I greet you from the other side
Of sorrow and despair
With a love so vast and shattered
It will reach you everywhere

Through the days of shame that are coming
Through the nights of wild distress
Though your promise counts for nothing
You must keep it, nonetheless

You must keep it for the captain
Whose ship has not been built
For the mother in confusion
Her cradle still unfilled

--Leonard Cohen, "A Heart With No Companion"

IRENICON: Book Five

I.


"The important thing to remember here is that none of my five graduate degrees is a medical degree, okay?"

"I understand that." Dixon had long since accepted that listening to Marshall's babble was the price of working with genius, but that didn't stop him from trying to speed things up now and then. "You've talked with the med team. That's good enough for me."

It will have to be, Dixon thought. But he betrayed no sign of his doubts as he studied Marshall's charts, bars of data that glowed green and blue on the computer screen.

"Mom always said, with my brain, I should have gone to medical school. I keep trying to tell her, these days, Mom, with the crazy malpractice insurance, it's way better to be in the CIA than to be a doctor. You can't sue the CIA for malpractice, no sirree. And it's a good thing too, because if you look at the whole Middle East situation -"

"Marshall."

"Right, got it. Based on the information Mr. Bristow gave us, we know that the Covenant cells were working on vaccines against this Rambaldi virus. Some of those guys, they'll be protected by their genetics, lucky dogs. Lucky EVIL dogs, I mean. But some of them won't be protected, and those fellas are highly interested in getting on the whole immortality bandwagon, or at least surviving the plague that's coming straight out of the pages of the The Stand. The last information we got was from one of Bomani's labs in Geneva." Marshall held up a test tube and shook it slightly, so that the translucent red liquid inside sloshed about. "And this is what we synthesized based on that information. There's reason to believe that he used other labs - his center of operations was somewhere in Africa, which doesn't exactly narrow it down a whole lot - but this is probably the most recent data he had."

There was absolutely no aspect of this that Dixon was comfortable with. "Probably. Not certainly."

Marshall looked uneasy as well. "This is what the Covenant's betting their lives on. We can take another spin on the roulette wheel, but I don't think we're going to get a whole lot closer."

The computer screen continued to glow blankly at them, displaying the potential salvation of the human race. But if the vaccine didn't work, it was useless; if it had the common flaw of failed vaccines and actually transmitted the disease it was supposed to guard against -- it was worse than useless. Dixon wanted to have hope, but in these days, hope was hard to come by.

At last he said, "Marshall - put aside the greater ramifications of all of this. The plans for global delivery, all of it. Just tell me one thing, and I'll be satisfied." Dixon took a deep breath. "Can I give this to Robin and Stephen?"

Marshall slowly drew himself up and, for the first time in Dixon's experience, looked dignified. "I'm giving it to Mitchell."

"Then let's get started." It's a chance, Dixon thought. But we're all taking it together. "Essential personnel and their families, within the next 24 hours. Everyone remains under close medical supervision for at least three weeks. After that, if nobody shows symptoms, we begin global delivery operations."

"You got it, boss-man." Marshall grinned, and Dixon clapped him on the shoulder.

He scheduled Robin and Stephen's vaccinations with his own, explaining only that his office was giving out free flu shots. Robin missed the Halloween dance and was sulky, leading Dixon to suspect that a Cute Boy was thought likely to attend. For his part, Stephen wound up in a heated debate about the Lakers with Judy Barnett, of all people.

"Tomjanovich is the worst thing that ever happened to this - ow! - this team," Judy insisted, then winced as the band-aid was placed over her injection.

"It's not the coaching!" Stephen scarcely noticed the needle as his turn came. "It's the injuries!" Robin made a show of turning up the volume on her iPod to drown out such juvenile concerns.

Once they were back home that night, with Robin's door slammed shut and Stephen playing his video games, Dixon went through the newspapers, reading between the lines. The lead stories were still about politics, but the plague was now beating the antics of minor celebrities for space on the front page. 117 known victims. China had stopped claiming that its outbreak coverage under control and had even hinted that help might be sought from foreign physicians. An Op-Ed piece hailed this as an opportunity to heal East-West relations. Riots had broken out in some neighborhoods in India, where lower-caste citizens were thought to be the source of the disease some people were calling the "Bloodsight," because of the first symptom, bloodshot eyes. A "lighter side" news piece featured the new designer face mask from the house of Versace, brilliant in gold lame: safety and style.

It's all just another story now, Dixon thought. Within another month, that'll be all over with - one way or another.

For the next two weeks, no news was good news. Nobody got sick - not one single person, and that was great news. He received a single e-mail from Jack Bristow in the hideout that only Dixon and Marshall knew was in Antarctica; this report was terse, to say the least, but contained all the relevant information. Learning of Sydney's pregnancy made Dixon grin with delight - this was the best news of all. He'd always known she'd make a great mother someday, even if Sydney sometimes hadn't thought so herself. And there was a rightness to it, knowing that Michael Vaughn's life would go on, in a sense.

Maybe, in another couple of weeks, they could announce that they had the vaccine. Once the global delivery had begun, Sydney could be brought back from Antarctica to give birth among friends. It would be good, holding a baby again. Especially Sydney's baby. He'd taught Syd how to parachute to a target landing and disassemble a nuclear warhead; it would be a lot more fun teaching her how to diaper a squirming newborn.

Two weeks and five days after the vaccination, Dixon woke up to feel his eyes itching.

Hypochondria, he told himself. Half the office thought they were coming down with something, and absolutely no one had, with the exception of the "stomach virus" Marshall had that turned out to be bad sushi.

Even when he went to the bathroom and saw the blood vessels laced through the whites of his eyes, Dixon refused to panic. He could have bloodshot eyes for a number of reasons. Including, probably, the whiskey sour he'd had with a couple of the guys after work. He used some Visine, smiled at the results and got ready for work.

By the time he was halfway to the office, his eyes were itching again, and fear made his heartbeats hard in his chest.

"No way," Marshall said, as he helped the medtechs begin the testing. "Two weeks - that's as fast as we've ever heard of the plague incubating, at least in its final form. Usually it takes longer. This just has to be something else. A cold or - or the flu, maybe. Kinda ironic, huh? If we had vaccinations for the Rain of Gold and called them flu shots, but we really should've had flu shots instead?"

"Let's hope," Dixon replied.

But five minutes later, when the medtechs' faces went pale, Dixon knew the truth. The vaccine didn't work. Some of the CIA personnel would get the disease. And absolutely none of them were protected.

"Oh, no. Oh, no." Marshall couldn't stop repeating the words, and though he didn't doubt Marshall's friendship, Dixon knew the dismay wasn't for him. It was for Mitchell, not even a year old, with the same vaccination mark on his arm.

And Robin - and Stephen.

Dixon closed his eyes. Diane, honey, I tried to take care of them. I tried my best. But I think I failed all the same.

And he wished he could have seen Sydney's baby, just once.

**

II.


Mountaineer Station, Antarctica


Sydney didn't budge from the station - and only rarely left her designated room, a small cubby barely big enough for the bed - for the first two days.

Partly this was protest against her imprisonment. Partly it was fear, terror that any movement, any activity whatsoever, might take away whatever chance her baby had left. And then there was the overpowering desire for sleep that had overcome her. Long after the drugs had worn off, Sydney still wanted to sleep 10-12 hours a day. Was that pregnancy? Depression? She suspected the two forces were conspiring against her, tranquilizing her almost as completely as the drug had.

Eric came by to see her a couple times a day. Her father never came by at all. Sydney was grateful on both counts.

Just when she'd thought she would never move again - late on the second day -- Eric leaned his head in the door. "The doc's here." Instantly energized, Sydney leaped out of bed to meet the doctor in the hallway; she was surprised to see a woman who barely came up to her shoulder, still in cold-weather gear, waiting there for her.

"My name's Jenny Lo," the doctor said, somehow managing to heft her own enormous bag into the station, despite the fact that it was almost as long as the she was tall. "If you make so much as a single J. Lo joke, I swear to God, I'm out of here and you can get an Emperor penguin to deliver your baby."

"You got it." Sydney jumped at the heavy, metallic thud the bag made as Jenny dropped it to strip off her heavy parka. "What about Jell-O jokes?"

"Word to the wise: Don't taunt the lady with the speculum."

"Would this be a good time to mention that I have black belts in four different martial arts?"

Jenny snorted, a surprisingly deep sound from such a small woman. "We're gonna get along. The message said you needed a check-up stat - let's get to it."

The doctor had brought some of the stuff Sydney simply thought of as The Goop, and slathered Sydney's belly with it before starting the sonogram. With some satisfaction, Sydney studied the slight curve of her abdomen - at least she was finally showing a little. Jenny asked, "No bleeding? Even spotting?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"You having any morning sickness?"

"No, but I wasn't having any before."

Jenny grinned. "There's our little camper. Still along for the ride." The shifting images on the screen revealed a tiny profile, complete with a five-fingered hand, and Sydney found herself waving at it - which was stupid, totally stupid, just like the smile she could feel spreading across her face -- and she didn't care.

How had she ever had the strength to refuse a sonogram before? But thank God she had - she'd never have been able to hide the knowledge of her pregnancy from the world, not after actually seeing her baby for the first time.

Jenny nodded approvingly at the fluttering inside the fetus's chest. "That heart rate is just where it ought to be. If the tranq dose you took had interfered with fetal development, the heartbeat would probably be slower by now. But that ticker's ticking away."

"What about birth defects? Brain function, or deformity, or -"

"The drug they used isn't a teratogen, so you guys should both be OK. That doesn't mean I'm not going to be watching you like a hawk. Though apparently that's this Agent Bristow guy's job."

It felt a little weird to inform her, but it was better to do it right away. "Agent Bristow's my father." Why hadn't he mentioned that himself? Did he just not care?

Jenny sighed melodramatically. "Great. Maniacal boss AND doting grandfather. That guy's never going to leave me alone." Sydney thought this was unlikely, but she kept that to herself.

"Do you mind my asking how you ended up with this job?"

"I'm CIA. Salt Lake City office - at least, usually. Apparently I'm at higher clearance levels than any other OB-GYN connected to an agency hospital. That knowledge makes my heart glow, especially when it's topped off with an all-expenses -paid trip to Antarctica. But hey, six months, one patient? Gives me plenty of time to work on my cross-country skiing." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "To save you any more questions, no, I've got no idea why you've decided to spawn at the South Pole. And I'm not going to ask."

Sydney considered telling Jenny that this wasn't her decision at all, but it seemed beside the point. "Great. Don't ask, don't tell."

"Bristow - I mean, your father said he wanted me to run some tests, if it was safe. Right now, I'm not running a damn thing. I'll give him a record of this sonogram, but that's the end of it."

"Really?" Sydney had harbored few hopes that the obstetrician her father brought in wouldn't share his agenda, at least on some level. But apparently he had kept his word and brought in a doctor who was really HER doctor, and her baby's - not just the CIA's.

"So soon after you've been through major physical trauma? No way. Maybe, later in the pregnancy, we might risk amniocentesis. 'Might' being the operative word. For now, your job is to take it easy, you hear me?"

"Absolutely."

Once The Goop had been cleaned up and Sydney was dressed again, they went outside - to find Eric pacing in the hallway. When Sydney smiled at him, he exhaled. "You're okay? The baby's okay?"

"We have to watch to be sure, but it looks like it." Sydney submitted to Eric's enthusiastic bear hug.

Jenny patted him on the shoulder. "This the proud papa?"

"What? No. No way, uh-uh, no." Eric jumped back as though Sydney's body had given him an electrical shock. Sydney started to laugh, until she realized what she had to tell Jenny now.

"The father - Michael Vaughn - he's missing. We don't know where - if - we don't know anything. Eric's here to help me out. He's - I guess he's my best friend." In an attempt to lighten her mood, Sydney raised her eyebrows. "Maybe my Lamaze coach?"

Eric blanched, but he said, "If nominated, I am willing to serve."

"Screw Lamaze," Jenny said. "As soon as your water breaks, you're gonna be begging for drugs, and I'm gonna give them to you. Every woman in labor should have lots and lots of drugs."

"I like her." Eric nodded approvingly.

"You're just saying that because she got you out of Lamaze."

"And this is not a good reason?"

**

Sydney's first priority had been to make sure her baby was all right. This had been accomplished.

Her next priority was escape.

This time of year, Antarctica experienced approximately 20 hours of sunlight a day. That still gave her four hours in which to work - or, at least, to get started. Late at night on the seventh day, she tiptoed down the hallway, easily avoiding the one guard whose job it was to make sure that nobody entered the station, and hadn't thought to make sure nobody left it. A few more guards were on snowmobile patrol; Sydney didn't know their search patterns, so avoiding them would be purely a matter of luck.

Bundled up in cold-weather gear - long underwear, sweater and pants, snowsuit, parka, pants, hood, cap, inner and outer gloves - Sydney made her way to the second metal hut that comprised Mountaineer Station. She paused only a few moments to stare up at the sky, star-filled the way it never was or could be In Los Angeles.

It is beautiful here, Sydney thought, recognizing the stars, noting their places in the sky. I never really got a chance to notice that on my last trip.

Then, shaking off her moment's reverie, she continued on her way, boots crunching in the snow. Slightly taller and even more depressing than the residence, this next building could only be the vehicle shed.

The entry to the shed was unlocked; only in Antarctica, Sydney thought, would her father leave a door open.

Seeing no windows, she risked turning on the light, then swore. Her instincts had been correct: Her father had stocked their station with twenty Alpine snowmobiles and two enormous Snow-Cats, great lumbering transports with tires taller than Sydney's head. The snowmobiles were smaller and less protected than she would have liked for her transport, but how could she possibly slip away in something larger than a tractor-trailer?

Sydney closed her eyes and pictured the night sky with her photographic memory. Judging from the stars' positions, Mountaineer Station was isolated even by Antarctic standards. McMurdo was all the way across the continent, and they weren't far from the ice fields where only the most intrepid and determined scientists ever ventured. 

It would be a week's hard travel to the South Pole, Sydney estimated. I could maybe reach Vostok in four or five days - if I was lucky, and the weather was on my side.

"Have you figured out that it's impossible yet?"

Sydney turned to see Eric standing in the doorway, arms crossed. He looked like somebody who'd gotten dressed in a hurry and was not happy to be in the snow at this time of night.

"It's not impossible," Sydney insisted, leaning against one of the Snow-Cat's huge tires, breathing in the strangely comforting scent of rubber. "At least, not for most people. But I'm pregnant. I can't take the kind of risks I used to."

"I can't decide whether to be glad you're being realistic or freaked out that my best friend is completely insane." Eric slammed the door behind him before walking toward her. "Sydney, what is it you think you're going to accomplish?"

"Did you notice the part where I was kidnapped?"

"Did you notice the part where it was for your own protection?"

Sydney fought back the urge to snap at him. She weighed her instinct to leave against the facts she had available, then considered Eric's own likely opinions. Finally, she said, "You believe my father, then."

"Yeah, I do. Your dad couldn't make something like that up on a bet." Eric grimaced, as though he would have liked to smile at the joke, but couldn't quite manage it. "Don't you believe him?"

"Yes," Sydney admitted. "My father's lies are always as simple as he can make them. This - this is complicated."

"Okay, now that we've established that you believe hundreds of people would spend all their time trying to kill you, not to mention Sydney Two: The Sequel, if they knew you were alive - why the hell are you trying to leave the one safe place on planet Earth?"

"Because I didn't choose to come here!" It sounded so childish, when she said it out loud, but it wasn't. No impulse she'd ever had ran deeper than this. "I didn't choose to lose Vaughn! I didn't choose to get pregnant! I didn't choose to leave the CIA! I didn't choose to be the Irenicon or the woman on page 47 or anything to do with Milo Rambaldi - and I'm just so sick - so sick and tired - of never, ever having any control over my life -"

Her throat closed up, and she had to stop talking. Only the sight of Eric's face - fading from anger to guilt comically fast - kept her from crying. "Hey, hey. I'm sorry. I know it's a lot, okay? But we have to keep you safe."

"That's just it. When I think about this baby, I know it's my job to keep him or her safe. My job, not anybody else's. But there's nothing I can do. I feel so helpless."

"Right now, all you can do is trust us, Sydney. I know it doesn't seem like a lot - but given what you and your father have been through, maybe it is."

Could she give her father the benefit of the doubt - even control over her life, for a time - if she thought of it as something she was doing for her child? Sydney knew there was no quick answer to that question. "Maybe. I don't know."

"I'll get you information," Eric promised. "Newspapers and stuff. Backup about what's going on in the world, so we can see for ourselves."

"That would be good." Sydney realized she was starting to relax, to breathe a little deeper.

"And if you ever try to escape again -" As Eric took a deep breath, Sydney prepared herself to be threatened with various jokey-but-dire scenarios. Instead, he finally said, "-let me help you, okay?"

"What? I thought you said leaving was a bad idea!"

"It's a terrible idea. One of the top ten worst ideas ever, and I'm including the TV show 'My Mother the Car' in that listing, so you know I think it's bad.  But it's somewhat less dangerously suicidal if you have another person with you."

Eric would abandon his post and risk her father's anger, just to keep her safe - mostly, Sydney realized, from herself. Moved, she reached out and took his hand, wishing for some reason that they didn't have gloves on. "I promise."

"Okay, then."  Relieved at last, Eric sighed. "See, you innocently get up in the middle of the night to see if your friend wants to enjoy a relaxing viewing of 'The Birds,' and this is what you get."

"What's relaxing about 'The Birds'?" Sydney asked, slipping her arm into his as they headed back out of the vehicle shed and toward the residence.

"Compared to an apocalyptic plague? Angry seagulls actually look soothing," Eric said, from the depths of this hooded parka. "Hey, the cold's not too bad. This is, what, 17 degrees or so? I can deal with that."

"You're lucky I'm pregnant in the Southern Hemisphere's summer." Sydney stepped gingerly through the snow, grateful for Eric's steadying arm. The cold nipped at her cheeks, but after so many days in the shelter, she was happy to breathe fresh air and rest her head on Eric's shoulder. "My father would have dragged us here in the dead of winter, too, and it can get 100 degrees colder than this."

"Yeah, we'll have to watch for that NEXT time." For some reason, this was the funniest thing Sydney had ever heard, and she laughed so loudly that the sound rang back from the ice.

**

And so her life at Mountaineer Station truly began: filling long hours of inactivity by watching DVDs, talking to Eric or Jenny, or reading the copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting that Jenny had brought with her - at her father's request.

He wouldn't have known the name of this book, Sydney thought, studying the line drawings that explained how breastfeeding was much more complicated than any natural function of the body should be. My father and this book - if you even put them in the same room, I think he'd explode.

But he must have checked a list or a website, found what was recommended, and given it to her. It was a gift. It was the least he could do.

Trust, Sydney thought, reminding herself that it was something she wanted to try for her baby's sake, if not her own. But even curled in the shelter her father had built for her, reading the book he'd given her, it was hard. Sometimes she felt as if all the faith she'd ever had in her father had been burned away when she was a small child - and now she couldn't get it back, not even if he deserved it.

Of course, she still wasn't sure if he deserved it or not.

Sydney seldom saw her father, and probably would never have glimpsed him at all if the residence hadn't been the size of a high-school gym. They met in the hallway once in a while, usually with one of the guards around as a buffer. The guards all seemed to have been chosen by her father for their stolid silence and unceasing zeal for their task. They went on frequent patrols in the Alpine snowmobiles, traveling to the Jamesway huts set up along the perimeter of whatever her father had defined as their area.

Food was mostly canned and incredibly dull, and her craving for bananas burned all the brighter despite the impossibility of ever having them again during her pregnancy; therefore, hanging out in the mess wasn't really an option. If her father was spending time there, she didn't know, and wasn't going to find out.

She and her father remained on opposite sides of the shelter from each other, which was probably for the best. For his part, her father seemed to spend most of his time out on the snowmobile patrols. The farther out the better, in her opinion. The equator seemed about right.

He could be more easily forgiven at a distance.

Then one day, after about three weeks on the ice, Sydney was roused from her first nap of the day by the sound of one of the guards shouting, in an entirely uncharacteristic burst of enthusiasm, "Freshies! We've got some freshies!"

Freshies? Whatever those were, they sounded like good news. No need to get a gun before she went into the hallway, then.

Everyone had congregated in the kitchen, and for the first time, they all seemed to be smiling. Sydney understood why when she saw the cause; a crate had arrived (airdrop?) with fresh food. Eric stacked cuts of meat one atop the other, saying, "Can you grill in Antarctica?"

Jenny held out one hand and gestured to a smaller paper bag with the other. "Hand over the peaches and no one gets hurt."

Eric handed over the peaches, saw Sydney and smiled as he fished something from the crate. "Look what we have here."

"Bananas," Sydney breathed, as reverently as she could have prayed in any church -- a large bunch, perfectly yellow and unbruised, with just the faintest bit of green at the stems. "I've been craving bananas so badly -"

"I know!" Jenny said, laughing as she passed the bunch to Sydney. "Wrote it all over your chart. So this is literally just what the doctor ordered."

Sydney started to thank Jenny, but then she saw the gray-clad figure of her father - as usual, standing apart from them all. If there was something in the crate of fresh food he wanted, he gave no sign. But she saw his eyes following her as she took the bananas, and though anyone else would have said he was expressionless, she knew him well enough to tell that he was pleased.

At first, she wanted to scream that she couldn't be bought that easily. Then she imagined him bargaining for them, however he did that; her father kept things to essentials, but he had gone to the trouble to get her something she wanted.

"This is great," Sydney muttered, ducking out of the kitchen and going back to her room. For a long time, she just stared at them. Even their yellow peels seemed brilliant, almost unnatural, in their dingy surroundings. Should she accept this gift or not?

Trust, she thought. For the baby's sake, I can let myself trust him. A little. Maybe.

They were the best bananas she'd ever had.

**

III.


Montreal, Quebec, Canada


She was waiting for him at Dorval, though he had neither asked for nor anticipated the courtesy. As Sark strolled past the lines of security screeners, he saw Irina sitting on a bench - wearing no sunglasses or scarf or wig, just plain black clothing. All the guards with their metal detectors and lists of suspicious individuals couldn't be bothered to turn around and see the terrorist in their midst.

As his greeting he said only, "I had thought you would make contact later."

"A waste of time."

Irina had engaged a driver for them, unusual for her; normally she did not like to trust underlings with any job she could manage herself.  As they slid into the back seat of the waiting car, Sark raised an eyebrow.

She smiled joylessly. "These days, my hands shake."

He thought it a joke, albeit one lacking in humor. But before the first day was out, Sark realized Irina was telling the truth. When he pointed out the likely location of Sloane's hideout, the various routes they might take, her fingers trembled slightly on the table. It wasn't fear - Sark knew Irina far better than that - but it was not at all the flawless, diamond-hard control he expected.

Her questions were as intelligent as they had ever been; her planning was still inspired. But the men she'd employed listened to her with respect, not with the odd elixir of fear and awe that Sark remembered so well. Nor could he muster up that feeling himself, though it had once governed almost his entire existence.

Was it the knowledge that her most important plan had failed? No, Sark decided - it was not the fact that he knew it, but the fact that she knew it. The hunger that had once illuminated her from within was now extinguished. Without that wild and dangerous energy, Irina was - less than she had been Her face was now merely an excellent likeness, like a portrait in oils that replicated features but held no promise, no peril, no life.

The days when her gaze turned men to stone are over, Sark thought. Medusa has seen the mirror, and now she cannot look away.

In a way, it made a perverse sort of sense. Only the Apocalypse could ever break Irina Derevko - and here they were. Sark also found it fitting that the end of the world had been signaled by Sydney Bristow's death; he would have attempted to express his strange and contradictory sorrows for Sydney to her mother, if he had thought she would listen without trying to put a knife through his hand, or his heart.

As their focus sharpened, so did their words. "No matter how remote Sloane's location, we can assume that he has every route to his home watched constantly," she said.

"High-tech surveillance?" Sark considered that more likely than any human guards, at least until they reached the house itself. "We can sweep for that, and stay off the roads."

"You don't know Sloane as I do." And thank God, Sark thought, though he was certainly not mad enough to say such a thing aloud. "He's almost certainly mined the land between roads. We'll have to go in along with a transport he's expecting - food, supplies, something like that."

He saw her logic, though he chafed at yet another delay. "We can send some people ahead and find out how he's structured those arrangements. After that, we can disrupt them. I would like the layout of the house before we move in."

"Agreed. We'll have to hack into a satellite with heat-imaging capabilities. That could take a couple of weeks."

Again, delays. Sark managed not to sigh. "When we do move in - I take it we should leave Sloane for you to kill?"

"Don't be absurd. If anyone - any of you -" she repeated, looking around the room at each of them in turn, "gets a shot at Arvin Sloane, take it. I don't need drama. I want results."

Sark needed drama. "I admire your restraint, but I fear I do not share it. You see, I wish to be the one to kill Michael Vaughn."

Irina's eyes bored into his with something approaching her former intensity. "We never discussed that."

"I didn't think we had to." She didn't like the idea; Sark had known that reaction was possible, but he had not considered it probable. He would have to choose his tactics wisely. "You have unfinished business with his father, after all."

"I'll have justice from his father. I have no use for a proxy."

"For my justice, no proxy will do." Time to be blunt - though he was risking their partnership, and quite possibly his life: "She cannot mourn him."

Irina shoved herself back from the table and stalked out of the room. It was a better initial response than Sark had hoped for. For the rest of the evening, he made phone calls to his contacts in Mexico as the first steps in his research. There was no reason not to proceed with the plan.

The next morning, Irina breakfasted with him in silence - excellent Eggs Benedict. She always could find a good chef. Sark dedicated himself entirely to enjoying his meal and watching for any sudden moves from the guards.

After she had swallowed her last bite, she said only, "I make no promises."

"I require none."

Probably, when the time came, Irina would try to stop him.

When the time came, Sark would not be stopped.

**

IV.


Nadia had of course studied all the constellations of the Northern Hemisphere, but she was still working to weave together the lines and dots she'd memorized on charts with the sky she saw overhead every night.

No city lights for many miles in every direction, she thought as she stared upward, ignoring the foam of cold seawater lapping against her bare feet. Nothing but me and the sky.

What had Sydney thought, the first time she saw the lights of the Southern sky? Was it this beautiful, this calm, this perfect? Given the little Nadia knew of her late sister's work, she suspected it had not been. Probably Sydney had been on a mission, running for her life, unable to take the time even to look up.

How long would I have known her before I asked her that? Nadia wondered. Would I ever have asked her, if she hadn't died? Would we have had talks like that? Would we even have liked each other?

Perhaps she was only grieving for the absence of a relationship that would never have been. Nadia had known enough loss in her life to understand how beautiful everything looked in a rear-view mirror.

The door that led from the kitchen opened up, and Nadia gazed back over her shoulder to see Michael walking toward her - carrying a plate?

"Hey." His smile was almost sheepish. "Chicken sandwiches appear to be the preferred form of olive branch around here."

Nadia stared down at the lettuce-rimmed bread. "You don't owe me an olive branch."

"I said some things to you that were out of line."

"You didn't mean them," Nadia said. She didn't know if this was true - it was entirely possible that Michael meant every word, but that he was simply apologizing for speaking them aloud. But if that was the case, she preferred not to know.

"You turned out to have most of the ingredients in the kitchen. The guards watched me pretty closely the whole time. I don't think they trust me around the knives yet."

The guards were wise. "I'll have to ask them the recipe, then. This sauce is delicious."

"Leave me some secrets, okay?"

Michael's joke was more than a joke, of course. The flash of understanding as their gazes met confirmed that for her - and confirmed some other, more inconvenient developments as well. Quickly, she turned her head to stare out at the sea. But at nighttime, it was just darkness, lined with pale streaks of foam.

"Seriously - Nadia -" Michael touched her shoulder, and Nadia tried not to enjoy the warmth of his hand through her thin cotton blouse. "We're all we've got, in this place. I hope I didn't ruin that by acting the way I did."

I have my father, she wanted to tell him. But she did not want to hear Michael's reply. "You didn't. I understand completely." Nadia turned and smiled, so that he would believe her. But that just forced her to see him in the moonlight, concerned and gentle, and the way his face looked when he wasn't angry.

Even her father's palace had its dangers.

"What is it?" Michael could sense her dismay; either she was a bad spy or he was a good one.

"Don't try to play me," Nadia said. "If you're rude to me and you mean it, that's better than acting nice to me if you don't."

He hesitated, then said, "I'm not the one trying to play you."

Conversation over, she thought. But she could feel his gaze on her as she made her way back to the house.

Nadia could not sleep that night, and she paced the confines of her room - the highest in the house, set apart in a curving tower that must have once been a place to watch for ships. Michael's tacit accusation of her father disturbed her, far more deeply than she could ever admit. It was easier to concentrate on her reaction to Michael himself, though this troubled her also. Desire had no place in her life, not now. Not with him.

And yet - when had she given herself the freedom to desire? Nadia had spent most of her life trying to teach herself not to want, not anything or anyone. It saved her from much disappointment. The men who wanted her she entertained, to a degree that depended on how much they entertained her. This had always worked reasonably well.

It would not work with Michael Vaughn.

All those years, she thought, I told myself my father was not coming, not to hold up my life and wait for him. And yet he came and rescued me, just as I always dreamed he would. Maybe - maybe Michael -

Sick of her own foolishness, Nadia slipped into her robe and opened the window. Cool, salty air swept across her face; perhaps it would have a sobering effect.

Then, beneath her, she glimpsed movement.

Staring, Nadia realized that Michael was standing on the deck. Was he unable to sleep as well? For the same reasons, or - no. Michael lowered himself off the side of the deck, and in that first moment, she was certain that he was about to attempt an escape. But he hung there for a few seconds, then propelled himself toward the house. Beyond that she could not see - the deck itself blocked her view - but she knew he'd gone back into the house - into a different room.

What was on that level? The kitchen, the wine cellar, the garage - none of which had doors or windows in that area. Nadia's eyes narrowed.

She waited for the hour or so it took for Michael to reappear. When he had hoisted himself back up to the deck again, he glanced around for the guards, but fortunately, he never looked up.

After another half-hour, Nadia tiptoed downstairs, went out on the deck and lowered herself over the same way she'd seen Michael do it. The small window there didn't excite her curiosity at first - she had ridden her horse past it a dozen times or more - until she asked herself what room it belonged to.

None of the rooms in the house correlated to that window. Correction: none that she knew about. Nadia cursed herself for not having realized it before, then dropped soundlessly to the sand.

Should she go in? Instantly, she decided against it - that would be the same as admitting to her father that she didn't trust him, and Nadia had decided months ago that she would. She had to. He had given her so much love, such dedication - how else could she repay him?

Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't look in. Nadia remembered the needles her father had put in her arm too. Even a good man could have secrets.

Pressing her face to the glass, Nadia angled herself to peer through the crack between the curtains. She could distinguish no more than outlines in the darkness, but instead of a lab or an armory, she saw an ordinary office, with an ordinary computer. At first she was relieved, then alarmed - what if Michael had sent word of their location to the CIA? - then puzzled. Michael's movements that night had looked practiced; this wasn't the first time he'd broken into the computer room. If he could have sent a message, he would have, and they would already be under siege. Could he be spying, long-term? Nadia considered this possibility and then discounted it; his desire for freedom radiated from him every moment, like heat. He would have demanded to leave, if he could.

So what was Michael doing?

She could ask him. But then she would have to learn the answer.

She could report this to Papa, who could certainly find out what Michael had been doing. But then - she would have to betray Michael.

Do it, she thought. What is there between you to betray?

It would be so easy. One conversation with her father - who would be so grateful, so relieved - and then Michael's secrets would be revealed. He wouldn't come to her anymore with words of caution she didn't want to hear, wouldn't linger outside her window reminding her of all the things she wanted and couldn't have.

 Michael had said, "We're all we've got, in this place." Even if she didn't have to rely on him - and she didn't, absolutely not - Michael relied on her.

She crawled back into bed, sick at heart and more confused than ever. For hours she watched the moon make its slow transit across the sky, taking the place of her dreams.

**

V.


For almost six months, Jack had been wondering what he would say to Irina, if he ever saw her again.

At first, when he was reading the initial reports of the Rain of Gold, Jack's anger had only intensified. His mind reverberated with words that, spoken aloud, would only reveal weakness. But he thought them at the woman who had betrayed him and condemned Sydney in order to ensure her own glory and ruin the world: Whore. Bitch. Cunt. Jack imagined murdering her with a variety of methods, the way he suspected other people daydreamed about luxuries while browsing through catalogs. Sometimes he imagined Sloane watching. These particular fantasies always left him feeling sick in a way the reality of homicide never had. But he had them nonetheless.

Other times, he imagined simply asking her why. A variety of possible responses she might make occurred to him, and they all left him as sick as the dreams of her death.

Then Katya had shown him the letter. When Jack had finished reading it a third time, he had memorized her words, and so he burned the paper in a candle's flame. His murderous rage at Irina floated upward with the ashes, vanishing into the air.

Jack was still angry, but the character of his anger had changed; instead of the slow burn of betrayal and helplessness, he felt the quick fire of needless waste. Irina could have told him - at any point between her walk-in at the CIA and Sloane's capture, she could have disclosed the truth. He knew himself well enough to realize that he would have been furious at the revelation regardless of the circumstances, but he also knew that his anger would have been pushed aside to deal with the very real crisis at hand.

And the crisis could have been dealt with. Together, he and Irina could have found Nadia; Sloane would never even have known. If Irina had found it difficult to kill Nadia, Jack could easily have taken that burden from her. He disliked the idea - Nadia's resemblance to both Irina and Sydney had shaken him deeply -- but he was also aware that the girl's death had been the most certain way of preventing the plague. It was too late for that now. Had Irina thought she could do it all herself? Had she planned some other endgame, some other set of tricks to cheat them all? If so, she had failed.

But ever since they had arrived in Antarctica, and Sydney had broken the news, Jack could think of only one thing to say to Irina: Sydney's having a baby.

That was it - just that single sentence. Although Jack was not verbose by nature, words had never deserted him as utterly as when he tried to imagine telling Irina about Sydney's pregnancy. Jack Bristow and Irina Derevko, grandparents. How was that possible?

The baby's potential role in curing the plague was a relief, but Jack found himself thinking of that less as the days went on. Instead he wondered how it was possible that anything in the world still had the power to make him both this worried and this happy.

How would Irina feel? Jack found that he couldn't guess. Thirty-five years after their wedding, he still did not know her well enough to say.

As he logged onto the station's single computer one afternoon in November, he never considered attempting to send word to Irina of Sydney's pregnancy. His imaginings were just that; Jack had no intention of revealing anything so potentially dangerous to Sydney via e-mail, no matter how secure. Besides, Irina had apparently cut herself off from their old lines of contact - he might as well shout the words into an empty room. She did not know. She would not know. And he had work to do.

His e-mail consisted of a message not from Dixon - the only person who should have been contacting him - but Marshall. Jack read it, his mood darkening by the second.

Sydney would have to hear this.

After a moment's contemplation, Jack decided that Weiss should be the one to talk to her. As yet, Sydney seemed oblivious to the man's doglike devotion to her; Jack did not care about Weiss' emotions one way or the other, except for their effect on Sydney. Thus far, Weiss appeared to be a source of strength for her. She would hear such bad news better from a friend.

But when he walked into the hallway, he saw Sydney first - her hair tucked back into a ponytail, wearing an oversized flannel shirt that could only have been Weiss'. Jack made a mental note to find out how to obtain maternity clothes. "What's wrong?" she said. Sometimes, she could read him too well.

"Where's Weiss?"

"On Alpine patrol. Said he needed to get better at steering the snowmobiles anyway." She shifted on her feet. "Why?"

No getting around it. "There's something I have to tell you."

Sydney followed him into the small office he'd established, obviously uneasy as she sat down on the one chair. "What now?" Her eyes flashed. "You said you'd told me everything -"

"This is different." Jack took a deep breath. "In Los Angeles, the CIA tried out a version of the Covenant's vaccine against the Rain of Gold."

"If it had worked, you wouldn't look like that."

"It failed. Worse than that, apparently at least 25 percent of those given the vaccine have come down with the disease. As the Rain of Gold has a long incubation period, it's reasonable to expect that percentage to increase. The good news is that it appears to be more effective on children than adults; only one person under 18 has become sick so far."

Sydney nodded, taking that in. She had to realize where he was leading, even if she could not guess the particulars. "What's the bad news?"

"The first agent has died." There was no softening this blow. "It was Marcus Dixon."

She gasped, her body rigid with shock. "Oh, no. No. Not Dixon -"

"The disease progressed quickly, for him." That was a mercy, although Jack would not describe it as such to Sydney.

"When - when did he -"

"Two days ago."

Sydney was trembling now, tears welling in her eyes. Jack could hardly bear the sight of Sydney crying; it punctured his defenses more powerfully than anything else could. "Are you sure? Somebody could be feeding us false intel -"

"The message came from Marshall directly. Sydney, it's true."

It took her almost a minute to say her next words. "He was such a good man. I think he was the best person I ever knew."

Jack realized that he almost agreed with her. He knew of nobody more courageous or more principled, save for Sydney herself.

"Dixon - Marcus - oh, God, Robin and Stephen. How are they? Where are they?"

"Apparently they're staying with Marshall Flinkman and his family for the time being."

Sydney wiped her cheeks - a useless endeavor, as she was still weeping. "He deserved better than this. I can't believe -"

At that point her sobs overwhelmed her, and she sagged forward in her chair, hanging onto the seat. Jack hated to see her so miserable, and hated even more that he could offer her no comfort. A few months ago, he might have hugged her or at least taken her hand. But now she had to endure her sorrow alone, and he had to endure the knowledge that he had forfeited the right to help her.

Offering a handkerchief seemed acceptable. Sydney took it without a word.

When at last she could speak again, Sydney said, her voice hard, "You recruited Dixon into SD-6. He wasted - decades of his life there."

Jack braced himself. "Yes."

"Why did you do that? Knowing how good he was?"

"His ability was one of the reasons why I did it. Maintaining my cover at SD-6 meant performing tasks expected of someone at my level of seniority. That included recruiting the finest talent available." Dixon had been a junior analyst for an investment group, young and smart and insightful, clearly hungry for more. That plus the black belt had been reason enough to look further. "I always meant to recruit him again someday, but events unfolded differently."

Sydney studied his face carefully. "Recruit him again? You mean -"

"I always knew that my CIA work would require the help of a second double agent eventually. It was a hazardous role to play, so I never wanted it to be you. Dixon - he had the skills. He had integrity. I still believe he would have been a good choice."

Dixon would also have looked out for Sydney, no matter what.

"He would have accepted the CIA's offer, despite the danger." She seemed utterly certain. "You liked him, didn't you?"

Jack weighed his answer. Marcus Dixon had not been his friend, not in any meaningful definition of the word, but he had been something even more rare. "I trusted him."

Sydney began crying again, and started telling stories: her first mission with Dixon, the time he taught her how to use a hang-glider about five minutes before they leaped from a mountainside, the look in his eyes when she told him SD-6 was a lie. At first Jack felt almost panicked - how was he supposed to respond to this? - but soon he realized that no response was expected. She only wanted a listener, and he would do.

It had always been like this - Sydney would turn to him, if her need was great enough and there was nobody else there, no one at all. Jack wished she did not have to turn to him now.

When they heard voices in the hallway, she lifted her head. "Eric's back. He should know about this."

"Go," Jack said, though she did not need his release.

To his surprise, she paused in the doorway. "Thanks. For - well, thanks."

He nodded as he watched her go, and refused to let himself hope.

**

VI.


"I can't stop wondering - why the diary?"

Of all the questions Vaughn had asked his father during their months in Mexico, this one was probably the most sincere.

"You read that, huh?" Bill's smile could have been wry, or it could have been cynical, or he could just have been squinting in the morning sun. The longer Vaughn knew his father, the less he assumed he understood the man's reactions.

"You wrote it to be read," Vaughn pointed out. "You wouldn't have lied in it, otherwise."

"People lie to themselves all the time. You understand that, I'm sure."

"Was that the lie you were telling yourself? That you liked being a family man? That you always followed the CIA's orders?"

Bill looked out at the expanse of sand and rock that formed their eastern horizon. "I don't know what the hell your mother was thinking."

"She cut out - certain pages." Those would have been the ones that dealt with their relationship. Had his father ever really loved his mother? Vaughn had begun to doubt that; Bill would listen to information about her, but he never asked even one question. No point in asking about it, though; a negative answer would only hurt, and a positive answer would tell him nothing of use. Vaughn was getting better at that, at sorting everything into two simple categories: useful or useless.

His dad was still in the first category. Vaughn hoped he was moving swiftly toward the day his dad would enter the second.

"When it became apparent that we were looking at a schism - that some people were going to leave the CIA - I was assigned to infiltrate them." Bill was still smiling.

"You always intended to join them."

"Not always. I was out of the loop, before the CIA filled me in. But as soon as I heard that, I knew which way the wind was blowing. Everything I wrote in the diary before that day was the truth. Everything after that day was designed to be read after I was gone. But not by you."

What day was that? Vaughn had spent years with that diary; he'd memorized some passages, not on purpose, just through reading it over and over again. If he could pick it up again (if he ever got back home, he would), and Bill gave him a date, Vaughn would be able to draw the line. This is my real father; this is the lie.

Maybe it was better not to know.

"We thought they'd killed you."

"The report of my death - that was a cover. The CIA helped me fake it; the Covenant knew about it. The plan, as far as the CIA knew, was for me to show up a few months later with Covenant intel. Then I could reclaim my life, come home to you." Vaughn loathed the depth of feeling in his father's eyes as he said, "I hated doing that to you, son. I kept thinking I could maybe come get you, take you with me someday. Just dreams. Moments like those - that's when people lie to themselves."

He meant it. He absolutely meant it. Vaughn decided he didn't hate his father's lies half as much as he hated those moments when he told the truth.

"It's not just a dream, Dad. You came and got me." Gesturing at the wide rooms of the beach house, he added, "And you put me in the most luxurious prison the world's ever seen."

"Don't be so sure until you talk to Martha Stewart." Vaughn couldn't prevent the laugh, and Bill seemed encouraged. "I realize you're frustrated. But the way things are looking - you won't have to remain in the dark much longer."

I'm not as much in the dark as you think, Dad.

Bill continued, "This is just time for us to get to know each other. Time for you to relax. I think you needed some time to relax, didn't you?"

"This isn't how I would have chosen for it to happen." And yet, on some level, Vaughn knew he had healed in this place; despite the violence of his abduction, and the still-wrenching sense of loss he felt for Sydney, he knew that he was stronger now than before. He'd had a breakdown after his abduction, but by now, Vaughn had realized that breakdown had been approaching long before he saw his father again.

"When you know the full story - you're not going to blame me any longer." Bill's eyes were alight with that febrile energy again, the one that reminded him of Sloane. "You'll see that everything has been for the best. And Michael - the whole world will be yours."

By now, Vaughn knew a lot of the story. The Rain of Gold - the immortality that would follow. That was his father's idea of glory.  But it was never going to come to pass, not if Vaughn could prevent it.

To prevent it, he would need help.

**

Nadia always asked Vaughn to ride with her in the afternoons; he always said no, preferring to watch her while he walked. Besides, he exercised in his room, at night, in private - the better to conceal from his father and Sloane that he was staying in shape, even getting stronger.

But this time, Vaughn said yes. Nadia's face lit up as though she'd been given a gift, and Vaughn felt a twinge of guilt for not having gone with her before.

"You take the brown mare," Nadia said. "She's gentle."

"You're not giving me a lot of credit here." The last time he had ridden a horse, he had been in the desert with Sydney. He wouldn't think about that. Instead he swung up into the saddle easily. If Nadia was impressed, or just relieved, she gave no sign. She merely took her place on her gray gelding and clucked once with her tongue. Both horses responded to her, and they were off.

The wind was fresh and cool with the scent of seawater. Instead of grueling pushups on his bedroom floor, Vaughn felt the pure physical pleasure of exertion - muscles working in concert, guiding the horse, steadying his seat. Nadia's horse was faster than his, or her riding more skilled; she remained ahead of him, dark hair streaming behind her, laughter ringing out over the sound of the waves and the hoofbeats.

Sydney would have liked her, Vaughn decided. And though his decision had already been made, that thought helped him feel more certain about his decision.

When she finally slowed her horse's pace, Vaughn matched her. They were side by side, looking out over the water; the guards and their horses were within sight, but out of earshot. That would do.

"You're better than I thought," Nadia said. "This - this is nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is." He paused only a moment longer before saying, "I wanted to talk to you about something, and I'm not sure you're going to like it."

The wind blew strands of hair across her face, slightly obscuring his view of her face. "If this is about my father -"

"Let's take the personalities out of it, okay? This is about - a plan. Something that some Rambaldi followers want to do, and that involves a lot of people - Nadia, I'm talking about thousands, maybe millions of people dying."

She thought it was nonsense - he could see that in her eyes - but she spoke calmly. "Did you find this out during one of your midnight jaunts?"

Vaughn felt a shiver of panic, but controlled himself. All right. Nadia had seen him. But she hadn't reported him, or the window would have been locked, the computer moved. "Yeah, I did. You should come with me, one night."

"We'll see. I'm listening."

Now that he'd come to it, Vaughn found the news surprisingly difficult to break. He forced himself to imagine the briefing he'd give to Dixon when he finally returned to the CIA, summarizing as succinctly as he could: the Rain of Gold, the plague, his belief that it was the plague itself that would bring about Rambaldi's promise of immortality, but only at the cost of many lives.

She listened, wordless. Vaughn had one final suspicion - the one he knew would be most devastating to her - but he kept it to himself. Either Nadia would help him or she wouldn't; attacking her father's proclaimed devotion to her was the surest way to drive her off.

"This is fantasy," Nadia said at last. "Like a horror movie."

"Your birth was foretold by a mystic 500 years ago, and you're still writing threats off as fantasy?"

"Maybe I don't trust you to judge."

Remembering a few of his more spectacular stunts - trying to kill Sloane with a wineglass, lying on his floor for days on end, the half-assed hunger strike - made Vaughn realize for the first time just how little credibility he'd earned. If she wouldn't go to the computer room with him for proof, the truth would have to come from within her.

"You said - when you were talking to the CIA about the effect of the Rambaldi serum - that it hurt terribly, but it inspired profound visions. They were - what was the word? - transcendent. In those moments, you saw more of Rambaldi's mind than anyone else ever has or ever will. Just answer this one question for me, Nadia, and I'll never ask you again: Did you see anything that might have been a part of what I just told you? About the Rain of Gold?"

Nadia stared at him for a few moments, then kicked her horse's sides so that it took off, galloping along the shoreline.

"I'll take that as a yes," Vaughn murmured.

**



Read on to the next chapter.
Go back to the last chapter.
Return to the "Irenicon" Index Page.
Return to the New Fic Index Page.
Return to Yahtzee's Main Page.