Everybody cringed, involuntarily glancing upwards, as the lights flickered and the entire room shuddered yet again, but nobody let out a sound. The noises from the surface were considerably muffled before they reached the underground shelter, but not even the thickest walls and best shock absorber cushioning could totally eliminate the echoes of explosions that shook the ground. It was actually a horrible inconvenience that, once inside the shelter, it was practically impossible to tell the direction from which the sounds were carried. There was no way of knowing if the base above was still standing and what exactly each of those reverberating blasts signified – actual explosions, the flaring of cannons, or heavy debris raining down.

The uncertainty was maddening, Haldor thought for about the thousandth time, shifting a little in an effort to find a comfortable position. Thankfully not all of the people in the Plains Base were huddled in the same shelter, although even that wouldn't have been impossible with their numbers currently so low. But the Base was so large that the Commanders had decided to keep three shelters in readiness, in different parts of the area, so that everyone had a shelter within a reasonable distance at all times. As it happened, Hal was in the most crowded one, for a simple reason: most of the personnel had been asleep and had thus evacuated to the shelter next to the accommodations building.

The alarm had taken everybody by surprise, and the great majority of people had rushed to safety in various states of undress, carrying a more or less suitable set of clothes with them. Of course the shelter contained a plentiful supply of blankets, many of which were now in use. The five young TC's were each wrapped in a blanket, sitting side by side next to Adrien and Terry who were resolutely keeping their emotions in check. Hal glanced at Troy who was leaning against the wall next to him, arms tightly around Salvador, forehead pressed into the clone's golden hair.

Edmé, the tall dark-haired doctor, was standing up and scowling at the ceiling, no doubt fearing for the safety of the ward. That, too, had been evacuated – luckily an easy task as the beds had been empty – but of course the facilities and equipment were vulnerable. His wife, head nurse Monah, was sitting on one of the sparse beds and shushing in her arms a scared little cherub, the youngest surviving T-clone whom the couple had adopted. The boy was silent, only whimpering quietly every time a particularly powerful blast shook the ground above and around them.

Hal pulled his own blanket tighter around his shoulders and crossed his legs, wondering at the crazy things that kept occurring to him. Such as, what would happen to his friends' cherished Martinez Mustang? Shouldn't he be more concerned for the safety of the people who were outside, in planes and in the AD section, fighting this battle? And yet he couldn't help worrying for the fabulous bike as well. It was safely inside the garage, but what if the garage took a direct hit? Or what if a fighter were to crash into it? Corinn and Vanya, currently very busy manning their posts at the AD cannons, had probably no time to spare a thought for the ice-blue apple of their eye, but they were sure to cry blood if anything happened to it.

Hal started slightly when a series of shots rumbled overhead, then listened closely. As if the frequency of the explosions had been getting less frantic? I must be imagining things, he decided. This has been going on for so incredibly long already, I'm probably just getting used to it.

As unbelievable as it felt, that was exactly true. After the initial alarm the attack had taken a while to actually commence – their detectors had picked up the approaching enemy very early – but after that it had been raging on for hours. Everybody inside the shelter was tense and yet the young T-clones were beginning to doze off, heads lolling on each other's shoulder. How's the pretty boy keeping it up, as tired as he was? Hal thought, not for the first time. If only I could read these sounds better. Are we doing well or not?

Arria stood in the middle of the Control Center, immobile as a statue, eyes fixed on the monitor screens. The latest wave of aircraft had been beaten back, and no new ones seemed to be forthcoming. The last of the attackers that were still capable of flying anywhere had limped away, trying to reach the safety of their mothership. Obviously there was only a mothership, a huge thing designed to carry troops through deep space and never enter the atmosphere of any single planet, instead of a large armed carrier that might've been dangerous even for a base located on the surface. Well, thank goodness for that.

Probably the Ziroshel Union hadn't deemed it necessary to send one of those costly monsters over, perhaps believing that Jainah could be re-taken with less force, or perhaps not too keen to reassert its supremacy after all. Somehow Arria couldn't quite believe the latter option. The Union hated defeat, and it was hard to imagine that they'd just come to harass a little a planet that had relatively recently declared independence and even given its sister planet in the same system enough confidence to hop into the bandwagon. No, the Union had thought it'd be an easy task to surprise Jainah.

The blond commander allowed himself a tiny, steely smile. Ziroshel Union had badly miscalculated the forces opposing them, Planetary President Nowen among them.

The airspace remained eerily empty, deafeningly silent. The roar of the cannons had died down as well. Arria glanced at Orwel who turned his head and nodded.

"Status: yellow," Arria said into the microphone. "Keep your current positions. AD standby. Wait for confirmation."

"The planetary airspace is clear," Orwel stated. "Ah... let's hear this."

"Plains Base, this is Island Base calling. Our detectors show all clear. No suspicious disturbances anywhere."

"Good. Once more, kudos to you for the early warning." Arria studied the readings on the monitor. "Are your pilots back yet?"

"On their way, Commander. We'll send you a full report as soon as we can. Island Base out."

"Thanks in advance. Plains Base out."

Arria smiled and had barely time to open his mouth to say something to Orwel before being again interrupted by the communications.

"Plains Base, Highlands Base calling. We're clear, with only minor damages. With your permission, we'll call our fighters back from their positions."

"Copy that, Highlands Base. Good to hear your voice, Lindell!" Arria grinned to the microphone. "Did your pilots manage to prevent attacks against the Planetary Council?"

"Yes, they intercepted most of the approaching bombers, and the new City AD took care of the rest." The commanders could practically see Lindell's feral expression. "I hope the Union gets the point by now."

"Let's hope so," Arria agreed. "And let's also hope that they won't consider it necessary to send one of their bigger spacecraft over to get revenge."

"Judging by the news, I'd think they have more need for those elsewhere," Lindell snorted. "Well, at least many people now have plenty of reason to congratulate Madam President for being so forceful with the budget."

"Definitely," Orwel put in. "I just got the report from our pilots. They're heading back from Trelissac, and they said the Union forces appeared totally stunned when they met AD fire around the city and spaceport."

"Talking about the President," Arria said and nodded to the operator who had turned, wide-eyed, to give him a pleading look. "I understand that she's asking to speak to us right now. Lindell, thanks for calling. We're looking forward to your comprehensive report."

"Won't do to keep Madam President waiting. Highlands Base out!"

The operator glanced once more at the commanders who stepped closer to the side screen, both instinctively standing straighter and squaring their shoulders. It was a tiny movement but didn't escape the young man who couldn't help smiling to himself as he opened the visual connection.

"Status: green." At last, Arria's rich voice sounding throughout the base. "Well done, everybody. No more need to stay in the shelters. AD, you may leave your positions. When going outside, look out for debris, there's some danger of injury."

Lancer took a while to become once more aware of his immediate surroundings. Slowly, one by one, he pried his fingers loose from the controls they were still clutching, took off the targeting helmet, and finally raised a very unsteady hand to wipe off stray hairs that were plastered on his face. Now that there was time to think about such things, he realized that the thin jacket he'd grabbed from the closet was soaked and that he was shivering inside it. He was definitely feeling cold, and at least two of the cuts on his fingers had begun to ooze blood again.

But the battle was over. Plains Base was safe. Lancer kept whispering it to himself as he painstakingly extricated himself from the seat and scrambled out, squinting at the sudden flare of light from the corridor. After the helmet, it always looked too damn bright for eyes that'd adjusted to the artificial lighting and enhanced scenery, and right now he had no idea how long he'd had the helmet on. His head was spinning, he stood for a while inside the narrow passage just to make it stop, but it refused to. Suddenly he wanted to cry, wrapped his arms around his midsection and squeezed hard, took a deep breath. It hurt. His stomach heaved but nothing came out, and Lancer leaned against the wall of the passage trying to make his legs move, trying to wipe his dry lips with the back of a hand that was trembling uncontrollably.

The corridor was rapidly filling with people as the AD gunners emerged from their little cockpits, hooting and throwing high fives to each other. Corinn dove out of one passage and straightened himself, brown hair practically dripping wet but with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Good job, guys!" Reed's voice boomed throughout the building. "You make me real proud. No casualties, three of us slightly injured but nothing serious. And now go shower, you're reeking!"

Amidst the laughter, Corinn frowned in consternation. Where was Lancer – and what about Vanya? That spiked flaxen head was nowhere to be seen. He strode over to the cannon that his partner had been manning, opened the door, peered in. He could see the outline of broad shoulders, but why the hell hadn't the man climbed out? Corinn's insides lurched upside down and he dove into the passage, observed in passing that the cockpit seemed intact, and reached a hand to gently touch the man who had slumped in the seat.

"Vanya?" Corinn whispered, the loudest sound that he could get out of his throat. "Good god, Vanya?"

One eye opened into a slit, pale blue glittered in the panel lights. "Sorry... couldn't go on... my head's killing me."

Corinn glanced at the monitor. According to it, the cannon had last fired about ten minutes before Arria had lowered the status to yellow – in other words, close to the end of the battle. He squeezed Vanya's arm a little and forced a smile on his face.

"Don't you worry, hunk, you made it beautifully. We won, they took to their heels and ran."

Big hands carefully detached the targeting helmet and lifted it off, and Corinn bit his lip at the highly uncharacteristic whimper that escaped Vanya when the movement jarred his head. "Just a sec, I'll get help and then I'll be right back. We need to get you to the ward."

Corinn pushed out of the passage only to face a very worried Reed who was trying to see into the cockpit.

"What's the matter?" the square, dark man inquired.

"Vanya's head is acting up again," Corinn said grimly. "Call the doc. He needs a stiff shot of something before we can get him out of there."

"Wait," Reed grunted and Corinn, who'd just been about to dive back into the cockpit, looked over his shoulder. "Did Lancer leave already?"

"Haven't seen him, sorry," Corinn said curtly, then cursed himself. All right, so Vanya's in real pain, but shouldn't you at least check on Lancer as well? He turned again to Reed.

"Let's take a look. Maybe there's another who could use some help in crawling out – hey, Hal! Full points for your timing!"

"Came to check if there's anything I can do," Hal said. "What's the matter? Can I give a hand somewhere?"

"Right here, man," Reed stated. "First of all, call the doctors. Vanya's head hasn't liked being in action."

"Shit, if I'd known..." Hal didn't waste time in digging up his comm. "We've just spent a few hours in the same shelter, they were practically around the corner."

He trailed behind Corinn and Reed to the still closed door, peered around them, then all three men gasped as they saw the spidery figure sitting on the floor, back to the wall and knees pulled up.

"Lancer, are you all right?" Reed knelt down. A wax-pale face rose slowly from the arms that were hugging bony knees closer to the chest.

"Dunno." Bloodshot eyes looked ghostly against the deep shadow surrounding them. "My head's reeling."

"Fucking splendid," Corinn mumbled. "Hal, be a friend and take him to the ward, too."

Haldor nodded. "What's the matter with him?"

"All the stress catching up, that's what." Corinn stood up. "Too little rest, food, and sleep for the past weeks and weeks, then overworking himself, and now this. My guess is that he's dehydrated, and you just might ask them to IV-feed him a little as well."

"You take care of Vanya," Reed commanded. "We get the medics here and look after the pretty boy, too."

"You call the medics, I'll take care of him," Hal said. "I bet I can easily carry him, if need be."

It felt good to do something, anything at all, to be of some use. Hal was horrified at how skinny Lancer was, how he could feel every bone in the wrist he was clasping, how small was the waist around which his arm was flung, as he slowly walked the younger man through the sticky twilight towards the ward. The blond was definitely getting light-headed, and Hal was profoundly grateful when they finally reached their destination and his stumbling charge was whisked into an examination room.

Some time later he saw some medic M-clones enter, pushing Vanya on a gurney. Corinn was following behind, unusually pale under his tan, and disappeared with his partner into another room. Hal didn't know what to do, so he stayed put and just waited. After maybe twenty minutes Corinn returned, shoulders hanging in defeat, and threw himself into an empty chair.

"How's he?" Haldor asked, suddenly and strangely intimidated by the situation. Okay, Vanya was a good friend of his, but this was Vanya's partner – lover – he was talking to.

Corinn looked desperate. "Oh, he'll be all right now that he's got a few shots of painkiller. But... it's just that... Edmé said it definitely looks like he needs that operation, if battle stress and a couple of hours' shortage of sleep make his head respond in this way."

"Brain surgery?" Hal's eyes widened. "Oh shit. Doesn't sound too inviting."

"He hates the idea," Corinn said gloomily. "And then they say I need to convince him that it's necessary! Fuck, of course I believe them, but..."

He leaned on his elbows, head hanging, and pushed fingers into his short hair. "I'm afraid of it too." The last words came with a very small voice.

Hal hesitated for a moment and then patted Corinn a bit clumsily on the shoulder.

"Hey, the doctors know what they're doing, right?"

"Sure," Corinn sighed. "Besides, they wouldn't be operating here. There's a top-notch hospital in Trelissac, and several more further away, with specialized surgeons and things." His fists balled again. "But we still don't have to like the idea."

Haldor tried to find another topic to talk about when a door opened to allow a male nurse MC step out. It closed right behind him, but the men caught a glimpse of a blond head and both jumped on their feet.

"Hey – uh – Luke!" Corinn was quicker to check the nurse's name from his tag. "Wasn't that Lancer in there? How's he doing?"

"Monah is with him right now," the clone said readily. "You can ask her if you can go in."

Permission came after only minimal hesitation, and the two men stopped by the bed that contained a very pale and very displeased-looking Lancer. Monah smiled to their questioning expressions.

"Perhaps I could recruit your help here?" she said brightly. "How about sitting on this very obstinate young man and keeping him in one place?"

"Are you being a difficult patient, kid?" Corinn rumbled threateningly. "And by the way, did I perhaps tell you last night that you looked dreadful? I take it back. That was nothing compared to what you look like now."

Hal glanced at Corinn in shock, but his horror at the poor bedside manner quickly evaporated when Lancer, wan as he looked, defiantly stuck out his tongue at the man.

"I just want to get into a real bed," he said. "And I'd much rather drink the liquid than see it trickle inside that tube."

"No you wouldn't," Monah put in. "That's saline solution, you know. Doesn't taste good."

"Your recent behavior hasn't quite convinced me, though," Corinn said and folded his arms on his chest. Lancer rolled his eyes.

"I did eat last night, didn't I?" he argued weakly. "And I slept, too, until the alarm. I just don't want to lie here with a needle in my arm!"

"You'd do wisely to –" Corinn started and then his mouth fell open as he heard Hal's voice.

"Couldn't you let him go, Monah? I promise to make sure that he doesn't do anything silly."

Well, at least Lancer looked equally surprised, then his pale lips drew into a smile at the show of sympathy from such an unexpected direction. Monah's gaze measured the dark man up and down, Hal looked at her earnestly, and she nodded.

"Just a moment."

She disappeared for a few moments, returned again and placed a large, transparent bottle on the bedside table.

"All right. Edmé said it's okay, provided that you behave yourself." Her experienced fingers removed the tape that held the needle in place, she pulled the needle out and applied a little spray to close the tiny wound. "But now, listen carefully: for at least the next eight hours you will stay in bed. Plus, the contents of that bottle will have verifiably disappeared down your throat within that time. Slowly. Every last drop of it. I'll come to check you towards the evening, and if the bottle isn't empty, or if any of it has disappeared anywhere else, or if you have vomited any of it, you're back here for a couple of days. You copy, Lancer?"

"Yes, Ma'm!"

Lancer pushed himself into a sitting position with an elbow and concentrated on getting his legs flung over the edge of the bed, but Haldor's broad hands grabbed him with surprising gentleness and pulled him up. A sturdy arm was again around his waist to keep him vertical, and black-brown eyes peered down at him suspiciously.

"Are you sure you won't pass out before we get across the yard?" Hal asked. "We can take a chair for you –"

"I'm all right," Lancer insisted, not too convincingly. "Just feeling funny, that's all."

Corinn followed them into the adjoining room and sat down again with a deep sigh to wait for news on Vanya. He couldn't help smiling. Jeez, Fonzo, you're gonna like Hal when you meet him. The two of you are so much alike in so many senses – the quintessential Big Brothers, always needing somebody to look after. He was about to frown and then shook his head. And I guess this means that he's at last accepted Lancer, too, the way he is.