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He knew soon enough that it was no mere visual anomaly, but just to be sure, he called his doctor. Then he contacted Landor Niela.

A lesser man would have paled at the prospect of leaving his wife alone with another man who loved her, but Alexandre was not so small. He knew Sylvia loved him and honored their marriage vows. The fact that her best friend also loved her was of little consequence. Landor was an honorable man, a devout officer, and as trustworthy as men came. He stood at the wedding and he would be at the birth. Alexandre trusted Landor with his life, and with Sylvia's life, and there would be no jealousy between the two men so long as they loved the same woman and she needed them both.

Landor arrived shortly before agreed and shook Alexandre's hand at the door. "Captain." He always addressed Alexandre by his title as a sign of respect. Alexandre was free to address Landor as he liked, usually by name.

"I apologize for calling you on such short notice."

"It's no problem."

Alexandre reached up and detached the audio monitor he wore to monitor Sylvia. "She's expecting you, but asleep."

Landor hummed noncommittally. The audio monitor fit just as well over his ear as it did Alexandre's. He could hear Sylvia breathing softly.

"There's soup on the stove."

They shook hands again and Alexandre set out.

* * *

"I can't detect any neural anomalies. What did you say it looked like?"

Dr. Bahadur lowered his penscanner from Alexandre's eyes. They were sitting in a small examination room, the lights dimmed to relax the iris for the scan. "A green blotch," answered Alexandre sullenly.

Dr. Bahadur could have had an office anywhere, but like many neighborhood residents chose to have a structure adjacent to his home. It allowed him to be on call at a moment's notice. There were plenty of doctors around, so at most he might see three patients a week, but knowing your doctor was available all the time set many minds at ease. Bahadur's office also contained a small medical lab, which was where Bahadur spent those hours not used for patients, working on cures and new medicines. He was the Fleet's resident medical Wonder Boy, world-respected in his home dimension despite his tender young age of thirty-five.

"But your color perception's all right? And no other symptoms of any kind?" Alexandre nodded to both. Dr. Bahadur crossed his arm and set his chin in his hand. "Huh." His brow furrowed quizzically. "Well, I can detect no optic or neural anomalies, your brain scan's quite fine. Where is it now?"

Alexandre pointed to the blot, which had developed during the course of the morning into a sort of swirling vortex shot thought with translucent strings. Dr. Bahadur stared at the spot for some revelation.

"Your visual range is perfectly normal, that's what I don't get."

Alexandre knew there was one possibility Bahadur was not mentioning. Flatly, he said, "It may be psychological."

Air hissed through Dr. Bahadur's teeth, a slow whistle of contemplation. He was only recently assigned to Alexandre, but the captain struck Bahadur as a perfectly reasonable man. "It's nothing with any physical symptoms I can detect. To be honest with you, captain, I should think from what you've described that the phenomenon be something psychic or dimensional. I'd expect to see something on the scans if it were hallucinogenic, a neuron firing or stray electrical impulses along the optic nerve, some sort of unusual deep brain activity. There's just nothing. It stands to me that it be a naturally occurring phenomena simply outside the range of normal human perception."

It was a fair conclusion, given where they lived. Alexandre set his jaw. "I'm P-Zero." P-Zero was the designation for anyone who was totally devoid of psychic sense, an average non-psychic human not under the influence of any external psychic forces. In a P-Zero individual, if there were psychic forces at work, there should be corollary brain activity.

"I'm E-One," said Dr. Bahadur, the lowest discernible class of empath. "Dimensional, then. It's the only thing completely out of my area. If you want, though, I can refer you to Dr. Landry or Jill Johnson. But my advice is to try the praetorians."

Alexandre sat rigidly, considering. Landry was a top-notch psychiatrist, Jill Johnson a counselor with a strong psychic rating. Either could confirm the presence of psychological or psychic problems. Neither appealed to Alexandre. Neither did the Praetorians, since they represented a science so intangible as to be mystical.

"Thank you, but I won't need a referral."

"Because you agree with me or you'd rather not pursue it farther?" mused Dr. Bahadur aloud.

Dr. Bahadur was a fine doctor and a good man, but occasionally he talked too much. He had a tendency to say his thoughts without thinking about the consequences. Luckily, Alexandre was patient and understanding, and was not offended.

"Well," said Dr. Bahadur a moment later, "I hope I've been able to help you with what you wanted." He spoke earnestly and clapped Alexandre on the shoulder.

"Yes," said Alexandre, impassive as ever, standing. "Thank you, doctor."

"Any time!" promised Dr. Bahadur as he saw Alexandre to the door.

The walk back, Alexandre hunched his shoulders in deep thought, shutting out all but a peripheral awareness of the world around him. The trees, the houses, the pavement beneath his boots. He let it pass him by.

He stirred himself out of this contemplation when he registered another person in his vicinity. He stopped and turned.

He had just passed the house of Dmitry Mikhaelov Petrov, one of the Fleet's many high-level psychics. In fact, out of every psychic in the Fleet, Dmitry was ranked second in power, after only the infamous Nazi-engineered Caleb Manchester. In the realm of the human mind, he even surpassed Manchester. Dmitry was standing there at the end of his walk, staring at Alexandre. He had come out of his house as Alexandre passed by.

Dmitry could read minds, but unless he was prying, only the surface of the thoughts. It was not intentional. Alexandre was disciplined enough to blank his mind of anything audible, creating a low hum to Dmitry's psychic ears, which Dmitry had admitted to Alexandre he found both disturbing and relaxing. It was a welcome break to be able to converse with someone without hearing their mental dialogue, but at the same time Dmitry had come to rely on that dialogue to give himself a perpetual upper hand.

"You need me for something?" asked Dmitry.

Alexandre thought the response without speaking it, quietly, but of course Dmitry could hear. Since Alexandre had not spoken it, Dmitry tilted his head to the side in confusion. He knew Alexandre would speak the word if he truly meant it. So why? Dmitry mentally shook the confusion away.

"I was hoping to speak with you anyway," he said.

Alexandre started to walk back to Dmitry, his mind in perfect neutral. Dmitry was several years younger, not particularly controlled, and known for a slightly devilish sense of humor, but Alexandre respected the young man well enough. He could tell Dmitry had lived through a lot in his twenty-six years. There was a certain darkness and weight in the psychic's violet-hued eyes. Alexandre respected experience regardless of age.

"It's about your plans to retake Smodrina."

Alexandre registered no response, either physical or mental. He simply waited for Dmitry to make his intentions clear.

"I'd like to offer my services."

Alexandre could tell that Dmitry was serious. Full eye contact, slightly submissive head position, tightened jaw. Seeking approval, determination, honesty, all spelled out there just as plainly as if Alexandre could read Dmitry's mind. Alexandre's observations were so practiced he registered them without any active thought. "What would you like in return?" asked Alexandre finally.

Dmitry looked down at his shoes as he thought, the habit of a schoolboy. He looked up again. "That would depend on what you could offer. Mostly, I'd like to help you and Commander Declair."

"Why?" Since he was no psychic, Alexandre had to probe his subjects verbally.

Alexandre could feel a small pressure in his head, Dmitry asking permission to speak mentally. Alexandre granted it and heard Dmitry's voice fill his mind, far more eloquent and precise than his speaking voice. It was easier for Dmitry to phrase himself mentally, and harder for him to lie. I find I need a chance to prove myself.

"In competition with Caleb Manchester?" replied Alexandre verbally.

Dmitry shook his head. To myself. To everyone. I've never really known what I'm fully capable of. It's... difficult for me to say. Since the Conference I've been adrift. Dmitry stopped abruptly. He was going a little deeper into himself than he had intended. That lack of control at play. "I--" want more. From life. A greater purpose than what this place can offer me.

At that point, Dmitry's thoughts jumbled and he withdrew before he gave Alexandre a headache, resuming with his speaking voice. "If you'd give me a chance, I would be honored to serve with you, captain, and I believe I can offer you a distinct tactical advantage." He finished off mentally, This is a use of my power I have never before been given a chance to apply.

Alexandre sat back on his heels to consider. This was a tall request. Dmitry was looking for a considerable position in the battle, not a mere token display of his worth and value. He wanted to be in on this, to participate in a full-fledged excursion.

It was especially unusual given that Alexandre was aware crowded places gave Dmitry's psychic senses a tiring burden. From what he understood of Dmitry's prior usage in the conflict, the psychic had been a solo operative. It was easy to understand how a man might crave something more collaborative after that, something that was greater than the sum of its parts, and Dmitry was probably right about being able to provide a huge tactical advantage. Alexandre had long used psychology to turn the tide of battle. A psychic could turn that general psychology into something far more precise.

As Alexandre was forming his answer, he noticed the little green vortex move and turned towards it. Dmitry turned, too, frowning.

"You're seeing something I can't," he said, not sure whether to be alarmed. He allowed Alexandre's calmness dictate his emotional state.

"We'll incorporate you into the battle plans," said Alexandre in distraction. "I'll send for you after I've discussed it with Sylvia. Good day." He turned and resumed his walk home.

"Thank you, sir," said Dmitry, saluting to Alexandre's retreating form. In his mind, though, he was worried. What exactly had Alexandre been seeing?

He was sitting at the desk under the window where he did his paperwork when the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise and Alexandre had the distinct impression of something behind him. He was P-Zero, but like any human there existed in his mind that faint bit of psychic potential. Without that bit of psychic potential, Alexandre's mind would not be receptive to the intrusions of a real psychic -- he would not be able to hear Dmitry, and Dmitry would be unable to hear him. It was almost like a price humanity paid for possessing any psychics at all: the species as a whole was susceptible to psychic influence so that out of the billions and billions of individuals there would one who could turn psychic energy to an advantage. A detriment to the totality for the strength of a few. Darwinism struggling to assert itself.

There were theories, of course, that humanity would eventually evolve into a race of psychics or that there was a time when more if not most humans had been psychic, but Alexandre ascribed to neither. He lived in the year 3168. The idea of a someday-psychic humanity had been around more than a thousand years and yet nothing had ever come of it. That was a funny thing about statistics: everything was possible, but some things were so unlikely as to never occur during the lifetime of the universe. Unless you had the influence of a praetorian to twist the improbability. Because of them, Alexandre had seen impossible things he could have lived his life without. Those experiences had drastically altered his worldview. The fact that he was now with Sylvia was a result of it, which was why Alexandre would not trade his experiences for the world, but he had a feeling that if had gone his life without experiencing these things and been offered the chance to have them written into his history after the fact, he would decline. He was not sure which version of himself was right, the one that would have lived in a single universe without ever marrying or showing emotion, or the one that was sitting at the writing desk listening to his wife on the audio monitor. He only knew that both versions of himself would be equally resolute about the path he had chosen.

Alexandre turned and perceived the glimmer of light behind him. No matter how many times he looked and found it in the room with him, it was always unsettling. He was never openly unsettled, but the feeling was there in the bottom of his gut. Each passing day it nagged at him a little more: go do something about this, ask someone.

Alexandre was not a man of inaction -- he was extremely decisive and accustomed to the responsibilities of command -- but he preferred solving his problems on his own. Even better: not having any personal problems. That was a luxury someone with no personality could afford. It wasn't that he feared being seen as weak if he asked for help, just that asking for help on a personal matter (and since only he could see the light, it was a personal matter) was something he did not quite know how to do. It made him uncomfortable, reminded him of how much he had changed these past few years, brought up that tiny niggling doubt about whether he was truly a better man than he had been. The other Alexandre would never have entertained that uncertainty. It would have still been there, a tiny thought that maybe all those people who chose to follow those emotions had something worthwhile he did not, but he would have ignored it.

Still. If this continued much longer Alexandre would ask the praetorians. He had a feeling he would not like the answers any more than he liked the praetorians' manipulation of cosmic probability, but perhaps, like those manipulations, the questions were a necessity to the path of his life.

He was not terrible surprised to find, when he looked at the pinprick of light, that it was fluctuating. It did that sometimes, brightened and dimmed intermittently. Incrementally. He looked at it, closed his eyes a moment, and opened them, just to see if it was still there. Then he started to turn back to his work. Requisitions and intelligence reports, things to read and review and consider, items to which he had no emotional attachment but a professional obligation. Someone had taken the time to prepare these materials and he would take the time to review them in depth. He had no more than shifted his weight in his chair when the pinprick pulsed, a flash, redrawing his attention. He looked at it and was injured for his trouble.

It burned brilliantly for a moment, with the light of a thousand stars, and he gave a cry of sharp alarm and pain, his eyes reacting just a tiny moment too late. He brought his hand up to shield himself and his whole body tensed, expecting a burn that never came. The flash was gone. So was his sight. He could see only the afterimage of that brightness throbbing in his eyes.

He heard Sylvia's sudden panicked voice in his ear, a response to his outcry. He silenced his fear in a blink of his blind eyes, yelling calmly in the same voice he used to bark orders, "I'm fine!" Then, to stop her from trying to get up (he could hear her straining) he added, "I'm coming!"

He had a decent enough idea of the room's layout to find his way to the door (it was his house), but he had always had excellent vision even in night and had never expected to experience blindness. He felt his way along the wall unfamiliarly, moving with as much speed as he could, knowing that each moment he tarried was a moment Sylvia spent with rising worry. He entered the bedroom with a degree of confidence meant to hide his temporary disability, trying to come up with a cover story. He was not a great liar and tried to avoid situations that required it as much as possible. "It was just a dream," he said, knowing full well Sylvia would not buy this lie for a second.

Over the monitor, he heard Sylvia inhale sharply. "What?" he said, staring at what he hoped was her direction.

Sylvia raised her arm, pointing at the wall beside him, but Alexandre was oblivious to her motion and merely repeated his question. "What?"

"Look," she said, a bit hoarsely. Alexandre sucked air through his teeth. So much for trying to keep her from the blindness. The afterimage of the flash was still so strong he could not make anything out.

Before he could offer up the truth as explanation, Sylvia gasped, her voice high and shaky. Alexandre realized something was not right and tried to reach his wife, but he hit the corner post of the bed and nearly fell, windmilling his arms to keep his balance, letting out a gasp of his own in disbelief. In all his life, he had never mistakenly walked into an object.

"Andre!" came Sylvia's alarm, terror rising at the sight of her husband floundering. She felt a sudden sharp pain in her side and curled, exclaiming in pain. She cried again, a different tone this time: "Andre!"

Alexandre was able to find the bed with his hand and reach Sylvia at last. "The twins!" she said, holding her swollen abdomen, and Alexandre did something he had hoped he would not have to do for many more weeks. He reached to his collarbone and pressed hard with his left hand to activate the switch. The emergency communicator. "Drs. Coulson and Bahadur to the Depriest residence," he said, finding Sylvia's hand and squeezing it. She squeezed back, hard, as another sharp pain hit her, nearly whimpering.

And with respect to the cause of this emergency, he added, "Also, Praetor Bartholomew."

He had never been gladder to hear the voice of a praetorian on the other end say, "On their way." He did not know if it was Em or one of the Ishidas, but he did not care.

~~~

Sylvia was in tears and trying not to be when the two doctors arrived three minutes later, Coulson just a step ahead of Bahadur. Neither she nor Alexandre saw the doctors hesitate at the door. Sylvia was too consumed by her pain and Alexandre was still waiting for the afterimage to clear up. Both doctors quickly shoved the anomaly out of their minds and focused on their patients.

Coulson had an advantage over Bahadur. He knew immediately why he was called. He rushed to Sylvia's side and pressed the sensor to her belly, activating his laptop in the same motion. Bahadur looked confusedly at Alexandre. He was not an obstetrician. "What's wrong?"

"My sight," said Alexandre, and Bahadur made the connection. He knelt next to Alexandre and opened up his medkit, retrieving the appropriate ocular device.

"How long ago?" Bahadur asked, distracting Alexandre from Sylvia.

Alexandre turned towards the doctor but did not let go of Sylvia's hand. "Five minutes," he guessed, and Bahadur was relieved. Normally the first question would have been the nature of the problem, but, while it was somewhat unprofessional, Dr. Bahadur could not help but to feel hurt when his patients avoided seeking medical treatment in a timely manner (as so many of the men did). He took it personally, as if they were avoiding him because he was not a good enough doctor.

"What happened?"

Alexandre hesitated before replying, "There was a flash." He instinctively winced as Bahadur set about performing the scan, not liking the feeling of having someone so close to his face whom he could not see. Alexandre's only relief was at the fact that when Bahadur's hand passed in front of his face, his vision darkened slightly from the shadow. It was recovering, just slowly.

"Does it have anything to do with that apparition?" asked Bahadur, and Alexandre could not answer. Apparition?

Trion Bartholomew answered for him. "Yes."

With all the distraction of Dr. Bahadur and Sylvia (plus his lack of sight, plus Trion's ability to move like a cat), Alexandre had been oblivious to Trion's arrival. He judged by the voice that Trion was standing all of three feet away. Alexandre's mind could just picture the praetor's pose and stance.

"Hold still a second," said Dr. Bahadur, pressing a button. Alexandre felt a tingle in the back of his eye sockets. He stared straight ahead without blinking. After a moment, his left eye cleared. The right was still obscured and Alexandre squeezed his eyes shut at the visual incongruity. "Other eye," prompted Dr. Bahadur, and Alexandre forced himself to comply. He dearly wanted to check on Sylvia with his good eye. Another tingly moment later and it was done. Alexandre blinked several times in rapid succession and turned immediately to Sylvia.

She looked exhausted and distressed, the tears still on her face. Alexandre had not known she was crying and reached over to wipe the dampness from her face.

"That should do it," remarked Dr. Bahadur, mostly to himself, since Alexandre was no longer paying him any attention.

"Captain Depriest," said Trion.

Alexandre leaned over to kiss Sylvia on the cheek, lingering a moment at the bitter taste of her salty tears. He already felt guilty. He lifted her hand up and kissed it before laying it down on her chest. His jaw tightened. He should stay here with her, but now that she was stabilized the important thing was figuring out why this had all happened.

Alexandre followed Trion out of the bedroom. It was then he saw it. He stopped in the doorway.

Hovering on the far side of the room and looking at Alexandre was a little boy, barely old enough to walk. He was surrounded by a green mist shot through with dark lines. His feet, where they were visible, did not quite touch the floor. He was barely substantial. Alexandre could see straight through him. Most of the bay was completely invisible, or perhaps transparent. Bits and pieces of his figure drifted in and out of view.

Dr. Bahadur walked up behind Alexandre, heading out, but now that his work was done he was able to stop and gawk at the apparition. "My word," said Bahadur. Alexandre said nothing.

The little boy was frowning, a mixture of disappointment and resentment. Alexandre made the connection between this apparition and the light. He stared back at the boy, mirroring the child's serious expression.

It fell to Trion to provoke the conversation. "You should have come to us sooner." It was not an accusation that had any effect on Alexandre. Trion continued, "It leaked in from an outside dimension."

Dr. Bahadur carefully squeezed past Alexandre. "You mean from outside the United Worlds?" It was the term used to describe all those universes officially allied with the Imperium.

"Outside the Imperium," said Trion, meaning outside everything the magisters controlled.

Dr. Bahadur gave an exclamation of surprise. "Beyond the Wilds?"

Trion nodded. Though he answered Bahadur's inquiries, his eyes were locked on Alexandre.

"Is it dangerous?" asked Alexandre. Let Bahadur worry about origins and details. Alexandre had more important things to determine.

"No," said Trion, finally looking back at the insubstantial boy. "He's benign."

The boy blinked, but otherwise hovered unchanged. Alexandre risked looking away long enough to sit down in the nearest chair. A casual motion to hide his distress. It worked. Even Trion was oblivious to the captain's current inner turmoil. Benign. Assuming this child was some form of governing intelligence of the pinprick, the flash was accidental. Or Trion was conjecturing. "How do you know, if it comes from outside?"

"Outside our control. Not outside our knowledge," said Trion. "It has a Gaian source point."

Gaia. It was a word Alexandre had heard many times, and never in a positive light. Gaia was where bad things came from. Gaia was a source of poison to the Imperium. Gaia was where you sent unwanted things to get rid of them, and Alexandre had no idea why the praetorians did not seal such a supposedly awful place off. They had sealed dimensions away before. Was there some reason that prevented it?

"It intersects with a compatible, receptive matrix," Trion explained, "and condenses around that point. When its energy hits a critical mass point, it develops into its next stage of life."

"Which is?" asked Bahadur, curious.

Trion did not sound similarly enthusiastic. "A living creature."

Alexandre looked grim indeed. "Human?"

"I don't know."

"Why was no one else able to see it before?"

"I don't know. I can only speculate."

"Fascinating!" said Bahadur. "So it's like an energy creature that has to get enough energy to come fully alive. Depending on your definition of fully."

This was truly unnecessary from Alexandre's viewpoint. "How do I get rid of it?"

"I don't know," answered Trion. "As far as I'm aware, the matrix bond is permanent."

Just then, Dr. Coulson emerged from the bedroom, wiping sweat from his forehead. He looked grimly at Alexandre. Bahadur, sensing oncoming bad news, said a hasty goodbye and made himself scarce. Coulson addressed Alexandre.

"She's stable, but I've had to attach a regulator. It will need to stay on for at least the next four weeks, and even then it's not a guarantee." Coulson's eyes flickered to the ghostly boy. "She can't handle any more stress. Not anything at all. If she has another shock to her system..." He let that unfinished thought hang on the air threateningly.

Alexandre interlocked his fingers and put his chin on his thumbs, index finger resting on thoughtfully pursed lips.

"I'd keep that person out of there," added Coulson, with a nod to the floating boy.

"That may not be possible," said Trion.

"I'll tell her," said Alexandre suddenly, swiftly standing.

"That may not be--"

Alexandre silenced the doctor with a single firm look. If he knew nothing else, he knew his Sylvia. She would not fear what she could understand. He left Trion and Dr. Coulson in the hallway. When he returned several minutes later only the doctor remained.

All the while, the ghostly child stayed in the outer hall, though not in the same place. With Alexandre's departure it floated around aimlessly, drifting towards the door. It acted as would anyone waiting alone, studying its fingernails and scratching itself and generally making no note of Dr. Coulson's presence whatsoever, even when the doctor addressed it. It even picked its nose. Coulson watched it with almost fearful reverence. He had a problem with dead children, and near as he could tell (minus Trion's explanation), this was a child's ghost.

Alexandre was a touch dismayed to find Trion had departed, since he might have asked more questions, but he was more dismayed by the sight of the child's presence. It was much harder to ignore than the fluctuating light had been.

At Alexandre's gaze, Dr. Coulson stood. Alexandre stepped aside to admit the doctor back into the bedroom. Sylvia had closed her eyes and seemed to be resting, but when Coulson approached she said, "Will the twins be alright?"

"It's hard to say. This incident shouldn't cause any lasting damage, but the risk of premature birth has increased."

Sylvia was angry at herself. Her reaction had not been becoming of an officer, and she had increased the risk to her babies. She clenched her hand, fingernails digging into the flesh of her palm.

"I'll have to keep you on constant monitoring and respond to the slightest changes."

"No." Sylvia's eyes fluttered open.

Shocked, Dr. Coulson said, "I have to insist--"

"That's not it." Sylvia was firm in her resolution. "It is... not reasonable that you monitor me all the time. It would be better to add another doctor."

Coulson had to agree with her reasoning, mostly. His patient was an Operations officer; efficient scheduling was a cornerstone of her job. "It would take time to update another doctor."

"Dr. Madison should be back from his vacation." That was the one doctor Coulson could not use such an argument against, since Madison had handled Sylvia's case first. "At least you should ask him."

"I will. In the meantime, I don't want you experiencing any stress, for any reason."

"Understood, doctor." Sylvia closed her eyes once more. "I am tired."

"I'll be back at the first sign of trouble."

Sylvia did not answer, letting restfulness envelop her. Secretly, she hoped Dr. Coulson would not be back too often once Dr. Madison had resumed his services. Coulson was a good person and a talented doctor, but Alden and Sylvia had an understanding. (She never mentioned it to Alexandre, but if she had been the type of woman to have an affair, she would have had one with Alden and not Landor.)

With one final warning to Alexandre about stress, Dr. Coulson headed out.

Alexandre remained standing in the doorway, the apparition in the hall behind him. He leaned with crossed arms on the door's frame. "I'm ready now," said Sylvia when their house was again quiet and guest-free. Alexandre shoved off from the frame and made his way to the bedside. He left the door open and looked back once at the child.

Gradually, the child followed, stopping just inside the door. Sylvia took a deep breath and frowned. "There is nothing to do? He is going to stay?"

Alexandre did not answer. His silence spoke droves.

Sylvia addressed the child. "Do you have a name?"

The child did not answer.

"We should call him something," mumbled Sylvia, drifting off to sleep.

Alexandre watched his wife's sleeping form for several minutes. He almost dared not breathe lest he wake her. The paperwork lay unfinished in the other room, so finally he left Sylvia's side to finish the work he had started. He was not surprised when the child followed him.

He did take care to say one thing to the creature when they were in private. "If you do anything that upsets Sylvia again, I will not forgive you."

They were words the burgeoning Illusionary would never forget.

Sylvia's intuition was not incorrect, for each day, each hour, each passing moment the little boy could feel himself growing just a touch stronger. In his first form he had passed through walls and other obstacles quite easily, and for the first few hours he could do it easily still, but then passing through the wall began to feel a little like passing through water, and now he had to press himself to do it quite completely. When he sank to the floor he did not immediately fall through it, but rested for a moment and he was almost standing.

More important by far was the increase of his vision. At first he had seen only that smudge, and then after his true appearance he had perceived only the form of the man he followed. Now he found he could see the house, and the others, and just a few hours past had heard at long last a thumping hum of vibration from a voice.

Even without his hearing he had figured out the man's first message. He still had no firm idea how the message had reached him, but he supposed the man had been very angry and intent on the reception. It had even frightened him for a short while and he kept his distance.

He felt badly for having caused the man displeasure. He had never intended anything bad to happen. On the contrary, he was aiming for good. While not purposefully planning anything beneficial, he had a sense of heavy returning, and that was good for him. Good for him was as good as things got in the universe from his own perspective.

He wondered how much longer he would be passing his hands through tables and spitting without hitting his targets. He would spit and watch the little globules of saliva drift down through the floor as he himself would if he tried standing for too long in one place. They probably continued down forever, but maybe, as he himself was growing more solid, his spit was anchoring itself to some point beyond his radius. He found himself almost tethered to the man he followed, only able to roam so far before he felt himself drifting backwards despite his best efforts.

For better or worse this man was his destiny. It felt more like the hand of fate was choking him.

Finally he sank to the floor and did not rise again, and no amount of movement could again lift him. He was then rooted in place, but for all he stood, he did not sink. The air, instead of moving through him, had to be breathed, and if he reached out he could touch the grain of the table.

The boy waited and waited. Nothing more changed.

Walking through the hallway, he heard the woman call to him softly and turned. The bedroom door was open. A stripe of sunlight beckoned across the flooboards and he entered.

Sylvia patted the bed next to her. "Come here." Her voice was soft, not in kindness but in weariness, for she was always tired. She closed her eyes. The little boy put his hands on the bed and heaved, but did not go drifting up as he might have just days earlier. Instead he had to clamber, pulling the blue bedspread ineffectually before gripping through the covers to the padding underneath.

Sylvia placed a hand on his shoulder and he twitched. This was his first human contact. She would sometimes cajole him into entering the bedroom but never before had she touched him.

"Are you real?" she asked quietly, finger tracing a line down his arm. It tickled. He instinctively scratched it. Sylvia breathed slowly. "We should call you something. Would you like that?"

Blankly, Grigorii stared at her. Her unbrushed hair was haloed about her head, the fine strands catching the light from the window. She looked in that moment an angel.

Then she settled back into her pillows, out of the light, and became once more a tired, bedridden mortal. She rested before continuing, "I think we should call you Grigorii." It was the name of her first teacher at the Academy who meant anything. He was long dead, returned to his maker by the Galatians. Sylvia took Grigorii by the hands, cupping hers around his, and guided his fingers to the sheets over her stomach. One hand reached up and brushed through his hair, gently guiding his head to the same place, his ear against the covers.

"Can you hear them?" she asked, voice fading. "I can't..."

Sylvia's breath jerked a moment and settled back as she drifted off. Grigorii lay there with his head against her stomach, listening in a sacred moment until he thought of Alexandre. He left the room not long after.

It was first light out, that hazy veil between morning and night, and a thick curtain of fog blanketed the ground outside Alexandre and Sylvia's house, as it did most mornings. It was only just five and already the house was awake. Sylvia sat in her bed writing, the remnants of breakfast beside her, as Alexandre prepared Grigorii to go out. He hurriedly pulled an infant's nightgown over Grigorii's head, not worrying at the fact it was a poor fit or that it made Grigorii indistinguishable from a girl. It was an appropriately modest cover for going out in public.

Alexandre did not tell Sylvia where he was going or what his intentions were. He merely said, "I am taking him for a walk," and Sylvia politely nodded, thinking perhaps it would be a good occasion for bonding. He took the monitor with him, of course, but Dr. Madison was due for a visit at six. Alexandre hoped to be heading back by then, but he had no capacity for optimism, having learned better than to entertain such fancy young in life.

At Alexandre's command, Grigorii followed him down the stairs and out the door, but there the arrangement failed. Outside Grigorii was uncertain, and Alexandre could hear Grigorii falling behind with each of the his grand, sweeping steps. It was such a problem that within a minute the attempt was abandoned and Alexandre scooped up Grigorii and carried him to the trees. There, hidden in the mists, was the gate between the house and the Neighborhood, nothing more than a gap between two trees. Stepping over it the universe changed and the air became clearer. Grigorii could still see the fog-encircled house over Alexandre's shoulder. It was soon gone, replaced by the rows of neighbors' houses, and then the tree-lined path between the dimensional seams that served as an expressway through the Neighborhood. They came out at the Bridge, passed someone they did not know going the other way, and then they were through over the Bridge to Gaia.

~~~

It was, Alexandre was forced to concede some hours later, a rather large failure. His search for regional authorities had sent him from one town to the other, and then back again, only to be told the regional authorities could not help him. "I'm sorry," said a woman identified as a moderator, "but there's really nothing we can do about giving up children. Your best bet might be in one of the roleplay subforums, or maybe some sort of Breedables sale. We don't have any orphanages." Three more moderators and an administrator said much the same thing. Alexandre was disheartened and tired. He was surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people, a noisy throng that never seemed to let up, and for a man who valued his personal space and privacy, it was not enjoyable.

His normally excellent sense of direction failed him. In the midst of it he let the throng carry him and Grigorii and before he knew it they were in another location entirely. Alexandre stopped for directions but the instructions were vague and unhelpful. "Just click two maps over," and "That's to the east, or is it west? Which way is which?" Grigorii fell asleep on his shoulder and Alexandre did not care or notice.

He found a bench in a well-trafficked area and set Grigorii down on it. The little green-haired boy woke, and Alexandre pressed him gently to stay put. Then he turned around and left.

It was not in Grigorii's nature to be so obedient when he felt compelled to follow Alexandre, but he could not get down from the bench quick enough. He managed to dangle one foot and then looked around, unable to find Alexandre, so he pulled the foot back up and curled, pulling the soft nightgown down over his ankles. The material stretched and then pulled back to its original position. The white of his diaper showed between his legs. He stood up, the slats of the bench hard on his soft feet, and looked for Alexandre.

Alexandre had moved so far that Grigorii had no hope of finding him, but close enough that he could stay and watch. He waited.

Ten thousand people must have passed between them, but none even paused to look at Grigorii. It was as if they could not see the boy. Alexandre watched Grigorii move through various states of distress, bordering on tears, but never outright wailing. The time went by until Alexandre could stand by and wait no longer. He crossed back to the bench, cape billowing out behind him. Grigorii was beyond emotion by the time Alexandre returned and so stared blankly, a dazed and unreadable expression on his little face.

Sighing inwardly, Alexandre turned and sat in a practiced motion, his cape falling perfectly behind him on the bench, and set his head in his hands, watching the people go by before him. For a long moment, Grigorii stood there, hurt. Finally he sat down beside Alexandre. A moment later he lay down, his head cushioned in his arm, his feet resting on the edge of Alexandre's cape.

Unbeknownst to Alexandre, another had been watching Grigorii. This observer had large, mismatched eyes in differing shades of green, and hair in three different colors. She had had her head settled on her own father's shoulders, settling down for a nap, when she had seen the little boy all alone. While he was alone, Asimov had not been able to budge Xavier; once another man had sat down and effectively claimed Grigorii, she had pulled his hair so hard that he had yelped, put her down, then allowed her to drag him over to the bench where Alexandre and Grigorii sat.

"Were you tryin' to ab- adan- lose him?" Her voice carried a note of harshness as she clambered up on the bench next to Alexandre and his charge. "Thass mean, really really mean." She gave the dark-haired man a stern glare. "Mama says that babies are special 'cause they're life or somethin'. Why is- was- were you trying to get rid of him?"

Xavier had long since given up trying to teach his daughter manners. He usually got out of this responsibility by pretending he was drunk into a stupor, at which point one of the other adults in the house would take the little heathen away. The brunet stood a suitable distance away, rather as Alexandre had done a few minutes before, to watch, but not to be seen. Even as he tried to use the hand-signals he'd labored to teach Asimov to tell her to stand down and put away her ammunition, she took a deep breath to continue her lecture.

"E'en if you didn't want 'im, he's yours now and you gotta take care of him! If you don't, he could end up with-- with-- with HORRIFIC SCIENTIST BRAINS IN ROBOTIC BODIES AND NEURAL PAIN THINGIES IN BOXES AND NEEDLES AND STUFF. And that'd be real, real bad and it'd be all your fault! 'Cause it's not his fault, and it's not my fault cer- certa- uhm, really. You know?" She paused for a deep breath, then launched into a continuation. "An' anyway. S'not like he's an ugly baby and he doesn't smell funny like other babies do. An' he's cute. S'I don't see why you don't want him." Asimov squinched up her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

"You know, you stare just like my daddy does," the girl observed.

Alexandre's head raised and he turned to look at Asimov, eyes cold and jaw tight. "Be quiet," he said, in a cold tone that suggested this was a certifiable order and not merely some request. His headache was bad enough from the crowd without some kid yammering in his ear. "I don't know him."

On Alexandre's other side Grigorii stirred and sat up again, bleary-eyed. He looked at Asimov with some remnant of curiosity: he was too tired to manage more than that, at least for now. Each scream of Asimov's pulled him one step closer to alertness. He did not seem to notice Alexandre's lie, or if he did he was simply unsurprised by it.

"You talk just like my daddy, too! He said that to me this morning when I was tellin' him about the Harkonnens and how they'd stolen Arrakis from the Atreides, and I said, 'Those bastards!' an' he said, 'Asimov, be quiet!' and I said 'No!' and then he pretended he was-"

Well. This was really going to become unpleasant. Xavier grabbed his daughter and picked her up, glaring at her as she squealed. "It's not your place to tell people how to live their lives," he said darkly. It wasn't like he didn't agree. Abandoning a child was very irresponsible- though he wouldn't pretend that he hadn't thought about leaving Asimov somewhere- and certainly not an action that spoke much to the man's moral compass. He could understand, though.

Asimov bit him on his shoulder, right over his rank insignia. In shock, he dropped her and watched the annoying little punk hide behind the bench. Rubbing the bite marks, he sighed. "Sorry," he said to Alexandre, following the girl behind the bench. Unfortunately, she had guessed correctly in that he didn't want to muss up his pants and hid under the bench, twiddling her black-painted fingernails at Grigorii.

"Hi, baby," she crooned up at the other child. "I'm Asimov, what's your name?"

Grigorii did not immediately answer, looking elsewhere. He was still unaccustomed to talking despite Sylvia's urging. It felt strange to force breath through his lungs and make sounds when before he had felt no breath at all. He rather wished Sylvia were here now to help him.

"House Atreides?" repeatedly Alexandre, darkly serious. He studied Asimov and Xavier without seeming to.

"C'mon," Asimov coaxed, reaching up through the slats to tickle his tummy. "I'm not really all that scary, I know 'cause I saw scary, scary things in one of Mama Aure's movies and I'm not scary at all. It was like a zombie, except with... with... no face." She imparted this to the other child with an air of great importance, and a wide-eyed solemnity that bespoke how firmly she believed in this.

Xavier ran one hand through his disheveled hair, giving his daughter a tired look before returning his gaze to Alexandre. "Yes," he sighed, rubbing one thumb along the ring of teeth-marks left on his uniform. Other than slight wrinkles from carrying a child about, and a little dust on his pants from both walking and Asimov's ratty sneakers, it looked like he took great care of his uniform. A careful patch had been put on the cuff of one sleeve; it was barely noticable, except where it caught the light. It was of a different variety of fabric as compared to the rest of the uniform, but sewed on with great care to detail.

"It's a movie that one of my..." He tried to think of a word to describe the other residents of Valinor. Dormmates wasn't right. Shipmates was completely wrong. Housemates implied he was landlocked. Which he was, but like hell would he ever tell anyone that. As much as he hated the solidarity of land, he was too prideful to ask for the help of others in matters that he felt were best kept between crewmates. "...friends let her watch. Dune, or some such. Science fiction, space travel instantaenously, the Kwisatz Haderach..."

He rubbed the area under his blue eyes, then gestured at the spot Asimov had previously occupied. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Alexandre formulated no opinion about this stranger, since there wasn't much to base anything on. Nothing telling about the face, nothing distinctive about the mannerisms. A person who possessed little carriage, worn at the edges by his life's journey, but ultimately unremarkable. The same could not be said of Alexandre: one look at the captain's dark, austere features and the fierceness in his eyes and you knew this was a man with a mission, willing to go to the ends of the universe if that was what it took. Every inch of him possessed a rigid bearing. He was not a man who easily relaxed.

Even when he rested his elbows on his knees and his sharp chin in his left hand he did not give an impression of informality. He maintained a taut efficacy, like a spring tightly coiled, filled not with careful contemplation but with a brimming vitality tightly controlled by a strong, even overwhelming discipline. He said with a dark sigh, "This is a free country, I believe." The same could not be said for Smodrina.

Grigorii, not really scared, but not really comfortable either, wedged himself at the spot where Alexandre's back met the bench. His fingers found and curled around the stiff fabric of Alexandre's cape, pulling slightly against the bench where Alexandre was sitting of the cape. Though Alexandre noticed Grigorii's actions, he made absolutely no sign of it. He did not even blink or flick his eyes in Grigorii's direction.

She tilted her head a little. Babies just confused Asimov sometimes, but she figured that anything was better than going home and letting Daddy pretend he was a drunkard again. Although it was equally displeasant to be around him when he was all full of navigational-ness and stuff like now, these guys were fun. Also, she just didn't like visiting the Black Chime and seeing it all crashed and the Mister The Captain Sir all... corpse-y and stuff. Why did she have to get the daddy who was always obsessed with the past and not, you know, stuff that mattered? Like names! Specifically, these names. Very important stuff. At least, to her.

"You're..." She narrowed her eyes at Grigorii and pulled at an imaginary goatee, imagining a villian from a movie she'd watched once at school. "...anxious?" The word was horribly mangled, as if she was not quite sure how to spell it. The 'x' was unduly accented, making it sound like ack-shus instead of the word it was.

Xavier sighed and sat carefully, maintaining a rather military posture. "It's not much of a country at all. There's no real government. If there is, it's an oligarchy, and everything is motivated by the actions of those few at the top. I think the local colloquialism is 'non-player character', although..." He shrugged, then regretted the informal action. Something about this man demanded respect, and as much of it as could be reasonably given. He trusted his gut instinct, perhaps more than a navigational officer should. "...I don't really live here."

"Daddy chews on his thumbs," Asimov was telling the baby, "'specially when he's annoyed with me. It's funny. Once he actually ended up, um, um, bleeding and stuff. Then Mama Alice acted weird, and Mama Aure hit him with a book! That was funny. I kind of wish it'd been the microwave, though." She had begun to keep a running dialogue of what she observed through the slats in the bench, telling Grigorii everything she saw and sometimes interspersing little notes of her own. Xavier gritted his teeth. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to drag Asimov out and home, then teach her about keeping her mouth shut until it was the only thing she knew.

Xavier's frustration, now there was something worth noting. Alexandre twirled his fingers though the curly hair at the nape of his neck, something Sylvia did as well when they were in bed together. "I also have residence elsewhere," he said cryptically, waiting to see if Xavier would open up with more information without prompting.

Grigorii glanced at Asimov through the slats, finally managing to force air through his windpipes. "Ha... lum." Failure, not really a word at all. He tried again. "Hallo." Then he turned away, looking up at Alexandre for guidance but found none offered. His eyes darted back to Asimov, the fingers gripping Alexandre's cape loosening just a little.

Xavier sighed and twiddled his thumbs. He didn't want to prove Asimov right, but it was a habit evidenced by the way his nails were bitten to the quick. "You can get to my current place of residence from here-" and also his ship "-but I don't think it's a true Gaian residence. I know that a man from nineteenth-century France lives in the house as well, and a lieutenant from Thscier's Imperial navy. I... don't usually come here."

Asimov was delighted at getting a reaction out of the baby. If she hadn't wanted to keep talking to him, she would have gone out from under the bench and done a dance, of the sort you would see in old cowboy epics. "Growned-ups are weird," she whispered to Grigorii in her best secret-keeping manner, "because if you were my baby, I'd keep you. Cept you're not, and I'm not old enough to have a baby anyway. I know 'cause Mama Alice told me that babies only come to growned-ups who have a cabbage patch in their yard 'cause the stork'll only put babies under cabbage leaves."

Grigorii took in this information with all apparent seriousness, though he was under the impression that babies came from Sylvia and grew inside her. He chose not to contradict Asimov's statement right this moment, mostly because he was not sure how to. He had never contradicted anyone so far in his life.

"How curious," said Alexandre, neglecting to mention that he himself lived in a similar sort of place with nineteenth-century neighbors, or that he himself was from the twenty-seventh. If he were generous, he could have mentioned that it was his first visit to Gaia, but he was only ever generous as a captain to his crew, never as an individual in conversation. He did find cause to ask another question. "Did you have some business here on Gaia?" And if he might return Xavier to that business, all the better. He did have the matter of Grigorii still to deal with. It was not likely to be resolved while Asimov and Xavier were present.

He shrugged. "My place of work is here, in drydock." It was easy to see he chafed at saying that. Dry land wasn't a place he liked to be; Xavier always felt better standing on the deck of a ship with miles and miles of blue sea below him. It somehow felt sturdier, and more comforting. "I went to report to my captain." More like, he went to make sure the old man hadn't drunk himself to death yet; it made him uneasy to bring a minor there, simply because after ten-odd years in drydock, it was a place that simply radiated despair.

Had she scared him again? Asimov peered at Grigorii and tilted her head a little. "So if Mister up there in blue is your daddy, who's your mommy? I have a lot of mommys, they are all a little whacked in the head. That's how Mama Aurelius described it. Whacked. So I guess, Iunno, someone hit 'em upside the head when they were little!"

"Shylvie--"

"Grigorii!" said Alexandre sharply. He had been following Asimov and Grigorii's convesation without seeming to. He proceeded in Russian to admonish Grigorii, "(It is not your place to tell them of your family.)"

Grigorii fell silent, both because he could only understand Russian and not speak it, and because he was surprised to have Alexandre refer to him as part of the family. Alexandre was surprised as well but hid it, noting it as an uncharacteristic slip of the tongue. He had, after all, spent several months actively trying to accustom himself to the thought of having a family. It was simply a mash of thoughts and nothing more.

"(Keep your knowledge close to your heart,)" finished Alexandre more gently in French, something his mother had been fond of saying. It was her private code for her profession and the secret of Alexandre's parentage: keep the strictest confidence. Alexandre applied it to everything in his life. The switch to French served to further reassure Grigorii because it reminded him of Sylvia.

Asimov finally came out from under the bench. "Why're you talking about hearts? You aren't gonna suddenly become some kind of scary monster and- and- eat hearts, right? 'cause that'd just be weird." It would be just Alexandre's luck that Asimov was not a complete waste of space, and that she paid attention when the nineteenth-century Frenchman tried to teach her foreign languages. "I saw that on a TV show once-" Xavier made an abortive grab at the talkative girl, but she made it under the bench again in time that he only caught her green scarf. "-when Daddy was busy!"

Immediately Alexandre addressed Asimov. "Parlez-vous français? (From where did you learn it?)" Then, in Russian, "(And do you also speak this?)" He was quite keen on hearing the answers, piercing gaze holding tightly on Asimov.

"Oui, je parle français. Mon oncle, Asmadai, m'enseigne parce qu'il ne veut pas que je soit un idiot inculte, et aussi parce que sa première langue est Français. Le mien est français, aussi," she said, a great deal more eloquently than she spoke in English. Asimov even conjugated her verbs correctly, which was quite incongruous with her speech in what seemed to be her native tounge. But she shook her head at the Russian. "Non, je ne parle pas. Mais, je parle français!"

Xavier simply looked very confused now, as his daughter popped up again. He didn't even bother to try and grab her.

"J'apprends l'italien, aussi," she continued. "L'italien d'etude est tres amusement."

(Yes, I speak French. My uncle Asmadai teaches me because he doesn't want me to be an uneducated idiot, and also because his first language was French. Mine is French, too.

No, I don't speak that, but I speak French!

I'm also learning Italian. Learning Italian is very fun!)

Alexandre clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes in harsh appraisal of this brightly-colored child. "(But you understand Russian?)" he said, letting a bit of his Smodrinan street accent slip into his Russian.

Grigorii was as confused as Xavier, even though he understood most of the conversation. "Капита́н?"

"Only a little," Asimov said in French. "I know when people are asking if I understand!" She smiled brightly. It was quite clear she hadn't understood the first thing Alexandre had said, and that people asking if she understood Russian was as far as her linguistic abilities went in that language. "I think I can say 'no'," she added uncertainly. "Нет?"

Alexandre wanted to say something inappropriate in Smotra, but given it was a mix of languages Asimov knew he resisted the temptation. "You have a very interesting daughter," said Alexandre impassively to Xavier. He leaned back and stretched his arms over the back of the bench, letting his right hand dangle almost protectively in front of Grigorii. The move confused Grigorii and he froze, which was exactly as Alexandre intended.

"Er, thank you," Xavier said, entirely unsure if that was a compliment or an insult. His usual next line- It's not my fault- didn't make it past a vague urge this time. It somehow seemed inappropriate.

Asimov tilted her head. "Are we done talkin'n French now? 'cause that was fun, lotsa fun."

"Да," said Alexandre flatly, without the faintest hint of amusement. He hardly wanted to encourage Asimov. She was a pest by his standards, even more so because she spoke French. Alexandre had nothing against the language -- it was the tongue of his mother and his wife -- but for him it was a tool to be used around people who did not speak it, a method of openly secret conversation. Even on Smodrina, where a considerable proportion of the populace had French ancestry, he had been able to use it in such a manner because the majority of the population spoke only Russian and Standard.

Alexandre slid his hand down and ruffled Grigorii's hair in apparent affection. Grigorii was surprised further, not quite understanding the sudden change in Alexandre's behavior, but not knowing what to do about it. He sat quietly and tolerated the motion in a very good impression of a small child-shaped statue.

She sighed, disappointed, and took the time to chew on a lock of her hair. It seemed to her like the poor green kid lived a fairly joyless existence, with a dad like he had. Hopefully his mama was a lot more fun, because he'd need it. If she had a language with which to secretly give Grigorii advice- but when had that ever stopped her, others knowing what she was saying.

"When my daddy decides to ac- acknow- eh..." Asimov paused over the word. "When he notices I'm alive," she started again, "it's fun to cling, 'cause then sometimes they feel all guilty but I don't really think he will 'cause I think he's-"

"-That's quite enough, Asimov." Xavier stood, clamping one hand over his daughter's mouth in such a fashion as she could not bite. "I think Alice will be quite eager to find out where you've gone. And maybe you can get Asmadai to teach you somethi-" She put all her weight on his hand, so it fell.

"-stupide," Asimov said darkly, "âne stupide." By the way Xavier went pale, he knew exactly what she had said. His jaw worked, but he didn't seem to be able to process conscious thought enough to work up a response.

[Stupid, stupid a**, says Asi!]

"Grigorii," said Alexandre sharply, the searing edge of his words directed squarely at Asimov, "you would do best not to use such poor language around Sylvia." With that said, Alexandre swept his arm down around Grigorii, picking the boy up and standing in the same motion. He placed Grigorii back down on the ground next to him momentarily, just to brush off his pants.

"In-indeed," Xavier stammered, while Asimov made a face. "Where did you hear that?" He had a very harsh whisper, and it showed; his daughter flinched backwards slightly. "It wasn't from Asmadai, the man's a priest, for crying out loud-"

Asimov stomped on his foot, hard. "Yeah, well both of you have sticks up where the sun don't shine! Mama Aurelius said!" Xavier had a dawning look of comprehension on his face, as if he knew who had been teaching the rainbow-haired child to curse.

Stony-faced, Alexandre had totally run out of patience for Asimov, but like most of his emotions, he hid it behind dispassion. He leaned down next to Grigorii, said a quiet "up" into the little Illusionary's ear, and plucked Grigorii from the ground as if the boy weighed little more than a feather. He delicately draped Grigorii across his shoulders, holding his arms steady a long moment as Grigorii tried to figure out how exactly to sit on a person's shoulders.

Unfortunately for Alexandre and Grigorii, Asimov had not run out of patience for them. Actually, it annoyed her that they would attempt to leave without her permission, so she made to grab a hold of a fold of Alexandre's cape. She fully intended to give it a swift tug, as she usually did with her father's jacket; usually, that annoyed Xavier so much he stopped and took the time to lecture her on proper decorum. Though she didn't have such hopes for Alexandre's reaction, she knew she'd at least get him to hold still for a minute. And that was really all she needed, because she was fairly sure she could come up with something to get him to stop (even if she had to resort to something illegal to do it).

This was never a good tactic to use on Alexandre, for like most officers, he despised people pulling on his cape. It was the utmost in insult to military ceremony, not to mention the height of bad manners on Smodrina. With one hand steadying Grigorii, Alexandre reached down and yanked his cape free without even the slightest flicker of acknowledgment on his face. He might have gotten the cape caught in a door for all the notice he gave Asimov's existence.

Asimov lurched forward, into one of Xavier's outstretched arm. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly, picking up the child and ignoring her teeth as she bit him. "She really doesn't know any manners." With that, he dragged the girl away. It really was shameful the way she went on. He didn't know why he put up with it...

Xavier's apology fell on deaf ears, Alexandre immediately marching off in the opposite direction. When he and Grigorii had gone some distance away from the little bench, Alexandre let out a string of curses in a mix of Russian, French, Standard, and Smotra. He took a breath and then another. "Forgive me," he said, apparently to Grigorii. "You should not repeat any of those words in front of Sylvie, either. She'd box your ears."

Grigorii wriggled on Alexandre's shoulders and Alexandre finally let him back down, ending what had been a somewhat overwhelming trip for the young Illusionary. Grigorii was somewhat relieved to be back on solid ground, somewhat disappointed. Riding on Alexandre's shoulders had been a bit like floating, except bumpier, and he still missed floating.

Alexandre crouched down in front of Grigorii and looked at him squarely. They were standing off the side of a street, in a little depression between two buildings that kept them apart from the regular Gaian foot traffic. "It is nothing against you," said Alexandre, "it is simply that I do not think I am ready for a family. That... child" --he said the word acidly "--is a good example why."

Grigorii blinked and looked away in embarrassed understanding. He did not know why Alexandre felt the need to offer him explanation, but he understood. He also saw something in Alexandre for that brief moment, something so tired, and he dared not let the captain know that he had seen it.

"Come now." Alexandre held out his hand to Grigorii. For a moment the little boy stared at it, then he reached out his own hand in answer. Alexandre's fingers closed gently but firmly. "Do not say those words to Sylvia." It might have been a lighthearted joke, but Alexandre was not smiling.

" ...Да," mumbled Grigorii.