jedibuttercup

Title: Now That the Dawn Has Come: Parts 1 & 2 of 10

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Rating: R/Mature: for language, canon-level violence, and some sexuality
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the world is not.

Summary: "Alas! We were lost [...]! We shattered ourselves! We left our elder brothers behind! Our younger brothers! Where did they see the sun? Where must they be staying, now that the dawn has come?" (In which Tom and Pope undertake to save the human race. Starting with each other.) 106,135 words.

Warnings: Post-apocalyptic setting; canon-typical h/c, angst, and interpersonal conflict.

Notes: A Falling Skies canon divergence story. Follows "Waiting for the Dawn", which set up the AU during the back half of Season 3. Contains slash between two angsty, foul-mouthed, conflicted survivors of an alien apocalypse, and chronicles the shifting evolution of their family as they do their best to save Earth from the Espheni threat. (Because canon's idea of how to pull that off... could have used a little applied logic.) Title, summary, and chapter quotes borrowed once again from the Popol Vuh, specifically the Dennis Tedlock translation.

Acknowledgements: Written for the 2016 Extreme Big Bang. Many thanks to debirlfan for the timely alpha read; lanalucy for keeping the challenge going; and everyone who encouraged me along the way!

---

1. Morning Has Come

"The dawn has approached, preparations have been made, and morning has come for the provider, the nurturer, born in the light, begotten in light. Morning has come for humankind, for the people of the face of the earth."

— Popul Vuh, Part Four

 

"So I suppose this is the part where I do the walk of shame from the President's quarters," a wry voice drawled somewhere in the darkness beyond Tom's closed eyelids. "Huh, I wonder if that's a first for Charleston? Maybe we shoulda done this in that not-so-Oval Office of yours, then. Just for the principle of the thing."

Tom cracked open his eyes, stretching slowly on the salvaged mattress as he gave up the fight to stay asleep, and pressed the back of a hand to his mouth to cover a yawn. Then he glanced toward the opaque glass doors of his apartment, a converted storefront in the underground mall currently serving as the central hub of the post-apocalyptic metropolis of Charleston, SC. He was glad he already had an excuse for his toes to be curling, because the view before him was extremely appealing: long lines of lean muscle, from calf to posterior thigh to gluteus maximus, disappearing inch by inch into a snug pair of worn blue jeans.

John was facing toward the doors, back still bare but for the dark lines of his tattoos and a few reddish scars, fading souvenirs of the last few years' worth of battles against the alien invaders. Tom traced his gaze down the valley of the man's spine, appreciating the sight, and marveled at how different his life had become from what it had been three years ago-- or even one. It had been a long damn time since he'd had the energy, not to mention the luxury, to lie around and simply take pleasure in this kind of moment; it would be a pity to waste it.

"Calling it a walk of shame implies we've done something wrong, Pope," he replied, a warm note of teasing underlying the words. "There's just one thing ... no, two things wrong with that."

"Only two?" John replied, voice thick with skepticism. He paused his reverse striptease with the jeans up but still unbuttoned, turning to look over his shoulder at Tom. Dark eyes lit with amusement under a disheveled fall of slightly wavy, shoulder-length dark hair. "Pray, enlighten me, good Professor."

"For one, as you so often remind me, I'm the leader around here. That means I'm the one that makes the rules ... and under my rules, if it doesn't hurt another human being or aid the Espheni, what's the point of worrying about it?" Tom stirred further, reaching his arms back to link his fingers behind his head as he stifled another yawn. "And two — that would imply that we're done. What the hell time is it, anyway? Why don't you forget about getting dressed and come back to bed."

John's grin was smug as he turned fully to face him, more than a little strut in his stance. But there was a certain degree of hackles-up wariness in his posture, too. "Seems a little quick to be playing house, don't you think?"

Sometimes, he reminded Tom of a cat not quite convinced of his welcome. He supposed it would take all those old bad habits — and misconceptions of each other — a little more than three weeks to fully break. Still.

"Don't know if you noticed, but the world sort of ended a few years back. And somehow, a history professor from Boston ended up the President — excuse me, Governor, I keep forgetting — of the biggest bunch of free Americans left. All five thousand or so of us. We don't exactly have time to play at anything." Tom smirked to take the seriousness out of the words. "But who's talking about moving in, anyway? I just don't want to get up yet, and there's a few hours left 'til they lay out the canned pears and oatmeal in the cafeteria."

"All right, all right. Sold." John's grin widened as he strolled back to the bed, putting a knee up on the mattress to lean over for a bristly good-morning kiss. Neither of them had brushed their teeth since the day before, but Tom barely even noticed; they might be able to afford to shower and do laundry on a daily rather than weekly or even monthly basis now, but that kind of thing hardly registered after all the months the Second Massachusetts Militia had spent on the road. While their mouths were occupied, Tom slid his hands around John's flanks, slipping one hand down under the still-loose waistband of the jeans to cop a feel; whatever else you could say about the post-apocalyptic warrior lifestyle, it had a way of producing really fit people.

Things were just beginning to get really interesting when the door swung open without warning. Two years of near-constant war had rewritten a lot more of his instincts than just his hygiene tolerances; Tom was pulling his free hand back to reach for the handgun stashed under the mattress before the identity of the intruder even registered, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know where Pope had been keeping the weapon that suddenly filled the hand not supporting his weight. Both of them immediately turned to aim —

—straight into the face of Tom's eldest, who gaped in comically exaggerated horror for a long moment before pointedly jerking his gaze off to one side and shutting the door behind him.

"Oh, God; I did not need to see that," Hal sputtered. "Dad, what the hell!"

Tom sighed, slumping back against the sheets, and removed his other hand from the back of Pope's jeans. John rolled his eyes as he lowered his Peacemaker, then shifted his weight backwards off the bed to gingerly do up his fly with his free hand. Fortunately, he didn't move out of Hal's line of sight; Tom was wearing a lot less than John was, and not feeling particularly exhibitionist at the moment. Especially not in front of one of his chief military aides ... who just so happened to also be his nineteen-year-old son.

"Shouldn't that be my question?" he replied, wearily. "Seriously, Hal. I thought you learned your lesson years ago about barging into my room in the middle of the night." He'd only walked in on Tom and Rebecca once as a kid, but that had been more than enough for the lesson to sink in.

"First of all," Hal said gruffly to the wall, nose wrinkled, "it's more like the end of the night. And second — so sue me, I saw Anne in the hall on the way over and just plain forgot that didn't necessarily mean you were sleeping alone anymore. Which — since when aren't you sleeping alone anymore?"

"Since — well, tonight, as if that's any of your business. So thanks for that, Junior," John replied for them both, stooping to pick a pair of faded boxers up off the floor and toss them in Tom's direction. "I trust your reasons for interrupting are suitably dire?"

"Uh — yeah. Sorry," Hal cleared his throat and assumed an approximation of the at-ease stance — probably learned from Dan Weaver, who'd done as much parenting of Tom's boys as he had since they'd left Boston. An unavoidable side-effect of Tom's status as one of the Espheni's favorite chewtoys. "You decent yet, Dad?"

Tom thrust his legs over the edge of the bed as he finished settling the boxers around his waist, then bent to snag his own trousers off the floor. They were slightly better quality than anything found in John's wardrobe — Tom's civilian second, Marina Peralta, had ideas about what the Man in Charge should look like when he wasn't in the field, and he'd found it easier to give in than fight her on it — but still nothing that couldn't have been found at a mall, back in the day. Which, he supposed, was only appropriate considering the setting.

"Just about — what's going on?" he asked as he pulled on the trousers.

Hal cast a wary glance over his shoulder, then relaxed a little as he turned to give his report. "You have a visitor. No idea why he came in the middle of the night, but if I had to guess, he wanted as few people as possible to know he was here. Which was a smart move, if you ask me."

"Why's that?" Tom's brow wrinkled as he caught the shirt John tossed him, then hastily shrugged it on, waving off the waistcoat John picked up next. Like hell he was going to don the whole outfit in the middle of the night; whoever the visitor was would just have to deal with the informal version of their leader.

"Considering it's Cochise," Hal replied, expression as grim as the tone of his voice.

Tom paused in the middle of doing up his shirt buttons, exchanging a wary glance with John. It was partly by John's — and Dan's — advice that the human fighters had been prepared for the Volm to betray their alliance as soon as the Espheni defense grid came down; Tom had arranged to have Dr. Kadar and a few helpers modify a significant percentage of their weaponry with Volm tech, unbeknownst to Cochise, and later evacuated most of their fighters from the battlefield in Jacksonville before Cochise's father, Waschak-cha'ab, could trap them with his 'round up all the humans and send them to Brazil' plan. Neither Cochise nor any of the twenty or so other Volm who'd been quartered in their bunker outside Charleston had been seen since.

Tom liked Cochise a great deal; he was a very relatable person, for an alien. And he thought Cochise had genuinely thought of him as a friend, as well. But they had separate duties and allegiances, and ultimately loyalty to their individual species had won out. What did it mean that he'd chosen to come back now?

"Just Cochise?" he asked his son.

Hal nodded. "Yup. He wouldn't say anything to the patrol that brought him in; just asked to speak with you."

Tom blew out a breath, then nodded and stood, thumbing the last button into place. "John, you see where my boots ended up?"

"Over by the door, I think," John replied, distractedly. He was already most of the way dressed himself, sliding his own boots back on and stomping his feet to settle them.

"You don't need to come with, you know," Tom quirked a smile at him. "Bed's still yours, if you want to catch a couple more hours before breakfast with your daughter."

John raised both his eyebrows at him, though the corner of his mouth had curved up automatically at the mention of Tanya. She was bunking with Lourdes at the moment — John had figured his digs up in Popetown were maybe not the best environment to host a teenage girl, and the junior doctor appreciated having a roommate there to break her out of the terrible nightmares she'd suffered since her experiences under Espheni mind control — but they usually ate at least one meal together a day when possible, and breakfast was easiest to arrange.

"Your alien boyfriend finally deigns to pay a visit, and you think I don't want to be there? Pull the other one, Professor, it's got bells on."

Tom just shook his head at him, still smiling, as he snagged the boots and located a pair of clean socks. Then he turned back to his son at the sound of a disbelieving snort. "Got something else to say, Hal?"

"Oh; no. It's just ... I guess it was naïve of me to think that you guys would stop bickering, now that you're doing ... whatever it is you're doing. But since it's Pope we're talking about, I probably shouldn't be surprised."

"Aw, c'mon, kid. Sometimes that's half the fun," John leered at him. "You can't tell me your relationship with Maggie is always smooth as silk, 'cause if you do, I'll call you a liar."

"Hey. I can't control what you do with my dad, but you don't talk about Maggie, all right?" Hal pointed a finger at him, bristling at the remark.

Tom sighed. He'd never expected his current choice of partner to go over smoothly with most of his family, but there was a limit to what he'd put up with at such an ungodly hour. He retrieved his rifle, slinging the strap over his back, then stepped between Hal and John and gestured toward the door. "You said Cochise was waiting?"

Hal gave John one last frustrated glare, then refocused on his father. "Yes, sir. Colonel Weaver had the watch; the patrol brought Cochise to him, and he parked him in a conference room. This way." He turned to push the opaque doors open again, then nodded to the sentry on duty as he held it for Tom to follow.

"So much for a relaxing start to the day," Tom muttered under his breath as he crossed the threshold.

"Not like I didn't know what I was getting myself into with you, Professor," John replied dryly, taking up station beside him. "But I reserve the right to snag an hour of your schedule later on, to make it up to me."

"Wait — that's supposed to be a favor to you?" Tom glanced over, sharing a smirk with him.

The light mood didn't last, though; a moment later they were approaching the conference room, and Tom felt the heavy hand of the war press down on him again. They'd had three weeks of peace; but he'd never supposed their victory in Jacksonville had been any more than a beginning. Now the outside world was pushing its way back in, and he could only pray they were ready to meet it.

Hal pushed open the door with a nod; Tom nodded back, then squared his shoulders and stepped through.

---

He took in the situation inside the conference room at a glance: Cochise standing stiffly near the chalkboard, turning to blink big liquid eyes in Tom's direction; a uniformed guard in the corner, rifle unshipped but aimed down near Cochise's feet; a crate of some kind on the table, about half a yard on a side and obviously of Volm make; and Colonel Weaver, seated in front of the crate, a distrusting frown on his face as he stared at Cochise. None of them looked particularly happy to be there.

Dan looked back over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening, then nodded a greeting to Tom and got to his feet. His eyes skipped slightly past him to catch briefly on Pope, but other than a slight deepening of the frown, he chose to ignore the elephant in the room and got right to the point. "Sorry to wake you, Mr. President, but I thought you might find this important enough to interrupt your ... rest."

Tom took his cue from Dan's manner and nodded formally back to him, approaching to stand at his shoulder near the table. "I do, Colonel Weaver; thank you. Cochise, it's good to see you, my friend."

Cochise inclined his head in acknowledgement, but his expression didn't warm, even by Volm standards. They weren't unemotional Vulcans, but they had genetically engineered themselves into a warrior species over the course of their own conflict with the Espheni; the resulting cultural pressures had shaped them into a brusque, pragmatic people in general. Cochise was usually more of an outlier, though; Tom was more used to friendly behavior from him, and the difference was unsettling.

"You as well, Professor. Though I fear you will — I believe the phrase is, change your tune — when you have heard the news I bring."

"What a surprise," John muttered under his breath, pulling out a chair on Dan's other side to turn it around and drop into a seated position, arms crossed over the back.

Tom didn't outwardly react, though an apprehensive chill swept through him. He quickly sent Hal back to his duties and dismissed the guard — no need for the rest of the conversation to join the Charleston information chain just yet — before replying obliquely. "I was worried that your father had ordered you to break contact with us when you didn't return to Charleston after his ship arrived."

He'd seen enough of the Volm Commander to be fairly certain Cochise's father wouldn't try ordering the human survivors rounded up and relocated again ... but he'd also seen enough to know that it was probably the inconvenience involved more than an increase in respect that dissuaded him from doing so. He clearly hadn't thought much of Tom and his people, or any humans, for that matter. Once again, Tom had been reminded of the behavior of the European colonists when they'd first arrived in America, and how poorly that had worked out for the natives. Who knew what else Waschak-cha'ab might do in the name of defeating the Espheni without considering the needs and desires of those who actually lived on the planet, first?

"It had been long since we had seen one another, and there was much news to exchange," Cochise replied. "Also, the behavior of the Espheni in respect to this world ... did not match my father's expectations from prior campaigns, and after our first few engagements he relied much upon my experiences to inform his strategies."

"That's an awful lot of past-tense there, Chief. Would I be correct in assuming that his 'strategies' have recently undergone another drastic change?" John said cynically, drumming his fingers against the back of the chair he'd straddled.

Cochise paused again; and in his peripheral vision, Tom saw Dan throwing a sharp, appraising look at John. "Unfortunately, yes," he finally said. "Earth is not our only battlefront with the Espheni. And prior to his arrival here, my father hid our brood mates and hatchlings — our families — in the Alicante 8 cluster, in the hopes that they would escape notice. They ... did not."

Tom swallowed, realizing instantly where this was going. "You received a distress call. And now you have to defend them, or risk extinction yourselves."

Cochise inclined his head again. "As you say. The majority of the Volm fleet will be departing within twenty-four of your hours."

"So, after all his talk about liberating humans from the yoke of the Espheni, he's just gonna up and abandon the whole deal, huh?" Dan put in, bitterly. "I appreciate the circumstances ... but you realize, they're gonna come down on us even harder after you go. Will you be leaving any forces behind to assist?"

"My father didn't consider you much at all in this decision, I'm afraid," Cochise replied, slumping slightly — a major indicator of negative emotion, coming from a Volm. The ones who'd bothered to study humans before arriving on Earth had picked up some familiar body language to go with their familiar body shape — by far the most humanoid of the various aliens they'd met so far — but it wasn't natural to them. "A mere handful of Volm units will remain, scattered about the globe as small recon teams. I have convinced my father to allow me to lead one of them, but we have been ordered not to engage the enemy under any circumstances. We are merely to observe, and discern the form their next move will take."

"So we're on our own again," Tom concluded. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the back of a chair, mind racing as he pondered what that would mean for Charleston — and all the other human survivors.

The Espheni had pulled back sharply after the arrival of the Volm; there'd hardly been any visible activity since the grid had been brought down, giving Tom's people a chance to rest and regroup. But if the quiet had only been out of respect for Volm weapons and tactics and not because of the losses they'd suffered, the Espheni would undoubtedly swarm back out of the woodwork the moment the last Volm troopship left the solar system.

"In large part, yes," Cochise replied, his body language perking up suddenly as he continued. "However ... my father failed to limit to whom our observations may be delivered."

"...That's why you're here," Tom realized abruptly, a thread of hope stitching through his mood for the first time since he'd stepped into the conference room.

"Yes. I came as soon as I could, so that you would have time to prepare. And ... to bring you this." He pulled a spherical object from a pocket analogue in his Volm uniform, extending it toward Tom. It had the shiny black surface and glowing blue accents that seemed to be a common feature of Volm military design, and a similar, though smaller, shape to the miniaturized EMP weapons the Volm had given them to use on enemy mechs.

For all his doubts about the true aims of the Volm, Tom had never feared personal harm from Cochise; he automatically reached out to take it, curious what their ally had brought. Dan was there before him, though, leaping up to snag the object out of Cochise's hand. "Whoa, whoa. What is this?"

Cochise blinked curiously at him, but answered gamely. "A secure communications device. Its range is limited, but it will allow me to keep you informed of the movements of the Espheni. There are others in the cache as well, if you wish to give your Dr. Kadar the opportunity to examine their inner workings, in addition to a number of scanners, miniature observation drones, and small munitions such as my father's soldiers will not miss."

John waited for no further invitation to pull the crate over in front of him and begin prying the lid loose with his pocket knife. "Well, now. This I gotta see."

"Why?" Tom asked, ignoring John's enthusiasm as he focused on his alien friend. "Not that I don't appreciate the gift as well ... but a few weeks ago, you seemed to have a very different perspective on allowing us free reign with your technology."

"A few weeks ago, I believed that my father's arrival would render such measures unnecessary, for the Volm have never disseminated our technology before. But you are also unlike any species we have ever encountered, and I have since realized that your refusal to trust fully in anything other than your own strength was not only practical, but prescient. Had we succeeded in our aim of disarming and relocating you and your people to Brazil, you would have been left defenseless and easy prey for the Espheni when our fleet's distress call arrived."

"No shit, Sherlock," John groused, then whistled as he finally pried up the lid and began poking at what he found beneath it. "Nice. Looks like Christmas came a little early this year. I guess I can't say you bubbleheads never did us any favors, even if you do fail at your own logic — I mean, you tell us not to apply human judgment to an alien war, and then you turn right around and try to assign alien reasons to human behavior."

"Indeed, and I have attempted to convey as much to my father," Cochise sighed. "Perhaps when the fleet returns, he will listen. But now I must leave before my patrol group informs him of my absence ... and it may be some time before I am able to meet with you again in person. I expect to have actionable intelligence for you very soon, however; the Espheni will doubtlessly resume their activities as soon as our ships depart the planet."

"We'll appreciate anything you can give us," Dan said grudgingly, still turning the communicator over in his hand. "Even a little will be better than the nothin' we've seen these last few weeks. We may've taken down their defense grid, but there's still over a million of their soldiers out there in the United States alone."

"And who knows how many in the rest of the world," Tom sighed. "There's a long road still ahead of us, despite our recent victories — and for your people as well. I wish the Volm the best in their coming battles with the Espheni." He stepped around the table, meeting Cochise's move toward the door with a shoulder clasp, one of the gestures he'd personally taught Cochise in the months since the Volm scouts' initial arrival.

"You as well. Good luck, Tom Mason," Cochise nodded solemnly, returning the gesture. "One thing I have learned in my many months among your people is that the human spirit is the most powerful weapon on this planet. Please, do not lose hope."

"I won't," Tom promised, and watched as he turned to go. The sentry outside snapped to attention as the door opened again; Dan nodded and gestured quickly to the young man, who nodded affirmation before falling in behind Cochise to trail him back to the surface. Not to protect him; it was still not quite light outside, probably early enough that the alien soldier wouldn't draw the attention of too many resentful human citizens on his way out. But the guard would also report whether he detoured by the empty Volm complex, and what, if anything, he removed from the structure if he did.

The door swung shut again, leaving only the three of them in the room, and Tom sighed. "Well?" he asked.

Dan frowned, brows forming a craggy line; he didn't pretend not to understand. "I'd prefer to run these things by Dr. Kadar first," he said, gesturing to the crate with the hand holding the comm, "but I believe he's telling the truth — at least, as he sees it. I've never fully trusted the Volm, and I trust 'em less since meeting Cochise's father, but whatever he says about aliens not operating by human logic, Cochise himself is pretty easy to read. He feels he's let you down; so he's brought us a going-away present."

"Like I said. Alien boyfriend," John snorted derisively, turning away from the box of Volm tech and crossing his arms over his chest. "And a pretty poor one at that. Abandoning you to the whims of the enemy on his daddy's say-so, as if a preemptive apology and a box of cheap trinkets could hope to make up for that."

"That's enough, Pope," Dan snapped, though his gaze was still on Tom's face, looking for a reaction.

Tom didn't have one to give him, not yet, beyond a crushing sense of weariness. With the Volm gone, the Espheni would have a chance to replace the jammer and fuel plant Charleston's militia had destroyed and appoint a new Overlord for the East Coast. And if that happened, they'd be right back where they started: outnumbered, outgunned, and fighting for their very survival, the horizon line of the war pushed back out beyond their vision.

He took a breath, then met Dan's gaze. "Have we heard from Keystone yet? Did President Hathaway's escort make it back in one piece?"

Dan nodded, slowly. "Got a coded radio confirmation from that Lieutenant Fisher late last night. I was going to put it on your desk first thing."

"Good; then they'll probably be willing to listen if we contact them again. We'll have to word the message carefully; let Hathaway know that the Volm have received word of an Espheni ambush on their loved ones, but they'll be back when the situation is dealt with. In the meantime, any communities who've been exposed in the past and can easily relocate probably should; and for the rest, maximum security measures should be taken."

"And what if the Volm don't come back?" John commented, assuming the role of devil's advocate as always.

"Cochise said they will," Tom replied grimly, "and even if you don't believe that — I do believe that the Volm Commander might slightly value the life of his surviving son, at least enough to come back to retrieve him. And Cochise won't be happy about leaving us in the lurch again."

"Well look at you, all cynical and distrusting. Guess I'm rubbing off on you already," John smirked.

Tom rolled his eyes at the posturing; he knew it had to be partly for Dan's benefit. Not so much out of jealousy, but to further stake his claim, both on Tom and his position as an acknowledged member of the leadership team. "I've always been pragmatic, Pope; I just choose to aim for the best possible outcome, and strategize accordingly. It doesn't cost much, and I've noticed it has a tendency to improve morale."

"So long as we keep trailing along behind you and preparing for the worst," John drawled, gesturing between him and Dan.

"Exactly," Tom smiled blandly at him. "So I'll need you both to start working on a plan for Charleston — get together with General Porter and start figuring out what we can do to strengthen our defenses immediately. We'll need a full check of supplies, especially mech-metal ammunition for our standard weapons, and an update on the status of the energy weapon upgrades. Speaking of which, is the anti-grid weapon still in the railcar shed?"

"Right where we left it after we brought it back from Jacksonville." Dan nodded. "You think we'll need it? It's a little too big and slow to fire to be much use against Beamers, and it makes a really tempting target for Espheni bombs."

"I don't think we can make any assumptions about the makeup of the force the Espheni are likely to hit us with," Tom frowned, starting to pace in the confines of the room. "We've bloodied their nose every time they've struck us here, so far. And they saw in Jacksonville that we had a lot more Volm tech at our disposal than we'd been letting on. The Overlords are smart; they have to know that their best chance at taking Charleston will be to catch us off-guard, and hit us hard from a direction we won't expect. And we know they have bigger ships; we've seen them. It's not designed as an anti-air weapon, but since its function is basically to overload its target with a massively overkill amount of energy, it ought to be effective enough for the purpose."

Dan nodded sharply at that. "We'll make sure it's ready to activate at a moment's notice. You do realize, though, that we don't exactly have a Volm engineer around to fire the thing anymore?"

"Talk to Anne, and Dr. Kadar; between her experience with the interface the Volm use to operate their medical technology, and his experience modifying their weapons technology, I have no doubt they can figure something out," Tom assured him, more confidently than he felt.

"I'll call 'em in after we talk to Porter," Dan agreed. "Dr. Kadar can go over Cochise's gifts then, as well. Especially those drones he mentioned — might be nice to finally get a few of our own aerial shots of the Espheni deployments around Charleston, if we can get those up and running."

"And me?" John raised an eyebrow. "What's my part in all this? Other than checking in with Lyle at the Nest to make sure the gears are still nicely greased in the civvie sector."

Tom grimaced. "I know I kept you in the dark about a lot of the more sensitive decisions last year — and I can't even apologize, because I didn't really trust anyone beyond Dan and Porter, out of necessity, and the Volm, because I knew none of them could be the mole. That's behind us now, though. We're going to need beefed-up patrols, and an experienced sniper with a Volm anti-aircraft rifle along on each of them; we can't count on Cochise's soldiers anymore. That's going to mean a lot of stress on the Berserkers, not to mention the rest of the Second Mass, since they're still the most experienced fighters Charleston has. You've spent more time with them individually lately than I have, or Porter; I'd appreciate you working with Dan on those assignments."

"I'm going to want that Denny kid out on the likeliest approach, just so you know," John narrowed his eyes at him, suddenly all business. "And yeah, it's because of the spikes, but not the way people are gonna think. I'd ask to put your boy Ben there, too, if I didn't already know you'll probably have him liaising with the rebel Skitters. The thing is, the spiked kids are the only ones strong enough to handle those anti-Beamer popguns freehand; even Tector needs to brace himself before he fires one of 'em, and we might not have a lot of time to react."

Always testing him; life was never going to be easy with John Pope. But then again ... one of the many things the last year had taught Tom was that if he was going to be in a position of so much responsibility, he needed someone like that in his life, always willing to push him and call him on his bullshit. To keep him from letting it all go to his head, or making an important decision for all the wrong reasons. John was far from perfect: argumentative, prejudiced, foul-mouthed, and light on impulse control, just to name a few of his less attractive qualities. But he fit Tom — the Tom he was now, more or less the tribal chieftain of a band of post-apocalyptic refugees — like a lost puzzle piece that had finally clicked into place.

"I have confidence in your decisions," Tom said, smile widening at the poorly hidden surprise in John's reaction. Then he rubbed a hand over his beard. "And now ... I'd better see if I can grab a roll out of the kitchens on the way to my office. I'm going to have to meet with Marina first thing, and Dan, you might want to send Jeanne to me, later; she's more or less appointed herself public works officer since the thing with the Liberty Tree, and last time we spoke she had some ideas about starting movie nights back up. Might be a good idea to schedule something for tonight. Oh, and let me know when the sentry that followed Cochise reports back."

"Will do," Dan nodded to him.

"Lunch then?" John prompted him, gruffly.

"Maybe dinner?" Tom winced apologetically. "It's going to be a long day."

"Just don't forget, you owe me," John said. Then he took a long step into Tom's personal space, barely sparing a glance for Dan, and framed Tom's face with a callused hand.

Kissing John was different than kissing Anne; prickly and possessive and with an underlying volatility that had never been part of Tom's relationship with the doctor. He'd cared for her very much; still did, in many ways. But by the end, they'd frustrated and let each other down more than they'd supported each other, held together mostly by their ties to others. If they'd gone on the road again when they'd had the chance, been able to devote more of their time to one another, things might have worked out differently; but they hadn't. Time would tell whether his new relationship with Pope would stay the course. But he hadn't been disappointed yet.

"Okay, okay, enough of that," Dan growled, somewhere in the background. "Let the President get to work, Pope; we got enough to keep us busy right here."

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on," John rolled his eyes as he pulled away. "Have a good day, Professor."

"You too, John. Dan."

Bad news from their allies, a prospective attack looming over them, and a pile of administrative paperwork awaiting Tom's attention: just another Sunday in Charleston.

Their vacation was over; it was time to get back to work.

---

Tom spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon clearing his desk of any urgent matter that couldn't wait until after they knew how hard the Espheni were going to come down on them, and taking meetings with everyone involved in the preparations. On the whole, morale wasn't exactly high, but it was holding; people used to thinking a day, a week, or a month ahead at most had barely begun to relax into a more stable peace, and seemed resigned to the fact it had been canceled without much warning.

At least they'd been given twenty-four hours; time enough to call in all their scouting and supply parties, secure vital equipment underground, and run an evac drill or three for the folks who lived up top. Not enough to figure out Cochise's drones, though, unfortunately; the interface on the massive Volm energy weapon needed all of Dr. Kadar's attention, and he hadn't had time to train any apprentices to his level of knowledge on Volm tech just yet.

Maybe that could be a job for Matt one day, if Tom could ever talk his youngest son into paying more attention to his lessons. He'd done well helping Anne's Uncle Scott with the radio, back in Acton, and making mech bullets with John. But he'd become pretty fixated on being a soldier like his dad and his brothers and 'The Colonel' lately. And since the skills he was learning would help keep the nearly-twelve-year-old alive, Tom had decided to let it slide for now.

Jeanne Weaver turned up around lunchtime with a bowl of stew — sent by her father, Tom had no doubt — and a few salvaged movies from her 'life is more than just surviving' project. The war was too raw for him to think alien-invasion sci-fi was a good idea, or an action-thriller monster flick, and the ice-skating romance would probably set half the audience crying or heckling the screen. Not a good idea when things were this tense. The origin story, though: the guy who'd found out the hard way that everything he'd thought was vital in life was actually a luxury, and took what had been done to him to reforge himself as a superhero? Tom thought of Ben, Lexie, Denny, and all those tormented and changed in less visible ways by the war, and gave that one the seal of approval.

Besides. If anyone argued the choice? Might also be a morale-booster to encourage folks to bring back their own favorites to add to the pool, if they ran across a selection of DVDs on a salvage run. They could stand to build up the city's library some more, too.

Provided, of course, the Espheni didn't burn it all down, first. Bullets before food before fuel before entertainment, Tom reminded himself; time to worry about working their way back up Maslow's Hierarchy, later.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face as he studied the latest consumables inventory. They could stand about eleven days' siege before going on short rations, it looked like, but no more than that; he could only hope that the Espheni reacted quickly, before he had to worry about sending teams out again.

"Talking to yourself already, I see," a wry voice commented from the doorway.

Tom looked up to meet the smirking gaze of his middle son. "Hmm?"

Ben wrinkled his nose and walked in, shutting the door behind him. "I had a hard enough time wrapping my mind around the fact that you and Pope didn't actually hate each other after you came back from that plane crash. But sleeping with him? Clearly, one of you must've gone mad."

He must've talked to Hal. Tom sighed, dropping the pencil he'd been using to make notes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know it must be weird for you boys, me being with another man —"

"Ugh, it's not that, Dad," Ben shuddered theatrically. "You really think we didn't know you dated a guy or two in college? Mom was very — um, thorough — when she gave us The Talk. No, it's just — Pope? Really? We kinda thought, when we got Anne and Lexie back ... I mean, Matt was already starting to call her Mom. We're all a little thrown; and Matt even kind of likes Pope when he's not being an asshole."

Yeah, he was in no way ready for that conversation. "It's ... complicated, Ben. And we don't exactly have time for that, right now. I did ask Dan to send you down here for a reason, you know."

"Sure, fine; but I'm going to hold you to that later, okay? You have to admit, it is a little weird." Ben shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, well." Tom gave a tired snort. "What about any of our lives has made sense, the last few years? Which brings me to what I wanted to ask you about — the rebel Skitters. They're still camped outside the inhabited area, right? It occurred to me when we were setting up the evac drills that we don't have a plan for them."

Ben's brow furrowed at that, and just like that, Tom's second son was all business: as much an adult as any of Tom's other advisors, despite his age. The war had stolen so much from them all. "Well, you know they're uncomfortable being around so many humans; and it's gotten worse since so many of the other spiked kids went through the procedure to have them removed. They feel like we're not as committed to the alliance as they are."

And justifiably so, Tom had to admit, since even most of the human fighters who worked with them still felt fairly uncomfortable — to put it mildly — around any Skitters, regardless of whether or not they wore the facepaint of the rebellion. It was hard to blame them for it; not a human being still alive hadn't seen a Skitter kill a friend or family member, or take a child to be enslaved by their masters, the Espheni. But that didn't mean they didn't still need the rebels on their side, particularly since the Volm had been forced to pull back.

"You heard Cochise was here this morning?" he asked.

"Yeah, Colonel Weaver filled us in," Ben nodded. "Did he have a message for the rebels?"

"Not ... exactly. But it appears the Volm won't be needing that complex up on the hill any longer. It was built to stand up to bombardment, and there's a big open underground space that they were using to build the grid weapon. I know Skitters like to nest; how many do you think might be able to fit inside, if we turn it over to them?"

Ben's eyes went wide. "Are you serious?"

"Very." Tom leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together. "I wasn't sure they'd go for it, since I know they're even warier of the Volm in general than they are of us. But I had a team do a walk-through after Cochise left, and it looks like his people completely stripped the place before we left for Jacksonville. So as far as I'm concerned, they've ceded title, and I think it could be a lot more useful to the rebel Skitters than it would be to us."

Ben put a hand to his mouth and stared at the floor for a moment; then he nodded. "I'll have to talk their leader about it, but ... that's a very generous offer. I think he'll go for it."

"Good. They should have the rest of today, and probably all of tomorrow to investigate and move in, should they choose to do so. But after that — there's no guarantees."

"I understand. I'll tell them." Ben nodded, then hesitated, giving him an awkward smile. "I should be back in time for the movie tonight, though; Jeanne told me. Sounds like fun."

Torn between two duties, the son he'd once hoped would follow in his scholarly footsteps: Tom's heart ached to see it, but he was proud of him all the same. "You know ... you've put a lot of work into building this alliance, Ben. And one of the things this job has taught me is that building things is a lot more difficult than tearing them down. I want you to know I'm proud of you; you've done an amazing job under very trying circumstances. The Volm may have given us the tools to move ahead, but we wouldn't have lasted long enough for them to reach us if hadn't been for your allies. And people will remember which group stuck by us when the going got tough."

Ben's smile grew more genuine, then, and a little bashful; the teenager peeking out from behind the warrior. "Thanks, Dad. I ... that means a lot."

"Now go on; shoo," he said gruffly, waving a hand toward the door. "If I don't finish a little more of this paperwork before dinner, Marina'll have my hide, and if I'm not mistaken you have some good news to impart."

"Yeah. See you later," Ben sketched a grinning salute in his direction and slipped back into the hall.

Soon enough, it was time for his afternoon lesson with Alexis; truthfully, Tom had forgotten to cancel it amid the chaos of the day, but he didn't mind laying down his pen awhile, and it was no hardship to take Anthony's check-in about the orderly, if grumbling fold-down of Popetown while he assisted her with her reading.

Teaching her wasn't like teaching any of his sons had been; and not just because she'd grown so quickly. His early worry that there'd be no Dr. Seuss in her future, back when she'd still been small enough to cradle in his arms, had proved more prescient than he could have known; there was no Narnia or Harry Potter or Percy Jackson for her, either. It was all Shakespeare, the Constitution, the Bible, history texts and the like, though he'd at least managed to talk her into Grimm's Fairy Tales due to the lessons they were originally intended to convey. It seemed he had a budding sociologist on his hands, though she was still very black and white in her thinking.

How much of that was Lexie's irregular aging and unique brain chemistry, and how much a legacy of the weeks Karen had kept her in the Espheni tower, he couldn't say; probably only time would tell. At least she had the same urge to learn, and the same case of the 'whys' as any of his children; and she still looked to him and Anne for the answers. As much as he worried about her future, he cherished the time he was able to spend with her.

She looked up from her slightly water-stained copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare as Anthony walked out of the room, a pensive frown on her small face, and stared up at him.

"Daddy?" she asked.

"What, sweetheart? Ready to read the next passage with me yet?"

She shook her head, long dark hair — worn loose like her mother's — sliding over her shoulders. "You think they're coming here," she said.

"You mean the Espheni?"

Alexis nodded wordlessly, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.

"I'm afraid so, Lexie. But don't worry; we'll be ready for them when they do." He didn't believe in lying to his kids — but he didn't believe in burdening them with more than they were ready for, either.

Her frown deepened a little more, and she fidgeted a bit, picking at the deckle edging of the book's pages. "But why are you afraid? That woman, Karen, who found me and Mom ... she said I would bring peace between humans and Espheni."

Found? Well, that was certainly one way to put it; had no one talked to Alexis about what had happened? Although ... he could understand why both Hal and Anne might not want to discuss their parts in it, and Tom himself had been distracted lately. And who else would bring it up? "You're just one person, Alexis; and you're still very new at it," he replied, soothingly. "The war is not your responsibility, no matter what Karen told you. And the Espheni probably don't even mean the same thing we do when we talk about 'peace'. They've hurt so many people that I have a very hard time believing that they've suddenly changed their minds."

Worryingly, that didn't seem to cheer Alexis up any; her lower lip wobbled as she tucked her arms around her stomach in a self-protective gesture. "But she said I'm part of them. That I'm like her. That I'm Espheni, too."

"Oh, sweetheart." Tom abandoned his chair to kneel beside his daughter, gathering her into his arms; her distress cut into him like a knife. "That might be true; or it might not be. We don't know yet. You still have so much growing up to do. And even if some of your DNA is from them, that won't change anything. I'll still love you. And so will your mother, and your brothers, and everyone else in Charleston. But the Espheni from far away, like the ones coming here, they don't believe in making friends; and they don't just stop fighting. The Volm have known them for a very long time. Do you remember Cochise?"

She nodded. "Your Volm friend."

"Yes. He's the one that told me so. And I know it's true, because he never tells a lie." Withheld the truth at times, generally because he thought he was protecting them, or on his father's orders, but ... well, no need to confuse her with the details.

"Never?" Alexis pulled back a little, dark eyes wide.

He smiled back at her, a little wobbly around the edges but otherwise determined not to give her cause to doubt. "Never ever."

The door opened again as she threw her arms back around him, and Tom looked up into the worried features of Alexis' mother. "Lexie?" Anne asked, cautiously.

"Oh, hey," Tom said, injecting warmth into his voice. "Your mom's here; I think it must be time for dinner. You better go with her; I have some more work to do, but we can finish the act you were reading tomorrow."

Over Alexis' head, Anne widened her eyes at him; Tom shook his head, mouthing 'tell you later'.

"Okay, Daddy," Alexis said, squeezing her arms extra-tight. "Love you."

"Love you, too, princess."

He couldn't quite keep his worry out of his voice; Anne's lips went thin at the sound, and she mouthed back a sharp-edged 'you'd better' before smoothing her expression out into a fond, welcoming smile.

Lexie took her hand, and waved a carefree hand at Tom before following her mother out into the hall.

"Jeanne told me there's going to be spaghetti tonight; we finally had enough tomatoes for the sauce. You haven't had it before, but I think you're going to love it," Anne's voice floated back to him, deliberately cheery.

Tom shut the door behind them, then sank back into his chair and pressed his face into his hands.

---

Some time later — he couldn't have said how long — the door opened again, and a disgruntled presence in dusty jeans and leather jacket strolled in and threw himself into the chair on the other side of the desk.

"So much for dinner," John said dryly, tossing a bowl onto the desk with a thunk. It smelled like the promised noodles and red sauce; any other day, Tom probably would have inhaled it immediately and gone looking for seconds, but ....

He looked up from his contemplation of Dr. Kadar's quick-and-dirty DNA report on Lexie and gave John a wan smile. "Sorry. I guess I must've lost track of time. I'm not feeling very hungry."

John snorted. "Lie; lie; truth," he said, dark eyes flashing irritably. "Eat it anyway. And tell me what you're so upset about while you're at it. You know you always feel better when you get all the crap off your chest."

That was rich, coming from a man whose own mouth tended to mask a hell of a lot of damage. "Not in the mood. Especially not if it's just going to make you angrier," Tom countered.

"Ah. Let me guess, it's about one of the kidlets. And judging by the puzzle graph there on your desk, I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's Alexis," John drawled. "And what new miracles has the princess graced us with today?"

The subject of Tom's kids, apart from Matt, had always been touchy with John; less so since they'd finally reached an understanding, but Tom hadn't yet figured out the limits of his increased tolerance. Between Hal's episode with the eyebug, the spikes left over from the Skitter harness in Ben's back, and the obviously unnatural aspects of Lexie's aging, the alien influence in their lives offered a lot of provocation to a man who still referred to the Espheni and Volm by derogatory nicknames and preferred not to be anywhere near the rebel Skitters. John may not have actually been as racist as he'd come off at their first meeting, years ago now, but he was definitely xenophobic — a category the majority of humanity fell into these days, unfortunately.

"No new miracles," he conceded. "It's more ... did you realize, no one's ever debriefed her about her time with Karen?"

John's eyebrows flew up, and he straightened out of his casual sprawl to stare at Tom in disbelief. "She was a toddler, Tom. Of course no one did. Unless ... are you telling me she remembers that shit?"

"Very clearly, it seems like. Anne did say she'd heard Alexis saying recognizable words to her as young as a few days old, before a baby's eyes are even supposed to be able to focus, so I do believe it's possible," Tom replied, grimacing. "I just don't want to."

"What the hell did that collaborator bitch do now?" John groaned, jumping to his feet and pacing restlessly. "We didn't kill her quickly enough to suit me."

"Me either, believe me," Tom sighed, propping his elbows on the desk and running his fingers through his hair as his eyes caught on the DNA report again. "Karen told Alexis that she was Espheni, too; and that she was destined to bring peace between humanity and the Overlords."

"You don't believe that, right?" John scoffed. "I mean, even assuming their definition of 'peace' is anything like ours, which I seriously doubt ...."

"It doesn't matter what I believe," Tom replied, grimly, "though of course I don't. Not entirely, anyway. There's too much evidence otherwise. What matters is that Lexie believed it, to the point that she was confused we were so worried about them coming here ... and upset that I'd hate her, too, after I explained it to her. I tried, but ... how can I really make her understand when she has the intelligence, but not the context or experience, to grasp the answer? She might look nearly Matt's age now, but she's not even six months old!"

John made a low, growling noise in his throat, though his expression was ... conflicted. "God knows killing Skitters and their fishhead masters is the most satisfying job I've ever had, and I'll happily go on killing them until the last one's twitching in its death throes," he said. "But that kid of yours ... unless she goes bugfuck like Karen and starts killing people for the Overlords, she oughtta know she's got nothing to fear, no matter what's in her DNA. I'll even tell her so if you think it'll help. Seen it up close and personal myself often enough."

A little of the tension drawing Tom's shoulders tight relaxed at John's ill-tempered rambling; he might be talking about Tom's 'forgiving people thing', but way he said it told Tom a lot about John's own feelings on the subject, even if he wouldn't — or couldn't — actually say it aloud. The ebbing frustration left room for a slight upward tug at the corners of his mouth, and Tom took a deep breath and reached out to take the bowl of spaghetti.

"She's unreasonably attached to her Uncle John too, you know. Drives her Uncle Dan a little crazy, actually."

John snorted, avoiding his gaze. "Feeling possessive, huh? Ought to just go ahead and change that man's last name to Mason. Or do the clan thing, you know, and tack it on afterward. Dan Weaver Mason. Jeanne Weaver Mason."

"Alexis Glass Mason. Tom Mason Mason?" Tom chuckled. "Easier than adding 'of the Second Massachusetts Militia' to identify family, I suppose. Though you realize, that would also make you ...."

John caught onto the implication just in time, wagging a finger at him. "Aw, hell no. Eat your damn spaghetti, Tom. We got us a movie to watch, and you know Jeanne won't let 'em start until you show up."

Tom obediently took a bite, winding several slightly off-color noodles up on his fork, making sure they were sufficiently coated in sauce, and then shoveling the resulting portion into his mouth. His eyes fluttered briefly shut at the taste — he wasn't sure what they'd used for flour, and it was missing a lot of the spices he was used to, but damn, it really was spaghetti — and he abruptly became aware that he actually was hungry.

"Mmm. Probably not as good as you could make, but. Remind me to compliment the cook. I wasn't actually planning on attending the movie, though. I know I owe you, but I'm really not in the right frame of mind for a date night right now."

"A date night? Don't be stupid." John crossed his arms over his chest, watching avidly as Tom took another forkful of spaghetti. "It's not like I plan on staying for the whole thing, either. But we have a better chance of getting away clean and not having someone interrupt if you let everyone else see how not worried you are first. Mister President."

"Ah. So it's a date night," Tom snorted, letting the title thing go. It wasn't worth arguing whether he was President or Governor anymore, when Charleston would be the first line of defense regardless. Hathaway's people had already radioed back, saying they'd be relocating and might not answer calls for a while; kind of hard for a man to serve as President when he was entirely out of touch with his constituents.

John's smirk shifted to an outright leer. "Be a good boy, and maybe you'll find out."

The bowl was down to a third full; Tom rolled his eyes and twirled up another bite. "Tanya won't mind if we leave early?"

"Tanya sings your fucking praises, and you know it. And I already had two meals with her today. Don't want to overload her with too much of her wicked old man's company."

Personally, Tom thought Tanya Pope was as worried about disappointing her 'wicked old man' as John was about scaring her off, particularly since she'd been the younger of his two children and witnessed less of his erratic behavior before he'd been convicted of accidental manslaughter five years prior to the invasion. They'd only been back in one another's company for three weeks, which wasn't much in the grand scheme of things; about as long as Tom had had to get to know his daughter, in fact. But they'd go at their own pace.

"How's she taking to working in the infirmary?" he asked next. The third reason she was rooming with Lourdes: the older girl was mentoring her in a sort of work-study apprenticeship. They could always use more hands in the med ward, and Tanya had some experience from the group she'd lived with in Florida.

"Better than your next-to-littlest does in school; and you're not gonna distract me that easily. You about done?"

Tom swallowed his last bite, then put the fork down and eyed John frankly, remembering the view from that morning. He was tempted to lick the bowl clean in front of him, but figured that might be a little much. "Sure you don't want to take a shower first?" he suggested, gaze lingering somewhat south of John's face. "You look like you had a long day."

"'Bout as long as yours, I expect; and nice try. C'mon." John grinned at him, then strolled over and retrieved the rifle Tom habitually propped at the end of the desk, holding it out to him. Security blanket, Second Massachusetts Militia style: he never went anywhere without it.

"Oh, all right. I guess it's not worth fighting over ... or staying here to shove a few more pieces of paper around." Tom carefully folded up the DNA analysis and tucked it into an inner pocket of his jacket. Then he took the rifle and gestured good-naturedly to the door. "After you."

---

2. A Close-Up Encounter

"They were blinded as the face of a mirror is breathed upon. Their vision flickered. Now it was only from close up that they could see what was there with any clarity."

— Popul Vuh, Part Four

 

At first, John didn't know what had woken him. Or even if he was actually awake, and not just dreaming a particularly pleasant dream. A soft mattress beneath him, sheets smelling of laundry soap and sex instead of smoke and dirt and blood, a warm body tucked at his back; to a man who'd been through nearly three years of post-apocalyptic hell and five years of prison before that, he might as well have found himself in Heaven.

His nerves were jangling like they did when an out-of-place sound woke him in the field, though; alertness thrummed through him, clearing the fog from his thoughts between one blink and the next. He was in Mason's quarters, judging by the furniture and the patriotic painting on the wall ... which meant the body at his back was none other than the Professor himself.

Well, shit. John hadn't meant to fall asleep in Tom's bed. Hadn't the night before, either, or the night before that, but at least he'd had an excuse both times. The first night, the softness of the bed — and the, ah, release of tension — had caught him off guard. The second night, Tom had been stressed as hell about the Volm's news and the latest developments with his daughter, and John had been disturbed enough by his moping to do something about it. A third time, though? That was the start of a pattern ... and he didn't do that kind of coupley, romantic nonsense anymore. It was a vulnerability; one he'd learned the hard way only bought him trouble.

A low, wounded sound broke the silence, interrupting his self-castigating thoughts, and the bed shifted as Tom stirred behind him. The sound was familiar — almost too familiar, dredging up memories of torture and captivity only a few weeks old — and John immediately rolled over, staring into a pale, distressed, sleeping face.

"No. No ...." Tom muttered almost inaudibly, tossing his head on the pillow.

"Ah, hell," John muttered, reaching out to shake the other man's shoulder ... but stopping just short of actually touching. He'd belatedly remembered what had happened the last time he'd woken the man out of a disturbed slumber; it hadn't been pretty. "Mason. Tom, wake up! You're dreaming."

Probably about what happened in that Skitter palace in Boston. Tom never seemed to lose sleep about anything that happened to him, but his family was another story entirely. Ever since John had tracked him down for skipping dinner two nights ago, Tom had been preoccupied, enough that he'd actually told John some of what had been going on with Alexis. He'd even interrupted Dr. Kadar's work on the big Volm gun yesterday, according to the Second Mass soldiers John had guarding the doc, to ask him to run another set of DNA comparisons — a task that would have been better done by Dr. Glass, but of course Tom hadn't wanted to worry her about it.

Self-martyring asshole. He could beat himself up all he wanted, but not to the extent that it interfered with John's peace of mind.

"Have to ... have to see it ...." Tom muttered again, muscles tensed like he was bracing for something horrible.

"Mason!" John repeated firmly, propping himself up on an elbow to speak directly into the man's ear. "We're not in Boston anymore. Wake the fuck up!"

This time, he got through: Tom went suddenly still, the familiar frozen awareness of a man startled to action, not relaxing back into sleep. "...Pope?" he said thickly after a long, wary moment, one hand sliding silently up under the pillow where he kept a sheathed blade a handspan long. John had found it accidentally the first night he'd slept over; he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know if it had always been there, or if had only made its appearance since Anne Glass had left Mason's bed. Questions to ponder.

"You were expecting someone else?" he replied, very dryly.

The tense line of Tom's shoulders slumped with relief, and he shifted in the bed, turning over to face John. His eyes were bloodshot, but his expression thoughtful as his gaze wandered around John's face.

"Sorry," he said, stifling a yawn. "Nightmare."

"Figured," John replied. Then he gave into impulse — might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb — and reached out to trace the edges of Tom's profile, pushing sweaty hair out of his face and scratching fingernails lightly through the beard along the edge of his jaw.

Tom's eyelids fluttered shut again, and the noise he made this time was a lot more pleased with the world.

"Didn't ... expect you to still be here," he murmured a long moment later, blinking as John withdrew his fingers.

John shrugged, carefully nonchalant. "Gotta be out at the crack of dawn again to stand watch. Woulda been more of a pain to go find wherever Lyle parked my shit just to get up again in a few hours."

"Uh-huh," Tom replied skeptically, a brief spark of amusement lightening his eyes. Then he went all serious again, a pinched expression tightening his face. "Probably gonna get ugly today. We got yesterday for free, but ...."

"I heard the scouts' reports same as everybody else. Before you did, even," John reminded him. "Volm lit out just like Cochise said they would, yesterday morning; a whole flock of Beamers screamed off up north a few hours later. Wouldn't be surprised if the northernmost pickets start pulling back in this morning."

The Espheni had likely used the last three weeks to repair their command structure and consolidate resources — because wherever the Volm had been fighting, if they'd been fighting and not just blowing smoke up everyone's asses, it sure hadn't been anywhere near Charleston — and it didn't take a genius to realize what would be their A-number-one target the minute the local fishheads remobilized their forces. John had assigned most of the surviving Second Mass soldiers to front-door duty under Tom's authorization, and had no doubt they'd be welcoming visitors, one way or the other, before the sun finished its arc across the sky.

Tom let out a gusty sigh, then scrubbed his own hands over his face. "I'm so fucking tired of this war."

"Aren't we all," John snorted. Then he squinted over at the clock and pushed off the covers, reaching for the duffel he'd left on the floor beside the bed. He hadn't actually slept nude since the first night — no sense inviting more inconvenient interruptions — but he did have to be on the line in a little over an hour. Dawn was a bit before breakfast these days, though. "Don't worry, you've got about three hours to get your President face back on before your morning meetings. Maybe the situation won't be as bad as you think."

"Is that optimism, coming from you?" Tom replied, incredulously. Then he huffed a laugh and pushed his side of the covers off, scratching at his ribs as he stood.

The man was wearing threadbare boxers and not much else; all wiry muscle, dark hair, pale skin, and scars, some much older than anything the Espheni could have inflicted. Nothing like the mental image that would have first leapt to mind at the title of 'Professor', back in the day; a warrior's body, not much different from John's own.

Something stirred south of his belt buckle, and John contemplated tipping the glass of water on his bedside endtable all over Mason's head. But that would probably just make things worse, rather than dampening them down; even muddy and half-drowned and obstinate on the banks of an ice-cold stream, the man had been infuriatingly attractive. "Don't know where I could possibly have picked it up from," he drawled.

Tom gave him a highly skeptical look over his shoulder as they continued to dress. "Me, neither," he snarked back. "Let me know when you find out, huh? Because if even the fatalist of the Second Mass thinks I need a pick-me-up, I must look pretty worked over."

"Pretty, I'll give you," John leered. "Worked over would take more time than I've got this morning."

Tom snorted, but a smile crept back into the corners of his eyes. "Promises, promises," he said, and went to the dresser to pick out something else monochrome and Peralta-approved to wear for the day. "There are some things I probably should get done before breakfast today, anyway; no telling when I'll be able to get to them if the war does end up back on our doorstep."

John read between the lines easily enough on that, but let it go; if it wasn't fucking the man up, or posing an immediate threat to the group, there was no point pushing him to talk. Tom Mason could out-stubborn a cat, as members of every species to visit Earth, humanity included, had lately discovered the hard way. "Try to keep your ass off the front lines today if it does, huh? They take you out, they win — shut your mouth; we've heard them bitch about you often enough to know that's how they think — so there's no point making a target of yourself and getting everyone around you killed, too. You hear me?"

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again as John spoke, and lifted his eyebrows at the concluding question. "I'm sure the men would appreciate your concern for them," he replied lightly.

"I'll take that as a yes," John chided him, stomping into his boots and running a quick finger-comb through his hair to catch the worst of the sleep-induced snarls.

Tom went silent a moment, watching him; then he turned away to shrug on a shirt. "Watch yourself too, all right? I don't want to have to give that news to your daughter," he murmured behind the shielding fabric.

"Haven't met an alien that could kill me, yet. So now that we're both convinced of each other's invincibility ...." John rezipped his duffel and swung it up on his shoulder, making sure he could still reach his weapon with his other hand. Then he headed for the door, not in the mood for a lengthy goodbye.

Tom caught him just short of walking out with a hand to his bicep. Half-dressed in shirtsleeves and an open vest, the Professor looked distractingly like an Old West Marshal about to deliver a stern warning. But his expression hinted at something deeper; something that made John's stomach lurch.

"I mean it," Tom said, voice quiet and intense. "Don't you dare die on me today."

John studied him, cocking his head to one side as he considered how to respond. He couldn't just — say the same. However far he'd fallen for the man, the words just wouldn't come. But this was the apocalypse. One of them really could be dead by nightfall. And for some reason, Tom Mason seemed to have decided that John Pope's welfare was essential to his peace of mind. How he'd have laughed if he could've seen this, two years ago.

"You told me once that if I weren't there, being me, all you'd have to keep you going was hate," he finally replied.

Tom swallowed, then nodded. "That's true."

"What makes you think it was any different on my end?" John gave him a faint, cynical smile.

Tom looked startled at the concept; then, strangely, cheered. "You know," he said wryly, "my grandmother once told me some people are put on earth just to test us. I was never quite sure what that meant, until I met you."

"Shut the fuck up while you're ahead," John told him, and stopped the Professor's mouth with a farewell kiss.

---

The first sliver of molten sunlight over the horizon found him picking his way into position alongside Lyle, as close to a second-in-command as he had among the Berserkers, though John was technically in charge of the entire defensive line on this particular day. There'd be no crouching in a ruin, paying more attention to their thermos and smuggled snacks than to the lines of approach while he was playing at warlord in Weaver's place. And no Little Man running errands for them, either; they'd all stocked up on batteries and ration bars before moving out.

"Here we go again," Lyle muttered, settling himself behind a broken wall with a clear view of the rebuilt I-526 bridge leading out into unfriendly territory. "Day two. Let's hope we don't run into any not-so-friendly fire, this time."

"Don't think we're gonna have to worry about that," John grunted. "Any wannabe patriots tooling around in Humvees today are probably gonna get their asses fried before they get anywhere near us."

"Think so?" Lyle frowned. "What makes this time different from any of the others? Wasn't like the Volm ever did us much good out here, anyway."

"Yeah, well, they didn't have to, did they? They just had to be here. They took down a few Beamers now and again, lent us their intel and some of their ordnance, basically made sure the Espheni knew they were around and could act, if they wanted to. But now they're not ... and according to Mason's Volm boyfriend, his people don't normally let the natives keep any of their toys. That means the fishheads are gonna think they can roll right over us now, any time they want. And I don't know about you, but I've never known the bastards to hesitate when they've got the advantage."

Lyle made a scoffing noise at the mention of Cochise, but nodded at the rest of the explanation. "Makes sense, as much as anything these alien bastards do." Then he cut a sideways glance over at Pope, a perturbed expression on his face. "Speaking of the Professor ...."

John stilled. He hadn't expected much trouble from Lyle on the subject of where he chose to put his dick, unlike some of the 'phobes who drank their liquor down at the Nest. For all his rough edges, Lyle was a straightforward, loyal soul. And so far, he had in fact kept his mouth shut about any contrary personal opinions he might have. But this was the first time he'd had the opportunity to say something when it was just the two of them together, since the victory party after Jacksonville when John had let the celebratory atmosphere go to his head.

"Go on," he said, carefully nonchalant as he watched Lyle out of the corner of his eye. The sky had lightened considerably over the last few minutes; he could see the big man's expression clearly. "Speak your piece."

Lyle shook his head, but he didn't look angry, or disgusted; more ... bemused? "All those times me and Craze said we were ready to take off whenever you said the word, and you always said you had a plan. I gotta know, man. Was this what you had in mind?"

John snorted. Lyle damn well knew better; but John would take good-natured teasing over the more typical response, any day of the week. "If it makes you feel better to think this is all some plot to secure power, sure," he drawled, relaxing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Or if you think it'll calm down some of the hotheads in the Nest, feel free to spread it around. But, no. If I ever thought about the future where him and me were concerned, I always figured we'd kill each other eventually. Fucking him instead really wasn't on the menu."

Lyle made a thoughtful noise. "So what changed?"

John thought back to movie night, hanging back as Tom had paused to greet Jeanne Weaver at the door. Cap's daughter had been waving her hands excitedly about some damn thing, probably the mostly-stale popcorn someone had dug up as a treat for the event, and Tom had been nodding back, wearing that irritatingly benevolent expression he pulled on like a cloak when it was time for him to go a-Presidenting.

That was what most people thought of when they looked at Mason, John suspected; that, or the heart-felt conviction of his speeches, motivating the populace of Charleston and the Second Mass before them to keep on keepin' on. For a few of them, Lyle and the rest of the Berserkers included, that image probably also included the set of his jaw and fierce accuracy under fire, or the way he always seemed to get the job done, no matter how ludicrous or impossible the plan. None of that heroic shit had ever impressed John, though. It was the raw ugly truth underneath that had finally hooked him in the gut, and wouldn't let him go.

It was the Mason who'd picked fights with him when his unnaturally controlled temper finally broke; the Mason who'd laughed in the midst of torture and taunted an Espheni to her face; the Mason who'd shook in John's arms during a bout of soul-crushing grief; the Mason who'd finally admitted that he wasn't intrinsically superior to John deep down, that had finally captured his attention. But it wasn't really that anything had changed about him, other than John's perspective. So what could he say to Lyle that wouldn't let down the John Pope image?

"I don't know, man," he shrugged. "One day I just looked up and realized I'd turned him into the boogeyman, you know? Easier to hate one guy than shake your fist at the heavens. But it turns out, underneath all the bullshit, he ain't all that bad. And I gotta say ..." he finished off the explanation with a smirk, "the perks ain't half bad, either."

Lyle stuck a finger in his mouth and made a gagging noise, though he still looked more amused than anything else. "TMI, bro. Just wanted to know what the sitch was; I don't need no details."

"Feel free to not dislike him on my behalf anymore, if you want," John replied magnanimously. "Oh — and if any of Peralta's bunch thinks to back-check just how long I've been doing spy shit for him, feel free to hint about that time I ditched the Second Mass to go scout with Anthony and Tom ran the Berserkers for me while I was gone."

"You mean that time he kicked your ass for taking Jimmy's compass, and you got pissed and ran off into a Skitter ambush?" Lyle gave him an incredulous look — then shook his head with a disbelieving chuckle. "Except no one from Charleston was there for that, just the Second Mass; and none of the Second Mass are gonna say a word against Mason in front of the VP. Damn. Couldn't have done much better if that had been your plan."

The walkie-talkie clipped to John's belt squawked unintelligibly before he could decide how to reply; he gave Lyle a knowing smirk, then turned up the volume and lifted it to his mouth, depressing the button. "Command, this is Pope. Say again?"

"...word from the Volm," a clipped voice said on the other end; it sounded like Porter under the static interference. "Report ... column of Mega-mechs moving ... toward Charleston. Also spotted ... being loaded ... bunch of Beamers. Watch yourselves, gentlemen; estimate ... early afternoon."

"Roger that. Early afternoon," John replied, sharing a long, grim look with Lyle. Then he changed his walkie to the local channel to pass the orders on to the rest of the soldiers out there with him. No way to spin this one; they were definitely in the shit now. The only question was how deep it was gonna get.

---

The northern scouts started showing up an hour or so later: motorbikes sucking fumes, horses lathered, riders pale and exhausted. One of the last of the bikers, Nico, had been a Berserker since just after the battle in Fitchburg; John pulled the man down behind his and Lyle's piece of wall and shoved a water bottle into his hand.

"Command said mechs are on the move; you get a look at 'em?" Lyle asked, offering a ration bar. They hadn't had any advance warning from the withdrawing scouts, nor from Weaver's strike group, which would have left Charleston the minute the Volm intel came in; but then, they hadn't expected any, given the fact that they weren't sure just which frequencies the Espheni, their slaves, and their tech were capable of overhearing.

Nico waved it off. "The big ones," he nodded, taking a long pull of water. "I waited it out 'til they reached my position; didn't stick around to see how many there were, though. Fuckers move fast. I bugged out and got here as quick as I could. You think this is it?"

"Looks like," John nodded to him. "Better go on down and report, maybe see if you can catch a couple winks while you're there. You'll be no good to us falling asleep over your rifle, and I'm sure there'll be plenty of fire and brimstone to go around by the time you're up again."

Nico gave him an acknowledging nod, then braced his hands on his thighs and pushed back to his feet, turning to look deeper into the city. "Hey, looks like a runner headed this way; that razorback Mason kid. Maybe one of the others brought back better news."

"Watch your mouth," Lyle grunted, with another of those sidewise glances at John — as if they both hadn't said the same thing, and worse, as little as a month ago. How times did change. "He got anyone with him?"

"Nah, just one of them big-ass rifles," Nico shook his head, giving them a skeptical look. "Anyway, I'd better get moving. Later, guys. Good luck."

"Wonder why he's coming out here?" Lyle wondered aloud as Nico fell into a slow, weary trot back into the city.

John thought he might have an idea. It was a surprise, though; Tom had already assigned him Denny. "S'pose we'll find out. Keep an eye on the bridge, though; I'd hate to get caught off guard this close to go-time."

"Will do, boss," Lyle snorted, and shifted back up into position.

A moment later, the middle Masonet dropped down next to John, looking insufferably bright-eyed and not at all weighted down by the weapon slung over his back. It was a pity Dr. Kadar hadn't been able to scale the Volm anti-aircraft rifles down much when he'd begun modifying Charleston's native weapons with the technology, but something about the capacitors or barrel length or some shit meant it didn't have the oomph to take a Beamer out if it got much smaller. That took it out of the casual carry range of most original-model human troops.

"Ben," John nodded to him, civilly. "They got you running messages?"

"Not today," Ben smiled tightly back at him. "Dad said you asked for me?"

John snorted. "If by that you mean I told him I wanted you and your sister-in-arms both, but I'd settle for Denny 'cause I figured you'd be busy? Yeah, I did. The cockroaches not in need of your services today?"

Ben automatically glanced down the line, directly toward the building where Denny was set up, before returning his focus to John; more spooky shit to do with the harness stubs in their backs, he was sure. Fair set his spine to crawling. But he didn't have to like 'em to make use of 'em.

"The last of the rebel Skitters arrived this morning; they're all set up in the old Volm complex, now. And since none of the scouts are reporting enemy Skitter movements, or even normal sized mechs, they've decided it would be better if they sit this one out." Ben spread his hands as if to add, so here I am.

"I just bet," John commented, sourly. The only way to make Skitters truly useful outside of hand-to-hand combat would be to put Volm weapons in their hands, and they had neither the training nor the grip size to be very effective at it. Not to mention, half the city — including John, no matter who gave the order — would be up in arms the minute they started passing out guns to Skitters. "Lucky us. Well, you know where I put Denny; I've also got Tector and Ox up on overwatch at the other end of the line. You got your pick of positions otherwise; just keep an eye out for potential blue-on-blues."

Ben scowled, rocking back on his heels. "If you're worried about me fragging my own side ...." he began, indignantly.

"Cool your jets, kid." Just about every time John talked to the sixteen-year-old, he seemed to find some new way to wind him up. Occasionally, that was the whole point ... but not while they were prepping for battle, with half the Second Mass listening in. He'd forgotten about the thing with the kid accidentally shooting his dad that time. Not long before John had tried to blow Tom up, actually. Good thing the man was so hard to kill. "I'm just sayin', watch your geometry; you hit a Beamer at the wrong angle, you might knock it down right over top of our position. I'd just as soon not bury any more Second Mass today."

"Oh," Ben replied, looking away. "Yeah, all right. I have fired one of these before, you know. How about the Highway 17 bridge — you station any out that way?"

John nodded. Had his father's problem-solving mind, this one, at least when he was paying attention; worth remembering, even if John still found the youngest brother the most tolerable of the lot. "Yeah; a few, mostly snipers from the First Continental. Won't be as mobile as you and Denny, but if they get any attention out there, it'll probably be spillover from us; if the fishheads are coming in force from the north, there's no reason for them to go the long way around. And if there's anything worse headed our way than a few Beamers and Mega-mechs ... well, we'll blow that bridge when we come to it." He bared his teeth for emphasis.

"Got it," Ben said, nodding and sliding the rifle's strap around to hold it ready. "Is there any particular spot ...."

"Pope, they're here!" Lyle interrupted the conversation, stiffening in place and pointing up over the green fields on the other side of the bridge.

"Just pick one, kid!" John said hastily, then scurried back to the wall, snagging the field glasses he'd brought along and lifting them to his face. Sure enough, the distant, rapidly growing silhouettes of several Beamers were visible to the north ... and beneath their flight, a glint of light shone off something tall and mechanical. Several somethings tall and mechanical, stomping along at speed. And ... shit, just how many Beamers were there? They looked like a flock of oversized birds already, more than he'd ever seen in one place since the initial invasion. Where the hell had they got all the fuel?

"Incoming. Incoming!" he yelled into his walkie-talkie, first on the command channel, then the local. "Long guns, fire as you bear; everyone else, brace yourselves!"

He dropped the walkie-talkie then as the intercom system came to life in the town square, sounding the alert siren; that was the cue for any non-combatants still above ground to take shelter immediately. He heard the sound of a Volm weapon activating to one side, and looked over to see Ben taking a stance next to Lyle.

"For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful," the kid muttered in an ironic tone, squinting as he tracked one of the incoming aircraft with the muzzle of his rifle.

"Amen," John snorted. "Growing up in your dad's household, I'd have expected an 'Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant'," he added, eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching targets.

"Are you kidding me?" Ben scoffed. "Dad's more of a Patton guy. 'The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other guy die for his'. Or planet, in this case."

"Amen to that," Lyle agreed, then swore. "Damn, that's a lot of 'em."

"They're in range!" Ben called, gritting his teeth as he fired his first shot. Three other glowing blobs of energy leapt skyward to join it, aimed at the Beamers swooping over the fields; two of them hit, sending the damaged crafts spinning end-over-end down to the grass, but the other two targets changed direction unexpectedly, breaking sideways and flying parallel to the river.

"Nice shot, kid," John said; no two guesses which gunners had hit. "What the hell are they ...."

The two flying along the river made another sharp turn — upward this time — as something fell from their undersides on the city side of the river. John automatically crouched for cover, but whatever the things were that had been loaded on the Beamers that morning, they were a lot bigger and heftier than mere bombs; they speared down into the soft soil like a pair of high-tech standing stones, bracketing the old interstate. Then the next wave of Beamers approached, and Ben fired again, grunting as the rifle kicked against his shoulder.

This time, only one of the shooters hit their mark — and again, the surviving Beamers broke to either side, dropping more of the strange metal spikes into the landscape just beyond the ones already placed. There were two of the impromptu pillars to the left of the bridge now, and three marching off to the right. As John watched, a thin latticework of green light sputtered to life, connecting them to each other, looking like nothing so much as a downsized version of the old planetary defense grid: horizontal lines running parallel to the ground crossed by angled beams connecting higher points on one post to lower points on the next. They'd left only one gap: the space between the two bracketing the highway, keeping a path clear for the incoming Mega-mechs.

"Oh, fuck," John realized, fumbling for the walkie-talkie again. He'd spent too long behind razorwire to mistake what the Beamers were building for anything but what it was. Apparently the Volm weren't the only ones who had detention camps on their minds ... and he somehow doubted the Espheni version would be all that concerned with their residents' welfare. They sure hadn't been the first time around; he remembered what Tom had said about that deluded woman who'd tried to turn him and Weaver over to the Skitters in Boston. "It's a fence! If you can't hit the Beamers, shoot the fence posts!"

Two of the rifles immediately switched aim; John saw shots impact both fence posts before Ben fired again, echoed by the fourth rifle in Tector's hands. Two more Beamers fell — but the pillars didn't, shedding the impacts of Denny's and Ox's shots in flares of green light. The things were shielded, somehow. And where there'd been five, now there were seven.

"Man, they don't miss a trick, do they?" he muttered.

"Here we go," Lyle said grimly, swapping his standard rifle for a Volm-tech handgun as the Mega-mechs reached the gap in the fence. "If they're trying to fence us in, why the mechs? Why not just seal it?"

"To wreck our stuff and take Mason out, of course. Give us nothing to rally around," John spat. "I don't know what they want pen us in for when they've spent so long trying to kill us — but I doubt our fate's going to be pleasant, either way. Take 'em down!" He shouted the last three words loud enough for everyone in the next several buildings to hear, taking a bead on the foremost Mega-mech as it crossed the bridge and began shooting its way through the ruins. Literally through them, aiming at the buildings, not the people.

Somewhere behind the thing, he saw one of the Second Mass soldiers slip away from his hide, bent low to provide a smaller target. The guy was carrying some kind of explosive device — ANFO, grenades, Volm tech, John couldn't tell which at that distance, though his body language made its purpose clear — and angling toward the fence; John held his breath as the guy reached the bridge, ducking behind the rail at the near end as more mechs advanced.

Sabot rounds and Volm-tech energy blasts both lashed out from the rest of the line to strike the leading Mega-mech, impacting on its legs and weapon-bearing arms. It staggered, firing one last blast toward the building Denny was using for cover, sending dust and debris billowing out of the first floor windows; then it collapsed, twitching in the dirt like a turtle turned on its back. Ben fired another shot at the flying Beamers, now rushing over the river in greater numbers, while John fired a few more bullets into the downed droid; Ox's rifle left off its careful, measured targeting to fire a near continuous stream of blasts at the fence posts on the opposite side of the highway from the one the sapper had chosen.

"Denny!" John yelled, forgetting himself. However he felt about the spikes, the kid was only a couple of years older than his daughter, and Tanya would be crushed; she thought Denny was the bee's knees. Then he scrabbled for the walkie-talkie and tried again, triggering it between shots at the second Mech in line. Nevermind Tanya; it would be just his luck to get one of the Second Mass's two darling little supersoldiers killed before the battle even properly got started. "Denny, you still in one piece in there?"

Ben snorted, then fired again, this time echoed by a blast from a window several yards down from Denny's prior position. "She says fuck you, Pope; it'll take more than that to kill her," he answered for his friend, freaky hearing picking up her reply without electronic assistance.

"She's not the only one," John said, shaking his head as the left-side fence posts continued to shed concentrated energy blasts. Then he focused, saving his breath for the next droid — and the next — while Ben and Tector continued to pour fire into the sky. "Keep it up! Don't let them through!"

The last Mega-mech of the current batch stepped off the bridge — and behind it, the hidden soldier slipped out of its shadow, darting toward the nearest post. He lifted the package in his arms, approaching it, and then —

Green light flared, setting off an explosion where the man had stood. Nothing was left behind.

"Fuck!" John swore, redoubling his fire. So much for that idea.

He couldn't have said how many Mega-mechs they took down over the next long minutes of deafening battle; the droids' weapons reached farther than even the regular Volm-tech assault weapons did and shattered the structures the Second Mass were using for cover. More walls and roofs began to crumble, sending John's soldiers scrambling for newer, safer positions and diluting the amount of bullets they were able to pour into the enemy.

They were making the droids pay dearly for every yard they won; but for every yard they won, people were dying or otherwise getting knocked out of action. Unlike the Espheni war machines, those lives could not be easily replaced. And the further the line was pushed from the river, the harder it was for any of their weapons to hit the incoming Beamers; more and more of the flying craft were surviving to drop their ominous cargo, stretching the laser-beam fence further across the face of the city. John gave the order to refocus the long guns' fire on the mechs to try to clear the way for an advance back toward the bridge, to blow the thing before the situation got any worse, but no matter how many droids they knocked down, they just kept on coming.

John was about to call Command for reinforcements — most of the experienced guys not already with him were out with Weaver, but he'd take even the greenest troops if that would give his men a breather — when Denny called out from her new perch. "Benji! Do you see that? There's something back where the mechs are coming from — a big black shape of some kind. I can't tell if it's smoke, or what!"

There were a lot of fragmented buildings blocking their view of the river, now; John was getting only glimpses of the radioactive glow of the new fence between ducking and firing at the Mega-mechs. Ben was still with him and Lyle, but at Denny's call, the teenager frowned up at a half-crumbled four-story structure across the alleyway to their left. "I can't tell either — I'll try to get a better look!" he called.

"Ben — Ben!" John hissed after him; but the kid didn't so much as pause, just slung his rifle over his back, bolted across the alleyway, rolled to avoid a mech blast, then scurried up the side of the building like an oversized, sucker-toed lizard. John had no illusions that Tom would ever forgive him if he let one of his kids get killed; hell, the man still hadn't gotten over Anne running away with their daughter and practically handing her over to Karen, not that he'd ever said as much aloud. But there was no point spending more effort than he could safely spare to check the kid, either; this was war, and Ben was, just like his daddy, a Fighting Mason.

John poured a burst of mech-metal rounds into the one that had been shooting at Ben, knocking it staggering into another soldier's fire, and swore under his breath. "Fucking Masons. Still going to be the death of me, I swear."

Lyle chuckled, unhelpfully. "Just remember, we coulda been in Mexico, bro."

"And miss this delightful party?" he quipped back. "What's a few cervezas and palm trees, compared to this?"

"I see it! I see it!" Ben interrupted from his new perch with a shout. There was a slightly panicky note in his voice that John didn't like; it took a lot to make the kid show any weakness these days. "It's a ship! A big one! Maybe fifteen or twenty times the size of a Beamer, just hovering out there!"

A chill went through John's veins at that thought. No two guesses on what it was doing there; if the Espheni were trying to turn Charleston into a prison, that meant a warden, and the fishheads preferred to travel in style. The Second Mass could take down all the Beamers and mechs they liked without making so much as a dent in one of those midsize spacecraft; there was only one weapon in Charleston that might have a chance to shoot it down.

Mason's spidey senses at work again. The professor was one hell of a strategist; no real handle on relative risk — which was hilarious considering his complaints about John's own fitness as a soldier — but he practically had a sixth sense for picking the least worst of available options, at least when his family wasn't in danger. That had rubbed at John like a cheese grater on bare skin when he'd thought the man didn't grasp the costs of his crazier decisions; now that he knew otherwise, it still made him wonder where Tom got the nerve to go through with them. And more determined than ever to remain the questioning voice, to ensure the man never drank his own Kool-Aid.

He lifted the walkie-talkie again. "Hey Mason — what's the status on that grid weapon?"

"Say again? Who is this?" A staticky voice answered back, barely recognizable as General Porter's. The sound had been bad all day; the Espheni getting their asses back in gear seemed to really be screwing with the airwaves.

John rolled his eyes. "This is Pope! What's the status on the grid weapon, General?" he shouted back.

"Dr. Kadar ... it active," a different voice replied; Mason. "But we can't ... from the shed without ... rail line."

Well, that made it about as useful as tits on a boar, didn't it? Unless .... John chewed his lip a moment, thinking about what they knew and suspected regarding Espheni sensor capabilities, then made a suggestion. "Power it up anyway! It doesn't need to move, they just need to think it can!"

"...good will that do?" John could practically hear the frown in Mason's raspy reply.

"Just trust me!" he replied, not bothering to form a more detailed explanation. With the connection as bad as it was, he'd have to send a runner to make sure it all got through, and the way things were going they didn't have time for that. But that big gun had to put out a hell of an energy signature ... and after Jacksonville, there was no way the Espheni wouldn't know what it meant.

No reply came through for a long handful of seconds; John swore, glancing up to where Ben was returning fire on the mechs again, keeping the lane clear while John was distracted. "Mason, just do it!" he tried again.

"Standby," came the impersonal reply — General Porter again this time, not Mason.

"Shit," John muttered, swapping walkie-talkie for weapon again. The fence stretched along the whole populated front of the city now from what he could tell; the Beamers were starting to swing further in, turning up the flanks of the fortifications, remaining just out of weapons range. It wouldn't take much longer for them to complete the circuit, and John really, really didn't want to see what the aftermath of that would look like.

He didn't have long to wonder, fortunately. His ears suddenly twinged, and while he was working his jaw to clear them, a low sound climbed up into audible range: the unmistakable thrum of the giant grid gun, charging.

"That's more like it," he crowed, craning his head around his current shelter to eye the next incoming batch of Mega-mechs crossing the bridge. The monstrosities took several long, echoing steps into the ruins of Charleston ... then abruptly slowed and froze in their places. Beyond them, the latest flight of Beamers turned sharply well short of the river, curving back toward their launch point. The gun's sound grew even louder ....

...and Ben let out a whoop, shaking a fist from his perch. "They heard that! The ship is leaving!"

Several more voices picked up the refrain from there, all of them familiar to John, as the frozen line of mechs backed up a step, then another, then turned and stomped away.

"Are they retreating?"

"They're retreating!"

"Tick, Tick, Boom!"

"Oh, yeah, that's more like it!"

"How do you like us now!"

"Hold your horses, guys!" John cautioned, raising his palm in a halting signal. "Make sure they're really gone before we celebrate. And don't forget, there's still that fucking fence to deal with!"

They'd had a lucky break, but it didn't change much of anything, in his opinion. What was to stop the fishheads from simply coming back later? Or if they did decide Charleston was too tough a nut to crack, dropping in on some less well-defended settlement instead? If they were starting to think of adult humans as a resource as much as they always had children malleable enough to be harnessed, rather than just a nuisance to be exterminated, then the war might be entering a whole new phase of suck.

It was almost enough to make John wish his own fate was the only one he still cared about. Every happiness was a hostage to fortune, they said, and the Fates had rather had it in for humanity lately. But you pays your money, you takes your chances, they also said; it was far too late for him to back down, now.

---

Wind-down after the battle took longer than usual that day; being in charge of more than just the Berserkers meant more responsibility in the aftermath, tasks John couldn't just shuck to go crack a bottle in the Nest anymore. He sent Ben back to his dad with a preliminary report, then delegated as much as he could to Anthony, the most well-regarded of the lieutenants Weaver had left him. The former cop gave John the suspicious eye the entire time they talked, but took the orders without argument, professional as you like despite whatever rumors he'd been listening to. The remaining tasks John couldn't delegate — including compiling the final lists of the dead and wounded — were almost as grueling as the battle itself had been.

It turned out the soldier who'd charged the fence had been Nico's friend Zack, also one of John's Berserkers since the unit had put itself together out of the barrel scrapings of the Second Mass. A year and more he'd fought beside the guy, and there wasn't even anything left of him to bury. It was such a fucking waste.

The sick irony was that even before John reported for the full after-action debrief, a couple hours after the debris settled, the fence that had snuffed Zack out like a candle sputtered and went dark on its own. It was as if the thing had run on batteries, and only been set up with a limited charge. Once the glow was gone, it didn't react to anything they threw at it. He could only guess that there would've been some more permanent power line connected to it if the Espheni had managed to finish tying the noose; as it was, Mason would have to assign a team with cojones of steel to knock the fence posts down later and make sure they could never be reactivated.

Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective — John wasn't the only one with less than pleasant news to bring to the meeting. Weaver's team had gone to seek out the Espheni site the Volm had located while it was assumed to be empty from fielding the attack on Charleston, a quick lightning blitz to deny the enemy resources. Tom and Weaver had thought it worth the risk, given the opportunity provided by Cochise's advance intel. But the base had kept more mechs in reserve than anyone had anticipated, as well as a swarm of Skitters; they'd been forced to withdraw without even attempting the mission. The fishheads had definitely found some new way to fuel and expand their forces, quicker than even their worst estimates had anticipated.

Tom looked around at all of the usual suspects as the meeting wrapped up, grim lines carving deep furrows around his mouth. "The important takeaway from this," he said, all President and very little John's Mason, "is that we're still here; we survived the first wave of the enemy's counteroffensive, and now we can work on figuring out how to defeat the next stage of this war just as we defeated the last."

"We're not going to be doing much of that if we have to keep manning the front line, anticipating that level of offensive, every day," John pointed out.

Tom nodded tightly, not quite meeting his gaze. "Dr. Kadar thinks he's figured out how to link the Volm scouting devices to the tablets Cochise brought us; we should be able to step back down to more normal levels of deployment in the next few days, using those to augment our recon teams. Although we will need more engineers — if any of you know of anyone with experience in heavy vehicle maintenance, railroad maintenance, or any other unusual mechanical repair, we need to begin working on a way to convert the carriage for the Volm grid gun to something we can more flexibly deploy. Right now it's restricted to places we can access via Charleston's rail lines, and as we discovered during today's defensive action, that limitation might cost us in future."

"Why does Dr. Kadar have to take the time to figure any of this shit out at all, if Cochise was just here?" Anthony spoke up, arms crossed over his chest. "We sure could've used those spy drones today; would've been nice to know just how many mechs we were facing. Or if Weaver had known there'd be no point attacking that base — we really could have used him on the front lines today. Might have lost fewer people if we had."

A couple of months ago, John might have taken that as an insult to his own leadership skills; then again, a couple of months ago, he wouldn't have imagined Tom or Weaver would allow him that much responsibility in the first place. He doubted it even factored into Anthony's criticism, or the man would have chosen other targets for his complaints; it wasn't his judgment the man was questioning here, it was Tom's. People had always been leery about Tom's decisions regarding the Volm, John usually included. Not this time, though.

"Man said it a few weeks ago, Anthony; or weren't you paying attention? Bubblehead's got orders, and heaven forbid he violate the letter of 'em. A crate of goodies he might be able to explain away; damn that crazy human leader for getting his clever hands on a stash of Volm gear!" John wagged his finger in Tom's direction in mock admonitory fashion. "But actually showing us how to use it? Stop, do not pass go, do not collect 200 credits."

"I'd prefer the term bubblehead never show up in the transcript of one of these official meetings," Tom said dryly, though his expression didn't crack at all; he still looked like a living cast of one of those war hero statues. "But yes; that's pretty much what I figure. So I count us lucky to have received as much material assistance as we have. I won't repay him for his renewed friendship by making his position here more difficult with his own people; it's therefore up to us to make the most efficient possible use of that windfall. Any other questions?"

He braced his hands on the conference table, glancing around the group again; and when no one commented — though several glances bounced between him and John — he nodded. "Dismissed, then. General, Marina, we'll meet again in the morning to go over revised assignments and start assessing the feasibility of moving the civilians back out of emergency quarters. Everyone else, sleep well tonight; you've earned it. Dan, if you'll stay back?"

"Of course," Colonel Weaver nodded, kicking back in his chair as the others got up to go.

John frowned hard, but Tom still didn't glance his way. What the hell was up with the man? He'd been urging John not to die on him just that morning; now, he wouldn't even look at him.

Ego, John, he reminded himself; it might not be about him at all. But regardless, he wouldn't get to the bottom of it in front of Weaver, who blew hot and cold himself on whether he approved of John's association with Tom.

He got up, gave an exaggerated bow, and mimed doffing a hat in the President's direction. Then he stalked out of the conference room, headed for Tom's office. Odds were the professor would stop there next. And it came equipped with both a collection of high quality liquor and a well-stocked bookcase, an acceptable substitute for the wake probably already going on at the Nest.

He chose a book off one of the shelves, a copy of the Art of War with commentary that he hadn't had the chance to read before, then kicked back in Tom's chair with a couple of fingers of scotch and settled in to wait.

About twenty minutes passed before he heard raised voices approach down the hall, and he got up to put the book away. Mason, definitely ... and Dr. Glass? John frowned and sidled closer to the door, eavesdropping shamelessly.

"...not trying to tell you what to do," Tom was saying, in a rough, low voice, "It's just, Ben mentioned that they've been missing you, especially Matt. I don't mind if you still spend time with them; or even if Matt wants to keep calling you Mom. As long as you're not planning on leaving again anytime soon ...."

"And there it is again! I wish you'd stop bringing that up every time I get justifiably upset at you! All right, so maybe it's been a few days since I helped Matt with his homework, but can you blame me when every third word out of his mouth lately is about Pope? I'll make it up to him later, I just don't want to hear him singing that man's praises when I know you're keeping secrets from me about Alexis again. She's my daughter, Tom."

"It's ... complicated, Anne," Tom replied, wearily.

"Yeah? Well, then, uncomplicate it. Aren't you supposed to be good at that kind of thing, Professor?" She wasn't giving him an inch.

Mason gave a frustrated sigh. "Karen didn't keep her in stasis, you know. Not the whole time, anyway; not like you said she did with you. I don't know what all she put in Lexie's head, but part of it was that Lexie was just like her, and that she was supposed to bring peace between humans and Espheni."

"What?" Anne gasped.

"Except I've never believed that story," Tom continued. "It's inconsistent with some of the actions she had Lourdes take as her mole here in Charleston. Not to mention that the Volm have never heard of anything like this happening before, and you'd think they'd know something if it was a familiar tactic for the Espheni. So I've been trying to quietly look into the matter on my own; I didn't want to alarm you until I had something more concrete to say about it."

"She ... Lexie thinks ..." Dr. Glass said haltingly, her voice choked. "And you kept this from me?"

"I wasn't sure whether ... I thought maybe she'd already told you." It was Tom's turn to sound uncertain.

"And you thought that I would keep that from you?" Her voice grew harsh with fury. "I guess you were right; I guess we really can't keep a clear head with each other anymore. Because I thought we still at least had that much of an understanding. And how much of this does he already know?"

An honorable man, John thought, would have wandered back to the desk by now and pretended he hadn't heard a thing; good thing he wasn't an honorable man. He didn't actually wish Anne any harm, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't worried about Tom falling back into her warm, welcoming, and very feminine arms.

But that didn't seem to be happening; rather than trying to placate her with soothing words, Tom said only, "I don't see how that's relevant."

"I thought so," Anne continued, venomously. "You've always been strangely tolerant of him, but these last few weeks, watching him walk next to you, listening to the things people are saying about him — it's been like a slap in the face. I can't meet your needs, but somehow John Pope can? What do you even see in him? Explain that to me, Tom; because I need to understand."

There was a brief, tense silence; John could picture Tom rubbing his hand over his mouth, the way he did when he was thinking things over and not quite sure what to say. "You remember the second time he came to the Second Mass? When you treated the gunshot wound in his leg, and gave him that godawful striped shirt to wear?"

"Yeah, I remember," she snorted. "If you're about to tell me that this is about him saving your kids that day — after everything else he's done, after everything I've done —"

"No, no. Or ... not just that," Tom replied. "You remember any of the other wounds you treated that day? The gash on his forehead, for example; I think he still has a scar from that."

John started, reaching up to touch the crease he'd been left with by Terry Clayton's idea of hospitality. Why was Tom bringing that up?

"What does that have to do with anything?" Anne echoed John's thought.

"You ever wonder how Clayton knew to find us in the first place? Or how he knew it would be worth hitting us up for enough kids to satisfy the Skitters he'd made his deal with?"

Anne gasped, and John dropped his hand, stunned. He'd never told Mason anything about that; he'd figured the full truth would kill any goodwill he'd earned that day. When the hell had the man figured it out?

"You mean we almost lost our kids — and did lose Mike and three other fighters — because Pope told them where to find us?" the doc hissed.

"Because Clayton caught him, and strong-armed it out of him. It was pretty clear from the things I heard them say to each other. But when John had the opportunity to run ... he didn't; he chose to make things right instead. Saved our kids, despite his opinion of us. That's why I've always given him a second chance; because I saw what he was made of when his ego was out of the picture. And after our little impromptu camping trip ... let's just say, he saw what I'm made of when my ego's out of the picture. And apparently, he liked what he saw." He sighed, then added as if it made perfect sense: "I don't have to lie to him, Anne."

"Did I ever ask you to lie to me." Her voice shook; that hadn't calmed her down at all.

Mason chuckled lowly, as if anything about that statement was funny. "I lie to everyone, Anne. Including myself. Every day. Sometimes every hour of every day. And sometimes that's not even enough, and I do it anyway. Because if people think that there's no hope ... They damn well better believe that I think that there is. But Pope ... he's a selfish son of a bitch, and he's pulled me back more than once when I would have taken it too far. He already knows all my fears and doubts. But I don't ... it isn't that he's better than you, Anne. It's just that ...." He trailed off in frustration, finally losing the thread of what he was trying to say.

Anne sniffed, a wet, quietly defeated sound, and finished it for him. "He appreciates the man you've become, the man you think you have to be, now. Not the man you were. The man that I fell in love with."

"Yeah," Tom replied, very quietly, and John swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. Now he felt self-conscious. What the fuck, Mason.

"You realize that may not be such a good thing," she cautioned Tom.

"Yeah, I know," John would have given a lot to see his face on that one. "But I also know I can't keep doing this job without him. Not anymore."

Anne sighed. "All right. Okay. Just — no more lies about Alexis, please? I can — I can deal with the rest, if I have to. But if you keep anything else about Alexis from me ...."

"I understand. Come by my office tomorrow afternoon?" Tom replied quietly. "I should have more for you by then."

"I'll hold you to that," she said.

The sound of footsteps retreated up the hall ... and then the door opened.

Tom didn't look surprised to see John standing there, waiting. "How much of that did you hear?" he asked, meeting John's gaze for the first time that evening.

Knew all his doubts and fears, huh? John remembered the thoughts he'd had on the subject of vulnerability that very morning, and smiled wryly to himself at the irony. "You knew I was in here, didn't you?" he countered. "That's why you didn't ask her in."

Tom shrugged, still holding himself like he was bracing for impact. "I left the door cracked before I went to the meeting. Couldn't imagine anyone else making themselves at home like that."

John snorted, reluctantly impressed. "You're a real cool customer, Mason. I heard pretty much all of it, I think. Little Man's homework clear through to lying your ass off about not knowing anything, yet."

Tom tucked his hands in his pockets and glanced down, shaking his head. "I never said I didn't know anything. Just that I'd have something to tell her by then."

John tipped his head to one side as he realized something else; this was why Tom hadn't been able to look at him during the meeting. Because he wouldn't have been able to keep John from figuring it out, if he had.

His chest ached, as distracted and unexpected a feeling as everything else Tom had pulled out of him lately. "I get it. You're not ready to tell me, either."

"No," Tom shook his head again, pained lines carved deep around his eyes and across his forehead. "I can't — if I say anything at all — and this, I really should tell her, first."

"Okay." Not at all the conversation he'd thought they'd be having this evening — but, okay. John nodded, then consciously relaxed his posture and gestured to the door. "Then I'll just, uh. There's a wake at the Nest tonight."

"For Zack? I remember. Handyman with a machine gun. One of the few you trusted to watch over me, after Keystone." A tentative smile quirked at the corner of Tom's mouth. "Lift a glass for me, too?"

"You got it," John said, then decided to make something crystal clear. "You know, you're right about me being a selfish son of a bitch. Just because I've started to give a damn about you and your youngest kids — and don't half hate the older two, annoying as they can be — don't mean that's ever going to change. I'm never going to tell you everything'll be all right; and I'm always going to question your decisions."

The faint smile deepened, though the pain in the Professor's eyes deepened with it. "What was it you said to me three weeks ago? If you meant that little speech to be discouraging, you've forgotten who you're talking to, John."

Sometimes he really hated how the things he said came back to bite him so often with this man. Sometimes.

He grabbed Tom by the lapels and pulled him in; so much for moving too quick. And when they broke apart, he gave the other man a sharp nod, his throat tight.

"You know where to find me when you're ready."

This time, when the door shut behind him, he figured he'd pushed just far enough.


> > Parts 3 & 4