Variation XIV: Coda

She comes back. She always comes back.

It's a bit easier to break into the Mother of Invention than it was to break out, by virtue of the simple fact that, as York insists on pointing out, breaking into a ship full of people who want you dead is not a real smart thing to do. They make it in, set off a few alarms that bolster her pet theory that York has never successfully picked a lock in his life, and she sends York off to cause a distraction. He seems just a bit too pleased with his assignment.

Convincing York to come back wasn't all that difficult, really. She knows he still dreams about finding Carolina, about explaining everything to her, about taking her with him. She wants to tell him the things she knows about pulling too hard, about meaning well, about—

She says nothing. She hopes he won't get himself killed.

And then it's all she can do to worry about herself. South is equipped for the job, all misplaced rage and giant ordnance, and holy shit does Tex ever know that kind of feeling, but North wades into the fray, radiating an air of calm confidence, and she wonders whether he's given up Theta yet, wonders just what is fuelling the rage burning beneath his reassuring tone of voice. He buys her time to escape. She wonders if the twins will kill each other now or save it for some other day.

She runs. She runs into more trouble.

Getting crushed by a tank isn't high on her list of priorities for a reason, as it turns out, but the flip-flopping gravity makes it relatively easy to make a daring escape. She wheels around the ship, the familiar corridors made unusual, strange, by the shifting gravity. That seems good, that seems right. Nothing about this place should feel like home anymore.

She finds Carolina, wonders if York found her first. If he did, his sweet-talking didn't phase her, because she's angry, she comes at Tex with the familiar strength and force and will. To her credit, she's still got Iota and Eta on board, she's managed to keep hold of that much, but even with their enhancements, she's not quite strong enough, not quite enough to win. Tex fights, but it's a necessity, a means to an end. A distasteful, uncomfortable reunion.

They tumble into Ops with its massive observation window, and Tex mentally rescinds her earlier critique of York's distraction-making skills: it looks like the Mother of Invention is actually plummeting toward the planet below, in something that's just short of a controlled descent. Her mind is racing, and she knows, she knows she can access Alpha from here, she's so close to her goal, so close.

For a moment, Tex thinks about trying to convince Carolina to come with her, but she's tired, she's so damn tired of this, and fighting is easier, fighting makes sense. She remembers back to Basic, to antigrav combat, to points of contact and gaining purchase and making use of momentum. Carolina's flagging, dodging back to catch her breath, and Tex tries, she tries one more time. "You can't win, Carolina. But you can come with me."

Carolina says nothing, confusion coming off her in waves, and Tex wonders if York tried the same approach. And then the ship is falling too fast, too fast, and there's no time to think, just the crushing slam of bulkheads against rocky, snowy outcrops, and Tex doesn't have a damn body to save anymore but still she curls tight around herself, trying to protect her head, sees Carolina doing the same, and for a strange moment she thinks she almost understands something, something incredibly important, something—

They crunch to a stop, far too soon, and then there's cold air streaming through the dents and gashes in Tex's armor. It feels real.

She stares up at the ceiling, then rolls to the side, gets her feet under her. Observation window's gone. Carolina's gone, too. She's alone.

It doesn't feel right, to pop up and start walking like she hasn't just come crashing out of the sky, but her body's relatively undamaged, and the access terminal is only a couple of steps away. She activates it, flickers into the interface smoothly, just another shadow passing through.

Alpha is standing in a room, something bright that puts her in mind of a cell. He's just another figure in blue armor, staring at the wall, but she knows him, she knows him.

And now that he's in front of her, she doesn't have the first idea what to say. Sorry they tortured you for so long. Sorry I didn't get you out sooner. Sorry—

"Hey there," she says instead, and winces at her inane, cheerful tone of voice.

He starts a little, then turns slowly, sluggishly, to face her. "Oh. Uh. Hello."

His voice is different, she thinks. Younger. She gentles her own body language in response to his coiled-up tightness. He stares at her a moment longer, then asks, "Who are you?" like it's just slipped his mind, like it's really bugging him, like he knows he should know.

She exhales, because some part of her was always expecting this. "You don't know me?"

"Oh, sorry," he says, like he's having trouble focusing on her. "I'm just, I'm... tired. I'm really tired." He rallies, straightens up a little. "My name is, uh." He shakes his head as though to clear it. "It's, uh."

"Your name is Alpha," she chips in. "You're Church."

"Right," he says, vaguely. "Church, that's me. And you are...?"

She nearly laughs at the question. Answering that honestly could take a lifetime. "Let's just say we used to be together."

"Oh," he says. "Okay."

She remembers Carolina. She remembers York. She remembers Maine and Sigma and a ship full of angry people ready to kill her first and ask questions later. "I need you to come with me."

"Oh," he says again. "I don't think I can, but thanks. I-I think I'm just gonna stay here. Y'know. And rest."

There's a voice ringing in her head, something that sounds strangely like the echo of Omega, something she hasn't heard in a long, long time. You knew this was how it was going to end. You just fooled yourself into thinking you could actually win, this time.

"You don't want to leave?"

"Ah, I... I don't think I can."

You never win, Allison.

"Okay. Maybe just rest, then."

"Yeah. What... what was your name? Your name again?"

You always leave. You never say goodbye.

"It's Texas."

"Texas? Like the state?"

"Yeah."

"Funny name for a girl."

You never say goodbye.

"Yeah, well, Church is a pretty funny name for a guy."

"Yeah. I guess you're right."

"You gave me this name, y'know."

"I wonder why I did that."

never say goodbye

"Well... maybe if you think about it, it'll come to you."

"Yeah. Hey, I'm, I'm gonna rest now. But thanks for coming by."

"Okay. You rest. Church?"

"Yeah?"

"Goodbye."

He stares past her for a moment. "Huh," he says. "I dunno why, but... I hate goodbyes."

She sighs, long and slow. "Me too."

And it's good, she thinks. It's right. She won't be the one chasing ghosts. She tried, and she lost. She lost a long, long time ago, and now she's gonna keep trying and she's gonna keep losing, and that's just the way it's gotta be.

"Okay. See ya." He pauses. "Crazy... state-name lady."

She severs the connection, fades out. "Goodbye."

She stares down at the control interface for a while, tracing the memories, the failures running back and back, down and down into recursion. The wind is whistling through the shattered ship, and she looks up and over the icy wasteland.

There's a figure slumped in the snow, near the edge of an impossibly long drop, another figure moving toward it with purpose, and she explodes into motion, because no, not her, not her too—

Carolina is sprawled on the ground, struggling to get to her feet. Maine is moving calmly, with assurance, apparently uninjured in the crash. Tex leaps a pile of rubble, wishes for Carolina's armor enhancement, needs to move faster, faster.

Maine drops his weapon, speeds his pace, picks Carolina up by the throat, tears off her helmet, and Tex can't move fast enough, she can't move fast enough—

(a small girl with red hair and green eyes staring up at her, reaching, always reaching, and she turns away. she always turns away.)

Carolina screams when Maine rips the AI interfaces from the back of her neck. There's blood in the snow. Her body goes limp, and he drops her almost casually from the edge of the cliff, and Tex is screaming too, now, "No," and it's too small and she's too slow and she's always going to lose, always, always.

Carolina falls.

Tex turns, sees the Director and the Counselor watching from the ship's shattered cockpit, surrounded by guards, surrounded by men in uniform. She turns back, sees Maine install Carolina's AI interfaces, adding them to his own, watches him slowly replace his helmet, watches him hunch his shoulders in a paroxysm of agony. And then Maine is gone and something else straightens in his place, clenches his hands into fists, growls softly, barely audible over the raging wind. Two hands and a voice and will.

Tex cuts and runs, a frantic, undignified sprint across the snow, skidding and sliding, reaching out to catch herself, propelling herself forward, forward, forward toward the cover of the rocks, because nothing matters now, nothing matters but moving forward, nothing matters but moving.

She runs for a very long time.

She stops running, eventually, skids to a halt and falls into the snow and thinks about recursion, about sinking down and down and down into infinity, about all the things that could've been different, about all the things that could've been.

She's still got Omega, she realizes, and laughs, tilting her head back against the snow, staring up at the too-bright stars. The one thing she's managed to salvage from this whole wreck of an operation: an AI fragment who wants her dead, who probably wants nothing more than to join up with whatever Maine's becoming.

Well, sure, a voice murmurs, somewhere in her backbrain. If you want to be all depressing about it.

The voice isn't Omega, she thinks. Just another memory. Just another shadow.

"Okay, asshole," she says aloud, because who the hell is gonna judge her for talking to herself out here on the ice. "I lost everything. You tell me one fucking thing I got out of this. One fucking thing I found that'd make it all worthwhile."

You lost Allison, but you found Tex, the voice says, matter-of-factly. You found someone you can be, someone who's not just the sum of someone else's memories. And I guess that's not half bad.

Tex exhales, watches the stars, tries to make them go blurry in her vision the way she used to do when she was a kid. Matches them up into constellations she doesn't know the names of. Gives them names.

You gonna be okay?

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, Church. I'm gonna be okay."

She pushes herself to her feet. Starts walking. Keeps walking, moving forward, forward. Doesn't look back. Two hands and a voice and a will.

The memory fades. She doesn't say goodbye.