Everything was in place, as always. Plaques and medals weren't the Major Bryant's style. He only had one plaque, and that had his name and his current position. The flag of the IF and the crest were the only adornments on the walls besides the clock and a single large painting. The painting was a representation of battle from old World War II, a huge battleship being sunk by a squadron of Japanese Zeros.

Bryant himself was as sparse and fit as his office, a seasoned veteran of about forty-five seated behind an outsized desk of polished teak, working on his large desk terminal. He looked up with the doctor came in only briefly, long enough to gesture for him to sit down before he completed his report and looked at him.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"I have some very serious issues to bring to your attention. I have sent you a copy of a medical report concerning a student named Moira Callenstrom. She was brought in this afternoon with some very serious injuries."

He only spoke when he punched a key to terminate the display. He shifted in his chair just slightly, and reclined backard, his elbows atop the armrests of his chair. He studied Muriada for a long moment before saying, slowly and precisely, "Hardly what one might call a scuff, wouldn't you say, Doctor?"

He relaxed a little bit, this much out of the way.

"When the girl woke up, she named her attacker, using the boy's nickname. His name is Nathan Terrence. He's one of the probational students we got from Charybdis on this shuttle. She's been out since then. I dispatched MPs to collect him...but another probational student alibied him, and the idiot at the detainment center released him on her word alone-" he stopped, calming his features. "Sir." He took a breath. "I request that he be detained again until the truth of this matter has been-"

The door chime sounded, and the Major made a small gesture for the doctor to remain silent. "Come in."

Rachel came in, and Gerard looked at her in confusion. "Rachel? What is it?" She looked chagrined, but answered anyway. "Sir, Callenstrom just woke up. She said it wasn't Terrence. She won't say who it was, but she says it wasn't Terrence." She looked nervously at the Major and then back to the him. "He tried to visit her, sir, but I instructed the MPs to keep him out."

He was certain Jor hadn't done it...but he hadn't met this Terrence yet. Still, his file documented his past exploits, and it had seemed to draw everything into place. Perhaps the Major would draw a similar conclusion. Nothing to depend upon - the Major was not one to jump without knowing exactly the breadth and depth of the space in question - but worth an effort.

Bryant sat back up staight, and rested his elbows on his desktop, steepling his fingers.

"Personal memo:" he said, speaking into the air, "requisition all files concerning Nathan Terrence, a.k.a. Asmodeus or 'Mode', from the Charybdis Institute. Also, schedule meeting with school psychologists and instructors to discuss how the so-called 'probie' students are adjusting to the environment of Command School, and determine whether the program's success is worth the risk. End memo."

The computer beeped three times in quick succession. "Memo recorded," it said, in its soft, liquid voice.

Bryant remained reclined in his chair, swiveling slowly back and forth, as he stared into space and considered how he would deal with this new catastrophe.

Once upon a time he'd met a Colonel named Graff, who had convinced him to accept a post as Headmaster of Command School, because there were children that were getting old enough to graduate from Battle School. It's simple, Graff had told him. These children may be smart, but they'll always be children, and that means that we adults can always stay ahead of them. They're ruthless because they haven't learned empathy yet. We're ruthless because we have learned to empathize and then strike anyway. That makes us stronger.

Bryant shook his head. Graff might have been right about Battle School. But Command School was different. These weren't children anymore. They were teenagers, which was worse. All terrible anger and hate and newfound strength. had any student ever attempted to burn another student alive? Bryant doubted it.

[ALL CHARYBDIS INFORMATION IS OF SECURITY CLEARANCE 12 -- DO NOT DISPLAY INFORMATION TO UNSECURED STAFF]

Nathan Terrence was admitted to the Charybdis Institute after severely beating his commanding officer, Anjelice Iddantel and a toon leader, Ariadne Ivemey. Both students have fully recovered and now attend Command School.

Terrence did not adjust well to Charybdis, becoming bitter and withdrawn. He was treated for an injury on his right hand that he sustained in a fight with a drug addict, but has no other known altercations on record. Several suspected, none confirmed.

Psychological evaluation:

Terrence appears appropriately repenting for his actions in BattleSchool. We have conditioned him by both psychological and chemical means, and he has passed the screening test. Two of his five attending physicians were against his return to Command School, but were unable to produce sufficient evidence to keep him in the Institute.

He defines himself through his remarkable ability of movement. His unusual dexterity had given him the nickname "Angel" for his abilities in the battleroom, but he has changed it to "Asmodeus", in retribution for his past crimes. He has formed no real attachments here. He has common communication with Denali Katera Quistin ("Kat"), another BattleSchool reject, and Dimitri Sandre, one of the unsuccessful empath implant subjects.

While at the Institute after his reinstatement, Terrence made use of our training facility. We can positively account that he has had instruction in all the forms of unarmed combat that we provide. If it is necessary to sedate or anesthetize him, use twice the normal dose of tranquilizer. He has a medically tested tolerance.

He appears fit for duty. Do not place him in the same Quad with Iddantel or Ivemey, and keep a close eye on him. Please report any infractions to his head physician, Corrina Reynolds, at the Charybdis Institute.

His aide's voice came through the intercom. "The student you requested has arrived, Major Bryant."

Bryant straightened in his chair, and then made himself lean back, assuming a casual position. He terminated the display and said, "Send him in."

The door opened, and a teenage boy entered, moving with the slow, methodical precision of one used to looking over his shoulder. Bryant watched the way the boy's eyes roved the office. Thief's eyes. The boy was casing the joint. Bryant didn't have to wonder what made the boy like that. He already knew. He knew everything about this boy.

"Welcome to Command School, Mr. Gabriel," Bryant said.

The boy's eyes came to rest on Bryant, and he moved forward, cautiously, as Bryant motioned that he should take a seat. The boy did, but he eased himself into the chair slowly, like he thought there might be needles hidden in the seat or something. The boy's eyes stayed right on Bryant's face, however. "I know you," the boy said, once he sank into the leather chair.

Bryant might have grinned, if he were not keeping such careful control of his face. "I understand you have quite a good memory," he said. "It's been ten years. You were only a boy. And I was much younger."

"You were the man with the horses," the boy said, as if he'd not heard a word of Bryant's.

At that, Bryant chuckled, softly. "Yes. That was me." Images of the boy the way he'd been, the last time they'd met, flashed through his mind. A bright little five year old boy, absolutely fascinated by the horses on Bryant's ranch. He'd looked at those mares like they were the most beautiful creatures he'd ever seen.

"You knew my mother," the boy said, a bit more gravely.

Bryant ignored the pang of guilt that stabbed at him, and replied, "Yes. And I served with your father."

At the mention of his father, the boy's jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed just slightly. It was not, strictly speaking, a warning; the change in the boy's face didn't seem voluntary. But nevertheless, Bryant did not mention the boy's father again.

For several moments, there was nothign more said. The two regarded each other, Bryant with stoic curiosity, and this boy with suspicious wariness. Finally, Bryant leaned forward, and spoke again. "It's good to meet you again, Mr. Gabriel. I'll be keeping an eye on your progress. That is all."

There was a pause on the other end of the link, and then a woman's voice. Bryant thought he recognized it. A nurse from the infirmary. Bryant could not recall a name. "Um, I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but the doctor asked that I notify you, because of your interest in the student Hunter Gabriel . . ."

Bryant was suddenly very awake. "What's happened?"

"He, um, . . ." She hesitated. "He's bee stabbed, sir. Another student brought him in about two hours ago. We've got him stabilized -- he's going to be okay. The wound went through his lung, but we're pretty sure he'll make a full recovery. He'll have a scar, of course -- the wound was . . . ragged . . . but other than that he'll be okay."

The link was silent for a moment.

"If there's any change keep me informed," Bryant said, as he terminated the connection.

He knew, immediately, what had happened. But he was an administrator now; there was nothing he could do until there was some evidence. He'd just have to wait, and hope that everything turned out alright.

Von Starnburg arrived at the door to the waiting area, walked in, and without pausing, headed straight for the door to the main office. The secretary stood up with a squeak of protestation as he walked past, but Johan paid her no heed. He arrived at the door, and, upon finding it locked, turned to the secretary.

"Open it." She backed away, shaking her head. He advanced upon her.

"Open it, before I lose my temper, you worthless bitch." This last came out in a ferocious snarl. Von Starnburg hated it when lackeys refused him. He gestured at the IA crest on his shoulder boards.

Bryant was the kind of man that prided himself on never letting enemies see him bleed. He'd learned long ago to never, ever, let any compromising emotions appear on his face. Anger, pain, sadness, and most importantly, surprise. Letting your enemy see you surprised could be deadly.

So when this man burst into his office unannounced, Bryant looked for all the world like he'd been expecting the man. He motioned toward one of the seats before his desk, and killed the display floating in the air between them. "Welcome, Lieutenant Colonel," he said. He had, of course, known the instant this man had arrived, and had looked into his history, through his various contacts in IA. He'd been sure to memorize the man's face well enough to recognize him easily.

Johan reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small paper notebook, and tossed it casually onto the headmaster's desk. "Ah Major," he said, "How good of you to see me. I intended to see you earlier but…." Shrug. "I was otherwise detained. You shall have to forgive me." Von Starnburg walked around the office, toying with the flags on the wall, not bothering to look at the Major.

"In that notebook you'll find the report I'm sending back to Fleet Command. It has all my criticisms," he waved his hand dismissively, "mostly staff deficiencies, policy inefficiencies, that sort of thing." His back was completely to the Major, his tone that of an executive to a secretary. "You'll find the names of those who I have determined to be extraneous or counterproductive; I leave it to your discretion on how you deal with them, of course, but I should think that letting them go would be in everyone's best interest. Read through it, and if you have any questions, please, feel free to ask."

At this, he turned back to face the headmaster. "But now to business. I'm afraid that events have conspired to prolong my visit to your charming school. Certain… issues have been raised that require my further investigation. Rampant insubordinance, inappropriate student relationships, not to mention pathetically unprepared guards - why, when I was performing the simplest of arrests just the other night, it took three to subdue one boy. Just one! It doesn't reflect well on the administration, I must say."

"The name of the boy that you attacked in his cell is Shimon Rabin.  He's an excellent student here, and a simply fantastic pilot -- one of the best we have.  He's also not known for taking a beating lying down.  You can be sure that no action will be taken against him, or his accomplice, Jordan Windhaven, on my watch.  They did not once defy an order, nor did they break any military code, because they are minors and not subject to them.  In fact, I'm rather proud of them -- they demonstrated remarkable bravery in standing up to you and your thugs, and the kind of fierce loyalty to their comrade that we only wish we could instill in more of our students.

"Your move against Callenstrom was equally unecessary and unethical.  She has not been formally accused of any crime, but that is beside the point; the IA has no jurisdiction in investigating the actions of non-Fleet personnel -- that is to say, minors -- except when said investigation is authorized by the body charged with their keeping -- in this case, Command School, and therefore, me. And I authorized no such investigation, Lieutenant Colonel.  You could have charges brought against you, for the things you did to a minor in that room.  Now, naturally, I myself wouldn't dream of letting a lapse like that be known.  But you know how it is.  Information spreads quickly on a rock this small.  You never know what might leak back to IF Command.

"Now, Lieutenant Colonel, let me make one thing very clear.  I served with the Special Operations Task Force.  I know all the tricks you IA investigators use.  And I know that you have power far above that which is actually warranted my your rank.  I've no doubt that you could make significant trouble for me, if you wanted to.  But I have friends, Lieutenant Colonel.  A major is not even considered for a position such as this without contacts in high places.  During my time with SOTF I saved the lives of some very influential people. So trust me when I say, Lieutenant Colonel, that if you start shaking the walls here, it will be your head the roof caves in upon."

Bryant picked up the notebook, and tossed it back at von Starnburg, harder than necessary.  "This is my school, God damn it, and you will not tell me how to run it."

"Do not presume to think that your petty politicking can sway my actions," he spat, "Where do you think we would be if we listened to every man with powerful friends? Bah. I thought you were a man worth respecting, Major, but I can see that I was mistaken. A man who relies on powerful friends and idle threats is a man beneath contempt. So you'll understand that it is only with true regret that I do this." He could see that the Major was scarcely paying attention to him, his face starting to take on a slight reddish hue.

"Major, I do not have to justify my actions to you or any of your pathetic 'friends-in-high-places.' I answer only to the Internal Alliance Council of Law, I am off limits to any 'conventional' justice system, and you would do well to remember it. You WILL cooperate with me, or I shall place you under arrest here and now. I am willing to face the consequences of my actions, Major. Are you? Could you live with yourself knowing that because of your foolishness, I was giving free reign to run the school as I see fit?" Von Starnburg let this thought sink in for a moment, and the effect on the major was nearly instantaneous. He calmed down, and though his bitterness was obvious, he was no longer openly hostile.

"Now. First, I shall be requiring some new quarters - my present office is rather, ah, cramped." He looked around, as if seeing the major's office for the first time; his eyes alight with malevolent enjoyment. "This one, on the other hand, is exactly the size I require. I shall move in tomorrow. Fortunately, I can see you haven't much to pack up, so finding another for yourself shouldn't be too difficult.

"I have an investigation to run, Major, and I will brook no interference, not by you, not by your students, and certainly not by your powerful friends." He turned to go. "I suggest you use the rest of the day to get out of my office. Good day, Major."

"You poor fool," he said, "I already have." Von Starnburg turned and walked out the door, even as two armed MPs burst into the room and grabbed the major. They each grabbed under one arm, and efficiently frog-marched him out of the room before he could say a word. Johan watched with satisfaction and settled himself into the now vacant chair.

He now had names. Wick. Dante. Asmodeus. Kat. Jax. Zion. Creche. Solenis. Gabe. And, most importantly to him, Rabin. Must porvide something special for that one, Johan thought. And yet, he knew their names, but they, for better or worse, did not know his. This, von Starnburg reflected, must change. The time had come for him to reveal himself.

He also mapped out certain... special events to take place during the allotted time. Specifically, the issue of missing equipment had come up, and the possibility that one or two students were in possession of live weapons. Who the students were was no longer a question. Johan knew. And their punishment would be severe.

With that item of business out of the way, he allowed his mind to drift over the information gleaned from the Charybdis doctor. So she had wanted Terrence to crack, had she? He thought on this for a while, holding what he knew up against his own experience. That the boy had not been cured was obvious. It seemed to Johan that something must have happened to his personality, some switch had been flipped that had made him the ruthless terror he was now. So. Ruthless and vengeful, he was loose in Command School, doomed to eventual capture and imprisonment. Unless someone saved him.

The woman looked a little irritated with his manner, and decided to take the administrative route. "Your name?" she said, frowning at him, as if she hadn't heard the announcement with the rest of the school five minutes ago. "Terrence," he said shortly. She was slow to don the headset, slow to activate the private intercom into the Headmaster's office, but her manner was instantly brisk and businesslike when he answered. "Sir, Nathan Terrence is here to see you."

He couldn't hear the man's response, but the secretary paled a little and immediately buzzed him in. If he'd been in a better mood, he would have smirked. Instead, he walked through the door and stopped three feet within it, staring at the man behind the desk, staring at the silver crest set against the black of his uniform. Asmodeus had no trouble placing the sigil of the IA.

He stiffened a little, involuntarily. The last IA interrogator he'd interacted with had been the one who sent him to Charybdis, a thin gaunt man, completely unlike the powerful figure who occupied the Headmaster's high-backed leather chair. The eyes were similar, though; hawk's eyes, piercing and unwavering - the stainless steel gaze of a mental surgeon, of someone used to exacting information.

Despite his brief bout of surprise, his cold reserve did not waver. He wasn't the helpless, frightened child de Villefort had dealt with in such a cursory manner two years ago. He'd seen too much at Charybdis for a uniform to unbalance him. If they had intended to send him back, an IA official wasn't required; he was a probationary student. They could return him for any minor infraction they found him guilty of, at any time. This man wanted something else...but what? Interrogation would have been preceded by MPs and another trip to the Detention Center.

This was more like a private audience. Asmodeus found himself unwillingly interested.

All commendable qualities, Johan thought, and yet, there was also a wild touch about the boy, his eyes not quite all there. We can't all be perfect, Johan thought sardonically.

He eyed the boy. He didn't appear to be worried in the least, not even in the presence of a mysterious Internal Alliance man. That was good. It showed composure.

"No doubt you are wondering," he said, "why I sent for you. What could I possibly want with a student fresh from... hospital, at Command School less than a fortnight?" He leaned forward, his unwavering gaze locked with that of the boy. He smiled.

Asmodeus studied the man before him with a little more scrutiny. Older, fit and forbidding, but he didn't seem overtly hostile. On the contrary, he seemed almost...welcoming. What positive information could this man have heard about him? There was little on his record that didn't involve Charybdis, and none of that could be classified positive.

Something in the man's expression made him think that perhaps he should redefine the term positive.

Johan leaned back and said, "Of course; as do we all," he smiled comiseratingly and waved the comment aside, "and yet... There are many different ways to serve the fleet; a capable young man like yourself has open to him any number of doors..." Enough flattery, Johan thought, time to twist the knife a little.

"...I open my own doors now." A fitting comment, and an even better fitting attitude. Johan was pleased. He could read people well, and from what he had seen so far, the boy Terrence would do nicely. A few more questions, though. It did to see these things through all the way. Make sure the boy had his priorities straight, and all that.

Did he know? How could he? No one else but Katera knew about the others, and even she knew very little, just what Nathan had let slip when she had him weak. Katera. Could she be talking to the administration about him? A host of new suspicions came flooding into his mind. His little kitten had been a pretty unlikely candidate for parole. Maybe the doctors had given her conditions.

Even as part of his mind fastened onto that possibility, his outward bearing became more wary as he looked at the interrogator through hooded eyes. "That could be harder than you think. There might be a few...problems with that."

If Kitten's been tattling, we'll have to deal with her immediately. We should have done it long before now as it is.

-NO.-

That lying dagger-wielding little bitch...she told him. We solve that little problem tonight.

-NO NO NO-

He hissed as the pain increased enough to make him put a hand to his head, but he stifled as much of it as he could, and quickly regained much of his composure by ceasing to think of Katera at all. The pressure eased, and he sat back, a little pale, and regarded the man behind the desk with greater respect and interest as he realized what the man was offering.

Control. Focus. Freedom.

Life without the fallen Angel, free to do as he pleased without fear of internal rebellion.

He smiled at the boy's look of hopeful awe.

Investigation under way. Prepare for collection.

No signature, no explanation, but he knew what it meant all the same. It was time to go. He called in a pair of guards, ordered them to bring him the boy, Terrence. Then he sat back and pondered his next moves.

These Collectors that the Alliance employed were the most feared men within the institution. So secret that no one outside the IA knew of their existence, they existed for the sole purpose of rounding up - "collecting" - rogue agents or those who were under suspicion. As they did not officially exist, they were bound by no laws except the orders of their superiors. Rumors within the agency abounded: the Collectors had secret bionic enhancements; they all had careful lobotomies so that they would obey unquestioningly; instruments of torture so sophisticated, they could break any man within minutes. Yet for all the whisperings, little was actually known of the Collectors, or their methods. Of the few who were ever collected and returned, none would speak of their experiences, usually they dropped out of the Alliance and the public eye within days of their return.

And they were coming for him. The fact that he had recieved a warning meant that it was probably too late; they would already be moving into position. Yet von Starnburg was never one to bow to the inevitable. That was for other people.

His future might have been uncertain, but he could at least see that the boy was delivered intact. Von Starnburg was not a man to leave a task unfinished. So while he waited for the boy to be brought to the office, he called the secretary and ordered her to arrange for a shuttle.

It was then that Nathan Terrence was wheeled in on a stretcher. For a horrible instant, Johan thought the boy dead, but then he saw the medical equiptment attached to him, and knew better. He dissmissed the MPs with a wave of his hand, and walked around to contemplate his new charge. He could see at a glance what had happened. Terrence and his Institue tart had gotten in another fight. Nearly gotten killed, into the bargain. The sooner he left the school the better. Had the girl been in the room at that point, Starnburg would have throttled her with his bare hands. Well, perhaps not bare hands; he would certainly have worn gloves.

The message had been sent exactly one hour prior to their arrival, that the recipient might have time to order his affairs. And indeed, when they had docked, there had been a shuttle undergoing the final checklist for take-off, though their man was nowhere near it.

So they went to his office, looking for all the world like clever puppets, ingeniously made, nearly perfect and yet... not quite human. Something about the way they moved, about the way they never looked left or right, the way they marched in perfect lock-step. Truth be told, they looked somewhat silly, walking that way, though no one would have the courage to actually tell them that.

A boy on a stretcher wheeled by two MPs passed them, but they payed it no mind. The Collectors were known {strictly within the Alliance, mind} for their bloody singlemindedness. They reached the door to his office without further incident.

The small one nodded to his left, and the other man stepped forward and opened the door, without knocking. Then they walked quietly into the room, past the flabergasted secretary, and into the main office, still without saying a word. Inside, they fanned out, making a half-circle facing the desk, the short one in the middle.

"Enough chatter," he said, "Come." He pointed at von Starnburg, and turned to leave, his comrades moving to position themselves around the prisoner. Seeing this, the colonel desperately tried to delay them with conversation, his mind racing for any loophole that might let him escape. He tasted fear for the first time in years, and it left him bitter and off-balance.

"What, so soon?" He spoke without quaver, calm of voice and manner, yet conscious of the need to keep the Collectors talking. Who knew what the next moment might present? He plunged on. "You might tell me to what do I owe the pleasure," he said reproachfully, "Gentlemen." He leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed confidence, secure and unafraid. "Perhaps we should discuss things - I am not an unreasonable man - we might even reach some sort of, I don't know, understanding?"

The smaller man stopped, and appeared to consider this. He turned slowly, his face the casual inexpressiveness of the genuinely uncaring.

"Oh," was all he said.

"Yes," Starnburg could smell, if not victory, then renewed hope, "We could. I have done nothing particularly wrong, why, I've even found I new recruit..." his voice trailed off.

"Yes. We know. He shall be seen to." There was no inflection in the man's voice. "As shall you. You are to be delivered to the Institute for inspection, at the Director's discretion. Now," he said, as von Starnburg opened his mouth to speak, "it is time to go." He nodded imperceptibly to the man at Starnburg's right. The man calmly stepped forward and in one smooth motion, grasped Johan's neck and squeezed. Starnburg's eyes went wide, then rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness.

Bryant was at his desk, leaning back in his chair and looking tired. Gabe had not seen him in over a year, and then it had been at an assembly concerning an upgrade to the Simulators. Before that, it had been his speech to the student body after von Starnburg's removal and his own reinstatement. Before that, it had been in a cell in the detention center, and before that, it had been a call to his office, just like this one. That was Gabe's first day here at Command School.

His fifth meeting with Bryant, in two and a half years. Not that he cared. Bryant certainly didn't. Gabe had lost any hope he might once have had that Bryant was looking out for them that first night in the SO AIT, clinging to Sol in the room and wanting it all to be a bad dream. Hard to believe it was only six months ago. Certainly the longest six months of his life. The memory of leisure seemed almost dreamlike now, insubstantial, unreal. Surely they'd never been allowed any such thing in this life. For the past six months, for the past lifetime, the only comfort allowed Gabe and Sol was to be left to themselves at night. In that room, their sanctuary, was the only safety they had left. It had made those six months bearable. Without that, they could never have survived.

Bryant's doing? he wondered, vaguely. Hardly made any difference. He wasn't going to thank the man that had sunk his ship for tossing him a life preserver.

But Bryant wasn't alone. To Gabe's right, half-leaning and half-sitting on the edge of Bryant's desk, was Captain William Hale. The enemy.

So many enemies these days.

"Hunter," Bryant said. Apparently he'd forgotten Sol's remonstration from the last time they had conversed. "Please have a seat."

His tone was . . . faded. Almost apologetic. This would not be good. Gabe did not seat himself. He didn't come any further into the room than was necessary to allow the door to close behind him. And there he stood, still as stone.

Bryant glanced to Hale. Hale was watching Gabe with a blank expression, not curious, not interested, neither positive nor negative, interested nor bored. Just . . . watching.

"Hunter, your future is being decided in this room, today, and I wanted to speak to you before anything final is ruled."

Gabe's face didn't change. "How kind of you."

Bryant opened his mouth to say something else, but Hale interrupted. "The decision is between keeping you in my AIT or icing you out of the IF altogether."

Gabe was silent.

"There was a debate," Bryant said, "when you were being analyzed for AIT selection, between many members of the faculty and review committee over whether or not you should be allowed to continue. You see, once we placed you in an AIT, we would be giving you real world training that you might, conceivably, take elsewhere, and so we had to decide if it was worth the risk. You see, Hunter, your reserve makes you an unknown quantity here, an X factor. We can't predict you if we don't understand you, and you've gone to great lengths to remain inscrutable.

"It was determined, by the analysts, that technically speaking you -- and Rebecca Solenis, also -- were excellently suited to the Special Ops AIT. So the argument was, do we let you into such a sensitive field of training, or do we cut our losses, and turn you out."

Gabe's eyes flicked toward Hale, briefly, before settling again on Hale. "Why not put me in an AIT that was less sensitive?"

Hale answered. "Because if we're going to risk a security liability, we had damn well make you useful to us."

"‘Security liability'?" Gabe repeated.

Bryant sighed. "Yes, Hunter. The son of a double agent is traditionally treated to heightened scrutiny, and you haven't given us much reason to relax our guard."

A shield fell over Gabe's eyes. They were dead now, lifeless. His voice sounded icier than before. "I'm stuck in that goddamn slave camp with people on either side trying to kill me because you people don't like my father?"

"That's right," Hale replied. "There are some of us that know the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Please spare us the cliches, Will," Bryant said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The eventual compromise was this, Hunter: Captain Hale would take you on as a student for one semester. After that, we make a final determination. That's what we're here to do."

"And what do you want with me? I don't imagine I get a vote."

"What would you vote, if you could?" Hale asked. His eyes were fastened on Gabe's face like a hawk spying its next meal.

Gabe didn't answer.

"Hunter," Bryant said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk, "we need to make a determination, and I'll tell you, it won't go favorably without your inp-"

"I am not my father," Gabe said, flatly.

Nobody spoke for a moment after that. Bryant leaned back in his chair again, and Hale continued to study Gabe. After a moment, it was Gabe that spoke.

"Is that all?"

Bryant looked to Hale. Hale's face betrayed nothing. Bryant said, "Yes."