Ah, they're shutting down the factory now
Just when all the bills are due.
And the fields, they're under lock and key
Though the rain and the sun come through.

And springtime starts but then it stops
In the name of something new,
And all the senses rise against this,
Coming back to you.

And they're handing down my sentence now,
And I know what I must do.
Another mile of silence while I'm
Coming back to you.

There are many in your life
And many still to be,
Since you are a shining light
There's many that you'll see.
But I have to deal with envy
When you choose the precious few
Who've left their pride on the other side of
Coming back to you.

Even in your arms I know
I'll never get it right,
Even when you bend to give me
Comfort in the night.
I've got to have your word on this
Or none of it is true,
And all I've said was just instead of
Coming back to you.

--"Coming Back To You," Leonard Cohen

IRENICON: Book Nine

I.


Los Angeles, California


Sirens echoed from the street below, changing tone and key as they came closer and then went away. In the past two months, Judy Barnett had gone from ignoring sirens (just another fender-bender) to being terrified by them (rioting in the streets) to finding them comforting. At least the police force was still on-duty. She wasn't sure that would be true much longer.

She pushed herself upright in her hospital bed, hoping to sip from her plastic cup of water - but it was empty. The sink was all the way across the room - so far -

In a minute, she decided.

Judy was the only patient remaining in the hospital; when the CIA personnel had pulled out, regrouping in the San Francisco office, they'd planned to take her with them. She'd refused. Spending the rest of her brief life being poked and prodded and experimented on - well, it would all be worth it if she thought it would do one bit of good. It wouldn't.

And so now she was the only person in the hospital - patient, doctor or nurse. Back when she'd felt like walking around, Judy had strolled through the quiet corridors, feeling vaguely as though she were in a Stephen King movie. All the lights were on, though Judy didn't know if that was because the world outside had managed to keep power plants running or because the hospital had generators. Although the remote sat just a few inches from the cup, Judy didn't want to watch television anymore. The news didn't bear watching.

When the CIA personnel pulled out, they'd left her with painkillers, water, food and a syringe of a chemical very much like heroin. The injection would give her a few moments of ecstasy before she died - at least, that was the clinical understanding. Reality might be very different. Judy didn't yet know if she would be brave enough to keep from finding out.

A heavy bang down the hallway made her jump, but she forced herself to be still. Sometimes, with the fever, she heard things. That was all.

But no - there was another bang, and then footsteps - those were definitely footsteps. Judy opened the drawer of her bedside table, took the syringe and hid it beneath the covers. Her heart was thumping wildly, more by instinct than from any rational fear. Nobody coming toward her could do anything worse to her than kill her - and she had the means of her own instant death in hand.

Stay calm, she told herself. It was only a matter of her own pride, but that was more or less all she had left.

Guards appeared in the doorway - not policemen, as she'd hoped for one instant, but private militia. They appeared neither friendly nor hostile as they stared at her. She stared back.

"We've got one," somebody spoke into a headset mike. One what? Judy thought. One psychiatrist? The thought of neurotic people rampaging wildly through the streets, seeking the last therapist in L.A., made her want to break into giggles - but she knew the impulse to be hysteria, and kept her silence.

Finally, after several minutes, the guards parted to let someone through. Judy felt her stomach clench painfully, and she hoped that the fever had finally made her delusional.

"Oh, Judy." Arvin Sloane stood in the doorway, his eyes sad. "Not you. This should never have happened to you."

Then you shouldn't have released the virus, you worthless, useless -

"What are you doing here?" she asked steadily. Seeing Arvin again was absolutely the last thing she had ever wanted; maybe that made it appropriate that it was the last thing that would ever happen to her. It could be a curse or an opportunity, if she thought fast.

"Looking for Jack Bristow, of course." Without asking permission, he came to sit on the side of her bed. Judy kept herself from shuddering as he took her hand in his. "I'm not going to insult your intelligence by lying to you. I learned the CIA facilities had been abandoned, and I wanted to search for any intel I could. I had no idea I'd find you here."

Psychological counter-operations. Purpose: To destabilize Arvin Sloane, thereby disrupting his plans and rendering him vulnerable to attack.

Judy looked up at Arvin, trying not to remember the last time they'd been in a bed together. "They left me behind."

"I wouldn't have expected that kind of cruelty. Even from them." He squeezed her hand. "You'll be cared for from now on. That much I can promise you. You're not alone any longer, Judy."

"I'd rather be alone than with you."

The subject will expect hostility at some point in the process. If such hostility is introduced early, the subject will take satisfaction in overcoming it and believe in his own success.

Arvin sighed, closing his eyes as if in pain. "I deserve your anger. But there was a time when you had - a different regard for me. I'd like to try and deserve that too, if I can, by taking care of you now. Let me do that for you."

The subject is thoroughly prepared for counter-operations and will distrust any information conveniently "found" or leaked to him in a neutral sense. However, an explicit direct statement, delivered in the right situation by the right person, could overcome the subject's distrust by playing into his emotional impulses.

"Taking care of me? When have you ever tried to do anything but use me?" It helped that her hurt was real, Judy told herself. It made her believe what she was saying. "You used me to play a game with Jack Bristow's head. And he wanted to use me - use me to play you -"

Her throat closed up, and she shut her burning eyes, trying to collect herself. "Water," Arvin said, and she hated herself for the small pang of gratitude she felt as the guards' feet shuffled, seeing to her needs.

When she could look at him again, she took the cup of water he held out and drank deeply. "I won't thank you," she murmured over the rim of the cup.

"I understand that."  Arvin's eyes were wary. She could see the gears turning, him turning the puzzle inside and out, trying to decide how Jack Bristow could have deceived him. Judy knew the truth about that, but she had no intention of letting Arvin figure it out.

The subject is obsessed with his personal connection to Rambaldi, a connection he now defines through his relationship with Irina Derevko and the child born from that affair. A threat to that connection would therefore be the single most devastating blow to the subject's psyche.

Judy whispered, "You still think she's your daughter, don't you?"

Arvin's eyes locked with hers, and she'd never dreamed - never, not at her worst moment of disillusionment - that she could see such anger and hatred there. "Spare me your tricks. I analyzed Nadia's DNA from The Telling years ago. Nadia is - no matter what else happens, she is my daughter. She will always be my daughter."

He would not accuse her of lying if he were utterly certain that she was lying; in that case, he would play along. The accusation reveals the subject's uncertainty. Also, the stumbling over his daughter's name suggests this relationship has destabilized, thus increasing the vulnerability. "Derevko had a source in your organization. She doctored the results. The computer analysis you got was nothing but a lie, Arvin. We ran the tests again here, under Jack Bristow's direction. Nadia Santos is his daughter. Not yours."

"Impossible." His face was pale, his expression disdainful. "Only Nadia's father could have used the Hourglass to find her -"

"And Jack was standing right there. He was particularly fond of that part of the plan, making you do the work while the Hourglass revealed her location to him."

"Jack didn't want her. Jack wanted to kill her."

"That's why he found her. Why else, Arvin? Why else would he ever help you? Out of love for Sydney? For you? Think about it. Just - think." Judy closed her eyes again, not entirely feigning her weakness.

The rest was up to Arvin, and the success of her lie now depended on circumstances beyond her knowledge or control. How much had Jack Bristow known about the Rain of Gold? More importantly, how much did Arvin think he knew? If Arvin were still in contact with his daughter - and, despite his emotion in speaking of her, he might well still be - he could double-check within a day and confirm the fact that he was her biological father. For a moment, Judy felt foolish - like a schoolgirl shouting insults at the boy who'd refused to hold her hand.

But then she opened her eyes and saw the tears in his.

"Oh, God," Judy said, trying to make the trembling in her voice sound like regret and not excitement. "I've hurt you. I meant to hurt you, but -"

"Stop." Arvin shook his head and gave her the kind of strained smile that holds back a sob. "You had every right to be angry. And you've - you've done me a service."

Immunity to the Rain of Gold is strongly determined by genetics. Although no level of affinity guarantees immunity, the closer the person's relation to Nadia Santos, the more likely that person is to be safe. If the subject believes that he is not as safe from the disease as he formerly believed, his behavior will change radically. He will take different risks and operate with little or no planning in an effort to save himself from his own creation.

"When you get this close to dying - the anger goes away." Judy was out-and-out cheating now, using information from Sydney Bristow's counseling sessions to quote Emily back to Arvin. But she didn't give a damn. "You find yourself remembering the good in things. And - I'm hurting you, and I ought to be - Arvin, those few weeks in Switzerland - it had been so long since anyone treated me like that -"

This was true. Bastard.

"Shhhhh. I'm here now. It's over now. And I'll take care of you as long as I can."  He folded her into his arms, and Judy endured the embrace.

There was a time - back when Arvin Sloane was a name on paper, a black-and-white photo, a puzzle for her to enjoy - when she'd thought facing your mistakes, facing the unvarnished truth of your own actions, was the one fundamentally heroic act humans were capable of. But now she thought there were different kinds of heroism, and some of them involved lying like hell.

**

II.


As the Snow-Cat rumbled toward the coastline, Sydney tried to sit up once again - and, once again, was guided back down onto the mattress by Eric. "Oh, no, no, pregnant lady. You're taking it easy."

"Sitting up isn't exactly heavy lifting," Sydney protested, but she remained on the mattress. Lying down for a couple days straight wasn't her idea of a good time, but nobody else was particularly enjoying this voyage either. The distance was too great to cover on snowmobiles, and they had equipment, which meant both of the enormous, multi-tracked Snow-Cats had been impressed into service. Sydney, Eric, Jenny, several of the guards and her parents were all bundled into the interior, which was about as luxurious as the flatbed of a pickup truck. The other guards and most of their stuff followed behind.

"Just relax, okay?" Eric brushed her cheek with his fingertips, sending delicious shivers through her body that had nothing to do with the cold. "We're practically there."

If they'd been alone, Sydney would have invited him to lie down beside her on the mattress; then she could have looked on the whole experience as a chance to snuggle. But Dad's presence was highly snuggle-inhibiting. Her father sat right at the very back of the Snow-Cat, staring back the way they'd come. Across the interior sat her mother, doing the exact same thing. Sydney had the distinct impression that they were doing this in large part to keep from looking at each other - and yet they couldn't have failed more completely to ignore one another. Sydney could tell how utterly aware they were, every second. It made her a little nervous.

Casting around for a topic of conversation - they'd worn out most of them long before the end of day one in the Snow-Cat - Sydney said, "So. Africa."

"Yes," Dad replied. Apparently he thought that was sufficient.

"At least I'll be able to get fresh bananas again." She hadn't wanted them nearly as much for the past month or so, but that was beside the point.

"Is that what you've been craving?" Her mother spoke for the first time that day, and though she didn't turn her head, Sydney could hear the smile in her voice.

"Like crazy." Sydney suddenly realized that her mother was the only mother she'd have a chance to discuss her pregnancy with; even Jenny, smart and informed as she was, hadn't given birth herself. "What did you crave?"

"With Nadia, nothing. Just as well, since I was in prison at the time. With you - strawberry milkshakes. The ones from the all-night diner. I don't know if that's because they were the best, or just because they were the ones available at 3 am. Which was always when I wanted them."

"You drove to the diner in the middle of the night?" Sydney grinned.

"Your father did."

Dad didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge Sydney or her mother. But after almost a minute, he said, "I'd just throw a jacket on over my pajamas. The diner staff got to know me, and they'd bring a couple shakes right out to the car."

Sydney couldn't imagine her father behaving the way Eric did: talking to her belly, making up silly names in a pretend effort to move past "Sarah," or claiming that he was having sympathetic morning sickness. But she could absolutely see her father going out at 3 a.m. for milkshakes. He would have treated it like a mission - like a matter of life and death.

"Hey," Jenny interjected. "Mrs. - ah, Ms. Derevko, can I ask how long you were in labor for each birth? It's good clinical history to have."

"Nadia took a long time, but there were other factors at work." When her mother said that - lightly, almost casually -- Sydney tried to imagine giving birth in a hospital bed you were chained to. It revolted her so strongly she almost felt sick. "I was in labor about ten hours with Sydney. Wouldn't you say, Jack?"

The challenge in her mother's voice was unmistakable. But her father kept staring out the back of the Snow-Cat, answering quietly, "Maybe a little less."

Sydney remembered the documents she'd seen at Wittenburg, the form her father had signed promising to observe and report on every single facet of his daughter's life from birth onward. Had they waited for her to be born before they gave it to him? Or had he been in the next room, signing his name, while her mother sweated and pushed?

Now the silence in the Snow-Cat had gone from uncomfortable to excruciating. But Eric gripped her hand and smiled. "Check it out - see that?"

This time, he not only let Sydney sit up but supported her as she looked forward. "What?"

"I believe we've got ourselves a ship."

**

"Ahoy, mateys!" Marshall came hurrying down to the ice pier, awkward in his big boots and parka. "Man, is it good to see you guys."

"Marshall!" Sydney couldn't wave; she was gripping Dad's shoulder with one hand and Eric's with the other as they lowered her from the Snow-Cat. Her mother helped brace her as she stood in the slush. "I can't run to you -"

"I'm here." Marshall wrapped his arms around her, and she hugged him back with all her strength, unable to believe how much she'd missed him. "Hoo, boy. There's a lot more Sydney to hug. Congratulations on the whole mom thing."

"I just wanted to say - we heard about Carrie, and I'm so sorry -"

"Don't. Let's just not - we can talk around that, because when I talk about it, I start, you know, the crying, and then the tears freeze up and it's no good." Marshall looked like he might cry anyway, but then he held out his hand to Eric. "Good to see you too, buddy. Mr. Bristow, hi. And uh, Ms. Derevko, welcome, if welcome is the word -"

"It'll do." Her mother started for the ship first, holding her arm out for Sydney to follow. "Let's get you off the ice." 

The ship was a gray hulk in a dull sea, thick with chunks of ice that were only slightly paler than the slate-colored water. Sydney thought every surviving gunman from the CIA's LA field office must have been on board; every few feet on the walkways, another trooper, gun slung over his shoulder, would nod briskly and continue patrolling. She found it disconcerting, and yet comforting. This, too, would be her father's work.

She watched as they recognized her mother, one by one. To a man, they then turned to look at her father, whose face had never been more unreadable.

But it wasn't all military-level grim. Sydney was grateful for the chance to embrace Robin and Stephen, both of whom looked startlingly older; she didn't think it was the eight months as much as the fact that they'd lost their father. Neither of them wanted to talk about Dixon much, and Sydney played along, letting them give her a tour of the ship while Eric got their stuff settled. The sickbay interested her the most, and not only because it was making Jenny swear. "So this is it, huh? I guess asking for a water birth would be a bad idea."

"Asking for two people to be in here at the same time is a bad idea," Jenny groused. "But hey, we can always hang you off the side of the boat. When you push the baby out, just put her in a life preserver and we'll haul her up."

"Sounds great. I'll look around for a swim cap."

"Seriously? I think we'd be better off taking one of the unused cabins and sterilizing it the best we can." Shaking her head, Jenny shut a supply drawer. "That way, you can change your posture when you want, sit up, walk around -"

"Please stop talking about girl stuff." Stephen looked so appalled that Sydney had to laugh.

When she told Eric about the spare-cabin plan, he was less amused. "There's got to be a hospital ship somewhere in the U.S. Navy. Or, hell, any country's navy. Don't tell me your dad can't steal a military vessel, because I'm pretty sure he can. In fact, I bet it wouldn't be the first time."

"We'll be okay here," Sydney said, projecting more confidence than she felt as she stretched out on the bed. 

Eric didn't look convinced, but he changed the subject anyway. "All right, milady. The closet space here on the Queen Mary is not all it could be, but we've got your extensive wardrobe of maternity clothes here on this side, right next to your other wardrobe of maternity clothes - i.e., MY clothes, though in another week or two even my emergency post-pizza shirts won't fit you. Fortunately, we only have two pairs of shoes between us, so floor space in the closet is not at a premium."

We're sharing a room, Sydney thought. It surprised her, and yet it shouldn't have; one of the few annoyances of her relationship with Eric was the need to sneak through corridors.

So moving in together made sense - and she already loved the idea of coming home to Eric at the end of the day.

But even her moment's hesitation must have showed, because Eric's face fell. "I shouldn't have assumed. I should've asked first."

"Eric, it's fine. Really. Better than fine."

He lay down by her side, spooning himself behind her. This was how they slept at night - and, they'd discovered, a good position for making love. Just the feel of his chest against her back was enough to turn her on, by now. When he kissed the nape of her neck, she wondered if they were about to christen this room - but instead he lay there quietly for a couple of minutes. Sydney knew he was gathering his thoughts and gave him time.

Finally, he said, "Ever since you and I - since we've been a couple - I've pretty much acted like - well, of course it's serious. We wouldn't be together if it weren't."

"Of course not." Sydney mustered her strength and rolled over to face him. Her belly brushed against his. "I love you. You know that."

"And I love you too." He touched her cheek. "Like crazy. But still - we kinda went from first date to playing house in about sixty seconds. Even when you love someone, that's really fast."

She considered that, forcing herself to move past her knee-jerk denial and weigh what he was saying. "The baby, the danger we've all been in - it intensifies things. Speeds everything up. But I don't think it makes the way we feel any less real."

Eric propped up on one elbow.  "I'm just gonna lay my cards on the table here. Syd, I don't know what our lives are going to be like after this. But I want to be with you. I want to take care of your daughter. I feel like I've cast myself as - well, as the husband. And the dad. I know it's way too early for that, but I'm willing to take my chances. I'm aware of the risks. I just wanted to be sure you were too."

Sydney wondered if that was a proposal, then decided it didn't make a difference. She couldn't see herself separating from Eric, not soon - and, yes, maybe not ever.  "We don't have to figure it all out right now," she murmured, cuddling closer to him. "But we don't have to pretend we're not in love when we are."

"Okay." He brought his face down to hers to a kiss. "Sounds like a plan."

**

III.


Night had returned. Just a few hours of it so far - but as they moved farther away from Antarctica, the darkness would lengthen. Jack found himself welcoming it as he stood on the deck, watching the white coast of Antarctica fade into the dusk. Darkness would help conceal them.

"I suspect we're being watched."

Jack turned toward the voice and saw Irina standing several feet away from him, her hands on the railing. The wind whipping up from the water tossed her hair, concealing her face. But once he realized the surveillance she was talking about, Jack knew she was smiling.

"The guards all know we're conducting an operation based on the word of a terrorist," he said. "They want to know why they should trust her."

"They want to know why you do."

Jack sighed. "As soon as I have an answer, I'll alert the crew." He already had an answer, but he didn't think it would reassure any of the men on board. Irina ought to have been the first to comprehend - but here she was, sounding him out. Jack wasn't sure if that was sincere curiosity or just another game.

Jack had chosen to trust Irina with Sydney's life, but he wasn't fool enough to believe that he understood her.

"How long did it take you?" Irina said. Her voice was low and deep, almost lost in the waves. "To believe what Katya told you?"

"I knew the letter told the truth immediately. The pattern of events made sense, strategically speaking." There was no need to reveal how he had memorized it, then burned it, watching Irina's handwriting curl and blacken into nothingness.

"I didn't think you'd accept it," Irina admitted. "Katya - I thought she would, with time."

"She believed you immediately too."

Irina's eyes were on him now, her gaze hard, and Jack was now certain of what he'd suspected since Irina's return: She'd never known about his affair with Katya. For some reason, he'd always assumed that she would find out, sooner rather than later, and with no help from him. Perhaps he'd underestimated Katya's ability to keep a secret.

"It was - kind - of Katya. To contact you with such dangerous information."

He knew where this was going, and decided to take the shorter route. "We were lovers at the time."

Her lips pressed together. Jack felt the ship lurch beneath him; the waves grew rougher as they entered deeper seas, and he had to grip the railing for balance.

They were silent for a long while, the silence passing from expected to ominous to bewildering. Irina should either have lashed out or given some sign that she didn't care, but instead she kept staring down at the churning water beneath them. Jack wondered if she was attempting to goad him into speaking first. He might make many mistakes tonight - and perhaps had already begun - but that wouldn't be among them.

Irina finally spoke. "Did you make love to Katya just to hurt me?"

He hadn't known if anything he could do had the power to hurt Irina, not then. But that was beside the point. "Yes. At first."

"And after that?"

"It became something more." What, precisely, Jack still couldn't say; his memories of his brief time with Katya were clouded with the pain and confusion that had defined his life then. But when he remembered her, he did not think of anger or sex. Instead he thought of Katya treating his wound after their Koreatown adventure, the way her fingers had probed deep inside before bandaging him, making him well.

Irina considered that for a moment, then said, "Good." His face must have betrayed his surprise, because she then said, "If you had used Katya and cast her aside, I would have killed you."

More fool him, if he had failed to realize that Irina might think of herself as Katya's sister far more deeply than she thought of herself as his wife.

"Once she knew the truth, she came to me immediately. That's why it ended."

"She should never have told you," Irina said, startling him until she added, "If Katya had stayed with you, she might have survived all of this."

Jack felt himself caught up in Irina's melancholy, their shared sadness. How would it have been different, if Irina had learned the truth while Katya still lived? No point in wondering, he decided. "Should I have told you?"

"Jack Bristow, asking questions about tactics?"

"Not about tactics. About results."

"If you wanted to show me my place -" Irina shrugged. "From the first night I went to bed with Sloane, I knew that if you ever learned the truth, you would never touch me again. Honestly, I thought you'd move on to someone - inconsequential. Harmless. Mostly I'm surprised you had such -"

"Good taste?"

"Courage, to brave another Derevko." Her smile faded as she said, "I did what I had to do. You did what you had to do. We both understand that, now."

"Yes." Never had Jack thought to see Irina so - resigned. It wasn't the kind of sad desperation that had haunted her before; the woman standing beside him was as powerful and as vibrant as she had ever been. But she truly believed what she'd said: She believed their relationship to be over.

"Good night, Jack," she said, stepping into the darker passages of the ship without waiting for his farewell.

**

Over. Maybe it ought to be over. How many years had he wished for this, for his freedom from Irina Derevko? And now she had given it to him, perhaps the best ending he cold have hoped for.

Yet Jack remained at the railing, studying the sea, reflecting upon precisely what she had said to him, and why.

When Irina had spoken so casually of her affair with Sloane, he had felt it like physical pain - and knew that Irina had meant for him to feel it. But she hadn't sunk her claws in for revenge; Jack knew he might be wrong about this, but he suspected her quiet resignation to the affair with Katya was sincere. By reminding him of Sloane, Irina had another purpose in mind. Jack had not learned how Irina schemed to bring him closer to her without also learning how she sometimes tried to push him away. But she'd chosen the wrong weapon this time. Sloane didn't have the power to come between them - not anymore.

Sloane's voice still echoed in Jack's mind, cruel and yet accurate in its desperation: Your schoolboy infatuation with Irina Derevko. Jack did not doubt that Sloane had believed the truth of what he'd said; of course, Sloane had the ability to believe virtually anything he wanted to believe, one of the few luxuries Jack had envied him. The question was whether or not he was going to allow Sloane to make him believe that.

A schoolboy's infatuation would not survive an affair with his best friend - for whatever purpose, noble or profane. Maybe he'd had a schoolboy infatuation with Laura West, thirty-four years ago. But Jack thought it was Irina - the woman herself, not the false name or false history or anything else - he had loved ever since.

He had chosen to trust her when they began this mission. He had given her a gun. But none of that was as potentially dangerous as surrendering himself to her, once again. The smartest move would be silence, watchfulness, a relatively painless end.

As Jack envisioned Irina's profile, sharp and pale against the dark waters, Jack made up his mind. If he was going to make a mistake, it might as well be a spectacular one.

The waters were churning now, and making his way on the tilting deck with his cane was difficult. But he made his way to Irina's cabin easily enough. She answered the first knock, then stared at him; she genuinely hadn't thought he would come. Nor was she immediately assuming the obvious reason that her husband might appear at her bedroom door, late at night. "Yes?"

He said, "You know, we always make the same tactical error."

She studied him, not kindly. She'd pushed him away, and he hadn't gone - Jack knew she was unsure of her bearings now. "What's that?"

 Slowly, Jack lifted his hand to trace the curve of her shoulder with his finger. "We underestimate each other."

The invitation surprised her, even more than he'd thought it would. Irina didn't speak or move for long enough that Jack wondered if he was about to be turned down, which would be as much as he deserved for making any assumptions about what Irina might want. But then, Irina closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, her body visibly relaxing. When she brought her face to his, he felt as though she were falling - as though he were catching her.

The kiss lasted a long time, their lips and tongues soft and slow. When the ship rolled in the tide, tilting him back against the doorjamb, she followed and braced his shoulders with her hands. Jack let the crutch clatter down, forgotten, so he could circle her waist with his hands.

When she turned her mouth from his, breathing just a little faster, she whispered, "Are you sure?"

"The world's ending. We don't have much time for doubts." 

She had to help him in from the corridor, even lay him upon the bed - a small indignity, but one that Jack became glad for as soon they were finally behind a locked door, finally alone. Irina took the lead, undressing him before she stripped off her own clothes, piece by piece, revealing herself to his hungry gaze; he let her guide him even when he didn't need it, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of surrendering power. She crawled over him so that her breasts brushed against his cheeks, tempting him to kiss and suck and tease. Just when her breath began to catch in her throat, she would pull away and minister to him again, her tongue darting down the middle of his chest, dipping into his navel, swirling over the tip of his cock.

Jack didn't allow himself to ask for more. He was going to take what she wanted to give.

And to his surprise, more than anything else, Irina seemed to want to kiss. She would go down on him - hot and slow, teasing him until he groaned - or kneel above him so that he could do the same for her, her body trembling as he coaxed her into pleasure with his tongue. Nothing had ever had the power to excite him as much as the sound Irina made when she came - in the back of the throat, soft, so that he almost had to strain to her, but unmistakable and intoxicating.

As she came back down, she sank into his arms once more, kissing him deeply, holding him close. Jack had forgotten that he could spend so much time only kissing - or that this one act, mouth on mouth, could excite him as much as anything else.

Irina didn't stop kissing him as she straddled his body, sliding back and forth over his cock, slick and warm. He let her lower herself on top of him, each of them gasping at the sensation of it - then, the moment he was fully inside her, kissed her again.

They moved together, the dip and swell of the ship always changing their balance, making Irina's hair sway across her back as she tilted her chin upward in delight. Jack brushed his thumbs over her breasts, thrust more deeply, got closer. And then he was shouting out -- mindless, painless, soaring and lost.

Afterward, they lay together in silence for a long time. Irina's head was pillowed on his shoulder - unusual for her, thought Jack found he liked it. He did not know if he had just made a mistake, but if he had, well, it wasn't the first. For now he would not try to quantify or understand her. Whatever consequences arose from this, he would take as they came.

"It's strange," she murmured.

"That could refer to almost anything about our current situation."

"So many people get divorced. They marry the people they love - they choose, and they go to counseling, and they try to be certain. They're so terribly sincere. But they get divorced anyway. They didn't marry for life, even though they meant to." Irina's fingernails trailed slow circles across his chest. "I thought my wedding vows were a lie. I never meant to stay with you. And yet I married you for life, without even knowing."

"I knew," Jack said, and covered her mouth with another kiss before she could contradict him.

**

IV.


Johannesburg, South Africa


"You do not understand." Vaughn kept the Portuguese inflection light; it wasn't one of his stronger accents. "We are booked on the flight to Maputo. You see?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Alvaros. The flight to Maputo's been canceled. You're the only two passengers who've shown up."

Vaughn tried to act as though he couldn't comprehend such a thing, when he understood it very well. Africa was relatively unaffected by the Bloodsight plague - at least, so far - the first signs of the panic they'd seen in Lisbon were already evident. Many of the passengers wore face masks of one kind or another; nobody seemed to be going anywhere new, only trying to get home. The lines at immigration were unusually long - clogged, Vaughn suspected, with people trying to get in from areas already destabilized by the infection.

Fear was doing this, not the disease. But based on what he'd read, Vaughn thought it wouldn't be long before the disease caught up.

"Why does it matter, that we are the only ones who have shown up for the flight?" Vaughn smiled confidently, like a man who'd never been told no in his life. "We have our tickets. We are here. So now we fly to Maputo."

"Mr. Alvaros, the airline will happily refund you -

"No refunds. A plane. Otherwise, you see, my girlfriend will be disappointed. And she is not a woman I like to disappoint."

The ticket agent was suddenly staring at a point past Vaughn's shoulder. Slowly, Vaughn turned, knowing what the man saw but wanting to look anyway.

Nadia strode toward them, parting the airport crowds as though she were walking through a nightclub's beaded curtain. She wore an orange halter dress that covered her breasts only to the point of decency and her legs just a little less than that. The long platinum wig she wore wasn't meant to look like anything but a wig, one that a spoiled Portuguese heiress might wear to show off the warm glow of her beach-tanned skin. And the five-inch heels on her white boots made her as tall as Vaughn - and a lot taller than the ticket agent.

"You see?" Vaughn whispered. "Would you disappoint this woman?"

"Luis?" Nadia's honey-tinted lips formed a pout. "Why are we not boarding? You PROMISED a cruise on the Zambezi."

Vaughn slid his arm around her shoulders, telling himself it was just part of the role-playing. "Soon, Morela. We'll be on the plane soon."

The ticket agent's eyes were fixed on Nadia's chest, but his brain, unfortunately, was still at work. "I'm sorry - the cancellation has already -"

"Then we charter the flight. How much? I will pay whatever the airline wishes to charge." He leaned forward, making the agent a conspirator. "And, of course, tell the flight crew I will compensate each of them for the inconvenience individually. No need for paperwork. I have cash."

"I - I will ask." The ticket agent scurried away. Vaughn could taste the in-flight cocktail already.

Nadia brushed her lips against his cheek, causing a not-entirely-unwelcome flip-flop in his belly. But she was all business as she whispered, "Will we have this much trouble finding ground transport in Mozambique?"

"I doubt it." His hand was at the small of her back, against her bare skin; silky strands of the white wig brushed against his wrist. Forcing himself to concentrate, Vaughn said, "It'll be faster to buy a vehicle than to rent one. If the roads are in good condition, we should get to the right area within a day or so."

"At the very least, I think we'll find proof of what Sloane's done."

"Sounds about right. But I think the CIA knows who's responsible already."

"To hell with the CIA." Nadia's voice was harsher than he'd ever heard it. "I want to give it to journalists. The BBC and the Washington Post and al-Jazeera and the wire services. Everyone. All these frightened, angry people - the ones shouting in the streets - I want them to know who to hate. I don't want there to be one safe inch of ground on the planet where Sloane can walk without people trying to rip him to shreds."

Vaughn stared at her. The idea had appeal - a lot of appeal, actually - but he was shocked that it had come from Nadia. "He's your father."

"What does that matter? Anybody who would do this deserves to have it known."

"I'm not arguing with that. I'm just saying - if he dies, and you're responsible - it might be hard for you."

Nadia studied him carefully. "What if it were your father?"

"It is my father. He may not have masterminded all of this, but he's been involved since before you were born. He kidnapped you when you were a baby."

"Maybe he did me a favor. Otherwise I would have grown up with my mother."

Vaughn started to agree that this wasn't such a great idea - then realized that he'd never reconsidered the question of Irina, not since finding out that she hadn't murdered his father, or that she might have had a good reason for telling some of her lies. Carefully, he said, "I'm not going to pretend I understand what Irina Derevko was up to. Ever. But - I think she would have tried to look out for you."

For a moment, Nadia's expression softened; he thought she might ask him about the mother she'd never known, and he wondered how the hell he was supposed to respond.

But the softness was gone in an instant. She slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, their lenses reflecting sharp angles of light into his eyes. "I can look out for myself. If I need any help, I have you."

"Yeah," Vaughn said. "You do."

**

V.


Irina had never much cared for shipboard life, but after her second week afloat with Sydney and Jack, she was ready to change her mind.

The distrust and hostility she faced from the majority of the crew settled into a quiet watchfulness; Irina cared nothing for their opinions, but the easier tempers made the days more pleasant. As they traveled up the eastern coast of Africa, the weather became warmer, and it wasn't unusual to find almost everyone off-duty at the time walking along the decks, breathing in the fresh air they'd been denied for so long.

Certainly that was the best place to find Sydney.

"The baby wiggling around - it was cute, at first." Sydney stared down mournfully at her belly as they strolled near the ship's prow one day. "Now it's starting to feel like I've got a live anaconda in there."

Irina smiled. "You'll miss the feeling once it's gone."

"I'm not going to miss her sitting on my bladder."

"No. That part you don't miss at all."

Sydney put her hands on the railing, studying her mother's face. Irina didn't dodge the examination, but wondered what it was her daughter thought she would find there. At last Sydney said, "As soon as Sarah's born, we'll have to start running tests on her. I hate that. I feel like - if anybody came at her with a needle, I could kill him. But I know I have to let it happen. Too much depends on it."

"It's always difficult, especially at first. Even those first vaccinations made me want to attack your doctors." Irina knew what Sydney was leading up to, but thought it best to let Sydney ask the question before she answered it.

"But - that dread, that helplessness - is that what you and Dad felt? Knowing that I was going to be studied from the day I was born?"

"I think your father felt that way." Jack had always been older than his years, but when she'd been expecting Sydney, he had seemed young. She had never again seen such doubt and fear in her husband again - or such hope. "I was so confused by my double life at that point that it was hard to even think about the impact of the Rambaldi work. Until I became pregnant with you, I had managed to keep my KGB mission and my life as Laura separate in my mind. After that -"

Irina tried to think of the words, then shrugged and let it go. Sydney already understood.

"If you could do it all over again -"

"What would I change?" She shook her head. "I have too many regrets to ever know. But - what you're really wondering - I would marry your father. I would give birth to you. That I would never change."

Sydney didn't react, save for a tiny smile. But after that, Irina found that her walks and Sydney's were more likely to coincide -- just one more reason Irina found herself enjoying shipboard life.

And then there was Jack.

They'd kept the renewal of their relationship a secret without ever discussing the issue; discussion wasn't necessary. Guards already convinced that Jack's trust in her was motivated by an ill-considered romantic attachment did not need any further support for that belief. Most of their days, they spent apart or as part of a larger group: double-checking weapons, running drills, discussing various strategies for finding and infiltrating Bomani's Mozambique lab.

Most nights, she made her way to his room, into his arms, and the rest of the world fell away.

In a life filled with uncertainties, Irina had always thought Jack was the one thing she'd irrevocably lost. So it never ceased to astonish her that she could lie next to him in bed, feel him holding her again. She knew it could not last for long, but in some ways that sharpened her happiness more than her pain. This - more than the brief affairs they'd had in Panama and then during Sydney's abduction - this was real, and it was more than she had ever thought to have.

"This is new," he said softly, tracing along a thin scar on her upper arm.

"Barbed wire. Cambodia. About a year ago now, I think." That had been a mundane errand, not worth the permanent mark. Most of Irina's scars were ones she bore more proudly. "What's this?"

He shifted to let her study his wrist more carefully. "You've seen that before, or you should have. Electroshock contact points. Anthony Geiger's work, when the SD network fell."

Irina kissed the circles of shiny skin, then let his hand drop. His fingers brushed against her breast. "I obviously haven't been paying enough attention to your body, if there are scars I haven't noticed."

His thumb stroked her nipple, almost absent-mindedly, but she saw him smile as the skin puckered beneath his touch. "We'll have to change that."

She leaned up to kiss him - then froze. If it had been anyone but Jack, she would have told him to listen; he was already alert, having responded to the same cue she did.

And then again - a faint whirring through the air, followed by a rubbery thump. A tracker or a grappling device: Either one meant danger.

Irina was on her feet in an instant, throwing on the bare minimum of clothing she needed. "Go to the galley. Sydney will head there as soon as we sound the alarm."

"Weiss can guard Sydney," Jack whispered, tugging on his sweater. "I'm needed on deck."

"If you can't walk, you can't fight. Accept it and go where you can do some good."

Jack glared at her, but as he reached for his crutch she knew that he had listened. He could take care of Sydney, and of himself. She would take care of their intruders.

Rifle at the ready, she edged out onto the deck. The sounds she'd heard were grappling devices - even now, the first dark figure was making his way over the railing. Irina lunged forward and punched one hard in the throat; the satisfying crunch of cartilage against her knuckles ensured he'd drown quickly after hitting the water. And the splash he made wouldn't draw immediate attention from his comrades, as gunfire would.

Of course, she planned to start shooting very, very soon.

Her back to the hull, Irina began traversing the length of the ship, trying to glimpse the hostile ship. It was running without lights, but she was able to make it out, black on blue in the night. Although she could not tell the specific type, she knew it was a smaller craft, with a crew no larger than four or five. Probably they were all trying to board, and she'd already eliminated one.

Gunfire sprayed out from the other side of the deck; Irina recognized the weapons make as CIA. Good. She wasn't alone, and she didn't have to hide any longer. Running further along the deck, she saw a shape and fired for it blind.

He ducked and spun, dodging her expertly, and before Irina could regain her aim he'd charged her. With a clatter, her gun fell to the deck - but he'd lost his too, so that was fine with her. Irina crouched into a fighting stance - then froze.

"Hello, Laura," said Bill Vaughn. He spoke her false name with too much pleasure. "Long time no see."

The last time she'd seen him, she thought she'd killed him. The last time she'd seen him before that, he had been running away from her with Nadia in his arms. She'd never seen Nadia again.

This man would be Sarah's grandfather, the same as Jack would. She and Bill Vaughn would share a grandchild. The realization sickened her almost to the point of nausea, but Irina remained focused on her opponent.

"We have lot to talk about, you and I." He stepped forward. "Don't you agree?"

She punched out with her right hand, and he blocked the blow, his fist like steel. But even as he did, Irina kicked up and over, slamming her foot into the side of his head with all her strength. Stunned, he stumbled to the side -

--where Irina caught his head in her hands and, with one vicious twist, snapped his neck.

His body fell to the ground at her feet, and for a moment she could only stare down at it, a limp, twitching thing that no longer remembered what he had done to her or why he deserved his fate. Irina had hoped this moment would be satisfying; instead, it was oddly blank. He might have been any other man she'd killed.

"Deftly done." She turned, shocked to realize that Bill Vaughn had distracted her enough to let someone sneak up behind her. But she was not under attack.

"I was rather tired of his company myself," Julian Sark said. Then he turned his gun and handed it to her, handle first. "Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. I surrender."

**

Irina had never seen Sark so completely at a loss.

"Forgive my astonishment," he said, staring up at Sydney. "But now you've risen from the dead twice and are giving birth to the one who will save all humanity. At this point, you've outstripped the messiahs of most world religions. I admit it; I'm impressed."

"I'm not." Sydney's hair stuck out in various directions, and even in her oversized pajamas, she looked fierce. She paced the length of the galley, obviously considering Sark her personal prisoner - even though Irina, Jack and Weiss were all holding weapons on him. "You led an assault team. Here. To this ship. To try and kill my mother."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "I brought a force commanded by Bill Vaughn into battle with a force that included Irina Derevko. Which one do you think I expected to survive the encounter? Though you may have no good opinion of me, Sydney, I don't believe you think me a fool."

Irina wanted to settle some pragmatic questions first. "How did you track me?"

"The usual. Isotopes in your wine. You weren't checking nearly as carefully as you ought to have been, you know."

Irina remembered her state of mind when she'd believed Sydney dead, but could not recreate that dark, suicidal energy. At least it had served a purpose. "If you're here, you're going to be useful."

Sydney gaped at her; from their corners, Jack and Weiss looked no more enthusiastic. "Mom - this is Sark. He's tried to kill you! He's tried to kill me!"

"Only when he thought you were the Rain of Gold." Irina cocked her head. "When did you learn otherwise?"

"Shortly after Sloane did," Sark replied. "Unfortunately, that was too late to do anything about Nadia."

"Wait." Weiss held up a hand. "Hang on. Sark's Covenant. The Covenant was trying to do the same thing Sloane was doing. They were after this immortality plague too, the whole time."

"You never understood the Covenant's objectives, Mr. Weiss. So you should refrain from further displaying your ignorance now." Sark fixed Weiss in his most withering glare, which in Irina's opinion would have been more effective if Weiss hadn't been the one with the gun. "The Covenant has always been an organization dedicated to maximizing the potential of Milo Rambaldi's work. But from a very early time in its history, it has also been an organization dedicated to preventing the Rain of Gold. Those members who felt differently - Bill Vaughn and Arvin Sloane, for example - split off from our group many years ago. Around the time I was born, actually."

"The Covenant has been trying to STOP the plague?" Sydney was genuinely astonished; Irina couldn't believe they hadn't at least suspected this before. She had not told Jack and Sydney simply because she assumed it was already part of their calculations. "But you've chased after every lead on Rambaldi's work toward eternal life -"

"I have no objection to immortality," Sark replied. "I do have an objection to inheriting a warlord's power on a planet reduced to sub-Third-World standards of living and stability."

Sydney shook her head. "You can't be serious. What did you ever do to stop it? Was kidnapping me part of that plan?"

"Naturally. We wanted to determine whether or not you were the source of the Rain of Gold or the Irenicon. All such tests were inconclusive; therefore you were left alive. I hadn't expected that, I admit - which was why I was so astonished to see you, upon your return." Sark's gaze was almost fond. "We knew that, with samples of your DNA and Rambaldi's, we might be able to synthesize a potential vaccine. And we were making quite strong progress on that project, I should mention, before someone came along and destroyed all our samples with a flamethrower."

Irina saw Sydney's face go pale and quickly interjected, "You didn't have a cure. And you wouldn't have found one. Rambaldi's prophecies are clear. Only the Irenicon can stop the plagues, and that is Sydney herself."

"Who, as it happens, will be providing the cure through her child. May I offer congratulations?"

Sydney ignored him. "Is he telling the truth?"

"As far as the Covenant's purposes? Yes, he is." Irina relaxed her posture, let the gun drop to one side. "I'm not telling you to trust him. That would be a mistake. But he shares our immediate goals, and he has skills we can use."

Sark looked unduly pleased. "The desire to save the world from destruction is not evidence of virtue, Sydney. Nor is hatred of Arvin Sloane. Those are merely proofs of sanity. This is all I claim for myself. Nothing more."

Jack spoke for the first time since Sark had been brought in. "You will have no weapon. You won't be guarded, but there are areas of this ship that will be off-limits to you, and those limits will be obeyed. Any deviation from these rules - any deviation at all - and you will be summarily executed."

"Your generosity is abundant as ever, Mr. Bristow."

Weiss said, "If Yasser Arafat shows up, are we going to offer him a stateroom with a view?" Then he sighed and said, "What the hell. We're trusting her -" meaning Irina herself, "-so after that, I don't think Sark makes much difference."

Sydney's arms were folded above her belly; still, she was unconvinced. "We don't know that he's still acting as a member of the Covenant. For all we know, he's switched allegiances yet again. He could be working for Sloane."

Sark leaned forward, and for the first time, his words were not sardonic but soft. "Have you ever realized how Sloane does his dirty work, Sydney? How he manipulates people into doing his will? He doesn't prey upon their fear or their ambition or their greed. No, Sloane uses people's goodness against them. He looks deep within and finds patriotism, or pride, or loyalty, or hope. Those are his tools. The man's an optimist, really; he's forever searching for the better angels of people's natures, and he generally finds them." Then he smiled. "Now, given all that -- do you think he ever found anything to use against me?"

One corner of Sydney's mouth lifted, but the smile was over before it had begun. "Lock him up. We can put him on his leash tomorrow."

"Splendid." Sark relaxed only slightly, but Irina could see he hadn't been at all confident of surviving the interview until that moment. Weiss shook his head and grabbed Sark's elbow to steer him toward whatever makeshift cell the guards would come up with. Irina pretended to help Jack to his cabin.

As they undressed again, Jack said, "You know I don't like the situation with Sark."

"I know." She lay beside him in the bed, both exhausted and exhilarated from her night's work. "You'll forgive me for this someday."

Jack sighed as he drew her into his arms. "Add it to the list."

**

VI.


outside Chimolo, Mozambique


Rambaldi surrounded them.

Nadia could not turn her head without seeing more of it - Rambaldi symbols written in ink, in tapestries, in blood. Everything from computer printouts to yellowing scraps of parchment held snippets of DNA that she had reason to suspect was her own. In one corner, a human heart thumped in a steel shell; Michael called it the DiRegno Heart, and though it was comforting to think that he'd seen it before, she still found the device's parody of life repulsive.

For days now, she and Michael had camped in the laboratory; not only had they not had to trick or fight their way in, but they had found the premises utterly deserted. Spiders had even spun webs in a fine lace between the test tubes. Instead of the battle or subterfuge they'd anticipated, they were able to unpack their bags, change into T-shirts and khakis, and settle in to work. Unfortunately, the ease of taking Bomani's lab for themselves had been countered by the difficulty of interpreting what Bomani had been doing.

"Never took Bantu," Michael muttered for the eightieth time in a week, as he sat at one of the computer terminals. "I could have taken Bantu, but no, I went for Serbo-Croatian. And I haven't been to Serbia or Croatia in a while."

Nadia had only seven languages and felt somewhat self-conscious about it. "There are translation programs. I know they're imperfect -"

"Imperfection won't do. Not if we're trying to figure out something this important."

She hesitated before making her next suggestion. When she'd hinted at it before, Michael hadn't been happy at all. "There are people at the CIA who speak Bantu."

He lifted his head to hers; his brow was sweaty from the tropical heat, as was the hand he slipped into hers. "We'll go to them if we can't think of any other way. But if we do that, this information isn't going to go public. Not ever."

Nadia was not deceived by his false objection. "If they arrest me, I don't care. It doesn't matter, not if they can get some useful information from this."

"We haven't exhausted all our resources yet," Michael insisted. "There are still whole hard drives we haven't hacked into. Bomani spoke English and Portuguese as well as Bantu; if he kept even one file in those languages, that could give us the key we need to the whole thing. We just need to give it a couple more days."

"Three more days. That's all." The deadline was totally arbitrary, but Nadia could stand little more suspense. "We can't wait longer than that. Not for my sake."

Michael held her hand to his chest, and she found herself remembering their kiss in the surf, yet again. As many times as she replayed it in her mind, the thrill of it - of his mouth on her mouth, his hand on her breast, his body pressed against hers - never faded. The moment remained alive inside her, reawakening all the time. "No matter what we do, I'm going to keep you safe. That's not negotiable."

She should have argued with him, but his protectiveness warmed her too much. Instead Nadia smiled down at him, and he smiled up at her -

"What was that?" Michael was on his feet in an instant.

This time Nadia heard it too - the metallic click of hinges, perhaps from one of the outer doors. When she looked back at Michael, his face mirrored her own dismay; though they were fully armed, there were only two of them, and the lab didn't lend itself to easy defense. Still, there was nothing to do but try.

"Stay near the work." It felt strange to give Michael an order, but the gun she took up in her hand was reassuringly familiar. "I'll take the perimeter."

"Be careful." Nadia liked that he didn't say goodbye - that he believed she was coming back.

Carefully she edged out of the main workroom into the ill-lit corridors. Nadia wished they'd thought to leave the lights on; they would have been useful to her now, but instead she had to work with what little late-afternoon light filtered through the jungle underbrush to come through the windows. None of the windows were open or broken - if they were only entering through the one door, then the hostile party wasn't large -

WHAM! Nadia felt the blow to her side before she saw her assailant. She managed to roll through the fall and land on her feet, but pain splintered up through her ribs, and her eyes watered from shock. That made it hard to see anything but a dark shape coming at her.

Dark shapes were enough.

Nadia's hand blocked the next kick, the next punch, and the punch after that. Though she was stumbling backwards, she was able to handle this - able to go for her gun and aim -

The kick slammed into her wrist, sending the gun flying. Nadia was able to duck the punch after that, but then a deafening thud hammered into her ear, and her knees seemed to give out beneath her. Oh, God, Nadia thought, preparing to go for her attacker's knees, not now, not when I have work to do -

"Everyone!" The man's voice ringing from the lab wasn't Michael's - and yet it was familiar. "May I suggest we congregate here for a quick chat?"

Michael's response wasn't loud enough to carry, but the tone alone told Nadia he was cursing. Another slam against her temple rendered her impossibly dizzy; insofar as she could tell anything, she thought she was being dragged across the floor.

The cold slap of the tile against her face restored her to some sense of her surroundings - and fear for her life. Nadia lifted her aching head to look at just how much trouble she was actually in. She was back in the lab, huddled at her attacker's feet. Michael stood not far from where she'd left him, his hands in the air. The man holding him at gunpoint -

Sark.

Nadia had seen him once before, when he had tried to persuade her father to kill her. Her stomach clenched in nauseated dread.

"You came all this way for the vaccine, didn't you, Sark?" Michael was looking at Sark with a depth of hatred Nadia had only seen directed at her father. "Trying to save your own worthless skin?"

"My skin, regardless of its worth, is quite safe. And you should be happier that I've found you," To her astonishment, Sark smiled, his expression almost rueful. "As fate would have it, Mr. Vaughn, I bring glad tidings of great joy."

"Vaughn?" She didn't know the dark-haired, heavyset man who jogged forward now - but Michael did. His eyes lit up as the man said, "Oh, my God. Is it you?"

"Weiss?" Oh. Weiss. She remembered him from Michael's talks with his father; this was one of his best friends. Why was Weiss with Sark? Michael seemed as dazed as she felt. "What the hell? Yeah - yeah, it's me - is it you?"

"Sophomore year. Spring break. Where did we go?" Weiss was still holding his gun on Michael, who started to smile.

"Washington D.C. To tour the monuments. Because we were the biggest fucking geeks on planet earth."

Weiss' gun fell to the ground as he bounded forward, half shoving Sark aside to grab Michael in his arms. Michael hugged him back, clearly ecstatic.

"I'm glad you're back, man." Weiss' voice seemed strangely muffled. But Nadia was already too dazed to wonder why.

"Mr. Vaughn." Sydney's father - Jack Bristow - emerged from the shadows, leaning heavily on a cane. "I wouldn't have thought you'd find this place. I'll have to re-evaluate your capabilities."

"Jack, I'm even glad to see you." Michael smiled, though his smile was sad. Nadia, on the other hand, could only think of her father's admonitions that Jack Bristow would inevitably try to kill her.

Mr. Bristow did not seem like a man in grief. "There's something you should know -"

"Vaughn?"

Nadia turned around and saw - Sydney, her sister, alive and well and hugely pregnant, running forward toward Michael. Her heart rose, then plunged as Sydney gasped, "Vaughn? Is it you?"

Michael's jaw dropped; the shock on his face would almost have been comical, except for the light in his eyes. "Syd - oh, God, Sydney -"

They collided with such force Nadia thought it should have hurt them, but instead they only embraced, so tightly she could see every muscle in Michael's arms. Sydney was sobbing, running her hands over his head, down his neck. "You're okay," she choked out. "You're okay. I never dreamed - Vaughn, you're back, you're back."

"The baby - Sydney, is this - are we --?"

Sydney nodded and slid his hands down to her belly; Michael laughed out loud, then kissed her passionately, blind to everything else in the world.

So, he was going to be a father - to Sydney's child. Nadia hated herself for seeing Michael so transcendently happy and feeling only her own small, petty sense of loss.  And yet there were tears stinging her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to drive them away.

Sark put his gun away, shaking his head. Weiss turned his head from them, perhaps to give them some privacy. Mr. Bristow did the same - but as he did, his gaze fell upon Nadia.

Slowly he hobbled toward her, and though he had frightened her before, he did not now. His gaze lifted from Nadia to her attacker, who still stood by her side.

His voice low, Mr. Bristow said, "Irina - this is Nadia."

She looked up. Her own face, decades older and yet more beautiful, stared down at her.

"Nadia," he added, "this is your mother."

**



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