the baby. Maybe they'd finally gone as far in secrecy as they could go. But her father sighed heavily, as though setting down a heavy weight. "Hiding the truth from you no longer serves any purpose."

Could he possibly mean it? Sydney realized that he looked tired, defeated and old - like a man who was on the verge of giving up. She'd never wanted to see that - her father looking beaten - nor could she ever have wished for the cause to be the revelation of her pregnancy. But if the result was finally getting at the truth, then it would be worth it. It would have to be worth it. "What truth is it you're going to tell me? About Project Christmas? About Mom? Nadia?"

"All of it."

Sydney took a deep breath, wavering between curiosity and dread. "Okay. Start at the beginning."

Her father hesitated another moment, then sat down in the room's one chair, clearly settling in for a long tale. This made her slightly more convinced that he was going to tell her the truth. It was best to keep lies brief.

"The CIA recruited me when I was a teenager. I had the test scores and skills they were looking for, but that wasn't the only reason. Apparently some of my - our - ancestors were Rambaldi followers."

Sydney couldn't fully conceal her surprise. "How far back does this go?"

"Even I don't know everything. The government's Rambaldi projects date back almost 200 years, at least in an official capacity. There's some evidence Benjamin Franklin worked on decrypting Rambaldi texts as far back as 1770."

Did I want to know that? Sydney thought. Oh, God, even American history is getting put in the blender.

"Rambaldi always designed his most important works to function as both man and machine -"

"The DiRegno heart," Sydney said, remembering its eerie beat.

"Precisely. DNA was key to all of this - and before DNA testing was common, even before DNA was discovered, those who studied Rambaldi knew that certain bloodlines were important to his research. Ours is among them."

"And Mom's? Her name was on that box - she has to be important."

Her father closed his eyes as he said the next. "The real Laura West died when she was 7 - though we only discovered that years later. The young woman the government tracked down in 1970 was Irina Derevko. The government wanted to recruit a woman with a strong Rambaldi bloodline; they had no idea just how well they'd done. But the Russians did."

This part was harder. Sydney remembered the pain that had lanced through her when she'd seen the Wittenburg files, and her name typed next to the words CHRISTMAS SUBJECT. "And - and they made you guys have a baby."

"No. It wasn't like that. They believed it was our destiny -- it would happen, no matter what we did, and the CIA was there to observe the results, not control the process. I fell in love with your mother, and I thought she fell in love with me. That was why we got married, why we had you. The CIA was very interested in that - in you - but we didn't create you for them. We wanted a child. At least, I did."

Maybe it was the presence of the child inside her that made it impossible to continue thinking he would willingly have bargained her away. But was that instinct guiding her well or telling her lies? Love could deceive you too.

When she remained quiet, her father continued, "From your birth, many indicators in Rambaldi's work pointed toward you. You were going to be important - though nobody could tell why. That's why they assigned me to compile those reports on you -"

"Every private detail of my whole life." It still stung; it would always sting. "If you want this conversation to stay constructive, you should gloss over that part."

"We were looking for signs," he said. "It could have been anything - any moment, any act. But I thought I had spared you the worst destiny of all."

"What was that?"

"Most people believed that you would be the Irenicon."

"But that's a religious term - a means of securing peace, ending feuding - blending opposites." Obviously it meant something different in Rambaldi-speak. "What was the Irenicon's destiny?"

Her father rose from his chair and began pacing slowly; given his extraordinary ability for stillness, Sydney knew this as a sign of extreme agitation. "You know that immortality was among Rambaldi's obsessions. What you've never known is the manner in which he intended to give immortality to the faithful."

"Nobody's ever known that."

"No. It's been known for decades - centuries, maybe - though nobody understood the exact mechanisms until very recently." His pacing remained slow and deliberate, but Sydney could see how tightly his hands were clenched behind his back. "Rambaldi foretold a plague that would sweep through humanity, decimating the population. More than decimating - the number of fatalities would be more like 7 or 8 people out of 10, worldwide. But that plague - the Rain of Gold is the name he gave it -- would be the creation of Rambaldi's own followers."

"Oh, my God." Sydney took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. The disease they'd been tracking through Asia - she'd known it was important, that it was connected to Rambaldi, but nothing had ever suggested that it could be a holocaust on that scale. "Why would they do that? Why would Rambaldi make that possible?"

"Some people will survive the Rain of Gold just through luck." Her father half-shrugged. "If you can call that luck, given the chaotic world they're likely to inherit. But others - those who survive because of the Rambaldi immunizations or their bloodlines, the faithful - their bodies will be transformed by the virus, instead of destroyed."

Comprehension dawned, pale and sick. "You mean - Rambaldi's followers will become immortal. The plague that kills so many other people - it makes them immortal."

He corrected her. "Makes us immortal. You and I have the bloodlines."

"I don't want that." Sydney had never really thought about it - but then, she didn't have to.

"Neither do I. But that choice is rapidly being taken away from us."

"The Irenicon - was that the source of the plague? Oh, God, was I the source?"

"No." Her father's voice was even heavier now. "The Irenicon would provide the cure. Rambaldi created the blueprint for the disease, but he also created a way to cure it - why, I don't know."

"Why is that the worst destiny? That doesn't sound so bad -"

"Sydney, think," her father snapped. "Given the number of zealots willing to steal, cheat and kill in order to obtain immortality, how could you ever be safe once your status as the Irenicon was known beyond any doubt? You are the only person who can stop Rambaldi's plague. That means you are the only person who can prevent them from achieving immortality. If you were the Irenicon, hundreds of people would have no  purpose more important than seeing you dead."

"Hang on." Sydney held up her hand and took a few deep breaths. It was tempting to write off the wave of dizziness as the after-effects of the drugs, but she knew better. "You said - you and Mom-- you tried to spare me that. How could you do that? If it was my destiny?"

"In the prophecies, it said quite clearly that the Irenicon would have a sister. And that this sister's DNA would be the source of the Rain of Gold."

"Nadia -"

"Your mother and I made a pact. We didn't want the plague to become a reality, and we didn't want to put you at risk. So, on a spare day after a mission, I used an alias, went to a doctor. Neither of us ever reported it to the CIA. If you couldn't have a sister, then you couldn't be the Irenicon. I thought I had made that impossible. As the last several months have revealed, there was a flaw in my thinking."

The enormity of what her mother had done hit Sydney with the stunning force of a blow. Irina Derevko's affair with Sloane had always nauseated and angered her - but now that she understood the reasons, it was a thousand times worse than she could ever have dreamed. "You mean - Mom - that's why she had an affair with Sloane. She was trying to get pregnant. She was trying to create the plague, so she could fulfill Rambaldi's work. Mom wanted to - all those people who are going to die, the ones who are already dead -"

Nausea overtook her, and she dived for the plastic sink against the far wall just in time to throw up. As she retched, Sydney felt her father behind her; his hands tugged back her hair, the way he'd done when she was very little. Too ill to be grateful, Sydney just gripped the edge of the sink and gave into the reflex completely.

When at last she could be sick no more, she straightened up and accepted the towel her father gave her. Quickly he poured her a cup of water and offered it - clearly unsure whether or not she would accept it. Sydney took the cup, uneasy about relying on him, but too weak and confused to do anything else. And yet, it felt good to lean on him a little. With her new awareness of her child had come a sense of vulnerability Sydney didn't yet know how to handle. Even her father's imperfect protection seemed better than no protection at all.

"Are you - is this morning sickness?" Maybe he was trying to make chit-chat. If so, he hadn't gotten any better at it.

"Haven't had any so far. I think this is just disgust, pure and simple."

"What you're feeling - that's how I felt, when I first found out," he said. "I thought your mother had betrayed more than our marriage. I thought she was conspiring in genocide."

"You're using the past tense."

He half-turned from her then, and braced one arm against the wall. "I received a communication from your mother. It wasn't intended for me, which is one of the reasons I believe it may have some veracity."

"And she had an explanation for this? What could possibly explain this?"

"According to - Derevko, Sloane approached her in 1981 with what he claimed was secret information about the Rambaldi prophecies. He convinced her that you were not the Irenicon, but that you were the source of the Rain of Gold."

"She thought I was the one who would create the plague?" Sydney did the calculations in her mind. "So having another baby - Mom thought that was the only way she could create a cure. But she couldn't have another baby with you."

"And Arvin Sloane offered himself as a solution." Her father's voice was more bitter than she had ever heard it. "I don't know if he had learned I couldn't father any more children, or if he simply thought I had refused. Your mother hasn't made that part of their negotiations clear. But apparently he deceived her, made her pregnant. That, she claims, was the reason."

He looked so bruised, so wounded by Sloane's manipulation of Irina. For the first time in months, Sydney found herself moved by her father's solitude, wishing to comfort him. "Do you believe her?"

"I want to believe her," he admitted. But as soon as he had opened up, he shut back down again, becoming official and stiff. "At some point between her escape and Nadia's birth, Derevko realized she had been lied to. The Soviets took Nadia from your mother as an infant, perhaps intending to use her to begin the plague. Bill Vaughn stole her after that. Apparently Sloane didn't know he had - knew nothing of your mother's second pregnancy. But, as he said, he discovered the truth later."

"And then he used Nadia to create the plague." They were silent together for a few moments before Sydney whispered. "It's already begun. But you haven't found the cure, have you?"

"We've studied everything about you." For the first time, that fact didn't make her angry. It made a certain kind of sense. "We always did - even when we didn't think you were the Irenicon, the CIA wanted the analysis for whatever role in the prophecies you would ultimately play. But every bit of data has been re-analyzed since we learned about Nadia, to no result. We've tested your blood, your DNA, your brainwaves -"

His voice trailed off. His eyes narrowed. He'd thought of something, but what?

In horror, Sydney jerked away from him, spilling the water onto the floor. "You are never - NEVER - going to touch my baby."

"Sydney - that's the only aspect we've never examined - that we never thought of -"

"You son of a bitch!" Sydney wanted to kill him. If she'd had a gun, she would have shot him and thought about the consequences later. "It's not enough that you spent my entire life dissecting me like a lab specimen. No, you want to do it to my baby too. You are the most cold - heartless -"

"The alternative is the death of millions of people!" For all his nasty moods, her father rarely raised his voice to her, but he was yelling now. "Nobody is talking about hurting your child. But if that child is the source of the cure, we have to know that. I would think you could appreciate the seriousness of the situation."

"Too bad you didn't think about that before you drugged us. Maybe you've killed the cure before it ever began. Did you think of that?" She had to still be pregnant - if she'd miscarried, her body would show the results - but her terror about the drug's effects on the baby welled up again, overpowering any other thought.

Her father stared down at her midriff, as if trying to tell if he'd hurt her through sheer will. They were both breathing heavily, and his voice was uneven as he said, "I'll get you a doctor. The two of you can decide what tests we can and can't run." After a moment, he said, "You'll do the right thing, Sydney. You usually do."

"How can somebody like you tell?"

He didn't respond, just walked out. The wall shuddered as he slammed the door; whatever structure he'd built in Antarctica wasn't the strongest. Then again, the very fact that they were in a building with concrete floors and metal walls meant that this wasn't bad - for Antarctica.

Leave it to her father to figure out the one place on planet Earth she couldn't easily escape.

Even as she wondered if she was free to leave the examination room, the doorknob turned. As the door opened wide, Sydney gasped in shock. "No. Oh, God, please, no."

**

VII.


As fast as he could, Eric held up his hands. "Syd, there's just one thing I want to say, and it's really, really important to me that you listen: Don't hurt me."

"Eric - you're part of this?" Sydney looked as if she couldn't decide whether to start crying or kill him. Eric didn't want to make her cry, but he wanted to die even less. "You helped my dad kidnap me?"

"Actually, no. Your dad planned that all on his own." For a moment, Eric started to tell her how he'd believed that she was dead, the way it had made him feel - but no. Sydney didn't need to know any of that. "After he'd pulled you out, he said he needed some help to keep you safe. No way I was going to refuse when he put it like that."

"You left the CIA to come to Antarctica?"

He shook his head. "This is all on the CIA bankroll, baby. Your dad pushed it through somehow - don't ask me, it's got something to do with those secret connections of his. Dixon's in on it now, but I don't think he found out until that night either. The guys who run the station say they started construction about four months ago. So your dad's had this up his sleeve for a while."

"Figures." Sydney was obviously still furious, but her anger now seemed to be reserved for Jack Bristow. As long as it wasn't directed toward causing bodily harm to anybody, most specifically himself, Eric was okay with that. "How long have I been out?"

"About a day and a half, I think. The jet-lag factor has to be multiplied by a power of ten when you're talking about Antarctica. Screws up the internal clock."

"I remember." As Sydney sat down on the examination table, she said, "How long are we going to stay here?"

"Until they get a cure, or until the plague's run its course." At her surprised expression, Eric did a little interpretation and replied, "Yeah, Jack told me about the plague and the cure. Not until we got here, though. I'm still trying to process it."

"That makes two of us." She raised her head to look at him intently. "You gave up your whole life to hang out on Antarctica -- to keep me safe?"

"Honestly? Not so much. Between you and me, your dad is scary as hell, but he's all about the protection. You didn't need anybody else to keep you safe. But I thought -" It was sounding stupid, now that he was actually saying out loud. When he'd rehearsed it this morning, it had gone better. "-well, I thought you might need somebody to keep you company."

"Company?"

Eric sighed. "Take it from somebody who's been here for a grand total of a day and a half - Antarctica is BORING."

To his surprise - and, he thought, hers - Sydney started to laugh. Thank God; for all his frustration at always being "the fun guy" in Sydney's life, Eric liked seeing her happy. He hadn't seen that enough, lately. "That's the big danger you're here to guard against? Boredom?" 

"Lotta ice here. Not much else. No cable, no radio, and your dad has pretty tight locks on the computer usage for security reasons. Only so many snow angels a man can make, you know? And I've already made 'em. We have a few DVDs, but your father picked them out, which means you better really, really like Hitchcock. But now, madame, we are going to have some serious, south-of-the-border - any border - fun. The conversation, the thrilling games of Boggle, and, okay, the snow angels, which might be more interesting with two people instead of one -"

Sydney bounded from her place on the table to fling her arms around him, and Eric hesitated for about half of a second before he hugged her back. She was alive, and she was safe, and he wouldn't have to think about the fake bloodstain on her floor ever, ever again. "Thank you," she whispered into his neck. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Me too."

"Not just for my sake." She hesitated, and pulled back enough to look him in the face. "For the baby's."

That took a second to sink in. Baby. Baby? As in, a baby baby?

"Sydney - you and Vaughn -"

"Vaughn never knew. I only found out after - well, after. But I'm four months pregnant."

He tried to imagine Vaughn's features on a baby. The result wasn't good, but just the thought of it - his oldest friend becoming a dad, Sydney becoming a mom - made a lump rise in his throat. That love affair hadn't been for nothing after all. The Covenant had taken so much away from Syd and Vaughn, but they hadn't been able to steal everything. Weiss had always imagined being an uncle to Vaughn's kids, but he'd always thought Vaughn would be there too --

"Eric?" Sydney leaned closer. "Are you crying?"

"No," Eric said, but he was aware that he was blinking too fast to make it a very effective denial. "It's just - it's allergies. I'm, uh, I'm allergic to snow."

Sydney laughed again, but softly this time, as she hugged him again. "I don't think I could get through this alone."

Eric embraced her tightly as she laid her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to."

**





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