A cool breeze touched Alex’s face and blew strands of her hair across her vision as she sat at the edge of the lake bordering Peterson Air Force Base’s cemetery. Healthy green grass ruffled in the wind, and the nearby maple trees swayed back and forth. She listened to the distant voices of the men and women walking to the procession of vehicles parked along the road leading back to Peterson and Colorado Springs.

Two days had passed since her release from the medical center, and although she felt she was making a good recovery, she was impatient that her body hadn’t caught up; even the simplest exercises like swimming or jogging tired her out.

The funeral for Hensley and Neill had been a quick, solemn event. The Directorate’s command staff had attended. Friends and family had also come to pay their respects, and Alex had struggled to maintain her composure and keep tears out of her eyes when Hensley’s wife began crying during Shepherd’s closing remarks.

And there’ll be more ceremonies like this. As soon as they identify all of the bodies from the mountain.

She combed her hair back as the breeze faded. Above, the sky was clear except for the grey storm clouds looming far off beyond the Rockies. The weather during the past two days had been an ominous combination of sun and rain. During her first night at the lodge, a storm interrupted her sleep with continuous rolls of thunder and flashes like explosions blasting through the window drapes. Since then, there had been clear skies and the occasional drizzle, but it appeared it was only a matter of time until the storm returned.

Soft footsteps approached through the grass. She looked and saw Sergeant Murray and Sergeant Wilson coming toward her. They stopped at the top of the brim leading down to the water.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey, Alex,” Wilson said. “You okay over here?”

She stood and brushed the grass off her uniform. “I’m just waiting for Captain Shepherd. He’s my ride back.”

“He’s talking with George’s wife right now,” Murray said. “It might be a bit.”

“How is she… doing?”

The men exchanged glances before Murray said, “She’s taking it hard. Not that I blame her. Hell, we couldn’t even bring back his body.”

“What about Park? He was friends with Hensley.”

Murray sighed. “He’s pretty shook-up, too.”

“I think we’re all shook-up,” Wilson said. “It’s the first time I’ve lost anyone in combat.”

“They never go away,” Murray said. “They’re always right here.” He touched his head and chest.

“I wish I had done something different. I should have been paying more attention. If I had been closer to the doorway, I might have been able to see that sniper. I could have spotted that grenade and saved Neill, too. It would have been so easy to just knock it back off the terminal.”

“Don’t keep beating yourself up,” Murray said. “We all wish we could have done things differently. Hell, we almost lost you!”

“I picked up a psych book once,” Wilson said. “I read something about survivor’s guilt. You feel like some part of you died with that other person you were really close to. But you gotta move on.”

Alex slowly climbed the embankment to where both men were standing. You gotta move on, she mused. Simple as that!

Wilson continued, “Another thing they said was that you can’t take everything on yourself. That’s kind of egotistical, like saying, ‘It all depends on me. I was responsible for everything that happened.’ Like Pops said, ‘Shit happens.’”

“I guess,” Alex said although the images of Hensley and Neill refused to leave her mind.

“Anyway,” Murray said, “the team’s going to meet up at the bar later if you want to come.”

“I’m kind of tired, but I’ll see.”

The two men stood straight and saluted. She thought an officer had come up behind her but when she looked, no one was there.

“What’s that about?” she said.

“That’s for saving our asses!” Wilson said cheerfully. “If you hadn’t been there, the service would have been for us, too.”

“Exactly,” Murray said, and the two men turned back toward the cemetery.

Alex sat back on the bank and leaned her chin against her knees. She wanted to find Shepherd, but she was afraid of having to face Hensley’s wife. In spite of all the assurances, she still felt responsible for the deaths of Hensley and Neill. She sighed and then closed her eyes and listened to the rustling of the leaves and the light howl of the wind.

Her thoughts turned toward her father. She was having trouble dealing with his condition; whenever she thought about him lying catatonic in the darkened ICU, her eyes would tear up and she would find it difficult to keep from crying. She had visited him twice but there were never any signs he was aware of her presence.

She remembered when they had first discovered she was unusual. She had been twelve and was playing baseball at Peterson during a get-together for the officers and their families. The boys on the other team were upset because she was hitting their pitches far into the outfield scrub grass. She was also a good pitcher but preferred to play shortstop because of the double-play option.

A pitch came straight for her head, and she backed up just in time. At first, she thought it was an accident. She called out, “Hey, Billy! Watch it!” Bill Laughton was a big, red-headed kid known to be something of a bully.

The next ball hit her on the shoulder. She looked up to see Billy exchanging glances with his teammates, who obviously approved.

Okay! she thought.

The third pitch flew at her head. As the ball tore through the air, she held out her hand to grab it, throwing the bat to the ground and clenching her fist. As if on command, the ball slammed to a halt in mid-air and then flew straight back at Billy and smacked him on the nose.

There was a long silence save for Billy’s loud yowls as blood poured from his nose. The catcher, standing right behind her, said, “What happened?” But they had all seen what had happened. Moments later, the game was called to an end, and even her own teammates gave her a wide berth. That day marked the end of her baseball career.

She told no one about the incident, but over the next few days, she saw the glances and heard the whispers, not only from those her age who had been playing on the diamond but also from some of the senior officers.

A week after the event, her father came to her room in Cheyenne Mountain. He sat on her bed, and she immediately stiffened. She knew something was amiss.

“Alex,” he said slowly, “I’ve been hearing rumors.”

She pulled her covers up to her mouth. “What?”

“Well, I heard you ‘beaned’ the ‘bean-baller.’”

She did not reply.

“My only advice is not to use whatever you do in just any situation. Make sure it’s appropriate.”

“It was appropriate,” she said in a sullen tone.

“Yeah,” her father said after a moment, “I guess it was!” He bent over her, kissed her forehead and left, closing the door behind him.

She had felt both relieved and confused. She had no idea what it was that she had done on the baseball diamond, and she was even less sure when using it would be appropriate. Nevertheless, her father had seemed neither angry nor alarmed, so she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

In the morning, neither of them spoke about it, but her father soon sent her for a number of tests. At first, the exercises were simple. Under close observation, she picked up small objects, suspended them in the air, and tossed them at targets. Over the years, the tests became more complex: dismantling weapons and moving objects as large as Humvees and tanks. The formal military training would not begin until just after her eighteenth birthday, but looking back, she realized that even early on, the exercises had been combat-oriented.

He knew. But he wanted me to think it was just something natural.

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She remembered the haggard look on General Lunde’s face when she had awakened in the hospital. Moreover, she remembered the timeless and lined face of her own father.

Is it knowing too much that ages people?

She crossed her arms over her knees and buried her face against her skin. A tear ran down her cheek as a cold gust of wind blew across the lake. “Just wake up, Dad. Please just wake up…”

“Alex?” It was Shepherd, standing behind her on the bank.

She did not look back. “How is Hensley’s wife doing?”

After a moment of silence, Shepherd said, “She’s doing about as well as you can expect. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission.”

“Yeah,” she said bitterly. “Just a recon mission.”

Shepherd squatted next to her on the bank. “They have two young kids, but the Directorate will help her with everything.”

“So it will be all hunky-dory, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

“I don’t know about hunky-dory, but we all knew there would be risks.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. But everything went haywire: the fight in the city, meeting Martin and Webb, Dad getting shot. It all seems so pointless.”

Shepherd put his hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to see your dad?”

“When I saw him this morning, he was the same. Deirdre said that all we could do was pray… and wait.” Suddenly, she lashed out: “I am so goddam tired of just waiting! I want to kill that bastard Webb, blow his brains out of that stupid skull cap, and tear those eyes out of their sockets!” She put her eyes to her knees and sobbed.

After a while, Shepherd said grimly, “Well, I’d like to be there to help out!”

She hiccupped and laughed. “You and who else?” She remembered the dying guard in the corridors of Cheyenne Mountain: You and who else?

“Look, Alex…” Shepherd began.

She waved her arm at him. “I know. I know. It wasn’t my fault! I’m sick of people telling me that!”

“They say it because it’s true.”

She finally looked at Shepherd. He was still squatting in the relaxed and excruciating posture of a catcher behind home plate. Tearstains darkened the left shoulder of his uniform. He offered his hand and stood up, pulling her to her feet facing him. She touched the spots on his shoulder.

“Elizabeth,” she said slowly. “Hensley’s wife is named Elizabeth.”

Shepherd covered her hand. “Beth, yeah. Their kids are named Collette and George Junior, after his dad.”

They stood there for a long moment. She felt the breeze in her hair and listened to the rustling of leaves. She looked into Shepherd’s brown eyes, but he avoided her gaze. Then he murmured something.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s an old oriental saying,” Shepherd said. “Park told me. It means, ‘Don’t piss in your own rice bowl.’”

She laughed and said again, “What?”

Shepherd blushed. “Alex, I’ve wanted to say this since… well, since New York, but I…”

She stared at Shepherd, and he looked stubbornly at his feet. She realized something inside of her enjoyed seeing him at a loss, wriggling like a worm on a hook.

“Well… what the saying means is that if we get… involved, then it’s like peeing in your own rice bowl. I mean, it’s one of the basic rules of being an officer.”

“Don’t get involved with the men… or women on your team.” She smiled sadistically.

Shepherd glanced up and saw her smile. “Well, it means don’t get… personally… or physically involved. You know?”

She gave Shepherd a deep throaty chuckle. “Well, Captain Shepherd, I would not ever pee in your rice bowl!”

Shepherd laughed and then grinned. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

They walked together toward a nearby truck. When they reached the vehicle, Shepherd opened the passenger door for her and closed it once she settled inside. She leaned her head back against the seat as Shepherd got in on the driver’s side.

Don’t piss in your rice bowl. The conversation brought back the memories of the night they had spent talking after their return home: that first blush on his darkly tanned face. She recalled the sound of his voice: that worry and fear as she had struggled to remain conscious in the main tunnel. And she thought about how she had felt upon seeing him arrive at her hospital room two days earlier.

Maybe he’s right. But would we ever get involved? Personally or… physically? And what if we did?

As they drove north toward Peterson, the grey silhouette of a C-17 transport aircraft leapt into the air from one of the base’s runways. The C-17 passed overhead, its four turbofans roaring as the plane banked away toward the east. The Directorate’s war machine was in full swing, sending troops and supplies to the front to fight the NEA.

“Captain Shepherd?” she said as the now distant form of the C-17 disappeared. “Why do you think the NEA is attacking us?”

“We’re the only thing between them and control over the country. If they manage to wipe us out…”

“But they can’t win. We’re stronger than they are. We have more people, more territory, and more tanks and airplanes and weapons, right? Back in New York, General Martin even told me he didn’t think they could beat us. So why are they trying?”

“They may think they have an advantage now that your father… isn’t in command.”

“It doesn’t make sense. All we’re trying to do is make the country a better place, and they declare war on us after we tried to make peace with them. General Martin didn’t seem like the kind of person who would do that.”

“General Martin doesn’t make the big decisions. The decision to go to war came from higher up. President Resnick.”

“I just wish everyone was on the same side.”

She shut her eyes and thought back to the funeral ceremony, her visits to her father in the ICU, and the strange vision from her coma. She had spent the previous two nights struggling to convince herself the Antarctic nightmare was just a harmless dream. For hours, she lay staring up at the ceiling as she relived her walk through the dead research station. She was afraid if she fell asleep, she would again find herself stranded and alone in the cold darkness.

She also held a nagging suspicion Lunde had not been entirely forthcoming during their discussion of General Martin’s story. No matter how much she tried to convince herself Lunde was telling the truth, she couldn’t shake the feeling he was holding something back. Initially, she had been willing to believe the story about Antarctica was made-up, but after reviewing the conversation in her mind, it was apparent Lunde had been much too quick to dismiss everything.

She opened her eyes and looked at Shepherd. “Remember that dream I told you about?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think General Lunde would ever… ever hold anything back from me?”

“What would he hold back?”

“He told me that General Martin’s story was a lie.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“I just feel like there’s something wrong.”

“Martin’s story is crazy.”

“He could have told me anything if he was just trying to mislead me. So why would he make his story so hard to believe?”

“All I can say is I’m more inclined to believe General Lunde than General Martin.”

“You know that writing down in those subway tunnels in New York? I asked General Lunde if he knew why I was able to read the writing when no one else could. He said he didn’t know. But he has to know something, doesn’t he? He was the only other person my dad didn’t kick out of the debriefing. We never got a chance to talk about why I could read the writing but I think we would have if Webb hadn’t escaped.”

“Have you thought about talking to him about all of this?”

“I wanted to ask him before the funeral started, but I couldn’t figure out what to say. I don’t want him to think I’m calling him a liar. He’s always been there for me. He’s like family.”

“If that’s the case, tell him what’s bothering you. He’ll understand.”

“I hope so.”

She thought back to her encounter with General Martin: the soft couch, the pattering of the rain against the office windows, and the tired and strangely sad tone in his voice. Was there anything in his story that could prove or disprove the entire account? Maybe, but how would she figure that out? There were few places for her to turn for information while her father lay in a coma and with her suspicion that Lunde was holding something back.

There has to be something. Recordings. Documents. Maybe…

“Can you drop me off at the library?” she said.

Shepherd gave her a puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Just a hunch.”

“I have a briefing over at HQ. I can drop you off, but I have to run. Can you make it back on your own?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Shepherd slowed as they reached one of the checkpoints into Peterson. A guard approached the truck as Shepherd rolled down the window. “Just the two of you, sir?”

“That’s correct,” Shepherd said.

“All right, you’re clear to go.” The guard waved toward the checkpoint, and the access gate swung up out of the road. Shepherd drove onto the main street through the middle of the base. They passed the lodge and continued for several blocks until Shepherd turned into a near-empty parking lot.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as the vehicle came to a stop.

“Sure thing. I’ll see you later.”

The truck pulled away, and Alex went into the library. She looked around until she spotted a row of computers and then went to the closest terminal and sat. The screensaver gave way to a login screen after a gentle tap on the mouse. She typed in her username and password and then navigated to the encyclopedia icon on the desktop.

The encyclopedia offered a wide variety of categories from arts and sciences to religion, philosophy, and technology under which there were thousands of subentries. Back in the mountain, she had spent countless hours browsing through the topics, reading about the world as it had been before the outbreaks. At nighttime, her dreams often drew on the images and ideas she came across in the encyclopedia, and she sometimes woke feeling disappointed at finding herself back in the dull confines of the operations facility. Although the encyclopedia was now sixteen years out of date, almost all of the information reflected the world as of August 2016. Slowly, she typed into the search bar: “Lansing Research Station +Antarctica”.

The encyclopedia’s main window vanished. The Directorate’s emblem appeared with a bold line of text: “Redacted. Article requires higher authorization. No adjoining articles.”

Redacted? she wondered. There’s redacted information on the encyclopedia?

She closed the encyclopedia and opened the start menu from the desktop. After clicking the icon to log off her account, she waited until the computer brought up a box asking whether she wanted to log out or switch users. She clicked on the option to switch users. A new login box appeared asking for a username and password. She glanced around and then typed “hbedford” into the username field.

She tested a variety of passwords: combinations of her name and birth date and her father’s name and birth date. Her attempts failed to grant access. In the past, she had watched her father log in to his office computer, and although she had never seen his password, she knew it was short. Just before the team had left for New York, she had been sitting across from him at his desk when his computer’s operating system had locked up and forced him to reboot. He had glanced at the bookshelf before entering his username and password. Only one thing on that shelf would have drawn his attention. Alex typed her mother’s name and birth date into the password field.

She almost growled when the computer refused the password. She tried replacing her mother’s birthday with the date of her death but that combination also failed. Was she even on the right track? The glance he had made toward her mother’s photograph could have been a coincidence. No. It had to have been something… Maybe…

She typed in “kate070816.” Her mother’s name and the date of the outbreaks.

The desktop replaced the login box.

Strange. Why that date? But it worked.

She clicked on the icon for the digital encyclopedia. Once the main window loaded, she searched for Lansing Research Station. The page loaded. A picture at the top of the article showed an aerial view of three elevated buildings connected to each other by enclosed walkways. The view from above wasn’t exactly what she remembered, but she had been on the ground in her dream, looking up at the central unit. And even from the picture’s angle, the central shaft leading beneath the ice was obvious.

It’s real. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a dream.