Archive of Our Own ^beta

January, 1999.

Lilah awoke to the faraway sound of rainfall. For a moment, as she lay in the hazy reality of half-sleep, she believed it was spring rain, clean and sweet. She imagined it tapping on the roof of the cabin, then sliding down shingles to pour in sheets outside her window.

She blinked, looked around the semi-dark room and groaned. She wasn't in Canada after all, but Alaska. And it wasn't spring, but the deep winter of January. And the noise she heard wasn't rain, just the familiar sound of her husband's morning shower.

Still, the reality was as pleasant as the fantasy. The uncertainty of life on the run was over, the deprivation of Huds on Bay was a memory now. For the last nine months, she and Napoleon had lived the closest they'd yet come to a normal life. They had food and safety, private quarters, a job to do —- even a child on the way.

Lilah rolled over to her back and slid a hand across her belly. She was five months along now and the swell of her body was noticeable, even with clothes on. If there was anyone left at Epsilon base who didn't know of her pregnancy, they soon would.

She let her hand linger a moment. There was a life inside her, a combination of herself and Napoleon. A new and unique human being. She felt a powerful surge of emotion. Longing. Curiosity. Excitement. How was it possible to cherish someth'ing so deeply that you could neither see nor touch? She had scientific proof that it existed: blood tests and all the common symptoms of pregnancy, and a heartbeat that was sure and strong. But she wanted more. And each day she longed for the moment when their child moved under her waiting hand.

The water cut off suddenly. Lilah shifted in bed, curling up under the warm blankets. She turned to face the bathroom door, waiting for Napoleon.

He emerged from the bathroom naked and still slightly damp, a towel clutched in one hand. Lilah's movements caught his eye. He leaned over the bed to kiss her good morning, then perched on the edge of the mattress as he finished toweling his hair dry.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Mmm... good," she said, stretching. She smiled at him sleepily. "I don't want to get up, though. Too cold." Pulling a hand from under the comforter, she slid it along his forearm. "Come back to bed and keep me warm."

He would've liked nothing better. But he was due in thirty minutes to attend a final strategy session for tomorrow's hijacking of a supply shipment headed for the Arctic oil fields. If they didn't intercept and steal that shipment, Epsilon base was going to spend February eating nothing but caribou meat.

But the meeting wasn't the only reason he was reluctant to linger. He'd been warned by Mitchell, in the doctor's not-so-subtle manner, that if he didn't go easy on the sex with Lilah, there'd be hell to pay. You've got a delicate woman there — forget the goddamn trapezes! the doctor had roared at him, and Solo had taken the advice.

Still, the invitation seemed so tempting, it required all his willpower to resist. "Sorry, darling. I have to go. Duty calls."

Lilah frowned. "I thought you were supposed to indulge the cravings of a pregnant woman," she said slyly. "Not all of us want pickles and ice cream."

But he did indulge her. Not just in bed, but in every aspect of their lives. The baby inside her was proof of that. Lilah knew Napoleon's feelings about her pregnancy were mixed. And, in spite of her sales job, she'd never really been able to erase his concerns. But he'd agreed, simply because it was what she wanted.

She sat up in bed. The old khaki army shirt she'd slipped on after they'd made love last night was still unbuttoned and hung crooked, baring one shoulder. She leaned forward to kiss him.

"Do you know how much I love you?"

Yes, he knew, he told himself as he kissed her, because he loved her just as much. He'd never believed he could limit himself to one woman; want the same woman night after night. Not when he'd loved this woman for her eyes, and that one for her smile, another for her quick wit, and yet still another for her responsive body. But remaining faithful to his marriage vow was turning out to be easier than he expected. Maybe it was the intensity of their lives or their lovemaking, or the responsibilities of a position that kept him constantly busy. Or maybe it was just the mellowing of age. He didn't know. Whatever the reason, he never desired other women any more.

Well, almost never.

Lilah brushed back her hair and tugged the shirt into place, closing the buttons reluctantly. She had to get moving, herself. He wasn't the only one who was going to be busy today. Several of the staff had appointments. There were the updates on their blood donations and the replacement of the women's contraceptive implants. And then there were the ones that were just plain sick. It seemed like everyone lately had a cold.

"How long do you think this meeting's going to take?" she asked. "Can you meet me for coffee later?"

Solo shrugged. "Depends. The meeting shouldn't last more than an hour, unless Jack's come up with yet another strategy. He's gone through two plans already."

As he watched her close the shirt, he felt a twinge of regret. He loved her in that shirt. Maybe he'd been too hasty. Maybe there would've been enough time to fit a quick one in, after all. He missed the spontaneous, rough and tumble lovemaking they’d enjoyed in Canada. But his schedule had eliminated the first quality; her pregnancy, the second.

"Next mission, I think I'm going to choose another leader," Solo said, though he knew he wouldn't. Whatever his shortcomings, Jack Palmer was the best choice.

Lilah threw back the covers and slid to the edge to the bed with a shiver. Her contact with Jack Palmer was limited. Still, every time she saw the man, he was bragging about something he'd done, or some idea he had. Apparently it was not unfounded pride. Everyone thought Jack was good at his job. Trouble was, none of them thought so more than Jack, himself.

She smiled. "Is he getting on your nerves again?"

"A bit. But I suppose I gave Alexander Waverly an ulcer or two in my day." He wrapped an arm around Lilah before she could slip away. "And Mrs. Waverly wasn't half as sexy as you." He kissed her deeply, one hand wandering idly along the hem of the shirt.

She took his hand and guided it up under the worn material, past her firm abdomen and up to the softer, pliant curve of her full breast.

"Maybe you can meet me later — not for coffee," she said when they separated.

"Count on it," Solo replied. One second she was there in his hand; the next, she was gone. So close. With a sigh, he rose off the bed, found his clothes and got dressed.

"I'll come down to the infirmary later," he told her before he left. He gave her a parting kiss, but he didn't linger. The sooner the damn meeting started, the sooner it would be over.

She was still smiling when the door closed and locked shut behind him.

The shower was deliciously warm, and Lilah spent a good minute just standing there, letting it cascade in sheets down her body. Her hands automatically went to her belly, and she gazed down at it, as though she could actually see past the flesh and muscle to the inside.

"Hey in there," she said aloud. "Everyone else is awake out here. Time for you to start movin' too."

She washed her hair first, wishing Napoleon was there to do it for her, then turned to reach for the soap.

Pain — harder and stronger than any she'd ever felt, ripped through her lower back without warning. Surprised and scared, Lilah cried out loud, but the only thing that emerged was a half-scream before the pain squeezed the air from her lungs entirely. The soap and washcloth dropped from her hands, landing with a dull splat on the tub floor.

Napoleon…

He’s long gone. No matter. It’s only a back spasm, muscle cramp. Any minute now, it’ll pass.

She waited, but the pain didn’t pass. It held her in its grip, knifelike and relentless, and at the same time, she felt a violent, tearing sensation ripple across her abdomen.

"Oh God …" she breathed aloud. Tears sprang to her eyes, lost in the spray of the shower. Her knees buckled, and she turned to the wall for support, clutching out wildly for a handhold. She closed a shaking hand around the showerhead pipe and tried to breathe.

Her vision swam and she knew she was going to pass out. Head down, she thought in confusion and automatically dropped her gaze downward. There at her feet, mixed with the water from the shower, her own bright red blood swirled down the drain.

"NO! Oh no, no, no —"

Don't panic. Get help. Napoleon. No. Busy. Mitch.

Lilah held on to the pipe with one hand, slamming open the shower door with the other. She didn't let go until her other hand connected with the towel rack. She clenched her shirt from the bar and forced herself to stand a moment, slipping one wet arm through a sleeve.

But the pain wouldn't let up. She felt herself growing lightheaded, and abandoned the other sleeve entirely, drawing the khaki across her wet and shivering body. The intercom was on Napoleon's bed side table, only a few feet away. She only had to get that far.

Blood diluted pink streaked the inside of her thighs and panic began to rise up in her throat. She couldn't stand straight. Bent over, she took a few tentative steps out of the bathroom, toward the bed.

The distance seemed like miles, and now genuine tears of fright and pain streaked her face. She inched half the distance before her body refused to move anymore. Her vision narrowed to almost nothing. Only the table and the intercom were visible, taunting her with their nearness.

She pushed herself another foot, and then another. Her knees gave out completely then, and she crumpled to the floor, sobbing. Blindly, she stretched a hand up to the table and snapped on the call button. Through a haze of pain, she heard Tim's voice respond.

She couldn't answer. The room spun around her, making her stomach roll with it. She prayed silently, desperately: Please, God ..don't take this away... please. Then the room went black, and the pain was gone.

***

At that moment, on the other side of the complex, Gerry Diamond was just passing the security station, feeling decidedly sorry for herself. Sure, she knew how important her job as security chief for Epsilon base was. And yes, she understood that she couldn't be spared. But why did Palmer always get the glory missions? Secretly, she suspected she'd been kept from participating in the hijacking because of her gender. Napoleon was progressive, but he was still reluctant to place women on the front lines. Well, she'd let it go this time, but she'd be damned if she was going to play squaw while others put on the warpaint.

As she scanned the flip chart in her hand, her eyes shifted sideways to Tim, who was monitoring the board. There was a puzzled expression on his boyish face. There was also something about it that Gerry didn't like. Somewhere inside her head, a mental antennae went up.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"I dunno," Tim said. He flicked a switch on the board back and forth rapidly. "Mr. Solo's apartment lit up, but when I called in, there was no answer. And the light won't go off."

A faulty switch? Gerry tapped the panel firmly with her index finger. The light remained on. Her mind raced: where was Solo? At the meeting, wasn't he? Wasn't he?

Elbowing Tim aside, Gerry hit the button for the conference room. A second later, Napoleon's voice came over. "Solo here."

Gerry let out a long breath. "It's Gerry, sir —"

"What is it? We’re in the middle of something here." His voice was sharp, impatient. Jack's probably acting like an asshole again, Gerry thought.

"Sorry. False alarm. The intercom light went on in your quarters. I guess it's just a malfunction —"

But at the other end of the intercom, Solo knew it was no malfunction.

Lilah.

"Gerry, it's my wife. Call Mitch and get down there — now! I'm on my way."

He didn't bother to sign off, and it wouldn't have mattered if he had. Gerry was already on the run. "Call the infirmary — tell them it's an emergency!" she called back to Tim over her shoulder. "Mr. Solo's quarters." And then she was gone.

The boy froze for a second, his concern blotting out Gerry's orders. Mrs. Solo was a nice lady, one of the few people around who didn't treat him like a kid. Hope she's okay, he thought, snapping back into action. He thumbed the infirmary's emergency line. On his board, the light simply flashed at double speed, but he knew an alarm went off in the infirmary as well. Still, it seemed to take forever before someone answered.

"This had better not be a goddamn drill!" Jackson Mitchell's voice was gruff and hoarse and angry. "I'm up to my balls in work here!"

Tim stammered, intimidated as always by the man."N — no, sir. No drill. There's an emergency in Mr. Solo's quarters." On the other side of the line, Mitchell's manner turned serious.

"What's the problem, son? What do we have there?" he asked quickly.

"Don't know, sir. The security chief and Mr. Solo are on their way there."

"Mr. Solo? You mean he isn't the patient?" Mitchell had guessed Solo was the one in trouble. With his age and the ravages done to his body, it was only a matter of time before stress and his young wife got the better of him.

"No," Tim told him. "Looks like it's Mrs. Solo."

"Ahh ... Jesus Christ." Mitchell's sad, disgusted sigh could be heard clearly over Tim's speaker. "On the way," he said, closing off.

In the meantime, running at top speed, Gerry Diamond raced through the corridors, weaving through the knots of people. Occasionally, someone asked what was going on, but she just waved them away. No time for answers, no time, the gesture said. She was moving automatically now, the way she'd been taught by her mother, by Napoleon, by others. Don't think — act. You'll know what to do when you get there.

But she wasn't sure she would know. When Solo said it was his wife, she understood what that meant. A miscarriage: he'd warned her about it months ago. But when he did, he only spoke plainly of facts and contingencies, not about his own hopes and fears or his wife's, not even whether they really wanted a baby or not. That simply wasn't Gerry's business. He didn't have to say it. She knew how he thought, how he reasoned and how he planned, but not how he felt. As a function of her job, she knew every detail of every one of his days. The rest, she had to guess.

The end of the corridor was deserted and the apartment door was closed. She'd arrived first. Should she go rushing in? Should she wait? Was there time? Gerry knocked hard, called out "Mrs. Solo,” then knocked hard again.

Unremitting pain brought Lilah back to consciousness. It flooded her brain, wiping away every other thought but one. Help. Get help. She remembered where she was, what she'd been doing, and struggled to get up, to reach the intercom again. But the faraway sound of a knock on the door stopped her. She strained to listen. The voice was distant, distorted, calling her. Lilah forced herself to call back, but the response was strangled and weak.

”In here.”

Gerry stabbed the override code into the keypad and pushed open the door. Quickly, she surveyed the apartment, scanning first the kitchen, then the bedroom, until her eyes fell on Lilah, sprawled beside the bed. Gerry hurried over and knelt down on one knee.

"Mrs. Solo? M'am? Are you okay?" Stupid question, Gerry chided herself. The woman was lying here, bloody and half naked. Obviously she wasn't okay. Gerry placed a reassuring hand on Lilah's arm.

"Help's on the way. Is there anything I can do in the meantime?" The old army shirt hung loose, from the one shoulder. Gerry pulled the material and tucked it around Lilah's body, covering her.

Lilah twisted her face into her shoulder, biting back a scream. This wasn't a simple miscarriage. Even labor didn't hurt like this. She tried to think past the pain, searching for the cause so she could tell Gerry what to do. But gynecology had never been her specialty. Men on the front lines didn't often lose babies.

She clutched at the Native American woman's hand, her grip like a vice. "Knew somebody ... would see the light," she said. She tried to smile, but it twisted into a grimace. "Need Mitch — oh, goddamn this hurts! Don't tell … Napoleon... busy ... nothing ... he can do..."

The words stopped as Lilah's body began to shake. She moaned aloud and tugged on Gerry's hand. "S'the bleeding bad?" she rasped.

Compared to what? Gerry wanted to ask, but she didn't. Instead, she said, "Not too bad."

Just then, Solo burst through the door, breathing hard.

Must've run all the way from the conference room, Gerry thought fleetingly when she saw him. His trip had been longer than hers. The conference room was located clear across the complex.

It took Solo a split-second to assess the situation. It was what he'd expected, only worse. He tried not to notice the thin trail of blood that led from the bathroom to his wife.

"Did you call Mitchell?" he asked Gerry, who nodded vigorously.

"Is she conscious?"

Gerry nodded again. He elbowed the security chief aside, and relieved to see him, she gladly got out of his way. Crouching beside Lilah, Solo grasped her hand and kissed it.

"I'm here, Dee Dee, I'm here. Everything's going to be all right. Just hang on a little longer." He wanted to ask whether it was bad, but he was afraid. He could see she was in pain.

Lilah wanted to tell him he shouldn't be there, neglecting his responsibilities, that there wasn't anything he could do. But she couldn't. If the situation were reversed, there was no place else she would be but at his side. And the truth was, she wanted him exactly where he was. She felt his strength flow into her and a little of her terror eased.

"Sorry," she whispered to him as her eyes welled with tears. "Guess this... blows our coffee break."

His face whirled before her suddenly, like a kaleidoscope out of control. Another violent shiver rumbled through her, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to pass. When she opened them again, Mitch was kneeling beside Napoleon, his ever-present spectacles perched at the tip of his nose.

"Well, isn't this just like a nurse?" he deadpanned. "Demanding a house call.”

She felt him take her wrist, and watched to see what the expression on his face revealed. It was nothing she didn't know for herself. In spite of Gerry's encouraging words, she was bleeding badly. The tremors and the dizziness all meant the same thing: shock.

He took her blood pressure quickly and then slipped her shirt off her belly, listening with the stethoscope. Gently, he pressed a hand just below her navel. Lilah stiffened and cried out loud.

The sound tore through Solo's gut. Helpless to do anything else, he just stayed beside Lilah, holding her hand.

In the background, Gerry stood observing the scene, feeling helpless, too. She watched Mr. Solo with his wife and thought: If something ever happened to me, who would care like that? She knew the answer: no one.

Her attention wandered to the bathroom behind her, and the sound of water running. The shower was still on. Grateful for something useful to do, she went in to turn it off.

Mitchell peered clinically at the dark blood that had pooled beneath Lilah's hips. "Tell me about the pain," he demanded. "Was it gradual or sudden?"

Lilah shook her head, trying to shake off the agony, to focus on the question. Assess the patient, report. "Sudden ... sharp. Like tearing. It hurts," she said, losing the battle to concentrate. She gave in to her building tears. "God, it just hurts." She looked at him, trying again.

"More like … contractions now .. like … labor. Maybe placenta ... separation. Bleeding, too ... heavy. Need IV ... plasma..."

Mitchell gazed at her, shaking his head. Assessing, diagnosing and giving orders, too. "Okay, that's enough," he said. He looked over his shoulder. Annie, their medic, was waiting with a rolling stretcher, her ebony face somber. "You can go back to being the patient now."

But Lilah wasn't listening. "Cesarean ... now ... might …save … baby.”

Mitchell looked at her sadly, remembering the quiet glow on her face the first day they'd met. She was the first woman he'd seen in seventeen years who wanted the child she was carrying. His face grew sympathetic, his tone soft but blunt. "I’m sorry, Florence, that's not going to happen." Not here, anyway. Maybe in a medical center, with state-of-the-art equipment and the right personnel. But not here in this isolated God-forsaken wilderness. He sighed in frustration and sympathy. "Now come on, we've got to get you back to the infirmary."

Solo had been listening to them silently, taking it all in. The fact that Lilah could think straight enough to diagnose her own condition was encouraging. He remembered instances in his own career, when he'd been dazed or injured and still managed to get the job done. But there was all this blood... He could feel it, thick and warm, soaking through the knees of his trousers. He didn't know anything about gynecology or pregnancy, but he'd been in enough similar situations to know what a large blood loss could mean.

And at that moment, he realized they were going to lose the child. No one had to tell him. He just knew. If he'd felt any ambivalence before, it was gone now. Any dreams or expectations he might have harbored about holding a son in his arms, were cut loose and set adrift. If U.N.C.L.E. had taught him anything, it was how to manage damage control — risk what was possible, do what was necessary. He felt himself mentally turn to the task at hand: saving Lilah at all costs.

"Can I lift her, doctor?" he asked.

Mitch looked at Lilah. Her skin was pale and moist, and her breathing was growing rapid and shallow. Mild shock had already set in. Even if she could get to her feet, she'd pass out cold. He nodded at Napoleon. "Carefully. She won't enjoy it."

Solo bent low to his wife and forced a smile. "All right, darling. Put your arms around my neck."

Lilah hesitated a moment. Instead of reaching for Napoleon, she let her hand drift to the round bulge of her abdomen. The skin was cool and still wet. And deeper, where the flesh had once been warm and soft and giving, the muscles were rock hard from trauma. Even her own touch hurt. Just a short hour ago, she had wished to see movement from the life within her. Now, that life was gone, like a candle flame extinguished with a single puff of air. Her heart ached with a pain far worse than any her body suffered.

She drew her hand away and draped it around Napoleon's neck. Her limbs felt tired and heavy. Moving them was work.

"That's it." As her body tipped forward, he slid one arm under her back and another under her knees. "Ready?"

She looked at him finally, and the worry in his eyes pushed her right to the edge. She choked back a sob and buried her head against his shoulder. Her answer was a weak nod.

"Okay, here we go." He lifted her as gently as he could and carried her over to the stretcher. He did his best to ignore the fact that she was still losing blood, but he felt it seeping through his clothes as she pressed against his body. Didn't matter, though. He would've carried her all the way back to the infirmary if he thought it would've done any good.

***

Annie settled Lilah into a tiny cubicle that provided privacy if not extreme comfort, fussing over her like a nanny. She cleaned her up, giving in easily when Lilah refused to surrender the khaki shirt. and gave her morphine to ease the pain.

Mitchell himself started two IVs. Through one, dripped amber plasma and through the other, the medication that would speed up her labor. And through the hour that followed, while she swallowed down screams and cried heartbroken tears and finally delivered a barely formed, perfect but lifeless child, she clung to Napoleon's hand as if it were her lifeline.

Which it was.

Solo experienced it all with her, offering only what he could: love, support and a few encouraging words. He knew she needed him there so he stayed, even though he hated the feeling of absolute powerlessness. She screamed and cried, and there was nothing he could do to take away the pain or the sorrow.

This was worse than New York Max, he told himself, worse than almost anything he'd ever endured except his time with Schreck. And when the baby came and Annie took it away, a tiny, bloody lump of unmoving flesh, he might have been persuaded to trade his freedom for the White Room if he could've spared Lilah the agony. He didn't look closely at the thing, himself. He didn't even ask what sex it was. He didn't want to know. This baby had almost killed his wife, and he felt a sharp surge of hostility towards it, irrational as that was. But remembering his own reluctance in conceiving it, he also felt a stab of guilt and turned away.

Lilah felt exhausted, drained and emptier than she had ever felt before now. Even the news of Randy's death hadn't left the gaping wound that this had. Only that awful first night in Yankee Stadium when she waited alone and no one came — only that was worse.

She dozed for a half hour after it was over, but sleep did little to erase the dark circles under her eyes. Her face still had a sickly, ghostly pallor and her lips were dry.

The pressure of the blood pressure cuff on her arm woke her. She glanced at Annie and then looked for Napoleon. Lilah smiled at him.

"I must look like shit," she said. "I can see it on your face."

"You're alive and you're still in one piece. That's beautiful enough for me."

In one piece. But she wasn't. Not really. A piece more vital than even she had suspected, had been cruelly torn away from her, and though she thought she'd run dry of tears, still more came.

Lilah looked away from him to stare at the ceiling, seeing nothing but her baby's face, with its tiny eyes closed in permanent sleep, wrapped lovingly by Annie in a sterile surgical towel. She could understand why Napoleon turned away — if it was nothing more than a dream, then it would be easier to mourn. But for Lilah, the child had always been real. A part of her. Of them.

Alive and in one piece ... enough for me …

She felt a surge of guilt as strong as the pain of loss. She was enough for him, she always had been. But at this moment, despite his love and strength and comfort, he wasn't enough for her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered through her tears, not even sure what she was sorry for.

"Ah, Dee Dee, no. Don't say that." He wanted to gather her into his arms, but the presence of Annie and the equipment prevented that. He dropped to one knee beside the bed instead, and being careful of the IV tube, took one of her hands between his. "This wasn't your fault."

It wasn't anyone's fault, he knew. It was just something that happened. Still, that didn't make him feel any less helpless. He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips.

"One night, not so very long ago," he said, "you kissed me the same way and told me that you knew I hurt. There weren't enough words or kisses in the world to make things better, and we both understood that. Only time heals. But you still wished it were otherwise, and right now, I want you to know, I wish the same thing."

Lilah remembered that night well. It had changed her life. It had thrust her face to face with danger and terror, uprooted her and put her on the run, dragged her from one side of the continent to the other, risked her life more than once.

But it had also given her someone to love, and someone who loved her. Without him, the dream of a baby was just a whore's drunken fantasy. Without him, her life wasn't just empty; it was hopeless. Without him, her soul would be as cold and lifeless as her dead child.

She squeezed his hand, her grip weak. As always, his words made her feel better, eased her fear. Maybe they didn't share the same feelings about what happened, but they always shared the same feeling for each other. Nothing would change that.

"God, I love you,” she said.

Solo smiled and kissed her again. "I told you once that survival wasn't everything, and you told me that sometimes, it's the only victory we get. Living means a second chance to try again. Listen to your own advice, darling. Now I'm going back to my meeting and you're going to get some sleep. I'll probably be back before you wake up."

He was reluctant to leave her, but she really did need the rest. He replaced her hand on the bed, waved to Annie, and left.

Mitchell was there when Solo stepped out of Lilah's room. Christ, look at him. He looks almost as bad as she does.

The image was a far cry from the picture Mitch had gotten at their first meeting, some two months ago. Then, he thought Solo was just another aging bureaucrat playing rebel; enjoying power games and keeping a young and pretty wife as just another plaything — the one he took out at night when the toy soldiers were put away.

But that opinion had taken a beating over the past few weeks, and had crumbled completely after today. This morning, Mitchell had watched Solo as closely as he had Lilah. The only difference between the two was that Lilah's bleeding was visible.

She's his Achilles heel, the doctor thought. His umbilical cord to the world. Christ help us if the bad guys find out.

He shifted the cigarette that hung in the corner of his mouth and took a deep drag. "Goddamn shame, Solo," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Napoleon said distantly, his mind elsewhere. He was planning to find Gerry and tell her to reconvene the meeting, but right now, he just wanted a private place to collapse. He motioned to the doctor's cigarette. "Any more of those around?"

Mitchell dug into the front pocket of the blue chambray shirt he was wearing. The first day he'd arrived, there'd been a white lab coat hanging on a hook in the office, waiting for him. As far as he knew it was still hanging there. He handed Solo a half-empty pack.

“She’ll be fine. All she needs is some rest, a little blood replacement, and she'll be okay. Go on back to your meeting."

Solo nodded in appreciation for the pack of cigarettes and paused for a moment to light one. He really needed it. "Truth is," he said, striking a match,"I wasn't especially eager to bring a kid into this world, such as it is. Miserable, corrupt — it's a fucking sewer." He inhaled a deep drag on the cigarette and shook his head. "Guess I've never really accepted it. In fact, if it wasn't for Lilah, I'd never — well, anyway, the baby is better off not being born." He held out the pack to Mitchell. "Here — and thanks again. I'm very grateful for your efforts."

Mitch took the pack and stuffed it back in his pocket. "Good thing the Blessed Virgin didn't feel that way," he said off-handedly.

Solo felt a surge of resentment swell within him. Maybe he was just tired, or maybe it was because he didn't trust the integrity of a disbarred, alcoholic doctor very much. Mitchell's recruitment had been Lilah's idea. As far as Solo was concerned, the jury was still out. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Oh? And did you think of her much when you worked on all those girls in the backrooms?" Look who's commenting on the sanctity of life, Solo thought. Have a statue of Our Lady of the Coathangers, did you?

Mitchell was unperturbed. "More often than you'd believe, I'll bet." He looked at Solo with an expression so cynical, it was almost a smile. "I’ve snuffed the life of more babies than you could count. Without regard to race, creed, color or bank statement, I might add. But those poor creatures didn't have a chance in hell, anyway. They didn't have what your child had."

"You mean me for a father?" Solo snorted. "Doctor, I'm as much an old butcher as you. Someday, we'll have to compare scorecards."

I'd make a lousy father ... He'd told her so that second night, but she didn't believe it. Maybe she'd believe it now.

The doctor glanced around, grinding the cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. "Actually, I've found that a father is pretty incidental," he said. "All the babies I aborted had those, too. It didn't make much difference. But the one thing they didn't have that yours did, was a mother who wanted them. Like I said, it's a goddamn shame."

He picked up the stethoscope from the shelf beside them and hooked it around his neck. Clapping a hand on Solo's shoulder, he said: "Rest might be a good idea for you, too — if you can manage. I’ll call you if she needs you."

"Sure," Solo said. He walked out of the infirmary, not knowing where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do next. He was frustrated by Mitchell's calm, and confused by his own conflicting emotions, and he couldn't seem to marshall his thoughts to make a decision. Fortunately, Gerry was there to make it for him. She was passing through the corridor, either by chance or design, he couldn't say. Sometimes, it seemed as if the girl had a tracer on him.

"Jack and the others are still in the conference room waiting for you," she told him. "Should I postpone the meeting until later?"

"No... no," Solo said. "Tell them I'll be there. Just, ah, give me a minute to clean up."

He trotted to the nearest men's room and was relieved to find it empty. He scrubbed the blood from his arms and hands, splashed some water on his face, and regarded himself in the mirror. There was no use trying to soak the stains from his clothes. A large smear of blood colored his shirt from the third button downward and his trousers were spattered from belt to crotch. Trying to clean them would be a lost cause. It didn't really bother him, he told himself. He'd been covered with his own blood and the blood of others too many times to count.

But this was different. This was Lilah's blood. And the baby's. Your baby's.

He pushed the thought from his mind. Suddenly, he wasn't just tired; he was exhausted. More than anything else, he just wanted to sit down somewhere.

No, lie down somewhere. With Lilah. Curl up beside her and hold her close. That's what he always did whenever he felt like this. But he couldn't, damn it, and he shouldn't complain. He should be grateful for a narrow escape. As he reached for a cotton hand towel hanging on a wall hook, he saw that his hands were shaking for the first time in almost a year.

Son of a bitch.

Angrily, he snatched the towel from the hook, wiped his hands and headed for the conference room. The others were still waiting for him, just as Gerry said they would be. As he dropped heavily into the chair at the end of the table, Palmer said, "If you want to change your clothes sir, we'll understand."

"And if the sight of a little blood disturbs you, Mr. Palmer," Solo said evenly, "maybe I should choose another leader for this mission."

Palmer exchanged glances with Ken Sloan, but said nothing. When the Old Man was in this sort of mood, it was better to stay out of his way. Solo glanced around the table to see if there were any more comments. Fourteen pairs of eyes looked elsewhere.

"Then let's get on with it," he said, and they did.

***

Lilah slept the afternoon away, surfacing periodically only to discover the morning's events were not a nightmare but the cold, hard truth. More often than not, she cried herself back to sleep.

It wasn't just the miscarriage, she told herself, that was responsible for her emotional state, but the flood of pregnancy hormones that suddenly had no purpose. She wanted to be left alone, she wanted company; she was hungry and then she wasn't; she wanted to cry and she wanted to laugh.

Most of all, she wanted Napoleon.

But she didn't call for him. Although just having him there would make her feel better, sitting beside her, helpless to fix anything would make him feel worse. He was better off finishing up his strategy meeting for the hijacking. It would keep his mind off her.

Annie bustled into the room for the hundredth time that day, wearing her usual smile. Lilah smiled back weakly. Everything, even that, seemed to take too much effort.

As she had done all day, the black woman checked Lilah's blood pressure and pulse and slipped a hand to her belly, to massage her tired womb. The warm gush of blood was becoming routine. But this time, Annie let her hand linger a moment, waiting.

Lilah struggled to pay attention. "Somethin' wrong?" she asked sleepily.

"Don't know yet," Annie answered. "Maybe not." She smoothed down the blankets and turned to the IV, exchanging one bag of fluid for another.

Lilah saw what she was doing and pushed herself to a sitting position. Dizziness waved over her instantly. "Good. No more blood for me. Not that much B-neg in storage, Annie," she said, trying to be firm. “Gotta wait for the team to get back — they might need it." She dropped her head back to the pillow like a stone. God, she was so weak!

She shivered suddenly, a deep tremor that rippled through her body. Annie looked over as she finished with the IV, taking a moment to brush back Lilah's hair from her face. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her pale forehead.

"You cold, honey?"

Lilah nodded. She felt Annie cover her, tucking the material around her shoulders. There was the firm touch of her hand once again, the sharp cramp of her belly. And another warm spurt of blood. The black woman patted her arm and disappeared.

Mitchell looked up from his coffee cup when Annie's bulky frame filled the doorway.

"What?" he asked.

"The bleeding won't let up. Her pressure's been steady up ‘til now, but it's starting to drop. She's diaphoretic and she's got chills."

Mitchell was out of his chair immediately. "I was afraid of this," he said. He'd learned Lilah's previous history shortly after his arrival, and hadn't liked what he'd heard. "Open up the IV's, put some oxygen on her, and get me another BP. I’ll call Solo."

He bolted to the intercom and thumbed the switch for the security console.

***

It was six o'clock -- dinner time for most of the one hundred and thirty-nine people on the base. The security station was between shifts, and Gerry was monitoring the console herself. She didn't mind the duty. Anything for an excuse to avoid seeing Palmer go off with the team, that big, stupid smartass grin on his face. With everyone in the commissary, the corridors were quiet.

Lazily, Gerry leaned against the board, her chin propped up on one hand, wishing Tim would return. He was terribly callow, but at least he was someone to talk to. She allowed her mind to drift back to the impending mission. Envy didn't prevent her from wishing Jack and the others well. After all, they needed the food. She hoped there'd be more than the basic staples in the shipment. Candy bars might be nice. She hadn't tasted chocolate in months.

Yawning aloud, she gazed idly down the dim corridor and nearly missed seeing the infirmary light when it flashed.

"Security. Diamond here," she said.

Mitchell’s voice came back quickly, barely allowing Gerry time to finish. "Where's Solo?" he demanded.

"Um, I'm not sure," she replied, flustered. She hated being caught off-guard. Think, girl, think! Maybe at the security entrance? No, the guys would be gone by now.

"He's probably on his way to the commissary — unless he decided to stop by the infirmary first." Knowing Mr. Solo, that was a good possibility. "Do you want me to locate him?"

"No," Mitchell growled, finally. "I'll give it a few minutes to see if he comes by. If I need you to find him, I'll let you know. But if he contacts you, tell him we need him down here. Pronto." He snapped off the button. The damn place wasn't that big. They'd find him soon enough.

Grabbing a pair of latex gloves, he snapped them on and went to join Annie in Lilah's room.

Lilah was paler than before –- if that was possible — and she shivered uncontrollably now. She looked up as he entered, barely able to open her eyes. Annie had already lowered her head and raised her feet and the IV's were pouring in, but it still wasn't enough. She was slipping rapidly into shock.

Mitch whipped back the blankets, wincing at the amount of fresh blood. He remembered once as an intern seeing a woman suffer uncontrolled postpartum bleeding. It hadn't even taken her five minutes to die.

He slapped her firmly on the thigh, trying to rouse her. "All right Florence, assume the position," he ordered.

Lilah tried to comply. She drew her legs up, but her strength was gone, and they slipped back to the bed like dead weight. Mitch nodded to Annie, who came over to lend a hand.

The examination revealed nothing he didn't already know. That left them two choices, one bad, one worse. Mitchell felt a sudden surge of panic. The last time he made a decision that mattered, he'd made the wrong one. He didn't like knowing ahead of time what the consequences would be if he made this one wrong, too.

At the same time that Mitchell was grappling with his options, Solo was walking down the base's main corridor. Gerry's guess had been correct. He was on his way to the commissary by way of the infirmary. It'd been a busier afternoon than he expected. A late dispatch from their spy in the Seattle field office of United Oil warned that the shipment had been diverted at the last moment. Now it was coming in at Cordova, not Valdez, which meant a change in mission plans. Solo hadn't found time to change his clothes, never mind grab a nap.

As he came through the infirmary door, he could still hear Jack Palmer's cocky last words as the young rebel climbed into the chopper beside Lyle: "Just a short hop to the stop and shop." To which Solo responded with the same two words Waverly had always said to him:

“Don’t fail.”

Mitchell was talking as he moved. "Annie dear, put another unit of blood up and put a pressure bag on this one." He shot from the room, nearly running into Solo.

"I was just about to dispatch Sacajawea to find you," he said, tension sharpening his tone. "We've got a problem."

Solo didn't like the sound of that. He narrowed his eyes. "What kind of problem?"

The doctor spoke calmly, forcing himself to slow down. "Lilah's bleeding hasn't stopped. For a while it seemed like it was winding down the way it should, but over the last half hour, it's increased. For whatever reason, her uterus just won't contract. We've been giving her blood, but we can't go on doing that forever. And if we don't get the bleeding under control, it won't matter anyway. She's already in shock." He paused for a moment, waiting for Solo to digest the information.

"So what are the options, doctor? Tell it to me straight."

Mitchell nodded toward Lilah's room. "Inside. She needs to hear this, too.”

He turned and headed back. Bent over Lilah, stethoscope in her ears, Annie spoke to him over her shoulder as he entered. "Ninety over fifty." The doctor nodded and stepped aside to allow Solo to move past him.

As Napoleon entered the cubicle, he studied his wife critically. She looked just awful. She was sweating, she was trembling, her color was bad. There seemed to be tubes running everywhere.

"Dear Lord," Solo muttered to himself. He crouched beside the bed at Lilah's eye level and smoothed back a lock of damp hair.

"Dee Dee, darling? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Lilah opened her eyes at the sound of his voice and turned her head to look at him. "Hi," she said softly. " 'M glad you're here." She stopped to take a breath. "Get th' team off okay?"

"They're on their way," Solo said. "Everything's under control." If only we could say the same for you.

Mitchell stood at the foot of the bed. "Florence, are you with me?" he asked. Lilah nodded. She looked away from Napoleon to stare at Mitchell, forcing her eyes open.

"Alright, this is the situation: I need to put you under for a little while, so I can take a look and find out what's causing the bleeding. Might be just a few fragments of the placenta left in there that are preventing the uterus from contracting completely. If that's the case, removing them should solve the problem."

Lilah nodded again. A simple D&C would do it. "Go ahead," she told him. Mitchell took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes before he continued. "But if the problem is bleeding into the uterine muscle, then the only way to stop it is to do a hysterectomy."

Lilah's eyes widened in panic. "No!" she said, shaking her head back and forth adamantly. "No, no —"

Mitchell sighed. "Sorry, hon. There's no other choice."

Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. "Please —" She grasped Napoleon's hand weakly and held it. "Don't —" she pleaded. "Promise me you won't let him —"

Solo squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't promise her that, and he wouldn't lie. He took a breath. "It's not my decision, darling. Doctor Mitchell will do what he thinks is best."

Lilah's pleading touched Mitchell more than he thought possible, more than she would ever know from the hard, impassive look on his face. "He's right, I will. Don't even involve him. His opinion won't cut any ice with me."

Defeated, Lilah pulled her hand from Napoleon's and glared at Mitchell. "Goddamn you to hell," she sobbed.

The doctor looked at her, smiling. "My dear, you are only one of many distinguished petitioners. I have no doubt that the good Lord will see fit to grant your collective request. But it will not be for the sin of letting a woman die because she was too stubborn to give up the dubious privilege of bearing a child.

"Napoleon, we'll need about ten minutes to set up. Let me know if anything changes before then." He snapped his fingers, ordering Annie out of the room, and followed after her.

Solo remained by Lilah's bed, not knowing what to say. Each time he made the attempt, he couldn't seem to find the words. There was no comfort he could offer, and she was too ill for a reasonable discussion. She wanted a baby, he understood that, but he wanted her. And he would sacrifice anything, everything, to keep her.

"The doctor has a job to do," he said finally, "and we should allow him to do it. I want you to survive this thing. Do you hear me? I want you alive, and I don't care what it takes. I didn't drag you across four thousand miles of hell, just to lose you now."

Lilah nodded absently. The words were strident, pleading, but suddenly they seemed distant and far away. She no longer remembered why he said them. She looked for him, trying to focus on his face, but couldn't. Everything around her seemed to melt and run together, obscuring the details.

Outside the room, the sounds of Mitch and Annie preparations receded to the background. Her chills were gone and in their place was an enveloping warmth. And when she heard the music, a slow smile spread across her face. From someplace she couldn't see, a voice sang to her, sweet and clear and loving. It surrounded her, filling all of her, pushing aside all the fear and pain.

"Mmm... pretty," she murmured.

Solo watched the shift in her expression with rising alarm. "Dee Dee?" He'd sat beside enough dying men to know what was happening. He'd even been there, himself. The slow slide from reality, the floating calm, the sense that all the burdens of the world were finally dropping away, like unwanted baggage. Dying was easy. It was living that was a bitch. He grasped her by both wrists and squeezed hard. "Dee Dee, stay with us. Fight it! You have to fight to stay with us. Don't give in. Don't let go."

Her arms went limp in his hands and her eyes closed. Solo got to his feet and called out to Mitchell. "Doctor, you'd better shake it up. She's going sour."

A figure coalesced from the mist around Lilah, feminine and familiar. Her auburn hair was shining, and her smile was as radiant as the sun. Lilah's heart leapt, and she stared transfixed at the private vision.

"Mom... oh, Mommy..." She opened her eyes again and tugged on Napoleon's sleeve insistently. "See her? Listen, she's singing to me ..."

Delusional, Solo thought. Too much bleeding and too little oxygen. The brain's shutting down.

He experienced an overpowering urge to rip out the tubes, pick her up in his arms and shake her back to consciousness, but he knew it would do no good. When suffering grew too great, and the dreaded spectre of death drew near, this bizarre euphoria was nature's parting gift. Lilah was slipping away from him like water through a sieve, and he couldn't do anything by himself to stop it. He raised his voice again.

"Mitchell, goddamn it, where the hell are you?"

Lilah pulled her hand away from his and reached out. The vision smiled and clasped it, and joy flooded through Lilah.

Mitchell came through the door, not even glancing at Lilah. He didn't need to. Solo's tone was enough. In his hand was a filled hypodermic. He stabbed the needle into a rubber port on the IV tubing and emptied the syringe. He stepped back and quickly checked her blood pressure again as the medication rushed into her veins.

"What are you giving her?" Solo asked. It was bad enough not being able to control a situation. It was even worse not to understand what the hell was going on. He studied Lilah, waiting to see a reaction.

“Epi — Adrenaline. It’ll keep her blood pressure up. Keep oxygen going to the brain and the rest of her —” He pointed to her lips which had gone dusky. “And a sedative for the procedure.”

Lilah heard none of it. She drew the familiar face down to her. Her mother's skin was soft and her breath, warm. She waited for the welcome feel of her arms. But her mother didn't hold her. She leaned close and Lilah could smell the perfume she always wore. Her voice was like a whisper of air.

Delilah Kathleen, you made a promise... Keep your promise, now.

Lilah tried to speak, but she couldn't. She tried to hold on to the vision, but it slipped away. And the warmth and light went with her. Her surroundings sharpened into focus and her mother's face suddenly became Napoleon's, contorted with panic.

Lilah raised her hand and touched it to his check tenderly. "Shh ... s’okay….." She barely breathed the words. "Told you ... promised ... never leave you ... never ..."

Solo bit back a whimper. "Oh Dee Dee," he said and kissed her hand.

"We're ready," Mitch said, taking the IV bags off the poles. He laid them beside Lilah's pillow. And grabbed hold of the bed rail. "We'll take her in the bed. Give me a hand with this." Solo circled to the other side, grateful for something useful to do.

Together, they angled the bed out of the cubicle, and pushed it the few dozen yards to the small surgery section. The infirmary had three operating theatres. So far, Lilah had gotten two of them functional.

For Solo, the short trip seemed to take forever. As he walked along with the rolling bed, he thought: Let her live. She's all I have. He looked across Lilah's body at Jackson Mitchell. And all I have depends on the negligible skills of a derelict quack who hasn't gone a day without a drink since he arrived here.

There was no way to motivate a man like that. Mitchell had sunk so low, that nothing Solo could say would make a difference. It was hard to reckon which way was up, when you were lying face down in the gutter.

I know, Solo told himself, because I've been there. He saw himself sprawled in his own vomit in the abbey vestibule after Waverly's men had dumped him there, and suddenly, he knew what to tell Mitchell. As they maneuvered the bed into place, he turned to the doctor.

"I can guess what you've been thinking about Lilah and me," Solo said, keeping his voice low, "but I want you to understand something: I was tortured by experts. I wasn't just burned; I was gutted. And when it was over, there was nothing left. I was empty in here." He tapped his chest. "I was just like you. The only difference between us doctor, is Lilah. She brought me back to life. If that girl dies, you might as well reserve a slab in the morgue for me too, because I won't exist like that again. Ever."

And don't you think I know that? Mitch thought fleetingly. He looked at Solo as he surrendered Lilah to Annie and another medic. "Well, I guarantee you, it won't be the high point of my day, either," he said.

He turned away to begin scrubbing up, the motions helping to disguise the trembling in his hands. Christ, I need a drink. He suddenly wanted Solo gone, so he could get to his desk for just one swallow before he started. But he could see in Solo's face that wasn't going to happen. Shit. He hadn't done any surgical procedure sober in more years than he could count. Why now? Why her?

He glanced down at Lilah, as they prepared her and suddenly, he hated her more than anyone who'd come before her. He remembered her pretty face as she sat in his apartment that day a little over two months ago, looking fetching — seductive even — and then talking to him like the mouthpiece for some crime family. She praised his strengths, brushed off his weaknesses, tempted him with dreams and desires he thought as cold and dead as the land he'd crawled away to hide in. He'd ignored her, mocked her, dismissed her, swore she hadn't gotten past the well-tended calluses that covered his heart and soul.

But here he was.

She'd bet he was good enough, strong enough. And now she had to put her life — and Solo's, it seemed — on the line to prove it.

Nothing like a little fucking performance anxiety to get the old adrenaline flowing.

"She's ready, Doctor," Annie called out.

Doctor. Was the contempt he heard really in her voice or in his own heart? He turned to the medic and let him assist with the sterile gown and gloves. Before he put a mask on, he turned to Solo. "Give us an hour," he said. "Shouldn't take more than that, no matter what happens.”

Solo nodded and reluctantly withdrew.

Mitchell stepped up beside her. He held his gloved hands up and away from his body. He didn't feel like a doctor, but a child playing at being one. Been a long time since I played by the rules, he thought. "Let's get started," he said. Annie slipped another syringe into the IV and slowly injected it, then took her seat at Lilah's head to ready the anesthesia equipment.

"You just got a hit of Versed, Florence," Mitch said. "In two minutes you won't have a secret left in the world that we don't know. And you won’t remember telling us any of them.”

Lilah was winding down like a music box. The drug was already flooding her veins, floating her away. "Mitch — " her voice sounded funny to her, all stretched and warped like soft taffy. He stepped closer, and she smiled dreamily at him. "’Member ... s’like riding a bicycle ..." Her eyes closed and Annie pressed an oxygen mask to her face.

Mitchell snorted as he sat down. Riding a bicycle. Sure it is, hon. Only if I wipe out, I take us all with me.

***

The small anteroom outside the medical department had two chairs from the commissary, a magazine table with no magazines, and a torn imitation leather couch that had seen better days. Solo didn't care. He was too nervous to sit still, anyway. So, he stood by the single window, leaning against the cinder block sill, staring out into the night.

The sky was black but clear. Good night for flying, Solo told himself. Even with the anxiety surrounding Lilah's condition, the hijacking hadn't been far from his thoughts. His marriage and his mission: the two had defined him ever since he left New York, gripping Lilah with one hand and a steel briefcase with the other. He hung suspended between them, and one was pointless without the other. When he'd told Mitchell that he would die if Lilah did, he wasn't kidding or saying it for melodramatic effect. He was stating a fact. Without Lilah, Epsilon base and all it represented, would no longer have any meaning for him.

Got my family an' my job — he could still hear them, all those commuting husbands from suburbia, talking on the subways in the morning. They'd seemed like visitors from another planet to him then. Now, in a strange way, he'd become just like them. When did this happen? When did his life become ordinary?

Solo thought of the baby they'd lost less than ten hours ago. So close to being a father, so very close. A part of him felt a deep sadness for what might have been. Another part felt perversely relieved. He wasn't meant to be a father, he told himself. He'd told Lilah, too. The miscarriages merely confirmed it. Son of the legend or son of the monster, depending upon your point of view. No child deserved either fate.

He wanted a cigarette, but his hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't light one. He'd tried earlier and emptied half a matchbook before giving up. He didn't remember feeling this much anxiety in the old days. But then, responsibility for each mission had been clear. You knew what you were supposed to do, and you did what you could. And of course, there'd been Illya to depend on. Illya, who never failed to come through.

And in between the missions, there'd been the women. Always, the women.

Suddenly Solo realized that what he wanted at this very moment was to go to bed with someone. It didn't matter who it was. Any woman would do. In fact, the less he knew her, the better. He wanted to bend a woman's body under his. He wanted the sense of power, of control, he felt during sex, and he wanted the comforting embrace afterward.

It was a hideous thought, horribly disloyal. His wife was in the next room dying, for Christ's sake, but the urge was so strong, he couldn't deny it.

Habit, like Pavlov's dog, he thought bitterly. I am a monster.

"Excuse me?"

Solo recognized the voice. It was Gerry Diamond.

"I brought you some coffee, sir."

She sounded uncharacteristically tentative, almost sweet.

"Thanks. Put it on the table," Solo said without turning. He heard the click of the porcelain mug against the laminated wood. He felt her draw nearer.

"Is there anything I can do, Mr. Solo?"

Solo almost laughed out loud. Sure baby, what'd you have in mind? If it hadn't been Gerry, if it'd been someone else and she'd been willing, he might have been more than merely tempted. But it was too easy to conjure up images of little Gerry, squealing, bouncing in his arms, playing with the Russian nesting dolls he'd brought her, fascinated by the simple act of fitting one into the other.

"No," he said finally.

She moved closer. "Are you sure?"

The question was asked honestly and with absolute innocence. There was no implied seduction, no ulterior motives. He felt her hand hovering in the air, wanting to rest itself on his shoulder, to offer comfort.

Don't push your luck, honey, he thought.

"I told you no," he said. "Please, leave me alone."

The hand fell away, far short of its destination. Without another word Gerry hastily retreated, her footsteps fading into the background.

Monster, Solo chided himself. He sighed, and went back to staring into the black, unforgiving night.

Forty minutes later, Mitchell appeared in the doorway. "All over," he said, unable to disguise the profound relief he felt. He sagged against the wall, and dragged the scrub cap from his head. "She's okay. The D&C did it. Nothing else was necessary. It'll take another half hour or so before she wakes up completely from the meds. And she'll have to stay here a few days, until her blood count improves. But the worst is over."

"She's going to be all right?" Solo asked, barely able to get the words out. He hadn't moved from the window and his back was still toward the doctor and the rest of the room.

Mitchell looked up, surprised. He'd come to believe nothing could make a difference in the world these days. Not money, not power, not good intentions or a pure heart. Certainly one person couldn't matter a tinker's damn. But as he watched Solo standing there alone and walled off, terrified that what he was hearing wasn't the truth, he began to wonder. He wants to change the world — might even succeed — but not if she isn't in it. Could one person matter so very much? Was it possible that one individual could affect the lives of millions?

Well, it's happened before.

"Yes," Mitch said, straightening up. "She is going to be all right. She's back in her room. You can even go and see for yourself if you'd like. I, however, have a date with my mistress — a quart of homemade whiskey. Granted she's not as pretty as your wife, nor does she smell or taste as good, I’ll wager. But she's as loyal, and she keeps me as warm. And I've stood her up long enough." He turned to go, then stopped and looked back at Solo.

"She's easy and generous, my alcoholic lover. I'm sure she wouldn't mind sharing her favors with you. You look like you could use some bottle-generated TLC."

But Solo didn't hear the invitation. All right. She's going to be all right. Something broke inside him. Tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks and he couldn't stop them. The last time he'd felt this swamped by emotion, Lilah'd been there with him.

Take me inside you, he'd asked her. Now, she was inside him, too. He grasped the sill for support as his head dropped below his shoulders. He began to sob quietly, privately. The only noticeable sound was the sharp hiss of escaping breaths.

Mitchell hesitated a moment, feeling the stirrings of a long-dead urge to render aid to the wounded. But there was aid, and then there was aid. He sighed. If Solo didn't need a drink and he didn't need a shoulder, then he certainly didn't need an audience, either.

“I'll go check on your wife," he said simply and left.

And as he did, Solo allowed himself finally to cry. It was as if his body was imploding, collapsing in upon itself, his whole reality being sucked into a black hole only he could inhabit. It took a good ten minutes before he was himself again, five more before he felt presentable enough to rejoin the human race. He found a men's room, emptied his bladder, washed his face, and inspected himself in a mirror. He was still wearing the blood-stained clothes from the morning, but now they were less a reminder of failure than a mark of triumph, like the flag at Iwo Jima.

He searched his trousers for a pack of cigarettes and even managed to light one. As he took a few drags, he pulled himself together. Afterward, he was going back to the hospital room. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight anyway, not with men in the field. He planned to stay by Lilah's bed all night, so if she woke for any reason, she'd see him there. He owed her that, not only because she was his wife, his friend, and his lover, but because she was the only person in the entire world who could — or ever would — touch his heart enough to make him cry.

***

What a difference half a day can make, Solo thought. When he'd left Lilah that morning, after spending the night propped up in a chair beside her bed, she'd looked as pale as a hospital sheet. But now it was evening and she was sitting up, with color in her cheeks and even a smile on her face.

"You're looking much better, darling," he observed. No doubt, he looked a hell of a lot better, too. After a shower and six hours of sleep, a decent meal and a change of clothes, he was finally starting to feel normal again. The fact that the hijacking team had returned just after dawn, in a stolen plane filled with goods and no casualties, was also a contributing factor to his mood.

"Did you hear the news?" he asked Lilah as he set down a small cardboard box at the foot of her bed.

She held out her hand to draw him closer. She was still hooked up to IV's, but instead of the blood that poured in steadily through the night, only clear fluid dripped at a slow, regular pace.

"Tell me," she said, holding on to his hand as she leaned back against the pillows. Though she felt much better, her fatigue lingered. She'd slept away most of the day, and still she was tired.

He sat down next to her, finding a perch on the edge of the mattress.

"The hijacking went without a hitch. They caught the plane on the ground as it was refueling, before the truck convoy from the ship arrived. The timing was perfect. They knocked out the ground crew and replaced them. Then, they just waited for the trucks, unloaded the supplies, put them on the plane, and flew off.

"Jack took a big gamble that no one in the convoy knew the flight crew personally, but it paid off. No losses, no casualties. No one fired a shot. And as a bonus, we now have a Challenger 600 transport. I don't know where we'll ever get the fuel to fly it, but it's not a bad thing to have around."

Lilah grinned, "Lyle can play with it in his spare time." She turned serious for a moment. "I'm glad no one was hurt."

Through the night, each time they hung another unit of blood, Lilah worried that they were depleting their stores. She wondered if her selfish desire for a child would end up costing the life of one of the team. Figuring out a way to keep more blood in storage was suddenly a top priority. Last night was a perfect example that, although they were prepared for an emergency, they were not prepared enough.

"So, what'd they get?" she asked, as anxious as a child. They lived as scavengers, working for the group, sharing the wealth. A coup like this was like Christmas for Epsilon base. "Anything for here?"

"Just a bottle or two of aspirin, a carton of Alka Seltzer and a case of bandages. No real medical supplies, but a hell of a lot of food. Canned fruits and vegetables, sugar, powdered milk, a couple of hundred pounds of steak — they eat pretty well up there." He reached for the box and dragged it over.

"Here, this is for you." He passed her a can of peaches and two Hershey candy bars. "Not exactly French chocolates and roses, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

Lilah took the candy eagerly. "What does an Irish kid from Chicago know about French chocolates anyway?" she said, peeling back the wrapper and breaking off two tiny squares. She popped one in her mouth, closed her eyes and moaned in satisfaction. The other she offered to Napoleon.

"There were also three cases of liquor and about three pounds of marijuana. We locked up the liquor, but I made Jack destroy the grass. I'm sure that's going to disappoint some people around here, but I didn’t want anyone engaging in a side hustle with it."

Lilah shrugged, re-wrapping the chocolate and squirreling it away for later. "Not much difference between that and the booze, you know. But you're the boss." She settled back into the pile of pillows behind her. "And speaking of which — Boss — tell Mitch to let me out of here. If I have to lie in bed all day bored to death, I can do that back at the apartment." She winked at him. "At least there, I won't have to do it alone."

It was a joke, but it wasn't. Lilah hated sleeping alone, no matter what the circumstances. Today she felt empty, stripped of a part of her soul. Right now, she needed more than anything to lie in her husband's arms, to feel his warmth and the gentle pulse of his heart as it beat against her body.

"Ah, Dee Dee," Solo said with a sigh. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You know, you scared the hell out of me yesterday. For a while there, I was sure I was going to lose you."

Lilah had seen Napoleon sad and in pain, angry and anxious, joyful, lustful and at peace. But she had never seen anything like the terror she saw in his face last night. And it broke her heart that she had been the cause.

"Never happen," she said, trying to smile. Her eyes welled with emotion that she'd fought all day. She clutched his hand tightly, remembering the feel of it in her own each time she woke during the night. "I know I frightened you," she began, struggling not to cry. "I was selfish, childish — " She lost the battle and tears slid down her cheeks. "Oh Napoleon, forgive me, please."

"Oh no, darling, no." He slid his arms around her shoulders, maneuvering past the IV tubes and crushed her body against his. "No fault, no blame, no apologies. We're in this together, remember?" And then, he did what he'd been aching to do since yesterday. He covered her mouth completely with his and kissed her so deeply, for the moment, neither of them could breathe.

"I don't think I've ever seen mouth-to-mouth resuscitation done quite like that before."

Jackson Mitchell's voice broke the silence and the kiss. Lilah didn't pull away completely, only far enough to rest her forehead against Napoleon's cheek. She was enjoying the feel of his arms too much to let go. She glanced up at Mitchell.

"Can't be a comedian," she quipped. "His timing stinks. Must be a doctor."

Solo made a sound deep in his throat. "No, just a reasonable facsimile," he muttered, but it was clear he was joking. Mitchell had come through for them, and the man deserved credit for that.

Solo turned with one arm still wrapped around Lilah and asked, "Something we can do for you, doctor?" He grinned. "We'll take requests."

Mitch smiled ruefully. "I’m not sure I could recall what to ask for, anymore.”

He looked at Lilah critically. Her color was much improved and her vital signs stabilized. But shadows still darkened her eyes and she was obviously tired.

"How you feel at the moment is apparent," he said, stepping up to the bed. "How do you feel when he's not holding you?" Lilah looked at her husband.

"Incomplete," she said quietly. Then, she turned back to the doctor. "I'm fine, Mitch, really. The bleeding is minimal, there's no cramping, my last blood count was much better — C'mon, let me out of here."

Mitchell considered it. It wasn't like he was sending her miles away. Their apartment was less than a ten minute walk. But he couldn't forget the look on Solo's face last night, and the man's words still echoed in his ears: If that girl dies, you might as well reserve a slab in the morgue for me too. You didn't play fast and loose with something as precious as that.

He sighed. Jesus Christ, she told me I'd have a place to live, food to eat, and a job to do. She never mentioned anything about getting a fucking conscience.

"One more night, Florence," he said, leaving no room to argue. "But I will consent to unlimited visiting hours."

"C'mon Dee Dee," Solo coaxed her. "We have to do what the doctor says. No chance for relapses, all right? I don't want to spend another night like the last one. I'm too old to sleep in chairs." He kissed her on the cheek.

"Besides, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

She made a face of surrender and sank back into the pillows. "Sure, gang up on me," she said. Then she smiled. The bed wasn't her own, but it was comfortable enough. And she did tire easily. She wasn't much good to anyone here, but it probably wouldn't be any better at home.

"Okay," she said. "One more night. But only one." Her eyes fluttered closed. "Who runs this infirmary, anyway?" she murmured. "I think this is mutiny."

Solo leaned down to kiss her again. "Sweet dreams, Captain Bligh," he said. She was still smiling when she fell asleep.

Mitchell didn't speak until he and Solo were both outside. "She's improved significantly since last night," he said by way of reassurance. "But it's not completely over. She's gonna be weak as a kitten for a few days yet, because of the anemia. And, disappointment aside, the miscarriage will play hell with her body chemistry. I expect she'll be hormonally deranged for a little while."

Hormonally deranged? Solo chuckled softly. Well, if Lilah managed to live with his hormones, he could certainly put up with hers.

Mitchell flipped out a cigarette and lit up. "Frankly, I don't envy you."

"Each man to his own poison," Solo said with a shrug. "Which reminds me: I've brought you another mistress, doctor. This one's Park Avenue — or more like Glenlivet — and strictly first class." He reached into the small box he'd retrieved from the foot of Lilah's bed and produced a quart bottle. "This was in the hijacked shipment. Imported single malt Scotch whiskey — ninety proof. I'd guess it was destined for the site manager. Accept it as a token of appreciation — along with my thanks."

Mitch's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. He cradled the bottle gently in both of his broad hands and whistled out a long breath. "My, my, my," he said. He laughed wryly. "Well, it's been a long time since I saved a life that was worth saving, and longer still since I was paid this well."

He looked Solo straight in the eye. "Last night's offer still stands. Shall we drink the first drink to your wife?"

Solo cocked his chin, to indicate that was fine with him. Everything was secure for the moment; everyone in his charge was safe. He had nothing to attend to this evening, no pressing problems. He could bend an elbow for an hour or two — for the entire night if he chose to — without suffering any guilt.

"Lead on MacDuff," Solo said.

Mitchell did. Together, they wound their way through Epsilon's corridors, to the small, single room that was the doctor's quarters. On his arrival, Lilah had insisted that Mitch be installed as close as possible to the infirmary. For his part, Mitchell didn't care where they stuck him, as long as he didn't have to — as he put it — bunk out with anyone. He'd informed them all quite bluntly that it was his job to save their miserable lives, not share in them.

The compromise was the smallest, least adorned apartment on the base. Mitchell's one room was not overly large. On one wall was a single bed that was currently unmade. There was a dresser, a small bedside table with a single lamp, and one upholstered chair. Not a single personal possession was visible. The only evidence that anyone occupied the room was a cardboard box under the bed, and an assortment of clothes strewn haphazardly about.

"Welcome to my little corner of the world." Mitch's sarcasm was almost as thick as the stale odor of cigarettes and alcohol that wafted out at them as he opened the door.

Solo stepped inside without comment. He didn't bother to point out that the living arrangements were the result of choice and not coercion. If Mitchell preferred seclusion, he was welcome to it.

"You may not envy me, doctor," Solo said, glancing around, "but I envy you — at least in terms of privacy. There are days when I would give anything to be left alone long enough to hear myself think. I've tried to hide, but they always manage to find me."

Moving to turn on the light, Mitch shook his head. "Then, you're just not hiding in the right places.” He tapped the bottle, then handed it to Solo and took two glasses into the bathroom for a quick rinse. "They'll never find you in there. Take my word for it."

Once more, Solo declined to comment. Still standing in the middle of the room, he waited for the doctor to return. Then he peeled the label off the cap of the bottle and poured two generous drinks.

"To Lilah's good health," Solo said, clinking his glass against Mitchell's, "and to the man who restored it." He swallowed down a healthy mouthful, and smiled. It was very good Scotch, the best he'd tasted in years.

Mitchell had a similar response. A wistful, faraway look came into his grey eyes. He stared into the glass, even admiring the deep amber color. "It has been quite a while, sir, since anything this good has passed my lips." Or since I've done anything to deserve it.

"And we shouldn't forget the particular talents of Mr. Palmer and his team," he added, knocking back another swallow. He turned his gaze to Solo.

"So tell me, if you could hear yourself think, would you like what you heard?”

Solo eyed Mitchell over the top of his glass. "Doctor, that's the damnedest question I've ever been asked, and I've been interrogated by the best." If they were going to play twenty questions, he thought, he might as well get comfortable. Motioning toward the upholstered chair, he said, "Mind if I sit down?"

"By all means." Mitchell crossed the floor and dropped to the edge of the bed. He dragged the night stand over so that it rested between them. Sitting forward, he cradled his glass in both hands.

"Seriously," he began again. "I’d love to know. What does a man of commitment think about when the lights go out? Do you ever reconsider your choice? Do you ever have moments when you believe this is all a useless farce?"

"No," Solo said firmly. He took another sip of his drink, then looked away. "Sometimes, I don't understand why things happen as they do. Sometimes, I wish I did." He turned back to the doctor. "But as my old mentor once said, 'When you're in the save the world business, pessimism is a luxury you just can't afford.' Years ago, when I joined U.N.C.L.E., I made a decision. I took an oath and I haven't looked back since. Do I ever regret the choice I made? No. Do I ever believe it's all a useless farce? No. Do I ever have doubts?" He looked at Mitchell. "You bet your ass I do. Not about the commitment, but about whether I'm up to keeping it."

Mitchell sighed. "Well Solo, if that's the truth — and I believe that it is — you are the last of a dying breed. The lone survivor of an extinct race of the faithful." He tilted his glass at the agent. "To you," he offered and tossed back the rest of the scotch.

Solo fingered his own glass for a moment, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. The way Mitchell regarded him made him feel like a freak, a curiosity. He couldn't accept that. As he once said to Plissken, a man who didn't know why he was alive was no man at all.

"I think you're wrong, doctor. Commitment isn't dead. It's just been knocked about a bit. Look around you, look at this base. The young people here aren't just in this for the laughs. They believe in a better future, and they're willing to fight for it. And there are dozens of groups just like this one all around the world."

"True. But they haven't been through what you have. It's easy for them. Most of them haven't even glanced at the monster, let alone stared it down." He poured himself another generous drink. "None of us knows what we will do when the dragon turns its fiery maw upon us.”

Solo shrugged. "They can't do any worse than I did." He finished his own drink and reached for the bottle. Mitchell didn't object. Indeed, the doctor seemed rather congenial tonight, so Solo refilled his glass. "What makes you think I 'stared’ anything or anyone down?”

“You are here, not as a mere participant of the rebellion, but it's very heart. So, the dragon took your soul. Clearly, you regained it. Your faith remains strong in a world where most have lost theirs, or never had it to begin with."

"Do you always wax so poetic doctor when you're drinking?" Solo asked, between sips. He shook his head. "You know, it always amazes me to hear my survival described in noble terms. There was nothing noble about it. I ran for it, just like anyone else. I was caught, I was tortured. When they turned the blowtorch on me — and by the way, it was a blowtorch — I screamed and begged for mercy just like anyone else would. I got down on my knees, drank piss, entertained the guards — I did anything and everything on the slim chance that it would stop the pain. The information I finally gave them, they didn't need. What they wanted, I didn't know. So, they dispensed with the questions and just brought in the audiences, and I performed for them, too.

"The reason I'm alive has nothing to do with me. It was their choice, not mine. It 'suited' them. Simple as that. I tried to kill myself a couple of times, and believe me, I really tried. After I was released, I was drinking two quarts of gin a day and popping Pentazocine like bar nuts. It wasn't my faith that made me what I am today. It was an old man, and a convent full of nuns. And one young woman — the one you saved last night."

Mitchell listened calmly, displaying neither shock nor pity. He finished the liquor in his glass in a single gulp. "Yes," he said after a pause, "I do get poetic when I drink. But only if I have an audience. I was wrong before," he went on, "when I said I don't envy you. I think perhaps I do."

"Yeah, I know," Solo muttered as he lifted his glass, "I'm a hero — a fucking legend. Break out the ticker tape." He drained the drink and poured himself yet another. The scotch was sliding down, smooth as syrup now. There was a pleasant buzz inside his head.

"Sorry, no disrespect intended, but I hate it when people call me that. It's bullshit. They say: 'Oh, he's someone special. He's extraordinary. I could never be like him. I could never do that.' And that gets them off the hook. They feel relieved of the obligation to do something, because they think it's not possible. They're only average, whatever the hell that is. They couldn't make a difference.

"Well, it is possible, and if everyone got off their collective asses, it would make a difference. I learned that back in U.N.C.L.E. training school. As agents, we weren't saints or supermen. No halos, no heat rays, no singing swords. God knows, I still have my weaknesses. Talk about deranged hormones." Solo chuckled ruefully. "Just as you like your booze, doctor, I've always liked my women. Last night, when you were working on my wife, all I could think about was how much I wanted to get laid. I'm not proud to admit that, but there it is.

"But evil succeeds when good men do nothing. I'm not a good man, but I try. You can't play safe. Life isn't safe. You do what you have to do, what you can do, and God or Fate or whatever does the rest. End of lecture."

Solo tilted his head back, swallowed the scotch down in two mouthfuls, and settled back in the chair.

Mitchell laughed without malice. "Oh, don't misunderstand me, I don't envy your reputation and certainly not what you did to earn it. And I don't envy you the people who helped you to remain alive. I think, if anything, I envy your willingness to allow those people in. Obviously, part of you wanted to be saved. You made yourself available to those willing to take on that challenge."

The doctor took a sip, savoring the rich, smooth liquor in his mouth before continuing. "I didn't always work in the shadows for cash only," he said matter-of-factly. "I've seen many patients — some of them, my own — who wanted to die. And if that desire is real and potent enough, there is nothing any man can do to prevail against it. You talk of suicide as if it were a mark of shame. I think of it as a rather courageous act, actually. An act of self-determination. A man who wants to end his life is at least committed to something, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, he's committed to something," Solo agreed. "He's committed to himself. Suicide is self-indulgent. So is despair. I'm sorry, doctor, but I was trained to regard cynicism as a luxury none of us could afford. That's what Thrush is in the end — the epitome of pure cynicism. And now that they're running the world, look where it's led us."

"And since your little group here is in the minority, it would appear that most of the world doesn't share your view of what the little man is able to accomplish. You believe that any of them, when faced with what you faced — the complete and utter destruction of what you were — would rise to the occasion to beat back the destroyer?

“Perhaps you should look around. You say anyone could and would do what you did. How does that explain the hopeless millions? The truth is, Solo, some were given a similar challenge to yours. They have not risen from the ashes to lead a revolution, they aren't even able to pull themselves out of the gutter that they were thrust into."

"Are you speaking from experience?" Solo asked.

Mitchell stopped suddenly and flashed a wry smile, gazing at the scotch. "Forgive me," he asked. "I don't often indulge in self-pity. Must be the caliber of spirits I'm ingesting. There was a time when liquor of this quality was all I drank, and it was just one of life's many pleasures."

"So we have that much in common at least. Anything else? C'mon doctor, be brave. Let's hear it. You've read my body like tea leaves. Now it's your turn to play 'What's My Agony’?'

Mitch picked up the bottle and filled his glass once again with a hand that was steadier now than when the bottle was full. It was a long moment and a few more swallows before he spoke.

"I’m afraid my story isn't nearly as dramatic as yours, Solo. More like the stuff bad B-movies are made from. However, I was once a man of integrity and honor, just as you are. It's true I was not in the business of saving the world as a whole, just one individual at a time.”

He stopped and held up the glass, gazing at Solo through the caramel haze of scotch. "I was a doctor," he said, the vaguest hint of pride in his voice. Then he shrugged.

"The story's fairly typical. Good student, enthusiastic, idealistic. Unlike most of my graduating class, I honestly did choose the profession because I wanted to help, to contribute. My parents were the original upper-class white liberals. Involvement was more or less my legacy.

"I went into surgery because I was gifted at it. And things came easy — staff work, then a small, private practice. I made decent money, had a wife and children — didn't even play golf. It was a nauseatingly perfect, politically correct life."

He emptied the glass and poured another. "And then they repealed legalized abortion. I was against the move, even got out there with my hand-painted placard to voice my useless opinion. But the war had already started, the wheels were already in motion to curtail people's freedoms, keep them trapped and underfoot. It was an exercise in futility."

He sighed deeply, weary from reminiscing. "So, I did what any man with my gifts and legacy would do. I made my services available to those 'girls in the backrooms' as you so accurately phrased it." He smiled again, but it was a tired smile. "My way of thumbing my nose at the powers that be.

"Well, anyway, after a couple of months of assisting any woman who needed it for no financial gain, someone brought a young woman to me who was seriously ill. Seems she'd tried to take care of her 'mistake' herself, using one of the more medieval methods. I managed to save her from bleeding to death in my office and sent her home, good as new. Or so I thought. However, infection had already set in. She was terrified to tell anyone what she had done, so she ignored the symptoms until it got so bad, she turned septic and died. But not before telling her Senator father who had done her surgery.

"The trial was filled with exciting, colorful accounts of her final days: screaming in pain, oozing blood and pus from her violated body. Friends I thought would stand by me, were the first in line to gain some points by turning me over to the wolves. My wife attended the trial because it was her duty. The last day I ever laid eyes on her was the day they found me guilty of murder and sentenced me to twenty-five years in prison."

Clenching the glass tightly, he made himself look at the agent. "I’ve been down on my knees too, Solo. In the wet, dark slime of a prison laundry room. I screamed and begged for mercy as well. Maybe that's what made me such a favorite.”

He sank back against the wall. "I made parole after ten years. A free man. Free to do anything I wanted, not even bound by the restraints of my illustrious profession which saw fit to kick me out.

“Of course the Senator wasn't satisfied with a simple prison term. He continues to haunt me like a voracious ghost. I've changed positions and locations more often than a Japanese whore. I’ve used my gifts to get me enough food to eat and enough booze to drown whatever part of me still gave a shit. I saved the lives of worse scum than I'd seen in prison — made me feel like a fucking lawyer — and destroyed the lives of enough babies to create an army.

"I only wish I cared enough to want to kill myself." He stood up and wobbled to the bathroom.

Solo sighed, downed his drink and poured himself another. Which one was it this time? The third? Fourth? He'd lost count, but he decided it would be his last. He didn't salvage the bottle just to guzzle it, himself. When the doctor returned, he waited for Mitchell to get comfortable again before he spoke.

"This may seem difficult to believe," Solo said, carefully choosing his words, "but we are not so unlike, you and I. As I told you yesterday, I was once as lost and empty as you. It wasn't my own faith that healed me, it was the faith of others. And it didn't happen overnight."

He took a swig, rolling the scotch around his tongue. "There was this old man — my boss. He refused to see me in the condition I was in, and had me forcibly sent away until I was clean. When I was reasonably so, when I was coherent enough to understand, they took me to his office and he slapped me right across the face. It was humiliating. I suppose he would've put me across his knee if he could've managed it. And then he said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? Do you believe you're the only person who's ever suffered? How dare you try to throw away your life when others need you.' He gave me a purpose.

"While I was recovering, there was a nun. She nursed me, stayed awake with me all night, held my hand when the demons closed in, treated me like a human being. She gave me back my self-respect.

"And then, a year or so ago, I met Lilah. She looked past the scars, took me to her bed, touched me when others wouldn't. She wanted me. She accepted me, when it was still difficult for me to accept myself. She gave me love, and she gave me herself." Solo smiled wistfully as he always did when he remembered their first night together.

"So you see, doctor, no matter what happens, this can never be a useless farce for me. You asked what I think about when the lights go out. Well, it's not my own voice I hear. It's theirs."

He looked the doctor in the eye. "So I guess what I'm trying to say, Mitch, is this: you're not alone anymore, either. We need you, we'll respect you, and we'll be your friends. Whether you allow it or not is up to you."

Mitchell picked up his empty glass and cradled it in both hands. A slow smile inched its way across his face. "Your wife said almost the same thing to me two months ago in Anchorage," he said with a wry laugh. "Consummate salesmen, the both of you."

He paused, reached for the scotch, and then waved it off. “It may surprise you, Solo, but I never did keep that date with my mistress last night. Saving Lilah's life was the only thing I'd done in a long, long time that felt good and clean and right. For the first time in fourteen years, I had a feeling I didn't want to drown away."

When he glanced back at Solo, there was an amused, self-deprecating look on his face. His voice was thick and slurred from the alcohol. "Is it possible that the path to my redemption lies amongst the outcasts and rebels? Save their lives to save my soul?" He shook his head. "Christ help us, then."

Solo drained his own glass, and set it down on the night table with a decisive click. "Well, if you prefer it put in more practical terms, we need a doctor and you were once a good one. That means you can be a good one, again. But I warn you: get prepared. Better do some cramming with those books of yours, especially the trauma chapters. Last night was only a preview. The main event is still to come. And on that happy note —"

With some effort, Solo dragged himself to his feet. He didn't feel so much drunk as weary. The effects of tension and lost sleep were finally catching up with him. "I'll leave you to your mistress. I'm going back to the infirmary and kiss mine good night. Thanks for the hospitality.”

"Likewise," Mitch said, stretching out on the bed. "You know, Solo, if this revolution thing falls through, you'd make a hell of a bartender.”

Solo smiled. "A lot of people tell me I've missed my calling, but they don't always agree on just what that calling might be. Good night."

He retraced his steps down the corridor from Mitchell's room back to the infirmary. It was late now, nearly midnight. All the lights had been turned down to save energy. The dimness and the liquor fog in his brain made it more difficult to maneuver, but he managed to locate Lilah's room without stumbling over any equipment. He found her sleeping peacefully, the mound of white bedding undulating gently to the rhythm with her breathing. The IV's had been removed. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, hesitant to disturb her.

Dee Dee.

Sagging against the jamb, his forehead touched the moulding. He'd intended only to plant a quick good night kiss, but now that he was there, he didn't want to leave. After his conversation with Mitchell, he couldn't face a deserted apartment and an empty bed. The ache inside him still lingered from the night before, but now, he didn't just want any woman, he wanted Lilah.

Without a sound, he picked his way across the tiny cubicle and approached the bed. Lilah was lying on her side, facing away from him. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, knowing as he did, that it wouldn't be enough. And suddenly on an impulse, he changed course and eased his entire body into her bed, climbing in beside her.

Lilah woke with a start and a quiet gasp of breath. She twisted to her back, and found herself staring at her husband. Even in the darkness, she could see the stray lock of hair that fell across his forehead, and with their faces nearly touching, she could smell the tell-tale odor of hijacked scotch on his breath. She was as delighted as she was surprised, and the loneliness that she'd felt from the moment they’d laid her in this bed was instantly gone.

"I hope you aren't lost," she whispered.

"I was, but not any more." His hand went to her cheek to guide it as his lips pressed against hers.

Lilah yielded willingly to his kiss, savoring the touch that she had longed for the entire day. The wound to her soul was deep, and there was nothing on earth that could ease the pain but this. The physical proof of their connection had died, but the connection itself never would. As long as he was here, though the tears would still come, they wouldn't sting.

Longing rose up in her so strong, she trembled as he held her. She gazed at him with liquid brown eyes. "Stay," she breathed softly.

"I intend to," he said, keeping his voice low. "With you here, where else would I go?" It was against the rules and Annie would probably scold him in the morning, but then again, he was in charge. What good was rank without privilege?

He kicked off his shoes and settled down next to her in the narrow space available, one arm thrown across her body, his face snuggled close to her breast. The room was quiet, but in the distance, he could hear the base humming with life. After a moment, he murmured into the darkness, "Was it a boy or a girl?"

Lilah smiled as her throat constricted painfully, and she shut her eyes against a new flood of hot tears. She wrapped her arms around Napoleon and held him close. Giving him the answer would change the nature of his pain, she knew. It would make it personal, harder to forget. But somehow, it eased her own hurt and desolation just to hear him ask. We're in this together, remember?

"A boy," she said when she was able to speak. "Our son."

Solo thought of the tiny corpse Annie had wrapped in a towel, and how he had turned away from it. Our son. My son. Did it look like me? He didn't know. He hadn't dared to look at its face. And where was the body now? Did someone take care of it? That should've been my responsibility, Solo told himself bitterly.

"I wasn't a very good father to him, was I? But I promise to do better the next time around."

Next time around... Right now, Lilah didn't know if there would be a next time. Their future was always uncertain. For herself, she would concentrate on the present, and face tomorrow when it arrived. Whatever it brought, they could handle it together.

"I heard something once, long ago," she told him. "It said: The best thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother. You did enough. For both of us."

Not quite, Solo thought, but tomorrow, he'd rectify that. He'd find out where the body was stored and he'd bury it, even if he had to chop through the permafrost himself. He'd mark the grave, too, so it would always be there to remind him of his obligations, and also of his limits.

Finally content with Napoleon at her side, Lilah bent her head and kissed his hair softly. "Love you," she murmured drowsily.

As Solo drifted off to sleep, he remembered Mitchell's question. A useless farce? Never. Not as long as there were still babies being born. When their next child came along, Solo resolved, the world would be a better place. He'd make it so, or die trying.

END