When Vansen finally found McQueen, he was in his office, bent over a pile of requisitions.

"Story time over?" he growled, scowling at the intrusion.

Vansen refused to be intimidated. "I doubt it, sir," she replied mildly, winning herself a small twitch of a smile. "I, uh, brought you our 'after action' reports." She handed across a small sheaf of papers she had had the foresight to pick up on her way to find him, expecting she needed some excuse for hunting him up, or she would look pretty foolish. "The network link is down."

And these could have waited, thought McQueen as he took them from her. He eyed her warily. "Thank you, Vansen." She made no move to go. "Is there anything else?"

Vansen nodded. She waited a beat, then, "I read his series on Guatemala, sir," she said abruptly. "About the In Vitro platoons."

McQueen just looked at her for a moment. His inclination was to deflect her, to avoid this discussion. But he knew the comment sprang from personal concern, and her concern touched him. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I take it my slip is showing?" he quipped dryly.

Vansen smiled. "A little bit," she agreed, trying not to blush. "It's, uh, been obvious that you've been avoiding him, sir." And us, because of it, she did not add. McQueen nodded.

"Patrick hates In Vitros. And I don't like him, much, either. But it doesn't concern you, Vansen."

It was a dismissal, but Vansen stood her ground. "With all due respect, sir," she challenged, "I think it does concern me." McQueen just looked at her, startled. She hurried on before he could cut her off. "If Patrick just hates In Vitros, then why is he being so nice to Coop? I don't like the things he's saying. To the others. I don't know why, but it's almost as if he was trying to undermine your authority with us, for some reason."

"That worries you?"

"It pisses me off," Vansen replied flatly.

McQueen smiled. He could not help it, a warm rush of feeling filled him, suddenly, and his face just crinkled up, all on its own. He glanced down at the desk top. Then he got some control over his expression and looked back up at her.

"You don't need to defend my honor, Vansen," he said, but the words were grateful. "But thank you." He sighed a little. This was not territory he wanted to explore, but he had come to trust this young woman, and he felt he owed her some explanation. "There's bad blood between us," he agreed, "over something that happened in Guatemala, years ago during the AI rebellion. After I got out of solitary, I was sent to the front. I was with the platoons there. I... saw some things, there, that might become an embarrassment to Patrick if they ever got out. But it's not your problem, Vansen. Don't worry about it unless you think it's starting to effect team unity. I can handle Frank Patrick."

"Maybe I've got my own reasons for not trusting him," Vansen answered him softly. McQueen narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not worried about Frank Patrick driving a wedge into the Fifty Eighth, Shane," he said. "We've been together too long, and we've been through too much. Enjoy his stories if you want to, he tells good ones. It's his job. But if he says or does *anything* to offend you, or anyone else, I want to know about it. Immediately."

His words were quiet, evenly spoken. But the force behind them made Vansen swallow before she answered. "Yes, sir."

McQueen eyed her a moment longer, but when she did not offer anything further, he nodded a dismissal. "Good night, Vansen."

"Good night, sir."

"Could you believe that, what Frank was telling us about Earth Forces command over on Cora?" Paul Wang asked from his bunk in the Wild Cards wardroom a couple of afternoons later.

"No wonder those guys are gettin' their asses whipped." It was Hawkes who agreed. West hung over the side of his bunk and looked down.

"If it's true, which I doubt," he said. Wang looked over at him, his expression somewhere between belligerence and curiosity.

"Why would he lie?"

"Yeah," Hawkes agreed.

"Oh, come on. Look, the guy's a reporter. It's his job to tell stories, blow things up bigger than they really are. Don't get me wrong, I like him, too, and I think his stories are funny. I just wouldn't accept everything he says as gospel, that's all."

"Like the brass is gonna tell us everything?" Hawkes challenged. "They're not exactly lettin' us know what's goin' on around here..."

"We get told what we need to know," West replied tiredly. He was still not feeling one hundred percent. His fever was gone but he was wiped out from it, and the though docs had mended the bones in his foot, there was still residual pain. "McQueen has never lied to us. If he doesn't know something, or can't tell us, he says so. I don't think the commodore has ever lied to us, either."

"That doesn't mean everybody's tellin' the truth," said Hawkes, who was not ready to give up.

West just shook his head. "Whatever."

"Frank's meeting us in the Tavern tonight, around 19:30," Wang interrupted the argument. "West, you goin'?"

"I don't know," West replied. "See how I feel. I'd like to..."

Shane Vansen had kept quiet up to this point, listening to her squad mates argue about Patrick, and trying to shut the nagging memories that assailed her into some less accessible part of her brain. They would not go away, though, and the others' bickering was not helping. And even if she had managed to shut them out, mostly, during the day, they came back at night, her father's voice demanding to know if "it was over," if she was "still in contact with him," her mother's voice insisting that "that was finished a long time ago." There was no longer any doubt in Vansen's mind what she was remembering. The realization made her ill. And, for some inexplicable reason, it frightened her, too. As if some part of her stability was being threatened. She did not know what to do.

Part of her current mood, she knew, sprang from the tension born of just sitting around waiting for something to happen. It had been over a week since they had returned from Delores Prime, and, while she knew that the brass was in heavy conference over what was to be done, they still did not know when, or even if, they were going back in. The waiting bred a lot of frayed tempers, and hers was frayed more than usual. In a way she supposed she ought to have been grateful to Patrick for distracting the 'Cards. She was not; if anything she despised him all the more for it. And she found she could no longer sit there and listen to her friends debate the relative merits of Frank Patrick's personality and veracity.

"Listen to yourselves," she said angrily, sitting up on her bunk. "You'd think you'd just found your long lost best friend, and the whole damned USO, to hear you guys talk. He's just a reporter, for God's sake. You don't even know him. You met him a week ago, and you follow him around like a bunch of puppies, hang on his every word like he was... quotin' the Holy Bible or something..." she shook her head.

Hawkes, who was not sure what a bible was or why he would want one with holes in it, kept quiet. Wang, however, was not so willing to let the challenge pass.

"So what's your beef, Vansen," he asked her. "How come you hate the guy, so much? You just met him, too."

"I don't hate him," Vansen sighed. "I just don't see what the big attraction is."

"Oh, come on. You hardly go near the guy. Lately, whenever we ask you to join us, it's like you can't get away from his fast enough."

"Is it because he knew your parents?" Hawkes asked with a sudden flash of perspicacity. Vansen lunged to her feet.

"Look, just... mind your own business, will you? Leave me alone." She darted for the door, but Wang caught her before she got there.

"Shane..."

She tried to jerk away from him, then sagged suddenly, and Wang was shocked to see her eyes were filled with tears.

"Is that it?" he asked gently. "Does he remind you of your parents? Is that what's bothering you?"

Vansen did not answer. She did not know what to say. How could she tell them they were right, in a way, but it was not what they thought it was. Better to tell them nothing and let them think what they would. Frank Patrick would not remain on the Saratoga forever. She hoped.

The hatch popped open, suddenly, scaring all of them. Vansen jumped away from Wang, and tried to organize her face into some semblance of order. She wished there was some way she could wipe the tears off without looking obvious.

McQueen stepped part way into the room. "Mission brief in twenty mikes," he barked. "Look alive." He looked over at Nathan. "West, you're to sit in on the briefing. Then report to sick bay, they're waiting for you. Whether or not you go on this one depends on what the doctors say."

West nodded. McQueen gave another quick look around, then his eyes settled on Vansen's face and narrowed thoughtfully. For a moment it looked like he might say something, then he turned and left.

Hawkes followed him out with his eyes. "It's happenin'" he said quietly, F. X. Patrick now forgotten.

"Yeah," Wang agreed. "Whatever it is..."

The look on Vansen's face had surprised McQueen, there had been no question of that. She had been crying, he was sure of it, and Wang had looked damn guilty standing beside her. Well, whatever they had been fighting about, he hoped they got it settled in the next twenty minutes; he needed them alert and focused for this briefing.

The truth was, contention among the Wild Cards always took McQueen by surprise. He was spoiled and he knew it, but his unit, especially the kids who had been together since The Belt, so rarely quarreled that those occasions when they were at odds caught him off guard. True, replacements occasionally got into trouble, until they learned what was what. And McQueen was also sure the 'Cards must bicker amongst themselves once in a while. No group could live under such conditions, in such close quarters, without disagreements. But he was rarely aware of them. In fact, there had been very few serious confrontations since West and Hawkes had stopped pawing the ground at each other over a year ago.

Well, whatever was going, he trusted them to resolve it. He had things he needed to do before the briefing. And since his path took him right by Sick Bay, he also wanted to take a few minutes to check on Damphousse. He was pleased with the reports he had gotten about her progress; the doctors had gotten her on her feet within twenty four hours, and the physical therapist expected to release her for light duty in few days. Such were the miracles of accelerated healing therapy.

The research that had found the cure for AIDS, and many cancers, in the early twenty-first century, had taught the medical profession much about the human body's immune system and natural healing processes. That knowledge had fueled many initiatives - among them tissue cloning and the In Vitro program, but the most useful development, for every day living, was probably accelerated healing. Injuries that once took months to heal could now be mended in weeks, illnesses that once required major recuperation could be turned around in a matter of days. Now, thought McQueen, sourly, if they could just come up with some better solution for his damaged inner ear than a devise that permanently grounded him. Nonetheless, he knew that it was a minor miracle that West might well be back in action already, whereas, fifty years ago, he would have been out of the war for weeks. And Damphousse could be back to full combat status from a bullet wound in as little as a month.

But she would not be going out with them tomorrow, that was sure. McQueen regretted that; Damphousse was their best rifleman after Hawkes, and you just never knew when having a trained engineer among you could come in handy. 'Phousse had pulled them out of some close spots before. Still, it could not be helped. She would be with them for the next one. Or the one after that. He pushed through the swinging doors of the sick bay's acute care section, and was struck immediately by the sound of angry voices. Frowning, he walked into Damphousse's ward.

"What's the problem here?"

They all turned to look at him: Damphousse, on her feet and agitated, a doctor, a couple of nurses. No one looked particularly happy.

"Sir, Lt. Damphousse insists..." the doctor started. Damphousse did not even let him get the words out.

"Sir. I want to go."

McQueen did not ask her what she was talking about. Nor did he ask himself how she knew about this mission she would not be going on. There were no secrets on a carrier unless one was very, very careful. Instead, he just gestured to the others to leave them alone. For a moment, the doctor looked like he might argue, then he nodded for the nurses to follow him out. McQueen waited until the doors swung shut behind them.

"Damphousse. You're wounded..." he began sternly. And then a voice in the back of his mind said 'You're grounded, Ty,' and he relented. He knew what she was feeling. He knew the hell of being left behind.

"Sir..."

McQueen held up his hand to stop her protest but she keep on, too upset to be denied a hearing. "Sir. I can't stay here. Look, I'm up, I'm walking around. I want to go with you..."

"No, Lieutenant," he replied. "I'm sorry..."

"Colonel..." She almost shouted at him in her distress.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

"Sir," her voice lower, but still insistent, still not ready to give up.

"At ease." McQueen was firm, but he was not angry. Before him, the young woman slumped, dejected. But McQueen could tell by the look in her eyes that it was not yet a surrender. The realization almost made him smile.

"Damphousse, the doctors have told us that it will be several more days, maybe a week, yet, before you can even return to light duty..." he began reasonably. "You're not ready..."

"Sir, I know I can do this," she insisted. "I'm just stiff and sore, it will work itself out. I'm all right, really."

"No, you're not. And you know it. You may feel pretty good here, now, in sick bay with all the drugs they're pumping into you. But you're not fit for the stress and physical demands of combat. If you come with us, you'll be a liability. You know this, Damphousse..." And then the voice in the back of his head spoke again, saying 'If you go out there like this, Ty..." and a second voice added 'Sir, ask yourself, and then answer...' The memory made him a little sad. But it also made him kind. Putting a hand on the girl's shoulder, he steered her toward the bed, and sat down beside her. He cleared his throat, then hesitated, looking for the words. Damphousse watched him warily out of the corner of her eye.

"I know what you're feeling, Vanessa," McQueen started. "I understand what you're going through, right now. I know what it's like to be forced to stay behind and wait. And worry."

Something in his words, his tone, finally got through to her, because when she looked at him this time, her eyes were damp, but there was understanding in them. She sighed and looked at her hands.

"I hate this, sir," she said after a moment. McQueen nodded.

"I know." He resisted the urge to touch her, comfort her. "But it can't be helped. You know that. You have to give yourself some time. You're too important a member of this unit - I won't risk you foolishly, even if the doctors would okay you, which they won't."

She was quiet for a moment, thinking, and he let her be. Then she turned and looked at him. "Come back."

How many times had he said the same thing to them? How heartbreaking was it always to wonder if they would be able. Shattering the time he believed they had not, she had not? It took him a minute to find his voice.

"We will, Vanessa. You just worry about getting better. We need you with us. Whole and healed." And then he did reach over and close his hand around her wrist, squeezing gently.

"Good luck, sir."

There was nothing he could say. Thank you sounded too hollow. He just nodded, then stood up. He left without looking back at her sitting there, not to sure of his own grip on his emotions in that moment.

And if he did not hurry, he was going to be late for the brief.

He almost did not make it.

"Atten-hut!"

McQueen came to a halt before the orientation room's central lectern and snapped to attention as Commodore Ross entered the room. He turned slightly and watched the other man out of the corner of his eye as the rest of the room came to its feet. Ross looked drawn, he thought, but resolved.

"Be seated," the commodore said. There was a collective shuffle of feet and desk tops as the room sat back down. McQueen shifted at ease, and took a moment to look around. They were playing to a capacity crowd; besides those Marines seated and waiting, the walls were lined with standees on three sides of this, the Saratoga's largest, briefing room. No question about it, they were pulling out all the stops. Then he saw Frank Patrick at the back of the room, and McQueen stiffened sharply. What the hell was *he* doing there... But there was no time to speculate. Or get angry. Ross cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to the commodore.

"In exactly one hour and fifteen minutes," he began evenly, "Operation Sandstorm will begin. You, here in this room, will spearhead that effort. You are the key to its success. I don't need to tell you about the battle below us - many of you have already been down there, many of you are wondering, now, why you have been kept back here, or why you have not been returned to the planet's surface." He looked around, carefully scrutinizing each still face before him, finding eyes that looked back at him with quiet consideration. Despite his weariness, Ross felt a sudden thrill of pride, and excitement, even hope as he looked around the room. These were the very best - his people. If this brave plan had any chance at all to succeed, these were the men and women who could make it happen. He was sure of it.

"To date," he continued, "our combined Earth Forces troops on planet have been unable to overcome enemy resistance. The Chigs have dug into positions along points A and C," he gestured at the map behind him, "forcing our resupply and rearmament to come in the long way across the barrens - leaving us out in the open and vulnerable to enemy shelling and sniper fire. Nearly a third of our reinforcements never make it to the front lines. Air support is only marginally successful since the Chigs have secured themselves in a network of underground caverns running along these ridges. Nothing we have attempted, to this point, has been successful at routing them out.

"Therefore, there has been a change in tactics." Ross paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "If this battle is to be won - and it *must* be won - then it must be won hand to hand, one Chig at a time, over hard ground. We throw everything we have at them, overwhelm the enemy, and flush him out of his rabbit hole once and for all. This is your task. This is your charge. You must succeed.

"ISSCVs will launch in one hour. They will drop you along the far side of George Ridge, just behind the greatest concentration of enemy forces. You will attack, and you will not let up until the enemy has been driven into retreat. Day and night. For as long as it takes. You must prevail. There can be no holding back."

It was a pep talk, not a serious relation of strategy - their individual commanders would be responsible for putting each unit into the picture. Ross' sole goal was to fire them up, and to take their measure. What he saw pleased him deeply. Eyes looked back at him, steady in their commitment, even though he knew they must understand that a large percentage of them would not survive. This was the worst kind of fighting they were going into, bloody, exhausting, hand to hand combat - the kind where modern weaponry was of limited use. This one would be a real knife fight. Literally. And yet, they sat there, nodding slightly in comprehension, waiting for him to turn them loose. Primed, sure. Ross felt a sudden tightness at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, then glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand, and sighed. He shot a look sideways, to where McQueen was standing impassively, staring out at the room. With a sudden sense of guilty foreboding, Ross almost wished he could change his mind about this last bit of business. He pursed his lips, then took a breath.

"There is one more item. Many of you are already aware of the fact that correspondent F.X. Patrick has been a guest on board this ship for the last several days. Mr. Patrick was rescued from the planet below several days ago, and has since requested permission to return to the fighting. Permission has been granted - he will descend with the assault troops - returning on planet with you." He shoved the paper into his pocket and crossed his hands behind his back stiffly.

"Oh-ka-hey. Dismissed."

Beside him, Ross saw McQueen straighten up sharply. The colonel shot him a disbelieving look, then turned and stared at the man across the room from them. He spun suddenly, and nearly bolted out of the room.

He could have let him go. He probably should have let him go. With a sigh, the commodore followed, determined to get to the bottom of this, once and for all. McQueen was alone in the ISSCV loading bay when Ross finally found him.

"Do you want to tell me what this is really all about?"

McQueen turned and found the commodore staring at him from the hatchway, leaning against the bulkhead, arms across his chest. He did not look angry, but the man did look determined. McQueen turned his back and continued his task, buttoning up the gear. Pulling hard on a cinch strap, he secured the pack in his hands and tossed it into the ISSCV cargo hold. Coming up beside him, suddenly, Ross repeated the process on a second bag. McQueen turned.

"I haven't forgotten how to do it, Ty," Ross said pointedly. "I haven't forgotten what it's like..."

McQueen surrendered. He leaned forward against the gear and hung his head.

"Talk to me, Colonel," Ross insisted.

McQueen hesitated. "It happened in Guatemala," he replied. "I watched Frank Patrick roll over a bunker full of wounded, and half a dozen unarmed corpsmen. Betrayed them to the AIs to save his own life."

Ross did not react, visibly. "What happened," he simply asked.

McQueen hesitated. "We were in the mountains. The AIs were right behind us, closing on our flank. We had wounded with us, and they were slowing us down. If we kept them with us, the AIs would have had us in an hour, so a group of corpsmen volunteered to stay behind with them, up in the caves, until we could send reinforcements. The company commander agreed, though I don't think he liked it. He left my platoon to guard them.

"I don't know if it was bad luck or incompetence, but somehow Patrick must have gotten separated from the rest of the company, because the AIs picked him up. I guess he must have told them about the wounded, because he came up with the AI patrol. Point out the hiding place. I was look out. I saw him. And just before they knocked him out, he saw me. The AIs let him live, I don't know why. They did that, sometimes. I sounded the alarm, but there were too many of them and too few of us. Those tanks who survived beat it into the jungle. We made it back to our regiment, eventually, but not before we heard the screams of those unarmed, defenseless men and women who were being slaughtered on their litters. Those of us who made it back were disciplined for abandoning our position. Patrick must have hooked up with some other battalion, because I never saw him again, until we found him on Delores Prime. But I knew he survived, because shortly thereafter he started to publish his series of articles vilifying the In Vitro platoons..."

McQueen looked at Ross, his eyes reflecting both pain and hatred. "I've been thinking a lot, lately, about those butchered men, sir," he said. "I've tried to be courteous. As ordered. But I don't want that son-of-a-bitch anywhere near my people, Commodore. Not down there, where it counts."

Commodore Ross let out a slow breath. "You never told anyone." It was not a question and he did not expect an answer. Of course McQueen, a young In Vitro bare weeks out of solitary confinement, had not told anyone. To accuse a natural born of such a heinous act would have been worth his life. Especially a man as well loved and respected as F. X. Patrick. But Ross also knew that the omission ate at his friend as much as McQueen's hatred for Patrick. That it was McQueen's own sense of culpability that was tearing the man up, now.

He did not know what to say. To speak up, now, to prevent Patrick's landing after permission had already been granted, would mean dragging up an incident almost fifteen years old, to which the only witness was a war hero and the highest ranking In Vitro in the combined armed forces. The brass would not thank him for that. And more to the point, the ensuing scandal would be shattering at a time when they could ill afford it. And he knew McQueen knew this.

"What do you want me to do?"

McQueen just shook his head. Ross pursed his lips and swore to himself that he would deal with this, one way of the other, as soon as this battle was over. Reaching out, he clasped McQueen hard on the shoulder. Then he turned and walked out.

Had she been pressed to provide a reasonable answer, Vansen would not have been able to explain what driving impulse sent her after Frank Patrick's retreating form rather than back to the Wild Cards' wardroom, as they all left the briefing room. She should have gone back with them, her responsibility was to her squad mates, to be with them in this time before battle. Even though there was little for her to do - her gear was packed and ready, always, she just needed a moment to don her battle garb and grab her rifle. The rest of the equipment would already be down by the ISSCV, waiting to be loaded. She had plenty of time.

She needed to know. She knew she might not survive this one. Or he might not. Or he might not come back to the Saratoga, and she would never have this chance again. To ask him. To learn the truth.

Patrick turned left down the passageway, and Vansen lost sight of him. Not wanting to shout in close quarters - she did not want to draw the Wild Cards' attention - she ducked into a narrow connector, both hoping to lose the 'Cards and to head Patrick off. She came out in the adjoining passageway. Directly in Frank Patrick's path.

"Sir!" she barked sharply, startled by his sudden appearance. Patrick pulled up and stared down at her.

"Vansen, jezus. You scared me."

"I'm sorry," Vansen fumbled. She took a step closer. "I need to talk to you."

Patrick took a step back. So it was finally happening. The moment he had been longing for, and dreading, was finally here. There was so much he wanted to say to this girl, and at the same time, he did not want to tell her anything, he wanted to knock her down, run away from her. Race back down to the battle below him and forget all about talking to her. He did not want the burden of her righteous judgment. And he knew she would judge him. Just as he knew what it was she wanted. He felt a sudden panic.

"Don't you need to... go pack or clean your gun or something?" he stuttered, knowing how stupid he sounded, even as the words left his mouth. "We've only got fifty mikes."

Vansen glared at him with something like disgust. "My gear is ready," she replied flatly. "Including my rifle." She emphasized the last word slightly - no Marine ever referred to her weapon as a 'gun'. "I want to ask you something."

Patrick could see the need in her eyes, then, and he knew there was no denying her. He felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach, and then, just as suddenly, the knot released. He would tell her. Of course he would tell her. My God, he thought, she looks so much like Marion, like Molly. The same full, sensual mouth that belied the predatory ferocity of her eyes. The dizzying juxtaposition of voluptuousness and life-taking steel. A heart that would give everything. Everything but the one thing. A will that would not be denied. Frank Patrick knew he could not go back on planet to that battle until he shared with this girl the thing she wanted to know. He wanted, he needed, to tell her. Glancing around, he gestured her into one of the narrow equipment alcoves that riddled the Saratoga's mid-deck.

"So," he said, rounding on her once they were completely alone. "What is it you want to ask me, Marine?"

He seemed so suddenly sure, so suddenly older, wiser, and emotionally competent that Vansen hesitated, and almost backed down. Then she saw a flicker of what might have been guilt in his eyes, and she pressed forward.

"My mother," she started. Patrick nodded slightly, but said nothing. "You knew her."

Patrick nodded again, but still remained silent. Now that the opportunity had finally presented itself, he was tongue-tied. But he knew he needed to say something.

"Yeah, I knew her in Guam, I told you that. She was with Headquarters company - I was with them for a while there."

Vansen hesitated, considering. Once she asked the question, there would be no going back. Did she want the answer? Did she really? She clasped her hands behind her back, realizing that they were shaking. She felt light headed.

"Were you lovers?" There it was out. She relaxed, awaiting the inevitable.

Even though he had expected the question, Patrick felt his own breath catch to hear it put into words. He hesitated. Did he really want to tell her? Did he have the right to? She was just a kid, for God's sake. And she was on her way down to some nasty fighting - what if what he told her distracted her, upset her too badly. It might get her killed. Wouldn't it be better, kinder, just to tell her some half truth, deny the association, pass it off as an unrequited fantasy. Wouldn't it be nobler to lie? Then he looked a little more closely and he knew she already knew the truth. She merely asked him to confirm it. She would never believe a lie.

"Are you sure you're ready to hear this, Captain?" he asked, begging time to think. It hurt, really, now that he was ready to tell her. It hurt a lot. Vansen looked back at him stonily. She nodded once. Patrick let his breath out slowly. "Yes," he said. "I loved your mother. I loved her very much. I never stopped loving her." He focused on the girl before him, so much like the one he had loved. "And for a little while, yes. We were lovers."

Vansen closed her eyes. She had known what he would tell her. Perhaps she had always known it. But to hear it. The tiny room reeled around her and she struggled to regain her balance.

"She betrayed my father," she hissed softly. It was almost like a sigh.

"No." The single word was sharp. Bitter. "She never betrayed your father. I..." Patrick hesitated, turning away. He did not want to relive this, but now that he had started, he knew he had to go on. "I'd never met anyone like Marion Vansen before," he said. "She was beautiful. So goddam capable. Fearless. There wasn't anything she couldn't do. And we were a long way from home. Both of us. Your mother was a very vital woman, Shane. The most alive person I ever met. And... it got lonely out there. We had something... special, I guess. For a while. It made me so proud, just being near her, believing that she cared about me. And I like to think she did care about me, on some level. But she never loved me. Not really. Not like that. She never betrayed your father in any way that really mattered. She never betrayed you or your sister...."

Vansen looked up at him, and the naked pain on the man's face stunned her. She had been prepared to hate him, to blame him for seducing her mother with glib words, but now that she had heard the truth in his voice, she realized that there was nothing there to hate. So what, then, should she hate her mother? Was that were the blame lay? But how could she hate her mother, that person who had become almost mythological to her, and was the driving force in her life? Wracked with confusion, she struggled against the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted to grab this man, beat him in her pain. But Frank Patrick did not see it - he was too caught up, now, in his own memories.

"She used to talk to me about him, your father," he went on quietly. "To me. What a wonderful man he was, what a great officer. Father. How devote he was to you. She told me you were quite a little daddy's girl. She said she almost dreaded your growing up and becoming a teenager, because she was afraid the two of you would fight. You were so much alike, she said. You and her. I can see her in you, looking at you."

"She never got the chance to find out," Vansen replied bitterly. Patrick turned to her.

"I can't believe I'm telling you this," he growled. "Hell, you're just a kid."

"I'm not even five years younger than my mother was when she was stationed in Guam," Vansen reminded him. "I'm not a child." Patrick looked at her as if he was suddenly seeing her for the first time.

"I loved her," he said softly. "Whatever else you might think of me, believe that. I asked her, once, to marry me. To leave your father, and take you and your sister and come with me. Begged her to. She said no. She told me she would never leave your father. To put that thought right out of my mind. That's how she said it. And I accepted that, just to be with her... When those fucking AIs killed her, I thought I would die."

Vansen did not know what to say. She did not really know what to do. Part of her rebelled wildly against the words, the things he was telling her, and yet, she could not deny the basic humanity in them. She did not want to understand. Her heart longed to rage, deny, scream curses. And yet, some part of her *did* understand. Some part of her wanted to reach out to this man who had loved her whom she had loved, who was as bereft as she was. This man who could share with a daughter memories when she had so few memories of her own. She felt a weird desire to offer him something back.

"She kept the book," she said. "The one you signed for her. I found it in her things."

Patrick smiled. It was not much of a smile, more like a grimace, as he fought his own tears. But he looked grateful, nonetheless. "I remember the first time she showed me a picture of you," he said softly. "You were such a pretty thing. I remember thinking how lucky your father was, to share such a beautiful child with her. I wondered what it would have been like, if you had been my child. Mine and hers." He looked away. "I don't blame you for hating me, Shane. But don't hate your mother, ever. Don't ever blame her for any of this. She loved your father, her family, with a kind of intensity that was breathtaking to be around. I just got a little but of the run-off from it, that's all. For a little while."

It was finally more that Vansen could take. Choking on a sob, she pushed past him out of the alcove. "I have to go," she murmured as she bolted away.

The Wild Cards were almost ready to head down to the loading bay when she got back to the wardroom.

"Where the hell you been?" Hawkes demanded under his breath as she burst into the room. "We don't get down to that loading bay, pronto, McQueen'll be up here looking for us, and you bet he'll be pissed!"

"I had something I needed to take care of," she snapped back at him. She set her face against her squad mates' inquisitive glances, jerked open her locker, and grabbed her gear.

"All right!" she barked. "Let's do this!"

McQueen was waiting in the ISSCV loading bay when they got there, and the look on his face was something between impatience and all out fury. They were late. The colonel was not happy. They stowed their gear quickly, and filed into the APC.

McQueen watched them load up. Vansen would not look at him, but he could see that whatever had upset her earlier was apparently still a problem. The kid was on the verge of tears, and McQueen no longer thought the problem was Wang. It was so unlike her that he did not know what to think. Reaching out, he grabbed her arm, stopping her just outside the ISSCV hatch. He peered down into her face. Vansen met his gaze firmly, her head coming up, chin jutting, just daring him to challenge her. McQueen relaxed. Whatever the hell the problem was, if Vansen was enough herself to get belligerent if she thought he was about to pry into her personal life, she would be okay. She get it together and get focused. He let her go, then followed her into the ISSCV.

Next : Part Four

Previous : Part Two