Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Black eyed man he took the blame
For the poison in the well
They found his shoes by the pulley
They found his fingerprints all over the pail…
And with a noose around his neck
Cicadas trilling everywhere
He says to the people gathered 'round him:
'It ain't the water that's not right around here.'"

"Black Eyed Man"
-The Cowboy Junkies

There were certain advantages, thought First Lieutenant Jordan Rain, to having a virago for a Captain. For one thing, people didn't come up to you in the hallways asking how come your squadron got to sit on your collective behinds for two whole days while the rest of the fleet didn't get the extra five minutes to chew and swallow the freeze-dried fishsticks before they were shipped off to the next battle. They didn't ambush you in the showers asking how come your squadron commander, who'd been gone for more than two months, hadn't spoken to any of you, except to throw one very surprised InVitro in the brig and announce that the rest of you were grounded until further notice. They didn't corner you in the mess hall demanding to know, in exact detail, what had transpired between that same commander and the Commodore during those two hours they had spent cloistered in the war room screaming at each other. They didn't make loud jokes about you having to go through every re-certification test invented just because your commander was in that kind of mood. They didn't 'volunteer' to chaperon your other female squadmate 'for her own protection.' (wink wink) And they sure as hell didn't make very nasty remarks about how the war would be won by now if certain people hadn't messed up on Anvil.

No, if you had an intimidating Captain people left you alone. If you had one. Unfortunately, theirs was off on a secret mission somewhere and open season had been declared on the 58th.

Hell, he hadn't even been on Anvil. He'd been on the Michigan, gearing up for Operation Roundhammer like everyone else. And like everyone else he'd figured that the timing of the peace treaty was incredible, but had been too overcome with relief to pay attention to the nagging feeling that something was very, very wrong. The first time he'd actually gotten confirmation that something had gone wrong, and the first time he'd heard the 58th were involved was when someone commented loudly that now that McQueen was back the brass could get around to the long-overdue court-martial. That particular remark had been followed by an equally nasty: "If they'd been any squadron but the 58th they'd have been keelhauled, drawn and quartered."

He'd been too confused and shocked to even mind the mixed aphorisms.

Damn, but these guys got into a lot of trouble. He didn't understand that at all. His own personal vocation had always been to avoid trouble as much as possible, investing considerable energy in seeming innocuous and being invisible.

He wondered if Tyler knew about the events on Anvil, and the purported court-martial. Probably--Tyler was too savvy to have let anything like that slip by her. On the other hand, it seemed uncharacteristic that she wouldn't use something like that to torment West and Hawkes.

Speaking of torment…

"I am soooo bored," Cullen groaned. Dramatically, she 'pounded' her head against the screen of her computer in a 'kill me now' gesture.

"Careful," Rain admonished as he fiddled with his own console. "The last time someone mentioned being bored ---."

"Morgan was here and we weren't grounded and stuck with a bunch of stupid re-certification tests," finished Cullen. "At least she only made us do push-ups. This is torture! I mean, look at this." She gestured disgustedly toward her monitor. "Triangulation! What the fudge do I need to be re-certified in triangulation for? One minute they have us on 18-hour shifts and the next we're grounded. Just because they've got new warm bodies..."

"I'd just enjoy the lag, if I were you," he advised. "Give the new squadrons a chance to show their stuff."

Unable to solicit sympathy from him, Sarah turned to Nathan. "Weeeeeeesst," she whined. "Can't you get us out of this?"

"Count your blessings," Nathan answered shortly. "At least we're not in the brig with Cooper."

Predictably, Sarah was distracted by the change in subject. "Poor Cooper," she sighed sympathetically. "He's really hurting. I can't imagine what he's going through."

"It's his fault," Jordan interjected quietly. "He shouldn't have scared us like that. More importantly, he shouldn't have scared Morgan."

West raised an eyebrow in his direction. "You mean he shouldn't have pissed her off."

"Well," Jordan conceded, thoughtfully. "That, too."

"Anyway, McQueen threw Coop in the brig," West pointed out. "Not Tyler."

"Then Cooper frightened him, too."

Cullen looked at West pointedly. "It would help if you went to see him."

"I can't," Nathan answered, frustration leaking into his voice. "McQueen's orders, remember? No one sees him. And may I remind you that except for meals and these tests we're all confined to quarters?"

Cullen gave a disgusted sniff. "Between the two of you you'll drive him crazy," she announced.

Nathan scowled at her. "What are you talking about?" he scoffed. "He's sitting pretty in the brig. He got off easy."

Cullen raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Colonel McQueen chose the cruelest punishment he could have thought of," she returned sharply. "Hawkes is claustrophobic, remember? And then the Colonel decided Hawkes couldn't see anyone. So not only is Cooper feeling closed in, he's also feeling cut off." She sighed again, this time worriedly. "The sentry told me he hasn't slept since he went in there."

"You went to see him," West accused, eyes wide and incredulous. "I can't believe this! You disobeyed orders and went to see Cooper."

"I tried," she replied, with uncharacteristic coolness. "I caught a glimpse before I was hustled away."

"McQueen said no visitors!" said West.

Sarah ignored Nathan's outburst. "He looked really bad. Don't think he even saw me." She shrugged dramatically. "Guess it doesn't matter anyway. He doesn't want to see me. He wants to see you."

"Sarah…" Rain's voice held a trace of caution.

"And Colonel McQueen," she continued. "You guys do remember who that is, right? Our esteemed CO? The one who hasn't spoken two words to any of us except for ordering us in here?"

"That's enough, Sarah," Rain interrupted, curtly. "It's not fair, and it's not your place."

Sarah glared at Rain who stared coldly back. "I just want to know where the famous 58th comradeship went to all of a sudden," she declared heatedly. "You know, all those stories about how the 58th stuck together, thick and thin, come what may--all that BS."

"Lieutenant…" The warning in Rain's voice was becoming more apparent.

"You and me and Tyler--I can understand them acting all high and mighty with us," Cullen persisted heatedly. "But dammit, they're supposed to be…. They're supposed to be the 58th!"

"I said that's enough!" snapped Rain, his tone brooking no argument. "Sit down and finish your work."

"I'm done!" Cullen snapped back. "I've been done these last twenty mikes!"

"Then go back to our barrack and cool off," Rain ordered coldly.

For a moment Cullen looked like she was going to argue. Then she threw a glare in West's direction and stomped off. Rain thought she showed admirable restraint in not actually sticking out her tongue.

"What the hell is her problem?" West asked.

Rain shrugged, bending over his work once again. "Ask her."

"I'm asking you," West pointed out coldly.

Jordan grew still. He took a breath before raising his head slowly. He stared at West deliberately, eyes narrowing to match the younger man's. The rest of his body didn't actually move but something shifted in his stance. It was the mental equivalent of crossing his arms over his chest in challenge.

Contrary to popular belief, he had emotions. He even had a temper--one as hot as any of theirs, probably even hotter. His just took longer to come to a boil, and he was better at hiding it. That wasn't saying much considering the rest. Cullen and Hawkes--they had no idea how to keep their emotions hidden. And Tyler--Tyler didn't give a damn to try.

"You're presuming a lot of things here, Lieutenant," he told West calmly, coolly. "One, that I actually know what's wrong with Cullen. Two, that it's my place to speak for her. And three, that I'm obligated to tell you."

"You'd tell Tyler," West challenged.

Jordan's eyes narrowed even further, but his voice was still even as he answered. "For all her 'don't give a damn' posturing, Tyler knows how to keep tabs on what's going on around her. She wouldn't have to ask anyone. And if she did she'd know how to do that, too."

"And just what it that supposed to mean?" demanded West.

Jordan had reached the end of his patience. "You know where Cullen is," he pointed out coldly. "And you know she's not the type to keep secrets. So why don't you just go and ask her? Why waste your time trying to power play me?"

With that he went back to work and proceeded to studiously ignore West. A few seconds later he heard West slam out of the room.

Jordan sighed. The problem with West, he thought, was he never asked the right questions, and never in the right way.

Tyler hadn't asked it of him but he'd promised himself that he was going to stand by her decision. But times like this it was a real struggle.

He was a good soldier, possibly a great one, and he firmly believed he could have led the 58th with no problem. So, when Morgan had made her arbitrary announcement that West was honcho while she was gone, there had only been that split-second of unvoiced protest and resentment.

Me? Why me?

He'd mentally winced as West had asked the question, even though the same question, in a manner of speaking, had flashed through his mind.

Morgan had her reasons, he knew that. Despite appearances, she was never one to do anything on a whim, or for mere amusement or spite. No, everything Morgan did was planned. Carefully calculated, precisely orchestrated, with some purpose in mind. She'd made West honcho for a reason. He believed that. Now if only he could keep from stuffing the guy in a locker.

When Tyler was around, he'd had to be, by default, the cool-headed person around. He did his best to remain impartial and fair but the truth was he was starting to get impatient, too. He understood West's problem, West's pain, but was still rapidly losing sympathy. These days he had to actively remind himself to see it from West's side.

Hawkes suspected that West didn't care, that he wanted to be back on earth with Kylen. Jordan knew that the exact opposite was true. If anything, Nathan cared too much.

The way Nathan saw it, it was his fault. He had made the decision to leave Vansen, Damphousse and Wang. He had chosen to secure the colonists. And unlike everyone else that had been involved in that fiasco, he had actually gained something. He got Kylen back. The woman he loved. The reason he had joined the Corps, the reason he was in this war to begin with.

And now Kylen was back on earth. Without his purpose, without his faith, West was lost.

West and Tyler, they had more in common than they knew. They carried the heavier burden. Not only loss, not only responsibility, but also guilt. And guilt was always complicated business. But whereas Morgan was driven by guilt, propelled by it to extremes, Nathan seemed paralyzed by it--unable to act, only to react, to certain situations, to certain challenges. Jordan suspected that sometimes Morgan baited West just to get a rise out of him. He understood that, too. Sometimes he himself felt like whacking West on the head on the slim chance that the younger man would wake up and prove he was still alive. He hadn't actually done that yet. All things considered, West was still honcho and their relationship hadn't progressed to the whacking-on-the-head stage yet.

He grinned wryly to himself. Maybe Sarah would do it for him. Sarah would whack him for even thinking it, but--equality be damned--with her arsenal of baby blue eyes, platinum hair and dimpled smile, there were just some things she could get away with that he couldn't. And Sarah would do it, too. She was just as frustrated as he was. All she needed was an excuse. Hell, it was all any of them needed.

The forced inactivity was wearing on all their nerves, he supposed. Plus that court martial thing. Or maybe they'd all gotten sort of used to the underlying violence that had been a constant with Tyler around and were now trying to pick up the slack. She might've been hard on the nerves but one thing Tyler definitely wasn't was boring.

She hadn't even reached their barracks yet, and already her temper was fleeing, just as quickly as it had flared.

Which was not to say she didn't think her ire was justified.

Men! She harumphed to herself for good measure, throwing an irritated glare upward.

Lieutenant Sarah Cullen had grown up knowing her place, having it constantly shoved in her face by a politically ambitious father, a mother with archaic ideals of womanhood and, later on, a domineering fiancé. No, domineering was too strong a word for Richard. Conventional, maybe. Set in his ways. Unimaginative. In any case, each of them had taught her that there were roles each person played and a hierarchy to everything. Leaders and followers, heroes and fools.

It was funny. Coming here, she thought she'd be the one playing the fool. She'd been so afraid that she wouldn't contribute enough, that she'd be the weakest link, suspecting that Morgan had taken her on because of misplaced gratitude. After all, she had had virtually no flight combat experience and though her ground skills were adequate, they were nowhere in the league of the rest of them. She'd been terrified she wasn't good enough to be a WildCard.

Who would have thought she'd end up being the sane one around? Good thing she was such a good medic. She could patch them together when they were done ripping each other to shreds.

Okay, so she was doing her share of snapping. She was entitled, dammit. She'd been smiling so much her face hurt. And it wasn't like her life was all sunshine and roses.

She entered their barrack, slammed the door shut and climbed on to her rack, flinging herself upon the thin mattress.

That time in Styx, she'd almost died when Morgan looked at her with such disappointment-- contempt, even --because she couldn't pull the trigger. Later, she had understood. There were places in the Universe for people who could not, would not kill, places where such a thing would be admired and applauded.

The United States Marines Corps was not one of them.

She'd been fooling herself, anyway. She'd killed before. Just because she never saw their faces didn't make them any less dead.

Anyone else, she thought, would have let her get away with it. She knew this for a fact. She'd had ample experience getting away with things. One of her strengths had always been that everyone liked her, so they tried to make things easier for her. A sunny smile, a helpless grin, and men would fall over themselves laying their coats on puddles or bringing her lemonade. Growing up as her father's daughter, she'd had no problem with that. Power was power.

She had been all of nineteen years old before she even thought to look beyond that, to see that she had strengths that had nothing to do with her beauty, her father's position, or her mother's bloodline. It took five more years before she believed in that enough to break free.

She grew up knowing her place. But she'd be damned if anyone tried to shove her back in that box.

Okay, so that wasn't what she was really upset about, either. It wasn't even that Hawkes was in the brig, or that Tyler was gone and there was a good chance she wouldn't bother to come back, or even that there seemed to be no end to the war in sight.

She turned over, hugged her pillow and sighed, admitting to herself just what her problem was.

Who.

It was that man. Colonel TC McQueen.

She sighed again.

The daughter of a senator, she'd grown up surrounded by great men, potentially great men, and men striving to be great. She knew, better than most, how to tell who was which. How to separate the exceptional from the common, the commander from the flock.

Some enticed people and held them with promises--illusions of safety, wealth, contentment, delight. These promises didn't have to be spoken aloud, but they were there. Follow me and you'll be safe. Follow me and you'll be happy. Follow me and we'll win this war and you'll see your family again. Her father was such a man.

Some used their vision--dreams larger than life that swept lesser men away. Most of the time, it was the dream, not the dreamer, that led them. If the dreamer wasn't strong enough, the dream, would disintegrate and die, or would destroy them all.

Some people, like Morgan, could bind people by the sheer force of their will. Loners, forcibly shoved into a position of social responsibility, they led with violent authority--taking control as a means of survival, to keep the barriers in place.

And some, she knew, could lead simply because they had that indefinable quality, the soul, the something more that quietly commanded trust and obedience, and that pledged, if not safety, then purpose, and preached not glory, not useless sacrifice, but worth.

She had thought, had believed, that Colonel TC McQueen was such a leader, such a man. She'd be embarrassed to admit just how many time she'd watched that AFN video, even before learning that she would be going to the Saratoga. What would her squadmates think if they knew that it had been him, not them, that had so delighted her about the prospect of joining the 58th? They all thought it was Tyler. The truth was she admired Tyler, and would gladly lay down her life for her, but it was McQueen's serene gaze, his quiet strength, that had called her here.

She'd wanted to be part of something. And she wanted something, someone, to believe in.

She turned over once more and glared at the low ceiling.

What a disappointment he'd turned out to be.

Ah, well, she'd been disappointed before. She'd live.

That is, if they could keep from killing one another.

Hawkes unconsciously tapped his foot against the floor, counting off the seconds. I can do this, he thought. McQueen had said seventy-two hours. Sixty-two hours, sixteen minutes and twenty-two seconds had passed. Nine hours, forty-five minutes and thirty-eight seconds to go. I can do this.

He had to hand it to the Colonel. McQueen knew exactly what he was doing when he stuck him in here. He could never stand being cooped up. He hated small spaces, hated feeling trapped, caged, helpless.

He hated the silence, the tension, the feeling that everything was suspended, dead. It made him feel unreal, even more invisible than usual. It was a stupid feeling, since no one was around, but there it was.

It was hell, having all this time on his hands, with nothing but walls and the occasional glimpse of a sentry to distract him. Time to think, time to remember. Time to dwell on things that he would rather deny or ignore. Time and opportunity for thoughts--memories--to sneak in and play games with his sanity, his peace of mind.

Shane.

Tyler.

McQueen.

Tyler.

Things he didn't want to think about. Things he'd rather forget.

No, not forget. Just… put aside while he gathered strength.

McQueen, aside from that barked order to throw him in the brig, hadn't said a word to him. That scared him. McQueen had always been a little cool, trying so damn hard to stay aloof and untouched, but he'd convinced himself of a connection beyond that of CO and soldier. A unique relationship, perhaps borne out of their mutual fortunes. Both InVitros, both alone, both suited for nothing more than warfare. He had allowed himself to believe that they were two of a kind, sharing more than blood, more than genes. They shared a history. A destiny.

He had convinced himself of the same thing about Shane. Maybe she didn't love him the way he loved her, but he was nonetheless sure they shared something special. He wasn't sure what that relationship was, exactly--the one time he had tried to test it she had slapped him full on the face. It hadn't been with meanness, he knew that, just an unequivocal declaration and re-establishment of the boundaries he had crossed. Over time that relationship had grown, developed. Still indefinable, but undeniable. He had had faith that there was a chance someday she would let him be something more.

He had no such illusions about Tyler. There was no relationship there. Those weeks, that night--it had been one endless struggle. A contest. A fight.

He should be handling it better--his whole life had been about war, about fighting. That was what he knew best--heck, it was all he knew. But he didn't get the dynamics of this one. What were they fighting, what for? At the start he thought he knew. And that night he'd thought… So, you're saying it never happened. It happened. It just didn't mean anything.

Hell, he didn't know what he'd thought, or if he thought at all. Probably not. He'd said to hell with reason and allowed himself to be swept away by… By whatever it was. Besides, he hated thinking.

Hated it.

He hated worrying more, though. And being confused.

But the thing he hated most was being in here when everyone else was out there.

About a dozen hours ago the Saratoga had been under attack. The claxons had sounded, shattering the almost unbearable silence of his cell. Ross had called general quarters and the sentry had answered the call, leaving him alone, ignorant and extremely frustrated. If those bars hadn't been electrified he would have torn them off, regardless of the metal bolts that fused them to the floor. Outside his window he had seen the explosions, watched the squadrons battling the Chigs, frustration mounting with each impact, each hit that the Saratoga suffered. He had spent the better part of two hours alternating between watching the window and standing by the bars, waiting for someone to come and get him so he could join the fray. With Tyler gone and him locked up the 'Cards were flying two men short. They needed him.

He'd let them down once, he couldn't let them down again. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to them while he remained locked away.

But no one had come and soon the impacts had tapered off, and the battle had moved away. He had spent another half-hour standing by the window trying to catch a glimpse of the squadrons that had come home.

Cripes, he hated this. Something had to be wrong or Nathan would have come to see him by now. The guard had returned, finally, but wouldn't answer his questions. And the one that had replaced that guard hadn't been any help either. Hawkes guessed that McQueen had given instructions that no one was to talk to him, too.

Fitting punishment, alright.

I can do this, he thought again, looking back at the clock. Sixty-two hours, twenty-three minutes and forty-two seconds. Nine hours, thirty-eight minutes and eighteen seconds to go.

I can do this.

West needed a drink. A big one. A double big one.

He didn't think it could get worse, but of course it could. And had.

McQueen had just informed him, quite calmly and matter-of-factly, to prepare for the 'impending investigation' on their 'damned mess on Anvil.'

At first he could only stare at the Colonel in shock. The truth was he'd forgotten about it, so many things had happened since then--he thought the issue had been swept away by the events following the peace treaty. Turns out the Corps hadn't forgotten. They'd just been waiting for McQueen to return so the 58th could answer the charges as a squadron, as well as individuals. Which didn't make sense to Nathan at all, considering that Wang was dead and Vansen and Damphousse were… still unaccounted for.

But McQueen had been, was their CO. Rumor had it that the Colonel would be the one to face the court martial.

Which wasn't fair, since they were the ones who had screwed up.

Shit. What kind of game was the Corps playing, giving them back McQueen only to take him away again? To rush them back into active duty after the peace treaty only to yank them back out now and threaten to send them back to Earth in disgrace? After all they had done for this war, after all they had sacrificed?

No. He wouldn't let them do that, not to Wang or Vansen or Damphousse. He owed them that much. He wouldn't let them be disgraced. Neither would McQueen. He was sure of that if nothing else.

And as if that wasn't enough, Rain and Cullen were acting all strange on him, too. He should have known they'd give him problems. Tyler had said that they wouldn't but he should have known better than to take anything that woman had to say at face value. Hell, for all he knew she had pulled them aside and given them specific instructions to give him a hard time to get back at him for some imagined sin.

No, he didn't really believe that. Even absent she did a great job of that herself and didn't need any help.

It was just… It was this insane war. Every time he thought things were getting just a little better the war would turn around and bite him in the ass.

He had been looking forward to this. McQueen was back, Tyler was gone--it had seemed like a happy turn of events. With Tyler gone everything would settle down, possibly even level out to a certain degree of peace and normalcy.

And Colonel McQueen… West had honestly believed that once McQueen returned everything would be back to normal. Well, maybe not normal, but better. He'd been like a child who had placed unquestioning faith in the ability of the adult to make everything right. McQueen would fix everything, McQueen would make everything right.

Instead, the first thing McQueen had done after being released from sickbay was to throw Hawkes in the brig and then cloister himself with Ross in the war room. Obviously, his own two days in the medbay hadn't done much for McQueen because for the better part of two hours shouting had been heard outside, though the soundproofing had succeeded in at least muffling the actual words. Later, McQueen had stormed angrily out of the room, trailed by an equally angry Ross who had shouted "And don't think I won't throw you in the brig yourself if you don't start acting like a grownup!"

McQueen hadn't answered, instead walked away his face tightening into that unreadable, impenetrable mask West remembered from the early days of the war.

And now this. He wondered if that was what McQueen was so mad at them for, because of this court-martial that everyone seemed to think was going to be the main entertainment event of the year.

Himself, he couldn't even worry about that. Anvil seemed a million years ago and whatever punishment the brass would come up with, whatever rank or grade they would strip, it faded to nothing compared to what he and Hawkes had already lost.

But what was the point of making them face the charges as a team when the team no longer existed?

Nathan knew that once, McQueen's aloofness had been just a façade. Beneath that icy exterior had been a man who cared, and cared deeply. A man who led by example and who would place his life on the line for them, on a daily basis if need be. A man who'd fought for them, pushed them, gave them wings and kept them grounded. Heck, McQueen was the closest thing to a dad some of them knew. Shane's had died when she was very young, and Cooper had never had one.

He could still remember McQueen giving them hell about being too familiar, back in the old days. He'd hit them hard with that lecture and he'd been right. They'd forgotten that he was, first and foremost, their commander and that they were, above everything else, Marines. A lesson in distance, in detachment, that McQueen had tried so hard to hammer into their skulls… A lesson that had failed miserably.

But this distance was different. It was palpable, solid. Scary.

God, West thought. Why wasn't anything working out these days?

He used to be pretty good at managing his life. Practically everything he decided or got into worked out pretty well. Great family, breezed through school, won the heart of his one true love… he even got that position on the Tellus project without too much effort. All his life he'd had it good.

Then the Chigs had attacked and he'd watched the things in his life fall away, inexorably pulled into the black hole that was the war.

Kylen.

Neil.

Kelly Anne.

Paul.

Shane.

Vanessa.

 It was as if he had a list and life was crossing them out, one by one.

Who would be next?

Come to think of it, who was left?

McQueen looked over the four Marines standing at attention, trying to stamp down the overwhelming feeling of anger and disappointment. He had been looking forward to this. He had missed them. In the VA hospital, through those endless weeks, as the doctors fussed and poked and prodded with him with various devices of torture all he could think about was getting back here. To the war. To this ship. To his kids.

Nevermind that he'd be facing a court martial once he got back. He needed to be here.

He hadn't counted on how much it would hurt.

He couldn't even look straight at West and Hawkes for long. There was such blatant need, such naked hope in Hawkes' face that it was painful. And West, West looked at him with transparent faith. Relief. He could almost hear their thoughts, barely confined by their eyes.

Lead us.

Help us.

How could he? He couldn't help them when they really needed him. He couldn't help them on Demios, he couldn't help them after the aborted peace talks. Hell, he couldn't even help himself.

Save us.

Somewhere, he had crossed the line.

During his stint with the 127th he had been so careful to keep his distance. They had made it easy. As good a pilot as he was, as good a leader, as good as a team they had made, he was still a tank. It had been easy to keep clear of that line--between professionalism and friendship, between being comrades and family.

The 58th had been --was different. He had been surprised the first time he had thought of them as 'his kids.' He had accepted the fact that he would never become a father, resigned himself to being alone. Ironically, this war had given him a gift he never thought he'd receive. Somehow, with the 58th, that's what he had become. A father.

The 58th WildCards. The name alone brought a surge of pride. He loved them. No real father could have been prouder, could have worried more when they went out on assignments. When he'd learned about Wang, about Vansen and Damphousse, he had been devastated. Every other loss--his leg, the 127th, his wife--those had been hard. But the loss of those three kids…

He could still taste the fear, the bile that had risen up his throat when he'd seen those Chigs corner Hawkes. For one split second it had seem inevitable that his first official act back would be to give a eulogy for the younger InVitro. And to whom would he have sent the notice? Himself?

Hawkes' escape had been nothing short of miraculous, he knew that. And he didn't even believe in miracles. The relief that followed--dizzying. The truth was if Tyler hadn't beaten him to that tongue-lashing he would have shaken Hawkes till his eyeballs fell out.

He had never been so scared in his life.

That had brought home, again, just how close he had allowed himself to be to those five young men and women, to the two who remained. It was a mistake. He should never have left it happen.

And now they had dropped three more kids on him. Strangers.

He looked at his new 'kids.' Sarah Cullen. Jordan Rain. Looking at him with expressions of hope and expectancy. These kids wanted something from him and he didn't know what. Or if he could give it.

His non-existent leg twinged, as if reminding him again of his loss. It still pained him, the phantom and real pains mixing up in one indefinable mass, but not as much as his other pains did.

He wondered how much he could give to the Corps before he had nothing left to give. Before here was nothing left of him at all.

At least, he thought, he was spared the sight that would have hurt most.

He looked at the end of the line--Vansen's place. Vacant. Empty.

He'd been surprised to learn that his new Captain had taken herself off to parts unknown without trying to speak to him first. Urgent and necessary business, Glen had said. A priority one mission. Though he found the suddenness and the secrecy of her leaving unsettling, Ross had assured him that everything was fine. That the mission had been on the boards for months but had only just gotten the go signal, and that the mission in no way threatened or compromised the 58th's safety or status. That was all he'd say, end of discussion.

Damn it, even Glen seemed different.

They had all changed, he was a fool not to have expected that.

On some levels he was impressed. In the weeks he'd been gone they'd improved their game. They were faster, stronger, their responses sparer, more direct. They were already superb soldiers when he had left. Now, he was willing to bet that they'd be a match for anyone. He had to applaud the Captain who had managed that.

But on other levels…

This 58th didn't work like the other one had, there was no bond, no shining circle marking them as one team, one unit. There was an obvious, though invisible, line running down the center dividing them in two. Not that they didn't work well together. There was just something missing, something that kept them from gelling.

They reminded him of… of the 127th. The Angry Angels. Perfect on paper. Perfect instincts, perfect technique, perfect record. But they weren't a family.

Right now, facing what he was supposed to do, feeling what he was feeling, he wasn't even sure that wasn't a good thing.

The other way hurt too much.

"The planet Nyx," he announced, gesturing towards the star chart on the wall of the Ready Room. "It holds Oodwae, one of our biggest storage facilities in this region. The crew of Oodwae have been on planet for the last two hundred and eighty days. Their relief was scheduled to land today, but they've been delayed. It'll take at least another three days. Since the crew of the Oodwae facility have already stayed on planet an extra thirty days, Command believes that postponing their departure again would trigger unrest, possibly mutiny. These people are barely holding on, people. We can't delay their departure any longer. Your mission, Five-Eight, is to safeguard this facility till the cavalry arrives."

"Sir," West raised his hand. "I don't think the 5-8 is suited to actually manning a storage facility." 's s "Said facility will be shut tight and sealed down in preparation for the change of personnel. In fact, there's an energy shield surrounding the facility to make sure it stays secure. You people won't even need to see the inside of this facility. All you need to do is patrol the perimeter and make sure everything stays secure."

"Sentry duty," Cullen mouthed to Rain as McQueen walked past her, rolling her eyes in disgust.

McQueen nodded towards the other group of soldiers attending the briefing. "You'll be joined on this mission by a unit from the 12th Marine Force Recon, headed by 2nd Lieutenant Reese --"

"Colonel." This time it was Rain who raised his hand. "We heard that there's going to be some activity in the Chamdar region. Wouldn't the 58th be of better use there?"

Nathan almost winced at Jordan's question. He'd asked practically the same question once, when they were being sent down to Icarus and had received one of McQueen's signature icy glares.

McQueen was giving Rain that same glare now. "The Corps will decide where you'll be useful," he retorted. "You have your assignment. You leave in two hours."

"Sir…" Cooper's voice was tentative.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" McQueen asked impatiently.

"Will you be joining us on this one, Sir?"

McQueen's expression didn't change. "Do you perhaps need a tour guide on this mission, Lieutenant? Your hand held, maybe?"

"No, Sir, I just thought…"

"Ordinarily, the Corps likes that in a soldier," interjected McQueen. "As long as it's not overdone. Two hours, Lieutenants. Be ready."

"I can't believe Colonel McQueen is making us do sentry duty," complained Cullen after their Izzy had taken off.

"We're all in this together," West pronounced. "Any assignment is just as important as another in the war effort."

"What a crock," muttered Cullen under her breath.

"Excuse me?"

"It just seems to me," she began disdainfully, "that the new squadrons are getting all the fun while we're either stuck in our quarters or doing grunge work."

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "You used to like grunge work," he said curtly. "You were excited when they sent us off to Styx on that damn scavenger hunt. All of a sudden you're too good for ground work?"

"Cullen doesn't do 'still and quiet' very well," interceded Rain. "That's all. She doesn't mind the work, she just doesn't like the idea of standing around keeping quiet. And speaking of quiet, I recommend you both keep your voices down. The 12th can hear you."

Nathan looked over to the 12th Force unit's part of the APC, who apparently were having problems of their own.

"Man, can you believe who they stuck us with?" a soldier asked in an exaggerated whisper.

"Hush up, Hops, Any louder and I'll have you on restrictions."

"But Sir," Private Hops protested. "A nipple-neck?"

"It's not the tank I'm worried about," muttered another soldier. "Sir, I'm from North Carolina and I'm telling you, you can't trust Indians."

"And what about the little princess herself?" Corporal Kerrigan growled and jerked her thumb in Cullen's direction "Her nose up in the air, acting like she's not supposed to get her pretty party dress dirty."

"And what's your complaint about Lieutenant West?" asked 2nd Lieutenant Reese dryly. "Come on, might as well get the list over with."

"Too whitebread," Sergeant Saliers muttered sotto voce, brown eyes twinkling.

"That's it?" Reese asked, raising one eyebrow mockingly. "Couldn't come up with anything more imaginative?"

"Come on, Lieutenant, admit it," wheedled another corporal. "You're just as pissed off as we are about being stuck with a bunch of pilots. These guys wouldn't last two days in the bush and you know it. That lieutenant can't even control his own team, for Christ's sake!"

"I know I'm too smart to insult a superior officer when he's within earshot," responded Reese pointedly. "And I thought you people were, too. Remember, there's more than one way to commit suicide in this war. This," he said, gesturing around the APC's cabin, "is nothing. It's four days. We're 12th Force Recon. We can handle anything for four days. Even pilots."

"Leave them alone, Nathan," Rain halted West as he stood up and started towards the 12th. "They're just kids."

"Insubordinate FNKs who need to watch their mouths," growled Nathan.

"Why? Because they haven't heard of the great 58th squadron and are therefore not in awe of you?"

"They're insulting you, too."

"They just don't want to be here, same as us." He nodded towards the group, who were already starting to settle down. "They're just sounding off."

West glared at Rain, really annoyed at the lecturing tone. "You always have to be the voice of reason, don't you?" he almost sneered.

"Yes," Rain answered. "And I'm getting really tired of it."

"What's our latest ETA?"

Hawkes fought to hide a grin. That was the third time Cullen had asked that question in the last half an hour.

"You'll never survive actual combat if you're this twitchy," he commented quietly.

"'Twitchy'?" Despite herself Cullen's mouth turned up at the corners in amusement.

"Yeah, twitchy," Hawkes grinned back. "Rain's right. You've got to learn how to sit still and be quiet."

"Hey, I've had survival training," she protested. "I can hide in the bush as well as the next person."

"Basic training, maybe," he conceded. "But no specialized training."

"You don't know that," she sulked.

"I can tell," he answered dryly. "What if you were out of ammo, hiding behind some rocks, or in some bushes, with about a dozen Chigs headed your way? What would you do?"

"Jump them?" she guessed brightly.

"A dozen armed Chigs? Get serious."

"Run away?"

"You'd get maybe two steps. Not to mention a court-martial. Sometimes you just have to hide and wait things out."

"You?" There was more than a little skepticism in Cullen's voice. "Hiding and waiting?"

Hawkes shrugged. "Sometimes that's the only option you got. Once, I was on this planet alone…"

"Alone?"

"It was a Black Ops mission. Classified. Anyway, my… partner… had been killed, and I was all alone on a planet full of Chigs while I waited for extraction." What Hawkes remembered of the Tigris mission was sketchy, at best. He'd been wounded, exhausted, and suffering from exposure. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't imagined everything. To his mind the experience had been strangely horrific, and yet fraught with meaning. "At one time, I was hiding in some bushes and I saw this bird in the sky--it was beautiful. I guess I got distracted 'cause the next thing I knew there were Chigs around me. One of them even got close enough to touch."

He remembered now that the same Chig had been looking at the same bird he had been, also distracted. Back then, that had been a strangely captivating moment, making him feel like him and the Chig weren't quite so different after all. There had been another moment, actual contact that had touched and surprised him, gave him hope. But that moment had been a trick, a lie like everything else. Like Anvil. Like the peace treaty.

"What happened?" prompted Cullen, jolting Hawkes out of the memory.

Cooper shrugged. "I just froze, literally. Didn't move, didn't breathe, but my heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle the Chig didn't hear it. Anyway, the point is sometimes all you can do is sit and wait."

"Wait for what?" she asked.

"For an opening. For a better chance. For something to change."

"What if things don't change?" she asked. "How long are you supposed to wait?"

He hadn't thought of that. Or rather, the question, the posing of it, took him by surprise.

How long are you supposed to wait?

"Good question," he answered, thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Things always change, Sarah. Whether or not you want them to."

As soon as the last APC carrying the last of the facility's crew was out of sight the 12th launched into action.

"Sir, permission to sweep and secure the area. Since the facility has a cleared radius of less than a klick a 10-K perimeter sweep should be enough. We'll be forming four teams, led by myself, Sergeant Krieger, Corporals Kerrigan and Macy--we've got two hours before dark--that should give us plenty of time." He nodded towards four marines who had separated themselves from the main group. "Corporal Lancing, Privates Liu, Hops and Jameson will stay here and set up the command center, after which they'll set up patrol around the area. We'll be keeping radio discipline but checking in every 30 mikes."

Lieutenant Reese's tone was polite but perfunctory, obviously following protocol for the sake of following protocol. Nathan nodded his permission and the 12th broke up into their pre-assigned teams.

"I feel like shouting after them not to forget their sweaters," murmured Cullen as Lieutenant Reese and the rest disappeared into the trees. "And to be back before dark."

"Huh?" asked Hawkes, confused.

She dimpled up at him, and patted him on the cheek. "Don't worry, Sweetie, you'll always be my baby."

Hawkes blinked, but decided to let it go.

"In the meantime, someone explain to me why I feel like I'm on the set of a B movie that has 'Escape From' somewhere in it's title," commented Sarah.

"A what movie?" asked Hawkes.

"Look at that," continued Cullen, gesturing towards the building. "That thing looks like Salvador Dali's version of Fort Knox. A huge yellow monstrosity."

"Actually, Ma'am, that's a state-of the-art lead-based alloy lined with a special heat-sensitive coated glass," offered Hops. "It's sienna in the hot sun, reflecting and blending with the color of the ground. As it grows darker, so will the color of the facility."

"Whoever did design it did a good job," commented Hawkes. "You couldn't even see it from the air."

"The brass probably got tired of Chigs bombing our facilities and decided to make this one extra secure," stated Rain. "The only thing I don't like about it is the trees are too close. That's only about a dozen meters to the tree line. If the Chigs attacked on foot we wouldn't see them till it was too late."

"That's why Reese is sweeping the area, Sir," interjected Private Jameson. "Though you shouldn't worry. Our Intel says that the Chigs aren't aware we have a facility on this planet."

"If you ask me that thing seems way overdone for a warehouse," said Sarah "What are they storing in this place anyway?"

"Lieutenant West," interrupted Corporal Lancing. "We've got the communication center set up and are ready to contact the Saratoga to test the link."

"We'll be right there, Corporal," agreed West.

"Eight minutes," noted Rain. "Very efficient."

"Hormones," provided Cullen, grinning. "Gives them all that extra energy." She sighed, forlornly. "I feel so old."

The next half-hour was spent sending a landing report and organizing the rest of their base of operations. Everything seemed to be going smoothly and West had resigned himself to the idea of spending four peaceful, albeit boring, days uselessly patrolling an empty warehouse. Slightly insulting, but what the hell. A few more days of rest wouldn't hurt any of them.

"I wonder why they couldn't let us in the facility," mused Sarah, as she helped the 12th set up. "At least we'd be warm. Out of the wind."

"It's simpler this way, Lieutenant," answered Private Hops. "Less things to worry about."

The sudden crackling of the communication unit interrupted them.

"Base, this is Storm," came Sergeant Krieger's grim voice over the radio. "Rider, suggest all teams return to base. We've found something and it looks like trouble. Storm out."

"I thought I'd find you here."

Lieutenant Colonel TC McQueen looked away from the observation window with a small self-conscious smile. "I always seem to be doing this."

"No," Commodore Ross answered, also smiling. "Only when the 5-8 is out there."

McQueen sighed and turned his attention back to the window.

The Commodore placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "It's just four days. They'll be back before you know it."

McQueen didn't respond.

"First you shout at me, now the silent treatment," commented Ross wryly.

That got McQueen's attention. "Commodore, once again I apologize again for my behavior in the war room."

Ross nodded. "Next time you get the urge I suggest you remember that you have an entire squadron you can scream at." He moved closer, leaned back on the glass and made himself more comfortable. "I've been trying to catch you alone since you got here. What's the news from earth?"

"Sir, you've clearance to more information than I do."

Commodore Ross sighed impatiently. "You know what I mean."

McQueen was silent for a moment. "Hayden is pushing for peace. At any cost."

A brief snort of disgust. "An euphemism for surrender."

"Yes."

"Is anyone listening?"

"Not yet, but she's gaining ground." McQueen turned troubled eyes to Ross. "Three weeks ago CNN covered students protesting outside the UN building in New York. They were broadcasting the Chig Ambassador's speech over loudspeakers. They're saying this war is our fault."

"I won't even ask how they got it," Ross growled. "Damn kids have seen too many alien movies. They seem to have forgotten that the only verified contacts were when they massacred our colonists."

"It's another world down there," agreed McQueen. "It's a war of words, not blood. And the media is winning." He sighed again. "Things never change, do they?"

"Never," agreed Ross. "So, will she help us?"

McQueen nodded somberly. "She knows she owes us. And she owes the 58th."

"Then that's all we need," answered Ross. "Between you and me we can make this thing disappear."

"It won't be that easy. She'll want something in return. "

"Of course. Never let it be said that Diane Hayden doesn't know how to play the game."

"They'll be sending investigators. Soon."

"This thing is a joke," growled Ross. "The only ones who want it are the bureaucrats who inherited this war. They don't have the slightest idea."

McQueen shrugged. "It makes them feel less helpless. In control. Action, even misdirected, is better than standing by doing nothing."

Commodore Ross snorted in disgust. "Dammit, we don't have time for this. But as you said, things never change. We have to have at least the appearance of giving tribute." He shook his head. "As if our jobs weren't hard enough." He looked at McQueen then. "How about you? How are you doing?"

"Functional. A little rusty in the joints."

Ross gave a sharp bark of laughter that belied his worry. "Aren't we all. Getting too old for this, hmmm?"

For the first time there was a glimmer of a smile in McQueen's eyes. "Speak for yourself, Sir."