SPACE: Above and Beyond

No infringement of the following characters and situations is intended. The Characters and situations of the TV program "SPACE: Above and Beyond" are the creations of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Fox Broadcasting and Hard Eight Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning: Rated [MA] Mature Adults only. Contains strong m/f sexual scenes, violence, coarse language and adult themes.

Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained herein are the property of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Hard Eight Productions and the Fox Broadcasting Network. These names have been used without their permission. Rights to the actors themselves belong to their parents, to whom we are most grateful. The rest belongs to me, Paula "Spanky" Morris, and my dangerously whacked imagination (why anyone would claim such rights, I have no earthly idea). This story has been distributed pruvately and through SAAB fanfic list. If you receive this story online from anyone other then this list or PMo981 @aol.com please contact me immediately

This story is in five parts, and is intended for mature audiences. It contains violence, strong language, and sexual situations of a PG-13 to Cable R level (in my opinion). Personal discretion is advised (that is, don't call me up with moral comments on the feelthy, dirty story if you read the thing after I went through all this trouble to warn you).

A little background, without giving too much away. I started this after seeing Dark Side of the Sun and finished it right before Stay with the Dead. It takes place sometime after Ray Butts and before Hostile Visit.

It becomes evident I was only guessing at what could be keeping Ty grounded. But whatever else is wrong or right with the story, I'm proud of guesses I made that were born out in later eps, especially Angriest Angel. On the other hand, there were plenty of things I couldn't even have dreamed up that were revealed in that ep. Eh. Here 'tis. See what you think.

Becoming Like Stone

"The angels are white flaming white and the eye that would confront them
shrivels/and there's no other way you've got to become like stone if you want
their company/and when you look for the miracle you've got to scatter your blood to the eight points of the wind/because the miracle is nowhere but circulating in the veins of man."
-- Les Anges Sont Blancs, Giorgios Sefiriades

"Get them off me! I can't shake these guys!"

"You concentrate on the Chig in front of you, Joker. Jack and I will take care of the other two." Shane Vansen was calm with the calculating exhilaration of battle as she nosed her Hammerhead over and dove toward the madly scrambling Wang, Hawkes narrowly on her wing. They dropped on Paul's wake from above, blasting the unsuspecting Chigs chasing him to component atoms as he made his own kill and turned for the nasty little catfight Damphousse was having with her attackers.

Hawkes war-whooped as he spiraled dangerously through the edges of the expanding debris field, hunting for lurkers. Vansen gave a tight grin; he sounded deliriously happy. Sometimes it was hard to tell with the big Tank. His emotional responses weren't always appropriate, only six years out of the vat. But he probably was happy. Like her, all he wanted was to shoot Chigs, to be the best. He didn't have anyone to fight for or go back to, like Damphousse and Wang. He wasn't out here for any higher purpose, like West. West...where was he?

She got deadly serious again quick as she saw Nathan's plane swarmed by three alien ships. And he hadn't said a word; so like him. A target lock pinged on her board as West clawed his way into position and took out two of his opponents. She lasered away at the third and suddenly the star-filled darkness was clear again except for the faintly glowing gas clouds of the destroyed alien fighters. "That's it, boys and girls. Let's go home. Did the Chigs get anything off?"

"I didn't hear anything, and I was listening in the high band," came back Vanessa.

"Me neither," answered Paul. "I think they were as surprised as we were."

"Maybe more surprised than us. We're alive." West sounded matter-of-fact and competent as usual.

"Come on, Jack," Vansen called. "We're almost bingo fuel. Quit fooling around." She scanned visually, but didn't see him. When she did spot him against the system's tiny white sun, it was just in time to see a last Chig swoop out of the glare and blow his wings off. "Coop!"

"Oh, shit." He still sounded happy as his communications crackled with the scream of tearing metal and then the explosion as his cockpit ejected. The alien ship rocked West's and Damphousse's planes with glancing blows before Wang put a missile in it. She still hadn't heard a message squirt as her team mates regrouped and scanned for any more snipers. Then she put out a grapple and picked up Coop's 'pit. He gave Shane a smug grin and thumbs up, mouthing words she couldn't hear. She was glad; he was probably snarling to one of his antique rock CDs.

Victorious, the 58th limped home.

Aboard the Saratoga, it was the usual efficient bustle in the hangar bay as their cockpits were raised. Mechs and other technicians rushed in, more concerned with the damage they had done to their equipment. Some glared at Hawkes, resentful at the destruction of his fighter. He looked as if he could care less as his broad back cleared the bay headed for the mess. Nathan and Vanessa were already going over damage reports with the engineers as Shane slid from her 'pit and pulled off her helmet, agitated and tired in the letdown after battle. Paul was hanging about, waiting for them. She shook her long, dark hair out of her eyes as it tumbled free; it always made her head itch after being suited up, but she had refused to cut it so far. Pulled back, it gave her no trouble, and she imagined it afforded some additional padding stuffed into her helmet. She was scratching at one of the itchy spots, following idly after Coop, when McQueen stepped into her path.

The Colonel's stare was cold and silver, and she got the full force of it for hard seconds as he stood, arms folded, glaring her down. She met his eyes and didn't flinch. "Vansen. With me," he finally snapped as he spun away. She hurried to keep up.

Colonel McQueen was as hard to figure as Coop, though the older Tank kept a tight military stranglehold on any emotions he might have. As she marched after the slender, pale man in Angel black, she was pretty sure he was angry. Coldly, deeply angry. And at her. She didn't understand. They had barely entered the main corridor when he led the way into a narrow access alcove, flung the hatch shut and locked it. Then he was in her face and his rage was tangible enough to make her sick to her stomach.

"What was that stunt you pulled out there, Vansen?" She could feel how uneven his breathing had become as he fought for control. His voice sounded like a fist tearing through velvet. "What did you think you were doing?"

"Killing Chigs, sir." Perplexed, she looked up and kept their eyes locked. She wasn't about to back off until she knew what this was about. A slow burning anger of her own began to build. "What I'm supposed to be doing."

"Killing Chigs? Hell, Vansen, anyone can kill Chigs. Even a dumb Tank like Hawkes," he spat sarcastically. "Killing Chigs is the easiest thing in the world. Protecting your team, following orders, now that's the hard part. At least, it seems real hard for you."

"Sir! We were to reconnoiter the planet and --"

"And locate the alien base! Report back! Not risk yourself and the rest of your squad in a knifefight that could easily have lost the entire wing! You were told this sun's emissions would play havoc with all sensors, telltales and communications except at close quarters. Your orders were to keep your head down and patrol. But you had to grandstand. This is turning into a war of attrition, Vansen. We can't afford to lose one man, one ship, to satisfy some rookie fighter puke's yen to pop Chig butt."

"So why isn't Hawkes in here? He's the one that broke formation and lost his plane." She knew he could hear the rising fury in her voice, that she was perilously near to insubordination, but she didn't care. And Coop -- he hadn't deserved her last comment.

"No, Lieutenant, you lost that plane. You were in command. You were responsible, responsible for everything from those unsalvagable flakes of scrap that used to be a damn fine war machine to the water wasted in the unnecessary sweat on your squad's faces."

She swallowed hard and fought to hold her ground. She felt she was bent over backwards to keep any distance between them as he pressed closer, intimidating, but she refused to back away. "Sir, our patrol was almost up and we'd seen no sign of a base. The Chigs dipped into the atmosphere close enough to spot us. We had no choice but to take them out."

"You were five. They were nine. You had a choice, an imperative, to use your Hammerheads' superior speed to run, not to risk your squad. Not to abandon your wing man. Even if he is just a Tank."

So that's what this was about. Tanks watching out for Tanks. She had thought McQueen above that bigotry. It made her madder than ever. "No, sir! It was equally important to avoid detection. It was my call. You put me in command, and I make the calls. I can't be second guessed out there, not even by you. Sir."

"So they're missing nine fighters and they're not suspicious?" He bent even closer, his breath cool on her burning ear tips, his voice dangerous and so soft she had to strain to hear. "What's the matter, Vansen? Still got a hard-on to be an Angel? Willing to let a Tank, a couple of team mates, die to get your wings?" And that was it. She was back in a base bar earthside, trying to pound the disrespect and arrogance out of an Angel, trying to pound acceptance in, while a silver-haired, ice-eyed man sat aloof and judged her. She shoved, shoved hard, and when she had cleared some space between their bodies, she swung, feeling the blow connect with a soild thunk. Some pragmatic part of her flashed the scene of her own court-martial in her mind, but that didn't stop her from landing another punch. Then the Colonel was fighting back and that was all she was thinking about.

They grappled, too close and too angry to really use any of their training. McQueen certainly wasn't aloof now; he was roughing up his knuckles beating the crap out of her, but she was doing an equal amount of beating on him. At one point, she blocked a roundhouse he threw at her head and he took her down with a leg sweep. Clutching a fistful of his uniform, she brought him down on top of her and rolled, kicking. He got her legs braced out with his, but she didn't let go and struggled up, using his body and the wall at her back as leverage. She had forced herself half-upright, with McQueen sprawled on top of her, when he finally jerked her hands lose and pinned them at her sides. Shane dug her fingers into the back of his hands mercilessly and tried to bite him. Maybe he'd been going for a head butt, but they both missed and their mouths came together hard.

She was never sure exactly who kissed who; she was thinking about as clearly as when she'd swung on a senior officer. All she knew was that she felt her veins had been injected with rocket fuel before; now a match had been struck to them. She pushed into him and he crushed her close, as if he wanted to stuff her inside his chest. There was nothing of gentleness in the contact; it was clumsy and grasping, as much a fight as the previous brawl, and their hands kept encountering places where they'd wounded each other. It hurt, and she minded not at all.

The bruising embrace lasted long moments. Then McQueen released her mouth and rolled away, gasping. He came up crouching in a far corner, staring at her as if he suspected she might attack again. They both stood shakily, keeping their distance. His pale gray eyes were now a dark, hot blue with emotion. He put out a hand to her -- whether to ward her off or draw her near -- and she saw she had scratched his neck bloody. Suddenly he straightened, and his control came down like a steel door. He wiped at his bleeding lip with the back of his hand, unlocked the door and swung it open with the other. He strode out of the room without a word or backward glance.

Vansen was frozen in her corner. She touched her swollen lips with her finger tips and realized her mouth, too, dripped blood. Her entire body ached. She couldn't believe how savage the thing had become: it depressed her. Great, she thought as she limped into the deserted corridor, my so-called military career is over, and I'm in lust, at the very least, with my commanding officer. My Tank commanding officer. Who hates my guts and is the one who is going to end my so-called military career. "Dumb, Vansen," she muttered aloud. "Dumb, dumb, dumb."

She wandered the side corridors, avoiding other crewpeople and trying to think. When Hawkes had tried to kiss her, she'd punched him in the teeth. But then, she'd gotten the hitting out of the way first this time. How could she associate any of this with the man she knew? That man was hard, strong, aloof, untouchable. Not heartless or cruel -- in fact, she felt he often displayed an odd empathy for situations and emotions of which he should have no concept -- but reserved, possessed of a quiet grace. Most disturbing of all, she realized she had wanted something like this, had wanted him, since their first meeting. His rank, her respect, military protocol, had given her a means of negating her desire, rationalizing it away. But now she had crossed the boundary, stepped outside that safe circle, and had no protection.

Heading for the racks hours later, with the sea-air taste of him still lingering on her tongue, she had come to a few conclusions: the last emotion she had seen in his eyes had been fear; and he had been right. At least about some things. She still didn't know what she was going to do about it. She still expected security to pick her up any minute.

The rest of the squad was asleep when she got back. Or so she thought.

"Where have you been?" Vanessa whispered as she eased carefully into bed.

"Out, Mother," she murmured back. She rolled over and put her face to the wall. She heard Damphousse lie back, but after a time, there was a rustling and stealthy padding, then the other woman's hand was gentle on her shoulder.

"Come on, Shane. Where you been? What did the Colonel want? 'Fess up; you can tell Mom." Vanessa's dark grin was impish when she turned toward her, but the smile faltered at the damage visible in the reddish half-light. "Shane? What the hell happened? Who did this to you?"

Her mouth opening on a lie, Shane suddenly knew she wanted to talk. Vanessa's friendly concern was more welcome than she could have believed before. "Not here. The showers."

As they passed his bunk, Hawkes raised up and stared at them sleepily. "Where you goin'?"

"Nowhere. Showers. Girl talk. Go back to sleep, Coop," Damphousse soothed. Shane leaned back into shadow and let her hair hide her face.

Cooper looked for a second as if he were about to get mad and argue. Then he yawned and nodded. "Whatever." He rummaged in his blankets, held something out to Shane: two round objects softly glowing in the dimness. "Here, Vansen, for you. Didn't see you in the mess."

Shane took the offered peaches, surprised. "Thanks, Hawkes." She was hungry, now that she thought about it. He only grunted, and was asleep again immediately.

In the showers, Shane examined her prizes. Fruit was one of the few real food items they ever got out on the line, and was a commodity doled out reluctantly by stores. She bit a huge chunk out of one, savoring it before the juice burned her mouth. "How'd he get two?" she asked, taking another, more cautious bite.

"Don't ask," Vanessa grinned. "Nathan smoothed it over." Shane grinned back at her, imagining the scene in the mess, then winced as her cut lip pulled open. Vanessa was all motherly concern again. She wet the corner of a towel and started dabbing at the hurt, but Shane grabbed it away from her, stuffed it in the sink and soaked it. She slid it around her neck, then tilted her head back and pressed its coolness to her throat. "Who's water card we using?"

"Mine," Shane said to the ceiling.

"Oh, fine then." Vanessa paused. "You gonna talk or not?"

"Yeah. Sure." She wanted to tell Vanessa everything. Needed to, in fact. But now she had the opportunity, she didn't know how to start. "What do you want to know?"

Vanessa gave an exasperated sigh. "Who beat you up, Shane?"

"The beating up was mutual. You should see the other guy."

"Who is the other guy? This isn't funny, damn it!"

"McQueen." That shut Damphousse up. She blinked a couple of times, began to say something and finally ended up plopping down hard to sit cross-legged on the floor. Shane slid down the opposite wall and stared at her team mate over her knees.

"Well, you've got to report him," Vanessa eventually got out.

"Oh, I would, except I started it."

"You are crazy, girl."

"Tell me about it."

"What could McQueen possibly do to make you mad enough to hit him?"

"Hmm. First, he took exception to how I ran the mission. Next, he accused me of endangering Cooper because he's a Tank. Finally, he's sure I'm nothing more than a gloryhound still trying to be an Angel, willing to climb over the squad's dead bodies to do it. That's when I hit him."

"I thought we did good."

"Apparently not good enough for Colonel McQueen. Not me, anyway."

"Surely he knows -- should know -- you don't feel that way about In Vitroes."

"Maybe. But he was right; I wasn't watching out for Hawkes careful enough. Sometimes, when he goes winging off on his own, I get irritated. He hardly ever follows the rules, and he can be so...so annoying. I look over, he's not on my wing where he's supposed to be, and I gotta clear Nathan. Pissed me off. But I was responsible. He did the right thing, looking for stragglers. I should have been with him. You know how often a full 'pit ejection, much less a canopy eject, works?"

"Not often enough."

"This time, he got an SA-43 shot out from under him. If I let a next time happen, he could die."

"Coop's a big kid, and he can take care of himself, like the rest of us. We look out for ourselves, we look out for each other. We come back. That's all that counts. But McQueen...." She shook her head. "I always thought he respected you. He's given you command enough times."

"Things change. He's sure not got any respect left for me after today."

Vanessa shrugged. "Oh, maybe he's got some left.... Did you win?"

Shane laughed harshly. She got the towel good and cold again, then slopped it over her face, scrubbing at the hurt and the fatigue. "How do I look?" she asked, pulling the towel away.

"I've seen you look better. Not quite so bad in the light."

Groaning, Shane pulled up her t-shirt. "What about these?" A series of small bruises were spread over her sides and stomach.

Vanessa hissed in sympathy. "Survivable. Anything else?"

"Besides hurting all over? My foot's still sore where I kicked him."

"At least you don't have a black eye. That would be pretty obvious."

"He does."

Vanessa frowned, and leaning forward, plucked at a corner of the towel. She blotted at a spot above Shane's left eye and this time, Shane let her.

"Well, this one is mostly in your brow line. If it doesn't swell or color any more than this, it's hardly noticeable. And if you wear your hair loose tomorrow, you can fix it to hide the bruise on this side. Your lip..." Vanessa sat back. "Your lip looks like you bit it in a G-snap. No one will think anything of it. But...it is a bite, isn't it?

"Ah, yeah." Shane sighed.

"And you didn't, like, accidentally do it during the fight?" Vanessa seemed to know the answer to her own question, even the unasked one, so she said nothing. "Shane. What were you thinking?"

She smacked the wall on either side of her with knotted fists. "Damn it, Vanessa, don't you get it? I wasn't thinking. Neither was he. Or it never would have happened. It started as a barroom brawl, which was stupid enough, and ended in some kind of clench that was half battle, half passion, and we were equal participants. It scared him. It scared me -- I know I'm not like that. I don't think he is either. But it was as if...we both needed it, the violence, the hurt. Like that's what set the whole thing off."

"Most people think In Vitroes are more violent, less capable of dealing with strong emotions. You don't think that had anything to do with it?"

" 'Course not." Shane gave a disgusted snort. "A little. Maybe it bothers me a little." She couldn't meet Vanessa's eyes for a moment. "Well, it was there, in his response, and then his confusion in the aftermath. Now, don't start with that 'Tanks' -- excuse me, In Vitroes -- 'are the same as anybody else.' You know I don't think less of McQueen, Hawkes, anybody for the way they get born, but it does make a difference. Like my background, and your background, makes us different. To ignore how In Vitroes have been treated is foolish.

"But hell, Damphy, I was just as confused. Still am. Who wouldn't be, especially somebody who started the first day of his life when he was 18? But McQueen's got more control than any of us." Shane ran a hand through her damp hair in exasperation.

Vanessa waved her hands in acceptance of her words, if not agreement. "Talk to the Colonel, Shane. I'm sure it was a one-time mistake for him, too. Let it pass."

"I'd do it again."

"What?"

"I'd do it again. It was one of the most intense sensations I have ever experienced. Took a right cross to wake me up to it, but it was him. I wanted him."

"Oh, Shane --"

"Don't start, Dr. Damphousse. I've already gone over every father-figure, authority-fetish, hero-worship, forbidden-fruit argument I can come up with, and it's more than that." She groaned and slapped the soggy towel back over her face. "Though I'm still not sure what," she said, her voice low and muffled.

"I was thinking of all the regs against this."

"I know. My taste in men is appalling."

"Understandable, but hazardous, I'd say. To your health and his."

"In this case, it must be a death wish."

"Marines. Only lifeform I know gets a crush if you punch 'em out." They sat in silence for a time, then Vanessa giggled. "What a way to die."

"Damphy --"

"Those eyes, that mouth."

"Damphy!"

"And his voice! Keeps in shape, too. Don't think I haven't noticed. It really is a pretty devastating package. Can't say I blame you."

"Damphousse, you're not helping. You didn't think it was funny before," Shane growled, her head hung beneath her towel.

"Oh, ease up. It's still not, but we may as well laugh about it."

"It's embarrassing, talking about a senior office that way."

"Think so? All I'm doing is talking. That's part of your trouble, Shane. McQueen's too, probably. You're both so busy being good little soldiers, you shut that stuff up inside until it boils over, and that's messy. Now me, I joined the Corps; I didn't go blind. Of course I know my CO is sexy as hell. Of course I know I go to bed with three gorgeous guys every night. Maybe it's the uniform." She grinned again as Shane tossed the wet towel at her with a disgusted look. "Point is, I'm not going to do anything about it. Scenery like that -- one of the perks. Keeps things bearable. Much as I love 'em all, there's not one who compares in that area to my one, my only, the man I'm going to marry and his little girl."

"So you're saying I should start dating outside my occupation."

"Honey, I'm saying you should date, period. And I think this whole sordid escapade smacks of something a lot deeper than rough sex and a violent case of the hots. Work it out, OK?"

"Here I thought you were the sweet, innocent, down-home type."

"Not me. You're thinking of Paul." Shane snorted laughter, then grimaced as her mouth started hurting again. Vanessa gave her a warm and slightly piteous smile as she stood and offered her a hand up.

"You're not going to say anything to the others, are you?" She looked up.

"How you think you can keep this secret from those guys the way you look, I have no idea. But if that's what you want, then I'm silent as a stone." Shane took her hand and Damphousse pulled her up, squeezed her shoulder lightly. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and back to bed. Worry about it tomorrow."

"Yeah. If I'm lucky, security will have me in the brig by then, and I won't have to worry about it at all." But when she tottered to her berth sometime later, nibbling at one of Cooper's peaches and trying to keep the juice from stinging her mouth, Vanessa's good-natured laughter and gentle care had eased her mind enough that she fell asleep with only one last thought of the panic in the wide gray eyes: why me, why now? What was so different about today that anger alone could shatter McQueen's alabaster calm as if it were ice in the sun?

Security hadn't made an appearance by morning, so Shane figured they weren't going to show after all. This day was down time, until a late patrol, so she began it where she had left off the night before: dodging the crew and the 58th. If she hadn't spent most of the previous night and the entire morning staying out of people's way, she would have picked up on the scuttlebutt sooner. As it was, she overheard the now-stale news as she turned a corner to miss two midshipmen pulling chips in a service corridor. Yesterday, another Angel had come and gone.

She found herself an isolated node and called up the common log for the previous day. She knew the female intelligence officer on the screen immediately, though she was almost unrecognizable from the blonde squad leader a wet-behind-the-ears cadet had jumped earthside, so long ago it seemed. Collins had been tall, proud, even beautiful in an austere way. Now she was ruined, diminished, the ravages of the firefight she had lived through irreparable. But the face still held pride and austerity. The Angel had come soon after their patrol began; she had left before the Wild Cards had berthed their planes. That this had everything to do with yesterday's incident, Shane had no doubt.

It was still some hours to their scheduled patrol. She found herself on the way to the hangar bay. In the secondary bays, she could check over the body of her plane, inspecting repairs. Actually, she simply enjoyed touching the wide wings and powerful lines of her SA-43. No matter how scorched and scarred it became, how rough its metal hide, she loved its fast, wicked shape. Such an eager pup. Such an honest weapon.

She was crawling along on her back, holding a work light up to check her plane's gray underbelly, when a pair of spit-polished black boots appeared beneath one wing. She knew before she scooted from under the opposite wing it was McQueen. He stood, arms folded loose over his chest in his familiar easy, wide-legged stance and watched her. A dark shadow smudged one eye, the thin, well-shaped lips were a bit swollen and a small cut marred one cheekbone. What excuse was he making for his battered face? If any. She said nothing as she got to her feet and confronted the quiet gray stare.

"It's called battle heat, Vansen," the Colonel said across the lean body of the Hammerhead.

"I've heard of it, sir," Shane said tentatively, unsure how to proceed. The "sir" didn't seem to set well with him on this occasion.

"Leftover adrenaline, tension, an urge to violence. A need to experience life after chasing death so hard."

"With all due respect, Colonel, I don't believe that's all it was."

"You got something to say, Lieutenant, say it."

"Off the record, sir?"

"Off the record. None of this is going in your folder; I'm the one at fault."

"Is it going in your folder, then?"

He held her eyes, his flat and gray as gun metal. "That's entirely up to you. I can't report myself without involving you. I believe you should determine the level of that involvement."

She blinked, surprised. Striking a senior officer -- that wasn't something that got overlooked, no matter what the circumstances. There had been no witnesses; he could have reported only her infraction, busted her rank, anything. She should have known McQueen's fairness and loyalty wouldn't allow him to do that. So he held himself responsible? That ticked her off; she knew it had as much to do with her.

"All right, then yes, I have something to say." She drew a deep breath. "If you think what happened was nothing more than a biochemical over-response, you're deluding yourself. The fight was one thing. I know myself well enough I can recognize which buttons were getting pushed, and I understand...all...your motivations. You were right about a lot of it; I see that now. But you're sure not the only one responsible for what happened after that. You owe it to me -- we owe it to ourselves -- to work it out before it causes problems, not sweep it away and ignore it."

"You could be right." He nodded, as if considering. "But I've got more experience at this than you. It can be controlled, and I don't care to explore the alternatives. End of discussion," he said abruptly, and turned to go.

"What experience? You call that control? Any more control and we'll be married, with three kids."

He rounded on her. "You know, Vansen, you're a real smartass. Maybe that's one of the things I like about you. But don't count on it. We're back on the record as of now. One more outburst, Lieutenant, and I'll bust you so far down you'll have to use a ladder to see daylight. So you take a cold shower. Take two. Call your boyfriend. Pick something suitable out of a catalog, something with lots of attachments. Whatever it takes to keep your hormones zipped and in your pants. I'll take care of my own 'biochemical over-responses,' thanks."

Bust her? Not likely. Not for this, after what he'd let pass. Raging inside, she pushed her face up into his, her voice quavering and low. "I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to lock myself away, set myself in stone. I'm not going to let myself get hard and cold like you. I'm going to burn." She gave him her back and headed for her plane.

His grip on her arm was strong and surprising as he spun her into himself; she hadn't thought he'd moved. His arms crossed at the small of her back, gathering her up, fingers digging deep into the flesh of either thigh.

He was tall, at least as tall as West or Wang, almost as tall as Coop, and she was the smallest of the Wild Cards. When he held her, he curled about her body. She loved that, even now, when he held her so hard it hurt. His mouth on her's was fierce and desperate, crushing her lips against her teeth. She gave back the kiss with the same hard heat, her fingers clutching at his tight-cropped white hair to hold him to her. He didn't flinch when she ran her hands down to the wide shoulders and felt the crusted cuts she had left on him the day before. But when she brushed the dimpled bump of skin at the back of his neck, he jerked his head back sharply and let go so fast she staggered.

She swayed, trying to regain her balance and composure. There was the panic-stricken look again. She must look the same, she thought: dazed and afraid. And hungry. But his eyes also held a deep, inward-turning disgust, as if he were suddenly sick of something. Sick of what they'd done, the force of the emotion? Sick of himself?

"No!" She couldn't stand the self-loathing she saw in his face before he clashed that steel door on the feeling once again. What difference could there truly be between herself, born and earthly, and him, angel light gone out and wings stripped? "Oh, no. Is that what this is all about --in vitro, in utero? What difference does it make here and now? You know this is something we both need!"

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me, Vansen. We don't fit the standard profiles. Our upbringing, possibly," he said with contempt. "Experience tells me what I am makes all the difference in the world. This is wrong for you, for me, the squad, the Corps. Nothing else -- no feelings -- matter. It goes no further." He swung up the ladder to the main bay, anger flaring in every muscle. Shane hesitated only seconds before climbing after him.

She caught up with him and fell in behind as he swept out of the hangar bay. He kept eyes front and so did she. "You say that, but we keep ending up in these lip locks," she whispered at his back.

"Get off my six, Lieutenant," he growled at her sideways.

"You'll have to court-martial me first, Colonel."

It would be impossible for him to ditch her without attracting unwanted attention. No one they passed seemed to think it strange to see the cadet commander and one of his Marines striding along as if they were on review. He didn't stop until he hit the officers' mess, deserted now mid-shift, and dialed up black coffee. Shane waited at attention, following as he walked to one of the huge observation windows, ignoring her. He held the mug tightly in both hands, steam rising to fog the port and the view of an incandescent nebula, swirling violet, red and indigo aft and starboard in a sight so heart-achingly beautiful it was unimaginable anywhere but in space. She doubted he even saw it.

"Colonel, I need to talk about this. With you. You need to talk to me, too. I know it even if you don't."

"Got a high opinion of yourself, Vansen."

"No, sir. Of you." He continued to face forward, and so did she, but she saw the reflection of his eyes in the window and how they moved over her face's own image. She knew she had hit home.

"Soldier, confessor. What else do you want to be to me? Mother, daughter? Lover?"

"I'd like to say friend, but T.C. McQueen is such a hard ass, he doesn't need friends."

His mouth tightened in what might have been a very small smile. "That's real sweet. You must have liked being a private." He sat the coffee on a nearby table without taking a drink and turned to lean in the window bay, facing her. She felt her breath catch in her, and shook herself mentally at the weakness. But his face was so strong, so implacable, the eyes harder than stone. "You're Corps all the way through. You know that's not possible. I'm your CO."

She shrugged. "Mom outranked Dad half the time. We used to joke about it, the change of command, every time one of them got a promotion."

"Is that what you want?"

She snapped him a sharp look. "No! I don't want anything like that."

"Then why are you pushing so hard? I'm ready to walk away and get back to real life."

"I'm not in the habit of throwing myself at senior officers, and I'm trying to figure this out for myself. Naturally stubborn, I guess."

"You've brought that to my attention on a number of occasions." The hinted smile. Made her skin tingle. She tried to ignore it.

"I was only...making a point. That they were friends. First. Before everything else. You could help me with this, you know."

"Point taken. All right, we'll try it your way, or I really will have to court martial you. But don't start thinking this is a date."

"You're not taking this near as serious as I am," she said, frustrated. If she knew how much like a little girl she looked at that moment, she would have cringed. All she saw was a softening about his eyes as she stepped closer. With him half-seated, they were more of a height. She wanted to take another step, but stopped herself. "So if this is so unimportant, if it's under control, how many times have you made out with a subordinate in the past? That the kind of experience you were talking about?"

"Oh, I think it's important. You aren't listening to me. And I'm trying to save you a world of hurt. My 'experience' was with a senior officer. Big mistake. One of the biggest I've ever made."

"Who -- "Collins?" She was sure as soon as she said it. That would certainly have been enough to set him off.

"What makes you say Collins?" The tension in his voice matched the sudden stiffness of his body.

"I don't know. Seemed to fit. She was on board yesterday. I saw the way you watched her in Asteroids, that first night. The way she worked at ignoring you. And you said senior; she was always one rank ahead of you, and you were her wing man." She was thinking out loud. "There was ample opportunity for your 'battle heat,' the number of sorties you two flew with the Angels. I saw the rest of the guys in the squad, and if I'd been Collins, I would have picked --"

"You are not Collins. Never make that mistake: you are nothing like her!" He was angry again. Maybe he'd been angry at her prying the whole time and she had been too stupid to see it. She had been trying to help them both, she had told herself, but now she was only satisfying her own curiosity, without any respect for his privacy. "It happened once, and she hated me for it. Hated me for being there, for being an In Vitro, hated herself for wanting it, hated us both for letting it happen."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean --"

"You know so much, are you sure you need me to work this out? Anything else you want to know? My shoe size? My --"

"Listen, I researched the Angry Angels, OK?" She broke in quickly, embarrassed. "I wanted to be an Angel since I was 14. I knew everything about them up to the time I joined myself. I knew their battles, wins and losses. I knew when a Marine got Angel wings, I knew when an Angel died. I knew when you made it into the 127th."

"Couldn't keep up with the ball scores like everybody else?"

"It wasn't a hobby. It was what I wanted for my life! I had to know, because I had to make it, too. Like for you, I know you're from Anchorage, Alaska --"

"Irrelevant. It's not where I'm from, it's where I was decanted."

"-- your age, your full name --"

"Irrelevant."

" -- your commendations, decorations, battles --"

"Irrelevant."

"-- what made you an Angel --"

"Irrelevant! The Angels are dead; let them sleep. You're a Wild Card now."

"They were your friends. You fought beside them. How can you dismiss them like that?" She took another step closer and he drew back into the bay as far as he could. She had never seen him back away from anything. Except her.

"You don't know anything. All these irrelevant facts you've so painstakingly collected mean nothing. You don't know the Angels. You don't know me."

She dropped her eyes, rubbing at the old teeth-scar on her palm. "Not then, when all I did have were facts. How could a Tank make the Angels? I'd never met an In Vitro. I believed what everyone else said, about why they wouldn't fight in the AI Rebellion, that they were cowards. How could a coward make it into the Angry Angels? That's what the Angels were going to do, wipe the Silicates from existence, and I was going to be there to kiss 'em all good-bye. But a Tank..." She hazarded meeting the argent eyes. He looked even more uncomfortable than she felt, but he was listening. That she was blocking his way out might have something to do with it. "I was wrong. I figured that out a long time ago, for a lot of reasons. And I do know you now, by word and action; I know a man I'm proud to serve with."

"Don't do this." The panic was back. It had grown as she spoke and she thought she knew why. "Don't make me...feel...these things."

She drew in very close, because she had no choice. They were eye to eye, and she could tell he was trembling. So what? She was, too.

"Why? Everyone has these feelings. They're only human."

"I'm not. Don't expect the same responses."

"What makes you think you're not human?"

"We're grown, not born. We wake with no past, no shared experience to make us like everyone else, to show us what emotions are. Our 'parents,' if you care to call them that, never lived. Nothing but donated or salvaged genetic material, thawed out of cold storage. We are awakened and put back into sleep like turning on and off the lights. Our lives are slavish hells; if we want better, we have to fight with everything we've got, and even then, we're only allowed so much. The life of an In Vitro counts for less than even the meanest criminal human life. Dogs have more rights. We are reviled, hated, suffer unimaginable atrocities. No one else thinks we're human. How could we think we are?"

Shane shivered, remembering how "humans" had tried to hang Hawkes for no other reason than he was a Tank. She was close enough she could have moved her head and kissed McQueen, but she waited, not touching him, waited for him to reach out to her. She knew she didn't have the strength or courage. "Why do you think you aren't human?" she insisted.

His eyes shuttered closed. "Because I can't...I don't feel..."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid," he said simply, quietly.

"Of what?"

"This --" His lips hovered above hers, trembling, like a hawk wary of landing. She licked the thin air between them, and there was the barest pressure of his mouth on her tongue tip, silk trailed over silk. Eyes closed only half way, she watched the strain in his face as he held himself back. It was more a confession than a kiss. She tried to imagine who he could ever have been close to, who he could even simply talk to, and came up with no one. Collins wouldn't have cared about him in any personal way. But Shane cared, if only because he was a Wild Card now, like her.

"There are worse things to be afraid of," she said, though she was terrified for her own heart. She may never have wanted anything like this for herself, had spent her life successfully avoiding it, but it had marched up and decked her anyway.

"Not many that will get you killed quicker." She knew he didn't mean himself. At least, not now.

"Tell me how bad it was," she half-whispered. There was a sigh that might only have been him taking a deeper breath.

He rose and turned from her to the stars and darkness beyond the glass. "I never knew anything better than the Angry Angels. When we went up, we where eager; we knew we would win. Not because we had never lost, but because we were the best, and this time, the only option was winning. We could allow ourselves to foresee no other outcome. No others could take on this enemy but the Angels. No others.

"It was a massacre. You, the whole world saw. Only minutes, and the Angels were gone. But in the thick, you know how time stretches. I saw them go down slow, and it must have been only seconds before I stopped fighting for our mission, and started fighting for my squad. She did, too. Chigs hit the carriers, the battlewagons, everything else up there, but we weren't fighting for them any more; we were fighting to save the Angels.

"I saw one of the carriers go, right before Collins was hit. The Coral Sea, I think. Or our Yorktown; never been sure. All that air, all that fuel, it slapped out at us like someone shaking out a burning blanket. I was too close. My electrics fried, the stick went dead, and I could only coast, waiting for my engines to blow. I saw the missile coming for her; I was close enough I could see her face. She looked at me as if she thought I would do something, knock it out, take it myself, anything to let one of us keep fighting. I must have been on fire when it struck, though I didn't feel it, and then she was on fire, too. I could still see her through the flames. With no electrics, I knew my fire suppression wouldn't kick in. I couldn't eject, full 'pit or canopy. I was going to die, and I was glad."

Another shivery sigh. "But I didn't. Maybe...maybe I wasn't real thrilled about that, for awhile. What was left of us was scraped up and patched together best as possible. I was told I would never fly another mission. I'd lost...everything that ever mattered to me. Then they gave me the Wild Cards."

The tight smile again. The thin, pale scar above his eye deepened, the only evidence of battle readily visible, almost unnoticeable if you didn't know what to look for. "Not a clue what I'd been handed. You're going to be better than the Angels ever were. More trouble, too. But, I think, you could be worth it." They stood together, side by side at the port, their thoughts drifting in silence. His eyes had a tendency to pick up color from his surroundings, and now, as she looked up at his hard face, they cast back a lambent violet from the far nebula. He was strange for a Tank, she thought. Strange for what his makers usually bred. Who had chosen his lithe height and power rather than sturdy strength, the startling white of his hair, the mirrored sheen of the silvery chameleon eyes? Perhaps he hadn't been what his makers had expected at all.

"Did you love her?" She said finally. No answer. "Do you love her?" He turned to her, but still made no reply. "What did Collins say to you?"

It was one of those rare times he would not meet her eyes. His pale gaze flickered back to the port, and she wondered what he saw then in the furious void. "Nothing, Vansen. She said nothing to me at all." And he walked quietly away.

Silenced. She suddenly knew they had silenced him. And remembering back to that first face-to-face encounter with the Angry Angels, how he had come in first, alone, and sat alone as his team had drank and joked on the other side of the bar, she realized he had been silenced his whole time with them. She shivered, thinking of the Wild Cards and how utmost and true they all were; deep in her heart, how much she loved them; how together, they were all at their best. She would put down her life for any one of them, and knew, with an almost savage joy, each would do the same for her. What must it have been like for him to feel that way, to be ready, willing, to lay down such a gift, yet with the same certain knowledge no Angel would make the least effort to catch him if he fell? Hard. It would have to make you hard. Hard and cold as stone.

McQueen was wrong. The Wild Cards were already better than the Angels. Never would they let harm come to one of their own. She went to find Coop.

He and Wang were alone in the lounge, deeply involved in playing a video rematch of the '57 Super Bowl. Paul was franticly trying to keep his wounded team on top as his grinning opponent threw onslaught after vicious onslaught at his hard-hit front line. There was a flag on every play she saw; Cooper's theory seemed to be if he couldn't win, hurt 'em. Both were concentrating so hard neither noticed her until she leaned past Hawkes' hunched shoulders and touched his running back while the ball was in the air, sending the figure on a long, looping curve that intercepted the pass and left his man tearing through wide open territory for a 60 yard touchdown.

"Sometimes, the more subtle approach is the most effective," she said as he looked up at her, Cooper's grin got even bigger and more wicked.

Paul sat back and stared at her accusingly. "No fair. You guys are double-teaming me."

"It's OK, Paul. I only want to borrow him a minute. Hawkes?" Shane walked to one of the small ports at the far end of the lounge, Coop slouching behind. He hulked over her when they stopped. She figured he seldom stood to his full height in a misguided attempt not to appear intimidating. It didn't work. He was so tall, his shoulders so broad, everything about him rawboned, over-sized and dangerous, that he always looked quietly menacing, as if his gene pool had been stocked with wolves. Add an evil, slit-eyed grin that both beguiled and unnerved -- not helping his harmless act at all -- and she got the feeling he'd been kicked out of the pack for having way too much fun.

She tilted her head back to look up at him, feeling warmer in his presence, as always. "I want to apologize. For yesterday."

"What do you mean? What about yesterday?"

"Leaving you out there. Hiding in the sun is one of the oldest tricks in the book, and I knew that. I should have been ready. You shouldn't have been alone."

"Oh, please," he sneered. "Someone had to help West. Damphousse and Wang were taking care of their own problems. I like to hunt. Found him, didn't I? You're not the only one who's read the book."

"Coop, we almost lost you."

"Yeah. So? I got a new plane out of it."

That felt like someone had laid a knife blade across the back of her neck. Did he even know how to be afraid? "So you were my responsibility and I let you down and I'm sorry, that's all."

"Hey, I'm responsible for myself, Vansen. I don't need anybody looking after me."

"Fine, then." He could do something like the peaches, then turn around and be a total ass. Now she was mad at him all over again. He could raise her hackles with just one of those mean grins. "But...weren't you scared?"

His eyes narrowed. "No. I'm never scared. Not when I'm with you guys." He gave her a hard look. How much could he read in her face? Then he leaned closer. "Is this what you and McQueen been fighting about?"

She stiffened. "How - no, not exactly. He...reminded me of the responsibilities of command."

"Looks like he reminded you with a stick. What's he got I don't, huh?" He smirked at her. Shane took a deep breath and strode away, so mad and embarrassed she was about ready to start another fight.

"Vansen?" Hawkes called after her, his voice softer. "You don't need to be running to me to say how you're sorry, like you hurt my feelings or something. The Colonel, either. I'm frosty with McQueen, but he's always ready with the advice, thinks he knows everything. Bet he doesn't know how to deal with this." That evil grin again. "I'm really getting a kick out of it."

He saw the tight look in her face and sobered. "You and McQueen - seems to me you got your own feelings to work out. Worry about yourself, for a change."

She jerked a nod at Hawkes, caught Paul's quizzical gaze for a second, and made it out of the lounge before taking several deep, shuddering breaths. Keeps getting better and better, she mentally berated herself. Now I'm taking advice from a guy with six years' total experience at life. If I were smarter, I'd be scared.

As the side of the planet they were to patrol spun into darkness, McQueen gave them a briefing that was almost an exact repeat of the day's before, and the day's before that.

"We do have some new intelligence," McQueen told them, "from probe packages dropped by the initial recon mission. One thing: this cloud cover clears out at around 10,000 to 3,000 meters. That means you could get down on the deck if you had to. But stay high today and collect as much data as possible. Intelligence says the Chigs are not only using this system's natural disturbances to avoid instrument detection, but a package similar to their U3-78's ability to disrupt our communications as well. Now that we know this, tracking the areas of greatest disruption is paramount. With what you get in this patrol, maybe tomorrow's, plus the intelligence data, the numbers boys can finally pinpoint the base and we can take care of it once and for all.

"And things are going to get hairy. We get no help. The front is heating up, and this bucket needs to be there. But not until we take out the last known Chig base at our backs."

His gaze encompassed them all. He never addressed Vansen directly, which wasn't unusual, and he put West in charge, which he did as often as he gave her command. None of her team mates passed her any knowing or suspicious looks, or asked any hard questions, so she got through the briefing with a minimal amount of anxiety. She escaped to the solitude of her Hammerhead, and then all worries were washed away in the unmitigated joy of piloting the lovely, big machine. Seeking through the night clouds was a welcome respite, her mind turning automatically to the routine of the mission. Still they found nothing; the patrol was completely uneventful. For once, life aboard ship was more exciting than the war.

The next day, the newly-commissioned battleship Wisconsin cruised by on her way to the hottest part of the line. She dropped off two fledging Marines, fresh out of Lejeune, tucked up tight under her belly like a pair of eagle chicks. When they joined the Wild Cards aboard the Saratoga, the handles Deuce and Trey Spot were bandied about, even Pair of Deuces. But Paul suggested simply the New Kids, and Cooper seconded it. When Shane first saw them, as the squad was being briefed, she was amazed at how young they were. Mere children. Later, going over their records, she found the girl had been her age, the boy but a year younger.

And so she discovered not only does war make you hard, it makes you old. She never could recall the newbies' names.

Less than an hour into the patrol, deep in the planet's cloud cover with West in command, an entire flight of Chig bandits rose up from the surface behind them undetected, and struck like the fist of God. Neither one of the New Kids made a sound as the aliens' first round took them out in a seething flare of fire. Neither one even had a chance to get off a shot.

This time, there was nothing for it but to run. The squad fled for home, with the Chigs so thick on their sixes that the Saratoga's big guns had to take the heat as the Wild Cards ducked around her bulk and came up fighting. Though the 58th had thinned the aliens out some even as they ran, it was a mad firefight, a total free-for-all, before the remaining aliens scattered back for the planet.

The Chigs had gotten the worst of it in the end, but the solitary carrier wasted no time packing up and heading out-system. Communications were still clotted with the whine of Chig messages. In a day, two days max, the beleaguered alien base would have all the reinforcements it needed. Saratoga, however, would be all alone until she got the job done.

Medics led the rush into the hangar bay. Nathan was already out of his 'pit and pounding on Cooper's. Blood streamed down his face from a gash at his helmet line where he had banged his temple so hard against his canopy, even with restraints, the skin had burst. Coop was snarling and smashing at the clear composite from the inside. Shane and Vanessa struggled from their cockpits and ran for them, but Paul got there first. Together, he and Nathan forced the jammed canopy up and hauled Coop out. He growled with pain, holding one leg out stiff. Something had torn lose inside his plane and rocketed about under the terrific G-forces of the dogfight, tearing and mashing his lower leg until it looked like bloody pulp.

Vanessa gasped and rushed to support Coop on one side, Nathan on the other. Shane hurried to Paul, who had staggered against the opposite side of the Hammerhead, fighting woozily to get his helmet off. She sat him down and got him out of it, saw he had a wound similar to Nathan's and that he'd bitten his lower lip clear through.

"How many fingers am I holding up, Paul?" She waggled two at him, noticing as she did that a short must have burned through her glove. Skin bubbled on the back of her hand. Funny; she didn't feel it. Yet.

"Uh, four? I smelled coolant in my cockpit, even through my helmet filters. It's making me dizzy."

"Come on, I'll help you to sick bay." Two medics moved to lift him up, but Shane waved them off. "I'll take him."

"I'm all right. I can make it. Huh-oh." He fell against her. She stood him upright and let one of the medics get under his other arm. They moved after the other three Wild Cards, Coop growling and cursing vehemently. It made her think he wasn't hurt as bad as they thought, until she caught a glimpse of his face, dull gray as the singed skin of his Hammerhead and beaded with sweat. Nathan was having a hard time keeping his sight clear, trying to sling the blood out of his eyes.

McQueen hit the bay at flat run and slid to a halt as he saw them all hobbling toward the exits, the medics fidgeting about them. His eyes swept over Shane and Paul, focused on Cooper's leg. He started toward the lead three when Vanessa froze. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed gracelessly to the deck. McQueen leapt forward and caught her before she hit, easing her down as shivering convulsions began to rack her body. Someone yelled for a stretcher; before the rest of the squad could make it to her side, McQueen had scooped up her quivering form and charged from the bay.

Nathan stared in mute shock. Coop had gone silent, draped over him like a drunken bear. Paul crossed himself, muttering under his breath. Shane hesitated, then began dragging Paul and the medic after McQueen.

"Come on," she grated at the other two as she passed. "Come on!" Scared and angry. Forcing Paul into a half-jog, she hurried toward sick bay, leaving the two men struggling in her wake.

When she got to the facility, they took Paul away from her. He tried to follow her to where McQueen stood, arms wide and hands pressed to the glass of an isolation room, watching a horde of doctors working over Vanessa.

"Sit down, son," she heard one grizzled little man, dark-skinned and white-haired, say behind her. He was obviously the senior medical officer. "Unless you want to end up in there with your friend. Let's get a respirator and antidote over here, stat. He may have coolant burns, too."

"How's Damphy?" Paul asked. No one answered.

"How is she?" Shane echoed quietly to McQueen. He didn't answer immediately either, but stared through the glass as if willing his soldier conscious and on her feet. She had to look away when, with a practiced movement of her gloved fingers, one doctor slit a tiny hole at the base of her friend's throat and inserted a trach tube. She had seen so much death, and Damphousse was a warrior, as she was, but the orchestrated mayhem to save her friend's life was unwatchable for Shane. The old bite marks on her palm began to ache.

"She was breathing fumes a lot longer than Wang. Sometimes you can do that and not even know it. If they can purge her system fast enough, she'll make it. These people are the best; they'll take care of her." But it seemed to her as he said it that if he could dig his fingers into the glass and pull himself through, he would.

"Where's 'Phouse?" came a bellow behind her; Coop and Nathan had made it. She turned to watch as Cooper was wrestled to a table, fighting the medics trying to help him.

"Take it easy, son," said the older doctor in the same soothing tone he'd used on Paul. "You keep struggling, I'll have to put you out to stop you from hurting yourself."

"I'm not your son! I want to see 'Phouse! Where is she?" Nathan had both hands on Cooper's chest, trying to push him back, and the big Tank was fighting him, too. Nathan wasn't saying anything; he had that wide-eyed, intent look she had seen on him before, as if he were trying to absorb and record everything for some future payback. She wondered how many Chigs he'd have to blast to make up for this.

"Hawkes, zip it!" McQueen barked over his shoulder. "Let them help you or I'll come over there and knock you out myself."

"Marines," she heard the old doc grumble to himself. "Oughta trank 'em when they come in so we can get the job done in peace."

Coop quieted, but he was breathing hard through his nose, his head twitching around like he wanted to bite somebody. The doctors moved in and began cutting at his flight suit. Then he saw his leg and his slitted eyes went wide with fear; his face, already gray, turned as white as the bone showing through the broken skin of his leg. "Oh, shit," he said, in a small voice very much like a little boy's. He didn't sound at all happy this time.

And that was it for Shane. She had to get out of there. She bolted through the crowd of medics surrounding her friends at a fast walk, trying to control the urge to simply tear lose and run.

"Vansen?" McQueen called behind her. "Vansen! Hold it!"

She didn't stop. Nathan reached for her as she passed. "Shane, wait -" But her head went up like a hand-shy horse and she shook him off, charged on through and out into the corridor. If anyone came after her, she didn't know or care.

She stalked the corridors, heading deeper into the bowels of the ship, the scene in sick bay replaying in her mind: the blood on Nathan's face, and Paul's; Coop's trapped, sick look as the medics cut back his flight suit and he saw his leg; worst of all, Vanessa's exuberant form gone still and gray, stuck through with tubes and machine leads. Thick of battle she could take, but not this. It was too much like the watching and waiting she had done for her sisters, squeezing them to silence, as their parents were executed on a whim. Both hands hurt her: the dull ache of the old scar and the searing pain of the fresh burn. She kept clenching and unclenching them as she walked.

Dark hazel eyes wide and unseeing, streaming hair smoke-filled and tangled, face dirty and streaked with sweat and blood, she was a ferocious apparition. The crew simply got out of her way. Soon, she was alone in the darkest, most isolated holds of the lowest decks. She knew what she was looking for, what she wanted, but she wouldn't admit it to herself.

When he rounded the corner of a cross corridor and saw her in front of him, he stopped dead. He must have known, must have been looking for her. Shane kept walking, staring ahead, until she crashed into him. McQueen caught her as they almost fell, stumbling sideways through an open hatch. She slammed her body along his with demanding force and the door clanged shut, locking them in dim red darkness. What followed then was a manic fumbling, jerking clothing aside in an awkward attempt to quickly bare as much flesh as possible. It was as if she'd unleashed a panther; the act was urgent, each desperate for the other. Desperate, frantic, wild.... Desperate.

They would have crawled away to separate corners as they had before, but they were emptied of energy by the savagery and wretched passion of what they had done. Instead, Shane and McQueen slid down together until they knelt, holding tightly to each other for support. Leaning her head against his chest, she tried to quiet her breathing, but there was a scent about him that made her faint, a smell of desert-hot sand, the stinging bite of icy winter air, both combined with a velvety animal odor like clean, rich fur. She drunk in deep lungfuls of him, felt the blood pumping in his throat, heard the sound of her own heart pounding blood through her veins.

Shane could feel the tension in his arms, stiff and shaking, where they circled her shoulders. His hands on her back twitched as if he wanted to touch her again, but was afraid. She knew the feeling; her hands were clinched into fists, clutched tight to her own chest. His fierce eyes were barely open when she finally looked up, slitted, a door cracked open to a raging blizzard, cold and dangerous. Then he drew in a deep breath and stretched. She felt a rising heat as his body moved against hers.

"This is wrong." His voice was weak. "We are...dangerous...for each other." He seemed almost tender, regretful.

"I've got to have it. I've got to have -"

"Don't." He silenced her with his mouth. If he was trying to talk her out of wanting him, this wasn't the way to do it. Wrung out as they were, she was amazed at the urges that leapt in her again at the light kiss, the urges she could feel rising in him as well. She pushed away from him hesitantly, tugged her underclothes and flight suit into place, drew her knees up within the circle of her arms and rested her chin on them. Rocking slightly, she watched him.

McQueen leaned his head back against the cold metal wall. Then he, too, tried to pull himself into some semblance of normalcy. Shane watched with a faint grin, enjoying the show, a little proud she had managed to muss the immaculate Colonel so. Dirt streaks marred either high cheekbone. He ran both hands through his short hair, which only made it bristle more. She stifled a laugh as he flailed about for the hole of his left uniform sleeve, twisted behind him, but it died in her throat as she caught a flash of his side and the broad burn scar there, before he tucked his white crew shirt back in. She could still feel it beneath her hands, smooth and cool over his muscles like slick marble, how it circled under his arm and up to his shoulder, the scarred skin taut so he couldn't fully raise or rotate that arm. One of the reasons he would never fly in combat again. She became aware of him staring back at her, his face composed and hard. He was the Colonel once again, and she felt a little thrill of fear that she should be this close to him and this vulnerable. Then she remembered what had started her running.

"Vanessa! How is she?" How could it leave her mind for even a moment? How could even this white heat drive it out?

"Stabilized. The docs will have her back in less than a week."

"And Coop? Nathan and -"

"Everyone's going to be fine, Vansen. They're quick-healing Hawkes' leg now, though he'll be out at least two days. West and Wang are only scuffed up a bit." His gaze penetrated her. "Of course, they can't even hazard a guess what's wrong with you."

"Me neither."

"You're starting to care more about them than about yourself."

"But...I've seen good people die before. I'm a military brat; it's a law I learned even before my parents were killed: in war, good people die. It never hit me like this."

"West, Wang, Damphousse, Hawkes - you've been with them longer. You've become...friends. That's good; it's what makes a team, when you reach that level of trust. But it's also very hard, when those friends, the ones you trust, kick you in the gut with the potential of your own mortality by getting themselves hurt."

"This isn't exactly easy, either."

A small sigh and his eyes turned to the ceiling. "No, but I suppose it's how you're going to handle the rush. Don't be ashamed. Adrenaline and sex: it's how a lot of good soldiers deal with the stress. Between you and me is a different matter." He lowered his eyes to her's again. "It's as if...we wake in each other a need to both punish and...redress...some wrong we've done. Some greater pain this makes us forget. Your parents, sisters. My Angels. We feel less...worthy. As if we failed, somehow. And we're the only ones who can understand the pain, reach it, in each other."

She mulled that over, testing its hard points against the edges of the wound, found that, as an answer, it both hurt and satisfied. The pain of what she was doing to herself now answering some deep need in her she'd never none was there, easing that other pain she always carried with her. "I thought you didn't go in for psychoanalysis."

"Truth is truth. Harder to recognize, or accept."

"Then how's this for truth: we are not simply using each other as emotional band-aids."

"Agreed. More like emotional tourniquets."

"We just made love hard enough to beat our brains out and -"

"Vansen, if we had any brains, they were beaten out long before now. The Heat, that's all. Keep telling yourself that. We're both going to regret this as soon as we stop thinking with our gonads." His gaze shifted away from her uneasily, and she saw the thought hurt him.

"Now get to sick bay and have yourself checked over," he said, extending a hand to help her up. He hesitated midway and drew it back, thinking better of touching her. Probably a wise move, considering. "I want you, Wang and West in briefing in 30 mics." She thought he might run for it, as he had before, but he waited as she got to her feet and followed him out the door.

Battle heat, my ass, she said to herself. You want it, you poor blind bastard. Need it like air. You know you do. And God help me, so do I.

"Listen up, people. This is how it gets done." McQueen's voice had deepened even more than usual with determination, his mouth a thin grim line. The strange eyes, gone an icy pale blue, held them, Nathan, Paul and herself, the remaining members of the battered Five-Eight. They were subdued and attentive, standing stiffly at attention and trying to ignore the absence of their comrades. She noticed that, for some reason, McQueen kept focusing on the incongruous white bandage covering the stitches below Wang's lower lip.

"Saratoga is sneaking back around into the system. She'll make her approach keeping the sun between us and the planet. We'll lie doggo back of the sun, make repairs, until we're sure she hasn't been detected. Maneuvering is going to take at least a day, maybe longer, which leaves us with little time. If any.

"We drop you and you go in under the plane of the ecliptic. Saratoga goes over. She'll try to draw their attention, keep them occupied. Insert sharp and get down on the deck fast as you can to avoid detection. For once, this system's instability will play on our side. The Chigs may be laying on additional sensor masking, but the natural interference hampers them as much as it does us.

"Intelligence now has an 88.7% sure lock on the Chigs' location. That's as good as we get. Intelligence also says there is something else down there, something big. All they can tell us is it's a new weapon of unknown capabilities, not completed yet, but that's essentially it." He paused, and the force of his next words were like hammer blows. "We can not allow it to go on line. Your objective, your sole objective, is to destroy the base. You will not engage the enemy under any circumstances. Leave that to Saratoga.

"You can not fail. Our forces are closing the line, but Chigs are still coming through the holes - holes Saratoga is supposed to help close. We estimate their reinforcements will be here in 28 to 30 hours. We won't be getting any help. Once the line is closed, we can not have that base behind us. So if it comes to making your kill versus making it back, know this: there may be no Saratoga to come back to.

"Now, hit the racks; you go at 14:00 hours." They left the briefing eyes front, not talking amongst themselves as they usually did. She thought they had each taken the news of a probable suicide mission very well, considering.

"Ow!" Wang jerked his helmet off and put a gloved hand to his chin.

"What's the matter, Paul?" Shane was carefully working her own glove over her bandaged hand.

"Nothing. I keep bumping my lip, is all."

"Tell me about it." Nathan winced as he seated his helmet and flipped up the face plate.

"Men." Shane shook her head. "You're stone killers, popping chigs and kicking butt, and you're still such babies."

"Hey, I didn't say anything." Coop braced his leg against the equipment lockers. It was in a bulky gel cast from toes to mid-thigh. He held out a marker. "Come on, you gonna sign this, Shane, or what? The docs said you're supposed to sign it."

"Are you still on your goofy pills? Why didn't you ask us to do this before we suited up?"

Nathan pulled on his gloves. "What are you doing here anyway, Coop? Aren't you supposed to be in sick bay?"

"Oh, man, what am I supposed to be doing in sick bay? You guys need me. Why can't I fly with you?" He tapped the cast. "This is just show. Comes off in a couple of days, docs said. They fixed me up real good. I can fly."

"No way!" Shane sneered at him, with a look that begged for salvation from such a high degree of pig-headed arrogance.

"Yes, way!" he sneered back, right in her face and smirking. Nathan shook his head, grinning, and flipped down his face plate.

"I don't know." Paul was still self-absorbed, testing his lip, pressing gently at the bandage with his fingers while pushing out against the stitches from the inside with his tongue. "Feels like a couple of stitches have torn lose. It's really going to scar," he lisped.

"On you, Wang, it'll be sexy." In full flight gear, Angel black, with the stylized wings-and-halo badge of his old squad still prominent on his breast, McQueen looked like ice wrapped in shadow, as lean and deadly as one of their Hammerheads. White letters spelled out "Top Cat" across the front of the black helmet he carried under one arm. He studied them appraisingly as they took it all in. "Vansen, you're in command. West, you're her wing man. I'll fly rear, diamond formation. Now, want to cut the static and mount up? We drop in 12 mics." And he was on about his business, cool and reserved.

Shane realized what it meant before the other three. "He can't go. He can't fly a combat mission," she muttered.

"I think," said Nathan carefully, eying her, "he can do what ever he wants to do."

"Why's he not taking command?" Wang asked.

"Because he doesn't expect to make it." She felt the familiar rage. "It's suicide."

Nathan grabbed the arm of her flight suit as she started after McQueen. "Shane, he as good as said this could turn into a suicide mission for all of us."

"Might. If everything goes wrong. We're not going to let that happen. But you know he can't fly; you were there when evac brought them in, the ones who made it. You saw him. It's a miracle any of them are still alive, much less still in uniform. Now he thinks he's going to throw it all away." She jerked lose and headed with single-minded intent toward Cooper's cockpit, where McQueen was checking over the systems.

"That's my plane," Cooper muttered, and limped after her. Paul and Nathan passed him up.

The men caught up with her and Nathan swung her around again. "What is with you? Think about it: we're down two. We have to kill this thing. He must know we need another plane to do it."

"You just don't get it, do you? He watched one squad die and he was helpless to stop it. Now he's trying to make up for it with us. You've seen this before. Well, I'm not going to let it happen again," she hissed up at him.

"What are you talking about? McQueen's nothing like Butts," Cooper glowered from behind Nathan.

"He failed. He thinks he failed. Now let go of me, Nathan, before I feed you a stump."

He held on a moment longer, that wide, absorbing look in his eyes. She began to shiver, but didn't let her gaze fall. Those eyes saw everything, and she was sure they saw through to the fear inside her, saw all the causes of it.

"Uh, I'd bet she means it," Cooper said. Paul laid a hand on Nathan's shoulder, and he grudgingly released her. She marched on after the Colonel, Coop hobbling behind her. Nathan and Paul watched a moment, then headed for their own planes.

"You didn't tell us," she growled at McQueen as she came up to the cockpit.

"If I had, you would all have been in Ross' office the moment I dismissed you, trying to get him to stop me. He doesn't need the grief right now, and neither do I."

"It really will be a suicide mission -- for you."

"It doesn't have to be. We're to avoid combat, so we shouldn't be pulling any hard Gs. I don't have to see that well to target something as big as this base, or phantom weapon, is supposed to be. Besides, the plane will do most of that for me. But it doesn't matter. The numbers say a fourth plane's firepower is needed to do the job, and right now, I'm in better shape than Hawkes. There is no one else. So I go."

"You've done a good job of convincing yourself, anyway. Sir."

McQueen brooded quietly for a moment before answering. "Look at it this way," he said finally. "Even if I don't make it, at least, one last time, I got to fly." He looked around her, spotted Cooper's skittish bulk some distance back. "Hawkes?"

"Yes sir?" He was restrained, his voice small and a little scared, as it had been in sick bay.

"Get up to the Gunny and tell him I said to put you on weapons. You should be up for that, and you still shoot a whole hell of a lot better than you drive."

"You got it," Coop grinned. "I mean, yes sir!" He hobbled eagerly from the bay.

Shane knew what McQueen was really doing. He was as much mentor to the younger In Vitro as commanding officer. Wounded, with one team mate still in intensive care, the rest of the squad flying without him, Cooper would be directionless and angry. And McQueen wouldn't be around to help him focus that anger. She wondered how much of himself the Colonel saw in Hawkes. A lot, she hoped. Earth would need all the men like him she could get, if they were to win. And it pissed her off he was wasting himself.

She didn't like to think of herself or her friends as expendable, but the truth was, her CO could mold a new squad into the same deadly force as the Wild Cards, maybe better. Not one of them had the experience, skill or wisdom yet to lead as he did, to replace him. "OK, Hawkes is off your back, but you can't get rid of me by letting me play with the pulse cannons. I'm not that easy. I'm getting the Commodore down here; he'll stop you."

"No, he won't. Ross and I have already had this conversation, and he agrees with me. Finally."

"How...How could he let you do this? He knows --"

"What? That I'm a cripple?"

"That's not what I meant. I --"

"It had better be what you meant. Objections based on the medical facts that grounded me are the only objections you can make, Marine. None of this can have anything to do with what's happened between us."

She swallowed her anger and the urge to scream at him. "I don't want you to die," she choked out. "I don't want to die. I don't want any of my friends to die. But we're all fit to make the effort. You're not. You told me once that if I went out and didn't make any mistakes, I'd come back; it was that simple. Well, you're making a huge mistake even getting in that 'pit."

"Cold equations, Vansen. If the Chigs are where they're supposed to be, if you have a home base to come back to, it won't make any difference: four planes, not three. Three fit pilots, three wounded. Of those three, who's the most capable? Would you put Hawkes in here right now?"

"No."

"Good. Otherwise, I'd have to think you were putting your personal desires above the needs of your team and your mission. Or that you were just plain stupid." He stared hard at her a moment. "Vansen, let me ask you something: when you were in boot camp, did your sergeant ever line your squad up, tell you to grab the next guy's butt, and give you a speech about that Marine's ass was your's, and your's was his?"

"Yeah." She was puzzled enough some of the anger washed away.

"Me, too. Only, I was the last in line, the Marine left with nobody's ass to grab but his own. I look after myself. I have this odd tendency to survive when I shouldn't. Believe me, while I know the probable consequences of this mission, I have as much reason to think I may come back from this, as good a chance, as the rest of the squad."

"I don't believe you."

"Too bad." His canopy began to close and she turned to her own plane. Quietly, behind her, just before the canopy snicked shut, he murmured, "Regrets, Vansen?"

She stopped, but didn't look back. "Not yet," she breathed as she heard his cockpit descending to merge with the body of the SA-43. "Not yet."

She moved out as West snugged up tight on her wing and Wang took his position opposite. The last plane dropped and she saw it wobble, then steady back on true and move up behind her. Shane resisted the urge to send something scathing over the link. Instead, she confirmed the launch to Saratoga, had her team synchronize on her hack, then gave the order for speed. As a unit, in perfect formation, the Wild Cards leapt away from the carrier, and she began her own maneuvers. Soon, they left the big ship so far behind she was invisible against the backdrop of darkness and stars, out of instrument range and cloaked in silence. Flying blind, as they were.

The squad was silent as well, and would remain so for hours. They couldn't risk the Chigs discovering their ploy on idle skipchatter. Within the practiced routine of flight and instrument checks, she thought of many things: of her parents; the indifference on her sisters's faces when she told them she was joining the Corps; the first night of the war as the news had come across the screen in the middle of the Wild Cards' bar fight with the Angels; the empty, emotionless stare of the Silicate she had killed as she had smashed its head in; of Nathan and Paul, Vanessa, Cooper; if the Saratoga would look as McQueen had described the Yorktown, should it die amidst alien fire.

But mostly she thought of the last plane, and watched how it hinked a little now and then. Hours, and she felt cramped and sore. She wondered what pain his damaged muscles endured, if he allowed himself to feel it, as he allowed himself to feel so little else.

The clouded planet gradually rose and grew in her field of vision. Just before they reached their insertion point, specks of light that were not stars sparked at the periphery of her vision. Instruments still showed nothing, snowed with static and registering only the few klicks of space immediately about her. Saratoga must be engaging the enemy. No Chig fighters lifted to meet them, nor appeared beyond the line of the terminator. So far, so good. She broke their long silence.

"Queen of Diamonds to Wild Cards. I have visual on Saratoga. We're going in now." Her three pilots acknowledged, and she led the way into the planet's murk. Without warning, the squad broke into free air beneath a ceiling of night gray clouds roiling above them. Instruments that had been giving wildly false readings reset and cleared. A startlingly sharp image of the landscape beneath sprang to her screen, and she grinned mirthlessly.

"Did you see that?" Paul asked.

"Roger that, Joker. We got all instruments back at 3,500 meters," Nathan replied. McQueen made no comment.

"That means we can get right down on the deck," Vansen answered. "OK, Wild Cards, kiss dirt."

The four Hammerheads sleeked along so low they kicked up dust storms in their wake. They shot over a last ridge and the eerie green lights of the enemy base lay sprawled before them.

"There it is, right were you said it would be, Queen 6."

"Aim to please, Queen of Diamonds."

She grinned hard again. That could have been a thank you or a command. Automatically, gloved fingers began tapping routines for arming and readying weapons. The unscrambled instrument readings were beautiful after the fuzz and radiation hiss of passed days. There was a C3 tower she could spot visually, and a variety of sensors were pointing out structures and ground vehicles only hinted at by the base's lights. "Joker, Queen 6, knock down that tower. King of Hearts, you're with me. Looks like a supply and munitions dump to the east; I want to see how big a fireball we can make with it. And gentlemen, shoot anything that moves. Or doesn't."

That first fly-by was exquisite. No guardian fighters, no AA fire, just a wide-open field of targets. The ground burned with the garish red light of explosion after explosion. It felt like a payback -- for the rookies, for Damphousse and Hawkes, for a lot of things. The 58th swung around for a second run, and that's when she saw it. "My God! Is that the weapon? What the hell is that, Queen 6?"

"Gotta be. My instruments are freaking again."

"Yeah. It happened when we over-flew that...crater." Nathan sounded puzzled. Shane could understand why. They hadn't seen the "weapon" before because there wasn't anything to see. It was a featureless hole in the landscape to the east of the base, easily big enough to swallow all four SA-43s flying wingtip-to-wingtip, with room left over for a pocket battle cruiser. There were no lights, no activity to indicate it was anything more than a hole in the ground, but its sides reflected a dull glassy sheen that was obviously unnatural. At its center, it appeared bottomless.

"There's a lot of metal, a lot of mass down there," Paul said. "You don't read it until you're directly over it. Mass-magnetic rail gun? Gravity hammer? What do you think it is?"

"Doesn't matter, Joker. That's our target this run. That thing is why we're here."

Sporadic ground fire met them on their second pass, but that was all. AA was thickest over the weapon's crater, but they juked like crazy and made it through. Everything they let loose made it in or exploded at points along the rim. She hoped they were doing damage; the thing was so big it was hard to tell.

Before they could turn for a third run, two clusters of alien fighters dropped from the clouds and arrayed themselves formidably across the 58th's bows. Her gut hurt; Saratoga had failed.

"Pull up! We got nothing to waste on these bastards! Get back to the base!" And she wrestled her Hammerhead into a bone-wrenching upward skid and flip. Nathan and Paul followed suit, but McQueen overshot the Chig line before he could turn and one cluster went for him. He pulled a maneuver she had never seen before, something that looked like a cross between a split-S and a victory roll. She thought he'd lost it completely, but then he churned through the alien unit, scattering them. They fired recklessly; one of their own missiles took out a ship from their second cluster. The remaining ships in the unit trying to close on the three lead Hammerheads kept up their blistering fire.

McQueen's plane still juddered uncontrolably, the hand on the joystick obviously lacking the power to steady it. He must have been capable of at least one more dirty trick; barely avoiding collision himself, he somehow suckered two of the Chigs after him into a head-on crash. He tried to form up with the squad, but wasn't quick enough. The last fighter cut him off and he veered away.

Lines of light stitched the sky in front of Shane. A siren shrieked, and she saw a missile off the rails, coming between her and Paul. "Joker! Get out of there!" She juked right, slipping under Nathan. Paul rolled left, but there was a bright explosion beneath one wing, then a puff of smoke. More smoke began to trail from his fuselage.

"I'm hit! No stick! Wait -- I've got her, but I can't hold her long."

"Long enough, Joker. Unload all you've got and sit her down." There was silence from the wounded bird. "Joker, do you copy?"

"I copy, Queen of Diamonds," he responded quietly. Then they were over the base again.

Shane focused on the black crater of the strange weapon as before, while Nathan went after what they thought was the supply dump and vehicle pool by himself. Paul blazed in and let fly with everything he had at the tower. With a deliberate, gratifying grace, it toppled. She watched it go, collapsing onto more outlying buildings, powerful secondary explosions ripping along the ground where it landed. She heard Paul's victory cry, saw his plane wobble over a ridge to the northwest and begin to settle sluggishly. "Good luck, Joker," she said softly over the link.

"Semper Fi, man," sent Nathan.

"Semper Fi, Wild Cards. Don't...don't leave me here, OK?"

"Never, Joker. We're always with you." She felt she should say something else, but there was no time. She checked sky and instruments, found Nathan closing up on her wing again, but where was --

"Queen 6 to Queen of Diamonds. I've got a problem. Check me at one o'clock." Shane looked up. Her heart stopped.

"Damn!" Nathan cursed.

Fully one third of McQueen's right wing was gone, tattered debris falling away as they watched. Most of the plane's dorsal surface was on fire. The flames hadn't reached the one working thruster yet, but it wouldn't be long. Then it registered on her he was climbing, a Chig still on his tail. "Eject, Queen 6."

"Negative, Queen of Diamonds. I'm gonna ram her down the barrel."

"Queen 6, eject. Eject, dammit!" The Hammerhead winged over at the top of its climb and plummeted toward the dark center heart of the weapons array, flames streaming back in a long plume that stood in the night sky like a banner. "Eject! Eject!" she screamed, over and over, heard Nathan yelling something, too, then the fiery wreckage disappeared beneath the surface. The pursuing fighter swerved away and hovered, was joined by the two from the second cluster.

"Did.... Did he make it?" she risked.

"I don't know. I couldn't see.... There! I've got his beacon, near Wang."

"Where? OK, I've got him, too." Shane paused. The hovering Chigs seemed to suddenly discover her and Nathan. "Come around on my mark. We're going to finish this thing once and for all."

"I roger that." Nathan's impassive voice steadied her.

She didn't let herself think about whether McQueen was alive or not, if he could find cover from their final run, if Paul was safe and sheltered. "Balls to the wall!" And they were screaming in, wing to wing.

The alien fighting unit never came close; their previous onslaughts had silenced the few ground batteries that had been able to fire on them. Shane surveyed the hell of flame and smoke she and Nathan left in their wake and was sure nothing could have survived. The base was dead. And unless he had made it to Wang's position before the last furious attack, McQueen was, too. But the unknown weapon....

She had more immediate worries. The last Chigs might have been ineffective so far, but they were persistent. Shane and Nathan were bingo fuel. They had nothing left to fight with. And if they ran for the Saratoga, there was a better-than-even chance the carrier was gone. But she had no choice. There had to be someone left to try one last time. "Good job. Now, let's get the hell out of Dodge."

"I'm with you. But what if --"

"Don't think about it! She'll be there!" Has to be, Shane thought. Coop, Vanessa, had to be safe. Paul and McQueen must have made it. She would get a hauler and hustle back as soon as possible, get her people off this rock. She wouldn't let herself imagine any other possibility for fear it would come true.

Their planes clawed for the ceiling, and the Chigs went with them. Just before the night clouds surrounded them, there was a groundburst like daylight, and a thick column of sick red light punched skyward. It came from the weapon's crater.

"Holy --! Is that thing firing on us?"

"Like using a pulse cannon for a fly swatter -- hold it. Check your readings, the energy expenditures. Looks like an uncontrolled explosion to me!"

"I'll say. McQueen killed it!" She didn't respond. After a moment, Nathan came back, his voice subdued. "Paul, the Colonel. Think they made it?"

She drew in a gasping breath and called on her anger. "Only way to know is to find Home Base, get an ISS CV and go after them. Which isn't going to happen if we let those guys catch us. Burn what you got. We have to make it." They hunkered down and ran, following the ruby spear of sleeting radiation. The Chigs couldn't keep up, but she knew they were back there. Night, clear and empty, met them above the clouds. The strange beam burned on as far as she could see. Saratoga was not there.

Shane slotted for an orbital position; maybe the carrier was behind the planet. As she did, the powerful push of her plane's thrusters faded away and she was coasting. Nathan was slowing, too. All fuel gone. It was over.

"Nathan? I...I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Shane. We all did our best."

"I meant for --" There was a white flash behind her and the sudden slap of a shockwave. "Nathan!" She screamed it; she didn't want to be the last. Then two more bursts and a familiar voice crackled over her com.

"Wild Cards, this is Home Base." Saratoga! She sailed around the limb of the planet, fires burning on her hull where oxygen and other gases leaked through. Shane could see where some deck structures had been shot away, a chunk taken out of the flying bridge. Aft cannons were still pulsing at a thinning swarm of Chig bombers that peeled off and fled at the sight of the Hammerheads, unaware they were dead in space. Tattered and brave, the big carrier was beautiful. Nathan started yelling, and she joined in. "You people really know how to send up a flare. Do you need any further assistance?" That just made them cheer louder.

The ISS CV sat down in the aftermath of Ragnorok. If there had been any doubt in Shane's mind as to the success of their mission, the sight before her dispelled it.

"Oh, man. You guys have all the fun." Cooper pressed her against the hull as he leaned over her, face squished against the viewport with excitement. His cast was hidden by a flight suit at least one size too large for him. She found a second to wonder where there was a Marine actually tall enough to fit the suit before she elbowed him aside and picked up her helmet.

"Get off me, Hawkes. Grab your gear and get moving." Glad as she had been to know he and Vanessa, all the rest of her ship mates, were safe, she didn't have time for his bloodthirsty ebullience. They had to find the stranded Wild Cards and clear out before Chig reinforcements showed. If there was anything to find.

Nathan was already waiting at the cargo door, rifle ready. Shane grabbed her own rifle and joined him.

"Ready?" Coop asked as he seated his helmet. She nodded, and he slid the massive door open. "Good hunting, guys. Bring 'em back, OK?"

"One way or another," Nathan muttered as he and Shane moved out. They hadn't been able to get a lock on either beacon, the fountain of radiant energy from the dying weapon blotting out signals across the band. It showed signs of sputtering out soon, but they couldn't wait. They had quartered the ridge where Paul's plane had dropped until they spotted it, listing at an angle on the hillside. The flight crew had landed the cargo hauler less than 20 meters from their lost bird, but no suited figures had come running. It looked as if the ridge could have sheltered them from the final explosion; the plane seemed no more damaged than expected. So where were they?

She and Nathan reached the plane, inspecting it warily. "Queen to First Base. She's salvageable. Get the cables on her and we'll take her with us."

"Roger. Any sign of your MIAs?"

"Not yet, First Base."

"Less than 20 mics, Queen. That's all Home Base will give us."

"Yeah, I know," she whispered to herself, not really caring if it went over the com or not.

"Shane?" Nathan's quiet voice called. "Take a look at this." She came around to the ridge side of the SA-43 to find him standing over a pair of bodies. Chig bodies. One lay farther from the other, closer to a jumbled rock formation that covered most of the northern slope. Nathan was squatting by the second corpse. "Both of 'em done with a k-bar. And here: look."

She knelt and fingered one of the small, brownish lumps of sand spattered by the dead alien. It looked like human blood. "If one of them is injured, suit integrity breached, how long could he survive?"

"Atmosphere is breathable. Barely. It would hurt like a son of a bitch. Probably a good deal of skin irritation. Unpleasant, but survivable."

"They must have sheltered up there. Come on." The thin blood trail could be tracked through the maze of boulders for a distance, but then tapered off. A good thing, she thought. At least the bleeding had stopped, hadn't been too bad in the first place. "Colonel? Wang?" she called.

Nathan pressed his back to her's. "Let's try that way. Good as any" She shrugged. It was the widest path; they may have taken it out of expediency if one were hurt, and it did turn back into the ridge, affording more protection. Soon, they were in a real cavern that descended under the line of hills. "McQueen, Paul? Are you there?" she called again. And this time, there was an answer.

"Over here, Vansen." It was McQueen. They hurried around a corner into a small cave off the main trail. McQueen sat facing them, one hand clasped to his left bicep. Paul lay next to him on his side. "Come on, Wang," the Colonel said, nudging the other man with his foot. "Our ride's here." Paul groaned and sat up, holding his stomach.

"Are you two all right?" She dropped between them, patting Paul's shoulder and trying to pry McQueen's finger's loose. Nathan stood guard above them

"Huh? Oh yeah, we're fine. Just a scratch. Those two Chigs outside jumped us. I got one, the other tagged me, Wang took him out. Probably saved my life."

"So what's wrong with him?"

"Hmm?" He was paying an inordinate amount of attention to her fingers gently checking the shallow channel of the wound. "Oh. He'll be OK. Told him not to try the rations right after being pumped for coolant inhalation. The preservatives. Don't mix. But he must have been real hungry."

"Shane, can we go home now?" Paul moaned.

A stomach ache. She couldn't believe it. Nathan barked a laugh and she helped the sick man to his feet beside the Colonel, already up and ready to go. "Sure thing, hero. Sure thing."

It was late, between shifts aboard Saratoga. She should have been sleeping, not prowling, one intent and one purpose on her mind. Corridors were deserted; still, she stood for long moments before his door, hand raised to knock, yet afraid to make any motion, any sound. She was sure he must know she was out here. Surely pulse-pound and breath gave her away.

When she finally found the resolve to knock, the hatch swayed open slightly at her touch. Was that an invitation, or did he always leave it unlocked? How could she know, never having had the need or temerity to dare anything like this before? Cautiously, she pushed it wider and slid through, closing it at her back and waiting for her eyes to adjust.

The room was not completely black; there was a port, and faded starlight seeped through. It was too dim to make out much of his quarters. There were long shelves of books on two sides, and a bed opposite the port, recessed into the wall. The form within it stirred.

He was a pale ghost limed in starshine and shadow. He sat up, and she fought an urge to melt into the bulkhead. Instead, she gathered desire and nerve and walked to the bed, hands in her pockets to hide their jittering.

McQueen said nothing, simply made room for her at the foot of the bed, and Shane sat after a moment. Then she found she couldn't meet his eyes; she couldn't look away, either. He wore only a pair of loose, white drawstring pants. The scarring she had felt, that she knew so intimately, was almost invisible. Each muscle was traced in white, as if freeing his shape from the darkness, the fine hair of his body struck to silver. His dog tags glinted, an answering flash from the argent eyes. She shivered at the smooth expanse of his abdomen with no navel; it was an intellectual concept she accepted, a fact she knew with the touch of her hands, but the sight drove home the reality of his nature harder than she had thought possible.

"No..." her voice failed her and she cleared her throat, shook back her hair and met his gaze. "No regrets, McQueen."

He abandoned the shadow, leaning forward to stare at her, and the far light caught his eyes. "But?"

"But...you were right. Again. About some of it. I don't know if I can bear to be this close. To you, anyway. It's too much. What I'm beginning to feel for you is too much. You said you were afraid?" A harsh little laugh, full of self-condemnation, and now she found it easier to look at the furious night beyond the port then at his starlit eyes and smooth, hard body. "Well, I'm sorry, but I'm absolutely terrified."

He settled back into the dark and was quiet for so long she begin to think he was waiting for her to gather the shreds of her dignity and go. Then he spoke, so soft the deep, velvet voice was almost a whisper. "First time I saw you, I wasn't all that impressed. Looked more like a child's doll than a soldier. But so fierce. So determined. Not that I hadn't seen that before, someone who doesn't look capable of putting up any kind of a fight, who rises above to become one of the best of warriors. 'Trusty, dusky, vivid, true...steel-true and blade-straight.' Stevenson. That's what comes to me when I think of you.

"But you are more, too. It's in your eyes: the look of eagles. Pure Corps. It's your voice that takes the Wild Cards out, your voice the first I hear when your birds come home. It's your eyes I have to meet, the expectation there I have to equal and exceed. You understand things I thought no one else could, things about me. I couldn't resist that. I didn't know how. I have so little experience at any true emotion...what I feel for you, for the Five-Eight, all of them...I understand it here," he pressed fingers to his temple, "but here is harder." The clenched fist he held to his chest seemed to cup his heart in the darkness.

"I have told you more of myself than I have any one person all my years in service. I am closer to you than even I was to fellow slaves who died beside me in the mines. And it has...hurt like hell to give myself that. So much so, I have felt I cut myself and spilled blood to you to do it. And I would not take it back for all the love, and happiness, and every other human joy imaginable. But I will give it up. Because there is no other way."

Her throat had closed on her. She ached to say anything, but didn't want him to hear the tears she was sure would cry in her voice. Instead, she put out her hand, flat on his chest between the spring of his ribs. The flesh there shivered away from her touch. She found her voice then, rough and low. "In the hold...that was for me. If you'll let me, a last time, I want this to be for you. There's no hatred here, no regrets, no remorse."

He watched her skim her hand over his chest, beneath the chain of his tags, up to his shoulder, bring the other around him and take him into a slow embrace. Face pressed to his neck, she breathed the scent of him again, tasted his sweet-salt skin once more. She traced the hard line of his spine with her knuckles, felt muscles jump along his back. His arms cradled her, gentle now, a feather touch like a bird's wings, or an angel's. His fingers trailed through her hair, and as he buried his face in its thickness, she felt his breath, warm on her cheek. But he took her arms and sat back, pushing her reluctantly away.

"Tyrus --" she started to say his name, but he brushed his hand over her lips.

"No. Close as we've been, that's closer than I can take."

"If we didn't break before, we won't now," she murmured. The stars burned through the port, hard, beautiful light. It haloed them in white. She felt she held a marble statue rather than a man.

"No. What you're offering is a gift I haven't the power to accept. We've learned how foolish we can be. My fault. I should have been...should have taught you to be...stronger. I will give this up. You will give this up."

It was a dismissal this time. She stood to go, his refusal hurting more than she had thought possible. But this is better, she told herself. What I came here for in the first place. Better one of us puts a stop to this before any of the hard words, like love, get said. Once spoken, words like that couldn't be retracted, and neither of them was ready for anything like that. "Just remember," she said, not facing him. She didn't know if she could make it out of the room if she saw his face again. "I'm here. She's not. The Angels are dead; let them sleep. We're the Wild Cards, and we're better."

There was a rustle of movement from the bed. She felt his touch on her arm, his hand gliding down to take hers and hold tight. He caught a word in his throat as if choking on it. It might have been her name, or another's, or different words entirely. "Maybe," he whispered finally, his voice like the darkness itself. Still she didn't turn back to him. "Maybe." They gazed out the port together, neither willing to break this last, fragile spell they had summoned, and watched as the ship hove close passed another dim, distant sun.

She waited in silence, patient and still as stone.

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