Alaska. 2010.

The phone rang.
David McGivern clawed himself free of the stifling covers and slapped the handset off the cradle. "Lo."
"McGivern?"
That voice made him want to snatch the bottle off the bedside table and down every pill in it.
"Who's'is?" He struggled into a sitting position, kicking the blankets off his legs.
"David McGivern?"
That voice made his stomach drop right through the floor, into a pit of the past he thought he had pushed back into his dreams and nightmares.
"Yeah." He said cautiously, despite the fear.
"Mac, this is Jan."
The name sunk into his consciousness like a bomb hitting a bunker. "Jan." He repeated it as knowledge dawned.
"Janine. Parker."
Mac didn't reply. His eyes blank with memories, he turned his head slowly to look out of the window at the snowy Alaskan morning.
"I need your help, Mac."
He put the phone down, and flopped backwards, exhausted by the recall. David McGivern stared up at the ceiling and let waves of memory wash over him.

Running a snatch squad out of Europe. Liasing with combat teams who thought Mac and his squad had things easy. Boy, did they have the wrong end of the stick on that one.
Mac's outfit had the lowest mortality rate of any snatch squad in the 'Com, but it was still more than fifty per cent. Despite that, it was seen as easy duty. Simply because snatch squads only went out once every three or four missions, and they usually dropped in after the main combat team.
Whenever the hypercoder boys decided this or that craft had important personnel that needed to be captured, a snatch squad was sent out, sometimes with a combat team, sometimes without, and they would bring in as many targets as possible.
Alive. Preferably unharmed.
But sometimes maiming them was the only way to bring a target down.
Mac sat up, rubbing his face with both hands.
Stubble was out of control again. Time to shave, tidy himself up. He glanced around the room, at the heaped clothes and the clutter. Tidy this place up.
Mac yawned, leaning over and plucking the bottle off the bedside table. He took two small yellow pills, dry-swallowing them and wincing at the lemony taste.
"I need your help, Mac."
He took another pill, and moved on into the bathroom, shivering in the cold air.

Mac stared at his reflection as the hot water ran, the boiler at the other end of the house groaning up out of its slumber, banging and clanking cantankerously.
He was good looking, with a broad honest face and strong bone structure. His nose had been broken and poorly set, squashing it a little, the bridge thick with compressed cartilage. It gave what could have been a bland face character. His eyes were a glassy blue, a little too intense for most. A bad break of the jaw had led to some surgical reinforcement, giving him a thicker jawline and a firmer chin.
His dark blonde hair was thick and shaggy, but the stubble was mostly grey. He ran his hand over it again, feeling it rasp against his palm.
Time catches up.
He bent at the waist, turning the tap off, and dipped his face into the full sink. The hot water took away the cold in a blush of heat, stinging his cheeks. He stood, wiping water out of his eyes, relishing the hot little dribbles running down his chest.
Lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was turning from handsome to dignified.
He didn't like it one bit.
He shaved.
The phone started ringing when he was half done.
Mac put down the razor, and stared at himself in the mirror until it stopped.

Feeling better with the most obvious evidence of his age gone, he pulled a shirt and jeans on and made breakfast, bacon and eggs. He had coffee with it, though he knew he would regret it later on. It always upset his stomach. Always had.
Jan used to rag him about it endlessly.
That was all it took. The cup shattered against the wall over the sink. His hands grabbed up the plate next. Then he stopped, and shut his eyes. He took his hands off the plate and folded them in his lap.
"Shit." Mac said, very deliberately.
His kitchen wasn't big or empty enough to echo, but the word hung in the air.
He got up and cleaned up all the pieces of cup, wiping the coffee smear off the wall and washing the breakfast things as his mind worked, turning over and over slowly.
None of the possibilities were good.
Mac went into his bedroom and stared at the phone, for five minutes. Then he made a call.

"Don't even want talk about it on the phone, man. Are you nuts?" Perry's voice was even higher than normal.
Mac suspected he wasn't taking his medication. "Just tell me what's going on with Jan."
"She's in some kind of jam with the Feds. Been stewing a year, looks set to stew another year."
"Why?" Mac paced the length of his bedroom as Perry ummed and aaahed.
Too much mess to pace over. He sat on the bed.
"I don't want get into it over the phone, buddy. Cross border, meet you at the-"
"Just tell me, Perry, or the 'Com are going to find out what happened to-"
Perry couldn't interrupt fast enough. "Alrightalrightalright." He sighed. "Ever hear of phone taps, asshole?"
"Ever hear of loyalty?" Mac wasn't in the mood. "Sick it up, Perry."
A moment's silence. "You know the US isn't too happy about what's going on with the 'Com. Losing what they thought they'd get."
"I know." Mac swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard.
Perry was going to make a meal of this. He usually did.
"Well, they're not too keen on the 'Com, or Americans who volunteered for it after the first compulsory period. Which is why you're living in Alaska and I'm singing O Goddamn Canada. They're doing everything they can to make the 'Com look bad, digging up all sorts of shit that's best left buried, civilian casualty reports mainly. They tried blaming Beijing on the 'Com, they successfully blamed New York on us, now they're hunting down honest hardworking Americans who did their bit for their planet, threatening them with charges of treason if they don't cough up dirt on others, preferably foreign types but ranking Yanks will do." Perry took a deep breath. "The US government wants the lion's share of the 'Com when it shuts down. But it's not going to get it. Europe said no politely. Africa didn't bother to reply. Asia told them to stick their stars and stripes where the sun don't shine. South America claimed they didn't understand English. The Antarctic base isn't operational and it's going to be abandoned before it gets repaired. The Scandos are already drinking it up in the Arctic station."
Mac frowned. "I thought the Canadians-"
"Nah, man, country's not interested. They just want the US to shut up about the 'Com and sort these trade resolutions. You seen what Doritos cost this side of the border? Motherfucker."
"Focus, Perry." Mac warned.
"Sorry. Worst thing is, the government shut 'em down last year, kicks all personnel out of the country and swears up and down they'll take care of any alien threats. Result? More than a dozen USAF interceptors down, and a body count close to ten thousand racked up, most of 'em spics from the Mex City disaster." Perry laughed. "Y'know they didn't even send anyone to that? Not Delta, not SEALs, no one. They let the Mexicans sink."
Mac grunted. He wondered if Perry would ever get to the point.
"Said all resources were engaged. Watched the entire thing from umpteen satellites, trying to get data on alien tactics. 'Com puts out a manual every year, two hundred pages, and ten years into the war some CIA dipshit decides they need raw data." Perry laughed. "They kick out pilots with dozens of interceptions, sack soldiers with dozens of missions, replace 'em with standard forces guys and think everything's going to go swimmingly"
"You're yelling, Perry." Mac noted.
"Oh. Sorry."
"No problem. Now, what's Jan doing time for?"
"Didn't I say? Murder, thirty-five counts."
Mac's mouth went bone dry. "What?"
"Some clean up went wrong. Year and a half ago, I think it was. She could have run, but didn't. Stuck with the 'Com until her base got shut down, arrested on-site, charged a week later. 'Com can't keep a cover up in place if they've been persona non grata'd."
"She wouldn't kill thirty-five-"
"They have her on tape, man. Ice cold. They've put it up on a Goddamn website for the world to see. I'll give you the net address."
Mac closed his eyes. "Perry, are you sure?"
"Checked the footage myself. Passed it around, had friends check it. Victims identified by relatives, confirmed by genetic testing, there's pics of them alive and comparison pics of them dead, on the site. Real no-holds-barred shit."
Mac leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. "Ok. Where is it?"

Roberta Marquez, 33, mother of two. Alive, a petite Hispanic woman with a bright smile. Dead, a greying rag doll chewed raw with 5.56mm.
Victim 35. That was all of them. Mac leaned back from his computer and scrolled back up the page. Names, places of residence, places of employment, who their bodies were identified by, the identifier's relation to the deceased...
He'd watched the Morgan trial go down, a continent away. The evidence against Colonel Dwight Morgan, X-Com, hadn't been half as good as this, and he had got lethal injection.
The whole European base had watched it, live, as the United States of America executed Colonel Morgan for treason and multiple counts of murder. Morgan had been faced with a crowd of civilians between himself and a pair of Chryssies in tight quarters. By all accounts, he had opened up with his autocannon, mowing down every single civilian before the bugs could get to them.
"Immunising him against life." Perry had joked as the plunger went down.
Morgan, a New York City boy, had just caught some whiplash, just a little repercussion from the fall of Manhattan, just a little taste of official US government anger, and he had died with a look somewhere between betrayal and resignation all over his face.
An impossible decision. Mac was glad he had never been faced with it. He had been, in some respects, lucky.
Morgan, fighting for his home, the place he grew up, had chosen between letting those innocents get alien fucked and spawning more Chryssies or killing them.
Perhaps he was glad he got executed. That way, he didn't have to live with himself. Mac clucked his tongue. The Siege, for him, had been easy. Almost.

"What are we doing?" Perry asked, his slender frame poised behind his skeletal black assault rifle, a H&K G36, standard X-Com issue.
"Blocking action." Parker said from her chair by the door.
They were in an apartment building, across the road from the UN headquarters. That tall dark slab of steel and glass was already burning. Pitted with holes, most of the glass gone or cracked, the face of the building was scarred beyond healing. Flashes of gunfire could still be seen behind its smoke-fogged windows. It looked like an interior fireworks display, flares of green and yellow and white overlapping.
"Reckon they've got it evaced yet?" Mac asked, casting a tired eye over the UN building.
"No." Parker stretched her long legs. "We wouldn't still be here if they had."
"Who's doing it, anyway?" Perry sighted down the scope of his G36.
"Scandos and Canadians. Backed up by SWAT." Parker stood and walked over to the windows.
The corner apartment offered an excellent view of the streets, both exterior walls being nothing but glass. Broken glass, now.
A cold wind howled in off the water, tugging at their hair and clothes. Parker leaned out, looking down into the street below. Mac shoved her gently.
She teetered before grabbing at his shoulder. "Asshole."
"Bitch." He replied fondly, sitting back in the armchair.
Sat back-to-back with Perry in the corner of the apartment, they covered First Avenue, in front of the UN building, and Forty-Second Street, connecting to it. From this position, they could engage any alien forces making their way from Central Park to UN HQ.
"Hear about Mount Sinai?" Perry asked.
"Moses got the Ten Commandments there." Mac contributed.
He didn't need to turn around to know Parker was grinning and Perry was scowling.
"The hospital, you gink." Perry elbowed him in the ribs.
Mac elbowed right back, jostling the smaller man roughly.
"Behave." Parker warned, leaning out. "Thought so. Mac, on your two, street level."
Mac got his G36 against his shoulder and leaned forward, aiming down into the street. He turned about thirty degrees to his right, panning along the street, and picked up the target.
He bent his head and sighted through the scope.
"What is it?" Perry interrupted, nudging him.
Mac ignored him. The target was a man, shabbily dressed, staggering along the sidewalk. There was a trail of blood behind him.
Mac glanced up at Parker. She was watching the man through binoculars.
"What do you think?" He asked, returning to the scope.
"Possible zombie." She mused, getting on the radio. "Rudd, are we secure?"
"Safe as houses, bru." Rudd's South African twang was thick, made worse by the crackle of the radio.
"What does that mean?" Parker got irritated easily, and didn't mind showing it.
"Proxy on every landing, I'm waiting at the top." Rudd sounded like he was holding back laughter.
"Good, stay there." Parker lowered the binocs. "Mac?"
"I love being stuck out here on me ace."
"Shut up, Rudd. Mac?"
Mac watched the man walk. He was unsteady, but no more than if he was drunk or wounded. He didn't have the shuffling gait of a zombie. Mac put his finger on the trigger, just in case.
Abruptly, the man staggered across the pavement and sat down on the bonnet of a taxi. He laid back, smearing dirt across the shining yellow paint. He was muddy, and a dirty bandage covered his right forearm.
"Survivor from the Park." Mac moved his finger to outside the trigger guard.
"Maybe we should warn him." Perry suggested, looking over his shoulder at Mac.
"Sure, run down there and give him directions, Perry." Parker's tone dripped acid sarcasm. "Better still, go give him a gun. Your gun."
Perry ignored that. "I heard they're bringing Gearhead in."
"You heard wrong." Parker checked her GPS for something to do.
The display showed one group of friendlies half a klick north. That would be Ground Team (Blocking) 7, callsign Golf 7. Set up in a similar position, they were the other half of Mac's snatch squad. Tomlins, Waziri, Brown and Pikowicz.
There was another group, to the east, though their signals were muddled. Possibly the building structure, or the aliens interfering, but the signal from the 'Com troops in the UN HQ wasn't clear.
"Golf Seven, Golf Six. Status?" Parker sat back down, tucking the GPS away.
Waziri came back, surprisingly comprehensible. "Golf Six, all clear. You?"
"All quiet, Golf Seven. Out." Parker checked her watch. "Due an overflight."
"Stop worrying." Mac advised, still keeping a careful eye on the man sprawled across the car.
"Is that the kind of attitude that got you running a snatch squad?" Parker snapped.
Mac felt Perry flinch. "No," he said after a moment, "it's the kind of attitude that's kept me alive, and made sure I successfully carried out twice as many missions as you."
As soon as he said it, he knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Parker leaned forward, intent and angry. "Go on."
Mac glanced at her. "No. The operation gives you tactical command, despite the fact we both have the same rank."
"Yes." Parker got up, shaking. "It does."
She strode over to the door, flung it open and stormed out.
Silence for a long moment. Perry cleared his throat. "Well."
"Perry, if you mention time of month, or shit like that, I will punt you out of this Goddamn window."
"Noted." Perry coughed. "You hungry?"
"Could eat." Mac lifted his eye from the scope, blinking.
He swivelled his head, scanning the street and working the stiffness out of his neck. Perry got up and hurried over to a cardboard box in the corner of the room. He rifled through it, and came back with two tins and two spoons. Handing one of each to Mac, he dropped back into his seat. "We're ruining this apartment, man. Hardwood floor, nice leather furniture, good prints. Whoever owns this place is rich."
"They can afford to replace it then." Mac popped the tab on the top of the tin, leaning his G36 against the side of his chair after flicking the selector to safe.
"Not necessarily." Perry popped his too, tucking the can in close to his stomach, cradling it there in one hand as he swept the street with his rifle scope.
"Insurance, then." Mac snapped.
"Don't think it covers acts of alien, man." Perry said, calmly.
Mac sighed. He just wanted to warm his hands around the self-heating can and eat. "Aliens didn't smash these windows, Perry."
"Sure they did. God knows, we didn't. We wouldn't damage private property unless it was absolutely necessary to ensure cessation of a threat to human life."
Mac shut his eyes. Perry was a good man, but he just couldn't shut up. "The glass is in the street, outside. How could the aliens smash a window from outside and have the glass fall outside?"
"Who knows what sort of weird tech they've got." Perry waved his spoon airily.
Mac tuned him out, enjoying the heat seeping through the metal and slowly baking the numbness out of his fingers. Overflight soon. New orders. Maybe a displace, maybe a pick up and a nice short flight back to a nice hot meal and a nice cold beer.
"Golf Six, Sierra Fifty-Six. Golf Six, Sierra Fifty-Six."
Mac dropped the can, grabbing up his rifle and leaning out into the wind. He could hear engines. "Sierra Fifty-Six, Golf Six. Status clear. News?"
The Skyranger rumbled overhead, engines scaled way back, swooping into a slow descending parabola that would bring it almost to the base of the UN HQ. Mac grinned at the thick profile of the plane as it swept by, tremoring the air.
"Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges are down. Holland and Lincoln tunnels got flooded an hour ago, impossible to hold. Brooklyn Battery and Queens Midtown tunnels are holding, barely. Queensborough and Washington bridges are holding strong. Hostiles stopped at north Harlem, but it's shaky.
"How's the evac going?" Mac winced as his earpiece thrummed.
"All UN personnel are out. Dropping hitters to finish the fight. Back to pick you and Golf Seven up tonight."
"Roger, Sierra Fifty-Six, pick up tonight. Good luck." Mac dropped back into his seat and picked the can back up, peeling back the lid and staring at the mush inside.
Perry was halfway through his. "You know, no matter what the label says..." He stared down into the can.
"Yeah?" Mac rested his rifle in his lap and dug his first spoonful of mush out of the container.
"It always tastes like shit." Perry sighed.
Mac stared at the steaming stuff. It was supposed to be bacon and beans. It looked like a Goddamn bowel rupture, all brown and slick. He grimaced.
"Bugs coming up the stairs"
Mac dropped the spoon and ran for the door, juggling his rifle.
Thank God.

He drove across the border to see Perry. It was fall, and the snow was coming down thickly, a heavy blanket that blanked out colour and noise, cloaking everything. The scenery was wasted on him anyway. He drove through thick woods and by craggy mountains and noticed neither.
Mac was focused on the road ahead, which was leading him to Captain Janine Parker, X-Com.
He picked up hitchhikers, to try and take his mind off things. He wasn't terribly worried about being murdered. He had his 'Com pistol in an under-seat holster. And he had fought aliens from another world. Humanity really didn't hold much terror anymore after you'd seen an alien explode out from your best friend's spine.
But they didn't take his mind off anything. One girl chattered nervously non-stop, obviously more frightened in the car with him than she had been walking the road alone at night. Another never said a word, watching him steadily from the corner of her eye. She kept one hand in her pocket, and Mac suspected a knife or gun, but didn't say anything.
He slumped a bit, to try to minimise looming, and otherwise was as pleasant as possible. There wasn't much you could do when you were six-two and still carrying a lot of muscle from your military days.
She only spoke when she got out, in a town so small it didn't even have a name.
"Where are you going?" She asked, holding the door open.
Mac looked her over. Her eyes were silver-grey and her hair was black. She was timidly pretty. Too young to be working for anyone.
"Inuvik. See a friend." He glanced around, just in case.
No one sneaking up, no ambush. Something inside him relaxed a fraction.
"Inuvik." She sighed, breath clouding out in the icy air. "What's he doing there?"
"Hiding." Mac smiled at the thought of Paranoid Perry hiding in a foxhole somewhere, dumpster diving for food and being generally nutty.
He could believe it.
"Good place to hide." She nodded. "What are you hiding from?"
Mac felt himself blush. "The past. You?"
"My dad." She somehow managed a bright smile, which made her look like a different person. "Thanks for the ride."
"Welcome. You've got a place to stay?"
She nodded, though her eyes avoided his. "Thanks again."
She shut the door and walked off down the town's main street. Mac watched her go.

Mac checked his watch. Perry was late, as usual. He was always late. Paranoid Perry. First thing he’d say, as soon as he got in the car. Sorry I’m late, I was making sure you weren’t followed.
Mac had been waiting in the restaurant’s parking lot for an hour now. He was getting funny looks. He’d turned up early, got something to eat, and had been back in his Jeep on time. But no show. He couldn’t relax, and appreciate the view of the river or the mountains. They barely registered. He popped open the glove box. His Bible sat there, fat and black. He hadn’t touched it in years. He shut the glove box again.
Christ. Mac hoped Perry was taking his medication. He wasn’t sure he could deal with Perry in rabid full swing.
The passenger-side rear door popped and Perry slid in. “Drive.”
“Where have you been?”
“Making sure you weren’t followed. Sorry I’m late.” Perry, pale and wasted, unzipped his jacket and dumped a shotgun on the seat. “Here.”
Mac ignored the warm unpleasantly moist brown paper bag now occupying his lap. The short stubby shotgun lay there, smugly sleek. “Perry, why are you lugging a gauge around?”
“Precautions, man, precautions. Drive!”
Mac knew this wasn’t the time or the place. He started the Jeep, put it into gear and drove.

“This isn’t far enough.” Perry said instantly when Mac pulled off the highway and slewed the Jeep to a halt by a picnic site.
“This is plenty.” Mac disagreed, killing the engine. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”
“Are you on drugs?” Perry yelled.
Mac lost his temper. “Yes! And so should you be! Get out of the fucking car!”
Perry sniffed, then climbed out quickly. Mac followed, making sure the shotgun stayed behind. He opened up the brown paper bag. Food, sweating through the napkins it was wrapped in. Perry circled the Jeep, glancing about. Mac examined him.
Perry was skinnier than usual, coming in just shy of Mac’s height but half of his weight, dark hair and pale skin contrasting sharply. He had been good looking, but the years had not been kind. He had dark bags under his brown eyes, which were bloodshot. His features were sharp, cheeks high and flat, chin coming to a strong point. Deep lines framed his mouth and nose. His skin was greasy and spotty. Mac noticed he smelled bad. Dressed in muddy camo fatigues and a thick quilted jacket, he looked like a survivalist fresh out of his bunker.
“What the Hell have you been up to, Perry?”
“Nothing.” Perry shifted from foot to foot, lanky and restless.
“You stink.”
“I bought sandwiches.” Perry lowered his eyes, ashamed.
Mac knew that was as close to an apology as he was going to get. “Come and sit down.”
They trudged through the muddy snow to the picnic tables. Mac swept a bench free of snow with his sleeve and sat. Perry dropped down next to him. Mac offered him the bag. Perry delved inside, hand striking like a hawk taking a rabbit.
“Got you a BLT.” He said, fishing a sandwich out and biting into it.
“Thank you.” Mac retrieved a sandwich and began to eat.
“Theref more in the boffom.” Perry said around a mouthful of sandwich.
Chewing, Mac opened the bag again and peered in. A thick sheaf of grease-spotted notes. He looked back up at Perry, who nodded once. Mac flicked through them as best as he could with them folded in the bag.
Perry swallowed. “I’m not going to talk here. I didn’t see you get followed but that doesn’t mean shit. There’s parabolic mics and you could be bugged-”
“Hey!”
“I’m not saying you’re a traitor, man, I’m saying it could be done without your knowledge.” Perry turned away to look out over the snowfield and the river beyond.
“Perry, no one gives a shit about two ‘Com vets sat in a field in Canada.”
“Land of the Midnight Sun. We’re in the Arctic circle, you know.”
“Fascinating. Have you been taking your medication?”
“I’m not talking here, Mac.”
“Have you?”
“No.”
Mac unzipped his jacket, shivering in the cold air, and scooped a pill bottle from an inside pocket. He passed it to Perry. “Copromasil. Twenty milligrams.”
“It’s what they gave me, too.” Perry shook the bottle, the sound a skeletal rattle.
“They only give it to ex-‘Com.” Mac said, taking another bite of his sandwich.
“Ex-‘Com or X-Com?” Perry joked feebly, popping the lid off with his thumb and staring at the bright yellow pills. “Nah. They only give this to people who got mindfucked. Best antipsychotic there is. Lowers your blood pressure, too. I got high blood pressure.”
They sat, in surprisingly companionable silence, while they ate. But they had been here before, waiting, passing the time, making what could be their final hours last that little bit longer. Minutes and hours slipping by, in ready rooms, on aircraft, hot, cold, hungry, thirsty, scared, bored, still, fidgeting.
“You know what the worst thing is?” Perry said at last, slowly crumpling the sandwich wrapper into a ball.
Mac leaned back against the picnic table, chewing industriously.
“Being ashamed. Here I am, here we are, in fact, fought for our planet, our race and our country, whichever order you like, and we’ve had to run, like we’re criminals or draft dodgers or something. I put in fifteen years, ten US Army, five ‘Com. I go to other countries, people can’t stop buying me drinks. I go home, the fucking Feds are waiting with the cuffs.” Perry pitched the crumpled napkin into a nearby trash can.
Mac smiled. The trash can was a good twenty feet away. Perry’s reflexes hadn’t worsened, at least.
“Five years in the ‘Com. I got about half a dozen medals and a bigger pension than the US Army would give me if I served a fucking hundred years. Never have to work again for the rest of my life.” Perry’s face screwed up in a bitter smile. “All I have to do is be ashamed in my own country.”
Mac tried not to feel as bitter as Perry sounded. But it got to him. Alaska hadn’t been part of the US proper for the past three years. That was the whole reason he had moved there. Bought a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, fixed it up with his savings. Watched the white snow come down, while the black ate at his heart. Sat in the soft hushed silence and felt the hatred, the resentment, the anger, scour his insides, cleaning out all the good he had ever felt, eroding and dissolving them until his spirit was nothing but a murky pool of hate.
He reached for something to say, flicking past bullshit and pleasantries, trying to get right to the bone. “You haven’t taken any of those pills.”
Perry looked down at the bottle. “Sometimes it pays to be paranoid.”
“This isn’t one of those times.” Mac assured him. “I need help.”
Perry snorted. “I know that. I recommended you for psycheval when you volunteered us to be a snatch squad.”
Mac had to smile. “Ha. No, I mean, I need your help. With Jan and everything.”
“And everything?” Perry looked curious.
“She wouldn’t just kill thirty-five people for no reason, Perry.” Mac tossed his sandwich wrapper and missed by a good five feet. “Shit.”
“By all accounts, including the testimony of two squad sergeants, she hosed them down for exactly that. There were no bugs at that site, man. Twelve alien corpses recovered, all greys. There couldn’t have been any bugs at that site. You know how it goes, man. Greys and discs, bugs and slugs, and so on and so on.”
“Well, maybe she was under the influence, then” Mac shrugged.
“Yeah, their officers, not their rank. It was a small ship clean up. And besides, you got some psi, you know Parker. Is she crackable?”
Mac stayed quiet and thought it all through, carefully. “I couldn’t. Maybe Ritter or Maynard.”
Perry laughed, shaking his head. “The fucking Odd Squad? Man, there was more alien in them than in Liddell."
“Jesus, Perry, I don’t want to hear that shit now.” Mac turned away from him, from the past.
“You hear about Ritter?”
Mac was preoccupied with fighting the memories back. He’d just eaten. “No. What about Ritter.”
“Killed himself six months ago. Still with the ‘Com. He locked himself in his room, screaming about how aliens were coming, then blew his brains all over the ceiling.”
“Eleven years too fucking late.” Mac said dourly.
“Yeah. Silly bastard always did do things the wrong way round.”
They sat in silence for a little while, minds and stomachs digesting. It was quiet except for birds chirping in the trees on the other side of the road. Clouds drifted by overhead in silence, billowing and unfurling in soft slow motion.
“I do need your help.”
“Yeah. I know.” Perry looked down at the pill bottle again, then took two quickly, before he could think twice.
He followed them with another two, then passed the bottle back. Mac fished around for the lid, capped and pocketed the bottle.
“You remember the Kitchen?”
“I don’t want to dig up old shit, Perry.”
“Well, what do you think sticking your nose in is going to do? You remember-”
Mac jumped to his feet. “That’s enough.”
He loomed over Perry, fists clenched. Perry leaned back and stared up at him, eyes watery with tears. “Go on and hit me then, you scripture-quoting fuck.”
Mac gritted his teeth. “I’m not like that any more.”
“No, but you were. Holier-than-thou, right? Real big man, right?” Tears slid down Perry’s cheeks but his gaze didn’t waver.
“I fucked up. We all fucked up. We were all fucked up.” Mac unfisted his hands, wincing as his nails slid out of the dents they had made in his palms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be like that, it was just how I coped.”
“Good for you.” Perry stood, slump-shouldered. “Take me home.”

Home was a small house set well back from the road, sheltered on three sides by trees. Mac guided the Jeep up the track with difficulty. Even with four-wheel drive, the ice and snow made the gentle curve challenging.
“How did you get to Inuvik?” Mac asked.
“Hitch hiked.” Perry was sulking in the passenger seat.
“Hitch hiking in the fucking Arctic circle.” Mac shook his head.
“There’s regular traffic.” Perry sniffed. “Besides, people notice licence plates.”
The Jeep slid, wheels refusing traction, and Mac turned the wheel too hard and gave it too much gas. The vehicle slid, skidded, and ended up sideways, across the track.
“I knew you’d get stuck here. I get stuck here sometimes. There’s this ridge and then a slope that slants off to the side and a hollow under one wheel-“
“Well you could have fucking told me.”
“Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Perry popped his door and got out. “Come on, we’ll walk up. It’s easier to roll it back and turn around than drive it up and out.”
“Fine.” Mac made sure everything was switched off, and when Perry shut his door, retrieved his gun from under the seat.
Wondering who was really paranoid, while the pistol went into his right-hand jacket pocket, and a spare mag went into the left-hand pocket, Mac climbed out and tucked his hands into his pockets, hiding the bulges. Perry nodded, waved at the house with the shotgun, and set off.
It was worse on foot, alternating patches of bog-soft snow and glass-slick ice, and Mac followed in Perry’s tracks. Perry talked about nothing much on the way up, all chatter and no content. Mac concentrated on staying upright. It was fiercely cold, even though the weather was still clear. His ears had gone numb, his cheeks were burning, and his hands were stiffening. Mac wondered how Perry managed to live there, and realised that he lived in a similar place himself. Secluded, quiet, cold.
Not quite peaceful, though.
Perry did a three-sixty before they hit the door, a slow whole turn that Mac found himself imitating, turning in the opposite direction to cover the left flank, hand stiffening more, though this time with purpose and not with cold.
The pistol grip was ice-hard, the pebbling on the side panels and the chequering on the front and back strap bit gently into his skin. He squeezed gently, finger lying outside of the trigger guard, and felt reassured. There was no threat, but having twenty-five rounds of .45 to hand just made him feel better. Just like reading Bible used to, or knowing Perry had his back on ops-
Mac turned back to the house. Perry was grinning.
“Fuck off, Perry. Just fuck off.”
They went inside.

Perry’s house was an orderly mess. It was a riot of books, magazines, CDs, DVDs, video and audio tapes, and Mac was fairly sure the lowest shelf on the nearest bookcase held nothing but computer hard drives. Everything was stacked into what would have been neat piles had they not been taken six feet higher than common sense dictated. They toppled against each other for structural integrity, flowing and exchanging and melding, a DVD sliding between the pages of a magazine, a hard drive burrowing into a row of hardbacks. Mac skirted a pile of books that had developed an ominous lean, and sat down on the unoccupied half of the couch. The other half was taken up with a box overflowing with magazines. Mac flipped one open out of bored curiosity, and found himself reading an advert stating that if he didn’t have an orgasm in sixty seconds or less, he would get his money back.
“Coffee?” Perry shouted from the kitchen.
Mac winced. A landslide started in here might never stop. He got up, and threaded his way past the stacks of media, careful to keep his jacket from knocking anything over. The house would have been spacious and sparsely furnished if not for the bulk of each stack and pile narrowing the rooms and offering impromptu tables and seats everywhere. The walls were simply not visible in places, and the piles blocked out odd chunks of light from the bulbs overhead. Windows were nothing but a myth. Mac passed through the hall, side-stepping through a particularly narrow point.
“Coffee?” Perry shouted again.
“Yeah, please.” Mac slipped past a slumping tower of CDs, not one of them in a case, and emerged into the kitchen.
A staggered rank of old laptops were sliding into disorder on the nearest counter. Video tapes were spilling out of a cupboard. The sink was full of zip disks. A disassembled rifle was laid out with machine precision on the table. Mac realised it was a G36, reduced to its component parts.
“NATO?”
“Yeah.” Mac looked for somewhere to sit, and settled for leaning against the door frame. “Where’d you get the rifle?”
“Picked it up with a lot of other shit, told them to deduct it from my pension. They still haven’t got round to it.” Perry sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I think I’ve got your compact around somewhere.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I think it’s yours, anyway. Vertical foregrip.”
“Could be.” Mac shrugged. “Quite a few of us had a C with that.”
“I bet yours was the only one with ‘Romans six-twenty-three’ scratched on the receiver above the mag well, though.” Perry looked over his shoulder and grinned.
“Okay, yeah, that was mine.” Mac cleared his throat, uncomfortable.
“Is that the one you used to quote us all the time?” Perry turned, and passed him a cup.
Milk and two sugars, NATO standard beverage.
Mac sipped it. “No, that was psalm hundred and forty four.”
Perry leaned back against the counter, cupping his pale hands around his drink. It must have hurt him, but he didn’t show it. “Praise the Lord-“
Mac shook his head. “No. It’s-“

The VTOL was screamingly loud, and it shrieked outside the ‘ranger like a banshee with its ass on fire. The walls of the aircraft reverberated all around them in sympathy.
“Praise be to the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle!” He had to bellow it out in order to be heard over the engines, and heard a few whistles and cheers from behind him.
None of them were true believers, but they were good people, and they obviously believed in something, or they wouldn’t be here. It was a ritual now, something required to psych them and him up, and if he didn’t give them a line or two they actually asked him for it.
The craft jerked under them, and Mac flexed his knees, swaying, staying up, one hand on the grip of his C, one holding onto the guide loop overhead. The engines throttled down to a heavy bass roar, and Mac felt the inertia of the descent melt away even as his stomach rose and flipped and the engines screamed back to full power again, rattling the airframe.
“Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron!” He screamed, and felt the tension ease a little even as the orange light over the door started to blink.
“I got a rod of iron right here!” Brown, no doubt grabbing his crotch.
Mac found a grin peeling his lips back and let it stay. His hand, independent of thought, moved from the grip and checked the C’s sling, then down to the mag pouches, the grenade pouches, the holstered 23.
“Thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel!”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Mac slapped the ramp gunner’s shoulder twice. Equipment was at a premium, and they had never figured on needing extra aircrew, or radios for them.
The gunner nodded, and dragged back the cocking handle on the GPMG. Suspended on a bungee cord from the guide loop above the rearmost seat, it was a hasty addition to offer fire support. Casualties taken when loading and unloading had been rising steeply.
The ramp dropped, revealing the roof of the target building, their drop off point. Air whipped in, making Mac squint, bringing the smell of smoke. New York was burning in the background, and Mac did his best to ignore the dark pall rising up out of what was left of Harlem.
The aliens had been fought to a standstill there.
The gunner opened fire, crouching for stability, lacing the rooftop access door with rounds. The machine gun was hardly audible over the howl of the engines.
Mac watched holes appear and splinters jump. There was no cover on the roof. Any enemies would be coming through that door. Set into the concrete box that held the top of the building’s stairwell, it was the direct route his team would make use of.
The ramp edged over the roof.
“Go. Go. Go!”
The gunner ceased fire and Mac jumped, staggering as he hit, gravel shifting under his boots. He got his C up into aim, butt against his shoulder, selector thumbed down two clicks, the stubby weapon leading the way. Perry landed beside him and they moved together with the smooth ease of experience and training, staying off the direct line of the door.
God was with him now, if ever. His heart was thunder against his ribs. His chest and arms were taut with excitement and fear and energy. Adrenaline surged in his veins, cooling and oiling his muscles and reflexes for action.
They reached the door, weapons trained on it. The gunner had scrawled an intricate join-the-dots puzzle across the wood.
Tomlins and Waziri formed up on the other side of the door. Tomlins slung his C and shrugged the little Mossberg pump off his shoulder. Brown and Pikowicz formed up behind them, weapons ready.
Parker and Rudd were last, slotting neatly behind Mac and Perry. Parker was in command, but Tomlins was looking at Mac, and Mac gave him the nod.
Tomlins blasted the lock and the hinges, and they went in.

“So what can I do?” Mac finished his coffee, and set the cup aside.
Perry tutted, picking the cup up and rearranging some pieces of assault rifle Mac had obviously knocked out of true.
“Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
Mac didn’t know if he meant the cup or helping Jan.
Perry tossed the cup onto the counter, where it smashed. “You can’t do anything. That phone call alone means you now have a black mark against your name. You’ll be lucky if they let you into the country now. If you try to help her, if you even write your congressman, they’ll be on you like tits on a cow. They’re looking for an excuse, Mac.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Mac leaned back, distancing himself from Perry and his advice.
“I have a ten-inch dick.”
“Yeah? Where do you keep it?”
“In your mother, usually.”
Mac shook his head. “Come on, Perry. Help me.”
“I can’t. Nobody can.” Perry slurped his own coffee, licked his upper lip slowly. “I never made rank like you did. I’m below their radar-”
“You won’t help me.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Perry smacked the cup down so hard coffee slopped over the rim. “It isn’t like that. It’s not like you’re asking me to help out a buddy in need, Mac. You’re coming to me and offering a two-for-one suicide. Three-for-one, if you count Jan. I don’t know what she was thinking, calling you up.”
“She needs help.”
“You mean she’s fucking desperate!” Perry leaned forward and jabbed a finger. “The last time she talked to you was before you quit, and that was to tell you to go fuck yourself. She stuck with it, now they’ve got her on a rail to the death penalty defended by the dumbest fuck ever to be lucky enough to graduate from law school and he only took the case because lawyers love fucking dead people.”
Mac slapped out and pinned Perry’s hand to the table, scattering parts. “I need your help.”
Perry pulled his hand free. “I can’t help you. I want to. But what do you expect me to do? Hack into the Department of Justice database and register a ‘not guilty’ verdict? Pop the locks on her cell with the tap of a key?”
Mac waved a hand at the kitchen. “You have contacts. A fuck of a lot, from the looks of things. What’s on all this stuff?”
Perry shrugged. “Audio. Video.”
“Of what?”
Perry shrugged again. “All sorts of stuff.”
“Like.” Mac leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
Perry went halfway through another shrug and changed his mind. “Debriefs, interrogations, that sort of stuff.”
“You stole it?”
“No!” Perry managed to look outraged and then shifted back to guilty. “It’s copied.”
“And I suppose you sat there playing with yourself all the while.” It was Mac’s turn to point. “Someone got this stuff for you. The rifle is small beans, they off-loaded all the guns, but this info is probably still grey-restricted, Perry!”
“Not all of it.”
“Oh, well that’s alright then!” Mac got up, kicking his chair back. “You know people. Some of them were in the ‘Com, some of them are no doubt still in, and you know people in the US. Help me. Make them help me.”
Perry looked up at him, and then lowered his gaze to the table. “Why should I.”
“Because I’m asking you. We don’t seem to have much to say to each other any more apart from ‘fuck you’ but I think that’s because we said everything else before. I’m not here to recount favours done and favours still owed.”
“Feels like you are.” Perry’s eyes were fixed on the table.
“So it came to pass, when all the men of war were consumed and dead from among the people.” Mac quoted, feeling a little bit guilty for using the Bible to bully Perry, but doing it anyway.
“What does that mean?” Perry’s gaze finally raised and met Mac’s.
“It’s talking about a time not too far in the future when we’re all gone. Which will be all the sooner if we don’t help each other.”
Perry blinked, and looked away. “Just like old times.” He said softly, and Mac shut his eyes against the surge of self-hatred that welled up in his heart.

They travelled mostly in silence, talking only about minor things, like when to make a pit stop and what music to listen to. They dosed up regularly, Mac had doubled up on Copromasil before setting out. Perry became less manic, and Mac found he could relax around him at least some of the time.
Perry insisted upon taking his shotgun, and made Mac take the C, stowing it under a floor mat with a full thirty-round mag loaded. When he wasn’t driving, he used a laptop, typing almost constantly. He brought it with him to meals, and it was driving Mac up the fucking wall.
“What are you doing?” Mac asked, after two hundred miles of key tapping broke the dam of his patience.
“I’m contacting people. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”
Mac leaned over, taking his eyes off the road in brief flicks. “As far as I can see, you’re in a bestiality chat room.”
Perry typed a little more, and then shut the laptop with an authoritative clap. “Let me explain something to you. If you want to have a private conversation, you go to where nobody is listening. Now, the biggest number of chatrooms are sex or relationship related. So you use one of those. Then you pick one of the less popular categories on the site, because they’re fucking huge and even with pre-arranged names and times you could end up telling some innocent pervert all the wrong things. You hide in the morass of people wanting to fuck or be fucked, which, believe you me, is the vast majority of the human population. No matter what you want to do, you can bet there’s at least one other person out there willing to try it with you. Shit, look at all those net murders in Asia.”
“Anyway.” Mac prodded.
“Anyway, you hide in the middle of all those millions of people, make sure you don’t say anything stupid like ‘We have the microfilm, kill Agent X’ and you’re home free. The government has better online conversations to watch than what Zebrafucker ninety-nine and Monkeylovr are saying to each other.”
“I bet.”
“It’s just one small part of a basic security regimen, Mac, don’t worry.”
“For some reason,” Mac said, “I’m finding that difficult.”

“Who hired all these kids?” Mac muttered, easing the brake down and bringing the Jeep to a halt.
The four guards on the main gate to the complex spread out slightly as the Jeep stopped, two to each side. Their rifles were slung, and they looked bored. Mac wondered if they had ever had to actually do anything.
“Recognise any of ‘em?”
“Nah.” He lowered his window as one approached, PDA raised. “We’re here to see Keale.”
“Yes, sir. Your names, please?”
“David McGivern, Arnold Perry.” A light rain was falling, spotting the windshield, the PDA’s screen, Mac’s face.
“You’re cleared for today, sir. You’re both on the reserve list?” The guard actually looked up from the PDA, letting it fall to hang against his hip.
“That’s right.” Mac had forgotten he had ticked that box.
“Go right ahead and park in the Personnel space. Straight on and to your left.” The guard sketched a salute and stepped aside.
Mac raised his window before speaking. “That’s what I like. Thorough. Methodical.”
“Gate’s already open.” Perry nudged him.
Mac drove on through. “They didn’t even ask to see ID. Bizarre.”
“War’s over. Didn’t you know?” Perry twisted to look back. “Shit, I have sperms swimming round in my nuts older than them.”
The Personnel parking section was about the same size as a football field, and almost as empty. Mac parked in the space nearest to the building and got out.
The complex was huge, and mostly empty. At the height of X-Com’s strength, it had been the funnel through which men and materiel poured into and out of North America. Now the flow was down to a trickle. The barracks were drab with disuse, the warehouses stood gapingly empty, the runways had weeds growing on them. Only the central building showed signs of life, odd spots of light dotted across its broad bulk.
“I remember my first time coming back here. It took me two fucking hours to find my car.” Perry slammed the Jeep’s door and gestured off to the flat expanse of the Visitors parking space, which dwarfed the Personnel section. “Only a few thousand vehicles, trucks offloading guns and ammo, people leaving, people coming back, airplanes landing and taking off, fucking helis using the car park when the pads were full…”
“Come on.” Mac set off towards the Administration building.
The cube-like building had no sharp corners, only rounded edges, a well-used toy building block. Precious few lights spilled radiance over the wet tarmac, irregular pale patches smeared across the dark.
We beat it, Mac thought, sullenly. We beat the dark. But just because we beat it doesn’t mean we should throw the light away.
He shoved the door open and stepped into the building. The lobby was narrow and pale, constricted on both sides by high desks. A guard stood behind each one, apparently unarmed but armoured, helmet and vest. Mac didn’t know either of them. He approached the one on the right.
“Are you gentlemen armed?”
Mac presented his 23 and spare magazine slowly. “Habit.”
The guard smiled briefly. “We’ll hold it for you. McGivern, right?”
Mac passed the pistol and magazine to the guard, leaning over the desk a little and glancing down. All he could see was a short stock projecting from a shelf under the top of the desk.
“And you sir?”
“Not me.” Perry shook his head and smiled. “Don’t believe in guns.”
Mac very carefully kept a straight face. “We’re here to see Keale.”
“Yes sir, Colonel Keale is expecting you in his office.”
Mac didn’t like the sound of that.
The other guard moved from behind his desk, murmured “Follow me.” and Mac and Perry fell in step behind him.
They went up two flights of stairs, bypassing out-of-service elevators and some yawning office staff coming down. The carpets had been worn thin since his last visit, Mac noticed, but little else had changed. It just looked older now.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a window and turned away from it.
“I must’ve fucked every secretary in this place.” Perry reminisced.
“Were any of them women?” Mac asked.
“Oh, fuck you.”
“I’m not a secretary, so you don’t have a chance.” Mac almost bumped into the guard when he stopped at a door.
The guard knocked and opened quickly, only leaning in. “Sir, McGivern and Perry.”
“Okay.”
The guard stepped aside, pushing the door open wide as they passed him, then swinging it shut.
Keale hadn’t changed much. He was a little paler, his hair was a little thinner, but he still looked like a prissy desk jockey. The knowledge that he had four years of combat experience did nothing to dispel the impression. Keale stood, extending his hand over his desk, and again Mac marvelled at how small he was. Almost as skinny as Perry, and pushing all of five-six.
Mac stepped forward between the two chairs set in front of the desk, and shook firmly. “Colonel.”
“Captain.” Keale actually smiled. “I remember when you were my superior.”
Mac wished his memories were as fond as Keale’s, and stepped aside. Perry shook Keale’s hand briefly and dropped into a chair. Mac waited for an invitation before sitting.
“If you want coffee feel free.” Keale pointed to a pot set on a small folding table in the corner to the right of the door.
Perry got up and started fiddling immediately.
“Perry tells me you want help.” Keale folded his hands together on his desk.
“I got a call from Janine Parker. I’d like to help her. Or get help for her.”
Keale nodded. “Go on.”
“Well.” Mac cleared his throat. “That’s it.”
Keale frowned. “So, what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. What do you think you can do?”
Mac watched Keale’s knuckles whiten. “I don’t know that I can do anything, captain. Parker is one of our people, but at the moment, to be perfectly honest, she’s beyond our help. We can’t hire a lawyer for her, we can’t exert pressure on the US government, and that’s all I can think of right now.”
Perry returned, sipping from a cup. “Told you.” He murmured into it as he sat down.
“We’re on thin ice here. We’re trying to fold up our tents, so to speak, as quickly as we possibly can. The US is hostile to us, and Canada, much as it pains me to say it, has bigger things to consider than X-Com. It’s unable to support us. We’ve got no more war to fight. We should have done a bit more warmongering while all eyes were on us, I suppose, but it’s too late for that now.” Keale cleared his throat. “Let me be frank. Everything has already been decided, by accountants. Those of us left here can stick to the schedule, and get back to a nice civilian life or a military career, or we can actually do something, and delay and disrupt the schedule, and get fired.”
“So you won’t help.”
Keale held up his hands. “I don’t know how.”
“Money. Personnel. Expertise. Equipment.”
“There’s no money here, captain. The elevators have been shut down. The heating to half the building has been turned off. To save on expenses. I have a dozen men to guard this whole compound. All the experienced personnel have quit, or have been transferred. And while there is some equipment here, I have no idea to what use you would put it even if I let you walk away with it.”
“I think you’ve got a pretty good idea.” Perry spoke up from behind his cup.
“I’m not going to listen to that. I had too much respect for you, captain, at least, to even consider the notion, that you’d want to try something like that. As if I would have a Skyranger and a squad on standby.” Keale re-folded his hands. “X-Com effectively has no resources in North America, and even if it did, it could not afford to exercise them.”
Mac leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t say ‘it’. Say ‘we’.”
“We do not have any manpower. We do not have any money, or guns, or equipment, or influence of any sort. We, as individuals and as an organisation are persona non grata within the United States of America and I’m sorry am I saying something funny?”
Perry lowered the cup that had been partially shielding his grin. “Be a Do-Be, Keale, not a Don’t-Be.”
“I don’t-”
“There you go again.”
“You are not amusing, sergeant!” Keale turned his whole body away from Perry and faced Mac. “You have more discipline than this, at least. I can get you a good position in Europe. You have a lot of command and combat experience. You’ll probably get more rank, and get to keep your pension along with your pay.”
“Doing what?”
“Training, lecturing, things like that. If you want duty again, X-Com Europe is getting folded into the EU rapid reaction force. We can get you citizenship in the country of your choice there, you might even see action again, and we’ll keep your contract short so you can quit when you want.”
“Not my sort of thing.”
“It’s not like this over there, David.” Mac was jarred by the use of his first name. “I’m going when I’m done here. We’re not wanted here any more, but we are there, needed and wanted.” Keale’s voice grew more intense the more he spoke.
“Why are you going?” Perry interrupted.
Keale shrugged. “Whenever the weather’s good, we get protesters outside the gate. Six months ago, it was a handful. A quiet handful. Now it’s a hundred or so, and they’re vocal. In six more months, it’s going to be hundreds, and I’m going to be gone. They can blame the janitor when this place blows up or burns down. I am going to be with my family in a nice house in a quiet little country, and I will watch it happen on the news, and then I will turn the TV off and forget all about it.”
“All planned out, eh.” Perry said, putting the empty cup on Keale’s desk.
Keale nodded firmly. “Yes. The house is already bought. The plane tickets are already booked. I am, in the words of my kids, solid gone.”
“You make me fucking sick.”
“I don’t have to take that from you, sergeant!”
Perry got up. “I’m not a sergeant and I haven’t been for fucking years, you little prick. I remember when you were a sergeant-”
“Perry.” Mac grabbed his arm.
Perry tore it free. “-I remember when you were um low man on the totem pole, you fucking Scandahoovian faggot-”
Keale got up, hands fisted, arms by his sides. “Sergeant-”
“-I remember when you left a man burned blind and dying, I remember-”
“Get out!”
“Perry!” Mac stood, grabbing Perry’s shoulder and turning him away. “Wait outside.”
Perry went, and Keale opened his mouth to shout something and then snapped it closed. He was flushed with anger, raw-looking spots of colour high on his cheeks.
Mac sank slowly into his seat. “Okay, you can’t do anything official. Can you do anything unofficial?”
“I told you-”
“Not the ‘Com, Keale. You. What can you do for me.”
“What makes you think I can do anything for you?”
“You’re still in. You’ve got influence in the ‘Com, if nowhere else. You can get me some information. If you can’t help, you can pass me the names of people who might.” Mac shrugged. “I understand why you’re going, and I can empathise. I think you, as a fellow officer, can reciprocate.”
Keale’s blush faded. “I can make some calls.” He admitted.
Mac got up, and offered his hand. “Thank you.”
Keale stood, shook, and sat back down and picked up the phone.
Mac left, and found Perry talking to someone he recognised immediately.
“Don’t know if you remember me.” Carpenter said, smiling.
“I do.” Mac almost saluted him.
“I’d like to talk to you.”

The couch was comfortable enough, but he felt uncomfortable reclining with Carpenter behind him.
“Okay, David-”
“Mac.”
A brief pause. “Okay, Mac, I’m going to record this. Everything you say is confidential. I’m here in my capacity as a psychiatrist, so this is nice and private. Are you comfortable?”
“Not really.”
“Well, put it on your TS list.”
Mac couldn’t help but grin. Carpenter knew the lines, alright.
“How long did you do?”
“Five years. Then two training. Then back to combat before I got wounded. I wanted to help clean things up after, but they wouldn’t let me. Too much of a poster boy. You?”
Mac laughed, a short unamused bark. “Six years. Three combat, three pussy.”
“Did you enjoy the snatch work?”
Mac focused on the ceiling while he thought. “It was tactically challenging. Establishing a new doctrine. Something different, sometimes almost suicidal.”
“I heard it was easy.”
“Not when the bastards had hours to dig in and prepare positions, rig traps, and call for reinforcements. And it was a shock when we got called back to standard work.” Mac took a deep breath. “Our casualty rate speaks for itself.”
Paper rustled and pages riffled. “It does. You were wounded eight times during your command. Any of them serious?”
“Got on the wrong side of a muton and ended up with my jaw bone sticking out through my cheek. That was the worst.” A vague, ghostly ache hurt his face in sympathy with the memory.
“No big replacements?”
“No. A few toes and teeth. I waited until after the war for them. Cloning takes too damn long.”
“Any residual pain, or complications?”
Mac stopped his hand halfway to his face. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Any nightmares?”
“No more than normal.”
“What’s normal?”
“Fuck off, don’t try that shit on me.”
“Okay.” Carpenter cleared his throat. “Any nightmares about suicide?”
“No.”
“Any nightmares about tissue rejection, cancer, mutation, that sort of thing?”
“No.” Mac sat up. “Look, I’m not comfortable, can I…?”
“Go ahead.” Carpenter, reclining behind his desk, waved to a chair.
Mac moved to it quickly and sat, facing Carpenter. “That’s better.”
“Were you ever scared?”
“What sort of question is that? What the fuck do you think?”
“An honest one. What I think-” Carpenter’s hands rose above the level of the desk and spread slowly, “-doesn’t matter. I’m asking because I want to know how you felt.”
Mac shrugged. The chair was uncomfortable, but he felt better, sitting upright and facing the other man. “Of course I was scared. Christ, sometimes I was shitting nickels. So what.”
Carpenter jotted something down, brow furrowed. He didn’t suit a shirt and tie, but Mac couldn’t imagine him in combat gear and body armour, either. All he needed was a pair of glasses and he’d look like a stereotypical college professor of African-American literature, decked out in a robe or whatever was trendy that semester.
“I repeat, so what.” Mac kept the combative tone subtle.
“So nothing.” Carpenter looked up from whatever he was writing, eyes large and pale in his dark face. “I remember shitting in my pants, once, I was so scared. But you can’t say that, because people think it’s funny, or that you’re a coward.”
“They weren’t there.”
“No, they weren’t, but they’ll gladly judge anyway. And if you admit to losing control of yourself like that, it doesn’t matter what else you did, doesn’t matter if you went right on doing your job, they’ll have marked you, in their minds, and the war hero becomes the guy who once shit his pants in terror.”
Mac pruned a piece of nail off with his teeth.
“Anyway.” Carpenter cleared his throat, a harsh thrum. “Why did you buy that property in Alaska? Our file says you’re from Massachusetts?”
“Country’s going to shit. And I’m not particularly close to my family.”
“Had much contact with them after the war?”
“No. Didn’t before, either.” Mac realised he was snapping. “All I got from them was my education and my religion, and that was more than enough.”
Carpenter waited, but Mac didn’t bite. He knew that trick.
“Married?”
Mac held up his left hand. “Nope.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Go to church?”
“No.”
“Okay. Do you own any guns?”
Mac leaned back, folding his hands together.
“Remember, I’m asking in a personal capacity.”
“My service pistol.”
Carpenter nodded, slowly, reflections from the lights shifting on his bald head. “Okay, Mac, I’m going to tell you some things. So pin your ears back.”
Mac leaned forward, uneasy. He knew this wasn’t going to be good.
“There’s been a trend, in former X-Com personnel who have been exposed to psionic influences, towards certain things. Three main issues, really, that a surprisingly high percentage…a frighteningly high percentage, have done. One, they move somewhere far away and buy a property, in a secluded area, usually rural, but sometimes right out in the wilderness. Mostly in their home country.”
Mac thought of his house, miles from anywhere, and his gut clenched unpleasantly.
“Two, they cut off all social contact. They divorce spouses, abandon children, they leave family and friends behind, they stop socialising, they have the phone and internet cut off, they don’t answer their mail.” Carpenter flipped a page, lips pursed.
“Go on.” Mac’s mouth was dry, and he could taste the last meal he had eaten in the back of his throat, waiting to come up.
Carpenter looked up at him. “Then they commit suicide.” He looked back down, and flipped another page. “Fifty-eight percent of the suicides used their service weapon.”
Mac’s eyes drifted shut, and his hands rose to cover his mouth.
“Another thirty-three percent used other assorted firearms. Six percent overdosed, and the remaining three by various miscellaneous means.” Carpenter sighed.
Jesus Christ, won’t this war ever stop killing us?
Mac swallowed, trying to summon up some saliva. “Tomlins? Pikowicz?”
Carpenter riffled through pages, eyes scanning. “Tomlins hung himself last year. Pikowicz died of ETAC six months ago.”
He and Perry were the last. Apart from Jan.
“I need a drink.”

They found Perry and Keale sat opposite each other in silence. Only half the mess hall was lit, and it was otherwise deserted.
“Had to sack the staff.” Keale explained when Mac asked. “Couldn’t justify the expense. It’s self-serve now. The food’s still okay, we have a contract with a local catering place. They got rich off us during the war. I keep them on the hook by telling them the base is about to get busy again when the US personnel transfer.”
“Cute.” Perry muttered, and Keale pretended not to hear.
Mac microwaved himself some pasta, watching the plate rotate while his mind refused to digest what he had been told.
Seclusion. Solitude. Suicide.
“There’s beer on the top shelf of the fridge, behind the soft drinks. Fucking kids think I don’t know they keep it there.” Keale tossed his empty cup into a trash can.
Perry retrieved the beers, and Mac followed close behind with his food, plate uncomfortably hot in his hand.
Carpenter ripped one off the six-pack and popped it open quickly. “Toast?”
“Fucking A.” Perry handed a can to Mac and a can to Keale before tearing off one for himself.
“To survival.” Carpenter contributed, eyes on Mac.
“To life after service.” Keale chipped in.
“To driving your fucking enemies before you.” Perry added.
“To absent friends.”
The plastic cans chunked together, and they drank.