Recoil Pt 5-8 (Patreon)

October 1992
Brockton Bay

“Something's up.”

Aster turned to look at Nina, as they both leaned their elbows on the Boardwalk safety rail. “Something?”

“Yeah, something.” Nina stared out to sea. “Taylor's doubled down on her studies. From what I can see, she's trying to graduate by Christmas.”

Aster blinked. Even for me, with no chance of forgetting anything, that would be a bit of a feat. “Any idea why?”

Nina sighed. “No. Every time I ask her, she just says 'trouble coming' and refuses to elaborate any farther.”

“Well, she's right about that,” Aster agreed. “I didn't think it would be coming this soon, that's all.”

“You don't remember anything else about what's going to happen?” prompted Nina.

Aster chuckled. “I was a baby. We're lucky I paid attention to anything other than feeding time and nap time. I know a little bit about what was going on – mainly from TV, when my brother was babysitting me and I was still awake – but I'm still missing huge chunks of context.”

“Maybe you and Taylor should meet,” hinted Nina. “Fill in some of that context.”

Aster frowned. “Does it look like she's about to burn out or hit her limits?” Because then I can tell Contessa that I've got no choice but to make contact.

“Well …” Nina hesitated. “She's actually doing a lot better than I expected. Her girlfriend is silly and ditzy as hell, but she's helping Taylor keep it together. Maybe because she refuses to take anything seriously.”

“And they're still in a physical relationship?” Aster had trouble getting her head around that.

Nina shrugged. With her elbows on the rail, this had the effect of making her body move up and down. “It seems to work for them. I'm just glad she's got a relationship. Otherwise, she'd be a total fucking mess.”

“And that's your professional opinion?” Aster was amused.

“Paraphrasing, but yes.”

“Right.” Aster didn't comment any further. She hadn't been in a relationship since Friedrich, and she wasn't sure that she wanted one. Instead, she changed the subject. “So what do you think is going on? What's she preparing for?”

Nina's tone was frustrated. “You tell me and we'll both know.”

-ooo-

Sunday, 13 December 1992
Somewhere in Africa

The stream of plasma and molten steel leaped from Aster's hand and impacted the concrete wall, eating its way through like live steam through a block of ice. She tried not to be hit by the splatter; not that it could hurt her, but she didn't need her clothing going up in smoke. Even if it was just a basic bodysuit and mask supplied by Contessa. Powers and modesty don't necessarily go hand in -

Gunfire erupted from behind her, accompanied by several thumps on her back, as if someone had prodded her repeatedly. She stopped attacking the bunker, and turned to find a dozen of the warlord's guards, pointing automatic rifles at her. Damn it. I totally didn't notice them. If I wasn't basically bulletproof right now, that could've gone really badly. Her back smarted, but the semi-molten steel beneath the surface of her skin had absorbed the impacts.

She eyed them as they goggled at her, then the bravest of them began to raise his gun once more. Damn it. I know that they're not good people, but I don't want to just kill them out of hand. Besides, I have to get into this bunker. Grimacing, she raised her hands and began to channel molten metal into them once more. They began to glow ominously; half of the men backed off, then bolted. Come on, you idiots. Take the hint.

Pushing down the urge to just annihilate them all, she tightened her focus to a pencil-thick stream of high temperature metal and carved a line in the dirt before the remainder, offering both a challenge and a warning. They looked down at the trickle of molten steel lying in the blackened dirt, then back up at her. She let herself smile coldly. Boo. One of them said something out loud and bolted. The rest weren't long in following.

Turning, she resumed carving her way into the warlord's bunker. When the hole was big enough, she stepped through, ignoring the still-glowing edges. Inside was mayhem. Her stream of liquid steel had damaged the far wall quite badly, leaving streamers and pools of metal on the floor. Fortunately, the few guards in here, some alive and some quite possibly dead, hadn't been hit by any of it. Aster was able to read the scene fairly well, having seen more than a few of them much like it. Contessa was here.

One door was open; she stepped through and followed a corridor that led to steps down. At the bottom of the staircase was another open door. She stepped through, entering a cramped room. Contessa was here, as were five men. Three of these, obviously guards, were unconscious or dead. The other two were merely very frightened.

The other thing in the room that got her attention was a strange device built on to a framework in the middle of the room; Contessa was studying it intently. About half the size of a car engine, it was surrounded by a blue field of some sort. It looked as though it had been cobbled together with string and baling wire, and parts from a mechanic's reject bin. Aster nodded to herself; she'd seen things like this before, since starting to work for Contessa. That's a Tinker built device.

“Ah, you're here.” Contessa didn't turn around. “This is a bomb. It was built for our warlord friend here, by a Tinker he coerced into his service. Very brutally.” The glance she spared for the richly-dressed man on the floor was enough to make him cringe away from her.

“I can see several problems with that scenario already,” Aster agreed mildly.

Contessa's smile was fleeting. “Yes. A Tinker with nothing to lose is someone you don't want working for you. This bomb was supposed to be delivered to the warlord's enemies. But the Tinker activated it, just before they shot him in the back of the head, and now they can't come close to it without setting it off. This would destroy a large chunk of Africa, and thus endanger the rest of the world. We can't let that happen.”

Since Aster had begun working with Contessa, she had been exposed to a great many strange things. Tinkertech was nothing new to her, now. This had all the signs. “And I'm assuming that they didn't put an off switch on it?”

“Tinkers.” It was almost a swear-word.

“Right.” Aster eyed the device. “I'm afraid that I don't know anything about bomb disposal.”

“That's not a problem.” Contessa pointed at the device, careful to keep her hand outside of the blue field. “About six inches behind that dial is a wire. If severed, this causes the bomb to go inert. The trouble is doing it quickly enough.”

Aster didn't even question how Contessa knew that. “Consider it done.” The carefully-aimed inch-wide stream of five-thousand-degree metal and plasma leaped out, punching through the field and striking the dial. It vaporised instantly, as did everything behind it, including a chunk of floor on the other side of the room. The blue field faded. Aster cut off the stream.

Contessa tilted her head. “Nicely done.” Aster couldn't help smiling; a word of praise from the enigmatic woman was like a medal from anyone else. “You just saved the world. Again.”

“Pretty sure you would've managed without me,” Aster pointed out.

“Yes.” Contessa wasn't one to beat about the bush. “But it would have been more time-consuming. Also, the distraction you provided was very helpful.”

“Well, glad to be of assistance. Do you need me any more?”

“No. You can go home now, if you want.”

“Okay.” Aster paused. “Just out of curiosity, what does this mean?” She recited the words that the guard had spoken before fleeing.

Contessa's eyes twinkled with amusement. “'Fuck this, I'm not paid enough for this shit.' Where did you hear that?”

“Upstairs, one of the guards.” I should really pay more attention to the African languages. And then something else occurred to Aster. “Uh … one more thing. Weaver's going to be graduating by Christmas. I think that means something's about to happen. I just don't know what.”

Contessa paused for a long moment. “Thank you. I'll see what I can find out.”

-ooo-

Aster stepped out of the shower and began to towel herself down. Before she was even halfway through, her phone began to ring. Pulling on a bathrobe, she hurried out into the living room and snatched up the handset. “Hello?”

“Arjee?” It was Nina. But it was a Nina she'd never heard before. Her voice was jagged, broken.

“Neens, what's wrong? Are you all right? What's happened?”

“Arjee, turn on the TV. Channel six. Do it now.”

Frowning, Aster picked up the remote and clicked the TV on. The set took a few moments to warm up, so she turned her attention back to the phone. “Neens, what's happening? What do you want me to look at?”

“You'll see.” There was a hiccup. Oh shit, she's upset and drunk. Whatever it is, it's bad.

When she clicked on to channel six, she did indeed see. Behemoth. The monster had emerged from the Marun Field in Iran, and was wreaking havoc there. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa.

“Arjee, you there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.” Aster didn't want to look at the TV, but neither did she want to look away. Behemoth killed my mom and my brother, and was trying to kill me. And now he's here. In the same time as me.

This is why Taylor was pushing so hard. She knew this was going to happen.

“What is that thing, Arjee? What the hell is it?”

Aster took a deep breath. “He's called Behemoth. If we're going to save the world, we have to kill him.” She decided not to tell Nina about Leviathan and the Simurgh just yet. One horrific revelation at a time.

“How the hell are you going to do that?”

Aster didn't often swear, but this seemed like an appropriate time. “I have absolutely no fucking idea.”

-ooo-

Monday, 15 December 1992

“Well, at least now we know why Weaver was pushing so hard.”

Contessa nodded, taking a cookie from the jar. “You might wish to get ready as well.”

Aster frowned. “You're going to have to fill that in for those of us that don't have an eye on the future.”

The dark-haired woman chuckled dryly. “All right. I suggest that you give Doctor French your notice.”

“What, quit my job?”

Contessa nodded seriously. “You're going to want to be free by about mid-January.”

It didn't even occur to Aster to question this. “I hate to do this to him.” And she did. Martin was a good boss, and she considered him to be a good friend as well. They worked well together.

“Doing this will let you be in position to help Weaver when she needs it.”

It wasn't in Aster's nature to be world-weary or cynical, but she was learning. “Could you perhaps be any more cryptic?”

“Not much more, no.” Contessa's tone was bland, but Aster decided that she had to be laughing, just a little.

“Is it related to Behemoth?”

That got her a very bland look, which Aster deciphered without trouble to mean 'yes'. She sighed. “Okay, fine. But I still hate to do it.”

“I have to do many things that I hate,” Contessa observed unexpectedly. “If it all turns out well in the end, then it was worth it. I have to believe that.”

Aster frowned. “I'm not a fan of 'end justifies the means'. There are some lines that people just shouldn't step over. I remember someone saying that, just before I came to this time.”

Contessa gave her a searching look. “Did you want to terminate our arrangement?”

“No.” Aster shook her head. “I'm still on board with it. I just … want to make sure that I don't end up doing something unethical.”

“I'll do my best to ensure that,” Contessa told her.

“Thank you.” Aster grimaced. “I don't even know what I'm going to tell Martin. I've actually enjoyed working with him.”

“You'll think of something.” Contessa picked up a magazine from the table. “Popular Mechanics?”

“It's quite interesting,” Aster said. “Especially the articles on different types of engines and cars.”

“I see.” Contessa's voice was dry. Aster sneaked a glance at her to see if she was smiling. She wasn't, at least not visibly. But that didn't mean anything at all.

Worry intruded. What am I going to tell Martin?

-ooo-

Thursday, 18 December 1992
Doctor French's Clinic

“Here you go, Ruth. Still hot.”

Aster looked up as Martin put the packet down on her desk. The tempting odour of freshly-cooked pastry wafted past her nostrils, making her mouth water.

“Thank you,” she said automatically.

“It's not a problem,” he assured her. “I like having you around, so a little bribery never goes amiss.” His eyes twinkled, showing that he was joking.

Unfortunately, this only made her feel worse. “Um. About that. Can we talk?”

Catching on to her tone, he sobered immediately. “Certainly. What seems to be the matter?”

She took a deep breath. Rip the bandage off in one go. It'll hurt less that way. “I, uh, I have to give notice. That I'm quitting.”

The shock and pain in his eyes cut her to the quick. Whoever said that was an idiot. “Uh … quitting?” His voice matched his expression. “I mean … is it something that I have said or done?”

Hastily, she shook her head. “God, no. You've been the best boss ever. I'll always remember working here with you.” I can't exactly forget it. Or the dirty trick that I'm playing on you now.

He frowned. “Then … is it the money? I mean … I don't have much room in the budget, but I can see my way clear to advancing you a little extra pay, if you need it.”

And he would, too. “No, no, it's nothing like that.” She reached out and took his hands. “It's not about you, or this job. I've really appreciated working with you, and I love this clinic. But … I need to move on. There's something else I need to do, and I can't do it while working here. I'm really, really sorry.”

“What is it?” he asked. “What is it that you need to do?” He frowned. “Is it to do with that monster on the news, whatever they're calling it?”

She couldn't tell him what she needed to do, because she didn't know yet herself. But Contessa had given her the hint, and so she was going to follow it through. Because helping Taylor was her end goal. And if Contessa said that this was the way to do it, then this was what she would do. No matter how much it twisted a knife in her own guts.

“In a way,” she conceded. I can't tell him the whole truth, but I owe him too much to lie. “I'm kind of having to re-evaluate my life after seeing that.”

“I can understand that,” he agreed. “I don't know where I'll get another assistant like you, but I won't keep you where you don't want to be.”

Unexpectedly, she found herself standing and hugging him. He chuckled a little, from surprise as much as anything else, and patted her on the back. God damn it. Why did he have to go and say that? Now I want to stay more than ever.

When she let him go, he quite diplomatically did not mention the tears running down her face; instead, he offered her a box of tissues from the desk. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then faced up to him bravely. “I'm sorry. That was unprofessional of me.”

Chuckling gently, he shook his head. “My dear Ruth, you've earned it. If you need to leave, then of course you can leave. When were you thinking of actually finishing?”

That was where Aster was having the trouble. “Uh … how about two months, or whenever you manage to get in another assistant, whichever happens first?”

He nodded seriously. “That sounds fair. I will start the search immediately. But I strongly suspect that it will be almost impossible to find a replacement of your calibre.”

Aster felt bad all over again. “I'm sorry. I really am.”

“These things happen.” He paused, and his face took on a serious expression. “Of course, you do realise that just because your employment with me is coming to an end, this is not an excuse to slacken off.”

She stared at him with shock for just a moment, before she caught the twinkle in his eye. “Oh … you. Seriously? Slacken off?”

“No, not seriously.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Enjoy your lunch. I need to go and write a letter of reference.”

“Thank you.” He would write a good one, she knew. Martin French was the sort of man who would refrain from writing a reference if he couldn't say anything good about someone.

“Whatever for?” Martin strolled off toward his office, whistling off-key. Normally it would have irritated her, but she found herself listening, taking it in. I'm going to miss it. I'm going to miss him.

Now, if only she had some clue as to what Contessa needed her to do.

-ooo-

25 December, 1992
Aster's Apartment

“Have you heard?”

Aster turned to face Nina. “Heard what?”

“They're forming a government body to oversee parahumans. To organise them in case that thing, the Behemoth, attacks anywhere else.”

Context clicked into place for Aster then. She nodded. “The Parahuman Response Teams, yes.” So that's when they were established, and why.

“Uh, yeah.” Nina looked slightly miffed, as though she had been looking forward to surprising Aster with the news. “When did you hear about it?”

Oh, thirty-one years ago and nineteen years in the future. “Oh, somewhere around the place.”

“Ruth.” Nina's voice was severe. “I can tell when you're lying. You know that.”

“Funny.” Aster's voice was teasing. “You missed my biggest secret for ten whole years.”

Nina ignored the jab. “But you're not telling the truth right now, are you?”

Aster conceded the point with a smile. “True. I knew of them from back where I came from, but I never knew exactly when they were formed. Now I do.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Nina frowned slightly. “Another thing. Martin says you're quitting. Why is that? I thought you liked it there.”

At that moment, the final piece clicked into place and she saw the full picture. “I do. But Taylor is going to be joining the PRT. So I will be, too. So I can keep an eye on her.”

Nina looked startled. “Taylor, in the PRT?” She paused. “Okay, yes, I can see that. I can really see that. Her subjects, even … wow, she'll blitz the entrance qualifications.”

“Possibly her aim all along,” Aster suggested dryly.

Nina didn't disagree. “Actually, that would explain why she pushed for early graduation. She knew that the Behemoth would attack, which would cause the PRT to be formed, and she wanted to be ready.”

“Do you blame her?” I just hope that I'm ready.

“Well, no.” Nina eyed her speculatively. “Mind you, I just don't see you as a soldier.”

Aster grinned. “That's why I won't be applying as a soldier.”

-ooo-

Friday, 22 January 1993
Brockton Bay College

This is not the most exciting job in the world.

Parahuman Response Teams recruiting sergeant George McCarthy leaned back in his chair. Contrary to his superiors' expectations, the College was not the fertile recruitment ground that he had been led to believe. That one girl with her two friends was the most promising recruit that he'd seen yet; if she didn't hit the officer track running, he would be surprised.

But that had been two days ago and since then, all he'd gotten were a few people reading the literature and taking away recruitment forms. He had little hope of any sort of return there. Plus, he'd read all the pamphlets, twice, and had taken to rearranging them on the table every hour in the hope that it looked like he was doing something.

I might have to requisition a coffee machine or something, just so that I can stay awake.

“Excuse me?”

His eyelids, which had just begun to drift shut, sprang open. Jolting to his feet, he almost saluted before registering that it was just another walk-up and not an officer doing a readiness check. I would have failed, badly.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them, as his heart rate reduced to merely racing. “How can I help you?”

These were older than the usual run of college students, he saw at once. The blonde was pretty with a strong jaw, while the brunette was reasonably cute. He figured them to be in their early thirties. Maybe they're staff here? Neither one seemed to show a high level of fitness; he didn't rate their chances of completing Boot very high. But I'm not here to judge. I'm here to recruit.

“Uh, yes,” the blonde replied. “I'd like to join the PRT, if I may.”

George blinked. He didn't often get the abbreviated version. Most people still sounded out the whole name, or perhaps called it the 'Response Teams' or the 'Teams'. “Uh, yes, certainly, ma'am.” He picked up a form and handed it to her. “And you, ma'am?” Maybe I can get a twofer.

“Hell, no,” chuckled the cute brunette. “I'm just here to watch the show.”

“Excuse me,” the blonde interjected after glancing the form over, “but I'm going to need a form that gives me the option to join as a medical specialist.”

She barely even looked at it. Wow. “Uh, medical specialist, ma'am?”

“Yes, sergeant,” the blonde replied, a slight tinge of asperity entering her tone. “I happen to be a fully qualified general surgeon. I would imagine the PRT could possibly use someone like that?”

Holy shit, I don't often get a recruit, but when I get 'em, I get 'em. “Uh, yes, ma'am, I can state that yes, we can most definitely use someone like that. Just one second, please?” Don't let this one get away … don't let this one get away …

Turning, he rummaged around until he located the specialist recruitment forms. “Here you go, ma'am. And here's a pen.”

“Thank you, sergeant.” She favoured him with a smile, then set to work filling out the form. He was struck by the fact that she didn't hesitate even once, filling out the details as fast as the pen could move.

“So, boring job?” That was the brunette.

“On occasion, ma'am,” he replied honestly. “But once in a while someone comes along that makes it worth it.”

“Trust me, I know exactly what you mean,” she replied with a grin. “I'm a psychologist in my day job.”

“You do know that the Parahuman Response Teams needs people in that line of work too, ma'am,” he prompted her.

Her chuckle was warm and friendly. “I do understand that, but I'm going to have to decline, sergeant. I'm happy where I am.”

“Done,” the blonde reported. “And here's my paperwork.”

Shit, that was fast. George accepted the completed form, the pen and the other stack of papers. “Thank you, ma'am.”

She nodded politely. “You're welcome, sergeant. I hope you get more recruits.”

He watched her walk away. She's not as intense as the Snow girl, but if she's a full-on surgeon, then they're gonna grab her with both hands.

It occurred to him that medics were given officer ranks, so that they could legally give orders to the soldiers they were treating. Huh. Two recruits, two officers. What are the odds?

I just hope she makes it through the physical.

-ooo-

February 1993

“Come on, Goldilocks! Hut hut hut hut!”

Oh, god. What was I thinking?

Panting, Aster staggered along the rough dirt path between obstacles. The drill sergeant wasn't right next to her, but his voice gave her the distinct impression that he was. Her muscles were burning, the breath rasped in her lungs, and she wanted to throw up. But she was damned if she would.

Somehow, it had escaped her notice that even medics had to reach a certain level of physical fitness in the PRT. I suppose it will help if we ever have to run away from something. Not everyone was holding up as well as she was, although it would be stretching it to say that she was holding up 'well'. Three of the other specialists in her course had already dropped out. She suspected that they would not be the last.

She was almost at the next obstacle – a wall with ropes – when she spotted the foot sticking out of the undergrowth. Turning aside, she pulled the camouflage cover off of the first-aid dummy and dropped to her knees beside it. Going through the motions of checking pulse and breathing, as the drill stood by watching, she then gave the dummy thirty seconds of CPR. It wasn't easy – she needed all the oxygen she could get – but she managed it.

“Good,” snapped the sergeant. “Come on, up you get. You're on the clock, Goldilocks.”

I wish they'd picked some other nickname for me. But she was stuck with it for the duration. Staggering to her feet, she headed for the wall. The analytical side of her mind had already mapped it out, locating footholds. Grabbing the rope, feeling the tough fibres biting into her hands, she grimly began to haul herself upward.

Visions of letting loose, of blasting the obstacle into burning splinters, entertained her, but she kept her power in check. I'll finish this course the hard way. Because I have to.

-ooo-

“Aim!”

Aster aimed the rifle.

“Fire!”

She squeezed the trigger. The rifle jolted against her already-sore shoulder; but she had factored that in. The first five shots had allowed her to zero in on exactly how to hold the weapon, where to hold the sights, and how gently to pull the trigger. The bullet punched through the target one inch to the left and half an inch low, precisely where she had aimed for.

“Weapons down!”

The range instructor walked over to the targets. It wasn't a long walk; they weren't being tested very stringently. Specialists didn't have to match up to the training of regular grunts.

It didn't take him long to examine the targets, then he walked back to the row of specialist recruits. “Listen up!” he called out. “Your aim is appalling! Your scores are execrable! I can only hope that your actual specialist skills are worth it, because you're not worth a damn as soldiers!”

Aster let the voice roll over her. Drill sergeants, she was quickly learning, were ever ready to insult soldiers, to force them to make that extra effort. In her case, it was wasted; she only needed to be shown once. Disassembling and reassembling any firearm was just like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle; once she had seen her rifle taken apart for the first time, she could have put it back together in the dark with ease. Of course, she didn't show that she could do this; it might raise questions.

Likewise, once she learned the specific series of conditions required for putting a bullet through the bullseye, she could replicate them every time, given her perfect memory. But once more, she was choosing not to do that. Showing unusual talent was the way to draw unwanted attention, and all she wanted was to be seen as a perfectly normal specialist.

If they're watching me, then I can't watch Taylor.

And watching out for Taylor was what she was there for.

-ooo-

Monday, 20 September 1993
Parahuman Response Teams SE
Miami, FL

Paperwork, it seemed, was still paperwork whether one was in the military or not. Some things never change. Aster signed one sheet, put it in her out-box, then turned to the next one. At that moment, there was a knock on her office door.

“Enter!” she called. The door opened; a corporal with the armband marking him out as an orderly stepped into the office, came to attention, and saluted. He held a stack of paper and a clipboard in his left hand. “Major Goldstein, ma'am.”

Aster returned the salute. “Yes, corporal?”

“Your copy of the Snow Protocols, ma'am.” The orderly stepped forward and handed over a few stapled pages.

“The 'Snow' Protocols, corporal?” What the heck has Taylor done now?

“Yes, ma'am.” He came to attention and recited as if by rote. “They outline how to determine if someone is under the influence of a mind-controlling parahuman, and how to detect if a parahuman is impersonating someone important. One of our analysts up in Chicago came up with them, ma'am.”

She blinked. “Well, then. I shall read them at once. Thank you, that will be all.”

“Uh, ma'am, if you can just sign here to show that you've received them?” He offered the clipboard; she dashed off her signature. “Thank you, ma'am.”

Once he was gone, she picked up the pages and ran her eyes over them. The protocols were easy to understand, concise, and efficiently set out. There may have been loopholes in them, but she couldn't find any. Well, Taylor, you have been busy. Good for you.

As she went back to work, she smiled slightly to herself. Snow Protocols, indeed. And I bet that's just the start.

-ooo-

Tuesday, 18 January 1994
Washington DC
The White House
First Anniversary of the Formation of the PRT

Aster managed to prevent herself from gawking like a tourist at the palatial building, but it was a near thing. She managed to keep herself grounded by observing the officers around her, matching faces to names. I never thought I'd be in the military, much less an officer. But I do have to say, they live well.

The meal in the State Dining Room had gone well; Aster already knew how to eat in polite company, and the small portions had helped settle her nerves. The wine was also to her taste; it suited the meal perfectly, and she had managed to finish her glass before the meal was over.

She was reasonably sure that she had also spotted Taylor from across the room; while the younger woman's hair was much shorter, the shape of her face was the same. Aster had chosen to keep her hair at shoulder-length, but it seemed that Taylor had gone for the close-trimmed look. It was different, but in a way it suited her. Another striking difference was the PRT dress uniform she wore, sporting a few carefully-polished medals. That suits her too. She wears it with pride.

As Aster left the dining room, she tried to keep sight of Taylor, but people got in the way. By the time the blockage cleared, the slender girl was nowhere in sight. Maybe she's gone back to the Green Room.

The door to that room was still open, so she strolled in. She'd been wrong; there was nobody there. Still, it was a beautiful room, and Taylor wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, so Aster strolled about the perimeter of the room, admiring the paintings. She was standing, hands clasped behind her back, admiring the portrait of Franklin over the fireplace, when a voice spoke behind her.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

She knew the voice, of course. It took all of her willpower to turn slowly. “Director Costa-Brown,” she said. “Yes, I was rather admiring it.”

Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown. As an infant, she had watched uncomprehending as talking heads on TV discussed the retirement of the Chief Director, and what this meant for the PRT, especially with all the dirty laundry that was being aired.

Of course, this was not something she was going to reveal to anyone, for several reasons. If she could help it, she would not even reveal the fact that she knew anything of this to Costa-Brown. Under the radar. I need to stay under the radar.

“Is something bothering you, Major Goldstein? You seem uneasy.”

Aster steadied herself. I lasted months with Friedrich breathing down my neck. I can bluff my way through this. “Well, aren't you, Chief Director? We're in the White House.” She let some of the wonder that she'd been feeling earlier fill her voice. “Everything here is so far above my pay grade, I can't even begin to imagine it.”

Costa-Brown's lips curved in a brief smile. “Well put, Major. You're the surgeon, are you not? Ruth Goldstein?”

Aster smiled easily. “I am indeed, ma'am. I presume you've read my file.” She's read everyone's file.

It was Costa-Brown's turn to smile. “You presume correctly, Major.” A slight tilt of her head. “However, you represent something of an enigma to me.”

She wouldn't be so casual if she actually knew something damaging. At least, I hope not. “An enigma, ma'am?”

“Yes.” The Director's eyes narrowed slightly. “Why does a surgeon who is perfectly capable of making a good living in the private sector choose to join the PRT? The pay is less, the hours are potentially longer, and the chance of being exposed to danger is not insignificant.”

Aster chuckled. “Ma'am, I'm assuming you've never worked trauma in Los Angeles. There's danger aplenty there as well.”

“Understood, Doctor Goldstein,” Costa-Brown replied. “But it still does not answer my question.”

“My apologies.” Aster composed her features. “I fell afoul of a Doctor Henry Friedrich. Perhaps you've heard of him.”

“I believe I've heard the name in passing,” the Chief Director admitted. “A scandal attached to a Los Angeles hospital?”

“I was in the middle of that,” Aster clarified. “To cut a long story short, he didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer, and he wouldn't let me out of my contract. So the first moment I was able to get damaging evidence on him, I presented it to the AMA.”

“Which does not explain why you are now working for us,” Costa-Brown pointed out.

“It seems that the medical profession does not appreciate a whistle-blower,” Aster said. “I was unable to find work, for what appeared to be entirely valid reasons, at any of the hospitals to which I applied. So I found work as a general practitioner until the PRT was formed. They, at least, do not bow to the opinions of others when it comes to hiring surgeons.”

“I should think not,” the Chief Director replied. “We were lucky to get the medics that we did. To be brutally honest, I'm less concerned with your reasons for joining than with the possibility that you might find it not to your liking.”

“I'm actually finding it quite refreshing,” Aster told her candidly. “The chain of command is clear-cut, as is the procedure to be taken if I feel that I am being victimised. Which, as you might imagine, is somewhat of a factor for me. Once bitten, and all that.”

“I can see how it might be,” agreed Costa-Brown. “The money is less of an issue for you?”

“Money is good, but I prefer to have a job that I like,” Aster said. “In this job, I get to help people and make sure that the doctors under me are doing their jobs properly. That's kind of important to me.”

“Good.” The Chief Director smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. “I'm pleased to hear that. Carry on, Major.” She turned and strode from the room, moving with an air of confidence that Aster wished she could emulate.

After examining a few more of the paintings – masterpieces all, which came as no surprise to her – Aster exited the room, still on the lookout for Taylor. Perhaps she's in the East Room, waiting for the ball to start.

Aster strolled in that direction, but quickly realised that such was the crowd, she probably wouldn't be able to see Taylor even if she was there. In any case, what's likely to happen to her here, in the White House? I should really be relaxing and enjoying myself.

The music started, and people began to dance. She sat out the first one, then a handsome captain boldly asked her for a turn on the floor. With a smile, she graciously accepted. Having seen the steps, she knew them perfectly, of course; it was fun to get up and glide over the parquet flooring under the nominal guidance of her partner.

Several dances on, she saw Taylor enter on the arm of an older Major. She recalled immediately that they had been in close company earlier, and that both wore the Intelligence flash. Probably her boss, then. He squired her on to the floor; she went willingly enough, despite her obvious self-consciousness amid a sea of brass.

It was while she was resting between dances that she saw the tall Lieutenant on the perimeter of the crowd. Like her, he was watching Taylor as she moved around the floor with her superior. Unlike her, he didn't seem to be aware that he wasn't the only one with an interest in the young analyst. I don't like the way he's looking at her. It reminded her altogether too much of the way that Friedrich had looked at her, once upon a time. Well then, let's see what I can do about that.

Moving through the crowd, she fetched up alongside the almost skeletally thin junior officer. “Excuse me,” she said, “but may I have this dance?”

He turned toward her; she would have bet that he was already forming the words of a refusal. But when he saw her, or more specifically her rank insignia, he hesitated for a long moment. She fancied that she could see the wheels turning over in his head; how does a Lieutenant refuse a Major a dance?

The correct answer was, of course, 'he does not'. “Uh, yes, of course, Major,” he replied politely. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she murmured. “So tell me about yourself, Lieutenant.” His name, she now saw, was Calvert. Taking his arm, she guided him on to the floor in a gap between two other dancers.

It was obvious that he wanted to keep tabs on Taylor. Unfortunately, his dancing skills were mediocre at best; he wanted to lead, but had trouble keeping up with the beat. So without consulting him, she took over the lead, pushing him into the subordinate role.

With a little more prodding, as they moved about the floor, she managed to get him talking. He was a naturally proud man, she gauged, with a high degree of self-interest. His first name was Thomas, and he was strongly considering moving over to the Striker teams. She let him think that she was impressed, although her distaste for him increased each time he spoke. Every time he began to look for Taylor, she distracted him with another question about himself.

Whatever he has planned for her, I'm sure it's not good.

She managed to manoeuvre him so that they were on the far side of the dance floor to the door when the music ended; looking over his shoulder, she saw Taylor stepping off the dance floor, then looking around. It appeared that Taylor was aware of the interest that the gangly lieutenant had in her for when she caught sight of him, she looked right at him for a long moment, while he looked in the wrong direction for her. Good.

Taylor stepped into the crowd and disappeared, leaving Calvert none the wiser. My work here is done. Leaving the lieutenant to his own devices, she went to get a drink, which she carried out of the East Room.

Once more, Taylor wasn't there, but the man that Aster presumed to be her boss was. He was older than her by a few decades, with an almost totally bald head and a neatly-trimmed white moustache. As she neared him, she saw from the name-tag that his name was Hamilton.

“Good evening, Major,” she greeted him.

“Good evening, Major,” he replied with grave courtesy. “Are you enjoying the celebrations?”

“To be honest,” she replied, “it's fun for a while, but I'd much rather be checking on patients.”

“I feel much the same,” he agreed. “Except that I'd rather be cross-checking reports.”

They shared a knowing look; each knew the other's speciality, of course, so that the comments were almost superfluous. She sipped at her drink as they spoke of minor matters; if the cold spell would hold, where the next PRT base would be opened, and so on.

By the time her cup was almost empty, she was looking up at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the Cross Hall. “I have to say -” she began.

“Excuse me, but -” he said at the same moment. There was an awkward pause.

“You go first,” he offered gallantly.

“Thank you,” she replied with a smile. “I was just going to say, those chandeliers are gorgeous. In fact, the whole place is. I'm scared to move too close to the wall in case I accidentally scratch the wallpaper.”

He chuckled. “I know how you feel. I'm not used to gatherings in surroundings like these.”

“You and me both. You were going to say something?”

“Mere idle curiosity.” He made a throwaway gesture. “I was going to ask if you were a certain someone who was in the news a few years ago, but it's really none of my business.”

With an effort, she restrained herself from grimacing. No. It's really not. “My name is Ruth Goldstein, yes. I was in that mess in Los Angeles, yes. I consider it to be well behind me, so if we could leave it there, I would appreciate it.”

He inclined his head in what was almost a bow. “I apologise for the lack of tact, my dear. Please, consider the matter closed.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

She was about to go on, when a corporal with a signals flash on his lapel trotted up. “Major Hamilton, sir,” he called out. “Urgent message for you.”

Hamilton went from courteous gentleman to Intelligence officer in the space of a heartbeat. “If you'll excuse me, Major?”

“Of course, Major,” she replied immediately.

He went to meet the corporal, taking a folded slip of paper from the young man's hand. When he read it, his entire attitude changed. Turning back to her, he spoke crisply. “I must apologise. I have to go.”

“I understand,” she assured him. “Kick ass. Take names.”

A smile spread the moustache. “I don't need their names.”

Turning, he hustled away down the Cross Hall. As he neared the entrance to the Blue Room, she saw Taylor emerge. Hamilton spoke briefly with the analyst, and they both left via the Entrance Hall.

Well, she mused. That was interesting.

-ooo-

Tuesday, 4 April 1994
Miami
Aster's Apartment

”I myself will be speaking to them, probably at some length. So if you'll excuse me.” On the screen, Taylor handed off the microphone to an older man with close-cut greying hair and moved off; the camera followed her for a moment. When the man began speaking, it swung back to him.

”And that's Captain Taylor Snow, ladies and gentlemen …”

Aster used the remote to turn the TV off and leaned back in her chair. Holy. Shit.. She'd had an idea that Taylor was really good at what she did. There were a few rumours going around, if one knew who to ask. But that right there … I don't know if I could've done shooting like that.

Closing her eyes, she let the action run past her mind's eye again. The look on Taylor's face was … almost calm. She wasn't the slightest bit intimidated, even by the fact that she was facing a notorious supervillain and his armed minions. I wouldn't want to go up against her.

But I can't wait to meet her.

-ooo-

Friday, 10 June 1994
PRT SE, Miami FL

Aster looked at the Post-it note. It hadn't been there five minutes ago, when she went to get a cup of coffee from the machine down the hall. Her office door had been in her field of view all that time. And yet, when she returned, there it was on her computer monitor. Bright yellow, with six digits and two words on it.

104532
SAY YES

She glanced at her desk clock. It showed 10:44, with the seconds ticking over into the fifties. Reaching out, she plucked the note from her computer and crumpled it in her hand. She let her eyes drift back to the clock. It ticked over to 10:45 and the seconds kept on going. At 10:45:20, she heard familiar footsteps in the hallway. At 10:45:32, Director Tanner leaned in through the door.

“Yes, Director?” she asked.

“I've just gotten off the phone with Director Walsh, in Austin,” he told her. “He's putting together an op with a high likelihood of injured personnel, both PRT and civilian. He asked me if I could spare any of my medical staff for the aftermath. Would you like to volunteer?”

She thought of the note in her hand. “Yes,” she replied at once.

He blinked, as though he had expected her to ask questions. “Right then. Get what you need. Transport leaves for the airport in an hour. Wheels up in ninety minutes. Got it?”

She nodded. “Got it, sir.”

“Good.” He paused. “Take care. Don't get hurt.”

“I'll do my best, sir.”

Turning, he trod away down the corridor. She frowned, considering. Contessa left that note. Chances are, Taylor's involved. She needs my help.

Calling up her power, she let the heat leak through the skin of her palm without quite allowing any metal to trickle through. It wasn't easy, but she was getting the trick of it. The paper incinerated in an instant, with just a puff of smoke from her closed hand. She dusted her hands together over the trash can, then went to get ready.

-ooo-

Saturday, 11 June 1994
Compound near Waco, TX

The radio in the aid station crackled. “All units, all units. Female parahuman, metal controller, code name Metal Storm, is a PRT asset. I say again, do not attack the girl who's covered in steel. Over.”

Aster fidgeted, wishing she could do something. There was nothing she could do. The aid station had been set up (behind barricades, so that those in the compound could not snipe at it), the tables had been laid out, antiseptics and anaesthetic ready to be used. There was even a hand-held X-ray scanner; she'd heard that it had been built by Hero.

A few casualties had come back before the chopper was shot down; her heart had plummeted to her shoes in a similar fashion when she saw that. But she believed that Taylor was alive. She had to believe it. She didn't survive everything she's gone up against before, just to die like that.

That small part of her which was always logical pointed out the flaw in her argument. She ignored it.

Since the assault had started, more men had been coming back to the aid station. Some had been shot, while others showed severe burns. The cape that shot down the chopper did this. A dull rage built inside her; she wanted to find that cape and match him, heat for heat. See how he likes a few burns.

But I have to be a medic, a surgeon. I have to help Taylor.

The shooting, already sporadic, began to peter out altogether. There was a single, dull explosion. Flash-bang grenade, Aster mentally supplied. One more shot. Then another. Then silence.

Aster waited, gritting her teeth. Taylor's in there somewhere. Come on, come on.

"Doctor Goldstein?" It was a nurse at her elbow.

"Yes, Frances?"

"I went to get some whole blood, and I could only find a little."

Aster blinked. "Did you try the second cooler trailer on the left?" That was what had been set aside for it, anyway.

Frances nodded. "That's where I looked. We've got about a dozen units."

Aster didn't bother asking, are you sure? Instead, she frowned. "How about blood expanders?"

"We've got about the same for that, and that's it."

"You've got to be -" Aster didn't bother finishing that. Frances obviously wasn't kidding. "Major Holden!" She turned, looking for the officer in charge of the aid station. However, just as she caught his attention, the radio crackled to life.

“All clear, sector three.”

“All clear, sector five.”

“Armoury has been secured.”

And then, the one they'd all been waiting for. “Fire Team Charlie Actual calling Fire Base One. Objective achieved. Six, I say again, six hostages secured. Casualties, I say again, casualties. Medical assistance required urgentmost. Do you copy, over?”

After a long moment, another voice spoke up. “Message received, Fire Team Charlie Actual. Medvac incoming alpha-sierra-alpha-papa. Hold tight. Fire Base One, out.”

“Fire Team Charlie Actual, that's a roger. Out.”

Major Holden cupped his hands around his mouth. “Medvac teams Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, move out! Ambulances will convey you to the compound! You will meet up with support there, and move in! Move-move-move!”

Aster took a step forward. “Major Holden! I need- !” I need to find Taylor before it's too late. I need to find more blood expanders and whole blood. I need to find out who screwed up and kick their asses.

Holden looked at her. “Sorry, Goldstein. That's a negative. Prep for surgery. It sounds like you're going to be busy.” Then he was gone, trotting from the aid station in the wake of the medvac teams. Engines roared as the ambulances bumped away over the uneven ground toward the compound. Aster took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned to her surgery teams. “All right, people. You heard. Get ready. We're likely to be overwhelmed in just a few minutes, so if there's anything you've got to do, do it right now.”

Moving among the tables, she kept talking. “We've all trained for this. We can do it. I worked trauma in Los Angeles, and I survived that. We can survive this.”

While her words didn't altogether dissipate the tension in the tent, people did seem to relax just a bit.

She took a deep breath. "Also. Someone screwed up. We're way low on both whole blood and blood expanders. So we're gonna have to stretch it out. Don't use it unless you absolutely have to, folks." Turning to Frances, she went on more quietly. "Go through every vehicle, every trailer. Find me some more blood. I don't care if it's some officer's private medical stash, bring it here."

Nodding, her eyes wide, Frances turned and dashed out of the aid station.

Aster washed her hands, slowly and carefully. Normally, as a part of her pre-op ritual, this helped to relax her. Unfortunately, her own tension was ratcheted so high that she could feel it humming in her bones. But she didn't let it show, instead allowing a nurse to glove her up. She turned toward the aid station doors as the first ambulance screeched to a halt outside.

Freshly gloved and gowned, she couldn't go outside; the chance of becoming contaminated by dust, smoke or any other airborne particulate was too high. Orderlies flooded out in her stead, medics moving among them, assessing the injuries.

The first gurneys rattled in through the doors, bearing people stained with blood and dirt; some were groaning while others lay ominously still. Aster watched them as they came in; her perfect recall allowed her to pick each one in turn and reject them, one after the other. Not Taylor, not Taylor, not Taylor …

And then, a gurney entered with one soldier lying on it, cradling another. A third strode alongside, arguing loudly with the medic while holding a precious blood bag high. Aster looked more closely. The soldier alongside the gurney was female and brunette, but too heavy-set to be Taylor. On the gurney, one soldier was male, and big enough to make two of Aster. But the other …

… the other was Taylor Snow.

Aster was moving forward even as her brain confirmed that. “Excuse me,” she interjected. “What's going on here?”

The medic, a Captain Rosario, indicated Taylor's hunched body. “This one's too badly hurt. We'll never save her. Morphine and let her go.”

“No!” That was the soldier alongside the gurney. Her hand moved toward her slung rifle, but then dropped away again. Aster thought she looked vaguely familiar. At the same time, the man holding Taylor tried to sit up.

“No,” he grunted. “Save her.”

“She's losing too much blood. There's a catastrophic impaling trauma,” Rosario snapped. “We can't do it.”

“Captain, go deal with the other wounded,” Aster told him. Before I punch you. “I'll take care of this.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Rosario said. He made his escape, and Aster turned to the others. “I'm Doctor Goldstein. Bring her this way.”

“You're not going to just abandon her?” asked the female soldier. Aster sorted through her visual snapshots of the woman and found the nametag. Piggot. Well, now. Isn't that a coincidence.

“No, Lieutenant Piggot,” she replied firmly. “I'm not. But first, we have to find out how bad this is.”

“Doctor!” Aster looked around. The blood bag that Piggot was holding was almost empty.

“Damn.” She wasn't sure how many more she could scrounge. “What blood type is she?”

“AB.” That was the man on the gurney. “Universal recipient.”

“Good. That might just save her life. Lieutenant Piggot, how do you feel about giving blood?”

“Yes.” That was all the lieutenant said; Aster felt a rush of warmth toward her.

“Me too.” That was the wounded man on the gurney.

“You're hurt.” The words came out automatically.

“I'm not bleeding. I can spare the blood. She can't.” His tone was firm.

Aster didn't argue any further; looking around, she caught an orderly's eye. “Orderly!” He came trotting over to her almost immediately.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Transfusion kit, stat. Two sets. Make that three. And bring back a nurse.”

He didn't question her orders. “Yes, ma'am.” He disappeared into the swirling pandemonium once more. God, I love being able to give orders like that. And have them obeyed.

Aster turned to the three soldiers. “This way.” She led to the table where the X-ray apparatus had been set up. Rosario was there, setting up a patient. She gestured. “Off. We need that.”

“Uh, we need it,” protested Rosario. “This man's got a bullet in his thigh, and we need to find out how close to his femoral artery it is.”

Stepping up, Aster got right in his face. “Will your patient die if he doesn't get X-rayed right now, Captain?”

He hesitated for a long moment. “ … no.”

“Well, mine will. I need that table.”

Another hesitation. “Yes, ma'am.” He gestured; orderlies lifted his patient back on to a gurney. But the look he gave her warned her that she'd better be right about this. Well, duh.

Between them, she and Lieutenant Piggot managed to get Taylor on to the table, without disturbing her too much. The field dressing over her lower abdomen was already red and wet with blood, with more soaking through all the time. She was still breathing, but her pulse was weak.

As Aster began to run the handset over Taylor, she watched the screen. Behind her, the orderly arrived at a run. “Transfusion kits, ma'am!”

“Good,” she said over her shoulder. “Nurse?”

“Yes, doctor?” It was another voice; young and female.

“Set up transfusions between the sergeant and the lieutenant into the captain.”

“What, both at once?” The shock in the nurse's voice was plain. Aster turned to look at her. “Uh, I mean, yes, ma'am.”

“Good.” Aster went back to the handset, but the picture was plain. There was a piece of metal of some sort, daggered into Taylor's body via a wound in the lower left abdomen. How she hadn't lost a vital organ, Aster would never know, but right now her life hung on a thread. And dumping more blood into her would only slow down the collapse.

I can't fix this. Pulling that metal out would kill her. Operating to get it out will probably kill her. Leaving it in will definitely kill her.

Drawing a deep breath, she tried to centre herself. I'm here to help Taylor. I've got to help her. Stop focusing on what I can't do, and work out what I can do.

Her eyes snapped into focus. The image on the screen had been metal. Specifically, a strut from the crashed helicopter. I know how to get it out.

“Hold on,” she told them. “I'll be right back.”

Hustling over to the radio, she picked up the mic. Switching it over to public-address, she began to speak.

-ooo-

Kari

“How are your hands?” Kari asked solicitously. “They look kinda … painful.”

“I can not feel them, unless I try to move them, or look at them,” Roberto confessed. “Will I lose them?”

“No, buddy, you won't,” Captain Lansing assured him. He gestured at the aid station just ahead of them, which was bustling with activity. “These guys will fix you right up.”

At that moment, the PA system came to life. “Attention, Metal Storm. Attention, Metal Storm. Report to Doctor Goldstein at the aid station immediately. I say again, Metal Storm is to report to Doctor Goldstein at the aid station immediately.”

Startled, Kari looked at Lansing. “What? What do they want me for?”

Lansing shrugged. “No idea. Better go in and see.”

“Okay. Right. Um.” Kari took a deep breath, and pushed through the doors. “Uh, hello?” she called out over the controlled tumult within. “Doctor Goldstein? Someone called for Metal Storm?”

“Over here!” a voice called, and she saw a raised arm. “This way!”

Edging around tables crowded with doctors and nurses doing whatever doctors and nurses did – and there was a lot more blood than she'd ever expected there to be – Kari made her way over to the doctor who had called out. She was blonde, with strong features behind the face-mask and an air of simmering tension.

“How can I help?” Kari asked, then looked down at the woman on the table. “Oh! Captain Snow!”

“You can help save her life,” Doctor Goldstein stated. “You can control any metal, yes?”

“Um, I guess,” Kari ventured. “I haven't tried with every metal everywhere, but I haven't found one that I can't control.”

“Good. What's your name?”

“Uh, Kari. Kari Schultz.”

“Well, Kari, I'm afraid you're being thrown in at the deep end.” The doctor pulled back the dressing on Captain Snow's belly; Kari gulped as fresh blood oozed out of the ugly gash. “There's a piece of metal in there. I want you to tell me if you can get that out of her without doing any more damage.” She gestured to a screen, and ran a weird-looking handset over Captain Snow's blood-soaked uniform. Kari gasped as she saw the piece of metal outlined on the screen.

“I – I can try.” Kari pulled back the steel that had covered her right arm and gingerly reached into the wound. Warm blood coated her fingers, and then she made contact with the piece of metal. “Got it.”

“Can you get it out?”

“Uh, sure, but it's stopping some bleeding. If I take it away, she'll bleed a lot worse than she is now. I can feel the blood trying to push out around it.”

“Wait.” The doctor looked at her intently. “You can feel what's going on in there?”

“Uh, sure.” Kari blinked. “I can feel through whatever I'm controlling.”

“And your control. How good is that?”

By way of demonstration, Kari held out her left arm, still covered in metal. It sprouted a tiny forest of metal filaments, each about as fine as a human hair. These twisted and writhed in perfect formation. “Pretty good?”

The doctor grinned or at least, showed her teeth. “Okay. Excellent. You're about to save a life.”

“I – I am?”

“Yes. You are.” The handset moved around Captain Snow's body. “This blood vessel here. Can you stitch it closed?”

“Uh … like this?” Watching the screen closely, Kari made fine wires extrude from the metal inside the Captain's body. Needle-sharp tips punctured the walls of the artery and then tightened to pull the gash shut, then Kari severed the connection with the main mass of metal.

“Exactly like that. Nurse. Set me up with a transfusion as well.”

“Uh, Doctor?”

The doctor turned to look at the nurse. “I believe I gave an order. This patient needs every drop of blood we can give her if she's to survive.”

“Right. Right.” The nurse busied herself with needles.

Kari looked at the doctor. “Uh, which one next?”

“That one, I think.”

“Okay.”

-ooo-

Aster

On and on they worked; with each bit of damage that the girl stitched up, Taylor's vital signs improved infinitesimally. It was only due to her perfect recall that Aster was later able to determine exactly when Taylor's blood pressure began to rise once more; she was coaching Kari through final repairs, stitching up the wound as the piece of metal that had caused it was retracted.

“Uh … Doctor Goldstein?” It was Lieutenant Piggot. She finished off the sandwich she was eating – Aster had sent the nurse to find some food – and dusted off her hands, careful not to disturb the IV tube in her arm.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Is she going to have problems with all that metal inside her?”

Aster smiled. “No. It's titanium. We use it in implants all the time.”

“Oh.” Piggot looked simultaneously enlightened and impressed. Aster didn't elaborate on how she knew this; it just so happened that she had once read about that specific type of helicopter, and what that particular part of its airframe was made of.

“Um, that's it, I think.”

Aster looked over Kari's shoulder. A neat row of metallic sutures closed off what had been a gaping wound; the remaining titanium was wrapped around her hand like a glove. “Well done,” Aster praised the girl. “If you've ever thought of being a doctor, go for it. I think you've got a gift.”

“And that's it?” asked the lieutenant.

“Well, it is for us.” Aster set about removing the IV tube from her arm. “She's out of danger for the moment, but I'll be a lot happier once she's got more blood in her. And the sergeant here also needs attention. Also, blood.” She nodded to Lieutenant Piggot, and to the burly sergeant. “Thank you both for your contribution.”

Piggot shrugged, allowing the nurse to remove her IV. “We were boot buddies. I couldn't do any less.” Sergeant Kinsey – Aster finally managed to get a look at his nametag – merely nodded.

“Lieutenant Piggot?”

They looked around at the new voice. Aster frowned as she recognised the pair of newcomers as MPs. Their nametags read Orson and Green. “What's going on?” she asked.

Piggot, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised. “Right. Okay. You want my weapons?”

“If you would be so kind.” Orson accepted the lieutenant's pistol, offered butt first, and her rifle, held by the sling.

“Excuse me,” Aster snapped. “What's going on? The lieutenant just helped save the life of Captain Snow here.”

“Please stay out of this, Doctor,” Green advised her. “We've been ordered to take Lieutenant Piggot into custody.”

“That's Major Goldstein to you,” she retorted, nettled. “Now, one more time. What are the charges?”

“Well, Major,” Orson replied. “She's been accused of threatening senior officers with a loaded weapon. Among other things. Now, we are going to carry out our orders. Come along, Lieutenant.” Just a little stunned, Aster watched them walk away.

“They can't get away with that, can they?” asked the teenage girl.

“Well, they can arrest her,” Aster pointed out. “But charges like that will lead to a court-martial. So we'll have to see.” She indicated Taylor and the sergeant. “In the meantime, we have patients to deal with. Care to give me a hand, Kari?”

The teenage girl nodded. “I really think I would.”

Aster smiled. This also keeps her occupied and stops her from thinking too deeply about what's happened today until she has time to process it. “Good. May I ask you a question?”

“Uh, sure, Doctor. What about?”

“The name, Metal Storm. Are you likely to be keeping it?”

Kari shook her head. “No, I really don't think it suits me. Why?”

Aster made her tone light. “Oh, no reason.”

-ooo-

Wednesday, 15 June 1994
Austin TX
PRT Base Infirmary

“Doctor Goldstein. We meet again.” Rebecca Costa-Brown's handshake was as firm as her voice. Aster did her best to return as good as she got.

“We do indeed, Chief Director.” She allowed herself a slight smile. “Though I didn't think we'd be talking again so soon.”

“Nor did I.” Costa-Brown nodded at the closed door. “When can we see her?”

Patience, patience. “The last of the sedative should be out of her system. By my estimation, she'll be waking up naturally in the next hour or so.”

“You can't wake her up sooner?” That was Grantham.

Aster gave him a stern look. “Sir, you're my commanding officer, but she suffered an injury that very nearly killed her. Ten more minutes and she would have been too far gone to save. So you'll excuse me if I'm a little protective of my patient.”

“Sir,” murmured the last of the group, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton. He wore his promotion well. Aster didn't have to ask how he'd gotten that; she had heard the rumours that had circulated after New York. “Why don't we let the doctor do her job? She did save Captain Snow's life, after all.”

Grantham nodded jerkily. “All right. Let us know the moment she's able to talk.”

“Certainly, sir.” Aster nodded to the other two. “If you'll excuse me?”

Nobody demurred; Aster went back into Taylor's room.

-ooo-

Taylor looked almost at peace, lying there in the hospital bed. Her face relaxed from its normal stern lines to the point where Aster could see the face of the girl she had once been. Of course, even as a teenager, she had been no pushover; during her brief career as Skitter, she had risen dramatically to become one of the most feared and respected capes in Brockton Bay and beyond.

Is it any surprise that she's doing the same here?

Aster felt a fierce loyalty toward the young woman in the bed. Taylor had been sent back to save the world. Aster had been sent back to help her, to assist her in any way she could. And she intended to do just that, with every resource at her disposal. Whatever it took.

Taylor stirred; she seemed to be muttering something in her sleep. Aster thought she caught the words 'wake up'.

Well, if that's not my cue, nothing will be. Reaching across, she collected Taylor's glasses from the bedside table. It hadn't been hard to contact Brockton Bay and get her prescription; an optometrist had replaced the lens as an overnight job.

Taylor's eyes fluttered open. I so want to talk to her. Find out everything I missed. But first things first.

“Ah, Captain Snow,” she said cheerfully. “You're awake.”

Part 5-9