"And who are you?" she sternly spoke
To the one beneath the smoke.
"Why, I'm fire," he replied,
"And I love your solitude, I love your pride."

"Then, fire, make your body cold,
I'm going to give you mine to hold."
Saying this she climbed inside
To be his one, to be his only bride.

And deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of Joan of Arc,
And high above the wedding guests
He hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of Joan of Arc
And then she clearly understood
If he was fire, oh, then she must be wood.

I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye. 
Myself I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

--"Joan of Arc," Leonard Cohen

IRENICON: Book Six

I.


Brisbane, Australia


In the winter of 1944, the hopes of the entire Soviet Rambaldi program lay with Boris and Olga Derevko. Rambaldi's work might lead to victory in the war, and this child - the central figure in so many of the prophecies - could lead to Rambaldi's work. 

When Olga gave birth to a girl, everyone was relieved. France had neither produced nor exported any Champagne that year, but a celebration was held nonetheless; every privilege was accorded to the family. "Everything for the next generation," was the catchphrase, repeated to and by the Derevkos as they showed off their daughter. She was given the name chosen for her by destiny, hundreds of years before her birth: Irina.

But within a few months, rumors had begun to circulate. Rambaldi had been quite specific about certain astrological markers in the child's chart, and the Derevko infant's month-early debut meant that these planets were all misplaced. Without Venus or Mercury in alignment, how could this be the prophesied child?

The answer, of course, was that she could not. Before Irina turned six months old, she was renamed Elena, disregarded and left to a fairly normal life. It would be up to the Derevkos to do better next time. They remained in their privileged apartment, kept the raise in pay. But both Boris and Olga understood that results were expected. Everything for the next generation --

Three years later, they made good on the hopes of the Rambaldi followers. Another daughter, another Irina. Her astrological chart had some irregularities as well, but they seemed minor, and the girl was so healthy and so quick that people were willing to overlook these blemishes. By this time, Stalin had taken an acute interest in their work - and expected results. He was not a man who thought in terms of generations or centuries. Therefore, this baby was their Irina, no arguments or questions, and no arrests in the dead of night for her failure to appear.

Other signs were due to appear in the sky, as the child grew. The portents never appeared.

Fortunately for all the Derevkos, the second daughter was not authoritatively declared not to be the child of the prophecy until Olga's third pregnancy had begun. Just before her fourth birthday, Irina was told that her name was not hers any longer; she was to give it to her little sister, just as her big sister had done for her.

It made sense, to a 4-year-old. Besides, she liked "Yekaterina," especially her new nickname.

When the third baby was born, there were no mistakes, no missing auguries, no doubts. She was Irina, and would always be. From that time on, the burden of expectations passed from Boris and Olga to the small shoulders of their youngest daughter, who never flinched from the weight.

All in all, Katya thought, she did not envy Irina much of it. Certainly not the destiny, difficult and painful as it had proved to be, nor the children she had borne and lost - not even the name that she first remembered as being her own. She still liked her nickname best.

The one thing Katya had ever envied Irina - well. They'd shared him along with the name.

They shared one more thing as well: a Rambaldi bloodline, ancestors whose lives the prophet had seen and deemed important centuries ago. That bloodline had shaped their existence since long before either of them had been born; it was supposed to protect them now.

But apparently not, Katya thought, as she sat in the emergency room of Brisbane's Mater Misercordiae Hospital.

She had been waiting a long time for a doctor to see her, and she expected to wait far longer. The ER was lined with people, all of whom were pale with fear, all of whom had bloodshot eyes. Katya hid hers behind Dior sunglasses. She still had some sense of style, after all, and she had faced death far too often to panic now.

Instead, Katya calculated likely outcomes, based on what she now knew. The Rambaldi followers who had dedicated so much time and energy had believed that their bloodlines or their vaccines would protect them from the devastation they planned to visit on so many others. Already, many of the vaccines had proved faulty if not useless; now she knew that even DNA was no guarantee of safety.

Naturally she would have preferred a different form of proof. But if the alternatives were this and an unnaturally eternal life bought at such gory cost - Katya would gladly take death.

Many others would die who had also thought themselves safe, and they would not take it gladly at all. Katya smiled, thinking of the panic to come. Was it too much to hope that Arvin Sloane might be among the fallen?

But after the doctors had finally seen her and checked her into a room - a small one, packed with three others, all strangers to her, because private rooms were no longer available - Katya's courage failed her for a moment. She lay in the bed, and could only think: This is the bed I will die in. This is the last place I will ever go. That window is probably the last thing I will ever see. For a woman who had spent her life changing names and locales as often as most people changed clothing, the absolute finality of it shook her.

And so Katya did something she knew she should not have done. She pulled out her Blackberry and sent one simple message. It was foolish to think there would be an answer of any sort - but at least now she had something to wonder about. One factor of her ever-shorter life remained unknown. Katya liked variables.

As the days wore on, and her fevers climbed higher and higher before breaking, Katya concentrated on what games she could create, what little diversion she could create for herself. One of four nurses attended her, depending on the shift; Katya used South African, Italian, Scottish and French accents in turns, creating a different life history for each to think about. Soon she would begin blurring the details in her confusion, but for now, it was something to do.

When she was alone, and the crying and ranting of her roommates did not disturb her too greatly, she would let her mind wander back to girlhood, and all the games she had played with Irina. "You won't get to keep your name forever," Katya had insisted, pushing her baby sister in a swing. "They'll make you pick a new one!"

"No, they won't. I'm Irina. The only Irina!"

"You'll see!" Katya had shouted, laughing when Irina let go at the highest point in the swing's arc, as if to launch herself into space.

For the first time, Katya realized she'd been right after all, about Irina picking a new name. Funny how things turned out.

The next day, she heard an odd chirping. It was a measure of her feverish confusion that it took her a while to recognize the sound of her Blackberry signaling an e-mail. There it was, in all caps: CONTACT ME AT THE USUAL ACCOUNT.

Her fingers clumsy in her illness, Katya nonetheless managed to slip into the chat room. He was already waiting there for her. She tapped out, I had given up hoping for you to contact me. I'm glad you did.

I'M SORRY FOR THE DELAY. SECURITY. After a moment, more words appeared: THE INVITATION WAS SINCERE.

To join them in Antarctica - to be safe.  Jack had made the offer with no intent to renew their affair, she suspected; however, many months together on the ice would probably have created a thaw. Had that tempted her to go to him or held her back? Katya would never be sure. I thought it would be a risk to both of you. And I thought myself safe. You can take nothing for granted any longer. Nobody can.

I SHOULD HAVE INSISTED.

No regrets, not now. They've ceased to be a luxury. Tell me something else, something happy, if you know of any such thing.

 She expected to hear that Sydney was well, or that the base was safe. Jack's happiness would be rooted in such pragmatic things. But instead, he typed, EVERYTHING FOR THE NEXT GENERATION.

What did he mean by quoting her parents at her? She had told him that story to give him a bit of perspective, though whether on her life or Irina's it would have been hard to say -

The next generation. People putting all their hopes upon a child.

Sydney. Pregnant. And the Irenicon - she would provide the cure by giving birth to the cure. Why had none of them guessed before?

And beyond the consequences for the Rain of Gold - Sydney was having a baby. Jack and Irina would be grandparents. Her little sister a babushka. Katya felt all the decades of her life swirling upward, away from her; she was leaving this world, but now it was easier to let go.

I'm glad. For so many reasons.

I KNEW YOU WOULD BE.

Thank you for telling me. Revealing such dangerous information, even to a woman on her deathbed, was the greatest sign of trust Jack Bristow could ever have given. Katya had thought the boundaries of their romance were very carefully defined; now, she was not so sure. Another mystery left to her, in the few days of her life: Katya was grateful for it.

THANK YOU FOR HELPING HER. AND HELPING ME. He meant her assistance in presenting Sydney's murder. Perhaps he also meant their nights together when they both believed Irina had betrayed him for the sake of the Rain of Gold.

I owed you both that much. The temptation to keep him talking was strong; he was the last person she would talk to in her life that she cared about. And yet she still had debts to pay. You must go. You're risking security even with this.

YES. After another brief pause, I'LL REMEMBER.

Blinking away tears, Katya typed back, Goodbye. She broke the connection before he could say - or not say - anything more.

For a few long minutes, she struggled with her own response to Jack. I can go through this alone, she thought, knowing she was quoting him, but unable to untangle the contradiction. The only comfort was thinking of the child, the joy that still remained to Jack and Sydney's lives, the cure that could yet undo most of the harm that the twisted worship of Rambaldi had done.

Too late for some of us, she thought - but soon enough.

Katya considered a few other issues, weighed the risks, and took the Blackberry up again. She arranged for the placement of an advertisement in the London Times in - make it the Friday two weeks from now, she decided. That should give me time to die.

The text of the ad was innocuous. Decoded, it would reveal only one thing - Katya had no time to devise a more elaborate code to protect additional information. But that one piece of data should be enough, if only it would be seen by the right eyes. Katya would never know.

Her last task done, she shut off the Blackberry for the last time. She gazed around the hospital room, realizing again that it was the final place she would dwell in her life. But there was one great mystery left, and Katya was determined to meet it with eyes wide open.

**

II.


Okay, Sydney thought, these are not my breasts. These are some other woman's breasts.

She was staring at herself in the station's only mirror, a fairly small one in the communal bathroom. Showers could last no longer than three minutes - melting snow for water took precious energy - but she felt free to linger after she was done, studying the new contours of her body.

Her belly was making up for lost time, expanding rapidly - by the day, even. Sydney stared in fascination at her own profile, then turned to examine the thin, deep brown line tracing downward from her navel. Astonishing as that was, today's special guest stars were the boobs. They'd gone up a cup size early in her pregnancy, and Sydney had noticed how sensitive they were - even her silkiest bras sometimes seemed almost irritating. But in the past week or so, a second transformation had taken place, and these - these just were not the breasts she'd been walking around with for 15 years.

This is some other woman's body, Sydney thought again. This can't be me.

And yet, when she put her hand on her belly, all those doubts fell aside.

There was a Sydney Before and a Sydney After. The line of demarcation wasn't Vaughn's disappearance or even learning of her pregnancy; it was awakening in Antarctica, knowing the truth about her history and her destiny, and feeling that the baby within her was real. The new body and surroundings seemed to reflect the new person inside.

Later that day, she tried to share her thoughts with Eric. But he was unconvinced.

"You're the same Sydney Bristow I knew in Los Angeles," he said, stretched across the foot of her bed. One of the few entertainment options her father had thought to provide was a deck of cards, and Eric was dealing them a couple of poker hands. "A wider Sydney. A baby-on-board Sydney. But still Sydney."

She picked up her hand. Three kings. "It's not the same. Nothing's the same."

"You mean - being a mom. That changes everything, I guess."

"That's the biggest part of it." While pretending to mull over her hand, she continued, "I know I have someone to be strong for, and it makes me stronger."

"You've always been strong. Syd, you're the strongest person I know."

"Was I the strongest person you knew last year? When I couldn't go a day without crying about Vaughn being with Lauren, and I couldn't even be grateful for all the good stuff in my life because I'd lost him?"

Eric carefully folded his cards onto the heavy blanket, then said, "Given what you'd been through? Yes."

He always sees the best in me, Sydney thought, in more despair than gratitude. "I lost Vaughn all over again, but this time - I can endure it. I hate it, but I can't give in to depression the way I used to. This baby's going to rely on me." She tossed away the other two cards, hoping idly that Eric wasn't as good at concentrating on two different levels as she was.

"So - you -" Clearly, he didn't know quite what to say. Sydney nodded slightly, giving him permission to blurt it out. "You really think that - that Vaughn's dead."

Sydney was convinced that Vaughn was alive - but, she suspected, no longer Vaughn. Kendall's words about the torturous brainwashing she'd undergone in the Covenant's hands had never left her; they only echoed louder, now that she believed Vaughn had fallen prey to the fate she had so narrowly avoided.

If I ever saw him again, she thought, he wouldn't know me. Probably he'd be programmed to hurt me. He didn't have Project Christmas to -

She stopped herself before she came to the word "protect."

"I think Vaughn's gone." That was all she could say.

Eric picked up his cards again, but he seemed to be blinking a little too fast. He lost his best friend, she thought. He's tried to hard to be there for me - I hope I've been there for him.

Before she could voice the thought, Eric said, "Okay, show 'em. I'm not playing dealer all night."

Sydney held up her kings. Eric had a flush of hearts. She found that she was smiling. "You didn't show any of your tells."

"You don't know anything about my tells, baby. Now, I think it's been a long time since we watched 'Suspicion.' Like, three days or something."

"Way too long," Sydney agreed, scooping up the cards.

**

After Cary Grant's vindication, Eric went for his three minutes in the shower, and Sydney meandered toward the kitchen. She was already eagerly awaiting the next shipment of freshies - the Antarctic slang was natural now - but for the time being, canned pears would do.

The office door was cracked open, and light shone from inside. Her father was at work.

Sydney's first impulse was to tiptoe past the door. But she hesitated, then stopped in the hallway. He had been there for her when Dixon died, and he always got her bananas, and -

Yes, everything between them, everything in her life history, was seriously screwed up. But maybe her father wasn't the one who'd done that. Maybe it all got started a long time before any of them were born.

Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door. "Hey - are you busy?"

"Sydney? No, no." Her father's tone of voice - well, it sounded like he was busy. When she walked into the office, she saw him sitting in front of the computer; it had been shut off, but he was still staring at the dark monitor screen. Finally he half-turned toward her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Is anything wrong?"

"Everything is under control." Every word was crisp and stern, just like it had been the day he assured her there was a Santa Claus. "When did Dr. Lo last examine you?"

"I saw Jenny three days ago. Why?"

His face was blank. "Has she said anything further about running tests?"

Sydney stared down at him, feeling her stomach clench within her. "No, she hasn't." One of her hands crept across her belly, instinctively. "I'm sure you'll take the next opportunity to remind her."

"Don't misinterpret this," her father said, as though there was any misinterpreting his desire to run medical tests on her unborn child. "You've seen the newspapers. You know what's going on in the rest of the world."

"I know we need a cure. And I know we need this baby for a cure. So why do you want to endanger -"

"I never said that." He breathed out, not quite a sigh. "Some people who were supposed to be immune to this disease because of their bloodlines are getting sick anyway."

"Members of the Covenant? Excuse me while I get my violin."

"Sydney, this is serious."

"We're talking about my child's life, and you think I don't know that's serious?" She stalked away from him, but before she could reach the door she felt his hand clamp around her forearm. Sydney stopped walking, but she refused to turn and face her father.

"We can't hide here forever," he said. "Eventually, when the global situation becomes dire enough, our supply lines will dry up. Not in a month, maybe not even in a year, but inevitably. When the time comes for us to leave Antarctica, we have to have the cure. Otherwise, none of us is safe. Not me, not you, not your child."

"I told you - I already know we need a cure." She pulled away from him and escaped into the darkness of the hallway. For a moment she thought he might follow her, but he didn't.

Blinded by tears, sick with both the coldness of her father and the danger to her child, Sydney made her way almost to her room, then changed her mind. Instead, she thumped on Eric's door.

"Hang on, man in a robe." When Eric opened the door, he was still adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants beneath his striped bathrobe. At the sight of her face, he froze, stricken. "Syd? You okay?"

She flung her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could. After a moment, he hugged her back, rocking her slowly as she wept on his shoulder.

Once her sobs had quieted, he whispered, "You want to tell me what that was about?" His hand felt so comforting, stroking her hair.

Sydney shook her head and simply held him. His embrace felt so comforting, so right - there were times when she thought anyplace in the world (even Antarctica) would feel like home, as long as Eric was there.

As she breathed in the warm scent of him, she wished she could hide with Eric forever.

**

III.


They were only nightmares.

That was what Nadia had told herself ever since she was a little girl: The visions of the sick and dying - hundreds upon thousands of them - had haunted her all her life, or at least since the first time the Rambaldi serum had been injected into her veins. Why shouldn't a child have nightmares of sick people, after being tied to a chair and tortured by doctors? Never had she suspected that those visions might portend something more, not until Michael had told her about the Rain of Gold.

"What will it do?" she had asked her father, almost eight months before. "My genetic code - what will it reveal?"

"Eternity," he had said, and she had not asked herself what that truly meant. Nadia had spent so very long waiting for her father, and she did not want to turn him away now that he had finally arrived.

But the dreams that had haunted her entire life were not dreams of eternity - they were dreams of destruction and creation, of dissolution and unity. They were dreams of duality, of two things becoming one. No, what Michael had told her did not explain those dreams entirely. But they came far closer than her father's gauze-softened vagaries of a better tomorrow.

Could she doubt what Michael had told her? She had come to trust him, at least as much as she trusted Papa, and perhaps more -

Clenching her eyes shut, Nadia hugged her pillow tighter and tried to stop thinking about it. But she couldn't; for three weeks now, she had been waiting for Michael to press her further, so she could angrily denounce him, make him admit that his time here had made him paranoid. Instead, Michael had said nothing, trapping her alone with her thoughts. No doubt he had realized just how effective that would be.

Just as her father would have realized how susceptible his daughter would be to a fairy-tale house near the shore, with sunsets and wine and long walks as the only tasks of the day.

Nadia hated the knowledge that she was being manipulated almost as much as she hated the fact that she was such a good candidate for manipulation. If it hadn't been Michael or her father - or both of them - somebody else would have come along, promising to spin straw into gold, and she would have believed.

If you wait for the angel long enough, she thought, you begin to see him everywhere. Michael never asked for that role; don't blame him because you put him there.

Her father, on the other hand - he wanted her to believe in him so badly -

With a toss of the covers, Nadia was on her feet. She slipped into dark clothes without turning on the light, her movements rapid and jerky with anger.

My father wants my love because he's my father, she thought. He doesn't need lies to do that, and if he keeps secrets, it's for a reason. Michael will never believe that unless I prove it. To prove it, I have to face my own doubts.

Quietly Nadia padded downstairs, went onto the deck and dropped down. She was only mildly surprised to see Michael's profile silhouetted by the glow of the computer screen. Instantly he whirled around, sensing movement; when their eyes met through the split in the curtains, he froze.

Neither of them spoke. They would not be able to; her father slept nearby.

Michael pulled back the curtains and stepped away. Calling upon her gymnastics training, Nadia braced her hands on the sill, slowly eased most of her torso through the window, then rolled her legs through to land with a soft thump on the floor. She froze, but it hadn't been loud enough to alert Papa. When she glanced upward, Michael was staring down at her, obviously impressed. If she had not had greater concerns on her mind, that might have pleased her more, she thought.

He motioned to the chair, surrendering the computer to her. Even before she sat down, Nadia could tell that the image open was a scan of a Rambaldi document.

She began reading. It occurred to her that she should have had more trouble with it - some of it was in mirror-writing, some of it in code - but her instinctive knowledge of Rambaldi's plans, given to her by the serum, did the work for her, so much so that she could not distinguish it from her own mind.

Every word of it supported Michael's story about the Rain of Gold. Every word of it was reflected in the nightmares that had haunted her since she was a child.

Fingers trembling, Nadia continued paging through the document. She reached an illustration of a bundle of flowers, then recognized a DNA code entwined around them -

Then realized whose DNA it had to be.

("My genetic code - what will it reveal?"

"Eternity.")

She was the one who had created this disease. No - her father had used her to create it.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. Instead, she sat motionless, staring at the screen, sick at heart.

Michael's hand rested on her shoulder, so lightly it almost wasn't a touch at all.

Nadia shrugged his hand away and rose to her feet. When their eyes met, she could see his pity. Knowing that she deserved it was the worst of all.

Before he could try to prevent her, Nadia made her way back out the window, up onto the deck, and back to her room - the little tower by the sea in her father's fairy-tale house. Her control was good enough to keep her from sobbing out loud until she was already tucked back in under the covers, safe and sound.

**

IV.


"Sector Eight looks normal," Eric said, the words echoing slightly within his face mask. Beyond his ice-crusted goggles he could see "normal" - mile after mile of snow and ice, white on blue on white, unmarked by any sign of human contact except for the fresh tracks of his own Alpine snowmobile.

"Confirmed." Was Jack Bristow's voice less affected by the static than anybody else's? Or did the man always sound like he was talking through a speaker? "Complete the perimeter scan and head back to base."

They were almost an hour out from Mountaineer Station, slightly past the Jamesway huts Jack had set up around the perimeter to serve as emergency shelters; if a patrol went wrong, or there were an attack on the main station, any one of the Jamesways could save their lives. Eric was slightly creeped out by Jack's certainty that somebody was looking for them - it seemed like paranoia, even by Bristow standards. Who the hell was going to crawl out on the Antarctic ice field to find Sydney?

He thought about that again, about Sydney, pregnant and vulnerable, sheltered in the station behind them -- Eric breathed in the sweat-stale air beneath his face mask, then resumed the perimeter search. Any risk of somebody finding Sydney was too much. He could try a little Bristow-style paranoia for a while.

Also, when Eric thought about Sydney and felt his heart turn over like that, he knew another hour of freezing cold would do him good. Sober him up.

As the Alpine buzzed across the snow, retracing the sector perimeter, Eric forced himself to focus on the more immediate hazards surrounding him. Even though he was becoming familiar with this terrain, traveling across it remained risky. Patches of bald ice amid the snow could cause the snowmobile to tip over; the winds, always gusty, had picked up considerably in the last couple of days, which both made steering more difficult and visibility tricky. And the item right at the top of the list of Things Eric Weiss Doesn't Want To Do In Antarctica was "fall into a crevasse." If the long tumble into a mile-deep gash in the ice didn't kill him, he would either freeze to death in meltwater or just starve while waiting for a rescue that was pretty much impossible.

None of it was good. All of it was conducive to concentrating very hard on where you were going. Eric studied the terrain in front of him, white on white on white on red on white on -

The hell?

Braking the snowmobile to a stop, Eric peered through his goggles, trying to recapture the small flash of red that he'd seen - or not seen - a couple seconds earlier. Nothing. Maybe he'd imagined it?

Then it blinked again - a small dot of red light.

"Retriever to Watchtower," Eric said quickly. "I've detected an electronic device near the outer perimeter of Sector Eight. Moving to intercept."

"Coming to your location now, Retriever."

Eric left his snowmobile and walked over to the blinking red light. It was attached to a steel spike that had been driven deep into the snow; normally, a locator beacon would be posted where it could be seen. Whoever had left this here had buried this so only its radio signal, still functioning beneath the snow, would be of use. If the stronger winds the last couple of days hadn't unearthed the signal, Eric would never have found it.

And none of them would have known that they'd been found.

Carefully, Eric removed his bulky outer gloves; his hands stung from exposure to the cold once he only had thin wool between him and the elements, but he needed some dexterity now. Looked like a standard narrow-band radio transmitter, American manufacture. Disconnecting it would be easy, a matter of pulling out three wires. But would that serve as a sign to whoever the hell it was that the transmitter had been found?

A snowmobile's growl made Eric turn quickly - but it was Jack Bristow, recognizable through layers of padding and swirls of snow just by his rigid posture. Eric remained still, holding the beacon, until Jack was at his side. After only a moment's hesitation, Jack said, "Cut the signal. They may think it's only environmental damage."

Eric tugged out the wires, and the red light stopped blinking. They would be a little harder to find, when whoever it was returned.

But they would return, and soon.

**

Upon reaching Mountaineer Station, Jack ordered constant patrols, giving no reason why. As the next shift set out, Eric stripped off his cold-weather gear and tried to think of how to break this to Sydney.

"You're not to disclose any of this to my daughter," Jack said, doing his creepy mind-reading thing again. 

Eric stared at him; Jack was still layered in the silvery-gray insulating gear, goggles loose around his neck, apparently planning on going right back on the ice despite having spent three hard hours out there already.  "Syd deserves to know," Eric replied.

"The information can only agitate her."

"Sydney won't panic." Eric was as sure of this as he was of anything. "She doesn't panic. Hell, she's more likely to jump on a snowmobile herself to search the perimeter than she is to -"

Jack just stood there, one eyebrow raised.

"I gotcha." Eric didn't like keeping secrets from Sydney, even if it was for her own good, but he saw Jack's point on this one. So, he was on distraction duty. "Listen, I'd like computer clearance for today. There's some information I wanted to pull for Sydney."

"About what?"

The guy was so suspicious - but, thirty minutes after he'd held a radio beacon in his hand, Eric wasn't going to call even Jack Bristow overcautious. "Nothing sensitive. She was saying that she wished she had a baby-names book. I don't think Barnes & Noble has a South Pole store, so I thought I'd print a couple of lists off, you know?"

"Oh." Jack blinked a couple of times. "Names. Yes. That would be - that's acceptable."

Eric tried to read the expression on Jack's face, failed as usual, and hazarded a guess. "Hey, I don't think I ever actually said - you know, congratulations. On the whole grandfather thing."

"Thank you, Mr. Weiss." And even though Jack's words were clipped, and he pulled back on his goggles, Eric could tell that he was just a little bit pleased. But the reality of their position - discovered and exposed - settled on them both again, almost instantly. "Keep Sydney busy. Otherwise she'll notice the increased patrol levels."

"You got it."

**

"For a boy, Marcus Vaughn Bristow." Sydney settled herself back onto the pillows of his bed, her dark hair fanned out around her face. Her face was clean-scrubbed - nobody had packed any makeup for her - and her belly was now pronounced, and in Eric's opinion, she had never been more beautiful, which was saying something. "It's a girl's name I can't decide on, at all."

Eric tossed aside the pages with boys' names, making a show of it so that the paper fluttered in the air, and was rewarded with a giggle. "We begin our search for girl's names. Any conditions?"

"It should go well with Frances," Sydney said. "That's going to be the middle name."

"We can start alphabetically, then. Abigail?"

She shrugged, then laughed again. "If we work through the whole alphabet, we're still going to be talking two months after I give birth."

As long as it keeps you busy, Eric thought. "We can go ahead and knock a couple of names off the end. I mean, Zelda's out, right?"

"Very, very out. But I want to find a name that really means something. Not just something that sounds pretty."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. If I ever have a daughter - which involves me actually dating at some point, so, big if - I'd want to name her Sarah, for my aunt. Doesn't matter if Sarah's, like, out of style or goes badly with the hyphenated name my very-hypothetical wife came up with or what."

Sydney propped up on one elbow. "Your aunt? Is this the one you told me about - the one who would go on the waterslide with you?"

"Despite the fact that she was 60 years old and weighed 200 pounds? That's her. I can see that flowered swim cap coming downstream even now." They both laughed, but Eric felt other memories tugging at him too. "She was all about finding the joy in life, you know? She'd been through stuff you and I can't even imagine." Other kids at the waterslide had stared at the tattooed numbers on her arm, when they weren't staring at the flowered swim cap. "But she said there was no point in living through tragedy if you were just going to carry it around with you every day. Aunt Sarah always - always - looked on the bright side. The last time I saw her, she was dying in the hospital, and she looked like hell, and all she wanted to talk about was how gorgeous the flowers were on the tree outside her window. I never forgot that, how she could have death staring her in the face but only see the flowers."

Lost in his reverie, Eric was startled to feel Sydney's hand brush across his arm. "She sounds like an amazing person," Sydney said. "I think you're a lot like her."

She was looking into his eyes, and she thought he was amazing, and if he thought that was supposed to mean something he was CRAZY, and it was way past time to make a joke. "Should I pick out my flowered swim cap now?"

Sydney started laughing again, and it struck him all over again how dangerous all of this was for her - right this second, while somebody was searching for them, and she couldn't know. Quickly, he picked up the list and tried again. "All right. How about - Ada?"

**

V.


Mexico City, Mexico


Irina had chosen a gun.

Not for Bill Vaughn's murder, though that was the likeliest method, nor for Arvin Sloane's, which she sincerely hoped to conduct in a lengthy and detailed manner.

No, after they were both dead, she would finish the job she had begun in Brussels. Once more, she would put the muzzle of her gun beneath her chin. Then one swift pull of the trigger would blow her memories and her losses and her one unredeemable mistake through the top of her skull.

One mistake. From the age of seventeen until now, she had balanced a thousand different identities, layers of loyalties and betrayals, secrets and lies and truth - and she had really only made one mistake. Of course, she'd made a thousand errors: little things, running left when she ought to have dodged right, giving the Mumbai operation to Chiang instead of Katya, not seeing that third man in Bangkok. But those were mere details, all easily compensated for - or, at least, endured.

Irina had made just one true mistake in all those decades, and that one had defined her life (and her children's, and her husband's) from that time on. Sometimes she thought that seemed unjust. Sometimes she wondered if her destiny allowed for mistakes, and whether Rambaldi himself would have judged it a mistake at all.

For Sydney, she'd thought, gulping down a swallow of Jack's Scotch and trying not to see the look in Sloane's eyes as he slipped off his jacket. If there's a cure, then they won't have to hurt the Rain of Gold. They can let her grow up and be a little girl, as long as there's a cure. Sloane had kissed her, and she had somehow managed to convince him her response was real -- 

No more memories. No more witnessing the devastation she'd wrought. No more loss. All she had to do was see Sloane dead, and then she could finally be done with regrets, and with everything else besides. 

Sloane had seen through her attempt to seduce him in Warsaw - which she'd anticipated - and had quickly found the tracker she'd planted on him there, which she'd hoped he wouldn't. So tracking him had taken longer, and required Sark's help. The price of Sark's help appeared to be Michael Vaughn's life; Irina was willing to pay that if nothing else would answer, but she still hoped to hold Sark off for Sydney's sake when the time came.

She would never know for certain.

A rap on the door of her hotel room startled her; why would any of the guards disturb her at this hour? Then she heard Sark's voice: "Don't be alarmed. I have news."

Irina got her gun anyway.

When she opened the door, Sark hesitated before stepping inside. He looked exhausted himself; as inexplicable as his grief for Lauren Reed was to her, it appeared to be genuine. "I regret to be the one to inform you of this," he began.

"Has Sloane left?"

"No, we've no news that would disrupt our plans. It's about your sister Yekaterina. I fear we received word that she passed away a week ago, in Australia." Australia was suffering through a wave of the Rain of Gold plague - if her death had been a murder, Sark would have said so. No, Katya had died of the disease, unprotected by her genes. She could see the confirmation in Sark's eyes.

Katya. Irina had thought she was beyond the reach of any other pain, and she had been wrong. She remembered being a tiny girl, pushed on a swing by the big sister willing to steer her all the way up to the sky. Even Katya was lost to her now. All because of the Rain of Gold - all because of her one mistake.

"Leave me," Irina said, and Sark obeyed her immediately. For the rest of the night, she lay curled on her bed, not sleeping, not meditating, just thinking of her sister - the first ally she'd ever known in her life, and the last one Irina had pushed away.

("That's it, then?" Katya had challenged her, standing on the other side of a map of Italy. They had stood on the far edges of two seas. "Giving into despair already?"

"You don't understand." Irina had not let her understand. She had never revealed the full truth about her daughters' destinies, not even to Katya, always thinking that she would have time - that she would solve the one final mystery herself, then tell them all: Sydney, Katya, Jack, everyone. "Sloane has Nadia. They've found the Sphere of Life. Our search is over."

"Over!" Katya had looked as though she might laugh, or cry, or perhaps both. "Never did I think to hear you say that word, Irina."

"Then you haven't been listening." Irina had turned on her heel and left. She would have spoken more kindly, if she'd known they would never meet again.)

I owed Katya better than that, she thought. She was - difficult, and strange, but she helped me when nobody else did. Did I blame her for our mutual failure to find Nadia? I owed her more.

At dawn, Irina rose and went to the lobby of the hotel without her guards, no longer caring about the slight risk. "The London Times," she demanded of the clerk. "Friday's edition. If you don't have a copy, find one."

Some scurrying behind the counter resulted. Irina thought it unlikely that her sister would have availed herself of a signal they'd pre-arranged decades before. When Irina had cut off all contact, probably Katya had believed that this, too, would go unheeded. But if her sister had tried - had believed in Irina's willingness to listen, despite the months of silence between them - then Irina wanted to hear.

At last the clerk held out a wrinkled copy, which Irina snatched away, offering no thanks. In the elevator she began paging through - and saw the ad they'd designed years before, the strange nonsense text that begged for decoding. Irina's heartbeat quickened, glad or frightened of Katya's last words.

But an hour's decoding work revealed no words - only numbers. It took Irina a full minute to recognize them as coordinates, so unusual were they.

Why had Katya wanted her to travel there? What waited? What possible piece of information could make a difference now? Knowing Katya, it might have been anything - or nothing, really, but a dare. Irina could envision her sister's merry eyes, relishing this last game. Katya was trying to get Irina to admit that there was still something worth being curious about - something still worth fighting for.

Could it be more important than watching Arvin Sloane die?

When her mind was made up, she went to Sark's door and pounded. When he opened the door, he appeared as crisp and alert as though he never had to sleep at all. "Is there trouble?"

"No. But you'll be conducting the operation without me."

For one of the first times in her memory, Sark's face betrayed his surprise. "I thought our mission was of paramount importance to you."

"It is. I simply trust you to take care of Arvin Sloane on your own." Trust was not a word she often applied to Julian Sark, but in this, she felt confident. She had trained Sark, taught him so much of what he knew; sending Sark on his own was almost as good as being there herself. He was a sword she herself had forged. "Don't disappoint me."

"I won't. May I ask where you're going instead?"

"No." Irina hesitated, then added, "We won't meet again."

Sark did not fall back on any trite farewells; she'd known he would not and was grateful for it. "I'll leave word through our usual channels when Sloane's dead."

"I hope to see it," she said. That was their only goodbye.

It occurred to her as she walked out of the hotel that her abandonment of the mission to follow Katya's cryptic intel was, in essence, insurance that Michael Vaughn would die. Irina regretted that, but not enough to turn back.

**

VI.


Within another two months, perhaps three, they would be able to leave this house. Relishing the early-morning sunlight on the water, Sloane wished they never had to leave at all. He'd known this would be a glorious time in both their lives, and had watched Nadia blossom into radiant happiness with a gardener's satisfaction in a prize orchid.

But their idyll here was just that - a respite from the long work ahead. The times after the Rain of Gold would be hard; that, too, was part of the price he would pay for immortality. Power would have to be consolidated. Economies would have to be reconstructed. Strong hands would be needed at the reins, and Sloane knew he was one of the very few people who would have the resources and the ability to offer.

If you undertake to create a new world, Sloane thought, you must undertake to create a better one. That was the gift he could give to Nadia and to so many others. It would take time - but he would have forever.

"Good morning, Papa."  Sloane turned, smiling, to see Nadia standing in the doorway with a breakfast tray. "I thought we could eat on the deck - it's such a beautiful day."

"That's a wonderful idea. I should have thought of that before. We've wasted too many mornings." And it was all too true - but for Irina's doubts, he might have enjoyed twenty-five years of fatherhood. But there was no point in carrying regrets through to eternity - and eternity was how long he and Nadia would have to make up for lost time. In the end, a quarter-century was a small price to pay.

Nadia poured his coffee and buttered his toast, reminding him of other mornings, other people. "Emily loved dining al fresco," Sloane said, thinking of the broad table on the deck of their home in Los Angeles. "She loved being surrounded by her flowers and fresh air, or being within the sound of the sea. I wish you could have known her, Nadia."

"She sounds like a wonderful person," Nadia said. But then, hesitantly, she added, "Hearing about her - it makes me wonder - how it was I came to be born."

Sloane closed his eyes. He'd never imagined that Nadia's knowledge of his infidelity could wound him so deeply. "I was weak. Your mother was - is - a powerfully seductive woman, Nadia. She was an agent for the KGB, and manipulation was part of her job. I don't blame her for that, not any longer; Irina Derevko was doing her duty as she saw it. But it was many years before I had enough perspective to see that. Jack Bristow never could - though I don't blame him for that, either."

Nadia's face was turned toward the sea; her profile was classical in its beauty, if too reminiscent of Irina's. No doubt discussing the mother she'd never known was difficult for her. If only he and Emily could have raised her together. Emily would have accepted her, given time and love, and she would have been the best mother a girl could've had.

"She wanted secrets from you?" Nadia said. "That's why the affair happened?"

"It was reason enough, for her."

"But - if she was married to Sydney's father - you can take precautions." Her cheeks were pink, probably from the embarrassment of talking about something so intimate with her father. "Her marriage was her cover as a spy. Wouldn't she have tried to guard against another pregnancy?"

This bordered too closely on a conversation that Nadia was not ready to have yet. Someday, Sloane could explain to her the singular power of her destiny. When he could show her the newer, better world she had helped create, then Nadia would be ready to hear it. And when her love for him was not so new and fragile, she would understand that she had been born for that destiny and from his desire for a daughter - that the two needs could be one single emotion. "She had mentioned that Jack was unwilling to have a second child," he said, telling the truth as far as it went. "They were experiencing trouble in their marriage at the time. I couldn't begin to guess what she planned to tell him if she became pregnant. Certainly she never gave me the first hint of her condition before her escape. Maybe her time of departure was scheduled all along."

"She seems to have been a very manipulative woman."

"She is. But that's not all she is." Sloane studied his daughter's face, troubled by the misery he saw there. "Someday, maybe, years from now, you'll meet her. You can judge for yourself then."

Nadia sipped her coffee. "Do you think she gave birth to me just because of Rambaldi? Just to reach him and - and find the Sphere of Life?"

"It wouldn't be the worst crime if she had. Rambaldi's knowledge transcends anything else humanity has ever known." Sloane covered Nadia's hand with his own. "But I don't think she's ever understood Rambaldi's true importance. Not the way you and I do."

They were quiet together for a while, and Sloane wished he could introduce some other topic - anything - that would bring their breakfast back to the pleasant meal he'd hoped for. But Nadia would need to lead the way.

At last, she said, "I know that talking with me about this is difficult for you. But - Papa - if you ever want to talk about - hard subjects -- I'll hear you out. I won't judge you, not until I know the whole story.  Not ever. All you have to do is talk to me. All right?"

Sloane smiled, surprised at the lump in his throat. "I understand. And I appreciate that, Nadia. More than you know."

He continued with his breakfast, glad the awkwardness was past them. After a few moments, her curiosity apparently satisfied, Nadia began talking about the horses, her pleasure in riding them. It was delightful, how easy it was to make her happy.

**

VII.


Jack continued the around-the-clock patrols, even though, in the third day, the guards were all exhausted and irritable. This troubled him not at all. Thus far, Sydney seemed oblivious to what was going on, though he'd noticed she'd stayed largely out of sight the day before. Any deviation from normal procedure was suspect. But if she knew anything she would confront him, angry and bewildered, and wouldn't listen to any explanation, which was why Jack did not intend to offer one in the first place.

Then he put his anger aside. His improved relationship with Sydney had been a temporary phenomenon - he'd always known that, and if he'd let himself forget it for a time, that was his own misfortune. There was no point in blaming Sydney for the destruction of his foolish hopes.

It was better to concentrate on more immediate, more real concerns.

As he steered his Alpine out toward the perimeter, he continued scanning across radio frequencies, trying to pick up on any hint of a signal. Jack was still angry that the first beacon's wavelengths had been cloaked from them; whoever it was coming after them had the best equipment. If they found this base to begin with, they had ability. He might even respect them for those skills, once they were safely dead.

"Retriever to Watchtower." Weiss' words crackled through the speaker. "Winds are picking up. We've got confirmation of a full-on Katabatic storm in the works, and we've got about another hour before we get ourselves pounded by some serious ice."

Jack disliked the idea of running back to Mountaineer Station to hide from the weather. However, a Katabatic storm - capable of generating winds of more than 200 miles per hour, and temperatures at severely dangerous levels of cold - was too threatening to risk. And their would-be attackers couldn't move in that kind of storm any more than they could.

But even as he opened his mouth to order everyone back inside, an electronic chirp made him freeze.

"Motion detected within 200 yards of my location," Jack said. "Converge at this point. Weapons ready."

"Watchtower - this storm - if they're out here, they'll freeze."

The motion detector continued chirping; this wasn't a false alarm, created by snowdrifts. "Exactly. They'll have to get to shelter. The only shelter available is ours."

Though it was possible the attack force would simply go to one of the Jamesway huts, it was more likely that they'd assault Mountaineer Station itself - and thereby put Sydney in immediate danger. Apparently Weiss understood instantly. "Headed to your location now. Weapons ready."

Sydney's safe, Jack said to himself as he took up his assault rifle. They haven't reached her, and they won't.

Now the motion detector was chirping faster. Jack squinted, trying to focus through the swirling snow; it wasn't snowing - it was far too cold for that - but the whipping wind was stirring up the snow already on the ground. Visibility was poor. By the time the attackers were visible, they'd almost be on top of his location.

He heard the low sound of Alpine motors and tensed - but then he realized the snowmobiles were behind him. On cue, Weiss said, "We've got your back. Almost there."

Jack shouldered the rifle and considered ordering radio silence. But it didn't matter; if the approaching party - five to seven separate figures, from the look of it - didn't already know their approach had been detected, they would soon. With visibility this poor, radio was their only way of working together.

Seven separate figures, within 50 yards.

Sydney's safe and warm, back at the shelter, Jack thought. His heartbeat remained slow and steady; his grip remained firm. They'll never reach her. Maybe she'll never have to know.

Within 25 yards. Motion at the right of his field of vision proved to be one of his own team - Weiss, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. Jack watched the area before them, but the blowing snow was too thick, the wind too volatile. Finally, he studied the motion detector, made his own calculations - 15 degrees right - and fired blind.

As his weapon blasted out, a small blossom of red appeared amid the storm. One down.

Immediately his Alpine shuddered, the sharp metallic thunks of bullets striking the motor. "We're on them!" Weiss yelled, and everyone was firing, moving forward, getting closer. This was suicidal, but Jack didn't care as long as it was effective. Sydney was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Jack saw the snowmobile in front of him in time to stop, but instead he gunned the motor. The driver wheeled around, just avoiding the collision; their faces passed within a few feet of each other, and Jack felt no shock upon recognizing Thomas Brill's eyes. Brill was one of the very few people who could have tracked him here.

"I'm on the leader," he said, leaning into the Alpine's sharp curve as he turned. "Hold them off."

"Three down, Watchtower." Weiss sounded steady. Good. "We've got -"

Weiss' voice changed from words to a shout that could only be pain. Then his signal went dead, and Jack swore under his breath. No time to wonder what had happened to him. He had to keep Brill within his sight. Brill was accelerating forward - toward the shelter, and toward Sydney.

Jack fired at Brill's back, but the man was swerving defensively, making himself hard to hit. Steering with one hand in soft, fast-accumulating snow was difficult, too. When Brill veered strongly to the left - no longer moving toward the shelter - it was tempting to let him go and challenge him later. There was every chance the storm would take care of Brill for good. But any chance that the man would return, better manned and armed, was too high.

As they began moving uphill, Jack fired once more; Brill jerked his snowmobile around quickly, almost tipping over. Had he hit the man's shoulder? Was it -

Then he saw what Brill had swerved to avoid - a crevasse, wide and deep and if he could just turn -

The Alpine was moving too fast. It braked at the very edge, slipped in the loose powder and tumbled over. Jack tried to leap free, but his body slammed into the other side of the crevasse, ice hard against his ribs, before he tumbled downward into the gap.

WHAM! Pain crushed upward from his left leg, and Jack's feet were slipping from beneath him, but he managed to steady himself, bracing his hands on either side of the ice. The only light he had was the Alpine's headlight, suddenly brilliant in the darkness. In horror, Jack realized that he'd landed on the snowmobile itself, still running, vibrating beneath his feet and sending shock waves up through his injured left ankle. The snowmobile was wedged precariously in a narrow area of the crevasse - on either side, the drop was so deep that Jack couldn't see the bottom. And the heat from the snowmobile's motor was already beginning to melt the ice, water droplets forming on its surface.

Snow was blown into the crevasse; once shielded from the Katabatic winds, it fell still and soft, almost peaceful.

Jack felt for his assault rifle; the strap was still slung around his forearm. The surface was only a foot above his head. He'd be able to reach up and get a decent hold, if there was one to be found -

He heard a snowmobile's motor over the howling of the winds - very close. Almost at the edge. And Jack knew none of his own party could have reached him so quickly.

One, two, the assault rifle was in his hands and his foot hurt and he ignored it, firing upward at the first glimpse of motion. Blood splattered down on him like rain, freezing almost as soon as it landed on his face mask. Now blinded, Jack hesitated for a moment; if a body fell on top of him or the snowmobile, he'd be dead.

Nothing fell. Jack edged toward the side again, ignoring the pain in his left ankle, which was either severely sprained or broken. His body was beginning to shake, either from cold exposure, shock, injury or some combination of all of the above. And the snowmobile's surface was slippery already.

He felt the edges of the ice, reached past them and tried to get a handhold. Jack pulled himself up - lost traction, and slipped back down. The Alpine shuddered beneath his feet, but slid no further. Again - another grip, another pull, another fall. This time he didn't shield the weight from his left foot well enough, and the pain was so intense that his vision dimmed for a moment.

Not that he could see anything but frozen blood anyway.

The snowmobile slipped then - just a couple of inches, but that was enough to tell Jack that his time to escape was becoming short. Best to jump for it with all his remaining strength. Either he'd make it this time, or he wouldn't make it at all.

Jack jumped. This time, his hands found purchase, and he was able to slowly pull himself over the edge, muscles quivering in protest. He fell atop Brill's dead body, hearing the slow screech of the Alpine's metal against ice as it began slowly skidding into the abyss.

Get up, Jack commanded himself. Find Brill's snowmobile.

His left foot made walking out of the question, but Jack crawled through the snow, trying to see any sign of the snowmobile. It had to be close - he'd heard it - but visibility was now all but zero. He'd only seen Brill because their bodies were in actual contact; the snowmobile, a few feet away, was effectively invisible. The blood-crusted face mask didn't help.

Holding one arm out in front of him, Jack felt for it, finding nothing, then nothing again. He made a circle, shaking harder all the while, until he shuffled back into Brill's corpse.

Had the rest of the team survived? With four members of Brill's seven man team confirmed dead, Jack felt confident that they'd won the fight. Sydney's safe, he told himself. That's all that matters.

Exhausted and dazed, Jack sank down onto the snow. On one level, he knew that his mind's functioning was already confused from injury and cold - that his complacency was a clinical sign, and a dangerous one.

On another level - the only one that seemed to matter - Jack could think of nothing besides the fact that his single goal had been achieved.

Sydney's safe, he thought again, as he lay there, snow beginning to accumulate atop him. Sydney's safe.

**



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