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A New War #9: Resurrection
by Lianne Burwell
March 1999
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Scully looked up from the medical journal she was reading. Debi was still 
sitting next to the window, peering out through a small gap in the 
curtains.

They'd only been in the safehouse for a little over twenty-four hours, 
but they were both ready to go insane with cabin-fever. Byers had dropped 
them off after Debi's rescue, having taken the scenic route to get there. 
Langly had dropped by a few hours later with groceries and reading 
materials. He also told her that they had gotten word to Skinner about 
what had happened.

She could just imagine the reaction that the AD had had, but they'd 
passed the point of no-return. She hoped that he would be alright, 
though. The number of times that he'd protected them had made him a 
target for the Consortium. If they believed that he was concealing their 
whereabouts, he could find himself in big trouble, like the time they'd 
tried to frame him for the murder of a prostitute.

And there was still no word from Mulder.

Debi sighed, got up from her chair and started pacing. "How long do we 
wait?" she asked, impatience plain in her voice. Debi was still blaming 
herself for letting herself trust her roommate, who'd turned out to be 
one of the enemy. Scully had pointed out the number of times that she or 
Mulder had trusted someone, only to have them turn on them, but it didn't 
seem to help.

She dropped her eyes back down to the article that -- if she were honest 
with herself -- she had spent the last few hours not quite reading. 
"Until we're discovered, or Mulder contacts us."

Debi sighed again, and Scully couldn't help echoing the sound. At this 
rate, they were both going to be nervous wrecks by the time that happened.

* * * * *

"Just how the hell is this possible?" Kincaid snarled from across the 
room, not for the first time.

The pod containing what appeared to be Colonel Ironhorse had been locked 
in a storage room with a guard outside the door, just in case. Now the 
question was what to do with it.

Mana shook her head. "I don't know," she said, also not for the first 
time. "I only saw the cloning process run on him once. I had no reason to 
think that Malzor had repeated the process after I left. And," she said, 
holding up a hand to stop the next question, "I don't know why."

Mulder was keeping an eye on Blackwood. The older man looked like he was 
on the edge of a breakdown, and he didn't blame him. For all these years 
he'd thought that his lover was dead. Now he was faced with the chance 
that he wasn't.

"Is there any way to tell if that *is* the real Ironhorse, or if it's a 
second clone?" he asked, not turning to look at Mana.

"A simple blood test will do it, but he will have to be revived first."

Mulder glanced around the room, gauging the reaction. "Any objections?"

There were a few that looked like they wanted to protest, but Vincent 
shook his head. "If he is a clone, we will deal with it. If he is not, we 
cannot leave him as he is now."

Reluctantly, everyone agreed. Mulder turned to Mana. "So. How do we do 
it?"

She bowed her head. "A simple code will open the pod. He will need to be 
extracted, then allowed to recover for an hour before the blood sample is 
taken so the residue from the pod will flush from his system. Vincent, 
you will need to have someone else take the sample."

"Why?" the large cat-man asked curiously.

"If that is the real man and not a clone, then he will remember me as the 
enemy. I will start the release process, then go back to the lab for 
Malzor's records. Once there is a sample, I can scan it for the tags of 
the cloning process."

Vincent nodded. He beckoned over one of the teenaged runners that seemed 
to always be on hand. "Go to the clinic and ask Doctor Sanji to come."

The kid nodded, then was gone. Mana and two others left, heading for the 
storage room. Everyone else filed out, one by one, until only four were 
left.

Mulder and Kincaid crouched down next to Blackwood. Out of the corner of 
his eye, Mulder could see Krycek watching them with an unreadable 
expression.

"Harrison?" Kincaid said in a gentle voice.

"How can I face him?" Blackwood said in a bleak. "If that's Paul, then I 
left him there for eight *years*."

"There's no way you could have known," Kincaid said soothingly. "The 
colonel will understand that."

"Will he? I wish I could believe that. But as long as he's alive, it 
doesn't matter..."

Blackwood dropped his head into his hands, and the four men settled down 
to wait.

* * * * *

Darkness.

His first awareness was of lack of light.

His second was the lack of any *other* sort of awareness... When he tried 
to focus on why, there was no answer. Just a blank spot in his memories 
and the feeling of time having passed.

So he moved to the last thing that he *could* remember.

Shots. Screams. His team. Death.

It was a trap!

Strange devices. Excruciating pain. Strangers watching it all without any 
expression.

Darkness.

It didn't make any sense.

He tried to move, but couldn't. Or maybe he did and just couldn't tell. 
He wasn't sure which.

He was tired. Sleep. Maybe when he woke he would find out what was 
happening.

He let go of the questions, drifting in a haze. Only one refused to leave.

Where was Harrison?

* * * * *

Suddenly there was light. Green. Almost solid. Like light seen through 
water.

Water! He was drowning!

He started to thrash, reaching for the surface. Reaching for air. This 
time he could actually *feel* the motions.

Hands grabbed him under the arms, pulling him until, gasping, he broke 
the surface to take deep gulps of warm, blessed air. The hands pulled him 
until he was completely free of the thick, clinging fluid, wet and 
shivering.

Damp cloths cleaned him, but exhaustion held him in its grasp. Limp, 
confused, he let them clean dry and dress him. Then he was laid on a soft 
surface, and covers were pulled up over him.

He sighed, and let go again. Only one thing was missing.

Where was Harrison?

* * * * *

When consciousness returned again, he was alone. He was dressed in old, 
but clean, sweats that he didn't recognize. Blinking in confusion, he 
looked around the chamber he was in.

The only furniture in the room was the large bed that he was lying on. It 
was well crafted, and obviously hand-made. He drifted for long minutes, 
just looking at the fine carving on the headboard.

When he dragged his attention away, he examined the rest of the room. 
Threadbare carpets covered the floor. The walls were bare concrete and 
brick. He wasn't sure why, but his instincts said he was underground.

The only other feature of the room was a door, firmly shut. He was 
considering trying to find the energy to get up and try it when it opened.

The man who came through was Asian. India, or one of its neighbors. 
Something about his bearing said 'doctor'.

"Ah, good," he said in a lightly accented voice. "You are awake. Do you 
know your name?"

"Name?" His voice cracked, and he swallowed before trying again. "Colonel 
Paul Ironhorse, US Army. Where am I?"

The man came closer. "Colonel Ironhorse died. Two of him died. One was an 
alien clone. The other was believed to be the original. Now the question 
is, was he really a clone? Or are you?"

He blinked, his mind turning over the answer, examining it. "How..." he 
finally asked, then stopped. The other man obviously understood what he 
was asking.

The doctor pulled a syringe from his pocket and stripped off the 
protective wrapping that kept it sterile. "A blood sample is necessary to 
tell whether or not you are the real Paul Ironhorse."

Obediently, he rolled up the sleeve of the sweatshirt that someone had 
dressed him in and presented his arm for the needle. The doctor was fast 
and competent.

"Wait," he called as the man headed for the door. "How long has it been? 
What's happened? Where is Harr... Doctor Blackwood?"

The man paused at the doorway. "After the tests," he said. Then he was 
gone.

His energy sapped, he slumped back against the pillows.

Who was he? *What* was he? He thought he was Paul Ironhorse, but was he? 
Maybe he *was* a clone. He shuddered. He didn't want to consider that 
possibility.

Sleep was claiming him again, and he gave in willingly. It was an escape 
from the questions. The fears.

But where was Harrison?

* * * * *

By the time Doctor Sanji had gone to collect the blood samples, Mana had 
returned, bringing an alien device with her. She placed it on the library 
table where a space had been cleared for her.

Vincent had offered to let Harrison be there when they pulled the... man 
from the pod, but he had refused. He didn't want to see the man until 
they knew for sure. He didn't want his hopes raised.

He fought the urge to laugh. It was too late to prevent it.

"Malzor kept a journal," Mana announced to the small crowd waiting. "He 
did make a second clone."

"Why?" Harrison asked, his voice cracking from the strain.

"He says the first clone was flawed. He doesn't say how."

They all looked up as the doctor entered the room. He dropped the syringe 
in Mana's outstretched hand. It was filled with a red fluid. Blood-red.

"He says he's Ironhorse," the man said quietly, not quite looking at 
Blackwood. Everyone who was associated with the tunnel community during 
the war knew about their relationship and the tragic end to it. "He seems 
to believe it. He gave a sample willingly."

Mana nodded, and took the sample over to the alien scanner. She dropped 
it in and started tapping commands.

Harrison held his breath, waiting for the verdict. In his mind, he knew 
that he wouldn't survive a negative. Seven years hadn't dulled the pain 
of loosing Paul, and to have him back, then snatched away again, would be 
the final blow.

Mana paused and read the screen. Then she tapped in more commands and 
waited, probably double-checking the results.

She turned in her seat to face Harrison, a grave expression on her face. 
He held his breath.

"He is not a clone."

Harrison went limp with relief. It was a good thing that he was already 
sitting down.

Paul was alive.

He tried to push himself to his feet, but the room swayed around him. 
Kincaid grabbed him and pressed him back into his seat.

"Relax, Blackwood," the mercenary said, his voice hoarse with emotion. 
"I'll go get him. You wait here."

Harrison nodded, and watched blankly as Kincaid left the room, followed 
by Krycek.

Paul was *alive*.

* * * * *

Sleep didn't last long. He didn't think that much time had passed before 
he was awake again.

Someone had left a pitcher of water, and he sipped the tepid liquid 
gratefully.

Instead of trying to go back to sleep, he carefully pushed himself to his 
feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment. How long had it been?

Once he felt solid on his feet, he started pacing. Slowly at first, then 
gaining in confidence. He concentrated on the motions. It distracted him 
from the questions that were going to drive him insane.

He was concentrating so hard on keeping to his feet that he didn't hear 
the footsteps coming down the corridor. He didn't notice until the door 
opened and two men came through.

One of the men was a stranger. About thirty, with green eyes and short-
cropped brown hair. His left arm swung with a weight that said 
'prosthetic' to Ironhorse. The way his eyes flitted around the room and 
the coiled tension in the way he moved said 'dangerous'.

But the other man...

"Kincaid?"

He started to shiver. The man standing in front of him was John Kincaid, 
but not the man he remembered. This one had grey in his hair, and lines 
on his face that he didn't remember. There was also an unfamiliar scar on 
the man's forehead that was long healed.

How long?

He swayed on his feet, and the man was at his side in a flash.

"Easy, Colonel," he said, grabbing him and holding him steady.

"Am I?" he asked in a desperate tone, clutching Kincaid's forearms. "*Am* 
I?"

Kincaid smiled. "Yeah, Colonel. You are. Welcome back."

Relief flooded through him, erasing the fear he'd felt ever since the 
doctor had left with the blood sample.

He raised a hand to brush the scar on Kincaid's forehead. "How... How 
long?"

Kincaid gripped him a little tighter, which he was grateful for a moment 
later.

"Eight years since you... Since we thought you died. Seven since the 
fight with the Mothren ended."

Paul started gasping, then forced himself to slow his breathing. 
"Harrison?" he asked, unable to keep the pleading tone from his voice.

"In the library. C'mon. He's waiting for you."

Paul relaxed, reassured now that he knew Harrison was alive, and followed 
the two men out of the room.

* * * * *

Harrison was practically hyperventilating. In a moment he would see his 
lover again. Touch him again.

Assuming that Paul wanted anything to do with him, that is.

He stood up, wanting to greet Paul on his own two feet. He swayed, but 
Mulder was there to support him.

And then Paul was there, standing in the doorway.

He was so thin. The lean muscles that Harrison remembered were wasted 
away from his long sleep in the pod. But the handsome face was exactly as 
he remembered. There was no grey in the thick hair. No new lines on the 
much-loved face.

Paul looked exactly as he did eight years earlier.

Harrison started gasping, tears streaming down his face. The blurring of 
his vision obscured the image of Paul, but that was alright. He could 
almost smell the man's scent from across the room. Taste his flavor on 
his tongue. Hear his heartbeat.

"Paul..."

And everything went blank.


TO BE CONTINUED