From: Windsinger@aol.com
Date: Thu, 21 Feb 2002 21:30:33 EST
Subject: xfc: NEW: Travels w/Charley 8: Not Kansas (1/15) by Windsinger
Source: xfc

TITLE: MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (1/15)
DATE: 02/20/02
AUTHOR: Sue Esty
CONTACT: Windsinger@AOL.com
RATING: PG (sex but not graphic)
CLASSIFICATION: TA - Adventure/Angst
SPOILERS: REQUIEM, 7th season, Final Extinction, Genderblender, 
Little Green Men, Within, and others
KEYWORDS: Slash, Rape (neither explicit)
SUMMARY: Mulder has survived his first days on the ship (at least 
the ones he's been conscious enough to remember) and the boredom of 
his life within the mindspeaker colony. Less than intact, he 
survives testing, which for the first time reveals to Charley that 
Mulder's 'speaker' talent has been destroyed. While Charley decides 
what to do with his damaged prisoner, Mulder is allowed to recover 
in the company of a young woman whose ancestors were taken from 
Earth four generations before to live out a barren existence in a 
few rooms on a huge alien space station. From here he is taken by 
the Hunter and put into training to pilot a small spacecraft, 
training that taxes the endurance of both body and mind. Mulder's 
rebellious spirit eventually exceeds even Charley's patience and he 
is literally dropped onto the surface of an unknown planet to 
survive as best he can. This will be the last home Mulder will ever 
know if he does not appear at the rendezvous point when Charley's 
returns and is willing to submit to Charley's plans.

ARCHIVING: Gossamer, Emphereal, ATXC, and anywhere with permission 
and as long as the author's name is retained.
DISCLAIMER: No, the X-Files and the characters of Fox Mulder and 
Dana Scully do not belong to me, I would have treated them better.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is eighth in a series of 'short' stories 
chronically Mulder's confusing, agonizing, torturous, lonely and 
wondrous adventures following his collection in Oregon. One more to 
go. CC never explained those missing months so I might as well. My 
older work can be found on Gossamer under 'Esty, Sue' with the newer 
pieces at http://members.aol.com/windsinger.

MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (1/15)

BENJAMIN:
Year 30, Week 17.1 Dale Reckoning
    
My name's Benjamin, Dana. Excuse my use of your first name, but 
Mulder has talked about you so often that I feel like I know you and 
'Scully, after all, is his name for you. Mulder has asked me to 
start this segment of his story. Please don't worry, it's not that 
he can't, but because he wants you to get to know me. I don't know 
why but I'm sure he'll get around to filling me in on that in time.

I had mixed feeling that rainy morning when I first met Mulder. I 
was just bartering for some seed at the Grange when six of my 
genpack came running into the store and rushed up to me all talking 
at once. Finally, Nate's big bass voice cuts through. "You're BoB's 
here, Benji! Your BoB!" 

I don't think I said anything in response. I just stood there. What 
do you say when you've long given up ever hearing those words. In a 
daze, I allowed the rambunctious group to drag me along through the 
street of rutted mud towards Government House. Just as well that I 
didn't have anything to say, as I couldn't have gotten a word in 
edgewise. Not that I blame them for their high spirits. This was, 
after all, their celebration as well as mine. If good luck could 
finally get around to pointing at me, the eldest of our generation 
who had never been assigned a newcomer, then their turn by the order 
of their birth may come yet. And we had all about given up hope. Ten 
years! It had been ten years since the last arrival. The general 
consensus around the Grange was that there weren't going to be any 
more and so most of the landholders of my age and younger would just 
be out of luck. Sadly, I had gotten use to the idea, but then here 
out of the blue -- or perhaps I should say the gray because of the 
rain -- fell my own miracle.
      
We didn't knock at the door to Government House. I found this 
suspicious but then I remembered that the mayor was receiving a 
delegation of southerners from South Cove and that was weird 
business so perhaps the intent was to keep the ceremony low key.  My 
escort didn't knock at the back entrance either but instead headed 
for the barn. Now I began to worry. The mayor's headman, Jason, 
stepped aside as we entered. Silence fell instantly. 

To say that I was not impressed by my first look would be an 
understatement.  All I saw was a muddy mass shivering in front of a 
tiny brassier. So intent was the creature at trying to soak up a few 
more fingerwidths of heat from the clots of peat that he didn't 
respond at all when we entered.

"Came stumbling into Jeremiah's farm at daybreak," the mayor's 
headman explained as I stood and stared. "Must have tried to sleep 
in a tickle bush nest. We found some in his hair."

Yeah, that I could believe. His skin, of which a lot showed, was 
swollen with hundreds of bright red blisters. He must have also 
fallen into every mud puddle between here and wherever the devils 
let him out. He was a mess. As if he were freezing, he clutched a 
bundle of mismatched rags someone must have given him. It was 
fortunate that the weather was actually mild for that time of year. 
Still, I felt alarmed for the poor man's sake. He should have been 
taken some place warmer, though as filthy dirty as he was I could 
see why they hadn't let him in the house or given him anything 
better to wrap his near nakedness in. I guess that that was my job 
now.

For the first time I crouched down and tried to get a look at his 
face. His muddy hair hung over his eyes and even through the dirt 
and the tickle bush blisters I saw the terrible trio of scars down 
each cheek. Whatever had the monsters done to him? There was nothing 
on record like this. I looked more closely under the dirt through 
the rents in what remained of his clothes. There were terrible 
wounds above each wrist and ankle and a long older scar down the 
center of his chest. Here and there through the mud I could see the 
yellow and purple of old bruises as well as more ugly punctures. 
Years before I had been trained on the proper attitude of a 
landholder towards his newcomer and I knew that distance was 
critical, but I couldn't remain aloof, not after seeing this.
 
Automatically, I placed my hand on his forehead. No response, not 
that I expected any. What did surprise me was how hot his skin was. 

"I assume that's Newcomer fever," the mayor's headman said. 

I nodded. "They say that they all get it, but this is worse than I 
expected." I didn't add that Dale history also records that not a 
few newcomers had died from this fever in the past.  

Meaning mine could die.

I looked at him again, at his clothes or lack thereof, at the 
slumped posture and bowed head and how he barely seemed able to sit 
without falling over. My eyes fell on his terribly damaged bare 
feet.

"Is this all he came with? Not even any shoes?"

The 'pack' just stood there, much sobered by all these depressing 
revelations.

"Tough luck, Benji," Talon said soberly. Talon is six months my 
junior. Only a few minutes earlier he had been practically green 
with envy. "Looks like you got a dud. You could at least have gotten 
some shoes out of the deal."  

"Like a bride without a dowry, " the Mayor's man said, shaking his 
head. "Well, you take what's dished out to you. He's all yours."

So much to do, but what to do first. Lamely, I asked. "What about 
the ceremony?" As if that mattered. He may not survive the night.

The Mayor's man shrugged. "The Mayor sends his regrets. He's in 
conference and can't be disturbed. He's been told that we have a 
newcomer and what his condition is. He's the one who looked it up in 
the book to confirm that you were the next on the list. He says you 
should just take him along and see to the formalities later." His 
eyes indicated that the Mayor seemed to feel, as I feared, that the 
ceremony to formally assign this particular newcomer to my care 
might not be necessary.

I thought for a moment about the long road back to the farm and 
considered trying to find a place in town to take him. All at once, 
however, I was aware of all the eyes. How I wanted out of there and 
away from people like these who could stare at a sick man and do 
nothing just because he was a BoB. Home then. Clearly, he wasn't 
going to walk the twelve miles. Luckily, I'd brought my handcart 
because of the seed so at least I had transportation. With help I 
poured the limp, muddy form into the back. There continued to be no 
response except that his eyes fluttered a bit when the young men who 
held his feet dropped him more roughly than they needed to. 

At least some of the Old Ones had feelings. Peter Ruft who runs the 
Grange let me borrow a whole armload of seed bags so that at least 
my newcomer wouldn't catch the 'grip' before I got him home. Saint 
that he was, the old surgeon, Mac MacIntyre, shuffled out of the 
apothecary and, unasked, thrust a whole bag of salves and assorted 
remedies into my arms. He didn't even make me sign for them. By his 
hand on my shoulder I knew that he wished me luck. 

As I reached for the handles of the cart, my so-called friends, 
whose spirits had brightened again with the preparations, began to 
hoot and holler from the porch of the Grange where they stood out of 
the drizzle. "Yeah, Benji, that's the way. You tell him who's boss!" 

"Why don't you guys go stick your heads in a post hole," I called 
back but without rancor. After all, why should I be angry? I'd 
probably be just an insensitive if I were in their place. "There'll 
be time enough for him to pull his weight." Like the Mayor's man I 
hadn't added, 'If he lives.'

The trip was uneventful except that my burden was heavier than six 
of the large sacks of grain. I heard a moan or two as the wheels 
dipped into deep ruts but otherwise no complaints. At least it had 
stopped raining.

I spoke too soon. The rain resumed as gray and chill as the lowering 
sky before we were half way to the homestead. The slight rise in the 
road between the flat plane of the fields and the knoll where old 
William's cabin perched had never seemed so steep, but finally I was 
able to pull into the yard. I went directly to the barn and 
maneuvered the cart to just inside the doorway where it usually sat, 
grateful not to feel the rain pounding on my head any longer. It was 
better to listen to its muffled hammering away on the sod roof 
above. 

Now that all my attention was not fixed on the physical effort of 
just getting the cart to the farm, I realized that I didn't know 
what I was going to do with my new responsibility. I certainly saw 
the dark, dank barn in a different light than during the workday 
when it was used for storing seed and rope, plow and tools. In the 
fall it stored harvest as well, but it being spring there was not 
much harvest left. "Now what do I do with you?" I asked the wet and 
silent wretch in the back of my handcart. I didn't really expect an 
answer. Without enthusiasm I gave the south corner a long look. Its 
clutter was no different than that in the rest of the barn. I had 
never set up a room there as a landholder should. Oh, I had made 
plans for this day once but when it looked like it was never going 
to happen the plans had lain as fallow as a off year field. 
 
"Not fit for man nor beast," I murmured out loud to myself, not even 
heartened by my little joke. "I guess it will have to be the house 
then. Just don't tell anyone."

Slinging his long body over my shoulder I carried my temporary 
housemate across the muddy yard and into the cabin that still held 
an echo of heat from the fire of the night before.


MULDER:
Year 30, Week 17.4 Dale Reckoning (or so I'm told)

My turn, Scully. I certainly seem to be spending an unusual amount 
of time on this tour of the galaxy not remembering things. Benjamin 
has told you all you need to know about how I stumbled upon the 
humans on this planet or at least it was as much as anyone knows. As 
we go along a lot of what you don't understand yet will be made 
clear. At this time in the story, however, we'll just assume that 
you know a lot more than I do. 

I woke itching. Oh, I was in pain, too, from the mess I made of my 
feet walking for miles barefoot, and I was dripping with sweat and 
had about as much strength as a kitten, so I knew that I had been 
seriously ill, but the itching was by far the worse.

"Try not to scratch," suggested a hesitant male voice above me. "It 
will only make it worse."

I didn't scratch. I didn't move. 

"I won't hurt you," the low voice assured me.

Actually, his hurting me hadn't been on my mind. Since Oregon, I 
have almost gotten use to being hurt. What had left me momentarily 
speechless was the sound of a voice which was not only not hostile 
but wasn't Ness's and wasn't Charley's. I opened my eyes and there 
he was. A bear. Well, not really a bear, but a strong-looking, 
youngish man with a thick, black beard, long hair pulled back and 
eyes so blue I could see their color even in the dimness of the 
room. 

"Took a nap in a tickle bush, did you?" He didn't wait for an 
answer. "Can you sit up? I have this salve that will take away the 
worst of the sting." Again without waiting for me to answer, he 
helped me to sit. I tried to help but the dim room went spinning. I 
just sat for a while letting the spin slow, taking in where I was 
and trying to remember where I'd been. It was hard to think though 
when some total stranger was crouched in front of me and smearing 
awful-smelling, black gunk briskly over all the places on my arms 
where the blisters were. Where it was applied, however, the itching 
did relent so I didn't complain. 

"Where am I?" I croaked.

Now I know that I didn't sound so good, but I didn't see any reason 
why my benefactor should start so violently. Fumbling with the jar 
he held, he lost his balance and fell backwards.

"Sorry," I told him. "I'm fresh out of original opening lines."

Owl eyes not leaving my face, he scrambled into a somewhat more 
dignified position but a noticeable distance farther from me even 
with the limitations of the room. 

"Y-You're home. What I mean is, this is my home."

My eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. It was a snug, little 
hobbit hole less than twelve feet square. Dirt floor, dirt walls, 
and a dirt ceiling with wooden support thrusts. From a small stone 
fireplace a little, red fire glowed. There wasn't a lot of light but 
the heat was delicious at least on the side of my body that faced 
the fire. In the way of fires my opposite side was cold. It didn't 
smell like a fire, though. The scent was more pungent, like a swamp. 
For furniture I made out a solid chair, a rough table and lots of 
shelves filled with earthenware crocks, bits of this and that and 
baskets that were mostly empty, all in a similar shade of brown. 
There was a drying rack on which on a few dry sprigs of some kind of 
plant material hung.

"Comfy." What else can you say to Johnny Appleseed who has taken you 
into his home and is helpfully smearing pond scum on your itches. 
"Peat fire?" 

"Y-Yes," he confirmed, still staring. 

We just sat that way for a while. For some unknown reason, he 
seeming astonishingly perplexed to find me there. 

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

"Uh, n-no."

I gestured to the pot of salve he still clutched. "That seems to 
help, awful as it smells. If you let me have it, I can put the rest 
of it on for myself." 

After a moment's hesitation, he numbly held it out.

"H-How do you feel?" he stammered, as I worked at applying the salve 
to my chest. 

"Shaky," I admitted, which I was.

"I was afraid for a while that you were going to die on me." He 
seemed genuinely upset about that. 

"What made me sick?" I asked. "I started getting hot and cold 
flashes after only a few hours in the rain. Couldn't have been the 
flu, not that fast."

"Newcomer fever. Something in the water. Everyone dropped off gets 
it eventually. A few have died from it."

"And those who don't wish for a while that they would." 

I remembered crouching against the bank of a muddy hill and shaking 
so violently I was afraid that I would rattle out all my teeth. I 
had been burning on the inside and freezing on the outside. 

More silence. I had worked down to my waist and was trying to get 
around to my back when my host moved to kneel behind me. "I'll get 
that for you," he offered. As even the little effort I'd put out had 
tired me and made the room tilt alarmingly, I handed him the jar and 
leaned forward. There was some considerable pause before he began 
spreading the noxious stuff and then he seemed very hesitant, which 
seemed odd considering how aggressively he'd applied it to my arms. 

"Thank you for all your trouble, " I said when the silence had 
stretched for longer than I felt comfortable. Still he worked on. 
When it seemed that he had covered every inch of my back twice and 
was working his way south, I interrupted with, "That's much better. 
I'll do the rest," and held my hand out to the side for the salve. 

After another awkward pause, he handed it over then rocked back on 
his heels. With my host so close and obviously watching, I was the 
one who hesitated to lift the blanket that covered me from the waist 
down. As if suddenly aware of how uncomfortable he was making me, my 
young host jumped to his feet. He obviously knew where the ceiling 
was because he didn't hesitate to stand even though his head nearly 
brushed one rough log beam. I would have to be careful for if he was 
taller than I, it wasn't by much. 

"You were unconscious for days," he murmured. "You must be hungry 
and thirsty."

Food is not usually my first concern, but it seemed a safe subject. 
"If it wouldn't be any trouble." 

His next series of rapid, nervous movements around the room brought 
the dizziness back. Until it eased, I studied the furnishings in the 
section of the room where he wasn't busying himself. When he had 
been talking to me before he had been sitting on a chest whose top 
was covered with a lumpy pad with a covering like burlap. This was 
clearly his bed and a single one, so he lived here alone. I was 
sitting on an identical pad laid out before the fire. The guest 
room. The rough material -- to which real burlap felt like velvet in 
comparison -- was filled with what felt like old straw. It probably 
was. A blanket that had fallen down around my loins when I sat up 
was of the same material as the bed pad covering. I had hesitated 
applying the rest of the salve because I was all too aware that 
under the blanket I was naked -- again. I could feel the 
scratchiness of the burlap on my ass. I looked around for my clothes 
before remembering that, as usual, I didn't have any of those to 
speak of either. There hadn't been much left of the coveralls, which 
Charley had torn, what with walking in the rain, falling into sink 
holes, and blundering through nests of thorns. I bunched the burlap 
up around my hips so I could get to my legs and began adding the 
salve. By some bending and twisting under the blanket in ways my 
body wasn't really ready for yet, the salve eventually got to all 
the other places it needed to.

As if aware of the moment when my gyrations under the blanket 
ceased, my host placed a clay bowl and jug down on the rough table. 
"You can eat now." When I made no immediate move to rise, he rushed 
forward to take hold of my arm. "Sorry. Do you need some help?"

"Uh -- maybe -- but first I'm afraid that I'll need to ask if I can 
borrow some clothes." 
    
Absently, he raised a hand, murmured "Right" as if to himself, and 
within seconds produced a bundle. "These are my best. We'll have to 
find you some of your own but these will do for now." He watched me 
as I held up drawstring pants, eyeing them dubiously. "We're lucky 
we're the same size." That must mean that the shapeless things were 
going to fit me as badly as they fit my host. Swiftly, he came 
forward as if he were now going to help me dress. 

Hastily, I waved him away. "No thank you, I can manage this part." 
The young man backed away, but only as far as his bench bed where he 
sat, obviously intending to watch me dress as if this were the most 
fascinating activity in the world. As there wasn't any place else 
either of us could go, I hurried.

I tried to draw on the pants while keeping the blanket in place, all 
in all not succeeding very well.
"You appear to know a lot more about me than I do about you," I 
said, uncomfortably.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," my host said, slowly.

"You called me a newcomer. This indicates to me that strangers being 
dropped practically naked on your doorstep is not so unusual."

"Twenty years ago not so unusual, now very unusual. And you're..." His 
brow furrowed.

"I'm what? Should I have two heads?"

"We thought..." He sighed. I tried to stand then, the better to get 
the awkward, long-sleeved shirt on, but swayed on my feet. Before I 
could reach out towards a handy rafter for support, my bearded 
companion was at my side, supporting my arm. I didn't shake him off 
for the room was listing south again.   

In addition to the shirt there was a thick vest and both were made 
of pretty much the same rough material as the bed covering and the 
blanket. I cringed as it slid over skin that was still sensitive 
from the tickle bush blisters. My back-to-the-land friend may have 
the hide of a rhinoceros but I didn't. 

"Is it true that you were just dropped here?" he blurted out.

"Where is here?" 

"On this planet." 

"Let's just say that I didn't come for the climate." 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. My 
host was nothing if not infuriating. He had something to say, but 
damned if I knew what it was. One minute he seemed easy in my 
presence, the next extremely uncomfortable, and yet he remained 
fixated on my every move with distressing intensity. I assumed that 
all would be made clear in time. At the moment, though, I craved 
information even more than food.

"These other strangers. Who was responsible for bringing them here?"

"I've never seen one. It's said that they're small, with big bald 
heads and huge black eyes."

"Close enough," I confirmed with a sigh. "At least we have friends 
in common." I ignored my host's confused expression to bask in the 
knowledge that I had not stumbled into some lost civilization of 
barbarians. These people knew that they were on a planet and it was 
a relief to find that no new villains had been added to the picture. 
 By now I had finished dressing and my host was still staring. 
Seeing that I was dressed, he decided to help me, willing or not, to 
the table although the distance was no more than three feet.  

"Is there a problem?" I asked, more abruptly than I'd intended, for 
his fawning was becoming damned irritating.

Three different expressions of confusion and embarrassment showed on 
his face at once. "It's just that the other newcomers have all 
been..." He pointed to his right temple. "... not all there in the 
head. 
Most don't say much even after many years. I was just surprised. You 
seem...all right. Maybe you aren't a newcomer after all."

So why did my state of lucidity and the fact that I may not be a 
'newcomer' depress him totally? I was ruminating over his unease as 
I gingerly sat in the splintery chair in my more-than-rough homespun 
pants and looked down at what he had provided for me. There was a 
rough clay crock beside a cup of the same material. The food itself 
was also brown but its smell was far from unpleasant. On the 
contrary, my stomach instantly reminded me of how hollow it was and 
of how long it had been since I had had anything to eat which didn't 
come up almost immediately.

The first bite of the cold stew was even more pleasant. It was good 
vegetarian fare made up of grains and beans and roots, nicely 
flavored with herbs and dried fruit. Too bad that its color made my 
heart ache in sympathetic memory of those left behind in that room 
on the Portjam.

"This is good!" I murmured around the bite. My words and obvious 
surprise brought a shy smile to my host's lips, a fact that was 
amazingly easy to see despite the heavy beard.

"Thank you. That's my spring specialty. Won first prize at the 
winter fair."

He watched me eat with the same fascination with which he had 
watched me dress and didn't speak until I began to slow down which, 
due to my shrunken stomach, wasn't long.

"What did you do to get sent here?" he asked.

Now that's a long story. I decided on the simple version. "I flunked 
pilot school." When he looked at me strangely I revised it to, "I 
pissed off a shapeshifter."

His face registered instant understanding. "One of them? I've heard 
stories. Don't worry. They never come here."

"How would you know if one did or not?"

He looked thoughtful at that. "I see your point." 

It struck me just then, Scully, how absolutely refreshing it was -- 
weird, but refreshing -- to be able to talk about alien races and 
shapeshifters and abductions and be instantly believed. I kept 
feeling like I should be pinching myself to see if I was awake and I 
would have if the itching weren't doing that job all on its own.

"Our history records that this colony," my host was saying, "was 
started thirty years ago, Earth time, with fifty-two rejected 
mindspeakers and a dozen others whose talents didn't mature." 
Something about my jaw dropping open -- I hope there wasn't any food 
in my mouth -- must have caught his attention. "You know what a 
mindspeaker is?"

"Failed at that, too," I muttered my mouth half full again.

His eyes widened with respect. "You've been around."

Remembering the flights of the Beast a shiver walked up my spine. 

"You should feel at home then. All the other BoB's are deadheads, 
too. At least now they are."

That was an odd statement. "To my knowledge, being named 'Bob' was 
not a requirement of the mindspeakers I was with." No, they were 
Billy and Theresa and Roy. I wondered not for the first time how 
they were. 

"No, 'B-BoB' is not their name, just short for --" The light was 
dim, just the firelight augmented by a couple of oil lamps, but I 
thought that the inch of skin between my host's beard and eyes 
flushed.  Abruptly, he turned away to pluck a jar off a shelf an 
arm's length away. "Try these dried applecorns; they're special."

That numbness I get between my shoulders when something is 'up' was 
suddenly buzzing big time. "For newcomer?" I asked, hoping it 
sounded like an innocent question. "'Bob' is short for newcomer?" My 
host shrugged, noncommittally. Seeing that I wasn't going to get 
anymore on that subject at least at the moment, I reached my hand 
across the table in greeting. "My name isn't Bob, though there are 
times I certainly wish it were. Call me Mulder." 

End of Chapter 1

MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (2/15)
Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)

MULDER
Year 30, week 17.4 (continued)

Considering all the touching he'd been doing so casually before, my 
host just stared at my proffered hand. After a moment he took it but 
only for the briefest handshake. "Excuse me, I'm Ben, Benjamin, 
Holder Benjamin, and this," he gestured at the tiny cabin and 
surrounding land, his face lightening with pride, "is my holding."

"Does that mean you're holding it for someone?"

Benjamin hesitated. "It's an old term, left over from when the 
colony first started. Officially, I guess you'd say that I work the 
land for the colony. I inherited it from my foster father when I was 
eighteen." This last was also said proudly. Quite an accomplishment, 
I assumed, though looking around at the accommodations, it didn't 
look like much.

"It's very nice, Ben. Thank you again for all your help."

The bearded man shuffled uncomfortably. "You'd - ah - better call me 
Benjamin or Holder Benjamin. It wouldn't do for you to call me by my 
genpack name."

"Genpack name?" 

"The name I'm called by the men of my generation."

"Ah." I didn't mention at this time that I was probably of his 
generation, unless the beard and his outdoor life made him appear a 
lot older than he was. Though still weak and disoriented, I felt my 
investigative feelers extend. Clearly, this was an isolated human 
colony that had been left to develop its own idiosyncrasies over the 
years. With or without an itchy butt, I could get interested in 
this. The drink in the clay flask was even palatable as well as 
being mildly alcoholic. Yes, I could get use to this. Behavioral 
Science had been my undergraduate major after all.  I looked around 
the tiny, one-room cabin. Well, maybe not for too long. Too many 
days in here and I'd come down with a serious case of 
claustrophobia. 

But academia for later. As usual when a member of the human species 
finds himself in a new place, his first thoughts are always on 
locating the basics of life -- food, water, shelter, and where it 
was permissible to take a shit. 

"Benjamin, I think I need to know where the -- outhouse --  is? 
Toilet? Latrine?"

Ben jerked upright with an apologetic, "Ah, sorry... yes." Rising 
hastily from his seat on his bench bed, he went to the room's only 
door and threw open the massive sheet of rough-hewn planks.

Blinding sunlight flooded in.

"Ow!" I cringed, shielding my eyes. The cabin was so dark that I had 
assumed that it was night. For the first time I noticed that there 
were no windows. Considering the level of technology I'd seen so far 
there was probably no glass in this society or, if there were, it 
would be prohibitively expensive. Still, light and air were 
important so to do without the weather on this planet must be every 
bit as inclement as the night of my arrival had led me to believe. 

Squinting and stooping as he did, I followed my host to exit the low 
door. First, we took care of the necessities --and I do mean we. Ben 
had to come to show me the proper method of managing bodily waste 
which, if left to decompose sufficiently, makes great fertilizer, 
don't ya' know. Clearly, this society lets nothing go to waste -- 
pun intended -- but they don't know much about privacy. There is 
something to be said about taking care of business in the sunshine, 
however. 

For there was sunshine. Warm, low morning sunshine touched my face 
and warmed through my badly fitting clothes even though there was a 
chill bite to the slight wind. Ben had talked about the stew being 
his spring specialty. In an agrarian society 'spring' must refer to 
whatever foodstuff is left over after the winter. Standing before 
the door to his cabin and looking down across the rolling land to a 
small river, I could believe it was spring. New, green shoots 
sprinkled the ground that was generally covered with dry, flattened 
grass. The few trees close by had that fuzzy appearance deciduous 
trees get after winter just before the new leaves burst out. 

A smile tugged at my lips. If you were standing by my side, Scully, 
and we were looking for the first time over some alien landscape, I 
would interject at some point that we weren't in Kansas any more. In 
the case of Dale, however, I couldn't really say that with absolute 
certainty. There may actually be places in Kansas with this many 
trees, and where the land rolls as this does, and where a small 
river passes by the foot of a far cultivated field. And yet I 
remember two moons and I know that this is not Kansas, nor is it 
Pennsylvania. It's also a good deal farther from you than Africa or 
Australia or even Frostbite Falls.  

As pleasantly bucolic as the scene was, my heart lay heavy and 
desolate in my chest. Harvest, Charley had said. He would return at 
harvest time. That would be months away.  I appreciated the fact 
that this poor, young farmer had taken a stranger in, cared for me 
in my illness, fed me and clothed me, but I couldn't expect to 
depend on the hospitality of strangers indefinitely. I was going to 
need a permanent place to live and what passed for a job here and 
neither behavioral scientists, FBI agents, nor windmill tilters were 
likely to be much in demand.

Looking over my shoulder, I took in the cabin for the first time. 
From outside its resemblance to a hobbit hole was even greater. It 
had been carved into a hillside. Walls and roof were sod. Its front 
door faced their equivalent of south while the hill behind rose up 
to block the north winds.  "No wonder you're happy to see the 
spring. Your winters must be hard." And damned lonely for a man by 
himself.

"Bad enough." My host looked my way from under a lock of black hair 
that fell over his forehead and murmured, "It will be easier now." 

Making his little embarrassed shuffle again, he stooped suddenly and 
took a small handful of damp soil in his hand and rubbed it between 
his fingers. I've seen farmers do that in movies. In an attempt to 
show I was 'one of the people' I did the same. Now dirt is not just 
dirt to me. I can tell you approximately how long it has been since 
the last rainfall, how much clay there is so what the chances are 
that it will hold a print or a tire track or stand up to a plaster 
cast. I can even track as long as the UNSUB is moving like a 
locomotive and about as interested as one in covering his trail, but 
I know nothing about what grows in the stuff or how to convince it 
to do so.

"First quality, isn't it?" Ben said about the soil, his pride 
showing again as he looked off happily down the slope towards where 
several fields had already been plowed. At this point be began to 
talk in expansive and energetic detail, not only about the crops 
he'd planted, but also about the lineage of each type of seed. Most 
of the genealogists I've met would have been put to shame. The 
change in the man was remarkable, and I realized that he really was 
younger than I had thought at first. On this topic, with his feet in 
the soil, he was a different person entirely. 
    
I'm afraid that I didn't have much to add to the conversation. 
"About all I was ever able to grow were smooth seed bean plants and 
rough seed bean plants for a science experiment when I was fourteen. 
I regret that I don't really know anything about farming."

Ben was not dismayed. In fact he beamed. "You'll learn, I'll teach 
you. Less to unlearn."

Is there something going on here that I don't know about?

"See those three fields." Ben was pointing to our right at three 
weed-choked expanses the size of football fields. "I think we can 
get those under seed within a week and then there are two new ones 
we can begin clearing." 

What do you mean 'we', white eyes? 

Very carefully, I began addressing the grinning idiot at my side.

"Benjamin -- Holder Benjamin --" I revised, trying to sound 
respectful despite the alarm growing in the pit of my stomach, "I'm 
a newcomer, remember? Emphasis on the 'new'. I really don't know 
what's going on here. Why am I here with you? I vaguely remember a 
kind of village. And what the hell is a BoB which is what I'm 
suppose to be?"  

Ben does a very good imitation of a deer caught in headlights. This, 
I thought, is a pleasant, competent farm boy who, as a manager, is 
way out of his depth. Could be worse. He could know what he was 
doing.

Suddenly, my host uttered an expletive, or I assume that 'Rains!' 
uttered that way is an expletive in this place. Considering what I 
remember of the night of my arrival, I would agree with him. At the 
moment Ben was looking left towards a low ridge. On the thin ribbon 
of a narrow dirt track was the tiny shape of a running man. 

"We're going to have visitors," my host announced with dread.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
BENJAMIN:
Year 30, Week 17.4 Dale Reckoning (continued) 

The last thing I wanted at that moment was to see Jonathan Ironlegs 
coming down the road. My B-Bob caught on right away that something 
was wrong. Hell, I can't even think the word without stuttering, 
he's so un-Bob-like I guess I'll have to call him Mulder, after all, 
if that's his name.

"What's wrong? Trouble?" Mulder asked and he seemed to perk up at 
the thought as if responding to trouble was something he did every 
day.

"A runner from Stony River, our town. Johnny is the runner for the 
Mayor. He probably wants an update."'

"On what?"
    
"On you."

"Such as am I alive?" 

"That and how you're settling in."

Mulder's relaxed manner had turned to something harder than even 
when he had asked what a BoB was. He was going to want explanations 
and I had never expected that I would need any.

"'Settling in' has a very permanent sound which I don't remember 
being consulted about. In that respect I guess you could say that 
I'm not settling in very well."

His gaze was so direct, so -- masterful -- that I felt the cliff 
that I had heard crumbling around me ever since he spoke his first 
coherent words come crashing down. 

"It's all wrong," I found myself jabbering. "It's not like they 
said, not like it should be." He just kept studying me with these 
intense eyes. What the freeze was I suppose to do? Where was my 
tractable, obedient field hand ever grateful for the food on his 
plate and the guiding touch of my hand? Helplessly, I gestured 
towards the house, then the barn. 

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

"Well, for one you aren't suppose to be sleeping in the house."

"I'm not?"

"You're suppose to be sleeping in the barn. BoB's sleep in the barn. 
They're just... That's just what they're suppose to do."

I found myself running into the barn where I'd maybe moved around a 
few bales of sleeping straw since his arrival. I had had three days 
while Mulder lay in fever to get ready and I hadn't done more than 
that. I had spent all my time sitting and staring at the newcomer -- 
MY newcomer, my pleasant, child-like companion -- as he tossed and 
turned and sweated. Part of me had been busy being terrified that he 
would die, but the rest had jumped far ahead to all we could do 
together in the future. They have a precautionary tale on Dale about 
the man who 'counts his bushels' before the harvest. That's a bad 
thing to do, especially foolish when only half your fields are under 
seed. 

In my panic it took me a while to realize that he had wandered in 
behind me and was standing there, cool-like, watching as I 
frantically pushed bales and boxes and bundles about. 

"Now this is definitely wrong!" I yelled at him.

"What?"
        
"You're suppose to be doing this."
    
He frowned, the lips compressing to a pouting, stubborn line.

"Please?" Rains, I shouldn't beg, but I was desperate.

The hard line of those lips softened. "Give me an explanation later 
and I'll help. Only what is it that you're trying to do?"

He had a point. I was doing this all ass backwards. I felt tears 
come to my eyes. I thought I'd find him laughing at me but he was, 
if anything, far more willing than before. "Tell me how I can help."

"Go into the house and get your mat and the blanket and an oil lamp 
and bring them back here."

He hesitated as if there was something he wanted very much to ask. 

"Look, we don't have much time. It will take Johnny a quarter hour 
to reach here from where we saw him."
    
 To that he gave no argument but headed for the house as fast as he 
could go on his sore feet, which wasn't too fast but fast enough. 
Even though he was clearly intelligent, I was surprised when he came 
back quickly with everything I asked for on the first trip. The 
stories I'd heard about some of the other newcomers had led me to 
expect far less. 
    

I don't know how it was managed, certainly not all of it was my 
doing, but I was outside on the step before the cabin braiding rope 
when Johnny came trotting up the slope. With hand outstretched to 
shake his, I rose and asked coolly what brought him around to visit. 
Although it was twelve miles from the town to my door, his palm was 
barely damp, but then Johnny Ironlegs is in great shape. Acting far 
calmer than I felt, I went back to braiding while my visitor got 
himself a mug of cool water from the well. I hoped that he wouldn't 
notice that the last half-inch of braid was far looser and more 
uneven than the ten feet before it and that my hands shook.

After trading the pleasantries about the weather and his praising my 
land and my asking what stops he had made that day -- two before 
mine -- he finally blurted out with what he had been bursting to ask 
every since he ran up. 

"So, Ben, where is he, this Bensman of yours. Hey! Come on bring him 
out and let's get a look at him!"

"Slow down. His fever just broke last night. Can't this wait?"

"Ben, come on. I have to see him. I've got to report."

After a pause as if I had to think about it first, I called out, 
"Mulder!" as languidly as I could manage and with, hopefully, none 
of the hysteria that I felt inside. Would he come when I called?

I found Johnny staring at me with mouth agape. "What was that? 
'Mulder'?"

"That's his name. Unlike most of the newcomers," I drawled with a 
kind of casual pride, "he remembers his name."
    
Much to my relief, Mulder came out of the barn on his own, eyes 
shadowed with irritation, but John didn't seem to notice.

"Snow but he's tall. No one saw him upright the other night. He's as 
tall as you." As if he were sizing up someone's new cabin or a new 
method of storing ropeweed, the runner just stalked up to Mulder to 
stare without apology into his face. I don't know how he missed the 
flaring of the man's nostrils, but I did and hurried to join them.

"Too bad about the scars, though," John said. "Once he doesn't have 
to use the black tickle grease any more, he'd be fine, really fine, 
if it weren't for the scars."

I didn't think the scars detracted all that much from Mulder's looks 
and from the interest in John's eyes I don't think he truly thought 
so either. I know his hunger was not to my liking and clearly was 
not to Mulder's either. Neither did Mulder care for being talked 
about as if he wasn't there. Even though I'd treated BoBs in very 
much this same way ever since I can remember, a surprising anger 
rose up in me that John should insult mine so.

As was the custom, I took the runner into the house for food and a 
drink and a bit of gossip and a rest, leaving Mulder outside to 
'finish the barn'. His answering gaze at my limp command was black 
but he wandered back to what he had been doing. I was glad later 
that I took John into the house as quickly as I did because what he 
proceeded to talk about was not anything that my visitor was ready 
to hear. Visitor? houseguest? companion? Field hand?

Again, maybe I'll better just stick to 'Mulder'.

When it was time for Johnny to head back to town, he detoured by the 
barn for another look. Some work had been done since we left but not 
much.  Instead, Mulder was sitting on a bale in the sun, head bowed 
over elbows on knees. To tell you the truth he didn't look so good.

"What's he doing sitting down?" John exclaimed. "Ben, you can beat 
him for that!" There was such a note of glee in his voice that I 
sensed that he'd love to see me do so right then and there.

"And what do you know about it, John Ironlegs, you who practically 
has a fit at the sight of a field ready for plowing? No one will 
ever assign a BoB to you. I told you, the man just rose from his 
sick bed a few hours ago."

The runner shrugged. "I guess he does look a little poorly. Well, 
all right then. This time." Thankfully, he let the matter drop, 
though I knew that my 'lazy' newcomer and lackluster discipline 
would be the main topic of conversation around the supper tables of 
the colony for the rest of the week. 

Reluctantly, John turned towards the road. "Got to run up to 
Caymon's before I head back, any messages? Oh, wait, the mayor says 
that you're to bring him to town next Tensday to finish the 
adoption."

"That's a long trip for a five-minute blessing'" I grumbled, not 
interested in taking Mulder to town any earlier than I had to. "Tell 
Daniel that we'll come the first Tensday we're free after plowing. 
I've got two mouths to feed now which means more fields."

Finally John left, sprinting up the drive as if his legs were made 
of iron. Mulder didn't watch the runner leave; he only stared at me 
with those hooded, hazel cat eyes of his. I fled into the house and 
even though it wasn't supper time yet, came out with ale, bread, and 
a bag of nuts, spiced grains and dried fruit. 

We ate and drank in silence. Mulder made no move to get up and 
continue with his work and I didn't push him. As I watched him raise 
the heavy ale bottle to his mouth, I knew that I'd only told the 
truth to John. I wasn't sure that he could have lifted the bottle 
twice, he was that unsteady.    

"Sorry if I asked you to move around too fast. Do you want to lie 
down? Maybe take a nap? It's okay."

"Oh, thanks," he replied with a bitter irony. Quickly, too quickly, 
he rose as if his body was ready to explode with some long-
smoldering anger. He had to reach out for the doorpost to steady 
himself. "Do I need your permission to shit, too?" he growled. "To 
breathe? Do I sleep on the floor in front of the fire like your dog 
or in the barn with the other ani--" He paused, studied the barn and 
sniffed. "Where are your animals?" 

I shrugged. 

"Cows? Pigs? Chickens?"

"Not on Dale. A few insects. The rare bird which no one can catch."

His eyes fell on the plow looking more like posthole digger then the 
drawings I've seen of plows from old Earth. It was heavy and 
awkward. "How do you plow your fields?" 

"Slowly," I replied, "and with sweat. There's a big plow for the 
common town fields but that takes six Bo -- six men to manage. I'd 
rather take care of mine myself. Not that I couldn't ask for the 
team to come out, but then I'd have to barter for their time and 
trouble and feed them. That's expensive. A lot of teams eat more 
than they're worth."  

About half way through my explanation I had begun to doubt that 
Mulder was listening. His shoulder was against the roofing post now, 
and I think it was all that was keeping him upright. Even his eyes 
had closed. I touched the back of my hand against his damp brow. His 
head came up like a shot, eyes blazing, even as I leaped back. 

"Sorry, just checking. You've got a touch of the fever back. You 
really should lie down."

"You're not going to order me to? I want to know what's going on and 
I want the truth. What have I been dropped into the middle of?"

It felt as if that cliff was coming the rest of the way down. "This 
is not how it's suppose to work."

"You've said that before. How's it suppose to work?" When I couldn't 
get the right words to start off with he did it for me. "When a 
newcomer gets dropped off I take it that they're assigned to one of 
the farmers? I thought at first that it was something like living 
with a host family, giving the newcomer a chance to get acclimated, 
but it's a more permanent relationship than that, isn't it?"

I found that I was staring down at my dirt-stained fingers. "You got 
to understand how strange this is. You see, BoBs -- they're not 
expected to ask questions. Like I said, most can't even talk." 
Mulder's eyes were more interested than angry now. Very well, I told 
myself, this maybe wouldn't be so much different than storytelling. 
"From the beginning then. From the start the colony was left on its 
own. A lot of people died." Mulder nodded, not surprised. "Then they 
started dropping off the newcomers; only a few at first, but then 
fairly often. These newcomers were not like you, they were very..." 
I waved my hand in front of my unfocused eyes. "They just weren't 
all there."

"From shock or actually brain-damaged?" my companion asked.
 
I shrugged. "They could barely take care of themselves, that's all I 
know. Most had to be told when to go to bed and when to piss. A few 
couldn't even feed themselves and that's even after we gave them 
food. They certainly couldn't organize themselves to grow anything. 
We were a little community, dying ourselves when the crops were bad, 
and with no Earth animals like horses or oxen we had so much heavy 
work to do. What were we supposed to do with these people? At least 
they were physically healthy."

"So they were assigned to a farmer who put them to work." His eyes 
were cold. "BoB..." his voice trailed off. "Beast --"

"-- of Burden." I admitted sheepishly.

"That's demeaning."

"It started out as a joke. The program had a fancier name when it 
started but that was lost over the years. 'Social Responsibility' I 
think they called it."

"Government-sponsored slavery," he sneered.

"Listen, you weren't here. You don't know. At least everyone has a 
home, everyone has food -- most years anyway -- and some BoBs get 
better with time."

"And what happens when they do? Are they given a choice then?"

I opened my mouth but nothing came out at first. True, there were no 
laws that covered any kind of smooth transition, and there were some 
truly ugly stories. "There's Peter," I stammered, coming up with the 
one example everyone always used when the topic came up, "Old 
Theodore's BoB. He went on to inherit his Holder's farm since Theo 
had no son. That will happen more in the future since there are no 
children."

Mulder's bright eyes had lost that accusatory look and showed 
interest again. "Why are there no children?"

"Because there aren't many women. Half a dozen women and as many 
children but you won't find them on any farm. They are very 
precious. You don't see them. There are less every generation." I 
felt myself blushing. "I'm one of the lucky ones, second 
generation."

He seemed to put a couple of ideas together. "I want to ask about 
your women and children but later. So you were born here, born to be 
a Holder one day, and that's where all the 'this is not the way it 
should be' stuff came from. And you've been expecting to be assigned 
a newcomer for years --"

"--But there just weren't any. They stopped coming. Ten years and 
nothing. I never thought... and then you..." I blushed again though 
I don't think he noticed.

"There were female mindspeakers where I was. Fairly equal numbers. 
Why did they send so few women here?"

"They didn't. The numbers were pretty equal to start with." I felt 
the sadness sweep over me when I thought of what I've been taught 
about those years.

"What happened to the women?" Mulder asked and the gentleness of his 
voice somehow made it worse. I struggled to hold the tears back. It 
was weird the way the man could pinpoint exactly where the critical 
point was.

"R-Remember I said that a lot of us died at first? Most were women."

"Why?"

"Childbirth." My voice dropped to a whisper. "They bled horribly... 
something about this planet they say. My own mother..."
    
"Thirty years," he mused, his concentration far off. "And fewer 
women and children every year. Where are the ones who are left?"

"Oh, in the town. You see them sometimes on holidays, from afar. 
They have to be shielded. Protected."

His hand was resting heavily on the barn support again. He looked 
down at me, his expression serious and weary. "I'm sorry about your 
mother, Ben. I'm sorry for your community, but I'm not one of your 
gifts of slave labor from heaven." This last he said with absolute 
finality. "I'm not a BoB in any of the ways your people mean by 
that, and from some of the things Runner John said I think you know 
what I'm referring to."

I swallowed, disappointment flooding my belly. So he had listened 
and had heard. "I realize that -- now. But about you're not being 
like the others, how were we to know? You were just so sick from the 
fever. Even with John, you didn't actually say anything. So they 
still don't know."

"What will happen when they find out?"

"I don't know, but new ideas aren't welcome." I didn't have to say 
more. A good deal of my anxiety must have transmitted itself to him 
for he leaned against the post silently for a long time, his 
expression grave.

"Damn you, Charley," he muttered under his breath, words not meant 
for me to hear. "You intended purgatory and purgatory I got."

"You're very intelligent," I went on, "which means that just like 
now you are going to ask questions, and there are too many people on 
Dale who don't want to hear such questions, much less the answers." 
And less from a Bob than anyone, my thoughts continued. "There are 
lots of scared people who don't want things to change. Those would 
be the back-knife politicians who haggle for places on top in the 
town and most of the giant landholders who have many Bobs as well as 
landless men who work for them. Some nasty stuff goes around which 
is why I got myself adopted to old William so that I could live out 
here. He's been dead ten years and I still spend almost all my time 
here."

Mulder was smiling softly. Nearly took my breath away that smile. 
"That's a very astute observation, Ben. Societies on the decline 
fall apart in more ways than one and staying out of the fighting is 
probably the wisest thing you can do. If you're willing to keep our 
secret, perhaps it would be best if they continue not to know about 
'me' until I understand the lay of the land better."

I was relieved that he could grasp the problem, but I knew that he 
didn't understand all the reasons for my fear, not the personal ones 
anyway.

"I'll tell you what...," he said, stretching slowly. "Until we get 
this all sorted out, I'll help with the farm work. If it makes you 
feel more Holder-like you can even give me orders and I'll pretend 
to do what you say. When we're around other people you can even say 
that you beat me. When we're around other people I can even do my 
newcomer best to appear properly distracted." His eyes took on a far 
away look. "Actually, Scully would say that the distracted part 
would come naturally."
    
It was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud, that's how 
the lines in his face relaxed when he said that name. "Who's 
Scully?" 

His smile was back, gentle and sad. "A friend whom I think you would 
like very much. Correction, a friend whom I _ know _ you would like 
very much."
     
End of Chapter 2

MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (3/15)
Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)

MULDER:
Year 30, Week 19.5 Dale Reckoning 

Farming... Farming is hard work, damn hard, sweaty, backbreaking 
work... but rewarding for all that. I saw the first shoots come out 
of the ground today. They were in the field Ben had planted before 
my arrival but our three additional fields are all planted and I'm 
checking the soil daily, walking down after breakfast with the sun 
on my face. It warms my back as I lean down. 

Kind of like watching the grass grow only this is life for these 
people.

'These' people. Notice that I don't say 'us'. I'm still apart, 
separate. I guess that I'm destined to never be part of any herd. 
You see, I haven't forgotten about Charley's promise... that he 
would be back after harvest. I have a way out. These people don't. 
That's what sets us apart. Does that mean I'll leave? Most of the 
time it's not even a question I need to ask. Of course, I will. But 
then the memories of the ship come back and the Beast on that ship 
and an uncontrollable terror squeezes my heart. At those times being 
a beast here doesn't seem so bad after all. When the frost is on the 
pumpkin, however, I know I will go. That's still months away, 
however. In the meantime I live here quietly with Ben and we work 
the land.   

The best part is waking in the morning in my little nest in the 
south corner of the barn. I like waking up alone. It's almost like 
old times though a lumpy mat of sleep straw is not nearly as 
comfortable as my old couch. And who needs coffee when you're 
greeted with cold dew between your toes as you scurry shivering to 
the latrine? It's after the first chilly shock wears off that I 
spread my arms to the sun and glory in the pure simple pleasure of 
being free. I have clean air to breathe and no walls except when I 
want them and no company except when I want that either. And the 
company? The company is Ben. We work in silence or we work and talk 
or -- God, help me -- we work and sing. Work songs. No wonder they 
put radios in cars early on.
    
Ah, I hear you, Scully, and you are right. Though I have told Ben 
about Charley and the ship -- I thought his eyes would fall out his 
head -- I haven't told him that I have a way off this dirtball and 
that I intend to leave as soon as I possibly can. 

Two weeks and more of the same. Since their weeks are ten days long, 
that is twenty days our time. Just Ben and I and dirt. If only there 
were some metal tools but I haven't seen a one. Every chore takes a 
very long time, but at least I'm sleeping well. I fall asleep 
exhausted every night, but it's a good feeling to work with your 
muscles towards something that will be appreciated. Better than 
hitting your head against brick walls for ten years, which is how 
long that I lived and breathed the X-Files. Working in the fields 
keeps my mind off other matters as well. If Charley thought this was 
hell, he didn't know me very well. If he had wanted this to be hell, 
he would never have said he would come back. THAT would have been 
hell. 

As I've said, Ben is a good companion. He's cheerful and hard-
working. He's also silent when I feel the need for silence, which is 
often. I found myself telling him much of what I told Ness about 
Earth. There is only one problem: he is like a puppy in his hero 
worship. It's when we get close physically that he is anything but 
puppy-like in the strength of his physical response. There's no way 
around that in a cabin as small as Ben's or when we work together in 
the fields harvesting rocks. Now I've known plenty of women who have 
had crushes on my person. They see the face and the form but not the 
whole package. They think they can 'save' me. I've learned to ignore 
that. There have even been a few men, gays who feel the exact same 
way. But with Ben this is much tougher. Though he envisions himself 
the hermit, he's actually dying for companionship. So what would you 
expect? Here he is, finally alone with another human being, he's 
never known a woman, doesn't expect to ever have the opportunity to 
know a woman, and as I understand it his society has totally 
accepted the man-man thing. I'm also fighting this fairy-tale he's 
been telling himself ever since he stepped in line to become a 
landholder at thirteen about the ideal relationship between the 
lordly Holder and his worshiping field hand. Let's just say that we 
have the makings for considerable tension here.  

The worst part is, I'm lonely, too, and here I have the possibility 
for a real friend, which is rare for me. I do feel an ache when I 
see that boy-man's back turned to me as he sleeps alone on his shelf 
bed. That's another reason why I sleep in the barn most of the time. 
The only time I sleep inside is when it's too cold at night, which 
it often is even though I'm told that it's nearly summer. When I'm 
forced inside, I stretch out under the table in the cabin, unwilling 
to sleep again in front of the fire at Ben's feet. He may be only 
ten years younger than I in age, but he's a century behind in life 
experience.

Look who's talkin'? Mr. Sophisticate.


Year 30, Week 19.9 Dale Reckoning 

John Ironlegs came visiting, two and a half of their ten-day weeks 
since his last visit. We were working on clearing a new field, which 
was fortunate for us both. Stinking, filthy, sweaty and sunburned as 
I was, I looked every inch the non-too-bright plowhorse. 

"Daniel wants to know why you two haven't come to town," the runner 
called across most of the field. "It's May Day tomorrow. It would be 
a good time he says."
    
Ben looked my way, clearly hesitating. We both knew that allowing me 
to be seen by people could complicate my life here, but in time our 
continued absence would begin to look suspicious. Ben is one of the 
few genuinely decent and kind people that I have ever known and I 
don't want him hurt as a result of his association with me.

As if maneuvering to get a better hold on a very large stone, I 
turned my back on the runner and spoke softly so that only Benjamin 
could hear. "Ben, you should go."

"These festivals are overrated," he murmured so John couldn't hear 
or see his mouth move.

"That's not the point. You can't isolate yourself out here with me. 
That will only raise questions." I didn't say what my real reason 
was, that when I left with Charley I didn't want Benjamin to have 
burned all his bridges here. If I understood his history correctly, 
he had been enough of a recluse before.

After catching my eye to confirm that I was serious, Ben shouted to 
John, "Very well, I'll come!"

"And what about 'him'," John called back, gesturing to me. "Don't 
tell me that you're going to leave him tied up in the barn!"

"That's not a totally bad idea," I murmured to the rock I was 
laboring with. "I mean about staying  here, not the tied up part. 
I've never been very much of a party-person."

"We'll BOTH come!" Ben answered, a hint of humor in his voice, and 
that was that. With a skip John's swift feet were flying to finish 
his rounds. 

We worked for a while in silence. As I said, we were clearing a new 
field. Rocks are amazingly heavy when you drop one on your foot. The 
tough old grass refused to be cut and if you try to pull it out by 
the roots, most of the topsoil came up with it, which has to be 
reclaimed because there was precious little. Then the earth just 
under the topsoil has to be broken up with picks and mixed with 
compost. I'll never complain about having to slave over expense 
reports again. 
    
Lunchtime comes whenever the first of us sits down for a break. 
Early on, just after the first week when I'd broken in my muscles, 
we reached a point when neither of us wanted to be the first to give 
in. We nearly killed ourselves working from dawn to dark. We don't 
do that anymore. Ben gave in first this time, sprawling out under 
what he said was a roseberry bush and sucking in air and cool water 
from a flask. "We'd better call it a day. Takes hours to walk to 
town and we have to clean up."

Muscles aching in that good way from honest, physical labor, I 
dropped down onto the dry grass next to Ben, there being no other 
shade. Unfortunately, I sat on a half-buried rock, which I quickly 
chucked into our ever-enlarging pile. "We should do something with 
those," I said gesturing to the pile. "With no neighbors to worry 
about and no animals, I guess you don't have any need for stone 
fences."

"Hardly. They build houses with them in the town and, Freeze knows, 
that there's clay enough for mortar, but it's not worth the trouble 
to drag them so far."

I gestured up the hill towards the sod cabin and barn, their grassy 
roofs barely distinguishable from the hills at this distance. "It's 
a long way from the river. What about a rock-lined cistern or 
another storage shed?"

Ben munched on his lunch of bread and bean spread, his eyes 
animated. "Or another room on the cabin. It's going to be very 
crowded this winter with the both of us stuffed in there day after 
day. You'll freeze in the barn." There was the slightest catch in 
his voice as he finished with, "And I won't have you sleeping on the 
floor for months at a time." 

This was actually very kind of him because I knew where he wanted me 
to sleep. He had shyly offered space on his bed bench more than once 
on the colder nights. 

"Yes, you should have a small room of your own," Ben repeated. This 
said he allowed himself a cautious glance in my direction probably 
hoping that I would protest.
    
In truth I did hesitate. Kicking puppies was not my favorite 
occupation and I hadn't planned on telling gentle Ben that I would 
not be around this winter until much closer to the time of my 
departure. On the other hand I didn't want him wasting time and 
effort building a room that I had no intention of ever needing. 
"That's an idea but I have another one. When the weather's good you 
bath in the river. I assume the river freezes. What do you do in the 
winter?"

"Stink," the black-bearded, young man said with a grin.

"Ever thought about building a sweat lodge or sauna up against the 
outside of the existing chimney? It would be a way of getting really 
warm every once in a while during the winter. I know I've had enough 
of being cold on this trip."

Ben was thoughtful and, though he tried to hide it, quietly hopeful. 
I instantly regretted the expectations my refusal of a room and bed 
of my own had spawned.

With the ease of a strong and active man, Ben rose to his feet and 
reached for a rough sack at his feet. Earlier we had taken turns 
going up to the cabin to fetch going-to-town cleaning supplies. 
"We'll talk about this more later. For now I'd better start washing 
otherwise there won't be time for both of us to get ready."

I dropped in beside him with my own bundle of 'clean' clothes, extra 
sacking that could serve equally well as a towel or Brillo pad, and 
some of the colony's rough-milled soap. "I might as well come 
along."

He stared at me, startled. "I thought bathing with me made you 
nervous."

"Having you looking at me while I'm bathing makes me nervous. Since 
you wash first and then back track to hide in the bushes to watch me 
bath anyway there's not much difference."

Ben's cheeks blushed scarlet. "I'm sorry."

"Benjamin, I'm flattered by your offers of... closer encounters of 
the intimate kind, but, as I've said, it's not the way I'm put 
together."

"It's because you have a lover back on Earth, isn't it? A woman."

I nearly choked. Scully, I swear that I never discussed you with 
Ben, not in those terms, but Ben is very perceptive for a recluse. 
"That's probably it, though Scully is far more than a lover. I 
'love' her. There's a big difference. If she were just a lover, I 
could possibly trade one for another, but with what Scully and I 
have, that's not possible."

"And I'm not female," Ben said dismally. "They're always better, so 
they say." 

I rolled my eyes. "The sex of the partner matters less than you 
think, at least to me. Sure I prefer women. Like many men where I 
come from I experimented with other combinations when I was young 
but one man, one woman does work best for me. Still, I'm open to 
everyone deciding that for themselves. Living the way you do here, 
with no access to women, I can see why you might assume that more 
could develop between us, but you must know by now that it won't." 

Benjamin kept walking. We were at the steep edge of the riverbank 
where we had to watch our footing so his eyes were on the ground, 
his lips a stoic line. We sat on the bank and began the laborious 
process of removing the generations-old work boots that were held 
together with winding upon winding of the rough homespun. Ben jerked 
with obvious frustration at his and then paused. He sighed once 
deeply and started the unwrapping only more slowly. 

"Back when we were in our teens, my friends and I used to sit around 
and talk about how it would be when we got out own BoBs." Ben shook 
his head over the crumbling boot. "Some of the things my friends 
planned made me sick, but I couldn't let on. Sadistic stuff. They 
kept talking about holding these parties where they'd bring two of 
those poor, dumb wretches together and watch to see if they knew 
what to do."  I felt, rather than heard, the young man at my side 
clear his throat and then go on, his voice thicker. "I never said 
what I would do when my turn came. In those days it was a given that 
the newcomers would keep coming. But I knew he would be frightened, 
confused. I would go slow and I would be so gentle. They're like 
children, you know, the BoBs, and yet they are not. I would have 
seen to it that mine would look forward to the end of the day and 
the long winter nights."

With a lurch, Ben jerked off the last loosened boot, then stripped 
off the sweaty shirt and trousers. Within seconds he was on his feet 
and quickly executed a graceful dive into the cold water of the 
small river. I sat on the bank, the image of a bare, strong back in 
my mind and a pair of firm, white buttocks. Something clutched at me 
deep inside. Damn, but he would be just what he said he would be; a 
good lover, gentle as he said, and considerate with skillful hands. 
He made carvings in the winter; they were all over his cabin. He had 
very skillful hands. 

A larger than normal bead of sweat trickled down into my beard. 
Irritably, I rubbed at it with the back of my hand. 

"What's wrong?" came an amused voice from the river. Ben had 
returned to the bank to get soap from his sack.

"This beard. It's hot; it itches. I've give anything to get rid of 
it."    

Ben's eyes were wickedly mirthful. "Mulder, you are so lucky that 
I'm not the kind of a man to take advantage of another man's 
suffering." With a flourish he produced an object from his sack that 
looked very much like a slice of rock.

I stared. "Shit, is that a flint razor?"

"It's May Day, the first day of the new year. The traditional time 
for the shearing of the winter growth." Deftly, he sawed off a hunk 
of his own black bush. I grimaced while he merely shrugged. "Seems 
like it needs a bit of sharpening."

Ben pulled out a wet stone, small chisel and a small hammer stone 
and proceeded to do just that, flaking as easily as the most 
accomplish aborigine.

This seemed an appropriate time to bath my own dirty, sweaty body. 
Years before Benjamin and his foster father had made rock steps down 
into a natural pool and lined the bottom with stones. Too bad that a 
few thousand years hadn't passed since to wear away the sharpest 
edges. Still, it was better than sticky mud up to your ankles. As it 
was still spring, the water was more than just cold and raised a 
good crop of gooseflesh on my skin. It gave me the incentive to work 
even more energetically to try to raise some kind of lather with the 
nearly useless soap. In truth I didn't mind the chilly water. I had 
spent so many of the past months living in my own stink that any 
chance for a bath was welcome. I didn't linger, however, especially 
when Ben came down with his newly sharpened 'razor' and more of the 
terrible soap to sit on the wet steps to shave. This was my signal 
to exit to a sunny spot behind him to dry in the sun. Dry enough, I 
slipped on a long, T-shaped tunic and went to see how he was doing. 
Amazingly, ninety percent of the thick black beard was gone. For the 
first time I glimpsed Ben's real age. He was even younger than I 
thought. Maybe not even thirty.

I cringed as he groped with the razor-sharp flint for a stubborn 
patch of curly black hairs under his jaw. "Don't you have a mirror?" 
I asked.

"There's only one in the whole colony. I've always done it by feel, 
but then there's never anyone around to tell me what kind of a job 
I've done. So how bad is it?"

"Amazingly good considering what you have to work with."

He laughed. "Do you mean my face?"

"Not your face, I mean the razor and the quality of the soap."  And 
I meant that because the soap was indeed awful and his face, now 
that I could see it, was a nice face. 

Ben was pointing to a spot under his chin. "If you're going to be 
critical, you can get this spot for me."

Tentatively I took between my fingers the arrowhead-size piece of 
flint. "Aren't you afraid that I'll cut your throat."

"No, because, if you do, I'll cut off your nose when it's my turn."

"You'd have a large enough target," I murmured. "Seriously, maybe 
I'll stay bearded after all."

"Coward, " Ben hissed. "Come on, I'll do it for you. I'm harmless."

It was all I could do to suppress a grin but Ben was being serious. 
He just didn't have the cultural background to understand that no 
man where I come from wants to be considered harmless.

And so he stood naked on the riverbank and holding the stone blade, 
the very picture of sober, responsible barbarism. "You can trust me. 
As I only have experience shaving myself, however, I'll have to take 
you from behind." 

Barely able to stifle peals of helpless laughter, I stripped off my 
clean clothes, waded into waste-deep water and soaped up the 
offending bush on my chin. As ready as I was going to get, I felt 
Benjamin slid in behind me and reach around my shoulders. After 
allowing a few minutes to get use to the arrangement -- and for my 
bubbles of silent laughter to die down -- he did a credible job, 
though I couldn't help but be aware of the hard planes of his work-
hardened muscles against my buttocks and back. He didn't try a 
thing, but I still sent a prayer up to the gods for the snowmelt 
waters of spring. 

End of Chapter 3

MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (4/15)
Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)

BENJAMIN:
Year 30, Week 19.9 Dale Reckoning 

The first beardless hours of the spring are always special. Strange 
and special. You expect to feel cool, you don't expect to feel five 
pounds lighter as well as vulnerable. Every breath of wind is like a 
gentle slap on the newly naked skin of your face. Thus with the 
breeze slapping at our chins, we started out on the road when the 
sun was about two o'clock in the sky. The 'o'clocks' are a holdover 
from old Earth. They never made much sense to me, but Mulder 
understood readily enough so I guess we haven't strayed too far from 
the original idea. I started out at my normal clip but within half a 
mile I'd left Mulder behind. He was fast enough. It was just that 
his feet did not have the years of toughening mine had. We were, of 
course, barefoot, the disintegrating work boots being too rare to 
waste just walking.

While he sat and rubbed stone sores I took fifteen minutes to rig up 
some sandals for him from bark and moss with ropeweed straps. He 
said that they looked godawful but beat the alternative. I stared at 
his hands as he worked to make the jury-rigged straps as comfortable 
as possible. When he shaved that little awkward patch under my jaw 
for me, those long, fine fingers, now so ingrained with my farm's 
dirt, had been steady as a rock. If it had been me that close to him 
for the first time, I don't know how cool I would have been. I 
wonder what he did for a living back on Earth? He'd never said. My 
guess is that it took a steady hand.
 

Two and a half hours of walking took us to within sight of Stony; 
the colony's only collection of buildings that could be considered a 
town. I explained to Mulder that its full name was Stony River as it 
was located on the Big River, the same one that flows by my farm. 
The Stony part refers to the land it's built on. Best to locate a 
town where the land is too poor for farming.

True to our plan Mulder didn't speak a word once we started meeting 
people on the road. I realized quickly that he may be able to manage 
not speaking, but he was going to find imitating that distracted, 
unawareness of most BoBs more difficult. We'd lived and worked 
together long enough for me to be conscious of how his body hummed 
with curiosity about the buildings, the catch-as-catch can dress of 
the townspeople, the food stalls and games, the music and songs and 
entertainers. I really should have exposed him to the town on a 
normal day first. Normal BoB's would have found the distractions on 
a festival day overpowering, but then Mulder's not normal. Dalemen 
who wanted to meet the first newcomer to be dumped upon our shores 
in a decade stopped us every five feet. I had expected this and 
prepared a credible story based on the daydreams of fifteen years. 
What I should have done was fill Mulder in on my tale beforehand as 
the fiction of our life together was far more of a surprise to him 
then to my friends and neighbors. To all appearances he stood 
quietly, hands clasped, head bowed, but I could sense an angry 
stiffening from time to time, that and occasional sputter of 
amusement that he covered with a few well-timed coughs. A cold, I 
explained with much concern, picked up as a result of the chill, wet 
night of his arrival. This topic inevitably led to fanciful 
speculation on how we spent other nights. The ribald jokes made his 
fingers curl into their palms and the tops of his ears redden. I 
tried to turn the conversation but going on about clearing new 
fields and plans for new buildings only works for so long. 

The worst for Mulder was the invasion of what he calls his personal 
space. He was right; it was degrading. You could bet that every time 
I was occupied deflecting questions on my right, some insensitive 
jerk was poking his fingers into the scars of Mulder's face or 
trying to push back his clothes to see if there were others. They 
didn't want to hear me go on about how strong and healthy he was, 
they wanted to look into his mouth themselves and touch the firm 
muscles. Rains! If anyone touches that skin it's going to be me! I 
knew we were in trouble when I heard a low-pitched warning growl. 
Talon, green with envy to see how well the sick and muddy wretch we 
had seen in the barn that day had turned out, wanted to see with his 
own eyes how expandable were certain parts of this newcomer's 
anatomy.

Seeing the explosion coming, which hopefully could be dismissed as 
no worse than a very slight fit, I clutched Mulder in my arms, a 
handy position for protecting the body part in question from 
inquisitive hands and, coincidentally, something I'd been longing to 
do. For once he couldn't sidestep me either, not and maintain his 
'cover'. It took all the joy out of the moment to feel him tighten 
like a cart that's beyond overloaded. I prayed that he'd hold 
together long enough for me to lighten the load.

"Talon Harris, now you back off. He's not yours to be touching that 
way. Even if he were your newcomer, it's not polite. Give the man 
some room. Can't any of you see how shy and sensitive he is."  The 
last statement was pretty unbelievable. Even though he was able to 
project a fair impression of Bob-ness, Mulder was clearly anything 
but shy and sensitive. In his present mood, some barely leashed 
madman would have described him better though maybe I was the only 
one who saw him that way. I was relieved that at my ridiculous 
comment he stuffed his fist in his mouth to stifle the laughter. I 
felt the bubbles as a kind of hiccuping in the tension of his hard 
stomach against mine. It might have been a considerable effort 
because the teeth marks were visible for days.

We had ceased being the center of attention by the time night fell. 
Mulder was more than ready for it. I felt the cooling sweat through 
both shirt and vest as I helped him on with the night coat I 
requisitioned for him from group stores.  Dale is almost always cold 
at night. Snow in mid-summer is not unheard of. Though the coat was 
in poor shape -- after all he was only a newcomer according to the 
rolls -- at least it was warm. Mulder seemed equally grateful for 
its concealing shape and large hood. Now that it was dark and the 
lights few, most of the Dalesmen were standing around the open 
windows of Government House, the only two-story dwelling on the 
planet. 

"Listening to Mayor Dan's moral-raising speeches is a festival day 
tradition," I explained. "With all respect, those speeches with 
their visions and plans for our future are about all that has held 
us together all these years." I grinned. "More importantly, now that 
almost everyone is occupied, we can see what is left on the food 
tables." 

For my contribution I'd brought only a string of dried, spiced 
applepears, but I knew that Mulder was extremely interested in the 
preparation of our food. It was a limited diet but for that very 
reason we had learned to be inventive. We were at least lucky in 
that what Dale lacked in the way of food animals, fish and fowl, it 
made up for in herbs and greens, fruits and berries, roots and 
beans. There was also a long, boring winter to test all the possible 
combinations. As we tasted each dish, I explained the contents and 
the spice. I could tell from the flash in his eyes that he was as 
grateful for the knowledge as he was for the food.

On the whole, however, we spent the evening in the shadows. We 
watched a play whose Earthly progenitor Mulder knew well. We 
listened to songs, the tunes of which Mulder could also identify 
though the words had changed. In whispers I explained the games of 
chance the men played. 

And then came the dance. 

I got us a good spot early as everyone at the gathering would 
eventually gather to watch. Extra torches were brought out. The most 
skilled musicians played. Then the dancers came out. Small, slender 
creatures they were with long hair and delicate, smooth faces. Soft 
rounded bodies. Our women. All of our women. There were eight. They 
danced only with each other, their movements mesmerizing. Two were 
older women with long gray hair. Though they danced along with the 
others, they seemed as frail as light itself. Three of the younger 
women were obviously pregnant. Only two babies were shown, only two 
born over the winter and only one was a girl. You could almost feel 
the despair of the crowd. Mulder stood as transfixed as the rest of 
us, looking at our dying future. I wondered how he could sympathize 
so with our sorrow since there were millions women were he came 
from, but then I noticed that his eyes were for one young women 
only. She did not have the wasted thinness of most of the others; 
she was one of the pregnant ones. Her skin was pale, her hair, red, 
and her face prettier than average. There were tears shining in his 
expressive eyes by the time the dance was done and the women taken 
back to the strong houses and walled gardens where they lived out 
their lives. 

We melted away from the crowd, not staying for the elaborate, 
stamping, weaving circle dances of the men that followed. We walked 
in the shadows in silence. "Your woman, does she have red hair like 
that?" I asked softly.

He answered with a single slow nod. I don't know if he didn't speak 
because he was keeping to his role or because there were just no 
words sufficient to describe the sadness that I saw in his face. Did 
he remember that the red-haired girl was as like as not to die 
before spring? I didn't ask him any more questions.

I took the opportunity while the rest of the revelers were toasting 
the official end of winter and the beginning of the new year to lead 
us away from the crowd. I found my feet taking us towards a long, 
stone building on the edge of town. Only a few torches burned but 
there was the scuff of feet coming and going in the dark. A distance 
from it in the blackest shadow under a large tree I halted. After 
seeing 'them' -- the women -- and having to be so close to Mulder 
for so long and our not 'doing' anything, I had considerable tension 
to release. "I need to stop here for a while. Maybe half an hour," I 
told him.

For the first time since the dance he came out of his own thoughts. 
He listened for a few minutes to the stray, muffled sounds and 
watched the shapes moving in the dark. His lips formed a small, 
almost apologetic smile. "I understand."

I fumbled in my pocket for a scrap of dark fabric with holes cut for 
the eyes. I felt myself blushing as I held it up for him to see. "I 
know it's a sham. We all know who we are but it makes it easier to 
meet on the street the next morning. But what do I do with you? Some 
of the holders bring their BoB's with them. They sit in the corner 
and watch. Maybe they want them to learn some new tricks for when 
they get home, but I couldn't bear that and neither could you. If 
you waited out here, however, I'd be afraid that someone might 
stumble over you and, considering the state of mind of the men who 
come this way -- " 'Then there's your looks,' I thought, though I 
didn't say that part out loud. "-- I'm afraid of what they'd try to 
do."

He glanced up into the branches above our head. "I could sit in this 
tree until you got back though the last time I remember climbing a 
tree I fell out."

"Better not try it then," I said with a grin. 

He gestured towards a cluster of woods north of the long house. "I 
could hide there," he suggested. "I'll stay quiet. You stay as long 
as you want."

I tried to keep the laughter out of my voice, "That would be just 
about the worst place. It _ is _  very private. It's also very 
popular, if a little cold at this time of year."  Mulder's eyes 
actually widened at that thought but with the low light, it was hard 
to be certain.

Before we could present and reject any more alternatives, a deep 
voice that didn't belong to either of us came like a knife out of 
the darkness. "Perhaps it would be best if you both came along with 
me."  In the next moment their owner came nearer so that we could 
make out his face in the tiny oil lamp he had carried shielded until 
now. I knew the man, everyone on Dale did, but unexpectedly I 
tensed. What I didn't understand was why at the sight of our visitor 
Mulder went completely rigid and even in this dark I could see his 
face go pale.


MULDER:
Year 30, Week 19.9 Dale Reckoning 

Benjamin didn't understand why I stood there, frozen, to stare at 
Dale's mayor as if I had seen a ghost. The truth was, I had. Mayor 
Daniel was Charley, only decades older. Ben tugged at my arm, 
whispering that there was nothing to be afraid of. Under the 
circumstances I didn't believe him. The mayor's broad figure led us 
over the dark field and through the silent streets. He was easy to 
follow as he wore a thick, full cloak and carried a stoat walking 
stick that he did not seem to need despite his age. We approached 
the sturdy two-story building the crowd had been gathered around 
earlier in the evening. In little bursts of commentary Ben informed 
me that not only was this structure the seat of what government 
there was on Dale, but the mayor's residence as well. I was 
concerned that that very individual would hear us talking -- 'me' 
talking -- but Benjamin did not seem particularly distressed. "He 
would have to be told sooner or later."  To my way of thinking Ben 
was far too trusting but it was too late for that.

Government House looked deserted to my eyes but the lack of electric 
lights have that affect. One lone torch held vigil outside. As we 
drew near, it became clear that shutters now covered the windows 
that the townspeople had peered through earlier. No, not shutters 
exactly, but frames covered with crude oiled paper so that the dim 
glow of a goodly number of lamp flames could be seen now that we 
were near. All in all, built solidly of native fieldstone as it was, 
Government House came across more intimidating that impressive. 

As we approached, the wide front door opened from within by an aging 
man with a marked attitude of servility. He even shuffled more than 
his age would account for as he moved away to allow us to enter. We 
huddled for a moment in a small foyer while the serving man -- the 
first obvious BoB I'd seen -- took the mayor's cloak. The garment, 
centuries more stylish than anything Ben owned, was placed into an 
armoire rather than hung on one of the hooks clearly intended for 
visitors. Through an open doorway could be seen a well-furnished 
room. With its clean wooden floor, the house certainly looked less 
like a fortress from the inside though there was still the chill of 
thick stone walls. In size and appointments it reminded me of some 
of the less grand but still very habitable houses in the historic 
section of Williamsburg.

As his heavy walking stick was taken, the mayor waved casually to 
his serving man. "Bring something to eat and drink for my guests," 
but his eyes, full of pointed humor, were for me. "I will return in 
a few minutes. Reese will serve you." Then he disappeared through a 
doorway in the rear of the foyer and we soon heard footsteps on 
wooden stairs. Before we were shown into the impressive side room 
there was time to note the presence of two well-crafted wooden 
benches in the foyer in addition to the armoire. I suppose that 
there had to be someplace for the supplicants to wait.

But there was no waiting for us. The room we were shown into seemed 
a busy and meticulous man's study. There were all the personal 
touches, especially the books, even though these are few in number, 
few in pages, and crudely made. Benjamin stared openly at the 
furnishings. There were curtains of rough but precious cloth at the 
windows, a desk, a good-sized table and ample chairs. One of these 
last was especially large and well built. All were luxuries in this 
metal-starved world where each tree brought down with stone ax, 
wedge and mallet was a triumph. Ben's work-worn, wood-loving hands 
drifted over the well-planed top of the table as his eye busily 
memorized the design of each chair. 

"Haven't you been here before?" I asked.

Ben's fingers reverently touched a bentwood chair back. "Only on 
business and not alone. I wouldn't have dared touch anything." His 
voice was full of awe as he caressed the top of the table. "The 
months this must have taken."  

I left Ben admiring the furniture to exercise my own senses. As 
expected, the room smelled less of the ever-present earthy scent of 
sod and peat than any other dwelling I'd been in. The fireplace was 
burning wood. There was also the silence. In a civilization without 
radios, televisions, automobiles, boom boxes or crickets, I had 
gotten use to the sound of the wind against tree and grass, but 
there wasn't any of that here. Boards creaked as someone walked on 
the floor above. By the slowness and heaviness of the tread it had 
to be the sturdily built and aging Mayor Dan. 

So curious was I upon what was going on on the second floor that I 
missed the silent entrance of Reese. He bore a tray with cakes, 
bread, and a popular spread like humus. There were also glazed 
ceramic cups, the first I had seen, and a crock of what was probably 
a kind of beer, the popular beverage. I studied the man almost 
guiltily until I noticed that even though he kept his head bowed in 
what I assumed was the correct deferential posture for a product of 
Dale's system of 'social responsibility', he was watching me just as 
closely as I watched him. I had told myself over the last weeks that 
there were probably worse ways to deal with an overabundance of 
physically strong but emotionally disturbed men. What rankled was my 
own automatic inclusion in that company of people who needed 'taken 
care of' as if they were children. 

"Can you speak?" I asked, hating the softness in my tone. 
Automatically, I had pitched my voice so as not to startle someone 
who was easily upset or frightened. 

An emotion disturbed the lined face. Not, I noticed, fear. 
Gratitude? How long has it been since he had been addressed directly 
as if he were a person? With intense concentration he managed, "S-
Some."

And now what do I say? He was what I so easily could have been, a 
man touched with something 'special' from his heredity that failed 
to completely impress our alien invaders. Perhaps he had been a 
mindspeaker with no useful level of mindspeech who was sent into 
exile on a mind-destroying spacecraft. Unprepared, unprotected, he 
had lost touch with so much of what he once had been, even to the 
loss of most of his language.

"Thank you," I said, gesturing to the food and drink and trying not 
to sound as if I was talking to a mental deficient. Too many times, 
when I was spaced out on drugs or ill or temporarily out of touch 
with reality, well-meaning, do-gooding nurses and therapists had 
talked to me that way. Humiliated does not begin to describe the 
feeling. But you never did, Scully, you never did, and for that I 
will be eternally grateful. For that I will not talk to this man of 
pride and sorrow as if he were a child of three.

"Do you remember being brought to his planet?" I asked, hoping the 
question would not be too disturbing. I got a nod, immediate and 
matter-of-fact. "How long ago?" 
    
"I was... the first," he managed quite clearly. "Three years after... 
the colonists."  

And the colony was thirty years old. That meant that this man had 
lived here from about the time Ben had been born, and yet due to an 
accident in timing and birth what a difference in their status. 

"And you've been with the mayor ever since? Was that your choice?"

The eyes that met mine were as sane as my own. "Even if I had ... a 
choice... where would I go?"

That was not the point. Having no choice was the point. Newcomers 
were 'awarded' to this colonist or that like a horse or a prize in a 
lottery, the luck of the draw or in Dale's case by birth order. This 
was bad enough but almost worse was that no one cared whether their 
adoptive 'parent' took the form of father or taskmaster or devil. 
 
"I'd like for us to talk sometime," I told him and I meant it. 
"Sometime when you are not on working." Also, sometime when Ben 
wasn't around, as he was now, to frown and be embarrassed by the way 
I was breaking at least a dozen of his society's social taboos.

Reese inclined his head and left us but not without a backward 
glance that found and caught my eye.  

Reese knew more that he said. As with the babytalking 'speakers' in 
the colony of the Portjam, there was nothing wrong with his hearing 
and that last glance told me that he had heard plenty in this house. 
He knew what I was, that I was like him and yet unlike. He just 
didn't have the words. I wonder if Ben knew what was going on here 
below the surface like a current deep underground. All at once I 
wanted to meet more of these second class citizens. Here was a way I 
could start sewing my own fields on this planet. Fields of dissent. 
First, however, I needed to know more. What intellect that remained 
in the newcomers would be variable but how much more had been merely 
suppressed through low expectations? Martin Luther King, be with me 
now.

"You mustn't do that," Ben admonished nervously.

"What?"

"Talk to another man's... newcomer."

"Another man's newcomer. Does that mean I'm yours?" I thought we'd 
gone beyond that but then what was three weeks in my company 
compared to the equivalent of twenty-eight years in this society. 
One night in the company of his friends had brought a lot back. 
"Ben," I said in as friendly as way as I could, "we need to have a 
long talk."

"So do we." At this voice at my back every muscle in my body tensed. 
I knew that voice. It was a rough version of Charley's. Mayor Daniel 
had returned. It's not all that easy to catch me unawares and he'd 
managed the trick twice in an hour.
    
In this study where there was more light, the mayor's resemblance to 
the Hunter was even more pronounced. There was the same massive, 
strong body, the same square jaw. There was the same cold, gray eyes 
and thin lips and the battered look of an old prizefighter. The 
difference besides age was what Daniel had which Charley could never 
mimic. Humanity. Life. Charley always seemed stiff as if for all his 
power his assumed body was too tight a fit. In comparison, this man 
had a power and grace, surprising for a man of his age, which had to 
be at least sixty.
 
Like the servant, Reese, Mayor Daniel was sizing me up at the same 
time I was doing the same. No point in even trying the poor-newcomer 
act with this wily old fox. 

"I congratulate you on your game, Benjamin. Having this one keep 
silent was a good plan, but you need to be more careful in the 
future." In this first long speech I caught Charley's accent. 

Ben was doing a very excellent impression of a sheep. "It wasn't my 
plan," he admitted. "It was his," and he nodded my way.

Mayor Daniel's eyes widened with interest into mine. "A talking and 
reasoning newcomer. I take it that Benjamin has informed you as to 
just how rare that is?"

"He has."

"I assume you remember your name then? Most of the others didn't."

I was trying to decide what to give him, maybe Ishmael again, as I 
had used with Ness when Ben popped up with "He says his name is 
Mulder." Poor Ben, still trying to be my keeper. On the other hand, 
I've always preferred to keep silent at this stage and let others do 
the talking.

As you so often did the talking for us both, my dear Scully.

Bringing my attention back to Daniel I found quite an expression of 
surprise on his face. Icy fingers of alarm shivered up and down my 
arms. Ben didn't seem to have noticed the silent exchange on either 
side, however.
    
"How long have you known?" Ben asked. "Why didn't you just ask us to 
meet you here?"

"I suspected ever since John Ironlegs' report, but I didn't want to 
upset the game by calling attention to the two of you any sooner 
than necessary. Besides I wanted to see for myself how well you 
could maintain the pretense. Don't worry, the others saw only what 
they expected to see though even without my earlier information I 
would have known."

"How?"

"These." Daniel touched his face and for the first time I saw the 
faint traces of nearly invisible scars. Ben stared open-mouthed from 
those scars on his hero's face to mine, for hero I knew this Daniel 
was to Ben as well as to the rest of the colony. 

A faint smile on his face Daniel raised his voice and called 
"Arniesse!"

Within seconds a pale young man of about twenty appeared. Dressed in 
a long, gray robe like that of a monk he was less tall by inches 
than any of the rest of us in the room. His smooth skin suggested 
that he was too young even to shave yet. Those who liked the type 
would say that he was quite good-looking in the pretty boy way. My 
assumption that he was Daniel's bedwarmer was immediate and probably 
unfair. 

"Arniesse, I think Holder Benjamin would appreciate a tour of the 
second floor of the house. Please see to that... and take your time."

There was no trace of menace in the mayor's voice -- in fact there 
was much that I could have sworn was parental -- and yet I had 
learned not to trust that voice. With concern I turned to Ben and 
found that he had undergone the most amazing transformation. He was 
locked in place, a look of total astonishment on his face. While he 
stood frozen, the young man, Arniesse, came forward, a clean, 
slender hand outstretched. It was clear that that hand had not spent 
the last five weeks planting in the fields.  Awkwardly, Ben wiped 
his own against his going-to-town pants as if embarrassed that he 
had spent the last weeks doing just that. Then he raised that hand 
and accepted Arniesse's.

I was concentrating on faces, not hands, so I didn't catch every 
movement, but they did stand face to face and hand-in-hand for quite 
some time, longer than one would expect for a greeting between 
strangers and odd because neither spoke again. Daniel still stood 
with that expression of amusement, Ben with obvious excitement and 
expectation like a child on Christmas morning, Arniesse...

Having seen Charley morph often, I should not have been surprised 
and yet I was, perhaps because the change was so subtle. The young 
man's smooth, delicate face began to blur and shift and then the 
form beneath the robe began to draw together, shrinking across the 
shoulders and yet swelling across the chest until there were obvious 
curves beneath the robe's dark folds. When the transformation was 
complete Arniesse still held Ben's hand or at least 'Annie' did. 
Most amazing was that Ben was not in the least surprised. On the 
contrary, his expression was one of blissful attention. Here was a 
facet of Dale he had neglected to mention.

"Why don't you two run along now," Daniel said, looking all the 
world like that proud father instructing two children to run off and 
play. There was certainly a childlike glow about Ben as he allowed 
the faintly smiling young woman to lead him, dazed, from the room.

End of Chapter 4


MY TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY 08: Not Kansas (5/15)
Sue Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com)

MULDER:
Year 31, Week 00.0 Dale Reckoning (May Day)

Grinning to himself, Daniel closed the door to the rest of the house 
and gestured towards the refreshments.

"That was cruel," I said.

"Benjamin doesn't think so. He'll have a night like none other. It 
may even keep his mind off your fine figure for a few days. I dare 
say that both of you will appreciate that."

I felt heat rising to my cheeks. "You certainly do know a lot about 
what goes on outside your little town."

"Not a lot.... Everything." He paused. "Except your name. My spies 
must not have thought that important. On another point I also 
slipped." He poured two mugs of beer and extended both to me to take 
whichever I wanted. "When you came in I should have gone to take a 
look at you myself. They didn't report the --" He gestured to his 
own facial scarring. " -- until much later."
    
"What difference would that have made?"

"You never would have gone to Ben's place. Just from the scarring I 
would have been surprised if you _ had _ been like the others. I'm 
also aware of Benjamin's romantic tenancies. What a shock that must 
have been to the poor boy to expect a son, a wife, and a brother all 
wrapped up into one and to get you." Daniel seemed to find that 
extremely amusing. Strangely enough I could see his point.

"It was traumatic for a time... for both of us. But you did find out, 
so why the silence? Why leave me there?"

"I knew Ben was harmless. Actually, I could have provided you with 
no better teacher to introduce you to our life here. If the duty had 
fallen on some of the others, however..." The old man actually 
shuddered.

"What?"

"Finding a tiger rather than a pussycat? I wouldn't have put it past 
not of few of them not to cut out your tongue and bash your head in 
with a rock and whatever else was needed to ensure themselves of the 
properly dependent and submissive slave that all the young bucks 
dream of."
 
It was my turn to shiver. There had been eyes at the festival that I 
hadn't liked the look of and hands that were too personal. It was a 
rough, hard life, barely clinging to civilization. Unfortunately, I 
could see Daniel's scenario happening all too easily. 

"So where would I have gone if not to Ben's?"

Daniel opened wide his arms to indicate the house. "Here. You would 
have come to live with me."

Somehow that came as no surprise.

"How would you have explained that to Benjamin? I take it he was 
next in line."

"For his beast of burden, yes, but you're no drifting man-child as 
well he knew the minute you opened your mouth; therefore, you never 
had need of fostering." The mayor raised his eyes towards the second 
floor from where faint noises were coming and frowned. "I must admit 
that I'm surprised that he didn't send word of your mental 
intactness to me immediately."

For Ben's sake I felt the faint stirrings of unease. "Don't let him 
be in any trouble over me. He has been very kind."

"I can see that. Fresh air, hard work, healthy food -- compared to 
the early reports you certainly seem to be thriving." His gaze had 
returned to me and though he was outwardly friendly I didn't think 
that I cared for the expression in the back of those cold gray eyes 
any more than that I had seen in Talon Harris's at the festival.
  
Lowering his large frame into the sturdiest chair, Daniel leaned 
back and laced his thick fingers together. "So how is Bek?" he 
asked.

If he expected a reaction from me, he didn't get one. "Who?"

"He left you on my doorstep. It was Bek, I'm correct, am I not?"

"Are you referring to the 'shifter' who wears the face that you must 
have worn thirty years ago?"

"So he still does that. Until you reacted at seeing me, I didn't 
know. I also suspected from the scars. You see, he tried to train me 
the same way you thirty-five years ago. What happened? Not live up 
to your potential? From looking at the set of your jaw, I think I 
know the answer to that one. Don't feel bad about failing. It's 
impossibly hard. Bek's the only shifter to my knowledge who 
continues to believe that the human mongrel can be taught. He always 
was an optimist. He was determined that I learn or die in the 
attempt. By the evidence of your injuries when you arrived, I 
imagine you had a similar experience. A good enough reason to fight 
him.  I chose neither to learn very well nor to die so I was sent 
here with their other castoffs. It was actually my idea to start the 
colony. Far better than the method the council would have used for 
disposal of excess baggage. So I was thrown out of his idea of 
heaven and given a choice -- come back and be his dog, his 
instrument, or rot here. I chose to rot."

"Better to rule in hell."

"Something like that."

His eyes went sad then and distant as some old pain passed through 
him like a ghost. "This particular planet was a bad choice 
unfortunately. That was not my doing." 

I fingered the smooth glaze of my mug uncomfortably. "Benjamin told 
me about your women. I'm very sorry for your loss."

A gut-deep sigh escaped the old man. "'For our loss', yes. 
Eventually, the end of everything. It's just going to be a slow 
death rather than something a good deal more dramatic. But there's 
nothing to be done. We are powerless." There was nothing powerless 
about the voice, however. There was anger. It was still an 
impressive force, ancient though it may be in its origins. "We knew 
what the problem was within a year. Some bleeding disorder. A 
chemical in this world disrupts the clotting process. No only do the 
women die in childbirth but any person who suffers any severe injury 
is likely to die. That's one reason why we don't try harder to find 
metal on this deathtrap. In the early years I saw Bek from time to 
time. The bastard wouldn't help, or said he couldn't." Daniel took a 
long drink. He must have used the pause to shut the anger away into 
its cupboard because when he spoke again he was back in control.

"So Bek's taken to wearing my face? All the time?"

"I've seen Charley under many circumstances but he chooses yours by 
default."

"Charley? I like that. That's what you call him?"

"Only me. We spent some time at a space station. There they call him 
Rodan."

The old man laughed and that was a very, very weird thing to see as 
well as to hear because I've never seen Charley even come close to a 
real smile. "Does he? That's humorous considering that my full name 
is Dan Rowe."

And they call me Spooky. Charley has some serious identity crisis. 

With only a slight stiffness for one of his age, Daniel rose from 
his chair to retrieve a low wooden box, which he brought to the 
table. "You know, I would very much like to play chess with you. Do 
you mind? We can still talk. I know any student of Bek's could do 
calculus in his head at the same time he recited the Gettisburg 
address. I take it that you do play?"

"Not much time since college."

"Then we'll be evenly matched. The only opponents I've had for 
thirty years have been more interested in seed rationing and the 
weather report. Now you don't read minds or anything do you? That 
wouldn't be fair."

Not anymore, thanks to ol' Nicotine Man.

While he set up the board of crudely carved pieces I tentatively 
sipped at my drink for the first time. I'd had it before, a spicy 
beer, but this was a far superior batch both in amount of alcohol 
and flavor. I gestured with my cup. "You make some things well."

"One must have a hobby for the winter months."

"Arniesse..." I began not knowing how to phrase my question.
    
"I wondered when you were going to ask about the Graypeople."

"Graypeople?"

"Or Grayrobes because of those clothes they normally wear. Or 
'changelings'. Ben didn't mention them?"

"Not a word."

"You weren't shocked."       

"I've seen these creatures before, long before I ever met my first 
green-blooded shapeshifter. There was a sect of them. To all 
appearances they lived quietly, almost like the Amish or Mennonites. 
The only problem was, one of them began killing its human partners 
and on a fairly regular basis."

"Interesting. A rogue I take it?"

"From my understanding, yes."
    
"Ours live in the south. The Graypeople were actually planted here 
at nearly the same time we were. Gene splicing between shapeshifters 
and humans, I'm told, so 'Graypeople' has a double meaning if you 
think of the changelings as being distantly related to our little 
gray alien race even though they are themselves not gray. Come to 
think of it, though, they don't tan easily. I assume we were put 
together to see what would happen to the trait when we interbred, 
but there hasn't been much of that. Their female stage is lovely and 
fully functional, but barren, and so many of our women had already 
died by the time they came that we don't know about their sperm 
count. You would think that they would be welcome here, if merely 
for their physical attributes, and you'd be right. Maddeningly 
seductive as they are, however, they're a cold race and build no 
emotional bonds. They don't stay long and always leave bad feelings 
when they go. The reason that their town is separate from ours is 
obvious. Over the years we have drifted even farther apart. Not that 
there isn't contact. There is from time to time. Productivity drops 
on Dale for the duration but, otherwise, the interaction is 
harmless. So you do not need to worry about Benjamin. Yes, I've seen 
you glancing towards the ceiling. He'll come away from tonight with 
a raving infatuation, something we call the Southern Sweat, but as 
such things go with the young, that will pass in a few weeks." 
Daniel raised his cup in a toast. "Meanwhile, enjoy the lessening of 
his ardent attentions. Now as to this game, age before beauty. If 
you don't mind, I will start." 

The moves at first were rapid as players new to each other send out 
familiar decoys to identify their opponent's strengths and 
weaknesses. I found myself enjoying the game. The old man was a 
good, if erratic player, and we were well matched. 

We talked of general things. His fears over the harvest caught my 
attention. I was asked my impressions of the colony so far. Twice 
Reese glided in silently to refill cups and to bring bits of choice 
new foods. One time he built up the fire. At the end he threw on a 
handful of leaves and wood chips that were kept in a separate bin 
and the room was soon filled with a slightly pleasant scent. The 
small room warmed quickly and I soon found myself nodding over the 
board as I waited for the old man. He seemed to be taking longer and 
longer with each turn. Not surprisingly I was tired. Ben and I had 
worked hard from sunup until after noon and then walked the twelve 
miles to town. Then there had been the stress of being shown off at 
the festival and meeting Mayor Dan and his 'man'. Add to that the 
late hour, the food, the strong beer, the warm room and my eyes 
closed.


The call came out of nowhere. With a jerk my head came up, but I 
still felt groggy. I shook it as if that would help. 

"I apologize that my company is not more exciting," the old man 
across the table said lightly, but though his tone was casual, Mayor 
Dan's intent gray eyes met mine.

"It's not you. It's just been a very long day." 

"We can stop."

"No, let's finish this," and I stared at the board to find what the 
old man had finally moved during my doze.  
    
And then I saw it. I had no particular long-term strategy in mind 
but he would be much confused over why I did it. The move won me an 
enthusiastic grin and hearty laugh.

"There! I knew, I knew you would play well!"

"How could you have known?"

"The same way I knew you weren't going to be some poor damaged 
mother's son like the others. The scars." He touched his face. "No 
one who has been picked by Bek for flight training would have been 
affected so badly by mere space travel. That's how I also know that 
you're tough, as tough as I am. You see, your Charley, my Bek, he 
doesn't make mistakes."

Tough? At the thought of the Beast and Charley's so-called 'flight 
training', one of the larger rocks from Ben's field dropped into my 
stomach. "I don't know about tough. I was sick enough to die and I 
never got it right except maybe for a moment and just that once."

He laughed his terrible incongruous laugh again. "But one time right 
is better than one man in five million could manage. And I admit 
it's unpleasant, even when you're just a passenger, but while the 
likes of you and me only get sick, these poor others actually lose 
significant chunks of their sanity. Their genetic and physiological 
makeup can't stand up to the stress of multiple dimensions."

Where had I heard that before? "You weren't, by chance stationed at 
Ellens Air Force Base, were you?" I had meant it as a joke, a joke 
between us, Scully, and hadn't expected a reply, but Daniel's 
response was immediate and almost suspicious.

"I thought you said that you couldn't read minds?"

"I can't any more. You know about Ellens?"

"I was a test pilot there. The best of them. Not such a good idea as 
it turned out. That's where Bek found me." He looked me up and down. 
"But you were no test pilot."

"No, but I infiltrated Ellens once. It didn't turn out well."

My response made him laugh again. "We, my boy, have a lot to talk 
about."

Another couple of moves followed and I could tell there was 
something on the old man's mind. It wasn't on the game any longer. 
Finally, in the midst of a move, his head came up, eyes widening. 
"Now I remember where I heard the name before. Mulder. I knew a 
Mulder once."

The chess game ceased to exist.

The mayor was thinking hard, thinking back more than thirty years. 
"A humorless man, Bill Mulder. Worked for the Project. Came to the 
base now and then."

And I thought that particular ghost was good and buried. "My 
father."

He studied me. "You don't have the look of him." 

"Let's not bring that up."

This was a chance, however, to finally find out more about the 
Project. I knew its basic outlines but not the details. Somehow with 
all the players dead, however, that no longer seemed very important. 
But Daniel wasn't sitting there waiting for me to ask about either 
my father or the project. He was gone again, thinking along lines 
far away. 

Finally he began. "I was five years with Bek," he sighed. "From time 
to time we would return to Earth to update our records on the status 
of certain special individuals."

Suddenly the room was no longer hot. It was very cold. "What kind of 
special?"

"People born with naturally-occurring but dormant genetic traits. 
The people Bek followed had had those genes activated by an earlier 
team. That was how we found them whenever we wanted. I was one that 
Bek followed." The old man looked steadily at me, his gray eyes full 
of compassion. "If your name is Mulder, Fox Mulder, then you were 
another. In fact, I saw you during my five years with Bek on at 
least three occasions. You were, of course, a child."

My face must have gone the color of clay. The golden light in the 
room shrunk in a swirl of colored lights to a single, tiny spark, 
which slowly... winked... out....


I don't faint often. I don't know if I did then but, if not, it was 
a damn near thing. Someone held a cup to my lips and poured in a 
swallow of something fiery and tart that was not the local beer. The 
shape of the room and its furnishing reformed from the darkness as I 
sputtered and coughed. 

"Fox, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He was kneeling beside me, his face 
full of the deepest concern. He had never looked less like Charley. 
His expression nearly triggered a memory of someone known a long 
time before. A big man, a stranger who had taken pity on a terrified 
child. How old would I have been? For the colony to be thirty years 
old, Daniel Rowe's five years of 'training' with Charley must have 
gone on from the time I was about four until I was nine or ten. Had 
my father known? Had my father helped? Or had the Consortium known 
nothing at the time about the cuckoo in their midst? I think they 
found out later, however. Time enough for someone to change their 
mind about who would be taken. Between my father, Daniel, and 
Spender then, my world, my life, had been manipulated more times 
than I can count before I was even thirteen. The first was when they 
turned that mind horror on in me, but the worst when they took Sam 
and left me powerless to help her. But nearly as bad had been when 
that folder was carelessly left around for me to find. Or had I been 
maneuvered into finding it? For it should have been me. From the 
first it should have been me.

I tried to move but the room spun. Rowe had pushed my head down 
between my knees, but everything still seemed pretty distant. And 
all the time, the old test pilot just kept talking though I wished, 
fervently, that he would shut up.

"I can't believe it's you, and yet it is. That skinny little boy; so 
scared. You would hold my hand when they came to get you for the 
treatments. Other children would scream and scream, but you would 
just hold my hand. I feared that when you were older that you'd 
start breaking bones. Somehow it was worse that silence of yours, 
that drawing in."

I was shaking my head, trying to stop his talking, when between one 
second and the next pure agony exploded like a bomb in my head. 
Distantly, I heard a sound, half cry, half sob. I think I stood up 
then, I know I fell down. Never had it been this bad or come on this 
suddenly.

There was nothing but explosions of light and dark and an incredible 
dizziness as I was carried from room to room and awkwardly upstairs. 
The bed they placed me on was soft and smelled freshly of something 
like pine. The cool cloths that unseen hands placed on my head 
opened a tiny window of relief. I tried to imagine slender, soft 
hands, but these were large. 

When I dared to crack open my eyes, I was further disappointed to 
find that the face looking down on me was not even Benjamin's. It 
was Daniel's. When had Ben come to be my second lifeline? 

"Don't die, Fox," the old man ordered in a way one can only learn in 
the military. "Damn you, don't you dare die!" 

Is that an order, Sir?

But seriously, there were tears in the hard, gray eyes. "Listen to 
me, listen. If there is any way you can talk, I need to know, I must 
know: When is he coming back and where will it happen?" His voice 
was so low now that I could barely hear him. Was he sensitive enough 
to know that loud noises were like knives to my poor skull, or was 
he only afraid that his own people would hear? "Fox, you have to 
try, you have to tell me. This is important. I know he's coming back 
to give you another chance because I got the same deal. I elected to 
stay, but that was before we knew that this planet kills. I have to 
see him, Fox, don't you see? I have to get him to listen to me. I 
need to save my people. Do you know what it's like to stand by 
helplessly and watch your people die, people you are responsible 
for, your own wife, your own daughter?" 

His voice faded to something even softer. It was almost as if he 
were right inside my head. * I cannot bare this any longer! *

But I didn't answer, I couldn't even if I had wanted to and I was 
not sure that I did. It was like a heavy black curtain had settled 
over my mind: on one side was pain, on the other nothing,  nothing 
at all. No words, no feelings. I stood on the edge between them, 
only barely able to make sense of what he was asking. Nothing less 
critical would have gotten through at all. He wanted to know when 
Charley was coming back. My deepest secret, my only secret, my only 
way home, torturous route though it may be. 
    
I slid into the black for a while. No questions there and no need to 
respond to any already asked. When I woke sometime later the ledge 
between the pain and the dark was wider, so there was a chance that 
I could hold my balance for a while. I heard a voice I knew and 
forced open my eyes.

The room had been darkened in respect for my pain, but there was 
clearly daylight beyond the hangings that covered the small windows. 
Heavily, my lids slid closed again. I really didn't need to see to 
identify the voice. It was Benjamin's but for the moment so full of 
fear and guilt that I couldn't make out the words. A soothing 
fatherly voice answered him.

"Of course, it's not your fault. And, no, I don't think he's going 
to die. Now has he had these headaches before?"

"A few. Maybe more. He wouldn't say anything, but I could tell. He'd 
go off by himself and stay for hours. But I doubt that they were 
ever as bad as this."

"Migraines then, maybe only that."

Only... It felt as if my head had split this time. For Ben's sake I 
managed to crack open my leaden lids once more and in a moment there 
was his face, that boyishly clean-shaven face still a surprise. His 
blue eyes, their rims red from weeping, seemed huge. He sniffed, 
wiped his face on his shirtsleeve like a child, and then placed his 
hand briefly over mine. This was what I had been missing, the hand 
of a friend to hold in the dark. 

"Daniel says you can stay as long as you like. He says you can stay 
here always." His roughened voice was full of fear. "He says that 
it's not safe for you to be alone with me at the farm. What if you 
got as sick as this again?"

Yes, Daniel would like me to stay and, poor Benjamin, he's afraid 
that I'll want to. He probably is sure that I'll want to. But I 
can't stay here in this soft bed. I can't remember at the moment 
why, but I can't stay here. I tried to sit up but didn't do a very 
good job of it. Ben's young, strong arm went around my shoulders. My 
mouth was bone dry, but still I managed to murmur, "I want to go 
home." I meant home to Scully -- Scully is always first for that is 
where my heart is -- but in this strange and lonely place Benjamin's 
quiet little farm will do.


BENJAMIN: 
Year 31, Week 00.0 Dale Reckoning 

I couldn't believe it when Mulder said that he wanted to come home 
with me. The mayor's residence is magnificent, but also a little 
overwhelming. The problem was how to get a sick man across a dozen 
miles of rough road. I had no cart with me this time. When I got up 
from where I'd been kneeling beside the bed -- the mayor's own bed -
- and saw Daniel's frowning face, I became afraid all over again. 
Maybe he wouldn't let Mulder leave. 
    
"Benjamin, I don't think this is wise."

My mouth opened and closed and opened again. I couldn't say what I 
wanted to say because I didn't have the words for it. Even if Mulder 
wouldn't let me touch him the way I wanted to, the farm would seem 
unbearably empty without him. It was as if all the years I had 
worked contentedly in the fields alone had never happened. But most 
of all I wanted him back, unreasonable, as I knew it sounded. I 
wanted him back because he was mine. Mine! That shouted loudest of 
all.

Finally, I offered Mayor Dan the only practical argument I could 
come up with. "But we started three new fields and I can't possibly 
manage them by myself."

Mayor Dan was all reason. "Benjamin, the man can't help with work 
like that. Look at him."

I did look. Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, long legs 
dangling, and hunched over as if he hadn't the strength to sit 
upright. He was very pale but his eyes were his own eyes and not the 
staring unknowing ones of few minutes before. 

"It passes," he assured us and his voice was already a little 
stronger. "And there really isn't anything you can do for me that 
Benjamin can't."

"Are you certain of that? These headaches are bad. When did they 
start? Are these from something Bek did?" the old man demanded to 
know.

Bitter irony twisted his smile. "Human intervention, not alien. They 
started months before Charley took me."

"I haven't forgotten what you said about not being able to read 
minds 'any more'. Care to elaborate?"
 
Clearly, Mulder didn't. He was that tired, but I saw him resign 
himself to make the effort. "Almost two years ago, a scientist found 
an alien artifact with writing on it. One of the symbols was a 'word 
of power' or so I'm told. The moment I saw it something like a 
switch went off in my head. And within days, yes, I could read 
minds." He sighed wearily. "Everyone's, everywhere."

Daniel was nodding sagely. "You were just beginning to pick up that 
trick when I last saw you. You were barely ten. They always put a 
block on your mind whenever they sent you back, however. That's why 
you never knew. A 'word of power' is certainly capable of releasing 
such a block, but under uncontrolled conditions the affect must have 
been catastrophic."

Mulder tried to smile but it didn't come out very well. "You might 
say that. One of the men from the Project, a compatriot of my 
father's, you probably knew him, recognized what had happened to me 
for what it was and decided that he wanted the power for himself. He 
had the focal point of the activity surgically removed and attempted 
to implant the extracted tissue into his own head. Nearly killed me, 
was in the process of killing him last time I heard."

Daniel's face wore an expression of absolute horror. "No!"

Mulder shrugged. "Though I wasn't given any choice in the matter, 
the trade off was well worth it, or so I thought. Months after the 
headaches began. The doctors assumed that they were related to the 
operation." Mulder's head shook wearily, but carefully, from side to 
side. "They thought at first it was an infection, later a tumor. 
They told me that it would kill me." He raised his head to catch 
Daniel's eye. "I think you can understand what that was like. I 
settled all my affairs. I paid up the rent on my apartment for a 
year in advance just in case I should become incapacitated at the 
end. I didn't want Scu -- my work partner -- to have to pick up the 
pieces. I even updated the family headstone so she didn't have to 
worry about that. I was too chicken to tell her though. I wanted to 
a hundred times but, among other things, her ethics would not have 
allowed her to withhold my little problem from our supervisor. 
Selfish of me I know, but they would have forced me to go on medical 
leave. I would have been locked out. I couldn't afford to spend my 
last months, not even my last weeks, that way."

"Yet here you are."

"I didn't just get a third opinion. I investigated avenues that 
witch doctors would have steered away from. Then a new 'doctor', one 
of the alternative medicine bent, gave me a different prognosis. He 
didn't know what I had, but he was certain that it wasn't fatal. 
There wasn't time to pursue further. A week later we were called 
back to Oregon where I was eventually 'collected' by Charley " A 
kind of wan smile came to his lips. "That tombstone is going to 
confuse a lot of people. The prognosis in my medical records even 
more. But clearly the new practitioner was right because I'm not 
dead, despite wishing to be from time to time."

Mulder had looked my way at the end. I hadn't thought about his 
other life much, his life before his abduction, though we had talked 
about the alien places he had been and about Earth in general. It 
was clear, however, that besides having someone close with whom he 
had worked, he had had a place of his own and a job he cared about. 
How lost he must feel. He had none of that now, except, I hoped, a 
friend.

"And how often do you have these headaches now?" Daniel asked in his 
judge and jury voice. "The truth, now."
            
Unbelievably tired, Mulder seemed to have to rouse himself to 
answer. "Every three or four days. None this bad though for a long 
time."

Daniel looked from one to the other of us, resigned but not 
convinced. "Very well, return if you must, but I lay some ground 
rules. Benjamin, you should know that Mulder's first name is Fox. 
That's what you will call him."
    
Mulder stiffened abruptly.

"But he prefers --" I began.

"In private, you may, of course, call him what you want, but Fox is 
his first name. He is one of us now and we use first names. He'll 
draw his shares from the store under 'Fox', that's how he'll appear 
on the town rolls." The old eyes that fixed on Mulder were firm 
though not unkind. "In remembrance of the boy I once knew. Humor an 
old man."

Mulder's only protest was to ask with a bite in his tone, "And your 
other orders.... Sir?"

Mayor Dan pointed away from Mulder's eyes and towards the side of 
his face. "You go to Mac, the surgeon; you go now. Have that scar 
tissue reduced. There's no need for you to be constantly reminded of 
Bek's abuse. Mac worked on mine years ago and they were far worse 
than yours." I saw Mulder shiver at whatever memory this comment 
called up. "Don't worry about infection. This planet is a 
pharmacological treasure trove. You never saw a healthier lot of 
dying people." The sarcasm in his voice was so thick you could taste 
it. Ponderously, as if feeling his age for the first time, Daniel 
rose from his seat. "And my last 'command'," he decreed from the 
doorway, "is for you both to come to see me every other Tensday. I 
would make it every Tensday but I know the demands of farming. Fox, 
you and I can then have our game of chess while we discuss topics of 
mutual interest and, Benjamin, I wouldn't surprised if you'll have a 
chance to enjoy Arniesse's company again."

I'd almost forgotten the changeling. My face felt suddenly hot and I 
know I blushed. The mayor smiled broadly before leaving us as if he 
found my embarrassment highly amusing. I found no humor in the 
topic, however, considering what I had just done with a complete 
stranger and a Grayperson and what a certain someone must know that 
I wanted to do with him. 

End of Chapter 5

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