My two-parter expanded into a six-parter.  This story admittedly pushes the E! envelope, and I enjoyed going where no E! fanfic writer has gone before (or would ever want to go again)!  There are some disturbing scenes (especially in part V), minor angst, and a smattering of foul language.  Once again, I have taken liberties with the shift schedule (my ongoing continuous gross error!)  My gratitude goes out to my BETAs:  Caelie, Jamie, Susan #8, and Sailor J.  Your various "takes" on Arc not only helped me correct the technical things and cut out a lot of the excess, but you helped me keep the audience in mind when my own desires threatened to run amok!  Poor Mr Mike . . . let's see what I've written him into this time.  Yours, Hyzenthlay  An Arc Through Fog Part II Acts of injustice done Between the setting and the rising sun, In history lie like bones, each one. The Ascent of F6 John Gage was early. Better than that - he was the first one to arrive.  Wow, how often does that happen? he marveled to himself.  It's never happened.  A silly smile spread across his face.  This accomplishment would give him gloating rights - for a few hours, at least. He whistled at the pleasant morning as he crossed the lot into the bay.  He met Martin Pearcy, the C-shift engineer, coming out of the locker room. "Hey, Martin," was the standard greeting, delivered with a good-natured slap on the back. Pearcy looked a little puzzled then returned Gage's greeting.  "Morning, Johnny."  Then Pearcy, a talker by nature, surprised Johnny by scurrying off towards the dayroom without another word.  Immediately, Johnny's guard went up.  Too much Chester B. Kelly had made him suspicious of anything unusual.  And a reticent Martin Pearcy qualified as unusual.  C-shift had to be up to no good.  What had Chet lassoed them into? Johnny went cautiously into the locker room where Dwyer was changing his clothes. "Hey, John."  Dwyer's manner was as nonconfrontational as Johnny had ever seen.  Now, Gage was certain something squirrelly was going on; but before he could say a word, Dwyer spoke again. "Listen, we're all really sorry about Stoker." Johnny looked over abruptly.  "What do you mean?" Dwyer hesitated.  He could tell from the look on Gage's face that the latter had not heard the news yet.  Dwyer chastised himself for broaching a subject best left to A Shift's captain.  "I . . . uh . . . no one's told you?" "Told me what?"  Johnny's voice and his color were rising. Dwyer knew he had already lit the fuse.  To hold back now would only be cruel. "They busted him-" "Busted him?" "Back down to hose jockey."  Dwyer looked Johnny in the eye.  "And they reassigned him to another station - on the other side of the county." "What?"  Johnny was dumbstruck.  "How do you know that?" "He came in last night to clear out his locker.  He told us." Johnny was speechless.  He sank onto the bench. "I'm sorry, John.  I thought you already knew," Dwyer apologized. "No . . . I didn't,"  Johnny replied.   "They-I-when did all this happen?" "Yesterday.  The case went to the review board yesterday."  Dwyer frowned.  "You didn't know?" "Cap told us a date hadn't been set yet." "Well, I don't know how long ago the date was actually set, but they went up to headquarters yesterday." "I don't believe this," Johnny said.  "Are you sure?" "I heard it all from Mike himself." "Did he say anything else?  I mean, what did they charge him with?" "Look, Johnny, I think I'd better leave it to Mike or Captain Stanley to fill you in on the details," Dwyer replied. "Yeah, yeah, okay," Johnny said with a blank expression.  He was still caught in the swirl of disbelief. Dwyer was finished dressing.  "We're sorry, John.  It shouldn't have happened to him." Johnny nodded. Dwyer left just as Captain Stanley walked in. Right away Johnny could see that his captain was not well.  Captain Stanley's usual crisp and pressed appearance had been usurped by a ragged, unkempt guise of an imposter.  He looked like he hadn't had a wink of sleep, and Johnny imagined he hadn't.  His entire demeanor was subdued and morose. "Then it's true," Johnny said to himself.  Captain Stanley did not even offer a greeting as he quickly changed his clothes, so Johnny made the first move. "Cap?" "Have all the guys come into the dayroom when they get here, okay, John," Captain Stanley said, preempting any conversation.  He left the room, leaving Johnny no further enlightened. But Johnny had the feeling that, shortly, he was going to hear more than he had ever wanted. **** Captain Stanley looked around the table at the curious faces staring back at him.  They have no idea what they're about to be hit with.  It hasn't occurred to them at all, he thought, becoming suddenly conscious that he was wringing his hands.  He stopped, forcing his palms flat on the table. "I wanted to get you all together.  There's something I have to tell you."  He paused.  "Mike went before the review board yesterday.  He didn't want me to tell any of you.  He didn't want you to be anxious on his account." No one said anything, and Captain Stanley could see that the anxiety Mike Stoker had been hoping to spare his crewmates was now playing out its hand. At last, Roy asked, "How did it go, Cap?" Captain Stanley took a long time to answer.  "It was a disaster."  He waited in the burdening silence.  "I still can't believe it." "What happened?"  Marco asked. "They found him guilty.  Gross negligence, they called it.  They busted him down to hose jockey and reassigned him to another station."  Captain Stanley groaned his dismay.  "It was terrible . . . terrible." "But how-how could they justify something like that, Cap?"  Johnny demanded.  "It was an accident!  Captain Detz knew it was an accident!" "Detz reported that it was a case of simple human error.  It wasn't Detz.  It was the reviewer, Chief Janlan.  He said there was enough material in the inquiry's findings to warrant a charge of gross negligence.  He overrode Detz's conclusion.   Destruction of department equipment.  Unnecessary loss of manhours.  Injury and risk to department personnel.  He had a laundry list of damages to go along with the litany of things Mike had done wrong.  I can't help but think that Captain Junkers must have pointed out all these failures to Janlan before the thing even started.  Mike was guilty going into it.  The only thing that saved him were the statements from Chief Houtz and Chief McConnikee.  If it hadn't been for them, Janlan would have put Mike right out of the department.  I can tell you, Detz was furious." "How could they do this to him, Cap?"  Marco questioned with a shake of his head. "This is the first real mistake Mike's ever made," Roy added.  "Busting him and then reassigning him . . . that seems awfully harsh." Captain Stanley rubbed his forehead.  "The worse part was that Mike didn't say a thing on his own behalf.  It was as if he believed everything they said." "Where is he now, Cap?"  Roy asked. "At home.  I tried to get him to come stay at my place.  I was worried about him.  He was devastated, looked like he was in shock.  But he refused.  He insisted on going home.  I couldn't very well stop him."  A pause.  Although I probably should have.  "He's got the rest of this week at home, and then on Monday he starts at Station 68, clear on the other end of the county.  They wanted to put him somewhere where the guys don't know him so well, where they may not have heard so much about the accident." "He's going to take the reassignment?" "His only other choice would be to resign.  Mike would never do that." "Is he okay?"  Roy questioned. "He seemed to have pulled himself together by the time we left headquarters, but I know he was completely done in." "Maybe we should check in on him after we come off shift," Chet suggested. Captain Stanley shook his head.  "No, guys.  That's not a good idea." "Cap, it can't be a good idea to leave him alone, thinking that we don't care about this," Johnny insisted. "Listen, guys . . . he doesn't want to see any of you.  He made that clear to me.  That's why he came to pick up his things yesterday instead of today.  He's embarrassed and ashamed." "Cap, that's ridiculous," Marco protested. "But it's understandable, considering what's happened," Captain Stanley replied.  "Give him some time.  When he's ready, he'll let us know." "What about the captain's test," Chet recalled, looking around the table. Captain Stanley's expression hardened.  "He'd made it." "Oh, no . . . does he know that?"  Johnny asked. A nod.  "He knows.  Number two.   He knows." "He would have had his own station in a matter of months," Roy said quietly. "Instead, he's been barred from retesting for engineer for eighteen months." "What?  Cap, you've got to be kidding!"  Chet blurted out. "I'm not kidding.  Eighteen months.   It's a sin what they did to him." "Can he appeal it?" "He can, but he's not going to.  I don't know . . . even though he was devastated by the outcome, he just . . . he accepted it.  He didn't say a word, except at the end, when he told the review board that he hadn't meant for it to happen."  Captain Stanley drew in a deep, sad breath.  "I think everyone was stunned by the verdict, and even more so by the punishment.  But the entire case rested in one man's hands, and that man decided to go contrary to the board's findings.  Janlan has to answer to the politicians.  I think he's given them what they wanted.  A sacrifice." "It's wrong, Cap," Johnny stated.  "They've ruined him." "And only yesterday, he was the pride of the department," Roy added.  "Maybe that's why Janlan came down so hard on him.  Maybe a mistake is even more intolerable when it comes from one of your best." "That's what Detz said to me in so many words after the case.  He thinks Janlan wanted to make a point that no one is untouchable.  Boy, Detz was fit to be tied.  I've never seen him so angry."  A pause.  "I guess he had a right to be." A long quiet filled the room, then Captain Stanley turned to John Glover.  "I guess this is going to be your permanent home, John." Glover's reaction was sincere and honest.  "I wish it could be otherwise, Cap.  Mike Stoker's a good guy.  He didn't deserve this.  I know you guys were like family." "You'll become like family, too, pal," came Captain Stanley's dismal assurance, as he stood and reached to shake hands with Glover to welcome him aboard.  He meant the words, even if he could not find the enthusiasm. **** I'm all out of faith, This is how I feel. I'm cold and I'm ashamed, Bound and broken on the floor. Torn Natalie Imbruglia Mike looked at the clock on the nightstand beside his bed.  Five o' clock in the morning. Why was he even trying to sleep?  He hadn't slept all night.  He had hardly slept at all over the last four nights, ever since the review board had passed sentence on him. There was no such thing as peace anymore.  Turmoil was the only reality.  How could things be so hard when all the decisions had been made for him?  He had no choices to make.  No harder call than what time to get up and head out for his new station.  Life had shrunk down to the bare basics.  Eat, sleep, work.  But eating had lost its charm.  Sleep had been impossible.  Work . . . that remained to be seen. Mike sat up in bed and stared into the darkness. "What am I going to do?"  he said out loud. You're going to go to your new station and do your job.  You can stop feeling sorry for yourself.  It's your own fault you're in this situation, so you'd better make the best of it.  Eighteen months isn't so long . . . you can retest.  You know you'll make it.  And then you can retest for captain. Mike nodded his conviction. You can't let this drag you down.  You made a mistake, you've paid for it, and now you move on. Reasonable.  Very reasonable. Mike stood up and headed for the shower.  It might be early, but he knew he wasn't going to get any sleep; and he could think of other ways to occupy his time, rather than lying in bed, letting misery undo his very reasonable rationalizing. Station 68 was larger than Station 51.  Not only physically, but component-wise. There was an engine, a ladder truck, and a squad.   Ten men. The station itself was a two-story structure - one of the old-fashioned pole jobs.  It was an ancient building, by department standards.  A dark red brick, further blackened by the accumulation of carbon exhaust.  The year etched into the stone over the main bay door read 1902.  A narrow alleyway ran along one side of the building, back into a parking area, enclosed on all sides by more of the same imposing, aged structures, most of which were marked "KEEP OUT" and closed off with padlocks.  Bermer Street, the road on which the station was located, looked like something out of a 1930s "Our Gang" reel.  A scene from the Great Depression.  The road had been paved over, but where the blacktop was cracking and eroding, the original cobblestones could be glimpsed.  The streetlamps were of black wrought-iron with intricate twists and turns.  The sidewalks, cracked and uneven, were relatively clean, even as the gutters were lined with a thick layer of silt - everywhere, that is, except in front of the station.  Everything about the station was immaculate, from the gleaming windows to the polished old-fashioned door-knocker. Taken as a whole, the scene was a dark one - made all the more forbidding by the appearance of flat, black clouds moving in overhead. This gloominess was the first thing Mike Stoker noticed upon pulling up in front of the station. Or perhaps, Mike thought, it wasn't the place that was gloomy - it was him. He parked next to the curb opposite the station and got out of his car just as the first drops of rain began to fall. A quick run and he was standing inside a lobby-ish room with a high ceiling and hanging lights.  The walls on both sides were lined with photographs.  On the left was the current chain-of-command within the fire department, from the station captain on up to the state fire marshal.  On the right was an impressive collection of old photos of the station, its equipment, and its men. Mike took a second to shake off the rain and glance at the photos. "You our new man?" Mike turned towards the sound of the voice. A man was standing in the doorway opposite the one through which Mike had just entered.  The man was a little taller than Stoker, with the same strong, lanky build.  He wore his dark hair close and severe, making his pale, angular features appear even bolder.  The expression on his face was cold and removed. "Yes, I'm Mike Stoker," Mike replied, taking a few steps and holding out his hand. "Stoker.  Yeah, we've been expecting you."  The man took Mike's hand in what could have passed for a welcoming handshake, except for the look of disgust on the man's face. The two men stood facing each other for several seconds without speaking, then Mike remarked, "Nice pictures." "This station has a proud history." Another strange silence. "I guess I should report in to Captain Moore," Mike suggested. "I'll take you to meet him." Mike followed him out of the lobby into the apparatus room, where the three vehicles gleamed in a red row.  There were several other men in the bay.  They stopped in their actions to watch as Mike and his escort crossed through.  Not a word of greeting was uttered.  The only sounds were those of the two men's footsteps on the polished polyurethane floor. Mike glanced at the other men, their eyes following him from their unmoving heads.  They attempted no pretense to camouflage their concentrated stares. Coming to the far side of the bay, Mike was directed to the door of a spacious office, furnished with a splendid oak desk, a leather chair and couch, oak book cases, and a fine coffee table, where a photo album was opened strategically to an old black and white photo of the station with its engines and crew posed out front. "Captain?"  Mike's escort spoke up. From behind the desk, Captain Moore raised his head.  He was a strikingly handsome man with fair hair and amber eyes.  Everything about him was distinguished and neat.  His uniform had not a single crease out of place, not a single wrinkle.  His hands, folded one on top of the other on the desk in front of him, were well-kept and fine, like the hands that graced the canvases of Renaissance painters.  His expression was inscrutable. "This is Stoker." Captain Moore ran his eyes once up and down Stoker's form in a flagrant display of condescending appraisal.  "Thank you, Jason." With that, Jason turned and headed back into the bay. "Come in here, Stoker." Mike walked into the office.  It was absurd, but he felt like a boy being called in to see the principal. "Shut the door." Mike shut the door. "I am aware of why you've been assigned to this station,"  Captain Moore began, his voice fluid and deep.  "I run a strict organization here, Stoker.  You won't be making that kind of mistake under my command.  I don't know how your captain at 51 handled things, but that part of your life is over.  You're working for me, now.  We don't make mistakes in this station." Mike was too flabbergasted to speak.  He managed a nod. "If you can't cut it here, the next step takes you right out of the department.  Do you understand me?" Mike nodded again. Captain Moore stood up and came around the desk.  He walked past Mike to the door, opened it, and called out into the bay. "Terrence!" A fair-skinned, red-headed man came trotting across the apparatus room. "Yes, Captain?" "This is Stoker.  Show him his locker and bunk, then give him the tour." Terrence did not look pleased with this assignment, but his acknowledgment was enthusiastic, as if he dared not disappoint his captain. Mike followed Terrence back across the apparatus room, up a flight of stairs and into the large, communal dormitory. "The four beds at the end are empty.  Take which one you want," Terrence said. "The lockers are in here.  That one's yours.  The latrine is through there." Terrence turned and looked at Stoker in the eye for the first time.  "Did you bring your stuff?" "It's out in the car, " Mike replied. "You should bring it in.  Where did you park?" "Across the street." "There's a lot behind the station.  Just follow the alley." Terrence showed Mike through the rest of the station, ending with the kitchen, which was separate from the dayroom. "You're already on all the duty rosters," Terrence announced.  "Make sure you get your dates straight.  Captain Moore is very strict about everyone pulling their fair share." Mike nodded. "I think that's everything.  I'll let Skora show you the engine.  You'll be working the hoses with him." "Okay," Mike replied.  "I, uh . . . I haven't met anyone else yet.  I don't know who Skora is." "He's the one you met at the door.  Go move your car and bring your things in.  I'll introduce you around afterwards." Mike went outside, glad to be removed, if only for a moment, from the oppressive scrutiny that hovered within the station.  But he was determined to be positive.  This was going to be his home for the next eighteen months, at least.  And if Mike were honest with himself, he could not blame his new crewmates for being leery and distrustful.  It was very probable that they, like Captain Moore, knew why Mike had come to Station 68.  He would have to earn their trust, but that was not an impossible thing. At least, he didn't think it was impossible. Back inside the station, Terrence McCullough was the center of attention. "Nah, he didn't say anything, really.  I just showed him around.  Seems kind of quiet, maybe a little uneasy," he said.  "I'm passing him off to you, Skora, to show him the engine." "Thanks, Terrence," Jason Skora replied.  "It's not enough that I'll have to work side by side with him-" "You mean front to back," interjected another man - this one's name was Paul Eggers, and he was one of 68's paramedics.  His voice was lewd and suggestive, breaking with subdued laughter. "Don't be crude, Eggers," McCullough scowled, while Skora made a rude gesture. "I don't think he's gonna make it."  This came from one of the ladder truck crewmen, Blane Pennington.  "He doesn't look the type." "Nah, he doesn't," McCullough agreed.  "But you all know the captain's orders.  Stay cool.  Low key.  We've got to feel him out first." "I don't see why."  Skora's voice was a snarl.  "I'd rather get rid of him than trust him." "Hear, hear."  This was from Matt Culver, 68's other paramedic. "Get rid of him how, Skora?  You gonna push him out of a window?"  Pennington asked. "We can make him want to leave," Skora replied. "Listen, no one does anything until the captain says so.  Keep your hands off him," McCullough said with authority.  "Now, all of you get back to what you were doing.  He's gonna be coming back in any second now." "So, we don't touch him," Eggers said.  "That doesn't mean we have to pretend to like him." "You can hate his guts, for all I care, Paul," McCullough replied.  But don't forget . . . from everything I've heard, this guy is as straight-laced as they come.  Even after what happened to him, he's still got the moral high ground.  We back him into a corner, he could ruin all of us." Skora grunted.  "Great . . . his misfortune is our misfortune." **** A singer once, I am now fain to weep. Within my soul, I feel strange music swell, Vast chants of tragedy too deep - too deep For my poor lips to tell. "From the Somme" Leslie Coulson The mud came up to Mike's knees. He accepted the little boy into his arms.  The child was shaking. "Can you hold onto my neck real tight?  That's it.  Wrap your legs around my waist . . . there you go.  Now, you hang on just like that.  We're going to go up to the road, okay?  Get you out of this rain."  Mike took hold of the rope in his gloved hands and began picking and pulling his way back up to the level of the road, roughly twenty feet above where he was standing. The car had skidded off the road on some wet leaves. Eggers and Culver were still working to free the mother, who did not appear seriously injured, only her legs were pinned by the dashboard, and she could not get out. It was the fourth callout of the day. And Mike was feeling it in his back and shoulders. He had certainly not let himself grow soft, being an engineer.  He had made a point of working out and staying in shape.  But he had to admit, he had forgotten the rigors of being a true hose-jockey.  And the worst part was that not one of the callouts had even involved manning the hoses.  Two cars off the road.  One collapsed roof.  And a man caught in a bowling pin reset machine.  As Mike came to the top of the hill, he found Skora waiting for him. Skora reached out and took the boy from Mike's arms.  "Panting like a dog, Stoker," he remarked.  "Better sit down before you pass out." Mike ignored the jab, one of over a dozen Skora had thrown at him so far. Instead, he turned around to head back down to the car. "Where are you going, Stoker?" Captain Moore's voice. Mike looked back over his shoulder.  "I thought maybe they could use my help-" "Stay up here.  My engineer is down there with them already." Mike understood the meaning of this statement quite clearly.  He looked down to where McCullough was working with the two paramedics.  "Sure, Cap." Moore turned his beautiful, expressionless face to regard his newest crewmember.  "We don't use that word here.  You will address me as Captain or Sir." "Yes, Captain," Mike replied, looking away in time to hide his scowl.  You don't deserve to be called 'Cap' anyway.  Damn it!  There was that bad attitude again.  Everyone has different ways of doing things.  He's just more formal than Captain Stanley, that's all.  Don't start making comparisons . . . it will only make things harder. Mike was still fighting this struggle when the engine arrived back at the station thirty minutes later. "Take the engine out back and hose it off," Captain Moore instructed his three crewmen.  "Don't forget the bay.  Then, you'd better clean yourselves up.  You're frightful.  Terrence, when the squad gets back, tell them the same." "Yes, Captain." McCullough backed the rig out the rear bay doors into the lot behind the station. Mike looked around.  "No washrack?" "This isn't your former digs, Stoker" McCullough replied. "Yeah, no movie stars, no walk of fame, no bright lights, and no washrack," Skora added.  "Your own two hands, Stoker.  You're not too good for that, are you?" McCullough flashed a warning at Skora, who immediately became all business. An hour later, the engine was clean.  The squad was clean.  The bay was clean. The crew was clean. And it was dinnertime. This would be the first time all of them had been together for a meal and the first time Mike would meet all the members of the ladder truck. But if he had been hoping to find a friendly face among these men, he soon found himself sadly mistaken. Blane Pennington, the leader, did not even deign to acknowledge Stoker when introductions were made.  Dean Harris, engineer, regarded the new arrival with ill-concealed distaste.  Louis Johannus and Marty Grimsby struck Stoker as being rank-and-file. The atmosphere around the dinner table was close and stifled. Mike was surprised when Captain Moore started the meal with a prayer. "For what we are about to receive, let us be truly grateful." The 'amen', a reflex, escaped Mike's lips before he could notice that no one else made any response. "That isn't necessary, Stoker," Captain Moore said quietly.  "Louis, Marty, everything looks delicious.  My compliments, gentlemen." And everything was delicious.  The food was tremendous, better than anything Mike had ever eaten at Station 51.   Yet, the meal was miserable.  The conversation, by turns dull or crude, was such a departure from the usual light banter or friendly debate that had been Mike's constant companion for the past 7 years, that Mike found himself barely able to stomach the succulent feast laid before him. Noticing this meager appetite, Captain Moore asked, "You don't like the dinner your crewmates have prepared?" "No, no, it's great.  Everything's great.  I'm just not very hungry." Captain Moore regarded Stoker for a long moment.  "Eat," he said finally, the word sounding like an order. The company fell silent. Mike was fully aware that every eye was on him. What the hell kind of place was this?  He was being ordered to eat? "Really, I've had enough, Cap-Captain." Captain Moore put his elbow on the table and leaned his chin into his hand.  "You're thin.  Skin and bones." Mike said nothing.  It was a strange thing to be thinking, but the only thought going through his mind was, if Moore thought he was thin, what would he think if he saw John Gage? "I like my men to be fit," Moore went on.  "Fit and strong." Mike gave a placating grin, anything to end the bizarre scene. "Terrence can take you in hand," Captain Moore said in finality. "Louis, Marty, what's for desert?" The conversation was over. **** "Mike!" Mike looked up from the key he had just inserted into his apartment door.  Martin Pearcy was coming up the steps to meet him. "Hey, Martin." "Just getting home?" "Yeah." "How was it?" Mike opened the door, walked inside, and Martin followed him. "Fine." "So, tell me about it, man.  What are they like?"  Martin asked, flopping down onto Stoker's couch. "They're okay.  It's kind of awkward still.  You want something to drink?" "Sure.  OJ?" "Okay." "So, come on, tell me about your first shift with the new crew!" "I'm not going to tell you anything, Martin, because I know you'll just turn around and tell the guys.   Everything went fine.  You can tell them that." "Well, it might make them feel better to know you hated it, or at least that you miss them," Pearcy persisted. "They don't need me or anyone else to tell them I miss them.  They know that already.  Here's your orange juice."  Mike sat down.  "Oh, you can tell them I don't like the commute.  It takes me forty minutes to get to work now." "What's the station like?" "It's old, but it's got a lot of character." "And your crewmates?" "Would you stop fishing, Martin?  Look, it's important for me to fit in there, and it doesn't do any good to go comparing them to the crew at 51's." "Sorry, Mike.  I just-well, I have to admit, I'm a little surprised at how well you're taking all this.  I can still hardly believe it, myself." "You think I'm taking it so well?  Don't put any laurels on my head just yet."  Mike leaned back with a sigh.  "I can't undo it, so I've decided to make the best of it." Martin's admiration was silent.  It seemed that nothing could keep Mike Stoker down. "So, when are you going to go see the guys?" Pearcy asked. "I'll see them when I'm ready," Mike replied.  "I don't know exactly.  I . . . I need to put some distance between me and the station.  I have to stop thinking of 51 as my place.  It isn't my place anymore.  A-shift aren't my crewmates anymore.  If I'm going to make it at 68's, then I need to leave 51 behind me." "Mike, that all sounds very logical, but you know you can't just turn your back on them without so much as a good-bye."  Martin shook his head.  "You know, I don't think you can leave them behind, Mike.  I'm not sure you should even try." "I knew I shouldn't have invited you in," Mike said with a wry grin.  "You're going to try and confuse me." "First of all, I invited myself in.  Second of all, you don't need me to confuse you.  You're already there, Mike.  No, no, let me finish."  Martin leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together around his glass of orange juice.  "I know what a terrible blow this has been for you, Mike.  Ah, I don't expect you to admit that.  You never would.  Now, you've got this new station, and I completely understand that you want to fit in. But to even contemplate leaving your friends from 51 behind . . . pardon me for saying so, but that's not only ridiculous, it's impossible." "Martin, did Captain Stanley send you over here-" Pearcy made a sound of exasperation.  "You're impossible!"  He finished off his drink, set the glass on the table - purposefully missing the coaster - and stood up. Mike picked up the sweating glass, casting a smirk in his friend's direction.  "Look who's talking." "Yeah, yeah.  Look, I'll come by this evening.  We can go get a pizza, catch a movie.  You game?" "Sure," Mike replied. A single thought entered his mind as he watched Martin leave.  It's nice to be back in the land of the living. **** "Come on!  Come on!  What the hell are you doing, Stoker?!" Skora's voice, muffled by the air mask, still managed to sound harsh and grating. Behind him, Mike could not figure out what he was screaming about.  Mike had managed to stay in direct contact with him during the entire advance into the building.  He had kept the line clear and unobstructed.  So, what was Skora baying about? They started up the stairs to the second floor, Skora still shouting and yelling like a madman.  As soon as they were at the top, Skora shut off the water, whirled around and grabbed Stoker by the collar of his turnout coat.  He pulled Mike in front of him, thrust the nozzle into his hands, cursing every step of the way.  "You lead, then, you stupid bastard!  I'll show you how to do it!" Mike could hardly believe what had just happened.  He had scarcely begun to process the fact that Skora had cut water less than fifteen feet from a wall of spitting flame, before training and self-preservation took over, and he opened the nozzle to release the powerful stream of water.  Immediately, he felt a tremendous pressure against his back.  Skora was pushing him forward like a steam engine.  A jolt of panic shot through Mike's body, as he realized that Skora was much stronger than he'd given him credit for, and that he was now in a position to be directed wherever Skora wanted to take him. "Get in closer!  Closer!"  Skora shouted, his shoulder against Mike's back, propelling him forward. Mike allowed himself to be edged closer, but when they were within ten feet, he stood his ground, planting his feet and pressing his weight back into Skora. Skora waited for the flames to subside a bit before beginning his onslaught once again.  "This is what the rear man does!  It's his job to push the front man forward!"  He yelled out.  "Don't forget it!" "That's not right!"  Mike shouted back, bracing himself once again as they drew nearer to the flames. "It's right when you're working with me!" Skora used his superior weight and his superior strength.  The two men moved forward. **** The shower felt wonderful. Mike closed his eyes and just stood there.  Oh, the bruises he was going to have tomorrow.  He could feel them forming already.  There was a persistent, nagging soreness in the middle of his back.  He could still feel Skora's elbow jabbing into him, forcing him always closer, always closer. That crazy fool was going to get someone killed one day, but Mike had already decided it wasn't going to be him. Mike heard the sounds of several of his crewmates coming into the open bay shower room.  He turned away from them, but he could feel their eyes upon his back.  It was something he had noticed quite early on in his reassignment - the unadulterated attempts at intimidation, the continuous stream of lurid stares, and an odd impression of wantonness.    The sound of more showers springing to life made him feel a little less on display; but he decided that the warm water had lost its allure, in light of his companions.  He got down to the business of washing. Skora's voice reverberated through the tiled room, giving his words a fullness that they did not really have. "Little rusty handling an inch-and-a-half, huh, Stoker?" Mike did not even bother to look at him. "Looked like you hadn't pulled a line in years." Skora was baiting him.  "I hadn't noticed." Skora laughed, and the others joined him. "I know you haven't noticed.  That's why I'm telling you." Mike rinsed off, turned off the water, and reached for his towel.  He was halfway to the door when Skora stepped in front of him. "And I expect you to listen to me." "I am listening," Mike replied, keenly aware of the strangeness in Skora's manner, in all of their manners. "And do what I tell you." "What you did today was wrong." "What?" "What you said in the building today, about the hoses . . . it was wrong." "I was wrong?" A chorus of anticipation murmured through the shower room. "The man in the front has the lead and determines the pace.  The man in the back provides stability and keeps the line clear," Mike replied, undaunted. "I always thought it was the other way around," Eggers put in with a chuckle.  "We all know the guy in the front gets screwed." The men joined in his laughter. That was all Mike needed to hear for him to know that he was in a precarious situation.  He walked around Skora, who let him pass, but who could not resist a final barb, "Darlin', next time around, I'll make sure you're in front the whole time." Mike went to his locker and took a moment to catch his breath and calm his wits.  What in God's name just happened?  They're trying to provoke me! He reached up with trembling hands for his boxers, and by sheer strength of will, forced himself to acknowledge that he was reading way too much malicious intent into his crewmates' actions.  He began to dress.  It's only been three weeks.  You're still new here.  Don't go telling them how to do their jobs . . . even if they're doing it wrong.  You're just going to piss them off.  You don't always have to be right.  Just grin and bear it.  They've gotten along fine without you.  Then, out loud, as if hearing the words might cement his resolve,   "Don't make things any more uncomfortable than they already are." "D'you say something, Stoker?" McCullough. "No, no," Mike replied.  "Just thinking out loud." "They're giving you a hard time?" "Who?" "The rest of the guys." "No, they're just . . . we have different ways of doing things in-at my last station.  That's all." "You're not at 51's anymore." "Right." "Nobody hurt you, did they?" Mike looked up in puzzlement.  Odd question. "No.  Why are you asking?" "You've got a lot of bruises." "They're all job-related."  This was the truth. McCullough nodded.  "Huh.  Well, you'd better learn to be more careful then." "Yeah . . . I will." **** "I don't get much from him." "Yes, well, we can expect that, can't we?"  Captain Moore took a sip of coffee.  "Apparently, he's got a great deal of endurance.  Look at what's happened to him over the past several years.  Yet, here he is, still trudging away.  That means he's not easily worn down." "The men haven't been making it easy for him, but they've done as you ordered.  No one's touched him," McCullough informed him. "You'd think, after all he's been through, a man's faith would be shattered." "Perhaps he needs a new faith." "Perhaps.  Otherwise, his presence here could be very dangerous.  I have to know if he's going to be a threat to us." "Are you going to resume, Captain?" "We have to.  We've gone too long, already." McCullough nodded.  "Some friendly intimidation could go a long way towards helping him make up his mind when the time comes.  Or, if nothing else, it will probably keep him quiet." Captain Moore considered.  "Alright.  But keep it mild.  I want to know just how far he can be pushed before he starts pushing back." **** Give me a taste of something new, To touch, to hold, to pull me through. Send me a guiding light that shines Across this darkened life of mine. "Breathe" Midge Uri "It's been over a month, Roy.  Don't you think we'd have heard something from him by now?"  Johnny asked, as the squad pulled away from Rampart's emergency entrance. "Pearcy said he seems to be doing pretty good." "Pearcy, Pearcy . . . that's fine, but we're his crewmates-" "We were his crewmates.  He's got new crewmates now." "Okay, he's got new crewmates.  But I still think we should have heard from him."  Johnny shook his head.  "Even if he's still embarrassed, I mean, we're his friends.  We've left him alone long enough." Roy knew Johnny was right.  Enough time had passed. Mike should have come to see them. Or they should have gone to see him. Waiting time was over. "We can check with Pearcy and see when Mike's off.  The first chance we get, what do you say we stop by and see him?" "That sounds like a great idea," Johnny said with a stout nod.  Several blocks later, Johnny's certainty was already deserting him.  "Roy . . . what if-do you think Mike likes it at his new station?" "I hope so." "Do you think he likes it better there than he did with us?" "I don't see that it makes a difference.   Don't you want him to like it?" "Of course, I do.  I'm just wondering if the reason he hasn't come to see us is because he's that happy at his new station." "Even if he were miserable, he couldn't come back here.  So, you'd better hope he's happy at 68's." "Yeah, you're right.  I guess we'll find out soon enough." **** Mike deposited Matt Culver on the grass, pulled off the paramedic's cracked oxygen mask, and called out to McCullough. "Terrence!  Can you get the oxygen off the squad?" McCullough did so, while Mike carefully pressed Culver, who was coughing in fits, back down onto the ground.  "Stay down, Matt.  Just try to relax-" "Where are Skora and Eggers?"  Captain Moore asked. "They're still inside.  We were on the steps, heading up . . . Eggers and Culver were right behind us.  Something blew, and Culver was knocked over the banister," Mike replied. "McCullough and I will take care of Culver.  You go back in and assist Skora." Mike got to his feet.  As he started back towards the house, a movement in the upstairs window caught his eye. "Captain!  There's someone in that room up there-" "Where?" "There!  You can see-" The glass in the window came shattering outwards, and an elderly man appeared, one arm draped over the jagged windowsill. "I'll get the ladder," Mike said, turning back towards the engine. Captain Moore hesitated only a moment.  "No, leave him. He's already dead." Mike turned his wide, disbelieving eyes towards his captain. "He's not dead!  He just broke out that window-" "He's not moving anymore.  He's dead.  Do as I tell you and go inside to help Skora and Eggers." When Mike hung in place, Moore frowned.  "Are you going to follow my orders or not?" Mike pulled his mask back on and went into the house.  He bounded up the stairs, past Skora, who called after him; but Mike ignored him.  He found Eggers in the front room, leaning over the man in the window. "He's dead!"  Eggers shouted, upon turning to find Stoker behind him.  "Let's get out of here!" Mike looked at Eggers' retreating back, then he looked down at the old man.  He pulled off a glove and felt along the man's neck for a pulse.  He almost jumped.  The man was very much alive.  Mike hoisted him up into a fireman's carry. As he emerged from the house with his burden, he could see the looks of shock on his crewmates' faces. "What are you doing, Stoker?"  Captain Moore asked with quiet containment. "He's not dead!"  Mike replied.  He craned his head up to regard Eggers who was looking down at him with queer fascination.  "Paul, he's not dead!  Treat him!  You-what are you standing there for?" Eggers looked to Captain Moore, who nodded. Treatment began. **** "Stoker, I want to see you in my office," Captain Moore announced as the men climbed down from the engine. Mike followed him. "Shut the door." Mike shut the door.  Just like his first day. "You disobeyed an order I gave." "I thought the victim might still be alive," Mike replied. "I told you to leave him." "But he wasn't dead." "I don't recall ever hearing that you had such difficulties following orders at your last station." "Captain Moore-" "I haven't finished!"  It was the first time Moore had ever raised his voice.  It was the first time Mike had seen the flash of anger in the man's eyes.  "If you have trouble following orders, I have ways of fixing that." Mike was silent. "If you disregard one of my orders again, there will be no need for discussion.  You're on thin ice as it is, Stoker.  You're here cause no one else would take you.  If I cut you lose, your career is over.  I trust I'm making myself clear." "Yes, Sir.  Very clear." "You may go." Mike left, and Captain Moore summoned McCullough to his office. "He needs a lesson in discipline," Moore said simply. McCullough nodded.  "Consider it done, Captain." **** Mike took the trash out to the dumpster behind the station, passing, on his way, Skora, Eggers, Culver, and Harris, who were shooting fouls into the net-less hoop hanging askance from the wall of one of the bordering buildings. As he headed back towards the bay, he heard someone yell, "Stoker, think fast!" He turned just as the ball was shot into his arms. "Well now, those are some fast reflexes you got there," Culver grinned. "Yeah, you're pretty fast at everything, aren't you, Mike?"  Harris taunted.  Mike tossed the ball back to Harris. "Fast thinker, from what I saw today," Eggers put forth, to which Skora added, "I could have told you that.  He picked up real quick how to handle a hose again." Mike started walking. Skora took his arm. "You'd forgotten how to be a hose-jockey after all those years of being an engineer." Mike stared at him, speechless.  He'd had his suspicions that these men all knew of the circumstances that had brought him to their station.  But this was the first time they had ever spoken of it. Skora leaned in closer, tightening his grip.  "We know all about you, Stoker," he said in a surly voice.  "Drove your engine over the side of a cliff and nearly killed the entire crew - including yourself." Mike held his countenance unflinching. "You were busted down to hose-jockey and shoved off on us.  And we're supposed to trust you . . . just like your old crewmates trusted you, I'll bet," Skora continued.   "I don't think that's going to happen." "You can talk to the captain if you don't feel comfortable working with me," Mike said with absolutely no emotion. "He already knows." "Then there's nothing I can do about it." "Maybe not, but there's something we can do." Mike's expression darkened, and he pulled away.  "Don't threaten me, Skora." He had gone only a few steps before he found himself face-down on the asphalt, the heavy weight of another body on top of him.  He rolled forcefully to one side, unseating his attacker, before the combined efforts of four sets of hands held him pinned down, on his back, looking up into Skora's face. "You're not wanted here." Mike said nothing but continued to glare up at Skora, whose face suddenly took on the same disturbing expression Mike had seen that day in the shower-room. "Now, this must be a familiar situation for you," Skora remarked.  "Didn't something similar happen to you a few years ago?  Yes, I think it did . . ." Mike's heart began to thunder against his ribcage. "You still have a burn mark here."  Skora pressed a finger along Mike's jaw.  "Are there more?"  He reached down to the neckline of Mike's uniform shirt. Mike bucked violently.  "Get off of me!" He felt Skora's knees in his chest. "I think there are more."  Skora tugged suggestively at the collar of Mike's shirt.  "Look at that.  I was right." Mike felt a rush of anger and adrenaline shoot into every part of his body.  His limbs exploded into action, and he fought like a soldier on the line. They were all over him, but never quite in command of him.  While he could not escape, he refused to be overwhelmed.  Yet, there were four of them to his one.  He knew he could not outlast them. He raised his voice in a cry for help, which brought McCullough running. "What the hell's going on?!"  the engineer demanded. The four men backed off, leaving Stoker lying, disheveled, on the ground, his chest heaving with every breath. "What were you doing to him?"  McCullough ground out, going down and helping Mike to his feet. "We were settling an argument," Skora replied. "A four-to-one argument?" "He's the one who chose the battleground," Eggers said. "Yeah, I'm sure he is.  You guys get the hell inside." Then, as they left, McCullough turned Mike to face him, assessing his injuries.  "You got a couple scrapes here, maybe a bruise or two to add to all the others.  Come on, I'll help you clean up." "That's okay," Mike replied.  "I'll take care of it, myself." "Don't argue with me, Stoker," McCullough insisted.  "I'm Top Dog Number Two in this station.  And believe me, you can use all the help you can get.  You're not very popular around here, you know." "I'd noticed." "They don't trust you." "Yeah . . . that's a good reason to jump me in the parking lot."  Mike's caustic sarcasm was hardly characteristic. The two men started walking. "Before you pass judgment on them, there are some things you should understand.  You see, the department thought they could send you here, and no one would know a thing about you," McCullough explained.  "But I think you were pretty well known even before the accident.  I mean, everyone in the department knew about the kidnapping.  And well, among us engineers, yours was a pretty common name.  You were one of the headquarters' chosen ones, so to speak.  Anyway, the guys look at you as . . . well, how 'bout the angel that's fallen from grace? "Coming from Carson City doesn't help, either," he added.  "You all have reputations as pretty boys with soft bellies.  And you fit the profile, Stoker." Mike opened his mouth to protest, but McCullough held up a hand to stop him. "Okay, I've seen you're not quite so soft, but life here in this station is tough, a lot tougher than anything you're used to." "I think you all have some misconceptions about Carson City," Mike informed him.  "A fire is a fire, no matter what area you're in." "Point taken.   But it's not me you have to convince." "I don't have to convince anyone." "You go on thinking that, Stoker.  You go on thinking that, and you'll find yourself a civilian before six months is out." Mike did not reply, and instead, followed McCullough into the latrine and looked at himself in the mirror, while the engineer fetched the first-aid kit. It wasn't so bad.  A grazed chin, which would probably turn black and blue.  A scrape on his right cheek.  A slight bump on his forehead. McCullough was right.  These would blend right in with his job-related bumps and bruises. Mike let McCullough clean out the scrapes and apply an anti-bacterial spray. "You'll be good as new before you know it." "Thanks, Terrence." "Hey, we engineers have to stick together."  He paused.  "Don't let them bully you, Mike.  And don't let them scare you." "They don't scare me.  But they have no business calling themselves firemen, acting like that." "Careful what you say.  This place is . . . well, it's a private society; and remember, you're still outnumbered." "I'll remember." And he did remember.  Through dinner, everyone acted as if nothing had happened.  The four men who had earlier tried to-Mike didn't know what they'd been trying to do, really . . . they had been not only civil; they were almost kind. Stoker wasn't buying it, however; and after dinner, while the rest of the crew busied themselves with various activities, he ignored McCullough's warnings and called on Captain Moore in his office. "Do you have a second, Captain?" "What is it?" Mike shut the door. "I had a run-in today with some of the guys on the crew." "Yes, I heard about that." "You did?  From whom?" "McCullough." "What did he tell you?" "He said he heard you calling for help, and when he went outside, some of the crew had you on the ground and were . . . tormenting you."  Captain Moore leaned back in his chair and regarded Stoker steadily.  "Is that what happened?" "That's where McCullough came in." "Is there more?" "Well, I-I think . . ."  Mike faltered.  "I don't think I'm very welcome here, Captain." "No, you're not," Moore replied.  "But that doesn't matter, as long as you do your job.  We don't have to like the people we work with.  It helps, but it's not necessary." "But it matters when I'm threatened by these guys and jumped in the parking lot-" "Why did they jump you?" "They don't want to work with me." "Can you blame them?" Mike did not reply. "Can you blame them?  You were found guilty of gross negligence that almost cost the lives of your fellow crewmen.  Is it so surprising that no one wants to work with you anymore?  If I had had my say, you wouldn't be here, either.  But I suppose you still have some friends in high places, and . . . well, we're at the bottom of the totem pole, it would seem." "I'm a good fireman," Mike replied, his voice growing haughty.  "If I made a mistake, I've paid for it.  Now, I just want to move on and leave all that behind me." "Well, if dinner tonight was any indication, it would appear that your crewmates want the same.  I detected no malice at the supper table.  Whatever transpired earlier in the day seems to have been put to rest.  Unless you insist on resurrecting it." Mike drew back a bit.  "No, I don't want that.  I want it to be forgotten." "Then don't come and remind me of it.  McCullough will see to it that you're left in peace."  Moore resumed his papers.  "You may go." Mike did not leave right away.  There was something he wanted to say, some point he wanted to make; but what was it?  He wasn't sure.  "I said, you may go." This time Mike did not hesitate.  He turned on his heel and went out into the apparatus room. **** You were all there was to know about me. They are all there is to know about me. Who Are You Now? Justin Hayward Blue Jays Mike opened the door to find Gage and DeSoto on the threshold. His face brightened with a smile that he had not expected to find within himself; and a flicker of joy, long since abandoned, sprang to life in his features as well as in his heart.  Not a man prone to displays of naked emotion, Mike almost reached out to embrace his two friends.  He was not sure what stopped him; but he opted, instead, to let his smile speak for him.   He had not thought that he was ready to face his former crewmates yet.  It had  been just over a month since he'd started working at 68's, and the goings-on at that station had kept his mind thoroughly engaged with present troubles. But seeing Gage and DeSoto on his doorstep, the dark clouds went up like mist in the sun. "Roy, John . . . it's good to see you," he beamed, stepping aside and motioning them to come in. "Are we interrupting anything?"  Roy asked. "No, no, not at all," Mike replied.  "I'm glad you stopped by.  Sit down.  You guys want something to drink?" "Well, actually, we came by to take you to dinner," Johnny replied. "Dinner?" "Do you already have plans?" "No, no plans.  Sounds great." Johnny motioned at Mike's cheek.  "Jeez, Mike, what d'you do here?" he asked, the eternal paramedic in him coming out. Mike gave a dismissive wave.  "You don't want to know.  You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "Mind if I take a look?"  Roy asked. "It's not bad.  But go ahead, if it'll make you feel better." Roy stepped up and gingerly examined the area.  "You've got a scrape on your chin, too.   So, what happened?" "Oh, most of it happened on the job.  Either I've become clumsy, or I just damage easier with age." "These are just starting to scab over.  You did this recently?" "Yeah, yesterday." "You hurt anywhere else?" "Other than sore muscles and a few bruises, nope." "Well, these look pretty clean.  Just make sure you keep them that way." Mike nodded. "So, what about dinner?"  Johnny clapped his hands together. "I'm starving.  Are we ready to go?" Mike looked down at his plain white undershirt and cut-offs.  "I think I need to change." "Yeah, I think so," Johnny agreed.  "I'll be back in a second," Mike said, then headed to his bedroom. Once Mike had disappeared, Johnny turned anxiously to Roy.  "I hope his bathroom's clean.  That Slurpee went right through me."  As he made a beeline down the hallway, he heard Roy say, "I told you not to get the extra large.  A Slurpee . . . worse than having kids." Johnny needn't have worried.  Mike's bathroom was spotless, so pristine that it actually made Johnny feel guilty to use it.  His business completed, Johnny walked into the hallway.  Across from him was Mike's bedroom.  Johnny came to the open door as Mike was pulling on his shirt. "Mike-hold it." Mike startled, but did not hold. "What?"  He continued to get dressed. Johnny crossed the room in three strides.  He took hold of Mike's collar. "What are you doing?"  Mike took an emphatic step back. "Let me see your back." "Oh, that . . . it's no big deal." "Where did you get these bruises?" "Same place as the others.  We had a rough callout yesterday.  I'd forgotten how tough it is being a hose-jockey.  We take a beating.  I was kind of embarrassed to admit that to you and Roy."  Mike forced out a laugh, trying to sound nonchalant.  "I guess this is why we have to get promoted.  It gets too hard on a body, the older you get.  Being an engineer made me soft.  I guess I should have worked out harder."  He turned and saw Johnny looking at him much too closely. "Are you lying to me?"  Johnny asked quietly. Mike was silent a moment before answering.  "Why are you asking me that?" "I don't know," Johnny replied.  "Just a feeling I have.  Are you lying?" Mike looked uncomfortable as he adjusted his collar.  He thought about how to answer Johnny's question.  At last, he sighed. "Listen, Johnny, it's important for me to fit in at my new station." Johnny's eyes widened.  "What do you mean?  What does that have to do with these injuries?  You're letting these rescues beat the tar out of you so you can look good to your new crewmates?" Mike's expression was flustered and sad.  "No, no, that's not what I meant, Johnny.  I just don't want them thinking that I can't pull my weight." "Are you having problems at your new station?" "No . . . no . . . they just . . . I have to get used to them." "Get used to them?" "They do things differently.  That's all." Johnny eyed Mike closely, trying to discern the truth in his averted eyes.  But he could see nothing other than a vague uneasiness. "Okay," he finally conceded.   "I'll take your word for it." Mike tucked his shirt in.  "Don't say anything to the rest of the guys, okay?  I don't want them worrying." "You give us a lot to worry about, Mike." "I guess I'm making up for all those years of being trouble-free." "In spades, pal.  In spades." "So, what's 68's like?"  Roy asked, reaching into the basket of hushpuppies. "It's different," Mike replied.  "You know, they've got an engine, a ladder truck, and a squad.  Ten men.  It's a big station.  The building's an historic landmark." "Busy?" "Pretty busy, yeah." "Busier than 51's?"  Johnny asked. "Yeah, I'd say so." "Who's the captain there?" "Captain Moore." "How's he?" "He's not Cap."  Mike's words fell like three anvils. Johnny leaned forward like a gossip at the backyard fence.  "Yeah?  What's he like?" "He's . . . strict.   We have to call him Captain or Sir."  Mike took a sip of his beer.  "He's made some pretty strange calls.  I don't always understand him." "Is he competent, at least?"  Roy asked. "I suppose he must be." "That doesn't sound very reassuring." "I've only been there a month, you guys.  I have to get used to working with him." "What about the rest of the crew?"  This came from Johnny. Mike shrugged.  "Some are better than others.  Our engineer is a pretty good guy.  My partner on the hoses is an idiot.  I hate him.  I don't know how he ever got to be a fireman, quite frankly.  He does everything his own way; and someday he's going to end up killing someone, if he hasn't already."  Mike took another sip and reached for a hushpuppy.  "Our paramedics are two of the biggest bastards I've ever met.  And they're not a spot on you two." Johnny straightened up and cracked a grin.  Mike had just complimented him - him and Roy.  A compliment from Mike Stoker was a rare thing, indeed.  Johnny only wished the rest of the guys had been there to hear it. "As for the ladder crew, they're pretty standoffish."  He paused.  "Right now, none of the guys trust me." "Do they know about the accident?"  Roy asked. Mike nodded.  "Oh yeah, they definitely know about the accident.  That's why they don't trust me.  But it's just a matter of time.  They'll get used to me, and I'll get used to them." "Sounds like you're going into it with a positive attitude," Roy said cheerfully. "Give me no choice, and I can handle just about anything," Mike replied, his voice an odd combination of ruefulness and humor. "Yeah . . ."  Roy hesitated.  "You know, Mike, none of us have had the chance to tell you how badly we feel about what happened-" "Roy, you guys don't have to say anything," Mike cut him off.  "I know you did everything you could.  Besides, it's over and done with.  There's no sense dwelling on it." Johnny and Roy nodded solemnly.  They were hearing standard Stoker fare. There was a break in the conversation as their meals were delivered. Mike launched into the mountain of king crab legs set before him, while Roy set to work on his breaded flounder.  Johnny stared at the steamed shrimp on his plate.  "These things have heads on them," he said with such a show of Gage-ism horror that Mike could not help but laugh. "You can take the heads off, Johnny," Roy informed him.  "Here . . . see-" "Aghh!  Roy, that's-oh, that's gross!  Oh man, I can't eat these with the heads still on them-" "Then take the heads off.  I just showed you-" "Right, then it's like I'm decapitating them and eating them." "What, did you think that shrimp are naturally headless?"  Roy quipped. "No.  But I've never seen them with the heads on before." "Well, you ordered them."  Roy was not moved. "I'll switch with you, John," Mike offered. "Are you sure, Mike?"  Johnny asked. "I'm sure.  Here, let's switch.  Some naturally bodiless crab legs." Johnny seemed better able to deal with the bodiless crabs than the headed shrimp.  He savored every bite. The conversation over dinner was unctuous and harmless; but with the arrival of dessert and coffee, Mike resumed a more meaningful line of discussion. "So, how's everything going at the station?" "Oh, fine.  It's going fine," Roy replied.  "Chet?  Marco?" "They're both fine.  Chet's his usual self." Johnny added, "A pain in the ass." Mike grinned. "Cap?" "He's okay." "How's Glover working out for you?" "Well, I think he knew he had some big shoes to fill, but he's proving to be a good guy.  He knows his stuff." Mike nodded.  "That's great," he said rather dully. "I guess everything's back to normal, then." Johnny, understanding what Mike was after, replied, "Not completely."  A pause. "Seven years is a long time to be together." Johnny didn't go on, but his look and his demeanor said the rest of the words he couldn't. Mike felt his face flush hot.  He and Johnny had had some tough moments between them; but, with perhaps the exception of Captain Stanley, there were few others in whom Mike would want to place his faith.  For all his shortcomings, Gage always delivered.  None of the three men spoke for a long half-minute. "So . . . " Roy began, at last.  "Can we tell the rest of the guys it's okay to come see you?" "Yes, definitely.  I never meant to wait this long.  It's just that I've had my hands full at 68's; and honestly, when I'm off duty, I'm usually exhausted."  Mike used his fork to cut a chunk of apple strudel.  "That doesn't mean I haven't been missing you guys, cause I have." "We know that," Roy assured him.  "But hey, can I make a suggestion?" "Sure." "When do you go back on duty?" "Uh . . . Sunday.   We're not on the same shift schedule as you guys are.  Another thing they do weird at 68's." "Well, we go back on Monday.  During those few days, you might want to go see Cap."  Roy's mouth widened to reveal a conspirator's smile.  "I wasn't exactly telling you the truth when I said Cap was fine.  You know . . . he was the one who told us you didn't want to see us-"  He watched as Mike rubbed his forehead in embarrassment,  "-and he's been forcing himself not to contact you.  He's got Pearcy giving him reports, so he can be sure you're alright." Mike grinned. "He misses you, Mike.  This had been hard on him.  I think he feels like he let you down," Roy went on. "That's crazy."  Mike considered.  "But that does sound like Cap.  I wish I had known he was feeling that way.  I would have gone to see him sooner.  But I'll go see him before Monday.  Thanks, Roy." Johnny looked at his desert.  "What's this?" "It's what you ordered," Roy replied. "I didn't order this.  I ordered Flan." "That is Flan, Johnny." "The menu said Flan was a custard thing.  This is . . . it's all slimy, and what's this stuff dripping over it?" Mike did not even bother wasting words.  He set his fork, still laden with strudel back down on his plate and swapped yet again. Johnny gave a diminutive smile.  "Thanks, Mike." "Yeah, no problem.  Only the next time you guys invite me out for dinner, I'll do the ordering for you, John." **** You were only David's father, But I had fifty sons When we went up in the evening Under the arch of the guns, And we came back at twilight- O God! I heard them call To me for help and pity That could not help at all. "In Memorian" E.A. MacIntosh Saturday noon. Mike snatched up his keys, opened the apartment door, and stopped short at the sight of his father standing there, fist poised to knock on the door. "Dad-"  Mike took a step back in surprise. Seeing that his son was already on a set course, Brian Stoker asked, "Are you on your way out?" Mike was on his way to pay a visit to his former captain, as per Roy DeSoto's suggestion at dinner last night.  But, as the visit was a surprise, Mike had no schedule to keep.  And his father standing on his doorstep . . . well, this was too incredible to be passed up. "It can wait," Mike replied. "Can I come in?" Mike nodded and moved to one side.  "Is mom with you?" "No-" "Is everything okay?"  Mike asked, suddenly worried. "Everything's fine.  I wanted to come see you by myself.  I wanted to talk to you alone." Mike closed the door and watched as his father sat down on the couch. Mike sat in the chair opposite. Brian Stoker did not beat around the bush. "You didn't tell us you'd been reassigned." Mike was stunned not to hear any accusation in his father's voice. "We only found out when your mother called the station and they told her you were no longer working there." Mike frowned.  "I was waiting for the right time to tell you." "I think now's a good time." Why not?  He's come all this way to hear me spill the ignominious details.  Why not give him something to take back, for all his trouble? "They found me guilty of gross negligence.  I'm back on the hoses now, working at Station 68.  And they've barred me from retesting for engineer for 18 months." There.  Everything his father could want to know in three sentences. Brian Stoker sat in what Mike took to be obdurate silence.  But the next moment rattled every concept Mike had ever had of his father. "I'm sorry to hear that.  Really, I am."  A pause.  "But, you know, Michael, this could be a blessing in disguise." Mike stared at him in dumbfounded silence. "This could be the catalyst you need to leave the fire department." The rattling stopped.  The firmament was again in place.  "Oh, Dad . . ." "You're being given a chance to make something of your life-" "Dad, don't start.  Please, just don't start." Brian Stoker leaned forward.  "It's your chance to get out of a dangerous profession." "It's the only job I've ever wanted to do, Dad," Mike replied.  He added quickly, "I know that disappoints you, but I'm proud of what I do." There was a prolonged quiet in the room. "That pride . . . "  Mike's father began.  "It's an important thing.  Every man should have his pride." Here it comes, Mike thought grimly, steeling himself for the impending flood of accusations. "Every man wants his children to be proud of him, to follow in his footsteps," Brian went on.  "Every man wants to know that his life meant something." Again, Mike felt the foundations of his world shifting into fragments.  Who was this stranger in his living room, speaking of pride and children and meaningful existences? "I guess we reap what we sow," the elder Stoker concluded. "It goes both ways, Dad," Mike replied.  "I wanted you to be proud of me, too.  But you never have been." "Sounds like we're even, then." "No . . . we're not even . . . because I've always been proud of what you did.  I don't know if I could ever have gone where you went, Dad.  I still get scared thinking about those years when you were in Korea.  I joined the fire department, because I wanted to be in a job where I could feel like I made a difference - like you had.  I really thought you'd be proud of me.  And I just don't see why you're not." Another thoughtful silence ensued. "I know you volunteered for Vietnam, Michael." Mike felt his blood pressure go up a notch.  He had never had the slightest inkling that his father had known about this small piece of his life. "And I know the fire department talked you out of it."  A pause.  "I know you volunteered because you thought it was what I wanted.  And you were right.  It was what I wanted.  I wanted my son to follow in my footsteps." Mike shook his head.  "You're wrong about that, Dad.  I volunteered because it was what I wanted.  A lot of my friends had gone.  I felt it was the right thing to do.  The only thing that stopped me was my captain at the time.  He convinced me that the county needed me more than the Army.  He said the war was being fought by eighteen-year-olds and how did I think I was going to keep up with them.  Sometimes I regret that I didn't go.  But then I think of how many lives we saved back here, and I know it was the right choice.  The right choice for me, at least." "But not the right choice for me," Brian replied.  "From that point on, your life became the fire department.  They were your family.  Then, when you went to Station 51 . . . it was as if you didn't even belong to me anymore."  A pause.  "Did Captain Stanley ever tell you about that day at the firemen's picnic?" "No," Mike replied.  "He only told me the two of you had had an argument.  I was too humiliated to ask him about it.  I couldn't believe you'd come to a department function and purposefully pick a fight with my commanding officer." Brian Stoker smiled.  "Your commanding officer?  You'd have made a good soldier, Michael." "You're probably right." "We were fighting over you."  This announcement came abruptly and quietly. "What?" "I was tired of some other man knowing more about my son than I did, of having more sway and more influence with my boy than I did." Mike was too astonished to reply. "It just seemed like every day took you further away."  He looked up hopefully, a sentiment wholly unknown to Mike, coming from his father.  "But this thing that's happened to you . . . it's opened the door for you to come back." "Dad . . . why-why didn't you tell me any of this before?" "I didn't think it would make any difference.  You had always chosen the fire department over me.  I figured, you were a grown man; you make your own decisions.  And your decisions had always been in favor of your job and the men at your station."  Brian Stoker smiled at a reluctant realization.  "You said you could never go where I went, Mike.  But you have, you know.  You chose the same life I did, except you chose firemen instead of soldiers.  You chose flames instead of bullets.  You put your crewmates first, just like I put my soldiers first."  He frowned.  "And now, my soldiers are gone, and I'm left with the family I neglected."  He stood up.  "You're not a banker or a salesman, Mike.  You've chosen a brotherhood - not a job, not a simple profession.  There's nothing like it in the world.  I won't deny that.  Just don't make the same mistake I did." "Dad-" "I'll tell your mother you're fine." "Dad!" "Let's just forget this visit ever took place."  Brian Stoker was already at the door, but before leaving, he turned and nodded his approval.  "You're a good fireman, Michael.  And I should have been proud of you." Mike, his head still reeling, watched him leave.  It took him over an hour of sitting on the couch, in the same spot his father had occupied, to recall that he had been on his way out the door when his father's visit had disrupted his plans.  He looked at his watch.  Three-thirty.  There was still time. **** Janice Stanley answered the door. "Mike!  Well, this is such a surprise!  Come in, come in!  Hank will be so glad to see you!"  Her exuberance, the result of years of playing the consummate hostess, was always a little too much for Mike, but he managed a smile. "Hi, Mrs Stanley."  He always called her that, despite her protests that he use her first name.  That would be like calling Captain Stanley, Hank. "Hank's out back, working on that boat he picked up."  The tone of derision was unmistakable, and Mike could not help but be reminded of something his captain had once said of women, "How come after you're married, they don't care if you're happy anymore?" Mike had known his captain had been joking, but still . . . Janice's hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts.  "Hank told me what happened," she said.  "It's terrible, Mike, just terrible.  I feel awful for you." What could Mike say to that?  But he didn't have to worry about a response.  Janice Stanley never stopped talking.  "If there's anything we can do-oh, there he is, over there with that pile of junk.  Oh, I should have stood my ground.  I should have stood my ground!  The neighbors will start to think we're running a junk yard.  Hank!  Hank!  Look who's here!  See if you can convince him to get rid of that thing, Mike.  Why don't you take it?" Mike was saved by Hank's greeting. "Mike!" "Hey, Cap." Captain Stanley strode across the yard and cuffed his former engineer playfully on the arm.  "Good to see you!" "It's good to see you, too." "Hey, Janice, honey, would you bring us something to drink out here?  I want to show Mike The Betty Boop." Janice Stanley smirked.  "Of course, dear, but if you still think I'm going to let you name that thing The Betty Boop . . . oh, never mind.  Try to talk some sense into him, Mike."  She headed back into the house. "Well, come on."  Captain Stanley led Mike over to the project.  "Isn't she gorgeous?  Just needs a little work.  I'm going to put a 220 horsepower Mercury engine on her, and she'll be able to pull four people out of the water.  As soon as she's ready, I'm going to take the entire station up to Lake Solis for some waterskiing.  You'll be expected to join us." Mike grinned.  "Sounds like fun." Captain Stanley pulled a wooden stool out from beneath the boat.  "Sit down, sit down.  Tell me how everything's going.  Start with your face.  What happened?" Mike sat as his former captain leaned against the boat. "You're just like Johnny and Roy." "Mm-hm.  Is that your answer?" "I'm fighting fires again . . . from the other end of the hose.  It's a rough life." Captain Stanley chuckled.  "I guess so.  And, otherwise?  How's everything going?" "Fine.  Everything's fine." "How's your new station?" "Different." "Yeah . . . every station is a little different." Mike tilted his head in a gesture of accommodation. "Is there trouble?"  Captain Stanley asked. "Growing pains." Hank laughed.  "Them growing used to you?  Or you growing used to them?" "Both." "Well, it shouldn't take them long to figure out they've got one of the best and the brightest working for them." Mike grimaced.  Or the worst and the dimmest, judging from recent events. "Roy and Johnny came by to see me last night," Mike said, directing the conversation away from something he'd rather not discuss. "They did?" "It was great to see them.  I didn't mean to wait so long to talk to you guys, Cap.  I just had a lot on my mind." "We understand, Mike.  You don't have to explain." "So, where did you find this?"  Mike asked, glancing over at The Betty Boop. "Captain Black over at 18's was going to take her to a junkyard." "Are you sure she can be repaired?"  Mike asked, looking at a large, gaping hole in the hull. "Are you questioning my abilities?" Mike felt a huge smile tugging at his lips.  "Well, since you're not my captain anymore . . . yes." "There's loyalty for you." The iced tea came out.  Sundry chatter passed between the two men for over an hour as they fussed over Captain Stanley's boat. At last, Mike said with manufactured casualness, "My father came over today." Captain Stanley raised an eyebrow.  "No kidding?" "Yeah." "A good visit?" "I'm not really sure," Mike replied.  "I think so.  He started off by saying I should leave the department.  By the end he was telling me I was a good fireman." "You are a good fireman." Mike looked uncomfortable.  "He said he wanted me to be proud of him." Captain Stanley's face took on a knowing expression.  "That's not surprising.  What father doesn't want his son to be proud of him?" "He said he should have been proud of me." "That's true.  He should have been proud of you." Mike, in a child-like moment, bit his lip and turned an inquiring eye to Captain Stanley.  "You knew he was jealous of you, but you didn't tell me." Hank drew in a deep breath and nodded slowly. Mike went on.  "I was closer to you than to my own father." "That was a result, not a cause, Mike." "Yeah . . . I guess so," Mike replied.  "It just made me wonder if . . . maybe I didn't give him the chance." "Only you can answer that,"  Captain Stanley replied.  "But I can tell you this, Mike; by the time I came to Station 51, the cold war between you and your father was already in full swing.  I just happened to fill a void that was already there.  And I didn't mind doing it." "Yeah . . . it seems like you've always been there, Cap." "I still am, Mike.  I always will be, pal."  A pause.  "But if your father's holding out the olive branch, don't push it away." Mike's voice was quiet and steady.  "I won't." **** "The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal worthy a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our persons and implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might have stumbled upon our whereabouts." The Gold Bug Edgar Allen Poe Mike opened his eyes.  Something had woken him up.  He lay unmoving for nearly half a minute in the peculiar silence.  There were absolutely no sounds coming from his crewmates. He sat up and looked through the darkness at the nearby beds.  They were all empty.  For a disoriented moment, Mike thought he must have missed a callout, and they had rolled without him; but then his fogged senses cleared and he realized what an absurd idea that was. He got up and checked the rest of the beds.   They were all empty.  He went down the steps and into the bay.  The engines and squad were still there.  The dayroom, the kitchen, the latrine - empty. Mike's bafflement and his anxiety increased. He went back into the apparatus room, to the rear bay doors and looked through the glass into the parking lot.  All the cars were still there. He started to turn back into the bay when a flicker of light from outside caught his attention. There it was again - a wavering light coming through the broken out windows of one of the derelict buildings that made up the boundary of the parking lot. Mike opened the door and went outside.  He crossed the asphalt, cursing his bare feet, and came to the building from which the light emanated.  The windows were basement windows, at ground level, a foot high, perhaps two feet wide.  Mike leaned down, finally dropping onto one knee with his head nearly to the ground.  He could only see the shadowy patterns of light glowing on the far wall, but the source of the light remained a mystery. There was a sound, too.  A bizarre, low humming, changing in pitch and intensity at irregular intervals. Mike moved over to the next set of windows, but these were boarded up.  He moved back past the first windows, coming to the door.  The padlock had been removed.  Early in his reassignment, Mike had noticed that all the buildings surrounding the parking lot had been closed off with padlocks and bedecked with warnings of danger and hazard.  Apparently, the dangers were not so very great. Or perhaps, they were. He pushed the door open carefully and stepped inside.  The hallway into which he had entered was filled with rubbish and old, discarded furniture.  It was all pushed to one side, leaving a clear path.  Moving deeper into the blackness that beckoned all around him, his eyes - though accustomed to the darkness - could make out only indistinct shapes; and he struggled with a very real fear that one of those shapes would come to life as one of his crewmates. What would he do, then? As if scripted from his own anxieties, the sound of movement from somewhere up ahead met his ears.  Mike stopped in his tracks and listened. Footsteps. He turned and began a rapid retrace of his steps.  He made it outside and across the lot.   Up the steps and back into his bed, he fought to keep his breathing quiet, as he waited for what he was certain was going to amount to another unpleasant scene. But the expected confrontation never materialized. Mike heard his crewmates enter the room.  He sensed that he was being looked at; and it took all of his self-control to maintain his ruse of slumber. He waited a long time before opening his eyes; but when he did, it was to see that his crewmates' beds were once again occupied.  It was as if they had never left, as if the whole thing had been a dream. And yet Mike knew better.  He closed his eyes. But he did not sleep. **** McCullough brought the engine to a halt at the base of the concrete culvert where two men dressed in sanitation department coveralls and hard hats were waiting. Captain Moore stepped down and approached the two men. "Explain the situation to me," he said. This, Mike had noticed over the previous two months, was Moore's opening line.  Never varying.  Never omitted.  Never even a change in the tone of his voice. "We were in there checking the lines for rubbish and flotsam - there's been so much rain the last month - and we'd come to a huge pile of the stuff, practically a dam, and when Joe started climbing over it to get to the other side-I told him we could come up and go down the manhole on the other side, he never listens to me-the whole thing collapsed, and he's buried somewhere underneath it," came the harried, disjointed explanation. "Have you called for assistance from the sanitation department?"  Moore asked. "Yeah.  They're gonna send some guys out, but it could take a while.  That's why they called you." "How far in is he?" "Couple hundred yards, I guess." Captain Moore turned to his crew.  "Eggers, Culver, get your equipment.  Skora, Stoker, go with them.  You'd better take the Port-a-power and the saw.  Sounds like you might need them.  We don't want to waste time running back and forth.  Radio me what you find."  He turned to the two sanitation workers.  "One of you will need to show them the way." The man who had spoken earlier volunteered. The four firemen started their trek into the tunnel, trailing a lifeline behind, following the lead of their anxious guide. "The water's still pretty high, and there's all sorts of junk floating in it, so watch yourselves!"  he said over his shoulder, his voice seeming to come from all directions within the confines of the tunnel.  A light on his helmet complimented the ones the firemen carried, but showed a little more detail of the knee-high muck through which they were wading than any of them had cared to see. "There it is!"  their guide announced. Directly ahead, a monstrous wall of accumulated mess rose up close to the roof of the tunnel. "I'll be damned . . ." Culver said under his breath, then in a louder voice, "How did it ever get so built up?" "Like I said, lots of rain this last month.  You wouldn't believe the stuff that's being washed down this way.  The flood gates are overflowing right into the sewage system.  And here . . . we figured something was going on, because every time it rained, the street up there ended up under water.  This pile of garbage was just backing everything up." "You said the man's name is Joe?"  Eggers asked as they came to the edge of the heap.  He set his equipment down on a stable outcropping. "Yeah, Joe Hasselin." "How old is he?" "Late 30s, early 40s. I'm not exactly sure." "Joe?!"  Eggers called out.  "Joe?  Can you hear me?" There was no response. "Where did he fall through?" "He was clear up on top." Eggers began to pick his way up. "I see him!"  He called out.  "He's about ten feet down . . . this stuff's collapsed on top of him.  He's unconscious."  A pause.  "I might be able to get a little closer . . . this is really unstable up here." The instability did not stop Eggers from trying to dig past the obstruction.  He was able, by lying on his stomach and going down headfirst, bit by bit, to get close enough to get a pulse and respirations. These, he relayed to Culver. Culver turned to their guide.  "We've got it from here.  You'd better go back outside with our captain.  It's not safe in here.  And the sanitation guys will need someone to show them the way when they get here." The man nodded, but asked before leaving,  "Is he going to be alright?" "We'll do everything we can." Once he was gone, Culver raised his handie-talkie.  "Captain Moore, this is Culver.  We've located the victim.  He's male, late 30s, early 40s, caucasion.  He's unconscious and trapped." "Understood."  Moore's voice sounded even colder and more emotionless coming from the device. "Do you need any help, Paul?"  Culver asked. "If you think you can make it up here without shifting the thing," Eggers replied. "We could bring a couple ladders off the truck," Mike suggested.  "One up to the ledge, and the other across the top there . . . that way you won't be putting so much weight onto it." They ignored him, and Culver started his climb upwards. Mike looked at Skora.  "This is dangerous, what they're doing-" "So's what you're doing right now," Skora replied without looking at him.  "No one's asked for your advice or your opinion.  That should tell you to shut up." Mike's expression hardened into a scowl.  "You're a bastard, Skora," he said, turning and heading back towards the tunnel's entrance. "Where do you think you're going?"  Skora demanded, propping the Port-a-power against the rounded wall of the tunnel and going after him. "I'm going back to get a ladder-" "The hell you are!" Mike turned to see that Skora was now in hot pursuit, but then Culver's voice burst across the tunnel, claiming everyone's attention.  As feared, the monument of waste had given way beneath the paramedic.  Culver had managed to grab onto a protruding wooden plank, saving himself from meeting the same fate as the victim.  He climbed back up to relative safety, while Mike and Skora both returned to the foot of the heap. "Damn, that was close!"  Culver gasped, clutching at his saving anchor. Eggers suddenly appeared at the top of the pile. "Too close," he announced.  "The whole thing shifted.  He's dead." This announcement, which should have fallen like a ton of bricks, was received with expressions that conveyed no regret at all about the unfortunate experience. "Are you sure?"  Culver asked. "Positive."  Eggers was already on his way down. "Are you going to leave him in there?"  Mike asked. "It's not our job to remove bodies, Stoker.  The sanitation guys can handle that," Eggers replied.  "Besides, they're going to need some time to remove all the debris pinning him down." "We've got the equipment-" "Drop it, Stoker," Skora warned. Mike let it drop, although he had half a mind to climb up and check for himself.  The entire attitude of his crewmates was too glib, too unconcerned.  And Mike had already seen enough odd decisions in the past two months to give him grounds for suspicion. Culver and Eggers descended to the floor of the tunnel, and Eggers radioed Moore to inform him that the victim was a Code F. This being done, Eggers and Culver picked up their equipment.  "Let's get out of here," Eggers said. The foursome had gone less than twenty yards when Mike noticed that Skora was empty-handed. "Skora, you left the Port-a-power behind," he stated. "Shit," Skora groused.  He turned and took the saw from Stoker's hands.  "I left it leaning against the wall," he said, then continued walking. Mike almost protested, but then he thought better of it.  There was no sense in provoking another confrontation.  He turned and headed back towards the flotsam dam. He spotted the Port-a-power right away, but he did not retrieve it immediately. He thought of the old man whom Captain Moore had almost left to die in one of the first fires Mike had responded to with his new station.  Although he had no reason to imagine a similar mistake had been made here, he was reluctant to pass up the opportunity to check. It was one of the most reckless and poorly considered decisions he had ever made, but within thirty seconds he was half-way up the mound. **** "Where's Stoker?"  Captain Moore asked the instant Eggers, Culver and Skora emerged from the tunnel. "I sent him back to get the Port-a-power," Skora replied.  "He should be coming out any second." Captain Moore said nothing and continued to look in the direction of the tunnel. One minute later, the equipment was loaded, the engine and squad ready to depart.  But Stoker was still in the tunnel. "Skora."  Captain Moore's summons was filled with contained anger. Skora stepped up beside his captain. "You were to keep an eye on him.  Now, get your worthless hide back in there and bring him out.  You should know better than to leave him alone at the site of a Ruling.  And-" his voice took on an ominous inflection, "if we lose this one, the blame will fall squarely on you." As he watched Skora disappear back into the tunnel, Captain Moore heard Eggers' voice at his ear. "We won't lose this one, Captain," he said with assurance.  "Culver accidentally made the Ruling a lot easier.  There were a lot of jagged ends, branches, sheered off wooden boards . . . when Culver moved, one of them went right into the victim's abdomen.  He's dead, or he only had a few seconds.  Stoker won't ruin this one for us." "You'd better hope so, for all our sakes," Captain Moore replied.  "It's been far too long. He's been lenient, but I can't expect Him to continue to be merciful." "It's not that you haven't tried, Captain," Eggers said.  "You've done everything He's asked of you.  But Stoker's made it hard." "He's been sent here to test us."  Captain Moore paused.  "It's a test of our faith, our endurance." "He's a danger, Captain," Eggers replied.  "I don't think he scares very easily." Moore said nothing. "There are other options, Captain-" "No.  I will not allow that solution to become our convenient remedy." "Captain . . . I don't think Stoker's a problem that's going to go away otherwise." "Anything that's too easy isn't worth the effort." **** The man was dead. It was certain. Mike pulled himself back on top of the pile of debris and started carefully moving down.  He could hear the sound of approaching footsteps, sloughing through the water; and shortly, he could make out the bouncing beam of a flashlight. His feet had just touched the ground when he was jerked around and Skora's fist sent him sprawling into the muck. "By the devil, I'm not going to let you get me in trouble!"  Skora's voice was a snarl. Mike got quickly back to his feet and turned to face Skora, who took a menacing step forward.  Already jarred by insult and not about to be felled again, Mike sprang at him, and they both went down.  Mike pulled off two punches in rapid succession, catching Skora in the cheek and the jaw, before Skora rolled sideways and thrust Stoker away from him. Mike backpedaled and Skora went after him. They were completely entwined, like boxers grown tired and sluggish from effort, rolling through the rancid, soupy concoction, slipping, losing hold of each other, falling at last into an exhausted pile of combined limbs. Mike was the first to extricate himself. Skora grabbed a handful of the foul, gravelly sediment from beneath the water and flung it as Stoker got up, hitting him harmlessly on the arm.  He then sprang to his feet and was about to tackle Mike again, but this time Stoker was faster.  With one powerful, fluid motion, he nailed Skora in the temple, dropping him into a daze. He stood there for a few seconds, dripping wet with filth, until he was sure Skora was still in command of his senses.  Seeing Skora push up onto his knees, Mike reached over, picked up the Port-a-power, and left without a single word. **** Mike spent the entire morning in dread, but the expected summons to his captain's office never came. Skora, sporting a swollen lip and bruised cheek, maintained his distance and did not fire his usual volley of insults in Stoker's direction. Maybe, just maybe, the scene inside the tunnel had earned Mike a certain degree of respect.  He hoped so, at least.  He was already wary of this station, especially after what he had seen - or more accurately, not seen - the night before.  But being that he was determined to see his time through, he thought it would be infinitely more pleasant to at least have the surety of being left unmolested. The day passed in relative peace.  There were two more runs for the engine, one with the laddertruck.  The squad was a little busier, but overall, it was a quiet afternoon.  Dinner came and went. Mike settled down into one of the dayroom chairs and breezed through the most recent issue of Consumer Reports.  Then, promptly at ten o'clock, Captain Moore announced "rack time". This was another standard practice at Station 68.  While the wake-up tones might be under the control of the county, turn-in was firmly in Captain Moore's hands.  He insisted that the members of his crew all hit the sack at the same time, and no one questioned him or protested. Mike had fallen in line with this odd practice.  In fact, the atmosphere within the station had the effect of making him more than ready to turn in at ten o'clock.  Usually, by the time dinner was over, Mike was exhausted, more mentally than physically.  Sleep was the best relief he could hope for. But after last night, Mike's margin of comfort had shrunken considerably.  He could not help but wonder how many other nights he had slept through, unaware of his crewmates' activities.  What were they doing?  What if the tones had gone off?  How could they be so sure that their sleeping crewmate was truly asleep and oblivious to their activities? Mike was a sound sleeper. Being a fireman had necessitated the trait.  Anyone whose sleep ran the risk of constant disturbance had to be able to fall back to sleep quickly and deeply.  There were times when Mike thought that the only thing that could rouse him from slumber were the tones - and those were loud enough to wake the dead. But last night, a feeling had woken him. Something unnatural had reached past the boundaries of sleep with enough force to pop him fully awake. And it had stirred up enough anxiety and curiosity that Mike found himself unable to sleep this night.  He lay in his bunk, feigning sleep; but behind his closed eyes, his mind was alert and waiting. The hours passed. At just past midnight, the engine was called out to a dumpster fire. Upon their return, Mike was determined to maintain his sleepless vigil . . . There it was again!  That feeling!  That sensation! Mike's eyes shot open, the shock registering through his entire body.  He had fallen asleep! He sat up immediately.  The place was empty. He did not waste a second before throwing off the covers and getting out of bed.  He pulled on his bunker pants.  Less than a minute later, he was crossing the back lot, following the flickering light that had drawn him the night before. For a man who was usually cautious to a fault, the circumstances found Mike acting rather rashly.  He went inside the building without hesitation and followed the hallway to where it turned right and ran along the back of the structure.  About half-way down this back hall, there was a staircase heading downwards. Mike descended.  He came to the foot of the steps.  A short hallway stretched before him.  A black curtain hung at the far end.  A strange fluttering ranged through his insides. What was he doing?  He had to be crazy to be standing where he was standing.  Any second that curtain might be drawn aside, and then what?  There was nowhere to hide in the corridor.  They would catch him standing there, and they would know that he had been spying on them. Why risk it?  What did Mike care what they did?  Whatever was going on behind that curtain was probably better left in the secrecy with which it was carried out. But the faint murmur of human voices drew him on, an inescapable lure that had snagged his curiosity and now refused to let go.  Five paces brought him to the curtain.  He could not see around it.  No cracks or slack openings.  And he did not dare move it himself, lest he draw unwanted attention.  So, he stood there without moving, trying to discern the activity that was going on beyond the curtain. A chant. Several voices chanting ceaselessly, the same unintelligible phrase over and over again. But above this was one voice, distinct and guttural.  Captain Moore. His words, the few he uttered, were unlike the others in that they were clear and understandable.   Firma.  Negatus.  Negatus.  Firma. The chanting increased in volume and changed key. Firma.  Negatus.  Firma.  Firma.  And louder still, a half-step higher. Firma.  Firma.  Firma.  Firma. Ruling. The chanting stopped abruptly. "Male.  Twenty-five.  Thirty.  Clear." This voice belonged to Eggers. A collective acknowledgment filled the air like the hum of a thousand bees. Mike backed up and padded quietly up the stairs.  At the top he turned for a quick glance behind him.  The curtain was still in place.  His plan had been to go back into the station, but he decided, instead, to continue to follow the hallway down to where it turned right, leading back towards the front of the structure, over the mysterious room below. Rounding the corner, his eyes immediately were drawn by a pinprick of light on the floor ahead of him.  Moving forward he came upon a quarter-sized hole in the rotted wood and crumbling plaster at the juncture between the floor and the inner wall.  He leaned down but was unable to see anything through the opening. Getting down onto his knees, he lowered his head to the floor and looked through the hole. His field of vision was limited, but what he could see bunched his stomach into knots. Captain Moore was sitting on the floor, wearing what looked like a chorister's robe of red and black.  In front of him was a tight circle of candles. From his limited viewpoint,  Mike could see several members of the crew arranged around the candles.  They, too, were sitting on the floor, their backs straight, hands resting firmly on their knees, as if they were in some state of meditation.  They wore their bunker pants and white undershirts, but each had a sash of a different color draped across his shoulders. What, in God's name, was the meaning of such a meeting? Mike squinted.   From the looks of it, this meeting had little to do with God. As he shifted to try and get a better look, a hand suddenly clamped down over his mouth as someone pressed him to the floor. Mike's initial combination of terror and struggle ceased instantly when he heard McCullough's harsh whisper in his hear.  "Stop fighting or they'll hear you!  It's me - Terrence!  Stop fighting!" Mike lay still, but McCullough still did not remove his hand from over Mike's mouth. "I'm going to let you go, but you have to get out of here," Terrence told him.  "Do you understand?  I want you to go straight back into the station." Mike nodded. McCullough released him. Mike rolled onto his back and stared up at McCullough in the darkness. "What is this?"  he whispered fiercely. McCullough pressed his hand over Mike's mouth again and used his own body to hold him to the floor.  His voice was low, his threat not idle.  "Get out of here now, or I swear, I'll turn you over to them, myself!  One more word, and I'll call them up here!"  He got slowly to his knees and kept his hand over Mike's mouth until they were both on their feet.  "Now, go." Mike cast a distrustful glance at McCullough; then turned and headed towards the door. continue