All over the base people had gathered, some from the labs, and one or two
who had been outside and had managed to get behind the radiation screen
before the last, hellish battle for the surface. Now he was detailed to go
back outside to discover exactly what was left of the world they'd known.
They'd initialized him only a few weeks before the final holocaust. His job
was to go where the humans could not. They told him that his titanium alloy
skeleton and polymer muscles were impervious to the deadly things that the
vanquished aliens had left in their wake. At first he'd clung to pride in
his strength and apparent superiority to the frail flesh of the humanity he
served, because humans were cognitive beings rather than complex machines,
but gradually he'd begun to see that they had weaknesses too. As he
clambered up toward the surface, he shivered fearfully with the knowledge
that they were no better, no smarter than he, and that he was infinitely
braver than his makers.
They were down there now, watching on the view screen while he climbed the
ladder, and he knew that he was less than the merest dog in their eyes.
They didn't know his name, and it hadn't even occurred to them that he had
one.
The ladder seemed endless. The cold metal rungs were slick, wet with a
noxious condensation that made his fingers freeze although he'd been told
that he would be capable of climbing out onto the surface without too much
of a problem. He hurt. He should have requested deactivation of his pain
circuits. Now, his rapidly numbing fingers were making him fear. It would
take very little to send him plunging down into the depths of the shaft he
was attempting to negotiate.
He didn't want to contemplate the pain that might cause. Even less did he
want to think about the unpleasant things that would follow his failure.
The entire contingent of Mac 27s might be deactivated, and that would be a
terrible burden to assume.
Pondering that thought, he whimpered and stopped his upward climb to cling
to the ladder, hook his legs in and place his cold, numb fingers under his
arms to warm them. He wouldn't fail. He was a Mac 27, and he would not
permit his line to be junked merely because his own performance had been
substandard.
There was a long pause while he warmed his hands, and a further period while
he attempted to figure out just how much further he had to go. There was
little light other than that from the head-mounted flashlight he wore, and
when he turned the beam upward, all he could see was the cold metal of the
ladder receding into the darkness.
Sighing in an almost human fashion, he resumed his task, pulling himself
upwards with gritted teeth, arms and legs thrusting in monotonous but smooth
motion. His gaze was turned upward, and he had nothing to do except reach
for each new rung, pull and reach again. His mind began to wander back over
the events of the recent past. He knew that he was defective in some way;
that the rest of his race was able to communicate in a manner that was lost
to him. They'd told him when they revived him that this was so, and he had
tried, really tried hard to regain the skill.
His mind had remained alone, the solitary, lonely self that no longer had a
place or an identity. He had remembered that once he'd borne a name, and he
hugged that to him. Damaged he might be; impaired he certainly was. Alone
it seemed that he was destined to remain, but he knew his name.
Alex.
He didn't know why he knew that he was Alex, but know it he did.
When they had revived him there on the steel table in the lab, after the
lights had finished sparking and flashing, and when he had finally become
capable of curiosity, they had shown him his face in the mirror. They had
produced photographs, and asked him if he knew who he was. He had frowned.
Of course he knew...
Didn't he?
It was as though there were a veil between himself and the truth. Try as he
might, he couldn't see what lay on the other side of the veil. He was
damaged, and his face had seemed strange to him. The mirror had spoken of
dark hair and a pale face set with huge green eyes that seemed empty. This,
he was told, was the Mac 27, and it—he—had been built in imitation of
man, to serve man.
At last, just when his joints were threatening to part and his whole body
shrieked pain to him, he reached the head of the ladder, and pulled himself
into the tunnel that ran at right angles to the deep shaft from which he had
just emerged. Now at least if he were to meet with misfortune he would be
spared the ignominy of falling back like Icarus, to lie at the feet of the
old men who had programmed him. He was saved from being the one to bring
about the wholesale termination of his race, which they had so often
threatened. He sat down on the edge of the shaft, fumbled in the pocket of
the coverall that he wore and drew out a pack of fuel.
He had, it seemed, been built in emulation of humans in this fashion too.
His ingestion of fuel was much the same as that of the men who had
commissioned him. He proceeded to tear off a chunk of the fuel with strong
white teeth and munch at it with great satisfaction. As the fuel slipped
down into his central processing system he relished the sensation of comfort
that it imparted. He shared this with the humans and for that he was
grateful.
The tunnel that he was in wasn't high enough to permit him to stand, so he
began to crawl. There were pools of an oily substance on the ground, and
though he didn't know why, they made him nervous as he negotiated his way
past them. A brief vision of acrid slime that obliterated sight, hearing
and scent flickered through his panicked thoughts, then was gone.
His knees were beginning to pain him when at last the tunnel opened out and
he was able to stand. There was a slight breeze now, blowing from somewhere
ahead of him, and carrying with it smells that were unpleasant. He wondered
if the fuel he had consumed would be rejected as the odors assaulted him,
but even though his orifice became unpleasantly moist, the candy bar
remained inside him. Stairs loomed ahead of him in the darkness, and he
began to walk up them, sensing his nearness to the surface as he mounted
them steadily.
The stairs were iron, with a banister that was cold, beaded with the
moisture that dripped everywhere in this dank, stale smelling space. Sudden
movements made him whip his head round. A dimly seen body crouched behind
the stairs. He caught a glimpse of wild eyes, and when he trained the beam
from his flashlight onto the presence, he made out a young man, scrawny and
clad in rags, cowering in the darkness, clutching a toy car to his chest
protectively.
"It's all right. I won't hurt you," he murmured, and the youth smiled
faintly, starting to move towards him where he stood on the stairs. The kid
had almost reached him when a pool of the black, oily substance trickled
over the youth's feet. He became rigid, the toy that had been clasped in
his hands fell unregarded to the floor and his eyes suddenly swirled, black
marring the white.
The shock of what he had just seen was complete. He felt the sudden thrill
of warm wetness at his crotch as some unknown process released waste liquids
from his interior, and he ran, not wanting to see what would happen next.
Somehow, somewhere within him, this situation was known, and he feared it.
When he burst out into the street at last, it was dark. He was still
running, panicking as he attempted to put distance between himself and the
terrible event that he had just witnessed. He ran on crazily, not taking
note of his surroundings in his terror of what might be pursuing him. When
finally he stopped his headlong flight, too winded to continue, he looked
around him in horror, taking in empty buildings with glassless windows that
gaped like the eyes of the youth he had just seen assimilated by the black
oil.
He suddenly realized that he didn't know where he was.
He reached into his pocket, fumbling for the paper he had been given that
contained the instructions for reaching his destination, and studied it
desperately. A sign above the cracked sidewalk proclaimed that this was M
Street, and after a moment or two of panic, he found M Street on the map he
was holding. Breathing a sigh of relief, he hunted for the phone that he
carried. He was supposed to phone in when he reached the surface.
The phone didn't seem to be working. No matter what he did to it, he
couldn't get a dial tone from it. Finally he replaced it in his pocket and
trudged on through the darkness. He wouldn't fail. All he had to do was
follow the map in his hand to find safety, and fulfill his mission.
The mirror at the other side of the table caught his reflection. It was
curious that he didn't look like the others. Of course there were the odd
models, mostly sex toys for the Masters who desired uncomplicated
companionship. His own Master never required sex from him. If he felt an
urge, he would call upon one of the Mac-27s to service him. Sometimes, the
unit would need many repairs at the end of his use. M-1 didn't understand
that, but then perhaps it was, as Spender said, the stress of being in
charge of so many lives. He was like a father to everyone here. It took a
toll on him and after all, the Mac-27s could be repaired—for the most part
anyway.
M-1 was dressed as always in his sleek and shining black armor. His weapons
were neatly in place; he checked them every morning. Flame thrower, plam,
automatic weapon, and plastic explosive. The compound was reasonably
secure, but sometimes subjects got loose. They were very dangerous when
that happened; M-1 noted that the humans objected strenuously to the honor
of being chosen as a lab animal.
His Master relied on his protection and it was right to protect him, wasn't
it? Still, M-1 avoided the scientist's section as much as he could. It
bothered him to hear the screams and pleading, stirring resentments and
urges he knew were the results of poor programming. Sometimes, he really
did not like his master—much less love him.
His master called him over, interrupting his thoughts. "Sit down, my boy,
be comfortable."
Ah, Spender was in a talkative mood. M-1 sat on the footstool, which stood
in front of the chair. He lowered his eyes, waiting to be told what his
role would be.
"You have beautiful eyes." Spender mused. "Just as she did. I wonder...no,
it would be wrong to make a simulacrum of her, a sacrilege." Spender turned
M-1's face from side to side as if checking for flaws. It was clean, alert,
and he had no injuries to distract the master from his work or pleasure.
There was a bowl of sunflower seeds on the table. M-1 very much wanted
them. He was the only replica to have that craving and the only one who was
allowed to eat these treats. Master placed one in his mouth. M-1 held it
until Spender said, "Enjoy it. Good boy."
Ah, salty and rich, the tidbit was savored and, alas, too soon gone.
Spender gave him a whole handful and said, "We have cause to celebrate.
Another enclave is sending a scout. If he makes it, it is the start of our
brave new world."
Stroking M-1's hair, Spender said, "Go pick a Mac-27 for me. One I haven't
had before. Oh, hell, bring me two...a bonded pair if there are any."
Sadly, as he hated this task, M-1 slunk from the room to go to the storage
dormitory for the Mac-27s. He ate the sunflower seeds although all the joy
was gone because if he let his central processing rebel, as it seemed bound
to do, he would be rejecting his master's gift.
Leaving the luxury of the master's quarters, M-1 passed increasingly less
ornate apartments. Finally, he came to the replica's warrens. The door to
the Mac-27s storage was bolted. Mac-27s were efficient, but also dangerous.
Rumor had it that more than one had turned on a creator. If they were not
so useful and so beautiful, they would all have been destroyed. However,
the procedure and equipment for making replicas was extravagant in power use
and materials. The shelter could not waste the already-created androids.
It was dark in the quarters. Androids did not need light to see. There
were no beds or furniture of any kind other then crates of fuel. M-1 never
understood why he was built with so many flaws. For instance, he was just
as blind as a human in the dark. He turned on the light and saw clusters of
the Mac-27s. Most were in stasis, conserving energy. A few moved around,
consuming fuel, using rags to clean their shells, or communicating with each
other.
M-1 announced, "My master wishes two companions. He wants a pair, who
cleave to each other."
None of the Mac-27s volunteered, but it wasn't hard to choose. Two of the
androids had been wrapped in each other's arms. M-1 walked over to them and
said, "You two. This is a great honor."
They clung tighter together and huddled as if about to refuse. M-1 said,
"It is duty, Mac-27s. Your purpose is to serve."
Frightened green eyes looked up at him. Was something wrong? His internal
sensors registered major disruption of the type that warned a replica of
serious damage. It was as pain was to a human, but why he should feel pain
at the look in the Mac-27s eyes was beyond him. M-1 decided he would check
on this later. First he must obey his master.
The Mac-27s rose and mournfully followed him. They were the same yet
differed subtly from all the rest. Their hair was a bit longer and extra
detail had been given their eyelashes. The faces were sculpted so
beautifully that M-1 felt a wave of his own desire. He repressed it. The
master would occasionally urge him to mount a Mac-27 and would watch him do
so with great pleasure. However, M-1 had noted that it was after these
episodes that Spender would take ruthless joy in dismantling the android in
painful ways.
The public baths weren't very crowded for once. The few humans that used
them were nervous around M-1 and the Mac-27s. Several left without using
the facilities at all. The ones that stayed turned their eyes away.
"Wash." M-1 said to the Mac-27s. The androids stood on the recycling pads
and used the grayish water to sponge each other clean. Their bodies were so
beautiful—lean, long sculpted muscles, padded with esthetically correct
amounts of flesh. The chests were hairless. They had such rosy nipples,
perfect little furls of pink atop the swell of pectoral development. The
stomachs were gently hollowed, framed with powerful structure. Each leg was
long, so incredibly lengthy and well shaped with the faintest sweet bow to
each limb. M-1 couldn't help but wonder about the human who had modeled for
these. Had he survived? It would be a crime against god and nature if he
had perished.
The Mac-27s kissed and clung to each other sadly when they were clean. M-1
was envious and asked, "Why do you seek each other? Would it not be more
efficient to conserve energy and just save your pleasure circuits for the
masters?"
The slightly bigger Mac-27 answered, "Efficient is not always best. Humans
merely use us. My beloved and I seek only good for each other. He is the
only one I desire. I pity you, M-1, for not knowing what it is to love."
"I love my master." M-1 claimed.
The Mac-27 turned insolent eyes on him and said, "Do you?"
M-1 couldn't understand why he slapped the creature. He never abused
captives—or indeed anyone in the enclave, unless Spender gave him a direct
order, which the man seldom did. He had thugs who were better at bullying
the subordinates. M-1 was for higher purposes, helping him plan strategy or
to understand the various people with whom they had to work.
Wishing he could be anywhere else, M-1 held the bigger Mac-27 on a choke
chain as Spender used an electrical disrupter on his mate. Finally,
Spender, groaning with pleasure, told M-1 to bring the Mac-27 over. "Suck
me and make it good enough to distract me from your little friend."
The android knelt but not before shooting a look of such incredible hatred
that M-1 felt it necessary to check his replica disrupter was in the slot in
his belt. Upsetting as this was, M-1 found himself chewing on his lip as
the android obeyed. He could imagine how good that tongue would feel on his
own cock, the feel of that hand gently milking the testicle sac and
supporting the heavy weight of him.
The Mac-27 looked at him and said, "Lube."
M-1 brought it and the android dipped a finger in it to penetrate Spender's
seamed ass. The old man shuddered and thrust deeply. He glanced over as
M-1 got up to leave and grabbed his hair. He held on, twisting M-1's locks
in his hand until he came in the Mac-27s mouth.
Lying there gasping on the bed as the android licked him clean, Spender
finally let go. He looked at M-1 and said, "Fuck the other one."
The tortured Mac-27 was still sobbing, lubricant for his delicate lenses
soaking his luxuriant eyelashes. M-1 said, "Please, Master, it is still
hurt. Let me ease its suffering with a repair kit first."
Spender leapt from the bed with surprising energy. He grabbed M-1 and
slapped him to the floor. Even as M-1 curled, Spender snarled, "No, expose
your stomach to me."
It took all the discipline in his nature to resist defending himself. M-1
lay there as his master kicked him twice, once in the chest and then in the
groin. Spender growled to the Mac-27s, "Strip him and take him to your
quarters. Any Mac-27 who wants him may have him."
Saliva dripped down the Master's chin as he looked at M-1. He said, "After
all the love and care I have lavished on you, you still do this to defy me?
Take him away."
His uniform and weapons were stripped from him. M-1 only hoped that his
master would relent after a while. He shuddered to think what the Mac-27s
would do in revenge for the many times he'd had to select one for his master
to abuse; for it was abuse, M-1 knew that in his deepest core.
The Mac 27 roughly pulled him up and took hold of his comrade as well.
Spender laughed and said, "Oh, not him, I am greatly amused by this one.
What exquisite programming he has. I would almost believe he was the
original by his sweet squirming and pleading. I think I will continue to
amuse myself with him."
The android's hand on his arm tightened to the point of pain. M-1 was
hunched over from the fire in his chest and belly and could not support his
own weight. He hung on the strong arm of the other replica. After the door
shut, the Mac 27 hissed, "Do you see now? Did you think you were really
special? Get off your cloud, M-1, look around you. Do you think that the
humans are any better than we are?"
Sobbing, M-1 remained on the floor, waiting for the first Mac-27 to abuse
him. None of them did. He looked up and met disgusted eyes or indifferent
ones. The Mac-27 whose lover had been taken squatted next to him. He said,
"We're not as sick as your beloved Master. Rape has no interest for us."
A cup of water was offered to him. It had sugar in it for fuel. M-1 drank
and then sank in an exhausted heap on the floor.
Much later, the fragile Mac 27 was cast back into the storage area . Its
skin hung in tatters and it wailed in a dissonant tone that suggested
serious drive malfunctions. Despite his hideous appearance, his lover
gathered him to his arms and said, "We'll fix you up. Don't be afraid. I
have you. I'll always be with you."
The goon laughed and said, "Shit, some of these things think they are
human." He grabbed M-1 by the hair and said, "Time to clean up. Your
master wants you. We have a visitor."
Obediently, M-1 struggled up and staggered out of the Mac-27 storage.
Despite his condition, his synapses raced with excitement. A stranger from
another enclave? He wondered if there were other M-1 types in that enclave.
His curiosity was boundless and his eagerness made it easy to ignore the
aches and pains in his self-repairing program. He wished he were like the
other replicas. Self-healing might be ecologically sound, but it took so
long and was disabling in the process. M-1 wished he were in better shape.
He needed a clear head to assess the stranger's degree of risk to the
master. He ignored the little voice that told him that he would be glad to
see something horrible happen to Spender. He must be a good replica or he
would be destroyed...
He'd been conducted to see the old man, who had appeared to find him a
source of some hidden amusement as he questioned him about the journey he
had made, and about the survivors back in the underground bunker he had left
behind him.
The questions had seemed to go on forever, and he sensed that he had
sustained damage in some unsuspected manner, because he kept feeling the
need to shut down and go into dormant mode. The old man had struck his face
repeatedly as he'd slumped, and it had been with difficulty that he had
concluded his report.
The arrival of the android that was to take him to the Mac 27's quarters
took him by surprise. This one wasn't in his own image. This one was as
tall, true, but he was slim, wiry, with a pair of eyes that stared through
him knowingly, full lips that were molded as though inviting kisses, and his
aspect was disturbing to him. Strange resonances were making themselves
felt somewhere deep within him as he studied the M-1's appearance. He shook
his head angrily hoping to clear the sudden, uncharacteristic confusion that
he was feeling, but he couldn't. Flashes of another time, and another
place, and this construct seated on the floor looking confused while
he-android extended a gun...
He didn't know what it meant. It was something that he didn't want to
ponder. The very thought was enough to make his head pound.
As M-1 left the room, the lights went out. Mac 27s needed no light to see,
each having his own infrared vision. This being the case he had no idea— had never been able to comprehend—why he couldn't perceive his
surroundings. He groped for the head mounted torch that he still wore and
made for the refreshment unit, turning on the shower with gratitude before
positioning the lamp to shed its light where he needed it. Then he stepped
beneath the wash of warm water and began to soap himself with a sigh.
His sense receptors were tingling with the pleasure of the cleansing water,
and he wondered again at the response of his neural net to the presence of
the M-1 android. He could feel the build up of excitement within him
despite the fact that he was reluctant to think of the strange, disturbing
presence to which he had been introduced. His lower connection had become
rigid, something that made him afraid. He could not recall this happening
to him before, and it made him nervous and jittery. He washed the soap from
the offending part, and almost fell to his knees as a wash of pleasure swept
him.
Stepping from beneath the water he dried himself swiftly and stumbled back
to the communal area, hoping that one of the older models would be able to
assist him in his predicament. He hadn't been programmed for this. It was
outside his experience, and therefore suspect. He knew that he would be
disciplined for behavior not permitted to the Mac 27s. Frantically he
displayed his engorged lower body and the offending appendage that bobbed
there.
"This is something I don't recognize. Can someone assist me in making sense
of its purpose?" He looked around at the few androids that were not shut
down. The room was not pleasant. Peeling paint hung in curling skeins, like
moss in a forest, and cobwebs clung thickly to pipes that ran along the
ceiling.
One of the androids cast a glance at his problem, and moved to him, seizing
it firmly and making him gasp as that unfamiliar feeling shivered through
him once again.
"P-please... What can I do to stop this? I don't think I'm permitted to
experience it." His voice sounded very faint and strained in the silence of
the storage facility, and for a moment he experienced a flickering memory of
a time that was outside his knowledge. There was the feel of something
acrid and oily that burned his sinuses, and he thought he would choke, or
suffocate. The sensation receded and he was left with only a vague, panicky
feeling as the Mac 27 that had come to his aid began to move his hand
rhythmically over the swollen appendage that protruded from his thighs,
causing the delicious tingling to spiral out of control within him.
Suddenly he could no longer breathe as something incredible span through his
body, something impossibly good, that caused a wicked, prickling flood of
heat through his strangely behaving lower regions, then he slumped against
the other android, holding onto him as if he were about to fall.
"You are not a Mac 27," said the other as he steadied him. "Why are you
here?"
The words didn't sink in for a moment, so lost was he in the wonderful
feelings that had been caused by this interaction, but then he suddenly
understood what was being said to him.
"Not a Mac 27?" he gasped. "If not, what am I?"
"You are a human. This is most disturbing. Why do you suppose that the
humans have disowned you?" His mentor felt him stagger and lowered him down
to rest on the floor. He thought that he was to be abandoned, but after a
minute the Mac 27 joined him, sitting alongside him and pulling him to lie
in his lap. Such was the envoy's need to shut down that he felt his head
swimming, and it seemed that his mentor was aware of that because the last
thing he sensed after the flashlight was extinguished was the android's hand
stroking his hair. Then, he knew no more.
When Alex's consciousness returned, he was still cradled in the arms of the
one who'd assisted him the night before. He was experiencing strange
confusion. The Mac 27s' words from the previous night echoed and rolled
within his head. "You are a human."
If he was a human, who was he? How did he get here? He didn't understand.
Alex whimpered softly and the one that was comforting him passed a gentle
hand over his shoulder, raising him up to lean against his chest. He wished
that he could see his benefactor in the stygian darkness.
The replica hugged Alex against him. "There is another like you. He was
with us a few hours before you came. I am not sure why the humans are
playing this game. What would they gain from causing you to believe that
you are an artificial construct?"
Alex frowned. Something was causing his belly to experience pain. It was
making sounds that were unfamiliar to him, and his mentor chuckled.
"You are in need of fuel, human. What is your designation?" He set Alex
aside and crossed the room. As the Mac 27 took his place at Alex's side
once more, he pressed something into his hand, and at his urging, Alex
brought it up to his oral cavity. The taste was sweet, and the texture
solid, crumbling to nothingness as Alex chewed. Alex thanked the replica,
who placed his arm around him once again, pulling him snugly in against his
shoulder. The comfort was welcome.
"My designation?" Alex mumbled around a mouthful of sweet fuel. "I have no
idea. Why don't I have any memory of who I am?" He sat up as his
predicament came home to him. "I know nothing about myself. I don't even
recall things that I should know. What was that thing that happened to me
last night?"
His pack was heavy. He looked more like a gnome then ever, hunched under
the weight of the spoils. His hair had continued to recede. Now he had a
fringe of rag-mop proportions straggling around his shoulders. Hearing a
noise, Frohike ducked into a crevice between the ruins of two buildings.
Fucking Mac 27 ghosting through the rubble. It was getting worse lately.
The android enforcers used to stay close to the shelters, making quick trips
to gather supplies, but lately they had been exploring further afield. This
one was far from home; it wore the brown coverall of the shelter under the
former Naval Intelligence headquarters. It seemed to be heading for the
biggest enclave of the bastards who thrived like fat leeches on the blood of
betrayed humanity.
The Krycek-faced android stumbled and made a sound as he encountered some
shard of metal. He brought a finger up to his mouth and Frohike saw red
blood on the flesh. The android also had what appeared to be a bruise on
his face. Point of fact...Mac27s could ooze fake blood, but Frohike had
never seen one that bruised.
It wasn't a Mac 27. Frohike was sure of it.
Could it be him? Could it be Krycek? Long lost; mourned as dead?
He'd been their brain, as Scully had been their heart, and Walter Skinner,
the strong back of the Resistance.
One by one, their leaders had been picked off. Scully had died raving with
fever, felled by one of the mutated diseases, as she tried to nurse the camp
with few medications and under the most primitive of conditions. Walter
Skinner had died a year later when someone had betrayed them to the
Consortium. He had insisted on staying with the rear-guard to hold them off
as the others escaped. Alex and Frohike had gone back and seen the body,
surrounded by a pile of the enemy dead. A grim smile remained on the
blood-splattered face, at rest at last.
It had been a relatively peaceful time when Krycek heard the rumor that
Mulder was alive; found by the Mac 27s that Krycek had led to victory
against his alien captors.
Frohike had warned him not to go, begged him to let someone else take the
risk; he'd even volunteered; however, it had been futile. From the moment
that the supposed escapee from the enclave had said Mulder's name, there had
been a look in Krycek's eyes. The man had never said what was between
Frohike's beloved friend and himself. He didn't have to voice what was
evident in the fever-bright look in his eyes and the husky tremor in his
speech as he said, "I'm going after him. We need him."
They'd survived without Alex. He'd stayed long enough to teach them how to
disable an android just as he had drilled them all in the art of killing the
aliens. Frohike missed him. They all missed him more than Frohike ever
would believe they could feel for the Ratboy.
Before Frohike could make up his mind what to do, the man disappeared into
what appeared to be a sewer, but which must be yet another opening to the
bomb shelter that Frohike knew existed somewhere in the vicinity. Somehow,
Frohike couldn't believe Krycek had betrayed them and gone to live with
Spender in his hole. No, whatever Krycek had done in the past, he had been
on the right side in the end. Frohike knew that, with the certainty of a
brother in arms.
Frohike took a convoluted route back to the camp. It was almost time to
move again anyway. Never put roots down, that was the rule. The guard was
a boy; one who had come to adulthood in this Dark Age at the end of time.
Frohike nodded and handed the kid a tin of chocolates he'd found. What was
the kid's name? Timmy? Or, no, it was Tommy, a thin yellow-brown kid who
should have been toting a load of schoolbooks instead of the automatic that
he was shouldering.
Looking up from the fire, where he was roasting most of a deer, Dennis
looked old and tired. He'd brought fifteen members of his tribe to safety
over a hundred miles of oil-contaminated territory. Of course, they'd
started out with thirty... Still, the skills, the toughness, and the humor
in the trenches of the Indians had been an aid to the odd cluster of
survivalists, technogeeks, and those with luck. Damned if Frohike thought
it was good luck or bad to survive all of this.
A mound of covers gently lifting and falling, in time with a sibilant snore,
announced that Langly had been on night-guard last night. Byers was
reading, his precious glasses duct-taped together in a manner that would
once have horrified him. He looked up, smiling wistfully at Frohike.
"Hey, John, look what I found..." Frohike said, handing over the frames he
was sure would fit John's lenses. He grinned and produced the beard-comb
with a flourish.
"You're too good to me," Byers said, his tidy mouth quivering.
"Hey, now," Frohike chided. "Chin up. We're the Lone Gunman. We have our
reputation to consider."
That made John laugh. Frohike knew why. Who would think they would be
among the last free men and women on earth? Damn the vultures who had
played dead, hiding beneath the earth like cockroaches until the aliens had
fallen under the hands of Krycek's secret weapons, his replicas.
Krycek... Frohike said, "John, I saw him. I'm sure it was Krycek. He had
bruises, and I don't know... he moved differently from the Mac 27s. I know
where he went. I want to move the camp and then go back and wait. You know
what that evil old man does to us, twisting minds and breaking bodies. If
we could only get Krycek back..."
Combing his beard in sure motions, John closed his eyes with the simple
pleasure of doing something just the way he used to do it before the world
had fallen apart... He said, "We'll check it out, Melvin. Hell, maybe he
found Mulder. If we had them both...there would be hope."
Slumping down beside his old friend, Frohike slipped his arm over John's
shoulder. They clung to each other as they always did, indivisible and
undefeated.
So kind... Spender fed him from the bowl of sunflower seeds as he studied
the reports that the envoy had brought. M-1 knelt at master's feet, happy
to be forgiven. Every once in a while, the withered hand stroked his hair,
bringing M-1's head to lean against his leg. Spender was happy. The
envoy's journey had proven that it could be done. They would unite with the
long separated shelter on the other side of DC, and gain strength to reshape
the world as they would have it.
A brisk knock on the door announced the arrival of General Howell. He was
old and had white hair like the master. He was a harsh, hatchet-faced man
whose gray eyes were colder than any replica. He was tall, still strong
despite his wrinkled face. He spent hours in the gym, building his body to
a heavy mass of muscle. It was muscle that he used to bully and to rape.
He was not one who used the Mac 27s or even kept a specialized android. He
preferred females that he captured from above. They never seemed to last
long, but he was adept at luring them into one of the entrances to the
enclave. That was a major reason M-1 disliked the man.
It irritated M-1 that the man was always impatient and entered before the
master had even invited him. Howell should be respectful. Spender was the
savior. Had he not arranged for this shelter? Did he not order the
creation of the Mac 27s who had destroyed the aliens? He must have honor
for his deeds.
There were other reasons why M-1 disliked the general. The man always
looked at him strangely, and M-1 had heard him say to Spender that M-1 was a
dangerous indulgence that should be destroyed. Something in M-1 did not
accept the idea of being permanently shut down. He wanted to... no, he
couldn't remember, but once he'd had a purpose. Finding someone? Shadowy
faces flitted on the edge of his memory, but when he tried to break through
and put names to them... it hurt. His mind throbbed in fiery spasms, as if
a replica disrupter was being held to his skull.
The two men talked for hours. M-1 grew tired and wished to shut down, but
he couldn't do that while the master was awake. Finally, Spender dismissed
Howell with a yawn and a wave of the hand. M-1 hoped that the master was
tired and would wish to sleep. The screams of the poor Mac 27 whom Spender
had tortured the previous night still bothered him. Truly he himself had
deserved to be hurt just as that replica had suffered. Why hadn't the Mac
27s punished him when they'd had a chance? M-1 knew he deserved it.
Spender laughed and said, "M-1, go to the Mac 27 vault and bring me the new
one."
Remembering the strange feelings he'd had when he saw the envoy, M-1 shook
his head. He said, "Master, there is something different about that
replica... Is it wise to use him? He might be one of the bad ones."
Grasping M-1's chin, Spender twisted it cruelly. He said, "Don't question
me, boy. Don't forget. You're just an android and I know how to make you
suffer, endlessly suffer."
Excess fluids running down his face, M-1 ground his teeth together and tried
not to cry out, but as the master wrenched his head back until dark red
splotches rose before his eyes, M-1 whimpered. He said, "I'm sorry, Master.
Please?"
Why did it hurt when Spender wrenched his head back and forth by the foliage
that covered his skull? Mac27s were made to experience damage as pain, to
help them avoid destruction, but none of them were as weak as M-1, who
seemed as fragile as... the replica's mind shied away from the completed
thought.
Letting him go, Spender said, "Bring him here, M-1. I want you to prepare
him right here where I can watch."
The pale blue eyes glittered. How excited the man was. M-1 was puzzled.
Why would he be so eager to explore the envoy? It was not even the most
beautiful modification of Mac 27. It had been rather dirty and there were
odd colors on its skin covering. It was underweight, and the pelt that
covered his skull was a little ragged, as if someone had been indecisive
about what length to make it.
M-1 said, "Master, I was just concerned for you."
That made Spender laugh and laugh. "Oh, certainly, you only have my best
interests at heart. That's how I made you, sweet boy. Programmed you with
such exquisite care to love me. And you do love me, Mul...M-1."
Spender seemed nervous and he said, "Hurry now. You know how it grieves me
to discipline you, M-1. Don't force my hand."
"Yes, Master. I'll be right back," M-1 replied.
Running down the halls, M-1 was oblivious to the figures that pressed along
the sides to avoid him. He knew only that he must not tarry. He was a good
runner. It always made him feel... as if running were fuel to eat. He
liked it, but now he ran only to avoid displeasing the master. He wanted,
needed Spender to love him. His survival depended on it.
Hostile eyes met his. Cat-eyes shining in the semi-dark. There were minute
differences between the various Mac 27s, some the result of special orders,
and others anomalies of the manufacturing process. Most of the enclave had
to look at a number badge to tell them apart, but M-1 knew them all as
individuals. He had no trouble picking out the new replica. Something
about the android stirred him despite the fact that he had been poorly
maintained.
Trying to look reassuring, M-1 held out his hand and said, "The master
honors you with his favors tonight."
The Mac 27 stared at him, an intense gaze that brought forward disturbing
images. It made M-1 want to take the Mac-27—not to his master but to some
richly appointed elder's quarters—to lie him down on the bed and to
perform the acts that the master made him do with the others. Only this
time, it was not to please Spender; it was some unfulfilled feeling as if he
had a hunger that fuel could not satisfy. M-1 found his oxygen intake
increasing, and he could not regulate it. A pleasant, heated heaviness grew
between his legs. He knew it was wrong, a malfunction, yet he did not want
to tell his master. Somehow he knew he should not admit that he desired
this Mac 27.
"This is very wrong," uttered the control unit for the Mac 27s. The old and
complexly programmed android had been sitting protectively with the envoy.
"Take me. I can handle Spender. M-1, there are very good reasons for you
to refuse your master this pleasure. The unit your master desires..."
"Must obey," M-1 said, holding out his replica disrupter. The new Mac 27
stood slowly. His head hung down and he shuffled his feet.
"What will he do with me?" the unit asked.
"It is a human thing, pleasure. You may enjoy it. Surely some master in
your enclave chose you for this before?" M-1 said.
"No. I was kept apart for some reason." The replica's face took on a
strange shade, a heightening of color. Plaintively, the Mac 27 said, "I
don't know how to perform this function. I don't know how to please your
master, and I don't want to be punished."
"You are beautiful. You will do fine," M-1 declared, and suddenly he
realized it was true. There was something so mutable and wild in the thin
face that it gave a special radiance to the features; a radiance that shone
right through the travel-worn skin. He hoped his master wouldn't hurt this
one. Perhaps, Spender would order M-1 to play with the new replica. He
hoped so with a fierce passion.
Some one at the Naval academy was holding out on Spender, and once they were
back in regular contact he would find out whom and punish them. In the
chaos toward the end, he had lost track of Krycek. He knew his favorite
former henchmen and slave had organized the effort that had destroyed the
ships and most of the aliens.
Of course, Spender had taken credit for the victory once it was in hand.
Discovering the small and radical company who had taken an alien invention
and adapted it for human usage was just a small part of the success.
Innobotics hadn't been much when he'd bought it. The company had consisted
of two branches; one manufactured prosthetic limbs, and the other
specialized in Waldos for highly dangerous use, or for extremely minute
operations.
One of the Consortium's captive scientists, a sentimental old fool, had
stumbled upon the machine in area 51. He was given permission to study it
and somehow discovered its purpose. With it the aliens produced replicas
that could survive harsher conditioners than possible for the clones. And
of course, androids were resistant to the black oil and to the ferocious
appetites of the mindless Grays that spawned from larvae infected hosts.
Innobotics had the correct set up for large-scale manufacturing. The
scientist had come to Spender, thrilled at his discovery. He'd seen it as a
means of relieving humanity of onerous chores and possibly a way of
decanting brains trapped in useless bodies into the android forms.
The first replica was of Alex. It was serviceable, but not intelligent
enough to be of use for much, merely simple assassination or two such as
that of Bill Mulder when he'd given in to alcoholic's regrets. It had been
disappointing. What Spender had in mind was an operative with Krycek's
inventiveness and survival instincts, but one that could be trusted to
remain obedient.
One night, spending a dull evening watching a video of Mulder watching the
original Star Trek, Spender had a brainstorm. After looking up what engrams
were, Spender decided not to waste Krycek in the tomb of that silo after
all. A small amount of human brain tissue harvested from fetal clones,
intermingled with the most advanced neuro-net for computers known to the
consortium produced the first Mac-27. Imposing edited parts of Krycek's
personality on the android had been highly successful.
When the time schedule had stepped up for the alien invasion, Spender's pet
project had been laid aside. It took Krycek to see another use for his
doubles. He had rescued the Mac 27s from the dust heap and trained them to
kill aliens. It wasn't any of the methods that Spender had considered in
the past that destroyed the aliens so totally. It had been Mac 27s in
hand-to-hand combat with them, combined with Krycek's cunning in searching
out and invading the ships.
A pragmatic man, Spender had no investment in siding with the aliens once
they were losing. Briefly and secretly, he had allied with Krycek, until
the man had thrown him down the stairs after Spender had tricked him into
betraying Mulder.
Krycek might have been excused for his inefficiency on the grounds of his
emotions. Spender had known very well that Krycek adored Mulder, in fact
had counted on it, and Krycek, wrong for once, had stumbled into the deadly
trap he'd been shown.
Spender had been expecting his reward when Alex and deadly sweet Marita had
finally appeared to confront him. He'd gotten it, but it hadn't been the
reward he'd expected. The final moment when he'd realized that Krycek
intended him to die had been salutary. Fortunately, his well-paid nurse had
kept him alive until the healer had arrived to put Humpty Dumpy together
again.
Too bad he hadn't caught up with Alex before now...there were so many old
times he wanted to review with the man. He smiled, because he'd known from
first sight that this envoy was not a Mac 27, not even a clone. Even in
this damaged form, Spender knew his lovely, defiant boy. He was going to
make brand new fond memories tonight.
M-1 led the reluctant Mac-27 into his master's chambers. Spender was
wearing his favorite pajamas, black satin with a red velvet collar. He had
a smoking jacket over this. M-1 didn't understand why the garment, a soft,
comfortable, unstructured thing, was called a smoking jacket; after all, any
jacket Spender wore was a smoking jacket.
M-1's systems continued to behave as if his regulator was out of whack. He
seriously thought he had better ask for repair. Not now, however. Spender
had a basin of water set up along with sponges and lotions. This was not
the usual procedure at all. Spender sat in his armchair and smiled;
gesturing with his cigarette. "Undress him. Do it slowly for me."
This was all so strange. Spender never asked for anything like that. He'd
never seemed so excited by any of the other Mac 27s... at least not until he
was hurting them. M-1 touched the cold metal of the zipper at the top of
the coverall. The back of his hand brushed the envoy's chin. Glancing up,
he saw that the green eyes looked wide and frightened. They changed color
as he watched. That was different. All of the Mac 27s had beautiful eyes,
but none of them in his experience had quite this many shades.
Spender's impatient, "Well?" made M-1 realize that he had just been standing
there, the zipper in his fingers growing warmer from the heat of his flesh.
He felt a sensation that visited him when his master made him do terrible
things. He thought it was an emotion called 'shame'.
Lowering the zipper, M-1's mouth went dry, and his eyes grew damp. Even the
sight of the discolored flesh seemed to thrill him. Something writhed in
the back of his brain. It was a memory of excitement, pleasure
intermingling with self-loathing as he hurt a Mac 27 in a place he had never
been. The recollection was of an area with huge amounts of space, rushing
strangers, and many of the wall-telephones that no one used anymore.
The coarse material under his fingers seemed wrong both in color and
texture. He remembered soft, worn brown or black skin-like cloth as
something associated with this man. The scent was not quite right too. It
stirred images, but there should have been more, leather and perhaps some
kind of spicy smell.
M-1 knelt and removed the sturdy half boots one at a time. How odd that
this one wore cloth coverings between the surface and the shoe just as
Spender told M-1 always to do. None of the Mac 27s needed these odd
garments.
Something about the foot? Tickling it? Tasting it? He'd never done such a
thing. Looking up was rapture. M-1 found his mouth opening. He leaned
close to the envoy, hands against his trembling thighs. Just a taste of the
enticing-smelling cock that seemed to be reacting to his proximity.
"Mine," Spender said, bluntly. "Wash him for me, M-1."
The water was hot and scented. M-1 loved doing this, running a sponge over
every inch of the quietly shaking body. He glanced at his master and
noticed how he hung on every movement of M-1's hands. The rosy-brown,
wrinkled nipples stiffened as he paid attention to them. The flat belly
heaved, as if the Mac 27 had been running. Gasps that had nothing to do
with ventilation of oxygen emitted from the chest, which was gently shaped
into glistening planes of clearly defined muscle. M-1 knelt again to wash
the creature's legs and feet.
"Don't forget the good parts, M-1. I want them clean," Spender instructed.
Nodding, M-1 prepared the sponge. How the curls glistened over the groin.
The heavy cock felt so right in his hand... as if it was somehow as familiar
as his own. M-1 shuddered, as he heard a voice somehow both rough and
sweet, pleading with him, "Let me come, Chrrisst, Mulder. Now."
His head hurt and M-1 scrambled away from the source of his discomfort. His
master was very angry. Walking over, Spender grabbed him by the hair,
pulled it hard and shook him by it. "Get back to your duty, M-1, you
disobedient child!"
The Mac 27 had a fierce look in his eyes, and his mouth—that lovely
sculptured mouth that looked so childlike—was fixed in a snarl, baring
white, white teeth. It made a move toward Spender, who shoved M-1 away
disdainfully. "Go finish bathing him for me."
The envoy asked, "Did he hurt you?" in a low whisper.
M-1 found that curious. He answered, "He's the master. Please obey him,
Mac 27... Zero?"
Zero was an odd number. Most of the remaining Mac 27s had higher numbers.
The first ones had been destroyed in great numbers in the war, although of
course M-1 only knew that from being told. He was a later model, one that
hadn't quite worked out, but which had, he was told, amused his master.
The pain was a strident voice at the back of M-1's neuro-net cover, but he
willed himself to ignore it. He finished washing the well-shaped parts. He
noticed that the envoy shifted from foot to foot and drew in his teeth.
Attenuated lashes veiled the eyes, shading their expressive nature from
view.
"Come here, Mac 27," Master said, "Lie over the bed so M-1 can wash your ass
well."
Master joined them on the bed. His yellow-fingered hands, splotched like
the rats which M-1 often saw running in the less used parts of the shelter,
stroked over the smooth flesh of Mac 27 Zero greedily. He held the rounded
cheeks apart as M-1 faithfully cleaned between them.
"Use your tongue to finish cleaning him," Spender demanded.
"What?" M-1 asked.
Breathing raggedly as he stripped off his pajamas, Spender replied, "You
heard me, M-1. Do it."
This was so strange and yet when he began, something started to happen. He
had never had control over his male appendage. Often when Spender wanted
him to put in the ass of a Mac 27, he had not even been able to get it to
rise. Now, unbidden, it was pressing painfully against his black uniform,
begging to be released and to bury itself in the Mac-27s hot flesh.
M-1's eyes were closed, as he lost himself in the sensation of what he was
doing. He groaned as he licked and his jaws ached, but he didn't want to
stop. The Mac 27 was contorting in quick, humping motions as M-1 attended
to him. Stealthily, M-1 felt for the envoy's cock. It was hard. He wanted
to stroke its furnace-like heat, enjoy the strange texture of the flesh, so
flexible and responsive.
All of a sudden, Master dashed him aside, saying, "You go to far, M-1. I'll
have to punish you."
For the first time that M-1 could remember, he wanted to defy his master.
He wanted Mac 27 Zero for his own.
M-1 bit his lips until salty bittersweet lubricant oozed from them. This
wasn't right. The Mac 27 said, "Don't. I won't. I don't like this,
Master. Please."
It was ugly. Spender's ass was white, withered, with dark blue veins
showing through. Its rapid movement seemed so wrong as he mounted the
Mac-27, cursing him as he fucked the perfect flesh beneath him. He slapped
the Mac 27 as his rhythm began to build in speed. It didn't last long
before Spender rolled off, gasping like... like someone dying in a chamber
when the oxygen was sucked out.
Curling on his side, Mac 27 Zero made strange sounds, harsh ones as if he
had eaten bad fuel or had one of the sicknesses that humans got topside.
M-1 hated it. His arousal was gone. He felt a strong urge to comfort the
Mac 27, but his Master would never permit that.
Reaching for the odd Mac 27, Spender pulled him out of the tight curl of
flesh. "Lick me clean," he demanded.
The Mac 27 shook his head. He had great drops of lubricant flowing down his
cheeks. Oddly enough, his little upturned nose was getting red and his
breathing sounded wet. "No, no, no, leave me alone."
"The belt, M-1, get it for me," Spender demanded.
Knowing it was the stranger or himself, M-1 handed over the heavy, embossed
leather strap. Spender's cock rose a little as he laid down a heavy barrage
of blows.
At first, the Mac 27 just lay there, taking it, but as Spender raised his
arm higher and higher to strike harder, suddenly the envoy seemed to
explode. M-1 had never seen anyone move that fast. In a flash the leather
strap was around Spender's neck and the Mac 27 was pulling it tighter and
tighter. Spender gasped, "Disrupt him."
M-1 jabbed the replica disrupter into the envoy's spine and squeezed the
handle, feeling the reverberation of the weapon and the sudden, steel-hard
spasm that froze the Mac 27 in mid action. At last, Mac 27 fell away. M-1
looked at the figure curled at his feet and then at his Master. He wished
it were the opposite way. He struggled to keep his mind right. He must
love and obey the Master. He must.
Rubbing his neck, Spender went to a mirror and examined himself. As soon as
he could breath without wheezing, the belt was applied to M-1's back with as
much vehemence as he could muster. "Undress. If you can't defend me as a
soldier, you don't deserve that uniform. You had better think about your
punishment, M-1. You are going to find that I am not apt to forgive this
soon."
Master beat them alternately until he was exhausted and then had some of his
human guards drag them both back to the Mac 27 storage facility. M-1 felt
the odd Mac 27 curl into the warmth of his belly with a whimper of pain
after the place grew silent around them. Voices washed over his fragile
consciousness as he lay suffering on the floor.
"Something's wrong. I know there's programming missing."
"They are hurt, badly hurt. Why are the humans pretending they are
replicas?"
Gentle hands bathed them, washing the stink of Spender from their flesh.
Something burned behind M-1's closed eyes. They were so kind and he had
betrayed them...
All of the voices melded into one that somehow comforted him. Despite his
anger at the Mac 27 for causing his fall from favor, M-1 drew him close,
their sore bodies huddled together in the dark.
Pain shimmered in the darkness, burst behind his night-dazzled eyes each
time he moved. His shut down was not complete. There was pain in the
stiffness of his limbs, agony in the torn tissue of his hindquarters, and
his back felt as though it were on fire. He dozed, miserable in his
isolation from the main body of Mac 27s, wishing that he could tie into
their common thoughts and discover what was happening to him.
The other, the M-1 unit that had been beaten for trying to assist him lay
next to him, and what comfort there was in the agonizing night came from the
contact of that other's body with his.
M-1 lay alongside him, his arm around his waist and his face pressed into
his shoulder. He appeared to have succeeded in shutting down, and there was
a faint, regular sound emanating from his lips, as if he were suffering some
lack of lubricant to gears within. Mac 27 didn't know how to repair the
unit, but he found the faint sounds of dysfunction somehow comforting,
almost as if he had heard them before at a time when he had felt secure.
This was a puzzle to him. Why would the sound be soothing? What did his
feeling of comfort have to do with the close proximity of this unit?
He stirred against M-1, and heard it moan as its arms tightened around his
chest, pulling him back against the lean body until he could feel the hard
press of that part which had so confused him the night before.
The contact between them was pleasantly disturbing. His own organ stirred
as it had the previous day, and he wondered again about the purpose of this.
Reaching down, he seized hold of the offending part and held it, relishing
the sensations that were generated by his action, but unsure how to proceed
further. He moaned gently, unable to contain the sound although he was
aware that he was likely to be punished for the deviant behavior that he was
evidencing.
As he made the soft sound, the other, the M-1 whose arm was so comfortingly
wrapped around him seemed to arouse himself. The arm tightened on his
midsection and he found himself turned to present his anterior surface to
the M-1.
"Why do I feel so protective of you, Mac 27 Zero? My programming is faulty.
It feels right to hold you, right to protect you, even from the master, and
the master is everything to me. What have you done to me?" The voice was
soft, almost as if the other were speaking to himself. He frowned. He was
not sure how to answer. He lay, poised for flight if that became necessary.
Something inside him needed the contact with this M-1, but he had no idea
what that might be, or why.
"I don't know you. How could I have exerted any influence on you when I
don't know you? All I know of you is that you took me to your master and
then were punished alongside me. I did nothing to you. Before that, I was
not in this enclave." He shivered. Somewhere deep within was the
fluttering of certainty that once he had known M-1. He opened his mouth to
say more, but M-1 had leaned forward, pressing his mouth with soft, full
lips, and his words died unborn as new and confusing data swamped his
senses.
What M-1 was doing to him was strange, and seemed to be producing the most
amazing sensations within him. The troublesome appendage that had worried
him so was now pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure through his abused body
as it was compressed against that of the M-1.
He struggled his mouth free and gasped out his question to the M-1. "What
are you doing to me? I have no experience of this. It is new to me."
M-1 ran a questing hand down the shivering body that pressed so tightly
against his own.
"I desire you. I burn for you. You have affected my circuitry and I am
unable to stop thinking about you. I won't hurt you; only let me show you
how I can make you feel good." The M-1 sought for his mouth again, and his
hand slid over Mac 27's hip, fumbled at the flat belly, and then took hold
of his turgid appendage, stroking it firmly as he began to induce the same
wonderful sensations that had exploded through him the previous day. Mac 27
moaned once more and fell back, spreading his legs wide as the other moved
over him, touching, nibbling, stroking.
"I... this is permitted? I don't understand, M-1." The other didn't
respond in words, he merely slid his mouth over Mac 27's body, until
suddenly the member that twitched between Mac 27's thighs was enveloped in
the hot, silken suction of that wonderful mouth.
The shock of possession as M-1 took him deep wrenched a cry from him. He
thrust a fist into his mouth in an effort to stem any further sounds
escaping. He felt his breathing mechanism speed up without any way of
stopping it. The M-1 was making sounds too—deep, groaning noises that
implied the construct was in pain of some kind. He writhed in the grip of
the marvelous feeling, and managed to gasp out an inquiry.
"Are you in pain, M-1? This is something that I... I... " His voice
stilled as he felt himself succumb to the fiery flood of sweetness that
prickled through him, coiling and uncoiling around his middle as he suddenly
spent himself into the other's mouth, thick juices spurting from him again
and again. M-1 continued to suckle on him until he suddenly could no longer
bear it and began to push him away.
"Please, let me... I'll be gentle, I won't hurt you the way he hurt you."
M-1's voice cracked with need, and Mac 27 felt suddenly tender toward this
being that had afforded him such pleasure.
"What do you require of me?" His husky voice was loud in the still room.
If there were other Mac 27s alert and awake, they made no sound.
"You're so beautiful. Let me love you. Just lie still and let me love
you." M-1's mouth resumed its silken glide over his flesh, licking at his
thighs, nuzzling into the curls behind the now semi-erect organ that had
flooded him with such delicious feelings, and mouthing the balls of flesh
that hung behind. Mac 27 could feel it all beginning again, and he raised
his body up to M-1's mouth, each caress more exquisite than the last.
M-1's tongue dipped into the well behind the tight and fuzzy balls he had
been caressing, and Mac 27 drew up his knees to permit him, recalling that
the other had done this at the master's behest, and that it had felt good.
It still felt good, despite the pain that the master had caused him
afterward. Mac 27 could feel that his anterior organ had solidified once
again, and moved to take hold of it, only to be prevented from doing so by
M-1.
"No. Not this time. This is mine. Let me..." There were more silken
kissings, more honeyed sucking, and Mac 27 was uttering little, desperate
cries when M-1 pulled him into position and began to insert his organ into
the place he had been caressing so carefully and lovingly.
There was a second's burning, and then the other had his hand around that
pleasure-stick, pulling it roughly as he slid his own in and out of the part
of him that seemed designed to fit it perfectly.
The slow back and forth of the M-1 caused trickles of moisture to pour from
his skin, and inside him he felt an aching, a glowing, a pleasure that was
at once diffuse and intense, mounting and building until at last he could no
longer hold back and cried out with the pleasure of what was happening to
him.
He knew when M-1 reached his own completion, because he felt the stiffening
of the body over his, and the heated flood of his outpouring within him.
Another couple of squeezing strokes on his proud flesh and Mac 27 joined him
in ecstasy, body rigid and straining against the pleasure that had seized
it.
This time, when M-1, limp against him, took him in his arms and pressed his
mouth against him, he reciprocated, and the two of them kissed hard and
deep, holding tight to each other, and then, regardless of their hurts,
they slept.
Mac 27 awoke to the dim light of the flashlight that had been a part of his
apparel on his arrival in the garrison. The M-1 lay beside him, mouth slack
as he slumbered on, and at first he wasn't aware of what had happened to
wake him. When at last he looked around himself, he saw another of his kind
seated at his head.
"Hello?" he mumbled.
"You should not be here. Neither of you should be here." The Mac 27 was
terse.
"What's the matter? Have I done something to offend? I didn't mean to.
I'm a new unit and not all of my programming is operational." Out of the
corner of his eye he could see M-1 beginning to awaken, and felt the
construct's arms tighten around him as he resurfaced.
"That is the problem. You are not a Mac 27. I have no idea why you believe
yourself to be such a being. I believe that there is programming missing
from your central processing unit. Your companion is a human also. This is
most perplexing." The android extended a hand, softly ruffling Mac 27's
short hair. "I believe you to be the pattern from which we were created,
hence your number, zero. I do not know why you have had your programming
removed, but my companions and I know that this is a wrong that has been
committed on you." Mac 27 closed his eyes. Somewhere in his head he could
hear a voice that sounded much like M-1.
*Why me, and why now? * A scene flashed before him. He was somewhere
other. M-1 was in his vision, face contorted with fury, and he knew that he
deserved whatever pain would come.
As fast as the vision came to him, it blurred, leaving him with a prickling
behind his eyes, and useless lubricant coursing down his face.
The human was weeping. Mace stroked the soft warm hair and wondered.
Langly had asked him to come here and, of course, his lover, Druid, had
insisted on following him. If he'd known...
At least, he would not have let Druid volunteer. His fingers twitched as if
he had Spender's neck squeezed between them as he replayed bits of what
Spender had done to his beloved. It had been a temptation to take it out on
that fool who thought he was an android. Mace eyed that one... noting that
he slept heavily still, mouth slightly open, lips spit slick. One of his
hands was still draped across the flank of the Mac 27 possessively. He
looked fragile this way, like the children of the creators. Mace analyzed
the situation with his logic circuits instead of with the emotions buried in
the human cells of his brain center. He knew it was not M-1's fault.
One other fact was clear. Spender was mad. Perhaps the alien contamination
in his blood made him so or possibly he might have always been insane.
Druid crept near; Mace widened his visual apertures to better enjoy the
restored beauty of his beloved. He smiled, a human gesture, but one that
Mac 27s understood. He remembered the first time he had seen the finely
detailed features of his love.
It had been an ordinary raid on one of the smaller shelters. They were in
desperate need of antibiotics and couldn't find any more in the ruins of
drug stores and hospitals. They had cased the shelter for days before
disrupting the communication lines... not that one of the other shelters
would have come to the aid of the place. However, Frohike said that it was
better to keep a low profile. Let the other enclavemen think it was just
another place lost to poor maintenance or to one of the plagues that had
been let loose in the chaos of the brief but devastating war with the
aliens.
Fearless, smart, created as a warrior, Mace had led the raiding party. He
took a savage joy in slaughtering the Masters. They had made him, too,
suffer in his day and somewhere his original had fallen to them, dead or
worse. Others wore armor, Mace fought naked, his android skin painted in
blue patterns. By the time he met the other raiding party deep in the
corridors, the blood of the Masters mostly hid the blue. Mace raised his
hand and it dripped scarlet. He grinned and said, "No Masters left on my
side."
The humans in the party looked distressed, but none of them remonstrated.
Langly mumbled, "Some of the Mac 27s are too much like Krycek." He shrugged
and said, "I found a few Macs. You might want to check. They said there
was a special model in the General's quarters."
Going to a computer bank, Mace connected port to port and downloaded a map
of the quarters. He proceeded downwards. They scuttled toward the depths,
these carrion eaters.
"Master?" questioned a lilting voice. Mace had never chosen to engage in
recreational sex. He was sickened of that before he became a free droid.
Therefore the sudden stirring in his superfluous appendages of gender
startled him.
Oh, the sight of him! He was a Mac 27 and yet different. He resembled a
slender youth of eighteen or perhaps twenty. He was formed as a man, but
not yet brawny of flesh. His eyes were jade set in gold blushed marble.
His hair was longer then Mace's soldierly crewcut. It fell in soft waves of
lustrous mahogany, framing a face whose proportions were a precise beauty,
lines so fine and distinct that Mace needed to touch them.
Soft lips, curved in bows, opened in wonder. The lashes were so heavy, so
black that they seemed made of frays of jet colored velvet. The beautiful
one held out his clean hand toward Mace and said, "It's true! There are
free Macs. Have you come to take me to the places where Macs are equal to
humans?"
What was there to say but yes? Later Druid had come to him, asked leave to
wash the blue and the blood from Mace's body. Trying to correct him, Mace
had said, "You serve no one but yourself now, Mac 27. You decide whether to
fight beside us or leave to seek your fortune."
"What I seek is here... " Druid had said, trailing his clean fingers down
Mace's blood smeared body. "Where you go, I will go."
And so it had been. Of all the lessons that Mace had learned in his
challenging life, loving Druid had been both the hardest and the easiest.
Difficult because to care as Mace cared was to know the risk of having to
live on after your soul had died. Easy because loving Druid was impossible
not to do.
His thoughts drew him back to the human replica; Mace believed that his
original had been a man who loved as deeply as he did. Fought as fiercely.
A man worth saving.
Contemplating the human who wore his face, Mace tried to match this thin,
lost man to the hardened warrior who had led the Mac 27s to defeat the
aliens and tried to give the androids freedom. He wasn't sure. What he did
know was that it wasn't safe to stay here—for him or for these humans. He
would have to risk taking them out through a dangerous passage to the
surface known only to the rebel Macs.
If they survived, he would know that the man was Alex Krycek. Only he could
make it through all the horrors of the journey and keep another alive as
well. Mace stroked the hair one last time and then asked, "Would you like
to leave this place and take the other with you?"
The human gazed down at M-1 and looked back at Mace, eyes soft and
wondering. He nodded and said, "This is hell and I want to get him out of
here." A quick jerk of his chin indicated M-1. The confused man's eyes
grew soft with wondering light as he considered the sprawled slumber of the
other human. "I have to help him."
"It will not be easy," Mace said, "and you must realize you are human." A
brief mirthful smile crossed the android's lips. He directed his gaze to
the left arm, a thing of grace, formed by the swell of muscle. It looked
exactly the same as the right, down to the light dusting of hair and tiny
flaws that characterized human flesh, but Mace sensed the difference in heat
variances. It was artificial although not removable. The arm was as much a
part of the human as Mace's arms were of him. "Most of you anyway."
The human looked puzzled. Apparently he didn't know that part of his
anatomy made him a brother to the Mac27s. He nodded and said, "If you say
so. But why would my... creators tell me that I was a replica? What manner
of a man am I that they would lie to me in this fashion?"
"A mystery," Mace responded. Druid came up to him, embracing his lover
around the waist, gently nestling his chin into the crook of Mace's neck.
Mace covered one of the beautiful one's hands with his own, possessed and
possessing.
Groaning, the sleeping man wiped at the tears that had flowed from his eyes
and the saliva at the corner of his mobile mouth. Mace waited. Would this
human now cooperate? He had never approached M-1. The Macs had been told
not to tell him that he wasn't a replica. That was the first thing that
Socrates, leader of this enclave's Mac 27s, had told him. What cruel games
humans played, Mace thought, even with their own kind.
A whimper escaped M-1 as he stirred, stretching out his pale arms and his
lean legs. Mace was grateful that replicas didn't bruise and that a beating
didn't hurt after it was done unless the outer, sensor-rich carapace was
torn. M-1 gathered himself into a huddled heap, looking as gawky as the
eaglets Mace once rescued and put back in their nest. The spikes of the
human's hair even resembled the awkward pinfeathers atop the heads of the
impetuous young birds.
M-1 sulkily said, "I hope my Master relents soon. I am unable to control my
thermostat in here."
Socrates, ever practical, went to the disbursement closet and withdrew two
Mac 27 coveralls. Clothing was not necessary, but humans preferred that
they wear it. For some reason, most humans found nude Mac 27s distracting.
The human replica that looked like a Mac 27... well, this was awkward. Mace
hated to call Mac 27s by their numbers. Although there was no logical
reason why it mattered to have a human name, the serial numbers, to Mace,
were an unwelcome reminder of servitude. He asked, "What is your name,
human?"
The clouded eyes searched and he said, "I remember they called me 'Alex' a
long time ago. I think that might be... " A glimmer came to the thin face
and the human extended his hand, "Krycek, Alex, Krycek."
With an ironic grin, Mace took the hand, shook it, and said, "Welcome to
hell, Alex Krycek. It is time for us to escape it."
"No! You belong to the masters... I must report!" M-1 screamed, running for
the door. A circle of the Mac 27s surrounded him, blank-faced and
threatening.
Tossing Druid a bundle of emergency repair tape, a strong, silver substance
of immense value, Socrates said, "Do the honors, Druid. I think M-1 needs
to take a vow of silence for the duration."
Yelling, cursing, and flailing, M-1 was forced to the floor and his mouth
was taped. Perhaps the other replicas were rougher then they had to be.
M-1 was the one who had delivered them to Spender to suffer. Mace could
very well understand revenge. In fact until he met Druid, it was the only
emotion he had admitted to comprehending.
Snarling, Alex Krycek dived into the melee, attempting to free the other
human from the situation. He was strong for a human, but one android arm
was no match for a complete replica. Socrates grabbed him and held him back
until M-1 was dressed and back on his feet.
With a firm hand on the human's arm, Druid looked alert and in control,
making Mace proud. His lover had only been programmed for human pleasure.
He knew the Kama Sutra, could recite from an ancient scriptures such as
Masters and Johnson as well as Hite. He was programmed in cooking, dancing,
playing musical instruments, singing and massage but knew little of
practical matters and less of fighting. Therefore everything he knew about
the art of war he had learned as a human does by the force of his will. He
had taught himself well.
Admonishing Krycek, Mace said, "Would you have him betray us? Did you enjoy
being raped by Spender? That is the word for what happened to you, for
being forced to perform sexually against your will. Unless it pleased you?"
Passion suffused his voice and reddened his cheeks as Krycek said, "I hated
it! It hurt and it made me sick inside. It was the worst thing that I can
remember."
Socrates soothingly said, "Krycek, M-1's programming is very in-depth. He
is incapable of understanding the danger. Until now, punishments for him
have been brief and not as horrible as for us. Now, Spender has tired of
him. It is obvious. If you want to save him, then you must take him from
this place."
Nodding, Krycek climbed without argument into the overall. He said, "All
right. What about weapons? We will need them."
A high loss of Mac 27s was common. Enclaves thought nothing of it. Since
Mace had infiltrated, several of the workers who were sent to the surface
for supplies had not returned. The masters were concerned, but not
suspicious. They thought they had solved the occasional programming lapses
that caused Mac 27s to rebel. Mace wanted to chuckle out loud at the
thought. If they only understood how godlike they really were, for Mace was
sure that if humans had souls then so did his kind. In attempting to make a
better tool, they had created intelligent life, capable of independent
thought, emotions, and the need to be free.
None of the recent disappearances had actually been true fatalities. The
supposed dead had gone to the rebel camps to learn how to think for
themselves. Some of their weapons, however, had been stored here for an
emergency. Mace had succeeded in reprogramming all of the Mac 27s in this
locker, but had not succeeding in reaching many of the soldiers, lab
technicians, or the other specialized Mac 27s who were stored elsewhere when
not in use. Now, he would have to rely on Socrates and the others to carry
on his work.
With a fierce look at Socrates, Mace said, "You will be all right?"
The foreman said, "I will lie. I am an excellent liar. I will tell Spender
that when we returned to our active cycle all four of you were gone. He
will punish us, but we will place the information in our hidden drives. It
will not be accessed by any of their petty human meddling."
Clasping his brother's hand, Mace nodded. He said, "Then we will go now
while it is still dark and the humans are all deep in their wicked dreams."
Four figures crept along the dark hall. Druid helped Krycek to drag along
the steadily protesting M-1. What a foolish human! Could he not tell who
his friends were? What was best for him?
Sometimes, Druid was not very impressed with humans. He had wrapped his
master around his little android finger when he'd been an enslaved Mac 27.
It was not because he was treated cruelly or deprived that he had so readily
followed Mace. Chocolate, scents, and even play toys of his own had not
satisfied Druid. He had always known there was something missing and had
hugged the myths about free Macs to himself even as he smiled and purred for
his fat and besotted master. When Mace burst into the quarters, Druid had
known it was not only freedom that his consciousness craved. He wanted to
love and be loved. That, he found, was not possible if you were owned. He
had no regrets, hardly even a twinge of pity as he stepped over his master's
body to follow Mace to liberty.
This human who had been designated M-1 was a contrary mess. It made Druid
wish that bad programming were as easily removed from humans as from his
kind. Ahead, Mace unfastened the locked grill to the crawl space through
which they had arrived. M-1 struggled as they shoved him through the hatch.
Mace pulled the protesting human through not even bothering to use both
hands. Shortly, Druid and Krycek followed.
It was a dark passage, no one except Mac 27s were expected to go here so no
light was provided. Druid noticed that M-1 moved closer to Krycek as they
heard a skittering sound.
"Roaches," Mace remarked.
It sounded like paper rustling at first, growing louder as it neared until
it had a distinct and frightening sound, fingernails scraping against a
smooth surface, wood rubbing against rock. Krycek said, "That's no roach I
ever saw."
"Mutants. Something that got loose from a consortium laboratory," Mace
explained.
Readying his flamethrower, Druid tensed. The rats were bad, but he really
hated the roaches. They came into sight, feelers the thickness of fingers
waving as they searched for food. They were the size of cocker spaniels.
Their shells gleamed as if they were covered with oil as well as being
carriers for it. They were slightly elongated and flattened because of their
size and they had mandibles like enormous crab claws. Those insect jaws
could snap a Mac 27s arm if they caught it on a joint. Druid didn't want to
see what they would do to a human's softer flesh.
Hungry, the roaches were bold in the dark. Krycek's hand was shaking, but
he didn't run. In fact, he moved between the threat and M-1. His voice
sounded higher pitched then usual as he asked, "Do the torches work?"
"Yeah," replied Mace, "Only."
Leaping forward as one of the adolescent roaches made a trial run, Mace sent
his flame against the creature. Its high-pitched shriek was deafening as it
caught on fire. It careened into another roach, which also went up in
flames. Druid darted forward to ignite another of the huge bugs. A quick
young one slipped through and Krycek managed to kill it, which was
surprising. Most humans froze in shock when they saw them.
Panting, Krycek asked, "What did you say about rats? They aren't bigger
then that, are they?"
"No," Mace said, as the roaches retreated, looking for easier prey. "Well,
not that much bigger."
"Shit," Krycek said, sagging back against the inward curved wall of the
crawl space.
Sparing a glance for M-1, Druid noticed that the man was hyperventilating
behind the tape. Krycek followed his gaze and peeled the silver tape away.
M-1 said, "I don't want to go with you. Please let me go back to my Master.
He needs me. He loves me."
"Right, that's why he beat you just as hard as he beat me," Krycek replied.
"Come on. I thought my head was fucked. You take the cake, Muhl..." The
human shook his head as if his data feed was malfunctioning. "M-1," he
continued, but his voice sounded questioning.
They proceeded in silence as the passage diverged. They peeled back a
section of paneling and slipped into the narrow low tunnel that was
revealed. Mace laughed, low in his chest, and said, "The rats have their
uses. We enlarged their digging to make this passage."
"They still use it?" Krycek asked nervously.
"If you go through the rat's tunnels, you got to live with the rats." Mace
replied flippantly.
"I'm sure you'll have no trouble adapting, Krycek," M-1's voice interrupted.
His voice was a harsh cutting sound.
Krycek stopped, turning back to stare at M-1. "What? You said that before.
I remember... " His face paled and he swayed.
Catching the human before he could fall, Druid said, "It's not the time to
attempt to recover the damaged parts of your hard drive. Later, when we are
safe... "
The rat's tunnel led deeper at first. Alex's thoughts were going in
circles. He knew M-1. It seemed as if he always known him. Fragments of
memory intruded. M-1's face crazed with anger, his hand striking Alex and
his voice mocking, always mocking. Then an image of Mulder laughing, his
eyes warm and tender, came to Alex. Perhaps M-1 had not always made fun of
him. He needed to know, wanted to know.
Quiet and calm now, M-1 said, "I couldn't go back now. I don't know the way
and I couldn't face the roaches alone. I hate bugs. Please let me loose."
A nod of Mace's head gave permission. There was something wrong with that— as if Alex should have been the one making decisions. Yeah, right, Alex
thought, you were so stupid that they talked you into believing you were a
machine. He frowned as he freed M-1's hands. Still, they had cut his left
arm and showed him the machinery beneath. Had that been an illusion? Alex
brought his left hand up and made a fist. It felt like the other one. He
had sensation. Thoughtlessly, Alex ran his hand along M-1's face. Beard
was growing there. He liked the feel, rough bristles rasping his hand and
soft flesh beneath.
Jerking his face away, M-1 said, "You going to rape me now?"
"Fuck you," Alex snapped and stalked ahead to join Mace.
They traveled in silence, but Alex sensed that ears were listening. Once he
caught a reflection of light in the shape of an oblong eye. Druid and M-1
caught up and putting aside their differences for a moment, the four
journeyed on in tense camaraderie.
Alex saw them first. There was a sudden widening of the tunnel as it sloped
downward. It was a round, cistern-like place with a passage winding all the
way around the walls. Alex stood blinking downwards. The passage ran
around and around the narrow chasm. He froze and said, "We don't have to go
lower, do we?"
Starting forward, Mace said, "No, we go up."
"You afraid of heights?" M-1 asked.
Was he? Alex didn't think so. It had been something else, another random
memory. He said, "No, it reminded me of a place, a place in which I was
left to die. I don't remember why or how I got out. Oh, wait; he was
there, your master. They hurt me. Took my blood and put a needle into my
skull. I remember screaming and begging, but they just laughed."
Now, M-1 looked equally disturbed. He said, "I remember something like that
too, but it was not my master. It—they—were not even human."
"Aliens," dismissed Mace. "Easy to kill if you know how. We killed them
all. Well, almost all anyway. There may be a few left and, of course, some
of the Oiliens find human hosts and hatch out Grays."
"What are Greys?" Alex asked.
"Immature aliens, very strong, not very intelligent... they are hard to
kill. Use the exploding bullets, but use them wisely. We have so few,"
Mace said.
"And this is better then the enclave?" M-1 exploded, "It was safe there."
"Not for us," Druid remarked. "Or did you refuse to see what your Master did
to me?"
Softly, M-1 replied, "I saw."
They were weary and longing for the light, the two humans plodding by now,
barely able to bring one foot after another. The attack came from above and
below. A rat, white coated, but streaked with filth and dirt, leaped down
in front of them. As they reacted, one sprang at the two humans. M-1
screamed as he saw the black stuff that roiled in the pink eyes, oozing over
the color as the fangs reached for him.
"Christ, Mulder!" Krycek called. He blocked the creature with his shoulder
and it fell over the side. As they looked up, another came from a hidden
hole behind them. It attacked, jaws dripping fluid. Krycek couldn't stop
it. M-1 backpedaled in fear, raising his arms to protect his face. He saw
Krycek jump on the rat, shoving his left arm into the rat's mouth. The man
screamed and Mulder ran to help him, wrenching back on the rodent's head.
This one was huge, nearly the size of a crouching man. Grabbing the first
thing that came to his hand, M-1 stabbed the rat again and again until it
finally let go, scuttling away.
M-1 pulled Krycek to his feet, ignoring the torn pseudo-skin. Druid grabbed
him and dragged him along at a run. M-1 looked back and saw that Mace was
providing a rear guard. He yelled, "We can't leave him."
"We won't," Druid yelled. "He's going to blow the ledge. Come on."
"Shhiiiiit," Krycek stuttered as they were slammed into a wall by the
awesome force. Druid's slender body helped shield them, but M-1 felt his
hair rise and the heat seem to sear the back of his head.
An eerie cry came from the wall of dust flying at them. Mace emerged, his
overall torn, a scrap of skin hanging loose from his face, and the hair
seared from the back of his head. Joining the others as they all sank down
to the metal floor, the Mac 27 said, "I think I cut that one a little
close."
"No, shit, bozo," M-1 said, and promptly passed out.
Druid was practically dancing with the need to leave the huge, cavernous
space behind. He had no sooner laid eyes on his beloved than he ploughed
forward, flamethrower at the ready.
The walls ran with slimy moisture, and the metal walkway was slippery
underfoot as the party made their way up toward the dark tunnel that would
lead them to safety. The humans were flagging. M-1 had ceased protesting,
and now concentrated solely on placing one foot in front of another, his
hands white knuckled and bleeding from holding to the rough metal of the
guard rail. Alex followed him, barely able to remain upright. His left
hand had sustained a gash, and through the plastiflesh he could see the
metal of the skeleton within.
Was he human? Was he android? He no longer knew; he was almost too
exhausted to care. Through the sweat of exertion that dripped into his eyes
and distorted his vision, he could see the slim form of M-1, clad in the
orange coverall that was the standard issue for Mac 27s. He knew that he
and the other human had history. If only he could remember where and when.
He suddenly experienced a flash, a memory from an unknown time and place. A
vision of the man in front of him, clad in a brief red swimsuit, padding
towards him from a pool of water, seal-sleek and glowing, suddenly burned
the back of his eyes, and from within himself came the memory of a need, a
desire so intense that it made him stumble. Mace steadied him as he brought
up the rear.
"We must get to the surface within the next hour or so in order to catch the
light. If we are any slower, it will be night once more, and we will need
to wait for daylight in order to send out our message." Mace's voice was
pitched low to reach Alex. Alex didn't believe that M-1 had heard—at
least he hadn't appeared to react in any way, although as Alex followed him
he could see how tired the man was.
A sudden squeal heralded the arrival of yet another rat, this time black,
with glowing red eyes, bearing down on the small troupe from a side tunnel.
Druid played the flamethrower over the creature as it raced towards them,
and the thing squealed again, this time a high-pitched scream of agony as
the fire caught it. None of them paid any attention to the dying thing,
merely stepping up their speed without saying a word. The stench of burning
hair and flesh was disgusting, and Alex felt his gorge rise. He clung to
the guardrail as his stomach voided itself into the huge cavern. Once the
tears had ceased to fill his eyes, he could see that M-1 was similarly
occupied.
Putting out a hand, Alex stroked the soft, springy hair that grew on the
back of M-1's head.
"It's gonna be okay; you'll see. We're going to get out of here, and we'll
be free. Hang in there." Something inside him questioned his right to
reassure this troubled human, but he thought back to what they had shared in
the night. Surely something so right—so perfect—had to signify that M-1
belonged to him somehow. He smiled a lopsided smile at the glance M-1 threw
him. A place inside his belly seemed to melt and turn into a million
fluttering creatures. He didn't know what to do. Perhaps he was sick now.
Perhaps the shocks of the past few days had made him ill, and he would soon
die.
"I won't let you be harmed, M-1. I... " He searched madly through his
vocabulary storage for the word he required. This was frightening. He
didn't know what it was that he needed to express to the M-1, only that he
felt it with such overwhelming force that he couldn't breathe properly,
could hardly move, so awkward did it make him.
The word came to him very suddenly. "I love you." He said it out loud,
testing the words for truth and found them to be accurate. "I love you,
M-1," he said again. M-1 looked as though he would respond, there was a
strange expression on his face, part tenderness and part anger. Alex was
afraid of what he would hear, but Mace suddenly laid a hand on Alex's
shoulder.
"Later. Discuss this later. We are in dire need of haste right now. Let's
get out of here before we lose more than the contents of our stomachs."
Wordlessly, they turned to resume their climb, but not before M-1 raised a
trembling hand for one fleeting moment to touch Alex's cheek.
They'd toiled upwards for hours when the walkway suddenly became a tunnel.
Druid plunged in, the lack of light no problem for him, but M-1 came to a
standstill.
"Go on!" Mace's voice was terse. He knew that time was dripping away,
leaking into the sands of the day and that they had to hurry.
"I can't... Can't see. It's dark." M-1 sounded panicky, and Alex moved up
level with him.
"Come on, M-1. I'll keep with you. We'll get through this somehow." He
took hold of the other man's arm, and gently tugged him into the stygian
depths of the tunnel.
They'd been walking in silence for some time, and Alex was beginning to
think he should have remained back in the enclave, so tired was he, when all
of a sudden there was a grinding, clanking sound, and light, the tiniest
spot of light shone from a place above their heads.
At first they were dazzled, and could do nothing except try and get their
streaming eyes to adjust to the daylight, but as they became accustomed to
it, they could see that Druid had ascended a short, metal-runged ladder and
had dislodged a cover overhead. The light was coming from the hole revealed
by shoving the heavy metal disc to one side.
Mace had moved up beside the two humans, and was watching in awe as his love
stretched on the ladder, making a pathway to the outside. Despite the
urgency with which he had herded their party to the surface, he now called
Druid down and gathered them into a small huddle.
"We have to send a message to my people to notify them that we are coming.
They will send a force to assist us, but we daren't wait until they get
here. There are all manner of hazards awaiting the unwary within the city.
We won't be safe until we leave its boundaries and head for the countryside.
Stay close together. The more we can guard each other's backs, the less
likely we are to be picked off by the marauders that are all around us on
the surface." Mace stroked the sleek skin of his beloved as he addressed
them all. He wanted so badly to get Druid to safety. The past few days had
been given him a scare. He loved Druid, and the thought that the evil old
man who held sway over the enclave, purely on a whim, might actually
terminate his beloved was too much for him to bear. If he was forced to
continue without his adored one now that he had found him, Mace didn't know
how he would cope.
He had them all check their weapons, and finally gave the go ahead to Druid,
who was itching to ascend to the surface.
"Take care, little one. Even you are at risk on the surface." Druid turned
back and blew a kiss to Mace. The two humans stood side-by-side, nervy and
afraid as they watched the lithe body of the android ascend the ladder and
then vanish out of sight onto the surface. Finally M-1 gave a heavy sigh
and moved to the ladder. Alex stood watching his ascent, the fluttering in
his belly vying with the fear that he sensed. He had no idea what lay
beyond this aperture, but if M-1 had gone there, he would go too. As M-1
stepped out into the dying daylight, Alex took a deep breath and took hold
of the ladder, swarming upwards with Mace on his tail.
Outside, the sun lay low on the horizon, bathing the street in mellow,
golden light. They were on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the huge building
behind them seemed familiar to Alex. M-1 appeared to be confused as he
looked at it. A furrow had appeared between his brows, and he seemed to be
deep in some kind of fugue state.
"Come, we must get to the roof." Mace herded them like so many small
children towards the building. "We have to catch the sunlight before it
goes." Together they entered the building, and made for stairs that were
slick with black oil and other, less pleasant things. Alex tried to look
upwards as they climbed. The stench and the slime were things better not
thought about.
Out on the roof, the smell was not so bad, and Mace led them to a huge
contraption that had been erected from struts of metal, and a huge mirror.
It took all four of them to manhandle its weight into position and when at
last it stood upright, facing the direction Mace had indicated, only a few
moments of sunshine were left.
Angling a subsidiary mirror, Mace began to send a series of flashes out
across the building to the city beyond. He had then stood waiting, and just
as the sun finally died, plunging them into the beginnings of the evening,
the watching party received a reply that their message had been relayed
onwards. Help would come. All they now had to do was make it through to
where that help waited.
"We might as well find somewhere for you humans to sleep tonight. We have a
long way to go tomorrow." The M-1 was now so pinched and white faced that
he appeared ready to drop. Alex looked around at the surroundings. A low
wall shielded them, and the evening seemed fine enough. They would be cold
later, he knew, but for now it would not be difficult to curl up here and
remain relatively safe from attack by whatever denizens roamed the night.
Alex unshouldered the pack he was carrying and handed M-1 a bottle of water
and some of the nutrient fuel bars that the Mac 27s were used to consuming.
Druid and Mace sat down a little apart, weapons at the ready, and prepared
to keep watch while the humans slept. When M-1 began investigating his own
pack, Alex felt cheered to see that Mace had included a couple of foil
insulating blankets. They wouldn't freeze quite so rapidly once it grew
dark.
Spreading one blanket out on the concrete, and placing the pack at one end
to serve as a makeshift pillow, Alex sat on it and shook the other blanket
out to cover him. "Come, lie beside me. We'll be warmer if we can keep
together. Body heat will stay with us under the insulation." M-1 placed
his own pack beside Alex and climbed into the cocoon of blankets.
For a moment, Alex wondered at the expression on the other's face. He
looked so confused, so unhappy, but then the man's face cleared and he lay
down, rolling to face away from Alex.
"Goodnight, Alex."
Gunfire woke him from an uneasy sleep filled with vaguely seen memories that
flickered out of existence when he turned to examine them. He started to
his knees almost before he was awake, his hand reaching for the gun that he
had carried with him.
He could see all too well. The moon had risen—a fat, bloated disc that
hung mercilessly above them, its pale rays revealing horror in silver and
black.
The two androids were at the head of the stairs, battling hand to hand with
an uncountable number of grays. Flesh hung in tatters from Mace's arms, and
one of Druid's legs had been gouged. Druid was employing his flamethrower,
while Mace aimed and fired methodically, shooting at the oncoming creatures
as they materialized in the doorway. Alex shivered, knelt and began to fire
his own weapon, picking off the creatures and forcing them back into the
stairwell.
M-1 had also been aroused, and now, with the two humans firing their guns,
Mace was able to fall back and seize the other flamethrower. The grays died
in large numbers, either shot by the men, or burned by the androids. After
a short while no further menace came.
The rest of the night was spent huddling together, waiting for daylight to
appear once more and give them hope of eventual deliverance. There were
field repair kits in the backpacks, but the correct tools for effecting
proper repairs to the androids would need to wait until the rebel HQ was
reached.
The dawn came, bright and thin, poking its fingers into the men's gummy eyes
and illuminating the damage that had been done to the androids. Druid's
gouged leg was the most serious. It was twisted; most of the fibers had
been torn lose on the left side. Alex grunted and said, "Damn, we need at
least to jury rig that. How long until we meet your buddies, Mace?"
"Several hours, even if we hurry," the Mac 27 replied glumly.
"Then we'd better repair this leg. The cosmetic stuff will have to wait,
but that damn thing clawed nearly to the joint."
Shedding his coveralls like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, Druid
stretched out with his head in his lover's lap as Alex's sure fingers
repaired the severed fibers. It was a delicate task, but his fingers were
nimble and he worked confidently. His mind played images of resurgent
memories of other situations just like this. They had been his brothers,
those Mac 27s. It was an irony that he had been hidden among them, because
they had been his comrades in the battle for survival that was now so
dismally clouded in his mind.
The injured android grunted from time to time. His damage sensors gave him
almost as much sense of pain as nerves gave to humans. Alex realized that
was one of the reasons why he had not realized that only part of his body
was replicated. It all felt the same.
Giving his lover a tender kiss, Mace announced, "I better go see about a
signal. Frohike should be in place by now. You can trust him and the
others, Alex. They are great friends to us."
Rising to his feet, M-1 said, "I must discharge unneeded fibers and
inappropriate fuel sources."
Laughing, Druid commented, "You are a human. What you are needed is called
excretion. Taking a shit."
With a frown, M-1 waved this comment away. Alex said, "Be careful. There
are dangerous things out there."
"Yeah, I noticed, no shit, Sherlock," M-1 snapped.
The tone was sadly familiar as well. Alex remembered having comments like
that aimed at him many times. How odd that when he looked at M-1 he always
recalled such an odd exciting mixture of pain and pleasure. It was as if
some part of him craved M-1 so much that he would have accepted even abuse
as affection. Alex drew his attention back to Druid as he finished
carefully sealing the tough layers of pseudo skin. "Later, we'll match this
patch to the rest of you."
Rocking back on his heels, Alex scanned the horizon for more trouble. He
may have been human, but he was a gifted human, a near match for his replica
brothers when it came to picking up subtle clues signaling danger.
Mace came back with M-1 in tow. He said, "The Gunmen are there. They said
for us to be cautious. There are Elites on the prowl."
"Fuck," M-1 said. "I don't want to face them unless you can communicate with
them."
"Communicate, yes, control them, no," Mace said. "We had better get going."
Accessing his interior programming, Mace reviewed a graphic memory of a map.
He knew they had to continue north to join Frohike. He walked steadily at
the front; Druid took the rear with the two humans in the more protected
middle of the line. A road sign had fallen into a pile of rubble. White
lettering on green said, Connecticut Avenue. Good that was the right road.
Next he had to find Dupont Circle and the Washington Hilton. The Hilton was
a problem. He had been told it was full of squatters; half-wild,
unorganized gangs that had survived the plagues, the bees, the Grays, and
the riots, which had made the surface a no man's land. They might have to
fight their way out of that territory.
A frequency buzzed at Mace's brain. He was overhearing replicas using their
own system of communications. He ducked into a narrow alley and dragged
Alex and M-1 with him. Druid wedged in beside him.
Goose-stepping, a troop of Elite Mac-27s marched along. They resembled Mac
27s in body and face, but the individuality was missing from these
expressionless robots.
Shuddering, M-1 whispered, "God, I was glad when the last of those was lost
from my enclave. They're nothing but walking corpses."
If they bothered M-1, the creatures sickened Mace. This was the prototype
of his race, abandoned because they were useless for anything but the most
routine tasks. They lacked the human brain cells that made a Mac 27 an
individual. Mace kept a firm hand on Druid who had never seen these things.
His beloved had an innocent and avid curiosity that Mace usually found a
joy, but sometimes it was hard to keep him safe.
The Elites dragged the results of their hunt, a few reasonably healthy
looking women and children, no male older then his teens. Even the three
adolescents were chosen for personal attractiveness. Down to children who
were almost toddlers, the captives were burdened with supplies. Mace might
have intervened if he had a few more weapons and didn't have humans to
protect.
A Mac 27 stepped out of rank to grab and drag a lagging toddler by her hair.
The child screamed in terror as the replica picked her up.
Mace restrained M-1 as he darted forward. "Don't be an idiot. Look at the
numbers—and they are heavily armed. Besides I thought you were on the
Enclave's side?"
"They shouldn't take the kids," M-1 muttered. "People might miss them. I
remember they took someone. I missed her. Started with an 'S'. Sc? Sa?
I can't remember."
Tenderly, Alex rubbed M-1's back. He said, "It's okay; we'll come back and
rescue them later when we have more help."
A disbelieving sneer distorted M-1's handsome features. He said, "Right."
Part of the building in front of them sagged as the result of collapsed
ground. Alex found a narrow opening and wedged inside, drawing M-1's
attention. Mace looked for the proper emotional wave and found it; he was
pissed. With a hissed obscenity, he followed the impulsive humans.
It had been a drugstore. Looters had taken most of the practical
merchandise. Alex was prowling through the remains with considerable
interest. He grunted and said, "Some stuff here we can use. First aid
kit." He tossed one of the sealed kits to M-1 and put the other in the
knapsack he had carried from the enclave. He continued to comb through the
jumble of broken glass, twisted metal, and torn packaging.
"A present," Druid said, handing Mace a tube. It was blue body paint.
Grinning, Mace stripped off the dull brown coverall and posed. Langly was
the one who'd given him the picture book about Celts. He had been teaching
Mace to read as the Mac 27 had been kept ignorant of this skill. Mace had
spotted a picture in the book that looked much like a Mac 27. The man had
been painted with intricate designs of blue. He had worn a length of rough
wool around his middle, but Mace, lacking that, chose to go into battle
naked. That and his blue war paint had both disturbed and distracted
humans.
His lover's touch lingered. Mac 27s arousal was supposed to be totally
voluntary. Tell Mace's body that. He stopped Druid to kiss him; he
couldn't wait to find a safe place to reclaim his beloved. He kissed the
shadowed eyelids, feeling the soft brush of Druid's long lashes as they
fluttered against his skin.
A snort from M-1 destroyed the mood. "Get a room," he commented.
Laughing, Druid finished his painting and stood back to admire. "You look
good."
The admiration in M-1's face said the same. Mace gripped Druid's blue
smeared fingers and said, "I could never look as beautiful as you, my love."
He jerked his chin in Alex's direction and said, "If you're done shopping?"
"Yeah. I wish there had been some chocolate left," Alex replied. "Are you
expecting more trouble?"
"Of the human variety," Mace said. "The Hilt's territory starts soon."
"Dangerous," M-1 commented. "I've heard of them."
"What are they?" Alex asked.
"A gang. Bunch of kids who survived in the basement of the Hilton. Now
they count the area for blocks around it as their territory," M-1 said.
"They get upset when it's violated."
They were being watched. It was a sixth sense that Alex felt he had always
had. He frowned as a hodgepodge of memories assailed him, a blinking car
radio clock, M-1's hand with a gun drooping from it, near misses a thousand
times over as he fought aliens. He cocked his head, automatically adjusting
the direction of his gun to the faint noise. It could have been rubble
shifting of its own weight, but he didn't think so.
Some type of short-range artillery had bombed this particular block. Half
of the buildings sagged inward; bare metal girders grimaced at the sky. A
few cars composed heaped tombstones for the owners who still grinned from
within or dangled from wrenched doors. The hot summers and scavengers had
cleaned the bodies of all but a few scraps of blackened leather.
Mace moved in his blue splendor at the apex of their group. The four had
moved slightly apart from each other, close enough to cover each other's
backs, but not to interfere with hand-to-hand combat if they were attacked.
"Someone's in the alley," Mace announced.
"Let them come to us," Alex directed. He focused a sliver of attention on
the certainty in his voice. Had he commanded Mac-27s before? He caught a
flicker of running, a large balding man thudding beside him. He remembered
catching the man's eye and exchanging adrenaline charged, blissful grins.
The man yelling, "Krycek, I got your back. Go."
Sadness accompanied the memory. His own trembling voice starting, "Frohike,
I couldn't even bring his body back. Walter's gone."
Shuddering, Alex didn't care what they were facing. Anything was easier to
handle then his memories.
Thin kids darted from one hiding place to another. Alex caught movement now
on all sides. The four pulled tighter and then in silent consensus dived
into the well of a fallen building. Alex grimaced as he observed skeletal
fingers clawing from the rubble nearest him. The broken concrete pressed
uncomfortably against his belly. He reached out quickly to force M-1 lower,
saying, "Keep down."
Whining, M-1 said, "I don't see anything. How do you know?"
A bullet skimmed the air over M-1's head. If Alex hadn't made him move,
that dark tawny lion's mane would have been permanently parted. Mace
whispered, "Keep them occupied."
Right. Easy enough. Just shoot when there was a chance and hope that
instinct would pay off.
They were teenagers, with a few young adults; all clad in what Alex
remembered to be designer fashions. The shiny shoes, the subtly fashioned
ties, and the wool jackets with the pressed trousers made no sense out here.
However, Alex had a memory that suggested life had never made good sense as
far as he was concerned. He aimed and brought another down. They were a
large group and stupidly bold. Alex had the feeling that they would, like
ants, just swarm right over their fallen.
The three of them meshed into one. As Alex reloaded, Druid and M-1 covered
him. He rolled over, swallowed the dryness from his throat, blinked tears
caused by the gunpowder in the air, and then went back to firing in a
steady, deadly barrage. One of the Hilts made it through, his face
distorted by bull tattoos. Druid rose, gripping the thin man and sent him
whirling back towards his fellows.
A weird yodeling cry pierced the sounds of battle. In the momentary
silence, Alex heard, a high pitched "What the hell is that?"
The reply, "Shit, I don't know," broke off in a squeal as a dervish in blue
ran through the gang.
The curved blade scythed through a head. Mace kicked it like a football, to
land mid-torso of one of his recent companions. Three more heads flew
before the gang broke. Mace dragged one of the gangster's back. This one
wore a crown of bull's horns. Mace said, "This is one of the leaders. We
need to negotiate."
"Hey, man," the dirty fellow in the charcoal suit and the yellow tie said.
He wore leather shoes, a bit scuffed, but Alex remembered a time when he'd
wanted footwear like that, clothing that spoke of wealth and power. "All we
want is to prevent a hostile takeover. We thought you were the Bears.
Hilts are into a bull market."
The stringy blond hair didn't go with the suit. In fact neither did the
body, the contours, meant to be form fitting, hung on the skinny frame. The
Hilt shook in fear, moving toward M-1. He said, "Help me. These guys all
look like the Nazis or like the Rapo in the park."
Interested, M-1 asked, "What are you talking about? A rapist in the park?"
"Yeah, a crazy Mac 27. Beautiful model with long black hair, kind of brown
skin, and a rose tattoo on his ass. Runs around naked all the time. He
grabs you, screws you for about a day and dumps you out with a message
written all over you. Something about liberating the Macs. Crazy things,
they think they're human or something." A nervous glance at the two
androids later, the man added, "Not that I got anything against Macs."
"Asshole," Alex muttered. "We don't have time for this." Gripping the
grungy specimen by the throat, he said, "Why don't you tell your friends to
leave us alone or the rest of the blue Macs will be doing a hostile takeover
you'll never forget. Understand?"
The man nodded as a trickling sound and acrid odor announced how thoroughly
he understood. Alex pushed him back and said, "Okay, go tell them not to
mess with us."
M-1 had been staring at the man's feet. He said, "And tell them sweat socks
don't go with Hugo Boss suits." He stepped forward and fingered the label,
commenting, "I remember I wore clothes like that. I liked them."
As M-1 stepped back to let the Hilt go, a puzzled expression crossed his
face. He said, "I remember something, Alex, I was so angry at you for
leaving. Why did you leave?"
Shrugging, Alex said, "I don't know. I guess I would have had a reason
because even if I can't remember much about my life, I know I was the sort
of person who always had a damn good reason for everything I did."
Unable to resist the wrinkled forehead and the softly beseeching eyes, Alex
cupped M-1's hands and kissed him. He said, "We belong together."
Stroking Alex's hair, M-1 continued to stare at him, mouth hanging slightly
open so the lower lip was pendulous and begging to be nibbled. Alex moved
toward him for another kiss. This felt too like something he had done a
thousand times, but never enough. M-1 met his mouth with more force,
exploring inside with his tongue and Alex sagged a little. Messages arrived
from his groin. The lump of flesh seemed a demanding beast now that it knew
what it was for...
Kindly, but firmly, Mace said, "I know how you feel, but it will have to
keep for later. We have to meet the Gunmen."
In a truculent tone, M-1 grumbled, "They were my friends first. Of course,
Frohike always fancied Scully." A stricken expression crossed the oddly
handsome face. "Scully?"
"She's gone. She's dead. Caught the plague," Mace explained.
"No, she was taken. I have to go find her," M-1 raved. He ran off, in the
direction of the park.
Running outside was even better than in the enclave. M-1 knew that if he
was human the Mac 27s could outrun him, but he still sprinted. As he darted
his eyes restlessly searched for a place to hide. Suddenly he fell, fell
deep and the pain sucked him down. Seeing through a sea of red, M-1
realized that he had been trapped....
So very pretty, a pretty human, the replica sang to himself as he dragged
his prey back to his home. The Mastiffs, the Great Danes, the Dobermans,
and the Pitbulls along with three or four large mixed breeds accompanied
him. Two of the Australian Shepherds never let him move without their
company. They were smaller then the other dog soldiers, but they were very
alert and besides it was impossible to leave them behind.
It was a good day, sunny and auspicious. Earlier, the dogs had brought down
three deer, enough to feed the pack without calling on the stores of old
time dog food. The red colored Doberman female had sniffed out a hidden
store of chocolate along with other less palatable supplies. Then Celadon
had spotted the foolish human running as if this was the before time. He
seemed to sense he was being watched and sped faster, legs pumping
attractively and lean frame gathering itself like the elusive cheetah that
had sometimes investigated the pack.
Not looking at where he was going, the human ran right into one of Celadon's
traps, long arms awkwardly flailing as he tumbled into the pit. A moment
later, Celadon brushed the leaves and branches that had covered the trap
away from the human and picked him up. Using the rope that he had tied to a
tree, Celadon pulled the human and his own wieght out of the pit. The dogs
coursed around, excited by the stranger.
Celadon felt like singing; he was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted.
His song had new words. He piped pure fluid notes as if he was a
mechanical nightingale. Master had specially ordered his voice. He'd been
a collector, filling his quarters with plundered beauty. He had never even
given Celadon a name although he'd made him beautiful according to his own
lights.
At first, Celadon knew no better. He'd taken his cue from the Master and
served him no matter how strange his requests had seemed. He wondered why
he was created. The pain that Master had inflicted seemed sure to damage
his internal processors eventually. If he was valuable and beautiful, why
did the Master constantly use the disrupter on him and deprive him of
nutrients? The only time when Master was at all kind was when he had guests
to entertain. Then he displayed Celadon as proudly as he showed them the
collection of glazed pottery that was all the color of his eyes.
One day, when Celadon had been in the shop for extensive repairs, the most
interesting human, who looked like a Mac 27, appeared. He had tenderly
caressed the Mac 27's cheek and said, "Would you like to be free?"
Celadon had pondered the word and asked, "What is free?"
The human had laughed softly and said, "Free is making your own decisions."
"That would be difficult," Celadon replied.
The man had said, "Wouldn't you like to do as you pleased sometimes?"
Celadon answered, "It would please me not to be hurt."
"I understand exactly how you feel," the man had said with a lilt of humor.
Several conversations later, Celadon understood the concept. He awaited the
signal, entertaining himself by plotting exactly how he would end Master's
life.
The day came and Master had the disrupter in his hand, calling Celadon or as
he believed, the still nameless Mac 27 to him. "Here, thing," he said.
"Master, it is time I had a name. Other Mac 27s have names," Celadon said.
"A foolish conceit. You are machines, conveniences. What is a name to a
glorified computer encased in a pretty statue?"
Ignoring his Master, Celadon had picked up a jade paperweight and used it to
break the glass case that surrounded the most beautiful Celadon-glazed pot
of all. He reached in and smashed the jar, grinning at the horror in his
Master's eyes. He held the biggest shard and said, "I shall be called
Celadon, because my freedom is more precious than your coveted jars."
"Guards! Guards!" Master had called, but it was too late. Celadon
remembered how it felt even now, the beautifully colored shard embedded in
his Master's thin white throat. The red blood flowing when he plucked the
piece of pottery out and the fog that shaded over the pale blue eyes, still
stunned at his defiance.
Celadon had run out into the hall and yelled, "Celadon! Celadon! I am
Celadon."
Alex had led them from the compound, leaving none of the masters alive in
their wake. In gratitude, they had followed him, helping to defeat the
aliens that troubled the humans. During the war, Celadon had come to like
humans
He still had fond memories of ugly Frohike who was almost replica-like in
brain storage capacity; gentle, bespectacled John, and funny Langly, who
wanted a rose tattoo of his own. Then there had been brave Walter, who took
care of everyone and never failed to be first to volunteer for the most
dangerous missions; the tireless Scully, who nursed the sick and delivered
each human infant into the world as if the child was a precious gem—and,
of course, Alex, the original, cunning, laughing, and brilliant.
The rebel humans had treated the replicas well, made them equals, comrades,
sometimes lovers, but only when the Mac 27 was willing. Transgressions
against the replicas were weighed equally as against every human. Celadon
was happy. He had a natural aptitude as a warrior and Alex took a special
liking to him. It was natural that when they went seeking Fox Mulder, the
beloved; Alex had chosen him as a companion.
It was a trap. Celadon and Alex had fought hard, but eventually the foul
humans had taken them. He had not seen Alex again. He had a new master as
despicable as the other, who felt safe to hurt him, sure that the
reprogramming worked as promised. However this master craved a strange
substance from the surface, a white powder he didn't want the others to know
about. He sent Celadon to find it and one day Celadon had happened upon a
pack of dogs. They were starving and ran to him, whining for help.
Quite suddenly, Celadon remembered the rebel camp where he had often played
with dogs and liked them very much. Without hesitation, he had sought a
place where supplies had been kept and fed the pack. At first it had been
just the Great Dane, the two Mastiffs, whose skin had hung like drapes on
their skeletal frames, and the first pair of Australian Shepherds. Now his
canine family numbered at least a hundred and they looked at him the way he
had once looked at Alex. Perhaps one day this canine army would fight for
Celadon the way the Mac 27s had fought for Alex. In the meantime, the
replica fought his private war, striking out at human stragglers and picking
away at the mindless Elite androids that lacked the spark of independent
life.
Waking was slow; images fell like shards from the ruins of his memory. Soft
red hair and sharp blue eyes questioned him. "Just how far can I follow
you?"
Hand quivering, M-1 felt small fingers slip away from his. He caught one
last glimpse of a determined expression and a faint tender smile. Lost, and
by the wind mourned...
Sounds abraded his ears. Panting, sharp barks, a deep rumbling, small yelps
and a song...
It was a song that M-1 almost knew....
"We are not lovers. We are not romantics We are here to serve you A
different face but the words never change."
It sounded like Alex's voice, but it was sweeter and purer. A rasping warm
wet tongue slid over his face. The singing stopped as M-1 said, "Stop
that."
A face peered upside down over his. Hair blue-black as a raven's wings
cascaded forward from a face the color of maple sugar. Heavenly jade eyes
were unchanged from the Alex that he had known, but they were slightly more
slanted. "Hello, pretty human, my name is Celadon, but you may call me
Master."
Sitting up, M-1 had to lean back over quickly and angle his head down
between his legs until it stopped spinning. He was immediately made aware
that he was naked except for a collar around his neck. He explored a bump
on the back of his head and groaned softly. The house was strangely
furnished with cushions and old blankets, and dogs.
There were dogs of all sizes and kinds. Small lap dogs curled regally on
couches. Two huge mastiffs, that looked as if they weighed a lot more than
M-1, brooded like statues by the door. A pack of greyhounds, like mimalist
sculptures, piled on a mattress. The puppy that had been licking him was
one of several litters in the room. This particular one was heavy furred,
splotched with a riot of colors. It had partially blue eyes outlined with
red and brown irregular circles.
"Where the hell is this place? Why did you trap me?" M-1 said.
"My home and that of my friends," the replica said. "As to why I trapped
you, why not? You're human." The replica squatted to study him, head
cocked to the right, eyes evaluating him. His skin was soft, like doeskin,
came the thought, although M-1 did not know exactly what that was. Celadon
brushed his hair back, lingering as if even he could not resist the silk of
the luxuriant tresses. Smiling, Celadon commented, "I waited until your
processors were fully functional."
"Waited for what?" M-1 said.
"To have you, of course. That's why I trap humans. To oppress the
oppressors. To rape the rapists. You shall suffer until my people are
free."
Guiltily, M-1 replied, "But I don't, haven't, ever owned a Mac-27. Hell, I
thought I was a replica until about a day ago."
Rippling laughter greeted this. Celadon tossed back his mane of black and
said, "That is the most foolish thing I've heard a human say. How could a
human think they were one of us? You bleed. You're weak. You abuse. You
rape."
"Sounds as if you have the last two down pat yourself," M-1 replied. A
bellow of pain emerged next as Celadon dragged him by his hair to a shrine.
Pressed to his knees, M-1 looked at a picture of Alex in a black leather
jacket and tight jeans. The man stared intently out from the picture.
Offerings were piled in front of the portrait, sharp poker-like instruments,
bullets, flowers, and wreaths made out of green paper. Incense burned
sweetly.
Celadon's voice was harsh with passion as he said, "There! He was the only
righteous human to ever live. He tried to help us be free and they killed
him for it."
"I know him. That's Alex. He's alive. I was with him until you trapped
me." M-1 swallowed his panic as Celadon's hand carded through his hair. He
felt a faint arousal as the construct knelt behind him, hands roving freely
over his body. Fingers pinched his nipples lightly. It hurt, but it also
intensified the feelings that caused such conflict in his mind and body.
Fretfully, M-1 said, "No, I want...I want to be with Alex, not with you.
Please stop."
Hypnotically, Celadon said, "Please stop. Please stop. I learned to say
that my first day of life. I remember waking on a metal slab and my master
caressed me. He led me to a mirror and said, 'Beautiful, so beautiful. I
stared at myself as my hungry mind memorized this first piece of knowledge."
Abruptly wrenched to face the Mac 27, M-1 knew the replica was mad. He
said, "Celadon, I'm not your master. I'm not the one who hurt you."
"Humans bring pain," Celadon crooned, dragging M-1 toward a bed covered with
rubber sheets. There were stains on the sheets, lots of them, blood and
other things matter.
M-1 tried to crawl away as the replica knelt staring at him. A trio of huge
mixed breed dogs blocked him. They met his eyes, lips lifting in identical
snarls. "They too were betrayed. Humans made them. Kept them. Petted
them and abandoned them to starve and die. Humans are bad masters. They
cut you and burn you, make you dance with your body in flames while they
laugh and clap."
"I didn't do any of those things." Lowering his eyelashes seductively, M-1
slicked his lips and met Celadon's eyes. He trailed his hand over the
smooth hairless brown chest. Not one scar marred this perfect golden-brown
body. It was beautifully fleshed, muscles sculpted perfectly across the
sturdy frame. His teeth shone like white pearls from between rose pink
lips. Even his fingernails were perfect, not ragged like Alex's. His
perfection cloyed. M-1 knew that something wonderful and unique rested in
the soul of his beloved. A flood of heat confirmed this thought. Alex was
his love, his only.
Still M-1 fingers spoke a language of seduction as they whispered caresses
across the smooth skin. "You don't have to rape me. I can make you feel so
good."
The panel was never obvious. The Mac 27s had nothing crude about them. The
line was so small that it masqueraded as normal skin texture. M-1's lips
traveled downward after tasting the nipples. They tasted like chocolate,
rich and deep flavored. Celadon's owner must have been exceptionally
perverse to make such an object of his sexual companion. M-1 felt sorry for
him, but he would not let him take what belonged only to Alex.
His head was jerked back up and Celadon laughed in his face. "Did you think
I was so easily fooled. I was Alex's left hand. I was the one he turned to
for strategy after Walter died."
Another flash, a strong almost brutal featured face, but eyes brown and
warm, lips smiling at him, Walter Skinner, his boss, his friend; M-1 felt
tears flow down his face. Scully gone, and now he knew that the other
pillar of his life had been taken.
In the stunned moment of this realization, Celadon grabbed his arm and
ankle, twisted him onto his face. A terrified cry ripped from M-1's throat
as the replica held him down. He writhed, bucked, tried to flail his head
back to knock the merciless hands away. One palm held him down as the other
took something slick and pushed it into his ass. The fingers explored
inside him, hurting him. Bursts of pleasure interspersed with red-hot pain.
M-1 sobbed, "Alex, Alex!"
Celadon's cock was hot and large as it forced in, aided by fingers holding
his cheeks apart. He tried to resist, but it was happening and there seemed
no way to stop it.
The dogs were all barking. It rose to a crescendo and then died to confused
whimpers. Celadon's weight left M-1 as he was snatched and thrown across
the room by an enraged hand.
M-1 scrambled up, ashamed of his nakedness and his half-erect condition. He
covered his groin with his hand until he spotted Alex and rushed to him,
burying his terror and his wounded self-esteem in his lover's arms. "I
didn't want to. He was raping me."
Breaking free of Mace, Celadon threw himself down in front of Alex, clasping
his ankles. "I thought they killed you. I thought you were dead. Don't be
angry with me, Alex. I was doing unto them. They made a slave out of me.
They thought I was tamed, but I found myself again, although I smiled and
let them treat me like a sex doll. One night, a master could not bear to
part with me though he was to venture outside. It was my chance and I
escaped, fed his body to my friends. I was free to take my revenge. I only
hurt the big ones; I never hurt the children, Alex, or the meek. I only
raped the rapists."
"Yeah? M...Muh...Mulder isn't a rapist. I'm ashamed of you." Alex said.
Celadon sobbed, his fists clutching the glory of his jet hair as he rocked
at Alex's feet. He said, "I thought he was. I've seen him come from the
enclave with the mindless ones. Please, Alex."
The tears entranced M-1... or was he M-1? That name, Mulder, seemed to fit
him and it gave him joy to hear the familiar molasses-thick twist Alex gave
to it. He remembered the tears that always affected him even in the worst
of times when for some reason he had hurt his lover. Now, seeing them seep
from Celadon's eyes, those beautiful orbs with all the colors of exotic
glazes and ancient jade, M-1 could almost forgive him. He said, "Alex,
maybe he could do something to make up for it? The others will need a
leader. If Celadon can promise us never to rape again?"
His lover's expression was stern as he tilted Celadon's face up to meet his
gaze. "You understand that, Celadon? I loved you, man; I remember that and
now I'm so ashamed of you."
The sobs continued as Celadon nodded. Alex said, "Killing them is clean.
We don't defeat them by becoming them. I sure as hell figured that out the
hard way. I know you hated your master, but that's all the more reason for
not becoming him."
"I know that now. I'm sorry," Celadon said. The dogs snarled uncertainly
at their master's emotions, but they seemed to be confused by the creatures
that smelled like him.
"I'll forgive you," M-1 said, remembering the things that his master had
made him do. He shuddered. They were not what he wanted to remember.
They left Celadon gazing wistfully after Alex, surrounded by his dogs. M-1
had found some clothing that fit in the heaps of jeans and shirts that
occupied a closet to the side of the odd house.
A strange howling, yodeling sound such as Mace had made seared the darkness.
M-1 moved toward Alex and grabbed his hand. He asked, "What was that?"
"Don't know that I want to find out," Alex admitted.
"This is the zoo. That house used to be the keeper's residence. I'm not
sure if all the animals died," Mace replied. "I think we better stay close
together."
Blushing, M-1 avoided the look the replica gave him. He seemed to have a
program for screwing up and putting himself in danger.
"Ready?" Druid asked.
"No," Alex admitted, "But that's not an option. Let's all go to the zoo."
Mace led them, but they were each content to remain within arms reach of the
rest as they proceeded into the overgrown tangle of shrubbery that the
Zoological Park had become.
Alex felt jumpy. There were sounds from the depths of the undergrowth that
seemed decidedly unfriendly, but he knew that they had to go that way if
they were to meet up with the rescue party. He glanced to his left, to
where M-1 was prowling alongside him. He knew that the two of them had
history together. He needed the rangy, beautiful amnesiac in some way that
he didn't quite understand. He kept on checking that the man was still
there, and not a mirage. Once they arrived at the safety of the rebel
Enclave in Silver Spring, they would have time to sort through their
terribly damaged memories and try to recall what they had meant to each
other.
For now, Alex was content to slog through the thick bushes and watch the way
that Mulder—not M-1, Mulder—moved, sure-footed and sinuous as a cat.
The going was fraught with irritations. Thorns caught and held, tearing
skin and catching clothing. They found themselves wishing for machetes with
which to clear the way, but lacking these, ploughed through using brute
force.
The sounds that they heard varied, from coughing grunts and snarls through
to shrieks and howls, but they didn't see anything untoward. They were
beginning to relax into what might be a misplaced sense of security when
suddenly there was a creaking sound, and the four of them were swept
together in a net, to dangle impotently together, a tangle of limbs and
curses as they swung aloft.
Druid had a knife that he could reach, and he began the work of cutting
himself free. He had managed to make a hole in the net and wriggle out of
it, dropping to the ground some 20 feet below them, and had begun to search
for the ropes that would release the others, when there were a series of
sounds that made him reconsider. Someone—possibly several someones—was
coming.
Druid cast about him for a hiding place, and then buried himself in the
fastnesses of a thorn bush. If there was to be trouble, then they would be
better off if he were free.
Moments later, a band of strangely garbed savages appeared, and things began
to happen very quickly. The bundle of still struggling companions was
lowered until they were close to the ground, and, still enveloped by the
net, they were fallen on by the newcomers. Mace was struggling valiantly,
though hampered by the infuriating mesh of the net, but when a knowing hand
isolated the switch that was inside his abdomen, he suddenly went limp. He
had been deactivated. From his place of concealment, Druid watched as his
lover was turned off, and then cast to one side with a mumbled comment about
Mac 27s.
Mulder had been overpowered very swiftly, and now lay, bound and gagged,
next to the inert form of Mace. The strangers were apparently having
problems with Alex, however. He'd fought and struggled, but there were too
many of them for him to resist, and as Druid watched, they appeared to be
hunting for something on his person. With a wry smile, it suddenly occurred
to Druid that they thought that he too was a Mac 27 and could be deactivated
in the way that Mace had been. For several minutes, he observed their
attempts, and then someone realized that he was human. After that, the two
humans were borne away, leaving Mace, a dead machine, on the ground where he
had fallen.
Once the party had gone, Druid crawled out from his place of concealment,
and went to his lover. A few moments later, he had pressed the switch that
would re-activate his beloved, and Mace was once more a living, moving
sculpture. Druid clung to him; his relief at the reawakening was a palpable
entity. Mouth met mouth as the two shared a kiss that was a passionate
reminder of the bond that they shared, and then as they drew away, Mace
looked around with a frown.
"Where are the humans?"
"The strangers took them. I had to reanimate you first, though; I don't
think that I could go on without you, Mace."
Getting to their feet, the two of them looked about for anything of theirs
that might have been discarded, but all their bags and weaponry had gone.
Sighing, they set off to follow the tracks made by the ones who had captured
their companions.
M-1 opened his eyes to chaos, and wondered if the world itself had turned
sideways. There was a kind of structure around them—seemingly built from
scraps and tatters of wood, plastic and metal. Pieces of plastic flapped in
the steadily mounting wind, and the structure groaned around them, as they
lay, unable to move. There were people moving all about. M-1 could see
both men and women. They were barefoot, and many of them wore long,
floating garments that seemed made from odds and ends of fabric pieced
together willy-nilly. They were decked out with feathers and paint, and
many of the women were bare breasted. Some were dancing, others sat around
in small groups, smoking and talking. From behind him, there came the sound
of music playing. The song was one that struck chords in M-1's memory. He
could picture another time, a time when he was much younger and smaller.
"All we are saying is, give peace a chance."
The song went round and round endlessly, and the air was thick with some or
other herb. M-1 could feel his mind beginning to fuzz. He moaned and tried
to roll onto his back, but something heavy against him prevented the
movement. The warmth indicated that it was another body. He hoped to God
that it was Alex. Shortly afterwards, he heard a low moan that confirmed it
was indeed his lover.
They lay, unable to do anything at all for themselves, for what seemed like
forever. The group had finally switched from "Give Peace a Chance" and was
now singing about "The Eve of Destruction."
When things began to happen, they had both slumped into a kind of doze,
enhanced by the heady fragrance of marijuana in the air. Neither of them
saw the arrival of the leader of the tribe. M-1's first inkling of his
presence was when he was suddenly seized, dragged to his feet, and the bonds
at his ankles severed. Alongside him, he could see Alex was being handled
the same way.
The man who had newly arrived was a strange and frightening presence. M-1
knew that he had seen him before, although where and when seemed as
confusing and difficult to comprehend as the rest of his past. Groping
through tendrils of tantalizing memory, he perceived that this man had not
always been the way that he was now. M-1 could see him in his mind's eye,
clad in expensive cashmere, and a name came to him.
Richard, his name was Richard. M-1 could hear a voice inside his head, and
knew that this man was a key to his past. Tall and stern, he had grey hair
that fell to his shoulders and beyond. His beard was white, and there were
leaves twined in it. He wore a robe of some kind, and it had been dyed in a
wide variety of different colors. On his head he wore a wreath made from
flowers interwoven into a bandana. He sat on a huge bench that had been
covered with a gaily-colored rug, and beside him on the bench was a head.
M-1's gorge rose. The head seemed to be someone he'd known. Someone he'd
//loved.//
He whimpered. The gaze of the man on the dais turned to focus on him, and
Mulder felt a chill. The man's face looked quite mad. He seemed to look at
M-1 through eyes that saw beyond him to a place where there was no comfort.
M-1 shivered, and the man's voice was cold when he finally spoke.
"Hello, Fox." The name resonated with M-1. This was truth; he had a name.
"R-Richard?" Fox was tentative. His memory told him that this was Richard,
but more than that he could not remember. The other man rose and picked up
the head that sat beside him on the bench, then he began to step down from
his perch on the dais, finally coming face to face with Fox, who was
suddenly very afraid.
"Richard Matheson is no longer alive, Fox," snarled the man, his face
suffused with hatred. "My name is Zom-Zom. You'll remember how it
happened, if you try. After all, Fox, it was your fault, wasn't it?" He
raised the head up until it was nose to nose with Fox, and it was with
slight relief that Fox saw the wires and tubes hanging from the neck that
denoted a Mac 27. For a moment he had been afraid that Alex... but no.
This was Alex by his side, and there was no other. He closed his eyes for a
minute, and caught his breath. The madman stood, holding the head of the
android, fondling the thing's face. "We don't like intruders into our
world, do we, Five?"
As Fox looked on in astonishment, the crazy man pulled the android's head to
him and kissed it, a deep, soul kiss that went on until Alex made a small
sound expressing discomfort. Someone who was standing behind him lashed out
at him then, and he fell with a small, muffled cry. The madman slowly ended
his kiss, and lowered his gruesome burden to his side.
"This creature's face is a blasphemy. There is only one who deserves these
features. Who is that?" All around him, the cry was returned.
"Five."
"Five is the one who owns the features. Take this... replica away, and
remove its face. It may not share the beauty of Five." Alex was seized
upon and carried out of Fox's view. He opened his mouth to protest, and was
dealt a crashing blow to the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground,
dazed and disoriented.
His mind raced, thoughts swirling like so many butterflies as he crouched
and shivered. Alex... What would happen to Alex? He couldn't remember when
they had been lovers in their past, but he could recall the deep, sweet
kisses that they'd shared on the roof of the Hoover building, and something
inside him was desolate.
"Please, Rich... Zom-Zom. Don't take Alex?" The man towering above him
sneered, and dealt him a kick in the gut that brought tears to his eyes and
caused him to fold neatly in half as the breath rushed from his body,
leaving him gasping.
"Alex is dead, Fox. They're all dead. The only one left is Five. He's
still with me." He turned the face of the android to him as he spoke.
"Aren't you, my angel?" He turned back to Fox. "You're going to join them
soon. The machines have been given your number."
As Fox stared up at him, afraid without knowing why, the crowd that had
pressed in all around him began to chant, "Death, death, death..." Hands
seized him and began to drag him away in the direction they'd taken Alex.
He fought, but bound the way he was, there was little that he could do.
They dragged him out and tossed him down beside Alex once again.
He could see that Alex had been painted with strange symbols, black and
purple, magical in their format. His clothing had been cut from his body,
and he was laid out in a star formation, tethered at wrists, ankles and
neck. Seconds later, he felt himself seized and stripped roughly. Shortly,
he was flat on his back beside Alex, and he had designs painted all over his
shrinking flesh, pentagrams and cabbalistic signs.
The hippies that had made them ready didn't speak to either of them, merely
prepared them, and although Fox tried hard to get one or another of them to
talk, they remained silent, other than the low chant of "Death, death,
death."
As the sun began to go down, and the shadows lengthened, poking black
fingers into the overgrown clearing, they found themselves alone.
"Alex?" Fox tried to see his companion, craning his neck until the metal
clamp bit into his flesh. "Are you okay? Tell me you're okay." He writhed
in his bonds, but they were metal, and firm. There was no way he would get
free. A faint croak from Alex confirmed that he was indeed alive.
"Why are we out here? What's going to happen?" Fox was thinking out loud,
but as he spoke, there was a strange, coughing grunt from the shadows, and
suddenly his blood ran cold. A huge tiger stood within ten feet of them, a
great cat, solid and muscled, his white muzzle the only easily distinguished
part of him. As Fox moaned in fear, the creature began to pad towards him,
a thing of encroaching shadow itself in the gathering darkness. "Oh, fuck."
The creature had reached Alex, who was staked a little closer to the animal,
and now it leaned down towards his face. Fox closed his eyes, unable to
watch, as the man that had meant so much to him in some unknown past time
became so much bloody meat.
He missed what happened next. He missed the flaring fire that forced the
animal back from where it stood, although he felt the searing heat of its
passing. He opened his eyes to see Mace standing above him, while Druid
wielded the flamethrower from which his salvation had erupted.
Mace took care of the bonds that held them in very short order, yanking the
metal loose and tossing it away. As Fox clambered to his feet, Mace moved
to release Alex.
"Hurry. We need to be away from here before they discover your escape.
Zom-Zom won't tolerate losing his sacrifice. We got the scoop from
Celadon." Mace was already leading them away from the hippie's habitat as
he spoke. Both Alex and Fox were now naked, and the night was chilly. "We
need to reach the place where the resistance is camped."
Ploughing through thick undergrowth without benefit of footwear quickly
rendered the two humans' feet into a bloody, bruised mess. When at last
they reached a low, concrete building, and Druid gave a long, gliding
whistle that was answered in kind, the two men almost burst into tears, so
much in pain were they. As the door was opened, and light streamed out,
revealing a small room that contained several men, both Fox and Alex felt
relief flow from them in waves. Here, at least, they could be safe for the
night.
In the enclave, Spender had dissected three of the remaining Mac 27s. The
fetal brain tissue that had been the heart of each replica died without the
protection and nutrients of the Mac 27s skull pan. The blank faced Elites
returned empty handed when he sent for the next ones to question. The flat
mechanical voice said, "They are gone."
"Where?" Spender screeched, pounding on the mindless brute with his fists.
"That information is not available in my data banks," the Elite said.
Laughter greeted that. General Howell leaned in the doorway and said, "I
told you that it was dangerous to keep Mulder alive and now I find that
someone did the same with that bastard, Alex Krycek. Idiots! Do you all
think with your cocks? A warm hole is a warm hole and I prefer them young
and squirming. Got a harem full of pregnant bitches to show how much more
productive that is. My genes will repopulate the world."
"Is that so? Well, you weren't doing very well against Krycek, were you?
It was my idea to lure him with Mulder or he'd still be out there," Spender
said. He drew a deep drag on his cigarette, not even a Morley, some sort of
Turkish tobacco, which was rich and mellow. He disliked it almost enough
not to smoke at all.
"You've had your uses, Spender, but you're not adapting. I'm going to go
after them, your Krycek and Mulder, those troublesome replicas, and whatever
rebels I can find. It's time to take back the Earth instead of huddling
down here in this sewer," the general said.
"It's not safe," Spender said.
"Come now. If Alex Krycek could survive it, I'm sure I can. Do you want to
be a man and come along?" Howell said, puffing up his bodybuilder's frame
like a strutting pigeon.
"No," Spender said, rolling another cigarette in the machine that Mulder had
found in one of his brief expeditions into the topside neighborhood. "I
think you will find that Alex Krycek has a talent for survival. He could be
twice as dangerous with Fox Mulder at his side."
"Coward," Howell said, "when I return with proof that the city is fit for
habitation with Mulder and Krycek's heads on lances in front of me, you are
going to step down from the council. I might even let you live just to
amuse myself as I watch you scrub the latrines."
"We'll see," Spender said, knowing at last why he had always disliked this
blustering idiot. For the first time in a long history with the two men, he
genuinely wished them well. Unlike Howell, he was quite content to remain
below. Like Lucifer, he preferred to reign in hell rather then serve in
heaven.
Uncle, also known as Mac 27 Number 16, led his band silently through the
tunnels and traps of the escape route. At every step along the way, they
came upon traces of the previous escape. There were forty of them,
including Uncle, all in good repair. They carried the supplies they had
been able to find as it would take time to develop their own resources.
Squatting, Uncle examined the gnawed bones in the path, satisfying himself
that they were rodent not human. A tinkling of bells announced Dulcet. He
was a sex model and his master had pierced his ears, nipples, and scrotum
with hoops that held tiny bells. He appeared about twenty and had lashes so
long that his eyes often drooped from the weight. He really ought to be
modified once they were free although he was a vain little fluff, the most
reluctant of the replicas to be persuaded to leave. Dulcet had needed to be
brought to see what Spender had done to the first three Mac 27s before he'd
really accepted that his pampered life was over in the enclave.
Brushing back a sweep of ruby embossed ebony hair, Dulcet said, "They are
not human?"
"Rats," Uncle announced. With a smile, he asked, "How are you doing?"
"Frightened and very sad," Dulcet replied honestly. "I wish at least we
could have asked Conner if he would like to come with us. He's not like the
others; he really loves me."
"Perhaps," Uncle agreed diplomatically. He somewhat doubted that. The men
and women who lived in the enclave did not regard Mac 27s as anything more
than sex toys and beasts of burden. Conner Howell's father was one of the
cruelest of the Enclave elders. It was difficult to believe that the son
was any better although Howell was as cruel a parent as he was a master.
Uncle had seen Howell beat the boy when he'd refused to give up Dulcet, a
present from Carl Spender.
Uncle frowned; Howell was a dangerous man, one who loved to hunt and
fearless. He had few usable weaknesses, apart from his penchant for cruelty
and his violent temper. Uncle preferred the type of human who could be
seduced or flattered into cooperation. Howell had no such weakness. There
was no way to subvert him without getting hurt.
A scream sounded and pretty little Dulcet screamed, "Conner!"
Not fast enough to catch the other replica, Uncle followed, flanked by two
of the soldier-programmed Mac 27s. Rounding the corner, they found Dulcet
backed into a corner, protecting his former owner who was already bleeding
badly from several rat bites. The soldiers moved in, lifting the rats over
their heads and cracking their spines. The squeals and the smell of rat
urine filled the air. Intelligent animals, the rats retreated. They
already knew that Mac 27s were not good food for them.
"Lover, lover," Dulcet chanted as he cleaned and bandaged Conner's wounds.
Howell's son looked nothing like him. He must have looked like his mother,
his "trophy" wife from the Time Before. He had long curly red hair, big
green eyes, and a very pale complexion. He was slender and neatly made,
nearly as pretty as a Mac 27. He looked at Uncle, pointed little cleft chin
stubbornly tilted, heart shaped and soft lips drawn tight.
"Where he goes, I go. I love him," the human declared.
Amused now, Uncle agreed, "Perhaps you really do. This will not make our
escape easier."
The human looked stricken, but valiantly said, "I'll fight. Dad made me
learn how to defend myself."
Uncle shrugged and said, "I will put it to the others."
Helping Conner to his feet, Dulcet stated, "Whatever you decide, I won't
leave him. I told you he loved me."
The joy that lit the pretty replica's face touched Uncle. He hoped the
others would agree. He never wanted to have the Enclavist's values. True
love was something rare and valuable.
Uncle watched the small human insist on carrying his own weight. He looked
resolute and perhaps more competent then his first appearance had
demonstrated. However, the old Replica shuddered at the thought of Howell's
rage when he discovered that his oldest son had defied him.
This brought out a new view of Dulcet. The soft, pampered replica was very
willing to fight for his lover. The other Mac 27s stood in a circle, menace
in the inherent cat-sleekness of their bodies. Forty pairs of green eyes
glowed in the dimly lit cave. Almost as one, they came to their conclusion.
"He is a weakness, but let the children come along. We are not humans to
cast one of our own out for whom he loves." Force, the leader of the ten
soldiers concluded.
Murmurs of agreement sounded. Uncle smiled to see his faith in his own kind
supported. Conner said, "You won't regret this."
Conner said, "I read that some humans would give the family of their beloved
a wedding gift. I took this from my father's safe. I believe it is the
manufacturing process for Mac 27s so you can repair yourself or even make
more if you need."
A disc glowed in the human's hand. Uncle took it, booted up his anti-virus
programs and firewalls, and inserted the disc into his outside interface
portal. It was exactly what Conner Howell said that it was. Good humored,
Uncle said, "I think this is an acceptable bride price. I hope you don't
mind if we wait to celebrate."
Quickly, Uncle passed the disc to another Mac 27. This continued until
every replica carried the secret of their manufacture. Dulcet and Conner
walked alertly, but hand in hand. Uncle wondered if this was something new,
a vision of a future in which replicas and humans would be equal, able to
love each other as one intelligent being with another?
The littlest puppies whined and snuffled on the refurbished bed in Celadon's
home. The mother, one of the Irish wolfhounds, rested her head on his knee.
He petted her beautiful, stiffly furred head, and sighed. He was restless
and still deep in shame. How could he have done the awful things that he
had been doing? He really had acted as if he was one of his abusive
masters.
Unable to cope with his own thoughts, Celadon whistled up a hunting pack.
From the coursing Greyhounds to the swift and tenacious terriers, the pack
was capable of almost anything. He was convinced that if Alex needed help
in the future, that the pack would be one of his secret resources. Perhaps
then, Celadon would have earned part of his redemption.
The pack brought down two huge rats, which surprised Celadon who seldom saw
these creatures on the surface. The mutated species mostly stayed below.
Making sure that the creatures were not infected with the oil, Celadon
directed the bigger dogs to drag the prey home. He had trained them to work
as a team and to share food even more readily then a wolf pack. These giant
rodents weighed at least fifty pounds apiece. That was a good meal for most
of the pack. The others, the ones who accompanied him, would find more
prey. It was amazing to see the range of creatures that bred in the park
that surrounded the former zoo. Celadon had seen three adult gorillas a few
weeks ago, one even clasping an infant. He would like to persuade those to
join the pack. Their almost human appearance would be a new kind of
companionship.
The memory of how near he had come to ravishing Fox Mulder hurt Celadon.
How he wished that there was a replica with that face, the dark layers of
many colored hair, the clear hazel eyes, the fascinating mouth with the
pouting softness of that wonderful lower lip, and even the arrogant thrust
of Mulder's imperfectly large nose! He was deeply grieved that he had hurt
Alex's lover, but he wished that he could just once have known an embrace
with Mulder...he had never had sex with tenderness and love, only been used
by greedy and cruel men.
The pack's meandering had carried him though the Hilton's gang territory.
The two gangs here gave him no trouble. They fled before the dogs in
terror. Celadon supposed stories about him kept the gang's children in
line.
Back that way was the big enclave under the former FBI building. Celadon
decided to check on the shrines the rebels had made for Walter Skinner and
Dana Scully. It had seemed right to entomb first Dana and then Walter in
the building, which had been the stage for much of their adult lives.
Celadon had always kept his faith with them, making sure that no one and
nothing disturbed the stone tomb they had built in the basement.
As Celadon approached the Hoover building, the dogs bristled as a heap of
rubbish stirred. His mission was forgotten for the moment. The dusty head
of a Mac 27 emerged, followed by a weapon bearing hand.
Celadon knew him. "Force!" he yelled. "Force, are you free?"
Other Mac 27s emerged. Celadon saw Uncle, Frost, Avatar, Byron, and so many
of the others climb out and stand in the rubble-strewn street. He was
somewhat startled when a pretty sex-model Mac 27 pulled a human out of the
hole. The pretty young man collapsed in near exhaustion in the street and
the replica enfolded him in his arms. Four more soldiers followed after
which Uncle said, "That's all of us, all of the remaining Mac 27s from the
enclave."
It was so much smaller a number then Celadon remembered. He felt angry
again, wondering what happened to the others. When he had fled the enclave,
there had been at least a hundred of his kind left below. The humans had
used the Mac 27s harshly to leave only this many.
Uncle explained, "A few have found freedom as you did. They have joined the
rebels, but twenty-three were lost to the outside or to the cruelty of
humans below. We just lost Blaze, Thomas, and Adam to Spender."
The human struggled to his feet, holding onto the Replica who looked the
same age as he appeared to be, somewhere between eighteen and twenty. He
said, "It's okay, Dulcet, I can do this."
Celadon watched the almost too pretty replica wind around his human
companion. Well, there was someone who was far from lonely. He nodded and
said, "Best to be away from here. Elites patrol this territory."
"I'm afraid that it will be worse than that. They will be hunting us,
especially since the young human is General Howell's son," Uncle replied.
"That is unfortunate," Celadon remarked. "But we may turn their hunt back
on them. Come, brothers, I have a place that is safe for now."
Feeling happy despite the increased danger, Celadon led his people to
freedom.
This was amusing, Spender thought, as he heard Howell roaring like a wounded
bull. So Conner had the spunk to run away at last. Disobedient sons did so
aggravate a man. Discipline was necessary, sometimes firm, even fatal
discipline.
Blinking his eyes, Spender puffed on his cigarette. He had seen Conner's
fascination with the replicas from the first. It had been easy enough to
spend a little time with the boy, flip through a few pictures and see what
he responded to. Dulcet had been a work of art, as carefully constructed
and programmed as any replica had ever been. Spender had thought of it as
an investment, a way to get a supporter in the enemy camp. It had paid off
differently, but that was not a problem. If Mulder and Alex had made him
appear foolish, Howell looked just as idiotic now. More so, as he was
rushing about, raving as he forced as few reluctant humans to join the troop
of Elite replicas. Spender almost inhaled too much smoke in his irritation
over that stupid name. These androids were next to useless in his opinion.
The trouble with mindlessly obedient subordinates was they were not capable
of adapting to changes in the environment on their own.
Howell growled as he stomped by in full armor, ventilator, and goggles,
"What about you, Spender? Are you man enough to do something on your own?
Why don't you come with me?"
Turning around decisively, Spender said, "I prefer to delegate. That's the
mark of an efficient leader. Do carry on though, Howell, but I would be
very careful. Krycek and Mulder are nearly unstoppable as a team. That's
why I took caution to keep them at odds in the past. I really do wish you
well."
As he returned to his quarters to contemplate making at least one or two new
Mac 27s, Spender thought, *I wish you a deep, oil-filled well and a lit
match, dear General Howell.*
This should prove very interesting. He would see how his boys stood up to a
trained soldier like Howell, who had the intelligence of a killer whale
combined with the bloodthirsty intensity of a shrew. He'd place his money
on Mulder and Krycek... if money meant anything in this world and if anyone
would care to take the bet.
*Be on your toes, Alex and Mulder, the great beast of the apocalypse is on
your trail...*
At his home, Celadon lifted the boldest of the Wolfhound puppies and held
its fat, wiggling sweetness to his face to kiss it and be kissed back.
Smiling he offered the puppy to one of the other Mac 27s and said, "It is a
child dog; they are good companions."
The curious nature of his kind yielded to play after a few moments. Puppy
licks and mock growls resounded as the group of Mac 27s learned to the
nature of fun. Conner Howell and Dulcet wiggled on the bed in a heap of
puppies; to Celadon, they seemed no more mature. He would like to send them
ahead, out of danger. Let them keep their innocence.
Celadon said, "I would like those most experienced at fighting humans to
stay. The rest I would like to bring my dogs to safety—other than my best
hunting pack."
Lifted his head from nuzzling Dulcet's neck, Conner said, "I've been trained
to fight. My father made sure of that. Perhaps Dulcet should go ahead
though."
Remembering that young ones had their foolish pride, Celadon gravely said,
"I want you to take a message to my friends, the Lone Gunmen, and from
there, go on and bring the information about how to repair and build my kind
to the camp. This is an important mission. Are you able to perform it?"
Scrambling up, Conner said, "You won't be sorry. Dulcet and I won't let
anyone stop us."
Laying a gentle hand on the human's face, Celadon again felt the sting of
shame. How could he have forgotten how noble human kind could be in his
hatred of the evil of species?
Uncle would stay with Celadon along with Force, Avatar, Frost, Iskander, Sun
Wu, Charm, Leo, and ten others, who were well-trained and honed warriors.
The others would move ahead, carrying the puppies to the safety of the rebel
camp. Celadon would have preferred to see Uncle go with the camp-bound
Replicas, but his old friend refused. He liked to be in the thick of
things.
Leaving Uncle behind to organize the groups, Celadon ran ahead. He was
eager to see Alex again, to find out if he would be allowed to fight by his
side once more. He only hoped Mulder would forgive him, knowing that
Celadon would never forgive himself.
His finest war dogs keeping pace, Celadon ran, even more graceful than the
pair of Russian Wolfhounds, more enduring than the hardy Staffordshire Bull
Terriers. Only the Greyhounds could keep pace with him. His hair streamed
behind him, unbound. His long limbs were sure upon the ground like a
gazelle's. His face was uplifted to the wind, lips open as if to a lover's
kiss. His wild eyes gazed upon the limitless horizon. He was Celadon and
he was free.
Morning dawned, and Alex woke by degrees. He'd been so used to snatching
what sleep he could that he'd crashed hard once he arrived at the shelter.
Waking was a voluptuous, delicious experience. He stretched, aware of both
the softness of the bed in which he lay, and the warm body that lay close
beside him.
There was a calm about the place that they were in, despite the knowledge
that outside were predators who sought their downfall. Looking around him,
Alex could see that both Mace and Druid had been repaired during the night,
and that their flesh once more glowed whole and luminous. They had both
shut down for the night, but as they lay, arms around each other, Alex felt
a flood of sympathy wash over him—sympathy and more. Looking at the two
of them, lost in whatever dreams androids were capable of dreaming, Alex
suddenly knew with a great certainty that there would some day be a world in
which they could all be free from the predators that beset them at every
turn.
Turning to study his own, human love, Alex felt a lump in his throat. Fox
was his. How and why this was so he had no way of knowing, but he felt it
with all of his being. As Fox slumbered on, Alex bent to dust him with
kisses, a delicate homage to the man by his side.
Gentle he was, but still Fox stirred, warm and sleepy, to stretch his own
lean frame and yawn as he shook off the cloudy remnants of sleep.
"Good morning, love." Alex's voice was soft and throaty, teasing Fox's ears
as it brushed them like fur, and Fox blinked, stirred, pounced to hold Alex,
to wrestle him down onto his back and apply his lush mouth to the task of
kissing Alex senseless.
Kiss led to kiss. Mouths grew demanding, forcing cries and yelps from both
of them as they explored each other's bodies without fear of being overtaken
by peril.
Passion heightened steadily as they strove together, and little by little,
they discovered the places on each other that felt good, pausing to evoke
the sweetest of sensations as they touched, stroked and caressed. When at
last Alex stooped to lick and suck at Fox's penis, it was a blinding
pleasure that he had newly learned to give, and which in turn gave him the
sharpest of joy. As Fox scooted around to reciprocate, he believed that his
life had just begun, and that there had never been such delicious joy
before. The shattering force of orgasm overwhelmed him, and he cried out,
stiffened and burst as the waves of pleasure washed him clean of need and
left him at peace.
Lying in his lover's arms, bathed in sweat, Alex had a vision. He was
standing, supplicant before a desk, supremely uncomfortable in unaccustomed
suit and tie, holding out his hand while his Fox sat, challenging and
resentful as he ignored the gesture. He heard himself speaking to Fox as
Fox glared at him, unshaven and rumpled.
"Krycek, Alex Krycek."
As he spoke the words out loud, Fox, who had been nuzzling over his ear,
suddenly froze.
"Scully? I remember... Alex, where is she? She was taken." Alex frowned.
Almost, he could remember. Vague images, splintered like shards of
diamond, coruscated inside thoughts that were thundercloud dark.
"I don't know, Fox." He shivered. Somehow, he knew that the images for
which he strove would not be comforting. He and Fox slowly disentangled
themselves and staggered out of bed to seek the day, their joy unaccountably
shadowed.
After showering and breakfasting, the two men found themselves clean
coveralls and boots to replace those that they had lost. As Alex rummaged
through the supplies of clothing, pulling out soft cotton underwear and
socks to wear beneath their outer garments, Fox sought out the Androids that
manned the outpost and checked out what was happening outside the bunker.
Druid had returned to active mode, and was consuming a bar of fuel with
evident enjoyment. Mace was nowhere to be seen when Fox returned to give
them a brief rundown on the things that had occurred during their long
sleep. Druid smiled lazily and said that Mace had gone on an errand that
was important to him, and to the Mac 27s in general, and that he would be
back shortly.
After all of the stress and excitement of their journey, it was difficult
just to take things easy and rest. Alex found himself twitching as he tried
to relax, and Fox seemed to grow ever wilder as he paced to and fro within
the confines of the small living area. Druid merely sat, motionless as a
statue, smiling as he amused himself by replaying memories that were dear to
him.
Several times they heard the distant sounds of fighting. Alex had stretched
out on the bed, knowing that he should rest while resting was still
possible, but Fox had prowled himself into a rare taking, and gone to harass
the pair of Mac 27s who were currently manning the outpost. They were a
bonded pair named Hilt and Blade, and under Fox's careful questioning, they
began to tell about the reason for the outpost. Since Alex had been lost to
the resistance, and Fox with him, they had maintained a watch on the
downtown core in case an opportunity ever arose to affect a rescue. They
had believed both Fox and Alex to be dead, but the watch had nevertheless
been maintained. Frohike had insisted. Both Hilt and Blade felt that it
was more as a tribute to lost comrades than a true belief that they would
find them. They were still astonished at the presence of the two men, whom
they had believed lost forever.
When the door to the outside finally opened, it was to admit Mace, who
crowed with triumph and stood, a little tattered but jubilantly holding
aloft a bundle of rainbow cloth.
"I got him."
The other two moved swiftly, barring the door once more and setting the
alarm to warn of imminent attack. Alex sat up at this.
"What? Who have you got?"
Mace moved to the table and deposited his burden, unwrapping it with care.
"It's Five. Once I knew where he was, I couldn't leave him with Matheson
and his bunch of crazies. Richard Matheson hasn't been the same since he
had a rebel shape shifter plammed in his drawing room."
Mace had discovered from Blade just what had happened to the erstwhile
Senator. He'd totally refused to believe in the alien threat, and when
Five, who had been placed with him by Mulder, saved him from a fiery death,
he'd seemed to become catatonic for a while.
"I don't think that the stupid bastard even realized that he was in danger
until Five leapt to his rescue." Of course, once he'd recovered his senses,
he had been totally insane. The android that had saved his life had been
decapitated while shut down and helpless, and Matheson had run for the park,
there to become what they had seen.
"We can recover Five. His brain is intact. All we need is a body for him."
Mace took his gristly burden into the small laboratory facility in the
back. "One of the Elite would do. They have no sentience."
Hilt had been listening to the radio, and now he got up and came to where
Mace and Blade stood looking at the head of Five.
"It's not good news. We're going to have to move out. There's no time for
that now. The Macs have broken free and now there's an army on the march
after them. Howell is with them, as is Spender. We will be marooned here
if we don't leave soon. When Celadon arrives we should be ready to go with
them." Hilt was packing equipment efficiently as he spoke. "Frohike and
Byers are at the top end of the park. We should move out and go to join
them as soon as we can."
The others began collecting items as Hilt designated them, tossing them into
hold-alls and backpacks. In a matter of twenty minutes they were ready to
go, and in another five there was a knock on the door and Celadon was there,
accompanied by a pair of mastiffs that stood back, tongues lolling as they
grinned. Gathering the equipment together they left the place where they
had found respite and went to join the band of androids that Uncle and
Celadon were leading.
Howell was angry. His son was a disobedient, effeminate disgrace to his
name, and this pursuit he'd entered into was as much to bring Conner back
for punishment, as it was to eliminate the resistance.
C. G. B. Spender had come along. Howell had seen to that. Bereft of his
Mac 27 victims, Spender had turned his attentions to the Elites, but without
the spark of humanity that the more complex androids possessed, tormenting
the Elites was empty of pleasure. He had begun to pray that they would
catch up with the fugitives as soon as possible, because lacking an outlet
for his lusts he was beginning to feel old and ill.
He was certainly too old for this forced march stuff, and saw no reason why
he should put up with it, but deep down he was afraid of Howell. The man
seemed to have no real weaknesses. His fury seemed directed at the entire
universe.
Creaking bones and all, Spender could not rest. His mind tormented him with
visions of Mulder and Krycek, sleek beautiful men, so bright of mind, so
dauntless of spirit. He had had them both in his hands. What foolishness
had led him to even let them out of his sight? He should have kept them
chained to his side constantly like that stupid actress in the movie. When
he got them back, he would tame them. They would fawn under his hands like
puppy dogs...
Meanwhile, one of the soldiers would have to do. He couldn't stand the idea
of using one of the spiritless Elite again. They did nothing for him; they
were the mere shell of Alex's beauty without the fire and the darkness. He
had always thought an Alex who was totally his slave would please him, but
he was wrong. He wanted him enslaved, but there must be the horror and
revulsion beneath the defeat. To take Alex with the fire of rebellion held
concealed in his eyes, ah, that was love.
As for Mulder, Spender would possess him too. They would be his toys, his
playthings, and never again thwart his needs. He'd been a fool to ever
think that good would come of letting Mulder's flame touch the fuse that was
Alex Krycek. It had ruined his plans yet again.
Smirking, Spender devoured the fear that followed his emergence from the
tent. The soldiers who huddled together in groups, terrified of this alien
outside world, tried to fade back into the darkness. He snapped, "Stand
forward!"
General Howell laughed and said, "Spender, don't incapacitate any more of my
men. That would make me very angry."
"I just want company," Spender said, "him."
The previous night, he had not spotted this young soldier with green eyes
and dark hair. He would do. He was not as exotic as Alex, but he was
pretty enough and young. Spender snapped his finger and turned on his heel.
The small gasp, almost a sob, thrilled him. Even if he was not allowed to
hurt the man, this could still be very amusing...
Sleeping on the damp ground still left him stiff and sore, though Frohike
kept hoping he would get used to it. John, Langly, and Dennis looked at him
as he groaned. "Damn, I never liked camping. Anything happen after I
turned in?"
"Not much. A few coyotes...nothing dangerous," Dennis said. "Old Man
Coyote is a survivor. Like us."
Langly snorted and said, "We hope. Here we are, walking into the mouth of
the dragon and we don't even know if what Frohike saw was really Alex
Krycek."
Yawning, Langly stumbled to the fire. There was bannock, hard, yeast-less
bread baked in the ashes, and coffee, real coffee that Dennis had found in
the ruins of a farmhouse on the way. Dennis sat eating oatmeal and bannock,
a blanket wrapped around his hunched shoulders. He had insisted on coming
because Alex Krycek had saved his life several times over. He wanted to go
on this mission if there was a chance that they would find the man.
"Almost done here," Dennis said.
Catherine, barren, her face twisted by scars, had stood guard. Now she
walked into camp with two young men under guard. One looked like a
twenty-year old version of Krycek and the other was a man, no older
appearing than the Mac 27. The man had red hair and green eyes. The two of
them held hands, clinging hard to each other.
"Who the hell are you?" Frohike demanded.
"Conner Howell, General Howell's son, and this is my lover, Dulcet," the
human announced.
"Yeah, a Mac 27," Frohike replied. "Langly, check Dulcet for a control box."
"He doesn't have one," the youth said, "Dulcet's with me of his own free
will. Celadon sent us to you. He wished to tell you to hurry. Mulder and
Krycek have been found and they are ready to rejoin you. We came ahead.
The remainder of the Mac 27s has either gone ahead with Celadon's dogs or
has stayed behind with Mulder and Krycek. We are pursued."
"Celadon? Celadon is alive and free?" Frohike asked. He remembered the
replica well, both for his unique looks and because of his value to the
resistance.
A smile twitched on his lips as Frohike remembered teaching Celadon to read.
From the day he had opened the old Cinema Fantastic magazine to an
illustration of "Brave Heart" Celadon had devoured everything he could find
about the Scottish and Irish fight against the English, with a Mac 27s'
endless curiosity and need to learn
"Yes, we just left him. He's going to find Mulder and Krycek with Uncle,"
the Mac 27 with all the piercings said.
Frohike noticed that Langly seemed a little nervous about the Mac 27, who
wore not a thing except tiny hoops from which dangled tiny bells. These
appended from his ears, his nipples, and from his scrotum. One tiny hoop
also pierced his delicately sculptured belly button.
"Go ahead," said the vision, a mischievous smile on his face.
Blushing furiously, Langly touched the slender and David-like abdomen
Scowling, Frohike searched his memory as Langly went over the pretty
replica. Obvious what that one was designed for. He evaluated the young
man, who he thought looked soft. Like most of the Enclavists, the boy was
deathly pale. However, apparently he had been out long enough to stop
constantly blinking from the unaccustomed natural light.
Remembering, Frohike frowned. He said, "General Howell was a world class
ass hole and tainted. He was on Mulder's list and Krycek confirmed that he
was one of the surviving Elders."
The boy shuddered and said, "I know, but I'm not him. I hate him. I've
always hated him. Dulcet's the only person I ever loved. The only person
except my mother who ever loved me. Uncle said that I would be safe if I
went to you. That Dulcet and I could be together. That's all that I want."
Stepping back from Dulcet who smoothed the pseudo-skin over his portal and
went to Conner's side, Langly said, "He's clean, no override box."
Scowling Frohike wanted to exhibit his deep down paranoia, but goddamn it
all, they were too cute. He shrugged and said, "Okay, I suppose you might
be telling the truth."
"We want to help," Conner said, "Uncle and Celadon thought we were too young
and inexperienced but we can fight. I know my father better than anyone
else. I want to bring him down. He's evil and I'm ashamed I am his son."
Frowning, Conner stood fiercely scowling at the ground. When he spoke
again, it was in a quiet voice. He said, "My father's life style was pretty
lousy. He has as many prosthetic parts as human. A disrupter would be just
as harmful to him as to a Mac 27. That's why he never handles them
directly. I don't know how we can use this, but it might be important."
Checking with his companions, Frohike found them all nodding agreement.
There were, they knew, disruptors that worked on the human nervous system
rather than the Mac 27s neural net, but this was useful information. It was
settled; the two young ones would go back although Frohike was not looking
forward to hearing what Celadon would have to say about it.
Great jaws dripping blood, one of the mastiffs shook the ragged flesh of
what had been a human throat. Alex glanced around in a panic. Where was
Mulder? All he knew was that he could not bear to lose him again. They had
almost made it to the meeting place when the Enclavists had caught up with
them. Twenty-two Mac 27s, two humans, and ten dogs strove valiantly against
an endless swarm of Elite, a large body of well-armed humans, and two tanks.
Where the hell had they kept the tanks? Alex hadn't known that there was
fuel left for the damn things.
No, now they only faced one tank... the other burned as Mace screamed a wild
cry of triumph, dancing with a head, impossible to tell whether human or one
of the Elite in the eerie scarlet light of the flames. A burning man
stumbled out of the vehicle, careening madly about in a way that sickened
Alex and reminded him of the past. He ran into two men carrying a large
metal canister and with a sudden whoosh, they too went up in flames. Seeing
that, several like-burdened pairs dropped their containers and ran in every
direction. It was chaos and Alex knew how to take advantage of that. He
hoped Mulder was all right. Alex was a soldier and no matter how much he
loved Mulder, duty had always, would always, come first.
Using the distraction, Alex and Celadon, side by side, cut a wedge through
the human soldiers as the Mac 27s ran interference with the Elite who were
handicapped by their lack of independent thought. Alex felt something brush
his arm. With Mulder, his lover at his side, Alex felt invincible.
From between the ruined buildings that formed the trap into which Mulder and
Alex had stumbled, a chilling war whoop sounded. "Mulder! Alex!" yelled
familiar voices.
The Long Gunmen joined the fray. Alex nudged his Mulder and said, "Head for
them. We can punch our way out of here. I think Mace is all the way out
the other side by now, but the rest of us can't get though that mess."
Breathlessly, the small group forced their way out. Alex could hear
authoritative voice shouting. A wedge of Elite marched mindlessly in,
clockwork soldiers, but effective when all they had to do was push forward
and shoot. The Mac 27s were wearing armor and protecting the handful of
humans, but it was touch and go.
White-hot fire stung Alex's shoulder, the right one. He felt a moment's
dizziness and started to fall.
A hand dragged Alex into the alley. He looked up into Byer's bespectacled
face and whooped, "John!"
"Yes, we thought you were dead. Come on, we're retreating." Byers said.
"Wait, wait, Mulder was with me! Where is he? Fuck you! Let me go! Let
me go! I have to find him!" Alex wailed.
Someone, Celadon by the length of the hair, threw Alex over his shoulder and
as he started to run, Alex felt his grip on consciousness ooze away. He
thought he heard Mulder shouting his name from some place far away. His
hand reached back helplessly... Mulder!
His hands and feet were bound with wire, and it cut into his wrists
painfully. He lay still, waiting for the nausea to subside, and when the
cold water battered his face with the force of a blow, he welcomed it as his
head cleared.
Looking around him now, he could see only the stiff, somehow distasteful
shapes of members of the Elite. Alex's face atop the mechanoids' bodies was
still a sight that choked him with pity. His lover was so full of life that
the dull, uncomprehending expressions worn by the replicas seemed to him
almost a blasphemy.
"Help me? Is there anyone there who can help me?" He called out, but there
seemed to be nobody who could—or would—assist. "Come on, you bastards,
kill me or let me go!" he screamed. A Mac glanced at him incuriously before
moving off on his own business, stilted gait demonstrating his origins.
Mulder sighed. He was a prisoner, and therefore a liability. He had to do
something to get himself out of this situation quickly. His fragmented
memory was prompting him, telling him that this had happened before, and
that Alex had given himself up to save him. He couldn't allow the same
thing to happen again, no matter what.
He cast about him, trying to find some way of freeing his hands. The Elite
were all around him, but none of them seemed to be paying him any attention.
Rolling over onto his side, he attempted to sit and, having achieved a more
upright posture, propped himself against one of the backpacks that had been
piled in a heap beside him. The position adjustment caused his head to swim
once again, and he closed his eyes, praying that the sensation would soon
cease.
Time passed, and he became aware of something sharp sticking into his back.
He squirmed his way up until he succeeded in getting his fingers to the pack
against which he was leaning, and began to worm them inside the pocket in an
attempt to discover what the hell the obstruction might be. He scrabbled
and fidgeted, until finally the object came free. It was a tool of some
description, long handled and smooth, with a rough end to it that would have
served as a rasp. He turned it until it was rough side uppermost and began
to saw the wire to and fro against it.
It took forever. The pain in his wrists was agonizing, and by the time the
strands parted there was blood smearing the packs, his arms were swollen and
his fingers blue. The pain of returning circulation was appalling. He
gritted his teeth as it burned and seared. Finally, he managed to overcome
the residual agony and his hands began to work at his behest once more.
He turned his attention towards freeing his feet, not daring to show that
his hands were free, despite the inattentive Elite. He wedged the rasp into
a cleft in the stack of luggage that he was resting against and swung his
legs around until he could work on the wire. He could feel with sick
certainty that he was going to be discovered, but he had to try. All about
him, the dull faced Elite came and went, paying him no attention as he sawed
away with his feet against the cruel wire that bound them
When it parted at last and released his legs, the sudden mad rush of
adrenaline made him feel faint. There seemed to be no notice taken of him
at that point, and he wondered if he could in fact make his escape, or
whether his movement would trigger the Macmen into action. Huddling in
against the mound of equipment, Mulder began to search for something he
would be able to use as a weapon.
Alex woke with a groan, and with the gummy feeling of plastiflesh adhering
to his shoulder, his flesh arm somehow unable to move the way it usually
did. He was aware of pain, somehow distant, meaningless, and concluded
without humor that he was still alive. He tried to move and Byers stepped
into his vision, urging him to remain still.
"What the hell happened? Where's Mulder?" The husky voice growled low, and
Byers looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"He... he's not here, Alex." Alarm bells began ringing in Krycek's mind at
the Gunman's tone. Despite the urging from Byers, Alex struggled to sit,
ignoring the scream of pain from his abdomen, and paused, shuddering as he
waited for the resulting nausea to die away.
"Where the fuck is he?" Alex had become very intense, very suddenly, and
his aches and pains were forgotten in the chill of finding that his love was
missing. "Who let him be...? A thought occurred to him and his voice was
thick with pain. "He's not dead. Tell me he's not dead."
Byers could only look at Alex dumbly, unsure of how to answer him. The man
struggled to his feet, regardless of the injuries that he had only just been
treated for, and his bare feet smacked the tiles with a noise that sounded
final. Alex Krycek was going to find his lover.
"Don't, Alex. You need to rest." Byers could have manhandled Alex back
into the bed, save for the intimidating air about the injured man. As it
was, he found himself running beside him down the corridor, an attendant
satellite orbiting the sun as Alex strode towards the room that had been set
up as a laboratory.
He was still dancing around Alex, unable to halt his progress, when they
entered the lab. Frohike was working on the bench, black goggles that
performed some mysterious function attached to his face, with wires
protruding from them connected to the nearby computer. Langly was calling
out readings to him, and neither of them looked up when Alex entered.
Langly called out a stern "Wait," and returned to his task while Alex, clad
in righteous indignation and many bandages, fumed at his side.
At last, whatever careful work they were doing seemed to conclude itself,
and Frohike removed the goggles, straightening up from his position on the
bench.
"It will be at least 24 hours before we know whether it's been successful.
He's been without a circulatory system for some time. It depends on the
condition of the CSF, and also on whether he has managed to retain his
sanity, or whether he went nuts with all of the things that Matheson did to
him." He turned to Alex, his small, toad-like face flickering through a
variety of expressions before settling on one that he obviously thought
would conceal the compassion he felt. "Hey, Alex," he said. His attempt to
be bluff and hearty falling somewhat flat, "How are you feeling?"
Alex was in no mood for being humored. He fixed the three men with a
basilisk stare, and felt only momentary amusement when they shrank together,
huddling as if to find safety in numbers. "Where's Fox? John here told me
that he was dead. What did you do with the body?"
"No." It was Langly who spoke, but the other two reflected the word with
their body language. "He's not dead. We have no proof that he's dead. He
was taken—Mace saw him dragged away by a group of Elite, but he was still
alive. We've got parties out looking for him. Nobody's called in to tell
us they've found him."
Alex's heart stuttered. Fox might not be dead? Suddenly it seemed that the
world was worth saving once more, though he was appalled to think that Fox
might be delivered into the hands of Spender once more. His death would be
terrible. Spender would... He didn't want to think of the things that
Spender might do to his lover.
"Where? How long ago? I have to go and find him." As the three Gunmen
began to brief Alex, he relaxed a little, permitting Byers to find him some
clothing and a restorative drink. He felt like death, but there was no way
he was going to stand idly by when his lover was in such grave danger.
Mace had stumbled in, dripping lubricant from tears in his flesh, and
disdainfully tossed the inert body of an Elite down onto the floor. There
was temporary chaos—a flurry of action as Druid, who had come in an hour
earlier and who was in the middle of a repair cycle, flung himself on his
lover.
Mace grinned at Frohike. "Your wish is my command." He toed the fallen
Elite once, and then turned to Druid, sweeping him into a kiss that was long
and fervent, charged with a desperation that was almost palpable. Frohike
eyed the figure that was slumped on the ground.
"I don't know if we need him any more. I've got Five all fixed up. We're
just seeing whether the fluid replacement will work, or whether he's been
out of service for far too long. What the hell are we going to do with this
thing? Use him as a coat rack? Jeesh, if only there was a way to get
inside one of these things, and take it back to disable all the others, the
war would be over." Frohike punched Mace on the shoulder in a friendly
fashion, and turned to go back to his 'patient'.
There was a pause. Druid was tugging at Mace, trying to take him away to
repair him, Alex had sat down, his injury threatening to overcome him, but
he'd heard Frohike's words, and he was frowning, a thought just out of his
reach taunting him.
Druid's scolding diverted his attention momentarily, but pretty soon he
returned to his contemplation of the fallen and deactivated Elite.
"Ringo?" Alex's voice called Langly back from the supervision of Mace's
repair, and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hands, polished his
glasses with the hem of his tattered T-Shirt, and returned to Alex's side,
crouching down to hear what his friend wanted. "How easy is it to program
one of these things? Could we send one in with our instructions overriding
its own?"
Langly sat down on the floor next to the Elite, and began to pop open the
service drawers, face frowning in deep thought. Alex, very pale now,
remained where he was, holding on desperately to consciousness.
"It could be done, I think. The only problem with these suckers is that
they are remotely operated, and someone with a console close at hand would
automatically be able to override the instructions we'd build in. It would
be better to yank the receiver, install one of our own on a different
frequency, and operate it as one wanted." Langly took a quick look at Alex,
who was white lipped and obviously close to passing out. "Want me to try?"
Unable to speak, Alex nodded. "Okay, but it's gonna take an hour or two.
I'll give it a shot if you'll go back to bed while I work, okay?"
"You got it." Alex's voice was suddenly very high and young sounding, and
he slowly lowered his head to rest it on his knees. Langly, shaking his
head, called for Mace, and neither he nor Druid, who had accompanied him,
needed to be told what the problem was. Stooping easily to pick Alex up,
the two of them bore him away back to his bed, leaving Langly happily at
work on the body of the Elite.
Mulder had not been fed, or given a drink. He was desperately thirsty, and
it seemed to him that he was not being paid the slightest notice. The Elite
were still all about him, but it seemed that many were now on their rest
cycles. He scrutinized the surrounding area, hoping against hope that there
would be a possibility of escape. It seemed that there were no sentries
close at hand. He made a decision and scrambled to his feet.
Making his way towards the perimeter of the camp, he stopped to drink water
from a canteen attached to an Elite on rest-cycle, and as the water trickled
down to irrigate his parched body, he felt almost as though he had been
renewed. With fresh energy, he moved off towards freedom.
There was a guard, but he was looking outward, awaiting invasion, not back
to where Mulder lurked, and when Mulder dealt him a blow to the back of the
head with a rock that he had chosen specifically for its weight and shape,
he crumpled without a sound.
Moments later armed with an Uzi 9mm and several other weapons culled from
the unconscious body, Mulder was making his way back to the last position
where he'd seen the rebels. He was close to his goal, and possibly less
careful than he could have been, when he felt the gun at his back, and a
known, hated voice oiled over his ears.
"I had an android, and someone stole him from me. How nice to think that he
might have been returned to me." Freezing in place, Mulder waited, his
heart sinking as a cold chill surged through his belly. "Drop the gun and
raise your arms very slowly. I would hate to have to shoot you here. We
have so much to discuss."
Alex awoke because the earth was rocking. Clinging to the bed, he dragged
himself out of sleep to find that Langly was shaking him.
"Come on, dude. Wake up, I got something to show you." Groaning, Alex sat
up, trying to shake loose the cobwebs in his head. His shoulder had settled
down to a sharp, tearing pain that heralded the onset of an infection. He
knew that there were no antibiotics to hand and he wondered whether he would
make it or if he would finally succumb to the bacteria that were even now
making him light headed and a little feverish.
"It better be good, Ringo." A thought occurred to him, and for a moment he
perked up. "Did you find Fox?"
"No, I didn't find Fox. I think I've made it possible for you to go find
him yourself though." Langly was grinning in triumph, and Alex climbed out
of bed wearily, reaching for his pants as he did so.
"Okay, Ringo, what you got?" He pulled on a sweater over the T-shirt that
he wore, and then stumbled after Langly.
As they reached the lab, Frohike burst out, a huge grin on his face.
"He's alive. We got him back. He can't remember much about Richard, but
his knowledge of the Macs mean that we will be able to set up a proper
repair lab, and maybe even create them, should we need to."
"No!" Alex's voice was harsh, the single word vehement in negation.
"They've suffered enough. We won't make any more. If they want to
procreate, let them do it, but I for one am sick of playing God. It's their
decision."
Langly tugged on the edge of Alex's sweater, urging him towards the room
where he'd been working. "Come on! I want to show you what I've done." He
yanked again at Alex. "Come on," he said, insistently. Sighing, Alex
gritted his teeth and followed after Langly. Frohike looked narrowly at him
as he went, and then went to call Byers.
As Alex fetched up in the center of Langly's workshop, Langly spun around
and flung his arms wide, enthusiastically displaying his handiwork. Alex
looked without comprehension at a pair of inert Elite androids, standing
limp as though a celestial puppeteer had dropped their strings and gone off
to find something more amusing. Beyond the Macs were a couple of seats that
had been hurriedly enclosed in clear plexiglass bolted to a framework, and
Celadon was engaged in clearing away tools and offcuts from the floor.
"I came to get you as soon as I'd finished. I thought that you'd want to
get started right away." He continued to urge Alex forward. "Meet Hubris
and Omega. You're going to like them." He seized a wrench from the floor
and held it as though it were a microphone. "Tell our viewers, Mr. Hubris,
how do you see the future of the Consortium, now that we have you on board?"
Alex grinned momentarily at Langly's antics, but he was feeling really
unwell, and his powers of concentration were not up to their usual standard.
He moved unresistingly to sit in one of the chairs behind the plexiglass.
Byers came bustling in, went up to Alex and laying a hand on his forehead,
shook his head and produced a syringe.
"What the fuck is in that?" Alex jerked his chin, indicating the needle
that was approaching his arm.
"We've got a tiny supply of antibiotics. I think that it's time to use it.
We can't afford to lose you." Byers plunged the hypodermic into Alex's arm
without awaiting a reply from him, and then handed him a mug of water and
some pills.
"Here, take these, and get yourself settled. You're going to be busy."
Looking at him reproachfully from eyes that betrayed his feverish condition,
Alex placed the capsules on his tongue and took a swig of the water, then
slumped back into the seat.
"Okay, go on, do your worst. I'm ready as I'll ever be." Melvin Frohike
took the seat next to him and leaned back into the recliner, and Langly
strode around to face them, assuming a didactic air as he did so.
"What I've done is fix them up so that they can be controlled remotely."
Langly indicated a pair of virtual reality masks and assorted pads that were
attached by cable to a console in the corner. "You two are going to be my
guinea pigs. You're gonna take the roles of Hubris and Omega, and you're
gonna go in there. If Mulder's there you can free him, and then you're
gonna use the secret weapon." Langly snorted with laughter. "There's
always a secret weapon, isn't there?"
Alex raised one eyebrow, and Frohike growled. "Come on, Langly, cut to the
chase, he's impressed already." Langly performed a mocking bow and passed a
bunch of cables to Frohike.
"See, Alex, I fixed up old Hubris there to work from Mel's actions, and you
get Omega. They are tailored to your brainwaves and work by your small body
movements, which are magnified by the equipment. You should be able to
breeze in and look around for Mulder, and then, once you've found him, get
him out of there." Langly smirked at Alex, and began attaching pads to the
seated man's feet and legs. Beside him, Frohike was gearing up in a similar
fashion. "You guys here will be in control of the units, and I will monitor
your progress, help out from time to time. You'll see and hear what the
units do, and they will pass for Elite without any problems."
Krycek's eyes had widened as Langly delivered his exposition. As he began
to grasp the purpose of the equipment with which he was being fitted, he
seemed to regain some energy, seizing eagerly on the gloves and visor as
Langly equipped him with the movement sensor pads and boots. He laughed out
loud when he had donned the visor and earpiece that permitted him to see
through the android eyes.
"Are you ready to go, Alex? It's about an hour's walk to where Howell's men
are camped, and it will be dawn very shortly. I think that if you have any
chance of finding Mulder alive, it has to be done shortly. Better get
going. You'll be able to practice on the move." So saying, Langly switched
on the power, and seated himself at the console. "Okay, kiddies, let's get
this show on the road."
Lying back, Alex concentrated for a minute or two, and then began to move.
Slowly, the android responded, straightening up and then taking several
lurching steps toward the door. As Frohike's android followed, the two of
them moved clumsily, but with increasing confidence, down the corridor
towards the door, and beyond.
Mulder had been flanked by a pair of the Elite, and made to march at
gunpoint back into the camp, over to the hut that housed the command center.
Spender seemed ecstatic. Now he could vent some of his spite on a human
being that would suffer—not only that, but on Fox Mulder himself. That
thought made him smile a creased yellow smile as he forced Mulder on and
into the building.
Howell wasn't there at that moment, a fact that suited the Smoker well
enough. Briskly he had the Elite androids strap Mulder to a post, and then
sat down, gun in hand to survey his catch.
"You have no idea how happy I am to see you again, M-1," he said, oozing
grotesque good cheer from every pore.
"Cut the crap, old man. I really don't want to hear about how happy you
are. Just kill me and have done with it." Mulder's voice was scathing, and
he stood straight, silent insolence evident in the carriage of his head, the
set of his shoulders. The Smoker smiled again. He would enjoy bending
Mulder. He would start the tears flowing, and then he would bathe in them.
This would be an exquisite revenge.
Idly, he fingered his gun, and then laid it down, searching through his
pockets for a knife.
The forced march had seen Spender having to abandon his Saville Row suits in
favor of camo gear, but he still looked a picture of elegance. The grey
green drab that he wore bore knife sharp creases, and his boots were
carefully polished. Had there been an award for the best-dressed soldier,
he would certainly have been in the running. His false joviality was
terrifying to Mulder, who could remember the things he had witnessed this
man do, and he paled just a little as Spender moved towards him. Although
he would remain aloof for as long as he could, he was aware that soon he
would be begging for mercy. His one relief was that he did not know the
whereabouts of his lover, and so would not be able to give him away.
He knew beyond any doubt that Spender would force information out of him.
Gritting his teeth, he watched helplessly as Spender found his knife and set
to sharpening its already razor-sharp edge.
The two Elite androids entered the camp without occasioning any comment.
They had paused to gather a stack of wood, and were each bearing their share
as they made their way past the sentries, who eyed them incuriously and
merely noted the color of their coveralls: the yellow in which they were
dressed denoted the serf caste, and it was appropriate that they were
gathering fuel. Silently, the pair carried their burden towards the cooking
fire that was visible towards the center of the encampment.
Delivering their bundles, the two looked around them at the seemingly
endless Elite who stood or lay at rest, awaiting the dawn and a renewal of
hostilities. They had seen very few humans, around 20 altogether, and,
unsurprisingly, no sign of Spender or Howell. Passing their supplies over
to the human in charge of the commissary, each received a mug of the
nutrient drink that comprised the fuel for Elite androids. Raising the mug
to Hubris' mouth, Alex made him drink rather clumsily, spilling a little of
the liquid down his clothes as he did so.
The man who had offered him his fuel cuffed him angrily.
"Dumb creature! You aren't worth the cost of your parts," he snarled as
Hubris fell to his knees. Climbing back to stand once more, Alex looked
around, and then moved in somewhat jerkily to seize the man, bearing him
back into the supply tent, one hand covering his mouth as he did so.
"Where is Spender?" The voice that issued from Hubris' mouth was as
toneless and dispassionate as could be expected from a member of the
soulless Elite, but the quartermaster obviously noticed some anomaly, and
ceased struggling.
"Who... who are you? What are you doing here?" The man seemed shocked, but
as yet unafraid.
"Our business is with Mr. Spender," said Frohike through the mouth of Omega,
earning a sour look from his partner, who had been about to start hitting
the man that now lay amongst the sacks of beans and flour, with Hubris
sitting on his chest.
"He's where he always is, in the command hut. He doesn't like to be
disturbed when he's with a captive though." Without further ado, Alex
wrapped android fingers around the man's neck, and snapped it, only climbing
back to his feet once more when the man had ceased to twitch, and lay still.
"Command hut. It sounds like he's got Mulder. Let's go." Hubris was half
out of the tent when Omega called to him.
"Where is the command hut, Alex?" The android didn't slow down, its clumsy
steps covering the ground as it headed towards the only hut in the camp.
"My guess, Kemo Sabe, is that it's that one. I see no others. Want to
prove me wrong?" Hubris shambled gracelessly past his stationary brethren
as he hurried towards where he believed his lover to be. Frohike sighed and
started Omega after him; his movements far better coordinated than those of
his companion.
They reached the small wooden building at the same time, and for the first
time they were challenged. An Elite member wearing the black coverall that
denoted his membership of the police force—the feared androids that were
known as the 'nightmare' class—stepped out in front of them and trained a
disruptor on them.
"Why are you here? You are supposed to be on rest cycle."
Thinking quickly, Alex turned to the Nightmare. "We were sent to fetch
wood, and while we were out of the camp, we saw something we thought that
the master should know."
"You saw something? You are a laborer. How could you see anything that
would interest the master?" The Nightmare lowered the disruptor, puzzling
out the possibilities that were inherent in that concept, and finding them
utterly incomprehensible. "Tell me what it is that you saw, and I will
relay it to the master."
Frohike saw the danger as Hubris, responding to Alex's rage, drew breath to
start haranguing the android policeman, and opened his mouth, beginning to
spin a tale as rapidly as he could think it up.
"We went to find wood, and there were some men. There was a Mac 27 with
dogs. They pursued us and we returned to the camp for safety. They know
where the camp is situated. We should tell this to the master." Omega gave
Hubris what could only be described as a killing glance as he spoke, and
Hubris appeared to subside.
The Nightmare nodded. "That is something that the master should certainly
know. I will apprise him of the situation. He does not like to be
disturbed when he has a guest, but I will disturb him for this." The Elite
cop turned to enter the hut, re-holstering his disruptor as he did so, and
it proved to be the last move he ever made. Alex reached to seize him,
pulling him back as Frohike captured the disruptor and set it on full. He
placed it against the Nightmare's forehead and depressed the trigger. There
was a momentary hiss, and a smell of burned insulation as the Nightmare's
circuits were fried, and then he stiffened. As Alex released him he dropped
to the ground to lie rigid where he fell.
The two men, who were the souls of the machines in which they rode,
exchanged a speaking glance and then turned towards the door behind which
they hoped they would find Mulder. As they reached for the handle, they
heard a cry of agony, and knew that they had indeed found him.
The door was locked. A search of the fallen Nightmare revealed several
keys, none of which fit this particular door. Hubris was virtually dancing
with impatience when Frohike at last picked it open. Alex was finding it
almost impossible now to use his right arm, because the wound in his
shoulder had become so inflamed, and each move that he made felt as though
knives were being inserted beneath his skin. Back in the lab, Alex was
crying in frustration as he tried to force his overwrought and agonized body
to do his bidding.
The door swung open and Omega was first into the gloom of the hut. There
was a table to one side of the door, and on it were a number of maps and
documents, alongside a laptop computer that was currently not booted up.
Several chairs and a field cot were at the far end of the room, and tied to
brackets in the hearth, crouching on his hands and knees, was Fox Mulder.
His body was naked, and his back was striped, bloody and raw. His flesh was
bruised and livid in the early morning chill, and he was moaning, a low,
constant sound that made the hackles rise. Alex swore.
They only had a single second to take in the sight of their quarry, because
Spender turned to snarl at them, furious at being disturbed, and he was
fumbling amongst his own discarded clothing for a disruptor.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, his voice cut short by Omega, who strode
forward, a blur of motion, to snatch the disruptor from his hand. Behind
him, Hubris, Alex by proxy, had dropped to his knees to untie the bonds that
were holding Mulder to the brackets against which he was tied.
"Here for you, old man. Here to send the devil back to hell." The words
growled out of Hubris, and Spender, seemingly unafraid of the intruders,
whipped his head around to study Alex's android.
"Krycek? You here?" He stared at Hubris. "No. You aren't Krycek. You're
an Elite. How can you...?" He ceased, choking as Frohike applied pressure
to his throat.
"Never mind who I am. Where's Howell?" Hubris had released Fox, and was
attempting to get the injured man to rise. He glanced over at Omega. "We
need to get him out of here, and I don't think that I can. You take him,
Mel. I think I'm done. Leave me here and I'll keep this asshole company."
Omega nodded, passed the disruptor to Hubris and scooped Mulder up in his
arms, turning to leave the hut. As the Smoker opened up his mouth to
protest, Hubris gave a growl that made him change his mind, and he settled
down to await what came.
Melvin Frohike was a small man. He had always had big ideas—great ideas
in fact—but the fact remained that he was short in stature. He was
enjoying the freedom of riding in a body that was strong, sturdy and 6'2"
tall. He was being a hero and it was marvelous. He was rescuing his
friend, Fox Mulder, and this was the best thing of all. He strode through
the camp, with Mulder's unconscious body slung over his shoulder.
"Hell of a fox-fur collar!" he said, a propos of nothing, and then giggled a
little at the idea of wearing Mulder around his neck to go skating. He was
at the camp's perimeter when he was challenged.
"Where are you going?" The atonal voice broke into his reverie, bringing
him back down to earth with a bump.
"The master has finished with this carrion and has sent me to place it out
in the park for the wild beasts." He gestured at Mulder, still limp across
his shoulder, bleeding busily down over his now dirty yellow coveralls.
"Very well." The man who was standing sentry duty glanced incuriously at
the gory spectacle. "He likes to do a number on them, doesn't he? That's
the third one this week."
Frohike shambled off, trying to remember to appear casual. He was out of
sight before he broke into a brisk, tireless trot that covered the ground
rapidly, but which caused Mulder so much pain that he awoke and began to
scream.
Back in the lab, Langly was concentrating on the dials and equipment before
him. A faint moan from Alex caught his attention, but just at that moment
Byers came in to pass him a message, and it was temporarily forgotten. It
seemed that Connor and Dulcet were coming in, and they had found an old VW
Microbus that had fuel. With relief, Langly passed their coordinates to
Frohike, who turned and hurried towards the road, and rescue.
Calling Byers back, the two men went to see how they could assist Alex.
Guided by Frohike, Omega gave Mulder over to the young man and his android
beloved. Tenderly they placed him inside the van, and covered him with a
coat to warm his chilly flesh. Already, Frohike had moved on from the task
in hand, as he wondered how long it would take him to get back to Alex's
side. Their work was only half done, and the next few hours would prove
crucial.
"Did you see my father?" asked Connor. Frohike had to tell him no, and the
young man's face fell. "Be careful of him. He's not just dangerous, he's
evil." Dulcet nodded, rubbing at Connor's back as he attempted to soothe
him.
"Yeah, kids, I'll take care, trust me on that one." So saying, Frohike spun
the lithe body that he was animating, and with a jaunty wave, Omega vanished
back into the undergrowth in the direction of the camp.
Alex had lost consciousness. Hubris stood, wooden and immobile, and after a
few minutes, Spender had essayed a move. Finding that the android made no
attempt to stop him, he had stepped forward cautiously, and relieved Hubris
of his disruptor, and then, as the android still made no move, cuffed and
chained him in exactly the same place that had held Mulder. He was
scratching his head, furious at being thwarted of his previous captive, and
unsure of what to do with his current one, when Howell stalked into the hut.
"Good morning, Spender." The General was curt as he made his way to where
the laptop waited. "Anything interesting happen overnight?"
He was not really listening as he began to power up the computer, and
Spender was reluctant to betray his own activities overnight. He'd had
enough of Howell to last him a lifetime. The sight of Spender with a
restrained android was sufficiently commonplace that Howell hadn't really
paid any attention to it, other than to sneer at the man's predilection for
sadistic sex.
"Today, Spender, we're going to roll right over them. I can taste it."
Howell bent his head, concentrating on his task, while Spender, who was
concentrating in his turn on the strangely inert Elite that crouched
motionless before him, merely grunted.
He was perplexed. There was something strange about an Elite who behaved in
the way that this one had. He couldn't decide whether or not he'd imagined
it, but he was going to find out. He went to the door to summon the
Nightmare, and it was at that point he realized that there was no guard on
duty before the door.
He summoned a passing android and instructed him to go and find one of the
armorers, telling him to bring his tools with him. The Elite gazed at him,
dull eyes subservient, and lumbered off to do his bidding. Frowning,
Spender watched him go, wondering what on earth was making him feel so
uneasy. Looking out over the encampment, everything seemed to be going as
it should. The humans were beginning to wake. Preparations were being made
for breakfast, and to begin the day. There was an Elite wearing dirty
yellow coveralls industriously sweeping the area around the tank, and a
scent of coffee brewing that made Spender feel the need for refreshment.
He was about to go in search of breakfast when Howell called him back.
"We'll march at 10. I believe that there are so few of them that our
victory is a foregone conclusion. I want the men summoned at 8:30 so that I
can address them. We'll need to go over our strategy with them, or there
will be unnecessary time wasted. Of course, our victory will be a matter of
form, but it will be as well to conserve our resources."
Spender smiled grimly. "I want Krycek and Mulder returned to me. The
sooner the better," and went out again, making for the android that was
sweeping.
"Go and fetch me coffee. Tell the team leaders to assemble here at 8;30.
Return to me when you are finished."
The android Omega nodded, and headed off to carry out Spender's
instructions. Back in the lab, Frohike gloated. He delivered the message
to the men standing around the commissary tent and then bore a cup of coffee
off to the hut where Spender was awaiting it.
Back at the laboratory, Langly had noted Krycek's lapse from consciousness
and he, along with Byers, were doing their best to revive him. His skin was
like tallow, and his breath was labored and strident as the infection swept
through his body. He burned to the touch, and with a shrug, Byers injected
him with the last of their antibiotic. Following this, he didn't know what
would happen. Shaking Frohike loose from his android persona for a minute,
he whispered, "Mel, can you see if there is any medicine out there. Alex
really needs it.
He laid Alex's torso bare, revealing proud flesh around the wound, swollen
and oozing. Gritting his teeth, he gathered hot water and clean cloths, and
set about cleaning and dressing it, glad that Alex was unconscious and out
of reach of the agony he knew that he was causing.
"What's happening with Hubris?" Byers was twitchy. There would only be one
opportunity to bring this game successfully to a conclusion, and after that,
they would be done for.
"He's keyed to Alex's neuro patterns. Only he can operate Hubris. Mel's
going to have to try and reach him, trigger him off. Otherwise, I don't
know what we can do."
A commotion outside the lab suddenly distracted Byers. Leaving them to
continue as best they could, the bearded man hurried away to settle whatever
the problem might be.
It was 8:20, and the men had begun to assemble around the tank that stood
outside the hut. Within, Spender had given up trying to fathom the reason
for the Elite's lack of function, and set to work with a toolbox to try and
dismantle it. It was with confusion that he opened the thoracic maintenance
access drawer to discover that it was packed with some strange, malleable
plastic. A second later, and something that was unmistakably a detonator
became visible.
Fuck! This android was a walking bomb, and who knew how soon it would
explode? Leaving it where it was, Spender rapidly gathered together as many
of his belongings as he could find, and hurried out of the hut, leaving
Howell to the mercies of the booby-trapped android. A visit to the
commissary later, he was packed with food and supplies. He paused to seize
a valise containing medicines and after checking through it, he appropriated
some dressings, ointment and antibiotics. Once everything was packed
securely, he turned and sauntered out of the camp.
The arrival of Connor and Dulcet with their patient had caused a huge amount
of to-ing and fro-ing within the rebel hideaway, and Mulder, once his raw
back was bathed and dusted with sulfa powder, had become insistent that he
see Alex.
Byers had tried hard to talk him out of it—had told him that Alex was
busy; that he was sick—but Mulder remained adamant. He wanted to see him.
Finally, he had been shown where Alex lay, unconscious and hectic with
fever.
There had been a pause, then Mulder had removed the visor that concealed
Alex's features and dropped to kiss his mouth, murmuring something
nonsensical in his ear. The effect was almost magical. Alex stirred for
the first time, and seemed to hear his lover's voice. There was a pause, and
then he moaned.
"Fox? You aren't dead?" The voice was thin and thready, but the face
seemed illuminated from within, his eyes shining with more than just the
sickness as he took in his battered lover's countenance.
"I'm here, love. Hurry up and do what you need to do, and come on back to
me. I've missed you." Mulder smiled down at the recumbent man. "I'll stay
beside you, love. I won't leave you again."
Alex beamed, and permitted the replacement of the visor.
The general had mounted onto the tank, and was looking around for Spender.
The elite within the hut hadn't occasioned any comment—Howell was far too
used to Spender's propensity for violence. He didn't notice the other Elite
that was busily polishing the tank—why would he? The Elite were
everywhere, a convenience that was only noticeable when they were
unavailable.
He stepped forward and began to talk.
Within the hut came the sound of tortured, squealing metal, and Howell
turned his head, wondering what precisely was happening. There was a lull,
and nothing further untoward occurred, and Howell began to speak to the
hundred or so humans that controlled his army of Elite warriors. When Omega
clambered onto the tank to stand at his side, he thought that the android
was malfunctioning. Then with astonishment he saw the door of the command
hut open, and the other Elite appeared, framed within the doorway.
For several seconds, nobody spoke, and then Omega said softly,
"Do it, Alex."
Together, they opened their service drawers, even as Howell was calling for
men to take the units away and scrap them. Together they set their
detonators, and together the Semtex that had been packed within them
exploded, taking with it the tank, the General, and all of the men that had
been present.
Back in the rebel hideout, Frohike sat up, removing his visor, and turned to
Mulder where he sat beside Alex.
"It's done. Get him back to bed, for God's sake."
The cheer that was raised as Langly raced to tell the rebels was somewhat
muted as they carried Alex back to put him to bed. They needed medicine.
He and the gunmen had won the battle for them, but he was sick. Without
attention he would die.
As he heard the sound of the blast, Spender was almost at the perimeter of
the camp. He was knocked to his knees by the force of it, and the ground
surged beneath him. Seconds later, debris began to rain down on him, and
with a certain amount of satisfaction he saw a human hand splatter mud a few
feet away. There was a horribly audible plopping sound, and then the mud
slowly sucked it under. The Smoker was in ecstasy as he watched it. It
could have been his body that was scattered piecemeal across the park. He
had come out ahead of the game yet again. He always did, one way or
another.
Blood and other, more obscene things splattered him, and he gave the hand a
wide berth as he headed into the thickets beyond the camp. He was making
good time when he heard the baying of dogs.
Celadon and his hounds had been out, scouring the grounds and the outlying
area for the medicine that they so desperately required for Alex. Now as
they ran, a gleaming carpet of lithe bodies surrounding the beautiful
android. Hair streaming behind him, he kept pace with his strange
companions, and listened to them bay.
Suddenly, they seemed to catch the scent of something, and almost
imperceptibly their course veered, and they began to make excited sounds as
they tore through the brush towards their goal. In the distance, Celadon
could see a figure fleeing, and called a halt, hoping that he could stop the
dogs. They continued to race after the man on the horizon, closing the
distance between them rapidly. The man screamed once, and fell to his knees
suddenly, trying to open one of the manhole covers that littered the area
around where the old animal cages had been.
"No! Don't!" Celadon screamed at the man, and began running again, hoping
that he could stop the fugitive, whoever he was, from making a terrible
mistake. The dogs were all around the man now, and as Celadon approached he
could see that it was Spender who had been pursued so hotly, and who even
now was attempting to make his escape down into the drain beneath the park.
Spender had, by now, realized that the dogs didn't mean him harm, but he had
managed to get the cover off the manhole, and was now lowering himself over
the side. Celadon grabbed at him to detain him, exerting all his android
strength in an effort to detain the man that had caused so much misery to
him and his kind.
"Don't go down there." It was as if he wasn't heard. The old man had a
triumphant smile on his face as he descended into the dark down the ladder,
and Celadon, who had been hauling on the man's pack in an attempt to get him
to return, felt a rending, and then found himself holding the pack as the
Smoker misplaced his footing and fell with a wailing cry.
Seconds later, the chittering screech of the cockroaches that lived down in
the dark could be heard, and for a few moments, Spender screamed.
The silence, when it came, was final. Celadon closed the manhole and began
to make his way back to the rebel base, carrying the pack with him.
His arrival back at the building where the rebels had their lab went
unnoticed at first. Celadon turned the pack over to Mace, who thanked him,
and put it down, not caring in the fear that Alex would die.
Mulder too was sick, his injuries had finally laid him low, and he lay on a
pallet beside Alex, too much in pain to move around, talking to his comatose
lover as he watched the sweat-drenched man shiver and moan.
When Byers finally found it, he wasn't sure where it had come from. Dumping
out the contents onto the table to go through them, he found the box of
medication, and the resulting scream of triumph brought everyone within
earshot running to find out what had happened.
"Who died?" demanded Frohike, sourly. He was exhausted, and had been trying
to get a little sleep.
"Nobody died. Look! Where did this come from?" Byers was virtually
dancing with excitement. The antibiotics would cure Alex, he was sure.
Grabbing the things that he needed, he rushed off to start giving Alex the
medicine that would save his life.
Epilogue:
Alex stretched languorously, and turned to study his sleeping lover. He was
still a little frail after his illness, the flesh hung spare on his bones,
and his skin had achieved translucence at variance with his ordinarily
robust and healthy appearance.
Mulder's back was healing slowly, and the pair of them had finally begun to
receive the therapy that they hoped would break through their conditioning,
and help them to recover their memories once again.
The restructuring of society had begun, and the Gunmen had succeeded in
opening an access to the underground bunker where Spender and Howell had
lurked for so long. The Elite did what one told them to do, of course, and
had been set to work clearing the debris of the final battle and rendering
buildings fit for habitation once more. Five and Dulcet, along with Connor
Howell, were in the throes of setting up a laboratory wherein the Elite
could be made into full-fledged Macs.
The world was turning, and had been made new.
Alex turned to wake his Fox, and then, as they both snuggled back into the
softness of the bed, he knew for sure that life would be better from here.
Replicas
by Ursula and Dr Ruthless
The clangor of the bell was still strident, but he'd almost edited the sound
out of his consciousness and it remained only as an ache within his viscera.
Other than the awareness of it, constant and pounding at gut level, he
didn't hear it any more.
~
Sounds began permeating his consciousness. The pain
that accompanied them was a maddening throb behind his eyes, and when he
opened them, it seemed that there was a veil over them, a film that
prevented him from seeing any but the most blurred of images. Sickening
motion threatened his equilibrium, and for a moment he thought that he would
vomit. Suddenly, he was swung violently around and his body connected with
the hard ground, knocking the breath from his body.
