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A New War #25: Frustration
by Lianne Burwell
November 1999
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"What do you mean you *lost* him?!"

The man facing him was about ready to shit his pants, and while normally 
Spender would have found this amusing, right now he was too furious 
notice.

"We went to the hospital to verify that he was dead, but he'd checked 
himself out AMA only twenty minutes earlier," the man said in a defensive 
whine.

"He should have been *dead* by then," Spender snarled, and the man went 
even paler.

"Yes sir. We followed the instructions, to the word. But it didn't have 
any effect, at least not according to the hospital."

Spender waved for the man to leave and he so did gratefully, no doubt 
breathing a sigh of relief for his reprieve. He wouldn't be so relieved 
when he got his orders to head for Russia, though. Spender got to his 
feet and started pacing.

Skinner should have been *dead*! He'd decided that the man was no longer 
of any possible future use and he'd ordered the nanocytes activated that 
morning. Based on past experiments -- including the one where Skinner had 
been infected with the microscopic machines -- the man should have been 
dead within minutes of the command being inputted into the hand-held 
control. His people had been well within the necessary signal range.

Spender stopped and picked up a sculpture, hefting it for a moment. Then 
he snarled, and hurled it at an ornate mirror hanging on one wall. The 
mirror exploded into a hail of razor-sharp fragments. They mocked him as 
they lay on the ground reflecting his image back at him when he went to 
stand over them. The expensive bronze sculpture was dented beyond repair 
by the impact and fall.

There was only one possible answer.

Krycek. That fucking little traitor.

Krycek was the one he'd sent to infect Skinner. Krycek was the one he'd 
set to test the controls. And Krycek was the only one who could have 
destroyed the nanocytes that should have killed Skinner.

And now Skinner was gone. He'd left the hospital and vanished without a 
trace. Worse still, assassins sent to dispose of Mulder's little hacker 
friends had found all their bolt-holes abandoned, stripped of anything 
even vaguely useful. Of the three men, there was no sign.

Spender brought his heel down on the largest of the mirror fragments and 
slowly, deliberately ground it to dust, embedding it into the expensive 
Persian rug it was lying on. What the hell else could go wrong?

A flash of light behind him told he was about to find out.

* * * * *

"You need to eat, Harrison," Paul said, waving a plate under the other 
man's nose. His lover just wrinkled his nose and pushed it away. His skin 
was starting to look gray and he'd lost pounds that he couldn't afford to 
lose. Paul had barely been able to get him to eat a few bites in the last 
few days.

It wasn't that the food was bad. In fact, it was almost gourmet fare; the 
best he'd had since waking up in the tunnel society beneath New York. 
Paul had quickly put back on the pounds that *he'd* lost during his long 
sleep in the Mothren stasis pod.

No, the problem wasn't the food, it was the tests. Since they'd been put 
in the same padded cell together they'd been subjected to non-stop tests. 
The taking of blood samples had been all right. The bone marrow samples 
had been humiliating and painful. All their captors had bothered to do 
was to flood the room with a paralyzing gas. They'd been unable to move, 
unable to fight back, unable to do anything except lie there while they 
were poked and prodded.

And then there was the constant barrage of light and sound and scent. Not 
that he'd noticed, most of the time. They'd been too subtle for that. 
Instead, he'd known when they'd changed the attack by how Harrison had 
reacted. All he could do was try to keep the man from overloading. He'd 
been getting a crash course in the guiding stuff that Sandburg had 
mentioned in Cascade. God, what he would give to have the young man handy 
for lessons.

Scratch that, he told himself. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy, 
let alone a potential ally.

But damnit, he didn't know what he was doing! And he was screwing it up. 
He knew that. Hour by hour, Harrison was withdrawing further and further 
into himself. All he could do was try to slow the slide into oblivion. He 
hated the thought of failure, and he was terrified at the thought of what 
that failure would bring.

No! he told himself. He was *not* going to think that way. He was going 
to find a way to save Harrison. Failure was simply *not* an option. He'd 
never failed in any battle and he wasn't going to fail in this one. And 
this was the most important battle of all: for the sanity of his other 
half.

Paul put down the plate with a groan. The only problem was, this battle 
used weapons that he wasn't trained in, and there was no one to teach 
him. All he had to go on was instinct and he wasn't sure that he trusted 
his instincts.

Suddenly, Harrison moaned and closed his eyes. If he concentrated hard, 
Paul could pick up a faint flicker in the lights, like the fluctuation of 
a fluorescent light. The new attack had begun.

"Harrison, listen to me. You need to shut the lights out. Ignore the 
lights and concentrate on me. I'm right here." He wrapped his arms around 
the big man, pulling the curly-haired head down to his chest, trying to 
block the maddening -- to Harrison, at least -- light show with his own 
body.

"Paul," Harrison said in a tone that was half-whisper, half-whimper.

"I'm right here. Whatever happens, I'll be right here. Always and 
forever."

Paul continued to murmur reassurances, rocking his lover, his Sentinel, 
back and forth. He ignored the prickle in the back of his eyes. They were 
going to survive this, damnit. They were.

He refused to accept any other possibility.

* * * * *

"I have come for them."

Spender lit a cigarette, trying to hide a faint tremor in his hand. Then 
he took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Who would that be?" 
he asked casually.

"You have Blackwood and his companions. I am here for them."

Spender stared at the being in front of him. On the surface, she looked 
like a normal human female, not unattractive, with masses of curly dark 
hair. However, surreptitious scans over the years had proven her to be an 
android of almost super-human strength. Her frame was mostly metal and as 
well as unknown artificial compounds. His scientists desperately wanted 
samples for study, but all attempts to obtain those samples had failed.

There was, however, the question of what exactly she and her ilk were. 
Barely detectable within her form was a core of well-shielded genetic 
material. Were they remote-controlled tools or some sort of host for 
completely non-human aliens? They'd already had experience with alien 
life-forms that resembled nothing more than oil-slicks that could take 
over human forms. The alien shape-shifters that were their favorite hosts 
often sealed all accessible orifices to keep the oil-beings from taking 
control of them. Spender sometimes wondered if perhaps the androids were 
just another of the oil-beings' available hosts, mechanical instead of 
organic. It was one reason why the consortium had put so much effort into 
the vaccine testing in Russia. If their patrons *were* the oil-beings 
then they wanted to make sure that *they* didn't end up as unwilling 
hosts along with the rest of humanity.

"We have them," he finally told her grudgingly. They'd learned long ago 
that lying to their alien patrons was useless. Untruths were exposed 
immediately and punished.

"You will hand them over," she said in her eerie monotone. The complete 
lack of expression was one of the things that made her seem so... alien.

"Why?" he asked boldly. "They are no danger to you while in our hands. 
What is it about them that makes them so important?"

"That is none of your concern. You will produce the ones called 
Blackwood, Ironhorse and McCullough. Now."

Spender opened his mouth to protest again, but she focussed her icy gaze 
on him and he shivered. While the Consortium were willing collaborators, 
he had no illusions of their relative importance. They were tools for the 
aliens, nothing more. They knew that when the aliens took control, they 
would, at best, be servants. At worst, they would share whatever the rest 
of humanity's fate would be.

That was why while they did the aliens dirty work and made a show of 
being the perfect quislings, they were busily studying any alien 
technology they could get their hands on and experimenting with ways of 
destroying their patrons. When the time came, they would let the aliens 
proceed with their plans, then destroy them, stepping into the power 
vacuum that resulted.

"Come with me, then," he said, getting to his feet. While he'd hoped to 
use Blackwood and Ironhorse, it looked like that was not in the cards. 
The woman followed him as he headed for the elevator to the sub-levels. 
On the surface, he was the image of cooperation. Inside, he was seething 
with anger.

Oh, yes, he was going to enjoy destroying them.

* * * * *

The room had been scanned for bugs and the doors were locked. They were 
as private as they were going to be able to get while still in the 
Center, which wasn't very.

"So, what have you found out about our... guest on sub-level twenty-
five?" Miss Parker asked. There was never any small talk from the woman. 
Straight to the point and you had better have the answer she wanted 
ready. Sydney, thankfully, was a little more laid back.

Broots gave the door a last glance, then took a deep breath. "Special 
Agent Fox Mulder is an FBI agent heading a department of two called the 
X-Files. They investigate weird stuff."

"Weird stuff?" Miss Parker asked, lifting one eyebrow. "Is that a 
technical term?"

Broots flushed a little at the sarcasm. "They investigate UFOs and alien 
abductions, werewolves and vampires, spontaneous combustion and 
poltergeists. Weird stuff. Anyway, he disappeared a couple weeks back. 
The FBI thinks he's been kidnapped by someone named Krycek and rumor has 
it that there's a contract out on his life. Nobody's seen hide nor hair 
of him since then."

"So, any reason why the Center would have him here?"

Broots hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I have some net-friends 
who know Mr. Mulder. They say he had to go underground and fast. A lot 
of the stuff he investigates brings him up against a very powerful 
organization that *might* be collaborating with some sort of alien 
invasion that's coming. They've left him alone up until now, but he's 
gotten a little too close for comfort and they want him permanently out 
of circulation." He wasn't surprised when Miss Parker snorted at that. It 
sounded pretty improbable to him too.

"Great. Alien invaders from Mars?"

"I did some checking into this organization based on the information my 
friends gave me. The outfit calls itself The Consortium."

"So?" Miss Parker asked, shaking her head.

Broots stared at her, as if he could force her to believe what he was 
going to say next. "The Consortium has people in ever level of government 
and military. They run a lot of private companies too. And..." he took a 
deep breath, "they also control the Center."

"What?!" Both Sydney and Miss Parker were shocked.

"I checked it every which way," Broots said. "Took me all night. I found 
four separate *direct* links between the upper management of the Center 
and this Consortium. No mistake."

Miss Parker did something unusual for her: she slumped back in her chair. 
She rarely showed anything but perfect posture, but the expression on her 
face said she was thinking too hard to worry about anything as 
inconsequential as posture. Sydney was also frowning.

"And the alien business?" he asked.

Broots shrugged. "I didn't find anything definite, but how many times 
have we seen things around here that looked too... weird? Technology that 
does things we didn't know *could* be done? I mean, at Donoterase they 
were able to clone Jarod. Science says that that's not completely 
possible yet, despite the occasional animal."

"You can't be serious," Miss Parker said derisively. "You believe in 
aliens? You think they've come to take over Earth? War of the Worlds, 
millennium-style?"

Broots cringed inside at the words, then squared his shoulders. "I don't 
know that I believe *that*, but I've seen too much to reject the 
possibility. If nothing else, I believe they're out there somewhere. The 
question is, are they *here*?"

"If they are, then God help us all," Sydney said, and Broots found 
himself echoing the prayer.

* * * * *

Thankfully, the latest barrage of tests had been short. Once it was over, 
Paul had managed to coax Harrison into eating at least part of his 
dinner. Or breakfast or lunch. He wasn't sure which meal it was. Then 
they'd curled up together to try to get some sleep before it started 
again. Harrison had curled himself around Paul, hugging him like an 
oversized teddy-bear, sighed, then gone straight to sleep. Paul was 
finding sleep a little more elusive.

Harrison couldn't take this much longer. Sooner or later -- and he was 
afraid that sooner was more likely -- Harrison was going to reach the 
breaking point. What the result would be, he wasn't sure. All he knew 
right now was that it was his job to hold the big man together.

Harrison sighed in his sleep and snuffled, inhaling Paul's scent through 
his hair. "Paul," he murmured contentedly before slipping a little 
further into sleep. It was a nice feeling, Paul thought. And if nothing 
else, Harrison's embrace kept the nightmares away.

He wished they could make love, though. The need for that more intimate 
contact burned in his veins. And he wasn't the only one to feel it 
either. He could feel the hot, solid press of an erection against his 
buttocks through the thin cotton pajamas they'd been given to wear. But 
they were constantly monitored, and he wasn't going to give their captors 
a show. He wasn't an exhibitionist.

Besides, making love with Harrison had always felt special. It was a gift 
between them and to the spirits. To allow these people to watch would be 
to profane something... sacred.

Harrison snorted softly, then suddenly stiffened, awake again. Paul 
stiffened too. "What is it?" he whispered soft enough that the 
microphones wouldn't pick it up. Surely it was too soon for the next 
torture to be starting?

"Someone's coming," Harrison whispered back.

"And?"

"They're coming *here*. Spender and someone else. They're talking about 
us."

Paul quickly pushed to his feet. If someone was coming to see them, he 
was going to meet them on his feet. Preferably with a fist leading.

Harrison was standing next to him when the cell door swung open silently. 
Two figures stepped through and Paul dropped into a ready stance.

Only to straighten up in shock at the sight of the second figure.

"You!"

The bounty hunter android tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement. 
"Me, Colonel Paul Ironhorse."

Shit! Now what the hell was going on?

* * * * *

Krycek held the binoculars to his face in a well-practiced grip. The 
first few times he'd tried that once he'd received his prosthetic, he'd 
either dropped the binoculars or failed to hold them in a usable 
position. Now it had become second nature, along with everything else. In 
a way, it was almost scary how used he'd become to the prosthetic.

"Hello," he said softly, catching the attention of his companions. 
Kincaid and the giant red-head Wolfling moved closer. Down below, on the 
grounds of Spender's estate, a helicopter had just landed. While they 
watched, a figure left the building and headed for the waiting vehicle.

Krycek grinned at what he saw through the binoculars. "Spender's leaving, 
and my, he looks pissed."

Kincaid snorted. "And what could possibly piss off the big man himself?"

Krycek grinned. "Nine time out of ten? Mulder. Of course, the man *does* 
make a career of pissing off everyone he meets. Spender, Scully, Skinner, 
Me, the military, police forces across this country and in other 
countries too. It's a talent," he added fondly.

"My kind of guy," Wolfling said. "So. Spender's gone. Now what?"

Krycek tapped a finger against his jaw as he watched the helicopter take 
off and head in the direction of D.C.. "We go in, of course."


TO BE CONTINUED