Most of the characters in this story are the property of ABC TV and other entities, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. Not that I think ABC will notice; it certainly isn't taking very good care of them. However, no infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. Almost all other characters are my property, and if you want to mess with them, you have to ask me first. Feedback is most appreciated.

* * * * *

Darkness had filled the car long since. Silence ruled between them after the first frantic rush away; there were no pauses for food or for other necessities. They simply fled.

Sloan didn't know where they were going, and she wasn't sure that Tom did either. She did know, with the bitterness of recent experience, that if she really started thinking about what might have happened to the other four, she would start crying. So she didn't. She let her mind drift in a haze of physical lassitude and emotional confusion; yet she was sharply aware of the silent man seated so close to her. Who held himself so tightly closed that she was almost afraid of what would happen, what would be revealed, when he chose to open.

And her thoughts went over and over what had happened to send them so far from their refuge, stiff with unspoken tension.

As they scrambled for the vehicles, Walter thrust a packet into Tom's hand and shouted something about a safe house; Ray tossed a set of keys to her. She handed them to Tom, figuring that his driving skills were almost certainly better than hers, and they piled into Ray's battered car and drove away as fast as was possible on the rough ground. A vague glimpse of Ed protesting that he could not leave his beloved VW, and Mark--Mark!--taking his arm and hustling him into the Homo dominant's sedan; Ray and Walter taking the aged pickup; and all three vehicles going in different directions.

Her faith in Tom's skills was not misplaced. While the other two cars bounced off overland after going out through the gate, Tom urged Ray's car as fast as it would go down the crumbling driveway that led to their hidden complex. She squeaked and covered her eyes when three cars came into view, heading rapidly toward them; the driveway was certainly not wide enough to pass, and passing was not what the invaders had in mind.

So she wasn't too sure what happened. A squealing of tires, a series of jolts that felt like the wheels should spring off the car, the hiss of breath through Tom's teeth; the sharp ping of bullets adding yet more holes to the side of the car. But when she dared to look, they were away, their pursuers apparently deciding that the other cars were easier prey.

Sloan blinked at the sound of gravel under the wheels. Tom was pulling the car over onto the shoulder of the winding, hilly road. Silently he shut off the engine, removed his seatbelt, and climbed out--without a trace of stiffness, part of Sloan's mind noticed in envy. She thought about getting out herself, but some hint of wariness in his stance made her stay where she was.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see him scrambling up the hill next to the car, though he made little sound. She lost him near the top of the hill, but after a moment his profile rose against the sky as he stood up carefully. He looked back the way they had come for long minutes, remaining so still that Sloan peered around to see where they had stopped. Not much was visible besides the stars. The only reason she could see Tom's outline, she realized, was because of the faint glow of the sky behind him--some artificial lights, but probably miles away. Perhaps a city.

Then Tom came back down the hill. The dome light came on as he opened his door, and Sloan could see that his face was closed and tense.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, and was surprised at how rough her voice had become from hours of disuse.

Tom shook his head, gave her a quick glance, and got out again, this time to rummage in the trunk of the car. He came back with a bottle of designer water, which he handed to her. The water was warm and tasted unpleasantly of plastic, but she drank gratefully.

Tom, meanwhile, opened the packet that Walter had given him and spread its contents out on the dashboard and the armrest between them. It contained a map, a thin sheaf of papers, a couple of keys, and a substantial handful of cash.

Sloan held out the half-empty bottle toward Tom. "Here."

He shook his head again, and Sloan frowned at him. "You need it as much as I do."

Tom looked up, and for a moment she thought he would refuse, but then he took the bottle and drank.

Sloan picked up the map. The area it depicted was unfamiliar to her, though she was able to place it after a moment, tracing the highlighted route with a finger. "Placerville? I've never been there, but I think it's not too far from Tahoe. Gold rush country."

Tom pushed down the cap on the bottle and set it aside. "The Sierra Madres. A couple of hours' drive from Sacramento."

His voice was quiet, almost cold, and Sloan winced inwardly. "That's a long way from here."

"We'll need to go a long way, to be safe," Tom answered absently, and took the map to look at it more closely.

"Will the others meet us there, do you think?" Sloan asked hesitantly.

"Not if Walter planned this right. It's less dangerous if we stay split up for a while." Tom folded up the map. "How much longer can you keep going?"

Sloan took internal stock. "A few hours at least--if we find a bathroom and something to eat soon. Do you want me to drive?"

Tom shook his head. "Not yet."

His face bore no expression, and suddenly Sloan couldn't stand it. "Tom--why didn't you tell me about your tattoo?" Anger and hurt swelled anew in her throat. "You knew what it was for, you knew we were wondering--"

Tom bit his lip. "You're right," he said, and again his voice was hoarse. "I should have told you. It was just--I was afraid..."

He trailed off, and Sloan folded her arms over her chest. "Afraid of what?" Her anger was mixed with the guilty knowledge that she was hurting him, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

His words came out in a rush. "I was afraid, then, that you would be scared of me again if you knew what I was supposed to be. That you wouldn't trust me any more. And the more time that went on, the more impossible it became to tell you."

Sloan heard the echo of her own words to Ed, months ago. She had made the same argument about not telling her best friend that Tom was a member of the new species, and she remembered, ashamed, how bad she had felt.

Tom met her eyes at last, and her heart turned over painfully at the vulnerability in his gaze. "Sloan...I was expecting death in that cellar, but you walked in instead, and I could hardly believe it. I didn't want the...our relationship...to end."

Sloan blinked back tears. "I understand," she said. Tom wanted so much to feel a part of warm humanity; how could she condemn his reaching out? "But if you have any more secrets, I want to know about them." She managed a small smile, and reached out to brush her fingers across his cheek. He drew in his breath, and she felt the impact of his eyes, of his relief, as though his gaze and his subtle expressions touched her skin. Trying to lighten the mood a bit, she took a question from the feel of his own skin beneath her fingertips. "Like, why don't you ever need to shave?"

Tom vented a tiny laugh. Catching her hand in his own, he pressed a quick kiss to her palm before letting her go and reaching for his seatbelt. "It's a form of control we learn as adolescents--a discipline."

Sloan gathered the papers back up and put them into their envelope, only briefly distracted by her surprised estimate of just how much cash was in that bundle. "You mean, you learn how to keep your hair from growing? Or is it just your beard?"

Tom shut his door, and the dome light went out. "Hair, beard, a certain amount of control over body temperature--though that's only short-term, good for a few hours at best." He started the engine and spoke over the hum. "Females are also taught a little control over their cycles, though again it's short-term."

"There are times when I could use that," Sloan said enviously. "So it's like biofeedback?"

"Much more reliable," Tom said as he guided the car back onto the road. "Of course, stresses like illness or injury can eventually weaken our control, but so much of it is automatic."

"Even when you were so hurt, your beard didn't grow," Sloan remembered, suppressing a shiver at the memory of the bruises and abrasions that had blotched Tom's body.

He reached out in the dark and grasped her hand briefly in reassurance. "If I'd been a little more damaged, I probably wouldn't have had the energy to spare."

"Anything else?" Sloan asked lightly.

Tom's head turned, and she caught just the slightest gleam of his gaze. "Reproduction."

She could feel a blush spreading up over her throat and face. Amazed at her reaction, she wrenched her thoughts onto a scientific track. "That means that...Kevin's real father..."

"Meant him to be born, yes. That must have been one of the projects."

"Another tactic," Sloan said thoughtfully. Something else occurred to her. "What about your bed? What was that for?"

Tom sighed. "I don't know."

Sloan blinked in surprise. "You don't know?"

"No. All I know is that I had one but Lewis didn't."

"Well, that makes sense given the pattern on it."

Tom didn't answer, and Sloan settled back in her seat. Silence grew again, but this time it was peaceful.

* * * * *

She surfaced from sleep when they came down out of the hills and into an inhabited area. Since the pressure in her bladder was part of what woke her, Sloan was immensely grateful when Tom pulled into the parking lot of a low-key restaurant. The dashboard clock told her it was not quite eleven at night, though it felt much later. She scooped up her purse--all she'd had time to grab before Tom's hand on her arm had propelled her out of their tiny room at the base--and got out of the car, groaning a bit at her stiffness.

By the time she made her way to their table, much refreshed by a chance to use the facilities and wash her face, Tom was perusing the laminated menu. She slid into the seat opposite and picked up her own menu. "So, what's the next move?" she asked quietly.

"Food," said Tom, without looking up. "Then we keep going as long as we can. I don't think we were followed, but the further we get, the safer we'll be."

Sloan stared unseeingly at the colorful medley of specials and hash browns. "I hope the others are okay."

"They should be," Tom said, and Sloan took comfort in the firmness of his voice. "Ray is a trained professional, and Mark has his own training. And I don't think the attackers were expecting us to escape."

"Do you think they were members of the new species?" Sloan asked.

"Definitely," Tom answered, and Sloan felt a chill. She was about to ask him how he thought they had found the fugitives' hideout, but the waiter appeared.

Breakfast was only a dim memory, so they ate an enormous meal. Sloan was amazed at the amount of food Tom was able to consume, but reminded herself that his higher metabolism would require it. After they left the restaurant, they made a brief stop at a gas station. Tom fueled the car while Sloan went in to buy caffeinated soda and a couple of candy bars, supplies for a long night ahead. After a moment's thought, she added several bottles of water to her purchases.

She took the driver's seat when they left, and Tom settled himself across from her and appeared to drop instantly into sleep. Sloan turned the radio on low, mostly for the small distraction to keep her awake, and drove back onto the highway.

It was nearly five in the morning when she pulled off the road. Tom woke instantly, unfolding his arms and sitting up.

"Your turn," Sloan said, yawning. "Unless you want to find a motel." They had passed through a number of small roadside towns, but they had all blurred together in Sloan's tired mind.

"Can you keep going a while?" Tom asked, and Sloan noticed with amusement that the new species--or at least Tom's hybrid form--was not immune to the suggestive power of a yawn.

"So long as I don't have to drive any more, yes," Sloan said. She pulled the state map from the glove compartment and unfolded it. "As far as I can tell, we're somewhere around here," and she indicated a length of road.

Tom nodded. "Good. We should reach the safe house by tomorrow afternoon."

Her mind drifted back over time, memories of Tom surfacing. The disjointed images bloomed with unusual vividness in her sleepy brain. She remembered the sick wash of fear she had felt when Ed had told them that the monkey he'd injected with the experimental serum had died, and the peculiar, almost alien tilt of Tom's head as he looked at her, as though the death of the monkey were of little import. She remembered him fevered in her apartment, catching her hand when she'd moved to call Ed; remembered the look on his face when he asked her what Ed could do, and the despair she'd felt when she realized Tom expected the serum to kill him, despite his assurances to the contrary.

And she remembered opening her eyes to find his battered face before her, remembered surfacing from sleep to the one thing she'd scarcely dared dream of. Remembered the helpless love in his eyes, the unbelievable relief of knowing he was safe, the hard clasp of his arms around her.

She floated further back, further, to a time when they did not entirely trust each other--yet, rather to her surprise, Tom had agreed to give her a blood sample. She'd taken him to the night-darkened lab and had found her fingers clumsy with nerves--and something else. Something had hummed between them that night, something that had shaken her to the core at its implications. Tom had so many faces. The mildly flirtatious FBI agent had given way to the confused and tormented attacker, and in turn to the protective, irritated, reluctant man--but this was something more, something else.

* * * * *

He strode through the abandoned lab, noting the lack of ongoing projects. Those who had taken the lab moved around him, but he ignored them. Their failure to capture their targets was not his fault, and their disciplining was not his responsibility. He had a more specific goal.

Whatever the scientists had been doing here was abandoned--and not by the surprise attack. Something had made them stop their research, but he could not tell what. Various people were working on the computers, but it would be some time before they got any information.

He went through each room carefully. Nothing there told him where his targets might have gone, but he was not overly worried. He would find them eventually. There was more than one way to track a fugitive, no matter the species.

The last room he entered held two cots and a scattering of clothing and luggage. He smiled at that. They would be together, which would make them easier to find.

His former protégé knew that, of course. "I expected better of you, Tom," he murmured to the silent room. But Tom's incomprehensible devotion was a chink in the younger man's armor, and it could be used against him.

He picked up the sweater lying on one of the narrow mattresses, crumpled as though hastily dropped, and lifted it to his nose. Fatigue, dull fear, stress. Cheap detergent. Dust. Then he folded it neatly and set it back down. The sweater's owner would not be coming back for it, but that was no reason to be untidy.

* * * * *

"I can't believe it," Ed muttered to himself. "I've had that van for fifteen years. I've replaced the engine, customized the back seat, fixed the transmission--twice--and now it's all gone."

He slumped lower in his seat. His companion, who was driving, was characteristically silent. Ed had the feeling that Mark never said anything without a good reason, and he also had the feeling that Mark would rather not have any passengers. It made Ed feel rebellious.

But grumbling about the loss of his van--which did hurt--kept away the deeper worry of what had happened to the others. Sloan, Tom, Walter, Ray--all scattered in a few minutes' running and hasty driving. And I'm stuck with the Homo dominant stone wall here, Ed thought unhappily. Sure, he wants peace, but that doesn't mean he won't dump me out the first chance he gets.

Then Ed shook himself mentally. If Mark were treacherous, all he'd had to do was delay their leaving the facility, and their pursuers would now have them. The scientist shivered at how close their escape had been. Only the fact that Mark was apparently a superior driver had gotten them away. And while it looked like Sloan and Tom had fought free, the fate of Walter and Ray and the aged pickup was unknown.

You'd better take care of her, he warned Tom silently. Then laughed to himself. Even in his halfway state, the enigmatic man could probably protect Sloan better than all the rest of them put together. Ed had to smile at the thought of Tom's devotion to Sloan. We should all be so lucky.

Mark glanced in the rearview mirror and abruptly gunned the engine, speeding onto an off-ramp from the desert highway they'd been traveling. Ed sat up. "What--"

"Quiet!" Mark snapped. Ed subsided as the other man took the sedan down the ramp at a much higher speed than Ed thought safe. Tires squealed as the car whipped around the bend and onto the road running perpendicular to, and under, the highway. Mark slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to a stop below the overpass, half on the shoulder of the road. He held himself tensely for a moment, looking to Ed's puzzled eyes as though he were listening for some faint sound. Then, without fuss or warning, he hit Ed hard in the jaw and sent him bouncing into darkness.

* * * * *

Ray sat back in his seat and began reloading his handgun methodically. "You're a pretty good driver," he said conversationally, fishing a handful of bullets out of his jacket pocket.

Walter blew out his breath and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel. "I'd rather you drove, but somebody has to shoot the gun."

"Not anymore. We left 'em in the dust." Ray craned his head around for one more look, but the last car pursuing them had given up the chase after Ray had blown out the tires of the two others. The elderly pickup had proven surprisingly fast, and Walter had displayed unexpected skill in guiding it across the flat desert floor. "If you make a gradual left, we should hit the highway eventually," the detective added.

Walter cranked down his window, ignoring the way the breeze mussed his hair. It was too hot, and the air conditioning no longer worked. "Do you think the others got away?"

Ray peered out the dusty windshield. "More to the left." He hesitated a long moment. "No way to tell, really."

Walter glanced over, but the ex-detective's face was turned away. The scientist's mouth tightened, and he turned his attention back to the terrain, which was flat but not without hazards. He let several minutes pass by before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry I pulled you into this."

Ray turned back, surprised. "I was already in it." A reluctant smile showed. "And even if I hadn't been, I probably would have been eaten alive with curiosity."

Walter snorted. "I don't want to have to explain to your wife and son that I got you killed."

Ray's smile disappeared, but the glint of humor remained in his eyes. "I don't know. The way you live, I'm more likely to be talking to your next of kin." He paused a moment. "You got any?"

Walter had to laugh. "Not anymore."

Ray sat back into his seat and settled the gun in his shoulder holster, relaxing as further pursuit failed to appear. "There's the highway," he said, pointing, and Walter grunted and turned toward the ribbon of asphalt.

The detective rolled down his own window a fraction. "So, where we going?"

Walter gave the wheel an expert wrench and the pickup bounced up onto the road. "A gas station, first. After that--maybe another safe house."

The other man looked at the indecision on Walter's face. "You think they may have been compromised?"

Walter heaved a sigh. "I don't know. They may have gotten some of the information when they freed Lewis. I...I was so sure they wouldn't find us."

Ray grimaced. "Maybe they just got lucky," he offered, then shook his head, knowing he'd been trained better than that. "No. We have to assume they had inside information."

Walter frowned unhappily. "The packet I gave Tom and Sloan has a safe house address, but it's not one that belongs to that agency."

"What about Ed and Mark?"

"That was just instructions. I only had time to grab two packets, and I figured that Mark had resources of his own." Walter's hands flexed on the steering wheel. "In the end, it's Tom and Sloan they want, more than Mark. They're in more danger."

* * * * *

Sloan woke warm. She was lying on her back, with an unaccustomed weight pressing gently on her diaphragm. Opening her eyes, she looked down to see a familiar dark head pillowed on her stomach, much as her head had rested on him that furtive night in the spring. Looking around, Sloan found herself in a motel room that was equally shabby, despite the early sunlight that gilded it. This one, however, had only one bed--nothing opposite for a lanky scientist to sprawl on.

She sighed in sorrow at the thought of Ed, wondering where he was and how he was doing. Then she gave into impulse and ran a gentle hand over Tom's head. His hair was surprisingly soft against her palm, and he stirred at her touch and turned to look at her.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He looked at her a long moment before speaking. "I wasn't asleep." He smiled faintly.

"What were you doing, listening to my heartbeat?" Sloan asked facetiously.

"Yes." Tom paid no attention to her astonishment, but sat up, neatly catching the blanket as it slid from his shoulders. "We should get moving."

Listening to my... Sloan shook herself. "Do I have time for a shower?"

"If you're quick," Tom answered. "We can get breakfast on the way."

Sloan sat up, feeling her body still aching with weariness. She had only slept a few hours, she estimated, and what she most wanted--besides more sleep--was a long, hot shower and a cup of really good coffee.

She had to settle for a quick, lukewarm shower and a cup of mediocre coffee. Tom found a convenience store, but he made Sloan stay in the car while he bought food within, explaining that her hair made her too easy to remember. Sloan grumbled, but she could see the sense in it.

"What about the car?" she pointed out when he returned laden with cups and food. "The bullet holes aren't exactly inconspicuous."

Tom handed her a bag containing fruit and plastic-wrapped sandwiches. "That's true, but we don't really have time to get rid of it and find something else, not without attracting more attention. We'll have to take the risk."

Sloan sipped the scalding coffee as he started the car and pulled out of the gas station. This is almost second nature for him, she realized. He's spent a lifetime hiding himself and learning to cover his tracks. How often has he had to flee a situation, I wonder?

But she did not ask, unwilling to put stress on their new peace so soon. Instead she delved into the bag, and grimaced. "No donuts?"

They made their gradual way north, choosing less-traveled roads when possible, trading speed for stealth. Eventually they rose up through round, brown hills topped with flocks of white-bladed windmills, turning in breeze-spurred formation; every so often the crisp tan grass would be scored and blackened by the scorch of some extinguished fire. Massive, brilliant white clouds piled on the horizon but did not block the sun. The hills gave way to steeper slopes dense with fir and pine; the road turned to swooping curves instead of slicing straight through the land. The air grew cooler, and Sloan rolled down her window to sniff appreciatively at the spicy smell. Every so often they would be able to see through gaps in the nearby trees to the forested slope on the far side of a valley; once in a while they even caught glimpses of snow on higher peaks.

It was late afternoon when they passed Placerville. Walter's map actually led them further and higher, to a small sprawl of residential area dominated more by trees than houses. A series of narrowing roads took them into the edge of the development, to where the houses were spaced on large lots. Finally they pulled into the driveway of what appeared to be someone's summer home. A weedy flower garden struggled under the shade of a tall pine; the door was up three shallow steps and nestled between the wall of the garage and a picture window. As Sloan got out of the car, she saw a bright streak dodge past and slow to hover near one of the flowers. A hummingbird...

Her delight faded as she saw Tom pull the gun out from under his seat. "Stay there," he instructed quietly, and paced silently off around the side of the garage. Sloan huffed in annoyance but followed orders, and looked around without leaving her spot by the car.

The house sat near the road, but the few houses nearby were screened by trees. Pine needles littered much of the ground, and bright yellow mustard bloomed at the edge of the street. A somewhat battered mailbox held pride of place at the end of the driveway. The sky here was a clear hard blue, and while Sloan was growing hot in the sun, she knew that it would be pleasantly cool beneath the trees.

A sudden noise made her spin back toward the house. Gears ground as the garage door opened, and Tom came into view from the feet up. "It's safe," he said unnecessarily. "I'll put the car away."

Sloan stepped past him and into the dimness of the garage. A large upright freezer hummed to itself, and a door stood open in the back wall. Going through, Sloan found herself in a hallway that apparently ran most of the length of the house, front to back. She turned left, and walked into an open kitchen that expanded, with little ceremony and no walls, into a living-dining area, one corner occupied by a spacious fireplace.

A few minutes of exploration revealed that the house was not large. It had only one floor and two bedrooms, but it was half-wrapped around a generous deck a story up off the sloping ground. Sliding glass doors led onto the deck from the dining room and the master bedroom, adding an impression of spaciousness. It was comfortably furnished with items that looked as though they were chosen for convenience rather than to match each other or the wallpaper. Looking around, Sloan thought that it seemed as though the nonexistent occupants--a retired couple, perhaps--had gone on vacation for a few days. It was a far cry from the battered underground laboratory, or the rather primitive cabin in the woods. Where on earth does Walter find these places? And who takes care of them for him? A thin layer of dust was the only indication that the place was not lived in.

Tom came back in to find her gazing out the dining room door at the thin forest beyond the deck. "It's lovely," she said softly, and he did not contradict her.

"According to Walter's note, there should be some clothing in the hall closet that might fit us." He set the gun down on the kitchen counter, and Sloan hid her flinch at the sight of it.

"Sounds great," she said warmly. "First dibs on a shower, if I can find some towels."

At last she got her hot shower, followed by clean, if slightly baggy, clothes. When she emerged into the kitchen, she found a pot of something aromatic simmering on the stove, and no sign of Tom. A few minutes later, however, she heard the shower in the guest bathroom turn on; she smiled and opened the refrigerator.

What she really wanted was a salad, but there were no fresh greens, which made sense given the house's lack of permanent residents. Instead Sloan rooted out some frozen vegetables and discovered in the process a package of dinner rolls. By the time Tom appeared, dinner was almost ready.

Sloan stood and gazed at him, a slow smile spreading over her face, until he set aside the towel he held and smiled back, puzzled. "What?"

Sloan laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything so casual," she said, gesturing at the black sweatpants and dark blue T-shirt. "You're usually so...tidy."

He shrugged. "It's part of the role," he said, but did not seem disturbed by her comment.

They made a pleasant supper in the open room, enjoying the reddening light as the sun set. The fates of Ed and Ray, Walter and Mark, were an ever-present worry at the back of Sloan's mind, but she did her best not to think about it. There was nothing she could do right now, and she knew that if she grew upset, Tom would pick it up. So she teased him gently about his cooking skills, and actually won a laugh or two from him.

Eventually the growing dusk made her rise and turn on a few lights. Tom carried a stack of dishes to the sink, then picked up the phone in the living room, consulted one of the sheets from Walter's packet, and punched in a series of numbers. Sloan had finished clearing the table and was beginning to wash the dishes when he hung up.

"All the others have checked in safely," he said quietly, and Sloan took a deep breath of relief. "So far, so good." He pulled out drawers until he found a dishtowel, and began drying the dishes. Sloan went on washing.

"So what do we do next?" she asked finally. "Do we meet up somewhere?"

Tom shook his head and set a plate aside. "According to Walter's instructions, not yet. It's too soon. We're supposed to wait at least a week before trying to get together."

"Do you think that's a good idea?" Sloan asked. She trusted his judgment more than she did Walter's.

"At the moment, yes." Tom took a cup from her dripping hands. "Is that the last one?"

"That's it," Sloan answered, and pulled the plug in the sink. She watched the water drain away, then looked up to see Tom watching her. "What?" she asked, half smiling.

Tom hung the towel up carefully. "Sloan--there's something I need to tell you." He had closed himself up again, and Sloan felt dread gathering in the pit of her stomach.

"What is it, Tom?" She reached out for his hand, but he pulled away.

"You asked me last night if I had any other secrets," he began, then trailed off. To Sloan's educated eye, he looked unhappy, almost frightened. She nodded encouragingly.

"I was...some of my training was as an interrogator," he finally said, staring at the floor. "It was part of my assignments, to obtain information if necessary. I was...good at it."

He looked up, searching her face. "Do you understand?"

Sloan let the cold feeling wash over her and recede. "You were a--torturer?"

"Not exactly." Tom hesitated. "Not always. Never for pleasure, Sloan, believe me! It's part of a chameleon's training. We--they--have to be able to get information quickly so they can act on it. It was just what one of the things I was supposed to do."

Sloan forced herself to think past her first instinctive revulsion, to really see the man who stood before her with such muted pleading in his eyes. She already knew he had killed, on orders, and she knew he had disobeyed those orders--once for her, once before her. Whatever he had been before they'd met, he was not the same now. He had made the conscious decision to change, to be more...human.

And she remembered the night he had told her that he had killed, and his stark statement that nothing could change what he had done. Slowly, the same words rose to her lips.

"Tom...who you are, what you're trying to do...that's what makes the difference. That's what can set it right."

Their eyes met, and Tom's gaze softened in relief. Sloan stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug. She could feel the tension draining out of him, his muscles relaxing under her hands, and she had to quell the fierce, impossible longing to soothe every hurt he had suffered from his kind.

* * * * *

Full dark had fallen when Sloan went onto the deck. She wasn't tired enough to sleep as yet, but had been unable to settle in the living room. Tom had apparently become absorbed in a history book about the Southwest that he'd found, but Sloan was restless with a tension that finally drove her to her feet. She felt Tom's glance as she stepped out onto the deck, but he said nothing and returned to his reading.

There were no lights visible, aside from the dim lamps within the house. Sloan folded her arms against the chill and looked up, and drew in her breath. The sky above was thick with stars, and as her eyes adjusted, more came into view. Eventually she could see the thin veil of the Milky Way, dusted and sparkling with greater and lesser stars. Their faint, fine luminescence made stark cut-outs of the pine branches and the roof-edges that surrounded the pool of sky. The brilliance of the Universe shone down on Sloan, and she tipped her head back and let it bathe her. She caught her breath at the sudden brief flare of a meteorite, moving just too fast for her eyes to focus properly, and remembered the childhood ritual. I wish...I wish...

She could not complete the thought, could not decide what to wish for. The safety of their friends? Peace between the new species and the old? An end to the running and hiding and fear?

Gradually Sloan became aware that her neck was stiff, her feet were aching, and her whole body was chilled. She took one last, regretful look at the stars, then went inside.

Tom looked up again as she slid the door shut. "Are you all right?"

Sloan shrugged; her tension had not dissipated into the night air. "I guess I'm tired."

Tom nodded. Feeling suddenly awkward, Sloan hesitated, then turned and made for the master bedroom. Tom had brought her purse in from the car earlier and had left it on the big bed, and she had acceded to his choice. But now she wondered where he was going to sleep. In the abandoned military base Tom had dragged an extra cot into her room to guard her; in her apartment he had taken the couch. There was a pair of twin beds in the guest bedroom, but if she knew Tom, he would want to be closer to her. And, she realized, she wanted him close. But she didn't want to push him, either. Their relationship had grown in delicate stages, and sometimes things felt too fragile to risk a precipitous step.

While searching for clothes, Sloan had found no nightclothes, so she substituted a T-shirt and a pair of loose shorts. After brushing her teeth, she opened the curtains and the sliding door that led out to the deck, leaving only the screen shut, and curled up in the bed. But the cool air failed to soothe, and she could not sleep.

She had managed only a slight doze when she came abruptly awake. The only things she could hear were crickets chirping outside, and her own breathing; but then she saw the shadow move past the sliding door, barely outlined by a light still burning in the kitchen, and recognized Tom on one of his periodic checks. The silhouetted figure stood outside her door for a long time, arms folded, head tilted back, and Sloan knew he was watching the stars as she had. Then he sighed, deeply enough for her to hear, and bent his head.

This is silly, Sloan thought, and she took her courage in both hands and threw back the covers. Tom looked up quickly as she padded across the carpet and slid open the screen. "Are you coming to bed?" Sloan asked softly.

For a long, terrible moment she thought she had guessed wrong. Then Tom's eyes searched hers in the near-darkness, and he reached out and carefully, tenderly, traced the line of her cheek. She stepped out the door, and his head came down to hers.

It was the same; a gentle exploration that turned into a desperate hunger on both their parts. The soft sound he made against her mouth was one of pleased, almost disbelieving discovery, and Sloan's heart pounded at the taste of him. The world receded under the wash of sensation between them as Tom clenched his fingers in her hair and drew her closer still. Then there was carpet under her feet again, instead of the wood of the deck. It took Sloan a confused moment to realize that the cold metal her hand had brushed was the gun, tucked against the small of Tom's back. He disentangled one hand long enough to get rid of it; she didn't know where he put it, and she didn't care. She slid her hands under his shirt, running her fingers over the receding scar tissue and feeling him shiver. He was warm skin and quiet strength and compact grace, and it came hazily to Sloan that she had wanted to do this ever since she had helped him off with his shirt the sunny afternoon he first woke in her bed.

Her head spun briefly as Tom tumbled them both onto the bed, twisting so that Sloan landed on top of him. Their mouths parted long enough for Sloan to urge Tom's shirt over his head; then he drew her back down to him as though being apart was not to be borne. She explored his torso with eager hands, stopping only when he pulled up the hem of her shirt. As soon as it was gone, she found their positions reversed, and Tom returning her interest with interest.

"Have you ever done this before?" she managed when he lifted his head from hers for a moment.

"I don't know," he replied breathlessly. "Does it matter?"

Sloan grinned. "Absolutely not," she said, and her laugh trailed off into a gasp as his hands slid lower.

Their pace slowed, turned into a heady, almost dreamlike discovery of one another. Skin heated, voices went soft and low in the darkness, and it seemed to Sloan that some of Tom's empathic ability must be rubbing off on her, or else how could she feel so close to him?...as though every nuance of his inner self was as visible to her as hers was to him. Tom's possible experience may have been lost to his memory, but there was no hesitation in either of them, nor any barriers. And when the last rush was over, the unity remained.

* * * * *

Tom watched as the clean light of dawn entered the room, bringing things into view so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible. It caught on Sloan as she lay asleep in his arms, leaving her hair dark but making her pale skin seem to glow. Her soft breathing was, as always, a sound of peace to him, of life; her scent filled his lungs and warmed him. He'd slept for a while, but then had woken to savor the weight and the closeness of her.

It was something he'd wanted for a very long time...not just the physical, but the lack of restraint, of withholding. But he'd been afraid to take that last step, even after his escape from captivity and the certainties that had come with it. He could not bear the thought of Sloan's possible rejection, not when she was nearly all his new life. So he had waited, letting their bond deepen, exercising the patience that had been one of his most vaunted skills; waited until she was sure she was ready. And now...now they were closer than ever.

He wasn't quite sure, at first, what it was that drew him to Sloan. Her feelings, certainly; her intensity, her empathy, the clean honesty of her--these, and something unnamable, had kept him from carrying out his assignment and leaving her dead on her apartment floor. But he had gone out her window with no intention of ever seeing her again. He had not had any idea what to do next--that being the second time he had defied orders--but he knew that going near her again would endanger her.

Yet she had sought him out, refusing to let her questions lie. Her insatiable curiosity had brought her to him, and though he had turned aside her queries, he had admired her courage. After that, when she showed that she was willing to take the risk despite his warnings, he gave into the pull, the desire to see her again.

Perhaps it was because she challenged him, expected different things of him, asked him to make choices that he had not been permitted to make. All his life--the part that he could remember, anyway--those around him had expected him to be obedient, respectful, a quick learner; eventually, they had expected him to do as he was told, to use the skills he had been taught, to be willing--as they were--to give his life for their cause. And to take life for it. But Sloan looked at him and saw the person inside the skills, the person he had not been allowed to be. She saw beyond what he had done, and made him question all that he had been taught, even more than he had questioned it before he had met her. Sloan was the first person to care more about Tom, himself, than the chameleon.

That caring was, he thought, the core of it. She had fascinated him to the point where his doubts had combined with her strange attraction to make him let her live. Yet even when she was trembling with fear of him and terror of the death in his hands, she still felt for him--compassion for his confusion, and whatever had made him the way he was. She was certain, based on no logic at all, that he was not the killer he'd been brought up to be, and she knew he was hurting. No one had ever cared about him that way, not that he could remember. Only Sloan.

And that fascination had led him to this--to the emotion humans called love--a facile word for something so complex, so powerful, so humbling. It had lured him from the sterile world he'd been dedicated to bring about, led him into danger and change and simple joy. The feel of Sloan's arm wrapped around his waist, her pulse beneath his palm, the silky spill of her hair over his chest; these were the seal on her acceptance of him. Some last vestige of cold had vanished from him sometime during the night. This is where I belong. The feeling returned, the feeling he'd had when he had escaped his captors and found his way back to Sloan. I belong with her, always.

Sloan stirred, and he pulled the sheet up over her shoulder, afraid that the cool air coming in through the screen had chilled her. But she opened her eyes and smiled, that sweet sleepy smile that always made his heart turn over; and this time he did not have to hold back. He smiled in return and kissed her awake.

They spent their days easily--taking walks and buying fresh fruit from a roadside stand, trying to be creative with the limited range of foodstuffs in the big freezer in the garage, putting together a makeshift feeder for the local hummingbirds. They met no one besides the fruit seller on their walks, though they did see or hear a car pass once in a while. It was almost like that vacation she had threatened to take, Sloan thought amusedly. The knowledge that Ed and the others were safe--as safe as they could be, anyway--allowed her to relax somewhat and enjoy the break. They lit fires in the fireplace even though it wasn't cold, and ended up spending the night in front of the hearth once. They learned each other's responses and pleasures, and sometimes just took long naps together, though Sloan usually woke to find Tom watching her, his face unaccustomedly soft. Tom read aloud to her from the books that they had found in the guest bedroom, and teased her about not having any scientific journals to peruse.

He knew it couldn't last, but Tom savored every moment of their hiding. All his secrets were out, there was nothing more to keep from Sloan; even the worst of them had not driven her away.

* * * * *

There. He lowered the binoculars, eyes narrowing in satisfaction. Finding them had been more difficult than he'd expected, but he had succeeded. Now completion of his mission was a matter of simple timing. The isolated area that made the house such a good place to hide also made it a good place to attack--no neighbors close enough to be disturbed.

The most efficient method would be to strike quickly, without giving Tom a chance to react. He anticipated success, but one always factored in the unexpected, and Tom was one of the best he'd ever trained. He wasn't certain, anymore, if his former apprentice's inhibitions would hold.

But he still wondered what had drawn Tom from his allegiances, his life's work. Was it something unique, a combination of the younger man's psyche and random events, or was there some flaw in the training program? If there was a flaw, it had to be removed.

He returned to his car and drove away. Time to formulate a plan. It would not be long now.

* * * * *

His head hurt. Not as bad as when he'd woken from the tranquilizer administered by Tom's kidnappers, but bad enough. And his jaw throbbed even worse. Ed lifted a hand toward his face, unwilling as yet to open his eyes, but his fingers were caught in a warm grasp. "Careful."

Ed pried his lids apart, wincing a bit at the sunlight streaming into the car. He found himself still in his seat, slumped against the car door. Mark let his hand go and picked up a plastic bag filled with crushed ice. "Try this."

Ed blinked a couple of times, then took the bag and held it gingerly to his face. He hissed at the initial pain, but then the ice began to numb the bruise. "You going to explain why you did that?" he muttered, trying not to wince.

Mark's unexpressive face showed just a hint of embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "We were being tracked, and while I could mask myself for a little while, you..."

Ed explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A small cut on his cheek, but none of his teeth were loose. He considered a number of responses, including swearing, but from what Tom had told them about the new species' ability to sense the presence of others, he had to admit that Mark's solution had a certain logic.

"Next time," Ed finally said dryly, "let me know and I'll put myself out." His foot nudged his doctor's bag where it sat under the dashboard.

Mark looked down at the bag, then back up at Ed. For a long moment he was silent, and Ed suspected that Mark's encounters with their merry little band of fugitives was forcing the Homo dominant to think along new lines. "All right," was all he said.

The scientist sat up a little straighter and glanced around. The sedan was parked in front of a small convenience store, which explained where Mark had gotten the ice. The Homo dominant was unloading a grocery bag, piling items on the dashboard--bottled water, packets of nuts, a few pieces of fruit. Ed regarded a battered apple and sighed. "What's our next move?"

Mark set a banana next to the apple and delved back into the bag. "We need to keep moving, though eventually we'll have to lie low for a while. Preferably in someplace more populated than this area."

Ed took a longer look out the car windows. The convenience store sat in a small strip of businesses that all looked as though they had seen better days, and the other side of the highway was nothing but dusty bare ground as far as the eye could see. Apparently they had not gotten far from the desert while Ed had been out.

He took the bag away from his jaw and ran his fingers cautiously over the numbed skin. Flipping down the visor, he angled his head to see his face in the mirror. Not a lot of swelling. I don't think I'll have much of a bruise. He set the ice down on the dashboard, and Mark handed him a package of peanuts.

"Do you think the others made it out?" Ed asked quietly, tearing open the plastic.

Mark took a long drink from a bottle of water before answering. "I think so."

It hurt to chew, but Ed was hungry and he managed. Lunch had never happened, and his stomach was very empty. They sat and munched in silence for a little while before Mark capped his bottle and put the key in the ignition.

"D'you want me to drive?" Ed offered abruptly, not sure what the protocol was but feeling that he should say something.

Mark looked faintly surprised. "Not now. Maybe later," he replied, and turned on the engine. Ed fastened his seatbelt hastily.

"So, do we try to meet up with the others?" Ed opened a bottle of water for himself and drank carefully.

"Not for a few days," Mark said, eyes on the road. "Dr. Attwood said something about a number to call?"

Ed fished in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper that Ray had handed him just before they'd fled. "Looks like a map for a voice mail system. Guess we're supposed to check in."

Mark nodded. "Tonight, then."

They lapsed into silence. Ed picked up the soggy bag of ice and nursed his aching jaw, thinking furiously about the events of the day. He did not know who had come after them at the hidden compound, but he had his suspicions. Had to be the new species. Walter said the government agency was in a mess since his boss got killed. I wonder if it was Lewis? I thought he was supposed to be a lone wolf.

Finally he sighed and dumped the ice out the window, twisting in his seat to see it bouncing on the road behind them. It glittered in the lowering sun.

"Where are we headed?" he said, turning back around. "You said we needed to go somewhere more populated."

Mark glanced over briefly. "Los Angeles. We should get there by tomorrow evening."

Ed sighed, foreseeing hours in the car again. Oh well. If it keeps us away from those guys who were chasing us...

They made excellent time, mostly because Mark refused to stop for more than the barest of necessities. Eventually he gave up the driver's seat to Ed and napped for a few hours, and that set a pattern for the night and the next day. They took turns driving and trying to sleep, stopping only to fill the gas tank and stretch their limbs. They made it to the city as the sun was setting, and were immediately caught in traffic.

"Do we have a destination in mind?" Ed asked from the passenger seat, a little sarcastically. Mark's "I-know-best" attitude was getting on his nerves, though the scientist had to admit that it was justified for the most part.

Mark shook his head, the weariness in his face more pronounced. "Someplace to stay where we'll be inconspicuous."

"Hmm." Ed thumbed through memory. He was not overly familiar with this area of the city, but he knew there had to be some hotels not too far away. Something middle-of-the-road...hey!

He sat up in his seat and peered out through the windshield. About fifty yards down the sidewalk ahead of their crawling car were two people in outlandish getups--costumes that he recognized. An idea began to form. Rolling down the window, he leaned his head out, ignoring Mark's alarm.

"Hey! Commander! Where's the hotel?"

The two looked up and grinned fiercely, and one of them gestured further down the road. "Two blocks and turn right!"

"Great! Thanks," and Ed drew his head back in and rolled the window up. "What day is it?" he demanded.

Mark looked at him as though Ed had taken leave of his senses. "Friday."

Ed smiled in satisfaction. "Terrific. I know just where we can go to be inconspicuous for a couple of days."

It took some fast talking to get Mark into the hotel, especially when he saw the large number of costumed figures milling about. Ed had to explain what a Klingon was and why someone would dress up as one, but finally Mark agreed to go in. Ed mentally crossed his fingers. He had enough cash to get them both memberships, but he wasn't sure how far Mark would go for the sake of camouflage.

But once inside, Mark seemed to cede control to Ed, and allowed himself to be steered through the crowd of very odd people. "I've never heard of a science fiction convention," he said as they waited in the registration line.

Ed shrugged. "Most people don't know about them unless they're fans," he explained. "I haven't been to one in years, myself, but when I was in college I used to go all the time."

"And you think this will hide us?" Mark said doubtfully.

"Are you kidding? Would you think to look for us here?"

"There is that," the Homo dominant admitted, looking around. "I take it costumes are not required?"

"Nah. But we can get some if you think they'll hide us better." Ed stepped up to the registration table and bought two memberships, carefully writing "Abbott" on one badge and "Costello" on the other. "We can see if they have any rooms left, too."

The hotel did have rooms, and Mark brought out his own hoard of cash to pay for two nights. Ed's eyes bugged a little at the amount Mark had, but he approved--the transaction would leave no electronic trail for snoopers to follow. He carefully pretended not to notice when Mark presented a false ID as well. Then he pulled the Homo dominant into the dealer's room, insisting that they needed a little more camouflage.

By the time they made their way to their room, Ed was desperate for a shower and a real bed to sleep in, but they were both properly attired for a convention. Mark sported a "Burning Zone" T-shirt and a pair of cheap sunglasses, and Ed was wishing that he had managed to talk the other man into a pair of Vulcanoid ears. Ed himself had found a Classic Trek uniform tunic and had added several slogan buttons before he had managed to tear himself away from the button vendor.

They spent the next day drifting around the convention as unobtrusively as possible, and Ed found himself explaining various TV shows, movies, and jokes to Mark. The Homo dominant was not ignorant of human culture, but he had not been exposed to this aspect before, and his curiosity was nearly insatiable. Ed insisted that Mark watch "Star Wars," declaring that it was essential to his cultural experience, and then regretted it when Mark spent a couple of hours afterwards discussing the mythological aspects of the movie with two rabid fans. Still, the convention experience on the whole seemed to relax Mark somewhat, for which Ed was grateful. Checking in on Walter's phone number had reassured Ed that the other two pairs were safe, at least for the moment, but that did not stop his worrying.

* * * * *

The outside air was still crisp when Tom slid open the kitchen door and walked silently out onto the deck, but sunlight was beginning to bring out the scent of the redwood boards. It was two weeks into their hiding; Tom had woken early and decided to get his exercises out of the way. Sloan was still asleep in the master bedroom. Considering how late we were up last night--Tom smiled to himself--she should stay asleep until I get breakfast started.

He moved smoothly through his routine, the only sounds he made being deepened breathing and the occasional quiet footfall. A blue jay dropped down to the roof's edge to watch him, but when it decided he didn't have any food, it flew off again. Idly he noted squirrels rooting through the scrub and pine needles in the lot beyond the deck, but there were no other signs of life.

The only thing on his mind when he stepped back into the kitchen was a shower, but a second later all his senses were on alert. Somebody's here. His first thought was for Sloan, and for an instant he considered going back out and through the other door to the master bedroom, but she'd locked that door last night, and breaking through it would be noisy. Instead he slid a knife silently from the block on the counter and moved stealthily toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

As he rounded the corner, he tried to pinpoint the presence he knew was there, but it eluded focus. Then the door to the garage, behind him, slammed open. He whirled in time to meet the figure that came through, but not in time to keep his grip on the knife. An expert blow sent it spinning away, and then he was grappling furiously with the intruder. An intruder he knew, knew too well, now that the masking had stopped. His opponent gave a tremendous heave, and Tom was pushed backward, landing on his backside on the kitchen floor. Before he could roll to his feet, the intruder had a gun aimed at his heart. Tom held very still, staring up in cold fury and fear at the attacker now standing in the kitchen. Lewis...

The older man shook his head. "Sloppy, Tom," he chided. "I trained you better than that." Lewis' hands were utterly steady, Tom noted, realizing with dismay that he was at a complete disadvantage. He prayed that Lewis did not know that Sloan was in the house, even though it was hopeless. Lewis knew. And he'll kill her if you can't figure out some way to stop him, he reminded himself. But this was the man who had taught him almost everything. There was no defensive move he could make that Lewis would not anticipate.

The Homo dominant cocked his head and regarded his former protégé. "You know why I'm here, of course."

"To eliminate me," Tom replied, not taking his eyes from Lewis. He stood up carefully, knowing that the other man watched his every move. His next best hope was that Sloan remained asleep, that she did not walk into what would be his death. Lewis, ever efficient, would probably shoot her as she slept, and then arrange things so it appeared that Tom had killed her and then himself. At least that way she won't suffer. Lewis' gun was barrel-heavy with a silencer, so the shot that would take Tom's life would not wake her.

"To eliminate both of you," Lewis corrected. "You can be grateful it's been decided that there's no need to get information from either of you. The desert lab was remarkably uninformative, but it was clear enough that your scientists had not achieved any results in whatever it was they were trying to do." His look of veiled amusement faded and his gaze grew sharper. "Why did you do it, Tom? I want to know. Why did you turn your back on us?"

Stall. He may grow careless. It was probably a vain hope, but it was all Tom had. "I told you before. I couldn't do what I was asked to do anymore." Slowly, slowly, he began to gather his balance. At this distance, Lewis would not miss, but Tom might, possibly, be able to kill him before he himself died, if he could close with the older man.

"No. What changed your mind? Not Doctor Parker, surely."

"She was part of it," Tom said slowly. "But the humans have something we don't, Lewis."

His former mentor snorted. "Weakness. Futility."

Tom shook his head, gaze never wavering. "No. Their emotions. Feeling doesn't make them weak, it makes them strong. It brings them together in ways our devotion to duty never could."

"They're doomed," Lewis said coldly. "Their 'feelings' won't save them."

I'm running out of time. Tom shifted the conversation. "How did you find me, Lewis?"

A small smile moved across Lewis' face. "I can always find you, Tom. No matter where you go or what you do. You should have realized that."

"How did you get away from the government?" Tom persisted.

"I had help," the Homo dominant told him. "Unlike yourself. I was impressed, by the way, that you were able to escape on your own; the confinement was formidable. Unless, of course, you were helped by someone on the inside?"

Tom frowned. "Were the deaths really necessary?"

"Of course they were." Lewis shook his head at Tom's small movement. "No. Stay where you are.... The deaths were a warning. You should understand that."

"As mine will be?"

"As yours will be. And hers."

Tom held back the spasm of rage at Lewis' words, and poised himself inwardly. Lewis' expression altered again, this time to one of faint puzzlement. "What did they do to you while they held you, Tom? You feel...different."

"I don't know," Tom lied. "They didn't tell me anything." Which was true enough.

Lewis shrugged. "Perhaps your friends can do an autopsy. If they live that long." His grip tightened on the gun, and Tom braced himself. I won't make it--

Apparently the same was true for Lewis. He turned his head in surprise, though his aim did not waver, and a satisfied smile appeared on his lips. "Good morning, Doctor--"

Tom launched himself across the space between them. The explosion of the shot sounded unnaturally loud in his ears, as though the silencer had failed; he waited for the impact, but he felt nothing as he slammed into Lewis and they went sprawling.

Tom turned the fall into a controlled roll that ended with him on top, one hand holding down Lewis' gun arm. But there was no resistance, and Tom blinked in surprise. Lewis was staring at the ceiling, and a small crimson trickle appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Tom looked up, his body still doubting that he'd escaped injury. Sloan stood beside them, deathly pale, with Tom's gun held in both white-knuckled hands.

Glancing back down, Tom recognized the flaccidity he'd seen before, and automatically checked for a pulse even though he knew it would not be there. Sitting back on his heels, he nudged Lewis' gun away from his hand--another reflex--and turned back to Sloan, who had not moved. "Good for you," he said calmly.

She made a small noise, eyes huge. Tom stood up and took the handgun gently away from her, setting it down on the carpet. "Sloan?" he asked, enveloping her hands in his. Her fingers were icy cold.

Sloan blinked several times, then tore her gaze from Lewis' still form and looked up at him. "He was going to kill you," she whispered.

Tom tried to rub some warmth into her hands. "He didn't," he returned quietly. She looked shocky, and he didn't like it. Putting an arm around her, he guided her back down the hallway and made her sit on the bed, shutting the door firmly behind them. Crouching in front of her, he took her hands again. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes were still enormous, but they focused on him. "He's dead?" she asked, her voice high and strained.

"Very." Tom gave her a small, approving smile. "It was an excellent shot."

Sloan made another noise, between a groan and a sigh, and pulled her hands from his to cover her face. "I can't believe I did that," she said, muffled.

Tom straightened and sat down beside her, putting one arm carefully around her waist. Her body was stiff, but she leaned against him without hesitation. "It's a good thing for me that you did. For both of us." He reached out and pulled her arms down, making her look at him. "He would have killed us, Sloan, and then he would have killed Ed and Walter and Ray. You saved all of us."

Sloan shook her head, but more in disbelief, he thought, than negation. She swallowed and pressed her face against his shoulder, and he stroked her hair for a long time while she trembled.

When she calmed, he let her go and went into the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth and a glass of water. He made her drink, then bathed her face and still-chilled hands with the cloth.

"Will you be all right if I leave you for a little while?" he asked, taking the empty glass.

Sloan looked up, startled. "Why?"

"I have to get him out of the hallway." Tom squeezed her hand gently. "It will only take a few minutes."

Sloan let out a breath, and gave him a very shaky smile. "Sure. I'll be fine."

"Good." Tom let her go and left the room.

Sloan sat on the bed and listened to the sounds through the open door. The crisp sound of a sheet snapped open, the rustle of cloth, a faint grunt as Tom lifted what lay there. The click as the door to the garage opened, the thud of it closing. The dispassionate observer in the back of her brain noted coolly that it was convenient to have a lover who knew what she was feeling; no tedious explanations were necessary for the roil of shock, revulsion, and guilty relief in her stomach.

She had come abruptly awake, not knowing what had brought her up from sleep, and had listened for Tom. But instead of water running or the clink of china, she'd heard his voice, too low for her to make out the words. And another voice had answered--one that she still heard in nightmares from time to time. Lewis! She'd thrust her fear down as quickly as she could, afraid of alerting him to her presence; then, wondering what to do, she'd spotted the gun.

Her fear proved stronger than her hatred of firearms, and she'd picked it up gingerly, trying to remember how to take off the safety. When she slipped into the hallway, the voices grew clearer, and Sloan had walked slowly toward the kitchen, not sure what she was doing but knowing she had to do something. And she'd heard Lewis talking about killing both of them, killing Tom, and his words seemed to take her out of herself. All she wanted to do was to stop the man who threatened Tom's life. And she had. Her mind kept replaying the event; over and over she squeezed the trigger, felt the kick of the gun, and saw Lewis going down under Tom's lightning tackle, never to move again.

A few minutes later the door to the garage opened again and she heard Tom come back inside. Sloan wondered what he had done with the body, and squashed a wild giggle at the thought that he'd stashed Lewis in the freezer. Not enough room...

Tom walked into the room and opened the sliding door to the deck, then turned back to her. "Do you think you could eat something?"

She looked up at him; his face was in shadow, but his voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Out of everyone I know, he would understand, she thought suddenly.

Sloan straightened. "I'll try," she said, and stood up. Tom held out a hand, and she crossed to him on shaky legs and let him lead her across the deck to the kitchen. All her senses seemed sharper than usual; the sun-warmed boards were almost hot beneath her feet, the birdsong was louder, the air she breathed in was a definite impact on her consciousness. It's the shock, she diagnosed silently. My body's overreacting.

Tom sat her down at the table and went about efficiently fixing breakfast. Sloan watched him and thought about the way they seemed able to switch roles when the occasion called for it. When Tom was recovering from his captivity, he had been content to let Sloan and Ed handle things; now, when they were running and hiding, he took the lead, and she was happy to let him. He doesn't need to control things, she mused. Maybe because he always followed orders. But it makes a nice change from macho idiots who can't ask for directions...

She could not finish the fruit and cereal that Tom set in front of her, but she ate enough to satisfy him, and he made her drink all the tea. When they were through, she automatically began gathering the dirty dishes together, but he took them away from her. "No."

Sloan let her hands drop. "Why not?"

"You're going to take a shower," Tom said. "I'll do the dishes."

For a moment she thought about arguing, cooperation notwithstanding, but decided that she didn't have the energy. Besides, Tom was giving her the stern look that told her he would not take no for an answer.

So she let him walk her back across the deck, well aware that he was deliberately avoiding the hallway. Of course, Lewis would have bled... Sloan's stomach dipped, and she cut the thought off hastily. Tom shot her a sharp glance, but said nothing.

She spent a long time under very hot water, feeling as though she were trying, futilely, to wash Lewis' death from her skin. Once before, she had thought briefly that she'd killed someone, when she hit a Homo dominant man with Ray's car; but she had been too frantic with worry about Tom to check, and when they had emerged from the cellar where she had found him held captive, the man had vanished. Whether he had gone under his own power or Tom's mother had returned to help him away, Sloan did not know or care. This time, though, there was no question. She hardly noticed when tears mixed with the water running down her face.

Tom was waiting for her when she emerged, pink with heat and scrubbing. He wrapped her in the huge bathrobe they'd found in one of the closets, made her sit down on the bed, and began combing the tangles out of her wet hair. By the time he was done she could barely keep her eyes open; she lay down, and fell asleep even as his kiss brushed her forehead.

Tom stood back and watched the lines of tension in Sloan's face relax. The medical kit in the pantry was much more complete than those usually found in homes, thanks to Walter, and the mild sedative he'd put into her tea was more than enough to ensure that she would sleep for a few hours. Enough to let the shock pass off. He was not surprised at her reaction; he expected no less from her courage. Sloan was not the type to have hysterics, even with good cause.

And it would give him time to deal with the aftermath. Disposal of Lewis' body was an hour's hard work, and while he found it distinctly odd to be dealing with the corpse of his former mentor, his main feeling was one of overwhelming relief. He had freed himself of Lewis' control long since--with Sloan's help--but now he no longer had to worry about the older man coming out of nowhere and harming her, or any of the others. It was done.

Tom took a quick look around, finding Lewis' car not far away, but as he suspected, the Homo dominant had acted alone. Lewis never had partners, only protégés. Then Tom went back inside to clean the carpet where Lewis had fallen. He was still impressed that Sloan's shot had killed his former mentor so cleanly. Anything less than an exact hit, and Lewis would certainly have gotten off at least one shot at Tom.

So, what do we do next? Staying in the house was no longer an option. When Lewis failed to report in, an investigation would begin. Tom puzzled over just how Lewis had tracked them down. Were we followed? Or did he really have some connection to me? It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility. The new species denied emotional bonds in general, but mentors and trainees had to be close, and there might be all kinds of knowledge on that score that Tom no longer remembered. He wondered sourly as he scrubbed whether he would ever regain what had been taken from him. Since they didn't know how it had been done, at the moment getting his memories back seemed unlikely.

When Sloan came out of the bedroom that afternoon, still enveloped in the bathrobe, she walked slowly down the shadowy hall instead of going out onto the deck. All that remained of the morning's events was a slightly damp spot on the rug, which she skirted carefully. Sleep had made her memories more like some odd, vivid dream, but Sloan felt like she was carrying something delicately balanced. If she thought too hard about what had happened, the balance would tip.

Tom was reading in the living room, but he set aside the book and stood when she appeared. "How do you feel?" he asked, walking toward her.

Sloan folded her arms. "Weird," she admitted, "but...I think I'm okay." Briefly she wondered again what Tom had done with Lewis, but she did not ask.

Tom took her arms just above the elbows and searched her face, and whatever he found seemed to satisfy him. "Good." He released her, and her stomach growled abruptly. "Lunch?"

Sloan blinked, surprised and a little dismayed at her appetite. "I guess I'd better. But--" she held up a hand, determined not to feel like an invalid. "--only if you let me help."

She managed to keep her memories balanced through the meal. Tom did not refer to the morning, and Sloan did not bring it up. But after they finished, Tom sat forward. "We have to leave tonight."

"We do?" Sloan was startled at how relieved she felt at the thought. She really didn't want to linger in the house, now that Lewis' death was imprinted on it.

"Yes." Tom stood up and began collecting plates. "Eventually someone will wonder why Lewis hasn't checked in, and they'll come looking for him. We have to be long gone by then."

"Right." She rose as well, and carried glasses to the sink. "When do you want to leave?"

"Just after sunset. Will you be all right if I take a nap?"

Slightly exasperated, Sloan replied with some asperity that she'd be fine, and that she could finish the dishes herself. She couldn't see Tom's face as he walked away, but she had the sudden feeling that he was smiling.

Sloan avoided thought by restoring the kitchen to the pristine condition in which they'd found it, then realized that she hadn't gotten dressed. Frowning down at her robe, she decided that clothes could wait until Tom was awake again--she didn't want to disturb him by going into the bedroom.

So she went out onto the deck and sat on the swing with a book, but she didn't open it. Her carefully balanced thoughts were beginning to weigh on her mind.

I killed somebody. Okay, it was Lewis, and if anybody needed killing it was him, but I did it.

The idea did not bring the revulsion it had that morning, and she analyzed her reactions as best she could. Well, it was justified--he would have killed Tom, and then he would have killed me. There was no doubt about that. She'd seen Lewis sharpen his aim at Tom just before he'd noticed her, and she'd known that he would offer no last-minute reprieve this time. When she thought about it, she was amazed that she had, in fact, killed Lewis instead of just wounding him. Beginner's luck, I suppose. It would have been hard to miss completely at that range, though.

Rocking gently, Sloan pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. I'm a scientist, an anthropologist. I'm supposed to find out about life, not take it. That sounded hollow, though.

He would have killed Tom. He was about to kill Tom. That was the truth of it. She'd had to choose, Tom or Lewis. And while she hadn't meant to kill Lewis, just stop him, to her mind the gun had meant death when she'd picked it up.

If I had to do it again... She stopped rocking, a little shocked. I'd do the same thing. Not try to knock him out or something?

Apparently not. Now he's gone. He can't come back, he can't hurt me or Tom or anybody else.

She wondered abruptly what Ed would say when she told him she had shot Lewis. And smiled, feeling as though she hadn't smiled in weeks. She could all but hear him. "About time somebody did."

However, settling the matter in her mind did not settle Sloan's emotions. Too restless to read, she went back inside and made sandwiches to take with them when they left. Then, for lack of anything better to do, she started a batch of cookies. Cooking as therapy? the back of her mind commented, but she ignored it. Action was better than brooding, or sitting and replaying Lewis' death in her mind. And baking cookies meant she would have to clean the kitchen again.

Still, the hours before sunset seemed to stretch on and on. The shadows were long when she found herself with nothing more to do. Tom had no doubt set his internal alarm, but she didn't know when he would wake, and being virtually alone in the house was making her more and more nervous. Finally she gave up.

Tom stirred when she climbed into bed beside him, reaching out to gather her against his side without really waking. It was only because his subconscious recognized her as "safe" that he didn't wake entirely, she knew, but even asleep he was great comfort. She snuggled closer, rubbing her face against his T-shirt and breathing in his familiar spicy scent. She wasn't sleepy, but right here was the best place to be.

There was no discernable change in him, but about an hour later she raised her head to find him watching her, eyes darkened with sleep. Sloan thought about explaining why she was there, then realized it probably wasn't necessary. He leaned forward to press a gentle kiss on her lips; the simple touch seemed to unlock something inside her, and Sloan was caught in a rush of emotion and desire. She kissed him back, more deeply, surprised at her urgency. Another reaction, the back of her mind observed, and she hissed mentally at it to shut up. Now was not the time for analysis.

Then Tom slipped the robe off her shoulders, and she stopped thinking entirely.

* * * * *

They left the house with more than they had brought to it. Sloan felt a little guilty at helping herself to the clothes and toiletries, until she reminded herself that Walter, or his agents, put them there to be used. Still, it didn't take long to pack the car, and Sloan took a last look around as the garage door hummed shut. It was full dark, and she was able to look up and see stars thick above the outline of roof and trees. The spot inside where Lewis had fallen was burned indelibly into her mind, and yet...

"It's still lovely," she said, and Tom slipped his arms around her from behind, folding her into a warm embrace.

"Yes. It is," he agreed quietly.

They drove most of the night, putting distance between themselves and Lewis' last known location. Tom wanted them long gone before anyone came looking for his former mentor.

"Do you think we're being followed?" Sloan asked when they stopped for gas, and he kept looking around.

"I'm not sure," Tom answered, obscurely troubled. "Lewis may have had a backup of some kind, a perimeter watcher."

Sloan frowned, raising her arms over her head in a joint-popping stretch. "I thought you said he always worked alone."

"He did." Tom disengaged the fuel hose from the car and replaced it on the pump. "But after he failed with us, someone may have been assigned to keep an eye on him."

"So what do we do?" Sloan opened her car door.

"We go somewhere where we'll blend in." Tom didn't smile, but his expression was one of subtle satisfaction. "Tahoe."

* * * * *

Sloan was impressed. Once Tom had a plan in mind, he carried it out with precision--and style. An hour away from Tahoe he made Sloan cover her hair with a hat, then rented a luxury car at the biggest dealer he could find. They transferred their luggage into the new car and left Ray's battered vehicle behind, though not without a pang on Sloan's part. But she decided in the end that Ray would probably want to buy a new one anyway, rather than try to have the numerous bullet holes repaired.

Tom insisted, however, that it was the safest thing to do, short of finding another safe house. "They won't expect us to be so obvious, if they manage to track us this far," he explained quietly as they waited for the bellhop. "And there are always people around here, day and night. The sort of silent operations they prefer will be difficult, if not impossible."

Sloan opened her mouth to ask about those silent operations, then shut it again. I don't think I want to know. Her mouth opened again, this time involuntarily, when the bellhop let them into their hotel room. Tom handed the woman her tip, then shut the door, a small smile playing over his face at her expression. "Does it suit?" he asked.

"It's amazing!" Sloan made a slow turn, taking in the huge bed, the deep carpet, the rich furniture. "That desk is probably worth more than my whole apartment."

Tom laughed a little. "Probably." He set down the keycard and walked over to the huge window. The sun was high over the lake below, and bands of blue striped the water like broad stairs down into the depths. "We need some more sleep, and I need to call Walter's voice mail. We should meet the others here."

Sloan nodded, her throat suddenly tight with yearning at the thought of seeing her friends again. "You're right. Are you hungry?"

Tom shrugged, and the cloth of his perfectly-cut jacket slid over his shoulders. "Eating's a good idea. You decide what you want; I'll be back in a minute."

"Where are you going?" Sloan asked, slightly alarmed.

Tom tucked one of the room's keycards into his pocket. "Out to find a pay phone. I'd rather not make the call from the room."

"Oh. Okay." Sloan felt a little foolish, but the whole business had her on edge. They were playing a dangerous game, Tom's assurances to the contrary, and Lewis' sudden appearance at their mountain hideaway had not helped her nerves.

Tom paced across the carpet, his steps silent, and cupped her face in his hands. "We'll get through this, Sloan," he said quietly, but with that thread of assurance she'd come to recognize, and his gaze was intent on hers. She managed a smile, and he pressed his lips to her forehead before letting her go. "Back in a minute," he repeated, and was gone.

It was a little more than a minute, but Sloan put the time to good use. Kicking off her shoes, she placed an order to room service and began exploring the suite. Besides the picture window, it included an enormous TV, a fully-stocked bar, and a bathroom the likes of which Sloan had never seen. I wonder if Tom can swim? popped into her head, and she grinned. Of course he can. And she began twisting taps.

Tom finished the brief call to the voice mail system, then placed another to one of the phone numbers waiting for him there. A cool, wary voice answered the phone, and Tom slid easily into the practiced habit of clipped communication. The conversation was brief, but Tom found out what he wanted to know. Mark was a member of the peace faction, but the split was recent, and he was able to supply Tom with details that the former chameleon could not remember--enough information for Tom to decide what the fugitives' next move might be.

He came back to the room to find the curtains shut, a substantial meal laid out on the table, and Sloan struggling with the zipper in the back of her dress. She craned her neck to look at him appealingly. "Could you give me a hand with this?"

* * * * *

"Really? You'd never taken a bath before then?" Sloan laughed a little incredulously and picked up the soap.

"Not that I can remember," Tom admitted behind her. He was in one of his very rare playful moods, and Sloan was taking full advantage.

"It was a pleasantly new experience," Tom went on, reaching around and taking the soap from her. "And several possibilities occurred to me at the time...including this one." He blew gently on the nape of her neck to get a tendril of hair out of the way, making her shiver, and began washing her back.

"I'll bet," Sloan said facetiously. His hands were stroking the tension from her shoulders and she sighed in pleasure.

Tom chuckled. "Haven't you done this before?"

"Not with anybody else. It is more fun than the regular kind." She sloshed more water over her knees, which were poking up from the foam. The bubble-bath had been his idea.

"I should hope so," Tom said wryly. He wrung out a washcloth and began rinsing her skin. "Answer a question?"

"Anything," Sloan said, turning a little to look back at him.

"What was the duck for?"

"The duck...?" Sloan gaped at him for a moment before she understood what he was talking about. "Oh! Um...well, have you ever seen 'Sesame Street'?"

* * * * *

It took two days for the rest of the fugitives to straggle in. Ray and Walter arrived first, Ray sliding into place at the casino table where Sloan was doing moderately well at blackjack. It took all her willpower not to leap up and hug him, but she confined herself to a cool smile and, eventually, a planned flirtation that ended with the redhead's departure with the older man.

"This is silly," she murmured to Ray as they made their way out of the room.

Ray's chuckle rumbled. "Maybe so, but it might just do the trick. I'm running from the government, and you're running from the new species. Hopefully, they haven't started sharing information yet."

Sloan snorted. "If only it were that simple." But he had made her smile, as he'd intended.

"Where's Tom?" he asked, drawing her arm through his.

"Right here," said a quiet voice behind them, making Ray jump. Tom stepped around them; he only glanced at Sloan's hand on Ray's arm, but something about him made Ray release her. "Where's Walter?"

"If I know him, he's beating some poor hapless souls at poker," Sloan said lightly.

"Got it in one," Ray said, grinning. "Don't you two look nice?"

Sloan blushed; Tom only cocked his head with his usual inscrutable expression. Ray himself was wearing a suit, but nothing to match the elegance of the others. The ex-detective glanced at his watch. "He's supposed to meet us in your room in about twenty minutes. Shall we go?"

Ray was answering Sloan's questions about his and Walter's escape when Tom opened the door at Walter's knock. Sloan took one look at the scientist and burst out laughing. Walter shot her a half-humorous glare and seated himself in a chair with great dignity, doing his best to ignore Ray's chuckle.

"Where did you get that shirt?" Sloan finally gasped, sagging onto the bed. "It looks like...like..."

Walter glanced down at the luridly hued, flower-dappled Hawaiian shirt. "There's no need to malign my taste in leisure wear," he said primly, smirking.

"If that's your taste, I'll eat my own shirt," Ray commented dryly.

Walter shrugged, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Well, you must admit it makes excellent camouflage."

Sloan agreed. The immaculate scientist was gone; in his place sat the epitome of the dull, middle-class, middle-aged tourist. The shirt was set off by shorts; Walter had deliberately added socks and sandals, and he wore a battered khaki fishing cap as well. Weeks without a trim had left his beard scruffy.

"So when are Ed and Mark arriving?" he asked, settling into business.

Tom sat down beside Sloan. "Tomorrow evening. Mark said to wait for them here, rather than meeting them outside." He took her hand. "I assume that he has some kind of camouflage in mind."

Walter nodded. "Where are you guys staying?" Sloan asked.

Ray gave her the name of a much cheaper hotel on the California side of the town. "We're sharing a room; we figured it's a lot harder to make us disappear if we're together."

"What have you been doing for the last few weeks?" Sloan asked curiously, and Ray groaned.

"I've had a better time on stakeouts," he complained. "If I see the inside of one more cheap motel room..." He gestured at Walter, who merely snorted. "This man doesn't even like baseball."

Sloan was alone in the room the next afternoon when someone knocked on the door. She peered cautiously out the peephole, then hastily unlocked the door and swung it open so fast that the repairman on the other side stepped back a pace. Then he stepped back another as Sloan launched herself into his arms.

"Hey," Ed said, laughing as he hugged his friend. "It's only been a few weeks, Sloan!"

The handsome, austere man dressed in work coveralls similar to Ed's glanced about uneasily and herded the two scientists into the room, shutting the door carefully after them.

Sloan sniffed back tears and loosened her grip enough to look up at Ed. "It's been forever, and you know it."

Ed's expression softened, and he pulled her close again in another hug. "Yeah, I know."

Mark locked the door and took up station near it, giving the pair one dry glance before setting down the toolbag he carried.

Finally Sloan and Ed separated. Sloan tugged the taller man over to the bed and sat down next to him. "I'm so glad to see you. Both of you," she added, glancing over at Mark, who nodded rather hesitantly.

Ed cocked a brow at her. "What happened to you? You look totally stressed out."

Tears filled Sloan's eyes again at the memory of the last few days. "Lewis found us."

Both men straightened at that. "What happened?" Mark demanded, overriding Ed's urgent "Are you okay?"

"He's dead." Sloan swallowed hard. "Ed, I...I shot him."

Ed stared at her for a long moment, then reached out to gather her into his arms again. "Good for you," he murmured.

Sloan let out a half-laugh, half-sob against Ed's chest. "That's what Tom said."

Ed rocked her gently. It was such a relief to tell him, Sloan thought, to have his understanding as well as Tom's. Tom had become the heart of her, but Ed was her balance.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sloan accepting the comfort that Ed offered without words or judgment. Then she glanced up to meet Mark's closed gaze.

"He broke into the safe house and was going to kill Tom." She straightened, remaining in the circle of Ed's arm, and wiped moisture from her face. "I couldn't let that happen."

Mark raised a brow, but before he could say anything the lock clicked, and he spun toward the door.

It opened, and Tom slipped inside. His gaze, weighted with concern, went unerringly to Sloan, and for a moment a peculiar tension hummed in the air. Then he shut the door. "I'm glad you're here," he said quietly. "Walter and Ray should be back soon."

Tom had heard Sloan through the door, so he knew what she was telling Ed about, and he could easily sense her turbulent emotions at the memory. Still, it was an unpleasant surprise to find Sloan in Ed's arms. Tom considered Ed a friend second only to Sloan, and knew the other man was not a threat to their relationship, yet it still hurt to see Sloan seeking comfort from someone else. Tom accepted her need for Ed's normalcy--after all, Tom himself was not human--but it made him feel outside again, shut out of the circle of human warmth.

Then Sloan got up, and deliberately walked over and kissed him. The hurt dissolved in her warmth. He could feel her concern; somehow--human intuition?--she had sensed his pain, and he could tell she wanted to reassure him. He sighed, relaxing, and gave her the tiniest smile.

Tom exchanged nods with Mark and walked over to shake hands with Ed, ignoring the taller man's somewhat curious look. "You okay?" Ed asked.

"I'm fine," Tom answered, knowing what Ed meant. "You?"

"We're good," Ed said, swinging his legs up onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard. "Bored maybe, but good."

Someone knocked on the door again, and Mark looked through the peephole before opening it. Walter and Ray came in, and there were more handshakes before everyone settled into seats.

Walter, as usual, took charge. "So, what's our next move?"

There was a long silence as everyone looked around. "Lay low," Ed finally offered. "At least until we can figure out a new strategy."

Ray turned a bit in his seat to look at Mark. "Could we meet up with your people?"

Mark looked faintly surprised. "You mean for protection?"

Ray shrugged. "Protection, collaboration, whatever comes to hand."

"It's a thought," Mark said slowly. "I'm not sure..."

"Think about it," Walter suggested. "What else could we do?"

Another silence ensued. Tom took a deep breath. "The convocation," he said into the hush.

Everyone gave him quizzical looks, except for Mark, who sat up straight. "You?" he asked Tom.

Tom nodded. "It's one way to do it."

"What are you talking about?" Sloan asked impatiently.

Tom turned to her. "The gathering of our species, in October. When they'll fight for the leadership."

He kept his eyes on hers, knowing she would understand, and he watched the horror spread over her face.

"What, you want to blow it up or something?" Ed asked, confused.

"No." Sloan's voice was low and hard. "No, Tom. You can't."

"I have to." Tom took her hands. "If I take the leadership, I'll be able to dictate the policies. We would have peace, Sloan. Co-existence..."

Furious, Sloan tore away from him and sprang up to pace. "Tom, they'll kill you! You aren't one of them any more!"

Everyone but Mark was aware of the double meaning of her words. Walter frowned judiciously. "It would solve all our problems rather neatly...if Tom wins."

Sloan whirled on him. "You think this is a good idea!"

Walter did not flinch. "I think it has some merit, yes."

"If he doesn't win, he'll be dead," Ray pointed out dryly. "And we'll be no better off than we were. No offense," he added to Tom.

Ed shook his head. "It's insane, Tom. You know why."

Tom folded his arms, summoning the intensity that had served him in other arguments. "It's the best way. If I win, then both species will be safe." He looked around at the others. "Does anyone have another idea?"

"Do you really think you have a reasonable chance?" Walter asked.

"Yes." Tom did not let himself watch Sloan. "I think I can win."

Ed leaned forward. "Tom. C'mon, man. This is dumb."

"Then come up with a better idea," Tom retorted. Ed hissed in frustration and sat back again.

Tom turned to Mark. "Can you help me?"

Mark propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and fitted his fingertips together. "Some of our people will be there, to observe," he admitted. "Since we, too, have an interest in who leads the war faction."

Tom risked a glance at Sloan, but she was now staring at the floor, arms wrapped around herself. "Once I get there I should be able to join the...competition. It's getting there undetected that's the problem."

Mark closed his hands with a faint snap. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Tom looked around at the troubled faces. After a moment, Ed took the hint.

"C'mon, guys, let's go," he said. "I need time to think up more objections."

Rising, the men filed quietly from the room, leaving Tom alone with Sloan.

She was standing stiffly, projecting anger, but he could feel the sick fear underlying her outward appearance--the same terror that she had felt when he had been taken by the transformation fever.

"Sloan, you know I have to do this."

Sloan did not turn. "No. I don't."

His mouth tightened, but he did not approach her, not yet. "It's the most logical solution. Sloan, we're out of options. October is only eight weeks away--even if we had a plan, there would hardly be time to implement it."

Sloan's hand clenched on the curtain. "That doesn't mean you have to risk your life on some insane contest!"

"You're right." That startled her into turning. "I don't have to. I choose to."

Her eyes narrowed in fresh fury. "Tom, you're not one of them anymore. What makes you think you can beat them?"

"I survived the worst the government could do to me, Sloan." And came back to you hovered unspoken in the air. She turned away again as he neared her, but did not pull away when he put his hands on her shoulders. "I can survive this. And win."

"You don't know that." Her voice was cold, but he could tell she was near panic.

"No. I don't." Gently he turned her, making her look at him. "But I believe I can. Sloan, you believed in me so much that you gave me strength, even when I was locked in a cage. Can't you believe in me now?"

She stared at him; then tears spilled over and she buried her face in his shoulder, her arms tight around him. "Tom," she whispered. "Tom, I can't stand the thought of losing you."

He held her close, rubbing his cheek in her hair, infinitely comforted that someone, that she, cared whether he lived or died. "I don't want to die," he told her softly. "But I can't think of a more worthy goal. Not just your safety, Sloan, but all humans, all people."

She was silent a long moment before raising her head to look at him. "You think you can control them?"

"Remember the prophecy?" He pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. "The elder predicted that the winner would lead."

"And you think you're the 'different' one."

"It fits," he pointed out. "She said one of the two would be a link between the old world and the new. Who else could serve?"

Sloan sighed and hid her face again, but he sensed her anger and panic subsiding into pain--and a touch of humor. "I can't stop you, can I?" she murmured, and he smiled a little and forbore to answer.