This is the second part of Skein. Hopefully, there will be a third part. Feedback is most welcome---my address is upleaf@yahoo.com.

Skein 2 by V.R. Trakowski

That's not possible, Sloan thought again, feeling Tom's fingers returning the pressure of her own. She glanced down; his eyes met hers, and the intensity of his expression made her stomach flip, though she couldn't tell what he was thinking. How can he still be 1.4 percent?

"I don't get it," Ed mumbled, beginning to type rapidly. "That can't be right. I need to retest--"

"Later," Sloan said, shaking off her stunned paralysis. "Right now we need to get out of here."

A quick glance around her apartment reassured her that she had packed everything she thought she would need. Ed hesitated, then shut down his equipment and folded it up. The faint siren in the distance grew a little louder, then faded away.

"Ready?" she asked Tom softly, and he nodded. He rose stiffly to his feet and tucked the handgun he was holding into the waistband of his pants. The itching, driving feeling along Sloan's spine was a combination of impatience and something else, some growing sense of urgency.

"Let's go," Ed said, grabbing the equipment bag and picking up two more. "Can you get the last two, Sloan?"

She scooped up the remaining bag and the cooler, then waited for Ed and Tom to pass by her and out the door. Hastily she closed and locked it, fingers fumbling in her haste. I wonder when--if--when I'll get back?

When she and Tom got down to the garage, Ed already had the motor running; some of her urgency appeared to be infecting him. Sloan set her burdens on the floor of the van and slid the heavy door shut behind Tom, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Tom sat heavily down on the van's folded-down bed, bracing himself. The Volkswagen's engine swelled into an echoing roar as Ed drove up the ramp and out onto the street.

They had gone barely half a block, however, when Tom spoke sharply from the back. "Turn off the street!"

Ed braked, half turning to look back at him. "What?"

"Get off the street. There! Into that garage." Tom pointed to the opposite side of the street, where another below-ground garage, similar to the one for Sloan's building, housed shoppers' vehicles. Ed made an abrupt turn and the van rolled down the ramp and into shadow. He pulled to a halt, and swung around in his seat. "What's the matter?"

Tom was looking out the back window, and both Sloan and Ed ducked their heads to look back up to the street. Sloan counted four cars zooming past, and she could hear the screech of tires as they halted further down the block. Faint shouts filtered past the windows. She and Ed traded sober glances.

"Looks like we got out just in time," Sloan said, her scalp crinkling at the thought of how close that had been.

"Who's that?" Ed asked, and Tom turned back to face them.

"I don't know. But I think we’d better leave."

Ed blew out his breath. "Yeah." He put the van in gear and threaded it through the garage to the exit on the far side. It emptied out a block away from where they had entered--a fact, Sloan realized, that Tom had undoubtedly known when he had directed them in here.

Ed pulled cautiously onto the street, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and they made their way out of Sloan's neighborhood without incident. Sloan looked back again to see Tom carefully stowing the pistol next to the bed, within easy reach.

"There are blankets in that cabinet," she said, pointing. Tom shook his head, giving her a small smile, and pulled one of the pillows close before lying down. He seemed to fall asleep almost instantly, but Sloan watched him for a long time, reluctant to turn away. Who was that in all those cars? Did the government come back to get Tom, or was that the new species?

Finally she faced forward again. They were already on the highway, but while Sloan didn't know exactly where they were going, she did know it would take them more than a day to get there. She settled back in her seat. "Ed?"

"Should have gone before we left," he said, and she had to laugh.

"Not that," she scolded, then sobered. "Ed--do you really think you got Tom's test wrong?"

Ed hesitated so long that she had to look over at him. He was staring straight out through the windshield, as though fixing his gaze on something miles ahead of them. "No," he said finally. "I'll have to retest anyway, as part of the procedure, but, Sloan!..."

"I know," she said softly. "How do you think it happened?"

Ed shrugged and gave a humorless laugh. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe...maybe they did something to him while they had him, something he hasn't told us about."

He hasn't told us anything, Sloan thought. "Do you really believe that?"

"No."

"The government does have the serum now," Sloan said thoughtfully, half to herself.

"But do they know what it is?" Ed countered. "Walter had me encrypt all my files, which should have slowed them down a little. And they may not have realized that we had begun human--uh--people testing."

"If they used it on Tom, that could be why he's still 1.4 percent," Sloan theorized.

"Yeah, maybe." Ed hunched a little, frustrated, his hands too tight on the steering wheel. "We'll have to ask Tom anyway."

Sloan glanced back, but Tom was still asleep. "He may not know. He was in such bad shape when he got back..."

Ed shot her a curious glance. "You think he might have lost some of his memory again?"

Sloan shrugged. "Traumatic events can leave gaps in anyone's memory. And we don't know what they did to him--he could have been unconscious for part of it." She winced inwardly at the thought of the bruises and abrasions patterned over Tom's body, then wrenched her mind onto another track. "So where are we going, exactly?"

Tom drifted in sleep, occasionally surfacing to the hum of the engine, the two voices--dark and light--talking at the front of the van. At one point, he realized vaguely, they had stopped; he was chilled enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to wake up completely. Then someone--Sloan--tucked a blanket over him, touching his forehead gently before moving away. He sank gratefully back into warmth and oblivion.

He woke again later to the sound of his name. Sloan was kneeling next to the bed, face shadowed in the dim glow of the dome light.

"What is it?" he asked, voice a little rough with sleep.

"We're stopping for the night," she told him. "It's about two in the morning, and Ed and I are wiped out. We've found a motel."

Tom sat up. He was less exhausted than he had been that afternoon, but weariness still weighed him down, and he ached. Sloan slid out of the van's open door, and Tom saw the parking lot beyond her. Wherever they were, it was someplace far from Pasadena. The asphalt shone with a greasy wetness under the lights, and he could see that the motel itself had not had the upkeep it needed. The air coming in the door was fresh but chilly with new rain.

He stumbled, stepping out of the van, and Sloan caught his arm to keep him upright. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed, and angry at his weakness. Sloan looked at him a moment, then put her arms around him in a sudden hug. He returned it, surprised to feel her trembling beneath her jacket.

"Tom--" Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "When I thought you might be dead--"

His arms tightened. "Shhh. No, it's okay," he whispered. "I'm here now." That incredible sweetness swept through him at her words. No one had ever cared whether he lived or died, except as far as it advanced the agenda of his species. But this amazing woman shed tears over his fate, and gave him her heart unreservedly. He buried his face in her hair for a moment, that strange joy again coursing along his veins. Finding her asleep in her apartment had been a staggering relief, and he hung onto the knowledge that she was still safe--as safe as she could be, anyway.

Behind Sloan, the motel room door opened, and Ed peered out. Tom looked up sharply, expecting to see disapproval, but Ed's expression was soft, almost protective. Still, there was a hint of impatience in his voice. "C'mon, guys. I need to check Tom before we crash."

Sloan turned her head. "Be right there," she answered.

"Don't forget the cooler," Ed added, and shut the door again.

Tom released her, but kept one hand on her arm as he reached back inside for the handgun. Sloan pulled out the cooler and slid the van door shut with a slam.

The room was indeed rather sleazy around the edges, but it was tolerably clean. A pair of twin beds, a cheap television, a scarred table and two chairs, and a battered dresser made things a little crowded. Sloan set down the cooler and began pulling out food. She offered Tom a piece of fruit, but he looked at it with distaste. "I hate bananas."

She gave him a wry look. "Then have a sandwich."

He didn't feel hungry, but he knew he had to eat something. His metabolism was too high for him to go without food for so long, even with the restoring sleep. He selected one that revealed itself to be ham and cheese, and munched his way through it. Ed and Sloan ate with the same indifference, and he could see how tired they were.

Tom was fighting sleep by the time Ed finished eating. The doctor stood up and picked up his bag, and Tom rose reluctantly to follow him into the bathroom. He knew Ed meant no harm, but he still hated being vulnerable like this.

Tom sat on the edge of the tub as Ed cleaned the deeper wounds and rebandaged them. "Is this kind of sleeping normal for your species?" Ed asked, busy with gauze. "I mean, if you're hurt?"

"Yes. It's a way to rebuild stamina." He rubbed the side of his head, trying to stay awake. "It shouldn't last much longer."

"You're healing at an incredible rate," Ed noted.

"That's normal for us," Tom admitted.

Ed whistled softly, and peeled off his gloves. "All done," he said. "Are you in any pain?"

"Not much," Tom said, stretching the truth a little. Actually, his muscles ached and the cuts burned and throbbed, but again it was nothing in comparison to before. He looked up to see Ed's raised eyebrow. "I'm fine."

"Your call." Ed closed his bag. "Let's get some sleep."

Tom opened the bathroom door to find Sloan sound asleep, stretched out on the sleeping bag between the two beds. Behind him, Ed made a disparaging noise.

"I told her I'd take the floor tonight..."

"That's not necessary." Tom bent and lifted her onto one of the beds, ignoring the complaints of his abused body. She didn't wake. Tom sat down next to her and kicked off his shoes.

Ed shook his head and switched off the light before sprawling onto the other bed. Tom lay down behind Sloan and put one arm over her, pulling her close until her warm back pressed against his chest. He drew the blanket over them both and let himself drop into sleep.

Sloan gradually became aware that her cheek was resting not on a pillow, as she expected, but on something warmer and firmer. She opened her eyes to find herself looking down the length of the bed. Her head was pillowed on Tom's blanket-covered chest, rising and falling gently with his breathing, and his arm was slung over her shoulders.

Carefully, she turned her head so she could look the other way, and blinked blearily. Tom was sound asleep, his face as composed as it was when he was awake, and she slid out from under his arm. He frowned a little but did not wake. Ed was on the other bed, also dead to the world, and Sloan tiptoed into the bathroom for a shower.

The hot water served to wake her up a little. It had been a bit of a shock to find herself in the bed instead of on the floor next to it, but rather comforting as well. She recalled Tom's sleeping face to mind and realized suddenly that he had no beard growth--yet, as far as she knew, he had not shaved since his escape. The new species was not without facial hair--Lewis had sported a silvery beard--but perhaps it grew more slowly. Then her growling stomach distracted her.

When she emerged, Ed was awake. He grunted sleepily and dove into the shower while Sloan hunted up a comb to take the tangles out of her hair. She also took a surreptitious look out through the curtains, but all seemed to be peaceful in the early morning light. No mysterious vehicles were parked in the lot, no armed men stalked the sidewalk. Not that I think they'd wait for us to come out!

"I'll go get some breakfast," Sloan said softly when Ed came out of the bathroom, but he shook his head.

"No, let me do it. Tom nearly freaked when he woke up yesterday and you were in the shower. I don't want to find out what he'd do if you were gone."

Sloan blinked, a bit taken aback, but nodded acquiescence. Ed grabbed his jacket and put a hand on the doorknob, then paused. "Does Tom like coffee?" he hissed quietly.

"Coffee's fine," Tom said, eyes still shut. "Black."

Ed grinned and left. Tom opened his eyes, and Sloan smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry. We didn't mean to wake you."

He sat up carefully, but more easily than the day before. "It's about time I got up anyway," he said, and swung his feet onto the floor.

"How are you feeling?" Sloan asked gently.

He looked up at her, and she could see that the bruises that marred his face were fading. "I'm okay," he said cautiously.

"Well, you have time for a shower if you want one," Sloan told him.

Tom picked up the handgun from the table next to the bed. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked, holding it out to her.

"I hate guns," she protested, but he caught her gaze.

"I'm not leaving you alone in here without some protection," he said evenly. "I've seen you handle one before."

Yeah, and my hands were shaking so hard I'm surprised I didn't fire it accidentally, she thought, but took the weapon reluctantly. Tom pointed out the safety to her, then went into the bathroom, leaving her staring at the gun with revulsion.

He came out just as Ed arrived, the taller man bearing coffee and many donuts. Breakfast took only minutes; then Sloan and Tom loaded the van while Ed checked out of the motel. He had apparently decided that Tom was healed enough to not need new bandages, Sloan noted.

They headed out into the grey morning, with Sloan and Ed taking turns driving while Tom slept in the back. Sloan found herself watching almost obsessively for signs of pursuit, but she could see no suspicious vehicles trailing them. Ed was sunk in some thoughtful, silent mood, and she didn't feel much like talking herself.

The day seemed to stretch out as endlessly as the road before them. Tom woke on his own when they made their brief stops, which encouraged Sloan; he no longer had to be pulled out of that deep unconsciousness. They went from superhighway to four-lane road to two-lane, heading further away from the city and deeper into scrubland that was tending toward desert.

Sunset found them setting up camp in a secluded, hilly spot off a rutted side road. Sloan and Ed set up the big tent that Ed had purchased to replace the smaller ones left behind in Mexico; Tom started a fire with his usual efficiency. By the time it was well-lit, Ed was hunched over the map Walter had e-mailed, frowning.

"There's a spring around here somewhere, according to this, but I can't find it. --Any luck, Sloan?" he called over his shoulder.

Sloan came back from a quick reconnaissance. "Nothing. Maybe it's gone underground."

Ed's frown grew deeper. "Do we have enough water without it?"

Sloan grimaced. "Barely."

Tom rose from his crouch next to the fire and walked a few yards away, then began to circle their campsite slowly.

"What is it?" Sloan asked, watching him.

Tom did not answer, but he did not reach for the handgun tucked into his belt, so Sloan didn't think anyone was approaching. Then he stopped, turned, and headed away. "Bring the shovel," he said, moving more quickly.

Sloan snatched up the tool and followed. Tom led her some fifty yards away to a small depression in the sandy ground that was fringed by greenery. "There." He pointed, then took the shovel from her. A few easy spadefuls, and the hollow he had dug began to fill with cloudy water.

"It should clear up in a little while," he said. Sloan stared down at the spring, then back to him.

"How did you know it was there? I walked right past this spot."

"I could smell the water," he said calmly, and took her hand. "Come on."

Ed was still studying the map when they returned. "We should be able to get there before dark tomorrow, if we start early," he said, looking up, and Sloan was startled at how tired he looked.

He's been under as much strain as I have, she thought, and he's probably gotten as little sleep. "Tom found the water," she told him.

"That's great." Ed folded the map back up.

Tom drove the blade of the shovel into the ground, leaving it standing upright. "What's for dinner?" he asked.

Sloan lifted the back hatch of the van and opened the cooler. "I got some hamburger meat and buns when we stopped this afternoon." She lifted out the packages, but Tom took them from her.

"I'll do it." He carried them over to their makeshift table, leaving her staring after him. Then she shook her head and began rummaging for the fruit.

Full dark arrived as Tom cooked the burgers, and they gathered around the fire to eat. Sloan licked ketchup from her fingers and glanced over at Ed, who was staring blankly at his half-eaten burger. "You okay?"

Ed blinked and glanced up. "Yeah. I'm just tired." He resumed eating.

Sloan picked up an apple and a knife and began peeling off the skin in a long curl. "Did Walter tell you anything about this safe house? What it's like?"

"Nah. All I know is that he's pretty sure it's secure."

"Does it have laboratory facilities?" Tom asked.

"We can hope." Sloan turned the apple in her hand. "But the further out here we get, the less likely I think it is."

"Shoot." Ed ran a hand through his hair. "I gotta see if I can send a message to T.J. He's going to wonder what happened to me."

"Maybe he can finish the research on his own," Sloan suggested, and grinned as the last of the peel came loose.

Ed snorted as she held it up. "Show-off. --Maybe he can, but I wouldn't bet on it." He shook his head to the apple slice she proffered.

She held it out to Tom, who accepted it. "Well, the more people we have working on it, the better."

"What difference does it make?" Ed demanded, frustrated. "The serum doesn't even work!"

"Yes it does," Tom corrected quietly. "Just not completely. Yet."

An awkward silence settled on the group. Finally Ed heaved a sigh and stood up. "I'm going to bed. We should get up early tomorrow." He vanished into the tent.

"You don't want any marshmallows?" Sloan called after him, but a hand waving "no" out the door was all the answer she got.

"Marshmallows?" Tom asked curiously.

Sloan rummaged in the grocery bag next to her. "Sure. They're a traditional camping food."

Tom watched in bemusement as she demonstrated the procedure for s'mores. "Vanilla wafers are actually better," she explained, handing him one graham cracker-chocolate sandwich, "but the store was out of 'em."

Tom took a cautious bite as Sloan skewered two more marshmallows and held them over the low flames. His brows shot up at the crumbly mouthful, and Sloan giggled at his expression. "Don't tell me you don't like it."

Tom swallowed. "No, it's good," he said, a bit stickily, and took another bite. Sloan grinned and turned her attention back to her skewer.

"I didn't know you could cook," she said finally, constructing her own sandwich.

He took the stick and pulled more marshmallows from the bag. "You never asked."

Sloan glanced up; that little smile was playing around the corners of his mouth, and she knew he was teasing her. She sighed happily. It was so good to have him back safe.

By the time they finished dessert, Ed was snoring softly in the tent and the fire had died down to coals and a few licks of flame. When Tom noticed Sloan shivering in the deepening chill, he retrieved a blanket from the van, then sat down next to her and wrapped it around both of them. Sloan savored the weight of his arm across her shoulders, and realized that he had been awake for several hours and showed no signs of falling back into that deep sleep. She stared into the flames for a little while before speaking.

"What happened to you, Tom?"

He was silent for so long that she thought he would not answer. Finally he took in a long breath and let it out again. "I'm not really sure."

Sloan waited a moment. "Ed was wondering if they gave you another shot of the experimental serum," she said finally. "That could explain why you're still at 1.4 percent."

"They didn't inject me with anything. At least not while I was conscious," Tom said, and Sloan shuddered at the picture his words conjured up. His arm tightened. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked in a low voice.

"No," Sloan admitted, "I don't want to hear it. But I have to." She slipped her arm around his waist, lightly, remembering the wounds that were hidden under his dark sweater. "Tell me."

One side of his mouth twitched. "They put me in a cage, and sometimes they hurt me...it was so cold." He paused. "They wouldn't give me enough water. They never asked me anything, so they didn't want information. They never said anything to me at all. I guess they wanted to see what would happen to me."

Sloan choked back a sob at his quiet words. She knew how much he hated the idea of being a lab animal, yet his abductors had made him exactly that.

"Sloan..." He slid his hand along her jaw and turned her face toward him. "Why are you hurting? It's over now."

Sloan covered his hand with her own, pressing it to her cheek. "Because you were hurt," she managed, voice foggy with tears. "Because they did awful things to you, and I couldn't even find you."

Tom looked straight into her eyes, and as always she was caught in that intense grey, deepened now by the firelight to a shadowy blue. "You tried to find me," he said, framing her face in his hands and brushing away her spilling tears. "I felt you looking for me."

Sloan blinked away wetness. "It wasn't enough..."

He shook his head. "You gave me hope," he said simply.

Sloan swallowed, then leaned forward and kissed him. He tasted of smoke and chocolate, and his palms slid from her face to her shoulders, pulling her closer. The dangerous electricity of him spread down her spine and she put her arms around him, aware once more of his strength, his solidity. The pain she felt for him dissolved at his touch, washed away in a flood of sensation.

There was desperation in the way he kissed her back, as though he felt a hunger he thought could not be satisfied. One of his gentle, deadly hands slid up into her hair while the other circled her waist and pressed her against him. He could kill so easily--yet she'd never felt so safe.

Finally he dragged his mouth from hers, turning the embrace into a hug. "You gave me life," he said, voice hoarse in her ear. "You are my life."

Sloan heart hurt with the weight of her emotion. "Tom, I love you," she whispered. His hold spasmed tighter at her words, almost painfully, but she made no protest. The spicy, comforting smell of him filled her nostrils and his short hair prickled against her cheek. They each drew in ragged breaths, and Sloan feared to let him go. This is what they've done to us, she thought. Now I will always be afraid of losing him.

Tom woke to the soft sounds of breathing. He shook his arm free of the sleeping bag and glanced at his faintly-glowing watch. Dawn was probably a half-hour away, and he was indisputably awake.

He rolled over. Sloan slept only a foot away, one hand curled on the tent floor; he had fallen asleep with her fingers clasped in his, but obviously had let go sometime during the night. Gently, he tucked her hand back inside her sleeping bag; the air was chilly and he did not want her to wake. Then he slid out of his own bag and left the tent.

His breath smoked in the cold, and he zipped up his jacket and lit a new fire before starting a pot of coffee. Then he wrapped the blanket around himself and sat down. It was the first time, aside from bathing, that he had been alone since his escape. He was used to solitude, though he didn't like it; still, it gave him time to think.

Tom wondered if Sloan and Ed had thought beyond reaching the safe house. The two scientists had lost their jobs, their lab, and all their research, and now were cut off from their former lives; Ed had barely made a start on reconstructing the serum data, and now even that work was interrupted. Their confederates were fugitives from the law, as was Tom himself; he had no doubt that there were federal agents out looking for their escapee. And Sloan and Ed still carried the condemnation of the new species. They were a threat, and sooner or later there would be another attempt to eliminate them. Tom didn't think Ed would be given another chance to betray his species, not after the Alaska fiasco.

He understood Ed's drive, and Sloan's determination. The upheaval of their lives would not deter them; they would want to keep fighting, however they could. If the safe house did not present the opportunity to do so, they would leave it and go somewhere to continue the fight.

Maybe this peace faction can help, he thought. If there are as many as they claim, they must have scientific facilities somewhere. Maybe they should leave the country. He knew a few tricks that could get them through hostile borders and away, which would reduce the threat from the feds at least.

Tom sighed and poked at the fire. The next step hinged on the safe house, whatever else came after. Attwood might have a plan as well.

He poured a cup of coffee and sipped, listening to the night. The stars faded silently overhead, and he felt the phantom prickle of his tattoo and wondered what it meant, what it had to do with leadership. What was to happen in October? What had the Lynch clone meant by "familiar faces?" What had the passing of the comet to do with anything?

Grey light was creeping over the ground when Tom heard Ed emerge from the tent. The taller man stretched, yawned, grumbled, and padded over to the fire, homing in on the scent of coffee. He drank half a cup before he focused on Tom. "How're you feeling?"

"Are you asking as a scientist, or a doctor?" Tom returned.

Ed gave him a long look. "Both," he said. "And a friend."

Tom smiled a little. "Better," he acknowledged. "I'm not so stiff."

"Good." Ed crouched in front of the fire, poking it up. "We should probably leave as soon as it gets a little lighter."

"Will Ray or Walter be at the safe house?"

"No idea." Ed straightened and refilled his cup, then held up the coffeepot in wordless question. Tom shook his head, and Ed put the pot back near the fire. "D'you want to wake her, or should I?"

"I'll do it," Tom said, rising. "You see if there's anything for breakfast."

Ed grunted into his coffee as Tom went back into the tent. Sloan had balled up; there was little showing outside the sleeping bag besides some tangled curls. He peeled back the edge of the bag until he could see her face; there was a smudge of ash on her cheek, and her expression was just a little sad. "Sloan," he said softly.

She did not respond, and he smoothed away the smudge with his thumb and repeated her name.

She inhaled, then opened her eyes and smiled at him sleepily. His heart turned over in his chest, and he took the hand she held out. "It's time to get up," he told her.

Sloan grimaced. "Morning already?"

"I'm afraid so."

She sat up and stretched. "I hate sleeping on the ground," she said absently, and put on the jacket she'd been using for a pillow. "This safe house had better have hot water."

Tom began rolling up his sleeping bag; Ed's already sat, a fat roll, near the entrance. Sloan sighed, extricated herself, and folded up her own bag. Finding her hat underneath, she put it on and silently promised her hair a brush as soon as they were underway.

"Breakfast!" Ed called, and Sloan gave Tom a horrified look.

"You let him cook?"

"What's wrong with that?" Tom asked, baffled.

Sloan just shook her head and ducked out of the tent. Ed was busy at their makeshift table, and she walked over.

"I heard that," Ed said, mildly indignant, and handed her a sandwich. "Even I can't mess up peanut butter and jelly."

Sloan grinned at him. "What about that time when you--"

"Shut up," he said. "Or you don't get any coffee."

Sloan laughed and picked up a mug, taking it and her sandwich over to the fire. "I hate morning people," she heard Ed grumbling behind her.

Their third day of journeying seemed as endless as their second, though Tom now took a turn driving--after Ed showed him how to find reverse in the Volkswagen. Between shifts they each took turns catnapping as well; the past weeks had taken a toll on Sloan and Ed as well as Tom, and the long drive was fatiguing.

Sloan even fell asleep in the passenger seat, while Ed was at the wheel and Tom was napping in the back. She found herself in a vivid, unrestful dream, chasing something unseen through the house her parents used to live in. Suddenly she was in an empty room, and a door opened behind her.

"Well, Doctor Parker," said a deep voice behind her, and she spun to face Lewis.

"Not you again," she said angrily, knowing she should be afraid of him but feeling only fury.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, smiling slightly, as though he knew the answer and only wanted to see what lie she might make up.

"You hurt Tom," she shouted at him, wanting to hit him. But the heavy lassitude of dreams held her all but immobile.

He displayed the syringe he held in one hand. "It was important," he told her. Sloan tried again to move, but only succeeded in jerking herself awake.

She shivered, feeling unrested and almost ill. Ed glanced over. "You okay?"

Sloan rubbed a hand over her face, trying to wipe away the strength of the nightmare. "Yeah. Just a bad dream." She twisted in the seat to look back at Tom, but he was sound asleep.

That was weird. I wonder what happened to Lewis. Did they do the same things to him that they did to Tom? She realized that she still didn't know how Tom had escaped.

But in the late afternoon the sun broke through the heavy clouds, lifting their spirits a little, and they bounced off the narrow highway and onto a gravel road. This went on for several miles, winding through sandy hills, and eventually petered out into a rutted track.

Sloan braked to a halt and peered uncertainly through the windshield. "I don't know about this."

Ed got up from the back and stuck his head in between the front seats to look. "Oh, she can take it. You want me to drive?"

"I think you'd better." They switched places, Sloan making sure to fasten her seatbelt tightly. The ride was going to be bumpy.

In fact, Sloan was sure several times that the road--if it could be called that--was going to knock some of the parts off of the Volkswagen's underside. But Ed showed no concern as he guided the van in a slow, lurching path along the way. Tom, in the passenger seat, braced one hand against the dashboard and studied the map with the other.

Sunset was reddening what little vegetation there was when they finally broke out into a level area. Ed stopped the van and they all stared in disbelief. "Oh, come on, Walter," Ed muttered. "You've got to be kidding."

The battered fence's gate hung open; the rusty sign fastened to it read "Property of the Federal Government--No Trespassing". Beyond it was a long, low, grey concrete building, looking as though it had not been inhabited for twenty years. Half the window panes were gone, and the rest were cloudy with dust. A cracked and crumbling driveway led from the gate and around the far end.

Ed turned to Tom. "Do we have the right place?" he demanded.

Tom looked down at the map and then back up again. "There's no other place to go," he said, frowning at the dreary landscape. "We followed the directions correctly."

"Hey!" Sloan pointed. "There's somebody coming."

A figure, anonymous with distance and a heavy jacket, had appeared near the furthest end and was hurrying toward them. Sloan realized the gun was in Tom's hand, though she had not seen him reach for it.

But the figure quickly revealed itself as the stocky form of Ray Peterson. He waved; Sloan slid open the door and jumped out, followed by the two men. The ex-detective enveloped Sloan in a warm hug. "You made it!" he exclaimed. "We were starting to worry."

"I'm so glad you're safe!" She drew back to get a better look at him. "Where's Walter?"

"Inside." Ray exchanged a back slap with Ed. "I'll show you in a minute." He held out a hand to Tom, who took it with a faint air of surprise. "You okay?"

Tom returned the firm grip. "I am now."

"Good." Ray nodded, then gestured down the driveway. "There's a loading bay down at that end. You can park the van inside next to my car."

"Okay." Ed climbed back into his vehicle. The others stepped off the driveway as he drove slowly past, and then they followed.

"What is this place?" Sloan asked.

Ray shrugged. "Some kind of abandoned Cold War facility. Walter said it was used as a secret base for a while after it was officially shut down, but no one's been out here for years."

"Have you heard from your family?" Sloan said, concerned, but Ray smiled.
"They made it to Grace's sister's without any problems. I've told them to sit tight for now."

"You're not joining them?" Tom asked, but the older man shook his head.

"Not yet. I'm needed here--and as long as I know they're okay..." His casual tone belied the deep concern in his eyes.

"Wait a minute," said Sloan. "If this is a government facility, what are you guys doing here? Won't they check their own bases?"

Ray chuckled. "Not according to Attwood. He claims that this would be one of the last places they'd look. They won't think he'd be so bold as to come here."

"Or so stupid," Tom muttered, and Ray grimaced in agreement.

"It doesn't make much sense to me either, but I'm just following orders."

"How did you know we were here?" Tom asked.

Ray grinned at him. "Security system. Doesn’t keep people out, but we know when somebody’s coming."

The younger man frowned. "I didn’t see anything."

"That’s the point." Ray waved as Ed emerged from the building. "Stay there!" he bellowed.

"Our stuff's still in the van," Ed said as the three drew near.

"You can unload in a minute," Ray answered. "C'mon inside."

He unlocked a heavy door set deep in the wall of the building and pushed it open, leading them into a small, dim chamber. "Down the stairs," he directed, flipping a switch. A brighter light illuminated a staircase, fortunately in better repair than the outside.

The door at the bottom swung open at their approach, and they filed in to find Walter holding it open, his usual sardonic expression softened by a smile. "Glad you could make it," he said dryly.

Sloan grinned, but then her eyes widened as she looked past him. The door led into a well-equipped, brightly-lit laboratory--not as roomy as the labs at the university, and it lacked some of the most advanced equipment, but still much more than she had dared to hope for. "Walter!" Sloan exclaimed. "Where did you get all this?"

"Most of it was already here," Attwood said, satisfaction crinkling his eyes as they filed in. "We did bring a few things with us, but we didn't have much time."

Ed whistled softly at the array. "This is good stuff. And you've got the power to run it?"

Attwood nodded. "There's a generator--as long as we don't turn everything on at once we should be all right."

Sloan turned back to the older man and surprised him with a hug. "Never mind the lab. You're okay, right?"

Walter returned her hug gently, looking touched. "I'm fine, Sloan. Just fine."

Tom looked up from his silent inspection of an autoclave. "So what's the next move?"

"Getting your stuff out of the van," Ray said.

"We'll talk over dinner," Walter added. "Ray will show you where to put your things. Tom, may I see you for a minute?"

Sloan glanced at Walter, then over at Tom. "I'll get your bags," she said, and led Ed and Ray out of the lab and back up the stairs.

Tom watched the door swing shut behind them and then turned to Walter. The older man was obviously uncomfortable, and Tom picked up elements of shame from him, a strong current of guilt.

"What's the matter?" he asked quietly, puzzled.

"Tom, I--" Walter sighed, and took off his glasses, looking distracted. "I want to apologize."

"For what?" Tom leaned against one of the lab tables and folded his arms across his chest.

"For what happened to you."

Tom frowned. "I know you didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping."

Attwood shook his head. "Not directly, perhaps. But if I hadn't been so gullible, it might not have happened. I shouldn't have trusted my...boss...as far as I did." He rubbed his eyes. "I should have expected something like that, but I didn't even warn you."

"You were a little busy," Tom pointed out. "If I'd been faster, they might not have succeeded. But I was distracted by the changes caused by the serum." He cocked his head. Walter was usually self-contained and hard to read, probably deliberately so. But the guilt the scientist was feeling was tinged strongly with concern, and Tom felt a subtle warmth in his own heart. It seemed that Walter worried about him as well as Sloan and Ed.

"It wasn't your fault," he told Attwood firmly. "I knew there were risks in working with you, and I accepted those risks. Don't blame yourself."

He held out a hand, and Walter took it, a surprised smile edging onto his face. The scientist's grip was strong, and Tom could feel his distress easing. "Thank you," Walter said softly.

Tom nodded understanding, then raised a brow. "Dinner?" he asked.

"Right this way." Walter led him out through another door and into a hallway.

"How big is this complex?" Tom asked.

"About as large as the building above it," Walter said over his shoulder as they walked. "There are a few exits up into the building itself, but we probably won't be using them much."

Tom followed him into another room the size of the laboratory, this one set up as a kitchen and dining area. The rich scent of soup wove through the room, and Tom's hunger sharpened. His body was still demanding extra nourishment to make up for the weeks of deprivation.

The big round table was already set for five. Attwood opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. "Put this on the table, would you?"

Tom took the heavy container and put it in its place, then looked up. The other three had returned, laden with bags, and were walking down the hallway past the kitchen's open door.

"There's a bathroom at the end," he heard Ray say. "The bedrooms are nothing fancy, but at least you can each have one to yourselves."

A few minutes later they were all seated around the table, passing around a basket of bread and filling their glasses. Walter settled his napkin on his lap and sighed. "Well, now that we're all here..."

The others gave him their attention, divided as it was by the food. "So, what's this place like?" Ed asked, stirring his soup.

"Small," muttered Ray, but Walter ignored him.

"This is an abandoned quasi-military facility, once used to monitor nearby missile caches and later for secret biological experiments, before the federal government wrote it off as too expensive to maintain. Don't worry," he said to Sloan, who had wrinkled her nose worriedly at the phrase biological experiments, "there was never any contamination. In fact, I believe their work was much like that of our own lab."

"How'd you know about it?" Tom asked.

"Oh, I stumbled across a mention of it in some old files," Walter said airily. "Though, I admit, I never thought it would come in so handy. Now, Ed, what progress have you made on your serum?"

The younger man glanced across the table at Tom for permission, and received a small nod. Sloan set down her spoon and took Tom's hand beneath the table as Ed began to recount his experiments with the serum and their results. Walter's interest sharpened as Ed wound down with the revelation that Tom was still at 1.4 percent.

"You've not had a chance to retest, I take it?" Walter asked Ed, though he was looking at Tom.

Ed shook his head, and Walter grimaced. "Blast. And all the data gone." The older scientist drew in his breath, and Tom prepared for a spate of orders. But then Walter hesitated, and sighed, and his expression grew less intense. "Will you consent to a retest, Mr. Daniels?"

Startled by the courtesy, Tom blinked, and then nodded.

"But not tonight," Sloan said firmly. "Walter, we're all tired. We can start again in the morning."

Tom squeezed her hand, grateful for her concern. Ray had an odd expression on his face as he regarded Tom, but he forbore to speak.

Walter nodded in concession, and Ed turned to Tom. "Hey, if you don’t mind my asking...how did you get away from the feds?"

Sloan shot Tom a quick glance, but he did not seem offended by the question. "They were careless," he said calmly. "They gave me an opportunity, and I took it."

From the looks on Ed's and Ray's faces, they were dying to know more, but Tom merely picked up his spoon and began eating again. Ed finally shrugged. "So, how did your car get all shot up like that?" he asked Ray.

The discussion turned to Ray and Walter's adventures and devolved into a friendly argument between Ray and Ed about the merits and flaws of Volkswagens, with Sloan teasing them both. Walter looked on with a small smile on his face, but Tom could see the exhaustion that shadowed his eyes, and he felt the constant drone of worry that underlay Attwood's thoughts.

Sloan had put Tom's bags into the small room next to hers, and Ed had taken the one just down the hall; they were all identical--tiny, windowless, and possessed only of an army cot and an empty footlocker. After dinner, Sloan rummaged for her shower kit and retreated to the bathroom for a proper wash. Fortunately, the base had its own generous well, and the power to heat the water. When she emerged, pink from scrubbing and feeling much better, she found that Tom had moved his things and his cot into her room, and was sound asleep an arm's length from her makeshift bed. Sloan could see the gun lying near the head of his cot, within easy reach.

She had to smile, and swallowed against a rush of tenderness. I guess he's appointed himself my guardian again. She sat down on her cot and began working the tangles out of her hair, very glad that he was there. They had scarcely been apart since he had returned, and she knew that he did not like being away from her any more than she liked it.

Her thoughts ranged back over time as she combed, and she wondered when it was she had stopped being afraid of Tom. Sometime between the sudden pressure of his hand over her mouth, and Detective Peterson's exasperated query that awful night at the hospital; but she didn't know just when her fear had vanished. Sitting at the back door of the ambulance, she had looked over at the slender man who stood with his arms folded--obviously putting up with the police who guarded him because he chose to play by the rules. Impatient, wary...waiting on her, she had realized later. Waiting to see what she would do, what she would tell the angry man who watched his subordinate leave the hospital in a body bag.

When he slipped out of her apartment that first wrenching night, he left her shivering and confused and aching for his aloneness. Yet her burning desire to know had won out and she had followed him, pestered him for information he did not want to give her. She'd still been a little afraid of him then, she recalled; yet, later, when he had told her about his species' sense for emotions, she had seen in his face that he was surprised at her lack of fear.

Perhaps it was when he came dropping down the hospital stairwell like some dark angel in a trenchcoat, stepping between her and the horror that called itself Randall Lynch. Maybe it was when Lynch fled down the stairs, pursued by the security guard, and she bent over Tom to see if Lynch had hurt him--and his eyes had run quickly over her to make sure she was all right. Perhaps it was then that she knew that she had nothing more to fear from him.

She yawned hugely and got up to turn out the light.

Sloan came awake, opening her eyes to the velvet blackness of the room, and wondered what had roused her. A faint bar of light delineated the bottom of the door, and she sat up quietly, straining her senses. Then a low gasp came from Tom’s cot.

Sloan fumbled hastily for the flashlight she’d put under her cot. Switching it on, she pointed it upward so the light diffused off the ceiling, and looked over at Tom. He was curled up, obviously asleep, but as she watched, his breathing roughened. Nightmare, Sloan realized, and stood up. Leaning over Tom, she shook his shoulder gently. "Tom," she murmured, trying not to startle him. "Wake up."

He made a convulsive movement and sat up, grabbing her wrist in a grip tight enough to bruise. His eyes were huge in the dim light, and he blinked twice before they focused on her.

"Tom?" she asked, trying not to wince, and he started and let her go.

"Sloan--" he said hoarsely. "I’m sorry--"

"It’s okay," she said, sitting down on the edge of his cot. "You were dreaming."

He blinked again and let out a deep breath. "It was the cage--I couldn’t--" he said, not very coherently.

"It’s okay, Tom," Sloan said again, trying to calm him. "It’s over now."

Tom closed his eyes, and she could see his control returning. When he opened his eyes again, she smiled, and he reached out and touched her face lightly, as though to reassure himself that she was real.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No," he said firmly, and smiled just a little. Sloan decided not to argue.

"Okay," she acknowledged, and made to stand up. But he caught her wrist again, gently this time.

"Don’t go," he said wistfully, and she smiled again and sat back. Tom lay down, though he did not release her hand, and she stayed by his side until he fell asleep again.

The next morning began the routine that made up the next few weeks. Tom and Ray silently split the breakfast chores between them, since they had little to do otherwise; the three scientists brewed another pot of coffee and dove into lab work. The first day, Tom submitted to yet another blood drawing, though Ed promised that it would be the last for a while if he was still at 1.4 percent. He was.

Ed came back shortly with a clipboard. Tom pulled his sleeve back down over his arm and gave the clipboard a wary look. "More questions?"

Ed shrugged, rueful. "Sorry. Part of the experiment is finding out how you're different now, at 1.4 percent, than you were at 1.6, or when you were human."

Tom sighed inwardly; he disliked the scientific probing that even Sloan engaged in from time to time, though he understood the reasons for it. "All right," he said reluctantly.

"If you'd rather have Sloan, we can do that," Ed offered.

"No." He rested his hands on the table. "What do you want to know?"

Ed's brows arched in amusement at the loaded question, but he chose not to take it. "Well, first of all, do you feel any different, physically, from either your original status, or from being human?"

Tom had to think for a moment. "It's hard to tell," he said finally. "My body is still recovering from the last few weeks, but...not much different. My reflexes are a little slower, maybe."

Ed scribbled. "And from being human?"

Tom hid a wince at the memories. "Again, it was hard to tell. I felt weaker then, but I don't know if that was from the change or just left over from the fever." He cast his mind back, trying to concentrate on what he'd felt with his body instead of what he'd felt with his mind.

"I really don't know," he admitted at last. "I was too busy paying attention to the other changes."

Ed looked up with a sudden sharp insight. "And you spend so much time hiding your Homo dominant abilities, the physical ones anyway--so it's not like you use them a lot."

Surprised, and not entirely pleased, Tom nodded. Ed hesitated, as though he wanted to pursue the subject, but instead went on with his list.

"So tell me about the other changes."

Tom looked away, and when he didn't say anything, Ed sat back and put the clipboard on the table. "Tom--if this is too difficult, we don't have to do it."

Tom turned back. "But it's necessary for the experiment."

Ed met his eyes, and Tom could feel his discomfort at having to push. "Yeah."

"Then let's keep going." He had agreed to it, after all, when he had convinced Ed to give him the serum in the first place.

Ed sat up and picked up his pen again, waiting, and Tom tried to organize his thoughts.

"When I woke up," he began, "I felt...confused. Things were different, but I couldn't figure out why, until Sloan told me the serum had worked." He stared at nothing, remembering the sheer delight in her face at his surprise and wonder. "Then, when we went out, it felt like a lock had been opened inside me." He searched for words. "I didn't have to analyze everything I sensed, it was just there, and I could...take the time...to enjoy it."

His hands tightened on one another as he remembered. "Everything was richer, somehow, but less sharp...it's hard to explain. And I...I felt open, more free. As though I didn't have to hide anymore."

Ed's face was very still. "From what Sloan told me earlier," he said, "your empathic sense wasn't altered by the change."

"No." Tom shook his head. "I felt things much more strongly, in fact."

"Interesting," Ed murmured, writing rapidly. "Empathy isn't unknown among humans, either, but it's relatively rare. Go on."

"There's not much more to tell," Tom said. "I understood the power of emotions in a way I had never dreamed was possible." He closed his eyes, remembering that rush of feeling, the comprehension, the odd joy of it before it overwhelmed him.

Ed swallowed. "Do you still feel that strongly?" he asked quietly.

Tom opened his eyes again. "No."

The scientist bent his head and wrote, and said nothing.

"It's not gone entirely," Tom went on. "I remember what it felt like, and now I understand more. It's still there, a little. But it's like..." He searched for a metaphor. "...listening to music on the radio, when you've been to a live symphony." Part of him was still grieving for the loss of that sensation.

"Tom..." Ed raised his head again. "I'm sorry."

He hesitated a long moment. "So am I," he said finally.

The lab lacked test animals, but as Walter explained rather distractedly at dinner the second night, they had to reconstruct their data before they could think about beginning tests--and they had a long way to go. Ed's creation of the serum had been based on the secretions of the tick he had retrieved from Kelly's body, and he'd had the use of some of Dr. Copeland's advanced equipment. Both were now in the hands of Attwood's nameless agency, and they had only the knowledge that the serum was possible and the ambiguous results in Tom's blood.

The late, cool spring gave way to summer as the scientists struggled with their task. Tom's energy returned as his body healed, and he began taking long runs after dark, when some of the desert heat dissipated into night. Sometimes Ray would join him, though the older man could not match Tom's stamina; those nights, Tom took a shorter run rather than give up the company. Somehow, while Tom had been gone, Ray's resentment had dissipated; now they had found some wary balance of friendship, each discovering that the other was good at silence.

Ray and Tom were also pulled into service for some of the lab tasks that did not require a Ph.D., but even bottle-washing still left them with time on their hands. Sometimes when Tom returned from his run he would find Sloan sound asleep in bed--occasionally still wearing her lab coat; other times he would retire long before the three emerged from their work. Once in a while Ray would get fed up and stand at the door of the lab flipping the lights on and off, until they turned to snarl at him; unfazed, he would order them to dinner, or to bed, lest they collapse from exhaustion.

Tom still woke from the occasional nightmare, gluey jumbles of pain and cold and deadly fear. Somehow, Sloan always knew when the bad dreams came, and she would rise and sit on his cot, and stroke his hair in silence until the irrational terror left him. They never talked about the incidents; he knew Sloan was curious, but she held her peace.

It was early June when Ed slung a towel across the lab with a curse. "It's no good!"

Sloan pushed her protective goggles up to her forehead with a sigh. "What's the matter?"

Ed clenched his fists in his hair as though he would tear it out by the handful. "This is all useless. We're missing too much." He was red-eyed and haggard from the weeks of work, and the other two were not much better.

Walter set aside the slide he had been examining and peeled off his gloves slowly. Sloan opened her mouth to say something reassuring, then closed it again. Nothing came to mind.

Ed collapsed onto one of the stools with a frustrated sigh. "We're missing too many variables in the equation. Without the tick secretions, or the data, we'll never get any farther."

Walter folded his arms and regarded the younger man for a long moment; Sloan took the opportunity to stretch out her cramped back.

"I'm afraid you're right," Walter said finally. "We've been fighting the inevitable here. We don't have enough, even with the samples from Tom."

"It's like--" Ed gestured, "--we have the answer, and the beginning of the equation, but not the middle parts. And we need those parts."

Slowly, Sloan took off her goggles entirely and set them on the counter in front of her, thinking hard. "Maybe we should try something else," she said, voicing the thought that had been growing in her mind for the last couple of weeks. "The serum, even if we could get it to work, would be difficult to implement."

She remembered Tom's stark word-picture of his species being forcibly captured and injected, and took it one step further in her mind. Tom had barely survived his transformation. What would a stronger serum, or a repeat dosage, do to a weaker Homo dominant?

"I think," she said unhappily, "that we may have been going at this wrong. The serum is a great idea in abstract, but..."

There was a long silence, weary around the edges, and she tried to explain herself. "It sounded good when we had it--but it didn't work completely--" she winced inwardly at Ed's grimace, "--and even if we did get it right again, how would we use it by ourselves? We're--we're hanging on to the serum idea because it's..." And she ran out of words to explain herself. Her head buzzed with fatigue.

"You mean," Walter said finally, "that we've been trying so hard to reconstruct the serum because it's something solid. If we give it up, we have to try to find another solution."

Sloan nodded miserably. Ed blew out his breath, almost relieved. The serum was a piece of work that in more normal times would have won him acclaim and possibly high scientific honors, but now it seemed the laying down of a burden to let it go. He, too, had not let himself think much beyond Tom's reaction to the serum idea and his insistence on serving as a guinea pig.

"We should talk about this, all of us," Walter said, and glanced at the lab clock. "Didn't Ray say he was going for supplies today?"

"Yeah, he said dinner would be late," Sloan remembered.

"That will be soon enough." Walter removed his lab coat and hung it on its hook. "In the meantime, I suggest we take a break. Cleanup can wait until tomorrow."

Sloan and Ed watched him leave the room. The older man was moving stiffly, and Sloan felt a pang for his obvious exhaustion.

"What am I going to tell Tom?" Ed said quietly.

Sloan turned back to her friend, remembering the intensity in Tom's voice when he had told her that she was worth the risk of a second dose. "I'll tell him."

She found Tom in the room they shared. Sloan wondered absently how many times he had read the worn paperback novel he held; there was little reading material on the base, and he'd had a lot of time on his hands. He looked up the moment she came in, and set the book aside without hesitation. His gaze swept over her, assessing; then, without a word, he rose and put his arms around her.

Sloan returned the hug, resting her head on his shoulder and drawing strength from his warmth. He stroked her hair with one hand, demanding nothing, and she blinked back tears of frustration and weariness.

Finally she drew away, and his hands slid down to rest on her waist. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly.

"We need to talk," she said, her stomach tensing at what she had to tell him.

He regarded her for a moment, then let her go. "The sun is setting," he said, and picked up their jackets from the top of her footlocker. "Let's go for a walk."

Tom set a slow pace out into the desert, heading west so they could enjoy the bands of fiery color staining the sky. Sloan was silent for a while, trying to discipline her tired brain. Eventually she glanced over; Tom looked back, patient as ever.

"We can't reconstruct the serum," she said at last.

Tom was silent for a few yards. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to," he replied, and Sloan, now better at reading the subtleties of his face, detected resignation but no surprise.

"We're all going to discuss it later," Sloan went on, "but I think we're going to have to give up on the idea and find something else." She kept her eyes on his face, and caught a flicker of sorrow. "Tom, what is it?"

He stuck his hands into his pockets. "Nothing."

Sloan's eyes narrowed, and she stopped walking, catching his arm. "Something's bothering you."

He swung around to face her, brows drawing down. "Sloan..." he said warningly.

She would have none of it. "Tell me."

Their gazes caught for a moment; then Tom blinked and turned away. "I wanted to try to be human again."

Sloan's breath went out of her in pain. "Oh, Tom..."

"It felt so good," he said quietly. "Remember what I told you, Sloan? Everything was so different, so colorful, so rich..." He pulled his hands from his pockets and clenched them into fists. "It didn't hurt to be human, it felt wonderful. And...and..."

Sloan took his hands in hers, rubbing his tight knuckles, trying to soothe him. "What?"

"I wanted to be like you again." He didn't pause at her widened eyes. "You're so open, and warm, and free. For a little while I was like that too. And then it went away." He closed his eyes at the memory. "It hurt to feel it changing. Everything went sharp again...it felt like going back into a prison."

His eyes opened, grey again darkened to blue, this time with pain. Anguished, Sloan laid one palm against his cheek. "Tom--"

"Don't," he whispered, putting his hand over hers, pressing it against his face. Sloan shook her head, eyes brilliant with unshed tears, and he found he was shaking again. He let her hand go, but she only slipped her arms around him and pulled him close. He laid his head on her shoulder.

He had feared losing her to the differences between them. That was part of what had fueled his demand for a booster shot of serum--the worry that someday she would see him for the alien he was, and turn away. That fear had vanished during his imprisonment, when he had realized that she had come searching for him; her determination to find him, futile though it had been, had cemented his faith in her. But the other half of his desire was a yearning for the humanity that he'd been trained to consider moribund.

Sloan's hands moved in gentle circles on his back, and he made an effort to breathe more slowly, to still his trembling. Her presence was solid, steadying, a link to something brighter than all he had been taught.

"Does it hurt to be the way you are now?" she asked finally, her voice choked.

He pressed his face into her jacket. "Not the way it did. But I didn’t know what I was missing, Sloan," he said, muffled. "Now I do."

He lifted his head. Tears were running down Sloan’s cheeks, and he could feel the sick pain in her, the same pain that she’d felt when he’d told her what had happened during his captivity.

"But you’re 1.4 percent now," she said, eyes searching his face. "Doesn’t that make a difference?"

He blinked and swallowed, trying to ease the pain in his throat. "Yes," he admitted. "Things aren’t as...harsh...as they were. And now I know what these—these feelings are for. But I...I liked being like you," he managed, unable to articulate the longings inside him.

Sloan shook her head, eyes brilliant. "Just because we can't recreate the serum now doesn't mean we won't be able to do it later, Tom," she finally said. "If you really want to be human there may be a way to accomplish it."

"But you don’t like the idea," he said, and saw from her face that he had sensed her reluctance correctly.

Her arms tightened around him a bit. "Tom, it was so dangerous! You nearly died from it."

His own hands slid around to the small of her back. "But I didn’t."

"You might not be so lucky a second time." Her mouth was straight with seriousness. "While you were gone...and then while we were working on the serum, I started thinking it might be too dangerous to use. We want to change your species, not kill them."

"You want to," Tom corrected. "Others may not feel the same."

A brief anger darkened her eyes. "Then we’ll just have to solve the problem first," she said. He appreciated her determination.

Sloan’s expression softened again. "Tom," she said gently, "if you want to be fully human then we’ll give it a try again as soon as we can. But it’ll have to be something safer. I just got you back. I don’t want to lose you again."

Tom’s throat tightened again at her words, and he drew in a deep breath to steady himself. "I’ll be careful," he promised. She smiled, and he couldn’t resist. He leaned down and covered her mouth with his own, and reveled in her eager response.

Sloan almost protested when Tom suddenly lifted his head. "What’s the matter?" she managed, as his gaze, suddenly sharp, arrowed out into the darkening air.

"Someone’s coming," he said breathlessly. Part of her was pleased indeed by his reaction to their kiss. Then the tenseness of his body relaxed. "It’s Ray," he added.

Sloan laughed. "Just as well," she said ruefully. "I’m starving."

Tom looked down at her, then arched one brow in amused agreement. He let her go, and she shrugged into her jacket; the air was beginning to cool, and her temperature was low with fatigue. Tom put an arm around her waist as they began walking slowly back to the ugly building on the horizon.

As they neared it, Sloan detected the faint hum of an approaching engine, and she marveled at Tom’s heightened hearing. The battered pickup that Walter had found somewhere swung into view a moment later, jolting along the broken driveway. Both Ray's bullet-riddled car and Ed's semi-historical van were too conspicuous to be used for supply runs, so Walter had come up with a third vehicle. The bed of the truck was laden with promising-looking grocery bags. Sloan's stomach growled at the prospect of food as she and Tom quickened their pace to meet Ray in the loading bay of the derelict building.

The older man shot a doubting glance at the ceiling as he got out of the truck. "I'm still not sure that's safe," he muttered, then smiled as he saw the other two approach.

"Glad you're here," he said, with the air of one with a secret.

Tom inhaled, and his brows rose. "You brought pizza," he said approvingly.

Ray laughed and shook his head. "Should have known I couldn't fool you. You get it, Sloan, it's on the passenger seat."

Sloan opened the door and scooped up the three large boxes as Ray filled Tom's arms, and his own, with groceries. "So, what brings you out so early?" he asked Sloan as they made their way down to the basement.

"We've run into a problem," she said, her depression partially offset by the savory smell coming from the boxes. "Walter says we can talk about it over dinner."

"Fine with me." Ray set his burdens down on the counter and Tom followed suit.

"I'll give you a hand with the rest of them," the younger man said, and they vanished back up the stairs. Sloan washed up quickly; Ed appeared, still looking worn out, and helped her set the table.

They made appreciative inroads into the pizza before anyone said anything of consequence; meals had been generous but basic for the past weeks, and Ray's offering was a treat.

Finally Walter sat back with a sigh, dropping his crumpled napkin on the table. Ed handed his crust to Sloan and took another slice, but they all turned their attention to the older scientist.

"We've decided that the serum is a dead end at this time," Walter said, mostly to Ray. "We lack the necessary data to reproduce it. The question is..."

He trailed off, and Ray finished his sentence. "What do we do next?"

"Exactly." Walter took off his glasses and began polishing them with a fresh napkin. "We appear to have escaped the immediate threat of both my former employer and the new species."

"Only for a while," Tom warned. "Sooner or later, they'll track us down."

"So should we move?" Ed said, resting his elbows on the table.

"Not without a plan of action," Ray said. "Just running will bring them down on us sooner."

Walter put his glasses back on and looked around the table. "Any suggestions?"

Sloan frowned, thinking. "Maybe we should try to find another tick, and start again."

"Where?" Ed asked. "We don't even know if there were any more of them. The one we found in Kelly could have been experimental."

A glum silence settled over the table. Finally Tom broke it. "Seems to me the problem is we don't have enough data about what they're doing. Or what they're going to do."

Walter leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. "So what's your thought?"

"We need help. Someone who does know, but is willing to help us."

"You mean Shane?" asked Sloan, recalling the earnest young man who had helped them find Ed.

"No." Tom shook his head, eyes narrow. "He wouldn't know enough. But what about your contact?" He looked over to Walter.

The older man's brows rose. "Mark? An intriguing idea."

"He didn't seem ticked at us the last time we saw him," Ray put in thoughtfully. "If he really meant what he said about the peace faction..."

"I believe he did," Walter mused. "So you think he can tell us what Homo dominant is planning?"

Tom tilted his head. "Maybe. It depends on a lot of things. But I think he's our best chance right now."

Walter nodded. "I'll try to contact him tomorrow. Any other ideas?"

No one said anything for a moment; then Ray opened his mouth, and hesitated. Walter focused on him. "What's your thought?"

Ray grimaced. "Well…I'm no scientist. But I've been thinking for a while, and it looks to me like you might have hold of the wrong end of the problem." He looked around the table at the puzzled faces of the scientists, and Tom's usual impassivity.

"You guys are biologists, so you look at the new species from a biological point of view. But from where I stand the problem looks more psychological."

Ed frowned and leaned forward on his elbows. "What do you mean?"

Ray lifted one hand, palm up. "To me, the new species has all the earmarks of a cult." He folded a finger in toward his palm for each point. "Complete devotion to a cause, a conviction that they're better than everyone else, paranoia…and strict, regimented training. Plus the organization. Sounds to me like they might have a charismatic leader, or three, tucked away somewhere."

Tom's brows went up. "You're saying that my species' mission is the result of brainwashing?"

"Not exactly," Ray demurred. "I mean, you guys really are the new improved model. But I can't see how all this conviction, this purpose, can come from instinct alone. There's careful planning behind this, and that has to come from somebody."

Tom nodded slowly, intrigued. "That would explain a lot that I've been wondering about," he said. "I mean, if our behavior were driven entirely by our genetics, how could the peace faction exist?"

Walter’s eyes narrowed in thought. "So you're suggesting some kind of psychological solution to the problem?" he asked Ray.

The ex-detective shrugged. "Is that possible? I mean, if it were just a normal cult, you'd try to deprogram the members. But we're talking hundreds of thousands of people here."

Walter frowned. "True…"

Sloan bit her lip, thinking hard. "But that could be the key, Ray. The leaders. Stop them, and maybe the whole organization would collapse."

Ed shook his head. "That's a pretty slim chance, Sloan."

"He's right," Tom said. "Remember how independently Lewis operated? Even if we take out the leaders--assuming we could find them--the rest of them would probably keep going. They're operating under a belief so strong that they'll do anything to support their cause."

Sloan shook her head. "I'm not talking about killing them. I'm talking about changing them, their minds. If they're as charismatic as Ray assumes, then they can change the rest. Or if they can't, it would at least disrupt things while they tried."

Walter tilted his head. "Do you really think that's possible, Sloan?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. We'll have to find out."

Sloan woke slowly, stretching in unaccustomed relaxation. For once, it felt like she'd gotten enough sleep. When she finally peeled her eyes open, her travel alarm told her it was nearly noon. Tom's cot was empty.

She got up, limbs heavy with a surfeit of sleep, and padded out into the corridor, following the smell of coffee toward the kitchen. Tom was there, filling a cup, which he handed to her; she figured he must have heard her coming. Or felt me coming. Whatever.

He looked her over, from tangled hair, past T-shirt and shorts to bare feet, and smiled suddenly. Sloan inhaled coffee steam. "What?" she asked curiously.

"Your shirt," he said. "I don't think I've seen that one before."

Sloan looked down at the garment, which read "Microbiology Lab--Staph Only." She shrugged. "I need to do some laundry."

She sat down at the table; the basement complex was surprisingly quiet. "Where is everybody?"

Tom leaned against the counter with his own cup. "Walter went out to try to make contact with Mark, and he took Ray with him. He didn’t want to call from here in case the call was traced. I haven’t seen Ed yet this morning, so I think he’s still asleep."

"He needs it," Sloan said, frowning. "He’s been pushing himself way too hard."

"He’s not the only one," Tom said, looking pointedly at her.

The subject of their discussion appeared in the doorway, looking less awake than Sloan felt. He had obviously thrown on a shirt in some concession to propriety, but he had not bothered to button it up, and his boxers were one of his more eye-searing sets.

"Coffee?" he pleaded, and Tom pointed.

Ed sighed in relief and poured himself a large mug, lacing it liberally with milk. "So where are Walter and Ray?"

Tom sighed in turn, and Sloan giggled. "They went out to see about getting in touch with Mark," she told Ed. "You know Walter. Once he gets an idea in his head—"

"Sounds like somebody else I know," Ed muttered, and Sloan had to laugh again. She sat back in the chair, savoring the feeling of not having to rush off into the lab, and then shut off thoughts of their failure to reproduce the serum. Tom’s right. We’ve all been running ourselves into the ground on this—we’ve hardly had a chance to rest since Tom was taken.

Ed pulled out a chair and sat down as well. "So what do we do while we wait?"

Sloan sent him a mock-irritated glare. "I don’t know about you, but I intend to eat breakfast. And wash my clothes. Anything else can wait until they get back."

Ed snorted into his mug, but held his peace.

It was full dark by the time Walter and Ray returned, and by that time Sloan was tense with worry. Ray had said it was unlikely that they had been tracked down as yet, but every trip away from their stronghold was a risk. Her mood had not been helped by seeing Tom carrying the handgun, either.

But the two men reported success. Mark had been contacted, and had agreed to come and talk to them. "He said he’d be here tomorrow," Walter told them as he peeled off his jacket. "He must have gone into hiding relatively close by."

His face was drawn with more than weariness, Sloan noticed. "Is something wrong?" she asked him.

Ray laughed dryly. "Depends on your point of view."

Walter looked grim. "Remember how I told you my ex-boss’ organization suddenly appeared to be on the move, pulling in resources?" At nods from Ed and Sloan, he went on. "The catalyst behind that was a series of events that we’ve only just found out about. There was an incident at one of the government’s secret facilities—much like the one where you were kept, Tom," and he gestured at the younger man.

"It was the place Lewis was taken." Walter trailed off uncomfortably.

Tom looked up. "What is it?"

Walter shook his head. "Someone broke into the facility and freed him. They also killed a number of people, including my ex-boss. Given the method of the killing, they were almost certainly members of the new species. The pattern..." he hesitated, then went on. "...it was much like the death of Dr. Coulter."

Sloan swallowed hard. Much as she had hated Walter’s boss—for her arrogance, for taking Tom, for what Tom had suffered—she wouldn’t wish a death like that on anybody.

Tom folded his arms. "Shane said they knew about her, but weren’t able to touch her. They must have found a way."

"Revenge?" Ed asked, but Tom shook his head.

"No. Revenge is useless. They were sending a warning."

"To those that are trying to stop them," Sloan said quietly, and Tom turned toward her.

"They meant us to hear about it."

Ed shivered. Sloan had been the one to find Coulter’s body, but he had seen the results of that attack, and it had caused him some sleepless nights. But sending a warning?

"Hey," he said suddenly. "If that was a warning for us, that must mean that we’re still a threat."

Walter’s brows rose at that. "It could be," he mused. "Why bother if they don’t think we need to be stopped?"

"That only means they’re going to come after us even harder," Tom warned.

"They have to find us first," Walter said, a little smugly. "And since it looks like we won’t be using the lab, we can leave any time we have to."

Tom let out his breath in silent exasperation, but forbore to say anything. Walter went on, oblivious to Tom’s doubts. "So, hopefully, Mark will be able to give us enough information to decide on a plan of action."

Sloan could see the energy returning to Walter. He hated feeling helpless as much as any of them, she judged; a new lead gave him purpose.

The impromptu meeting broke up, and Tom and Sloan went back to their room. Tom appeared deep in thought. Sloan hesitated to disturb it, but her curiosity—and concern—got the better of her. She hesitated as he sat down, then spoke. "What are we going to do about Lewis?"

"Nothing," Tom said calmly. "At least right now. I’m surprised it took him so long to escape, actually."

Sloan turned and paced up the narrow room, then back. "So he’s not a threat?"

Tom made a humorless sound. "Lewis is always a threat. But there’s nothing we can do right now. He’ll have gone into hiding. All we can do is wait for him to show his hand."

Sloan wanted to argue, but Tom knew Lewis better than she did. Fear was driving her, she realized; she disciplined her mind to a less scary topic.

"Tom—do you think Mark will be able to tell you more about yourself?"

Tom looked up from his seat on his cot. "The thought did cross my mind," he admitted.

Sloan sat down next to him. "So?"

Tom took a breath, and picked up one of her hands, lacing his fingers with hers. "I don’t know. It depends on what position he held, what his responsibilities were...Shane knew what I did because I had been held up as an example to him, not because he was automatically taught."

Sloan thought a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin heating her palm. "But he should know some general things—like what your tattoo means, for instance."

Tom’s jaw tightened, but he put his other hand over hers, enveloping it. "Maybe."

Sloan looked down at their joined hands. "I dreamed of you, you know. While you were gone."

She looked up again, and grey eyes met blue-green. "It was as though I was there," she went on. "I couldn’t touch you. But...but it felt so real. The weird thing is, Ed dreamed it too, once."

Tom’s eyes widened. "It was real," he said, just above a whisper. "I saw you standing there, and when you came I could endure."

Normally, Sloan thought, she would be astonished at the idea that they had somehow linked minds. But so many strange things had happened that this seemed almost natural. "You mean we were connected?"

"We are connected," Tom corrected. "All three of us, it seems." His grip tightened.

"Is this normal for your species?" Sloan asked, scientific curiosity impossible to suppress.

Tom shook his head. "I don’t think so. If it is, it certainly wouldn’t be encouraged."

"No emotional attachments," Sloan sighed. "Maybe it’s a side effect of the serum." She felt suddenly shy. The dreams had brought her hope, but Tom’s privacy was deep. "Does it bother you?"

"No," Tom told her. "It makes me feel like I belong."

The sun was climbing toward midmorning when Mark’s nondescript sedan made its way to the compound. The handsome man swung out of the car and came to meet them, as wary as he had ever been. Ray remembered briefly their last face-to-face meeting, after the peace faction’s delegate had died under the government’s bullets; so many of the new species kept their faces blank, but Mark’s had at last shown traces of fatigue and--not sympathy--but a certain acknowledgement that they were in the same leaky boat. The ex-detective had been surprised to see a flash of respect in Mark’s eyes, and it seemed to him that Mark had been surprised as well.

Now Mark’s eyes searched each one quickly before he closed the car door. Walter stepped forward and offered his hand, and Mark took it with only a slight hesitation. "You know Ray Peterson," the scientist said. "These are Doctors Sloan Parker and Ed Tate."

Mark shook their hands with a more natural air before Walter gestured to Tom. "And this is Tom Daniels."

The two men regarded each other for a long moment, and the others felt the hum of tension between them. Then one corner of Tom’s mouth quirked, and he held out his hand. Mark looked at it, and suddenly Sloan thought that if he were human, he would have made some disbelieving comment or expression. But the Homo dominant slowly reached forward and returned Tom’s grip. Then he turned back. "Let’s get inside," he said.

Walter led the way down to their complex and herded them to seats around the kitchen table. Mark refused the offer of food and drink with the air of one who thought the ancient courtesy unnecessary, but he sat politely enough and looked around at them. "What do you want to know?" he asked finally.

Walter folded his hands and rested them on the table. "First of all, how is the peace faction?"

Some tension in the younger man’s bearing relaxed at the question. "Lying low. It would seem that our own people were content to let your government do their dirty work for them."

"Do you still want peace?" Ray asked.

"We believe that without it our own aggression will destroy us," Mark repeated. "If we exterminate you we will turn on each other. Peace is the more rational course."

He reached into his jacket and drew out a manila envelope, then passed it to Walter. "These are the documents you brought--the assurances from the United Nations that we were to be acknowledged as a people. Are they false as well?"

Walter winced, but he slid the documents out and examined them. "As far as I can tell, they are genuine--but I can’t be sure."

Ray held out a hand. "Let me have a look."

Walter slid the papers across the table. The ex-detective began thumbing through them.

"We were wondering," Walter said carefully, "if you could give us more general information about your species. Organization, training, what you are taught--"

Mark looked at Tom, brows raised. Tom gave a tiny shrug. "I was a chameleon," he said quietly. "I don’t remember."

Mark snorted without humor. "Might have guessed that," he said. "I take it you’re looking for general facts, not specifics."

"We’ve been working blind, mostly," Sloan put in. "If we knew a little more about how your species’ plans are set up, we might be able to work more effectively. For instance--" She grabbed at the question that had been bothering her for months. "Tom has a tattoo on his right shoulderblade--but his brother didn’t. What does it mean?"

Mark shot Tom a quick, unreadable glance. "It means he has been chosen as a leader."

"A leader? Of what?" Ed asked.

Mark opened his mouth, then shut it, looking hesitant. "I guess I’d better tell you some history first," he said finally. He laughed with some amusement at the scientists’ eager expressions. "To put it briefly..."

Mark’s story, to Sloan’s mind, was like an outline for an edgy science-fiction novel. A small group of people, all intelligent, all "different," who knew they were different long before Watson and Crick’s discovery of DNA gave them the tool to discover just how. Some died by violence, betrayed by their own aggressiveness. Some banded together, finding each other by clandestine research into medical records, by the cautious seeking out of outcasts, by sheer grim scanning for others who stood out in their minds. There was a core family that knew itself different, that had lived for generations in one isolated location; there was a matriarch who decided that to survive, they would have to retreat, to concentrate their forces and their genetics, and their intelligence. Research was begun.

Eventually they realized just what they were--an entirely new species of primate, the next rung on evolution’s ladder. Now they had proof of what they were--and sooner or later, the outside world, the Homo sapiens, would have it too. More secrecy was needed; they were too vulnerable, too few as yet to withstand a concentrated effort to wipe them out, should one take place--and history indicated that such an effort was likely.

A new leader arose, who believed that Homo sapiens was a certain threat instead of a possible one. Who thought that the new species had to move more aggressively to secure its place in the planet’s future. He designed a hierarchy and a plan that spanned generations, and he put it in motion. The balance was too delicate, he declared, to leave its tipping to Nature. Intelligence would have to take a hand and remove the defunct species from the playing field.

Not everyone agreed with him, and for a time those who did not were left alone. Many more were devoted to his plan and carried out its movements without question. As time progressed, a large number of the dissidents decided to split off from the main group. No one stopped them. They went out into the world and hid themselves among Homo sapiens, communicating with each other and keeping an eye on their more ruthless brethren. They had agreed not to reveal the new species’ plan to the humans, for fear of reaction against even the peaceful members of Homo dominant. As time went on, they realized that decision had been a mistake, but now they feared reprisals from the aggressive factions should they say anything.

"Then you found out," Mark said, gesturing at Sloan. "And when that news broke, we figured we might be able to work with you."

"What took you so long?" Ed asked dryly.

"Even among my faction not everyone is in agreement," Mark said smoothly. "And first we had to be sure that you would survive. Actually, we were rather surprised when you made it through the first attempts to destroy you." He and Tom traded another set of glances that were opaque to the watching humans.

"So, about the tattoo?" Sloan asked.

"You don’t remember the prophets?" Mark asked Tom.

Tom shook his head, crossing his arms. "I know they exist. I don’t know what they’ve predicted."

"We know that something’s supposed to happen when Kewley’s Comet passes," said Ed.

"Ah, yes, the pillar," Mark said. "That was another surprise for us. We didn’t think you’d be able to decipher that." He thought a moment. "Do you have an Internet connection down here?"

A few minutes later he was logging online on Ed’s laptop, fingers moving briskly as he typed in an address. "You know, of course, that there are thousands of sites on the Internet that can’t be found by search engines."

The group peering over his shoulders murmured agreement. "Certain essential information and news is kept on such sites, where everyone can access it but no outsider can find it," Mark went on. He shook his head. "I can’t believe I’m telling you this," he muttered, half to himself.

The site began loading, and Mark sat back. "So how do you know about it?" Ed asked. "Or is this a peace faction site?"

"We have sympathizers within the war faction," Mark said. "They pass on certain information--usually at great risk to themselves." He looked back up at Tom. "The chameleons are sometimes used to root them out."

Tom tilted his head and regarded the other man, but no expression crossed his face.

"Looks like your site has been taken down," Ray said, and Mark turned back to the computer. The screen displayed a "Site not found" message.

"Not at all," Mark said, and clicked on the message. "It’s camouflage, just in case somebody stumbles across the site."

The new page displayed rows of messages with dates--but the messages used a system of lettering that none of the humans had seen before. Tom’s brows lowered and he leaned forward, face darkening in the expression that Sloan had last seen--she shivered--when he had pulled out a gun and shot the Lynch clone. Mark scrolled quickly down the page.

"Back around the time of the second World War," he explained, "one of our species’ most powerful prophets made some important predictions. You must understand," and he looked around and back up at the watchers, "such people are extremely rare. There have only been four prophets since we knew what we were, and their predictions were not numerous. But they are almost unfailingly accurate. This one--" he faced the screen again--"was already old at the time this recording was made. She had just foreseen her own death, and the rise in power of the leader I told you about, the one who decided that the human species must be destroyed. She didn’t agree with him, but she also knew that he was inevitable."

He clicked on one of the unreadable messages; the new page displayed a black-and-white photo of a proud, grim-faced, elderly woman. More text lay below the photo. "This is her last prediction," Mark said. "A few weeks later she was killed in the London blitz. Part of it has been lost."

One final click, and the computer’s speakers began to hiss with static. Then the old woman’s crackling voice broke in, and another shiver ran over Sloan at the thought that they were listening to a person who had died nearly half a century before.

"--two of them." A long pause. "A crucial moment. A deciding point. The one that emerges from that conflict will lead--whether to destruction or to success--it depends on the winner. I can’t see who." Another pause, and Sloan got the distinct impression, though she couldn’t tell how, that the speaker was impatient with her own limitations. "Mark the fourth-born of every first pregnancy, if they survive past the first stage. Brutal idiot," she added, apparently in an aside. "One of those will prove the leader, when Kewley’s passes. Mark them and watch them."

"Can you see anything about the conflict?" asked a male voice, very deep.

"Two choices," the woman answered. "One of them is different--a link--between the old and the new. It’s that one--" And the recording trailed off in a burst of static.

"There’s been a lot of speculation recently about just what she meant," Mark said, shutting the computer down. "Among the war faction, the opinion is that whoever she’s talking about as a ‘link’ would mean the destruction of our species, should he or she become the leader. Some of us, however, aren’t so sure."

"’Brutal idiot?’ What did she mean by that?" Sloan asked.

Mark shrugged. "Our survival depends on strength. Our children are not pampered and protected the way human children are. They either survive, or they don’t--and our genetic heritage is kept strong."

Anger and pain flared in Sloan, and she took Tom’s hand and held it hard. No affection at all--

"So, the deciding point she spoke of is coming up in a few months," Walter said thoughtfully.

"Do you have a tattoo?" Ed asked Mark curiously.

"No, he doesn’t," Tom answered.

Everyone turned to look at him. "How do you know?" Sloan asked.

Tom shrugged again. "Instinct."

Mark nodded. "We operate on instinct more than humans usually do," he said. "Tom’s been trained all his life to be a leader. I haven’t. We could both sense that about each other."

Tom glanced from Sloan to Ed and back again. "How do you think I was able to subdue Lynch so easily in the cave? He knew what I was, and he was trained to obey me, despite the fact that I wasn’t following orders any more."

"The clone didn’t," Sloan pointed out.

"He was mad," Tom said dismissively. "And the conditioning isn’t unbreakable, obviously."

"Is Lewis one of these leaders?" Ray inquired.

"No. He’s a teacher, a trainer," Tom said.

"If he had a tattoo, he wouldn’t hold that role," Mark added.

Walter got up and began to pace slowly, back and forth. "So there is a crucial, deciding moment coming up in October. What exactly is going to happen?"

Mark hesitated a long moment, apparently engaging in some internal battle. Finally, he spoke. "A gathering. The leadership of the war faction expects to see the final contenders for the role...compete."

Sloan did not like the sound of that. "Compete how?" she asked.

Mark turned to her, eyes intense under decisive brows. "That depends. Quite a number of fourth-borns have formally given up any claim to the position."

He did not elaborate, but Sloan could finish the thought for herself. And the ones who haven’t will kill each other. Until there’s only one left. She felt sick.

"Did you give up your claim?" Ed asked, looking directly at Tom.

"I don’t remember," Tom answered calmly. But then his fingers tightened on Sloan’s as he went on. "But probably not."

"But they wouldn’t consider you still in the running, would they?" Ray objected. "I mean, you’re not one of them any more."

Sloan inhaled. They had very carefully not mentioned the serum to Mark, nor the changes that Tom had experienced. But can he sense them? Sloan wondered suddenly.

However, Mark seemed to take Ray’s comment as relevant to Tom’s allegiance. "That may not matter. If he chooses to...be in the running, he could probably get away with it."

"But he’s still under sentence of death," Walter pointed out. "We all are. Except for Ray, possibly."

The ex-detective snorted. "The whole human race is under sentence of death. I’m no exception." He handed the manila envelope back to Mark. "I’m no expert either. But I think these are genuine. If you want to come out of the closet, the U.N. will probably protect you. For whatever that’s worth."

Mark nodded slowly, and tucked the envelope back into his jacket. He rubbed his eyes, and Sloan could suddenly see the bone-deep weariness that was etched subtly into his skin. Apparently Walter noticed as well, because he glanced at his watch.

"Good grief. We’ve been at this almost two hours. Let’s break for lunch."

There was a general shuffling as those seated pushed back their chairs. Mark rose gracefully. "Where’s your bathroom?" he asked Tom in a low voice.

Tom led him out of the room, and Sloan followed a moment later, planning to fetch a sweater from her room. But she paused, hand on the door, at the voices just beyond in the corridor. Not sure why she was doing so, she strained to listen.

"--what the tattoo is for," Mark said.

"Only partly," came Tom’s answer. "I wasn’t able to get a lot of information."

"How did you get away?"

"Sloan and Ray," Tom said simply, and Sloan’s heart swelled at his words, even as a cold suspicion began to grow in her. "Ray was shot in the shoulder."

Sloan pushed open the door, and both men looked up quickly. "Down at the end of the hall," Tom said to Mark, and pointed. The other man nodded and strode away.

Sloan looked at Tom, and hurt began to mix with the suspicion. "What is it?" Tom asked, frowning.

Sloan stepped past him and hurried to their room. She rummaged blindly in her bag for the sweater, hearing Tom’s footsteps enter the room and the click as he shut the door. "Sloan." His voice was quiet, but it held that note of command that he used so rarely.

She straightened, fingers digging into the thick knit of the pullover. "You lied to me."

Tom tilted his head and regarded her expressionlessly. "When?"

"After we got you out of your cellar, when you woke up." She heard her voice trembling, and swallowed hard. "You told me...you told me you didn’t know what your tattoo meant."

Tom straightened, then walked carefully around to sit on his cot. He didn’t speak, and Sloan struggled to verbalize her thoughts.

"Tom, I--I thought you trusted me. After all we’ve been through--"

Her words were hurting him, she knew that, even though his expression did not change. But her own hurt welled inside her, burning, demanding an outlet. Still he said nothing.

"What else haven’t you told us? Told me? Are you afraid we’ll misuse the information or something?" She could feel the tears heating her eyes, but she fought them back, anger mixed with the pain.

Tom shook his head. "Sloan--" he began hoarsely, but there was a sharp knock at the door.

They both looked over as it flew open. Ed stuck his head inside. "The alarm system just tripped. Somebody’s coming," he said urgently. "And whoever it is, they aren’t friendly."