Resurrection by cathrl
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Story Notes:

If you’re new to my alternate BOTP universe, welcome – but this probably isn’t the place to start. The beginning of the main series is Rumours of Death, but you’d probably get away with starting at All Good Things and skipping Return to the Red Planet and Dylan’s Tale.

As always, nothing canon in this belongs to me. Comments of all kinds are always very welcome.

Warning for some mild profanity.

With many thanks to my husband and Julie Bloss Kelsey for beta-reading far above and beyond the call of duty.

"I hear you had an exciting week?" Commander Nykinnen leant back in his chair, smiling at Mark across the piles of paper on his desk.

"You could say that." Truth be told, it had been a moderately boring week, concluded by three hours of more excitement than he'd expected to ever see again. Three hours of exhausting excitement, which had left him so stiff from the waist down he could barely move, and had to call in sick for the first three days of the following week until getting into and out of the wheelchair was something he could do without whimpering.

This morning was the first time he'd made it back to rehab, and while he'd felt utterly useless compared to the freedom of movement he'd had in freefall, Tariq had looked impressed, and made noises about walking aids which didn't have wheels. It was as if a tight band had been loosened from around his chest. The chair was a temporary inconvenience again. Paperwork was something which needed to be done now, rather than all his life would ever hold. The nightmare of the past ten months might, finally, be coming to an end.

"I doubt you can see your desk."

If Nykinnen was pushing for a reaction, Mark was determined not to give him anything in return. "Todd's perfectly capable of keeping things running. Anyway, I'd best get started. Anything you want me to start with?"

"Chemist with an odd background. He should be here at ten." There was an edge to Nykinnen's voice, and Mark immediately paid closer attention. "Details are in the email."

And you're not comfortable discussing them, for whatever reason. Mark said, "I'll look at that first," spun his chair round, and headed for his own office.

There was a fair amount of paperwork on his desk, but not unmanageable - and the largest pile had a simple sheet of paper folded in half standing on the top with a neatly printed message in Todd's handwriting: needs signing. Mark shifted from wheelchair to office chair, a task made far simpler now that he had control over what his legs were doing, pulled the top ten files or so towards him, and made a start while his computer fired up.

He heard one tap on the door which led to the Team Seven common room, and it opened without waiting for a reply. That meant Todd Sanderson, his assistant, who would have shared this office had there been room for both of them to work in here. As it was, he worked in the common room when he needed a desk and Mark was using it. All hardcopy dealing with courses and qualifications for all members of Team Seven lived in a standard four drawer filing cabinet squeezed behind the door. It had apparently been full three months ago, so quite how Todd continued to file away reams of documentation was unclear - it was a standing joke between the two of them that it was transdimensional. Certainly Todd was the only person who could reliably find any single piece of paper in there in under five minutes. ISO might claim to be heading for a paperless society, but their other standing joke was that the timescales were geological. Oh, man, he thought. Even my jokes are about paperwork.

"Morning, sir. I hear you had an exciting week."

Mark forced a smile. He suspected the opening gambit of every single person who knew who he really was would be something very similar for the next few days. "No paperwork, at least. Everything under control?"

"Fine. We have someone new coming in at ten o'clock."

"Nykinnen told me." The screen had lit up with the ISO standard wallpaper and a request for his password, and Mark dutifully typed it in: g1cripple. Hopefully one day soon he could change it.

You have 492 new messages, his system told him, and he died a little inside. He could almost feel its glee as he scrolled back up the list looking for the one he wanted. If he didn't spot it quickly, he'd search on all those from Nykinnen --

Re: Donald Wade, the subject read, and searching was no longer an issue.

Wade the traitor, proposed as a member of Team Seven. Redemption for the ex G-Force second-in-command turned designer of Spectran mecha weaponry. Or, was it? There were certainly a lot of caveats on what he was to be allowed to do. Forcing back his kneejerk over my dead body reaction, Mark read every word of the email, slowly and carefully, and then smiled ruefully to himself. No, not redemption. Rigid supervision, putting Wade in a situation where they could use his talents while his superior officer was someone who knew exactly who he was, what he had done, and what he was capable of. The email, though, didn't say why the limitations were there. No wonder Nykinnen, with a full black section clearance, had reacted strangely to a set of blatantly incomplete information. Nykinnen would have to know Wade's history if he was to work here, though, now that Mark wouldn't be here forever. And, in the meantime, everything needed to be locked down secure. He wanted no chance of his replacement innocently authorising Wade for something with a higher rating.

"Todd? Remember those visiting trainees we had here? The Rigan ones?"

Todd turned his head without uncurling from his hunched position over the open bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. "Yes?"

"Can you find me a blank one of their contract forms?" That was the closest he could think of to what he was being asked to provide for Wade: apparent rank and privilege, with strictly limited security clearance and firm limits on what courses he was allowed to take. No matter that he'd been officially cleared of all wrongdoing and given a full pardon, Mark was not letting the former Hawk anywhere near a plane. Or a gun range, for that matter.

The bottom drawer slammed shut, the second one down opened, and within twenty seconds Mark found himself presented with the piece of paper in question, by a corporal wearing a particularly smug expression.

"Thank you," he said.

"We're getting more Rigans?" Todd queried.

"No --" and there was a tap on the corridor door.

"Come!" he called, and it opened and a young man walked in. He wasn't remotely tall - shorter than Mark himself, if anything. Almost slight enough to be described as scrawny, a narrow face, grey-green eyes, mousy brown hair long enough to fall in his eyes and probably non-coincidentally hide any scarring at the back of his neck. Someone who would normally have been eminently forgettable. Not for him, though. He hoped the reverse wouldn’t be true.

It was the best part of a year since Donald Wade had last seen him, and then it had been the middle of the night and the guy had been an appalling psychological mess following days of solitary and Grant's pet doctor’s patent drug cocktails. The time before that, his jaw had been on the wrong end of Mark's fist. Both times Mark had been in birdstyle. Wade now showed as little recognition as anyone ever did. Birdstyle had always been an exceptionally good disguise.

"Sir, I'm Donald Wade. I'm applying to join Team Seven as a forensic chemist." He sounded a little better than he had done in the cells, though that wouldn’t have been difficult.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Jarrald, in charge of the new recruits here." Wade put his hand out, at the expected height, and Mark sighed inwardly. "And I won't be doing any standing up."

Wade's eyes flicked to the wheelchair in the corner and he flushed scarlet before offering his hand directly to Mark. "Sorry, sir."

"No matter. Sit down."

Wade turned to pull the one spare chair up to the desk, and only then did Mark notice Sanderson, standing frozen in jaw-dropping shock. He'd all but forgotten Sanderson's past, which he never talked of, as one of Grant’s flotilla of anonymous black section security guards. Obviously that had involved Wade at some point, because there was no question that Todd had recognised him. Not because they knew one another, though. Wade had looked clean past the corporal's uniform and ignored him. Not an officer, so part of the scenery. Mark had used that trick himself on more than one occasion.

The scrape of the chair on the floor seemed to get his attention back. Todd flashed Mark a look which he couldn't even begin to interpret, silently slid the drawer of the filing cabinet shut, and left through the door to the common room, shutting it behind him without a word.

And what would I be saying to Wade if I had no idea who he was? Mark steepled his fingers and considered the young man in front of him. Wade was no longer the arrogant traitor he'd appeared to be, the Spectran weapons developer Mark had first encountered holding a gun on a collapsed Jason and promptly decked. Nor was he the pathetic wreck from the underground cells in black section, when Jason had realised there was more going on and gone to his former second-in-command’s aid. Mark knew Wade had been treated in the local ISO psychiatric hospital - and there was still a certain air of fragility about him, even after all these months. Mark couldn't remember, if he'd ever known, precisely what Wade had been treated for, but the empty spaces where most people had a resume were something anyone would have asked about.

"So, tell me what you've been doing recently?" He made deliberate eye contact. "It's not normal for someone to apply for a security team when their official resume has a whole set of footnotes saying they mustn't be given a security clearance."

Wade swallowed hard, and Mark saw a determined effort to drop the shoulders and relax one muscle at a time. "I'm not sure what you've been told, sir. To cut a long story short, I was a Spectran prisoner for a while and I didn’t hold up too well. The shrinks feel I shouldn't have access to classified information, because if I was captured again, I'd tell them everything. To be honest, they're probably right."

Mark nodded, keeping his body language neutral. "I see. You've been having psychiatric treatment?"

"I was locked away for a long time. Since my release I've been having trouble with agoraphobia. That's the fear --"

"Of open spaces. Yes, I know. So, why Team Seven?"

"Because I’m told you have a whole bunch of special cases already." Wade sat forward, a desperate intensity in his eyes. "Commander, I'll be honest. I need this. I'm a very, very good chemist - but as a civilian, I can't work on anything that means anything to the war effort. I want to do that. I want to help beat those bastards."

"Without a security clearance?"

"I know there are projects that wouldn't be a risk. Molecular shielding. Increased fuel yields. There are a bunch of things which it wouldn't matter even if I did tell the Spectrans all about them, because their technology is already so much more advanced than ours. Where what's needed is someone who can reverse engineer their tech." He flushed and looked at the floor. "I hate to say it, but I've worked with Spectrans enough that I'm the best person to do it."

"Worked with them in what areas?" Mark asked.

Wade flushed even darker, never looking up. "Chemical weapons and their delivery systems, mostly. I’ve done some bad things, Commander. I can’t put them right, but I need to make all the amends I can."

"I see," Mark said again. "Mr Wade, I've not been given enough information to make a decision. I'm going to have to discuss this with Commander Nykkinen and get back to you. That will be all for now."

Don's face fell, but he stood up as indicated and headed for the door. Paused, and turned, one hand on the frame. "Commander...they won't let me do anything right now. Luminous paint! I know I can be of more use than that." His eyes darted to the wheelchair. "You must know how I feel, sir. Please give me a chance. I won't let you down."

 

Mark rubbed a hand across his eyes as the door closed behind Wade. You must know how I feel. They won't let me do anything. Hell yes, he knew exactly how Wade felt, more than the other man could possibly imagine. Still, the part of him screaming empathy for someone else ripped out of G-Force through no fault of his own was warring with the part listing everything the man had done in Spectran captivity. He'd worked for the enemy and innocent people had died as a result. They were gone forever, and Wade had his freedom, treatment, life as a civilian chemist working here at ISO Headquarters. Why risk giving him more?

You have all those things too, his inner voice said. Is it enough for you?

No, it wasn't. And Wade had a point. What was the worst that could happen - that he ran back to Spectra and discussed a form of shielding which was already common technology for the Spectran mecha? He knew Wade had been cleared – ‘diminished responsibility’ was the technical term for ‘broke under torture’. He’d told the truth about his work on weapons systems when he could easily have dissimulated. And the man was a genius. Anderson had said so himself, and that wasn't the sort of praise Anderson gave out lightly. No, they could use him. Just...cautiously.

He flicked off the "do not enter" light which had indicated that there was an interview in progress, and Sanderson's tap and entry happened so shortly afterwards that he must surely have been watching for it.

"Commander...can we talk privately?"

Mark turned the light back on. "Of course. Sit down, Todd."

The older man did so, perching on the edge of the recently vacated chair. "I...you do know who that is?"

"I know exactly who that is. I'm surprised that you do, though. Is there something you want to tell me?"

Sanderson looked anywhere but at him. "Something I need to tell you. Or tell someone. Something I should have admitted a long time ago."

What the hell? Todd Sanderson; thirty-something, married to an ISO administrative assistant, with a small daughter and another baby on the way, was utterly reliable. There was one single blot on his copybook: his resignation from black section security when he'd decided it wasn't for him. Whatever could he have done that was that bad? And what did it have to do with Don Wade, of all people?

Todd was visibly nervous, and Mark pushed a mug across the desk towards him. "Go get yourself a coffee. Me, too. I'm not going anywhere."

The man nodded silently and headed for the common room, and Mark took the opportunity to hit the computerised personnel records. Todd's resignation had happened very close to Don's recapture by G-Force. He didn't remember the dates of anything like all their missions, but the sequence of events from that particular time period was engraved on his mind. Jason had failed to show for one of their missions. The next mission, the following day, had ended with Don’s recapture by G-Force, and Jason had barely managed to get through it. Just stress, the doctors had said. He’d be fine. Two weeks later he'd collapsed spectacularly during a mission to Spectra, from what had eventually been determined to be a combination of post-concussion syndrome and migraine. Todd's resignation had been a couple of weeks after that. Mark didn't remember the precise date when a call from Jason had woken him in the middle of the night, calling him down to the black section cells to stand between a furious head of security and the Condor protecting the man who had been his second, but the two had to be close. Very close.

Todd returned a couple of minutes later with a pair of steaming mugs, and Mark accepted his with thanks and sipped cautiously at the hot, black liquid. Ordinary coffee, caffeine and all, the remaining minor functionality of his implant told him. It did taste better than the decaffeinated variety.

"So, what's eating you?" he asked. Keep it casual. You may need for him not to have told you officially.

"I was on guard duty in the black section high security cells when Wade was a prisoner down there."

"I guessed as much. And you resigned. Nothing wrong with that. Nobody has to work in black section if they don’t want to be there."

"No. The thing is, what I did right before I resigned was far from authorised. I thought it had been lost - but Wade's out, so people must know. It'll catch up with me eventually. I want you to hear it from me first."

Well, that's melodramatic. "I'm considering this to be off the record,” Mark said between sips of the coffee. “But I appreciate knowing."

Todd took a swig - the man must have an asbestos mouth - and put the mug down carefully on a cork mat on the desk. "While I was guarding him, Wade was manipulated into writing a confession. One of my tasks was to copy it for Major Grant while Wade slept." He drew a ragged breath. "I read it. And I took a second copy, and put it under the Condor's door at the end of my shift. Then I went home and wrote my resignation letter."

Oh! And suddenly a set of pieces which had never made any sense clicked into place in Mark’s mind. He'd always wondered how on earth Jason had managed to get hold of one of Grant's security documents just hours after being released from Medical, probably before he should have been, and looking as if he might keel over at any moment. Answer: he hadn't, he'd been given a copy which had never gone anywhere near Grant.

"Do you want to tell me why?"

"They were going to lock him away to rot. And he'd been tortured, Mark. He'd cracked under torture, and he hated himself for it. They weren't even going to give him a trial. Just leave him drugged and in solitary. I know there's a war on, but I couldn't be part of that. I knew he could be manipulating me...so I thought I'd get a second opinion from someone who'd known him, and then get out of there before I got myself locked up for treason. I never heard anything. I presumed I'd been had, the copy was in the bottom of an ISO shredder somewhere, and Wade was still down in the cells."

Mark smiled ruefully. "You should have said. I could have told you the truth months ago - he was out of there within twelve hours of the Condor reading it. I read it, too."

"And?" There was hope in the man's eyes, belief that maybe, after all, he'd not only done the right thing, but that it wasn't going to come back to haunt him.

"And, strictly off the record, Grant was way out of line and the doctor involved in the drug regime was reassigned somewhere a lot less pleasant. And, as for now, Wade gets his second chance. Strictly monitored and supervised. I need you to produce a contract with no security clearance, and he's going nowhere near the weapons courses, but to the rest of Team Seven he can be just another junior lieutenant."

"And I --?"

"I'm sorry, Corporal. I'm still tired from last week. I think I must have dozed off. I seem to have not heard what you have been telling me for the last few minutes."

Todd's face cracked into a smile of pure relief. "Oh dear, Commander. Let me get you some more coffee."

Mark took the last swallow from his mug. 'I want to help beat those bastards,' Wade had said. He did, too. It was going to be a very long road back...but it had to start somewhere. Here, and now, and with something very small.

"Thanks, Todd. Make it decaf."


"Agent Nineteen, was it?" Anderson tried to pull his shattered thoughts together, having been roused from a sound sleep by a more than flustered duty officer.

"Yes, sir. He said he wouldn't speak to anyone except Major Grant, but when I explained, he said he'd speak to you."

"I understand. Thank you, Hamilton. And fetch me some coffee, would you?"

Anderson sat down heavily in the senior controller's chair in the deserted control room, rubbing at his eyes before toggling the switch which would pick up the incoming transmission.

"Anderson."

"I understand there's a problem with my usual contact." The accent was American, but not quite right. Assumed, on top of something else.

"He's unavailable, and will be for the conceivable future." Grant had never been sick before for as long as Anderson had known him. Now, though, he'd done it properly - acute labyrinthitis to the degree that Chris Johnson had been forced to drug him into insensibility while the inflammation subsided. That had been nine, nearly ten days ago now, and he still wasn't fit to talk.

"In that case I need to report to you. The situation on ComSat Three may be worse than we thought."

Anderson woke up in a hurry. "What situation on ComSat Three?"

The image on the small screen in the arm of his chair was fuzzy, grainy, and only used a couple of shades of grey, but even so he could see the man blanch. "You sent a training party up there last week. Who went?"

"Your contact didn't, if that's what you meant."

The eyes widened. "You need to gain override access to my contact’s files, immediately. I believed something was in hand, and...it may not be. Unless his replacement was briefed beforehand?"

"By him, you mean? No, it wasn't possible."

"We need to do this face to face. I'll be with you tomorrow." And the screen fizzed to grey static.

Anderson sat and stared at the wall of blank screens in front of him, considering. ComSat Three. Grant had been insistent that he should be the one to take the trainees up there, but hadn't mentioned any particular reason why. Nor had he needed one - he was their primary trainer, a former astronaut with vast amounts of zero g experience, it made perfect sense. If there had been something more going on, he'd never given any hint of it. Then he'd been found collapsed in his quarters on the morning he was due to go, semiconscious and incoherent. Certainly his concerns hadn't been passed onto Mark, who had replaced him. And, while there had been a Spectran attack on ComSat Three, any operative with access to a standard news channel would know about it. Which meant that wasn't what he was talking about. Which meant that something more was going on. Now, today, with Force Two still not active, and with G-Force growing more stressed and less efficient with each passing day.

"Crap," said Anderson with feeling, picked up the phone, and dialled. "Ivanov? Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I need you in the control room. We have to get into Grant's files."

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